A Need for Sacrifice
“Is there something specific you’re looking for?”
The woman almost dropped the ceramic plate she was holding, startled by Arya’s question. “No,” she stammered, replacing the item on the shelf, “Just browsing.”
From behind the counter, Arya appraised the woman, who was dressed in a burlap cloak with a hood drawn over her head. Ragged black hair leaked out of the opening of the hood, concealing much of the woman’s face like a veil.
Arya returned to reorganizing a display of handmade mugs near the counter, glancing every so often at the woman. As the covered figure drifted closer and reached up to touch an object on an upper shelf, Arya noticed her bony hands were decorated with white scars that branched across her skin like veins. A Violator.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave,” she called tensely.
The woman paused, her tremulous fingers still in mid-reach towards the shelf. She lowered her hand and turned slowly towards Arya, revealing a slightly misshapen face, a crooked nose, and watery blue eyes. “I’m not a bad person,” she whispered through her broken teeth, “I’ve learned from my Punishment. I used to be beautiful. They did this to me. I learned from my Punishment, I did.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s store policy,” Arya said, herding her away from the merchandise with a shooing gesture. She did her best not to see the pitiable sorrow in the woman’s eyes.
“It wasn’t my fault,” the woman moaned weakly as she shuffled towards the door, “I paid it. I paid it all.”
“I can’t afford to make sacrifices for Violators, I’m sorry,” Arya apologized again, “It’s bad for business, you understand.”
The woman sighed, a hollow sound. “I pray to the Most High that there will come a day when our mistakes will no longer be paid with our blood.”
“But until then, you need to leave,” Arya disguised her empathy with a brisk tone. There was no place for her weakness here. “I’m sorry. Really. But please, leave.”
Arya sagged against the counter once the woman had left. Violators always filled her with an unsettling blend of fear and pity. Punishments were designed to leave traces so that the pain from them wasn’t the only consequence of a wrongdoing. They were always deserved, the severity of the Punishment matching the severity of the sin, and the legal code was closely based on laws that had come from the Most High Justice himself. Still, the society’s treatment of visual Violators was brutal, and sometimes she wished she could show them mercy without being publicly looked down upon. Nonetheless, there had to be some price to evil, otherwise it would overrun society. Sometimes, she just wished there was another way.
The woman almost dropped the ceramic plate she was holding, startled by Arya’s question. “No,” she stammered, replacing the item on the shelf, “Just browsing.”
From behind the counter, Arya appraised the woman, who was dressed in a burlap cloak with a hood drawn over her head. Ragged black hair leaked out of the opening of the hood, concealing much of the woman’s face like a veil.
Arya returned to reorganizing a display of handmade mugs near the counter, glancing every so often at the woman. As the covered figure drifted closer and reached up to touch an object on an upper shelf, Arya noticed her bony hands were decorated with white scars that branched across her skin like veins. A Violator.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave,” she called tensely.
The woman paused, her tremulous fingers still in mid-reach towards the shelf. She lowered her hand and turned slowly towards Arya, revealing a slightly misshapen face, a crooked nose, and watery blue eyes. “I’m not a bad person,” she whispered through her broken teeth, “I’ve learned from my Punishment. I used to be beautiful. They did this to me. I learned from my Punishment, I did.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s store policy,” Arya said, herding her away from the merchandise with a shooing gesture. She did her best not to see the pitiable sorrow in the woman’s eyes.
“It wasn’t my fault,” the woman moaned weakly as she shuffled towards the door, “I paid it. I paid it all.”
“I can’t afford to make sacrifices for Violators, I’m sorry,” Arya apologized again, “It’s bad for business, you understand.”
The woman sighed, a hollow sound. “I pray to the Most High that there will come a day when our mistakes will no longer be paid with our blood.”
“But until then, you need to leave,” Arya disguised her empathy with a brisk tone. There was no place for her weakness here. “I’m sorry. Really. But please, leave.”
Arya sagged against the counter once the woman had left. Violators always filled her with an unsettling blend of fear and pity. Punishments were designed to leave traces so that the pain from them wasn’t the only consequence of a wrongdoing. They were always deserved, the severity of the Punishment matching the severity of the sin, and the legal code was closely based on laws that had come from the Most High Justice himself. Still, the society’s treatment of visual Violators was brutal, and sometimes she wished she could show them mercy without being publicly looked down upon. Nonetheless, there had to be some price to evil, otherwise it would overrun society. Sometimes, she just wished there was another way.
The sky shone red as the sun set against the featureless cloud cover, tainting everything with a crimson stain. Shopkeepers in the marketplace were beginning to close up their stores, while restaurants brightened with an influx of evening customers for dinner. People with shopping bags and overcoats hurried across the street, hugging the walls of the storefronts, making eye contact with no one and keeping their purses and wallets hidden, hoping to reach their train or bus on time to take them away. Twilight was a dangerous time to be on the streets of the city. Twilight gave free reign to the Rogues.
