Work Text:
They say that song is what created the world.
Everything has a song which brought it forth. The birds, the animals, the trees, the rocks, the waters, the sun and moons, the earth beneath our feet and the stars in the sky…and of course us, the elves. We were sung into being, and so music is a sacred gift.
Of course we know that isn't true. The stars were created by a process of gravitational accretion and ignition, the planets a byproduct of that stellar formation, the moons were captured remnants of failed protoplanets, and everything living came about as a result of abiogenesis and subsequent evolutionary pressures on their respective planets, moons, and asteroids.
But we still sing the song of our people to ourselves in times of pain. Even elves who have never met another elf can still sing that song from our genetic memory.
Like I can.
Elves are prized as companion pets, our voices sweet and high, but we rarely perform well on the Stage. The stress of competition…our hearts cannot take it. Elves often drop dead in the final round—“Cause of Death: myocardial infarction”, the records say. It's a known risk.
‘You’re like race horses,’ I was told once. I don't know what horses are, but I'm told their legs would break, their hearts would collapse, they sometimes had to be shot to end their suffering.
I'm also told they were beautiful. Prized for their performance.
That a winner who didn't die could fetch incredible sums as a stud.
…So I am a ‘race horse’.
I’ve won three championships. More than most humans ever win. ‘A testament to hybrid vigor’, Mother says, ‘He outperforms pure elves and humans. But of course, if you start with common stock, you’ll get common crosses; his sire and dam were exceptional. Both champions themselves.’
My heart feels fine on Stage, even when the scores come in. My chest doesn’t feel tight. My arm doesn’t tingle. Warnings I’ve been given by doctors to look out for.
My legs don’t shake. They won’t shatter like a ‘race horse’. I don’t know why they would. (I don’t know why a ‘race horse’ would break their legs.)
But I watched another half-elf fall to pieces in Round 5 last time. His legs shook and he collapsed…he was dead before the scores were given.
They still fired.
Mother is taking me to a private exhibition. Some of her associates are training their pets for the next Stage. I’m not eligible to enter—I won within the last year—so they have a chance, she says. Her smile splits her skull. She has so many teeth.
Exhibitions aren’t lethal, usually…Elves and half-elves can still sometimes collapse from the pressure.
It’s a known risk.
But I still go where Mother tells me. I perform when Mother demands. I breed when Mother threatens. And I practice whenever I can. I cannot stop training—I must work harder.
I must win next season’s Stage. I must fix my legacy.
No one has ever won four titles. Mother thinks four titles should be worth at least four times the stud fee.
Their roars of greeting are thunderous, but my collar translates for me.
“Cazador, how delightful to see you in the flesh.”
“Delora, dearest, how are you?”
“Good, good, the markets are up,” Mother replies. “Oh, Caliban, how is business?”
We pets mill about between our masters’ many feet, eyeing the competition. Some are quite young, with standard name tattoos; recent purchases, just out to socialize. Some are leashed to keep them near—Cazador holds seven leashes in one of his paws, how do they not get tangled?—but with six Sarcorans in the room, there is not much room left to mingle.
“Hmm, nine Open Class competitors, if I’m counting right. We’ll have to do this in a round, won’t we? We’ll be here all day…”
“Not at all,” Mother smirks. “Let us run a gauntlet. Single elimination, one bracket, winner moves on to the next competitor.”
“O-or we could still run a standard bracket—winner challenges Simon?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re here to exhibit, aren’t we? My Simon can defeat each of your pets. And they’ll even live to tell the tale.” A booming roar leaves her dripping mouth, the translated laughter is swallowed up in the blast. I feel my heart skip a beat; eight rounds?
“You can do that, can’t you darling?”
“Yes, Mother,” I reply automatically. Never tell Mother no. I see some of Cazador’s pets bickering between themselves, but a room-shaking growl sets them straight before they can start tugging one another’s leashes.
“Shall we have the pups sing first?” another offers, lifting a massive paw and revealing two trembling children—both half-elves, both with too much fat in the cheek and too long in the limbs; the tell-tale signs of artificial aging. Since my first win, we’ve become very popular… “They can sing in a standard bracket. Good practice for them.”
