An Echo From Below

Chapter 1-A Shift In Power

{Warning: This story is purely a work of fiction. The topic is heavily based in a religion crafted from the mind of the author. I in no way intend to offend any religious group or person in the making of this work of fiction}

[Also, I haven't edited this yet, so reader beware. Please feel free to correct any grammar mistakes I make and provide any constructive criticism you see fit. This is written for the #JustWriteIt challenge that Wattpad sponsors and my sole intention is to get as much written within 30 days as possible]

I watch as a bead of blood swells on the edge of my index. The boy in front of me has already stepped forward to pause in front of the shrine and I can just see the curve of his elbow as he turns his wrist and lets some of the blood pooling in the center of his palm drip amongst the others. I catch a glimpse of his hand as he steps to the side; it's a mess of red plastered to pale skin, thicker rivulets darkening his wrinkles. I have to close my eyes for a moment so that I don't stumble in front of everyone on my way to the shrine.

I take three steps forward. The shrine is the size of a daybed and looks like a sarcophagus elaborately carved out of deeply veined white copper and lined with gold. There is something written in one of the Ancient Languages inscribed in gold on the side, but I can't read it. Not even the high clergymen have been able to understand it in at least a century. The lid of the sarcophagus is usually sealed over the top of the shrine, but today is one of the rare occasions when it has been opened.

I force myself to look down. A body stares back. He is as pale and white as the marble that incases him, his skin still tight and youthfully stretched over his high cheekbones and plump pink lips. His hair is tucked out of his face regally, a main of dark black contrasting sharply with the tone of his skin. He is clothed in pure gold, the fabric shimmering even in the unusually low tones of the cathedral. He looks different than I remember from this perspective; I remember him taller, more imposing and definitely grander on the screens projected in Central. He had seemed endlessly ethereal in those days, but lying so close to me, hands folded over his lap and face relaxed into a peaceful grin it is almost hard for me to imagine him as the fierce leader that led the troops into war against the rebels.

He still looks unnervingly alive, like his eyelids might pull back at any moment and his sclera will have decayed to black, his irises an even darker shade of blue than before. I don't no why I imagine him as supernatural. It might be the blood.

There are rich pools of blood staining his robes and pooling into the downy of the replaceable sarcophagus lining below him. Some of the splatters are more refined, only single dots gently beading into the white of the pillows while others are deep angry puddles big enough for me to see half of my reflection in. The boy before me probably contributed to that one significantly, and I can starkly remember a very withered old woman sobbing wildly and trying to slit both her wrists open wide to donate as much of her blood to honoring the man's death. Several of the clergymen had been required to safely pry her away from his body, but they seemed more solemn than mad. It is a time of national grieving after all. We all feel the horrific impact from the death of our leader.

I tip my finger sideway and wait for the swelling of blood to slide from my finger, but the bulbous fluid only sways minutely and continues to stubbornly cling to my flesh. I shake it suddenly from side to side and it detaches.

A dot of red swells between the pale white eyelids and I sit there staring in rapt interest for a moment before the absolute horror of the situation grips me completely.

I turn on my heel and make my way to Mom swiftly. She is waiting in one of the first rows of the pews, her black attire blending in with the prime dressing of the other clergymen's wives. She does not bother to smile at me-it isn't the time for that-but she takes a moment to look at me deeply, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling softly in the form of the next best thing.