Arya thought the Rogues were immature. The group was not to be taken lightly, but its members were little more than rebellious young people who believed that sticking it to the man was the highest form of bravery and superiority one could obtain. They held Revels, rambunctious parties filled with all sorts of illegal activities, and stole from businesses they subjectively hated, all for the purpose of making the point that they answered to no one, that they were independent, that scars were an honor. If it was a rule, they said, it should be broken.
But Rogues weren’t evil. Even one of Arya’s closest friends was a Rogue. The gang attracted those who felt oppressed, or who were bored with their lives, or who simply thought the things Rogues did were entertaining. If someone was a member of the Rogues and got caught by the Justice, they would earn no additional Punishment – a sin was a sin, no matter who did it. But Rogues made it easier for lawbreakers to find friends. A club of “rebels.” After all, rebellion wasn’t any fun unless one had support.
The fountain was deserted when Arya reached it, the children long since swept up by their mothers in anticipation of the coming night. The only other visitor was an old man nodding off as he reclined against the north side of the fountain, oblivious to the tail of his coat getting drenched by the edge of the pool. Gathering her bag against her chest, Arya sat down on the fountain’s stone lip, listening to the gurgle of the water as it cycled through the sculpture of the lion that formed the centerpiece. The sunset dyed the water the color of blood; Arya ran her fingers through the ripples as she waited, watching the streams of people flowing down the street slow to a trickle.
With the way the world was, it was easy to see the mistakes of others. Sometimes it was a blessing, but mostly it just allowed for judgment to be passed more easily based on appearance. “Get scarred, less regard” – that’s how the saying went, after all. Heavily scarred people tended to wear hoods and gloves, even though had little effect since it was obvious what they were hiding. They also walked oddly because of their accumulated Punishments, sometimes hunched over, sometimes limping, sometimes letting their arms dangle lethargically as if they saw no point in walking with dignity. If the population saw them only as suspicious lawbreakers, why did it matter?
Arya shivered, hugging her jacket tighter against her body to ward off the increasing chill in the breeze. Half an hour passed, and still she waited. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, taking its scarlet stain with it, and the darkness was descending quickly like a shroud over a corpse. Arya stood up and stretched her stiff muscles, scanning her surroundings one last time. No, who she was waiting for would not come tonight.
Laughter echoed from an alley somewhere down the street, the sound incongruous with the relaxing chuckle of the fountain and the empty whispers of the wind along the rooftops. The Rogues were starting their night.
Feet heavy with disappointment and weariness, Arya left the fountain and headed home.
Arya thought the Rogues were immature. The group was not to be taken lightly, but its members were little more than rebellious young people who believed that sticking it to the man was the highest form of bravery and superiority one could obtain. They held Revels, rambunctious parties filled with all sorts of illegal activities, and stole from businesses they subjectively hated, all for the purpose of making the point that they answered to no one, that they were independent, that scars were an honor. If it was a rule, they said, it should be broken.
But Rogues weren’t evil. Even one of Arya’s closest friends was a Rogue. The gang attracted those who felt oppressed, or who were bored with their lives, or who simply thought the things Rogues did were entertaining. If someone was a member of the Rogues and got caught by the Justice, they would earn no additional Punishment – a sin was a sin, no matter who did it. But Rogues made it easier for lawbreakers to find friends. A club of “rebels.” After all, rebellion wasn’t any fun unless one had support.
The fountain was deserted when Arya reached it, the children long since swept up by their mothers in anticipation of the coming night. The only other visitor was an old man nodding off as he reclined against the north side of the fountain, oblivious to the tail of his coat getting drenched by the edge of the pool. Gathering her bag against her chest, Arya sat down on the fountain’s stone lip, listening to the gurgle of the water as it cycled through the sculpture of the lion that formed the centerpiece. The sunset dyed the water the color of blood; Arya ran her fingers through the ripples as she waited, watching the streams of people flowing down the street slow to a trickle.
With the way the world was, it was easy to see the mistakes of others. Sometimes it was a blessing, but mostly it just allowed for judgment to be passed more easily based on appearance. “Get scarred, less regard” – that’s how the saying went, after all. Heavily scarred people tended to wear hoods and gloves, even though had little effect since it was obvious what they were hiding. They also walked oddly because of their accumulated Punishments, sometimes hunched over, sometimes limping, sometimes letting their arms dangle lethargically as if they saw no point in walking with dignity. If the population saw them only as suspicious lawbreakers, why did it matter?
Arya shivered, hugging her jacket tighter against her body to ward off the increasing chill in the breeze. Half an hour passed, and still she waited. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, taking its scarlet stain with it, and the darkness was descending quickly like a shroud over a corpse. Arya stood up and stretched her stiff muscles, scanning her surroundings one last time. No, who she was waiting for would not come tonight.
Laughter echoed from an alley somewhere down the street, the sound incongruous with the relaxing chuckle of the fountain and the empty whispers of the wind along the rooftops. The Rogues were starting their night.
Feet heavy with disappointment and weariness, Arya left the fountain and headed home.
“You wanna join us?”
