Spirits of the Earth

Northern Connlaoth

A Rastognlir by any other name would never dream of finding themselves in a place like this.  The conditions were livable, though quality of life was certainly something to be desired.  It was difficult to tell from the outside, as the carriage rolled through the narrow dirt path.  The trees were thick here and foliage grown wild except where it was necessary for the passage of men and beasts. 

The carriage that carried the priest toward the camp, known only as Valinarus, from a nearby abandoned castle situated within the depth of this forest.  As it neared, he stared out of the window, watching it come into view and didn't know what to make of the stone, mortar and iron gates that completely surrounded the facility and where each point of entry was well guarded with Mordecai and soldiers alike.

The priest was welcomed, with all due honors afforded to a member of the Church, and given a brief tour of the camp grounds, save for the more unsavory details.  It wasn't quite was he was expecting, nor what he was used to, but the current commanding Lieutenant did his best to make his visit as comfortable as possible.  He was introduced to the main hall, a cabin connecting to the temporary barracks and to the main offices commanding officers in charge of the camp, even Lieutenant Bromlin.

They afforded him lodgings of his own, separate from the barracks, a small cabin room with all the accommodations befitting a member of the Church.  Beside it was a make-shift chapel, constructed from small bits of wood for support and walled with tarp-skin and staked into the ground.  He knew they would make the best accommodations they could for him.  Perhaps they did not look upon the mages and magic-users living here with pity and sympathy, but they could at least understand the need for men and women to cleanse their souls from the weight of guilt and sin, the likes of which could only be achieved through confession.  Perhaps the poor wretches might find some peace through it.  But it was a hope the soldiers of Valinarus clung to perhaps at least save their own sanity.

They were lucky to receive response from the Church to send a priest willing to travel so far north in Connlaoth.  And better yet a priest from the Order of St. Agratha, the patron saint of merciful forbearance and just judgment, to ease the souls of the camp.  Mercuxio Rastognlir was more than willing to oblige. 

But the journey had been long and arduous and after a small meal from rations he'd brought himself, he retired for the falling evening before starting the first confessions set up in the morning.  Damn the dawn that came all too soon.  The cold washed against his face as he made his way to the small, but well-built chapel.  There were benches placed on the side and an altar in front with the Spear of Ansgar carved into wood, but Mercuxio had a feeling the church suffered from lack of use.

Much farther in the back and more toward the side was a confession box and, after cleaning up most of the chapel from most of the dust that lingered, he heard footsteps approaching, tentative at first, but coming nonetheless.  He took his place into the right side of the box and waited for the arrival of the newcomer.

He slightly parted the curtain and stayed within the shadow of the dim lantern light.  "Welcome, child," he answered in a soft voice.  "I am Father Merric.  Tell me what lays heavy on your heart, my child."

It was an exceptionally cold and blustery autumn morning with low, grey clouds blanketing the sky. Constance Carwick, or "Olive," watched the make-shift chapel with steely eyes, chewing the inside of her lip while contemplating the priest inside who had just arrived the previous night. He had come, the guards had informed the camp's internees prior to his arrival, to hear the confessions and minister to the troubled souls of the camp. It had been, somehow, nearly a year since Olive had arrived at Valinarus and, in that time, she had seen very little evidence that the guards or the Mordecai were even remotely concerned with the souls of the mages inside its walls. Even this sad, makeshift chapel had been off-limits to the mages until word of the priest's arrival had reached them. It had been reserved for the prayers of the guards, the Mordecai, but never the mages. She wondered, with a snort, if the priest knew that.

Since she'd heard that the Church was sending a priest to hear their sins, to forgive their transgressions, Olive had felt a growing feeling that, up until then, she hadn't had time for: anger. Life in the camp had been taken up by just that, staying alive. Or even, when possible, making life livable. When she'd first come here, her situation hadn't been so bad in comparison. Here were children ripped from their parents, grandmothers bent over in age and pain, a newlywed bride or groom with their lives and loves pulled out from under them. And she'd been allowed to keep her dog. She'd been kept separate, given her own quarters and in the beginning even ate with the Mordecai. But it hadn't lasted. Olive had found, for the first time in her life, that there was some actual use to her title, her lineage, her nobility. Finding that she could exert some authority over some of the guards and holding herself as at the very least the equal to the highest ranking Mordecai, she'd spoken up against the conditions in the camp and the treatment of the interned mages. Even the Mordecai who were unmoved by her position did not want to be the one deal too harshly with the daughter of a duke. Especially Duke Carwick, who was one of the staunchest supporters of the Grand Duke and the mission of cleansing the nation. Olive had made herself something of a headache, pushing the guards on small things mostly, things she could get away with: interceding in the punishment of a child who took too much food, insisting upon material for the upkeep of their hutch-like dwellings so no one would freeze to death during the harsh winters. Sometimes she pushed too far, and the special housing, the better food, the polite relationship with the captains of the guard and Mordecai had not lasted.

So much of her energy had gone into surviving the everyday trials of the camp, putting on a brave face and doing what she could to keep up morale, that she hadn't had time to be angry about it. She had been hardened, yes, but she hadn't had the spare energy to be angry. But the arrival of a priest here, the witness of a Man of God to the grim inhumanity of it all, was like a seal of approval from the Church.

Olive took her eyes off the church and looked down at her feet, heaving a sigh. Though she had never resolved how much of a believer she was in her heart, she had long turned to the Church as a refuge. A door that was always open, a way to try to be the daughter her parents wanted. It felt, in a way, like a personal betrayal. When she looked back up she saw the Carriage twins, Milo and Lucy, just ten, wrapped up in the wool traveling cloak she'd brought from Uthlyn, but given to them last winter. Between them was Dac, her Tracker, and the twins clung to the bear-sized dog as a source of warmth and comfort. Seeing them – cold, underfed, clinging to a dog when they had no parent – caused the bile to rise in Olive's stomach. Setting her jaw, she stepped into the make-shift chapel.

As soon as she entered, her pace slowed into something slow and respectful. Bowing her head, she muttered a short prayer as she crossed the threshold. Then she closed the distance of the small chapel and sat, her heart for some reason pounding, in the opposite side of the confessional.

"Father," she finally said, "I'm having a crisis of faith."

[Bear-sized dog, I love it!  More to hug!]

Mercuxio couldn't say how long he was planning to stay within the confines of Valinarus.  Though it wasn't the luxury he was used to, the priest learned long ago how to make the best of even the most meager of situations.  He was given a task to accomplish in this bleak and dreadful place, and far be it from him to shy away from it just because the chapel was little more than a tent, the cot he was given was old and could barely support his weight, and soldiers had no idea of the real reason why he was here.

But it wasn't theirs to know.  For it was not a matter of war or politics, not even of faith as many would have reason to believe.  Secret eyes and ears would find rumor of dissidence present somewhere within the camps.  It was to be expected at some point in time; any man with an ounce of common sense knew that prodded cattle, abused and whipped, could just as easily turn and stampede if enough of them set their minds to it.  He was priest, yes, a man of the cloth, but he knew in his mind he was foremost a Confessor.

Yet rumor was still rumor unless backed up by the proper evidence.  The surfacing of rumor, was to the Confessor's eyes, possibility for some kind of truth behind it –though twisted it may be.  It wasn't his to reason or make reply, but to obey and go to the North camps to find the source of it and root it out before it turned into a cancerous sore.  It was a matter the Order could not envision the Mordecai and soldiers of handling properly.  They were stretched thin enough as it was.

Mercuxio's mind was brought back from his thoughts at the sound of one of the wretched that came to sit on the other side of the screen.  There was something curious about her voice that struck him and he actually sat up at the sound of it.  It seemed familiar, and yet, he couldn't place it.  He supposed it was no real matter.  After ten years, they all started to sound the same.  He cleared his throat and kept his eyes toward the corner of the screen, not quite looking at the figure on the other side.

"I see, my child," he replied softly.  "A crisis of faith would not be uncommon in grave times like these.  Please go on."

Olive sat in silence. She felt surprisingly nervous now that she was here in the claustrophobic little confessional booth. Once the Church - both the organization and the physical buildings with their alters and confessionals and saints - had been so familiar to Olive, like her own home. But now, after nearly a year in the camp and a year prohibited from the chapel and the rites of the Church, she felt uneasy somehow. When she had been a young girl, she had loved the stablehand's dog dearly and would sneak away to the stables every day it, until one day the dog bit her. It had been recently injured by one of the horses and had reacted out of pain, but Olive had been very young and all she had felt was the pain of having something familiar and trusted hurt her. She could never make herself feel quite the same way about the dog after as she had before. She realized, as she sat in the confessional trying to find her words, that it might be the same with the Church.

Finally, Olive took a deep breath, and began. "It's just... Father, my whole life I have turned to the Church. For guidance, for solace, for succor, to try to know and follow God's will. It can be very hard... It is very hard, sometimes, to be a mage in Connlaoth. To be born with a burden you didn't ask for. Not because of the laws about magic use, I don't mean that, but because of how people view you, how people treat you." Olive spoke haltingly, and it was clear that words were not coming easily to her now. "But from the Church we receive the teaching that it is not the possession of an ability, but the use of magic which is wrong. And it has always been the Church that has provided... provided a framework and support for mages to still be able to live their lives and overcome, or at least resist, using magic. Forgive me for saying so, Father, for I don' mean to speak out against Connlaoth, but I often felt that the Church was one of the only places I could turn - where mages could turn - and be treated with dignity, as human beings." Olive took another deep breath, then continued. "It's where I would turn not only for the strength to resist the temptation of magic, but the strength to face everyday prejudices. Somewhere I could go to know what was right, and what was wrong."

Olive was silent for several moments then and, when she spoke again, her voice was steadier, more resolved. "But what's happening here, father, it's wrong. I know that it's wrong. There are children too small to lift a bag of flour here torn away from their parents, with no one to look after them. They're treated the same as the adults: made to do work they're too young for, follow rules they don't understand and beaten when they break them, when all they are is afraid. It's the same for elders. Women and men bent over in age, rattled with pain, forced to labor like someone half their age, with no treatment for their ailments. People who arrive during the warm months, or who are too poor and own too little, are given nothing to guard them against the winter. They're left to freeze to death if they can find no aid from the others interned, who all have next to nothing. Everyone is starving or near to it. Those too weak to work are beaten. Those who fall sick are either left to die or taken away and never seen again. And the women..." Olive stopped. She didn't say what happened to women in the camps. Instead, she changed tracks, "Before you came, no mages were allowed to enter the chapel or receive any religious rites, so that even our souls are made to starve."

"I don't understand, Father," she said, the emotion in her voice evident, but controlled, "how the Church can let this happen. I don't understand how the Church can let children starve, let the feeble to beaten and the elderly freeze to death. Because of a burden they were made to bear, that they never asked for and many have never used. How can this - this - be God's will?"

The priest that resided in thoughtful shadow blinked for a long silent moment, before slowly turning his head to peer at the speaking woman on the other side.  He hung on her every word, giving her his undivided attention.  Patience and listening were things required of any priest, and Mercuxio had them in abundance.  Yet what was more was that familiar note in her voice that brought him to try and peer a little more clearly through the darkness of the screen.  The curtain remained only slightly parted and his meticulous eyes studied the curvature of her face.

But still she spoke and still he listened, the impact of her words not lost on him.  Though he did not see firsthand what the conditions of the camps were or the condition of the prisoners within, common sense told him enough that it wasn't pretty, that not all accommodations could be made for the prisoners within to live a quality of life equated with that of the lowest soldier.  The soldiers here most likely gave little care to the thought, save that the prisoners did not die as a result of their conditions.  After all the entire point of such camps was to contain them, not slaughter them.  But if one or two died, he supposed it wasn't a weight that was going to lay too heavy on their consciences.  Luckily for them, there were others within the camp to worry about such menial manners than brain dead soldiers.

The woman's words fell gravely on his heart, and he sat up within his half of the confessional and leaned closer to the screen, still hidden partly in shadow.  "That is indeed a grave matter to witness and bear," he replied.  "I cannot say with any resolution that such an ordeal would be unheard of within the history of men and nations.  This is not the past, but the present, I know.  Yet if there is anything to be learned from the past, it is that man has always endured great suffering.  Whether it is from his will or God's.  But it is God's to bear the burdens we are given, even if it was not our choice.  To see through hardship, what lessons to be learned, what mistakes we have made, to see what lies most important around us and within us..."

He took a moment to pause, trying to study her face from the corner of his eye, seeing only the lint of hers in the faint lighting.  Her words were quite troubling in and of themselves, for Mercuxio knew the answers she sought could only be brought to light if he looked at what he considered God's will within himself.  Was man made to toil?  To toil in order to achieve a greater paradise beyond death?  To walk beside Ansgar?  The collective answer was a fool's prophecy to all who saw nothing beyond these points.  Mercuxio frowned internally as he struggled to find a satisfying answer.  Why would Ansgar allow his children to suffer so even with the action of men?  And yet if he did not, wherein lied man's given choice, his free will?  Or was it all just an illusion?

Mercuxio blinked and sighed, knowing he could just as easily lie to the woman on the other side, but something in her voice told him he couldn't.   "I cannot answer for the actions of our nation in a time of war," he said solemnly.  "But the Church has and always will be a haven for the repentant and weary.  And I am deeply troubled to learn that those residing here were denied even prayer at the altar.  Please take some comfort, no matter how small, that all things indeed happen for a reason.  That the will of God will always test those of the mortal coil, no matter how great our suffering and pain."

Olive looked straight ahead, focusing on controlling her feelings, controlling her breathing, as she listened to the priest. His ministry didn't surprise her, and she didn't know what she had expected to hear from him if not something like this. That every one must bear the burdens given to them, however hard they are, that God tries his children, however virtuous they might be. Olive had heard this teaching over and over throughout her life and for a long time she had taken comfort in it. But now she was becoming increasingly unsure that she believed it at all.

And then the priest said something else. Something equally typical, but that shot Olive through with emotion.

"Please take some comfort, no matter how small, that all things indeed happen for a reason. That the will of God will always test those of the mortal coil, no matter how great our suffering and pain."

Olive felt the color drain from her face and she had to remind herself to breathe. Of all presumptuous, standard-fare platitudes... "I'm sorry, Father, but I take no comfort in that," she answered slowly, her voice quieter than before, and it was clear that the girl was exerting quite a bit of effort to control the emotion, the anger, in her voice. "I think I did, once. But I can't believe that any longer. I can't..." She paused, exhaled, then continued. "I can't see the reason, I can't believe that God has a plan in all of this."

"Children who had homes and parents arrive here and dwindle into shadows, starved of food and affection. Once I saw a soldier tell a boy that his parents were coming for him and all he had to do was wait outside by the gates, in the freezing mud and the snow, while they took bets on how long he would stay there. The girl I share my cot with," again she paused and took a breath, but her tone was harder now, angrier, but steadier. "The girl I share my cot with is fourteen years old and sometimes once, sometimes two or three times a week, two soldiers come and take her away saying she has extra work that day, then bring her back an hour, two hours later, covered in tears. I can stop them if I'm there, but I can't always be there... What do you think they're doing? She's fourteen years old. Where is the reason in that, Father? What 'test' is God trying to give her?" For the first time Olive looked at the curtains, her eyes half imploring and half accusing the priest.

Olive looked forward again, raising a hand to her face, as if just realizing that her voice had become too loud and too angry for a church. She took several moments, wiping away angry tears she hadn't realized were in her eyes, and when she spoke again her voice was calmer and quieter. "I'm sorry, Father. I understand that it it's not my place to question God's plan for us. But it isn't just her. It happens to a lot of girls. They don't dare touch me because, well. But it happens to others. And still others are left to starve, or freeze, or are tormented or beaten in other ways. There is a war going on outside, and there is a war of sorts going on in here, and there is a war in my heart between what I once believed, what I still want to believe, and what is happening here, Father. I struggle to believe that any of this is happening for a reason. Or that God's hand is at work in Connlaoth. And I don't understand how the Church that was once a refuge, or a haven," she said, repeating his words, "can sanction the things that are happening here."

It was a small hope and one he knew would be dashed at the spark of her words.  It was a common priest's ploy and any but the most foolish could see through that much, the typical "fear not, for God is watchful."  Though he couldn't say why, it pleased him to know she could not be satisfied so easily.  Only meager minds could be satisfied with such an answer.  The fire in her voice made him turn toward the screen and he could see her face all the more clearly.

Once her tirade had softened – if such a word could be applicable – Mercuxio parted the curtain further.  "God's plan can never truly be known, we can only guess through trial and error.  But I believe God has placed you here for a reason, both of us within this point in time.  For no, I do not believe the Church or God would sanction the actions which you describe to me.  Nor do I believe that either would allow it to continue.  I am deeply troubled by the matters which you've brought to light, and as a priest of the Church of Ansgar, I feel it is my duty to see to it that all children and treated justly and fairly."

His voice grew sterner and he sought the source of that familiarity from which she spoke.  "Your words do not fall on deaf ears.  I give you my word that I will set out as soon as possible to investigate this matter and put it right.  Please, let your heart rest easy, if it can." 

"The soldiers that you mention, the ones who have took away the girl, do you know their names?  What more can you tell me of them?"

Olive actually laughed at the priest's question. A short, surprised, mirthless laugh. "Yes," she answered slowly, "I know their names. So does their captain, so does Lieutenant Bromlin. But that doesn't mean that they are willing to believe the word of a mage over the word of a soldier." Olive had brought the issue to the Lieutenant and the guards' captain several times. The reaction to her accusations were varied, but all fell on a spectrum between thinking she was a lying mage and thinking that she was a confused girl who misunderstood the events. The results of which were therefore the same: nothing. "I can tell you that they're not the only two," she added soberly, in response to Mercuxio's second question.

Olive wasn't sure what to think of the father's promise to investigate the issue, and she couldn't keep her eyes from peering at the curtain that separated them, curious who this priest was. Though she had come to the confessional to vent her feelings on this, to provide a clear witness to the crimes going on in the camp, she hadn't expected a promise of action from the priest. She had only expected ministries to her personal ,religious conflict. Or, if anything would be said beyond that, she'd half-expected that the priest would accuse her of lying (a sin) or questioning things she had no right to question. Part of her expected the confessional to be little more than a front for gathering information from the interned mages. She wasn't sure if she should be hopeful or suspicious that the priest joined in her condemnation, that he wanted to investigate...

Then something occurred to Olive and she sat up straighter, her eyes drying as a new thought entered her mind. A new thought, and a bit of fear. "But, father," she said carefully, " if I told you their names now... surely you couldn't use that to investigate their actions?"  She was in a confessional, after all.

"Yes, it is true, that which is discussed during confession is in the strictest confidence and cannot be shared elsewhere.  There are few exceptions to this.  Only with the permission of the Deacon of my congregation may I be allowed to openly express anything I hear through Confession, child.  But I am here to serve as your witness, your confidant, and your friend.  And as a Priest of St. Agratha, by my very oaths I cannot sit idly by at accusations of neglect and abuse.  It is immoral, unethical, and forgoes everything for which the Church itself stands," Mercuxio replied with solemnity.

He bowed his head a little and peered at the speckled face on the other side, that just seemed a little more clear now that she came slightly closer into view.  He sighed and then stared up at her once more, braving her scrutiny.  "That your very words have been given reason to be born is cause for concern.  And it will not be tolerated.  Even in a time of war.  The nation is enduring great inner strife, not only of the people, but of the Faith.  And it becomes easier for men to give into the beasts that linger within us, hungry for cruelty and suffering."

He saw the outline of her face, a familiar shape, but still caught deep within shadow.  The priest knew he could not openly break his oaths of confession, but there was as much to gain from even the plain knowledge of such a transgression.  And it sounded like a perfect place to start his real investigation.  So he peered at Olive on the other side of the screen with intensity, foreign even to him.  "And if they will not heed the word of a mage, I shall see how they listen to the voice of the Church."

There are a few exceptions to this. Olive sat in silence in the confessional, trying to decide what to make of these words. And what to make of the priest who had offered them. It seemed too good to be true to have a priest arrive right as matters were getting more serious in the camp and so quickly promise aid and action. And if Olive's testimony qualified as an exception, what else would? But she wanted badly to trust the priest; the lure of an outsider who might have some control over the situation was just too great. But she recognized how much she wanted it, and that made her wary. They were desperate, all of them, and desperation bred vulnerability. Who did he really want to help?

But he's a man of God. He should care. Going after two guards for one – if repeated – offense wouldn't solve the greater problem of the camp, she knew. They would still be starved and worked to the bone. No priest was going to change that. But maybe if an example were made... Things could get marginally better. Or at least better for little Orchid.

"You don't need to break the confidence of the confessional, father," Olive heard herself say. "I can come back and give my witness to you in person." This was a dangerous thing to offer, and she knew it. She pushed her luck a lot here; going over the head of the Lieutenant and making allegations to an outsider might be pushing it too far. But if anyone should do it, it was her, and she knew that, too. Olive swallowed, uncertain of the wisdom of this decision. But nonetheless, she confirmed, "I can come back tonight."

Despite his words to the woman, Mercuxio had everything intention of carrying out his promise of seeing through the matter, of taking care of these two men, and filtering through the finer points of her claim, whether the woman on the other side of the screen knew it or not.  He could tell from her words that her place here was not quite like other mages, though she made no attempt to hide she was one of them.  She must have been someone of import, someone who apparently had sway with the guards and was not afraid to use it.

He knew the problem wouldn't be entirely fixed, but if there was one thing Mercuxio did know, it was how to get results.  And if conditions did in fact improve, perhaps he could gain this woman's trust.  And where trust was an often undervalued asset to most, to the priest it was invaluable to his very life.

He turned his eyes up to the screen and actually smiled at it, though it would be difficult to see from the other side.  It quickly faded and he bowed his head once more.  "If that is your wish, I will not condemn you for it.  You have my word that I will be here should you return.  But only if you can; I do not wish unnecessary harm unto you or your people here in the camp because you risked too much trying to come to me."

