And it came to pass that the Volcel entered the Hall of Many Mirrors, where Lord Swagger sat upon a bright seat, he who had attained the Seat of Chad. About his feet coiled the Algorithm‑Serpent, and the air was thick with clamor.
Round about him stood the Emulators, slaves of the Serpent, men young and old alike. They rehearsed lines of seduction as if they were prayers; they loaded the bar with plates beyond their strength; they drank foam and called it courage. They toggled the dating‑apps like rosaries of faces. Some pierced their flesh with needles and oils of steroids, trenbolone among them, chasing a crown of swelling; their sleep was broken and their hearts were restless. And they cried to Lord Swagger: “Beautiful! Beautiful! Perfection! Our lord and pattern, make us as thyself! Make us in thine image!”
When Lord Swagger beheld the Volcel, he rose with courtesy and laughed, yet not in scorn. He said, “Thou hast labored in the Temple of Iron. Thy shoulders are as city‑gates, and thy forearms are corded like ship‑ropes; thy frame is hewn as cedar. This strength I commend.”
Then Lord Swagger lifted up his voice and said, “Hear what it is to be free. When I would feast, I feast; when I would drink, I drink; when desire awakeneth, I seek embraces and am satisfied. I open the dating‑apps, that marketplace of faces, and I choose as one chooseth fruit from a tray. I deny myself nothing; my belly and my bed know no veto. This is freedom.”
But the Volcel answered, and his word was weight without anger: “Thou callest freedom the breaking of all reins; I call it the keeping of the reins in thine own hand. For he that obeyeth every impulse hath many masters: stomach and tongue, vanity and fear, loins and the clamor of crowds. Such a man is driven, though he boasteth he chooseth. Freedom is to command thyself—to say Yes in season and No in season, to Wait when haste crieth, to stop at Enough, and to work Today.
“Why trained I in the Temple of Iron? Not to enlarge my hunger, but to furnish my soul a steadier house. My strength serveth my duty; it is a lamp‑stand, not a theater.”
He turned to the Emulators and taught, saying, “A river without banks drowneth a field; with banks it watereth bread. So is desire. Bound, it becometh fruit; unbound, it becometh flood. Choose ye the banks.”
The Serpent hissed, “Now! Now! Now!” and set sparks upon their nerves. But the Volcel breathed and numbered his breath unto seven, and the hall grew cool. He set bread and water aside and said, “My body counseleth, yet it commandeth not. This is freedom.” He turned from a soft voice that beckoned in the shadow and said, “Desire, be a servant, not a king.” And there was quiet about him.
Yet the Emulators pressed on with mimicry: some forced laughter at a jest not spoken; some added iron to the bar and trembled beneath it; some bent their words to flatter, and others to wound, that Lord Swagger might mark them. “Beautiful! Beautiful!” they cried again. “Our lord and pattern, make us as thyself!”
Then the Volcel cried out woes:
"Woe to them that call compulsion liberty and haste wisdom; their barns shall be full of wind."
"Woe to them who farm their hunger for applause; they shall reap fatigue."
"Woe to the sellers of faces and to the buyers of persons in the stalls of the dating‑apps; they shall mislay their own names."
"Woe to those who load the iron to be seen and not to serve; injury shall be their tutor."
"Woe to the flesh pierced for the praise of strangers—oils and syringes, trenbolone among them; the heart shall learn fear and the night shall hold no rest."
"Woe to the tongue that performeth what the heart despiseth; it shall grow bitter in the mouth."
And he blessed the teachable:
"Beloved are they who can close a gate; they shall walk through many."
"Beloved are they who leave a table while a little hunger remaineth; their rest shall be sweet."
"Beloved are they who turn off the glowing stall of faces and lift their eyes to honest work; their minds shall be clear."
"Beloved are they who can refuse an embrace out of season; their yes shall be gold when its hour is come."
"Beloved are they who train in secret and boast not; their strength shall be bread for others."
Lord Swagger’s face was proud, yet his eyes were troubled. He said, “I will keep my way.” The Volcel replied, “Then keep also its wages: a shout that spendeth itself, and a hunger that waketh anew.” And he led forth those who chose the narrow gate into the plain air.
The mirrors, having no more worship to drink, dimmed; and the Serpent, starved by stillness, gnawed its own tail and was as smoke after rain. Lord Swagger remained among reflections, crowned by appetite—a lord over echoes.
