There are two temples. Neither congregation share the other's methods of worship, they are only matched in the depth of their devotion.
The first is a house of iron and furs.
The Massacre Soldier kneels to no one but his King. His confessions are muffled, mouth to flesh his teeth readily pierce. But they are not an expression of regret, he does not seek absolution, only to express his desire. He claims a sacrament of blood, greedily taken, iron and sea salt captured by a wicked tongue. The Soldier finds scripture in the hard lines of muscle and bone, marks the progress of his readings in raised nail tracks and the sunset spectrum of bruises. The hymns he sings in praise would make an angel blush, pulled from parted lips in the troes of fiery passion. Prayers fall in breathless begging, dragged to the razor's edge of paradise each time he gives himself to his King.
But it is a primal rite, far more feral and animalistic than any common church could conceive, or condone. Service does not shuffle in to sit idle in the pews, it is a trial by combat. Blessings are not simply given when asked, but must be taken. Claimed by right, through strength and cunning. And at times, it is the Soldier that throws his King onto the altar instead, insatiable save for the bounty of his lover's vessel. And oh, how the virtuous would rail against the very concept, but he is an Equal to his King in every way. He is held just as dear and just as hungered for. If given half the chance, he would devour his god's still beating heart and climb within the safety of his ribs, just to never be parted. To keep within himself what belongs only to him.
The other is a house of far more tender worship.
Outside of their sanctum, an oasis of peace and comfort against the harsh world beyond, they lay waste to their enemies in tandem. Firm hands that wield a trident, streaked crimson, later cup the face of his beloved deity. Thumbs trace across the old scars along cheekbones, feather-light as if turning the pages of a sacred text. And how his idol smiles at him, met with warmth as if he's turned his face toward the sun itself. From within his lover, a wild flame capable of reducing foes to ash lays nestled in his chest, a fiery sprite contained within a vessel that had nearly been snuffed out far too soon years ago. Flesh torn and bone broken, he had once heard Death itself rattle within his beloved's lungs, but rejoiced when he was reborn of the King's machinations. To see him rise from such a state, how could he do anything but kneel in devotion before him now? To bask in his light and know true religion.
In the quiet, candlelight flickers and the air is filled with the fragrant incense that slips from between holy lips. He lays him down upon their silk-draped altar and tends to him dutifully. The outer trappings unbound and unlaced, calloused fingers deft and knowing of these familiar rites. They soon turn to weaving, sturdy chords crossed in elegant patterns as sacred as any rune, binding the divine within his vessel. A true blessing, to be so thoroughly trusted by one such as he, pale eyes lidded by such sweet fondness for his devotee. There is patience in their rituals, each step no less important than the last. Words are poured into each other as sweet as Ambrosia, their cups never unfilled. Each service is a celebration of their bond, of life itself, not weighed down by stuffy pageantry and empty scripture.
