It was all for show, Grimult knew. They had her walk alone, as if she was making the choice for herself, but she had been carefully schooled on who had been chosen for her. He wondered at that, how exactly that might work. Did she have to memorise each face for this very purpose? What exactly did she know about the man chosen as her Guardian?
She was moving again, this time close to the opposite row, pausing now and again as if studying a face before moving on. Disappointment filled him to see her on the far side, as if he had already been eliminated simply.
But with each pause she kept moving, and he watched the faces of his fellow initiates carefully, the panic in some, the swell of pride in others as they were considered, the Lightkeep deigning to pay them some direct attention.
Yet each time, she moved on.
Until she made the turn and came to his row.
She did not pause at Yanic, and Grimult could well imagine his relief. He had made no claim to wanting the position, had said frequently that he had a poor temperament for it. She did stop at Hammil, her head craning slightly upward as she did so, his expression revealing nothing. He would go if asked, steady and dependable as he did what he must, but that was all. He was not keen toward self-sacrifice, held no great penchant for foraging, though his appetite was large.
She would eat a great deal of meat if he was the one chosen, Grimult thought ruefully. And be left alone an equal amount of time as he prioritised his stomach over remaining by her side.
Her hesitation there was longest, and for a moment Grimult thought the choice had been made, the sage only too long in making the announcement.
But then she turned, continuing her in her measured steps.
Until at last, she came to him.
Briefly he thought she was going to move along, but she stopped, turning fully to assess him. He wondered at the criteria. Height? The colour of his hair and feathers? Or was it something more mystical, was her ability to see something beyond what he knew, something deeper?
The thought was as thrilling as it was frightening, and he stood tall, trying to be patient.
She would move on. Of course she would.
And he would swallow his disappointment, and instead think of the joy of finding his family in the stands and hugging them close, ready to go home with them.
Yet still, she had not moved.
“Grimult?” she asked, taking a step forward.
Surely she had not said his name.
He must have simply willed it into being, and he was about to make an utter fool of himself.
“Aye,” he answered for there was no mistaking that she was still there, and expected a response. He was merely glad that his voice did not waver, and it was clear and low, not the broken thing that would betray his nerves.
A step forward. Not away from him, but closer.
And another.
She raised her head, the first glimpse at her face, and his breath came in short little spurts that did nothing to soothe his racing heart.
She was delicate, and younger than he might have expected, though there was a solemn wisdom about her that betrayed the knowledge that must have been bestowed on her by the sages.
“You have been chosen to serve,” she informed him, the words quiet and only for him. “But you are not asked under compulsion. If you do not wish to attend, you may be released of this and another selected to take you place.”
Those were not the words he had been taught to expect. It surprised him, made his reply slow upon his tongue as the ones carefully rehearsed no longer applicable. “It would be my honour,” he said instead, looking at her closely, wondering if it was still forbidden to do so.
They could not expect that of him, could they? Not when he had just agreed to...
She nodded her head and stepped back, turning to stand in the middle of the arena.
He thought he heard her murmur something low under her breath, but he could not quite make out the words.
He hoped she was pleased with him, although nothing in her expression suggested that she was.
Yet she did not look terribly displeased either, and that was a comfort to him.
“Grimult, son of Glasken,” the sage’s booming voice cut in. “You may step forward.”
There was no mistaking that he truly had been selected, not if he was given direct permission to approach the Lightkeep.
To go to her side, where he would remain until discharged of his duty.
He had not lied to Aemsol when he had been asked about that. It would be difficult to leave her when the time came, but he would, because that was what the Journey demanded.
What their people demanded of him.
His legs felt heavy as he followed her, the hem of her cloak leaving a trail in the dust of the arena. Would she wear it for the whole of their journey? A shrouded figure beside him, keeper of the sacred flame and entirely his responsibility.
He felt numb, as if somehow outside of himself, and he found himself wondering if this had all been conjured by his imagination, a dream that he would soon wake from, only to find that the true ceremony had yet to take place.
Yet so far he had yet to waken, and he approached the Lightkeep as instructed, not quite certain where to stand. Too close would surely give insult. Too far would do quite the same.
The Lightkeep did not look at him again, instead turning herself so she could stare back the sages. It was an odd thing, to be away from the initiates, although... he supposed they were that no longer.