Caden took a swig of beer as he considered the question. The warehouse in which the Revel was being held was caked with noise, stuffed with Rogues enjoying themselves, drinking alcohol, mingling with the other sex, relating amusing anecdotes in drunken, obnoxious voices, arranging questionable ventures, making underhanded offers. This was home, not the marble-walled, high-class house in which he slept. It was filled with empty luxury; here was where he belonged.
“I think I’ll stay at the Revel tonight,” he said, eyeing an attractive woman near the wall who looked to be alone, “Have fun, though. Steal something for me, eh?”
His heavily-scarred friend nodded. “Sure thing, man. Don’t be too good now,” he laughed, a rough rumble in his throat.
“I’m not planning to.” Caden raised his beer in farewell as his friends set off before moving towards the woman who had caught his eye. Sleek, silver scars arced across her cheeks, but otherwise her face was unmarred. Here, scars were a badge of honor, but he preferred his women intact, without obvious signs of heavy Punishments.
“You going out to raid?” he asked once he had sidled up next to her and was close enough to hear over the cacophonous atmosphere.
“I’m not feeling it tonight,” she said airily. Her dark eyes swallowed the light, two points of solid certainty against the flickering lamps. They hooked into his own and reeled him in like a fish.
He stepped closer. “What are you feeling, then?”
“I guess that’s up to you,” she took his beer and pitched the last of it into her mouth. Then she took his arm as she crumpled the can and smiled prettily. “Would you like to walk me home? My apartment is just down the street.”
“Certainly,” he grinned as he escorted her through the mass of Rogues to the door. This was already turning out to be a perfect night of diversion: just what he needed.
Caden took a swig of beer as he considered the question. The warehouse in which the Revel was being held was caked with noise, stuffed with Rogues enjoying themselves, drinking alcohol, mingling with the other sex, relating amusing anecdotes in drunken, obnoxious voices, arranging questionable ventures, making underhanded offers. This was home, not the marble-walled, high-class house in which he slept. It was filled with empty luxury; here was where he belonged.
“I think I’ll stay at the Revel tonight,” he said, eyeing an attractive woman near the wall who looked to be alone, “Have fun, though. Steal something for me, eh?”
His heavily-scarred friend nodded. “Sure thing, man. Don’t be too good now,” he laughed, a rough rumble in his throat.
“I’m not planning to.” Caden raised his beer in farewell as his friends set off before moving towards the woman who had caught his eye. Sleek, silver scars arced across her cheeks, but otherwise her face was unmarred. Here, scars were a badge of honor, but he preferred his women intact, without obvious signs of heavy Punishments.
“You going out to raid?” he asked once he had sidled up next to her and was close enough to hear over the cacophonous atmosphere.
“I’m not feeling it tonight,” she said airily. Her dark eyes swallowed the light, two points of solid certainty against the flickering lamps. They hooked into his own and reeled him in like a fish.
He stepped closer. “What are you feeling, then?”
“I guess that’s up to you,” she took his beer and pitched the last of it into her mouth. Then she took his arm as she crumpled the can and smiled prettily. “Would you like to walk me home? My apartment is just down the street.”
“Certainly,” he grinned as he escorted her through the mass of Rogues to the door. This was already turning out to be a perfect night of diversion: just what he needed.
Caden came into Arya’s shop two days later. He leaned against the counter with an air of familiarity, bare elbows squeaking against the metal surface. “Hey,” he said simply.
“Hi,” she put down the glazed plate she was polishing and appraised him. Throughout the years she had known him, he had changed little. A little scruffier, a harder face, shadows beginning to brush the skin under his eyes. He had also pulled away from believing in the existence of the Most High Justice, once he had been enticed into the fold of the Rogues. But he was still more or less the same boy she had met fifteen years ago. The twinkle of humor was still there in his eyes, but it was sharper. Dangerous. Being a Rogue, he was scarred just enough to be found attractive by those who appreciated “independence,” but not enough to be treated differently otherwise. Arya believed that it was just a matter of time before he went too far, and became just another scarred, weary vagabond.
But for now, as far as he was concerned, he was king of the world.
“You never came,” she said, “I waited at the fountain until dark.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” he took a small clay figurine from a bowl and began twirling it between his fingers.
“Forgot,” she repeated.
“I was busy, and I had to get to the Revel.”
“We had planned to get together for weeks, and you went to a party instead?”
He shrugged. Arya reached out and stopped the spinning trinket in his hand. “We used to be so close, Caden. What happened?”
“We’re not schoolchildren anymore. Our lives are just different.”
“No,” she said, “You just became a Rogue.”
She turned away from him and busied herself with dusting a shelf of pots. She heard his sigh and the rustle of his coat as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Arya—”
“You need to know who your real friends are,” she said, looking back at him, “Rogues won’t stick by your side if it’ll risk their own skin. Friends will.”
“They are my friends,” he said, “If you weren’t so boring and naïve, you would understand that.”
Arya froze, his barbed words seizing a firm hold in her pride. An instinctive retort flashed into her mind, but she reined it back. Giving her emotions their head would only drive the wedge deeper between the two of them.
