The Crime of Being

a Sermon Delivered to a Congregation of Cultists of Nocturnal, c. 4E 42

- u/Val_Ritz

Brothers, sisters, night-siblings, I welcome you. I apologize that we have been unable to meet before now, but the recent unpleasantness in Sentinel made that unwise. Tonight, however, we are whole again, and we thank Our Lady of Night for shrouding us, keeping us from eyes that would hate and hands that would kill.

But hatred is not simply a force directed inward at us, children. Tonight’s meeting has a deeper purpose. I have heard whispers among you, whispers from those who I will not name—for naming them would be an unspeakable crime in this place of sanctified anonymity—whispers that speak of an Endeavor. They come, as all perversions do, in the guise of wisdom. I am here today, as your brother and as your father, to lay bare these rumors as the lies they are—and I beg Our Lady of Night to forgive me for elucidating in this place of shadow.

There are those among us who have outside allegiances. This has always been so. Outside, you are who you are, but in here, you are no one. This has been the case for as long as I have stood here in front of you, guiding you through the starless night. If your outside identity starts to affect the body of our Church, I have always tried to be patient and understanding in challenging it. This is different. The rumors being spread today are not the slip-ups and mortal failings of a growing congregation. They are a sickness; an attempt to subvert our holy family and turn us to political purpose. Be warned, those of you with weak constitutions or fragile will: I will speak of proper names in this sermon. If you must leave to preserve your conscience, please go now.

In the time before time, it is said, a question was posed. Lorkhan, newly-minted, challenged his siblings: “Why don’t we make something real?” I hear murmurs already among you. I agree, this was a terrible thing to propose to a world of infinite possibility. Lorkhan, nevertheless, posed this question to each Ada in turn, and they gave their answers—including, yes, she who in that time was greatest and oldest of all, the Lady Nocturnal.

It is written: “And the Lady turned to Lorkhan, who already quivered with the urgency of mortality that he embodied, and smiled, which stilled him. ‘You’re asking me questions, XXXX,’ she chided, pronouncing the true syllable that belongs to his Heart, ‘but you know I can’t answer them. I was already King, but here you are, tearing my cloak and shattering my crown. Get out of here. I love you, but you know I can’t do this thing you’re asking of me.’ And Lorkhan, perhaps expecting this answer, scratched the back of his head sheepishly and asked the second question, which only Nocturnal would ever hear. ‘Yes,’ she answered to this one, ‘I’ll keep it until someone comes to take it from me.’”

All of you here today have read this scripture, or heard it read, or heard another echo of it from some other place. The rumor-mongers are correct in laying out the facts: Lorkhan created the world in direct injury of Our Lady. He looked to answer a question, and the truth is torn from the cloak of Nocturnal herself. Why else would he turn to Magnus to build his machine, to wrest Nirn from the endless Maybe of the beginning? They wrought this world, and in so doing they cast her from her throne in disgrace.

The fury I hear in your voices is reassuring to me, but caution: do not let your anger burn brighter than the shadow of your faith. That is also written—at least I’m sure it should be.

So the question remains: What now? What do we do with this understanding? How do we take it and work the will of Our Lady? Do we throw in our lot with parties unnamed, try desperately to unmake this world, to break its heart, to tear down its substance? Do we put our faith in the twisted half-logic that grew where Law, wrought in Crystal, once stood?

No. You heard me, no. There is no amount of war—quiet, please!—war, or magic, or hate that will somehow undo the true rebellion that took place in that time before all things. The Thalmor—do not gasp, I warned you there would be proper namings here today. The Thalmor are desperate in their anguish, furious in their terror, but they are scrambling after the scraps of a banquet already eaten. Brothers, sisters, night-siblings, I will speak plainly this once: The creation of the world was not the first crime. The first crime was a murder, and Our Lady of Night was the only one there who saw it.