She lay, stretched and bound to the altar. Eyes gazing into the darkness, towards the high, carved ceiling of the chapel. Tears still streamed down her face, humiliation, pain, anger, confusion; so many emotions that had led her through hysterics, now she began to just feel numb. Watching the shapes in the darkness flitter and float above, she waited for him to return. Tugging at her bonds was useless, they just grew tighter the more she pulled. Her legs were outstretched, pulled straight and her ankles tied flat against the wood, it had grown uncomfortable quickly, her back ached as it was forced to arch to support the position and her muscles threatened to cramp with every near relaxation. Her arms were drawn far above her head and her clasped hands, were bound around a plank of wood.

Her eyes rolled in her head as she heard the scrape of the heavy wooden door open; she twisted to see as a slice of moonlight slid into the room, as her body, trying to let her see who had entered, began to cramp and spasm, she whimpered and gently moved back to her original position. Determined not to panic further, she used the small amount of light to look around. Having been unconscious when she was brought here, she hadn't had a chance to get her bearings, now as she glanced around; she wished she'd kept her ignorance. She lay on the altar of a church, lined pews filled the room and as she rolled her head backwards she discovered her arms were tied around the bottom part of the cross, and up above, the statue of Christ gazed down at her.

A scream choked in her throat, sudden realisation of where she was. Her eyes sealed shut, her head pounding, tears burning her face like acid ran red raw tracks down to the altar, and as she lay, on the edge of desperation, praying, for what use it would do, for help, for calm, she heard the door creak over, and the key grind the lock shut. Fear held her still, her body rigid and at the mercy of pain that shot through her system from the tight bindings, and even in the chill of the cold, stone building, she felt sweat run in a rivulet down her spine. Listening intently, she could hear nothing, yet she knew someone was there. She could sense them and all she could do was wait, and think. Think of why this seemed familiar, why despite never having even played with bondage, did the fact she was tied up bring back a sense of déjà vu.

Her mind whirled. Fighting against terror, she racked her thoughts and in a flash of inspiration she knew. A whimper escaped her trembling mouth and her teeth clenched tightly to evade hysteria. The sacrifice of Christ, that's what he'd called it. She'd laughed at the time, told him the idea was already taken. He'd shook his head seriously then smiled at her. Explaining rapidly about Gods and offerings, about how Christ deserved offerings. She'd called him mad. His offering went against the Ten Commandments, the foundation of the religion he wanted to leave a gift to. He'd laughed at her then. Told her she didn't understand, then they had kissed, and she remembered the love that burned for him, despite his weird convictions.

"How does it feel to be tied to the feet of the greatest man the world has ever seen?" rang out a voice from the entrance to the church. Her body tensed in fright to the sudden noise and then she let out a sob, she'd fought so hard to hold it in. But now, it hardly seemed to matter, now that she understood. She tried to find the words to answer, something that would make a madman sane. Instead, she just cried.

He strode over to where she lay, admiring her in the very dim light. He'd light the candles later. For now, he wanted to admire her. Her milky white skin looked soft and inviting, and her face, swollen around the eyes and red just advanced his excitement. It made it better that she remembered. She'd called him mad at the time, now she'd know the truth. Salvation would be his, but not for her. He'd realised that when they first met. She was just a victim, back then he'd only known that. Now he knew she was his victim.

He ran his fingers over her body, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the feeling of the soft, clammy skin under his rough fingertips. Relishing every caress, each gentle stroke as he stalked around her naked, stretched form. His hand stopped over her heart, ignoring her breast which was pert in the cold, instead he felt each breath she took, savouring each panic-stricken inhale and exhale, elated that he would finally be able to offer her to his idol. He glanced up. Through the darkness, which seemed almost tangible, he could see the saviour. Bound in all eternity to his cross, but tonight he would free the spirit of Christ and offer him what no one else had ever been able to do. Tonight, he would offer Christ life.

