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romancatholicreflections · 6 years

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19th October >> Daily Reflection on Todays Saint of the Day for Roman Catholics: Saints John de Brebeuf, Isaac Jogues and Companions, Priests, SJ (memorial).

Saints John de Brebeuf, Isaac Jogues and Companions, Priests, SJ (memorial)

Between 1642 and 1649 eight French missionaries (six of them Jesuits) were martyred in North America by members of the Mohawk and Iroquois tribes. The first Jesuit missionaries arrived in Quebec in 1625. At first, they worked among French settlers and traders and began evangelising native peoples in the vicinity. But they soon expanded their missionary work to the Huron tribes about 1,200 km west of Quebec and about 160 km north of present-day Toronto. They visited the scattered tribal villages and were hospitably received by the families among whom they lived. But then the Iroquois, enemies of the Hurons, began attacking supply routes between the mission station and Quebec. It was during these hostilities that the missionaries were martyred.

Rene Goupil was born at Saint-Martin in Anjou, Maine-et-Loire in the north-west of France, on 13 May 1608. At the age of 31 he joined the Jesuits as a Brother but had to leave because of deafness. He arrived in North America in 1640 and offered his services to the Jesuits there. He was put in charge of the sick and in 1642 was assigned to the hospital at the Sainte-Marie mission centre. On 2 August 1642, while on his way there with Isaac Jogues, they were attacked by Iroquois. Both were captured and, after being tortured, were made slaves. One day, after giving a blessing to a child, Rene was tomahawked to death. He died on 29 September 1642. He is patron saint of anaesthetists.

Isaac Jogues was born in 1607 at Orleans in France and entered the Society of Jesus in 1624 and received his formation at La Fleche. In 1636, eleven years after Jean de Brebeuf, he was sent to New France. His mission to preach among the Mohawk tribes brought him as far as Lake Superior. In 1642 Jogues set out from Quebec on a special mission of mercy to the Hurons, who were suffering from famine and disease. The expedition achieved its aim but on the way back it was ambushed by the Iroquois, enemies of the Hurons. Jogues and his companion, Rene Goupil, were beaten with knotted sticks, their hair, beards, and nails were torn out and their fingers crushed. Jogues survived this experience but was kept as a slave until, with Dutch help from Fort Orange, he managed to escape and return to France. In 1644 he returned to the mission and worked near Montreal. He was sent on a peace mission to the Iroquois at Ossernenon (now Auriesville, NY), the place where he had been formerly captured. Before returning to Montreal, he left a box of religious objects behind him. However, these objects were believed by the Indians to be the cause of crop failure and sickness which followed soon after Jogues’ departure. The Bear clan of the Mohawks invited him back to a meal but then killed him with tomahawks on 18 October 1646. His head was cut off and set up on a pole. This took place on 18 October 1646.

John de LaLande, a layman, was born in Dieppe, Normandy on an unknown date. At the age of 19 he offered his services as a layman to the Jesuit mission in New France (now Canada). In 1646 he was a member of a party led by Isaac Jogues as an envoy to the Mohawks in order to maintain peace between the tribes. However, as mentioned, the Mohawks’ superstitions angered them and Jogues and his party were seized and brought back to Ossernenon. At first, the moderate Turtle and Wolf clans ordered them to be released but the more militant Bear clan killed both Jogues and Lalande. Lalande, having witnessed the death of his companion, was martyred one day later, on 19 October 1646.

Four Jesuits and one layman died in what is now Canadian territory:

Anthony Daniel was born in Dieppe, Normandy on 27 May 1601. He gave up law studies to enter the Society of Jesus at Rouen. He studied Theology at Clermont College in Paris and was ordained in 1631. He felt attracted to do missionary work among the Huron people in New France. He became fluent in the local language and looked forward to forming future catechists among the Hurons who would in turn pass on the faith to their people. In the summer of 1649, the Iroquois made a sudden attack on the mission. The children and women went for cover while Daniel rushed to the cabins of the sick and dying to baptize as many as he could. The Hurons ran to the church as the best place for them to die. Daniel ordered the Iroquois not to enter the church. Though amazed at the priest’s courage, they shot a volley of arrows at him, killing him. They then set fire to the church and tossed Daniel’s body into the flames. He was martyred on 4 July 1648, at the age of 48.

John de Brebeuf was born in Normandy, France, in 1593 and entered the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) at Rouen in 1617. He suffered so much from the effects of tuberculosis that he could neither study nor do the usual teaching. Nevertheless in 1625 he offered himself for the North American mission among the native peoples and was accepted. He

found himself working among the Hurons. At first he made slow headway but then found the work very rewarding from about 1633 until his death. At their request of the Hurons, he began to live among them, sometimes on his own and sometimes with a fellow Jesuit, preaching and catechising them in their own language. The main obstacles he met were deep superstition, physical violence and even cannibalism. But another serious factor was that Brebeuf and his fellow missionaries, however committed they were, belonged to a much resented, conquering people. Nevertheless, Brebeuf set up schools and in one year baptised over 200 catechumens. On one occasion he was condemned to die but spoke so eloquently about the afterlife that the execution was not carried out. In 1649 the Iroquois, who were bitter enemies of the Hurons, attacked the village where Brebeuf and his companion Gabriel Lalemant were. The two Jesuits were captured, their bodies mutilated, tortured, burnt, and eventually eaten. It was 16 March 1649. It is said that the Iroquois ate the hearts of the two priests in order to have a share of their extraordinary courage in facing death. But the horrific way in which they met their death has few equals in the stories of martyrdom.

