———

We are stone-silent here, kneeling, all of us terrified, all of us hiding it. We have been kneeling here for what feels like hours, feels like days, feels like years, though it probably only has been a few dozen minutes. The time flows in a trickle, and the breath flows heavy and ragged down my chest, like I am breathing in a collection of hard, sharp-edged stones instead of air. 

We are waiting for the moment. For the moment in which she will come. The moment in which the Lady will come. The moment when everything will start, and we will have to start praying with everything we have for the unlucky person who gets chosen. Praying to soothe them. Praying to give them strength. Praying to give them victory. So that they might please the Lady. So that they might save our town and our harvest for one more year. 

I kneel here until my knees hurt. And I make sure to not show any of the hurt on my face.

All at once there is a bright flash of light all across the whole sky. It's too bright. Too painful. It hurts to see. But I keep my eyes open. I struggle and I fight to keep my eyes open anyways, through all the hurt, because she needs to see us looking at her. She needs to see our eyes upon her. Immediately, as quickly as the world got bright, it gets pitch-dark. And there's something dreadful in this darkness, darkness in the middle of the day. There is something deeply unnatural to it. Still I keep my face a mask of reverence. I don't let any of my fear and my trepidation show through. 

Standing in front of us, on the large, ornately-carved stone stage in the middle of the town, is the Lady. 

She wears a shimmering dress of bright, sparkling red. It's sleek and falls beautifully, falls perfectly on her. Clasped around her waist is an intricately-carved, flowing and swirling belt of gold. Hung from her neck is a fine golden chain adorned with a gold-framed pendant of a bright ruby. She has a youthful look to her and black hair as straight as a beam. She is beautiful. Far too beautiful. Far too beautiful for it to possibly be natural. There is something deeply uncanny about the way that she looks. There is something deeply uncanny about all of her. 

"Your reverence," old woman Marila, one of the town elders, speaks out in a voice that sounds so unafraid, in a voice that is hiding so much fear. "Welcome to our humble town. We thank you deeply and profusely from the bottom of our hearts for gracing us all with your magnificent presence. May we be able to show our deep and humble gratitude towards you for all that you have done for us and for all that you are. Your reverence."

"Indeed." The Lady's voice is clear and peaceful and supercilious, as it always is. There is so much highness and dignity in the way that she speaks. Her words flow out so smoothly, so loudly, as they always do. And there's something deeply unnatural about it. There's something deeply unnatural about it all. Like everything else about her, her voice is just too flawless, too beautiful, too perfect. But I try to not let my fear show in any way as I stay there, kneeling, listening to her words. 

"Our bright and radiant Lady," Marila begins, "for what purpose have you graced our village with your presence?"

"I come to have a communion with one chosen member of your town. I come to test how your town is keeping to its virtue and its honour."

"Thank you, my Lady, for blessing us with such a rare and treasured opportunity. It is my greatest hope that we do not let you down."

"My expectations for your town and its people are quite elevated. There is a lot for you all to live up to."

"But of course, my Lady. Your expectations are high and glorious and it is my deepest, sincerest hope that we are all able to live up to your lofty desires."

"Allow me to look through the crowd, now. I must select a fine and upstanding citizen of the town with whom to carry out my communion."

"But of course, my Lady. Take all the time that you need."

She scans over the crowd with here serene, impartial, menacing eyes. There is something too smooth about the way she looks over all of us. There is something too probing. 

I wonder, briefly, if I will be the one who gets chosen. I hope to the universe that I am not. I cannot handle that type of pressure. No-one can. But I pacify my racing heart with the knowledge that there are thousands of us here. There are thousands of us here in the town. The likelihood of me being picked is very slim. 

She looks through the crowd for what seems like an eternity. I wonder what is going on in her head. I don't think I'll ever be able to know what she thinks. I don't think I'll ever be able to even imagine it. She is so, so very different from all of us, from her unnatural beauty to her lack of fear to the calm, cool way in which she regards everything. There is an untouchability to her, as if all the cares that us humans have merely pass by her as interesting ideas. She looks through the crowd. 

She eventually settles on a person. And that person is me. Her gaze holds me longer than it has held anyone else up to this point. My heart stops in my chest. I feel as though I am about to throw up. This can't be. This can't be. This can't be. But it is. It is no matter how much I want it to not be. It is no matter what I want. 

"Calen Agua," she calls out, eyes dead set on me. 

I bow my head low. 

"Yes, my Lady?" I reply, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. Keeping my voice as meek and humble and submissive as I possibly can.

"I choose you to be my companion for the harvest ritual that we are about to undertake."

"Yes, my Lady," I reply. "I am deeply, overwhelmingly honoured and humbled that you have chosen to select me out of all the masses of people. It is a deep honour." My words, of course, are a lie. But I lie as convincingly as I can, extracting all my effort into making sure that she does not sense even the idea of a lie behind my words. 

"You may come join me now," her voice rings out clear and terrible. 

"Yes, my Lady. Of course." 

I rise. And my legs want to shake, my knees want to buckle, my breath wants to come out ragged and jagged and uneven. But I force everything to keep calm and collected and contained, to be smooth and fluid as I make up the distance between myself and the stage. 

