Terror enveloped Diote's night. "NEVER A NAME SPOKEN!" It filled her every thought, waking or otherwise, though the fear of it resonated as a living thing when deep behind closed eyes. Purely through imagination it possessed the capacity to transform into the vilest of things and she had well enough to fear already. Beyond the simplicity of Tion's upcoming ritual, life awaited and that rarely garnered any happy thoughts for her lot.

She and her family were lessers and to that there was no escape. To be a lesser was to be oppressed all moments of this fleeting life. They were the workforce and designated disposable army of the tribe. What couldn’t be done with the mind must be done through brute force. Men or women made no difference and lesser children such as her had only to the age of twelve to learn of the world before becoming hopelessly immersed within it. The recent coming of the breath of new life, when all of Lagoon bloomed green once again, that marked her eleventh year. Nary a birth 'day' was ever truly known, but the seasons covered the day well enough. Hers fell between the green and the storms yet to come. She was born in a time of new hope and yet nothing of her life resembled it.

Diote already knew much of Lagoon and its society. Mostly she'd been made well aware of her place in it. Lessers by any other name were middle class. Circling the bottom of the barrel were the cursed and their finite lives revealed hers to be positively regal, but what of it? Was it really better to live longer as a slave? That was the truth of it. Though, this decision and so many others weren’t hers to decide. Year eleven earned her nothing other than a countdown, as ever her life had been. Now though, so close to damnation, every day was of crushing import.

At least Diote had this final year. The countdown for the cursed began the moment of implant, which depending on the circumstances could begin as early as age six, but anything before twelve was quite rare. The cursed were criminals by any other name and the implant was their sentence. Few children committed crimes serious enough to be so forever damned. Even so, in most cases of this caliber their parents were held responsible and suffered the implant in their stead. To spare their children, some parents even begged for it.

Diote was also taught that the cursed were criminals, but everyone knew this also loosely encompassed any who fell out of favor with the council, the ruling class of Lagoon. Justification was never needed, nor a trial of any sort. There were tribal elders that were simply not to be trifled with. There were no prisons upon Lagoon. The implant was the only punishment that existed aside from the occasional warnings. Nothing else was required. Beyond that they had death, which wasn’t so very different and often less painful.

All children learned the implant was, well, alive. This was no figure of speech. It was a parasite, but one that was bred with specific genetic alterations. It was called the implant for obvious reasons, but its core species was named the chicata. Fortunately they were rare in the wild, but it wouldn't have mattered. They could do little in their native form.

Altered, however, they were let to burrow within someone where they attached to various sexual organs depending upon gender. All this happened while the person was both awake and aware. It was not a pleasant process. Unholy screams made clear the pain that etched across their face until the creature settled in. That could take up to an hour. Needless to say not everyone survived the insertion, though anyone under 15 was rendered unconscious; a bit of mercy. Even so, it was truly a horror to watch and all must regardless of age. The insertion was and had forever been a public event. It served as a warning to all others.

Blood was the chicata's primary food source, yet it never took much. It couldn’t kill in such a way unless the blood loss from an unrelated accident was already severe. However, within women the chicata would also feed upon . . . other things, during pregnancy. This prevented procreation by assaulting the body of a pregnant woman with countless tendrils of pain. This suffering would subside after a time, but always return in force. This eventually brought death to all who dared bear children.

Within men the implant acted much the same, aside from the death knell. Sex of any kind became an impossibility of epic proportions. Simply put arousal brought debilitating pain. Freedom from death aside, the loss of ever again being able to achieve sexual stimulation resulted in more suicides than all the combined deaths of women. They could, after all, still enjoy sex without pain or death, so long as they managed to avoid pregnancy, which in the height of emotions was not always so easily avoided. This was deemed a tragic mistake since no method existed for preempting the pregnancy other than miscarriage or death.

It was a saddening thing to watch . . . a tear streamed woman purposefully falling from a height just low enough not to kill. That is not to kill her. Emotional turmoil aside, the ultimate goal was to end the child . . . before they’d both be torn asunder in agony until death set them free. Never was there hope for the baby; such a poor state of affair. The mother knew as much and would be overtaken with unbearable sorrow before, during and after the horrific event, provided they found success.

Any attempt at implant removal also resulted in excruciating agony. That and success was a crime punishable only by death. Naturally any attempts to violate any of these laws were nearly impossible to avoid with the telepaths periodically rummaging their heads as if they'd lost something deep inside.

Some believed it nothing less than barbaric for children to know of such things, but the council demanded obedience and wholeheartedly believed this was the best way to achieve it. It would seem history had proven them right, but who could say? Perhaps some adults sought revenge for the utter destruction of their childhood; adults who otherwise may have become productive members of society. Regardless, this had become normal to the point of tradition. Even the tribal elders had forgotten when it all began. Who could choose when nothing else was known?

All knew the cursed were mostly comprised of lessers, yet a few of the ruling class managed to commit unforgivable slights. These fell into a similar plight being summarily outcast from the privileges of their previous rank. Even so, they held sway over the lesser cursed since there remained no known way to undo their innate abilities.

So what of it? Little Diote was the only one of her siblings to be born a lesser, or a mind-mute as some called it. There existed no specific genetic formula for it. Some were and some weren't. Sometimes entire families were gifted and on the same note some were entirely damned.

