The Sacrifice

Note: Image is from Ironage.media for their June 2023 weekly writing prompt "The Prophecy"

Demi stood naked in the center of the temple pool. 

The sun was quickly falling, and she would soon flee with it into darkness. When the sunlight that poured through the doors reached the altar on the eastern wall, a footlong dagger would pierce her anxious heart. 

She had been at the mercy of the temple priests since she was a girl, just like her sisters. A sin Mother Melia was well aware of. She had walked in once, when Brother Jason was in the middle of it, and all she did was simply cast a fleeting glance at him with those eyes of hers, as if to say, Hurry up already. Those eyes which stripped away whatever garments of autonomy Demi had left. Those eyes that never seemed to age like the wrinkled face they were set in. They were like a dark figure at night, which one crossed the street to avoid. 

 Warm water lapped against her body as her fellow priestesses scrubbed her with olive oil, which carried the fragrance of red roses. Her wet, dusky skin gleamed in the warm light, and her blue eyes were like ice. Her heart pounded, and her breasts quivered with each frantic beat, but her face bore the hard countenance of the well carved stones that rose up around her. 

Memories slowly washed off of her in that pool, left there to die knowing they couldn’t follow her where she was going.

She looked around the temple at the colonnades, at the floor and walls that had been laboriously built with carved stones, the mosaic on the pool floor, the effigies of the gods that were chiseled out of the walls and columns, and she felt like a part of the temple. An idol. Another monument. Nothing more than an artisan's contribution to the gods. The priestesses brought her out of the bath and draped a white gown of newly woven wool over her. The soft fabric clung to her curves, and if she stood still long enough, one might have mistaken her for an effigy. 

Mother Melia, the bent and wrinkled matriarch of the faith, covered from head to ankle in a white robe, stepped up to Demi with that fluid grace of hers and began muttering prayers of dedication. 

Demi found herself wordlessly mouthing along. The prayers were familiar, she had heard them many times before, and they always filled with her a juxtaposed sense of dread and jealousy when they were uttered. They marked not only the end of the priestess's life, but also an escape from it as well. Mother Melia went on, and Demi began to sway and slip into a trance as the prayers harmonized with the low hymns being sung by the priests near the altar.

When Mother Melia finished, she smiled and looked into Demi’s eyes. 

“Child,” Mother Melia said. Demi was drowning in Mother Melia’s bright, brown eyes. They did not match her smile; they were filled with malevolent power.  “Are you ready?”

The question was hard to grasp, as if it was bouncing around her mind. Demi knew the answer Mother Melia wanted. It was the answer she wanted to give, but something had shifted inside her when she heard the question, and her certainty wavered. She felt like a deer who had caught the scent of wolves on the wind. 

Her heart beat against her chest harder now, knocking back the haze of her trance. She didn’t dare look behind her while Mother Melia held her in that gaze, but she could almost feel the air shift as her sisters collectively held their breath. If she faltered, they would kill her as a heretic, a fate far worse and much slower than being sacrificed. 

“Yes, Mother Melia,” Demi said. 

She forced her voice to remain steady, but she feared her self-control would not last much longer. Truly, deep in her heart she believed that this was what she wanted, that it was the only way out. But now as she stood on the precipice of escape, something in her had broken, and something else had been set free. She worried she couldn’t control it.

“Bless you, child,” Mother Melia raised her voice, and it echoed off the carved stone walls. It seemed to vibrate from the effigies of the pantheon, as if the gods themselves were speaking. “You will join those who have gone before you. Those who have glorified our blessed divine with their perfect piety and faith.” 

Demi’s legs began to shake, but no one noticed under the billowing fabric. 

“Let us delay your sanctification no longer,” Mother Melia said, walking ahead of Demi.

A procession of priestesses walked behind Demi, marching meekly towards the altar. Her feet felt like temple stones. 

As they neared that wedge of sunlight that whittled down the seconds of her life, Mother Melia stepped into it and then right faced straight for the altar.

Demi looked at the sunlit entrance. It was empty. And suddenly her feet felt light, as if she was a gazelle ready to bound away with its life. 

She was almost to the point where she would need to turn and follow Mother Melia. Her sisters were at least ten paces behind her. She looked at Mother Melia, who permeated authority and confidence even from behind. The priests had their eyes closed as that dolorous vibration droned out of their throats. 

Her heart thundered in her ears and a breeze that smelled of blossoms blew through those open doors.

Gasps echoed in the temple, and Mother Melia turned around in time to catch a streak of white wool vanish with a flash into the flood of sunlight. Horns blew and the priests shouted for soldiers. The priestesses called after Demi, crying and screeching. 

Mother Melia stood quietly. The chaos passed her by like a stream around a stone. She simply looked after Demi, with a smile on her face and eyes that shone with malevolence.