Page 3 of Decimation

“I will,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turns his head slightly, his gaze piercing. “And you must ensure our bloodline. That Esau girl…” He trails off, his lips curling in distaste.

I stiffen, bitterness rising in my throat like bile. Today is not the day for this. Today is sacred, a day of transition, of sacrifice. But I nod again, swallowing my anger. “I understand.”

“It is time,” The priest says as he enters, his robes rustling softly as he steps into the chamber. His face is solemn, his eyes downcast. Today is a day of mourning and celebration. A paradox of death and renewal.

Emmanuel rises from the tub, and I hand him a linen cloth. He dries himself slowly, methodically, as if savouring the last moments of his own existence. He dresses in the white robe laid out for him, the fabric pristine and pure. It’s a stark contrast to the darkness of the chamber surrounding us both, the darkness of my mood too.

He takes my hand, his grip firm despite the tremors that have begun to creep into his fingers. “Do your duty, Lazarus,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Do not falter.”

I squeeze his hand in return, my throat tight. “I won’t.”

He releases me and draws himself up, standing tall with his shoulders squared, his head held high and then he walks out ahead of me, his steps deliberate, each one echoing like a drumbeat in the silence.

The ritual chamber is vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, and the walls are lined with torches that cast flickering light over the gathered men. Ten of us stand in a circle around the stone table at the centre, where my father is lying upon it like a sacrifice. He has a crown of thorns pressed into his brow, and the blood is already trickling down his temples.

The two priests move around him, their voices chanting in Aramaic. Words I do not care to hear. Words I do not want to hear. They wield the whips, the leather cords biting into my father’s flesh with each strike.

He does not cry out, does not flinch.

His face is serene, almost beatific, as if he is already ascending to heaven.

When the whipping is done, the priests’ step back and they leave the chamber, their footsteps fading into the distance while we are left alone to finish this.

Konstantine steps forward dressed in black, the colour of mourning, but there is no grief in his expression. Only determination.

“Holy blood,” he begins, his voice resonating through the chamber, “flows through our veins. It is our destiny, our sacred duty to carry the mantle of the Brethren, to uphold the covenant made between the heavens and the earth.”

He lifts the ceremonial dagger, its blade glinting in the torchlight. “By this blood, we are sanctified. By this blood, we are reborn.”

He slices our father’s wrists, one then the other. His blood immediately starts flowing freely, pooling on the stone table before dripping into the golden chalice held by Gabriel, one of our six Guardians.

When the chalice is half full Gabriel takes a sip before passing it and it goes from man to man, each man drinking deeply. Konstantine watches us, his gaze intense, his lips moving silently in prayer.

“We drink the blood of our Grand Master,” he says, his voice rising, “in memory of the blood given by Christ. In doing so, we are one with him, one with the divine.”

When the chalice reaches me, I hesitate for the briefest moment before lifting it to my lips. The blood is thick, already congealing and I swallow it down, wondering if I’m imagining the feel of it burning in my chest.

Konstantine takes the dagger again, this time cutting an inch long piece of flesh from our father’s side. He lifts it to his mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately, his eyes closed as if this is the finest cut of meat, the tastiest morsel he’s ever eaten.

“By eating his flesh,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion, “I become him. I become the Grand Master, the vessel of his spirit, the keeper of his soul. I am Emmanuel Hesletine, and Emmanuel is me. We are one, as we have always been.”

The Guardians move forward then, tearing chunks of flesh from Emmanuel’s body, using little knives to gouge it off his very bones. I watch them, my stomach churning despite my belief in the ritual, despite my acceptance of its necessity.

Emmanuel is still alive, I can see his chest rising and falling weakly, his eyes half-closed. I move to his head, kneeling beside him, my hand resting on his forehead.

“You have done your duty,” I whisper. “You can rest now. You are assured a place in heaven.”

He looks at me, his eyes filled with pain and something else, something I cannot quite name. “It should have been you,” he rasps, his voice barely audible.

I freeze, and it feels like my heart stops in my chest. Oh, I know what he means. He thinks I should have been the Grand Master, not Konstantine. The words hang in the air like a curse, and I glance around quickly before my eyes meet Konstantine’s.

He is standing close, his gaze fixed on me, his expression unreadable. I cannot tell if he has heard, but the weight of his stare makes my skin crawl.

“You have yet to eat of his flesh,” he says, his voice cold and completely devoid of emotion.

I tear a small bit of skin from where it is hanging off his arm, the flesh uncomfortably warm beneath my fingers. I lift it to my mouth, chewing slowly, trying not to let the taste of blood and meat overwhelm me.