He moved away, reaching into a pocket for match. Striking it, he began to light the candles that encircled the altar. Each movement slow and deliberate, and as she strained to hear every movement, she heard his chant. Barely audible, and in a tongue she could not understand, he intoned it in a whisper, that grew in volume and power as all the candles were lit. Her mind, desperate now, tried to think of what he'd said at the time. Everything that he'd said. She'd hardly paid attention; his ideas had been bizarre, gruesome and unreal.

"Kelly… Kelly…" he began, as he moved to the foot of the altar. Gazing up her naked form, and with the invocation of her name, the memories flooded back.

"Kelly… Kelly…" he'd whispered gently into her ear. She'd been sleeping, lying back in the grass on a warm summer's day. Everything had been perfect. A secret lover's tryst, romantic, sensual. She had woken slowly, the world coming back bit-by-bit, his voice at first. A voice that warmed her heart, made her feel safe, then his eyes, pools of green, flecked with blue. Eyes where new worlds could be born, eyes she could lose herself in for hours. Then gradually his face, his body and the meadow they lay in. He'd caressed her face tenderly, "Did I tell you about my plan?"

"Nathan, you don't have to do this," she shouted in reply to her name, snapped back to reality by the feel of him crawling atop her on the altar. Her voice echoed out in the church and he slapped her hard across the jaw. "Don't have to do it?" he replied scornfully, "Of course I don't have to do it". Moving back off her, to stand once again at her feet, he smiled then said in a strangely tranquil voice, "But I want to do it".

She heard him rummaging about in what seemed like a bag for things, and with this momentary lapse from the ritual, disjointed memories rushed through her mind.

"Pagans do ritual offerings to their Gods and Goddesses. They invoke them; bring them into the real world. They can do this through sacrifice; it doesn't have to be human or animal. In fact these days, they are vehemently against that. It wasn't always the case. Human sacrifices were popular throughout a number of religions, Christianity included. These modern times have made it unpopular, but in the way of things, human sacrifice could do what the Christians have always wanted" he'd told her rapidly in a rant she'd not expected to hear.

She'd lain against him, resting her head against his chest and replied, "And what have the Christians always wanted?" As a Christian she couldn't really think of what they'd always wanted. World peace, maybe, but then religion was the main cause of most wars. He seemed to get excited at this, "Christians want Christ, the second coming, their saviour - and they could have it. God damnit, they could have him, if they just looked to their pagan cousins for a bit of advice"

"It was always a ritual" he said as he cracked his whip, swishing it through the air. Turning it quickly in mid air, he brought it down across her chest and she screamed at the sudden unexpected pain. He repeated the action again and again, flogging every inch till searing red marks appeared across her abused skin. As the pain began to make her dizzy, she fell back to a cradle of memories, back to the time where he had been her saviour, not her punisher.

"It was all symbolic and common place. Jesus Christ was not a special man in their eyes; he was just another criminal to be killed. He was humiliated, flogged then crucified. And he never came back. That was all lies for the bible. The resurrection of Christ, yeah sure, dead man walking this way, instead that was a myth stolen from the pagan Spring Equinox, the nature God, Attis died against a tree, then was buried in a cave - only to be resurrected on the third day. It was never Christ that walked from a cave, but maybe using the ritual I've found, Christ could walk again. Walk today among us. The second coming would be truth and he could see the damage that his name has done"

She floated between reality and her memories. The whipping had ceased now at least. Her body was a mass of pain, every muscle ached, and every inch of her skin was sore, red and blistered. Her eyes stung with endless crying and she wished for death to steal her away, she'd always thought death was the worst thing that could happen to someone. Now she'd seen that torture could be worse, and going by what she remembered, the best was yet to come.

"The sacrificial lamb would of course need to be perfect. A believer and pure of heart, then they would have to be treated like Christ was. The old pagan rites for sacrifice, scourged first then given the wounds, forced Stigmata, to act as a conduit to Christ. Then the priest would have to start the ritual, before the lamb was truly sacrificed. Then the spirit of Christ could be called forth, back to this plane of existence and the world could yet again benefit from this man"

The darkness blinded her, as she lay, knowing what to expect. Her eyes shut, now firmly welded with tears as he moved to the head of the altar, standing directly to the side of the cross, he held a dagger high and under the view of Christ before dragging it around her face. She whimpered, her body beyond screaming as the knife tore at her skin and the blood, warm and steady, streamed down her face. The blood mixed with the tears, and ran down to her mouth; gingerly she licked it in, the salty taste made everything seem more real, the taste of her own death, the taste of injustice and underneath it all, the taste of grief. Under all her pain, her suffering, she grieved for herself, and for him, for the man she loved now lost to her.

