|Image Source: http://juliedillon.deviantart.com/art/Sleeping-Giant-521001305|
The disciples tended to their god's heart. They placed offerings of food and wine, of herb and drug, of flesh and spirit, upon the altar of the god's broad chest. They lit candles and ensured through their rites and sacrifice that the sullen glowing of the great slumbering heart remained. For centuries the pulsing red of the heart waxed and waned, glowing like some great iron thing being heated and cooled in the forge of their faith.
For centuries their god remained insensate, unmoved by their devotion as it was unmoved by weather and geology. With time the order soon waned, taking in fewer new members each year, the order soon came to a final few; a dying cult forgotten and forgone by the people. Still their faith was strong. Still they made their offerings, their sacrifices, their rites. And still the great heart glowed, pulsing from deep within day after day, year upon year, for centuries.
At last there was only one. An aged master with no disciples. No pupils to teach, or congregation to teach to; a man alone tending to a relic of the past. The aged master knew death was approaching, and made preparations for what would be the final offering, the last sacrifice, and the very last of the rites to be performed for the sleeping god. Quietly the master died, passing beyond life on the altar of the god's chest, bathed in the ruddy glow of the heart's pulsing light.
Some time later, perhaps a minute, perhaps a year, or a decade, one of the great being's eyes began to glow ever so softly. Slowly the light increased as the eye inched open, peering at the decaying remains of the religion that had lived and died tending its heart. The great sleeping god sighed, a sound like a relieved gale. In a quiet whisper that seemed impossible for one so great to utter, it spoke.
"Oh good, they're gone."