by J. L. Thurston

Behind her eyes there was sandpaper. A witch of her standing should not know the feel of sandpaper, but Sol certainly did. Her time with the humans had taught her to be aware of many sensations. For instance, the hollow feeling in her gut from refusing to touch a morsel of food since brunch yesterday.

And the excessive buffet the servants had put on display in her sitting room was absolutely no help to the twisting within her guts.

Yellow morning light shown in from her balcony windows. One of the doors was slightly ajar, allowing the perfume of the hibiscus to compete with the smell of eggs, steak, lamb, and potatoes.

Sol exited her sitting room to stand on the balcony, praying the fresh air would steady the thrum of her heart. Today was the day everything would change. Her outstretched fingers cupped a white hibiscus. If she lived long enough to see them turn pink this afternoon, would she appreciate their beauty anymore? Or would she become drunk with the ecstasy of raw power? The clan had executed her aunt and three cousins for such a thing. The loss of control was the ultimate crime in the eyes of her mother and grandmother.

Sol’s eyes lifted over the balcony railing, over the sea of greenery she kept close to her rooms, across the wide street, beyond the shore of the shallow Gessera, to the yellow cottage built atop a rolling hill. Black curtains were hung in the windows of the normally cheerful home. A man lay dying inside those walls. Any second would be his last.

And what was Sol doing? Wearing silk and snubbing her nose at a feast. Mourning the last moments of her innocence in preparation for magical powers with which so few were Blessed.

“Princess.” Dhalia’s voice was always so dim, so light and fading, like a candle at the end of the wick. “It is time.”

Sol moved away from the balcony, away from the sight of the dying man’s home, away from her precious flowers. She fell inside herself, deep within, searching for a rock to cling to. As she prepared for the ceremony, she thought of what she was tasked to do. Today she could be Blessed, or she would die. There was no in-between for her. She needed the ceremony to be successful, or her life would be for nothing.

She refused to live when Chrim could not. So if gaining magical powers would save him, she would go to the farthest extreme to ensure her Blessing would come.

The Temple of the Witches was nothing like the temples the humans worshipped their strange gods in. Witches worshipped the One and Only Goddess. She Who Grants Power, She Who Blesses. The Temple was a cracked stone floor outside, surrounded by trees plated as gifts to Her, potted plants of all exotic origins meant to please Her Perfectness.

Sol loved the Goddess with all her heart. She worshipped her twice a day ritualistically and several times in between as she thanked her for such a rick and glorious life.

But today that love would be tested. Would the Goddess bestow power, or claim her life? Not everyone is Blessed during their ceremony, and that was just how it was.

Sol walked to the center of the Temple floor. Surrounding her on all sides were her people. Sisters of the Goddess. Witches, all Blessed with magic. Her mother was dressed in rich crimson, her raven hair spilling down her body and several feet before her on the floor. Her golden crown rested atop her head, reaching to Heaven with the glimmer of jewels.

Standing beside her mother was her younger sister, Meryda. Ever serious, Meryda stood like a smaller copy of the queen. Her ceremony would take place in five years, yet. She was so much younger than the hardness of her face tried to prove.

The ceremony was to be led by the queen. Her ruby lips parted and she spoke into the sunshine, “Solarys, you have come of age. Have you brought a sacrifice to the Goddess?”

Sol’s stomach flipped upside down. “Yes.”

“And are you prepared to accept Her judgement of your worthiness?”

“I am.”

“Then, with the blessings of your Sisters, and I your queen, present your sacrifice to the Goddess.”

At this time, most witches would wave their arm and servants would wheel in a mountain of gold, or jewels, or rare creatures to be sacrificed. Sometimes, if the witch had poor standing or was going for a show worthy of gossip, he or she would slice their flesh and sacrifice their own blood. These were all worthy sacrifices, all taken, all Blessed with the gift of magic.

Sol needed this to work. She needed magic or Chrim would die today. And she would need a lot of it. Not a steady trickle, not a stream, but a torrent of power. To achieve this, her sacrifice must be more than just monetary possessions, and it had to be irreplaceable.

Sol unsheathed a knife from a belt around her thigh. This was not all in itself shocking. At this phase of her life, she’d just completed her Masters in Combat. It wasn’t odd for witches to move around Aerellis fully armed for a few decades. But for Sol, the knife was all she had equipped herself with. No armor, no way to protect herself from the damage she was about to unleash to her flesh.

She wore leather pants. Tight enough to prevent herself from passing out too soon. Beneath her white silk robe she wore no blouse. When she opened her robe and exposed her flesh to the Temple, there was a rustle of shifting feet.

No witch murmured. No witch dared disturb the sanctity of the ceremony. Sol had to make her sacrifice, and no whisper would be uttered to stop it.

The knife plunged deep into her lower abdomen. Hot blood spilled down her pants, running into her boots and pooling. The metal tang of it filled the air.

Dear Goddess, my love, my heart, my very reason for life, Sol pleaded as she moved the knife sideways across her flesh. Her vision was turning white against the pain. This sacrifice is for you. This sacrifice will be felt for the rest of my life, and I would do it over and over again for you. Please, Bless me. Bless me for my people, for the future of my clan, and for him. To save my best friend, my betrothed.

