Third day of September, in the year 2556, in one of the homes of the Domiel lineage.

The Codex of Virtues said that men were born three times.

The first among us had been born from women, years and years ago. Elie had once told me what a woman was. He had whispered to me one night, where no indiscreet ear could hear us, that they were beings of infinite gentleness. He had told me it was a gentleness different from that of bearers—a gentleness that no longer truly existed today; a gentleness one wished to surrender to endlessly, yet that men had resisted. Elie had called that gentleness “mother.” But now, they had all disappeared.

Then the bearers came to exist—to replace the women. Elie had told me that bearers were God’s gift so the world would not cease to be; that we were presents, blessings, miracles, and that the world ought to treat us as such. He always said our bodies were male on the outside, but that inside lay the body of a woman, and that this was why a little of their former gentleness could still be found within us.

And finally, duty came. Elie had confided that duty was something important—that it was what ensured the balance of our Society, and that this was why the Codex of Virtues had been created, with its rules and its guidance. He said that everything was equilibrium, a fragile balance that had to be watched over, and that for this, each had to fulfill their role: a bearer remained a bearer, a seeder remained a seeder, a concordist remained a concordist, an orator remained an orator, a Patriarch remained a Patriarch—from the Age of Initiation to our death.

Elie had always been wise, rigorous, and faithful to God. Since our youngest age, he had been the one with the most discernment; the one most capable of judgment and remaining impartial. All of this had led him to become one of the orators. They represented only 5% of our population, fifty thousand men. The orators were our judges, our priests, our men of faith, and our guides, but Elie was even more than that: he was my older brother. And not a day passed without me missing him.

Our castes were our duties. Through them, we were truly born, like buds that endlessly appear and blossom. Yet some buds never managed to open. Elie had succeeded; I had not. My duty had become my cell. The orators were constantly occupied. He never returned home, never visited, and as a bearer without a seeder, I was not allowed to walk outside without a chaperone. I had not seen him in eight years, and it broke my heart.

Knocks came from the door and I lifted my head toward it. It opened slowly, revealing Simon who, sheepish as if he had committed a crime, asked if he could come in. I nodded and folded my legs to my chest to give him space on the edge of the window. He sat there, and I turned my gaze toward the window. The immense green plain stretched endlessly, into an infinity denied to me.

“What were you thinking, saying such things in front of Saul?”

I shrugged miserably.

“I just hoped he would spare Enoch,” I murmured. “Give him a chance to… I don’t know. I don’t really know what I was hoping.”

I clasped my hands over my stomach and lowered my head between my knees. Today, more than any other day, my stigmata hurt me as much as my belly did. One burned, the other tugged at me. Suddenly, Simon pulled my foot onto his lap and gently caressed my stigmata without the slightest disgust.

“I know you’re not a bad boy, Abel. On the contrary. I know you didn’t get the same luck I had, but it’s been eight years since you did what you did. You need to move on.”

“Luck? You?” I let out a weak laugh. “Simon, Saul doesn’t treat you well. He just treats you better than the others. You simply got less bad. And it will be the same for Enoch—if not worse.”

“Or better,” Simon offered softly. “Saul is a seeder. It’s in their nature to be harsh with us, yet to protect us. He is lenient with you. He never reported your sins to the concordists. He watches over you, but he won’t be able to keep doing so if you keep acting this way.”

I looked him in the eye. He believed it. He genuinely believed what he was saying. And I… what was I supposed to believe?

How could I know what was better if I had never known it? I knew what was worse, for I had lived it. I had been naked every night in sheets stained with my own blood before a seeder assigned to me. He had violated me where he had sworn to protect me; crushed me where he had promised to reassure me. Day after day, I endured humiliation and punishment. He had indulged in his power to excess. I did not know goodness, but I now knew how to recognize a behavior that was acceptable or not.

“Why couldn’t we be treated as well as we treat each other? When you speak to me, you see me as an equal, as someone to cherish. Elie spoke to me with wisdom and gentleness, without humiliating me as he taught me. Why shouldn’t that be possible simply because they believe themselves above us on the hierarchy?” I asked.

“Because that is how balance is created,” Simon replied. “It is in the harshness of the seeders that we bearers find safety.”

I yanked my feet away from his touch, disgust burning through me at his words.

“I found neither safety nor comfort in the harshness of that seeder, that devil. I cried water and blood. How can you accept that Enoch might go through the same thing?”

“The Patriarch Seriel—”

“He’ll be like the others,” I cut in.

Simon sighed, yet never lost his gentleness. He was a bearer down to his fingertips. It was terrifying how endless his docility and sensitivity were. He never showed impatience, annoyance, or anger. It felt as if even if we shook him like a rag doll, the moment we stopped, that soft smile of his would simply return. I found it terrifying, as much as I admired it, because I, as a bearer myself, was incapable of such a thing. How did he do it? Was he never frustrated?

“The Patriarch Seriel, the Seventh, passed away a little over a year ago. His eldest son inherited his title. The homes of the Seriel bloodline say he is a particularly magnanimous man. I believe Enoch will find happiness there.”

I only frowned, sinking deeper into silence.

“The Seriels are a lineage as illustrious as the Domiels. It’s an honor to be chosen by them. Abel, if you fear so much for Enoch, attend the meeting tomorrow—quietly. Observe, discreetly, and learn, silently.”

But I said nothing more. To me, the conversation was over.

