Morgen walked the streets of Selbsthass looking like a young man in his early twenties. He wore the alabaster robes of a Geborene priest and the populace paid him no attention. Beneath his feet white cobblestones shone bright in the sun. Everything he touched, every stone and pebble his feet came into contact with, became pristine and pure. He did it without thought. The buildings, bleached and regularly scrubbed free of blemishes, sat in perfect rows. At each corner, he stopped and glanced back down the street, checking its perfection. His hands, ever busy picking flecks of dried blood from his fingers, had been trained to pocket the flakes rather than dropping them on the ground where they might mar the purity of his city.
After spending the morning inspecting his army, now camped beyond the great wall, checking uniforms for stains and wrinkles, he left moderately pleased. The troops were ready to march, excited to spread the word of their god to the filthy and ignorant. They knew in their hearts they were doing the world a holy service. Morgen would save Gottlos from its miserable existence and make it part of the Holy Empire of Selbsthass. First thing in the morning, he’d lead them south.
The cadre of Geisteskranken were less impressive. They stood alone or in small ragged groups, twitchy and flinching at everything, apparently unable to form neat lines like the rest of his soldiers. Most of the insane had great difficulty maintaining an acceptable level of cleanliness. Were he not sure he’d need them and their host of delusions, he’d leave them behind. Better yet, he’d do away with them altogether; they would never change, were likely incapable.
The thought raised some interesting questions. Why were the sane so easily led while getting a Wendigast to wash their damned hands was near impossible? Were the masses more capable of seeing and understanding Morgen’s goals because they weren’t distracted by insanity? Or was there something more? If enough sane were gathered together and convinced of something they could manage subtle changes to reality, but alone they were helpless. Perhaps that inability to define reality made them more willing to follow someone who could. It was like reality wanted him to unite all humanity and bend them to his purpose. It made sense: All things strove for perfection, why not the very fabric of existence?
“What will you do with your Geisteskranken once you have made your perfect world?” asked Nacht from a store window as Morgen passed.
The godling glanced at his Reflection, noting the caked filth of his hair, and stopped. “What do you mean?”
“They’re imperfect, you can’t deny that.”
Nacht was right. There was no place in a perfect world for deranged women and men who might twist it into something less perfect.
“You’ll have to get rid of them,” said Nacht. “You’ll have to do away with these imperfections. Even those who have served loyally.”
“With all the world worshipping me I shall be able to heal them of their delusions.”
“Perhaps,” said Nacht, sounding unconvinced. “And if you can’t?”
“Nothing will stop me from making this a perfect world.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” said his Reflection.
“Why?”
“When you are there, at the end and this world is flawless and clean and sane…”
“Yes?”
“Where will your place be?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are yourself a Geisteskranken. Perhaps one of the most powerful Geisteskranken ever as you are capable of whatever your believers think you can do.”
“So?”
“Your obsession with cleanliness and perfection isn’t sane.”
Morgen eyed his Reflection. “The result will be.”
“And where in that result is there room for an insane little boy?”
“With the faith of all the world behind me I will be perfect.”
“So you’ll lose this obsession? In a perfect world, will you be sane?”
Would he be? Would there be need for delusion in a perfect world? “These are questions better asked when I have achieved my goals.”
“Don’t want to think about it, do you,” said Nacht. “In a truly perfect world there is no need for a god to tell everyone what to do. They’re perfect, they’ll do it on their own. But you don’t want to lose your power. You like playing god, moving men like toy soldiers.”
His Reflection struck too close to the mark, left him uncomfortable. “There is much work to be done before we get there.”
“You won’t give up your power. In the end, you will be the one imperfection in your perfect world.”
Morgen stalked closer to the window, glaring hate at his dirty Reflection marring its pristine surface. “Still seeking to make me doubt? It won’t work. All this…” he waved his blood-caked hands at the Reflection, hating their eternal stain, “all this is nothing. A distraction.”
Nacht grinned. “You’re right.”
Morgen blinked in surprise. “I am?”
Nacht sprang from the window, tackling Morgen and dragging him to the street.
Morgen wheezed as a knee crushed into his belly. No longer did he look like a young man. His Reflection somehow negated his disguise. The two boys wrestled, one clean and white, the other caked in filth. Equally matched, neither could gain advantage.
Rage built in Morgen’s gut. He was a god, not some brat to roll in the street. He could burn cities with his delusions. He could bend reality to his will. Fire built in him, screaming for release. He’d burn this odious stain to ash.
“Careful,” grunted Nacht in a strangled voice, face mottled as if he couldn’t breathe, “you’ll scorch your pretty white cobblestones.”