Four Hundred

The golden sun slowly rose above the horizon. Just as slowly, the air meandered across the plain, and the crystalline water trickled along the nearby streak. With equal languidness, the many multicolored flowers slowly opened their petals to the cool air of the dawn.

Slowly, the sacrificial ceremony was unfolding.

She stood, tall and proud, as erect as the ancient tree before which she stood. Her arms held out toward the eastern and western horizons, she faced the rising sun, its initial rays of right illuminating the many near-microscopic jewels embedded within her thin tunic. The silver ring through the top of each pointed ear also caught the initial rays of the daylight, casting them back upon me, upon the assembled throng.

Her eyes closed, she breathed slowly.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

With each subtle rise and fall of her covered chest, I could almost sense the essence of life leaving her. Yet, despite the pointed ears and nose which to me indicated a menace, an evil, she appeared to be completely at peace with herself, with her situation.

...with her sacrifice.

Slowly, the blue-green vines descended from the lower branches of the ancient tree. Each vine appeared to have a mind, a life, of its own, moving individually, never in concert with any other vine. Yet the vines clearly had the same goal.

Her.

Her four hundredth Midsummer was at hand. Yet, it was to be her last.

She was to be sacrificed, so that her people could continue to prosper, to thrive.

With the exception of the nearby stream and the very subtle rustle of the leaves of the ancient tree, all was absolutely silent. Even the young ones did not stir, did not cry, did not attempt to run and play. Every one of them knew instinctively that their future rested in her demise.

A tear fell from my left eye, yet I could not bring myself to wipe it from my cheek as it slowly trickled downward. I had been accepted into this society, into this world, and she had been the first to greet me and bid me welcome and ensure my comfort despite the immeasurable distance from my own home.

She and I had discussed this very event, this very morning, many, many times over the previous fifteen cycles. With each passing Midsummer, I slowly became more and more concerned and saddened by her fate, while she embraced it with such enthusiasm that my alien beliefs could certainly never understand her motivations.

As the vines slowly began to wind around her arms, I thought of how her life had become so intricately wound around mine. She and I had become one, our silent young daughter the irrefutable evidence of our unique bond. Yet superimposed upon my vision of my vine-bound mate was the vision of her future, cut short by fate, cut short by old prophesies, cut short by the ancient texts which had been found amongst the roots of this ancient tree.

The vines continued to descend, slowly winding around her universally-feminine body. I knew her well enough to notice her subtle shudder of nervousness, of uncertainty, even though she, more than anyone else in the galaxy, had flawlessly memorized every minute detail of each of the myriad prophesies of her fate.

I so desperately wanted to run to her, hack away the vines, and haul her away to safety – back to my craft, perhaps, returning to my original home with her. Yet that would not necessarily be "safe" for her, either, as she would be essentially caged, tested, just an object of experimentation as the first of her kind to ever step a small, pointed foot upon Earth.

And, if she did not meet her fate, her people – our people – would not survive the next four hundred years... and it would be entirely the fault of an outsider, my fault. Could I live with myself knowing that I would be responsible for the collapse of an entire civilization, alien or otherwise?

As the sun finally fully rose above the horizon, the vines began to pull. Very slowly, she was tugged, nudged, dragged toward the thick trunk of the ancient tree. As her eyes opened and instantly met with and locked onto mine, I lost myself in those small orange orbs, receiving a single telepathic image from her.

...the moment when she knew, when she had taken my hand and placed it upon her then-flat stomach, licking my untipped ear in her favorite expression of desire and love.

While only a single tear meandered down her cheek, I was silently crying two streams hearty enough to rival the natural stream nearby. Her eyes softened even further as slowly, she was being pulled away from me, away from our young daughter, away from life.

When at last her touched the rough gray bark of the ancient tree, a barely-discernable gasp escaped her lips as she involuntarily stiffened in her bonds. Her expressive eyes conveyed both a resignation and a euphoria simultaneously. And as her eyes rolled back in her head and her bottom lip began to quiver and her body tremble within her bonds, the vines pulled her slowly backward, ever backward, so that she melded with the tree, being ingested soundlessly by the ancient vegetation.

When at last she was no longer visible, when the tree had entirely consumed her, I unleashed a mighty roar of heartfelt pain. No longer could I simply be a passive observer of a key cultural ritual. No longer able to see her, I was suddenly transformed from an alien observer to a sorrowful widower.

It was nearly midday when I finally left the area, returning to the village. Her destiny fulfilled, the people could thrive for another four hundred years.

I returned to the village myself, to my ill-fated daughter to lead her ever further on the path toward her own prophesized fate.