THE STAR SPAWN
As I lay here with my dearest Cassia, now fast asleep upon my chest, my thoughts drift across an ocean of desperation. It has been forty days since the entrance to the vault was sealed shut behind us, and the failure of these last rounds of experiments have me quietly unnerved.
Cassia, ever the optimist, yet believes that some iteration of our approach will reveal a successful divination. Indeed, I am heartened to see that she has shown little sign of her previous squeamishness and assists me in even the most macabre of rituals without wilting. For this, I should be thankful, yet more often of late my narrow and judging eyes have betrayed my growing irascibility at her presence.
Now, when she suggests a variation upon our latest failed cantrip, I am quick to wound her with an exacting and arbitrary deconstruction of her analysis. Monster that I am, the flash of hurt across her face at my stiff rebuke pains me much less than each additional miscarriage of these damnable incantations.
If I were a more amiable companion, I would encourage whatever naive hope she continues to offer me. I would praise each alteration in the measure and beat of her words and proffer a more tender acceptance of her contribution instead of pure and creeping resentment. Now, I cannot help but silently lament as I descry her every barren invocation. Each attempt is more futile than the last, wearisome beyond even my tolerance, slowly and unfairly eroding the warmth I once felt for her stewardship.
Even our nightly lovemaking has become a slow rhythmic pattern of uninspired labor.
By some blessing, Cassia appears largely unburdened by the mounting failures and still looks to me for steadfast guidance and faithfulness. She must have trust in both my duty and capability. As such, I will muster the endurance for one final day of this false devotional bravado. Still, I worry outwardly for her sanity. Even the most resolute mind is eventually withered to the point of madness by the sheer number of dark oaths and vile declarations that must be sworn equally from spirit and tongue. Yet, I have managed to remain relatively immune, though troubled cogitation threatens to corrupt the limits of my reasoning.
This undoubtedly ignoble endeavor is evermore a casualty of my suffering memory, its true purpose lost within a listless and wandering haze, moving ever closer to the periphery of my subconscious. These journal entries have served intent well enough, and recent mornings have found me searching each tattered page and hasty scrawl of calligraphy for some semblance of reality upon which to moor the remnants of my sanity.
Inescapably, I am becoming acutely aware of a familiar emotion welling up inside me; a silent and cruel indifference toward my loyal and gentle Cassia. I have kept two secrets from her. First, that she has not been my first consort within these walls. Second, that the innocent blood under her pale and delightful skin has been the only ingredient needed for this undertaking.
Were I capable of finding virtue in love or merit in the single-mindedness of her blind obedience, I would be tempted to allay her fears and ask for some modicum of forgiveness, however, I have a duty to the purity of the blood. Only in the fleeting moment of her final, distressed recognition would the blood achieve its fantastic potential, and to corrupt it beforehand would only delay the expected.
Cassia stirs within my embrace and for an instant I fear that my thoughts were put to voice, but no. It must be near midnight now, and a peaceful, knowing stillness has befallen our bedchamber like a funeral veil. I lean forward and softly kiss her forehead and run my fingers through the dark auburn coils of her hair. Though no authentic act of kindness, I make a silent plea in hopes that she is not wholly consumed by the forthcoming consecration.
There is no answer but the gentle sigh and soft warmth of her breath.
Sleep sweetly, my dearest Cassia.
a.e