Gabriel Lalemant was born on 3 October 1610, the son of a lawyer in the judicial court (Parlement) of Paris, and at the age of 20 he joined the Society of Jesus in 1630. In 1632 he took a special vow to work as a missionary. He nevertheless spent 14 years in France before going to North America. He taught at the Collège in Moulins (1632 to 1635), studied theology at Bourges (1635-1639), and then was attached to three different Jesuit institutions (1639-46) before arriving in Quebec on 20 September 1646. Little is known about his stay in Quebec but in September 1648 he arrived at the Sainte-Marie-des-Hurons mission station and, because he learnt the language so quickly, in February 1649 was sent to the Saint-Louis mission. On 16 March 1649, a war-party of 1,000 Iroquois overran the small town of Saint-Ignace and captured it with little opposition. The invaders then went on to the nearby Saint-Louis mission, where the Hurons put up strong resistance. Eventually the Iroquois prevailed. Gabriel and de Brebeuf were there and, though urged to escape, refused. As soon as they were captured they were stripped of their clothes, their nails were torn out, and they were taken to the little town of Saint-Ignace (now in the county of Simcoe, Ontario). Brébeuf died on the afternoon of 16 March, at four in the afternoon. Lalande’s torture began on the evening of 16 March and continued to the next morning. He had a hatchet blow to the head and his whole body was burned. His body, buried together with Brébeuf’s under the chapel of the Sainte-Marie residence, was moved to Quebec in 1650.

Charles Garnier was born in Paris on May 25, 1606. He came from the same parish as another of his fellow martyrs, Gabriel Lalemant. Charles came from an aristocratic family and his father was an under-secretary of King Henry III and later put in charge of the Normandy treasury. His mother, from a noble Orleans family, died soon after he was born. He studied at the Jesuit Clermont College and entered the Society of Jesus on 26 September 1624. After his first vows, he returned to Clermont as a Prefect while studying rhetoric and philosophy. After teaching for two years in the College of Eu, he returned again to Clermont for his theology studies. He was ordained a priest in 1635. He was now keen to join the Jesuit mission in New France. His superiors approved but insisted that he get the consent of his father, who was strongly opposed because of the great dangers. This delayed his departure for one year. Charles finally set out and arrived at Quebec on the 11 June 1636. On 12 August he arrived among the Hurons and received a warm welcome. His first year coincided with a dangerous crisis. Both the natives and the missionaries came down with smallpox but the blame was put on the missionaries (who may indeed have unwittingly have been carriers) and their lives could have been in serious danger. However, the crisis passed. Charles would spend the rest of his life as a missionary among the Hurons, without once returning to Quebec. The Hurons gave him the nickname “Ouracha” or “Rainmaker”, because a long drought ended soon after his arrival. He was greatly influenced by fellow missionary Jean de Brébeuf, and was known as the “lamb” to Brebeuf’s “lion”. When Brébeuf was killed in March 1649, Garnier knew that he too could die soon. On 7 December of the same year, the Iroquois arrived at the gates of the village, creating terror among the people as the invaders acted with inconceivable cruelty to women and children alike. Charles was the only missionary there at the time. “We are facing death,” he told the people, “pray to God and take flight by any possible avenue of escape. Cherish your faith for the rest of your life and may death find you thinking of God.” He blessed them and then went to see what help he could give to others. It was while doing all this that he met his death. One bullet pierced his chest and another his thigh. Even then he tried to give help to other victims. He then received two blows from a hatchet, one on each temple, that went right to the brain. His body was then stripped and left naked on the ground. It was found later, hardly recognisable, covered with blood and ashes from the fire. He was buried by his Christians where the church had been.

Noel Chabanel was born in Saugues, Auvergne in the south of France, on 2 February 1613 and entered the Society of Jesus at Toulouse when he was 17. Following his studies, he was a teacher of rhetoric at a number of Jesuit colleges and was highly respected both for his goodness and learning. Fired with a strong desire to serve in the North American mission, he was sent to New France in 1643, at the age of 30. After studying the Algonquin language, he was sent to the Jesuit mission centre at Sainte-Marie and stayed there until his death. His early enthusiasm quickly faded. Unlike his companions, he found it very difficult to adapt to the Huron way of life, nor could he ever learn the local language. The very sight of them, their food, indeed everything about them, he found difficult to take. Moreover he was tested by a spiritual dryness during the whole of his stay in Canada. Life on the mission was, for him, an unbroken chain of disappointments, which he called a “bloodless martyrdom”. Yet, in order to bind himself more inviolably to the work which his nature abhorred, he made a solemn vow, in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, to remain till death in this mission. A promise he more than kept. After the deaths of John de Brebeuf and Charles Garnier, Noel Chabanel was immediately recalled to the Sainte-Marie mission station. He had already started on his way back with a number of Christian Hurons when they heard the shouts of the Iroquois returning from Saint-Jean. Noel urged his companions to escape but he himself was too exhausted to keep up with them. His fate was at first unclear but a Huron apostate eventually admitted killing Noel out of hatred for the Christian faith. He met his death on 8 December 1649. Given his difficulty in living the missionary life, his martyrdom only increases the heroism of his death. He was only 36 years old. These eight martyrs were canonised in 1930 by Pope Pius XI and their cult was extended world-wide in 1969 as proto-martyrs of North America. All worked tirelessly to bring the indigenous peoples of those regions to the Catholic faith. They are greatly revered because they sowed the seed for the first beginnings of the faith in North America not only by their preaching of God’s word but also by the shedding of their blood.

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thereluctantinquisitor · 7 years

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Bloody Lines

[Part two found here]

Thank you for the prompt @taerellavellan! They were so good I figured, hey, why not do both? Unfortunately this got super long as a result... u_u

Featuring: The Dawn Squad, Hanin “Overprotective Dad” Lavellan, Maraas Adaar. (Approx 7000 words, most under the cut).

CW: blood, graphic violence, swearing, major character injury.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Hanin grunted, shoving away a bandit with his boot and only just managing to regain his balance in time to block a mace-swing from another. Claim the fort, the missive said. It’s abandoned, it said.

