2. Numb
2
NUMB
WREN
B eing Given is a death sentence.
The phrase runs through my mind for hours. It’s all I hear as I slip out of the temple, run through the fields, and pass the gallows on my way home. Mother says something as I barge through the front door, probably scolding me for being out for so long on the day before my Giving Ceremony, but her words don’t register. I somehow end up with the broom in my hands, and I sweep the main floor of the house as the words cycle through my mind on a continuous loop.
Being Given is a death sentence.
It still doesn’t feel real. None of this does. The lies, the unanswered questions, the things I’ve always wanted to know but no one has ever given me a straight answer for…
It all feels like the worst kind of dream.
I should be screaming and crying, curled up in a ball, and unable to move after what I just witnessed. I should be weeping and mourning the loss of my oldest friend, tearing my hair out from its roots as I grieve her untimely death.
I should be a gods-damn mess, but I’m not. I’m just cold.
Numb.
Maybe that’s for the better, because by the time the phrase stops repeating through my mind, my entire family is arriving for my farewell dinner.
There’s my older brother, Markus, with his cropped dark brown hair streaked with violet. He strides into the house, holding his wife Yvette’s hand. Her ebony skin is smooth, and her black hair hangs in a single braid down her back. Their four-year-old daughter, Lydia, runs around the house as soon as she steps inside, shrieking in delight.
James and his boyfriend, Philip, follow close behind. James’s curls are wild, like mine, although his hair is short and a few shades darker than my own. His partner’s blond hair is knotted at the back of his neck. James has his arm around Philip, holding him close. They walk through the door, their heads bent together as they share a quiet moment.
“Hi, everyone,” Violet says as she comes out of the kitchen, followed by Marie.
The twins are fifteen, and everyone has doted on them since the day they were born. They’re identical, from their hair that was Violet’s namesake, to the number of freckles speckling the bridges of their noses. The only thing setting them apart is the crown braided around Violet’s head, as opposed to the single plait Marie prefers.
The rest of my family laughs and hugs as if nothing’s wrong. Not me, though. I just stand in the corner. The numbness prevents me from screaming at them that I witnessed a murder.
It prevents me from doing anything at all.
No one hugs me, which is fine. I haven’t been hugged by any of them in a long time. After all, it’s not safe to get attached to a Given.
Amelia and I were always told that families are to keep Marked Ones at arm’s length during their teenage years to make the Giving Ceremonies easier. We aren’t permanent members of our families but simply loaned to them by Esyn.
Once, I asked why our families couldn’t know where we were going after our Giving Ceremonies. Why keep it a secret?
I was told, in no uncertain terms, that the gods had made the decree, and no one should question them. Not even gods-blessed who were too curious for their own good. After all, it’s easier for Marked Ones to serve Esyn if they don’t have any attachments to the outside world.
It turns out that was also a lie. If no one gets attached to the gods-blessed, they won’t find it odd when they never hear from them after their Giving Ceremonies.
Because we’re all fated to die.
The rest of my family can hug and laugh and kiss all they want because none of them are Marked. None of them are doomed. My fingers find the fabric of my dress, this gods-damned gown that labels me as much as the swirl on my forehead, and I fiddle with it.
My suns-forsaken Mark burns, reminding me of its existence.
Like I could ever forget. My fingers rise, tracing the swirl that’s been there since my birth. It’s etched onto my forehead, just as Amelia’s was so perfectly placed on the side of her neck.
But now my best friend is dead, and I’m going to die tomorrow.
I arrived at that bone-chilling conclusion earlier, right before I lost the meager contents of my stomach in the bushes outside.
I’m going to die tomorrow .
There’s a chance I’m wrong. I know that. Maybe not all gods-blessed are murdered during their ceremonies. Maybe Amelia’s death was a horrific anomaly.
I don’t think so, though. There’s something about the way the priestesses spoke so casually after her death that tells me things went exactly as planned.
This is their fate .
The head priestess’s words echo in my mind, confirming my thoughts.
No. This wasn’t an anomaly.
The gods-blessed are killed during their ceremonies. All of us? Some? The head priestess was Marked, but I’ve been wracking my brain, and I can’t remember seeing a Mark on any other temple worker. I’ve always thought they were just hidden beneath their clothes, but now I’m doubting everything I’ve ever been told.
I don’t understand how the head priestess wasn’t Given, nor do I understand how this has been so masterfully covered up for centuries, but I don’t have time to figure it out.
In less than a day, I’m supposed to die. Why? Why are they doing this? Why kill us? Why kill Amelia?
If I weren’t completely numb, I’d wince at the thought. As it is, my heart twists.
I don’t want to die. I have hopes and dreams, and none of them include having my blood spilled over an altar as a human sacrifice. We aren’t supposed to question where the gods would send us, but I’ve always hoped that I would be Given to a role where I could interact with people and animals. Sometimes, when I was very daring, I used to dream of a future where I’d be trained in the healing arts.
But I’m Marked to be Given, and my fate has been determined since the moment of my birth. I don’t think my wants and needs matter anymore.
Maybe they never have.
My parents arrive, and Father calls everyone to the table. My feet somehow remember to function, and I walk as though in a trance to my seat. James is on my right, and Violet is on my left. The food is passed in a blur, and I serve myself without noticing what I’m putting on my plate.
After dinner is served, we all join hands. Mine are clammy. Do my siblings notice?
“Esyn, Mother of all that is good and pure, we thank you for this food.” Father’s voice rings out over the dinner table as he prays the nightly blessing. He continues speaking, but I don’t notice his words.
What good is a prayer when everything I know is false?
Father finishes speaking, and I pull my hands back, picking up my fork. It’s the heaviest weight as I dig into a pile of potatoes. I lift it to my mouth, swallowing the whipped potatoes without thought.
Dinner passes me in a rush. Everyone else laughs, telling stories about my childhood as they enjoy the roast beef, candied carrots, and potatoes that Mother and the twins prepared. Their words barely register. It’s like I’m underwater, a ghost of myself.
Every bite is ash in my mouth, but still, I force myself to finish my plate.
I’m just… pretending.
Pretending that I’m tasting the food, pretending that my best friend is still alive, and pretending that my entire life hasn’t been built on a foundation of falsehoods.
I don’t know if it’s working. James keeps glancing at me, his brown eyes unblinking, but he doesn’t say anything. Of all my siblings, he and I have always been the closest. He’s twenty-one, a year older than me, and he only moved out last year to live with his partner.
Does he know what happens to the Given? Does he know Amelia’s dead?
Part of me wants to ask. The questions bubble up inside me, and they almost slip off my tongue. If I weren’t numb, I’d be screaming at my family.
But I am numb, and because of that, I can barely move.
Tonight, I’m not a lot. I’m quiet and demure, and I barely touch my food. I’m just… existing.
At some point, I look down at my left hand. My brows furrow, and if I weren’t numb, I’d shriek in horror. The bracelet that I’ve worn for a decade is still on my wrist, but where two wooden suns usually hang, now there’s only one.
Deep inside me, where the numbness can’t reach, I scream and scream and scream.
“Wren!” Amelia calls my name, and I turn to see her racing towards me, two blonde pigtails flying behind her. “Wait for me!”
It’s the first day of winter—my birthday. I’m still headed to school because even the gods-blessed can’t miss school on their birthdays. I slow down at the sound of my friend’s voice, my lunch pail hanging from my right hand as I clutch a library book with my left. Mother gave me a piece of apple cake in my lunch today, her birthday specialty.
“Morning, Amelia.” I smile as she runs with a skip in her step, a small package in her hand. “What’s that?”
She grins, handing it over. “It’s for you.”
“A present?” My eyes widen, and I beam. Suns, my best friend is so kind. “Really?”
“Really.” She chuckles impatiently, pulling on the twine wrapped in a bow. “Go on, open it.”
I rip open the packaging, a gasp falling from my lips. “Oh, goodness. They’re beautiful.”
Two woven bracelets sit in the box, each bearing wooden carvings of the two suns. I reach inside and run my fingers over them.
“One for you.” She bounces on the balls of her feet, and her smile reaches from ear to ear. “And one for me. I found them in a box in the attic, and they felt special. The moment I picked them up, I just knew they were meant for us. I asked, and Mama said we can have them!”
Tears rush to my eyes, and I choke them back as I look up at her. “Because the Given stick together.”
She helps me slide my bracelet onto my wrist before I do the same for her.
“Always.” She throws her arms around me. “Promise to keep it on forever, even after we’re Given?”
“I promise,” I tell her, squeezing her tightly.
I stare at my wrist, where only one sun hangs from my bracelet. When did I lose the other? It was there this morning, I’m sure of it.
It’s gone… like Amelia is gone.
Dinner ends, and James and Philip help the twins clear the plates. No one asks me to help because being fated to die means I’m the guest of honor.
I don’t speak as Violet passes around a plate of freshly baked chocolate scones, and my lips barely twitch into a smile as she puts one in front of me.
Usually, these are my favorites. What good are favorites now, though?
Marie follows with a special bottle of sparkling wine, pouring it into flutes already at the table. The wine is the color of blood, and my stomach churns as I remember the scarlet pool Amelia landed in.
When the twins are done serving, they reclaim their seats. Mother taps her knife on the edge of her glass, the sound echoing through the dining room. Are the walls closing in on anyone else?
“Father and I purchased this bottle of wine the day Wren was born,” Mother announces from the head of the table, smiling kindly at me. “As soon as we realized you were gods-blessed, we knew we would need something to celebrate the momentous occasion when you were returned to them.”
Because tomorrow, I’m going to die.
“You’ve always been a good girl, Birdie,” Father says from his seat at the other end of the table. I swing my gaze over to him. His eyes, violet like mine, crinkle. White hair hangs around his shoulders, and there’s warmth in his gaze as he lifts his cup in my direction. “Raising you and preparing you for the gods has been the greatest honor of our lives.”
An honor? Really?
A crack runs through my numb shell, and then it shatters into a million pieces. I draw in my first deep breath of the night as I stare at the man who raised me. Does he know? Is this a charade for him, like it is for the priestesses?
I grab my fingers and squeeze so tightly I can feel each bone.
How is this my life? How come we’re all sitting here like nothing is wrong? If they don’t know, if they’re in the dark as much as I was yesterday, then I suppose I understand where they’re coming from. But if they know and we’re still acting like everything is normal, then this dinner is the cruelest thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t think my father is a cruel man. One of my earliest memories is of him sitting on the edge of my bed, reading me bedtime stories. He held my hand and walked me to the village school on my first day. Not only that, but he returns home from the butcher shop every night with a new story to tell.
Father loves me. I know that just like I know the sky is blue, and the twin suns rise in the west and set in the east. He loves me, and yet, I’m going to die tomorrow.
My heart races in my chest as my gaze swings from one family member to the next. No one looks upset. No one looks perturbed. They’re all just sitting here as if this is any other day.
Gods above. There’s no way my parents know that the gods-blessed are murdered, right?
Right ?
I stare at Father, trying to determine if he’s aware it’s all a lie. I can’t ask him and reveal I snuck into a Giving Ceremony. It’s a crime punishable by death. Which, now that I’ve seen what happened to Amelia, is fucking laughable.
I don’t think my family would turn me into the king’s guards… but I don’t know that for certain.
I don’t know anything anymore.
“To Wren!” Father declares in a booming voice that pulls me out of my thoughts. “May her Giving Ceremony be blessed by Esyn herself!”
My family echoes his toast, clinking their glasses together. Even the twins join in. It’s a special occasion—I’m going to die tomorrow—so they’re allowed to drink.
Red wine swirls. My stomach is a whirlpool.
A long, awkward silence fills the air, and it takes me far too long to realize they’re waiting for me. For what? For me to freak out?
I want to. My fingers twitch with the urge to grab the table and flip it over. For a moment, I let myself imagine what would happen if I did. I’d shove myself to my feet and scream.
“I know what’s going to happen! I know that the Giving is a lie. I know Amelia is dead. I know it all.” My cheeks would heat, my fists would clench, angry tears would stream down my cheeks, and my nostrils would flare as I waited for their response.
I don’t even know how my family would react. Would they laugh because it’s a joke they’re all in on? Would they cry? Or would they tell me I’m crazy?
Those are all possible options.
But then I look at my glass of wine and realize why they’re really waiting. Forcing my numb fingers to curl around the stem, I shove down the urge to scream. Instead, I lift the cup.
As I do so, a plan starts to form in my mind. Whether my family knows the truth or not, I can’t stay here. I can’t just wait around to die. I need to leave before my Giving. I may be fated to die, but I won’t accept my fate without fighting to live.
First, I need to get through this dinner. That thought has me taking a deep breath as, somehow, I force my lips to curve into a semblance of a smile.
“To being Given.” The words taste like chalk as I toast to my death, grin, and clink my glass against theirs.
I toss the contents back in one go. My head spins as I put the glass down. The twenty-year-old wine was meant to be savored and not downed like the ale Father and my brothers sometimes enjoy after a long day at the butcher’s shop.
There’s no time for savoring wine, though. There’s no time for anything at all.
I have a fated death to run from.