It had always been your dream to be the one chosen. It was everyone's dream, really, to have you and your family raised high, whether you were farming a scrubby little patch in the hinterlands or shaping bronze for the king, but few people in your town actually made the trek to the temple to throw their name in. You always did, no matter what the cost, not when your sister was pregnant, not when your brother got drafted into one of the wars and your family needed the help at home. You always took that week to yourself to make the long, lonely trip upward through the hills, paid the silver coin to have a scribe write your name on a slip of reed paper, pushed to the enormous stone oracle bowl to toss in your name, and then crammed yourself into the crowded shrine to see the drawing.
You hated it, honestly. The long, cold, muddy road, dangerous downhill as it was up, the stink of the crowd, the faint but piercing sense of loneliness as you saw each year that you were one of the only ones there alone. But all that faded when the priestess would appear from behind the curtain. She was massively fat, with long, oiled braids of black hair and a skirt that cut into the enormous, soft cliff of her belly, and when she spoke her voice was limned with power, bringing the crowd to a hush. She would begin the chant to honor Proserpina.
"For the stalk bending with grain, for the spring welling with water, for the grapes heavy on the vine," the priestess chanted.
"We thank you, Great Goddess," the crowd answered. You knew the words by heart and chanted loud. You wanted the Goddess to know that you'd practiced. Back and forth the priestess and the crowd went, harps and drums and flutes joining in, until at the fever pitch the priestess snatched a torch from an attendant, held it up high as the flame greened and towered, then threw it into the oracle bowl. The paper burst into flames, like a giant gasping for air, and then the priestess stirred the ashes with a long stick, looking for the one name that remained unburnt.
"Ărana," the priestess said, her chubby fingers black with soot.
You stood. You thought you would feel something, that an angel would carry you to the altar, that a voice would whisper in your ear, but the only sound was the tap-tap of your footsteps as people made way for you. The priestess looked down at you, her expression blank on top of her many chins.
"You are Ărana?" You nodded, and reached high as she bent to hand you your name. The paper burst into green fire as soon as it touched your hand, and the temple burst into music and cheers as the priestess hefted you up next to the altar with her. You could smell the faint, delicate perfume of jasmine oil rubbed in between her rolls, and your year dedicated to the Great Goddess began as she kissed you on the forehead and brought you into the back of the temple.
There was so much that happened that year, but mostly, you ate. Or, you were fed, rather, from waking to sleeping. Your attendants quickly trained you to talk with your mouth full, to tolerate unwatered wine at all hours of the day, to slowly yield the use of your legs to a sedan chair, the use of your arms to their food-filled hands, the use of your brain to the menus and schedules they created. You heard news that your family had been exaltedâhands from the temple had been sent to enlarge and enrich their farm, changing them from subsistence farmers to tiny baronsâbut they didn't come to see you, which didn't bother you. Who you were now was who you were always supposed to be.
The fat piled on you quickly, and it seemed even faster from how weak you were, how quickly you became dependent on them to lift you out of your enormous bed to relieve yourself, but you weren't worried. Finally, after a life of toil and misery, here was rest. Lamb served with mint chutney, white fish on a bed of rice and cream sauce, skewers of fatty beef, the whitest loaves you'd ever seen dripping with honey, roast chicken and potatoes triple-fried in tallow, flatbreads stuffed with soft cheese, apricot pies, honeyed pigs, blackened broccoli dripping in olive oil, infinite varieties of cake and pie and candied nuts, all of it pushed into you all the time. You'd never eaten so heavily before, and at first your stomach complained, but the priestess would appear, say something in the ancient language of the gods and lay a fat hand on the tender crown of your stomach, and you'd be as hungry as if you hadn't eaten all day.
All of you was fat in very short order, but it was your bottom half that took the brunt of it, your thighs and ass swelling up with new, bouncy fat so that you quickly had a pronounced waddle, and your attendants called you "Anja," pear. Soon the rich food and lazy lifestyle turned you squishy and useless, with very little muscle, and little rolls sprang up everywhere, at the tops of your thighs, around your elbows, tiny little ones under your chin that an attendant would pinch to prompt you to open your mouth for a bite.
The last few months before the festival were intense. You were constantly brought delicacies, as always, but a giant bowl patterned with growing calves was brought you now at the beginning of the day, filled with a thick, almost-paste like porridge of cream and grain that was forced into you roughly, not fed to you daintily. Then twice a day, then three times. Your figure changed from soft and pillowy and curve to round, your stomach almost always full to bursting, your mind addled with food and wine and feasting.
Finally, the day of the festival came. The priestess's bronze sickle was melted down, re-cast, inscribed with your name, polished to a mirror finish and ground to a razor keen. The priestess entered your room, and your attendants left you.
"Stand, and come with me," the priestess said, her face somber. "The Great Goddess is calling you."
Knowing it was useless, you tried to stand anyway, barely managing to push a leg out from under the enormous dome of your gut. You turned smiling to your attendants, but they were gone.
"Stand," the priestess said.
"I can't," you said. She smiled, hefting you up, your legs instantly burning, the fat wobbling across your entire body as they began to shake. She pulled you as you stumbled forward a few steps, then collapsed, falling backwards onto your ass with a loud smack.
The priestess laughed, and your attendants rushed forward from behind the pillars, rolling you onto a newly built sedan chair. You needed a larger seat, and the poles had been extended to accommodate the extra men to lift you. Slowly, they marched you to the shrine. The moon poured in from the skylight, and the temple was silent and filled with the many acolytes of Proserpina. A great drum beat slowly to the pace of your attendants as they sat you in front of the oracle bowl.
The priestess stepped forward, breaking open a fresh amphora of oil and pouring it onto you as the attendants rubbed it into your skin and your rolls, the scent of mint and thyme overwhelming. Some of the cheekier ones took this as chance to sneak in a last kiss, a last feel of your breast, and you felt your favorite snip off a small lock of your hair as a memento. The priestess chanted, the whole temple chanting quietly with you, until she spoke in mortal language.
"Oh, Great Goddess, we thank you for your blessing. On this day, the ancient anniversary of your gift of grain to us, we show our gratitude by giving you the gift of your gift, the fruits of our prosperity funneled into a single mouth." She broke away from tradition in her next lines. "It is rare you call one as you have this year, Great Goddess, and we thank you for sending us such an appetite to be filled. It is clear you are anxious to receive her. We give her to you, and she gives herself to you, with great joy."
Your attendants picked up your chair for the last time, spinning you so you faced the crowed, and then seven of the strongest priests lifted the oracle bowl and pressed it into the expanse of your fat. Your stretched your head out the rim of it, and with a blue light in her eyes, the priestess took the bronze sickle in her hand and looked down at you. There was a long pause, and you realized she was waiting for you. You nodded, slightly, a smile stealing to your lips. The entire temple called out as one, over and over, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," as the priestess cut your throat in one sharp, quick motion, pushing you forward so you blood drained into the bowl. You'd wondered if you'd feel the sickle pass through your joints, if you'd feel the fire as you were made into a burnt offering. But you felt nothing, then a burning, then a coldness, then darkness.
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