“I didn’t mean to...” Caden trailed off. He tossed the figurine he had been playing with back into the bowl and turned to leave. “Well, I gotta go. See you later, maybe.”
She didn’t turn around again until she heard the door shut.
“Hi,” she put down the glazed plate she was polishing and appraised him. Throughout the years she had known him, he had changed little. A little scruffier, a harder face, shadows beginning to brush the skin under his eyes. He had also pulled away from believing in the existence of the Most High Justice, once he had been enticed into the fold of the Rogues. But he was still more or less the same boy she had met fifteen years ago. The twinkle of humor was still there in his eyes, but it was sharper. Dangerous. Being a Rogue, he was scarred just enough to be found attractive by those who appreciated “independence,” but not enough to be treated differently otherwise. Arya believed that it was just a matter of time before he went too far, and became just another scarred, weary vagabond.
But for now, as far as he was concerned, he was king of the world.
“You never came,” she said, “I waited at the fountain until dark.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” he took a small clay figurine from a bowl and began twirling it between his fingers.
“Forgot,” she repeated.
“I was busy, and I had to get to the Revel.”
“We had planned to get together for weeks, and you went to a party instead?”
He shrugged. Arya reached out and stopped the spinning trinket in his hand. “We used to be so close, Caden. What happened?”
“We’re not schoolchildren anymore. Our lives are just different.”
“No,” she said, “You just became a Rogue.”
She turned away from him and busied herself with dusting a shelf of pots. She heard his sigh and the rustle of his coat as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Arya—”
“You need to know who your real friends are,” she said, looking back at him, “Rogues won’t stick by your side if it’ll risk their own skin. Friends will.”
“They are my friends,” he said, “If you weren’t so boring and naïve, you would understand that.”
Arya froze, his barbed words seizing a firm hold in her pride. An instinctive retort flashed into her mind, but she reined it back. Giving her emotions their head would only drive the wedge deeper between the two of them.
“I didn’t mean to...” Caden trailed off. He tossed the figurine he had been playing with back into the bowl and turned to leave. “Well, I gotta go. See you later, maybe.”
She didn’t turn around again until she heard the door shut.
Arya heard murmurs the next day as she spent the morning at her wheel in the back room of the store, shaping bowls beneath her nimble hands. Her friend Hazel was running the counter, greeting customers and watching the register as Arya created.
Through the night, thoughts about Caden had been scurrying around in her head like spiders, and they had been busy spinning webs of worry in every corner of her mind. Although she and Caden had grown apart, she still felt indebted to him. Growing up together, they had shared so many experiences, emotions, fights, joys, and pain that she couldn’t imagine him being completely absent from her life. At times, their dependence on each other had probably been too crucial to their wellbeing, but those times had long since disappeared in the haze of memories behind them. Now their relationship was kept afloat by a stubborn residue of the loyalty they had once kept close. Arya would still do anything for him, but only if she had to.
She had long since stopped trying to convince him not to be involved with the Rogues. His descent into dangerous living had happened while they had still been extremely close, and in a way she felt responsible for it. She knew now that she couldn’t have stopped it, but maybe if she had tried just a little bit harder...
A scrap of conversation from the next room fluttered across her thoughts. “The Rogues are getting more ambitious, it seems,” Hazel was saying.
“And more stupid as well,” a male customer said, tutting disapprovingly.
“They’ll probably back off for a little bit. You said he got caught?”
“Just the one in the house. His buddies escaped.”
“That’s a Rogue for you – abandoning a friend at the first sign of danger.”
“It’s a wonder their gangs function. No loyalty.”
I hope it wasn’t you who left your friend to his Punishment, Caden, Arya thought, sighing to herself, Most High knows, you’ve done it before.
The conversation lulled comfortably as the customer browsed the shelves. After a few minutes, he spoke up again. “I heard the Rogue’s Punishment will amount to death.”
“You don’t say?” Hazel’s voice betrayed her desire for gossip, “I didn’t know robbery had such a high Punishment.”
“It’s higher than usual since they stole from a high-ranking Justice official. The Punishment by itself isn’t fatal, but with the scars the Rogue has already, it will be.”
“They’re scaling it?” Hazel gasped.
“He’s a Rogue, after all. More scars than any self-respecting man would deem acceptable, I’m sure.”
“One less Rogue to deal with, I guess,” Hazel said indifferently.
“He deserves everything he gets,” the man agreed.
“Has the press released any other info yet?”
“Just his name: Caden.”
Arya’s entire body clenched. Her hand, suddenly paralyzed with shock, scored a deep rut in the bowl she was shaping, and the gash gaped like an open wound, oozing clay-colored water. She didn’t notice, her attention now fully devoted to hearing the rest of the conversation.
“That’s what you get for being a Rogue, I suppose,” Hazel said, oblivious to Arya’s reaction in the next room, “You get in with the wrong crowd and you have to pay the price. Like you said, they get exactly what they deserve.”
“His pals will probably forget him by next week anyway,” the man said, “Mourning doesn’t really exist in those circles. Their relationships are so expendable.”