As the grizzled man Hanin had kicked staggered back, wheezing from the force of the heel that had been driven into his gut, Hanin couldn’t help but feel like someone had overlooked a very important thing. Namely the bandit nest nestled at the heart of their conquest. Like angry hornets, they had buzzed to life the second the Inquisition soldiers crested the nearby hill, banners raised and flapping in the wind.

Unfortunately, Hanin did not have time to dwell on his frustration; his mace-wielding opponent readjusted his grip, growled, then swung again, arm muscles rippling, aiming for the dead-center of Hanin’s chest. The mace’s massive metal head was designed to crush armour and shatter bones like the back-kick of a mule, and Hanin treated it with worthy caution. With barely a second to think, Hanin danced back and away from the blow, the snarling bandit too close for him to manoeuvre his greatsword to parry. By the grace of Mythal, he had chosen wisely when he began the fight in leaf-stance. Outnumbered as the Inquisition soldiers were, he knew he would be required to move whenever one of the many bandits managed to get within his reach. In this instance, Hanin needed the mobility more than he needed brute force behind his swings.

There were many advantages to the greatsword. Extreme close-quarters combat was not one of them.

Safe for a brief moment as the mace-wielding bandit lurched and staggered, pitched by a blow that failed to connect, Hanin threw his gaze around him like a frantic parent who had lost sight their child on a crowded dock. Around him, scattered among the other scouts and soldiers, the Dawn Squad were locked in fights of their own, some with more than one opponent bearing down on them. The bandits met Hanin’s recruits to the sound of clashing steel, teeth bared with the feral determination of men with nothing left to lose but their lives.

About ten yards away, through a press of bodies, Ralon swung his longsword in practiced sweeps, playing to his strengths, sharing Hanin’s choice in stance. He twisted and danced around the swings of the massive bearded man who faced him; a technique that let him avoid jarring last-minute parries. The young man’s face was like chiselled marble, stern with concentration that aged him well beyond his years. He spun past the bandit and slashed a line right up the length of the man’s trunk-like arm. The bandit gasped from the shock of it, his blade clattering to the rocky earth, relinquished by suddenly useless fingers. Ralon’s triumphant whoop was lost to the din of combat, but his grin flashed like sun-caught metal in the corner of Hanin’s eye.

Hanin returned to his own fight just in time to see the mace-bearer shift tact, going for an underhanded blow aimed directly at his groin. Ignoring how much that move reminded him of a certain someone, Hanin hefted his sword up and across until it lay horizontal at about waist height. Then he slapped his palm flat against the broadside of his blade and dropped. The upward blow stood no chance against the descending weight of a warrior in plate, and the head of the mace struck square against the underside of Hanin’s sword. The crashing ring of colliding metal was enough to shake the marrow right out of his bones, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the sensation, his mind already moving ahead, shaping his next move. With one knee grounded like a reverent knight, Hanin twisted, hooking the edge of his blade behind the mace’s head, locking it in place. A look of bewilderment flashed across the bandit’s face as he tried to tug it back to no avail. Hanin’s grip tightened. He smirked.

Then he heaved.

His strength was enough to wrench the weapon free from his opponent’s grasp, sending it spinning hammer-over-hilt through the air. It thudded against the ground somewhere nearby, but it didn’t matter. By the time the thump of metal on earth reached his ears, Hanin and swung his blade back around to cut down his bewildered opponent.

The next bandit to stumble forward like a bewildered lamb looked even easier to manage. Young enough to be the proud owner of a patchy peach-fuzz beard, he was clearly inexperienced and engaged Hanin the way a halla sized up a snarling wolf. With such a feeble threat before him, Hanin decided he had enough time to check in on his squad again. Whatever his current opponent had planned, it wouldn’t be happening with any great haste. Sharply, he glanced to his left.

Connors, feet wide, deflected blow after blow with her shield, situated firmly in shield stance as she fought back-to-back with Cyrus. Confident that his rear was defended by a veritable wall of stubbornness and steel, the dark-haired man was free to attack the pair of bandits rounding on him that sought to break apart their little formation. Of all Hanin’s recruits, Cyrus was by far the best when it came to direct, fast-paced combat. Smirking, the man spun his short-sword casually in his hand, clearly goading his opponents, then flew into a flurry of fast, blurring blows. Unlike Connors, Cyrus favoured offence over defence, and in this instance his eagerness to strike early paid off. The first bandit was so stunned by the explosion of movement that he leapt back and stumbled awkwardly over the loose rocks that scattered the sloped terrain. He threw out an arm for balance that served as a fine target for Cyrus’ moving blade. The bandit collapsed in a screaming heap, clutching the bloody stump were his hand had once been.

Grinning triumphantly, Cyrus wheeled back around, feet sweeping hypnotic patterns through the dirt as he spun and just caught a strike from his other foe with the upper edge of his blade. Steel slid against steel and rather than attempt to reposition himself Cyrus just shouted and threw himself forward, barrelling into the bandit with a reckless shoulder-charge that set Hanin’s teeth on edge.

Idiot.

The pair fell in a tangled heap of limbs and violent oaths, Connors shifting to cover the two scuffling, slapping men with an air of obvious exasperation. As she moved, an arrow zipped through the air and struck down one of the bandits who had been attempting to break her guard, catching him square in the throat. Some distance away, perched higher up the slope, stood Lyrene. Her blonde hair whipped around her head as she flicked up a fresh arrow from the three held tip-down in her draw-hand and swung around, eyes snapping onto a new target. Her arrow flew half a breath later, catching a large bandit running for Hanin in the shoulder with a dull yet satisfying thud. The man roared, reeling back, teeth bared in a snarl so furious it would have looked at home on a Hinterlands bear. Hanin managed to offer her a grateful nod before casually batting away a swing from the youth who was shaking so hard he could conduct an orchestra with his sword.

