Now he was questioning himself, sitting on his bed with the tiny girl in his arms, who was staring up at him with wide, solemn eyes.

“What is it little one?” he asked, running his finger down her cheek, earning himself a gurgle. The sheer innocence of it all brought a small smile to his face. Somehow, he still found it unbelievable that this girl…this child…carried his blood. And yet…the amethyst tinting her eyes was unmistakable. “What?” for she had turned those luminous eyes on him, almost seeming to bore into the core of his very being. “…you…are most certainly a destined birth.” he murmured to himself, an eyebrow raising somewhat indignantly when the babe grabbed at his finger and attempted to suckle from it. “What are you doing? I’m not food…” and then it dawned on him : Food! Of course, the child was probably starving!

“Very well…” he sighed as he left his room, holding the infant close to his heart as he descended the grand staircase and crossed the marble-floored foyer, the heels of his boots clicking sharply. The child seemed to enjoy the sound, gurgling each time it rang through the empty castle. Orlock said nothing, still mystified by the entire affair. Why had he decided to feed from that woman? From Elise? Why had he let himself be drawn in by the affair of her pregnancy? Why had he done the unthinkable and gone into the town, and furthermore, rescued the very child in his arms?

Simple. a voice in his head kicked in, Because you see yourself in her, do you not, Orlock? Not only because she carries your blood in her veins, but because…she is an outcast, and at birth was given a cruel label as a monster…That damnable conscience was blocked out with a simple act of will; Orlock would not allow himself to become attached to the hybrid creature. It was just not done. More, she didn’t even have a name. An utter nobody, one les soul that wouldn’t be missed when death came calling.

Then why did you save her? He growled lightly and blocked the voice out again, passing through the doorway to the expansive kitchen. The old icebox was crouched in the corner, sagging under years of cobwebs and neglect. As a vampire, Orlock had no need for mortal food.

“Hellfire.” he swore, grabbing an old bottle before turning on his heel and sweeping out of the kitchen, returning to his room and setting the infant back on his bed again. “What am I supposed to feed this thing?” Even as he said the words, the answer became crystal clear. Blood. With another sigh of exasperation, the Count bit into his wrist and dripped perhaps a tablespoon or so of blood into the little bottle. The child watched with wide, expectant eyes as he shook it slightly and held it above her mouth, the dark, crimson fluid pearling on the tip of the rubber nipple.

She opened her mouth, and it was then that Orlock saw the tiny pair of fangs lurking behind her lips. With a small coo, the baby latched onto the bottle and suckled hungrily, her eyes beginning to drift closed by the time the bottle was half empty. Orlock looked down at her, the innocence in her eyes, the trusting way her head was nestled into the crook of his arm…

“A mere halfling…a babe in swaddling clothes…” he mumbled to himself, absently brushing a tuft of scarlet hair from her pale face. A rather caring gesture from him, but he caught himself, and pulled his hand away just as his fingers made to rest on her cheek. “No, this cannot be allowed to continue.” he chided himself, though he never took his eyes away from her, watching her drift into sleep, to dream her innocent dreams. For some reason though, he felt his own eyes grow heavy, and within moments, both were asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~