Fire Without Light
The guilty. The profane. The blasphemous. Below, tucked within that den of iniquity and degeneracy, the heretics congregated. Like a murder of crows, they gathered about, flocking amidst the dying embers of their campfire as they cawed and croaked to one another.
Brother Harwyn did not even bother listening to whatever inane mockeries of sentient speech that they composed. They were little more than animals, the hulking Nord decided. Faithless, vile, wretched derisions upon Harwyn's revered Talos. As such, theirs was to die. Death to each and every heretic; this one consecrated mantra had long filled the hopelessness of Harwyn's past life. It was a promise that he had long since sworn to himself, and a holy contract with which he alone had struck with the Divines. For the redemption of Man, for the hallowed transcendence of all of humanity…these wanton Elves would become heirs to death itself.
First, however, a private communion would have to precede this event. A champion of faith cannot champion that very thing that he would deny without such a ritual, after all.
Kneeling down, Harwyn's plated armor softly clanked and clattered as he moved. As if he had been offering his blade to some ethereal aspect of the Divines themselves, Harwyn rested his silver-enameled greatsword upon his knee, his hands gently grasping the heavenly apparatus by the hilt and tip.
Closing his eyes, Harwyn recited his sacred supplication to the Nine, part of him hoping that the Thalmor waiting below heard his rebelliously-pious act.
"Talos, grant strength to my arm, that I might enact this tithe of blood in your name, and avenge the wrongs that you have suffered at their hands. Kynareth, I ask that you grant swiftness to this vessel, that the enemies of the Divines may cower before the providential speed of their champion. Julianos, offer me but a small amount of your infinite wisdom to guide my path. Zenithar, smile upon me as I once again rise to partake in the job that you and your kindred Aedra have granted me. Dibella, if I should die in the battle to come, reward me with but a glimpse of what true beauty may look like. Arkay, when my strength falters and my duty has been fulfilled, I bequeath my remains unto you, and ask that you deliver me to the afterlife as you see fit. Akatosh, let my measure of devotion unto you today ring forever in the ears of mortals, that I may take my place by your side when I draw my last breath. Mara, may my love for the Divines and for the homeland stand forever as a testament to the power of your demesne, and the sphere of your influence. Stendarr…allow me to show these heretics the mercy of the afterlife."
Tonight shall be their last. Heretics, all of them. Guilty. Wretched, sinful, depraved things. This is but a mercy, a catharsis from the sorrows they unknowingly inflict upon themselves. This is enlightenment. Punishment. Compassion. Penance. Justice. Insight. Death!
Rising to his feet, Harwyn exhaled, ready both in body and mind for this celestial sacrifice. The homely Nord would not be expected to be a priest, truth be told- the man was brusque, stoic, and taller than most Altmer by slightly more than a head. Quite terrifyingly, much of his physique was muscle, with scarcely a trim of fat to be found much of anywhere on such a magnificent specimen. Such a unique vessel served as a fitting tool to be used by the Divines themselves, he told himself. Tonight would be a test of that statement.
As he descended down into this burrow of the scum of the world, all of Nirn seemed to shrink to just this one little camp of Elves. Sound, smells, even the people themselves were reduced to hollow concepts. This, as Harwyn knew, was but the Divines enacting their will through him, guiding his frail, mortal mind throughout this tremendous act of faith. For one to so willingly damn themselves in the name of the gods…this was a true pledge of devoutness. Words are bound in nothing but the deft tongues that carry them; one can change their beliefs and their virtues as a turncloak might do with factions, and just as easily. But actions? Actions branded themselves upon a person's very soul, the iron of conquest and war burning hot upon the essence of an unblooded. When the smoke cleared, what was once an unbearable, red-hot marking of shame became a badge of honor to be presented before the gods with pride. Brother Harwyn, then, would be adding another brand upon both his body and soul.
Harwyn's mind was numb as he strode into battle. Faintly, he could hear the sound of shouting, of Thalmor soldiers rousing the sleeping ranks of their kinsmen. No doubt, someone had made note of the iconic insignia upon his breast- the intimidating fist of unyielding righteousness and morality upraised in praise of the very heavens, its stony fingers coiled and poised to strike down the unworthy and the impertinent. Or perhaps they already knew of the terror that was Brother Harwyn- the Vanguard of Faith, the Aegis of Piety, the Champion of Divine Justice, and the Instrument of the Will of the Gods.
His opponents were quick to rise, for three adversaries presented themselves before him already. In the moonlight, their armor shone brightly, yet his own silvery plate shone brighter, he knew. Their spears were sharp, he noted, yet- again- his sword was sharper. This battle's outcome was predetermined from the beginning.