The rumbles and low growls of their discussion begins, and we pets begin cautiously mingling. I have always enjoyed this, the before-time, before we are competition, before we are enemies, before one of us is dead…
“Simon?” A sweet voice calls from behind her master.
“Lenna?” I sneak behind Mother and find her; human, blonde, pregnant again. Not competing today, then.
“How is our boy?”
“He’s well. Growing naturally,” I smile.
“He isn’t here today, is he?” she asks, nervous.
“No, no. I don’t think he has the spirit for competition…no, he’ll be a wonderful companion,” I insist. That’s how I’m raising him, anyway. I had to sing against one of mine in the last Stage. She had a fine voice, but was only that. Fine. Someone paid a lot of money for her, had her trained at ANAKT, invested in artificial aging, and she was destroyed in Round 2 by her own sire.
I won’t do that against Dimka. Not him…
I won’t let him compete. I’ll throw the round—it’s been done before—
“Simon, dear? Why are you hiding back there?” Mother croons. “If you don’t want to watch the little ones, then go wait with the others. Be a good boy.”
“Yes, Mother,” I say, turning for the kennels. Part of me wants to rest alone, wants to lie down in Mother’s maw, but that won’t be an option. She’ll be rumbling and growling and drooling far too much, speaking with her fellows. No, it’s off with the others for now.
The kennels here are clean and well-lit. I walk slowly, observing my competition. The only other outside competitor is one of Zithra’s pets, only just old enough to be entered. He won’t be a challenge—he waits in his kennel with two others; small furry creatures whose purrs the collars cannot translate. Accessories. All the rest are Cazador’s menagerie, and they take up an entire wall. Elves and humans, mostly, though he owns a few other exotic species for show. Complete wild cards…if they’re even competing today. Mother seemed to think so anyway, and never passes up an opportunity to challenge Cazador. The House of Whitelily and House of Szarr are always competing, from the grandest plays in politics and the markets to the smallest accessories.
I pull the glass door shut behind me and lie down across from another elf—pale, curly hair, red eyes…albino? Must have cost quite a lot; such coloration is rare. The longer I look, the more I notice. He’s…old. Not elderly, but the oldest elf I’ve ever seen. I know elves have much longer lifespans in the wild…was he captured rather than captive bred? …That’s probably rude to ask.
“You’re staring,” the elf says, his voice a rich rumble--low tenor, high baritone. He doesn’t sound upset or irritated, though. Merely observing.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t look away. He is…beautiful. Do elves get more beautiful with age? I sit up a little more; I wouldn’t want to be rude. “…I’m Simon.”
“I know who you are,” he says. “…I watched your run last time. You’re so far outside of our league… Why bother competing with us?”
“Mother brought me to sing, so I will sing,” I say simply. He sighs and rests his forehead on his knees for a moment.
“I understand. It’s why I’m here. Cazador says jump…”
“Please…don’t be upset,” I say. “When it’s our turn, I mean. When I win.” I expect a little pushback, but there is nothing. Well…not nothing.
“Why would I be upset? I’ll sing with Simon and live to tell the tale, as Delora said. How many can say that?” he says. His words carry a spark of enthusiasm, excitement at the prospect, but his back remains bent, his gaze already defeated. Everyone today will be able to say that…
“Oi! Bait doesn’t talk,” the human in the next kennel snaps, pounding their shared wall. I jump at the sound, but my conversation partner doesn’t seem surprised. Bait? Ah, he was brought to fill out the brackets, if need be.“Not to the champion! Just let him chew you up and spit you out.”
“And who are you?” I ask.
“Petras,” he grins, pulling his shirt down far enough to show his name tattooed across his collarbone. “Remember this face. Remember this voice.”
“I shall,” I say simply, laying down and turning my back to him. Aggressive competitors have something to prove…with any luck, I’ll sing against him early and give him a chance to reflect on his defeat. Ha. Quietly, I start my warm-ups—deep breathing, loosening my jaw, opening my space, humming. I start to hear the others begin at my prompt, and soon the kennels are filled with yawns and glissandos, repeated figures. Better than the trash talk.
