An apprentice cleric is about to be elevated to journeyman status. Their mentor goes to teach them the song of death. The melody which ends a life gently, and eases the dying into the next world. The apprentice is appalled that such a song exists, but there is a reason it can only be used on those who are at the edge of death and in pain. The journeyman has to sooth the apprentice, this is one of the hardest lessons among many. -- Anon Guest
Hannalore stared at the page as hir heart and stomach fell all the way to the planet's core and the hells beyond. "This... this is the song that kills people."
Maestre Thistle sighed and prevented Hannalore from tearing it to pieces. "This is the song that eases a soul into the next world. It is a necessity when there is nothing else to be done." She could see the argument forming on Hannalore's lips. "We cannot cure old age. We cannot heal a chronic illness that causes a life of endless agony. When a baby is born with their heart in the wrong place and their innards tied in knots, or with their brains outside of their skull... sometimes the only choice is an end without pain."
Hannalore was a good student. Ze had the best empathy, the most sympathy, and the greatest skill at returning health to an ailing body. Ze surrendered the written song to hir teacher. "But... killing them?
It was always the way with the best students. They honestly believed that everything could be cured. "Sometimes, my dear, you will meet patients who beg for death. Their bodies won't let them, and you must sing them to their peace." Thistle took Hannalore's hand and lead hir to a ward in which the best students could never go. It was a hospice area where there was little to be done, but much that the best could think they could do.
This was where, politely put, people were waiting in a queue for Death to take them away. Wizened old souls, scraps of bone and skin. Some fighting for their next breath, some lost in the labyrinths of memory, some... watching the spiders on the coving.
Many could barely put voice and breath together. Their words as creaky as their old joints.
"Thistle," said one. "Is it today? Can it be today? I am done."
All the usual excuses fell away from Hannalore's mind. Ze could not say this patient had so much life in them. They were already worn to a whisper. Ze could not say that there was plenty they could do. This person was so weary from living that they were eager to face the grim reaper. They were in pain, and suffering, and all that Hannalore could normally do was make sure they had another day full of it.
This was why they swore a vow to dispense mercy.
"I will listen and learn," said Hannalore.
"It can be today," said Maestre Thistle. Then came a bizzare set of checks as if the patient were a child on their first day at school. Have you washed? Gone to the privy? Are you nice and comfortable?
The old and worn patient laid themselves neatly down and said. "Go on, then."
Thistle began by holding their hand, and soothing their brow.
It was the look of peace on their face that gave it all a reason. They weren't scared, they weren't alone, and they weren't in pain. They went calmly, and without any fuss at all.
This was why the song was a Lullabye.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / catchmybreath]
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For a young healer, that has to be the most painful lesson of all.
It is.
On the other hand, I bet that song would be hellishly powerful against a Lich...