Dead Moon Chapel

seven

MANY CENTURIES AGO, THE WORLD was lost. It was only one century ago, though, when the destruction came, and only the believers were spared. The world was ravaged by sin and contention and chaos as mankind destroyed itself. But few held tight to their faith, and it proved them worthy to be saved. In order to stay in the favor of the Almighty and keep their holy shelter, a sacrifice was to be made every twelve years, when the clouds departed and the Dead Moon showed its face.

The eighth Dead Moon was approaching too fast. Father Malachi dreamt of it, of the moon's red glow illuminating a night of death and tragedy. A night where sin won and humanity fell, because there was no one holy enough left to be offered up to God. Dread pulled him from his dreams in a cold sweat, blinking away the haunting images that still lingered in his mind.

He tried to sit up, but it was a struggle without the fretting nurses hovering over him. After Abel visited him and they spoke for a while, he told him to pass the message to the nurses that he wanted to be alone for the rest of the night. Whether it was Abel or himself that they were inclined to obey, he didn't know, nor did he care. As long as he could sleep in peace for a few hours.

Peace was not what he ended up with, of course. Whatever visions the demoness implanted in his mind never fully left, even when Abel purified his mind of her influence. A spirit could be cast out, but memories imprinted in the brain were not so simple. Flashes of blood and the gruesome sounds of Abel breaking in front of him tormented him ruthlessly. He couldn't take it anymore.

Malachi carefully removed the catheter from his arm. He reached for a cane nearby, hand shaking as he did. Leaning against the cane for support, Malachi climbed out of the hospital bed. His knees buckled, but he caught himself on the bed frame and stood still until he was stable enough to walk. His movements were sluggish, his bones rigid and cracking with every step. The pain in his stomach flared whenever he breathed. He pushed on, throwing the door open with a frustrated grunt.

He was lucky there were no nurses wandering the halls to forcefully escort him back to his room, but the nurses were even luckier for this. Father Malachi was not in a very Christian mood, which was precisely what he was going to fix.

The walk to the chapel was a long venture for a man who could not move half as well as he did the day before. His stomach was tightly bound in bandages, enough to make his back as stiff as a board, and whatever medicine they'd been pumping into his bloodstream brought on a unique kind of lethargy. Malachi ignored all of it and pushed his body onward.

At last, he found his way to the chapel. It was a struggle to push the door open, but he shoved all his body weight against it until it gave way enough for him to slip through. Though he wanted his privacy, he doubted he could open the door up again should he shut it now, so he left it open a crack. He would just have to be quiet.

Using the pews for support, Malachi made his way toward the front of the room. He lowered himself onto the front bench in the middle row, as centered as he could get himself. The pulpit towered over him, its backdrop a large panel window that depicted the Virgin Mary with colorful glass. Her head was turned up to the heavens as she wept, her hands clasped over her heart.

He felt for her. For she, too, could not stop her fate.

Through the window, the moon hid behind the clouds, but it was full and bright enough for him to see its glow. In a few months' time, the clouds would part and reveal a blood-red moon. It would show its face, and a being of purity would be slain upon the altar in the Arena of Abraham. If no blood of divinity was spilled before the night ended, the Holy City would fall, and with it, whatever remained of humanity.

But why did it have to be him?

From the day he found him as a boy, covered in his father's blood and cowering from his mother, Malachi knew there was something different about Abel. He was tender in a world hardened by disaster and desperation. Even in his darkest moments, Abel worried only about others around him. So selfless, so gentle, compassionate enough for it to be his downfall. There was an unmistakable purity about him that Malachi wished he could not see so clearly.

He knew the whole time. He always knew it was going to be Abel, no matter how hard he tried to lie to himself.

Malachi's lip trembled. It took all the strength he had to lift himself from the bench and lower himself onto his knees. Such was a pain he was willing to endure if it meant there was even a chance at saving his son.

"O Father," Malachi said as he bowed his head. There was a lump forming in his throat, and his composure was being held together by a thread. "I beg of thee, please. Have mercy on my son. Do not take him from me."

It broke then, whatever Malachi had left of his resolve. His shoulders were wracked with heavy sobs, and he curled in on himself. His hands shook in agony, an agony in his heart so great that it overtook his body, and he felt physical pain everywhere that pain could be. It took him several long moments to find his voice again in the midst of his cries.

"Let it be someone else, Lord!" he wailed. "Please! Take me instead."

The chapel echoed his pain as it was released from him in waves, howling and whimpering like an animal with its leg caught in a snare. Images of blood filled his mind once again, curling around the engravings on the floor of the Arena. Slumped over the altar was Abel, white and pure and holy, his body dimmed and turned to stone.

As it was the fate of Mother Mary, and as it was the fate of God Himself, Malachi, too, would watch his son die for mankind. Abel would die, so that mankind might live on in a world they long since destroyed beyond repair. They should have been doomed to extinction for what they did, they did not deserve to be a part of this world anymore. But by fulfilling the promise of the Dead Moon, they earned the Creator's forgiveness for twelve years to come.

For every sacrifice Malachi had been alive to witness, the sacrificial lamb was found years in advance. The Dead Moon was getting closer by the day without a worthy sacrifice to be seen. Abel was the miracle they'd been praying for, a miracle come almost too late. There was no time left to bargain.

Sunlight shone red through the clouds, casting its glow through the window by the time he'd run his eyes dry. Malachi turned his head up to the depiction of Mary again. The sunrise made her stand out against the rest of the window, a stark gold against deep crimson.

There was no time left to bargain.

He had his answer.

"Very well, Father," he rasped, pushing himself up to his feet once again. Though he'd cried every tear he had, his body trembled with the aftershock of his relentless sobs. "If this was your plan for me, I will deny you no longer. 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"