The Alter

The stones of the church stood with a solidity that is seldom found in steel. The keystones locked into their places at the tops of arches in a way that seemed to promise unending permanence, not by the weight of them but by their stillness, as if they had always been there. It was easy to imagine that after the sun had died and the planets spiraled away from the galaxies dark center that the church would remain, adrift on on it’s lonely path, on an ice encrusted earth, unfazed, and unchanged.

In contrast the worshipers gathered beneath the stone arches appeared little more the shadows cast by a wavering flame, momentary illusions dancing for a brief second across the stone.

Like a flame they were wrapped in red. Their robes robes were dark and tattered, the brightest of red gathered over their cowls, then descended to the lower hems, dusty and dragging along the floor. They swept into the church, faces hidden under cowls and behind shadows cast by brazzers fastened to the stone.

The altar was a simple thing while remaining impressive. It was made from a single piece of cold hammered iron. It’s surface was texture by the hammers forming strikes, round indentations counted in the thousands. Over it’s surface lay three deathly still objects.

The first of three was a yearling goat lain on the left of the alter. It’s coat was brilliant white, unmarked, pure, and clean. It’s hooves were filed flat and sanded, then buffed to a dull, even uniformity. It’s nose and ears were pale pink and showed no spots or scarring.

The second was sheep lain on the right side of the alter. It’s coat, ears, and hooves, equally pristine. It’s eyes however were sewn shut with tightly spaced stitches of red cord.

The last of three was a child, cold and still, lain in the center. It was sickly and pocked, it’s limb too narrow and thin. It lay on a black cloth that trailed from the altar out into the dark emptiness beyond the firelights reach.