Arvaarad sits cross-legged across from Saarebas. They are young still, and have only just left the watchful eye of the Tamassrans to stand on their own, with their names and their Purpose held firmly in hand and heart. Saarebas is weeping, quietly, because ey are afraid.
Arvaarad is afraid, too. Ey do not believe in eir ability to do what must be done. But it is a quiet fear, and ey rock it to sleep with a few whispered lines of the Qun. The most important one, they repeat, three times. Maraas shokra. Maraas shokra. Maraas shokra. Arvaarad is given this Purpose because ey are strong, and steady, and have never needed correction for fostering attachment. In skirmish trials, ey chose to protect, and performed admirably in leadership tests. When Tamassran handed Arvaarad the tools for the ritual, Arvaarad did not flinch, but gazed steadily into Tamassran's eyes and answered with the voice of conviction. Ey would do what must be done, and pass into Purpose with Saarebas leashed at eir side.
"Do you remember the story?" ey ask Saarebas, finally, eir voice still lilting with the edge of youth, although its timbre has dropped significantly in the past year. Saarebas looks up at em, sullen in eir tearfulness, ashamed and defiant. Arvaarad feels a pang in eir heart, and sighs. This was going to be hard. This was going to be so hard.
"Do you remember?" Ey open the box, making a matter-of-fact gesture of it, hoping to remind Saarebas that Purpose is as inexorable as the tides, to remind Saarebas that one either flows with the tides or is swept away by them. Arvaarad is afraid to do this to Saarebas, true, but Arvaarad will do it anyway, just so. Saarebas is afraid to have this done to em, but it will be done to em, just so. Asit tal-eb.
"First Saarebas did not understand what ey were," Saarebas intones dully, and Arvaarad nods, lifting the needle from the box and dipping it in caustic oil to remove any lingering impurities. Ey threaded it with thick black thread as ey took up the tale.
"First Saarebas was born after Ashkaari Koslun brought the Qun to us and made us what we are. Until then, order had reigned within the Qunari -- all knew eir purpose, and all lived according to that purpose, and did not question or struggle. Civilisation progressed, and the Qun was known to be wise and rightful by its fruit. First Saarebas struggled. The Qun did not quell the tempest that raged within eir mind. First Saarebas dreamed, and travelled far in dreams, and saw things that stretched First Saarebas' mind to madness. The madness manifested in First Saarebas' works -- in the wild magic that spilled from eir hands and destroyed crops instead of cultivating them, and in the strife-stirring words that spilled from eir lips and confused minds instead of strengthening them. First Saarebas threw eir village into turmoil, raving of things not known since before the Qun, destroying the work of Ashkaari Koslun, who'd brought the Qun to us and quelled our fever-maddened minds."
Arvaarad stands and approaches Saarebas, kneeling before em and tipping eir chin upwards, smoothing back eir hair over freshly-shorn horns. Ey finish the story for Saarebas, eir voice heavy with both duty and fondness, and the strength of the bond between both.
"First Saarebas had to be killed, for the sake of the village. And the Ben-Hassrath of that village devised the Ritual of Saarebas, so that killing would not be necessary again. We value you and we protect you. Arvaarad is given unto you, a bulwark against madness. Saarebas is given unto me, a duty to honour. This is the Ritual of Saarebas. Anaan essam Qun."
Saarebas closes eir eyes when Arvaarad begins to sew, eir body tight and trembling and eir hands clenched into fists from which thin tricklets of blood soon began to run, but ey do not make a sound. Arvaarad's heart swells with pride, but outwardly ey are stoic, pushing the curved needle in through the bottom lip, up into the inside of the top lip, and out and around, over and over, until Saarebas' lips are sewn. Arvaarad touches a finger gently to a bead of blood, touching the finger to eir own lips. A silent, sacred gesture.
Later, the stitches would be undone, so that Saarebas could eat and drink, but the meaning of the ritual would remain embedded, like words etched in stone. Saarebas would only speak at Arvaarad’s behest. Saarebas would only speak the words that Arvaarad allows. And Arvaarad would not take advantage of this, would not make mockery of Saarebas’ plight, would not make light of the gravity of their bond.
In this way, the yoke closes upon them both.