Dead Moon Chapel

thirty

THE GROUND SHOOK AS THOUGH the Earth was quaking beneath their feet. Some priests remained on their knees, faithful to a fault with their fervent prayers. Others sensed danger and rose up, only to be met with a sight they couldn't comprehend. An angel knelt tall above them, every surface of his body covered in wings and eyes and golden armor. There was no trace of a human boy on that platform anymore.

The priests who witnessed this magnificence wept at the sight, faces wet with awe. One priest stepped forward, lips parted, hand outstretched as though she wished to touch him. Abel knew this one. She was the one who spoke so ardently of his fate, of the great honor it was to be sacrificed. Were his heart not so sorely scorned by hatred, he would have pitied her.

Abel tilted his head to observe her. He could see every pore in her skin, he could see her pulse in her neck, he could see the way her shallow breaths disrupted the still air in front of her. Every microscopic droplet from her mouth, he could see as clear as day. Her hand stretched out further, and he could see the red of her fingernails where she dug at them when she was anxious. He could see his own reflection in her teardrops.

"I am unworthy!" she breathed, voice breaking around her words. "O, God, I am unworthy! An angel is too glorious for a sinner such as I, what have I done to deserve this? How can I comprehend the sight of him, Lord?"

Abel leaned close to her. "Because you, too, must be pure of heart," he said, a legion of voices echoing from every corner of the white room. "Tell me, Sister, would you give yourself to God for your city? Would you suffer to save them?"

"I am unworthy of such an honor."

"But would you, sister? Do you have the will?"

"Yes," she wept. "Yes, without question."

"Good," Abel said, and bored his gaze into hers.

Oceans flooded her eyes, glistening with his light. As they streamed down her face, the whites of her eyes reddened. Her cries of awe darkened into horrified gasps, and her tears gave way to streams of blood seeping over her skin. The ground shook harder, and the priest screamed an unintelligible prayer.

Abel ripped one chain from the wall. Her fear fueled him. It banged against his heart like a drum, which thundered as a war cry in his chest. The red was a pleasant change to the blinding white. It stained her thin veil and dripped to the floor like bloody rain. He wanted to turn this white room red. He wanted to turn the world red. He was tired of all this white.

By now, the other priests had come to their senses, and they were on their feet. They had not the presence of mind to tend to the priest who now cried tears of blood, who screamed in fear at the sight of the angel. Some of them succumbed to the same horror, while others wrapped their hands around their weapons and chanted rites.

"Your prayers will not pierce me," Abel bellowed. "I am no demon. My power comes not from Hell."

He ripped the other chain from the wall, taking with it a chunk of rubble. As it crashed to the ground, it shattered into pieces, launching projectiles toward the priests.

"But, as it comes not from Hell, nor does it come from Heaven." He rose to his feet, arms falling to his sides. It felt nice to stand again. "This power is mine to wield, and your prayers will not save you today."

One slash of his chains silenced the praying priests. Time stood still as their bodies stiffened. And then, as if in slow motion, they crumpled to the floor one by one. Blood surged from their middles, connecting them all in a river of red. In a matter of seconds, their white robes were a deep, lovely crimson.

At last, their prayers had ceased.

Abel stepped down from the pedestal, feet soaking in their blood. His chains dragged along after him, creating a trail when he walked. He took a moment to admire his work. These priests would not pray to him again, as no one could speak with their guts unraveled all over the floor, bodies torn apart from his wrath.