As the man paid for some items and left, a clatter drew Hazel’s attention towards the back. She hurried to the back room. “Arya?”
But she wasn’t there. All Hazel saw was an overturned bench, and the potter’s wheel, still rotating slowly with momentum, holding a scarred bowl glistening with moisture.
Through the night, thoughts about Caden had been scurrying around in her head like spiders, and they had been busy spinning webs of worry in every corner of her mind. Although she and Caden had grown apart, she still felt indebted to him. Growing up together, they had shared so many experiences, emotions, fights, joys, and pain that she couldn’t imagine him being completely absent from her life. At times, their dependence on each other had probably been too crucial to their wellbeing, but those times had long since disappeared in the haze of memories behind them. Now their relationship was kept afloat by a stubborn residue of the loyalty they had once kept close. Arya would still do anything for him, but only if she had to.
She had long since stopped trying to convince him not to be involved with the Rogues. His descent into dangerous living had happened while they had still been extremely close, and in a way she felt responsible for it. She knew now that she couldn’t have stopped it, but maybe if she had tried just a little bit harder...
A scrap of conversation from the next room fluttered across her thoughts. “The Rogues are getting more ambitious, it seems,” Hazel was saying.
“And more stupid as well,” a male customer said, tutting disapprovingly.
“They’ll probably back off for a little bit. You said he got caught?”
“Just the one in the house. His buddies escaped.”
“That’s a Rogue for you – abandoning a friend at the first sign of danger.”
“It’s a wonder their gangs function. No loyalty.”
I hope it wasn’t you who left your friend to his Punishment, Caden, Arya thought, sighing to herself, Most High knows, you’ve done it before.
The conversation lulled comfortably as the customer browsed the shelves. After a few minutes, he spoke up again. “I heard the Rogue’s Punishment will amount to death.”
“You don’t say?” Hazel’s voice betrayed her desire for gossip, “I didn’t know robbery had such a high Punishment.”
“It’s higher than usual since they stole from a high-ranking Justice official. The Punishment by itself isn’t fatal, but with the scars the Rogue has already, it will be.”
“They’re scaling it?” Hazel gasped.
“He’s a Rogue, after all. More scars than any self-respecting man would deem acceptable, I’m sure.”
“One less Rogue to deal with, I guess,” Hazel said indifferently.
“He deserves everything he gets,” the man agreed.
“Has the press released any other info yet?”
“Just his name: Caden.”
Arya’s entire body clenched. Her hand, suddenly paralyzed with shock, scored a deep rut in the bowl she was shaping, and the gash gaped like an open wound, oozing clay-colored water. She didn’t notice, her attention now fully devoted to hearing the rest of the conversation.
“That’s what you get for being a Rogue, I suppose,” Hazel said, oblivious to Arya’s reaction in the next room, “You get in with the wrong crowd and you have to pay the price. Like you said, they get exactly what they deserve.”
“His pals will probably forget him by next week anyway,” the man said, “Mourning doesn’t really exist in those circles. Their relationships are so expendable.”
As the man paid for some items and left, a clatter drew Hazel’s attention towards the back. She hurried to the back room. “Arya?”
But she wasn’t there. All Hazel saw was an overturned bench, and the potter’s wheel, still rotating slowly with momentum, holding a scarred bowl glistening with moisture.
It was a good run, Caden decided, sitting with his hands clasped between his legs. The cell he had been put in was featureless and efficient. Designed to be a temporary holding place for those awaiting their Punishment, it contained only a cot and four gray walls.
This was the worst part of a Punishment, in his opinion – anticipating and imagining the pain before receiving it, mentally experiencing it over and over again so that it hurt more than the actual wound. There was nothing else to do in the blank cell.
But this time was different. Now he was not only imagining his future pain, but his own death. Any minute now, a guard was going to open the door and lead him to the Courtyard, a vast, pillared room with channels cut into the glossy marble floor so that blood could run easily to the corners. He never understood why the room was so enormous when it held only a single long, raised table behind which the three judging Convictions sat. Maybe they enjoyed their power of intimidation.
So what if it was fun, though? The thought sidled up to him, unwelcome. Was it worth it? He shivered, suddenly cold. I don’t want to die.
The feeling of imminent death almost made him want to believe in the Most High Justice again, to cast his ego aside and beg to the invisible being he had scorned for the past few years. Maybe he would have mercy where the Convictions would not.
The door to his cell squealed open, and he flinched, ice-cold fear drenching him. A hard-faced guard jerked his hand at him. “You’re being released.”
The chilling fear was vaporized in a rush of scalding relief and confusion. “What?” he said, standing up with difficulty. His legs felt weak.
“You can leave,” the guard said shortly.
Caden would have thought this was a joke, except that the Justice were painfully serious about their jobs. Humor was not something they indulged in, nor sadistic amusements. Eyeing the guard warily, he edged past him, through the door, and quickened his pace once he reached the hallway. On either side of him were doors and more doors with Violators behind them, waiting to receive their Punishments. By the end of the day, the cells would all be empty, their occupants either at home nursing their wounds, or dead.
