The moment the doors opened, Emrys, with little delicacy, simply threw him onto the floor, where the frayed red carpet leading to the pedestal ended. Asra didn't react. Defeated, he just turned to stare at the ceiling. The light streaming through the hole in the ancient roof mingled with the cracked stained glass along the walls, scattering shadows across the nearly forgotten space.
To Asra, the stained glass seemed far more interesting. Unfortunately, today's prayers weren't meant for them.
Like an old lament, he heard the doors creak shut behind his brother's forceful push. Emrys didn't even glance at Asra on the floor as he rushed toward the center, toward the altar, where the towering figure awaited them daily.
He might've called it excessive, but given how much trouble he was already in this time, he didn't complain. Especially since he'd forgotten his shoes. He let out a tired sigh, as if he'd worked all day, and forced himself to stand.
As he flexed his toes against the icy centuries-old marble, muffled, rhythmic footsteps echoed from above. Glancing up the spiral staircase, he saw his mother, lips pressed into a thin line.
Asra tensed. Before she reached the bottom, he stumbled toward the altar, stepping over shards of stained glass that seemed more a part of the carpet than the cotton it was woven from, and straightened beside his brother.
Sweat trickled down his forehead and spine as his mother approached the altar. He could only imagine how disapproving that gaze would be: barefoot, again. Late, again. Maybe if he'd run like Emrys, he could've at least hidden his feet.
His mother reached the pedestal with imposing grace, her red veil partially obscuring her face, woven with mysteries, leaving only her mouth visible. Her flowing black dress, adorned with gold-trimmed collars like everyone else's (except his), swayed with each step. In her delicate, silk-gloved fingers, she held an ancient black candle, its flame flickering.
Asra didn't pray, but for a moment, he prayed the veil blinded her enough to nota see his feet.
This wasn't the first, or even second, time he'd been warned against entering the chapel barefoot. Last time, she'd starved him for a week, limiting him to a damned vegetable soup. He only survived because Emrys secretly shared his own meals.
He'd rather not go hungry again. But as his mother stopped right in front of him, he doubted his prayer had worked.
Emrys shot him a sidelong glance, silently warning him not to speak.
But again, he doubted.
He couldn't see her eyes, but he saw her fingers tighten around the candle and her lips twist as if she'd bitten into a sour lemon. When Asra opened his mouth, his brother braced for the worst, but both were surprised when the voice they heard wasn't hers, but their mother's, who only spoke in prayers within the chapel.
As if a single breath could tear the veil from her face and expose her children's sins, her words came out in a trembling whisper:
"When we finish here, I want both of you…—She turned slightly toward Emrys, letting the last word hang, making sure he knew she was aware of his mistakes too. —…to wait for me outside."
With that, she resumed her path, the candle flickering with each step.
At least, Asra thought, this time he wouldn't be the only one punished.
He almost laughed—almost—but stifled the impulse.
He glanced at his brother just as Emrys's eyes widened. Emrys opened his mouth to defend himself, then stopped. He knew it was pointless. Closing his eyes, he sighed,once, then again. Long. Heavy.
Yeah, Asra should probably avoid high places with him for a while.
Shifting his attention from his (undoubtedly furious) brother, he turned back to his mother, who now stood before the one thing she hated more than prayer.
The one who, according to her, heard her silence.
On the altar, where she now raised the candle high and bowed three times, stood a solitary monument.
The figure, carved from some dark stone,so dark it seemed to swallow the room around it,was draped in a long, flowing mantle that pooled at its feet, hiding its face, which looked sculpted from pure void.
In its hands, it held a sword. Not of iron; there was no steel in their faith. Instead, the blade was etched directly into the marble at its feet,a reminder that the cut would never bring the promised pain.
And though it stood tall, Asra knew he carried more weight than the stone giant outside.
One could bow beneath a mountain's burden,the other stood firm against false prayers.
Beside it lay an old curved blade and a small clay pot holding a few gray hairs, his hairs, saved since birth. If more had been taken, he didn't know. Maybe, deep down, he didn't want to know. Anything tied to that being and his mother made him shrink inside.