The priest's words gave Olive cause for pause. It felt like the man on the other side of the confessional divide was backing away. Perhaps he had only made the offer to restore some of her faith in the Church? Maybe he had no intention of doing anything about the guards. And he'd never intended to investigate the guards, what would stop him from going straight to the Lieutenant to report her allegations?

Well, Olive guessed that, between her title and the captain, she still had some mileage. And if the priest's offer was genuine, it was one she couldn't turn away. But she should tell Bremen first. And about the priest's opinion that there were exceptions to the confidentiality of the confessional...

"No, I'll come," she assured him. Why, she wondered, did he say that he wouldn't condemn her? Surely there was nothing to condemn in such an act... Olive pushed the idea out of her mind. "Thank you, father, for... Well, for listening. It feels like a long time since our voices were heard."

Olive moved to leave the confessional, then paused. "Don't too ill of the mages here, father, if not many come forward to say their confessions. No one is sure who they can trust anymore." It was as close as Olive could come to telling Mercuxio that she wasn't sure that she trusted him. Olive exhaled, paused, then left.

---

Dusk came early this far north now that autumn set in. Light was already fading to a monotone grey when a young guard stepped into the church. He had a slightly anxious air about him; even though there had been no one to hold mass, and the young man felt guilty in the eyes of a priest for not having attended for so long.

"Father Merric?" he called, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Lieutenant Colonel Bromlin sends his invitation to dinner, if you're able to attend?"



((OOC: Hope it's okay that I fast-forwarded things. Thought it might be useful for Mercuxio to get some face time in with the peeps in charge!))

[It's fine by me.  And I'm assuming you're going to write for the Lieutenant and play out conversation.  If not I can edit it and put in conversation or sump'm!]

It wasn't that he doubted her, but that if she failed to arrive, he would not find blame if she was unable to come through.  She was risking much by abandoning whatever shelter she resided in, going past soldiers on their posts, their patrols, solely to meet with the priest of this rundown chapel.  Mercuxio was not yet familiar with the routines and schedules of the camp and he was certain the prisoners were only allowed a short time in the chapel when they said it was allowed.  Bromlin had brushed over the routine vaguely.  But the commanding officer seemed more anxious from the priest's presence and in a hurry to get him settled in.

"Go in peace, child, and may the saints watch over you," Mercuxio responded as the girl left. He wasn't sure what to make of her parting words, but there was little time to think of it as the next prisoner was escorted into the confession booth.  He put it in the back of his mind, knowing she was right that there were few these poor souls could trust, that his presence could only be damning or a salvation.

As the confessions progressed through the day, he knew that sentiment leaned more toward damnation.  But damnation of them or him, he couldn't be sure.

At the end of it all, he retired early and needed time to center himself.  There were few people to listen to, but hearing their words had been taxing.  He was cold, tired and hungry.  He supposed many of the prisoners here were hungry too, most likely feeding on some kind of old stew and stale bread.  He'd been putting away the relics he'd brought with him to display and sweeping the wooden boards placed on the floor when the soldier came in.

He looked up and smiled to the young man.  "Very well, tell him I will be coming shortly," he replied.  The young soldier gave a nervous nod, averting his gaze and bowed his head a little.  "Yes, sir, I mean, Father," then left.

After finishing his work, Mercuxio dressed down to his civilian clothing, though kept his necklaces exposed as he found his back to the officer's hall.  He was escorted to Lieutenant's quarters and the soldier knocked on the door.  "The father is here, sir."

"Enter," said the voice on the other side.  Mercuxio did and bowed to the soldier who was dismissed thusly after.

"Ah, father, thank you for coming," the Lieutenant greeted as Mercuxio entered his quarters. "Sorry everything was so rushed last night. But I trust you've had an opportunity to settle in a bit now? Can I offer you something to drink?"

Bromlin was an older man, probably in his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a softer stomach than he had in his younger days. He had a genial and even manner fitting of someone in command of such a large operation. But it wasn't meant to be mistaken; he could plan bloody military movements and 'fit' punishments with the same cool manner with which he offered the priest a drink. Also in the room was a clean-cut brown haired young man in a military uniform, and a woman probably in her late thirties or early forties dressed in the elaborate armor of a Mordecai.

"Let me also introduce Captain Lorent Fawley, my second-in-command," he said gesturing to the young man, "and Major Anna Neil. Major Neil is the captain of our Mordecai. They'll be joining us. We're all quite curious to hear how you're settling in." Fawley offered a polite greeting, but Neil merely gave the priest an austere nod.

A cracked round table, large enough for four but not more, was situated in the room, and Bromlin gestured for them to sit. A heavy pot of stew and bread were already on the table. In general, while the quarters were not luxurious by any conventional means, it had a warm, comfortable feel. It was dry, with a lit fireplace, and spacious enough to fit a Lieutenant's needs. Bromlin sat at the table, and the others followed suit.

"I'm sure the setting isn't what you're used to – hell, it isn't what any of us were used to before we got shipped up here – and the chapel leaves something to be desired. If you need anything at all, just let myself or the captain know. We'll see what we can do. Resources are a bit thin, but we'll do all we can to provide you with what you need. I have to admit the chapel suffers a bit of disuse. I think the poor wretches fear Angsar's judgement as much as seek his mercy. Did you have many come to you? We're hoping the ministries of a priest will bring them out a bit more."

Mercuxio took in the other guests in the room with a cool gaze, simultaneously warm and observational.  The two others were unexpected, but not unwelcome, though it did make him all the more aware of his surroundings.  More people meant more to keep an eye on and eye out for, just in case.  When the Lieutenant welcomed him into the dining room, Mercuxio bowed his head and greeted the others at the table.  "Please.  A wine will do," he replied, nodding to Bromlin.

The priest took his seat himself just as the drink was placed beside him and he settled into the seat on the opposite side.  The major to the right of him and the captain to the left, with Bromlin dead ahead.  Mercuxio reached out and shook the Captain's hand, bowing his head, and he did the same to Major Neil with no reservation.  "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he assured them just as they took their seats.

When at last they were settled, Mercuxio smiled and nodded at Bromlin.  The stew was hot before him and he was nervous his stomach would growl loud enough for them to hear, but was thankful for Bromlin's rambling to drown it out when his stomach began to complain.  "I think most men fear Ansgar's love more than His judgment.  But please, do not be silly, Lieutenant," Mercuxio was quick to assure him.  "You've done enough for me all ready.  Far be it from me to complain about your gracious generosity.  Agratha condemns not the man who makes the most of what he has.  Now that is a lesson to be valued."

The others gave soft laughs to the quip, but it quickly faded and Mercuxio continued.  "The chapel, indeed, is in need of some love and care, but I assure you it's nothing I cannot rectify of my own doing.   A few did come for confession, though I'm afraid none came for mass.  It is not yet the day of worship; Ansgar will forgive them enough for that."  Motion made Mercuxio turn his head toward the young Captain to his left as he reached for his food.  Neil audibly kicked him from underneath the table and Fawley looked up, feeling the priest look at him.

Fawley's hand quickly retracted and he bowed his head.  Mercuxio gave a smug chuckle and without need for notification, he bowed his head before his food and the others followed suit, and he led them quickly in a prayer before they could eat.  Fawley looked like a demon had just released the grip it had on his balls as the young captain gave a breath of relief.

"Lieutenant," Mercuxio began, the first to take a sip of wine, savoring the mild taste.  "I do have one minor concern, however.  I've heard talk that in the brief time before my arrival, only soldiers were allowed to worship at the shrine.  And only now have the prisoners been allowed to set foot within the chapel.  What do you make of such a claim?"

The priest's question brought forth the first words of the evening from Major Neil. "Three guesses who told him that," she remarked dryly, taking a sip of her own wine.

The Lieutenant gave the Mordecai a mildly admonishing look, while Fawley seemed particularly concentrated on his food. "Well, to start, father," Bromlin said, turning his attention back to Mercuxio, his tone as genial as ever, "I know the conditions here are a bit on the grim side, but I have to object to the term 'prisoner.' True, the mages are interred here and many - though not all - against their will. But they aren't prisoners locked for some crime. At least, that isn't how we like to think of them. Camps such as ours weren't established as a form of punishment, but for the sake of security. And not only the country's security, but also for the safety of the mages. It isn't my understanding that the rest of the country is the safest place for anyone wearing the mark anymore, father. Here the mage is kept where the country is safe from the odd rogue, and where the rest are kept safe from a lynching."

It was clear that Bromlin was rather used to holding court. And while some of what he said was a facade to make the camps seem better than they were - whether he believed his story or not was unclear - there was an undeniable kernel of truth in it.

"As for what you heard, of course it isn't true. Soldiers and Mordecai do have priority when using the chapel, that is true, and the mages are requested to wait until members of the military have finished their worship. This may seem harsh, but we have to think of our men serving their country, father." He took a sip of his wine, before concluding, "Likely this is where the misunderstanding came from."

"Or someone is intentionally stirring trouble," Neil remarked, in the same dry and lazy tone, before unconcernedly taking a bite of the rabbit and parsnip stew.

The priest gave a bow of his head and nodded at the Lieutenant.  “I see, then,” Mercuxio replied, with a humble nod.  “Please forgive my ignorance.  I’m not yet familiar with the terminology appropriate for the denizens of this facility.”  It was all he had to say as he watched Bromlin merely nod to him in excuse and continue eating.  Of course, no matter what the Lieutenant Colonel said, Mercuxio knew better.  He knew a prisoner when he saw one, for such a word was one who was contained within the confines of an armed facility, such as this one.  While the camp was not in fact a prison, it was not designed to keep the mages safe from the citizens of Connlaoth.  But keep Connlaoth safe from these mage.  Containment.
   
“I understand, Lieutenant, but don’t you think, that the chapel ought to be open to all members of this camp, regardless.  Consider the fact that even if mages and soldiers were to pray together, the soldiers are already present.  If an act of aggression should take place, Ansgar forbid, they will already be there to suppress it.  Do not, however, think that I don’t take our men’s service into consideration.”

"Hmmm," came Bromlin's sound of consideration at Mercuxio's suggestions. Fawley and Neil exchanged a quick look. The Lieutenant was not used to having his edicts questioned. "Well, father, you are of course the expert here when it comes to matters of the soul," Bromlin conceded and paused to chew on a piece of rabbit, "and while you are here, of course how the chapel is run is entirely up to you. Though I would ask you to consider soldier's morale when asking them to worship side by side with the mages. Most of these boys are young and unseasoned – of course the most experienced soldiers are needed out there – and most are away from their duchy on long deployments. None have had any leave from here. It's a lot to ask, father. Morale is a fragile thing in a place like this."

It seemed as though Bromlin was content to leave it there, but Neil spoke up again. "I would also keep in mind, father," she said pointedly, "that the 'prisoners' here, as you put it, are mages. Let's not pretend we don't know where their sympathies lie in this conflict. I'm sure while you're here you'll hear the odd mage who is genuinely seeking religious edification. But be wary of those whose goal is to weaken the position of the camps and of the government. From the lowliest peasants to our darling little noblewoman, at the end of the day, every one of them is a mage. Anything that moves in their favor is necessarily against ours. We shouldn't forget that."

Fawley looked up from his dinner for the first time since the conversation began. "I think the father just wants to make sure that everyone's religious concerns are considered," he offered, though he clearly didn't have half the confidence of the Mordecai. "Salvation is available to us all, after all, Major Neil."

Neil rolled her eyes at Fawley's use of the word 'us' in his comments. "Yes, of course, Captain, but we should always ask ourselves," she looked directly at Mercuxio now, "what these people's motives are."

---

While Mercuxio dined with the official leaders of the camp, Olive poured what passed for "tea" for what might be considered perhaps unofficial leaders in the camp. They were in Bess Martin's shack - one of several small sheltered clustered together in the camp, providing some security by the crowded surroundings. Bess was an older woman, perhaps sixty, practical and compassionate. With them were Lloyd Bremen, a woodworker in his fifties and something of a natural leader, and Darnel Jarrek, who wasn't much older than Olive, but was defiant, smart, and proactive.

"The evening livestock shift is being worked straight through dinner," Bremen was saying, laying out the latest trials being faced in the camp. "There are ten of them and they're not getting half enough at the other meals to keep them going through the day."

"I can supplement them with rations from the kitchen. I can't take enough to replace dinner, but I can get enough to put something in their stomachs," Bess answered. She went to great personal risk to take food from the soldiers' kitchen - where there was, of course, more spare food to take than the kitchen which served the mages. The woman sighed, though, as Olive handed her a mug. "I haven't seen anything pass through the kitchen that might help the illness those poor Caileigh kids are suffering, though. And another child's come down with it. Sometimes something passes through the kitchen, an herb or something that might help, but..."

"Oh," Olive interrupted, "I have something for them. I was going to say, but since you brought it up..." She fished a small pouch from where she'd hidden it beneath her shirt and handed it to Bess. Bess opened the pouch and looked at it in surprise; it contained proper healing herbs. Reading her expression, Olive added a bit sheepishly, "I got it from Lorent last night."

"'Lorent?'" came Darnel's derisive sneer. "Well, isn't that cozy. The captain is 'Lorent' now."

"Shut up, Darnel," Olive shot back, her tone exasperated. "It makes it easier, okay?" The three here were some of the few people in the camp that knew about the arrangements Olive had with the captain.

"I just want to make sure you don't forget who's on whose side in this. It's no good for anyone if you let 'Lorent' emotionally compromise you."

Olive opened her mouth to respond to Darnel, but a look from Bremen stopped her. It was a warning look, to both her and Darnel, to leave the subject be. And to be careful, though perhaps not for the same reason.

"Enough of that," he said, when the two backed off. "Good job, Olive. That's more than we could have hoped for." He waited a moment to make sure that the subject was going to rest before continuing. "We also have the issue of the priest who arrived last night. He might prove to be some comfort for some, but we should keep an eye on him."

Bess huffed. Before being rounded up and brought to the camps, she had been a practicing magic user - a healer living alone in the forest, tending to those who sought her out - and had no interest and little respect for the Church. But Darnel, for all his zeal, was also quite religious, and he responded with, "I went to confessional. He seemed fairly run-of-the-mill to me. Not warm, but mindful, respectful."

"Actually," Olive interjected, "we should be careful about that. I also went to confessional. Well... less to confess, I have to admit, and more to confront him with how the Church can sanction this," she told them, gesturing around her to the camp at large; no one looked particularly surprised that she had dared to do this. "Anyway, he said he would make an investigation into what I told him, and I had to remind him that the confessional was of course confidential. Well, not when it's an 'exceptional case,' apparently. So we should make sure people know - we know - to be careful what we say."

"Wait," Bremen held up a hand, looking intently at Olive, "did you say that you made accusations, and he promised to investigate?"

"You made accusations in a confessional?" was Darnel's question, but Bremen waved it away.

"Yes, I just... got carried away." At this no one looked surprised. "I don't really know what to make of it, but I feel we can't - or I can't - ignore his offer, though. I'm going back to talk to him tonight. Outside of the confessional." Now they did look a little surprised. "About Jackson and Carroll. ...And Orchid."



((Lion, feel free to jump in and write for any of these characters if you want! Or introduce a new one. Or just ignore it entirely, and I can keep writing it. :D))

 The eyes that lingered in the corner, high in the rafters – or the pitiful rotted excuse that helped suspend the dim oil lamps above them and the thatch roof that was sorely in repair – narrowed down at the four individuals that went about their conversation.  They were curious, and quiet, speculative and yet beneath their blue-eyed surface held a hidden resolve that most knew never to question.

“You say to be careful,” came the voice, quiet and calm, though with a rusted steadiness that threatened to break at any moment.  “You say to be mindful of what you say, and yet you ‘got carried away?’  How could that be?  But you do present a point that should be expressed once more.  This priest should not be ignored – not his presence, nor his offer.  But do not trust him, or anything he says.  He is a liar, like the rest of his kind.”

Each word was spoken with what might be mistaken for mourning, but it was anguish.  And to those that knew of that voice, it was a tone filled with regret only for making the mistake of trusting one such as the priest.  And one that saw no hope in clinging to the feeble threads of faith.  If a man wanted results, he must do them himself.

Feet resounded hard on the ground as the figure came at last into the light, an older man in his thirties or forties, thereabouts with the scruff of a beard spread across his haggard, grim face.  His hair was short and haphazardly cut across his head, and had grown white and gray from years of distress – sources of which were unknown.  He was tall for a Connlaothian, lean from work, with roughed burned hands, and scars across his palms.  His hands were clenched, and it took all he had to relax them.

His name was Christophe Corbinius, the only ‘leader’ within the shack who’d been there longer than anyone else.  He’d grown accustomed the walls and dirt and muck and lack of care from the soldiers.  And he’d been the first to distribute the fact that if the prisoners here wanted to be taken care of, they had to start taking care of themselves or starve to death.  Or worse yet.  It didn’t take long for many to gather behind him, though, like him, they would never speak of his ‘cause’, of that quiet charisma that gave them small courage in the face of their inevitable demise.

He’d heard of the prominent action – if it could be called that – by the one Bess had called Olive Carwick, and he’d found it interesting for her to speak of her action.  She was young and impetuous.  He almost smiled, but not quite.  His face had no use for smiles.  And such a nature, even within one such as her as a dangerous mixture in a place like this.

He looked at the young woman with hard eyes, grimacing, as he spoke.  “Hear him, but swallow it with a grain of salt.  And tell us everything he says.  Leave nothing out.  Is that clear?”

____
The challenge was partly unexpected but not unwelcome.  “But of course, Lieutenant Bromlin.  I’d like to think that I understand all things considered.  I’ve been here but a day and all ready I feel the isolation and bleak atmosphere of these surroundings.  Not only of the camp, but of the natural setting presented around it.  It is misty here, cold, mountainous, with beauty seen perhaps only at the edge of dawn and dusk.  I understand the thought of bloodshed and war may be traumatizing for many, and in times of crisis they long for something to hold onto, to provide a sense of stability, whether that be a loved one or the faith of Ansgar.  All me, Lieutenant,” he replied solemnly.

He didn’t quite know why, but his appetite was starting to feel soured.  Still he knew better than to skip meals, especially in a place like this.  Hot filling meals were precious, so Mercuxio swallowed another bite when the Major addressed him.  His eyes gave a narrowed glint to Neil.  “Your words are duly noted.  But I assure you, I have kept in mind,” he replied.  His voice had an edge to it, but it was vaguely noticeable, and gone within a second.  Another thoughtful sip of wine.  “Major, forgive me if I am presumptuous, but you seem to hold your opinion quite strongly.  Aside from your experience as a Mordecai, may I inquire as to what moves you to hold such hard opinions on the mages here at the camp?  There seems to be one in particular that most bears your ire.”

“Major Neil would have hard opinions about a brick wall if she bumped into it, Father,” Fawley interrupted.  “There’s little in the camp, or in life for that matter, that wouldn’t bother her.”  Though the young Captain didn’t look up, he didn’t have to to feel the Major’s eyes scowling at him.  He ducked his head and ate on.

“No, no, Captain,” Mercuxio pressed.  “I am interested in what the Major has to say.  She brings up valid points.  It would only be right to hear them out.”

[Christophe is the de facto leader of the rebellion, just fyi.  But plays a much more behind the scenes role than the others.  Also, not sure what his powers are magicwise, I didn't think that far ahead.]

All four people gathered around the small fire fell silent when Christophe entered the circle and all eyes turned to him. Olive's, at first, held a flash of defiance. She was still riled up by Darnel and wanted to say that she knew she'd made a mistake and that that was, after all, what 'getting carried away' meant. And furthermore, that it was how she'd found out about the laxity of the confessional in the first place and the impetus for the priest to make his offer. But as soon as her eyes met Christophe's, they lost their fire and dropped to the ground and a soft blush colored her cheeks.

"I know. I'm sorry," she said instead, her voice tired. Olive had spent much of the day turning over what she'd said to the priest in her head, visiting and revisiting her feelings about Orchid, about the Church, about the camps. The whole thing had been emotionally exhausting, even for a day in Valinarus. "I was just so angry about it all." This illicited a sympathetic look from Bess. Olive rubbed her face, heaving a sharp exhale, before looking back up at Christophe, clear-eyed now. "I will," she agreed resolutely.

Darnel opened his mouth to protest the plan, but Bess's hand on his shoulder quieted him. His fight was with the soldiers, the Mordecai, maybe even the government, but this inditement of a priest was hard for him to swallow. And though he did, his demeanor was smoldering.

Bess and Bremen exchanged a look, then Bremen leaned forward, looking carefully from Christophe to Olive. "I won't tell you no to go through with this if you both think it's a worthwhile endeavor," he told Olive, a frown creasing his eyes, "but be careful. The Lieutenant won't take kindly if he finds out that you're giving official testimony against the guards of this camp to a priest, or any outsider for that matter." To make sure that his point would be taken, Bremen added something he normally wouldn't to the girl, "No matter whose daughter you are."

Again Olive's cheeks colored slightly. Though her position had proved quite useful here, for all of them, she couldn't help but feel guilty that she had some form of protection that the others didn't. At least, until she wore it out. "I know," was all she said.

---

Captain Fawley shook his head to himself and refocused on his food. He'd tried to help, but the priest clearly wanted none of it.

Neil, on the other hand, leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, a distinctly feline smile spreading across her features. "Perhaps as a priest and obliged to see 'the good in everyone,' you might think that some further tragedy must have scarred me to fuel my certainty regarding mages, father, but I assure you that you couldn't be farther off the mark. I am quite happy to say that, outside of my work, my life has been entirely unblemished by the creatures. When you've spent nearly twenty years in the armor of a Mordecai, you don't need any additional 'experiences.' I've seen them all at their darkest hour, and in the end, they're all the same. Filthy, dangerous, wheedling. A scourge on our country." The smile hadn't left her face and she seemed quite happy with the topic of conversation. "But to your point, father, I give you my oath that every mage here bears my ire equally. It's these two," she waved at Bromlin and Fawley with her fork, her smile growing slightly larger and rather crueler, "who have a soft spot."