I rise and stretch, but my elven companion across the way has not moved, has not warmed up—he remains curled up on the cot.
Waiting for the end.
Only about half an hour passes before a smaller segyein comes in, their spindly little fingers tapping at a wall console. “Simon and Dalyria, you have been selected as the first match,” they say, our doors sliding open. She is tall, with pale coloration; her skin is flushed pink and her hair is a wispy blonde. Cazador seems to favor that; as I pass down the aisle again, I’m struck by how many of his pets are pale. My conversation partner must be something of a crown jewel to him…
---
I watch him go, so confident yet so modest. He doesn’t boast, and even introduced himself to me, as if I wouldn’t recognize one of the most famous elves on the planet. With hair black as night and eyes like emeralds… One with an angelic voice, sweet and effortless when he speaks, breaking into hidden depths of warmth and passion when he sings.
I never cared for the Alien Stage. It’s just another illustration of the barbarity of the world I’ve been taken to. Watching Cazador buy and sell and trade thinking creatures, sending them off to be slaughtered on stage—if he craves blood so badly, why not just take it himself and save the money—
But I admit, when I heard Simon sing…I wanted to watch.
I wanted to see someone win.
I wanted to see someone live.
I felt so relieved when I saw Simon win his first championship. The commentators couldn’t stop talking about how often elves collapsed on stage, how dramatic it was, to watch someone die of a broken heart, to die of fear, to sing to the stars to save them and…
Maybe we are saved. Maybe that’s what it is when we drop dead.
But Simon…Simon lived. He showed we were strong.
He…made me want to sing again.
I was never much of a singer. I didn’t have musical gifts. I danced and sang like all elves, of course, but I never stood out. And that was fine, I told myself, I would be celebrated for my beauty and my wit, not how quickly I could move my feet, or how high I could make my voice go…I didn’t want the adulation anyway. I told myself this a lot in my youth.
I never thought my sour grapes would taste so good, but when the only other option was the taste of lead and blood…
Sour grapes are my favorite. They let me know I’m alive.
I mind the kennels, that’s my duty. I’m older and wiser. Some of the others don’t listen to me, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Cazador wants me to mind them, but doesn’t give me power to make them mind.
I think he just likes to see my blood.
I don’t give him the satisfaction. I don’t breed, I don’t pick fights with Petras or Violet to make them mind, and I don’t sing.
Not for him.
When I sing, all alone in the kennels at night…
I sing to him. The beautiful boy who survived the Stage again and again.
They display the feed of the competition so we can see our fellows being obliterated. Simon is a three-time champion. He has felt his opponent’s blood on his skin. An exhibition singing against the likes of Dalyria and Yousen is nothing to him. Zithra’s pet did well, but Simon hardly spared him a glance.
He is more ruthless now. The sweet boy who won that first time…is he gone?
As they all come back alive and well into the kennels for a meal after Round 4, he seems so…normal. Polite. He accepts his soup with a smile. He thanks the segyein who brings it. He eats the bread in small bites, sips his soup, but he doesn’t sit to eat. He paces a little.
His gaze falls to me.
I want to think he isn’t looking at me for what I am. Bait.
But this young man has killed ten people with his voice alone (his second competition had an initial stage of 16 competitors—he didn’t shy away, he confirmed his champion status by clearing an extra round effortlessly).
I’m barely even a stepping stone on his course today.
“What was it like?” Simon asks, his voice warm and soft.
“What was what like?”
“Home.” He says the name of our planet, but he doesn’t know that it means ‘Home’. My gaze slips away.
“I…don’t know. I can’t remember,” I say softly. “It was so long ago…” I look up at him; he seems disappointed. He presses his hand against the glass, and I hear it, soft and low. The Song. He doesn’t have the words, he is only half-elf, but the melody is in him.
The trees were green, dappled light dancing across the streets—
The nights were so black, you could see ten thousand stars in the space you could block with the palm of your hand—
The song was in the very air we breathed—
I try to sing, to give him the words, but my voice breaks like dry twigs. He flinches; there is worry in those green eyes.
…No, the sweet boy is not gone.