Yet, more bandits were pouring from the supposedly abandoned fort. The one they had been sent to claim for the Inquisition. As well as they were doing, Hanin knew they would have to call a retreat soon. It would be difficult to flee up the hill, given the bandits’ superior mobility in their light leathers. Hanin ground his teeth and took a menacing step towards the young man who flinched back pitifully. If only—

Suddenly, a massive boulder ripped through the air above Hanin’s head, slammed straight into his opponent, then met the ground with an earth-splitting crash.

Maraas laughed wildly as the bandits scattered like ants before a falling boot, the boulder he had torn from nearby shattering as it impacted the ground and flung knife-edged shrapnel in all directions. Sure, Maraas considered it a shame that he had to fight for a change, but he figured he might as well earn his pay occasionally. Only a short hour after dawn, he had drawn the short stick and been forced to accompany a group of scouts headed north-west of the Inquisition camp. They had travelled further north than the fort patrol, however bandits were far from quiet folk. An entire army of them suddenly roaring to life carried sound through hills better than a foghorn on a still morning.

With eagre shouts, the squad Maraas had been tagging along with rushed down the hill, flooding past one of Hanin’s archers whose quiver was fast resembling a beggar’s coin purse. Maraas paused beside her, eying the fight down below, uncertain if he felt like throwing himself directly into the tangled mess of steel and sweat.

“Good thing you lot came along,” the woman said. She kept her words short between shots, clipped at the edges to match her overall efficiency. “Was getting hairy for a bit there.”

“Well you’re in luck,” Maraas replied amiably, “hairy is my specialty.”

“… Charming.”

Face splitting into a grin, Maraas concentrated then made a fist in front of him at about waist height. Focusing on a piece of ground some twenty feet into the fray, he breathed out a sharp puff of air and jerked his forearm upwards. Stone and earth ripped up from the ground in a ragged wall, tossing a pair of bandits with crossbows flat on their backs and cutting them off from their intended targets. Their disorientation did not last for long, but it was enough for the sword-wielding Inquisition soldiers to close the gap without being turned into pin cushions for their trouble. Maraas counted that as a win.

“Well fuck me… that’s sure something,” breathed the elven woman, glancing across at him with no small degree of wariness. Maraas chose not to take it to heart. “Don’t suppose you learned that trick playing with sticks in the woods?”

“Yeah, you’d be surprised,” Maraas replied dismissively, then cast his gaze at the unfolding battle. It seemed the fort had run out of bandits to throw at them, but the ones locked in combat outnumbered the two patrol groups almost two-to-one. It wasn’t looking good. Sure, it was doable, considering the way a good number of the bandits flailed their swords around like soggy fish, but it was clear that fatigue was beginning to tug on the arms and legs of the soldiers who had begun the fight earlier. Particularly Hanin’s squad, who had been at it for who knows how long. While Hanin himself appeared to have gained a second wind with the arrival of reinforcement, Maraas could see from his elevated position that the others were not faring quite so well. Cocky and Stone-Face were doing all right, back-to-back and conserving their energy for the time. Pony-tail was flagging, but not enough for it to be a real problem just yet. Arrows up on the hill was running low of, well, arrows, but in no immediate danger.

That just left…

Fate could not have amused itself more than in that precise moment Maraas’ gaze flicked across to the young blonde man fending off a bandit. The boy was holding his own despite his youth, but wore a clear look of terror on his face as he parried and skittered away from his furious axe-wielding man.

Had Maraas looked just a half-second earlier, what happened next would have gone completely unnoticed. He could have continued about his day in blissful ignorance. But, unfortunately, he hadn’t looked just a second earlier. Instead, he bore witness to the exact moment the bandit pulled a clever punch with his free hand, catching the young soldier on the chin. It was a glancing blow, but enough to stagger the man, knocking him back a few steps. It left enough of an opening for any fighter worth half a damn to take advantage of. Maraas’ feet began to move of their own accord and he charged down the slope towards the pair, reaching out a hand, his magic rushing down his arm as a piece of earth tore away at his command somewhere to his right. But, despite his best efforts, he was too damn slow. Too far away even as he sent the rocky missile hurtling out ahead of him, hoping fervently that it could somehow outpace the inevitable.

It didn’t.

The bandit’s axe came down in a flash of steel and caught the reeling soldier straight across the thigh, biting deep into the flesh. What followed was a cry of pain and a spray of red.

Hanin wasn’t sure how he heard the scream. He was even less sure how he knew it was one of his own, but he did. As sure as he knew Atisha’s hilt in his hand, he did. A feeling of overwhelming dread swelled deep within the pit of Hanin’s stomach. It pushed its way up the back of his throat, bitter and acrid. He nearly choked on it as he whirled in the direction of the cry, his heart forgetting for a moment the proper rhythm in which to beat. The battlefield was reduced to a sweeping blur as he searched among the press of clashing men and women, taking tally of his own with dizzying swiftness.

Ralon... Cyrus and Connors... His eyes flicked up the sloping hill. Lyrene…

… Shit.

Wherever Darren was, Hanin couldn’t see him. That, he decided immediately, was not good enough. However, as he tried to move in the direction of the shout, his opponent – now a russet-haired man oilier than the blade of a sword set for storage – rushed him with a cry of premature exaltation. Hanin gritted his teeth and swore he could feel them creaking inside his mouth.

Damn it - he didn’t have time for this!

With furious impatience, Hanin jerked his blade, batting away the bandit’s weapon with one sweep, intent on a greater goal beyond their pointless squabble. For a split-second, Hanin considered his options, calculating the fastest course for disengagement. Disarm… cripple… kill…?

