Exhaustion curled around her son like how madness clung to her bloodline, overwhelming, suffocating, stifling. But, with hard work and welcomed labor there would always be a bit of suffering. If Antaeus dwelled, manic and endlessly needed, awake with the agonies of fatherhood and husband propriety than Azuhel could only be proud of that fact. The pain would humble him, his own personal temporary hell of bloodline duties, more so than anything physical she could have dredged up. At least, not without long and hard thought to the torture, that is. So naturally, when her son slips past his brood, with his droopy body and greasy hair, she can’t help with break out into a broad smile.

Something genuine.

Something loving.

For she is extremely capable of that. Of being passionate, of being obsessive… and she has plans, plans for all her wriggling children, plans for the line that she heads, plans for the future she wants to lay down at their feet. But they would always suffer first, suffer for her, crawling on their belly begging for scraps or milk or whatever else it is she felt like giving them.

And wasn’t that what all mothers wanted? Desperate obedient children, marching in line, humming the tune to the lullabies she’d given them?

So, she’d take it, all of it, every little scrap of devotion Antaeus had to offer and in return, she’d grant him gifts more oppressive than rewarding. Little wives and husbands just as bound and dangling as they were. They deserved that, didn’t they? They all deserved it.

Slowly, she lifted a paw, to press against the side of Antaeus face as she released a soft sigh of content and a gentle coo. She really did hope he enjoyed the gifts of prestige and flesh she’d granted him and his collective. Warsaw, the fire, the cloak, the wreath of bones.

And he did appreciate it, didn’t he? Just like another beautiful baby boy she’d held tight to her chest so long ago.

But Antaeus was not Jette. He was a different sort of boy, just as loyal and fierce and… she knew, if she had given the order he would have attended it with as much diligence as his older brother had. Wouldn’t he? It was an interesting thought, like a wriggling worm, combing through her consciousness with the sort of obsessive fierceness that she just could not ignore… because she wanted it, to see his muzzle coated in blood and to mark his claws with the lives they were owed.

He had so much work to do to ease her hungers, but he was well on his way in worship.

“My boy, my darlin’,” She crowed with idle pride, shifting those greasy locks of hair away so she could peer into those tired shimmering eyes—

Eyes that were wrong.

Eyes that needed to be fixed.

There were so many would-bes, so many could-bes, but they were in the now and she was so very eager to mark her possessions. In another time she would have granted such an honor to him, the elder, but he was not there and she…

Well, it was best not to think about it.

“What would you do, to keep my love?” It’s a soft whisper, something curious, “You do love me, don’t you?”

Because Azuhel was greedy and, to a point, incredibly selfish. No doubt about that. She crafted her own self-proclaimed titles and brought forth the wraith of false-gods and kings.

“How much blood would you spill? How much flesh grant you give me?” There’s a pause then, as her gaze moved to the wriggling balls, her grandchildren and she would lean in, warmth and smiles, before cooing into his ear—

“If I asked you to kill one, just one, in my honor, to my name. Would you do it?”

Could he do it? Could he dampen the fire that burned beneath her flesh? Could he stop the wild thump, thump, thump that crashed against her consciousness? Slaughtering until nothing but perfection was left? Devouring blood, culling mud, casting them to filth again and again until she was satisfied?

She needed to know.