Chapter 11 Elior #2
“Up,” he said gently, guiding me toward the gleaming chair at the center of the dais.
My heart lurched. “Father, I—”
“Hush,” he murmured, pushing me lightly but firmly. “The service is about to start.”
He helped me sit, arranging the flowing white fabric of my robe so it draped properly over the stone. Sitting in the Seat always made my stomach knot; the eyes, the attention, the symbolism—it all felt like too much for me.
Father stepped back only when he was satisfied, brushing invisible dust from my sleeve.
Within a minute, the congregation began filing in—mothers with children, older men leaning on canes, teens who still looked half-asleep. Their eyes all lifted to me as they entered.
I tried to seem calm, the picture of serenity I was meant to be, but, inside, my lungs felt too tight.
Father moved to the pulpit and began the usual greetings—welcome, blessings, and reminders of the importance of attending services. My hearing blurred around the edges; I kept losing his words as my thoughts cycled.
Was I the one being punished?
Had the Light shown him… something?
Was this going to be about lust? It was always the worst sin, the one he preached about with fire in his eyes—
“…disgusting sin of lust,” Father’s voice thundered suddenly, snapping my gaze to him.
My heart plummeted.
No. No, no, no.
A cold wave washed over me, dizzying and sharp. He knew. He knew what happened. He knew what I’d done—or what someone had done to me. He knew. About the stain. About the note hidden in my drawer. About the shame prickling under my skin.
He knew.
My breathing stopped, and I sat straighter in the Seat, trying not to tremble. If I looked afraid, people would notice. Father would notice. And then—
“…and there is one among us,” Malachi continued, “who continues to fall to this temptation.”
I went still. He wasn’t looking at me. Wasn’t looking at Jace in the back of the crowd. He was looking at the front row.
“Brother Silas,” Father said, voice booming. “Come forward.”
Silas?
Awkward, earnest, always wringing his hands when nervous, Silas. He had confessed last night—whispering that he’d wanted to touch himself again, but hadn’t. He said he fought it. He said he prayed until the urge passed.
He didn’t sin. He didn’t.
Silas rose slowly, pale already, and made his way up the aisle. My stomach twisted.
Father gestured for him to kneel at the base of the dais. Silas obeyed instantly, though his hands shook so badly he kept clasping and unclasping them like he was trying to hold something together.
“I have punished Silas numerous times for this weakness,” Father said, turning to the congregation. “And still, he fails to learn. He fails to understand purity.”
My fingers dug into the carved armrests beneath them.
Failing?
He wasn’t failing—he was trying. He was always trying. He never even—
“I will attempt,” Father said, “to banish it once and for all.”
The chapel fell so quiet it felt like sound itself had been swallowed.
Ban—banish?
I didn’t know what that meant, not exactly. But Father’s voice had that tone—calm, cold, absolute—the tone he used when he’d already decided the end of something.
Silas looked terrified.
Father raised a hand. Two members of his Inner Circle—Brother James and Brother Paul—stood immediately and approached. They took Silas by the arms and held him in place at the dais.
My breath stopped.
“F-Father?” My voice was barely a whisper. Not loud enough for the congregation. Probably only loud enough for him.
He didn’t look at me.
Instead, he reached behind the pulpit, lifting something long and coiled.
Leather.
Dark.
Heavy.
A whip.
My entire body went cold.
Father lifted it for all to see. Gasps rippled through the crowd. A woman covered her mouth. Silas made a sound—small and awful, like something inside him cracked.
No one moved.
Not even me.
“I will purify him,” Malachi said, voice resolute. “The Light demands it.”
The world blurred at the edges. Blood rushed in my ears so loudly I couldn’t hear myself breathe.
Father was going to whip him.
Whip him.
For something he didn’t even do.
Shock hit me so violently that my fingers went numb. My throat worked, but no sound came out.
I knew—somewhere inside—that I should speak. I should plead. I should stop him. I should stand, step down from the Seat, tell the truth—
That Silas wasn’t sinful.
That I was the one struggling with impurity.
That something had happened to me last night.
That I was afraid.
The congregation stared with wide, trembling eyes. The two men braced Silas between them. My father stood before all of them, whip in hand, waiting for silence.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t speak.
Father’s arm drew back.
And I felt the room tilt around me.
“No!” I finally yelled, my voice panicked and desperate.
Every eye in the place turned to me. I sat frozen, shocked at myself for actually speaking. Oh no. Father slowly dropped his hand and looked at me scathingly, his jaw tight.