In the end, he settled on a time-honoured technique favoured by warriors both ancient and present.

He growled, raised his hand, and slammed one gauntleted fist straight into the bandit’s face.

“You’re all right, kid. Just keep breathing. That’s it. I’ve gotcha…”

The blonde was trembling like a half-drowned pup that had stumbled into a river. Maraas, jaw tight, wrapped one hand behind the boy’s head for support and pressed the other, already bloodied by his own knife, hard against the mess of his leather-clad thigh. Hot blood and muscle pulsed beneath his bare palm, the former seeping around it in a steady flow that ebbed and rushed with each frantic pump of the boy’s failing heart. He’s losing a lot of blood, Maraas thought grimly. And really fucking fast.

Glancing up, Maraas spared a half-second to check on their axe-wielding friend. The bandit in question lay sprawled on the ground, head bleeding, a red-tinged chunk of rock settled less than a foot away from where he had met the dirt. His axe, far redder than the rock, lay abandoned at his side. Maraas scowled, hating the way it seemed almost content as it dripped blood onto the dirt, its job well done.

Shaking his head, satisfied that the bandit posed no immediate threat, Maraas allowed himself to focus his attention on… well…

… more pressing issues.

The axe wound was relatively clean, as luck would have it. Well, as far as axe wounds were concerned, at least. Luck was probably quite a generous term, too, considering the pool of blood in which Maraas currently knelt. His knees were warm and the cotton of his breeches had quickly adopted a new shade dark, wet crimson. He knew it was foolish to even consider the cleanness of the axe’s cut when the boy was bleeding out onto the thinning grass. Maraas swore softly – the blonde’s skin was already far too pale. Glassy. Shit, if he lay down in a patch of snow he would probably disappear.

Closing his eyes, Maraas forced himself to focus. To drown out everything else. He poured his concentration into the flat of his palm, magic rising to his call like a lover charmed by familiar song. It tingled in a curious yet comforting way, trickling down his arm like beads of sweat beneath the skin to pool in his bloody palm. Once enough of it had gathered there, Maraas took a slow, steadying breath, then forced his awareness outward.

It’s been a long time, huh…?

Rusty as he was, he knew what he needed. What he sought was a tether. An anchor. A place of connection that would welcome his presence as much as it would fight it, as was often the way with such intrusive magic. However, vaguely at first, Maraas became more and more aware of a dull rhythm pounding softly beneath his touch. It was like a drumbeat through a wall, only he could hear it inside him. Not with his ears, but with the core of who he was. It thrummed from the young soldier’s body and rolled up his palm and through his veins, catching onto the threads of magic Maraas had cast out like a net with his seeking mind. The second he felt it connect, Maraas drew on the pulse until the two rhythms – his and the boy’s – melded into one. Harmonized. Yes, he supposed there was a musical quality to it all. The Chantry would likely say otherwise, but there were familiar notes to which even forbidden magic moved.

And they were as eerie as they were beautiful.

The young man suddenly went rigid beneath Maraas’ touch, his breath hitching tight in his chest. It took everything Maraas had not to lose concentration as he flicked his gaze up to the soldier’s face in sharp concern. But the boy wasn’t flagging. Instead, he was staring at Maraas’ hand, blue eyes blown wide, his bloodless lips parted in an expression of mute disbelief at the haze of red that was slowly spreading from Maraas to his wounded leg. In that gaze, despite the pain and incomprehension, Maraas saw a true, deep fear ignite like a fire from a lightning strike.

There was always fear.

“Listen, I get it, but you’re gonna have to trust me here, kid.” Maraas tried to sound reassuring despite the circumstances. Reassuring yet firm. It had to be done. “This’ll feel damn strange, okay? Don’t panic. I’m pretty good at all this shit if you don’t squirm around and make a mess of it.”

Not bothering to wait for a reply, Maraas pushed. Not physically, but with his mind. His awareness. With the rhythm that pulsed, briefly and unnaturally shared by both their bodies. With his magic. Humming in synchrony with the now sobbing soldier, it slipped from Maraas the way a thin stream of water escapes through a crack in a jug. As it flowed, Maraas directed it with the deftness of a master puppeteer, finding the damaged veins and arteries, knitting them back together. No, knitting wasn’t right. It wasn’t perfect. Shit, it wasn’t even permanent. But for the moment, it would suffice. For the moment, the boy would live, so long as Maraas maintained a connection and closed off where the axe had torn.

“You got a name, kid?” he asked tightly. Sweat had formed on his brow, a renegade bead sliding down his temple, ignored. The hardest part was over – or, well, ongoing – but Maraas knew he needed to keep the boy awake. If he fell unconscious, magic or not…

Maraas shifted and felt his boot slip a little on the blood-slick ground.

Shit…

“M… My name? D-Darren,” the soldier replied, teeth chattering despite the warmth of the sun that bathed the entire sloping field. “It’s… Darren. Miller. W-What’s your… n…?”

Maraas snorted, quietly amused.

“Maraas.” He turned his head and offered a close-lipped smile. “Y’know, you’re pretty polite for someone with half his blood watering the grass. Miller, was it? A good name. Your folks raised you well.”

Darren let out a breathy, shivering laugh, like someone had tossed it into a can and rattled it. Yet he seemed almost proud – pleased by the compliment. Something about him relaxed in that moment, and Maraas saw the lines of pain ease from his face. However, they were quickly replaced by an expression of foggy bemusement.

“I… it doesn’t hurt… anymore,” Darren mumbled weakly, surprised. He tried to sit up to take a look but Maraas gently restrained him by sliding the hand behind the boy’s neck to his shoulder. Apologetically, Maraas shook his head.

“You just lie still for a bit, okay? Take a break. Reckon you’ve earned it, personally.”

