Chapter 16 Elior
Elior
The stone in my pocket was smooth and cool to the touch as I rubbed it between my thumb and pointer finger.
“The State calls witness Elior Ransom to the stand.”
My stomach dipped, but I stood anyway. Each step felt like I was fighting against a current. Still, I kept my head raised and shoulders back as I walked to where I was supposed to sit—right next to the judge.
I laid my hand on the bible they gave me and swore to tell nothing but the truth, then sat down on the wooden chair.
The tall, composed woman, whom I was told was the U.S. Attorney for the District of Nebraska, stood, approaching the judge and me.
I knew she was technically on my side, but that didn’t stop her from seeming intimidating. She was dressed impeccably, her blonde hair pulled neatly into a bun. There was this air about her, like it would be obvious to anyone that she was someone you listened to.
“Good morning, Mr. Ransom,” she said, voice even, unhurried.
“Good morning,” I replied. My voice didn’t shake. That felt like a small victory.
She took a few steps closer to the lectern, hands resting lightly against its edge. “Before we begin, I want to check in with you. Are you comfortable where you’re sitting?”
I blinked, surprised. That wasn’t in the script.
“Yes,” I said after a beat. “As comfortable as I can be.”
A corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly. “That’s fair. If at any point you need a moment, you may ask for one. Understood?”
I nodded.
She continued, “Could you please state your full name for the record?”
I inhaled through my nose, slow and careful. “My name is Elior Ransom.”
“And how old are you?”
“I’m 19.”
“Can you please state where you lived from birth to a few months ago?”
I stared at the edge of the witness box, tracing the grain of the wood with my eyes. “I lived in a secluded community in rural Kansas.”
She nodded. “Yes, and can you share the name of that community?”
“The Covenant of Eternal Light.”
“Is it true that you are the biological son of the leader of that community, Malachi Ransom?”
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. Not yet, at least.
“Yes,” I said softly.
“Thank you, Mr. Ransom. Now, would it be accurate to say that the Covenant of Eternal Light was a religious group? Did the community have religious affiliations?”
I took a breath. “Yes, ma’am. We followed the will of the Light through God.”
“Can you please expound on that, Mr. Ransom?”
I swallowed. My throat felt tight, but not closed.
“We believed that the Father is the Voice, the rightful interpreter of God’s divine will.
I… I was called the Vessel of Light. Father preached that as a young boy, he received a vision from God, and God told him that he would father the Light-Born Son, who would lead only the loyalest and purest of followers into the New Kingdom on the Day of Burning. ”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. The judge called for order. I stayed still.
The attorney continued, her heels clicking as she paced the floor. “Can you explain what it meant to be this Vessel of Light? What responsibilities did you have?”
“I had several duties, but my main responsibility was to listen and share the burdens of the congregation. And it was important for me to stay pure. I was supposed to be an example of how our followers should strive to be.”
“What did ‘staying pure’ mean for you?” she asked.
I closed my eyes for a second, rubbing my touchstone furiously. I could do this.
“Being untouched. Keeping the mind clean of any dirty thoughts. Being obedient and quiet.”
The words sounded rehearsed even to my own ears, like something I’d been taught to recite instead of explain.
“When you say ‘untouched,’” the attorney said carefully, “what did that mean in practice, Mr. Ransom?”
My fingers tightened around the stone.
“It meant I wasn’t allowed to touch others, and they weren’t allowed to touch me,” I explained.
“I… We weren’t allowed to touch ourselves either—l-like in a sexual way—or even think about it.
Father… Father sometimes would put his hand on my shoulder or pat my head, but that was very rare. It was sinful to want affection.”
“If you or one of the other community members broke these rules, what would happen?”
“There were consequences,” I said. “Um… Like kneeling in rice, fasting, extra chores, and—and physical correction. But the physical things weren’t until this year.”
“Can you describe to the jury what you mean by ‘physical correction?’”
I held in a whimper, instead taking a deep breath and finding Jace in the crowd of people filling the courtroom.
“It happened twice to me. The first time, Father declared that he needed to whip one of the boys because he’d been struggling with lust. Even though the boy hadn’t touched himself, Father was angry because he’d thought about it.
I didn’t… He’d never whipped anyone before.