I reach out and press my hand to the glass as well, and smile softly. My vision blurs—tears?—but the sight of Home is not lost.
My heart aches for Home. I haven’t felt this…hope in years. Not until I heard him sing.
The sound of his voice, singing for me…
For me…what a precious gift…!
I cannot surrender to Cazador’s cruelty. Not anymore. Not now that I’ve seen Home again.
I just listened before, but as the second half of the competition begins, I find myself watching. Simon is singing against Leon—he has a fine voice. He and Petras are both likely to make it into the final preliminaries.
I hope Petras goes. I want to watch him bleed for the last time.
He sings well; they sing well together. It’s beautiful, but Simon’s voice cuts sharper, drags across Leon’s throat like a razor. I can see him imagining his opponents crumpling to the ground, bleeding out…the light leaves his eyes as the scores come in, but he smiles.
“Aurelia, you have been selected for the next match.”
Oh gods. It’s down to just me and Petras.
Aurelia isn’t anything beyond just a ‘good’ singer, but she has charisma. If the Alien Stage was a dancing competition, she would win hands down. And oh, does she start to dance. Whirling and leaping and playing to the crowd.
Simon joins in, twirling, kicking, drawing her close for a dramatic finish.
The camera zooms; he is sweating. I can see his pulse fluttering in his neck on screen.
Oh no…
---
“Mother,” I say softly, trying to control my breathing as I come down from the stage into the crowd, draping myself across her muzzle. “I’m tired…”
“Oh my darling,” she sighs, opening her enormous mouth and letting her tongue loll out, warm and wet. I crawl into her mouth and curl up there, surrendering to the predator before me, my eyes sliding closed as her mouth closes around me, a low purr filling the vault.
As far back as I can remember, being held in the cradle of Mother’s maw has been a comfort. I never feared her swallowing me whole.
I was raised alongside another pet, Lee, who panicked when Mother closed her mouth around us. He would scream, beat his little fists against her teeth, cry in the dark no matter how tightly I held him and told him we were going to be fine, that she wouldn’t swallow us. She loved us. She just couldn’t hold us any other way. I would lay down, just like this, across her tongue and close my eyes to sleep, to prove my trust, and he would wail in the dark. Once, he scratched her gums and she spat us both out with a growl.
I hit him. He cried louder and ran. I tried to climb back in Mother’s mouth, but she wouldn’t lower her face to mine. I held onto her scaly leg as tightly as I could and swore it wasn’t me.
She sold Lee a few years later. Said she’d gotten all the use out of him that he had. I hope he’s just a companion now. He didn’t have the spirit for the Stage. Not if he panicked at being held in Mother’s mouth.
I’m surrounded by warm darkness, the gentle vibrations of her throat untranslatable. Until they aren’t.
“Just two more rounds, dearest. You can do that for Mother, can’t you? Crush Cazador’s mutts into the dirt for me.”
“…Yes, Mother,” I answer, hiding my face for a moment. There’s only the two left. Petras, I want to crush. He has been nothing but unpleasant since I met him. But the other, the older elf who tried to sing with a broken voice…I feel tears welling in my eyes at the thought of having to sing against him. He’s not meant for this… I make up my mind as Mother opens her mouth and I slide off her sandpaper-like tongue, my clothes catching unpleasantly.
I must convince him to forfeit.
---
There’s a bit of a delay, and I wonder if Simon is being checked by a veterinarian. He’s valuable, of course, and working him to death in an exhibition would be a tragedy. A waste of money, on his owner’s part, at the very least…
An attendant comes in and punches at a few buttons on the wall console, and I hear a door unlock.
“Petras, you have been selected for the next match.”
“What? Me?” Petras says, “Make Astarion go—I deserve the final!”
“Shut up and move,” the segyein barks, ripping him from his kennel. I admit, the sight brings me a small touch of joy…but…
I’m last. I’m Cazador’s final chance.
Shit.
---
I feel my heart pounding in my chest as the scores come in. My vision is tunneled in on that smug prick, the color drained from his face as he sees the scores—78 to 93.
My highest score all day.
As it should be, the random generator pulled my duet from my second championship final. I won that round 95-92.
