CRIMSON RED CLOUDS BLANKETED THE sky in a thick haze. The Chapel of the Dead Moon was a spectacle as a red light illuminated an outline around the tallest spire. Abel could feel it pulling against him like the tide, a strong and imposing Dead Moon. Soon, it would rise, and soon he would see its haunting red face reflecting through the rose window as he knelt over an altar.

The crowd of priests dragged Abel through the city. He passed through crowds of people who watched him like an animal, a monster, a spectacle. And, he supposed, he was. Scrutiny and awe followed him like hounds searching for a hunt, eyes boring into him with the hunger of wolves who'd found a lost sheep.

None of these wolves would have their kill, of course. There was a wolf greater than them all, a being more sinister than they understand it to be. The hungry jaws of the Chapel opened up in ravenous anticipation, and it would not be denied its satisfaction.

Overhead, the blood-red overcast faded, giving way to an expanse of stars. Abel stopped in his tracks to admire it, but the adamant priests did not allow him the mercy of his fascination.

He dug in his heels against their vicious tugging.

"I have seen the stars all of once in my life and I will not see them again if I'm to die," Abel growled. "Allow me a moment."

To his surprise, the priests obliged. They gave him just under a minute to admire the galaxies glittering above his head. They were still touched by red from the moonlight shining against the pollution in the air, but it was fascinating to see it nonetheless. The sky was so high up, it was difficult to fathom.

"That's enough," one priest said, and Abel was shoved forward once again.

Before him, the steps of the Chapel came into view. The sounds of his feet echoed with the rattling of his chains, moving in half-time to the thundering of blood pulsing in his skull. Abel took the time to appreciate his blood. For if he could not escape this, he would have none left by the time the moon was at its peak in the sky.

This was the kind of thinking he couldn't afford. There was still time to stop this, to free the city of their imprisonment. And yet, Abel wanted to be prepared for the worst. He wanted to be grateful for what beauties he could before it was all stripped from him.

A long creak resonated through the night as the heavy Chapel doors were pushed open. Beyond the threshold, priests and clergymen awaited his arrival with an array of temperaments. Stern, solid expressions met tearful attempts at stifling their weeping. Hollow eyes mixed among a crowd of wet, sorrowful gazes and glistening expressions of veneration and wonderment.

And all of them were on Abel. Just as he hoped they would be.

"Your angel has been desecrated by a devil's lust!" he exclaimed as the priests pushed him through the door.

Their grip on him tightened, but so far, none reacted to his outburst.

"You, Father," he went on, looking into the eyes of a familiar bishop. "Are you aware of how much blood is on my hands? Do you know how many hands it would take to count how many I've killed on your fingers?"

The bishop's mouth opened with a stammer. "I-Well-"

"I have lost count, Father. But it is more hands than you've got. And tonight, that number will grow."

The priests yanked him away from the bishop. They led him past the awestruck group waiting to witness his glory, and he sneered at them.

"It was on the very altar of this chapel that a demon entered me and took my purity," Abel called to them. "Were your senses scorched by a foul scent when you attended your worship three weeks ago?"

Horror dawned over the faces of the crowd as they processed his words.

"Abel, silence," Malachi hissed.

"I will not be silent, Father. The people deserve to know that their angel takes great pleasure in blasphemy. They deserve to know that their holy sacrifice will be for naught, because I let that demon do things to me that none of you could ever conceive of."

Malachi stopped in his tracks, turning to face Abel. Abel met him with a smirk.

"I command you to be silent, young man. You are disgracing the house of the Lord."

"I already have! When the demon Jericho took me to that very chapel and fucked the ever-loving soul out of me. It was divine, Father Malachi. I have never felt so heavenly than I did when I had his cock so far up my-"

A loud crack sounded through the foyer as the back of Malachi's hand drove into Abel's cheek. His lip split on impact. The force of it shot piercing agony through the sensitive eyes embedded into his face.

"That is enough, Abel."

"It is merely a confession, Father," Abel whispered. His attempts at smug confidence wavered with his voice. "If I am to die, should I not own up to my sins?"

