A follower of Molag Bal barged into a Temple of Mara. He tracked mud and blood on the newly polished floors as he sauntered down the main aisle, to the Lady of Mercy. He was stopped by an old Priestess of Mara, old and feeble after years of devout worship.
“What brings you to Our Lady’s Temple?” she said with a sweet and gentle voice. The cultist laughed.
“To desecrate you and this place, in the name of my Lord!” he answered. He drew his mace and raised it high, and nearly swung down when the old priestess chuckled. “What?! What’s so funny?!”
“My dear young boy,” she said, the laugher still lingering in her voice. “Don’t you know the ways of Mara? Ours is of love, compassion, and above all, forgiveness. You cannot desecrate what, by its very nature, cleanses itself.”
“Then you won’t mind if I do this!” the cultist wielded his mace, and in one brutal swing defaced the white stone statue of Mara. The old priestess smiled at him. “What?! Why are you smiling?!”
“Because, you silly thing,” the priestess said. “That was only a material object. You can throw your tantrums and burn your banners, but love is the strongest force in this world and all others. It cannot be destroyed with only a mace.”
The cultist grew red in the face, and screamed in rage, “This is the mace of my Lord! It will break your bones as if they were kindling! Why don’t I show you what I mean!” He raised the mace high above his head. The priestess kept her easy smile, which only further enraged him. “Why are you smiling?!”
“You don’t know?” the priestess said. “I suppose you don’t. Molag Bal is as weak as they come, and so too are his followers.”
Before he could swing down, the priestess grabbed hold of his lead wrist, squeezed the flesh tightly until the mace dropped to the floor. With no effort, she pulled his arm down and locked him in an embrace. The cultist kicked back, but found only the fabric of her robe, and there was no give when he stomped her foot.
“Let go!” the cultist snarled as she held him. “Let go of me, or I’ll burn you alive!”
“My wayward son,” she said as her touch grew warm. “Your Lord preaches of strength, but only through the dominance and humiliation of others. Is there anything more cowardly than cruelty? Anything more telling of your own inadequacy than spikes, and chains, and Soul-Shriven slaves?”
“Shut up!” the cultist yelled, and struggled, but the priestess held firm, and her touch ever warmer.
“You are not the first of the Petulant Brat’s followers to come through these doors.” the priestess said, as calm and quiet as a mother. “They come to me in all ways, empty and afraid, desperate to win their Lord’s favor, and bring despair to me as the Stone-Fire did to Arkay. But I am not Arkay.”
“Bitch! Whore!” the cultist screamed now, and wrenched himself loose from the priestess’ grip. He reached for his mace to find it gone, and looked around to find his muddy tracks disappeared, and the statue he defaced whole again. “I’m going to kill you, slowly and–”
“I have told you already,” the priestess said, her voice filling the air of the humble temple. “Love cannot be killed, and it cannot be destroyed. And in love’s name, can one be reborn.”
The evening was quiet in the remote temple, and the priestess made for herself a simple meal. She gently rocked the basket at her feet when the baby began to stir, and hummed a lullaby to send it to sleep once more. A childless couple would visit tomorrow, and pray to Mara for their wish to be fulfilled.
“Perhaps,” she whispered to the dreaming babe, “you will find fulfillment too.”
