Lullaby for spawn

Spawn cannot die without the Master’s command. Kasador cherished this rule greatly. Why bother ensuring that the spawn has time to recover after torture? Why feed one’s slaves abundantly? Why worry that if you indulge, you might lose your beloved fair-haired slave who sweetly screams, writhing under your knife, your Master? It’s enough to command: 'Astarion, my child, remember, I forbid you to die! ' — and the slave will live, even if you pull out and wind his guts on the spindle instead of threads. The carving of the ritual seal on the back of Kasador’s beloved offspring stretched on for almost the entire night. By its end, Astarion was alive only because, before commencing the carving of the symbols, Kasador commanded him to live, despite everything. While the undead might be more enduring than ordinary humans, even they could experience pain shock. So, by the end, the spawn no longer even screamed — it had shredded its voice and couldn’t produce a sound. Astarion couldn’t walk on his own, so, after ensuring that all the symbols were carved correctly according to the scroll, the Master summoned another slave and ordered them to throw the fair-haired one into his cell. The lowest level of the castle dungeons was allocated for the spawns. Tiny, icy, damp cells devoid even of straw compelled the sleepless to lie curled up in corners all day, hiding from the sunbeams filtering into their meager abodes through the sewer drains. Demiter, a humanoid spawn already used as parchment for the Master’s bloody verses, dragged Astarion without any reverence or sympathy, grabbing him by the hand and supporting him by the shoulder. Demeter’s palm pressed down on the deep cuts on Astarion’s back. Among the spawns, showing compassion for each other was not the norm. “Rest up!” Demiter jeered, shoving Astarion into his cell. “Tomorrow, the Master will send you to work!” Astarion knew. But Astarion didn’t care. The door slammed shut behind him with a creak. Slowly, with hands trembling from pain and dehydration, he attempted to rise and fell back. There was not enough strength, not even to stand. “How I wish I could die…” a feeble thought surfaced, and Astarion sighed weakly. But suddenly… a small miracle happened. The acute sensitivity of his hearing caught a barely audible sound. So delicate… so melodic… So unlike the cries and moans usually heard in the Master’s castle. Was it… a song? A wordless prayer? A lullaby? Astarion managed to force himself to rise, approached the wall, tilting his head towards the silvery moonlight streaming into his cell. “The moon is fading… Dawn is coming soon,” Astarion thought detachedly, leaning his shoulder against the wall to better hear. This melody, gentle and tender, reminded him of something forgotten. Of a sunbeam tickling his nose. Of laughter. Of the warmth of a beating heart. Of… hope? “Na, na-na, na…” repeated the female voice, altered by the distance and the echo of the sewer, shimmering like crystal water hitting the stones in a mountain stream. The spawn closed its eyes, listening to the melody. Strangely, it felt like… sleeping. Ironically, it hadn’t slept in two hundred years. But there was a desire to close its eyes and immerse itself in meditation, drifting into its thoughts… As if an unknown girl sat up there, singing a lullaby just for it. “Hope… Is it not foolish? What can I hope for?” But the song seemed to answer: “Hope. Hope that you’ll see the world not just through the bars of a sewer grate. Hope that you’ll be loved. Hope, Astarion, that you’re not forgotten, that you’re remembered, that they sing for you.” In the cell, there’s a drainage ditch carrying water from the streets. Disgusting taste. But no worse than the taste of rat blood he had to drink for survival. He crawled to the wall, cupped his hands. Murky, dirty, and stinky… but necessary. He took a sip, another… Astarion is painfully sick, but it brings relief, he swallows a few more handfuls as quickly as possible. The song subsided. Astarion, not knowing why, raised his hand, as if trying to catch the departing moonbeam. “Come back, please… I need you, Hope.” Hope has the taste of rat blood and sewer water — disgusting, but necessary to survive. And even if for Astarion, it has become a monstrous parody of hope — a dark desire for revenge, to rip Kasador’s spine out with his own hands… He is no longer an elf dreaming of something bright; he is unworthy of a purer and sweeter hope. His hope is a four-note song and the taste of blood, not the heartbeat and the last ray of sunlight.

***

On the next night, Hope came again. She sang until dawn, and Astarian, returning after work, cradling his injured hand from the tavern brawl, sat once more by the same wall. He pressed his back, damp with his own blood, against the icy stone, hoping to alleviate the painful, pulsating heat of inflammation. It continued through the night and another one. Hope came and sang. Sang for Astarion. And he, gritting his teeth, endured. As promised to the Moon and that quiet voice. Endured and hoped. Under Kasador’s knife, only these four notes prevented him from going insane. Only these four notes allowed him to drink rat blood without vomiting. “It’s necessary to survive. I must survive. I promised not to give up. I must get revenge. Kill Kasador.”

***

One day, upon returning, Astarion heard, instead of the usual, barely audible melody, a quiet, soul-wrenching cry. Astarion remembered by heart the melody sung by the voice. Just four notes, repeating over and over. He couldn’t act differently. He approached the wall, placed his hand on it, lifted his face… And began to hum softly. “Na, na-na, na…” The sobbing subsided. And after a minute, Hope’s voice joined him. The two of them sang the simple melody of Hope together, looking at the Moon. Even though they didn’t know each other’s names, faces, or who was singing in rhythm, the lunar thread bound their souls tighter than years of marriage bind others…