Fawley focused more than ever on his food, but Bromlin cleared his throat and heaved rather an overblown sigh to indicate that he didn't really think that this was a topic that warranted conversation, and hopefully to deflate Neil's thinly-veiled accusation. "She goes on about this every chance she gets, father, you'll have to forgive her," he said to Mercuxio in a tone both exasperated and confidential, and pointedly not addressing Neil. "I'm honestly surprised it took her this long to bring it up. The issue at hand is Duke Carwick's daughter, who is one of the mages interred here. I was a bit surprised to see magic crop up in nobility, especially in a family like the Carwicks, but the girl came here willingly and Duke Carwick is one of the most vocal supporters of what we're doing. Neil here wants to string the girl up by her ankles and gut her – no doubt to make some terrifying example to the others – and is rather sore that I won't let her."

Bromlin conveyed all of this with the tired tone of someone who's had to explain the same matter time and time again to a disobedient child. Her smile disappeared and her eyes narrowed dangerously at the Lieutenant. "She's dangerous," was her gravelly warning.

"She's a nuisance, at worst," Bromlin said wth a dismissive wave and took another bite of rabbit. "And this is hardly a way to greet our new priest, Major Neil. I'm sure he doesn't want to listen to the two of us bicker over the same issue for the fiftieth time. You'll have to forgive us, father, I'm afraid we're giving you a rather poor welcome."

Christophe's eyes softened with sympathy largely unseen.  Though he worked, silently and quietly, to keep the mages afloat both physically and emotionally, and from tearing each other apart, he was a hard man to most, with little time for humor, for foolishness, for anything that would waste what precious time was available to them.  He looked at Olive and saw her blush, and gave only a silent nod of understanding.

Bess saw it but kept her mouth shut.  She only smiled.  Just a little, and that too faded as quckly as Christophe's sympathy.  She stayed silent as Christophe stepped forward and put a hand on Olive's shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

"I trust the task couldn't be in better hands.  You can take a little more risk than the rest of us, and we'll put that to good use.  You're valuable to us, Carwick, and don't think I don't know what kind of risk you take all your own.  Even with your family name to back it up," he said softly.  He gave her a ghost of a smile and looked at the others.  "Perhaps it is time to close up shop.  The soldiers will be coming soon to check the shacks, and change rounds.  Carwick, what time were you meeting the Priest?  I'm assuming after bedtime for most of the guard."

____

Mercuxio's attention was gained when at last Bromlin dropped in to further extrapolate on the matter of Niel's ire.  Indeed, the priest could understand the source of her irritation in the sense that mages needed to be contained, and controlled.  But magic could not be so contained, as any mortal could be born with certain gifts without prior knowledge of inheritance.  Not everyone had the choice, as the woman in the confessional had pointed out.  And though they did not, it was an unpleasant fact that they had to suffer the consequences of others' actions.

He'd let Neil speak and took her words with what value they had.  She may have been the only woman at the table, and perhaps that stemmed into her tone.  Something to prove in a camp full of men, run by men, and commanded by men.  He only nodded to her and raised his glass, thanking her for her input.

At long last he turned to the Lieutenant Colonel and shook his head.  "Please, Bromlin, I assure you it's quite all right.  I did ask what she thought, and that is exactly what I expected from her.  But it is strange what you say.  I understand mages are interred here at the camps weekly, more are found where they might be, perhaps more often than that.  But surely you don't mean you  have a Duke's daughter here?"  He smiled, as if it were little more than a joke, veiling the realization that he knew the name.

Indeed, that must have been why the voice of the woman earlier in the morning sounded so familiar.   "But what possible trouble could Duke Carwick's daughter be causing that would make Major Neil so upset?"

Olive didn't meet Christophe's eyes when he affirmed her task; rather, her gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance as she listened to the man.  His hand on her shoulder made her feel oddly like a child, or like he was deputizing her, she wasn't sure. But she couldn't help but think for a moment of her own father, what he thought or knew about what was going on here, or about her.

When Christoff was done, she looked up at him, and simply nodded. "After all the work shifts are over and the night guards are on watch, I take whatever scrap firewood I can manage around to some of the older mages. The night guard know about it already. They're alright, and as long as I'm not too late, they don't mind. I'll go to the priest after I've done that... and hope I'm not too late." She gave a little shrug to say, safety-wise, that was really all she could do.

"Alright, well take care, child," Bess said resignedly, rising to escort the others out of her tent. Bremen echoed her sentiment and Olive left with Darnell. The two younger mages typically left first; an unspoken admission that the older mages might have other business that they weren't privy to.

"Well, I can't say that I love the way you go about everything, Olive," Darnell sighed, shaking his head at the girl. "I mean, he's a priest, for Angsar's sake! I would certainly hope we can trust him, or we can't trust anyone." This was a bit tongue-in-cheek. Both knew that they couldn't really trust anyone. "But I got your back, either way."

"Thanks," Olive said soberly before turning the other way, "I hope we can, too."

---

Bromlin immediately shot Neil a look that she should hold her tongue. There had already been too much said and the last thing that the Lieutenant wanted was to give the impression so quickly that matters were not entirely under control at Valinarus.

"It's no joke." It was Fawley who finally spoke up, noting the smoldering looks passing between the two older officers. "I imagine, politically-speaking, sending his daughter here was the only option available to the duke. Major Neil here is just angry that we won't let her use Lady Carwick to make a political statement of her own."

Neil opened her mouth to make an angry retort, but Bromlin held up his hands. "Peace, peace," he interjected. "That's more than enough of that. Father, I'm sure you've already had an exhausting day, burdening yourself with the troubles of the soul. And we all still have duties to attend to before the night is out. I'm sure you'd like to retire to your cabin, as humble as it is." It was far from a suggestion, or even a request. "But I have to thank you, Father, for joining us. I hope I can look forward to dining with you while you're here? I'd be quite interested to hear your thoughts during your stay."

---

Olive dropped the last bundle of wood - just scraps and twigs, really, but they would burn better than the cold empty air - by the makeshift fireplace shared by three old women, all over seventy. She found that this was when her years of aggressively staying positive and friendly (then in light of wearing a Mark) came in handy the most. She chatted brightly with the old women for a few minutes, putting on an air of let's-make-the-best-of-this that she didn't really feel. Not tonight, at least. She kissed the women on the cheek, then head out into the cold autumn night. She flashed a grateful and slightly sheepish smile to the night guard as she led her way, ostensibly on her way home, but once she left his sight, she swerved and headed to the small chapel. Olive wished that she had Dac, her tracker, with her, but he was back in the shack that she shared with Orchid and the Carriage twins. He was a great comfort to the children in the camp and she hated depriving them of that, but it would certainly be nice to have the shaggy bear at her side now. She paused and looked carefully around when she reached the chapel then, seeing no one, slipped quickly and quietly inside.

Her heart racing, she scanned the dimly lit little chapel, hoping that nothing would go wrong. "Father?"

The rest of the dinner had been long and quiet, almost painful with what unleashed tension Mercuxio detected between Neil, Fawley and the Lieutenant Colonel.  He forgave them for their curt manner and choice words and they went on to eat peacefully.  Conversation was wanting and idle, talking about little more than mundane things like the weather and various politics that were of little consequence to anyone.  He was thankful when it was over and he could retire back in his cabin.

But he couldn't rest just yet, that much he knew.  The priest had kept in the back of his mind, Major Neil's words.  The Lady Carwick.  The girl that wanted to speak to him...  Her voice had been so familiar, and yet...could it really be true?  He doubted the officers at dinner would have any good reason to lie to him at this present time.  Of course, he couldn't deny the possibility either.

He had heard of such an incident, there were a few mages found among noble blood, so it was not completely unheard of.  But he'd known Olive Carwick, or at least had become acquainted with her.  She was one of Dani's friends – perhaps one of her only friends – as far as he could remember.  But he'd been removed from the world for such a long time, he was separated even from his own family.  His father wanted nothing to do with him, his mother was quiet in her affection,  Jaimie and Severine had their own lives to live, and Dani...well, poor Dani.

He had no doubt of the Major's words, and it would be an interesting prospect to speak with Olive, to find her, perhaps even to make her a proper tool in his investigation.  But even Merric knew he was treading on thin ice here.  Tensions were high between the mages and the guards and the matters of finding the malignant rebel could very well be just as explosive as a black powder keg if not handled with care.  The first thing he needed was someone he could trust, and who could trust him in return – well, more the latter than the former.

He arrived at the Church just a minute after her, carrying a few objects against him.

"I am here, child.  I didn't forget," he spoke softly as he entered the chapel, walking past her and not turning to look at her just yet.  He laid some relics down by the altar, arranging them in a better fashion before turning to peer at her.  He took a step back, his expression stunned.  "Olive Carwick? Is that really you?"

If Olive's heart was racing before, it stopped when the priest spoke her name. Olive stood stock still, a mix of surprise, confusion, and suspicion on her face. Recognition hadn't struck her yet. In truth, it seemed somehow preposterous that anyone outside of Valinarus would know who she was. That life, her life before this, seemed so far away. Trying to reach it now was like trying to remember something from a dream. But he didn't only know her. She knew him, she was sure she did, she just couldn't...

Then Olive's green eyes widened and whatever color was left drained from her face. Dani. It was Dani's brother. She didn't say his name out loud; she'd learned in here to temper her reactions. But her lips moved to silently form it.

Mercuxio.

Olive wasn't ready for the jarring force of that realization. Of a real, flesh and blood manifestation of her old life. And the people in it. Valinarus had seemed like the only real thing for so long. Mercuxio's simple presence felt like being ripped from one reality into another.

She simply stared at him in silence, her mouth open, unable to articulate the emotions coursing through her. For a moment, all of her present intention left her mind and, when she spoke in a quiet and maybe frightened voice, she didn't answer his question but asked, "Is my family okay? Do you know?"

((OOC: They are-ish. Up to you if Mercuxio knows that or not!))

She wasn't the only one in shock.  He knew he wanted to find her, but he hadn't expected to find her so soon.  And the connection was made quicker than he thought it would.  The voice, the forthrightness with which she spoke.  And she wasn't the onle one to suddenly be reminded of family.  The family he felt like he hadn't seen in years, the family he felt like he was hardly a part of.

He blinked back tears from the thought of it and his face turned solemn, sad even and he swallowed hard on a dry throat.  "I, uh, had heard that they were doing well.  As well as can be in the present time.  But I don't know much more than that, I'm afraid."  He cracked his knuckles afterward, the rellization settling in.

"My sister is well, if you'd like to know.  But...she didn't tell anyone that...you were in a place like this.  I'm as surprised as you are.  I've been away for a long time.  I hadn't heard that you..that you, well..."  His hands gestured up at their surroundings.  "How long have you been here?  Since it was built?"

Olive nodded numbly, touching a hand to her face. "I thought maybe... I was afraid... because of me..." She didn't finish the fragmented sentences. Either because she couldn't form the words or because she thought they were unnecessary. As more rumors trickled into the camp of the mounting tensions outside, Olive had become increasingly worried about what would happen to her parents whose only child was a mage. She half opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it and managed to sit down on one of the makeshift pews. She needed to sit.

"Of course I'd like to know," she answered a little defensively and her eyes flashed defiantly at him for half a second before clouding over again with shock of it all. "Sorry, I just... It feels like a dream now, all of that life..." She was silent for a moment, her eyes unfocused as memories swam in her head like darting fish she couldn't quite catch. "She, she probably didn't know. Oh, she probably doesn't know. When they came to take me... I'd already been under house arrest for some time... I didn't really believe the camps existed. I knew they were taking mages, of course, I just didn't think they were keeping them alive... I probably told her that, I can't remember now. So when they finally came," she recalled, her voice foggy and her expression far away, "I expected to just be taken out of the city and shot. But I didn't know what else to do, so I went... The idea that something like this actually existed seemed so unbelievable."

Olive's face tightened with the realization that the last thing her friend had heard from her probably led Dani to believe Olive was dead now. But would knowing about this be any better?

"No, it was already built when I arrived," she answered, shaking her head slowly. "I'm not sure how long I've been here. At least a year. But the weather is so miserable here all year and... well, no one counts days for too long."

Her revelation slowly spread the web out in his mind, the reality that mages were drawn out and corralled like common cattle.  For their own good, he was sure, but it still seemed surreal all the same.  Mercuxio had thought little of the matter when he peered on the denizens of this camp.  They were mages and magic-users all the same with their own reasons for being here.  But hearing Olive's story, her fears, her own narration, made it all the more real for him.  It didn't seem so important until he heard it from someone he knew.

"I can't imagine what that was like," he aside, and realizing only then the kind of blasphemous thoughts arose with those words.  But his eyes were open and curious and his concern was genuine - surprising even himself - as he took a seat beside her on the pew, though with enough distance to keep their own bubbles of personal space within respective zones.

"And I don't suppose they'd have any reason to believe they would be free tomorrow.  Even I don't know how long this would continue, but what do I know..."  Merric dropped his head.  "I'm sorry..."  He didn't know what more to say.  Except perhaps.  "How are they treating you...at least?"

Olive looked up sharply at Mercuxio's question. "Everything I said before was true about what's going on here." Her expression stayed hard for a moment more, then softened again.

She rubbed her face. "I do have an easier time of it than the others," she admitted with a sigh, and it was clear that this was a somewhat painful thing for her to say aloud. And, though it was true, it wasn't readily apparent to look at her. Always a twiggy thing, she looked far too thin now. Her  hair had grown out lank and a little unkempt from the neat bob it'd been when she came. And her clothing looked worn and inadequate for the coming winter. But they all looked like that.

Olive didn't look at Mercuxio as she explained. "My title carries some currency, even here. Not with everyone, but it does with Lieutenant Bromlin, and that's enough for the time being. I've never been beaten, at least not yet. I think they're just not sure what to do with me, and no one wants to be the first one to cross the line with the daughter of a duke. The worst that ever happens is I get thrown into the solitary cell with no food for a few days, but that's it." Olive said this in an off-handed manner that suggested the girl really didn't think the punishment was so severe. A view that might at first seem startling to someone from outside the camps. "The men don't bother me, at least."

"When I first arrived, they actually kept me and fed me separately. I didn't have to labor like the others." Olive sneered in disgust at the memory. "I think they wanted to make some sort of example of me. A pious noblewoman put up on a pedestal to make it all seem a bit more humane. I don't know. I couldn't stand it, sitting idle and fed while everyone toiled and starved. It didn't last for very long. But I suppose if I'd played along I might still be dining with the Lieutenant as some sort of macabre guest. I don't know."

Finally, she gave a short, mirthless laugh, "And I still have my dog. With all the children who come in here without parents, and vice versa, they let me keep  my tracker. I suppose that's the privilege that comes with station."


((*fails at making shorter posts!!!*))

[You could if you tried! 8D But you don't have to if you don't want to!]

Mercuxio was taken aback by her revelations, slowly and carefully, like weights were slowly and gradually being placed on his shoulders and he felt heavier and heavier.  But he knew he couldn't let his connection to Olive overshadow his judgment, he still had a mission to do, rumors in investigate.  Yet even still, hers was an almost surreal visage to face, after so long and to find her in this place out of anywhere else in all the world.

A soft grin spread across his face, one that might seem out of place in the moment, but it was genuine and Merric dropped his head a little.  "I don't know if it's any consolation, but as her brother, I'm happy Dani made friends with someone like you.  I mean, for your concern for the people here.  It shows a certain strength of character.  And that's something to be proud of.  As ironic as that might be," Mercuxio replied, his smile fading a little.

"And to see her brother in these frumpled clothes, I imagine must be as much of a shock to you as me seeing you here.  This is where I've been all this time, though I doubt my father would say so.  I'm sure Dani's told you how he can be.  Well, father wouldn't be a term I'd use often.  But there you go.  And here we are.

"I wouldn't know much about luxury myself, aside from that old life I left long ago.  The priesthood isn't as glamorous as many make it out to be.  But I'm no bishop.  I'm just a lay priest for a parish to the south.  And being here, only makes reality set in all the more.  I'm sure I don't know what it's really like out there, but it wouldn't be hard to get a pretty good idea."  Merric gave her a small, humbled grin and bowed his head again.  When he managed the courage to peer her in the eye, he sat straighter.

"I guess there's only so much catching up one can do.  And I do recall you'd come here with purpose."

Olive looked up then. Yes, of course she'd come here for a purpose. Had she forgotten that? It was only a few hours since she'd warned the others to be wary of this priest and she'd lowered her guard with him without even thinking about it. Olive felt her realities creak and shift until they all realigned to Valinarus. She'd let Mercuxio make her think, for a moment, that the old realities still applied, and that was a dangerous mistake. Of course they didn't.

Despite her newly rekindled wariness, Olive couldn't stamp out a flicker of hope that it would make some difference.

She met his eye, hers clearer now, sharper. "Can you actually help?"


((Haha! I did it!))

The question hung in the air like a giollotine's edge hanging above the neck of a prisoner.  Mercuxio winced inwardly at the sting of expectation and the sharpness of doubt that surrounded it.  He looked her in the eye, however and solemnly replied, "I can try.  Where I can, I will.  And if I cannot, do not think it's because of a lack of effort.  I want to help."

Olive held Mercuxoi's gaze steadily for several long moment. Gone was the mist of memory from her eyes, replaced by a clear, and maybe challenging, resolution. It was clear that she was determining something about him, likely whether or not she could trust him, or if she believed him. But after a moment longer, it seemed that he passed. When Olive spoke now, her voice was harder and almost business-like.

"Their names are Harret and Schelmner, both sergeants. It's probably been going on for six months, at least. There are other guards, and other women; I don't know them all. But I could get more names. I know about this girl because I share a hut with her and two younger children. If they come when I'm there, I can keep them from taking her. They don't want a scene."

Olive paused for a moment, taking a breath. Some of the edge came off her voice as she continued. "I've talked to Lieutenant Bromlin and Captain Fawley – multiple times – and even Major Neil once. I think they all believe me, except perhaps the Major, but the Lieutenant won't tip the boat here against his soldiers in favor of a mage, even if it's just a girl. I think..." Something flickered across Olive's face, but it passed as quickly as it came. "I think the Captain is more sympathetic, but he's under the Lieutenant and his hands are tied. Major Neil, well," Olive gave a shrug to signify that the Major couldn't care less.

She pushed her hair back, looking a bit anxious now that she'd said her piece. Like she wasn't sure what she could expect the priest to do, but she wanted to believe he could do something. "I think you'll get a lot of push back, but maybe they'll listen to you." She considered a moment, then added, "And don't feel that you need to protect me as your source. They'll know."

The seconds it took to receive a response from her felt as if a noose was slowly tightening around Mercuxio's neck.  Were it not for the loosened collar of his own evening robes, he might have believed such a notion.  The make-shift chapel was cool, as winter air seeped in through the folds and underneath the tent flaps.  He took in a deep breath of fresh, crisp evening air when Olive at last murmured the names of the two guards at fault.  There were more, of course there were more.  There was always more, and Merric knew this wasn't the only camp this kind of abhorrent activity was happening in.

But it was this camp he was sent to.  It was this camp, where the rumors were said to have been coming from, that word of dissent was threatening to trickle out.  Tensions were high in every corner, between mages, between guards, without need for both groups to clash.  The men wanted to be transferred, to go home on furlough, to at least take a visit to a brothel.  If the quality of life was miserable for yourself, who cared if it was worse for another.  Man would always bemoan his station.

"Thank you for telling me this, Olivia," Mercuxio replied in genuine earnest.  "I know it may not be much, but I will do the best that I can to see that these men are rightfully dealt with and see the severity of their crimes.  The Church has not turned a blind eye to the war, or to the suffering of those involved, but if no one speaks up, how can it attend to that suffering that it has yet to hear.  It will be difficult.  Perhaps more difficult than you because I am a newcomer here, but I will try.  You have my word as a priest, as a man, and as a friend.  Though...perhaps it is too soon to think of ourselves as the latter.  We barely knew each other even back then. 

Olive watched Mercuxio steadily as he said his piece. It was clear from her expression that she did not consider him a friend, whatever his words. But she wanted, against her better judgement maybe, to trust him, and that showed, too. And when she spoke again, it was perhaps to establish this distance.

"You should call me Constance, if you have to call me anything. Not Olive. I don't think it would help anyone if it seemed like we were familiar with each other."

She had to hold her tongue on the matter of the 'Church not turning a blind eye' and his assertion that the Church could not act if 'no one spoke up' about the suffering going on in the camps. And, she supposed, outside of the camps. Whether or not Mercuxio knew the full extent of what was going on in the camps before coming here - and she wasn't entirely sure yet that she trusted his alleged ignorance - she didn't believe for a moment that the Church as a whole was so ignorant. That they simply did not move to stop the atrocities of war because 'no one told them about it.'

Olive held her eyes on him, hard and uncertain, for several moments longer, then glanced to the door of the chapel and back. "I shouldn't stay," she told him. "The guards on this shift turn a blind eye to me being out now, when I take fire wood - or whatever burns - to some of the older people here. But if I'm too late they'll be suspicious. I hope you can do something. Things here... I'm not sure it's sustainable."

It was unclear if her lat words were a musing or perhaps a warning, but it was all Olive would say on the matter. She got up then, but turned back to Mercuxio before she reached the door. And when she did, she looked worried again, uncertain of the wisdom of asking him a favor, but...

"When you leave here," she asked quietly, her green eyes beseeching him, "can you tell someone? That I'm okay. My parents or Avery or, or Dani. Someone."

Mercuxio couldn't have expected anything more than hard scrutiny from the likes of Olive Carwick.  And that was just what he got.  He reminded himself, he wasn't here for her well-being, he wasn't here for her comfort or concern, but with a clear mission from the Order.  To find any source of rebellion and snuff it out.  He was not a babysitter, or a caregiver, no matter if he was a priest or not.

Then why did that hard scrutiny cause strange pangs in his stomach that felt a lot like guilt.  Merric had often had the luxury of carrying out his duty without knowing the identity of those he encountered.  None of the mages that had been paid retribution by his hand had been anyone he knew.  He had no reason to believe that she would give him her trust so easily.  And yet...

