She let herself lean back, monstrous hands gripping as the armrests of her seat, sighing in an odd, hoarse way. She felt the heat of sconces on the back of her neck, causing her to raise her shoulders slightly, in response. She was alive, she supposed. Her attention shifted, bloodshot eyes focusing on the weight in her lap. He slept, hands curled around her knee. She crookedly smiled. Her ward, her retainer, her CHILD, he was oddly cute when he slept, she supposed. She gently shifted him, so he leaned back into her grip. Her twisted face seemed to bear a smile, fangs grinding softly as she forced her distorted form to smile. She was fond of him, she guessed. An odd fellow, something was WRONG with him. He seemed to speak in a strange manner, and his mind pressed outward, in a psyche twisting way. He seemed to not be able to see well, as he wandered with glazed over eyes. Yet he seemed mildly aware of things before they even happened. He could see something others could not, and that frightened and EXCITED her. She was fond of him, all right, but was he fond back? Could he even FEEL in the way she had always known? She loved him, yet it seemed he was almost empty in that way. She sighed softly, pressing him closer to her core, her chest. This twisted child was hers, she supposed, and even if he didn't love her, she would love him anyway.
In an odd, twisted, way, they were both on borrowed time. He was always feeble, and sometimes his mind would seem to slip. It frightened her. And, for herself? She was already dead. Her calloused, firm hands traced his forehead. He slept like a child, peaceful for once. He was rarely ever at peace, and to be honest, neither was she. She sighed out, hellish smoke curling from her parched lips. Her own restless nature had brought the both of them into danger, and it pained her to see him hurt. Yet he seemed to care about her. Was it for personal gain? Perhaps. She did not care. This was their destiny and they could not leave the path. A path of death and tyranny. She sighed, did she truly not care? Her silvery claw-tips seemed to tap, a metronome like beat, steady, firm.
This was her fault.
What a blasted horrible mother she was.