It’s been a few years since I’ve felt excited for the future. Ever since it dawned on me that the purpose of my life would be to be used in some kind of political gambit – and then once I learned what that would mean for me – I’ve been watching my life pass by with a certain dread. However, I have never longed for death, and neither have I feared it. It has, at times, appeared to be the simplest solution to all my problems, no more and no less.
It has taken my arrival on this strange planet to finally break my apathy. As we’ve been walking the bizarre temple halls, I’ve been waiting for the nausea of our journey to recede. It doesn’t. Instead, my motion sickness slowly turns into a sickening feeling of dread.
As I float in the crystalline bath that is supposed to cleanse me – from what? – I try to steady my breathing. While I might not always have been a steady person, I've never been prone to nervousness – which unfortunately means I have no idea how to deal with the tidal wave of ‘what the hell have I done’ crashing over me.
Above me, the arches of ice-like material are carved and smoothed to perfection, leaving not a single flaw for my eyes to hang on to. Nothing to find comfort in. The water – if that is the liquid the priests have stuck me into – is strangely buoyant, allowing me to float on my back in perfect stillness. Well, still except for the panicked heaving of my chest.
The only reason death has always been such a plausible option is because my life, at least to me, was utterly lifeless. Everything seemed to be happening out there, where Art was, in the great fields of Thindra or between the shimmering stars.
But now, it’s happening right here. In one day, I've seen more than in my entire life leading up to this point. And there is so much more that I’ll never get to see. Not that I ever would have had I not made this decision. Yet something about catching just a glimpse before getting my lights blown out feels exceptionally cruel.
“Feeling all cleansed and holy?”
I startle from my inertia and immediately scramble to somehow cover myself, before realising that, of course, the person shamelessly intruding on my holy cleansing is Art.
She grins. “Bit late for modesty, don't you think?”
“What do you want?” My voice is a lot less firm than I intended.
“The others are off to a breach in Aemura. Meanwhile, I am on babysitting duty!” She slips off her sandals and sits down at the edge of the pool, which is recessed into the temple floor. To my horror, she proceeds to stick her feet into the water.
“You can’t do that!” I point at her legs. “Isn’t this meant to be some kind of special ritual?”
“It’s saltwater and minerals, princess. You’ll be fine.”
Despite myself, I slap the surface of the water. “And here I thought you’d at least take the Goddess seriously!”
She laughs. “But it's so much more fun to get you all riled up!”
“I’m not–” I bite down my words. Somehow, I always sound stupid when I’m talking to her. “I don’t get it. If you think I’m so selfish and spoiled, why bother? Couldn't you babysit quietly from way over there?”
She doesn't quip back as she usually would, gazing at me for a long while. Her grin softens to something like an honest smile, her eyes fixed on mine. “Visiting Cascade City is going to be so boring when you’re not there.”
Baffled, I just look back at her.
She rubs the back of her neck with her palm. “I guess I’ll miss you, princess.”
Besides the fact that she has the timing of a broken watch, the absolute certainty of my death implied by her words only makes me panic more. For a moment, I linger in the realisation that if I’d married Lucius, I could have at least kept seeing her. I conjure up a dramatic montage of stolen kisses and secret visits – a kind of romance that could not be further from the reality of what Art and I share. And still, it fills me with a violent surge of regret.
When it becomes clear she’s waiting for my reply, all I can say is, “Oh.”
Inspecting my face, she concludes, “You’re finally scared.”
I slowly make my way through the water to where she’s sitting. The vaulted room behind her has no doors, only corridors leading off into the various other halls of the temple complex. Though nobody but Art has the audacity to intrude, sometimes I can see shadows pass through the corridors. Steps and voices echo faintly through the building and mix with the quiet splashing of my movements.
“It’s hard not to be since nobody will tell me what’s going to happen.”
“You’re going into the–”
“Into the liquid core of the planet,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes. “But then what, Art? You said the last girl you took to complete the Challenge died crawling back to the ship. So how did that happen, if she went inside the planet? And aren’t I supposed to get my first graft? It doesn’t make sense.”
Art is quiet for a long while before she says, “You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”
“Can you hear yourself right now? You sound like one of the priests.”
She leans forward, setting her elbows onto her knees and resting her head in her hands. “I know you think I'm an idiot but I have some experience with these things.”
Not an idiot, I think. Just an ass.
I sigh, leaning on the slippery rim of the pool. “So tell me what to do.”
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She shifts her position, leaning back onto her hands, then sitting up straight again. I watch her hands – I know the scars on them as if she'd shoved her fists through broken glass. I've felt them, her fingers interlocked with mine in moments when, for once, we had nothing mean to say to each other. Maybe I know her better than I care to admit because I know her hands are her tell. She’s nervous when she rubs the back of her neck, or fidgets with the broken seams of her armour. When she brings her thumb and the joint of her index finger to her lips, or thoughtlessly brushes back strands of her hair, smiling, she sees something she likes.
Now she looks down at her hands, palms facing up, hands empty and helpless. “You have to want it. Really want it, more than you’ve ever wanted anything in the world. Those of us who are successful are usually those who have nothing else going for them.” She raises her eyes to mine. “That’s why you won't make it. You don't know what it's like not to have a choice. And you already regret yours.”
After a moment of thinking about her words, I retort, “I don't regret it. I only regret losing a life I would have never had a chance to live in the first place.”
She chuckles and leans over to brush my cheek. “Again with the melodrama.”
Biting down my reply in order not to derail the last time we probably get to see each other, I instead ask, “Do you regret becoming a Chimera?”