Once the knife had done its job, Sol reached her fingers inside herself. She gagged and choked, bile rising in her throat. She had practiced this on cadavers. She knew exactly what to feel for.

Her knees barked in pain that faded as fast as it came. She’d fallen. Her vision was completely gone, the frozen expressions of her Sisters’ shock now blazing in her mind.

Her fingers grasped the organ, hot and as solid as muscle. Hard, but also soft, flexible. She pulled it from within herself with a sharp yank. Blood gushed, staining the Temple stones. She had fallen flat, cheek smashed against stone and grass, sticky with the red puddle she’d created.

In one hand, her numb fingers clutched her knife, in the other, her own uterus. She had meant to say something profound at that moment, but the numbness had taken over her lips and mind. She hadn’t even realized the moment she’d stopped breathing.

Too much blood, she knew. I lost too much blood.

She closed her eyes. This was okay. It wasn’t the scenario she wanted, but if she beat Chrim to Heaven at least she could rub his nose in it for all eternity.

“No, Daughter,” said a voice she’d never heard before. “It will be long before you sit at my feet. But know this, your sacrifice is taken, and Blessed, but I will still grant upon you a child to raise in my light.”

Sol could see him. A boy, pale haired and rosy cheeked. Sol held him on one hip and laughed as she sang to him. She’d never had such joy before. And the boy, he adored her. Gazed upon her with pure love.

Sol’s eyes opened. Feeling had returned to her body. There was no pain. The hot, sticky blood was gone. She could only feel the soft grass that grew between the stones of the Temple floor. The light breeze that blew through and played with her hair.

She rose and heard a collective gasp. Her Sisters’ shock had not disappeared, but now it mingled with awe.

The Goddess had taken her sacrifice. The blood, the pain, and her life-giving organ. Sol’s hand went to her abdomen, to where she had cut. A scar stretched from hip to hip. A reminder of what she’d done.

Sol smiled and raised her hands. There was a tingle in her blood. Electricity that could raise the hair on her arms, that could dart out from her if she wished it, could shake the very ground. Her eyes relished this power, seeing details in the plants around her she’d never noticed before. The fluid moving through the veins of the ferns, the ants carrying their treasures down the labyrinthian grooves in the bark of trees. She could see the bead of sweat on her mother’s cool face, the only sign she’d been distraught at her daughter’s suicidal actions. She could smell every single one of her Sisters’ anticipation.

“Mother, Sisters,” Sol said, her grin expanding despite her wishes to remain stoic and respectful. “I am Blessed.”

*

The yellow cottage smelled of rot. It smelled of heat, sweat, and excrement. The receiving room was lined with women and men crying silently and talking softly. Sol did not bother to see them. She had a mission, and she had no time to waste. She went up the dark stairs. Not a single candle was lit. An old servant waited in the shadows outside Chrim’s room. She wept openly, baring her teeth and tears to the ceiling for the Goddess to see.

“Meerie,” Sol whispered. “Out of the way, please.”

The servant beat a fist to her chest. “It’s too late, Princess. He left us.”

Sol grit her teeth and pushed the old woman away from the door. “No.”

She hadn’t done all of that for nothing dammit.

Chrim’s room was full of flowers. They did nothing to overpower the stench. Chrim lay in bed, eyes frozen open, lips parted. He looked as though he’d been mid-thought when he died. Or mid-sneeze.

Oddly, Sol had to fight back a wild giggle.

Nerves. Just nerves.

She’d been to battle. She’d seen bodies. She was no damsel. But the body of her oldest and closest friend...

It simply was not reality.

Sol stood beside his bed, frowning down at her giant friend. Chrim was descended from Titans. He was built out of boulders, his dark skin stretched tight over muscles that were ridiculously huge. Everything he wore had to be tailored to fit him. Sol teased him endlessly about it.

But the Sickness had claimed him, thanks to his exploits in the human world. Some things could not be healed by naught but magic.

“And magic I have,” Sol breathed.

She rested her hands upon his chest. He was still warm. The stillness inside him was eerie. Sol called out to his heart, to his lungs, to his mind.

Chrim.

She felt movement deep inside him.

Chrim, you big idiot, come out of the darkness.

Sol? What the hell?

Chrim, return to the light, for the Sisters still have need of you.

Sol? Why are you talking like that?

I’m being mystical, now shut up and open your eyes.

Chrim opened his eyes and looked at her. They exchanged a smile that quickly turned into a shared laugh. She reached out her arms and for the first time in weeks, she held him without causing him pain. The sores on his body were gone.

She’d done it. She’d saved him. She’d ripped him free from the clutches of death. Chrim, her dearest, her heart. The man who’d she’d one day have to marry though they both knew that was a laugh. Chrim, her Chrim, who was afraid to be blamed for not producing an heir, because of his sexual orientation, would always be safe around Sol. Even more so now that she had been Blessed.

Well, Sol thought she’d fixed their whole “heir” dilemma. Fixed it so no one would pressure Chrim into impregnating the wife he never desired to sleep with. As Sol smiled at her friend, she made a solemn vow she’d never tell him of the Goddess’ vision. Never tell him of the child in her arms. A child she would one day love.

They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.