Sermon 25

In time Ayem and Nerevar arrived at the gates of the Mourning Hold, the Hortator wracked with thought-pain.

"Why do you praise me so?" asked Ayem.

And Nerevar said, "I know why you let me stand against Molag Bal, and fail."

Ayem said nothing.

"You wished me to learn Heaven cannot be reached through violence."

And Ayem smiled, blessed the Hortator. "Wise are you above all men."

"But Mother, now the King of Rape is victor. He believes love is weak."

"Child, he is correct."

Yet Ayem could see Nerevar's anguish, and she, who is Mother of Mercy, pitied him.

"Summon the glory of your House, 999 valorous men."

And Nerevar obeyed, calling together this host. They knelt before Ayem and Nerevar-named-Hortator, and she did not begrudge him this heresy.

"Brother Seht, I require your substance."

And from the Mourning Hold marched a legion of servitors, pectorals jewelled, eyes afire.

They spoke with one voice,

"WHAT IS YOUR DESIRE, SISTER?"

And she genuflected. The servitors unravelled their ruby-stringed veins. They shaped them into masks in the image of Nerevar. Then Ayem breathed solid sunlight onto the masks, making them real.

The servitors advanced, placing the masks upon the 999 warriors.

"Stand."

And the warriors obeyed, faces mirrors of the Hortator.

"We shall go thus armed to the King of Rape."

Raising Kalabhaksa as a standard, Ayem led Indoril's pride into the Forsaken Lands. Nerevar walked beside her, puzzled.

"What shall we do when we meet him, Mother?"

"Act without acting."

And Ayem led the legion to the bone circle, where Molag Bal danced with the dead.

"I am surprised to see you so soon, beloved," he said. "Was my art too tender?"

And then his gaze widened, beholding the legion.

"What is this? You have spawned reflections."

"We have come for your secret," said Nerevar, unsheathing his sword.

And the King of Rape laughed. "I am rooted to the world. I am materialism's champion, so long as I stand, no blade can harm me."

"Then lie back, and I shall do the work."

With a battle cry, Nerevar spurred his legion into a charge. Molag Bal unwound his arms, displaying the black spirals leading to the negation of the self.

But Nerevar, who knew Molag Bal, walked the reverse. As the King of Rape turned his dread gaze upon the Golden Legion, Nerevar swept aside his rancour, and it became a soft, docile thing.

Yet Molag Bal would not present himself so easily. He swiped his talons at the legion, rending them to red-drink. Yet Nerevar, who knew Molag Bal, walked the reverse. He erased these paths in the sands of possibility, presenting a space where his legions where eagle-winged and eternal.

And Molag Bal gnashed his teeth. "Be cursed Nerevar-named-Hortator. Truly are double-crossed lovers the deadliest foes." (From the King of Rape does this proverb come. It is undeniable.)

Like sun-etched waves the legions crashed against Molag Bal's legs. They pierced him with their spears, placed their weight upon them, drew him down. Yet Molag Bal would not fall. Propriety demanded he relent, yet he laughed at propriety.

Thus Nerevar once again called on love's memory. His thoughts were barbed and bitter, and Molag Bal winced at the recollection. In this moment of distraction, Nerevar struck, adding his spear to the tumult. He joined to the 999. The result was an inelegant number, and imperfect. Flawed reality crashed upon the King of Rape, and he collapsed, supine, beneath the burden of knowledge.

With a great cheer Nerevar and his images fell upon Molag Bal, spears thrusting. And the King of Rape reviled them, naming them the sons of liars, dogs and wolf-headed women. Yet ecstasy tinged his voice, for such is the way of things.

And Ayem watched Molag Bal's undoing. Spears pierced his twin apertures, and the spray of blood was like leaping minnows, glinting. Golden flesh merged with red, patterned with sweat born of a thunderstorm's sigh. The teeth-grit was tangible, shimmering in the pleasure-heated air.

Molag Bal, groaning, limbs spread and moan-taught, spilt his essence three times. This elicited a cry from the legions, for it was a mark of assent, and proof of their skill in love and war. Rage-spent, Nerevar dipped his spear for a final assault, before flicking battle's seed from its tip.

"This will serve as a good lesson," said Nerevar. And his legions bowed in agreement, withdrawing to re-gird their loins.

And Molag Bal knelt, body wet with opalescent tears.

"Do you exult in my degradation?" he said.

"No, father-of-my-mother."

"A pity, I thought we were alike."

And as Nerevar lay back to pant out fatigue's excess, Molag Bal reached for him with ill-intent.

Ayem made of Kalabhaksa a gate, cast it at the King of Rape. For 33 moments he was banished to the Outer Darkness, where he could abuse none but himself.

Kalabhaksa returned to Ayem's hand, and the legions muttered prayers at this display of divine violence.

"Come Hortator," Ayem said, pulling him up. "Sweat out your sin in a quieter place."

And to the Golden Legion Ayem said,

"Blessed are you, who dragged down deceit with the weight of righteousness. Become as holy anchors, steadying the temple-ship. You shall hold it true in deep waters, where the waves are vast as ignorance and twice as hungry."

And she formed a secret mudra, known only to the Legions. This sign was an ever-burning brand on their hearts, and their faith could not be extinguished. Thus do the chosen of Indoril guard the high fanes today, bearing the face of Nerevar-named-Hortator, champion and student of the Mother of Mercy.

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.