No More
by Kinto Mythostian
I watch with faint trepidation as the vixen assistant priestess tightens the leather straps around my wrists, securing them to the arms of the chair; a similar set already hold my ankles in place below the long Lilac skirt of my dress. Two more thick straps, one around my waist and one threaded under my arms and across my bosom, are buckled tight against the Lilac velvet of my overdress's bodice, so snug I can feel their constriction even through the thick insulation of my formal uniform's underdress. I flex, testing the strength of my bondage; I can hardly move at all, my stocking feet flat against the floor, my spine held perfectly straight against the unpadded back of the hard wooden chair. I am completely helpless. The Light Blue-clad scarlet vixen gives me a reassuring smile and whispers "Die well, Waeticie," before curtseying and backing away.
I can only nod numbly in response, my silver rabbit ears trembling; my mouth has gone dry. I remind myself for the hundredth time that I have chosen this, that this is what the gods want. I am going to die. My future sacrificed in their service.
I practice my breathing exercises, filling my lungs completely with breath before slowly letting it back out. I am in complete control of my body. My heartbeat relaxes. I am calm, at peace. It is my duty; I cannot choose to ignore the calling. I have nothing to fear; I know this for a fact but it is hard to make my body understand.
Danielle approaches silently, her thick stockings padding the approach of the silver wolfess. The gold sash of the chief priestess is draped across her body; other than that her Light Green formal uniform is indistinguishable from that of any other devotee at the Academy. "Good morning, Waeticie," she says.
"Good morning, Danielle," I croak.
Perhaps she senses my nervousness and uncertainty. She gently takes my hand in hers, the warmth of her touch emboldening me. This is not part of the traditional greeting or the ceremony. "It is good, Waeticie," she says tenderly.
I manage a smile in return. It is good. It must be. It is the most important morning of my life.
My choice is a small ceremony, private. There is only Danielle, two assistants, and myself in a small candlelit chapel in the Temple; no grand display in the Amphitheatre or the main sanctuary for me. My death may pass unnoticed to most of my sister devotees; I doubt many will miss me when I am gone. My closest companions have Moved On, the sacrifice of our friendship laid on the altar beside their bodies.
Danielle stands before me, looking into my eyes. "Waeticie, are you prepared to bring your life to an end on this day?" she asks, formally initiating the ritual.
I have already given up so much to have the privilege of being a student at the Academy. Every day I have chosen to live in this austerity was a sacrifice. Every day as I walked the campus I could feel the somber presence of the gods all around me, the air suffused with their Noble divinity.
This meager life of purity has taught me how unnecessary are many of the luxuries that are taken for granted outside the Academy's seclusion. The luxuries of a devotee are much simpler, but so much more cherished for the strict asceticism of our day-to-day routine, luxuries like a hot drink on a cold day shared with a friend; an exceptionally beautiful sunset; or a long, lazy bath after a hard day laboring in the gardens. Today it is time for me to let go of even those simple pleasures. My soul will be wholly dedicated to the gods' service.
I nod humbly.
"Waeticie, I ask you again in the presence of these witnesses, your sisters, are you prepared to give your life on this day?"
I can see the future I want and know I must reject it. I will never know the world beyond the Academy grounds, never know the touch of a husband, never know the fulfillment of motherhood, never grow old. I don't want to die, but my willing choice to do so regardless is the crux of the whole ceremony.
I nod.
"Waeticie, I ask you one final time. Are you prepared to die on this day?"
I think of the gods who have called me to emulate their example. The gods exist in divine agony that is beyond mortal comprehension; it is this fate that awaits all Noble sacrifices, and myself. The thought terrifies me, but what would be the point of my sacrifice if I knew I was going someplace nicer than where I am now? If I know I'll be rewarded I can hardly call it a sacrifice. Fear is instinct, unthinking; it must be rejected. My fear dies today with my body. My life has no value. It is a privilege to know and understand this truth.
