PRODUCE WRITERS | Prompt 1 | Writer A

[I wrote "ITALICS" in brackets next to three words. I would only like the word on the left of the brackets in italics, not the whole sentence, please.]


"Blood, Sweat, and Tears" by Writer A



“And to Callum, the patron god of warriors, we give to you the sweat of Soren, the son of the chieftess Neea.”

The priest smiles at me as he presses the cloth to my forehead. I let my eyes slide closed, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

He is smiling. He’s preparing me to die, and he’s smiling.[ITALICS]

It’s an honor. I’ve been told this all my life, yet some part of me can’t accept that.

“Soren, son of Neea, has spent his sixteen years training to become the perfect servant for you, great Callum, in the palace of the Marx. He has prepared himself for much hard labor. This tribute of sweat is merely a small representation of the sweat he is willing to give you as your servant.”

I open my eyes when he stops speaking. The wrinkles around his cheeks frame his smile. No one in our society has wrinkles like the priest does. He celebrated his sixty-second year during the last ceremony. Most people only make it to their thirtieth celebration. I only have until nightfall. For simply being an orphan sent to the temple to grow, he gets to survive until Maleah herself decides she wants another soul in her Underworld.

“Chieftess Neea will be in soon,” the priest announces, his voice bouncing off of the close walls of the purifying chamber.

The priest leans towards me, as if the gods can hear us, and wouldn’t want the priest to be speaking informally to the sacrifice. “Breathe, Soren. You’ll be with the gods soon.” He nods to me, and exits the room, robes swishing with his every step.

I place a hand to my bare chest, trying to calm my pants. I wasn’t allowed to wear the linen shirt I am set to be sacrificed in while I carried the heavy golden tablets to the temple at the top of the pyramid. Callum desires a tribute of sweat, but Saylin desires a pure, unsullied body.

My fist clenches, pressing into the skin above my heart, and trying placate it’s stuttering rhythm. I can feel every beat hitting against my ribs like birds striking against the bars of their cage, wanting nothing but the chance to spread their wings in the air, nothing but the open skies around them, nothing but freedom.

How had the others done it? How had they let themselves simply lay there, cold stone slab below, watching the knife plunge towards them.

My breathing quickens.

I can’t do it. For years and years and years, the strongest of the warriors, the best of the weavers, and dancers, and potters, the children of the chiefs—all of them have been able to accept the fate given to them by the priests.

“Get up.”

My head snaps up. My mother stands there, cloak fluttering in the wind behind her. The golden chains on her head glint in the light of the torches and the glare of the flames makes the red pendant hanging in the middle of her forehead look like a single drop of blood.

Her jaw clenches. “Get. Up.”

I stumble to my feet. I didn’t realize I had dropped to the floor.

She steps up to me. I’m taller than her, but I feel like a child once again, staring up at her, watching as she gives orders to her people or commands to her armies.

“What were you doing on the floor?”

“I-I—”

My cheek stings as her palm connects with my skin. I bite my lip, but quickly let it slip between my teeth as my mother gives me a pointed look.

I learned this already. I learned [ITALICS] that is it better to say nothing at all, instead of stuttering. Stuttering shows weakness. The gods don’t want weakness. They’ll reject me if I show a single ounce of weakness. If they reject me, they reject my people.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, biting back a sob.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be spending my sixteenth ceremony preparing myself for sacrifice to the gods. I want to be with the other townspeople, dancing around the fire as a hog is sacrificed to the gods in my name. I don’t want to be the hog. I don’t want to be sacrificed in the name of my village and my family. The family that must end with me.

Chiefs are not allowed to have children that grow up. Chiefs are made when a brave soul kills the current ruler, and there can’t be the risk of an unworthy child growing into the throne.

My mother draws the jeweled ceremonial knife from the folds of her tunic. I can see the light in her eyes. She’s excited. She’ll take pleasure in drawing blood from me.

