They expect such behaviour from their insane god. Nacht glanced around, taking in the surrounding priests. I wonder what they’re thinking. Do you think they worry about this mad god they created?
Morgen swallowed, replaying his side of the conversation and wondering how insane it might sound from the outside. He eyed the nearest priest, a tall man who stood ramrod straight, his Geborene robes perfect except for a stain of mud around the hem. Why couldn’t they stay clean? Was it so rutting difficult? Morgen crushed the man’s will with a thought. It was so easy, he didn’t even need to speak.
“You,” he said to the tall priest. “Go change into clean robes.”
Don’t make the same mistake you made with the scout, said Nacht.
“I have to do everything myself, don’t I.” Morgen breathed deep and let out in a long sigh. “Take care of yourself,” he commanded the tall priest. “Bathe regularly. If your clothes are dirty, change into something clean and wash the old ones. Eat when you are hungry and don’t rutting forget to breathe.” He turned on his Reflection and snarled, “Good enough?”
For now.
The priest hurried away and Morgen watched. “This really is a better way.”
They’re flawed, said Nacht. Terribly flawed.
And they were. “My priests are so flawed they are improved by giving themselves to me even though I, myself, am…not quite perfect.”
They aren’t giving themselves to you, Nacht pointed out.
“In worshipping me they are giving themselves.” They made me what I am. This is what they want. Morgen turned to another priest, a squat man with a face scarred by childhood acne. “You,” he said, and the priest fell to his knees, prostrating himself before his god. “Would you give yourself to me?”
“Yes, my god.”
“Utterly and completely and without question?”
“Yes,” he answered with only the slightest hesitation.
“Do you want to be perfect?”
“Yes,” the priest whispered, tears falling from his eyes.
“Then stand. See?” said Morgen, turning back to his Reflection as the man clambered to his feet. He snuffed the priest’s will, bent all the man was to his purpose. “You are no longer scarred.” The man’s face was smooth, unblemished. “You aren’t fat and squat.” The priest stood straighter, his gut fading away. “You are happy.” The tall, handsome man smiled, showing perfect teeth. He looked ten years younger. “Are you happy?” asked Morgen, and his priest grinned. “You will care for yourself. You will bathe and eat as needed. And keep your clothes clean.”
When did it become so easy to change people? Perhaps he only needed to make the decision.
It’s time, said Nacht.
“Time for what?”
They must worship you as a perfect god.
His Reflection was right. “You will worship me as your perfect god. You will know I am without flaw.”
The priest stared at him, eyes round with wonder and awe, and Morgen basked in the attention. The man’s absolute devotion warmed him like standing in the sun.
It’s time, Nacht said again, and Morgen knew what he meant.
“Who else wants to be perfect?” he asked the nearest priests. “Who else wants to be happy?”
As one their hands rose.
Morgen took away their fears and doubts and insecurities and filled them with his need for worship. He made them perfect and they, in turn, worshipped him as the perfect god. He shaped their beliefs and their faith would shape him.
Belief defines reality, said Nacht, mirroring Morgen’s thoughts.
They changed, melted and reformed. He made them clean and strong and perfect. No scars, no dirty robes. No weak chins or pot bellies. Every little flaw that bothered him, he fixed. They glowed, stronger, taller, and so clearly better than the rest of his army. Their perfect faith sang through his blood.
Look, said Nacht. Look at the stain.
Morgen’s own robes were whiter, brighter. The smudge he was unable to change faded. More. He needed more. They would make him perfect, as he predicted.
Morgen faced his army. He lifted his hands, rising off the ground to float where all could see him. Reality bent to his will. Fifteen thousand pairs of eyes locked on him.
“Who wants to be perfect?” he screamed. “Who wants to be happy?”
Fifteen thousand hands rose to the sky.
Morgen took them. He gutted fifteen thousand men and women of will and poured himself into the emptiness. He became their world. With a word, they’d stop eating or hold their breath until they collapsed. With a thought, he could command them to fall on their swords and not one would question or hesitate.
They were perfect.
It took time, conscripting the will of fifteen thousand soldiers, carefully giving them the commands that would keep them happy and healthy and pure. When Morgen was finished he surveyed his new army. They stood in ranks more perfect than anything General Misserfolg could have achieved in a thousand years. No hint of filth stained them. No one moved or fidgeted. No one coughed or farted or whispered inanities to his neighbour.
They finally looked like his toy soldiers.