The guards at the building’s exit let him out without a glance or a word. Mind reeling, he grinned in a sudden explosion of euphoria. Minutes ago he was thinking of his death; now he was already planning how he would celebrate his release. As for why he had been spared, he could only guess that someone had made an argument for his innocence, and somehow had evidence to support their claim.
It didn’t matter – he wasn’t complaining. He had been given at least one more day, and he was going to make the most of it in every way possible.
He could find out what had happened later.
This was the worst part of a Punishment, in his opinion – anticipating and imagining the pain before receiving it, mentally experiencing it over and over again so that it hurt more than the actual wound. There was nothing else to do in the blank cell.
But this time was different. Now he was not only imagining his future pain, but his own death. Any minute now, a guard was going to open the door and lead him to the Courtyard, a vast, pillared room with channels cut into the glossy marble floor so that blood could run easily to the corners. He never understood why the room was so enormous when it held only a single long, raised table behind which the three judging Convictions sat. Maybe they enjoyed their power of intimidation.
So what if it was fun, though? The thought sidled up to him, unwelcome. Was it worth it? He shivered, suddenly cold. I don’t want to die.
The feeling of imminent death almost made him want to believe in the Most High Justice again, to cast his ego aside and beg to the invisible being he had scorned for the past few years. Maybe he would have mercy where the Convictions would not.
The door to his cell squealed open, and he flinched, ice-cold fear drenching him. A hard-faced guard jerked his hand at him. “You’re being released.”
The chilling fear was vaporized in a rush of scalding relief and confusion. “What?” he said, standing up with difficulty. His legs felt weak.
“You can leave,” the guard said shortly.
Caden would have thought this was a joke, except that the Justice were painfully serious about their jobs. Humor was not something they indulged in, nor sadistic amusements. Eyeing the guard warily, he edged past him, through the door, and quickened his pace once he reached the hallway. On either side of him were doors and more doors with Violators behind them, waiting to receive their Punishments. By the end of the day, the cells would all be empty, their occupants either at home nursing their wounds, or dead.
The guards at the building’s exit let him out without a glance or a word. Mind reeling, he grinned in a sudden explosion of euphoria. Minutes ago he was thinking of his death; now he was already planning how he would celebrate his release. As for why he had been spared, he could only guess that someone had made an argument for his innocence, and somehow had evidence to support their claim.
It didn’t matter – he wasn’t complaining. He had been given at least one more day, and he was going to make the most of it in every way possible.
He could find out what had happened later.
“Sorry I took so long. I came as fast as I could.”
Arya smiled weakly at Caden. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
She lifted her right arm, which was in a heavy plaster cast from her knuckles to her upper arm. The covers of the hospital bed concealed most of her wounds up to her chest, but Caden could still see the mottled healing scabs on her left arm, and her face was still swollen and colored an angry pink. Her words sounded slightly muffled coming between her chapped lips, and her eyes were dull with pain above her misshapen cheeks.
“You look horrible,” he teased, masking his worry. He hadn’t known she was hurt until word had travelled from her friend Hazel to him through a mutual acquaintance. His hangover – a gift from “celebrating” his miraculous release for the second time last night – had tortured him well into mid-afternoon, and his headache had only recently been tame enough for him to make the trip to the hospital.
“I heard you managed to escape your fatal Punishment,” she said.
“Yeah, I still need to figure out how I did that,” he laughed.
“So how have the past couple of days been?”
“A lot better than yours, apparently. I haven’t done anything productive, just been getting wasted...nothing like having fun on stolen time, eh?”
She tried to shrug, but winced instead.
“Must have been a horrible accident,” Caden said sympathetically.
“I’m starting to think it was,” she said softly, her voice cracking. She looked down at the scratchy blanket covering her. Her left hand, resting beside her, was trembling.
“So what happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled, “Maybe later.”
“Did you get hit by one of those annoying Justice vehicles? I swear they have way too much fun on those things. It’s bad enough that they’re the only ones allowed to have a vehicle – they don’t have to rub our faces in it...”
She didn’t answer.
“Was it your fault or theirs?”
“It was someone else’s,” she said, eyes still downcast. It seemed to hurt her to lift her head again.
“Are you serious?” Caden exclaimed, “They better compensate you. Those injuries are probably going to make you look like a Violator.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Which is kind of ironic, since you’re like the most moral person I know.”
She sighed and sagged against her pillow, wincing again with the movement. Despite her efforts to hide it, he knew that she was in great pain.
“They’re giving you painkillers, right?” he said worriedly, “They’re required to, you know. Unless it’s pain caused by a Punishment.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said.
“Well they’re giving them to you, right?”
She tried to smile. “Not as much as I’d like.”
He patted her un-casted arm gingerly and looked at his watch. “Okay, well I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“I’m meeting a date. Third night of my celebration, you know? It’s gonna be the best one, I can already tell,” he raised his eyebrows suggestively, trying to cheer her up.