One of the fighters made this first move of this grim dance. Cautiously, he attempted to jab at the back of Harwyn's knee, where there was no protection save for the leather binding his holy garments. With speed unbefitting someone his size, Harwyn swung his leg out of the way, and proceeded to drive his shoulder into the Altmer's head.
He would have finished his opponent there, had it not been for the spear that struck him from behind. Turning to face this foe, Harwyn did not attempt to protect himself from his third enemy nor even the briefly incapacitated first. Rather, he delivered a vertical slash to his unlucky attacker. The soldier side-stepped it, but not without falling victim to a horizontal strike aimed directly at his neck. The resulting fountain of lifeblood offered a sharp contrast to the virgin white armor and ashen insignia that Harwyn bore. Upon a grizzled veteran such as himself? It was all too familiar to him…
Very quickly, this was becoming a slaughter. Harwyn's first adversary was the next to perish- having been violently skewered upon the holy knight's sword seconds upon regaining his composure. The final of the three fought valiantly, Harwyn was forced to admit. Blow for blow, this soldier had somehow blocked each of the Nord's increasingly vicious attacks, until an unsuccessful parry left him with a sword arm severed at the joint. Unflinching, Harwyn simply trudged off in search of another opponent, the final combatant's fast-approaching death presaged by the bloodied stump of his arm.
One by one, the men came forth to meet this divine monster. Some brave few tried to take him on their own accord, their almost immediate massacres serving as a warning to anyone else seeking glory in this butchery. The more shrewd fighters attempted to organize themselves in a phalanx covering his flanks. Like some death trap of flesh and steel, four such groups descended upon him in all directions, shields upraised and spears seconds away from striking. Like a great blur, Harwyn had whittled away at one of the walls of this tactical farce, his sword managing to hack the defenses of several soldiers to absolute pieces. From there…there was nothing else that could contain the fiend that was Brother Harwyn.
Harwyn did not doubt that fear was going through the minds of all of these men. And of the Nord himself? As he went through these motions, as he allowed instinct to take over, he felt an almost…sinful…lust overtake him. Each slash, each stab and parry and riposte left him craving more. Every stab of a spear gifted him a feeling of pure ecstasy. The blood washing away the dirt from his face stimulated his senses more than any mortal brew or desires of flesh. Bones cracked, tendons were pulled apart, and lives were ended with each blow he delivered, and horrendous, chilling chuckles complemented each attack they delivered to him.
This is what it feels like; having power over the forces of life and death. To decide the fate of a heretic, to damn them for their morally-corrupting beliefs, and for the suffering that they themselves had apathetically ignored. With each piteous cry and every indignant death…I come closer to understanding how it must feel to actually be a god. Insects stand before me, buzzing their pleading as they beat upon their breast for no other boost to morale than their own. They think that they can stand before the gods? We shall see how the Divines will answer, when this challenge reaches their ears…
Harwyn had since lost all lucidity during this skirmish; all he saw now was mere shapes and hazes, of which he madly chopped until all movement had ceased. Rinse and repeat. One impression here, another silhouette there. With each movement they made, they caught Harwyn's attention, and were subject to his homicidal rampage. None were safe from this spree of violence- rookie fighters playing soldier, tattered veterans of the Great War, sons of bureaucrats who had never set foot outside of Alinor, and every other flavor of Elven scum. All of them- from insignificant footsloggers to sergeants of moderate value- were killed indiscriminately. All had been judged justly by the Divines; all had been placed upon a trial in accordance with divine law. And each and every one of them was guilty.
Guilty…and dead. Not a single soul was left alive in this valley of death, save but for their consecrated executor. Harwyn looked upon his tithe to the gods with pride. Lifeblood had been granted to the hallowed earth itself, remains left for primeval nature to reclaim. Bones, limbs, entrails, and every other kind of mundane body part were strewn about this camp, the essence of the fallen now returned to face judgement before the gods.
Satisfied with his work here on this mortal plane, Harwyn averted his eyes from this knoll of earthly vestiges. Gazing upon the stars, his placid features were replaced with joy. As he stared into the welcoming void of the sky, he could almost feel the gods looking back down upon him. They were pleased with his gift, satisfied with what the avatar of their will had undertaken this night. His mortal masters would be pleased as well, he supposed. Not that it mattered; the gods themselves smiled upon him, and their approval was his sole stimulus. He was their valorous champion, their intrepid defender, and the prescient prophet of their word.
He was the ferryman of the wayward, the eventual shepherd of the boisterous flock of Nirn, the magistrate and arbiter of the sinners of the world, and the punisher for the depravities that they committed. And in his wake, darkness and decay would hold eternal supremacy over the dismal ruins of these dissolute creations of the gods.