Father Malachi spat out his words as though they tasted of rot on his tongue. "It's too late now. You will give your life on that altar tonight, even if it is to rid the city of another worthless demon."

Droplets of saliva hit Abel's face and burned like venom with their fury. Malachi's words sunk into his golden skin, piercing his heart with an acidic burn. It shredded him to ribbons from the inside, welling Abel's eyes with hot rivers of tears.

"You wish me dead, even if I wasn't the sacrifice," Abel whimpered. "After everything you've done, was none of it real?"

"It was real, Abel. You were my son. You were my pride and joy. But then you..." Malachi cut himself off as a tremor slipped its way into his voice. "We will not discuss this matter here. You are late to be dressed." Malachi said nothing more and turned away from Abel.

The priests shoved him onward, but Abel remained in place. He tugged at his restraints, crying out in agony as the shackles pierced his skin. "No. Face me, Father. If you are so noble, you will tell me what you wish to say where the city can hear."

He didn't have to see Malachi's face to know what expression he was making. Lips pressed into a line, brows knit into a sharp scowl, eyes cold and capable of no feeling other than icy rage. As he turned in an achingly slow pivot, Malachi revealed Abel's suspicions to be correct.

"You were my son, Abel. But I have chosen God, as I always will, and I will stand by this until the day that I die."

"Damn you!" Abel howled. Blood sprayed from his wrists as he wrestled with the chains, staining the priests' white robes. "God damn you! God damn this city! Damn it all to Hell, I pray that it falls with m-"

Malachi grabbed a fistful of his long hair and tugged it with enough force to pull a few strands from his scalp. "I told you to be quiet."

His wiry hand raised up and clutched around Abel's throat. He squeezed so hard that his knees buckled, and Malachi pushed him completely to the floor. From this position, Abel was shorter than everyone in the room. The white-clad formed a wall around him, closing off the crowds from view.

From his pocket, Malachi pulled out something small and golden. Abel thought it was a coin, much to his confusion, until Malachi wrenched his jaw open. He stuffed the disc down the passage of his throat with two thick fingers, lodging it right where it hurt. Abel felt the hum of holy power radiating from the object, burning the inside of his throat. His first reaction was to gag, but any movement of those muscles was torture.

"You will not speak again," Malachi hissed as he removed his fingers from his throat, "until you are given the mercy of your last words. Do you understand?"

All Abel could give in reply was a pathetic whimper.

From his place on his knees, Abel had to look up at Father Malachi, as he'd done his whole life. He knew the sharp point of his nose from how he'd turned it up at him so many times. He knew every wrinkle in his skin from every time that Malachi commanded he look him in the eye, and the most Abel could do was study the rest of his face. From his place on his knees, a dark corner of Abel's mind refused to let him disobey Father Malachi.

Even with his power, even knowing that he had nothing left to lose, Abel's mind still shut down with fear. It prohibited any protest, it denied him the pleasure of hatred. He was a terrified little boy again, who jumped when he heard footsteps coming his way. Who never spoke too loud lest Father Malachi came to meet him with a threat. Who was afraid to ask for anything he needed, because Malachi never hesitated to hold his kindness above Abel's head.

He wondered for a brief moment who had raised Malachi. The Father never spoke of his family or upbringing, but judging by his strict avoidance of the subject, it must not have been a pleasant experience.

Abel wished he knew about his father. He wished he could use it against him.

"We're done here," Malachi growled. He stood up straight, hands clasping behind his back. Even as he turned away, Abel didn't dare avert his gaze until he was made to.

By now, he was debilitated enough for the priests to pull him to his feet. They pushed him out of the foyer and around a corner, away from the crowds. At the end of the corridor, thick darkness obscured a door. Abel had only been through that door once, and it haunted his dreams for twelve years.

An angel draped over the altar in his dreams, throat open and gushing with an endless stream of blood. Some nights, the room filled with a sea of red, and Abel would wake up choking on his own spit. Other nights, the angel's face would shift into his own, and he'd wake up in a pool of sweat that felt all too similar to something else, something redder.

The priests did not take him there yet. Instead, they took him to an adjacent room where a handful of female priests were waiting. Abel was passed off to them, and for a moment he was free of Malachi's influence. He could breathe, even if his relief was short-lived.

