Dead Moon Chapel

one

RED USED TO BE A pretty color. Abel always thought as much growing up, but red had long since become the color of sacrifice. And though sacrifice was noble, righteous, godly, even, he'd always struggled to find the beauty in it. He could never quite understand the honor in suffering, as much as he tried to console himself with that thought when his own pain entrenched him.

You are too selfish, Abel.

Red was the color of his dreams, and it was the color of the back of his eyelids as something removed his mask, letting the light pass through the thin skin and pulling him from his sleep. He warred with consciousness, eyes glued shut by an inexplicable weight, but a familiar voice pulled him from his murky half-sleep. It brought him back to the world, back to the small church house, back into the heavy black robes that covered his body, drenched in a thick, hot liquid that stuck the fabric to his skin.

"Brother Atherton?"

That was his name. Who called his name? Where was he?

Two firm hands shook his shoulders, unrelenting until his eyes pried themselves open at last. Zora let out a sigh of relief, pulling him into a tight embrace despite his state. It was more comforting than it was painful, but it was, indeed, quite painful. Thankfully, she lessened her grip on him when he let out a sharp breath. Lord knows he wouldn't have dared tell her to stop.

"Oh, thank Heaven you're awake. Are you okay?"

Abel sat up with her help, gripping his throat. Something hot lanced through it when he attempted to swallow, only resulting in a pitiful whimper. There was a similar burn on his unoccupied palm, but his own injuries were the least of his concerns. "Yes. I'm alright," he rasped once he managed to find his voice. "Where are the others?"

"They're over there. Sister Laman was injured, but she is being cared for. Hey, take it easy--"

Despite her protests, he brushed her off and rose to his feet, picking up his solid gold mask on the way up. It was less gold and more red now, but it wouldn't take much to scrub the metal clean once they were back at the Chapel. It was only useful during a fight, anyway. It took away all distractions that came with poor eyesight, and let him focus on his other, better senses. On the walk back home, Heaven forbid, he wouldn't have any need for it.

He searched the room for their other companions and found them on a pew, tending to one of the sisters, whose face was oozing with blood. He could think of no way to be useful to them but to find a way to get out of this church. It wouldn't be an easy task with all the rubble blocking the exits.

Carnage painted every surface and every wall of the church. The gore soaking through Abel's robes and sticking to his white hair was nothing in comparison. The most notable mess was the body of a white demon, slumped on the steps leading up to the pulpit. It had long since stopped bleeding from the gash on its side, but that wasn't the wound he was drawn to.

The top of its face was charred and black, an unfamiliar symbol burned into the beast's fur. It was intricate and vaguely resembled an open eye, staring back at him as though it observed his very soul. When Abel reached to touch it, that pang of heat in his throbbing palm burned sharper, and he yanked his arm away as one would a hot stovetop.

That very same eye stared up at him when he examined his hand.

Abel turned it down, pressing it into his leg and glancing up at Zora. To his luck, she was still engrossed in the beast, paying him little mind.

Memories began to resurface once again as he looked closer at the lifeless creature before him. It looked like nothing more than a mutated dog now, but it was a formidable threat before. It was as quick as lightning and taller than it should've been when it stood on its hind legs. When it growled, it bore dozens of razor-sharp teeth, and hot, acidic drool shot from its maw, burning through everything it touched. Abel's robes now had a hole through the sleeve, but the angry red patch of skin on his arm has long since numbed itself.