ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
They usually came under the cover of darkness – not that it would have mattered. No one slept on the night of the Selection. You might pace, or watch the street, or stare at the Report, but sleep? No, never sleep. Maybe if you had only sons, no nieces to fret for, no cousins or sisters or friends or neighbours who might fall to the scythe of the Selection – maybe then, maybe if your heart was hard. But in truth, no one slept on the night of the Selection. You might hide. Some had tried, before. It rarely went well for them, but nonetheless they tried: if your daughter was beautiful, if she was accomplished, if she was kind – wouldn't you try?
And you might consider fighting, though most didn't. Most knew they couldn't, that they would only make things worse for themselves if they did. Valentine Marlowe had tried, when his daughter's day had come; it had taken five soldiers to hold him down, but hold him down they did, while his daughter begged them to stop and told them that she would go peacefully. She would be taken peacefully. They didn't have to hurt him. She would go with them.
She was Eliminated four days later. They informed her father by letter, rather than place any soldier in danger by visiting him in person. Most people didn't fight the Selection, but the Elimination… at that point, what did you have left to lose?
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
After the Selection, your neighbours will feign sorrow; they will play at grief. They will tell you that they are sorry, and they are lying. They are grateful for your pain – it has saved them from their own. If you have been Selected, then they have not; if your sister, daughter, niece, has been taken, then theirs shall be safe for another year or ten. You cannot even blame them for it: last year, the year before, ten years ago, you played their part. You played it well. You cannot begrudge them this – but you will.
After the night of Selection, for a day or two, there is calm; only once loved ones have been held close and the stars have been thanked for the play of the dice, only once the families of the Selected have had a chance to sob, does the visiting begin. It is a silent tally: how many girls gone from this district? How many gone from this province? More and more, each time, though there can only ever be one queen. It was a bad year, one might whisper to another, like discussing crops, a very bad year indeed. The mask of grief slips. Beneath: relief, pure and sour.
After this period of visiting, the threshold falls dark again. The grief is stemmed and dammed, tentatively, tenuously, until an Elimination is announced. And then all is shattered anew.
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
They normally came under the cover of darkness – not that it would have mattered. No one slept on the night of the Selection. You might pace, or watch the street, or stare at the Report, but sleep? No, never sleep. Maybe if you had only sons, no nieces to fret for, no cousins or sisters or friends or neighbours who might fall to the scythe of the Selection – maybe then, maybe if your heart was hard. But in truth, no one slept on the night of the Selection. You might run. Some had tried, before. They never got far, but that never stopped them trying: if your daughter was smart, if she was sweet, if she was brave – wouldn't you try?
So you might consider running, though most didn't. Most knew they couldn't, that they would only make things worse for themselves if they did. On the first Selection night that Shion Tsuji had spent on patrol, his platoon had torn six people down from where they had tried to scale the city walls on the edge of Tenth District: two girls, just two girls, and those who had tried to save them. He thinks he might have tried something similar; it is a weight off his shoulders to see how easily a flee is foiled.
His commander had inspected the face of each girl, and found none Selected, and pronounced it a great shame. They had brought ruination upon themselves for nothing, he said, nothing – all for the sake of avoiding one more sleepless night. Six lives. For nothing.
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
When the next Selection is announced, if you are lucky, your neighbours might come to your door and feign sorrow all over again. In truth, they are performing a strange kind of scrying: in visiting you, they are confirming for themselves that this is a kind of grief which might be survived. They seek evidence that, even after the worst, even after the Selection, life goes on in some paler form. They want to watch you peel potatoes, and turn the dials on a radio, and turn the pages of a book. They want to know that it can be done. You cannot blame them for worrying. You worried once, too.
When this happens, there are always purposeful exceptions; there are always block holes left in the block of apartments, thresholds left uncrossed. Soldiers are usually expected to check on one another; it is no responsibility of the scabs which make up the thrum-and-breath of the city. But after the Selection – after the letter – the soldiers usually don't visit either. If you are lucky, some recruit, shaven-head and fresh-faced, will know no better. They will venture upwards and here, here at last, some outlet for your grief. Some manage to stay their hands, stay their tongues, to stem and dam their grief; most do not.
When the next sleepless night begins, you might find yourself grateful that you have already survived the worst – unless you have another daughter, another sister, another life, and more to lose.
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
They always came under the cover of darkness – not that it would have mattered. No one slept on the night of the Selection. You might pace, or watch the street, or stare at the Report, but sleep? No, never sleep. Maybe if you had only sons, no nieces to fret for, no cousins or sisters or friends or neighbours who might fall to the scythe of the Selection – maybe then, maybe if your heart was hard. But in truth, no one slept on the night of the Selection. You might beg, cry, plead. Others have shared that instinct. There is nothing they could have offered, but offer they did: if your daughter was strong, if she was creative, if she was ambitious – wouldn't you try?
You might try to strike a deal, though most didn't. Most knew they couldn't, that they would only make things worse for themselves if they did. Attalus Bruegel sometimes seemed an attractive prospect: anyone who might know his name might know enough to hope that he could help. To hope, that was all – to hope that he could make a difference. And he would smile – smile! – and he would take your money and he would count your coins. And then the soldiers would take her anyway.
The Labyrinth had to be fed. This was how he rationalised it all to himself – he and so many others, this and so much more. The alternative was so much worse. And the Selection was not an Elimination, not necessarily, not automatically. There was still hope. There was still, at least then, still some hope. Until there wasn't.
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
There are always those who try: who try to hide, to run, to bargain, to plead. To fight. They never succeed, but they try. Isn't there something admirable about that? You might see them in the long days and years that follow a Selection: they will seem to have aged, curled upon themselves like twenty years have fallen upon them in the space of twenty minutes. They move more slowly. Their loss is a physical presence, a tenable wraith in the corner of the room, a terrible ghost with long stretching fingers and a voice you cannot quite hear, that you can never quite forget.
There is always a Selection, and the Elimination always follows. There was not always a Selection – no, things are not quite so dire that such a history must be manufactured. The Selection was borne of necessity; it was borne of desperation. There must be a Selection now, but there was a time before. There was a time before. How could you avoid clinging to the idea of a time after?
There are always those who refuse to stop trying. This is a simple truth: there will always be someone willing to fight. Sleepless nights become purposeful. Hiding, running, pleading – all was eroded until there was this: no sleep. No rest. Only the Labyrinth. Only the Elimination. Only this.
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ
They usually came under the cover of darkness – not that it would have mattered.
No one slept on the night of the Selection.
Tell me: did you mistake this for a love story?
ᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓᚔᚒᚒᚔᚂᚂᚉᚑᚋᚓᚆᚑᚋᚓ