Chapter 17 Elior #2
As I walked, I passed the small kitchen where he brewed his teas and made fresh lemonade, the sitting room where he sometimes met with elders or prospects, and the hallway lined with old photographs of us throughout the years. All of it was familiar, but instead of comforting, it felt ominous.
“Father?” I tried again, quieter this time.
“In here,” he replied.
His “office”—that’s what he called it—was really just a small sitting room at the very back of the house. It was a simple space with two chairs, a round side table, and a single lamp. It was where he offered private counseling to the congregation.
I hesitated at the threshold.
Father sat in the chair nearest the window, hands folded loosely in his lap. His expression was indescribable, but somehow, it gave me the feeling like he’d been waiting for me—preparing himself for something.
For what?
I stepped inside.
His gaze swept over me as I entered, making my skin prickle. I moved toward the empty chair automatically, because that was what I always did. That was the routine.
Sit. Listen. Learn. Obey.
But just as I began to lower myself into the seat, Father’s voice cut through the air. “Do not sit.”
I froze, halfway down, then straightened again, my hands clasping in front of me. “I-I’m sorry, Father.”
“No.” He lifted a hand gently, though the gesture didn’t soften the command behind it. “You will stand until I instruct otherwise.”
My throat tightened. I nodded once and stayed where I was.
Father leaned back in his chair, studying me with that same penetrating gaze he’d been using lately.
The lamp beside him was off, leaving the room lit only by the soft, slanted afternoon sun spilling in through the window.
It cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the hollows under his eyes and the tension pinching the corners of his mouth.
He looked so tired.
Was he okay?
“Elior,” he began slowly. “Do you know why I called you here?”
My pulse leapt, but I kept my voice steady as I responded, “No, Father.”
He hummed, a quiet, disappointed sound. “You have always been an honest boy. A faithful boy.”
“I try to be,” I whispered.
“But you’ve been… distracted as of late.”
The word cinched tightly around my lungs.
“I—Father, I’ve been doing my best—”
“Do not lie to me.” It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t harsh. But it still struck like a whip anyway.
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
Father rose from his chair slowly. He then stepped closer, each measured footfall turning the air heavier.
I lowered my gaze. His presence seemed to loom over me, even though he wasn’t that much taller than I was.
“You have been distant,” he said, voice low. “Withdrawn. You have avoided my eyes, my counsel. Your prayers have lacked purity. Your devotion… has wavered.”
“No, I—I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words trembling. “I didn’t mean to—”
“And worst of all,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, “you have been hiding something from me.”
My heart hammered so hard it hurt. “F-Father, I…” My tongue stumbled, desperate to appease him. “I haven’t—”
“You smell of sin.”
My breath caught.
Father stepped back only enough to look at me fully, his expression darkening into something almost sorrowful—mournful even. “My son… I have given you every chance to prove yourself faithful. And you have chosen deception instead.”
A cold ripple rolled through me. “No,” I said weakly. “No, I swear—I would never—”
His hand lifted. Not touching me, but hovering inches from my cheek, the way he did sometimes when he wanted me to feel his disappointment. His authority. I flinched but held still.
“You will be punished,” he said tenderly.
My knees threatened to buckle.
“For your sake,” he added, “and for the purity of this community, this cannot go unanswered.”
Terror surged up my throat. “Father, please—”
He turned away, moving toward the shelf where he kept different prayer implements—candles, oils, cords, a small bowl of blessed salt.
“Silence,” he hissed. “You will speak only when I permit it.”
As he reached for the drawer beneath the shelf—the one I’d peeked in only once, when I was younger and my childish curiosity had gotten the best of me—I felt the room close in around me. Felt the walls tighten. Felt the air shift with inevitability.
“Remove your shoes,” Father said gently, focused on the drawer’s contents.
My fingers trembled as I slipped out of my sandals and stepped onto the wooden floor.