"Yes," I whimper and squeeze my eyes shut.
"Waeticie, by the power vested in me as chief priestess of this Academy, I condemn you to death, to be carried out immediately, here in the presence of the gods."
I do not nod. I do not react at all. Still I do not open my eyes. I feel rather than see Danielle tying the black blindfold in place to seal off my sight for good. I have passed the test. I should feel glad, perhaps relieved, but I only feel sick. I have heard others speak of the emancipation that comes with surrender to death, but I only feel more trapped. I don't want to die.
I let out a reflexive sob as I feel the leather of the garrote threaded through the back of the chair and pressed against the quivering silver fur of my throat.
I feel a hand gently stroke my headfur - Danielle's - and I give single short nod. My will is strong. I must do this. It is what I have been called to do.
At the first twist of the handle the cord sinks through my velvet fur right to the sensitive skin beneath. I wince at the sudden harsh bite, the beginning of the end of my life.
It hurts, but not yet as much as the mental hurt of thinking of all that I am giving up. I concentrate on the full gravity of my sacrifice. The world has much to offer me, and I to it, but I'm sacrificing that. I have friends I love and things I wish to experience, but I'm sacrificing that. That is what sacrifice means. I am giving it all up to honor the gods. It hurts to think of all I'm giving up, and that hurt too is a sacrifice.
Danielle gives the garrote another turn, compressing my flesh, bringing me another degree closer to death. My fingers clutch the arms of the chair, my toes curl inside their stocking cocoons.
I dwell on all the things I am leaving behind, pleasures that I will never know again. No more pancake breakfasts, no more catching fireflies, no more long rides in the woods and returning with the scent of horse and saddle in my clothes. I must be consciously aware of the magnitude of my sacrifice. The joys I will never have are a far more valuable offering than my feeble life.
Another turn of the handle, another sharp increase in the already agonizing pain.
I don't want this. I don't want to die. What I want is irrelevant, I remind myself desperately. I must die, the gods have called me to die. I have chosen to die. Sweat oozes from my pores, soaking into the heavy Lilac material of my dress. Never again will I know the kind words of a friend. Never again will I feel a cool breeze. Never again will I taste the sweetness of a plum.
Danielle twists the handle once more; I would never have imagined the garrote could get any tighter.
Make it stop, oh gods, make it stop. I try to swallow and cannot, my throat so tightly constricted. Drool dries into a crust on my lips, open in a small O as I try fruitlessly to breathe. It hurts, oh how it hurts. This is what death feels like. Every agonizing second takes me closer to death and further away from life, away from the world and all its joys and temptations, and closer to divine perdition. No more wildflowers, no more fresh warm milk, no more sneaking out at night to watch for falling stars. I am going to miss this world.
The garrote winds ever tighter; my airway is squeezed to a pinhole, my veins compressed until the blood cells pass single file.
I must be strong. I must endure. I must. No more hugs. No more music. No more love. No more... everything. Endure. I must. No more. I-- I-- I have made a terrible mistake. The realization hits me like a thunderclap. I don't want to die. I am not ready. Not at all. I want to live. I desire to live.
The strength of my will fails. I open my mouth in a call for help that does not reach even my own large ears. I beg to make it stop, but no sound escapes my bluing lips, no breath passes beyond the white-hot ring of pain in my neck.
The garrote is cranked tighter, crushing my delicate throat, snuffing out my life one excruciating second at a time.
Even if I could make myself understood, it would be of no use. I have been ritually condemned. The sacrifice must be completed; no one, not even Danielle - especially not Danielle - may interfere. We have all made Choices. To break such a solemn vow is unthinkable, impossible. Even as I try in vain to cry out I know this; I was dead the moment I acquiesced. I realized the truth too late.
Still I continue to fight, my stoic resolve shamefully abandoned and I let my ignoble instinct for survival take control. My breast heaves against the thick leather belt, my wrists and ankles straining to escape their cuffs, but I am secured so tightly that my frantic struggle for emancipation is indistinguishable from the asphyxial convulsions of death.
