The Ceremony

Flash Fiction by Josh Schlossberg

Aldra paused under the archway leading into the vast basalt amphitheater, hundreds of guests—mostly kin—sprawled across the black stone pews. High above, jagged volcanic crags spurted lava into a roiling sky of deep purple cloud, blurry treble suns glowing pinkly through.

In the midground, on the edge of a low cliff, a tiny wormlike figure stood on a boulder in the midst of a bubbling lava pool beneath gushing falls. Yagru, her mate. Fond warmth flushed through Aldra’s heart followed by a jolt of gut-twisting anxiety at what she was about to do. 

The priestess, grasping the sparkling tantalum band in both claws, towered over Yagru, her scales a drab green to his ashen grey. A rattle of her tail, and a choir of atonal voices piped up from somewhere deep within the rock caverns.

All eyes on Aldra, she took a bracing breath and glided down the aisle. Joyful hisses and flicking tongues from those gathered, including her eldest sister, Gormi, sleek wings folded against a massive milk-white bulk. And, as Aldra reached the front row, a corpulent giant, scales brilliant blue as the heart of a flame. Aldra’s mother. Nested amongst the fat coils of the older female, her latest young husband, a grub whispering in her ear as she threw back her wedged head in laughter. 

A pang of jealousy from Aldra at the elder’s stunning beauty, outshining her own even on that special day. But, as she slipped past with a practiced smile, Aldra remembered she was lovely, too, any lingering doubts dispelled by the piercing gaze of every male. Because, as of late, her scales glowed a radiant orange like cactus blooms, belly proudly plumped with hundreds of fertilized eggs, thanks to Yagru.

Naturally, like all Naga females, Aldra hadn’t always been this appealing. Indeed, the change had only come over the last six sun cycles. The prior four-hundred-twenty she’d been vine-thin, scales a dull olive, wings mere buds. Only when the orange broke through the green and her wings branched out did the opposite sex even look her way. Along with her female rivals, several of whom eyed her from the back pews. 

Indeed, Aldra was growing more fertile every cycle, her orange destined to burnish to a deep red, followed by gold, then pale like Gormi—who, for the first time in their lives, seemed to see her as almost equal—laying more eggs each clutch. Until finally, in another seven-hundred cycles or so, she’d turn bright blue like her mother, stuffed with eggs until she burst apart like fireworks, rejoining the universe in one ultimate glory. But Aldra had a long way before that, and, in the meantime, she intended to enjoy every moment of her newfound splendor.

She slid up the winding path, smooth from the passage of countless brides before her. When she reached the cliff face—a sweltering, sulfurous heat wafting from the lava pool at the foot of the falls—Yagru met her with a simpleton’s smile. Reminding her of the awkward night of her four-hundred-twenty-sixth cycle when they first mated.

That early clutch was only eight eggs. The second, a cycle later, twenty-three. The third, thirty-eight. Now, this one distending her belly would be as many as all those put together. Solemnly, she found her spot next to the priestess, lava mist tickling her scales. 

The tantalum band glittered as the red primary sun broke the cloud cover. But Yagru wasn’t paying attention, gaze drawn overhead by a swarm of fat buzzing blowflies. Aldra shook her head in pity and not a little shame. Was this even her beloved anymore? 

When they’d first been introduced at worship, Aldra was lured in by his genius, his talent for improvising heart-rending verse on the Planetary Lights easily as he could cipher a twelve-digit sum, finally a match for her own sharp and inquisitive mind. Indeed, he was famous across the Craters as both engineer and philosopher, having discovered a more efficient way to harness magma to warm Naga nests while uncovering new layers of consciousness through experimental research. 

Yagru snapped absentmindedly at the flies, making it hard to believe how, during their courtship, Aldra had been honored to join him on strolls around the pits and ledges, his reputation radiating over to her like heat from a sunbaked rock. Lecturing around the Craters, Yagru had accumulated overflowing storehouses of Viath tusks, ranking him as one of the wealthiest Naga. Then, as her orange ripened, the stage had been shared equally.