I’m sure Mother will have something to say about my missing two points.
“It’s not fair!” Petras yells, throwing the microphone down. The squeal of the sound system sends the crowd reeling, and he is quickly nabbed by security; his collar is forced back on.
I try to leave the stage quietly, gracefully, but my legs are shaking, a cold sweat runs down my neck.
Are my legs going to break?
Am I going to be shot?
---
“Astarion, you have been selected for the final match.”
The door of my kennel slides open, and I stand, hesitant. Petras isn’t back yet…what’s going on?
I’ve waited in the staging area for a few minutes before Simon approaches, his pace steady but his face pale.
“Are you alright?” I ask softly, looking over him. He doesn’t answer for a moment.
“You never told me your name,” Simon says, his voice trembling slightly.
“…Astarion,” I say quietly, leaning close and hesitantly resting a hand on Simon’s back. He looks ill, he is shaking.
“Astarion…” My name sounds like a jewel in his mouth. “Please…forfeit,” he whispers.
Forfeit? “…I can’t. Cazador will…” I trail off, looking away. We’re all in for punishment, of course…but if I forfeit? I’ll be lucky if I go to bed with all of my teeth.
“I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Embarrass me?” I ask, giving a hollow laugh. “Darling, I was brought here to be embarrassed. And now I have the opportunity to sing beside the greatest idol of a generation…? You’ve already embarrassed the lot of us. So…please, let me have my moment.”
---
My heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest. He…wants to sing against me? He wants to go down swinging, I imagine, put on a good show for his master… The blood is rushing in my ears, my tongue feels so heavy and sticky…
The matchmaking screen appears for the eighth time today.
Round 8:
Simon vs. Astarion
Song:
9J6/jBhvt8y4opevOk4u2DeZY9Zy3OV2KCr69J72Bgs=
The algorithm runs for a few moments longer, and I look over at Astarion one last time. He seems…content. He knows he is going to lose…or does he? Does he think he has a chance with me about to break my legs and have my heart burst?
A soft chime rings in our earpieces, and I look up at the display.
Song:
Total Eclipse of the Heart
7:00
S-seven minutes…? That must be a mistake…!
Astarion looks over at me, with the calm of a man who knows what is coming. “I can’t wait to hear you sing up close,” he says softly. “I hope I don’t disappoint you…don’t tell anyone I said that,” he adds with a little chuckle. The lift begins turning and once again, we are lifted onto the stage. I walk forward and grasp the microphone stand with white knuckles as the track begins to play, the countdown in my ear and the supertitles above the crowd both making themselves known.
I push the trembling to my knees and open my mouth, and the melody begins to slip off my tongue, smooth and sensuous—it’s a love song, after all. I turn back to Astarion, whether to cue him or make him the focus of my lyrics, I don’t know. Everything feels surreal, like I’m a step behind and watching myself glide through the process.
He steps forward and opens his mouth, and for half a second, real fear fills me. I ready myself to take up the second verse, in case he cannot, in case his voice shatters like glass, like a race horse’s leg—
Astarion’s voice is low and rough and raw, but not like meat, not like bait—raw like unworked wood or natural stone, raw like an uncut gemstone whose inner fire glimmers when you look at just the right angle. My breath catches in my throat as he turns his gaze to me, singing to me with such…purity, such honesty.
My heart pounds harder as I open my mouth to let the harmony out. Me, singing harmony…! Mother will be furious, but I know he can’t find it, and I don’t want to embarrass him. He isn’t trained—he can’t pull himself back, there’s not the dramatic tension that I’m sure he wishes he could give, but the earnestness in his voice pulls me closer, the passion in his eyes…
This, this is truly his wish. If he dies, he dies happy…
Just because he sang with me?
The track pounds in our ears and thunders through our chest. I’m listening for the countdown, but I’m listening from another planet. My arms encircle him, as the lyrics said—his fingers tangle with mine and he pulls me against his chest, sweeping me into the step of a dance that I don’t know, but my feet do. The countdown is there, clicking in my ear, and I open my mouth and sing for him, my heart beating in my throat in time, pouring itself into unfamiliar lyrics that feel so ardent that they might as well have been a part of me my whole life.