“But t-the others?” Darren continued, swallowing audibly as though to shift a lodged stone. He blinked, but the motion was sluggish, like his eyelids were made of lead and one was heavier than the other. “Are they…?”

“Alive and kicking, don’t you worry,” Maraas reassured him absently, briefly departing from their conversation to reassert his authority over the mess that was the poor boy’s leg. Concentrate. “They’ll be fine. You just keep those eyes open for me, okay?”

Silence followed between the pair, although nothing truly felt silent with the battle still raging a few short yards away. Bandits and Inquisition soldiers clashed bitterly, although it was clear the tide was beginning to turn. More and more of the leather-clad rebels broke away from their duels, spitting and cursing with the colourful vehemence of fated men. However, many still fought, determined to win or die with their blades in their hands and the sun above their heads. A part of Maraas could respect that, or at least understand the sentiment behind it. They had chosen a path of freedom, but twisted it along the way. They hurt others to buy pleasure for themselves. It was sad, in a way, how easy it was to lose sight of what truly mattered. Of the beliefs that had set them on their path in the first place.

“M… Maraas?”

Maraas turned his attention back to Darren. He was lying flat now, his head tipped back against the grass, blonde hair a mess of sweat and blood and dirt. The boy stared directly up. Up at the clouds that lazily pulled their way across the too-blue sky, as oblivious and uncaring as the Maker himself. He stayed that way, and when he spoke he didn’t meet Maraas’ eye. But he reached out shakily, weak fingers somehow catching his sleeve.

“A-Am I… g-going to die?”

Maraas closed his eyes and, soldier to soldier, did the boy the courtesy of not lying to him. Instead, he said nothing, and just let the kid twist the fabric in his trembling fingers. Just watched as glassy tears slid down the side of his face to join his blood in the grass.

C’mon Maraas, you big oaf, Maraas thought bitterly, tasting copper. Just say something. Lie. For fuck’s sake, look at him!

Maraas opened his mouth to speak, but before he had the chance a figure lying a few short paces away, sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, an axe at his side, shifted.

Hanin roared in frustration as he cut his way through yet another bandit who was foolish enough to cross his path. The man went down with a watery scream, felled by a blow that lacked all grace. All finesse. Pride and flair, Hanin had left it all somewhere behind him, lost in the churned-up dust of his footsteps. He shouldered past another bandit, who was already wounded, and sent him staggering. Like an afterthought, he swung Atisha up to fend off a passing swipe from a long iron blade. Bandit after bandit tried to block his path, but despite it all, he did not stop. He barely even paused until he had reached the outskirts of small yet intense battle. These were men and women fighting for their lives. For their freedom. Freedom that would be lost to iron bars should they surrender to the Inquisition and be made to pay for their crimes.

Many of them saw no future in cages.

Chest tight, lungs aching, Hanin spotted Darren’s shock of blonde hair almost instantly, and everything else fell out of focus like an unsteady dream. His body moved. His feet thudded against the ground, seeming somehow detached. Eerie. Distant. A part of him knew the grass and dirt around Darren was the wrong shade. Too red even for the sun-scorched dust, it blossomed around him like a death bloom. Hanin ignored it. He had to. Had to get to him. He was so absorbed by that singular thought that he almost ignored the massive figure leaning over Darren. The qunari’s large hand was pressed firmly to the boy’s blood-soaked thigh, while the other resting on his shoulder, keeping him down. The Vashoth, Maraas, shook Darren roughly whenever his blue eyes slid shut for longer than a justifiable blink, jostling the boy back into hazy, wet-eyed consciousness.

But, for some reason, he did nothing as a bandit slowly rose from the ground barely a few paces away from them, a dripping axe clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Hanin could only look on in horror as Maraas did nothing as the bandit raised his weapon high, the expression on his face equal parts haunting and furious. He screamed a shrill, mindless word – demon! – then swung down, throwing all his weight behind the strike. The axe split the air with its razor edge, cutting downwards, whistling, flashing…

… Hanin caught the blow with the cold, flat rage of a man set to slaughter. Eyes dead yet dangerous in their fury, he slapped the axe away and lunged, driving the full length of his greatsword into the man’s stomach and up through the cavern of his chest. It slid through organs, scraped against bone, then punched straight out the back at the base of his neck. For a moment, the bandit simply stood there, impaled, his face a wet mask of sheer disbelief. Blood trickled down the side of his head and rushed from his lower stomach. It sprayed from his mouth as he hacked out a cough. Trembling uncontrollably, the man reached out and clutched with numb fingers at Atisha’s blade, her edge shredding the skin of his hands as blood ran down her blade to pool at her cross guard. For a moment, the bandit pawed at the metal that ran him through, eyes bugged and shaking in his sockets. Then, the horrifying expression faded into something dull and lifeless, and he fell slack. It was over in seconds that felt like years. Hanin forced himself to watch.

It never got any easier.

A feeble, wet cough ripped Hanin back to reality and he raised a leg, extracting the bandit from his blade with a callous shove of his boot. By the time he pulled in his next breath, Hanin was on the ground, kneeling beside Darren’s shivering form. His hand reflexively reached out, smoothing the boy’s sweat-soaked hair back off his face. He cast his gaze over the soldier’s body, taking rapid tally of his wounds. Darren had done well, for the most part. As far as injuries went, there was only one.

Granted, a bad one.

“S-Sir… I’m… I’m s-s-sorry,” Darren babbled, his face clammy with cold sweat, eyes rolling slightly in his head as he tried and failed to focus on Hanin’s face. His cheeks were wet, but he did not sob. Hanin doubted he had the energy left for that. But he continued to try to speak, struggling to cough out the words. “I’m … I’m s-s—”

“Enough, Darren,” Hanin instructed sharply. He knew how he sounded. Cold. Cruel. But it was all he could do to keep the writhing knot of horror and fear at bay inside him. To stop it from overwhelming him as he reached a hand behind Darren’s head and cradled the boy helplessly. What could he do? What the fuck could he possibly do? There was so much blood. There was…

… There was Maraas.