All Abel could do was cry as the priests cleaned his wounds and dressed him in fresh white robes. One tied his hair into an elaborate style, held together with golden pins and tucked away from his face. Others covered him in elegant golden jewelry, accentuating the armor that was a part of his angelic form.

There was a mirror in the room. He dared to look into it, expecting to see something hideous staring back at him. Such was not the case. In truth, he looked breathtaking, more beautiful than he'd ever seen himself in his life. His tears somehow made him prettier. Angels were always portrayed to be pretty criers. Maybe they were meant to cry.

If only Jericho could see me now.

If not for Malachi's spell silencing him, Abel would've sobbed at the thought of him. Of Jericho, who he should be with now. They should've been together, burning this whole place to the ground under the light of the full moon.

I tried to fight, Jericho. I tried.

"You are beautiful, Saint Abel," one priest said. The familiar voice took him off guard, and he glanced away from the mirror. Under the veil, he saw strands of black hair and a sharp nose sticking out from a bandaged face.

Sister Naomi.

Abel wished he could speak to her. The most he could do was part his lips and mouth a gentle thank you, and pray she understood the look in his eyes. Among the many who wanted him dead, who were comforted by the notion of his slaughter, Naomi was one of the few on his side. She did what she could to help him, and now all she could do was try to bring him some semblance of comfort.

If this whole city were to die with him, he hoped hers was a brief and painless death, accompanied only by thoughts that brought her peace.

Once he was dressed and ready for slaughter, Naomi opened the door. Abel was fed back into the hands of his original captors, back into Malachi's clutches, and that sense of dread finally settled in.

This was it. This was how it ended.

This was how he failed.

Malachi led them to the tall, imposing doors of the arena. Abel's bones turned to ice as they creaked open.

Every seat was filled. Hundreds of eyes landed on Abel as the priests pushed him into the room, following him to the altar. Three High Priests stood around it, faces obscured by haunting masks. His eye was drawn to a sword sheathed against one's hip. Abel gulped.

Abel was too petrified by fear to fight as he was shoved to his knees before the crowd. The red light of the moon shone through the rose window, casting shadows of the elaborate metalwork which framed the glass. As a boy, when Malachi brought him to witness the last sacrifice, he had not noticed how the deep lines carved into the floor lined up exactly with the window's shadows.

As they did when he said his nightly prayers all those months ago, Abel's knees ached. They would ache until his final moments

The arena echoed with the voice of a High Priest announcing his presence. He went on to deliver a speech, a passionate devotion to the God who so hungrily sought Abel's life.

"God has so generously granted our holy sacrifice with the mercy of final words," the High Priest bellowed after his speech had come to a close. "Saint Abel, you are free to speak."

At that moment, the spell in his throat dissolved. It left a bitter taste on his tongue in its wake, but it was not so bitter as this. As kneeling at the altar, awaiting death, facing a failure that could end in disaster greater than any he'd ever known.

And nothing was as bitter as his longing.

Abel's eyes scanned the room. Every citizen wept, as they did all those years ago when Abel was among them.

How cruel of them, to revere him, and then to mourn him. How cruel of them to weep when none of their grief came close to the anguish which poisoned his heart, burning it into sizzling nothingness and lapping up the fumes with its razor-sharp tongue.

How cruel of him, to cry when Jericho would never feel peace again.

Promise me you'll fight.

It was his voice in his head, loud and clear and taunting Abel. A sob wracked his body now that it was free to.

Abel. Promise me. Please.

His voice was louder this time, as though he was standing behind Abel. It was not loud enough to prompt him to look behind him, but it was enough to send a bolt of lightning into his gut.

Abel. Fight. Promise me.

He felt a hand reaching for him, and Abel reached back. Jericho's grinning face was as clear as day in his mind, swelling his heart with hope.

Abel opened his mouth to deliver his last words, which came out in howling, desperate sobs. A desperation which caused his wings to stretch out twice their size and granted him a halo which illuminated the dimly lit arena in white light. A desperation stronger than the will of the universe.

"I promise. I promise. I promise."

The ground quaked, and Abel smiled.