Every day he grew more and more Guado-like. Just like his father, yet the locks of blue not warped like that of gnarled flora and the softness in his features retained that of a human. Even as a teenager, Seymour made his bed near his mother's freshly moved statue. Still just as broken as only she knew, his sleep betrayed all the hurt and suffering from the years of his youth. Like this, if only in sleep, he was at peace.
every day that passed, he grew into an amalgamation both man and guado. and every day he did so, it reminded her more of what both of them had lost. he had not used her for what she had intended and every day that he slept near her statue was a reminder of what both of them could have been.
it pained her to see him hidden away like this. pushed to a faded old temple that no summoner had stepped foot in since they themselves got banisheed there. he had learned to hide it well, and that pained her even more. a tiny voice in the back of her mind chided her, reminding her that it was all her fault, that she should have done more to protect her son. that she had made the wrong decision. his anguish, his hurt, all of his suffering, was brought on, in part, because of her actions. if she had never..
it wasn't supposed to end up like this. he was supposed to have used her to defeat Sin. it would've meant he'd be accepted for what he was, not what he wasn't. maybe in his self-sacrifice, the people of Spira, both man and Guado alike, would've accepted him. it would've brought everyone together.
in truth, that's not what had happened. it was as plain as day that what she had meant to transpire hadn't happend and had caused more grief than if she hadn't done it at all. what would he have been like, if she had let herself wither away in the same temple he was withering away in now? would he still be hurt and angered and betrayed at the world, at his parents, as he was now? she had caused this, she caused this swell of emotion in him, and such a swell would eventually burst.
and she had given him a tool to help the coming flood destroy as much or as little as Seymour wanted.
and yet, she could not deny him all this. for it was her fault. hers and Jyscals. and maybe one day she would repent for what she'd done. for now, however, she soft sung the hymn as he fell into a slumber. a slumber that couldn't disguise his true feelings, even if he kept a mask on them while he was awake. a tiny part of her hoped that maybe he wouldn't take after her nihilistic ways too much, that there was a spark of good in there somewhere. a spark of good that could be nurtured to the point where the track she and Jyscal had unintentionally set him on, could be altered. it was a false sense of hope, but one she held none-the-less as she watched her son drift off into a temporary slumber.