His smile was thin as he turned back towards me. “We must ensure your spirit is clean. You understand, don’t you, my son?”
I gave him a short, trembling nod.
“Kneel.”
I lowered myself to the floor, trying to breathe evenly.
“Your heart is divided,” he murmured. “Something is pulling you away.”
My breath hitched. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
He hummed, almost pleased. “Do not lie. You were always a poor liar, Elior.” He stepped behind me, hands settling heavily on my shoulders. “A divided heart is a dangerous thing. It invites corruption. Temptation.”
I felt the pressure of his thumbs digging into the tendons of my shoulders—not painful at first, but becoming so when he tightened his grip into one of steel.
“I haven’t—”
His hands clamped down hard, and I gasped.
“You forget I raised you,” he whispered near my ear. “I see every shift in your spirit. Every quiver of doubt. Every sin blooming beneath your skin.”
A tremor ran through me, and the pressure on my shoulders increased sharply, fingers digging into muscle hard enough to make me wince.
“Your silence speaks louder than confession.”
“Father… please… that hurts—”
“Pain reveals truth.” His voice was feather-light, almost tender. “You know this.”
He released me only to step around and stand directly before me, looking down with that bright, feverish intensity I’d grown to dread.
“Place your hands out.”
My stomach dropped, but still, I obeyed.
He turned his back to me and walked back to the drawer, pulling something out. When he turned to face me again, I saw it.
A thin rattan cane.
“Father—” My voice cracked. “I haven’t done anything, please!”
“I will decide what you have done.”
The rod tapped softly against my palms.
“Tell me what burdens your soul,” he said. “Tell me what has taken your focus from your duties… from your Father.”
I kept my head bowed. My breath shook. “I’ve just been tired,” I whispered. “I promise, Fa—”
The first strike came without warning, not even waiting to hear me out. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but still sharp enough that I yelped and flinched.
The second came faster.
“Try again,” he said calmly. “What distracts you?”
“I-I’m not—”
Strike.
“I don’t—”
Strike.
My hands trembled, each hit to my palms and fingers sending a sting up my arms, hot and humiliating. My eyes watered, and I tried to blink it back.
“Confess, Elior. I will guide you. I always guide you.”
Another strike landed, harder.
A pained sound escaped me.
Father leaned in, so close his breath touched my cheek. “Who is pulling you away from me?”
My entire body seized. The room tilted slightly.
He knew.
“Or,” Father whispered, tapping the cane lightly under my chin, lifting my head just enough to meet his gaze, “must I find the poison myself?”
My pulse roared in my ears. I could feel the walls closing in—the pain, the fear, his voice dripping with honeyed cruelty. He was circling, pressing closer, stripping away escape routes one by one.
And the storm I’d felt brewing for days finally cracked overhead.
I didn’t know how long I could survive his questions… or how long I could protect Jace.
Father didn’t give me time to gather myself.
The rod tapped once more beneath my chin, guiding my gaze upward, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“You are hiding something,” he said softly. “Someone. I can feel it in you like a stain. Filthy. Rotten.”
My arms shook. “Father, please—I haven’t—”
He cut the air with the cane.
The strike landed across my palms with a crack that echoed off the walls. Pain surged up my arms. My fingers curled reflexively, but Father snapped, “Hands open!”
I forced them flat again.
“Lie again,” he murmured. “And the next one will be for your back.”
A cold shudder ran through me—not just from fear, but from memory.
The whipping.
The days of raw, burning skin.
Jace’s hands gently cleaning the wounds afterward.
I couldn’t survive another.
But Father wasn’t done.
He paced slowly around me, the bottom of his robe whispering across the floor.
“Something has changed you, corrupted you,” he mused. “You look happy,” he spat the last word as though it offended him. “Your purity has been compromised.”
“No,” I whispered, throat tight. “It’s not—”
He struck again.
Harder.