For a moment, I can see the kind of shimmer of longing in her eyes that says that she does, that maybe she thinks about it all the time, but then her goofy grin pushes aside anything else. “I don’t do regret, princess.” She leans over and reaches for my waist, dipping her hands into the water. “I do whatever I want, whenever I want.” She pulls me closer to herself until she’s leaning over me and I can feel the brush of her lips against my ear when she says, “That’s why I’m not babysitting from way over there.”
I sigh. I should probably tell her off since I’m supposed to be cleansing. And anyway, I try to make a point of not rewarding her for being a pain in my ass. But when I raise my hands out of the water to rest them on her thighs, they’re shaking with the fear and exhaustion of the last few days. Maybe she can occupy enough of my senses to keep my mind from continuing to spin out of control.
And so, instead of telling her to stay the hell away from me, I kiss her. And instead of continuing my seemingly inane holy ritual, I let her lift me out of the water and onto her lap, drenching her robes in saltwater in the process. And when I find myself on my back on the cold floor, fists buried in her hair as her lips find their way over my skin, I forget for just a little while why I’m here.
----------------------------------------
Art does not come for the ritual. It is me and seven priests only, all of them strangers except for Oren. He gives me an encouraging smile as I step up to Her pool.
We have returned to the main hall of the temple, though the multiple recesses scattered around the room have been cleared by those who would pray at them. Outside, the light has changed from milky blue to violet-tinged darkness, courtesy of the dual sunset of the planet’s binary suns. All the light in the hall comes from within the pools, giving the priests an ominous look as they’re lit from below.
They all wear their red and gold cloaks, while I had to ditch my novice robes for light leather armour. Because the armour is Art’s and I don’t have the statue of a Chimera, I look ridiculous in the reflection of the slick icy temple walls, like a child borrowing her father’s clothes. Art tried her best to tighten the individual guards to my limbs but when I move too much, they slide down regardless.
I don’t know how I manage to still feel embarrassed about it despite everything that’s going on. Maybe it’s the intense presence of the Goddess that makes me hyperaware of my own small and unimportant appearance.
While I stand and stare down into the shimmering liquid, the priests begin to pray. I recognize the holy language from my lessons, though my vocabulary is too limited to understand what they’re saying. The words are low and guttural, their utterings rising and falling in pitch seemingly at random. Who is speaking changes rapidly and without any obvious sense of order, almost like they are having a discussion with each other. Their chants grow in speed and intensity until they are practically shouting, their voices overlapping each other and echoing through the room.
The whole process is so foreign and strange, I struggle not to let out an awkward laugh.
With every passing moment, they become increasingly impassioned, their hands twitching and their bodies swaying in the rhythm of their voices. Meanwhile, all I can do is stand and watch, not sure where to look. Then, all at once, they fall silent. The quiet filling the room seems to yearn for their voices.
Oren, who is standing on the other side of the pool from me, pulls a knife from his cloak. I watch with nauseous fascination as he cuts his palm and holds out his hand over the pool, letting drops of his blood trickle into the opening. The knife is passed to the next priest, who follows his example until all of them are standing with one hand outstretched over the surface of the pool.
Wherever their blood mixes with the liquid below, it begins to simmer and hiss, steam rising from its surface as if it were hot. Slowly, the liquid begins to quiver. I’m so intrigued by the interaction between the Goddess and the priests’s blood, I don’t realize that the knife has reached me.
The priest beside me, a giant of a man with a thick beard and long hair, gets my attention by addressing me in his strange language. I look down at the knife and reach out with shaking fingers.
“Do I…?” I look around, uncertain, seven expectant gazes meeting me.
I take the knife to my palm and run it over my skin. Nothing happens – the knife is neither very sharp, nor did I press down very hard. With a feeling of dizziness, I try again. This time, the tip of the knife scrapes over my palm, leaving a small pink scratch. “Sorry,” I mumble, heart beating into my throat. How am I supposed to pass the Challenge if I can’t even do this?
When I look up, Oren looks embarrassed for me. The other priests have an impatient air about them.
I tighten my grip around the blade’s handle, suddenly feeling indignant, my stomach burning angrily. How am I supposed to know how to do this? It’s not like anyone bothered to prepare me. Frustrated, I swipe at my palm in one quick and determined motion.
This time, the knife breaks my skin. I swear quietly – it hurt a lot more than I thought it would, and the pain lingers. For a moment, nothing happens, my skin just yawning back at me pink and raw, then blood begins to well up inside the cut. With a defiant gaze at the men around me, I hold my hand out and watch a few small beads of blood slowly make their way down to my wrist, before separating themselves and dripping into the pool.
When they make contact, the golden liquid wells up in a roiling motion, almost as if reaching for more. My breath catches as it sloshes over the rim and touches my ankles, warm and tingly.
“Ekko.”
I look up and Oren meets my gaze.
“Repeat after me: O anoreth midran.”
Nervous, I repeat the words, though they don’t seem to make sense. I thought anoren meant feed.
“O perdoleth midran.”
Again, I repeat his words and continue to do so every time he speaks. I struggle to translate what I’m saying – feed, gift, abandon… become? And here I never thought I’d regret not paying attention during religious studies.
When my lips close around the last syllable of the last sentence, the large priest to my left and a more wiry one to my right give each other a nod. They step to my side with one motion, seizing me by the arms. Before I can react or even ask, they yank me off my feet and throw me into the pool.
It’s warmer than I expected and thicker, my limbs struggling through it as I try to come up for air. My skin tingles where it touches me and it seems to foam on contact.
I never make it to the surface again. Seven pairs of hands dip into the pool above me and push me under.