“Hanin,” the Vashoth said suddenly, his voice stern. Commanding. It demanded Hanin’s attention like a sergeant before a battle. “Listen. Your boy’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get him back to the camp. Find a healer.”

“There’s a healer there?” Hanin asked numbly. He slapped the side of Darren’s face with the back of his hand to jostle the boy awake. Darren groaned weakly, the whimpered, tight pain flashing across his face as the safety of unconsciousness fled. Hanin cringed in sympathy, and kept talking. “Who?”

“Solas,” Maraas replied. “But only if we hurry. It’s possible he hasn’t left with the Inquisitor yet.”

For the first time, Hanin glanced up and met the huge mercenary’s eyes, a part of him hoping to find…. something there. Anything. Reassurance. Hope. Everything he didn’t have himself as he felt Darren shiver and weep in agony, cradled in his arms.

Instead, what he found made his blood run colder than his hatred for the bandit he had killed seconds earlier. Maraas’ eyes were… glowing.

Red.

Hanin saw it, then. The strange fog. He traced the haze of it, like a cloud that bled from Maraas’ skin.

That rose from Darren’s leg.

Something inside Hanin, wound so tight and desperate, suddenly snapped.

“You!” he growled, reaching out to his side, groping for Atisha who lay abandoned in the dirt nearby. He hadn’t cared where he let her fall. “Get away from him, you fucking bastard,” Hanin spat. Every bone in his body sung. Demanded. Hated. “You… you’re—!”

“—Hanin, for fuck’s sake, get a grip!”

Maraas’ voice was like a slap to the face. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true as Hanin was no longer looking at him, his head turned sharply and suddenly to the side. Maraas had, indeed, slapped him. Not hard, but hard enough to knock the blind rage clean out of him. Hanin reeled slightly, leaning away, shaking his head like he’d just struck it on a low doorframe. As he clumsily rearranged his addled wits, Maraas continued, his voice tight as a drawn bow and twice as deadly.

“Listen, save your shit with me for another time, all right? Way I see it, you’ve got two options: you let me keep your boy alive, or you carry back a fucking corpse. Understand?”

The truth behind his words, however rough, was not lost on Hanin. Even as the Vashoth worked that skin-chilling blood magic on Darren’s torn leg, Hanin couldn’t deny him the fact that it was, somehow, helping. Setting his jaw, he nodded tightly, forcing back the very real urge to get Darren as far away from the insidious haze of blood magic as possible.

“Good,” Maraas continued, as tense as a fallen soldier waiting for the inevitable blade through the back. “Come on, then. Get him up. You carry him, and I’ll stop what’s left of his blood from watering the flowers from here to camp.”

“That’d better be all you do,” Hanin warned icily, but conceded regardless, reaching under Darren and scooping the young man up into his arms. Darren moaned in pain, shuddering, as though the act of being lifted had twisted a knife in his spine. Then, just as suddenly, he fell slack. Hanin felt his heart stutter to a stop in his chest for a brief moment as he stared at Darren’s form, panic rising like a flood within him. But… no. The boy was breathing. It was short – shallow – but Hanin could feel the movement of his chest as he cradled Darren against him.

There wasn’t much time.

“Dawn Squad!” Hanin shouted, pitching his voice to carry. “To me! Now!”

Most of the fighting was over, the bandits either scattered to the trees or rounded up. Out of the corner of his eye Hanin saw the rest of his soldiers come rushing towards him, some in silent horror, others – namely Cyrus – swearing with the open vulgarity of a sailor that had dropped a dagger on his foot.

“Damn it, Darren, you fucking bastard! You absolute fucking half-brained shit-faced idiot!” Cyrus fell into quick step beside Hanin and Maraas, who moved as fast as they could without tripping over each other. “I take my eye of you for one god-damn fucking second and you… a-and you—!”

“Enough, Cyrus. It’s not your fault,” Hanin said sharply, cutting off Cyrus’ suddenly choked rant. “Just move. Where is Lyrene…?”

“Over there, sir,” Connors replied tersely on Hanin’s other side, shield still hanging off her arm. Its surface was scraped up badly, and completely battered out of shape in places. “Top of the hill.”

Hanin nodded, then glanced down. Darren’s head lolled against his chest. His eyes were open, but barely. He was clearly forcing himself to stay awake with every last thread of his resolve. Following orders, no matter what toll it took on him…

“You’ll be fine, Darren,” Hanin murmured in a low voice as he reached they reached the top of the hill and joined a horrified Lyrene. “Just keep it up. Don’t sleep. Understood?”

“… Y’ssir.” Darren breathed, lips barely moving. He was so pale, the colour drained from his cheeks like the sky before winter rain. Hanin grit his teeth and tried not to think about that red-cheeked smile. The one Darren always fell into when he finally got something right, or caught the eye of one of his squad from across the courtyard. The one he wore when he truly felt he’d earned the right to grin.

Hanin cursed himself quietly.

Don’t.

“Lyrene, Cyrus, go ahead. Find Solas. Stop him from leaving and tell him he’s needed.”

Not even bothering to salute, the pair took off at a sprint as though they hadn’t just spend the good part of an hour fighting for their lives. Ralon muttered something under his breath and took up Cyrus’ old position, watching over Darren like Mythal herself, eyes hard yet pained.

“Connors,” Hanin continued, glancing across to catch the woman’s eye, “watch our backs.”

She nodded and fell back a few paces, out of Hanin’s sight. Slowly, Hanin looked at Maraas, his face contorted in concentration, then let his gaze slide back down to Darren’s form.