“You sure you can’t stay and keep your poor friend company?” she said.
“Not tonight, sorry,” he got up, ready to be out of the confining hospital room full of loneliness and scabbing wounds. “I might come tomorrow though.”
“As long as I’m not getting in the way of any of your stupid ‘plans.’”
“Hey, you should be grateful I have time to visit you at all. I could be doing so many more interesting things right now!” he snapped. He kicked the chair he had been sitting in, sending it to the wall, “See you later, Arya. Be in a better mood next time I give up time to visit you, okay?”
Arya didn’t deign to reply.
Arya smiled weakly at Caden. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
She lifted her right arm, which was in a heavy plaster cast from her knuckles to her upper arm. The covers of the hospital bed concealed most of her wounds up to her chest, but Caden could still see the mottled healing scabs on her left arm, and her face was still swollen and colored an angry pink. Her words sounded slightly muffled coming between her chapped lips, and her eyes were dull with pain above her misshapen cheeks.
“You look horrible,” he teased, masking his worry. He hadn’t known she was hurt until word had travelled from her friend Hazel to him through a mutual acquaintance. His hangover – a gift from “celebrating” his miraculous release for the second time last night – had tortured him well into mid-afternoon, and his headache had only recently been tame enough for him to make the trip to the hospital.
“I heard you managed to escape your fatal Punishment,” she said.
“Yeah, I still need to figure out how I did that,” he laughed.
“So how have the past couple of days been?”
“A lot better than yours, apparently. I haven’t done anything productive, just been getting wasted...nothing like having fun on stolen time, eh?”
She tried to shrug, but winced instead.
“Must have been a horrible accident,” Caden said sympathetically.
“I’m starting to think it was,” she said softly, her voice cracking. She looked down at the scratchy blanket covering her. Her left hand, resting beside her, was trembling.
“So what happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled, “Maybe later.”
“Did you get hit by one of those annoying Justice vehicles? I swear they have way too much fun on those things. It’s bad enough that they’re the only ones allowed to have a vehicle – they don’t have to rub our faces in it...”
She didn’t answer.
“Was it your fault or theirs?”
“It was someone else’s,” she said, eyes still downcast. It seemed to hurt her to lift her head again.
“Are you serious?” Caden exclaimed, “They better compensate you. Those injuries are probably going to make you look like a Violator.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Which is kind of ironic, since you’re like the most moral person I know.”
She sighed and sagged against her pillow, wincing again with the movement. Despite her efforts to hide it, he knew that she was in great pain.
“They’re giving you painkillers, right?” he said worriedly, “They’re required to, you know. Unless it’s pain caused by a Punishment.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said.
“Well they’re giving them to you, right?”
She tried to smile. “Not as much as I’d like.”
He patted her un-casted arm gingerly and looked at his watch. “Okay, well I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“I’m meeting a date. Third night of my celebration, you know? It’s gonna be the best one, I can already tell,” he raised his eyebrows suggestively, trying to cheer her up.
“You sure you can’t stay and keep your poor friend company?” she said.
“Not tonight, sorry,” he got up, ready to be out of the confining hospital room full of loneliness and scabbing wounds. “I might come tomorrow though.”
“As long as I’m not getting in the way of any of your stupid ‘plans.’”
“Hey, you should be grateful I have time to visit you at all. I could be doing so many more interesting things right now!” he snapped. He kicked the chair he had been sitting in, sending it to the wall, “See you later, Arya. Be in a better mood next time I give up time to visit you, okay?”
Arya didn’t deign to reply.
When she was set free from the hospital weeks later, she was still bound by what her injuries had left behind. She couldn’t continue her job in her pottery store; customers would never buy from someone whom they assumed to be a Violator, even if she wasn’t. Even after she had explained what had happened to her friends, most of them became distant, saying that they couldn’t be seen with her to “maintain their image.”
She had expected as much in a society where appearance was everything. Through no true fault of her own, Arya was an outcast.
Hazel said that Arya could still make things for the shop, as long as she didn’t show herself at any time. Arya supposed her life could’ve changed a lot more for the worse, and was grateful.
Everyone looked at her differently. Everywhere she went, she saw distrust, judgment, and aloof disgust. They didn’t care if she really hadn’t done anything wrong, or if she told them her story – those with scars were liars as well.
I had to do it though, she thought, To give him another chance.
She had expected as much in a society where appearance was everything. Through no true fault of her own, Arya was an outcast.
Hazel said that Arya could still make things for the shop, as long as she didn’t show herself at any time. Arya supposed her life could’ve changed a lot more for the worse, and was grateful.
Everyone looked at her differently. Everywhere she went, she saw distrust, judgment, and aloof disgust. They didn’t care if she really hadn’t done anything wrong, or if she told them her story – those with scars were liars as well.
I had to do it though, she thought, To give him another chance.
He had learned it from Hazel.