Simon rose with a sigh that tore at the soul—tore at my heart—and after pressing a kiss to my scar-pulled temple, he left my room. Only when the door closed did I manage to breathe again. My stomach was tight, my belly pulsing with anxiety. Attend the meeting? What for? Whether I liked it or not, it would happen.

Enoch would leave the home as I had, as Elie had. I hoped, desperately, that our little brother would inherit Elie’s luck rather than mine, but I also hoped, foolishly, for a miracle. That Seriel would be as good as the princes in the old tales, as I had once hoped of my former seeder; that Enoch would love, like Simon did, what happened once alone with a seeder, or a Patriarch.

But I knew how ridiculous that hope was. For eight years, they had repeated and hammered into me that my duty was to be a bearer—that I had no power except to give birth and to fornicate.

I was a slave to my own condition.

But “he who questions his role questions God Himself,” said The Codex of Virtues. Even in my thoughts, I sinned.

I wished I could rejoice for Enoch’s happiness too, but no matter how hard I tried, all I could see was the harsh reality poised to crush him. I felt powerless—more powerless than ever before. Once, at least, I had been able to react. Now, I didn’t even have that.

Perhaps Simon was right about one thing: if I wanted a quiet mind, I had to be there tomorrow. To watch, powerless, as Enoch took flight… or stepped toward his fall.

“Please, God, watch over him,” I whispered.

He still had a chance to live a life… somewhat decent. That would be enough for him, as it was for most bearers who took pleasure in their role. As for me, I was aging and covered in scars. No one in the Society would ever accept that, and in the end, what the Patriarchs and the concordists had thought to be a punishment had become my deliverance. I no longer needed to give my body. I felt almost lucky.

Then, once again, someone knocked.

The handle struggled, and I smiled—truly smiled—knowing there was only one person who could be doing that. Caiaphas, small as a sprout, pushed the door open, closed it behind him, and came toward me. I opened my arms to him, settling him between my legs and holding his tiny body close.

“Are you okay? Why were they yelling at you?”

A small laugh rose in my chest, and I hugged him tighter, swaying us gently from side to side.

“I simply don’t share their opinion. Don’t be angry at them, Caiaphas. Resentment is a plague.”

His little head shifted, clearly displeased, and I cleared my throat before starting a lullaby. They called it the “Child’s Canticle,” but I altered it slightly, wrapped in the warm intimacy of the room.

Beneath the veil of shadow and gold,
Sleep, sweet fruit of faithful blood.
Your breath a gift, your heart the law,
You are light, and you are my voice.

White silence, dreams of silk,
No sorrow, no fault, no cross to bear.
I watch with God, sweet Caiaphas loved,
And in your arms, I become myself again.

Simon had sung it to me when I was a child, to Elie and me both. I had lost count of the nights spent listening to his voice as he comforted us through Saul’s harsh teachings, again and again. Simon had never complained, no matter how repetitive our evenings were, no matter how many times we wanted to hear the lullaby, the “Child’s Canticle.”
He had watched over us patiently, and with Caiaphas in my arms, I always found my footing in reality again.

If… Today, he should have been eight years old. He would have been four years older than Caiaphas, yet I imagined his body would have been just as small as my young brother’s; that his hands would have been just as tiny and pale as the ones I held now; that his little head would have been just as soft as the one I leaned against.

Sometimes, it felt as though I could see him grow behind my closed eyelids, safe from this cruel world that silenced torture and horror.

“Abel, you always look sad. Did I do something wrong?”

His small fingers touched my cheeks, and my heart, overflowing with melancholy for a life I would never know, spilled over. I shed a few tears there, into his little palms and before his innocent face—so fragile beneath grief and fear.

“Of course you did something. You soothe my heart, little brother.”

My fingers darted for his sides, and I launched a merciless tickle attack, one nimble gesture after another. He burst into the sincerest laughter, wriggling like a tiny caterpillar might under a too-curious finger. I continued, laughing wholeheartedly with him, until he could take no more.

He slowly caught his breath, fighting to calm his fits of laughter. Then silence settled again for a few seconds.

“Abel… I hear Simon and Saul talk sometimes. I don’t listen at doors, but… you know… they say Enoch is going to leave soon.”

He was young, far too little to understand everything that implied. He was only six. It was far too early for the first signs to appear—those that would lead him to one of the five castes that would define his entire existence. And that was for the best.

But he was worried—worried about what would happen to his brother; worried because he sensed that things would not remain the same forever.

“Enoch is grown now. And you know, when you reach your Age of Initiation at thirteen, you’ll be told what your duty is. Enoch knows that, and today he is eighteen. He’s celebrating his Age of Consecration. That means it’s time for him to fulfill his duty,” I explained.

“I don’t understand… Where is he going?”

His adorable brows furrowed with displeasure. I placed a finger between them and smiled.

“Simon and Saul make our home, right? Enoch is leaving for his own. He’ll be to his home what Simon is to ours.”

He nodded with the saddest expression. Fidgeting with his fingers, he lifted his pale eyes back to mine.

“Are you leaving too?”

Leaving? I had nowhere to go; nowhere to flee; nowhere to seek refuge. Everything I knew was here, within these walls.

“No,” I reassured him. “I’m staying right here.”

I pulled him back into my arms and, as I rocked him again, I began to hum the lullaby. 

Simon had been right: I needed to be there tomorrow, because everything I had left was in this home.