This story is dedicated to a Woman without whom there would have been no idea and no story. She knows who she is.
--
Her eyes were fixed on the belt holding together his black robe. Partially it was in deference, but she also needed something to concentrate on. The cocktail of drugs she had been given in the village were making her feel light headed and it would be wrong to stumble on the way to the circle. So she concentrated hard on the belt of white chord wrapped seven times around his waist and made her feet move forward.
Behind her, two other robed figures were there to guide her should she fall, drag her back should she attempt to run. No one had run from the Sacrifice for as long as anyone could remember; some said that it had never happened and that the Guardians were simply symbolic. She knew that when the ritual began, only the High Priest, the man leading the small procession, would be with her. The Ritual of Sacrifice was a guarded one, only the High Priest and the Chosen Sacrifice could attend the ritual itself. This had been the way for countless generations. Four went up to the circle atop the hill outside the village, two conducted the ritual. The number returning to the village afterward was a matter for the Goddess. For generations, the Ritual of Sacrifice had been used to select the new High Priestess; the Chosen Sacrifice who walked back down the hill from the circle became the new priestess. Those the Goddess rejected... She pushed the thought from her mind. Thinking about what would happen if she were judged unworthy would not help her now.
In a slightly detached manner, her attention was drawn to the way her nipples were rubbing against her robe. Her nipples were erect, hard, despite the warmth of the Midsummer night. It had been a hot day and the night promised to be sweltering. She was glad for the loose tabard she had to wear for the ritual. The simple strip of cloth was light and a little rough, made form un-dyed linen. Broken only by a hole for her head, it was open at the sides, tied at the waist by a red belt of woven linen. She wore nothing else, but her wrists were tied by a ritualistic tether of woven grass. The grass rope would part if she pulled on it, she knew that. Its purpose was symbolic, not functional. Her nipples still rubbed, and she realized with slight alarm that her body was reacting to the sensation. Between her legs, a slight wetness was beginning.
They arrived at the stones suddenly and she realized that she had not been paying attention. Now they stood at the gap in the stones acknowledged as the entrance way. It appeared no different from any of the other gaps between the monoliths, apart perhaps from the slightly more worn grass, but this had been the way you entered the circle for generations. Here, the two Guardians bowed to the priest and the Chosen Sacrifice and turned back down the hill. She blinked at them, watching their retreating backs for a second, before turning to step inside the circle.
She fell to her knees within a few feet. It was part of the ritual, it showed humility before the Goddess, but in truth her legs would no longer carry her. Her body was refusing to follow her instructions. It took all of her efforts to remain upright while kneeling. Yet, despite the apparent divorce between her mind and body, her senses seemed to be growing more acute. Her rock hard nipples were tingling from the cloth stretch over them. The slightest breeze sent shivers through her skin. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of the world around her.
When she opened them, the priest was completing the Ritual of the Calling of the Goddess. She had seen it before, as had all the villagers old enough to attend at the circle. Every ceremony here began with this ritual, calling the Goddess to observe her followers. Normally it was conducted in daylight, but here the only light came from the half-circle of tall candles situated around the rear of the alter stone, each mounted on an iron rod sunk into the earth. The altar stone itself was different. Typically it was covered in flowers or a cloth. Tonight there was only the bare stone.
She blinked, and he was standing before her. She looked up into the shadow of his face and, for the first time since beginning tonight, she was afraid. All she could see were shadows, somehow deeper than they should have been. Then his voice, deep, smooth, comforting, came from those shadows and her heart lifted. "Can you stand?" he asked and she shook her head. He nodded, knowing what the drugs did, and stepped around her. His strong arms lifted her to her feet, and then swept her off them. Her head spun and the swift movement across the circle appeared disjointed, fractured. He lowered her, and she realized that she was now lying on the altar stone. The cold rock felt odd against her body; should it not have been hot after a day in the sun. He lifted her bound arms, stretching them up above her head, and then moved to her legs, placing them together, straight down the length of the stone.
From his belt he took a knife. The carved bone hilt was a natural white, bleached by time in the sun. Now he began the ritual proper, the Ritual of Sacrifice. His father had done this before him, and his grandfather before that. The position of High Priest was hereditary, unless the current priest failed to father a son, but the High Priestess was won on merit, the priestess chosen by the Goddess. This simple fact gave her more power than him, but not until she had been through this trial.
The knife was waved and circled, and her mind wandered. She saw herself as a child, running through the fields outside the village. Witnessed herself standing outside the circle the first time she had been allowed to enter. Her minds eye showed her the long line of priestesses that had been before her, and far down, at the end of the line, a glowing figure of such exquisite beauty it could only be the Goddess herself.
Hands untying the knot of her belt brought her back to reality. She struggled to focus on his face, now lit by the candles. The knot gave way, and he laid the ends of it to either side. Now he slipped the knife blade into the neck of her tabard and, in one swift movement, ripped down the length of it from neck to hem. The torn strips fell back against her skin and she let out a sigh.
Stepping away from her, he untied and began to unwind his own belt. Slowly he dropped it to the floor, length after length, as he unwound the seven turns. His hands took the front of his robe and parted it, sliding it off his shoulders and allowing it to pool on the floor behind him. She caught her breath. Beneath the robe he was naked, already semi-erect. His body was well muscled, firm, and it almost seemed to glow in the light from the altar candles. He picked up his knife and moved to the foot of the altar, where her legs were still resting together. She was aware of the wetness between them, aware of the tightness of her nipples.
