The Steel That Slaughters The Lamb

To prepare is to steel oneself. To prepare is to practice smiling in the mirror, laughing, crying. What once took hours to perfect now takes only minutes. I have learnt how to act in this palace of gold and blood. I have learnt that lies we believe are as good as truth.

The sacrifice is an honour, they say, and they take no criticism. From their risen balcony they hide behind the glare of the ground-kissing sun, so bright it hurts my eyes. I force them open and let the sting remind me where I am.

They choose the name from a pot deep enough to hold all our fates inside. I wonder if their names are in there, too. I wonder if they fear, or if they are resolute in their faith the same way I was when I had yet to experience my first Ritual. I still remember the way the crimson spilled over the golden steps. I thought it looked like wine.

One of their hands dips inside the pot and pulls out the name of the sacrifice. It echoes around the courtyard.

Alara.

A name I know as intimately as my own, more so. Its shape has curved my tongue the way wind shifts sand into submission. I feel like I’m falling. My lungs refuse to inhale.

To prepare is to steel oneself.

We, the crowd, cheer. We, the devout but unchosen, throw our hands wide and tilt our heads back to show the sky our thanks. We, the shepherds, show Alara to the great glittering gates and let the palace swallow her.

In the sandy dusk, I get ready. Ritual finery, a dress trimmed in gold thread and gems. Alara tore this off me once. It pooled on the floor, forgotten by our stumbling feet. We were drunk on relief and she held my face, kissed my sun-spots, pressed her forehead to mine.

We were not disciples that night, just girls with wandering hands and lips that didn’t know how to say what they meant. It is best not to think of that. It will only make it harder to watch her on that platform, head stooped over the block.

To prepare is to steel oneself.

I have learnt to smile with tears on my cheeks.

Darkness sweeps the day away, and I see the lights start to flicker, a wave of glowing dots materialising out every window, every door. I hang the lantern on the hook above my window. The guards in the courtyard are watching, counting, making sure everyone does their part. Those who don’t may find themselves the chosen at Ritual, something I have seen before: a resistant being marched to the podium. It makes me wonder who chooses the sacrifice. A higher power? Or someone designing control, one name at a time?

I look in the mirror and realise I have seen Alara’s face for the last time. She’ll be veiled now. She’ll be veiled until the end.

We rode horses last winter, snuck them from the stables when eyes were turned. High sun in summer can strip flesh, but winter is a balm. No need for Ritual when the rain comes easy.

We rode horses. Even in winter the sand lashed us, leaving red raw kisses on our skin. Alara wrapped a veil over her nose and laughed. I would’ve drunk that sound if I could. Can you weave love into cloth? I’d have enough fabric to cover the world.

She’ll be veiled tonight. When I look at her on that platform I can pretend we’re riding horses or running and running.

To prepare is to… to prepare is to steel oneself.

It is an honour to be chosen, to give your blood to water the earth. It is the holiest of endings, we are told, and she is deserving. Not once has she tasted like sin. But I can’t make my faith sound solid. It shakes with unasked questions.

We gather in the great hall. Alara’s family smile with tears on their cheeks. They must have already bid their daughter goodbye. Her youngest brother wails and is ushered away to someplace where he cannot be seen.

I want to lose myself in the hum. We, the loving, are singing our thanks. The crowd sways, connected even when not touching, a divine force overcoming us or maybe a human one. Maybe if we don’t sing, we will scream. Some turn their faces up in exaltation. Some close their eyes. There are few who don’t sing, and there will be fewer still next time. The guards are watching, like they did at lantern-call. They see all. A young girl stares at one with her jaw set, eyebrows furrowed. I want to shake her and tell her to sing, sing and pretend, even if you only do it so your mother doesn’t have to mourn you. The crowd shifts and I lose sight of her.

Alara’s mother comes to me and we sway. I don’t say a word, but she holds me close and whispers a question in my ear. Her words are soft. Her wet cheek slides against mine. I realise that it is my turn to choose and my choice was made the first time I learnt the name Alara could taste like sweet berries and the heat rising from sun-baked sand. I nod against her mother’s shoulder.

I know these halls like the veins on Alara’s hands. I could walk them blind. Trace them in my sleep. Once, I thought the gold mesmerising, an endless sea of wealth. Now, I want to smear my hands against those walls and leave sticky fingerprints. I want their elbows to ache trying to scrub me away.

My feet take me to the golden door, the guards unmoving. They let me pass. They learnt early that sacrifices struggle less when they’re allowed to say goodbye.

Alara looks small. Fear has never smelt so unholy.

She is the chosen. Chosen by them. Chosen for us.

But… I am choosing now.

“You will wear my dress, head for the stables,” I murmur and she looks up in shock. Her head shakes, terror drowned out by love.

“No. No! Love...” But she is quietened by my embrace. We sway, the sound of the crowd far away now. It can’t touch us here.

“Your family will be in the stables,” I whisper. I think she’s crying but I can’t look at her for fear my heart might give out. I press her against me. One more second, I think. Just one. “If you don’t go, they will die waiting for you.” I pull back, look at her tear streaked face. My chest aches. I press my hands to her cheeks so she can’t see them shake. “Live, my love. Live somewhere far away and be happy.”

“This is cruel,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Making me choose.” But she knows, I think, that the ending has already been written. I have always been good at getting my way. A sinner’s tongue. A non-believer. My lantern swinging unlit in the window.

“You can hate me for as long as you live, if you like, so long as you live for a long, long time.”

We swap clothes in the dark. We get changed too close together so our skin keeps brushing. The veil smells like her. It is a small mercy to have her surrounding me.

She won’t let go easily. We kiss, lips slick with tears and snot. I whisper in her ear all the things I should have told her sooner. She begs me one last time to come with her. We both know it wouldn’t work. The guards won’t look at her face as she leaves. Why would they bother? One girl in, one girl out. She asks anyway.

I push her away eventually. “Your mother needs you. Your baby brother needs you,” I remind her, and that finally makes her feet take quivering steps away. I watch as she leaves, memorising her silhouette. Maybe my last thought will be of her laugh, or her lips, or the bravery it takes to choose life in the face of loss. I think it will probably be the night she told me her biggest fear was the unknown.

When I walk onto the platform in Alara’s clothes, a cheer rises. They cannot see my face through the veil. No one cares that the swell of my hips stretches the dress wrong, or that the fabric around my chest is loose.

I kneel. We, the blade, reach a frenzy. The executioner lifts his knife.

I hope Alara feels the rain on her face as she rides away and knows she is loved.

To prepare is to-