I am more deeply, more entirely, more horrifically terrified than I ever have been at any point in my entire life. The profound, all-consuming dread cracks and crumbles everything inside of me, at the same time as turning my insides into stone. I feel like I am getting hit by lightning over and over and over again. I feel like I am crumbling to ashes. I feel like I want to throw up. I want so deeply, so badly, to throw up. But I can't. 

I force myself to the stage on my numb, rubbery legs. And I climb the stone steps, cold and harsh and piercing under my bare feet. And everything feels frozen, screaming cold and cloying, suffocating hot both at the same time. Everything feels completely unreal, as if I am moving through a nightmare. Yet everything feels overwhelmingly, undeniably real, more real than anything has ever felt before. 

Finally, after what seems like forever, my long and weighted walk is at its end. The Lady towers in front of me. And I force myself to look at her. I force myself to look at her and gulp down all the multitude of feelings that I am feeling. I force myself to hide. 

I twist my lips into as close to a perfectly realistic smile as I can possibly make. And I kneel down in front of her. 

Everything relies on me now. The town's fate relies on me. The harvest relies on me. The lives, health, and survival of innumerable people rely on me. And I can't take this. I can't take the pressure. But I have to. It's not my choice. It's my duty. I only hope that I am strong enough. That I can save them all. I have to save them all. 

———

Darjo and I are washing clothes by the river. It's a Saturday, a day that is mostly not for work, a day that is mostly for rest. But both of us have washing to do and we thought that we might as well do it. We might as well get it out of the way. And so we're here, just the two of us, together on the sloping, silt-covered banks of the river. 

It's beautiful here. The water stretches out bright and calming and perfect as far as the eye can see in each direction. It reflects the sunlight in bright rippled waves. It soothes my soul and fills me with a sense of purpose. I love the river. It seems to talk to me every time I am near it, every time I come to it for help. The river feels like an older brother or sister or sibling. And I am so grateful to have some time now, here, beside the river. 

The universe knows that I need to soothe my soul. I need to find some solace and some peace and some way to ignore the hunger within me, some way to ignore the fear and the grief and the pain all around me. Some way to make this nightmare of a year just a little more palatable. Because we all know that I will have to gulp down this horror of a year no matter what. 

Not that I blame Darjo, not that I blame him at all. 

"But I blame myself," he says to me, as we are washing our clothes. "I'm the one who disappointed her. I'm the one who disappointed you all." 

"You tried your best, my soul's brother. You tried your best and you did what you could."

"It doesn't matter whether I tried my best or not because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to save you all." There is something profoundly haunted in his voice. And something profoundly haunting. 

"We all know that it's very difficult to please the Lady. Nobody is blaming you. None of us are blaming you. Not at all."

"You should be blaming me." The guilt in his tone is almost tangible. I can almost reach out and touch it with my fingers. I feel so bad for him. So bad. He must be feeling so bad himself, must be feeling so much worse than the rest of us are feeling. 

"We shouldn't be blaming you."

"Yes, you should. I'm the one who disappointed the Lady. I'm the one who displeased her. And because of this, the whole town has to suffer. The whole harvest has to die."

"We can get by. We are getting by. We can pick the berries and dig up the roots in the woods."

"But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. There are too many people and not enough woods to feed them all."

"We can get by."

"What about all the people dying? Can they get by? They're not getting by. What about all the families and neighbours and friends who are grieving. Can they get by?"

"I know. I understand. It's hard. But it's not your fault."

"How is it not my fault? The Lady chose me. She chose me to commune with her. And that meant that it was my responsibility to take care of you all and to please her so that she blesses the harvest."

"That's a lot of responsibility to take on. But you took it so well. You took it well and you did everything that you could. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you."

The water flows cool and clear against my hands, refreshing and rushing and altogether full of life. The sun shines warmly against my skin, warming me up from the inside. There is the lightest hint of a breeze and it flows in my hair. Today is beautiful. It's so beautiful. But inside my heart it is dark and wet and twisting. My emotions are not beautiful. Still, I am grateful for the beauty of this blessed day, and I'm grateful for all the ways that simple nature is trying to cheer us up. 

"I'm going to kill myself," Darjo declares out softly to the river and to the sunlight and to me. My heart thuds in sympathy and sorrow. 

"Please don't."

"I will. It's what I deserve. I've killed so many people. The blood of so many people is on my hands."

"Their blood is not on your hands. But if you kill yourself, your blood will be."

"My blood deserves to be. I've damned you all. I've hurt you all."

"Please don't." 

"There's nothing that you can say to stop me from doing it."

Tears trek their way down my cheeks. And I don't stop myself from crying. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to cry. And I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to express my emotions. But I'm not grateful for the fact that I can't help. I cannot help dear, sweet Darjo and I cannot stop the guilt that he feels inside of himself. I can only watch him go, and try to give him whatever comfort I can until he does. 

I feel so very helpless. So very, incredibly, unbearably helpless. 

But I understand what he's feeling. I really do. I think, perhaps, if I was in a similar situation as him I would feel the same way. 

We continue washing our clothes, the river's water cool against our hands. I think I can understand what he must be feeling. I can understand why he blames himself. I think he's carrying more perturbation this year than anyone else is. He's carrying more weight. He has been carrying this weight since the first moment that he got called to represent our town in front of the Lady. And we're all carrying weight in this awful, painful year. We're all carrying so much weight. And there's nothing we can do to lessen it. Nothing except for helping each other.