Merric did the only thing he knew how to do with such a matter and shoved it far away from his present focus as possible.  Mercuxio nodded to her in understanding.  "Very well," he answered with another nod.  "I will.  I think Dani would appreciate hearing about you.  Listen...er, Constance.  If you would like...because I have not yet been made aware of the arrangements for communication of the camp...  If you have letters you would like to send to your family, I mean, I could see to it that they get to their proper destination.  The Lieutenant hasn't told me if the denizens here are allowed to send letters to the outside world."

Olive looked seriously at Mercuxio when he made his offer. She had no idea what to make of the brother of her friend. Dani, of course, had never spoken well of him. And Olive had learned quickly here that the less you trusted someone the better. Representatives of the government or the church should be trusted even less. But something seemed genuine about him; and then again it didn't. So his offer gave her pause. Perhaps he was genuine, though that suggested his ignorance of the camps was greater than she would have guessed. Or perhaps he wasn't; would Mercuxio Rastognlir be above laying a trap for her?

In this case, however, her answer was the same regardless.

"No," she answered. "We're not. And I wouldn't want to endanger anyone outside by possessing a letter from a mage."

This was one thing Bromlin had been very strict about; even before she'd fallen out of his good books. Written, first-hand descriptions of life in the camps was not something they wanted circulating outside of the camp walls.

"But thank you," she said and her expression softened. She meant it. "And if Dani... If you could ask her to pass the word on... No," Olive looked down. Olive wanted very much to get word to her family, even if they'd sent her here, but she couldn't ask her friend to endanger herself. "No, I guess she shouldn't."

She didn't say any more, but hurried out of the church and into the night.

Olive's head was in a whirl as she stepped into the cold night air. She hadn't known what to expect from the priest, but it wasn't that. To do anything tonight would be too dangerous, or too stupid. So she hurried back to her hunt and crawled into bed beside the sleeping Orchid. It took her a long time to fall asleep herself.

The next morning, Olive took a path to her labor shift that she knew would intersect the man's who she wanted to talk to. And when she saw Christophe Corbinius, she didn't say anything, but gave him a meaningful look. When the time was appropriate he, she knew, would find her.


((OOC: Obviously I'm happy to write for Bromlin or Fawley or Neil if you want to have Merric talk with them "on screen" as it were. :D))

Merric didn't know why he had offered to send letters to her family, but in the moment he had done it, it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, to say despite the circumstances and the answer he knew she would give all along.  Even he couldn't tell if the words were said out of earnestness or what possible answers he might gain from them.  Of course, she had to know they would be read before being passed on.  No one survived in a place like this without quickly learning who they could and couldn't trust.

And he had yet to earn his piece.

Merric busied himself cleaning up the church before closing up for the evening and returning to his own cabin long after the night watch had changed.  There was too much to borne in such a short period of time and his mind was working endlessly at what it could mean, it's potential use - it's futility.  He slumped down into his cot and fell asleep immediately, snoring a little.  And dreaming only of the sun shining on a place far away from Valinarus, and the longing to be there.

When morning came, a soldier arrived at his door, knocking softly again and calling clear through the door.  "Father Merric, Lieutenant Colonel Bromlin would like to extend an invitation for breakfast, sir, if you will have it.  I shall escort you to the premises if you are willing," the young guard said.

Merric put his necklaces over his head before opening the door and nodding to the young sergeant.  "I will be along shortly, though I can find the way myself, thank you.  Please, tell the Lieutenant I will be coming, thank you sergeant," he replied and the young man saluted him and went on his way.  After a few minutes, Merric was ready as promised and found his own way to the Lieutenant's table once more.

He felt his stomach grow cold at the prospect of facing the man once more, particularly with the concerns Olive had given him, the names of the two guards she had given as well.  She had already spoken with him...and nothing was to be done of it.  He quickly thought of his strategy and in the present moment, so early in the morning, perhaps it was better to be cautious than to come on strongly.  He had no doubt Bromlin had already made up his mind.

"Good morning Father Merric," Bromlin addressed him when the door was open and the priest was shown into the room.  He flashed him a rare smile.  It was a small one, but a smile nonetheless and allowed the priest to take his seat before taking his own.  "I hope the morning has treated you well so far.  How was your sleep?"

"It has, I think.  But I'm not sure yet, I've only just awakened," Merric smiled at the Lieutenant and peered at the other guests that joined them at the table and seated after him.  "Ah, but don't worry about me, Lieutenant, I assure you needn't be worried of my own troubles.  Forgive my manners, good morning to you all.  The meal looks quite appetizing."

Bromlin smiled tightly at Mercuxio. He was looking forward to the time when either they could be sure that the priest had fallen into step with the running of the camp or, better yet, left. It lent some boost of morale to have the priest here, yes, but Bromlin didn't like having someone in the camp who wasn't under his command. He wasn't particularly interested in other people having their own opinions on how things ought to be run. Fawley and Neil had more than enough already; though at least Fawley knew when to shut up.

And once either thing happened, Bromlin could go back to having his meals in peace. But until then he wanted to keep a close eye on the priest.

"'Appetizing' might be pushing it," Fawley remarked amicably, "but you won't get much better up here. Best not to think about what you might be eating at home."

Neil shot Fawley a look that said quite clearly that she'd heard enough of his idle chit-chat. Once Fawley shut up and went focused on his food, Neil turned to Merric with the distinct look of a predator. "I'm sure you'll need a good breakfast, father. Saving souls must be exhausting work."

Bromlin gave an exasperated sigh as he took his seat. "It's like keeping children in line, these two."

"Of course, thank you for the concern, Major.  I assure, though, it's nowhere near as exhausting as protecting yourselves and the mages here," Merric nodded to Neil and went about eating as if nothing more was said on the matter.  There was little more to it than what fresh eggs that could be spared, a slice of ham, and bread.  With it was a bitter, dark drink that had a kick to it, one unusual to the priest, but he drank it anyway and then sipped the water that was beside it.

"So Lieutenant Bromlin, would you mind telling me a little about yourself?  How many years have you dedicated to your service in the army?" Mercuxio asked, peering at the Lieutenant colonel with genuinely interested eyes, though he would talk about anything to keep from having to hear Major Neil's voice at the present moment.

But it was clear Bromlin hadn't been expecting the question and he coughed a little on the water he'd been drinking.  He wiped his face and peered at the priest with hard eyes.  "I've been in the service of our fine army for the past eighteen years.  I first served under General Abrim Rolon, a decorated general, who you may have heard of.  I spent ten years in the southern part of the Valley, just before the mountains of Serendipity, before being promoted to assignments near the capital," he replied, before clearing his throat uncomfortably.  "But I was assigned to Valinarus in the early spring, when the camps were first constructed.  In a place as desolate as this, I was the only one who would take it."

Fawley looked at at the question-and-answer between Bromlin and the priest. It sounded to Fawley, and likely to the other two, an awful lot like an examination. Neil, on the other hand, looked delighted.

"Are we getting to know each other?" Neil asked, looking pointedly at Mercuxio. "I'd love to hear more about your work, Father. What sort of ministries you typically do, since I'm sure you can't be sent as far out as this so often. What was your calling, Father? If I can ask. What order are you a member of, again?"

"It would only be the practical thing, I think," Mercuxio answered and taking his eyes back to Neil.  Bromlin on the other hand, looked thankful for the interruption.  "You would be correct in your evaluation, Major.  I am not send up here very often.  Most of my work lingers around Uthlyn where my parish is.  Which is quite a trip to make, to be sure.  Like the Lieutenant here, when the request came in from the Deacon for a priest to attend to the chapel, I was one of the only ones who would take it. 

"And the Order which you speak of is of St. Agratha," he replied plainly, casually cleaning off his plate.  "But what about you Major.  What influenced your decision to arrive here?"

"Indeed." But Neil couldn't help but wonder, practical in just what way? And it didn't escape her notice when the priest side-stepped her question about his calling to the priesthood. If his answers (or lack of answers) meant anything to her, she didn't show it outwardly. But she smiled pleasantly when he turned the question back to her. "I'm here for the same reason as Captain Fawley. Not all of us have the luxury to accept orders or deny them. I was instructed to come here, and here I am."

"It must be very hard on your parishioners for you to be so far away, though," Fawley offered in attempt to break some of the tension Neil inevitably caused.

"Yes," Bromlin agreed. "I imagine you won't want to stay away from them for longer than is necessary."

[He didn't sidestep her question!  I just forgot to answer it! xD]

"It is an understandable concern, but not one that hasn't been addressed.  I do feel an adequate replacement has been found in my stead for the duration of my stay.  But in all honesty, I go wherever I feel Ansgar needs me most.  When I heard the request to come here, I had given it lots of consideration.  Common sense, indeed would dictate a no, but...I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  The people here seem as desolate as the land, and if I can help even a few find some ray of light to cling to at least until the war ends, then so be it, even the mages.  I believe my parishioners will forgive me for my absence."

Neil's expression darkened at Mercuxio's insistence that his calling was to bring 'some ray of light... even to the mages.' What a load of crap, she thought. The Mordecai was not at all convinced that that was the real, or at least certainly not the only reason the priest had joined their company. "Very noble of you. I suppose the creatures need some comfort in this dark place, just like the rest of us. I think the work horses are rather depressed, too, you know. When you're done with the mages."

Bromlin shot Neil a warning look. Really. It wasn't even afternoon yet!

"I hope you will find the work rewarding, at least, father?" Fawley asked in another flat attempt to lighten the conversation. "I suppose it's too soon to say how yo find it so far."

Merric could tell the sarcasm in her voice and it made him grin inwardly.  He smiled at her and gave her a soft laugh.  "Well, I'll be sure to attend to the after service," he nodded to the Major.  "I'm sure they're quite stressed in their own right.  Dreaming of greener pastures than these."  He sipped his water and turned to Fawley.

"I hope so too, Captain.  But it is too soon to tell.  I have yet to fall in line to the proper order of things.  But I will surely make the effort to do so, so long as my own work is not disturbed as well."

Bromlin's face turned quietly grim.  "I will do my best to ensure that, Father.  These are...grim times for all of us."

"He must find it rewarding," Neil said with a happy note in her voice that would make at least Bromlin and Fawley, who knew her better, nervous, "to be working as late as he is already so new on the job." Bromlin looked inquisitively at Neil before she continued in the same contented tone, answering Bromlin's unanswered question. "I stayed a bit late discussing matters with the Mordecai stationed at the front gate for the night. On my way back to my quarters I saw one of the mages leaving the chapel well after their curfew."

At this Fawley looked up and, try as he might to hide it, concern was clear on his face.

"Something troubling you, Captain Fawley?" Neil asked, thoroughly enjoying herself.

It took him a moment before answering, "Yes, of course, it troubles me to learn that my night guard aren't enforcing curfew."

"Hm." Bromlin watched his captain of guard and the head of the Mordecai, brow furrowed, for a moment before turing to Mercuxio. "Father? I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation for this. Perhaps we neglected to inform you about the curfew. But it seems like a strange time to be ministering when you said the confessional was empty most of the day yesterday."

Mercuxio peered up at the three of this breakfast companions and gave them a confirmation.  "It is true.  One of the mages did come to meet with me last night," he replied, unfazed.  "Forgive me, Lieutenant, I was not made aware of the curfew of the running of the camp.  But I know as strange as it seemed, I think that may just be explanation as to why there weren't many in confessional morning last.  I cannot force parishioners into the chairs and benches of the chapels, and neither is it my place to question their entrance of the house of prayer.  Perhaps the mage that entered had neglected to do so because they did not feel comfortable coming when the rest were allowed to come in, and felt it better to do so under the privacy of evening.  Whatever the reason, I do apologize for my ignorance, Bromlin.  I will do my best to remember the curfew in the future."

"Well, your dedication is truly... inspiring," Neil remarked, leaning back from the table, her eyes hanging on Mercuxio, as if deciding something. But then, decision made or perhaps postponed, she stood up, her chair scraping the cold floor of the cabin. "You'll have to excuse me, though. I have my own duties to attend to." She nodded curtly to the two older men. "Father. Lieutenant." Then she gave the captain a look suggesting he might do the same, left the cabin.

"Oh, yes, I need to make morning inspections," Fawley said, but he still had a concerned look about him. "But, uh, Father, if you encounter any other mages out after the curfew - or guards who aren't on duty, for that matter - you will let me know, won't you?" The young man frowned, then got up and nodded to the two men, following Neil out of the cabin.

"Hmm." Bromlin watched the two leave the cabin, shaking his head. Just like children. "Well, Father," he said without enthusiasm, turning back to Merric, "if you think the mages here are uncomfortable with the open chapel, perhaps you could conduct two separate masses? It might make everyone more comfortable. If it isn't too much work for you."

Mercuxio was thankful for the quick exit of the other two table guests.  Not that he necessarily minded their company, but he felt he had to pick and choose his words much more carefully in their presence.  But if it was any consolation, he could appreciate Neil's pressing questions - she had a fire to her that would be intriguing at any other time.

The priest blinked at Bromlin, the posing of his statement.  "I had considered it before.  And perhaps you are right," he gave the Lieutenant a nod and sat up straighter in his chair.  "And no, no it wouldn't be too much work for me.  In fact, I think my work here is only starting to begin.  You see, I realize my place here makes you uncomfortable, Bromlin.  I hope I'm not speaking out of bounds.  I trust that between us here, we may speak as men, not merely as a priest and a soldier."

Bromlin said nothing but tilted his head and angled it in a way that though he was willing to listen, he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear.

"I guess, what I'm trying to say is that, I understand you either want me to leave as quickly as possible, my position here is wholly unnecessary, or to fall in line with all regulations here.  It does not take a university mentor to come to such a conclusion.  But, I was wondering, Lieutenant, just what would be your opinion on the relations here between the guardsmen and the mages?  Your opinion would be a help to m in the organization of ministry and other such functions of the chapel."

Bromlin frowned at the priest's question. Or rather, at the man's question, as he was being asked to consider Mercuxio.  It was a fair question, perhaps, but what bothered Bromlin was that it was, without a doubt, a leading question. He regarded Mercuxio for a long while before stating any answer.

"You speak very frankly, father. Or," he stopped, "perhaps I should call you Merric for the moment, if you like. I admire frank speech." He paused again, considering, then continued, "You are not wholly correct, though. I do not view your position here as at all unnecessary. The cold and the gloom of this place has an effect on everyone here, the soldiers and the mages. If your ministries bring comfort or solace, then that is far from unnecessary. In fact, a soothing element is very much needed here. No one, I can assure you, wants to be here. That, of course, makes the orderly running of this camp a delicate matter and it doesn't help a delicate situation to be pulled in different directions. So yes, I think it is important for the well-being of the camp and of everyone in it that authority is fairly unilateral. It might not be the approach I would take to every situation, but I think here it is necessary. You, of course, as a representative of the Church, are included in that authority."

Bromlin let that answer hang in there air and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of whatever hot drink passed as a morning beverage up here; little more than dried wild herbs and water. "If you want me to say that I strive for a wholly harmonious relationship between the guards and the mages, based on compassion and pity and good-will, I'm afraid I will disappoint you. Wouldn't it be nice if it were the case, but you'll have to forgive me for being a realist. The 'soldiers' here are poorly trained boys with a rather one-dimensional view of protecting their country. In a time of war, of course, the best soldiers, those disciplined and ready for battle, are not sent to watch over the enemy. And there is no time anymore to provide adequate training to every recruit. Don't think I'm any happier about this than you are; I suspect I am much less. What we have here is a camp full of boys who want to be anywhere other than here; they at least want leave, decent food, the company of a woman. And here they have none. They hated the mages before they came, and you can well believe they hate them much more now. They sleep at night by letting themselves believe the people they guard here are beasts. Much like Major Neil, though I would have hoped for better from someone of her position. I don't think most of them have the fortitude to think clearly about what is really going on here. And yes," Bromlin nodded his head, "to keep this place functional, I let them think that."

"A point well made.  I cannot deny your ideal to maintain a unified front for the sake of the guards here and the mages.  I cannot imagine the kind of stress theses boys and men have gone through to be here, away from their families.  And no doubt, I don't think they can simply write letters to stay in touch.  Any mention of furlough must be heaven sent by Ansgar himself, for such a thing to be accepted in procedure here.  But please, man to man, do not lie to me, and say that my presence here has not irked you some.  I am not trying to disrupt the functions of this camp.  And what little aid I can provide, I will, as I've stated to the Major and Captain.  I think what these men want most of all is a place they can call home," Merric said somberly, mostly in agreement.

"But I believe you know what I am about to pose to you," he continued.  "About the two men, and the allegations of abuse against them.  And what you've done about it.  Sure, the guards can see the mages here as little more than beasts.  That's what this whole war is about isn't it?  They're not people.  They're things, objects, slabs of walking sheep to corral into their pens and barns.  They may not like it, they may hate it, but it's the way things are.  How could it be any different?"  There was an edge to his tone, almost as if he shared this view.

At this, Bromlin actually smiled a little. "I never said your presence here does not 'irk me a little,' father," Bromlin replied, "simply that I do not see it as wholly unnecessary. And that is no lie. Any calm or quietude brought to the camp is far from unnecessary."

Bromlin's expression returned to something neutral, however, as Mercuxio went on. He gave a small frown, but no other indication that he knew what the priest was talking about, whether he truly did or not. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more direct if you wish me to follow your point. Of course there are always 'allegations of abuse' here, and I can't pretend I would want to be in the position the mages are. But, as I've tried to make clear, my priority is the continued function of this camp and to that end, though we might not always wish it, physical punishment is sometimes required, yes, if that's what you mean."

"Then we cannot possibly be at a cross-ways then, Lieutenant," Merric went on.  "We are to have a unilateral authority in this camp, each in their respective positions.  And you've run this camp far longer than I've set foot here.  But a bit of corporal punishment here and there to keep some in line, doesn't turn into claims of assault of a heinous nature.  Harret and Schelmner, Bromlin.  I'm sure you know the names.  I'm sure you know the names of many others too.  What I want to know is, is that all you intend to do?  Just keep things running smoothly?  And the matter will not even at least be more thoroughly investigated?"

"Aha, so now I see." Bromlin should have known. Though he wasn't surprised. Sometimes he thought Major Neil might be right about the Carwick girl. Who would even know if she tragically perished, as so many others have in these harsh northern camps? The truth was that, with the priest's accusations now confirmed, Bromlin found the man somewhat naive. Not unusual for a man removed from the army. 'Crimes' of this nature always followed soldiers and even the most disciplined of commanders with the most loyal troops could not always control the baser urges of his men.

"Let me say this, and please let's not pretend you heard these allegations from anyone else," he leaned forward, folding his hands on the table, "as much as I am loathe to say so, Major Neil was in some respects correct last night. I am much softer with Constance Carwick than I am with the other interned mages here. And just as well as Major Neil, she knows it. The girl means well, I am sure, but I certainly do not think that she is above fabricating stories to gain some ground against the guards. If the guards view the mages as sheep; the mages are no better, and see very guard as a wolf. Beasts, all around. She's a smart girl and she knows what buttons to push, which allegatiosn seem the most heinous, as you say, and least confirmable."

Bromlin shifted his weight, taking in the priest. "If I am wrong, and you heard these allegations from someone else, who perhaps felt freer in the confessional than facing the captain or myself - which of course would be understandable, than that is a different matter and we can discuss it further. But let's assume, even then, that these words are true. How would you go about handling the matter, father? What do you think the guard, who already see themselves as punished enough just by being here, would make of being put under the gallows for a mage? And, more importantly, what do you think the mages would do if they felt free to make allegations which would almost always come down to a he-said-she-said argument openly against the guards?"

"It is a rare luxury to stand unmovable by our moral ideals, father, and one never afforded to the military. Even if it is available in abundance to priests and monks."

Mercuxio listened with interest but made no indication toward Bromlin's words whether he gauged them wrong or right.  Of course, it was obvious the Lieutenant knew more than he let on, and used his own words to sift out the priest's intent.  "Firmly put, Bromlin.  And as you put it, for a mage to feel more at ease telling a priest their gravest concern, than those in charge of this camp, only goes to show, they have a small hope that perhaps something might be done.  And despite these conditions, I know the men are under a great deal of strain here as it is.  Nothing can be perfect; things must function accordingly," Merric nodded.  "But please, forgive me, I must seem so idealistic.  But this is a delicate matter and I hope we can find some sort of suitable solution for it.

"A person with such a condition who finds little pleasure in anything else but the torment and torture of others perhaps even in its fantasy, enough to summon arousal.  Such a condition cannot be helped, Lieutenant.  And I know for a fact that not all men succumb to such a condition, despite their misery and hatred of their current predicament.  By all accounts no one wants to be here.  That being said, I also know that extreme circumstances can drive men to do dangerous things, to themselves and others.  I don't mean execution as a means of punishment for these men accused, Harret and Shelmner.

"But I do ask that measures be put into place where such accusations have little reason to arise in the first place.  Change of routine, of watch, and perhaps, even more importantly, looking more closely into the character of your men.  If a man is too strained within his current position, allow him some leisure, interchange his position with another. Could something of that nature be arranged?" Merric finished for the moment.  He took in the Lieutenant, braving the iron of his eyes, matching him look for look.

The Lieutenant gave a short, mirthless laugh at the priest's suggestion. "'Leisure?'" he repeated. "Where should I send them? And if they are not 'of fit character,' with whom would replace them? I realize you have not been long away from your parish, father, and perhaps do not have a full picture of the situation we are in. We have already the minimum number of troops here to maintain the security of this camp. We do not have the luxury of giving men leave or picking and choosing our soldiers. Don't I wish it were so."