My mother holds her hand out. I hesitate, eyes locked on the floor. I scuff my toes against the grimy floor. Maybe if I am dirty enough, the gods will find me undesirable, and I won’t be allowed into their throng of servants.

My mother clears her throat. I place my right hand in hers.

A feeling of apathy washes over me, clashing with the layer of rage hidden just below the surface. The emotions writhe within me, swirling, twisting, dancing with one another. They form the perfect bond.

I take a deep breath, breathing finally steady.

I don’t want to die.

I want my last day on this plane to be one I am proud of. I want my last feelings to not be ones of terror and anger, but of contentment and happiness. I want to feel proud of myself when I die, to not feel as though the string of my life has been cut abruptly due to a twitch of the weaver.

I don’t want to die.

I want to keep living until I [ITALICS] feel like my time is up. I want my death to not be the decision of the priests, speaking the word of the gods. I want it to be a decision of the gods themselves. I want to live until I feel the pull of Maleah, until I can clearly hear the goddess of death whispering in my ear that it’s my time to join her.

I don’t want to die.

I want to live.

The cool metal of the dagger touches the skin of my palm. My mother will try to make this as slow as possible. She will try to get revenge for all of the times I have embarrassed her by not being strong enough or proud enough or confident enough.

I can hear the shouts from the townspeople outside. They cry out for blood, but it is not my blood they seek, but the blood of my mother, of their chieftess. No one has ever liked her, not even the priests or the generals she has kept in her corner with promises of wealth and of power. She is a cruel leader, one her cares not for the wellbeing of her people. They have always pushed me, but in a different direction than she did. They have always pushed me to fight back against my fate. Every time I walked into the market, I would hear the whispers begging me to kill the chieftess, pleading with me to kill my mother.

I must not let my people down.

I close my eyes.

“For the gods,” my mother says. I can feel the dagger pierce my flesh, and the pain brings me back.

I rip the knife from her hand. I step towards her, letting momentum carry me forward and give me the strength to drive the dagger into her stomach.

Nothing moves.

I can hear the jumps in her breathing. I can taste the tears on my cheeks. I can feel the gems in the hilt of the dagger biting into my palm. I can smell the scent of blood and of sweat. The scent of fear.

She falls, and I stumble, catching myself before I fall with her.

I slowly open my eyes.

I lift a hand to my mouth, inhaling sharply.

My mother lays in a crumpled heap at my feet. Blood stains her robes, seeping into the fabric with each slowing pump of her heart. Her throat bucks for air, chapped lips parted in a silent sob. Her eyes stare unblinking, as if sight has become too much to handle.

It was a fast death. Faster than the one she would have made me experience. For years, I have been the ones to kill the hogs for the birth ceremonies. I know how to make a death quick and painless.

Tears drip off of my chin, dissolving into the blood on the floor.

I close my eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath to compose myself. I lower my hand.

A tribute of blood, sweat, and tears is what every ceremony needs, including a crowning ceremony.

I reach down and lift the golden diadem from her head. Strands of her hair fall out of place. She has never once looked so unkempt in my presence.

“For the gods,” I say, placing the crown on my own head.

A strangled cry makes me turn toward the opening of the chamber. The priest stands still, limbs locked in surprise as he stares at his former chieftess. My fresh white tunic and silver cloak are draped over his arm.

I step over my mother’s body, pushing my shoulders back and lifting my chin high. I have never before felt the confidence my mother and teachers have always pushed me to have. Until now.

The priest looks up at me, at the golden crown on my head. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. He swallows audibly. He pushes his long robes behind him, dropping to a knee and bowing his head.

I take the cloak from the priest, throwing it over my shoulder and closing the fasten. The cold presses into the hollow of my neck.

I walk past the man kneeling in the growing pool of blood. A trail of red marrs the ground in my wake, but I pay it no mind.

I squint in the light of the sun, lifting a hand to shield my eyes. Cosin threw the Sun Disk high today.

My people cheer when they see me.