The Ritualistic cathedral located in a hidden spot in California is no joke. People often mistake it for a church where old people go to worship God and live a life free of sin. However, their assumptions have never been so false.
This place is full of nothing but sin and suffering; people praise their own god, who goes by the name of Julian. Julian is the priest and highest ark of this whole ordeal. His presence was so intimidating that even the cathedral seemed to shy away from him. He was a tall, dark haired, evil man who was cruel and twisted in every way possible. You would be considered a fool to breathe in his presence without asking him first, let alone go against any of the rules that was set in place.
Everyone has to show to the rituals, clad in dark capes with hoods that hide their face. No one speaks without being spoken to. No one sleeps until it is commanded of them. Everyone has to drink from the holy water well before going about their day. Finally, as soon as your own ritual was set into place, you can not leave the cathedral during any point.
Julian stands in front of the sanctuary, his dark lifeless eyes staring into a girl who was a frantic, living pulse in the gloom. She was the “newly found” soul, snatched from the world above and dragged into the damp, iron-scented dark. A dark linen blindfold covers her eyes, a piece of duct tape silencing her screams and turning them into wet whimpers of fear that echoed the room. Julian stared down at her, his usually stoic facade seemed to crumble at the edges as a chilling realization clicked into place. She was beautiful, she was broken, and she was completely and utterly his. It was a dark, predatory magnetism he had never felt before. It was a hunger that went far beyond the ritual that he knew she felt too. With a low hum of intrigue, Julian reached into his robes and grabbed out a sharp blade of glass. The room grew still, suddenly caught off guard by what he was doing. Julian began to talk, his voice a low rumble that shook the very cement of the room.
“To the church and the sinner,” he began, slowly piercing the blade into his palm.
A tiny pool of blood forms from the open wound, slowly and steadily growing in size. He knelt before the trembling girl, his darkness drowning out her light. With a surprisingly gentle touch, he smeared the thick liquid onto her forehead; a cross first, then covered by the shape of a heart. He then took her small cold hand. The blood pressed into her palm with a sharp hiss. The girl bucked against her restraints, but he held her firm, his grip like iron. He watched her blood pool to meet his, then dipped his fingers into her wound, painting the two same symbols, cross and heart, on his own forehead.
Julian then grabbed a heavy rusted gold chalice from the alter behind him and filled it halfway with baptismal water. He held his bleeding palm up to the cup, listening with sick satisfaction at the rhythmic plink-plink of his own blood blooming like the darkest rose into the water. He then guided the girls palm to the rim, her essence swirling with his, turning the water pink. The sanctuary fell into an expectant silence, the vessels leaning in slightly at what their priest was going to do with the holy water. Julian leaned over, his presence a crushing weight upon the room. He began to recite the very oath he never once believed he would ever have to use: The Priest and The Prayer.
“Consume the newest muse, we roll the dice for sacrifice tonight. You, the now, and the truth, I roll the dice for the sacrifice tonight. I traded my name to indulge a snake so I ran free and broke a leg, but I felt free enough to rule the world. Blood to water, soul to stone, I claim the marrow and the broken bone.”
With the oath echoing through the rafters, Julian raised the chalice to his lips. The sharp taste of iron and the tang from the water drafted into his mouth. He then went to the girl and peeled the tape away from her mouth. At first, he was nice about it; putting the cup to her lips. The girl jerked away from him and left him with no other choice but to plug her nose, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. As soon as her mouth opened, he poured the liquid into her own mouth, watching with satisfaction as she swallowed.
Julian’s eyes never left the girl’s blindfolded face as he set the chalice aside and spoke once more. This time it was a low sound, directed only for the girl at his feet. “Do not tremble, my sweet vessel,” he whispered, his voice a velvet promise that seemed to vibrate her very bones. “The world above has faded into a dream you will soon forget, but here, in the heart of the chapel, you are the most precious relic I now possess.”
His thumb and forefinger press against her chin, tilting her head up to him. “Sleep now, and find peace in the dark; for all eternity, I shall be the one worthy of holding your holy water.”