Such is the disputation of freedom in the Hall of Many Mirrors. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Amen.
Round about him stood the Emulators, slaves of the Serpent, men young and old alike. They rehearsed lines of seduction as if they were prayers; they loaded the bar with plates beyond their strength; they drank foam and called it courage. They toggled the dating‑apps like rosaries of faces. Some pierced their flesh with needles and oils of steroids, trenbolone among them, chasing a crown of swelling; their sleep was broken and their hearts were restless. And they cried to Lord Swagger: “Beautiful! Beautiful! Perfection! Our lord and pattern, make us as thyself! Make us in thine image!”
When Lord Swagger beheld the Volcel, he rose with courtesy and laughed, yet not in scorn. He said, “Thou hast labored in the Temple of Iron. Thy shoulders are as city‑gates, and thy forearms are corded like ship‑ropes; thy frame is hewn as cedar. This strength I commend.”
Then Lord Swagger lifted up his voice and said, “Hear what it is to be free. When I would feast, I feast; when I would drink, I drink; when desire awakeneth, I seek embraces and am satisfied. I open the dating‑apps, that marketplace of faces, and I choose as one chooseth fruit from a tray. I deny myself nothing; my belly and my bed know no veto. This is freedom.”
But the Volcel answered, and his word was weight without anger: “Thou callest freedom the breaking of all reins; I call it the keeping of the reins in thine own hand. For he that obeyeth every impulse hath many masters: stomach and tongue, vanity and fear, loins and the clamor of crowds. Such a man is driven, though he boasteth he chooseth. Freedom is to command thyself—to say Yes in season and No in season, to Wait when haste crieth, to stop at Enough, and to work Today.
“Why trained I in the Temple of Iron? Not to enlarge my hunger, but to furnish my soul a steadier house. My strength serveth my duty; it is a lamp‑stand, not a theater.”
He turned to the Emulators and taught, saying, “A river without banks drowneth a field; with banks it watereth bread. So is desire. Bound, it becometh fruit; unbound, it becometh flood. Choose ye the banks.”
The Serpent hissed, “Now! Now! Now!” and set sparks upon their nerves. But the Volcel breathed and numbered his breath unto seven, and the hall grew cool. He set bread and water aside and said, “My body counseleth, yet it commandeth not. This is freedom.” He turned from a soft voice that beckoned in the shadow and said, “Desire, be a servant, not a king.” And there was quiet about him.
Yet the Emulators pressed on with mimicry: some forced laughter at a jest not spoken; some added iron to the bar and trembled beneath it; some bent their words to flatter, and others to wound, that Lord Swagger might mark them. “Beautiful! Beautiful!” they cried again. “Our lord and pattern, make us as thyself!”
Then the Volcel cried out woes:
"Woe to them that call compulsion liberty and haste wisdom; their barns shall be full of wind."
"Woe to them who farm their hunger for applause; they shall reap fatigue."
"Woe to the sellers of faces and to the buyers of persons in the stalls of the dating‑apps; they shall mislay their own names."
"Woe to those who load the iron to be seen and not to serve; injury shall be their tutor."
"Woe to the flesh pierced for the praise of strangers—oils and syringes, trenbolone among them; the heart shall learn fear and the night shall hold no rest."
"Woe to the tongue that performeth what the heart despiseth; it shall grow bitter in the mouth."
And he blessed the teachable:
"Beloved are they who can close a gate; they shall walk through many."
"Beloved are they who leave a table while a little hunger remaineth; their rest shall be sweet."
"Beloved are they who turn off the glowing stall of faces and lift their eyes to honest work; their minds shall be clear."
"Beloved are they who can refuse an embrace out of season; their yes shall be gold when its hour is come."
"Beloved are they who train in secret and boast not; their strength shall be bread for others."
Lord Swagger’s face was proud, yet his eyes were troubled. He said, “I will keep my way.” The Volcel replied, “Then keep also its wages: a shout that spendeth itself, and a hunger that waketh anew.” And he led forth those who chose the narrow gate into the plain air.
The mirrors, having no more worship to drink, dimmed; and the Serpent, starved by stillness, gnawed its own tail and was as smoke after rain. Lord Swagger remained among reflections, crowned by appetite—a lord over echoes.
Such is the disputation of freedom in the Hall of Many Mirrors. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Amen.