I couldn’t let it happen to Silas—I just couldn’t.
So I volunteered. Father let me take the punishment because he thought it would hurt the congregation to see something like that happen to me.
I was… held down by two men while Father whipped me.
I passed out from the pain and woke up in my room.
The second time was the day the FBI came.
He was caning me. I don’t remember much about it; my therapist says I’ve blocked some of it out. ”
A ripple moved through the jury. Someone shifted in their seat. I kept my eyes forward.
The attorney didn’t speak right away.
She walked back toward the prosecution table, picked up a small remote, and turned to face the judge.
“Your Honor,” she said calmly, “the State would like to introduce photographic evidence documenting injuries sustained by the witness as a result of the abuse he just described.”
My stomach tightened.
The judge nodded. “Proceed.”
I heard a soft click.
The screen behind her lit up.
At first, my brain refused to make sense of what I was seeing. The image was too close, too detailed—skin filling the frame, pale and bruised, crisscrossed with dark, angry lines. Red had faded to purple and yellow in places. Some marks overlapped others, layered.
I stared.
That’s… a back, I thought distantly.
Then recognition hit, slow and nauseating.
That was my back.
My breath stuttered.
I hadn’t known pictures were taken.
The courtroom seemed to tilt, like the floor had shifted a fraction to the left.
“Mr. Ransom,” the attorney said gently, “do you recognize what is shown in this photograph?”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The stone in my pocket felt suddenly too small.
“Y-yes,” I managed. “That’s… that’s my back.”
“Do you know when this photograph was taken?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I-I didn’t know it existed.”
There was a murmur—quieter this time, restrained, disturbed.
“For clarity, this photograph was taken within twenty-four hours of the incident the witness described as the first whipping. Mr. Ransom, does this image fairly and accurately represent the injuries you sustained?”
I looked again.
I’d never seen it from the outside before. From my perspective, it had been fire and white noise and hands gripping my arms too tightly.
“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded far away, but it held.
Another click.
A second image appeared. A different angle. Lower on my back. The marks were deeper there, more concentrated.
My chest ached—not with panic, but with something colder. Grief, maybe. Or shock.
“This next set of images is from what Mr. Ransom described as the second incident—the caning. Pictures were taken in the ambulance and hospital, directly following the FBI raid of the compound.”
The screen changed, showcasing several images of my wounds. I reached up to lightly touch my cheek as I looked at the picture of a bloody gash on it. Other photos showed the wounds on my arms and hands.
I heard a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the gallery.
“Mr. Ransom, do these photos accurately represent the injuries sustained from the second incident?”
I nodded, then remembered I had to speak. “Yes,” I said, my voice shaky.
“And who inflicted these injuries on you? Please state the perpetrator’s name for the record, as well as point to him.”
I hesitated, just for a moment, then raised my arm, making brief eye contact with Father as I pointed to him. “Malachi Ransom.”
The attorney nodded once, then glanced at the judge. “Your Honor, the State requests that the images remain displayed briefly for the jury.”
The judge agreed.
I sat there while they continued to look at the photos of my broken body.
I didn’t curl in on myself. I didn’t drop my head. I stayed upright, shoulders back, hands visible. Just like we’d practiced.
Somewhere in the room, I felt Jace—not his hands, not his voice, just his presence, steady and unyielding, like a wall at my back.
I focused on that.
The images disappeared.
The screen went dark again.
The attorney turned back to me. Her expression hadn’t changed, but there was something firmer in her eyes now.
“Thank you, Elior,” she said. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
I nodded once.
It wasn’t.
But I was still here.
* * *
I wasn’t sure exactly how long the lady attorney had questioned me.
It felt like forever. She asked about all sorts of things—the Inner Circle, the bodies, of course, though I had to tell her that I hadn’t known about them.
I felt stupid that I hadn’t. I didn’t understand how I could have missed something like that.
She asked about money and food and our school. She asked about the chores and living arrangements.
So many things.
It took so long that the judge called a recess for the day, which I was both thankful for and unhappy about. I was grateful for a break, but I had also hoped to finish it all in one day.
Today, I had this super solid squeeze cube. It took a lot of pressure, and I liked it because I could squeeze it as hard as I wanted to.