The Pale Altar
It was the chalice. Or rather, the idea of it. "You are holding the cup, Thomas," said the warden. His voice was thin, stretched over the cold floor. "Do not drop it." I did not drop it. I stood in the center of the cell, arms outstretched, palms up. The glass was heavy. It was thick, opaque, white as bone. It was not wine. It was not holy water. It was a measure of silence. The lights hummed....
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