Danielle keeps winding the garrote tighter, forcing the cruel leather ever tighter around my neck, oblivious to my sudden epiphany. My flesh resists, pushes back, but it is insignificant against the force of will. The consequence of my Choice is inviolable.
Danielle could keep turning until my bones crack and my spine breaks, but she stops, though it brings no relief. It is Noble that I should suffer. Now I will choke slowly, painfully, death patiently strangling away the remainder of my life away second by eternal second, alone. I can feel each individual alveolus burning, starving for oxygen and only receiving the same stale air with each panicked pulse of my heart. There is nothing I can do. I willingly gave up my life and the gods do not give that back. I am dead, the life I should have had snuffed out forever. I weep my final salt tears of regret into my blindfold as cold lights dance before my eyes.
It seems to last forever, the pressure, the constriction. I sink into despair, my struggles ceasing, letting my body sag into the embrace of my bondage, resigning myself at last to my naively self-condemned fate. My heart fades gradually, each beat coming more slowly than the last. Each beat bulges my bruised throat against the harsh leather, choking me a tiny bit more. Everything hurts; even thinking causes pain. My parched purple lips part in a small O as everything goes dark and silent.
I am no more.
Aware of nothing, not even the pain anymore.
Blackness swallows.
...
..
.
.
..
...
Blackness.
Aware of it.
Pain, and aware of this too.
There is an I to be aware.
I am on my back, a hard surface beneath me, my arms folded across my chest.
I open my eyes and am blinded as I draw a deep, shuddering breath. A sound reaches my ears and they perk automatically.
I blink my vision clear and the sudden blinding light resolves into a room, one quite dimly lit in fact. There are shaded lanterns hanging on chains from the low, unfinished ceiling. This is not the Celestial Realm. I recognize this place.
I am in the small chapel adjoining the Catacombs, the room they call the Wake. It is here that Noble sacrifices are laid out on stone altars before their final interment. Devotees are encouraged to visit, to meditate upon the meaning of death and life, of Nobility and sacrifice. There is a priestess on duty at all times, charged with keeping eternal vigil.
I would not be here if the ceremony had not been completed, if Danielle had not declared my sacrifice fulfilled. It is a tradition as old as the Academy. I am here because I died.
But I am not dead. I can feel the feeble beat of my heart, growing stronger with every second that passes. I can feel breath in my lungs, each inhalation coming at the cost of great pain, and yet each more wonderful than the one before. I am not dead. I have been sent back.
This too is a tradition. I was sacrificed but did not die. I gave the gods my life and they have allowed me to keep it. Not only may I not sacrifice myself again, but I have now been entrusted with a Noble obligation to survive, to go forth, be fruitful, and multiply.
I turn my head and see the priestess on duty, a wolfess clad in Gray; I'm sure we've met but her name escapes me. She is getting up from the floor; the sound I heard was her falling over. I must have given her quite a shock, but it is nothing compared to the shock I received.
I try to get up and go to her, but only manage to half-roll, half-fall off the altar and land in an undignified heap on the hard tiled floor, my landing cushioned by the thick material of my formal uniform.
I am shaking violently as the priestess runs to my aid and crouches beside me, helping me into a sitting position. Her eyes show terrified concern; she does not understand my convulsions are from soundless laughter. It hurts, but the sensation of feeling anything at all is too wonderful. I cannot explain to her how happy I am to see her. I am too weak, too dry to speak, to breathe without pain, but that will pass with time.
Tears leak from my eyes, tears of joy, as I embrace the bewildered priestess tightly in my clutches. I do not even know who she is, but she is as alive as I am. Alive.
First fragments written January 28, 2013. First draft begun in earnest December 23, 2013. First draft completed December 30, 2013. Editing completed January 7, 2014.
