A gentle rainfall of feathers – so brilliantly white, they looked like snow. They drifted from an unseen ceiling (was there even a ceiling? Or walls?). The boy wanted to reach out and touch them. They looked so kind, so soft (just like her hands…)…
The boy lay on an altar, the lower half of his naked body covered by a red mantle. He felt neither warm nor cold. There was no sound, no smell. A small area around him was illuminated by dull white light. All he could see were feathers descending.
A flutter of wings. A voice (male…?) spoke out of the murky darkness.
"Once someone has forsaken God, it is impossible for him to pass through the Gates of Heaven."
"Would someone who believed in God summon you?" the boy rasped.
Cold, cruel laughter. 'Then I ask you once more: do you wish to enter into this contract?"
The boy shouted, "Enough! Form the contract and grant my wish!"
With a deafening rustling, the feathers flew back towards the heavens, no longer gentle. They buffeted the boy with invisible cuts. The feathers were no longer white but pitch black.
Like a raven's… the boy thought.
Nine hooded forms materialised out of the mass of black. (Who is that behind them…?) They were aligned around the altar in a perfect circle. A low chanting began. Each word was blended into the next in a ceaseless mantra. It was almost hypnotic.
A tenth figure stepped up to the altar and stood over the boy's body. The figure held a black-gloved hand over the boy's chest. The boy watched the hand descend until it made contact with his skin. He drew in a sharp breath. He could hear his heart pounding, as if the hand amplified the sound of the muscle beating strongly. Every breath he took he could hear also.
The figure with its hand on his chest began to chant with the others (female…?), its higher-pitched voice ('her') adding a painful, discordant harmony.
Strangely, the boy felt his mind wandering. He felt his breathing and heart-rate slow, and his eyesight begin to blur.
No, it's not blurring…it's getting darker… His rational mind discarded the thought. It was already dark anyway…
A scream. The boy's eyes flew open. His foggy mind was slower to wake up. Who's screaming…? Why does something feel…hot?
Realisation. Pain. The scream increased in volume.
He was on his knees now – still naked – his arms held out and behind by two of the hooded figures. Something felt like it was being burned on to his lower back.
The boy screamed again, though his voice was hoarse. The pain was unbelievable, but he refused to cry. His back was arched in a futile attempt to escape the pain. He struggled against those holding him but not as fiercely as he could have, for he knew that this was what had been waiting for him when he made the contract. A lone tear drop escaped from eyes screwed shut.
Stop, please, make it stop! Mother…!
He was alone. The branders had done their work and left him kneeling pathetically on the floor. Tears of pain blinded him.
Footsteps. The boy did not look up. A hand placed itself on the boy's shoulder.
The boy turned. He only caught a glimpse of a face before his vision was blocked by a cold, bare hand, dripping with blood.
Father…? The boy thought, then…