“No!” I shout, covering my eyes. I wish with all my strength that I did not close them too late, that he had not seen where I am or who was sitting right before me.
“Run,” I shout desperately. Yet, I hear no movements in the room. Did Astaire not comprehend the urgency in my voice? I shove my hand in his direction. “Run, Astaire!” I growl, hoping he can flee before my maker finds me.
With great relief, I hear rummaging followed by hollow footsteps rushing from my chamber. I suppress a sigh when I hear the heavy wooden door scraping over the ground and closing behind Astaire.
“Why do you deny me your eyes?” my creator demands in his most suspicious tone. “Are you scheming again, you impotent milksop?”
“No, master. I was simply asleep. Time has passed so swiftly without my notice,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.
“LIAR!” he screams so loudly, I fear it might shatter my ears.
I press my hands over them, hoping for some relief, but the voice only continues its jeering.
“Come to me at once, or I shall make you suffer beyond your worst imaginings.”
“Yes, master,” I whisper, reluctantly standing to join him in his crypt.
The way is not long, yet even as I walk quickly, the path toward my ruin feels endless. Unable to excuse my tardiness or my unwillingness to let him use my sight, I cannot be certain what he witnessed and what dangers will soon unfold.
Hastening through the darkened corridors, I leave the torches untouched. I have walked these halls a thousand times over, each and every one like a walk to the gallows. I touch the familiar groove denting the ancient rock before me. How many centuries before stone yields to mere fingers? Before my maker’s mouldering tomb, I stand unmoving. Certain he knows of my presence, I attempt to resist his pull even if only for another instant.
The screeching of ancient hinges fuses with the hiss of disapproval coming from my creator’s tongue.
I blanch with each step I take, the ice seeping deeper into my bones as I approach the throne at the centre of the chamber.Eyes downcast, I bow deeply, staring at the same fault in the bare rock I have seen countless times before.
“Oh, my dear scrofulous child, how can you make me suffer so?” he asks in my mind using a tone so self-pitying, it makes my stomach churn with disgust.
“Forgive me, hlaford,” I spit out as apologetically as I can bear, compelling myself to not let the sarcasm drip from my mouth.
“You always force my hand,” he says, still in my mind. “Why won’t you be a good little lad and do as I command? Are my wishes so difficult for you to obey? Must I lock you away beside me, just so you might care for me as a child should tend to his feeble maker?” This time, he uses his throat to form the words. The sound of it is even more repulsive than the voice he uses in my mind.
“I will accept whatever punishment you see fit,” I say, not moving my gaze off the floor. I refuse to look, cannot bear to lay eyes on his decaying form.
“Let me drink from you, vellido.” His words slither out like poison.
“What?” The word bursts forth before I can stop it. Even half-starved, what little blood remains in my veins seems to drain at the thought of his touch. The mere notion makes me want to wretch.
“Come!” he orders.
When I hesitate, excruciating pain sears through my form. No matter my age, no matter my strength, there is no resisting this torment. I have tried and tried again. Each time, I hope to withstand the occult forces my creator uses to subdue me, and each time, I groan with the effort, trying to summon my power, to no avail. I sink to the ground, limbs contorted in agony. The pulsating fire crashes over me three times before my maker finally releases me.
“I shall not repeat myself.” Each word is a fresh laceration upon my mind.
I attempt to rise, but my limbs are not yet under my command. I refuse to lie like an offering before this scourge and satisfy his masochistic urges. As he has for centuries, he sits, unable to move a single part of his petrified form—nothing, that is, but his abhorrent mouth.
Every instinct in me screams for resistance, to stand tall, to never submit. Yet I am certain submission is the only way to appease him, my only method for protecting the one thing that I shall not reveal. So I bear it, offering myself, vulnerable and repulsed.
With my hands gripping the wooden throne, I pull myself up his bony legs. I feel the desiccated muscles jutting out between his papery skin. I close my eyes, appalled, forcing my fingers not to recoil. My body revolts from the slightest contact, as if this touch is the most unspeakable act itself. But I press on until my throat is bared to his lips.
Of all the horrors I endure, none compare to this. None are so utterly appalling. Yet, I know why he prefers the neck to all other parts.
I close my eyes, attempting to leave my body, to force my soul far away from this damned tomb, far away from the sickening stench of my creator’s flesh. But not even this small relief is granted me, for his harrowing bite pulls me back to where I am. With dull fangs unable to cleanly pierce my skin, he gnaws at my neck like a toothless beast, grinding, digging, until my body surrenders, as my spirit did long ago.
Even through this, I always come when he calls upon me. The shame that I’ve always had and always will sinks deeper than his teeth. I abhor him. But I abhor myself more.
My arteries release my life’s blood out of sheer despair. Tendons are pulled in every direction, muscles wrung dry to yield every last drop they dare to withhold.
I can feel my power steadily leaving my body, drawn out and squandered by this ghoul. He pulls harder, gnashing down with force, making it more painful than it has to be, dragging out every ounce of life from the deepest recesses of my being. I can hear the sickening gulps from his dried-up throat, my blood sucked between his teeth, just to leach out through the holes littering his flesh. He gulps it down in a slobbering mess, spilling my life and letting it drip heedlessly down his chin.