I choked on a small cry, my hands quivering violently, tears blurring my vision.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
I tried. My head swam as I lifted my eyes to his.
He crouched in front of me, lowering himself until we were eye level. Then, his voice went soft—dangerously soft. “Tell me who is corrupting you.”
“I’m not—no one is—Father, you’re wrong—” My breath stuttered. “You’re wrong.”
He stared at me with a slow, spreading smile—one that split his face like a crack in glass.
“Oh,” he whispered. “My son, I am never wrong.”
He touched my cheek with his fingertips, the gentleness making my stomach twist more than the blows had.
“You truly think I cannot see the shadows growing in you? The distraction. The longing.” His thumb brushed beneath my eye. “You think I do not know the look of someone who has tasted forbidden comfort?”
My blood turned to ice.
He knew, knew.
Maybe not everything, but enough.
“You are mine,” he yelled. “My Vessel. My offering to the Light. No one touches what is sacred. No one touches what is mine!”
I swallowed a sob. “Father,” I cried, “I’m still yours—”
He grabbed my jaw so suddenly and harshly that my teeth clicked together. “Confess,” he said. “Now.”
My thoughts tangled desperately. I couldn’t confess. I just couldn’t. If he found out it was Jace—he would kill him.
I looked into my father’s eyes, pleading, but his grip only tightened.
“You think you can hide your sin from me? I made you. If you have given yourself, I will know it. If someone has touched you, I will carve their name from your throat if I must.”
Cold panic roared up my spine. “Father, please—please don’t—”
He released my jaw only to stand abruptly, stepping behind me again. “I offered mercy,” he said. “But if gentleness will not pull truth from you…”
“No,” I whispered. “Father, please, I—”
“You will kneel upright,” he said quietly. “And you will keep your arms up at your sides. If they lower, I will strike you again.”
My body shook as I obeyed.
“And Elior?”
“Y-yes—” My voice cracked.
“If you lie even once more… I will bleed the sin from your body myself.”
Strike.
It didn’t land on my back. Not yet.
It snapped across my upper arm, making me yell out from pain.
“Who is leading you astray?” Father asked.
“I-I’m not—”
The second strike came instantly, lashing the other arm, tearing the skin there.
I sobbed.
“Again,” he said. “Truth.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My arms trembled violently from both the pain and the effort of keeping them lifted.
“There is—no one,” I shouted, voice breaking. “Father, there’s—there’s no one.”
The third strike caused a pain so intense that my whole body jerked.
My breath came in gasps. My thoughts began blurring at the edges. The pain wasn’t the worst part—the worst part was knowing he would keep going.
Knowing he would not stop until I broke or gave him something.
And I couldn’t give him anything.
Father leaned close behind me, his breath like cold steam against my neck. “You are trying to run from me,” he murmured. “But I will not let you go.”
“I’m not—I’m not running, Father,” I begged. “I would never!”
He raised the cane again.
“Last chance, Elior.”
“P-p-please—”
The cane struck across my cheek, narrowly avoiding my eyes. The pain and shock brought up acid from my stomach, and I gagged, spitting it out on the floor beside me. I couldn’t tell if my face was bleeding. Everything felt numb.
Distantly, I heard a door opening, then the pounding of urgent footsteps. Father raised the cane, about to strike again, when the door to his office slammed open.
Father’s hand froze mid-air.
I collapsed onto the floor.
“Father! Something’s happening—you need to come. Now,” the man, maybe Brother Paul—I couldn’t tell with my ears ringing and my eyes closed—shouted in panic.
“What? What are you talking about?” Father hissed, the aggravation clear in his voice.
Whoever it was ignored my presence. I curled into the floor, ignoring the intense stinging in the arm pressed to the ground. I hugged myself.
“I think it’s the police—”
“What?!” Father roared, rushing out of the room with the man on his heels. I listened as the boom, boom, boom of their footsteps landing on the hardwood got fainter, stopping only as they left out the front door.