Sacrifice

Lessons are irregular and take place at various times throughout the days.

Tests are never forewarned.

Today is a deviation from her regular challenges. She feels full of anticipation as her father leads her not toward the arena, but outside and along the garden paths lined with swindling students hurrying out of the cold or observing the beach from a safe distance between clouds of mist.

She follows, moving among the marble arches and paths, her perplexed expression deepening as they stray further from the castle.

There are no students when their journey seemingly concludes. They are approaching what appears to be a giant circular hole in the ground, stretching a distance at least five times her height all around.

The inverted tower recedes into a shadow, only shapes and distant outlines visible.

She cannot discern what lies beyond the rim of the darkness until she stands directly before it. Only feet away are ancient stone steps, smooth and grey and winding around the inside of the hole. Where they disappear into the shadows there are ornate carvings in the rock face, lines and swirls only partially obscured by creeping moss. They are interrupted by marble pillars lining the stairs. The staircase ends where the rotunda meets dark soil.

She stands at the edge, toes meeting the air where there is nothing to catch her if she falls.

She does not have time to register the weight of a hand on her back or the violent shove that succeeds it before she is tumbling toward the earthen bottom.

She grasps at roots hanging in tendrils from the towers sides. She wills them to reach for her and hold her tightly, away from the ground.

And they respond.

The roots reach for her, vines twisting in strange and twisted ropes to wrap tightly around her wrists. They hold her in place for only seconds before snapping and following her in a reign of dirt and greenery to the ground. They only slow her descent, perhaps keeping her from breaking her bones like brittle pieces of china.

The air rushes past, as frigid and sharp as blades of ice. She cannot prepare herself for the inevitable impact and subsequent agony. It is every scratch and cut and bruise she has suffered though her lessons increased a thousand fold.

She is blind for what feels like an eternity, though it cannot be for more than a minute. The pain is white, but eventually fades into a grayness in which she can make out her surroundings.

Amidst the shadows and flyblown weather beaten shrubs are ancient stone monoliths, incised with Celtic lettering. She has landed a few feet short of the nearest one; her outstretched arm brushes the side of it.

The first sound to reach her ears besides her own breathing is her father’s echoing footsteps. She cringes with each disruptive one.

“Very well done,” her father says, as he descends the last of the stairs and strides toward her, stopping a little ways away.

“What was that?” she demands, rising onto her elbows.

Her father makes no move to help her.

“It was a challenge. You were pitted against the constraints most people consider unchangeable, such as gravity, and you survived. You must not let panic cloud your judgment,” her father continues. Your reaction was sufficiently quick and effective.”

“You would have sacrificed me for that?”

“Because I knew you would win.”

“What if I had lost? I could have died,” she snaps, looking up at her father.

“But you did not,” her father says dogmatically.

“Does my life really mean so little to you?” she asks, still gasping from the effort of the manipulation. She immediately wishes she hadn’t, as she now dreads the answer.

“You are being overly dramatic,” her father replies. He glances at the monoliths, the face of a satyr on one, an ethereal beautiful face on another. “I am not fond of this setting, though it is secluded, but I suspected you were too accustomed to the heights of the spires and windows in the academy.” He returns his attention to his daughter. “You seem to spend enough time there.” His tone intonates disapproval, but his expression is too difficult for her too read and he does not seem outwardly hostile.

Her father pats her head with a gloved hand, much like he did when she was a small girl, though he has long considered it a childish gesture, and affection mundane.

He withdraws and reaches into his pocket. Her father tosses a snow bright ribbon, smudged with the grey of faded ink, at her. It trickles over her arm like a stream of water and coils on the ground like an albino snake. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay