On the Eve of the Hunt - II

We stand in rows, sweating through our finest clothes. The Queen always chooses a fine Spring day for this.

The boys are gravely suited, as for a funeral. We girls are foisted into silly dresses as for a high festival. I suppose it's both.

Some of us, the Queen walks by with hardly a glance. Others, she stares at, or engages in conversation. Sometimes the guard beside her steps forward and feels the Candidate's arms and legs as if looking over a horse for sale. Her voice is quiet but it carries. It's throaty, and heavily accented. We often forget she's not one of us.

She pauses in front of me, gives me a hard stare. It's unnerving, but I don't think I will be Chosen. I'm skinny and plain-looking. They pick fittest and prettiest young people for the sacrifice.

Why's she still looking at me?

She gestures to the guard next to her and he feels my runty biceps, pats down my calves. He'll look in my mouth any minute.

He glances at her, gives a short nod. She returns the gesture.

"Congratulations," she says to me in that exotic growl, her lips curling like smoke, and her eyes glittering.

I stumble as I'm led away. The guards hold me up by my arms. Everything feels numb, the edges of my vision swimming. This can't be happening.

I'm escorted to a luxurious suite in the castle. Maids attend me, and there are guards posted on the door. A claw-footed bath is drawn. I've never had a steaming bath before. I'm prepared, head to toe, for the dancing and feasting to be held in our honour.

The guards don't touch me when it's time to go. They don't-touch-me in a manner that says explicitly they will if they must, and I won't like it. Their armor clanks in a business-like way, and they exude the authority of deadly weaponry.

The finery they've put on me is even more ridiculous than what my mother made me wear. It feels alien on my skin. If I'm the one chosen for the beast, this is the dress I'll die in.

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Word count (excluding notes): 366

Submitted on 13th March at 18.35

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