Naturally, lessers born within a family of gifted had a better life, but only if they weren't thrown to the masses of their own kind. Even then they weren't always rescued and thusly death of the cruelest sort would claim them. Diote had been lucky enough to be born to more sympathetic parents and so was kept. That improved her life only slightly as it had reduced the status of her heritage. She existed as a stain upon the family name. Namely, though the council saw them as overly generous they were no longer purely gifted. In such cases as hers persecution reigned supreme and many parents, to the best of their ability, withheld their love of a newborn until they knew for sure. Either way their life was never an easy one. Kept by a gifted family or not, they were only protected until the ominous age of twelve. From there they must fall into the work of their ilk.

It truly was a horror to behold. Her damnation was nigh, and though her mother was saddened, her other siblings rejoiced. Her father was gone to war as were most men, aside from that of the council, yet he'd never been so fond of her. The moment she fell to her own kind the family would once again be made pure. Yet it was so much more than just this. The twelve year sacrifice was little other than an investment. Upon her exit, the family's status would not only be restored, but for their “sacrifice”, be elevated to a level they'd never otherwise be able to achieve. Such was the nature of her family's tolerance and she was supposed to consider it an honor; a means, the only means, in which she could return the favor of having been kept.

By law, Ciroc’s older two siblings, Trion and Scion, faded into the mist years ago. He mourned them both, she knew. It was part of what drew them to one another. What gifted gave a damn, who unlike her parents, had no need to? She’d no clue what became of his brothers . . . until he told her. Being gifted, he possessed the ability to “watch” them from afar. Once gone, most never bothered, but Ciroc wasn’t like the others of his ilk. He truly cared. Trion soon fell prey to the sorrow and was no more. Scion lived to this very day, but was only just now earning a degree of respect. Oh, how Diote wished she were as pathetic as most saw his final sibling, a sister named Emiod, with just barely enough ability to not be thrown away.

Diote had also been kept, but was that truly best? She often wondered between shudders. When of age, she would not simply go to work. No. She would be taken away. She would be thrust into the life of the lessers. Here history foretold she could expect further persecution for having lived the “good life” while others of her kind suffered. In other words she'd have to earn her place at the bottom to garner any respect and that meant working twice as hard to make up for her absence the last twelve years. Many children hadn't survived it. Could she? Would it truly not have been better for her to have grown up that way? She’d lose all ties to her family, as was the way of things. This final year was marked as a time for goodbyes for those who cared and celebration for those who hadn't because everything, absolutely everything, was about to change.

Atop all that, the witch now sought her and Ciroc both! Why had they to slight her?! She knew, they both knew, somewhere beyond the myth, past every wicked tale, that a truth lay dormant. It only lay in wait. Oh, would the horrors never end?! How could any soul such as hers ever gather this was a life worth breath?! Surely the witch would descend upon the whole of both their families before the year was out! Her very life was to end before the life of the lesser could finish her. Suddenly and for the very first time she longed for the servitude that was her lot.

Still, she remained, as the sweat poured down rivulets. In the moonlight she shivered. Was this simply fear or had she already been visited between the shadows? Was she already dying? Truly, was this how it happened? The stories, every one, lent fright to the simplest things. Yet, until Ciroc believed, she had not. He'd been her very anchor. Yet he'd been wrong, so very wrong.

Until this solitary moment she'd had every intention of meeting him, but something within her changed. To play such deathly games, that had been his idea. She'd followed his lead and would now continue to do so till death stole them both away. This . . . this had to END! She'd follow not a step further! Anyway, why? Was it not all somehow a dream?! To be so accepted by a gifted was no gift! It was a lure! It was a tease! It marked a way in which she might be all the more unprepared and persecuted for what must come, should the witch not do so first. It would ALL END tonight and forevermore!

# # #

Ciroc ran as though the wisp of branches that carved him were so much smoke to aid the expanding morning mist. It seemed to have descended before he'd even began. The curse had fallen in this form and existed, he was by now certain, to hide nefarious intent. The witch was nigh.

It was not as though any pace he set could free him, but he held out hope to at least embrace Diote one final time. He knew now, as though he'd never before dared to guess, that his feelings for her ran truer than mere friends. Was this love? Was that even possible? Was his heart big enough to hold the full measure of fear and love in the same moment? Should love be his a moment before death stole away his very soul? Gifted or not, he'd never felt more so than now. How could he not? No other time existed for him . . . nor would it ever again.

Still he ran. It was all he had left. In his mind to hers he spoke two words. "Find me." Then three more slipped out. "I am lost." Then a flood. "You are all that remains in my shattered life. Find me before the witch takes me."

No response issued forth. He knew it wouldn't because it couldn't. For it he was lost and utterly so. He'd known this path so well, but all was now in shadow and shades of death. Then, without warning, he was falling. Water met him half way to the grave. He'd reached the shoreline. A sudden gasp and sputtering told him so. The witch had twisted him and his purpose. All hope faded.

He screamed louder than he knew possible. "SHIRELL!!!"

No recourse existed. She was to take him now. Not a sliver of mercy remained, so why not shout her name to Mother Sea! All he had left was that he'd found her before the witch. He’d meet Mother Sea in true form; just as his uncle had so long ago. He'd give himself to her so that Shirell could not.

Every step sunk him deeper as wave after wave crashed against his waist and then chest. Then with further pause he gave one last farewell. "Diote, my love, I am lost. Forever lost. Mother will take me home. Goodbye." At this he plunged beneath the moonlit tide.