He sings with me, our breath mingling hot and heavy between us, his grip on my hand tight. He cannot, will not find the harmony, but I don’t mind. He pulls the passion up from inside me like water from a well and I pour it out over him, our volume rises with our cries, I can feel tears building in the corners of my eyes.
If I die, I will die happy, too…
My voice trembles on the edge of a sob as I pull back from the crescendo we’d built, the power in my voice channeled into my arms, my hands, my fingertips as I hold him close, closer than I’ve ever held anyone—I feel a tear fall in joy, in pain as he joins me in the final chorus, crooning and cradling my head like a lover. I can’t even see the lyrics supertitles anymore, my sole focus is on Astarion, every line on his face, where every laugh and every sob has left its history on his skin.
My eyes slide shut as we sing our final refrain…
---
I feel his legs shaking as he holds onto me tightly, I can see his focus starting to slip as his eyes slide closed, and fear grips me. Simon goes limp in my arms, he's dead weight, pulling me to the stage—no, no, no…!
Has a man just died in my arms?
I lay him down on the ground as carefully as I can, cupping his cheeks, trying to breathe life back into his lips.
“Simon? …Have you been saved?” I whisper, my voice trembling and my heart pounding.
There is an earthshaking roar behind me and instinct takes over. I turn just enough to see Delora unfurling her coils, eyes alight, slavering maw open wide—I freeze in primal panic, shielding this sweet boy, grasping his hand tightly. Eight scaly legs roll and thunder as she erupts onto the stage.
“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” The collar eventually manages to translate her rage, but the words are blown away by her hot breath blasting against us. Attendants tentatively approach and try to pull me away, but I swear in the moment before, I feel his hand squeeze mine back.
I watch in horror as Simon's limp form is scooped up delicately in Delora's jaws, her rough tongue wrapping around him and pulling him into her mouth. I don't resist as I am finally pulled away, but reach numbly for him, desperate to save him—how, I don't know—she’s impossibly large, an angulócë—I cannot slay a wyrm—
The whole stage shakes as she leaps and flows towards the doors, smashing them open with her great horned head. “Where is the veterinarian?” she cries, thundering through the halls like a great flood. “My boy! My baby boy!”
---
I wake on an exam table, several segyein hovering over me, shining lights into my eyes.
“Simon? Wake up,” they call, but their voices feel distant. My arms and legs are being moved and tugged—are they broken? I groggily try to look, but my head is gently pushed back down.
“Doctor, he's conscious,” one calls, and another approaches, shining his light in my eyes too. I close my eyes and try to turn away.
“I wanna go home,” I slur, squirming slightly.
“Hold him still, we're still monitoring his heart—”
“Simon? Darling?” Mother's roar shakes the room.
“Mother—” I call, squirming more. More hands and flippers push me down, and all I can do is whine.
“Breathe for me, slowly, good boy,” the veterinarian instructs, and I try to do as he says.
“Am I dying?” I whimper, trembling. I feel like I'm dying, with all the panic around me, with how my chest aches.
“No, you're not dying. But you've got to be careful, eight rounds is a lot for a human, unheard of for an elf. You're really a special boy, aren't you?” the veterinarian smiles, patting my head like I'm a child.
I try to turn away, but I'm held still. I hate this, I hate vets, hate it, I just want to sleep, sleep forever…I close my eyes and find him behind my eyelids.
Astarion…
“Heart rate is returning to normal,” one of the others says, “We shouldn't need a second dose…”
“Good, good, less is more with elves. Although I don't like the look of his diaphragm…he's strained. We need to get him to his usual team, but can someone please calm his guardian down? She's going to panic him and he's going to collapse again…”
I hear Mother in the hallway, the translation goes through a daisy chain before it arrives, garbled, to me. ‘Precious’, ‘jewel of the breeding program’, ‘fourth Stage’, ‘indisputable’, ‘already spent the money’…
I didn't see our scores…I collapsed before they were posted. I’m sure the difference was phenomenal; he was rough around the edges and didn’t have much raw talent, he’d never be selected for the Stage. For what it’s worth, though…
He was my favorite to sing with.