"Lets not talk about this" she had said, moving closer to him, and turning so her upturned face gazed at him. His intensity had scared her a little, his "plan" was a little unsettling and she didn't want it to spoil this day, this glorious summer's day where all that mattered was they. He'd smiled at her and kissed her slowly, their arms entwining, as the kisses grew deeper and their needs aroused. Picking her up gently, he'd laid her back down onto the grass, lifting her dress; he unzipped his jeans and lay down on top of her, while smoothly sliding inside her.

Twisting the knife in his hand, he began to chant again. Stalking slowly around the altar, like a tiger stalking it's prey. As he reached her feet, he drove the knife through each foot, twisting it sharply as he pulled it out; her body went limp as he retrieved the blade from the second foot. Her limbs relaxing against the bonds, he glanced along her beaten body, her chest still moved, he sighed in relief, glad she hadn't died so soon. He walked to the top of the altar and plunged the blade through both of her wrists, turning the blade as it came back out and by the way the blood gushed, and poured to the floor, he knew he'd hit a vein.

He strode back to the foot of the altar again, and reached underneath for the spear. The final, and sealing part of the ritual was the test to see if she was still alive, it was also the last wound. He raised the spear, and his eyes looked over it to the statue of Christ, as he focussed his energy. The image of Christ seemed to shift in front of him, the head rising slightly, and the eyes moving higher to make eye contact with Nathan, who stood humbled beneath the statue. Nathan looked back at the spear, and then thrust it deep into Kelly's side. Her body jerked, then fell lifeless. Limp and rag doll like, Nathan fell to his knees, his hand sliding from the spear to his side.

The statue seemed to move, then Nathan realised it wasn't the statue but a spirit, caught around the statue. He began to chant. To call it forward, to it's host. As his chanting grew louder, the spirit pulled away from the scene of the crucifixion and hovered over Kelly for a second, then passed briefly through her body before it forced it's way into Nathan's body.

In the empty church, lying on the flagstones by the altar where his love lay dead, Nathan screamed. He screamed in agony as the spirit took over his very essence, killing Nathan memory by memory, and replacing his thoughts with it's own. The second coming was never going to be a pleasant process, and as the spirit commanded the body of the host, Nathan had one last fleeting memory before he died.

"Nat, it would never be salvation for you, you'd have to sin to bring Christ back. It doesn't matter that you delivered the saviour back to the Earth, you'd still be sent to hell for what you done. Thou shalt not kill. It's an important one", she'd frowned at him, and "The person doing it would be a sinner, a victim of his or her own beliefs. They'd suffer for what they done, it would never be worth it. Not even to bring back Christ". He'd laughed at her, "Not worth it? Says she, the loyal Christian soldier. Of course it would be worth it. He died for our sins, and it wouldn't be a sin bringing him back, it would be by the grace of God"

She'd looked at him as if he were mad, "You can't force the divine. Your plan could result in Satan being invoked, rather than your saviour. Who's to know? The priest in this ritual surely isn't going to survive long enough to find out. If it is God's will to send Christ back to walk among man, he will do it. But you cannot second-guess God, doing so, could be the work of Satan…"

The man that was once Nathan stood up slowly in the church and dusted off his robes. Smiling, he looked at the girl dead on the altar, before turning to leave, and see what had changed in this world since the last time he'd been around. As the door creaked open, then slammed shut, the girl on the altar jerked, her eyes flashing open for a second and a guttural wail screamed forth from her bloodied mouth. As the corpse became still, she spoke one final, deathly whisper," You cannot trust every spirit; this is the spirit of the Antichrist. His coming you were warned about. He is here now. Here in your world, children"

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