Bromlin looked at the priest, exhaling a long, somewhat exasperated breath, before continuing more concilitorially. "Look, father, I understand that the conditions here may come as something of a shock. Do not think that I am myself wholly unaffected by the grim reality of keeping an entire portion of the population penned and caged and corralled like animals. I don't make the laws, but it is my duty to see them carried out. And I realize that to one who devotes his life to soothing the souls of the troubled, it must be very grim for you indeed. If, in your expertise, you are able to provide comfort to the people here - be they soldiers or mages - I am grateful beyond words. And whatever points of morality you wish to minister on from the pulpit are, of course, entirely your own business. Perhaps a religious lesson would do everyone a world of good. But I have to ask you to leave me to my expertise; and in this case military matters, including the running of this camp, are my expertise. Not yours. I am afraid, on that point, I must remain firm. But perhaps during your stay here, you will come to appreciate the complexities at work here."

Then Bromlin sat up straight again. "I'm afraid this breakfast has gone on far too long already. We both have our own duties to attend to. I look forward, father, to hearing your ministries on morality in mass." Where a priest's opinions belonged. "I am sure they will do us all good." With that Bromlin stood up, making it quite clear that it was time for the priest to leave.

The tension in the room had gone on long enough and Merric knew he'd overstayed his welcome long before the Lieutenant stood to show him the door.  He'd received the answer he figured he would on the matter and there was no further reason to discuss it.  So Merric stood and bowed his head to the commander before giving him a generous smile.  "I understand, Bromlin.  And please allow me to thank you for an enlightening meal."  Then quickly made his exit, walking back to his cabin.

With their recent discussion lingering in his mind, Meruxio knew there was little to learn from Bromlin with his distrust already in place.  If he felt the priest was out of place here, his words confirmed it.  Merric was not fooled by his formalities and feigned courtesies - afforded to him only because of the necklaces that hung from his neck.  Bromlin made it more than clear in his undertone that if he could not have the man gone, then the sooner Mercuxio knew his place the better.  Bromlin proved to be a dead end; just as he wagered.But while he was currently a wall, he was not an insurmountable one.  And with that another face came to mind, whom Bromlin mentioned but thankfully didn't linger on.  Olive.

She made it clear she notified the officers before and nothing was done.  His mission, of course, was not to cater to her whims, having her trust could help aid him in his official mission.  But who could possibly help him in helping her?

"Fawley," Merric answered thoughtfully to himself.

"You tell yourself that your goal in the military is to advance," Fawley muttered to himself in his shack, a startling amount of paperwork spread around him, "if only you knew how boring it would get once you did..." He was surrounded by assignment charts, rotations, various reports on various guards and soldiers that needed to be filed. Then again by labor charts, rotations, and various reports on various mages that needed to be filed. There was really nothing like the swashbuckling life of a captain, was there?

There was always a lull in mid-afternoon when the mid-day meal was over, the guards would be on their duties for several more hours, as would the mages, and Bromlin and Neil were sufficiently occupied with their own affairs to leave him alone. It ought to be a relaxing time (and sometimes it was), but it was also when Fawley took on the sisyphean task of Paperwork. Now his mind was also occupied with what he'd heard from a very unhappy Bromlin about Harret and Schelmner and the priest and, as far as Bromlin was concerned, about Olive. He shuffled nervously through the scrolls, wondering what in Angsar's name he was going to do about that. Today, at least, he had something to look forward to. But until then: Paperwork.


((Lion, hope you don't mind that I made this later in the day. I'm thinking maybe Merric had to go say mass or some boring priest stuff before he'd get the chance to find Fawley. If you'd like me to change/add anything, just let me know!))

It wasn't difficult to find Fawley.  After evening service, the priest remembered directions toward the Captain of the Guard's quarters.  The day had been a taxing one and as ever, Merric had fallen into his priestly duties to maintain a sense of mind.  He hadn't been here very long, but already the bleak surroundings of the camp, the dense forest was already starting to get to him.  It helped him center himself and focus his tasks.  Perhaps, if Bromlin would allow it, even with an escort, Mercuxio could take a hike around the forest, survey the are and see what more there was to see other than grim faces and despairing eyes.

But for now, ministry would do.  When that was over, Merric stopped shortly before Fawley's office door and gently knocked on it, though a guard had offered to do so.  Instead, the priest opted to go in himself at his behest.  "Captain Fawley.  It is I, Father Merric.  I hope I haven't interrupted.  But I was just wondering if I might have a word with you."

Fawley looked up at the knock, surprised, and was glad the priest had opted not to enter on his own. Fawley was rotten at keeping his feelings off his face and it would have been all too obvious that Father Merric had not been who the captain was expecting. But after his debriefing from Bromlin, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised...

Carefully moving the piles of paperwork to not entirely undo the 'organized' piles, Fawley rose and opened the door. "Of course not, father. I'm at your disposal." He stepped to one side of the open door to allow the priest to enter. Though he smiled, and genuinely and didn't look displeased to see the priest, there was a vague air of nervousness about him. "How can I help you?" he asked brightly.

Merric graciously stepped inside when at last Fawley opened the door for him.  He bowed his head to the Captain and gave him a small smile before coming in at last.  He stepped aside allowing the young man to close the door and when he offered him a seat, he graciously refused.  "I hope to be brief," he began.  "I don't with to say more than I must...or say anything out of turn.  But I...had hoped you might be able to help me with something...  I am deeply troubled, Captain Fawley.  Of what crimes have occurred here, are what occurring now.  Of Harret and Schelmner...  I spoke to Bromlin, but there was nothing he could do, nothing he wanted to do.  But I didn't know what I should have expected.  As if the people here, haven't already suffered enough.  Is enough ever enough?"

The smile dropped from Fawley's face when Mercuxio began speaking. Oh. This. He might have suspected when the priest came to his quarters. He couldn't help but worry for Constance, who must have told him this (Bromlin certainly seemed to think so) and also for himself. How must he look in the priest's eyes? Because the truth was the captain was also deeply troubled.

"Well, if you won't take a seat, I think I will..." Fawley said dry, sitting back in his chair. The worry was plain as day on his face. His brown eyes stayed on the priest for several moments, as if hoping for the Man of God to be able to fix something he didn't feel able to. "Unfortunately, father," he answered slowly, "it does not seem to be our right to decide who has suffered too much and who has... I mean, this whole operation..." There he caught himself. The priest might object to the action of these two men, but it wasn't safe to question the system of the camps. He really had to be more careful.

The captain cleared his throat then, looking more composed. "I can only tell you I share your concerns, father, and I have spoken to the Lieutenant about this matter." Fawley wasn't sure what else he could, or should, say. He neither wanted the priest to think him amoral if morality was his chief concern. Nor did he want to appear insubordinate if order and fidelity to the regime was. One never knew who was the secret ears of whom.

Just then, the part of Fawley's day that he had been looking forward to arrived. The door opened and in entered Olive, her manner far too familiar until she saw Mercuxio. The expression on both young people's face was unmistakably of surprise. Olive swiftly composed her features back to 'Standard Camp Neutral,' but for once it was Fawley who found something to say first.

"Excuse me, father," he said hastily, "I asked Lady Constance to help me with some of these piles of paperwork." He looked a bit sheepish, but hoped it could be attributed to the rest of what he said, "My mam was ambitious enough for me that I can read and write, but not as well as a noble, of course."

Merric had dropped his head, as if the whole matter weighed more heavily upon him than it did on Fawley.  In a manner of speaking it did.  The weight of the Church was a grave deal to bear on his shoulders, more so than the overbearing nature of either Bromlin or Neil.  Or both of them combined.  The priest had no place here, such an obstacle was hard enough as it was, but Mercuxio had learned long ago to deal with the pressure his position held, in stride. 

It was the only way to survive in the world.  And within the Order.

"I know," Merric began, standing straighter than he had been.  "But...despite the Lieutenant Colonel, I am not convinced that this is all that can be done.  There was must be something..."  But his voice was cut short when Olive entered into the office suddenly, startling him.  Merric stared at her with wide eyes.  Nothing startled him...

But yet, here she was.  His eyes went from Constance to the young Fawley and back again, quickly going back to normal.  Or as normal as they would for a situation like this.

"Lady Carwick," Mercuxio said, bowing his head to the mage girl and looking her in the eyes.  His own were tired of the matter, of everything, of the run-around, the politics, and the interruptions.  "I didn't know you were coming.  But if I am intruding on something, my apologies.  And my apologies to you Captain."  He bowed his head and made exit the room, closing the door behind him until it have a quiet click.  But he did not linger far from it.

"Oh, no, father, that's hardly necessary, I - " But before Olive could finish her sentence, Mercuxio was gone, leaving Olive standing awkwardly in the threshold of the room in front of the closed door. Olive's eyes watched, large and uncertain, the closed door for several moments before she found herself in Fawley's arms, and trying hard not to take comfort from them. Though, as much as she tried to ignore the feeling, she couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed to be seen like this by one of her former peers. Coming alone to the quarters of an officer; conclusions drawn as clear as day. Former peer, she had to remind herself. She was nothing now, nobody, even if the guards and officers at the camp didn't realize it yet. Anyway, she'd never cared about that sort of thing. But the priest's arrival had so thoroughly unsettled her...

And then suddenly she realized that Fawley had been talking. "You have to be more careful," he was saying, holding her shoulders and looking at her with an earnest concern. "Bromlin's not happy with you. He doesn't like people going over his head. And I can only protect you so much, Constance. If Bromlin..."

"Did he say anything?" Olive asked abruptly, interrupting him. "About what he means to do... or not?"

Fawley frowned at her. This was not the message he was trying to get across. But he knew better than try to deter her when she was determined. "No," he answered, "I think he was going in that direction, but... well, you were there for the rest. What did you say to him?"

Olive sighed, then shrugged. "Nothing I haven't already said to you," she answered, but despite the words there didn't seem to be any reproach in her voice. She found herself retsina her head against his chest, then confided, "But I don't know whether or not I trust him... I'm not..." She sighed again, not sure what to say about it. What she should say. For now she wouldn't tell the captain all that she knew about the priest. Not before she told Christophe, anyway. Finally she looked up at Fawley with a half smile. "Shall we get to that paperwork, then?"

It might have seemed like a lie to Mercuxio - and, of course, whatever conclusions he might have drawn were probably also true - but the Lady Carwick did, in fact, help the captain of the guards with his paperwork. It was a useful way for her to learn what was going on, both in the camp and abroad, and allowed Fawley to turn a blind eye to her getting this information. After all, no one expected a military captain to be a great man of letters!


((OOC: Sorry this is so delayed and fairly undirected. I swear I am going somewhere! I have ideas! Things that will happen! Etc! *flail!*))

They spoke on for quite a while, or so it seemed, and he could hear discussions on Fawley's reports due to Bromlin in the morning, and what to do about the organization of guards around the breakfast rounds in the mess hall - or what passed as a mess hall around here.  Some of it seemed unimportant, but Merric never made a practice of simply dismissing something because of that. 

Lady Carwick seemed to be a great deal of help to Captain Fawley, certainly more than that.  Her sudden arrival had indeed surprised him and he wasn't sure if perhaps he should have stayed, if he should have openly discussed the matter of the guards between the two of them.  But if he should have, the opportunity already passed.

Mercuxio listened to the conversation on the other side of the door and kept his breath silent.  His expression was stony and when it seemed to be well over, he squared his shoulders and took a breath, stepping quietly away from the door.  He knew Constance was comfortable with the guard - or had been for some time - but he had no idea it was that comfortable.  It was not matter, she obviously had to stay in their good graces somehow.  A man could not live on sympathy alone, not in a place like this.

Merric took the matter to heart, to store away for perhaps another day.

Olive returned, exhausted, to the rundown, crumbling stone hut that had become her 'home.' Her weariness was in part due to working ankle-deep in the muddy fields through dinner, but was really fueled by the growing anxiety and uncertainty she'd felt since the priest's arrival. She'd had to work through dinner and, knowing that it was too late to get any food now, she was just looking forward to falling into bed and sleeping. Maybe she'd tell the twins a story first; it wouldn't be bad for her to fall into a fairytale for a little bit. But Olive froze when she passed through the entrance of the hut. The twins were there, eyes wide with worry, shadowed by the figures of Harret and Schelmner.

"Take the kids for a walk, John," Harret said to his compatriot, his eyes fixed on Olive, before she had the chance to say anything.

"Orchid's not here, sergeant," Olive said firmly, trying to sound in charge to cover the fear she was suddenly feeling. She had, at least, succeeded in getting Orchid moved to work shifts when these two were off-duty. At least most of the time.

Harret smirked an ugly smirk. Schelmner, meanwhile, began shepherding the children out of the hut. Lucy looked at her uncertainly.

Olive swallowed, then tried to look calm. "Go ahead, Lucy. It'll be fine." Then she gestured with her head at the tracker. "Go on with them, Dac."

"You're getting a bit big for your britches these days," Harret said as soon as the rickety door swung shut and they were alone in the hut. Before Olive's retort could leave her lips, he had her by the throat and pushed her hard against the stone wall. She lashed out, struggling to escape the man's grasp, but Olive was scrawny, underfed and overworked, and Harret was a soldier. His grip on her throat tightened and he shoved her again against the stone. Choking for air, Olive went still, and his grip loosened just enough to let her breathe. "You've crossed a line, Lady Carwick," Harret growled at her, keeping his voice low. "We've all heard about you running to that priest. That was too far, little girl. Bromlin doesn't like anyone going over his head."

Olive squirmed again, but again his grip tightened to nearly choking her, and instead she just sneered at him, once again still. "You think you're so important because who your daddy is. But at the end of the day, you're just one more filthy mage, and worse yet, a woman. You know what that makes you, 'my lady?' Powerless. You better remember that. Pretty soon no one is going to care what happens to you. Or what anyone does to you. The good lieutenant will just write a sad, sad letter to your parents about how you succomed to the cold, to illness. No one will question it. Tragic story that it is."

She tried to make a retort, but again his grip tightened until she was actually choking. "Why don't we test that theory, huh?" Then he released her and, while Olive was gasping for breath, hit her hard across the face, sending her to the floor, then kicked her harder still in the ribs. Olive's head spun, but she pulled herself up onto her hands and spit on his boots. Harret snorted. "Now let's see who comes out the worst, shall we?"

Then he left, leaving Olive, chest heaving, on the dirt floor of the hut, just inside the door.

...

And Harret had, of course, been correct. Olive woke up to a pang of pain in her ribs and before she could wonder if it was broken, she heard a sharp knock on the door.. She pulled herself up, tucking the threadbare blanket around Orchid who - after working all night - managed to continue sleeping. She gingerly touched what was now an impressive bruise on the side of her face, then tiptoed to the door. Waiting at there were two stiff-backed guards.

"Lady Carwick, we've been instructed to escort you to the detention facility. Come with us, please."

Inwardly, Olive groaned, She'd been put in detention several times, but never without clear reason before. "Can I ask for what offense?"

"Insubordinate behavior towards a soldier."

Of course. Of course it was. She spit on the bastard's boots and now she was the one thrown in detention. Sleepily, Olive figured she should have seen this coming. Or, perhaps, Bromlin just wanted her shut up and out of the way ofr a few days. Either way, without another word, she followed the guards to the all-too-familiar little cell. It was a mud-and-stone hut, just big enough for her to lay in if she curled up. A man in the cell would have to stand for squat for the duration of his stay. In this way, Olive was lucky. The soldier shoved her roughly in once she reached the entrance. She didn't turn around to hear the door shut and locked behind her.

"Three days. No food." Those were the instructions given to the guard posted at the cell block. Olive sighed and looked up. The only sunlight was through the poorly thatched roof. The same roof, of course, also let in a good portion of rain. Resignedly, Olive sat down on the wet, muddy floor, pulling her knees around her. She glanced over at the bucket in the corner. Whatever was in there, she knew, was all she'd have to drink for the next few days. But at least in the cold autumn, she noted, there didn't appear to be anything living in it.

Olive sighed and leaned back against the damp well. Nothing to do now but wait.

---

The next day, Captain Fawley lingered after mass. He'd made a show of attending the open mass; not the one Bromlin had requested be set aside for soldiers only. The young captain had been unsettled since his meeting with the priest. But he was more unsettled still after seeing Olive, her face bruised and grimacing, led into the detention cell. And he was helpless to do anything about it. But it gave him a sense of resolve. If the priest wanted to take action to change the conditions of the camp, Fawley would help him. Bromlin or no.

When the attending crowd dispersed - mostly mages, but with a few guards and Mordecai scattered in - Fawley stayed behind. "Father? Can you spare a moment?"


((OOC: Sorry for the monster post! If you want me to change anything, let me know!))

[*dies.....just dies*]

There was little he could do to offer any real comfort to the prisoners and guards that prayed at the tiny chapel he tried to maintain.  Bromlin had not lied when he said the conditions of Valinarus were bad.  Hearing it from Constance Carwick was one thing, but hearing the thoughts and heartache from other mages here had caused a sense of heartache in the Priest.  While his task was not to pity or pamper, he was not wholly unsympathetic toward them and their lot.  He felt a small token of respect for those that had managed to survive years in this place, small, but not completely moving.

He supposed sentiments would not be all different between captives and jailers if roles were reversed.  Men did what they felt they had to do to make their lots in lives bearable, some more ardent about it than others.  And those were the ones that interested Merric the most.

His role was never to push or question unnaturally.  What people told him, they told him freely in the safety, security, and confidentiality of the Confessional.  Despite Corbiniu's warning, some residents of the camp still clung to their faith and at least made an effort to feel more at ease in the presence of a servant of God.  But most could not be so easily convinced.  It was no matter.  For those that were willing to speak, Father Merric was willing to listen.

There was much information to sort through, to be collected and organized, some more benign than others and a few names of interest that popped up.  But his work was momentarily interrupted when news reached him that Constance Carwick was put in confinement.  Merric had made sure to visit her, though, in the days of her brief, but likely hard incarceration.  The guards had mad an exception for the Father, and with his discretion, he had smuggled in small pieces of bread to the girl behind bars, in spite of her punishment.  He did not fear the Lieutenant Colonel.

Mass had come the following two days and service had gone on as usual.  Save for the few guards that attended the crowd, it was mostly mages that had sat in for a preaching of the Trials of St. Rothrim, in the teaching of perseverance in the face of immeasurable hardship.  The crowd was not greatly moved and seemed more somber than when they had come in, but when they departed, Merric was surprised to find that Fawley had stayed behind.

"Yes, Captain?" he said, turning toward him after putting away some of the relics.  He frowned a little at the look in Fawley's eyes and he tensed, though not visibly.  "What can I help you with, my son?"

The captain stalled while the last of the attending mages and odd guard shuffled drearily out of the chapel. Conflicting emotions were plain on his face - as his feelings so typically were - as he waited. Privately, Lorent wondered if he'd had a clear, unconflicted emotion since he arrived at this camp. Since this whole business of penning up other humans, even if they were mages, began. When he joined the military, when most of these men had joined, he had done so with the expectation of open battle. Trained soldiers fighting other trained soldiers. He never expected that  the 'enemy' he'd be charged with, he thought as the last straggler, a bent-over old woman, would be a mass of helpless, sickly, and starving civilians. It wasn't what he was trained for. It wasn't what any of them were trained for. That, no doubt, was part of the problem.

His eyes watched the old woman leave, then only slowly returned to the priest. "Yes, father," he answered quietly. "I.... I didn't like where we left off our conversation the other day. I don't want you to think that these matters don't trouble me. They do. Greatly." He frowned, his countenance darkening as he thought of Harrett and Schelmner, thought of Olive's blue-bruised face, and little Orchid. "Is there somewhere," he glanced at the open door of the chapel, then back to the priest, "that we can talk?"


((OOC: Please don't die. Also, just FYI, I think this is only one day after Olive's been detained. Not a big detail! Just FYI.))

Merric was taken aback for a moment, particularly at the discretion displayed by the young Captain of the guard.  Though he was initially guarded, even in the revelation of his 'sudden' change of heart, Mercuxio's surprise was genuine and he nodded to Fawley before showing him the way.  "Yes, of course.  Please, follow me to my quarters. We can speak more privately there," he said, and led him out of the rear of the chapel toward the small cabin in the back.  He allowed the younger man to go in first, and he closed the door behind him.

Mercuxio took off the collar and robes of a clergyman and fixed himself in his tunic as he offered him a seat.  "May I offer you a drink, Captain?  Perhaps something to calm your nerves," he asked in his usual soft tone.

"Huh?" Fawley blinked at the priest and shook his head.  "No.  No thank you"

Merric nodded and took a seat across from him.  "Very well.  Then we should get to the matter then.  How much are these matters troubling you, Captain?"

((OOC: I'm going to try to start slowly writing in this thread again. I MIGHT even try to write 'short posts.' :D))

Fawley was nervous, and it showed. He didn't really know what he was doing here. Potentially acting mutinously, he realized. He was a fool for doing it and he knew it, but it was like something else was making decision for him now. Like something was moving him, and he was just passively following.

"I... I..." Words seemed to be failing him now that the priest was being so direct. He had rehersed what he wanted to say so many times in his head on the way to mass. "Very much," he finally finished, a little lamely but a tad more decisively. He swallowed, then continued a little more clearly. "I don't, I don't agree with how things are run here, Father. I think it's wrong and I think Lieutenant Bromlin knows it. Or, I mean, I think he knows what he's doing. I don't think it's just an unfortunate situation that he can only mitigate, whatever he says. He understands what's happening, and he uses it to his advantage."

Fawley was going out on a dangerous limb now and he knew it, but there was finally some resolution behind his faltering speech. He breathed out in a huff, looking up to the ceiling as if looking to Angsar for guidance, before finally looking at Merric directly.

"I want to help you," was all he said, "if I can."

[Lol, all right, cool!  Glad to have you sorta back, Kleine (: Sorry the other post took so long, I kinda assumed you were going on an extended vacation! D:  But I fully intended on posting!]

Merric had been half expecting this was what Fawley had to say.  And yet for all his expectations, his eyes widened and he released a silent breath.  "Are you..are you sure?" Mercuxio asked tentatively, half of his hesitation genuine and the other half forced.  "I know what you're risking.  I know Bromlin can sentence you for treason for this conversation alone, Captain.  I don't want you to think that I'm forcing-"

"You're not forcing me, Father Merric," he said.  His voice was shaking, but he gripped his hands together, containing his resolve.  "No.  I..I came here of my own volition.  I want to help.  I know what the risks are.  I wouldn't be here if I thought otherwise."

