This is not the worst moment of her life. If Doku were to be completely honest with herself, she's too young to have any idea what the worst moment of her life is, was, or will be. So, tonight isn't it. Probably. Tonight, Grandfather's tent is lit by lamplight, and with Yurusu's finger wound tightly around her's, Doku makes her way across the packed sand floor to where he's waiting. She only looks back, over her shoulder, at her sister when they've reached the table and chair that Grandfather has prepared for the ceremony, and then, only long enough to see her smile reassuringly in the flickering red-black gloom. Doku takes a deep breath and walks the final steps on her own.

This is her night. She knows that like she knows the desert, like she knows that Grandfather will not hurt her on purpose, not if he can help it, like she knows that Yurusu is waiting somewhere in the darkness beyond the lamp's halo of light. She tells her fluttering heart and stomach this, but neither seem to be paying attention, so she sets on just ignoring them. Grandfather is dressed in the long red-orange-gold robe of the priesthood, ceremonial garb that she hasn't seen on him since the twins were born, and he guides her arm to rest on the silk cloth spread across the tabletop. Don't scream, he tells her, picking up the thin, curved knife and holding her wrist to the table so that she can't wrench it away when the pain starts. I won't scream, she swears, and he lowers the dagger to her skin just above her pulse point.

This is how it goes, how it has always gone. Like every member of the Suna, Yurusu bears the marks on her arm and so does Grandfather; Doku can see them, ghostly just under his cuff. At five, they both survived this, and Doku can too. She hopes, she prays... It's just...

This is the worst pain she's ever known. With the end of the knife, Grandfather scrapes her skin away until only red, bleeding muscle is left. Doku squeezes her eyes shut and bites down on the junction between the thumb and index finger of her other hand. When he begins to pour the ink into the broken groves, she doesn't scream except on the inside.

This is not my blood, she tells herself fervently, a prayer but not a prayer. This is not thousands of years of ancestry and history engraved into my flesh. This is not, this is not, this is not.

This is not the worst moment of her life because when it is done, Grandfather holds her face to his robe as she cries silently. Good girl, Dokueki, he tells her, and Yurusu crouches next to her chair and wraps her arms tightly around Doku's waist.