TPoB (First Draft)

Chapter 1

The long oak dinner table had been carefully prepared and set for eleven as always. To most this should be a pleasant sight. Hot food on the table with the chandelier casting a warm glow down upon it. Pictures of relatives passed on the mantle with dozens of candles around them, and above all that hanging on the wall a large wooden cross.

Attwell didn't want to be a part of this dinner. He'd hoped to find a way out of it this night, but tonight was special. He took his seat at the head of the table with submission, and soon the rest arrived. One after another, his grimly dressed relatives arrived, taking their usual seats. Last but not least was Caldwell, an older man dressed in priests robes, who took the other end across from Attwell.

"Evening, family." Croaked Caldwell with a dim smile. He'd outstretched his hands to both sides of him, the rest following his lead and taking each other's hands in prayer. Attwell was hesitant to join, but for fear of punishment forced himself to take his sibling's hands. After a quick prayer Caldwell called the families attention for a short while longer.

"Today is a special occasion." Caldwell brought a gift box up from under the table and had everyone pass it down the line to Attwell.

"Open it, go ahead." The old man's cheeks rose like they never had before, a genuine grin falling upon his face. Attwell took a good look at the nicely wrapped box before removing the lid. It was wrapped with a bright red wrapping paper, tied off with a little green bow at the top, and on the inside was exactly what Attwell had feared it would be. A neatly washed, pressed and folded set of priests robes.

"You see, family," Caldwell chittered "We have here our next prophet."

"Attwell." Caldwell approached the young man in the sitting room after dinner and the private sermon had concluded.

"Yes father?" Attwell had been rather nervous to see what his father would say, but tried his best not to show it. To show fear only meant harsher punishment.

"Did you not like your present?" Caldwell sighed, melting into an armchair facing the one Attwell had been in. "I had Ms. Marguerite sew it especially for you."

"Oh!" Attwell made an attempt at seeming offended at the notion, overdoing it just a tad with bringing his hand to his heart. "No father, I very much appreciated it."

"Appreciated?" Caldwell gave the young man a dead eyed glare. "Well I would hope so. But did you like it, son?"

Attwell was trapped now. If he lied and told him he liked it, Caldwell would know. Then again, if he told the truth and said he didn't then Caldwell would be furious.

"Father I-"

"I was so excited when I had found out that I'd be next prophet, you know that son?" Caldwell cut him off and began a tangent of his own.

"Soon enough you'll run the church with April and Auburn and your mother and I will get a chance to sit back and watch the sermon for once."

"Father..." Attwell took the chance to interject. "Why isn't it April or Auburn who's becoming the next prophet?"

"What do you mean by that, son?" Caldwell took on a very serious demeanor. Attwell could almost feel the passive anger emanating from him.

"Father I just-"

"Oh I see," Caldwell took back the floor. "You think you aren't ready, right?"

Attwell could sense the sarcasm in this remark. He knew it was too late. Caldwell knew very well what it was.

"Attwell, I just don't understand why you don't want to be the next. It should be an honor to you."

"It is!" Attwell panicked. "Honest! But I just don't know why it has to be me."