“No?” he asked, his voice full of grit.
The congregation erupted in whispers. I swallowed thickly as Father left Silas and stalked closer to me.
Once he was at my side, he lowered his voice so only I could hear it. “How dare you, boy,” he hissed. Before he continued, my racing mind settled on something, and I rushed to blurt it out.
“Use me, Father. Please. Punish me in his place.”
Father’s eyebrows leapt, then furrowed. “What good would that do?”
“Um, well…”
Father’s eyes searched mine as he contemplated my request. “The Vessel taking a sinner’s penance would be seen as divine mercy.”
“Yes, please, Father,” I pleaded, willing to agree with anything if it meant saving Silas from being whipped.
He took another moment to examine my face, then said, “Very well.”
I sighed in relief.
“This is a glorious day!” Father announced, turning to face the congregation with his arms spread wide, his voice ringing through the chapel. “For the Light is merciful. Though Brother Silas has failed again and again to rise above his base urges, the Light has granted him reprieve.”
Silas jerked his head up at that, confused and hopeful all at once.
Father continued, “The Vessel”—he gestured to me with a sweeping, reverent motion—“will take Silas’s punishment for him.”
The shift in the room was immediate. A shockwave of hushed disbelief rolled through the pews. Mothers clutched their children a little closer. Men straightened in their seats. Some people began to cry.
I made eye contact with Jace, momentarily forgetting about what he may or may not have done. I was searching for comfort, but Jace’s normally calm eyes were wild, so much so that I flinched and averted my gaze.
I squeezed my hands against the arms of the Seat, trying not to let the trembling show.
Silas’s face crumpled.
“N-no,” he whispered, the word barely leaving his lips before it cracked. “No, please—no.” His voice rose in panic as Brother James and Brother Paul loosened their grip on his arms, unsure if they should release him or restrain him more tightly.
Silas surged upward, twisting out of their hold with surprising strength. “Father, please—I can take it. I can. I deserve it. Please don’t let the Vessel—don’t let him—”
“Silas,” Father said sharply, with the cold authority that always silenced a room. “Remain still.”
But Silas didn’t. His devotion to me—painful and loyal and heartbreaking—overrode everything else. He stumbled up the dais steps, reaching for the hem of my robe, like touching me might anchor him.
“Please,” he gasped, his voice thick with terror and guilt. “Please don’t do this for me. I can’t—You shouldn’t suffer because of me.”
My stomach twisted painfully. Silas’s fingers brushed the fabric near my ankle before Brother Paul yanked him back, pinning his arms once more.
Tears streaked down Silas’s face as he fought them. “Father, please! Let me take it. Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him because of me. I’ll do better—I promise, I’ll—”
“It is not your place to question the will of the Light,” Father thundered. “May this moment weigh on your mind for eternity. Watch, and remember the pain you have caused. Perhaps it will finally snuff out your sinful urges.”
Silas sagged between the men holding him, trembling violently, still struggling but weaker now—emotionally shattered.
He was willing to be whipped rather than let me be harmed.
He believed in me that deeply.
And yet Father didn’t even look at him anymore. His eyes were on the congregation—hungry for their awe, their submission, their adoration.
“The Light’s Vessel,” Father proclaimed, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder, “takes on the sins of others so that their spirits may remain pure. This is not cruelty—it is salvation.”
The crowd murmured in reverent awe.
Silas choked on a sob.
And I—for all my numbness, for all my dread—did not feel saved at all as Father helped me down from the Seat, and led me to where he wanted me to kneel.
Father and the men who were going to hold me in place debated amongst themselves on which way I should face.
Should I face the congregation so that my tears and pain become burned into their heads?
Or should I face away, so that I remain the calm figure they’ve always seen me as?
Ultimately, the decision was made, and I was to face away from the people. Brother James had pointed out that my cries would be enough to serve as a punishment; that way, they wouldn’t see my messy face. Father had agreed, and so I knelt and held my arms out for them to take hold of.
I wasn’t sure which way I would’ve preferred, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t my decision to make. I longed to be able to see Jace, so that I knew I wasn’t all alone. I wished I’d held his gaze longer.
I whispered a prayer to myself, “Blessed Light, I am your Vessel and your humble servant. Thank you for allowing me this act of mercy. Thank you for sparing our Brother Silas from this pain. Do as you will with my body. Help to keep me strong. Blessed be. Amen.”