Arya’s friend had always had a loose tongue, and with the news she had been carrying, Caden had been surprised that she had kept it to herself as long as she had. Astonishment and, surprisingly, anger had overcome him when he discovered exactly what had happened. He had rushed to Arya’s shop, but now that he was here, he stood hesitant by the door to the back room where he knew she was working. What was he going to do, lecture her? Yell at her? He had already accepted her gift without knowing it. And technically she had done nothing wrong.
He mustered his anger and built a wall around himself with it before opening the door. She glanced up from her wheel, startled, but said nothing, no doubt detecting the rage in his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he hurled his words at her like daggers.
Her brow hardened. The scars on it still shone pink and irritated. “Tell you what?”
“You expect me to be okay with this?”
“You don’t really have a choice now, do you?”
“I can’t believe you would think I would ever be okay with this. How terrible a friend do you think I am? Just because I’m not perfect like you doesn’t mean I can’t be a decent person!”
“I didn’t do it to make you feel bad.”
“Guilty, then?”
“No.”
“So that I’d owe you something?”
“You don’t owe me anything. It was a gift.”
He avoided her eyes. “I should be dead. You should be unmarked. Why is it almost the other way around?”
“I wanted to give you another chance,” her voice was quiet but she was not intimidated.
“At what?”
“Doing something worthwhile with your life. Obeying the Most High Justice.”
He scoffed. “I submit to no one.”
“You will to the Most High, one day, whether you’re ready or not. And I couldn’t consider myself a true friend if there was anything I could do to help you be ready.”
“You and your religion,” Caden began to pace the room like a restless tiger, his teeth clenched.
“Better that I be scarred and blameless than you dead and damned.”
He whirled around to face her. “Your senseless sacrifice was for nothing. I’m not going to change, Arya. You may not like it, but this is who I am,” his anger faltered for a moment, exposing doubt underneath, “Maybe I deserve to die.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’m tired of you trying to help me. I don’t want your help or your useless faith in someone that doesn’t exist.” He hadn’t signed up for conviction when he came to visit - he thought he had escaped that when he had been released from his cell. Desperate to end the conversation, he turned his gaze away, looking instead at a clay bowl drying on a shelf in front of him, smooth except for an ugly scar that bit deep into its side. Because of its imperfection, the only way it could hold anything was if it was completely remade. His mouth twisted; Arya must have been losing her touch. Now she was making bowls that didn’t even work.
“Don’t ever volunteer to receive my Punishment again,” he said in a tone one would use to scold a child, “It’s not yours to receive.”
“My sacrifice wasn’t wasted,” she said quietly, but he had already left.
Arya’s friend had always had a loose tongue, and with the news she had been carrying, Caden had been surprised that she had kept it to herself as long as she had. Astonishment and, surprisingly, anger had overcome him when he discovered exactly what had happened. He had rushed to Arya’s shop, but now that he was here, he stood hesitant by the door to the back room where he knew she was working. What was he going to do, lecture her? Yell at her? He had already accepted her gift without knowing it. And technically she had done nothing wrong.
He mustered his anger and built a wall around himself with it before opening the door. She glanced up from her wheel, startled, but said nothing, no doubt detecting the rage in his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he hurled his words at her like daggers.
Her brow hardened. The scars on it still shone pink and irritated. “Tell you what?”
“You expect me to be okay with this?”
“You don’t really have a choice now, do you?”
“I can’t believe you would think I would ever be okay with this. How terrible a friend do you think I am? Just because I’m not perfect like you doesn’t mean I can’t be a decent person!”
“I didn’t do it to make you feel bad.”
“Guilty, then?”
“No.”
“So that I’d owe you something?”
“You don’t owe me anything. It was a gift.”
He avoided her eyes. “I should be dead. You should be unmarked. Why is it almost the other way around?”
“I wanted to give you another chance,” her voice was quiet but she was not intimidated.
“At what?”
“Doing something worthwhile with your life. Obeying the Most High Justice.”
He scoffed. “I submit to no one.”
“You will to the Most High, one day, whether you’re ready or not. And I couldn’t consider myself a true friend if there was anything I could do to help you be ready.”
“You and your religion,” Caden began to pace the room like a restless tiger, his teeth clenched.
“Better that I be scarred and blameless than you dead and damned.”
He whirled around to face her. “Your senseless sacrifice was for nothing. I’m not going to change, Arya. You may not like it, but this is who I am,” his anger faltered for a moment, exposing doubt underneath, “Maybe I deserve to die.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’m tired of you trying to help me. I don’t want your help or your useless faith in someone that doesn’t exist.” He hadn’t signed up for conviction when he came to visit - he thought he had escaped that when he had been released from his cell. Desperate to end the conversation, he turned his gaze away, looking instead at a clay bowl drying on a shelf in front of him, smooth except for an ugly scar that bit deep into its side. Because of its imperfection, the only way it could hold anything was if it was completely remade. His mouth twisted; Arya must have been losing her touch. Now she was making bowls that didn’t even work.
“Don’t ever volunteer to receive my Punishment again,” he said in a tone one would use to scold a child, “It’s not yours to receive.”
“My sacrifice wasn’t wasted,” she said quietly, but he had already left.