[Avelyn]

You are listening to a lullaby.

It is the same one mom has always sung for you when fear has been that which has kept you from sleep. It keeps the nightmares at bay, she taught you, and she has never been wrong. And besides, today is meant to be a day of celebration, isn’t it? You are one of the children who showed potential. Magic! Just like your mother did before you.

You wonder, perhaps, if yours will be like hers. Your people always need more healers, more people who can keep people from dying. Yours is too unrefined right now, too unclear to truly express its own form.

Four of the other children died in the trials, but that is okay, mother says. That is less than it was last year, and last year was less than the year before. And besides, it’s better them than you, right?

For a moment, you consider asking your mother if less have died because there are less children, but you decide to leave that question in your throat. You are so tired, after all. Mother’s voice has always put you at ease, and you can feel sleep approaching.

You are sure you know what you will dream of tonight - a thousand different ways your gifts could manifest, you will dance along them all in the realm of sleep, and perhaps when you wake - if not tomorrow, then maybe the next day, or the one after that - perhaps you will find your answer.

All you know is that you are excited for tomorrow. Those who show such ‘promise’, as your uncle called it, they always get a very good breakfast. Your stomach growls just thinking about it, but before you can think more on your hunger, your mother finishes her song, kisses your forehead, and before you know it, you are asleep.

---

You have always loved lullabies.

You have learned several from your mother by now. Ever since you have found the gift in your voice, she has been more than happy to teach you those old songs. You don’t understand most the words, but that’s okay. They sound pretty from her lips, and prettier from yours. Every night, you find somewhere to sing for the few friends you have. You do not have many. There are fewer children your age every day, it feels like. The carts returned a few hours ago, and one of the others who survived the trials alongside you were within them.

There is no news of victory, no song of triumph to be shared. Not today. The grimness of the situation writes itself clear on every bloodied face that returns. The scraps of food brought back are meager, and barely enough to satisfy the most basic needs. You look at the bit of rabbit meat that you stole, and hid in your cloak. Someone else might need it, but it is better them than you. Before you sleep, you will sneak out, and you will cook it over a small fire, and you will eat, and you will not go to bed with a growling stomach tonight, and perhaps that is good enough.

You wonder, perhaps, if you will dream tonight of those faces on that wagon. You had hugged him when you both survived. You had called him ‘friend’ once. You think back on those celebrations, and you clutch your stolen bounty just a little bit closer, when you notice a new ‘face’ in the crowd. ‘Face’. You cannot make any features out on them, not from beneath that hood they wear, but you are certain you have never seen them.

They are speaking with your uncle, and he leads them to his tent - the one where only important people are allowed to go in. You consider eavesdropping, but you are so exhausted. You sneak off to cook your meager stolen ration, and then prepare to get some much needed sleep.

---

You are singing a lullaby.

You look at the dying woman who has her head sat upon your lap. You wonder if your song will offer any reprieve from the pain of lost life, but under the mask she wears, you can not be certain. It is always like this now. Your only sign that she is truly gone is the familiar fading of light in the hollow eyes of that skeletal visage. Your expression does not change. You’ve become numb to death by now.

You look over her form for a moment, and note that she is missing the ring finger on her left hand. You wonder what that might have represented- what from her did that thing claim? You don’t wonder too long, however. It doesn’t matter too much, better her than you, of course. Your hand goes through her cloak for a moment, and you pull out a hand-made ring of polished wood, with a crystal set into the grain. You pocket it, and bring her to the rest of the dead. Less than last time, which was less than the time before that, and it is not because there are less to lose.

Your home is flourishing more than it ever had, and you cannot deny it. You look across the village, and set your eyes on that hooded man with your uncle. Whatever he had orchestrated was working, if there was nothing more to be said about it. You had killed several by now, by your own hand. It had been a few years since your first time on the field, just a short couple months after the man in the hood had arrived. You were too young then, but you had never let rules stop you, and when your uncle had learned that you had a distinct talent for the violence, he didn’t even try. You killed your first that day, and it was better them than you.

There is to be another raid next week, and you wonder whose names will be called, who will be the next living sacrifices? You put that thought out of your head, and prepare to give your nightly songs before you go to bed.

You wonder what you will dream of. Perhaps your mother? It has been a year since her name was called. It was the first time that one of those called did not even reach the field. It was her heart that was needed, after all. You remember the resignation on her face as she set the mask on. You grieved her, of course, but it was better her than you.

---

They call you the Lullaby.

