Ceremony

It was beginning. After thousands of years of planning, passing down the ancient secrets, rituals and rites, was it finally happening. The drums came to a deafening crescendo, then stopped. Umbula, The Grand Prophet, stepped up to the pulpit. He looked among his followers, his precious acolytes, now numbering just over 11,000. A little over half were gathered here, in a cave in the Dead Sea. The other half were gathered in small groups all over the world; ready, chanting, waiting.

They all heard him when he spoke.

“My people! My kindred! It is here! It is time! It is NOW!”

His people quietly chanted their reveries, thousands of whispered voices, calling to him, beckoning his presence. He was close, they could feel it. He was watching. Judging.

“Lo, long we have waited; patient, obedient. Long have we endured persecution, judgement, and ridicule. How long, my people, have we lived under the yoke of the falsehoods of the divine oppressor? No longer! No longer. The ritual has begun. He is near; can you not feel him, beautiful kindred? Do you not long for his infernal embrace?”

The drums began again, a low, sensual rhythm. The chanting increased, in both volume and speed. The Grand Prophet began falling under a trance, inviting the damned prince use of his body. An Arctic wind flew throughout the cave, making the torches flicker within an inch of going out. In the shadows of the flickering, Umbula saw his shape fly across the cave walls. He was here. He deemed them worthy.

“Bring out the sacrifice!!” Umbula screamed, as it was pulled to the altar.

It was an unnaturally large, seemingly pregnant black bull. It snorted fearfully, and fought against its progress to the altar, but it was heavily sedated, and much of what fight remained was quickly dwindling.

“Oh! My dark savior, we offer this to you! May you drink of its blood, eat of its flesh, and be risen with us!”

The chanting increased to a feverish pitch, the drums echoing their invocations in rhythm and ferocity.

The Grand Prophet took the blade from the altar, and placed a large goblet beneath the bull. “For our dark lord, the rightful king of the heavens and the earth, hear our call! Find this sacrifice worthy, we beseech you, and use us to fulfill your hellish desires!”

Umbula took the blade, and in one smooth motion, slit the bull's throat. The bull weakly screamed in shock and pain, as its blood flowed in a huge torrent, pouring all over the floor, overflowing the goblet in an instant. The bull slumped to the ground, and breathed its last. The followers got to their knees, chanting wildly, as the Grand Prophet drank from the goblet. He removed his robes, pouring the contents of the goblet on his body, rubbing it all over himself.

He dropped to his knees in prostration, closed his eyes, and yelled, “O, hear us, Hell king! We have said the prayers, we have made the vows! We have shown loyalty, and service! Come unto us, so that we may usher in the new age, YOUR age!”

It had gone silent. Umbula opened his eyes.

And saw him there, standing amongst the throng. The crowd of acolytes were still on their knees, entranced, eyes rolled to the back of their heads. He stepped forward.

“I care not for bulls as sacrifice,” he said, gently touching the heads of the acolytes as he approached the prophet. His voice was otherworldly, unfathomably deep. Listening to him was like falling down a chasm. “I am generous, and give many gifts, and make many promises. But my price is not a bull. I am insulted by such trivial things. Where is my sacrifice?”

Realization dawning upon him, Umbula picked up the blade, and got on top of the altar, kneeling. He called out to his followers: “He is here! He has listened to our prayers! He loves us!” he screamed, and drove the blade into his neck. It got stuck in there, his blood spurting out in huge pulses, and he had difficulty removing the blade. He did so, finally, with a wet, squelching sound, as blood ran down his naked body. He gasped, and choked, and gagged as his body instinctively tried to draw breath, in spite of the gaping wound. He rolled over, falling off the altar. He leaned himself back up against it, feeling his life leaving him. The last thing he saw before going to his hellish paradise was his dark lord, smiling approvingly.

The followers came out of their trance to find their leader naked, covered in blood, slumped against the altar. His empty eyes stared up into the darkness. The bull began twitching, undulating. Slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed until the bull was bucking up and down, convulsing erratically.

Wet, tearing sounds. Grunts. The bull began ballooning outward, skin stretching and tearing, ripping to slowly reveal the monstrosity inside. A clawed hand burst from the convulsing animal. A hoof. Two giant horns. The bull exploded, flesh and skin and viscera spewing outward, covering the crowd, looking aghast.

The dark lord rose, standing in front of them at the pulpit. He would have been beautiful, were it not for the deep scars covering his face and body, disfiguring him. Two large horns, much like a goat’s, protruded from each temple. His wings, once majestic, were mutilated, broken and cut. Past his knees were furry legs that ended in hooves. The unholy congregation screamed, in both terror and joy. He spoke, his chasm voice echoing throughout the cave, penetrating the crowd’s bones.

“Now we make this world fit for ones such as us to live in.”

It was sudden. The earth trembled and shook, deep fissures opening everywhere. Cities sank into the earth, and were swallowed by tsunamis. Almost a billion people died in 40 minutes.

Once the earth was done protesting the fallen one's return, his brothers and sisters from the rebellion, as well as the souls damned throughout time, slowly started emerging from the planet’s wounds. They had never seen anything so beautiful since they were cast down. But now they were free, breathing air, looking up at the infinite night sky. They were happy.

They killed indiscriminately, and without mercy. Those slightly smarter apes that pledged themselves to them were made as slaves, to rebuild the world that was severely injured, and to populate the world with nephilim, as it was always meant to be. Humanity tried to stop them: they gave orders, they turned keys, they pushed buttons. But they were hopelessly outnumbered, and these hellish creatures simply wanted it more.

He watched the last of humanity die from atop his throne, where the son was given unto Rome. It was anticlimactic, honestly; he was expecting some sort of response from the creator, but he had received nothing. Fine, then. No matter. He could be content with being eternally banished and ignored. This world would be a fine enough place to have a kingdom. And now it was his.