But as it stood, drool stringing from slack jaws, Yagru could barely do simple addition and subtraction anymore, and the clawful of tusks he earned were doled out in pity; it was an open secret that Aldra supported them both from her screenshows on scale care. Standing on the black crag above her kin, she alone was the prize to behold, a majestic river coursing past a stagnant puddle. 

Still, after all, no tragedy had befallen Yagru, just mere biology, like the seasonal frosting of the Northern Wastes. Indeed, the Naga had long ago made peace with its males peaking early only to quickly fall apart. At a mere two-hundred-forty cycles, little over half Aldra’s age, Yagru, flecks of flies on his lips, was supposed to be a shadow of his former self.

The priestess shook her rattle, and the hidden choir fell silent, audience rapt with expectation. Every one of Aldra’s children—both female and male—laid proud eyes upon her, as the more revered Aldra became, the higher their own standing.  

“The Great Lamia blesses this ceremony,” the priestess’ hiss echoed around the amphitheater. She handed Aldra the band, which, despite the scorching lava all around, was ice cold, its razor-sharp inner edge gleaming. 

“Give this ring,” the priestess’ golden eyes fell on Aldra, “as a reminder of the vow you both have taken.”

Mouth dry, Aldra slipped the band over Yagru’s throat. Only then did his bleary eyes focus on hers. And from their insensate depths, black pupils dilated like two divers coming up for air. 

“Now,” the priestess stepped back with a respectful bow, “you may take the groom.”

Aldra reached out and grasped the frigid band in both claws. All that was left was to twist the metal so it slit Yagru’s throat and then lap up the blood as he lay dying. Tough as the moment would be, she pictured the night’s celebration to come, the glut of feasting and dancing, the dozens of young males parading their wit and acumen before her in hopes of being the next to bask in her glow, however briefly.

Her trembling claws clicked against the band. Down below, Aldra’s mother had risen to her full colossal height, hood spread in wrath at the delay. Though not a word passed between the two, the younger knew what the elder was thinking: that she should be ecstatic to shed this dead skin of a mate to make way for the new. 

Yagru’s eyes dull as so much domestic stock, Aldra turned the band a single degree. A trickle of black blood down his throat, though not a whimper from Yagru.

The priestess flicked her tongue in encouragement while an agitated rattle lofted up from the attendees. What was happening to Aldra? Was it that fear of success—feeling unworthy of this crowning achievement—Gormi had warned her to guard against?

Or was it something else entirely? That, no matter the changes her mate had undergone, was there not still a taste of the fresh ripe Yagru somewhere within the rotting husk? Had he not, even that morning, penned her new verse? 

You are the sunrise,

the light and warmth from above

that keeps me from cold.

While nowhere near lyrical as his earlier epics, it had a touching simplicity lacking in those other gaudy rhymes. A subtle beauty, like a shard of glass smoothed by aeons of sweeping tide. Much like the Yagru who stood before her.

Aldra’s mother stormed off her pew to slither up the ramp. Aldra knew that if she didn’t complete the ceremony, her mother would do it for her. 

Still, a faint light shone in Yagru’s eyes, proving that he knew what was about to happen, and welcomed it. And it was that very acceptance that made clear the lengths of his love. What if they had it all wrong, and the former Yagru, all fury and flash, had been the imposter, and this humble being her true mate?  

Aldra shook her head violently. Enough! Shortly after hatching, each Naga was taught how emotion poisoned rational thought. It was time to do what she’d come for!

Veins bulging in her forearms, she grasped the band. Took a deep breath. And, in a single motion, slid it up and over Yagru’s head to fling it in the lava pool, where it sunk. 

Deafening hisses and rattles from below, Aldra grabbed her beloved Yagru, spread her wings wide, and leapt from the cliff. Rising above the furious, writhing crowd, she flapped north towards the Wastes, where no Naga could tell her who—or why—she must love.