“And you,” Hanin breathed, throat traitorously tight. “You just hold on.”

Hanin paced outside the tent, his anxious steps wearing a track in the dirt as he moved.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Occasionally he paused, as though struck by a thought, the scraping of his boots against the small stones underfoot grinding to a halt. But every time, as though angry at himself, he shook his head and resumed.

Back and forth, back and forth.

I should have been paying more attention.

“Keep that up and you’ll dig yourself a trench.”

Hanin turned sharply, his eyes locking on to Maraas as the Vashoth approached. He looked paler than usual, his skin drained of some of its usual depth, dark circles taking up residence beneath his eyes. Around his hand was a makeshift bandage, clearly tended awkwardly by Maraas himself rather than the healers. Hanin regarded it with a disdainful twitch of his upper lip, but he said nothing. Refrained from voicing how he truly felt. The man had, after all, saved Darren’s life. Or, if not saved it, he had at least maintained it. Preserved it.

It was more than Hanin could have done, at any rate. A part of him squeezed tight at the thought of what might have happened had Maraas not arrived when he had, and he let the feeling twist inside him like a frenzied eel. It was almost painful. He deserved far worse.

“I…” Hanin stopped, chewing on the words he knew he had to say. However, before he had a chance to continue, Maraas just sighed and raised a hand. The un-bandaged one.

“Look, I get it, okay? You can skip the lecture because I’m not going to stop. I can do good with my magic. So what if there’s a little blood involved? You don’t have to like it because either way, you’re boy’s alive. That’s what matters to me.”

Hanin could hear the sound of people talking inside the tent, muffled by the canvas that had been drawn tight the moment he’d been ushered out. Whether for privacy or to stop him from barging back in, Hanin didn’t know. But as he stood there facing Maraas, some piece of Hanin just… faded. It left him as surely as a long-held breath that needed to be released.

“I just… wanted to thank you.”

His words seemed to surprise Maraas as much as they’d surprised Hanin himself. With a kind of incongruous defiance, Hanin met Maraas’ gaze, as if daring him to argue or complain. After a long, steady stare, Maraas snorted and folded his arms.

“Well then… huh.” The Vashoth shook his head, although a satisfied half-smile had well and truly found a home for itself on his stubbled face. “Cut off my hand and call me stumped. I didn’t think you had it in you, with the shit you said back there.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Hanin said sharply, “I don’t approve of it. But you’ve made it pretty clear that doesn’t matter to you, and so be it. But I… can’t deny facts. You saved Darren’s life back there. I owe you for that.”

To Hanin’s surprise and mild alarm, Maraas let out a low, conspiratorial chuckle. “Don’t go around advertising that, friend,” he said, half-smile widening into a proper smirk. “I might just call in that debt next time I have morning watch.”

“If that is what you want.”

They stood for a time in the awkward, lingering silence of a conversation that had ended minutes earlier but missed its cue to leave. However, rather than excuse himself, Maraas walked forward towards the entry of the tent. Towards Hanin. The warrior stiffened, eying him the way a cook eyes a child lingering by the biscuits. But Maraas just reached out and placed a hand on Hanin’s shoulder.

“Heard you telling your squad it wasn’t their fault,” he said. He gave a comforting squeeze. “Not yours either.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Hanin wanted to argue the matter, but just… couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy. It wasn’t worth pretending. Instead, he just gave a stiff nod, and Maraas slid his hand off his shoulder. The Vashoth met his eye and nodded back, then hesitated, face tightening as a thought barged to the forefront of his thoughts.

“They kick you out of the tent or something?”

Hanin actually felt his ears heat up and he cleared his throat, eyes sliding away from Maraas uncomfortably. “I ah… yes.” He sniffed, reaching up to scrub at his nose roughly with the back of his hand. “Solas said my hovering I was making him… uncomfortable. Said he couldn’t concentrate with me breathing down his neck like a...” Hanin trailed off, catching himself at the last moment. However, after glancing back and seeing the expectant expression on Maraas’ face, he huffed out a defeated sigh. “Like a mother hen.”

“Ha!” Maraas clapped his hands once, the sharp sound so loud and sudden that Hanin almost started. “Sounds about right! Shit, I thought you were going to skewer me on the spot back at the fort if anything happened to that kid. Solas is right – you do make it hard to keep focus. You sure you haven’t had Templar training?”

Despite himself, Hanin felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. It faded quickly, however, and he found himself turning back towards the tent, staring at the opening as though he could somehow see through it. Shadows flickered in the candlelight, the figures backlit against the dull canvas. I should be in there.

“Let them work, Hanin.” Maraas’ voice was oddly soothing, but not patronising. There was a note of understanding to it that both set Hanin on edge and made him feel just a little less hopelessly alone. “The boy’s in good hands. I’m sure you’ll be the first person they call on when he wakes.”

If he wakes, Hanin thought, then stiffened, horrified by his own traitorous thoughts. He groaned quietly, reaching up to rub at his eyes but hesitated. His fingers were still a mess of red.

“C’mon,” Maraas said, and Hanin barely registered the heavy arm being draped amiably around his shoulders. He didn’t fight as it began pushing him insistently, forcing his legs to move to stop him from tipping and falling like a statue. “Let’s both get cleaned up and find some food, huh? You and the rest of your squad look like you could use a square meal. Do they even feed you lot…?”

Hanin didn’t reply, but he listened numbly as Maraas lead him away from the tent, chatting amicably the whole while. Plodding along, Hanin’s feet felt heavy, like the soles of his boots were made of lead, but he forced himself to move. Forced himself to walk away, just for a bit. After all, he’d be back soon enough. Even as he headed for the nearby stream to scrape the dried mess from beneath his nails, Hanin knew one thing as sure as he knew his own name.

He would be there when Darren woke up.

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