Dead Moon Chapel

thirty-four

CRIMSON RED CLOUDS BLANKETED THE sky in a thick haze. The Chapel of the Dead Moon was a spectacle as a red light illuminated an outline around the tallest spire. Abel could feel it pulling against him like the tide, a strong and imposing Dead Moon. Soon, it would rise, and soon he would see its haunting red face reflecting through the rose window as he knelt over an altar.

The crowd of priests dragged Abel through the city. He passed through crowds of people who watched him like an animal, a monster, a spectacle. And, he supposed, he was. Scrutiny and awe followed him like hounds searching for a hunt, eyes boring into him with the hunger of wolves who'd found a lost sheep.

None of these wolves would have their kill, of course. There was a wolf greater than them all, a being more sinister than they understand it to be. The hungry jaws of the Chapel opened up in ravenous anticipation, and it would not be denied its satisfaction.

Overhead, the blood-red overcast faded, giving way to an expanse of stars. Abel stopped in his tracks to admire it, but the adamant priests did not allow him the mercy of his fascination.

He dug in his heels against their vicious tugging.

"I have seen the stars all of once in my life and I will not see them again if I'm to die," Abel growled. "Allow me a moment."

To his surprise, the priests obliged. They gave him just under a minute to admire the galaxies glittering above his head. They were still touched by red from the moonlight shining against the pollution in the air, but it was fascinating to see it nonetheless. The sky was so high up, it was difficult to fathom.

"That's enough," one priest said, and Abel was shoved forward once again.

Before him, the steps of the Chapel came into view. The sounds of his feet echoed with the rattling of his chains, moving in half-time to the thundering of blood pulsing in his skull. Abel took the time to appreciate his blood. For if he could not escape this, he would have none left by the time the moon was at its peak in the sky.

This was the kind of thinking he couldn't afford. There was still time to stop this, to free the city of their imprisonment. And yet, Abel wanted to be prepared for the worst. He wanted to be grateful for what beauties he could before it was all stripped from him.

A long creak resonated through the night as the heavy Chapel doors were pushed open. Beyond the threshold, priests and clergymen awaited his arrival with an array of temperaments. Stern, solid expressions met tearful attempts at stifling their weeping. Hollow eyes mixed among a crowd of wet, sorrowful gazes and glistening expressions of veneration and wonderment.

And all of them were on Abel. Just as he hoped they would be.

"Your angel has been desecrated by a devil's lust!" he exclaimed as the priests pushed him through the door.

Their grip on him tightened, but so far, none reacted to his outburst.

"You, Father," he went on, looking into the eyes of a familiar bishop. "Are you aware of how much blood is on my hands? Do you know how many hands it would take to count how many I've killed on your fingers?"

The bishop's mouth opened with a stammer. "I-Well-"

"I have lost count, Father. But it is more hands than you've got. And tonight, that number will grow."

The priests yanked him away from the bishop. They led him past the awestruck group waiting to witness his glory, and he sneered at them.

"It was on the very altar of this chapel that a demon entered me and took my purity," Abel called to them. "Were your senses scorched by a foul scent when you attended your worship three weeks ago?"