Merric sat back.  "I understand.  Then we need to act quickly and discreetly.  I fear things will only get worse if we stand idly by.  All you said about Bromlin, all that I suspected, as much at least.  Which is why I went to him first, to try and get some kind of action out of him.  But all he does is filter out the reality with a batch of military lingo and army know-how.  Some of it's true I suspect.  I've only been here but a short time and all ready I can feel the bleak reality that encapsulates this place.  The prisoners here – and they are prisoners, Captain Fawley, no matter what word Bromlin may use to try and gild that fact – may be mages, but that doesn't mean.."

"I know, Father. I know."  Fawley tried to give him a smile, but it quickly faded. "What can I do?"

"Perhaps we should look more closely at the kind of men Harret and Shlemner are..."

Fawley stared at the priest for a moment, as if confused or uncertain by what he was instructed to do. Or, perhaps, as though he thought the priest was confused.

"'What kind of men they are?'" he finally repeated. "They are the same kind of men as... maybe half of the men here. Bromlin doesn't want the soldiers or the guards to think about the mages as people, father, as human beings. What better way? His silence is a tacit approval, and I think he knows it. And even if more direct encouragement for such... behavior doesn't come from Bromlin, I've heard lower-ranking officers use it with enlisted men."

A momentary look of guilt showed that he regretted doing less than he ought to have in that incident.

"Forgive me if I'm being too direct, father, but I think your focus on two men is misguided. Real change will have to come from somewhere else."


((OOC: No worries! I wasn't waiting on your post or anything. But when I saw that you'd posted, I thought I might try to keep up with one or two threads experimentally and see how it goes.))

[No worries, tinytangerine! Just take things as you need!]

"Please forgive me, Captain.  I'm rather new at this.  This deconstruction of camp policy, or whatever you might call it.  I suppose I did propose changing up the order of the guard.  But perhaps you can think of a better suggestion," Mercuxio said solemnly. 

The captain looked at first confused at the priest’s question, and a little disappointed. Finally, he mustered a mirthless smile, and said, “If I had an idea of how to end this, father, you can trust I would have done it. Perhaps I could have done more, perhaps if I had acted earlier…” He signed, a look of genuine trouble crossing his face. “I don’t know. But it’s ‘in the water’ now, so to speak. The men treat the mage like beasts, and have thus become beasts themselves, if you’ll forgive the poetry on such a grim topic.” Fawley sighed and looked meaningfully at the priest. “Any meaningful change now will, I think, have to come from a higher authority. Or perhaps,” and now he was really speaking treason, “come of a change of higher authority.”

Fawley shifted on his feet, and nodded his head respectfully to Merric. “I can’t take up all of our time, father. When you need me, I’m on your side.” He nodded again, a bit awkwardly, and showed himself out of the priest’s quarters, leaving Merric to consider what he’d said, and what it might mean.

***

The morning was cold, gray, and wet two days later when Olive emerged from the confinement of the solitary hut. Her clothes were damp and pasted with mud from curling up in the sludge floor of the hut and she was a bit dizzy from lack of food. That wouldn’t, of course, excuse her from any of her regular work duties. But as she walked numbly to the hall where the hard tack that passed as the mages’ breakfast was served, the sound of an unfolding commotion swam into her consciousness. It took Olive a moment to recognize what was going on, to recognize the voices, but when she did, her brain jolted back to the present. It was Darnell’s voice, loud and defiant, and the bark of the guards, and the crack of a whip.

Shaking herself to her senses, Olive abruptly changed direction, running in an awkward, ungainly fashion towards the sound of the conflict. And there it was: Darnell, always the firebrand, was standing between two guards and a feeble old woman who was bent on her knees over in the mud of the clearing. It was clear from the tears in her tunic and the blood on her back that she’d been whipped. And, when Olive looked again at Darnell, she realized that a red welt was raising across his face.

The scene seemed to be unfolding in slow motion, and she wasn’t the only onlooker. Olive almost didn’t hear the voice whisper urgently at her side, “Mag was too weak to carry her load of firewood. The guards started lashing her, telling her to get up, and Darnell pulled the guard with the whip off her. Hate to think what’s going to happen to him now.”

But they didn’t need to wonder. The guard was shouting at Darnell to stand aside, but he wouldn’t, and crack! the whip lashed again across his face and chest. Olive’s opinion of him soared, because he didn’t move and he didn’t fight back against the guards. He simply made himself a human shield for the old woman. Crack! The whip lashed again, but still Darnell didn’t budge. Olive recognized the cold determination, the hatred in his eyes now that her senses were clearing. A hush had fallen over the onlookers, guards and mages alike. Now two more guards were involved, each holding one side of Darnell while the first put down his whip and began beating the young man with the blunt end of his sword.

Olive opened her mouth, about to object, to say what she didn’t know, but before she could, someone threw a stone at the guards. The guards turned on the crowd, and after a short fashion, dragged out the offending thrower. It was only a boy. No older than thirteen. But as the guard raised the whip to the boy, another man, wielding only a shovel from his duty in the stables, entered the fray. And another, unarmed, and two more.

Olive stared, open mouthed, then realized that the old woman was still bent over the middle of the fray. Before thinking, Olive darted forward to the old woman. She was light, but so was Olive, and she nearly fell over hefting the woman up. But once she was roughly on her feet, Olive dragged her quickly out of the fray, wincing as a stray lash caught her across the arm. Once they were out of the fray, Olive held old Mag to her like a child and watched, breathlessly as the square was turning into chaos before them.

[Just stick it in my heart, Kleine! It'll hurt less! D:]

Indeed Fawley had left much for Mercuxio to think about.  The words had resonated within him like a slow seeping dagger that was carving it's way into his gut, and the stone that had formed there was slowly solidifying.  But the fact that a higher authority could exact the change he sought to achieve, it still didn't leave anything good behind in its wake.  To bring the Chuch into this certainly would put a halt to the growing tensions between the guards and the prisoners here.  But what was more, it meant revealing his place here was not at all as it seemed.  Which could make his task at finding rebellion more difficult than easier.

And he quickly found he was running out of options.  As long as nothing was getting done, and things were getting worse, he would lose the trust of those he sought to wean information from.  Those that clung to their fragile faiths would break away.

Perhaps this was one risk he would just have to take.

He was busy cleaning up the pews inside the chapel when he heard the sudden ruckus outside of the chapel, two cabins down.  For the yelling was only growing and was difficult to ignore.  Mercuxio stepped outside to observe and his eyes suddenly grew wide at the sight of men and women being struck down and more joining the fight that was quickly growing.  The guards seemed less satisfied with quelling the mages than simply pounding them into all the fury they could muster.

He saw the monsters in their eyes, those that were haggard, barely holding on, now snapped and loose.  He could barely realize what he was doing, but it almost felt as if he were outside himself, watching from somewhere above as he rushed forward and called out to them.  His voice was strained, desperate and he reached for the back of one of the guards.  "Stop this!  Stop at once!"

The guard turned on him and savagely struck him across the face without realize who it was.  But even after Mercuxio fell down into the mud, he didn't seem to have much remorse for it and went back to turning on a small girl and smacked her to the wall as well.  A flash of red zapped before his eyes and Mercuxio climbed to his feet.  He came back to the guard and pulled him off the girl, slamming his fist into the man's face and knocking him to the ground and did the same to another.  When he remembered himself, he resorted back to pulling a guard off an old man.  "That is enough!" he howled.

If he had been watching, Mercuxio would have noticed that Major Neill was not far away and she had seen his fist striking two of guardsmen  She ran forth with a contingent of armed Mordecai and she fired her pistol into the air.  The crack calmed the fray for the moment, and mages were dropped to the ground. "All right!  I think I've seen enough!" She yelled out, her voice ringing high above all else, and the line of Mordecai behind her raised their muskets to their shoulders, aiming at everyone in the crowd.

The guards stopped turning around, some bloodied.  Mercuxio had picked up a young woman and held her for a brief moment, blood dripping from his nose where the guard had struck him, his lip cut and bruised as well.

((*blinkblink* I'm sure I don't know what you mean!))

The fray might have ended, but the tension rife in the air did not dissipate. The crowd cowed in the face of the loaded muskets aimed at the onlookers. No one dared move. Olive felt her heart pounding like a great drum in her chest. The soldiers had ceased their onslaught at  Major Neill’s command, and the additional armed troops and Mordecai contained the mages who had been involved in the fray; those who had attacked the guards and those who had simply been sucked in by proximity. The air was electric with anticipation; no one, mage or guard, knew what was going to happen now. A mage had never defended himself before, much less someone else, and now so many had acted out against the soldiers. Olive watched as the guards corralled the mages who had struck out, silently counting them, silently hoping with all her heart for them. One of the Mordecai, giving the priest a fierce look as he did so, roughly pulled away the young woman in Mercuxio's arms and added her to the others with a shove.

All eyes were on Major Neill now, waiting to see what she would decide. Her proud face was full of disdain, though if it was for the mages or the overzealous guards was anyone’s guess. She seemed about to make some sort of pronouncement when, flanked by ten soldiers armed with muskets and handcanons, Bromlin arrived, half jogging onto the scene, his face full of thunder.

“What in Angsar’s name is going on here?” he roared.

At first only silence followed his question, but Major Neill stepped forward and answered calmly, “I arrived to find several mages,” she gestured to the corralled mages with her unforgiving eyes, “engaged in physical conflict with the guards. I was just about to inquire what he cause of this behavior was when you arrived, sir.”

Bromlin’s eyes blazed as he looked over the assorted crowd: Mordecai keeping everyone in line, bloodied guards, even more bloodied mages, and half the camp looking on. His mind was clearly calculating something, then he called one of the guards over to him. “You there. Samson. You look like you were involved in this nonsense. Can you explain to me what in blazing hell happened here?”

Samson stepped forward, wiping blood away from his face. “Yes, sir,” he answered curtly. He understood perfectly well the Lieutenant’s mood. “We were trying to get the mages to their work shifts, sir, when that one,” he nodded to Darnell, who was almost unrecognizable for the damage he’d incurred, “began interfering. When we tried to remove him, someone began throwing stones. Before we could remove him and the stone-thrower, three mages attacked, sir. When we retaliated, the rest of them,” he nodded to the corralled group of bloodied mages, “joined in, attacking us with rocks and spades and whatever they could get their hands on, sir.” The rest of the soldiers nodded in agreement with the treatment Samson had provided.

Bromlin’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to growl as he considered for several long, silent moments the situation. The atmosphere was potent; like a storm right before it breaks. Bromlin looked for a long time at the guards, then at the mages. Finally, he turned to Neill, and instructed, nodding to the onlooking crowd, “Have your men keep them in line.”

Major Neill held Bromlin’s gaze for a moment, then nodded to her men, who kept their muskets trained on the crowd, their keen eyes looking for anyone who stepped out of line. Then Bromlin turned to the armed men who had accompanied them. “Pull all of these guards aside. I’ll deal with them next,” he said to one of the men, loud enough for only those near to hear, not the entire crowd. “Line up the mages there, facing the wall.” Bromlin’s armed men did as they were told; one of them shepherded the guards over to the side, while the rest set about grabbing the corralled mages, roughly lining them up against the dirty white wall of the barracks.

Olive felt like she was frozen in place and all she could hear was the bass drum of her heart. What were they doing? She counted the mages as they lined them up. Five… seven… ten… in the end, thirteen mages. Including the boy who had thrown the stone who was now shaking with deep, loud sobs. Including the young woman Mercuxio had helped up, silent, unmoving, no longer fighting. And at the front of the line was Darnell, barely standing up, barely himself.

Bromlin spoke out loud to the crowd as this was going on. His voice seemed to echo off the walls of the camp. There was no other sound. “This morning you have decided to take Valinarus into your own hands. You have decided to act on your own and against camp authority. Such actions have consequences.” Olive’s eyes were going between the thunder-face of Bromlin and the armed men. The mages were all lined up now in a neat row, their backs exposed to the crowd, exposed to the soldiers, their faces facing the dirty white flaking paint of the barracks wall. But Bromlin’s men were looking at the mages, at their guns. Suddenly Olive realized that Bromlin was still speaking. “I realize that not all of you have acted out today, and I will not deal out indiscriminate punishment. But violence, subordination, retaliation against the guards, against authority, against your nation and your government will not and cannot be tolerated. You decided what had to happen here this morning. Every action is a decision. Throwing a stone. Throwing a punch. Yes, even standing silently by. And every one of us is accountable for our decisions.”

Bromlin let his words hang in their air for a moment. Then he stepped back, and nodded to the armed men. The first shot pierced the air. Darnell’s body slumped to the ground, leaving the contents of his skull splattered bright red and dull gray against the dirty white wall.

Then while the first soldier reloaded, the next aimed his muzzle at the next mage against the wall and pulled the trigger.

[Just me b*tching and moaning about all the loooong posts! xD]

Mercuxio jumped at the sound of the flintlock fire and moved away from the scene as he watched Darnell's skull splinter and explode off to the side of the wall.  He watched the brain drip down, but there was no nauseous sensation as he might have expected.  He only knew that now...things were going to be a lot worse.  His knuckles were bloodied, not just from the dirt but from where he had touched the young woman who had blood on her rags. 

As the executions persisted, Mercuxio could no longer bear to watch and slipped toward the back of the crowd, moving off towards his quarters and locking himself in his cabin.  He stared at his hands, watching as the blood covered his palms.  He knew no matter how much he scrubbed, it wouldn't wash away.  Not completely.  He gave a shuddering breath before wiping them clean and wiping off the blood from his face, and patching the gash on his lip. 

He pulled off his bloodied cassock and sat down on his cot, and from underneath his trunk, he pulled out a portable office and took a piece of charcoal, parchment and started to write.

((I can't heeellllpppp it! There's too much to say! I'll try to reign it in, though. >.>))

No one else left the scene in front of the barracks wall. No one else was certain that they could leave the scene, with the Mordecais' muskets still trained on the crowd. Olive, with the others, watched wide-eyed as, one by one, the soldiers executed the mages lined against the wall. She watched an old man who had taken the stone-throwing boy under his wing tried to run forward when the soldier-cum-executioner took his aim at the boy. She watched as a Mordecai felled the man with a blash of a musket. She was frozen as another blast from a gun silenced the heavy, body-shaking sobs of the boy. In her head, she was screaming, crying out, ordering the soldiers, Bromlin, Niell, to stop. But in reality her mouth was like cotton, dry and fuzzy and silent.

She had no sense of how long it lasted. It probably wasn't very long, but it felt like a sequence frozen in time. And when it was finally over, Olive realized that Old Mag had become heavy in her arms. Heavy, still, clammy. With great effort, Olive wrenched her eyes from the bright line of splattered red now on the wall to the old woman. Old Mag was dead. Olive hadn't pulled her from the fray soon enough, she was sure. Darnell hadn't saved her. Darnell. Olive looked slowly back up at the line of dead bodies. Darnell had put his life on the line for Old Mag. He'd failed. They'd all failed. Olive's stomach suddenly heaved, sick with the realizaiton. But her stomach was empty and nothing came of it. Slowly, very slowly, she brought Old Mag's body to the wall and laid it down gently next to Darnell. She suddenly realized that her vision was blurred and that her face was wet with hot tears she hadn't known she was shedding. Through the blur she heard soldiers barking for everyone to return to their duties, to clear the scene, to remember what they saw and to be grateful that Bromlin hadn't punished them all.

"You, five, and you," a soldier's barking voice came through the haze, and Olive was vaguely aware she was being pointed at. "You're dismissed from your regular duties. Take care of these bodies."

So now Olive was, less than an hour later, standing outside of the priest's door. Her arms and face were smeared with the blood and brain matter of the dead, her clothing soaked. Beneath the dark red and brown of the blood, her skin was drained of all color, except for the yellow-browns and green-purples of the fading bruises left by Harris. Olive swallowed, then knocked softly on the priest's door.

[Don't worry about it! x3 I'm just complaining to complain.]

She was not alone in her shock.  Eyes that stood beside Major Niell and Lieutenant Bromlin were reddened with tears that Fawley dutifully tried to keep hidden from view.  Thankfully nobody was paying attention to him as the final shots were fired.  Those same eyes fell to her and the dead woman in her arms.  Quickly he wiped away any streams of tears that were evident on his face and he hardened his jaw when Bromlin turned to him.

"Take care of the men," Bromlin said resolutely as  he walked passed him

Fawley said jutted out his chin and saluted.  "Sir, yes, sir," he said and moved forth to help organize the clean up of the scene and to keep those that were not made to help remove the bodies, get back to work.  Or, Fawley feared, there might be more than just the few mages whose brains were being scrubbed off the white washed walls.

~~
Mercuxio had been kneeling before his bed when the sound of a knock at his door made him jump to attention.  He clenched his fist and felt for the dagger underneath his pillow, and sheathing it into the sleeve of his robe, concealed enough from view, but easy for quick access.  Just...just in case it was someone with less than friendly means.

He wiped his face and his eyes and took a few breaths before slowly answering the door.  "Lady Constance?" he asked with a light breath.  He backed away from the door.  "It's freezing out here.  Please.  Come inside."

Olive looked up at Merric when he opened the door, her eyes still wide and a bit glazed. She held his gaze for several moments before responding. But not in a meaningful way; more like she was reacting a few moments behind the current flow of time. She still hadn't eaten for days and the shock of the morning was still splattered (quite literally) all over her.

"What?" she asked at first, as if not understanding him. Then slowly understanding crept onto her face. "Oh, no," she answered, her voice quiet and somewhat monotone. "No, we're burying the bodies. Can you, can you come read the rites and bless them? I know it's..." Her eyes drifted away. Maybe she was going to say that it was useless now, that it didn't matter, that it wasn't going to change anything. But, eventually, she just looked back up at Merric and said, "Please."

Merric paused before her eyes and took his own eternity to finally answer.  He was taken aback for a moment and he nodded to her.  "Yes.  Yes, I will be but a moment," Mercuxio did not close the door on her, though he considered the prospect before moving toward his trunk and pulling on his cassock.  He threw it over his shoulders and put his arms through the holes before returning to the door. 

He was silent, solemn, grabbing the holy tome that bore Ansgar's word.  His hands were heavy, his entire body was in fact as he stepped out with Olive and closed the door behind him.  "Let us go."   He nodded to her, walking beside her, only peering at her features from the side of his eyes and afraid to breath any louder lest he break the silence.

When they got to the burial mounds in the darkness, a few of the mages were surrounding the freshly moved dirt.  When he saw the dirt, the reality of it was sealed home for him and he took a quiet breath and opened up his book.  But before he began reading, his eyes fell upon the shadowed form far to the back, hooded, only partly visible in the lantern light on the side of the mounds.  The beady eyes met his in return, and they were so icy, they sent a chill down is spine.  His stare broke only for a moment, looking down at his book.

"Before I begin, perhaps someone close to the dearly departed would like to say a few words," he offered first.

Olive walked alongside Mercuxio, eyes downcast. She didn't try to say anything to him. She didn't know what she could say. There weren't any words, anyway. But she glanced up at his face when they arrived at the freshly-dug graves, some part of her curious to see how the priest would look at the fallen bodies. And Olive's eyes weren't the only ones that was watching the priest. The small group of mages stared openly at him, as if disbelieving that he had actually come. Some looked thankful, some looked accusing. All looked uncertain and one could almost hear the unasked question in the air, 'Who does this man stand with? Us, or them?'

But only silence answered Merric's request for someone to say words. The mages looked hollow-eyed at the priest for several moments, then to the bodies now lying in their shallow graves, still unburied. Old Mag gazed lifelessly up at the sky; the faces of the rest were blown apart. Fifteen of them in the end. The thirteen executed against the wall, the man who had tried to step in for the boy, and Old Mag.

Finally a voice broke the silence. It was an older man, his voice heavy with emotion and cracked. "What words can be uttered here to do justice to so many, so young and so old, struck down on one day?"

Olive looked abruptly up at the man - his face lined with age and creased with anger and wet with tears - and felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation, and every one of them understood it.

No one else dared speak.

For the longest moment, the moment was too solemn for even Mercuxio to interrupt.  He had seen these mages die just the same as they did.  But much less so would he understand the gravity of their deaths.  Sympathy only carried one so far, and now, it served nothing more than the thin silken veil that would perpetually separate him from the rest that stood here.

He dropped his head and opened the page to the Psalms of St. Hrygar.  "And slowly he walked in a shadow of solemnity, onward into the night, far from the morning light.  He did not fear the darkness,  He did not fear the coldness, He stepped bravely onward into the night.  He was not alone, nor was he lost in the loneliness one often felt when separated from their flock.  They were with him, and he with them, those he loved and held most dear.  He felt no pain, Nor anguish, Nor sorrow, Yet nor was there emptiness in his heart.  He felt no torment, No hardship, No strife.  Only peace in his entrance in Eternity..."

Once he had finished that psalm, Mercuxio did not stop reading, turning now to the Rite of Eternity, and read from that to bless the ground where the dead was to be buried, and then on to the body themselves.  Four stones were placed in each corner of each plot, each blessed as a Brynstone, to protect the bodies from evil tampering, and that each soul would not wander or lose its path on its journey to Ansgar.

He knew the mages had been watching him, and he knew what guards were lurking were watching him as well, for he could feel their eyes in the darkness at his back.  Though as a Priest, it was his duty to issue the rites to the dead, to bless them and ensure their purity, the addition of the Brynstones was a curiosity to anyone who had been familiar with Ansgarian funeral rituals.  It was one thing to bless the dead, but the Brynstones made them honored dead, a practice often reserved for those in high esteem, and guaranteeing them passage back to Ansgar's side.

The owner of the smoke that flared in the darkness had narrowed her eyes in insult.  Major Niell wasn't the most religious woman in the world, but her place as a Mordecai had given her the opportunity to witness such a rite practiced more than once, to the soldiers that served under her, and those that served with her.  To see that the priest had placed them by the graves of a bunch of mages certainly didn't bode well with her.  She took a long drag on her smoke before dropping it into the mud, dashing it out with her boot.