You are not certain where the name came from first, whether it was from your allies who had grown used to hearing your nightly songs, or if it was an epithet laid on you by your enemies, who had heard your singing through the battlefield. Those same old songs your mother taught you, you find that they have a knack for rallying your forces- and, more importantly, striking fear into your enemy’s hearts.

That thing always seems to work best when it is feared, that ‘god’, so the others have come to call it. Some have even taken to revering it, praising it like true divinity. You can’t help but pity them, but you are not sure you are any better. You indulge in the benefits it has reaped just as much as any other. You eat until your belly is full, you lounge in the comforts of a well defended home. The more you grow, the less often you know the names called.

But today is different.

The preparations for battle were sudden and abrupt. You were awoken by a shrill whistle through the night, and within the hour, you and the other warriors were crowded around the fire.
The man in the hood did his ritual, the same way he did every time. Who would live, who would die- the latter, as always, would be the Living Sacrifices.

You shudder as you hear your own name. Disbelief clutches at your throat, and you want to protest, but as you look around…

There is grief on the face of some, of course. You see those who come to listen to your songs every night meet your gaze with some small sorrow. But what really gets you is the joy. You hear cheers, cries of joy. It is not for your death, but rather for the fact that they will live. As far as any of them are confirmed, it is better you than them. It brings bile to your throat, and your body quakes with anger, but what is there to do at this point? You remember the resignation in your mother’s face as the mask was set on her face.

You go to your home, and grab the one that you made all those years ago, and find your way to your uncle’s tent with the rest of the living sacrifices. Your names are each inscribed on a wall. ********. You wonder, now that it’s there, if it even still belongs to you, or if that is part of the sacrifice. You are handed the knife, and you have no doubt of what you will be told to give.

The searing pain in your mouth makes your eyes burn and bile rise in your stomach. You can feel blood in your throat, and have to lurch forward to keep yourself from drowning on it.
Whatever managed to pour its way down is deposited as you vomit on the floor of that tent. The hooded man thanks you for your sacrifice.

You do not respond.

You could not if you wanted to.

You keep the knife, sliding it under your cloak when they are not looking. One last bit of spite, one last theft. What difference does it make when you are meant to die, anyway?

You wonder if you will dream tonight. Death is soon to come, after all. Perhaps that last dream will be the flashback of your life, and you will revisit every moment that brought you here.

Tonight, you will die, and you will not even have a voice to scream in pain.

You set your mask on, and march to your prophesized end.

---

Your name is Lullaby.

Perhaps it isn’t really your name, but it may as well be. It is what you tell people these days. ‘Tell’. Communication is harder now that you have no voice to speak of, and as you’ve always been told - writing is an extension of one’s voice. You’ve picked up the language of hands in your travels. You’re glad that you can speak to some people without a voice, here in this strange land.

You don’t know how you’re still alive. You remember the blade piercing your stomach, you remember the hot flash of agony as it was pulled out. You remember lying in a puddle of your own blood. And then, you remember waking up in a pile of corpses, left behind on the battlefield. You may have thought the whole night was a dream, but your tongue is still gone, and the mask still sits upon your face.

Maybe you are dead. Maybe that you are ‘alive’ at all is the last flashes of your brain’s synapses as it tries to reconcile with the unfair circumstances that led to your death. Maybe everything that’s still here is just your dream, and the moment you die again, it’s all gone. You’re not sure. All you know is that you will never let yourself be put into a situation like that again.

So, you need to become something more.

You remember some of the mechanics of how that thing was created, from those days spent eavesdropping on the conversations between your uncle, and the man in the hood, so you make your own. You take what you can from those who you can take from, you build your own reflection of that spirit, that beast, that ‘god’. And then you kill it. You kill the bastard, and you devour its heart, and you prove that it can die.

You become something more like it.

You know what you will dream of tonight, because it is the same dream you have every night. You wake up once more in that place. Atop that mountain of smiling bodies. Each of them bears your face, lips curled into a rictus. You wonder if others can see it too, when you feast on their dreams.

They call you a monster, and you don’t particularly care. It is better to be a monster than to have died in that place. It is better to be feared, than to fear, and if someone has to hurt, if someone has to die.

…It is better them than you.

And so, you find a place to rest. Sometimes he comes with you. It’s always nice when he does. You can almost feel normal when you are with him.

You find a place to hunt, and you feast like you never could back home. You sample and savor every flavour this place’s dreams have to offer.

And you find a place to grow, so that one day, you will be strong enough that you can return home, and take back what was stolen from you.

Your tongue, your voice, your lullabies.