An Offering of Bread

(Originally posted in r/WritingPrompts, inspired by this prompt: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1ep8px5/wp_i_asked_for_a_piece_of_bread_i_took_my/ )

Never in a million years would I have thought that the mere crime of stealing a loaf of bread would be met with being sacrificed on the altar of the Goddess of the Harvest. From all the things I'd read about Her, She seemed the forgiving type. But Her priests seemed to think otherwise. Had they ever even read Her words? About showing compassion to the poor and needy? As an orphan on the streets, you'd think I would've qualified.

And it's not as if I didn't try to make an honest living. I begged for food. I offered to work in exchange for food. But I was turned away. Stealing was merely a last resort to avoid starvation.

It's not as if I stole it from someone who was also struggling, either. I stole it from someone who had so much that it went bad before they could eat it all. I was sure they wouldn't miss a single loaf.

But apparently my desperate situation was irrelevant in their eyes. Apparently my crime was so vile that I was deserving of death. They claimed the punishment was justified by Her words, somehow. I'd read every bit of scripture penned by Her hand. I recited many of Her words to the priests, but through some mental gymnastics that I couldn't seem to fully wrap my head around, they claimed I was only proving them right. It didn't make sense.

I begged for mercy. I begged for a second chance. I promised I would never steal again.

But they granted no mercy. They bound me by my wrists and ankles. They tied a gag around my head to keep me from crying out for help. They laid me upon the altar of Her temple.

Please hear my prayer, I pleaded in my mind. Please have mercy upon me, Great Goddess of the Harvest. Please don't let me die.

I screamed through my gag as the priest sliced into me with his knife. The agony was excruciating.

Please, if You cannot spare my life, please spare me the pain.

The pain only increased. I could no longer think about anything else. My mind and body were consumed by it. If I'd known this was what would await me for stealing, I would've chosen to starve. Starvation seemed merciful when compared to this.

Just as I felt my life starting to slip away, a voice came from above. Not just any voice. Her voice. I felt Her warmth. My pain floated away from me.

"The Goddess speaks!" The priest shouted to the others.

The crowd grew quiet, listening intently.

"What is this?" Her voice was horrified. "Blood spilled on my holy altar? Have you lost your minds?"

"Great Goddess, we offer the blood of this heretic to honor You!"

"I never asked for blood! I asked for bread! I took my eyes off you people for a measly century, and you've escalated it to human sacrifice? How?"

"This heretic stole and ate the bread that was to be used for the sacrifice! We thought that offering her blood would be a fitting substitute!"

"She's an orphan!" The Goddess was angry now. "You should have opened your doors to her, offered her food from your tables, given her a place to sleep! Not this!"

"We were only--"

"Did I not say that withholding bread from the needy was worse than withholding bread from me?"

"You did, but--"

"But nothing! You have desecrated my temple with this child's blood! You didn't even grant her the mercy of a painless death! I thought I could trust you people to follow my path without me constantly watching your every move, but clearly you've proven me wrong."

"Majesty, we thought--"

"My expectations are clearly spelled out in that book you all claim to read regularly. Have you actually read it? Or am I surrounded by a bunch of pretenders?"

"We beg Your forgiveness, Great Goddess," the high priest said, bowing low to the ground.

"Normally I am a very forgiving goddess," She said, "but this has gone too far. A literal child is bleeding upon my altar. I've half a mind to curse your crops for a century for what you've done."

If I may, Great Goddess of the Harvest, I don't think the suffering of several generations of people is an equivalent exchange for my own pain.

The Goddess seemed to soften as I felt Her gaze upon me. A warm glow enveloped me as my bindings loosened and my wounds healed. I stood up from the altar, my scars a testament to their sins.

"You are right, my child," She said as She materialized before me. "'The sins of the parents shall not be answered upon the heads of the children.' I have momentarily forgotten my own words. I thank you for reminding me of them."

I bowed my head respectfully towards Her.

"You owe your wretched lives to this child," She said, gesturing towards me as She addressed the others. "By the sweat of your brows, you will work to provide for whatever she requests. You will obey her words as if they were my own. Because they will be. And I will reiterate: no more blood is to be shed upon my altar. I require bread, and only bread. Is that clear?"

The priests meekly bowed down to the ground.

"Good. I will warn you now: my mercy has its limits. I suggest you don't test those limits again."

From then on, the followers of the Goddess of the Harvest worked to provide for the poor and the needy. Just as the Goddess had intended from the very beginning. Many sick and injured were healed by my hands, the Goddess's power flowing through my body. I was the conduit of Her will. And I ensured that no matter the sin, no one would have to suffer as I had suffered. The city entered a great era of peace. And I was happy.