When she bowed a fourth time and finally knelt before the monument, placing the candle beside it with a reverence that would inspire envy, he knew it had truly begun.
And once again, like every year, there was no escape.
So, like her, he slowly knelt. He raised his scarred hands,the marks deepening with time, always in the same place. He heard Emrys grumble as he followed suit, angrily closing his eyes with a scowl.
But not Asra. He never closed his eyes. Not when his own blood was being spilled.
Her voice shattered the silence, carrying a strength it hadn't before. His mother poured her torment into her words, and behind her, Emrys's voice whispered in unison. Together, they echoed like an ancient lament no one would ever truly hear:
"Let my bones remember what my blood forgets,
Take what is yours,
Listen to the living flesh within your womb,
And deny the hunger of forgotten dreams."
She lifted the blade with steady hands. The metal glinted faintly as it met skin already marked by scars. With an almost delicate motion, she opened a thin cut on her palm and let the blood drip into the pot. Three drops fell, each resonating in the woman's soul,yet she showed no pain. She offered only what remained, and unfortunately, it was never enough.
Then, with her bleeding hand, she took the pot and, blade in the other, turned slowly toward Asra. He stared back unblinking, waiting for a cut that would seal on his skin but keep bleeding in his soul.
"I will walk in your past,
I will feast on your eyes,
And I will wear your skin,
For your words are what keep
The path of truth "
The verses continued. But for him, like every time before, the air trembled. Asra didn't know how, but he saw it thicken, dense enough to cut, heavy enough to suffocate. Breathing became a struggle; his lungs fought for air. Choking, he had no choice but to gasp,yet he refused to move.
Strangely, his brother remained unaffected. From the corner of his eye, he saw Emrys praying normally, as if he saw nothing, felt nothing.
If Asra had a worse imagination, he'd think it was in his head. But he knew he couldn't conjure this, he'd never read or seen anything like it. For some reason, he alone saw and felt it.
Maybe his mother did too. But he doubted she'd explain.
Each step she took made the air hotter. Sweat poured from his forehead like a waterfall, and his stifling clothes didn't help. Yet Asra held firm,until suddenly, she stood before him.
" Keeps the conscience
Of a lie torn from whispers,
Devoured by those who walk the bowels
Of our sins."
Asra braced himself as she brought the blade to his hands, the pot beneath them. Now, without his brother's voice, she continued in a whisper, a promise only she could make.
"Blood may forget them,
But the heart knows the voice of sinners,
For our flesh knows what came before."
When the cold metal touched his palm, his hair stood on end. His body shuddered,not from fear (never fear; he was used to it), but from something nameless. A chill raced up his spine, as if his body prayed even when his mouth refused.
Then came the cut.
Small. Precise. Silent.
And once again, Asra felt like something was being stolen from him.
First the sting, then a tingling up his arms, settling in his chest. Not pain, something deeper. A heat that didn't burn but pulsed. Again, it sealed on his skin but kept cutting in his soul.
His blood, too thick, too dark, ran from his hands. A metallic taste filled his mouth; a weight grew in his stomach. Asra had known something was wrong since the first cut, years ago.
Yet, despite his natural curiosity, he'd never questioned his mother.
He felt filthy. But also… necessary.
Like hers, three drops fell.
The cut, the moment, was quick, but to him, it was always an eternity.
So when his mother turned back to the altar, he felt hollow, barely hearing the final prayer before his mind blurred and his vision darkened.
"Receive in my name,
Let the blood speak for me,
Be my scar.
Be my means.
And let what drowns us
Sink into oblivion."
Again, only her voice echoed.
Weak, hands still bleeding, Asra still wondered why he couldn't hear his brother. For the first time, he turned his head toward Emrys.
And that shocked him.
Because his brother stood frozen, fists clenched so tight his veins bulged, blood dripping from them.
But what stunned Asra wasn't the blood.
It was his eyes.
Open.
Empty.
A void so vast it made Asra dizzy for a second. And when Emrys looked at him when he felt that attention he realized:
He hadn't just gotten lost.
He'd been swallowed by the void clinging to his brother's eyes.