Something palpable changed in the air with the lying of the Brynstones. It wouldn't be correct to say that the spirits of the mages who witnessed that act were raised; but it was as though an electric charge was sparked between them and within them. The day's fallen were honored dead. In the midst of the cold and dank and mud and blood of the day... perhaps their deaths had not been in vain. And what was clear now, after this day, was that there was much less to lose than they had imagined. If fifteen people could be killed in a matter of minutes because an old woman was too weak to carry her load, then they could be killed for anything. They knew that now.

Perhaps that should cow them. Make them more afraid. But these were people who were already pushed to the brink. In a way, knowing that death could be so arbitrary was liberating. If even working their hardest and keeping their heads down didn't ensure their safety, or at least their lives, then nothing did. Which meant that the last reason not to fight back was removed. No one dared speak this new truth, but they all felt it.  They all knew it. Today's dead were honored dead. And what other honorable paths were left for those who remained behind? It was as if, with the firing of fifteen bullets, the mages here had been filled with more despair and more hope than they had felt in countless months.

Olive stared at the graves after the ceremony was done, after the Brynstones were blessed and laid, after the other onlookers slowly and reticently began to leave. What had happened here? Her green eyes followed Mercuxio as, along with the others, he began to draw away from the graves. Then, recklessly, Olive hurried after him. Some part of her said that she should be more discrete; but she was dizzy from lack of food, cold and wet with blood and soil, and desperate from the day's ordeal. And it all showed in her eyes when she finally drew next to him and asked, her voice less wary but more raw, "Why did you do that?"


((Sorry if this is a bit of a mess. I wrote it in like three session, and I can't make myself reread it. >.>))

All were silent once he had finished his words and the only sound that echoed between them all was the closing of his book.  A shuddering breath came out in a puff of steam as a result of the cold air.  Neglecting to put on an overcoat left Merric's body shaking a little as he turned to walk back to his cabin.  The sound of footsteps startled him and he was surprised even more to find that it was Olive.  He was taken aback and blinked at her.

He didn't know how to answer her.  He was a Confessor above all else.  He was charged with fighting against the evil of magic, against the bane of that poison of mind and body.  And yet he had blessed the bodies of dead mages, granting them honor in death.  Mercuxio was silent for a good long second.  "Because not all of us," he said in a gentle voice, believing it even as he said it, "should die in vain."

Olive audibly scoffed at Merric's answer, surprising even herself, a little. "Everyone here dies in vain," she countered, a hitn of disgust in her voice. "To say there was a reason, a real reason, for anyone to die here is the biggest insult you can pay them."

Olive continued, uninvited, alongside Mercuxio, and she was fixing him with a look equal parts suspicious and desperate. Like she wanted very much to believe she could trust him, that he acted genuinely, but that she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. "I don't know why you're here, Mer - " she cut herself off from using his name, then glanced to her side where she could see a pair of guards watching them closely. Olive felt momentarily conscious of the black eye, the bruised ribs, and days of hunger that had been the result of the last time she spoke with the priest, but pushed it out of her head and returned her gaze to Mercuxio. "I don't know why you're here, father. But I have a hard time believing it's to send the message to the mages here that, when death seems inevitable, the only honorable way to die is to meet the soldiers with the same violence they bring upon us."

She paused for a moment, then continued. Though she at least at the sense to keep her voice down, there was a hint of accusation in it now. "And what about everyone still alive? Do you think doing that," she gave a small gesture with her head back to the graves, "do you think that will inspire the guards to be more understanding now?" Perhaps it was assigning too much responsibility to Merric's actions to suggest that the laying of the Brynstones would stoke the guards anger against the mages more than the incident that morning would. But Olive understood why those mages stood their ground, why they struck back. She did not understand what Mercuxio was doing, and for now, she didn't believe his answer.

\Mercuxio expression turned somber and he stepped back from Olive Carwick, giving her a narrow-eyed gaze at her suspicion, at her gaze, at her interrogation.  "Forgive me if I seem idealistic in my endeavors, or that you misconstrued my actions as trying to promote the mages here into open rebellion.  I don't want anyone to die!"  The last part came out in a hiss and it was Merric's turn to feel his own anger boiling over.

But he checked himself before it could.  That however didn't stop his jaw from clenching and his eyes burning.  "I placed them down because I felt in my heart it was the right thing to do.  You would dare question my duty as a priest, delivering them their last rites?  You asked me to come out here.  You wanted me to brave that crowd.  Even I knew that the last thing they wanted was to hear anything I had to say.  I saw their looks, their scowls, their glares.  But I made an oath to God, Constance.  And I knew the risk I was taking being there.  I gave them the burial I saw fit to give them.  I'm sorry that you feel I was only trying to be an instigator."

Indeed his place here may not have been to cater to the poor and wretched here, but for the moment, Mercuxio hadn't been thinking of finding rebellion.  His words had been genuine.  His duty had been done.  He saw the Brynstones as the only way to give the dead some peace in the afterlife, after having suffered in a place like this.  He didn't acknowledge the consequences at the time, that the guards, the soldiers and Mordecai, would not look upon the action lightly.  They didn't even factor into his mind.

"It wasn't my intention, if that's what you think, to make life harder for the people already here," he said solemnly, the anger leaving his eyes.  "Perhaps I wasn't thinking at the time.  But I wouldn't change a thing about what I had done.  You don't have to believe me.  I would never ask that much of you.  I would place them again if I were to perform the ceremony over."

At first, at his words, Olive looked like she might strike out at Mercuxio, anger flashing in her eyes. But then, right when it was reaching its peak, it collapsed, and Olive deflated, covering her face with her hands. She took a shaky, deep breath, trying her best to collect herself.

"You're right. I'm sorry," she said after a few moments of silence, all of the anger and much of the energy drained from her voice. "I did ask you to come. I... I appreciate that you did. And I think more of the others did, too, than you might guess. I'm sorry, I..." Olive uncovered her face, wiping away the wetness in her eyes, resulting in a smear of blood and mud on her cheeks.  They hadn't been unshed tears of sadness, but frustration, exhaustion and when she looked back up at Mercuxio, her expression was apologetic. "I'm sorry. I spoke too rashly."

Olive glanced over her shoulder again, back at the shoulders. "That wasn't fair. I'm glad you laid the Brynstones, but... I'm worried, about what will happen now." Her fear was plain on her face. "After today. If..." Part of her wanted to ask him outright for help. He had said that the Church had not turned a blind eye to the suffering of the people here. That he would help, if he could. But she cast her eyes down, folding her arms around herself and shaking a little from the cold, then finally said, "I'm afraid for those who didn't die today." Herself included.

Mercuxio frowned.  He didn't know what possessed him to do so, but he raised a hand and pressed his palm against the cool skin of Olive's cheek, holding it there for a moment.  "I know...I know that things won't be easier.  But you don't have to apolgize to me.  I got a firtshand view at what really goes on here...  I..."  He retracted his hand a looked down.  "I said I would do what I can.  And I have not forgotten my promise.  I will, Constance.  But in the meantime, please take care of yourself and those you can.  I know others here rely on you.  You have to be strong.  I see now what Dani sees in you.  I know you already are, as hard as things might be."

Dani. It was so hard to remember the connection between herself in Mercuxio. That this was her friend's brother. That she had ever had a carefree friend, or a life outside of this camp. It seemed silly, but remembering that felt like remembering a dream. Images and feelings that were just beyond her grasp. Beyond the cold and the hunger and the fear of her life now. Maybe it was the memory of that Other Life, remembering that Mercuxio had, somehow, been part of it. But when he put his hand to her cheek, she didn't pull away.

And remembering also, in that moment, made her forget the wariness she'd held, the caution she'd warned the others to use. Olive just wanted, so desperately, to trust him.

"I know you said you don't want to incite an open rebellion," she said without looking up, her voice quiet and tight with emotion, "and of course I believe you. Why would you want to, but... People are desperate, and afraid and I don't know how far..." She trailed off, biting her lip and looking around for guards who might be within earshot before finally looking up at Mercuxio.

"Whatever you might think about mages, most of the people here, you know, they're like me - they've never used magic. Or never purposefully. They don't deserve this," she said, meaning the camps, "and they definitely don't deserve to all die. But, I think people feel like they're running out of options, and if..." Olive couldn't bring herself to actually speak aloud that she thought an uprisal might be a possibility. "If you can help us," she finally said, her eyes pleading, "...please."

Mercuxio gave a solemn nod of his head and his eyes were glistened over.  The cold air made him blink  his tears away, refusing to acknowledge them.  It was difficult to tell in the darkness anyway.  He nodded to her and took her hands in his, clasping them tightly.  "I promise you change will come.  Perhaps sooner than both of us know," he murmured and released her hands.

His tone had been genuine and the cold was getting to him now.  And he pulled his cassock tighter over his shoulders.  "It is positively freezing out here.  Would you like to come inside the cabin?  I can offer you whatever food I have left, and perhaps something warm to drink.  If not, I understand.  And...don't worry about speaking crossly.  You have every right to say how you feel.  And I would never hold that against you."

Olive held Mercuxio’s gaze as he took her hands and made his promise. She swallowed, no words coming to her until he invited her to take refuge for awhile in his cabin. But she looked again over her shoulder. The same two soldiers were still watching them, their faces darkening, and Olive’s hand unconsciously moved to touch the bruises still visible on her face. Her stomach rumbled at the offer, but caution got the better of her.

“No,” she answered, still watching the soldiers, before returning her attention to Mercuxio. “No, I don’t think I should. But… thank you, Mercuxio,” she said quietly, and it looked for a long moment as though she were going to say more, but then decided against it. “I should go.”

She paused to hold Mercuxio’s gaze for only one moment longer, as though she were still deciding something, then scurried off, like a fox found out by a farmer and his dogs.

---

Major Neill hadn’t stayed around to watch the entirety of the ridiculous burial ceremony - Brynstones! Who did this priest think he was? That question, however, had stuck in her mind. Suspicions about the father had already been lurking in her mind and now, it seemed, was the time to put them to rest. She left the impromptu graveyard, making as direct a path to the priest’s quarters as was prudent.

The major pulled out the trunk beneath the priest’s bed. She was no fool. The weight of this trunk did not match the scrolls and cassocks and other mundane things first visible in it. She gave it a sharp kick and heard the rattle of metal. She should have guessed. It didn’t take her long to find the trunk’s false bottom, and there, beneath it…

Well, well.

Carefully, she pulled out a dagger. Very few people were awarded weapons like this. And she knew which few it was. Bromlin would find this very interesting indeed. Though it did give the Mordecai reason to pause. This revelation, after all, did not exactly fit with the mage-sympathizing priest she’d observed so far. What was this man doing here?

It was time to find out.

She slid the dagger beneath her armor, then carefully replaced everything in the trunk. Sliding the trunk back beneath the bed, she left the cabin, quiet as a mouse, and went to find Bromlin.

Mercuxio nodded to her and gave her a small flicker of a grin.  "I understand," he replied softly and before he knew it, he watched her disappear into the darkness.  After a breathy sigh, Mercuxio turned on his heel and strode back to his cabin.  His eyes lingered on the mud, and his thoughts running with the letter he had written, and if his messenger bird would be back in time.  And hopefully back before being discovered.

Merric approached the door and looked at the steps, his musings stopping short.  Though perhaps it didn't seem so unusual, there was more mud on there than he remembered, when  he had first entered his quarters and when he had left.  Merric stepped through the threshold, softly clicking the door behind him and observed his cabin.

His heart was beating fast, though he couldn't be sure why and his eyes darted from corner to corner.  Nothing seemed out of place.  But there was a particular smell in the air.  It stung his nostrils, smelling faintly of tobacco, roughly harvested and burned.  It was so faint, it was nearly unnoticeable, but the smell struck him.  Then his eyes shot toward the trunk beneath his cot, and saw the scrapings of dust along the ground.  His eyes did not shoot wide in alarm, knowing he had moved the trunk earlier, but there was something about the scrapings that seemed to have been disturbed in a rush, and not carefully placed back as he would have.

His heart beat heavier in his chest and he forced himself to calm down.  He knew it was possible he was jumping to conclusions, but he made a point not to get more ahead of himself than he was prepared for.  His hand instinctively touched the dagger strapped to the inside of his robe and he carefully undressed, stretching his entire sore body before retiring to bed, gripping the knife he had placed underneath his pillow.

___
"Now you're sure you found this in the Father's belongings?  How do you know it wasn't just placed there?" Bromlin asked curtly with hard iron eyes.  He carefully beheld the dagger in his hand and turned it over slowly.

"What the hell do you mean am I sure!?  I found the goddamned thing under a false bottom.  What the hell else is that supposed to mean!?  I knew there was something off about that bastard.  And this just goes to show I was right.  You need to do something Bromlin.  Take care of him.  Get him out of this camp.  He's trouble.  I know he's up to no good."  The Major was fuming and flicking the end of her smoke onto the rug that was afforded the Lieutenant, unconsciously digging her boot into it.  She took a long drag, trying to take the edge off before dropping the rest of it on there and smashing the tobacco until it was completely dashed out.

Bromlin leaned back in his chair, frowning at the dagger Neill had pinched from the priest's quarters. This was troubling. Troubling indeed. If there was anything Bromlin did not like, it was the undermining of his authority. Even if that was coming from the Church. Let the priests minister to the wayward, but Bromlin believed deeply that the military must run itself and not be made subject to the whims of the Church.

"Yes," he agreed darkly, "I will do something about it."

...

Bromlin went alone to the priest's quarters. He wasn't happy about this situation, but his anger wasn't as deep and icy as Major Neill. Hopefully, he could sort out what the father was doing here... and dismiss him. Bromlin knocked on the priest's quarters, but didn't wait to be let in.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, father," he said, a hint of acid in his tone, "but there are some questions I'm hoping you can answer for me."

In his hand was the dagger that Neill had earlier removed from the priest's trunk. The one that revealed his rank.

The sudden burst through the door did not startle the priest.  At least he did not show that it startled him.  He'd been on alert every minute since the invasion of his quarters.  Or what he had deemed to be an invasion.  He always slept with his other dagger closest to him, under his pillow, one stashed underneath his sleeve, another on the inside of his thigh beneath his robe, conveniently out of sight. 

But he'd gone about the last few days in relative peace, as if nothing happened.  But inside, he couldn't conceal the fact to himself - his heart was racing.  He eagerly awaited news from his superiors concerning a response to a more direct course of action from the Order.  He requested help immediately, for the situation was of the utmost urgency.  Though the one thing he did not reveal was the fact that even he might be a victim of violence - after the memory of the guard striking him lingered.  Perhaps even of a direct assault.

Mercuxio looked up from his prayers, peering at the Lieutenant before him with a wide-eyed expression.  "I'm sorry?" he asked.  "What is that?  Why are you showing me that dagger?"

((Super short post is super short.))

Bromlin frowned and stepped the rest of the way into the cabin, the door swinging shut behind him.

"Don't waste my time, father. You know exactly where this dagger came from and you know a good deal more than I about it beyond that."

Bromlin frowned again, then moved over to the priest's small table and set the dagger down, taking a step away from it. He wasn't here to threaten Merric. If he wanted to use force, he had a camp full of soldiers at his disposal.

"Now, father - or should I say Confessor. What, exactly, are you doing here?"

Mercuxio stood at attention at the sudden accusation and the setting of the dagger before him.  He had to remain calm.  He knew he couldn't afford not to.  But this...how could one play this off as nothing more than it was simply a decorative dagger.  "I am here to serve the patrons of this camp," Merric said in as calm a voice he could must - which seemed more cold than calm.

"Just as you requested Lieutenant.'

Bromlin's jaw hardened, frown deepening and he had to do his best to keep from pulling the chair out from underneath the priest, or as he preferred kicking it out from under him.  "Enough with the vague explanations.  Tell me what you are doing here, or I will have you arrested!"

Mercuxio leaned back in his chair and promptly stood. "I've told you -"

"Don't give me that pious, sanctimonious, holier than though bullshit!"  Bromlin purposefully spat the last word and Merric wiped his face off with a handkerchief from his desk.  "Now, why on earth would a priest from the Church, if he were truly here to try and save the souls of men, need a dagger?  And such a decorated dagger at that.  Unless he had some ulterior motive."

"For protection!" Merric said sharply, turning around and cleaning the last bit of spit from his face.  "From the likes of you, of your men, and of the way you run this camp.  I have every right to protect myself...  The Church professes even such a claim."

But the look of doubt only intensified in Bromlin's eyes.

“If I were intent on causing you harm, father, a dagger would not prevent it. You seem to forget that I have an army here at my disposal.” Bromlin’s expression hardened, it was clear he was trying to keep his temper in check. He was not a man used to being challenged. “Please don’t force me to remind you.”

Bromlin looked hard at the priest for a long moment. “I came here alone, father, because I wanted to talk to you. Not threaten you. I have much more efficient ways to do that. Now. One last time: What are you doing here?”

---

Tensions weren’t only rising in the priest’s quarters. Outside, Lloyd Bremen was trying to lower calm the worries, and fervor, of a younger mage who had witnessed the executions the day before. Lloyd Bremen was one of the visible ‘leaders’ of the mages in the camps, and the young man next to him now wasn’t the first to seek him out since the previous day’s events.

“But if they’re going to kill us - fifteen of us! - for no reason more than standing up for a little old lady,” the man was saying in an agitated whisper, “what other choice do we have? If we’re going to be slaughtered like fucking cattle anyway, then why not fight back?”

Inwardly, Bremen frowned. He wasn’t unsympathetic to the young man’s views, but he was wary of an action happening too early, with too little preparation - if they could ever be prepared enough. Maybe they couldn’t. “There are a lot of women and children in this camp, Sam,” Bremen warned, his tone carefully level, “who will be punished right alongside anyone who tries to fight. We have to think about keeping people alive.”

“‘Women and children!’” Sam spit, his face curling into a sneer. “And what’s happening to them now? Are you sure that’s better than what would happen if we acted? I’m not.”

Bremen was silent, not able to argue this point.

“And the Brynstones, Lloyd. That priest laid Brynstones on the graves of yesterday’s fallen. If even the priest - a man of the Church, for Angsar’s sake! - thinks fighting against this injustice is honorable. Then surely it must be.”

Bremen frowned, looking up at the light kindled in Sam’s eyes. “Maybe, Sam. Maybe.”

---

“What do you think will happen now?”

Olive’s question broke the silence between the two, collapsed lovers. She lay with her head resting on Fawley’s chest, his bare skin warm against her own, which seemed now always cold.

“Bromlin’s furious,” the captain answered, “with the whole lot of you, of course, and with the priest. For trying to intervene, for conducting a proper funeral, for laying those stones. I don’t think anything is going to get easier for anyone. He’s already said he plans to cut your rations,” he said, meaning the mages at large, “and told me that I should instruct the guards to be extra vigilant for any signs of dissent amongst the mages.”

“Will you?”

“Of course not. But I’m not sure I need to. Half of the men here are champing at the bit for a reason to strike out. More.” Fawley was silent for a moment, then asked, “What do you think?”

Olive sighed, then admitted, “I’m frightened. That’s what I think. Some are just terrified now, but many are angry. Really angry. I’m not sure. I just… I think enough people have died. That’s what I think. But I don’t know, people are fired up. Especially with the laying of those stones. I don’t know what that man was doing.”

“You still don’t trust him, then?” Fawley asked her, a little hesitantly. He hadn’t yet told her of his offer to help Mercuxion when the priest needed it.

Olive propped herself up on an elbow then, so she could look at Fawley when she answered. She’d been going over her brief conversation with Mercuxio again and again in her head. But she wasn’t as emotionally raw now as she was when the priest had brought her to tears. “I believe him when he says his motives were good, I think,” she answered slowly, but something hardened in her expression. “But I think he acted rashly, or else stupidly. I think things will be much worse here because of that decsion. And I don’t trust people who don’t consider the consequences of their actions, no.”



((Lion, feel free to jump into or ignore any of these additional scenes, as you like! I just thought I'd build some more context. :D))

"Oh, I know you have an entire camp army at your back, Bromlin," Mercuxio said coldly, deliberately dodging the question.  He stood straighter now, his eyes boring into the Lieutenant's with an ice that chilled him to the bone.  "This is your camp.  And you run it just as you like, don't you?  And you'd do just about anything you can manage to exercise your power, and your right to it.  You keep things under control, running smoothly.  That's just how you like it."

"Yes it is!" Bromlin growled, spitting fire.  "I keep the peace, I keep things orderly.  It's me to makes sure my own men don't go tearing each other apart being locked away and forgotten up here in the fucking mountain cold!  I'm in charge!"

"And just how much longer do you think this can go on the way it is?  Something's bound to break sometime soon, whether you realize it or not.  Yes, everyone here is under great strain.  You, included, I can see it in your eyes.  You hate it here."

"And so what if I do.  But I take my duty like a soldier.  And so will everyone else under my command for that matter.  Don't push me, Father, I would have you in binds.  Now answer my question, or I will be forced to take extreme measures."

Mercuxio stepped back as Bromlin advanced a step and he held his ground.  "Your leadership here is about as efficient as a corrupt magistrate.  You aim to keep order, but you simply seal the lid over any boiling pot until it's just about to boil over.  It's only a matter of time before something happens that you can't prepare for.  In fact...I don't think you realize just who really is in charge here..."

At his words, Bromlin's face grew red.  He was boiling over with rage, his hands clenched tightly.  "What the hell are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying, plainly, that I've seen all I need to say.  And now it's time for a change in leadership.  You couldn't quell a mage rebellion even if you had a thousand soldiers under your command.  And rebellion is brewing.  It's time for the Church to come in and lend a hand."

"You....you're a fucking spy!  I knew it.  All of you Confessors are snakes.  Hidden eyes and ears of the Church, or so they say.  But you're not going to take my command from me!  This is my camp.  I'll make an example of what I do with spies and snakes.  You're not going to do anything!  I'll see you hanged!"

"That would be inadvisable, Lieutenant.  As a representative of the Church, attacking me is the same as an attack on the Church itself.  I can only ask that you listen to reason, and willingly step down from your command."

Bromlin reached for the door, but Mercuxio was surprisingly fast for a man his size and sprang around him, shoving his boot into the door and Bromlin stood back.  "Get out of the way!" he growled.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to leave until we have reached the terms of your depositon.  The Church will take over.  It is only a matter of time.  You have allowed your men to abuse their power, to abuse your prisoners, which is unethical even in a time of war, to be shot at leisure, and never have you reported a single incident to your superiors.  And you have allowed rebellion to brew.  I think you mean to refer to your ownership in the past tense.  This was your camp, Bromlin.  Now...Step.  Down."

"'The Church!'" Bromlin barked a laugh. "Because what institution has a better track record of treating mages fairly, of course! You think I don't know what goes on in the camps outside of Connlaoth, father? Just over the border, where your lot are running things? I suppose that's why you're here, isn't it? So you can trump up a little dissent into a full-blown rebellion and say your intervention was justified. Then my 'prisoners' can become your guinea pigs, is that it?"

Bromlin sneered at Mercuxio, his whole body rippling with anger. He might be older, but he was far from feeble. He was fomenting with anger. Not only at being undermined, and by a priest, but by this dirty Confessor acting as though he had the moral high ground. No one challenged Bromlin's decisions, their morality, and in the end his authority. A hatred for the priest was rising in his stomach, and he wanted to grab the man by the head and rub his nose in all the injustice his side was inflicting. Bromlin was just trying to run a camp!

"And you want to talk about 'unethical treatment.' I'm not proud of everything that happens here, no, but you," he jabbed a finger at Mercuxio's chest, "are fucking kidding yourself. And your Church will take power over my dead body."

He grabbed Merric by the collar of his shirt, making to move the priest out of his way. "Now stand aside."

Merric had been prepared to negotiate, to speak with a largely impossible man, to reason with him.  But when Bromlin's hands came around his shirt collar, Merric suddenly felt alarmed and stiffened. He pulled back and resisted, holding his place by the door when Bromlin put more force into his hold, trying to shove him off to the side.

"Stand aside!" he howled again.

"No!"  Mercuxio was adamant and grabbed his own collar.  The priest stepped his foot between his feet and pushed Bromlin back.  For a man who wore robes and cassocks most of the time, the priest was deceptively strong, a powerful body carefully hidden underneath the looseness of those robes.  Merric shoved him back, undermining his footing and making him fall to the ground.

Bromlin's grip had broken only to try and stop his own fall to which he tried to quickly get back up again, turning his weight toward his left and shoving the priest into his table.  The Lieutenant's fist came flying, cracking across Mercuxio's face with a vicious sound that made his head reel backwards. 

"I should go."

Olive sat up in Fawley's bed, wrapping her knees up in her arms and resting her chin on them. The truth was, she didn't want to leave. She told herself it was because she felt safer here, but she knew the real reason; this was turning into more than just a business relationship for Olive as well. She supposed she knew that it always had been for the captain.

"Try to stay out of trouble for a few days," Fawley told her and, though he said it with a small smile, it was clear in his tone and in his eyes that he was worried about her.

Olive turned her head to look at him, then leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Okay," she agreed, "I'll try." She didn't mean it, but she supposed they both knew that. Silence fell between them as Olive got up and dressed. She gave Fawley one last look, then left without another word.


The cold bit at Olive outside of the captain's quarters. She moved quickly through the darkness back to her own shack, but the sounds of a quarrel caught her attention. It was from the direction of... the priest's cottage? Olive paused, listening. It was Bromlin, anger ringing in his voice and... she flinched at the sound of physical contact breaking between the two men. With only a passing thought to the lie she'd told the captain, Olive moved slowly closer to the priest's cottage, sticking to the shadows, to hear what was transpiring inside.

---

Inside, Bromlin was seeing red. As his anger rose, he changed his mind about just what exactly his intentions were with the priest. Darting forward with a surprising swiftness for his age, Bromlin grabbed the Confessor's dagger while Merric reeled backwards from the punch and, turning back to the priest, jabbed the dagger sharply towards his stomach.

Though Mercuxio's head was still reeling quite strongly from the blow to his head, his blood was alive with adrenaline and the dizziness quickly dissipated at the sound of metal against wood, scraping on the desk when the Lieutenant grabbed it in his desperate hands.  Time seemed melted, like the slow petulance of death of someone trapped in freezing ice.

And yet Merric's mind moved like lightning striking the earth.  His hand shot out toward Bromlin's wrist and he struck his forehead hard against Bromlin's, smashing his skill and making the man see white.  But he did it not once but twice and harder the second time, making the older man reel back.  Yet Bromlin's grip on the dagger was still taut and so Merric twisted his arm around so that the point faced it's wielder, having turned his wrist against him.

Mercuxio looked at Bromlin for the fullness of a second before lunging the blade forward and feeling it split through his skin.  Bromlin jerked in that motion, a motion held still when Mercuxio retracted his own hand yet again and plunged once more, deeper, harder, with a fullness of momentum and the man moaned in agony.  Mercuxio felt the boiling sensation of his blood seeping onto his hand and well as Bromlin's own at the second opening of the wound.  He could hear the beating of the Lieutenant's heart, that powerful engine that had fueled his life.

Bromlin stared fully at the Templar for what was an eternity.

"May God have mercy on you," Mercuxio felt the whisper pass through his lips and his own eyes were hard for that eternity before softening.  When he felt the life seeping from the lieutenant, he dropped the man slowly on the ground and he knelt beside him.  Merric held the blade in his own grip now and reached out to use a bloodied hand to close Bromlin's shocked eyes.  "I'm sorry it had to come to this.  Peace be with you, my son."

Olive stood stock still. All she could hear now was the sound of her heart thumping in her chest. The sound of the confrontation, meanwhile, had been silenced. Which meant...? Her mind reeled, half shutting out and half imagining the possibilities. She should, she know, go back to her cabin. Double quick. She shouldn't be anywhere near whatever was transpiring between the Lieutenant and the Priest, neither of whom she trusted, neither of whom was her friend.

It was as if some other force was moving her. Olive frequently had gotten herself in trouble this way: her curiosity getting the better of her. Even the past year... or was it longer?... in the camps hadn't entirely erased the sense of safety that came with being a duke's daughter. Somewhere deep in her subconscious, maybe, Olive didn't believe that anyone would really hurt her. So even as she was thinking how important it was get away from here, get back to her cabin (she shouldn't, after all, even be out), she found herself walking slowly towards the priest's quarters. Finally, without a word and without entering, she gently pushed open the door to the scene before her.

Bromlin dead on the ground. Mercuxio bloodied, holding a bloodied blade.

"Try to stay out of trouble for a few days." Lorrent's parting words to her rang dully in her mind. So much for that.

While Olive stood there, eyes wide and tongue silenced with shock, the silence was broken by sound of trotting boots. The young mage hadn't been the only one to hear the disturbance; two guards, who had lazily been wandering about their night duty, sprung at the chance for action when they heard the lieutenant's voice raised and the sound of a fight and were now fast approaching the scene.

Mercuxio's entire body suddenly felt like lead as he stared at the body of Lieutenant Bromlin.  He greew heavy in the wake of his adrenaline rush.  He dropped the dagger after hearing the door open and he faltered beside him, seeing a figure enter into his cabin in his peripheral vision, but not yet peering up at them.   He was in momentary shock, at least and pushed himself off Bromlin's body before accidentally kicking the knife underneath his bed with his boot as he came to his feet.

He saw Olive then, staring at the body much in the same way he had and reality came rushing back to him.  Mercuxio had heard himself, felt his movements, and yet remained unconscious of them.  He stepped forward, recalling pulling Olive into the room, his bloody hands touching hers as he gripped them.  "What...what are you doing here?" he heard himself say.  But it would have been too late for her to answer when the guards came at last.  Merric staggered backwards, releasing her hands.  They saw the body lying inert on the ground and one guard came forth and gasped.

"What the hell..."

"Lieutenant!  Lieutenant Bromlin!" the other shouted, leaning down beside the body and observing the blood.  "He's...he's dead."  He stood and turned to Mercuxio and Olive and between the two the answer was clear.  "The blood's on your hands."  He huffed and his cheeks were pinked from the snow and the growing anger rising in him.

"Godless filthy mage."  The other guard slammed the butt of his musket into her face and the other grabbed her bodily to push her against the wall and detain her.

Mercuxio was frozen as the guards assaulted Olive and suddenly he lunged forward on one of them, trying to pull him back.  "Unhand her!" he cried and suddenly buckled down when a musket butt slammed into his ribs.

"Stay out of this, Father!  You're lucky we came when we did!"

Mercuxio coughed hard, gasping, unable to find breath for protest as they dragged her away.  When he saw their backs growing smaller with distance, he breathed out a softened whisper, "Stop."  But no one heard him.

It was Captain Fawley's unpleasant duty to serve as a witness to the interrogation of Constance Carwick. Major Neill, who now had command of the camp, was the one actually running the show. Of course, very few people knew that Major Neill had command of Valinarus. In the interest of keeping the camp in line, news had not yet been released of Lt. Bromlin's death. Not until Neill had a solid plan of how the transition would take place. Of course she would not take permanent command of the camp, but she wanted to avoid the chaos of an uncontrolled release of this information.

"Once again, Miss Carwick, who else were you collaborating with?"

No one really believed that the young mage could have killed the Lieutenant alone. It just didn't seem physically plausible. But implausibility didn't equal innocence, especially where Major Neill and Constance Carwick were concerned.

Like every other time, Constance's only answer was silent, and once again the cane was brought down hard against her back. Her body retched and she choked, but she didn't answer. So far the only thing Constance had spoken to Major Neill was a declaration of her own innocence. After she'd given her short statement, she'd began a prayer to St. Timothy, who guarded troubled souls through trying times, but this had enraged the guards, who were only too happy to finally let loose on this little mage who'd stood up to them one too many times. They beat her into silence, then Major Neill continued her questioning. Now Constance was collapsed on her hands and knees, her back raw from the cane. The captain felt sick, but he knew he would do Constance no favors by trying to intercede on her behalf now. He would only fall under Neill's ire himself, then Constance would have no friends on this side. And that, Fawley was sure, was what she needed most.

Neil gave an exasperated sigh, pacing up and down the little cell with her arms crossed. "My patience with you is running out, Miss Carwick. Tell me what happened last night, and we can end this little session for now." Again, silence, and Fawley wondered if Constance would still be able to answer even if she wanted to. As unnerved as Fawley was by Neill's cool and detached handling of the matter, he was glad in a way that it was her. Neill might let the guards beat the girl half to death, but she wouldn't allow any viler assault.

After several more moments of silence, save for the ragged heaving of Constance's breath, Neill rolled her eyes and gave a flippant little gesture to the guards, who set in on the mage again with their canes. Fawley grit his teeth, struggling to keep back as they beat her until she finally collapsed, unconscious. "That's enough," Neill cut in sharply and the guards stopped on her command, but looked like they sorely regretted it. "I don't want her dying here behind closed doors. I'm not going to waste this opportunity."

Then they left the cell, leaving her there collapsed on the dirty floor. Fawley's eyes lingered on her, thinking that he'd held her only a few hours ago, then reluctantly followed the others out of the cell.

---

The gray light of dawn was still lingering in the sky when the captain, having not slept at all between the detention of Constance and this moment, entered the little makeshift chapel. It was too early for mass, but the priest kept confessional hours now. Fawley stormed over to the little confessional. He wanted to haul the priest out, but this was a highly sensitive time, and he didn't want to raise any suspicions any higher than they already were.

Entering the sinner's side of the confessional, Fawley pulled the curtain roughly closed, and turned, trying to fix his eyes on the priest through the slatted screen separating them. "What in Angsar's name happened last night?" he hissed, anger and desperation clear as a bell in his voice. "They're going to kill her!"

"What have I done?"

It was the only question that rang out in Mercuxio's mind after he watched Olive being dragged away.  He could only star in horror, in disgust and it took all the strength inside him to keep from retching on the floor.  The body of the Lieutenant had been removed shortly after her detainment and but the blood stain was still there, soaking into the wooden planks of the cabin's flooring and Merric stared at it for the longest time.  His heart thumbed emptily in his chest, and his mind raced.  It was hours before first dawn, before he had to tend to the chapel.

He had to keep up appearances, for now at last.  So he took the bloodied knife and cleaned it on a cloth before placing it back with his things and changed into fresh, clean robes.  He returned to the chapel.  The silence engulfed him, all he could hear were the sounds of his own breathing as he prepared morning mass.  It would be sometime before the first worshippers would be allowed within, and that time was precious to him.  He needed to focus, to center himself and consider his next course of action.

When someone stepped into the confessional... 

Merric took his place, straightening and peering at Captain Fawley from the other side.  He was silent, his eyes turning to ice.  But the younger man stared at him squarely and even he could see the pain in them.  The priest turned away.

"Captain.  There is something you must know.  Something I should have spoken of earlier...but I did not know who to trust.  I...I am not all, you think I am," Mercuxio began.  "I am more than that.  I did not come here solely to hear the sins of the damned here in this camp.  I came here under the seal of the Order of St. Agratha.  I'm a Confessor."

Captain Fawley sat back on the hard wood seat and stared back at the priest.  He couldn't believe what he was hearing.  "What!?  Why?  You mean the same kind of-"

"Yes.  I came here to investigate the camp, to uncover what was really going on here, and to report back to my superiors.  Somehow, the Lieutenant found out what I was and he confronted me.  He intended to hang me.  I told him what I told you, but he would not listen.  He grew violent and attacked me when I demanded that he step down.  It did not end well.  But we were not alone...  She...she appeared so suddenly.  It all happened so fast."  He stopped there and faced the Captain once more.

Fawley's eyes were wide and he suddenly struck the slated divider.  "You've got to do something!  Father!  Please!  Niell she'll kill her!"

Mercuxio straightened and he studied Fawley for several seconds, hardening his jaw.  "You're right...  And I will.  Meet me by my cabin."

He knew what he had to do and within a few minutes, Fawley stood outside of Mercuxio's cabin and he emerged clad in white robes trimmed in blue, draped over fitted armor.  Around the priest's neck were draped the chains of the Spear of Ansgar, the emblem of the Church, and the torch of St. Agratha.  Mercuxio appeared taller, broader of shoulder, cloaked in his white robes, heavy boots on his feet, looking more like a knight than a priest and he peered at the captain squarely.

"Take me to her," Merric said sharply.

Captain Fawley stared at the priest after he emerged in the blue-and-white robes and armor of a Templar. He didn't know what he had been expecting of the priest, but somehow this had not been it, and it took a moment for the surprise to clear from his face. Worry immediately filled the pit of his stomach. He had never seen a templar in person before, and though the sight impressed him, he was not so sure about Major Neill. She was no mere soldier, she was a Mordecai, and a proud one. Fawley did not think she would react kindly to an aggressive show from the Church.

But he nodded, simply saying, "I hope you know what you're doing."

It was still early as Fawley led Mercuxio to Bromlin's quarters, where Neill was now working, but the priest's new attire did not go unnoticed. Guards and mages alike, those tasked with morning duties, stared openly at Mercuxio. Fear or hatred or both showed on the faces of the mages who saw him, even the few who had been present when he had laid the Brynstones, who had thought he might be sympathetic to them. That feeling was gone now. He was a Confessor, and every mage knew that fear.

Fawley frowned when they reached Bromlin's former quarters. He feared what would happen in this confrontation, but he feared for Constance's life more, and his hands were tied: he had to help her however he could. The captain gave Merric one, short, meaningful look, then knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer, stepping aside to let Mercuxio pass through.

The major was sitting at Bromlin's desk, filing through a pile of paperwork and correspondences as she formed her plan of what to do next. Her dark eyes flashed upwards as the men entered the quarters. She was not alone; two other Mordecai were on hand. Her facial expression stayed tightly controlled as she took in the sight before her: the priest dressed in white robes and armor, coming to her as what she knew him to be, a Confessor of the Church. But Neill also had armor and a divine gift.

The difference was: the Confessor was a servant of the Church, and the Mordecai of the Grand Duke.

Neill stood up to her full height, her face unreadable, calm, and in control. Any action that the Confessor took against her, as the commander of the camp and servant of the rightful government, would pit the Church against the Grand Duke's government. Neill was confident that the priest would do no such thing, much less for the sake of a mage. And if he tried? Well, she had witnesses. And not just the pathetic, mage-loving captain.

"Father," she said coolly, "what is the meaning of this?"

This was a moment of duty, a moment of action, and he could not be swayed from it, no matter the risk he knew he was taking.  And he was all too aware of the wall of resistance he knew he would face.  He squared himself before Major Neill, standing tall and seeming to tower over her in his armor.  The two Mordecai behind her didn't seem to know what to think, looking between the two symbols of authority.  Yet they knew their duty, and would not forsake their commanding officer, straightening as two soldier standing at attention.

"I will make this plain for you to hear, Major.  I am here to actuate the immediate release of Constance Carwick," he said with an edge of ice in his voice.

OOC: Super short super short reply!

---

For all outward appearances, Neill was unimpressed by the puffed up Templar. She merely raised an eyebrow, her voice remaining cool and level. "On what grounds, Father? And under what authority? The girl is under suspect for killing a lieutenant of the Grand Duke's army. That's a very serious matter."

"Under my authority.  On the authority of ethical law, on the authority of the Church of Ansgar, and on the authority of Ansgar himself.  You will not hang an innocent, be they mage or non-mage.  You do not speak for the Grand Duke, nor with the authority of the Army.  You speak because of what little power you hold here allows you to try your damndest to maintain it.  That being said, this camp is no longer under your control.  It is now under my jurisdiction," he said flatly.  "Carwick is innocent.  Release her immediately."

Neill's outer facade remained one of confident patience as the Templar made his what she deemed to be unreasonable demands.

"Lady Carwick's involvement - be it innocent or guilty - is exactly what we're trying to ascertain, Father," she responded, her tone bordering on that of a teacher explaining something to a somewhat slow pupil. "No one ever said anything about hanging her. At the moment, however, we have received no sign of her innocence. And her silence is rather condemning."

Neill's expression darkened when she continued, "On your second point, however, you are very much mistaken. This camp is run by the military, not by the Church. I was the next in command, and after Lieutenant Bromlin's death, I am, in fact, in control of this camp. 'Ethical' law doesn't rule here, Father. Military law does. You have no authority to take command of this camp, nor does the Church. And I would be careful not to do anything that your masters there would disapprove of..

With a motion of her hand, the Mordecai behind her stood on guard, shifting their weapons to a 'ready' position. "Now, Father, you can either go back to your cabin and I will write this off as a stressed emotional outburst, or my men can take you into custody under suspicion of collaborating with the mage. The timing of your 'take over' is, after all, rather... suspect."

Of course it wouldn't go over so easy.  Mercuxio inwardly rolled his eyes and sighed.  He saw that she would not back down, her expression and her eyes were evident enough of that.  His mind flashed with images of Markham.  A Confessor answered to the Order, to their direct superior, to their judgment and no one else.  It was their charge to do whatever was necessary, the consequences could be accounted for later.  Merric almost felt sorry for the poor major.  This was just a war she could not win.

"I will only ask you once more Major Niell," he said levelly, unfazed by the guards that were now ready to run him through with their weapons, though his body remained ever at the ready.  "Release Carwick immediately.  She did not kill Bromlin.  I did, in self defense.  He attacked me in a state of mania when I asked him to step aside...confronting him with the same reality that I am to you now.  There is a plague here, one you are not equipped to deal with.  Not even your Mordecai could hope to contain it, I'm afraid."

"Major, this camp is no longer under your control.  Whether you kill me here and now makes little difference.  Soon, and very soon, there will be more Confessors coming, and reinforcements more after that.  There's nothing you can do.  Step down."

Merric's words hit the air like electricity. "She did not kill Bromlin. I did." The Mordecai behind Neill began to move offensively, but she held up a hand, stopping them. The major looked at Merric now with narrowed eyes.

"You killed Lieutenant Bromlin," she repeated, calm and level as always. "If this is true, father, then why did you not come forward earlier? And why would the mage stay silent on the matter, even under, ah, interrogation? Why not come tell me earlier, before the besotted captain over there surely fetched you here?"

A snigger from one of the Mordecai preceded Fawley's bristling response, "I'm sorry, Major, but that's -" But at a gesture from Neill, he fell silent. He had to remember that acting out now would not help anyone. Especially not Constance.

"I don't mean to accuse. I'm only trying to understand. It seems the only thing in Valinarus we can't contain... is you."

Mercuxio remained a wall of ice, his expression hard and eyes as cold as a winter river.  Neill remained unfazed by his tone, largely due to the men at her back, but he caught something in her eyes, her expression flickered all but in the brevity of a second.

"Tell me then what you would have done then had I met all your parameters.  I came now and here I stand.  I speak the truth," he said simply. 

((OOC: Super lame post, sorry!))

"Oh, you're right. I wouldn't act any differently," Neill agreed coolly. "I suppose I might be more inclined to believe the Carwick girl wasn't involved but..." The mordecai gave a little shrug to signify it was no matter to her.

"But you're right. You've confessed to murdering an officer, and now I have very little choice in the matter of what to do next."

With a motion of her hand, the men behind her moved forward, weapons ready, to apprehend Mercuxio.

Mercuxio quickly felt the walls closing in on him as he saw the Mordecai advance upon him.  His instincts took control, and his hands unclasped the mace at his side and he moved with great dexterity, even underneath the weight of his armor, dodging the advance of one guard on the left.  They drew their weapons when he drew his and knew then that he would not come without a fight.

He swung the mace upward, blocking a sword blow and pulling the dirk from his belt with a free hand.  Merric's hand pushed the blade up and through beneath his armpit, and turning his body to block him from the assault of the other Mordecai.

For half a second Fawley watched the scene unfold: the Mordecai advancing on the priest, Neill - who was by all military rights in charge of the camp now - standing smug back behind it all. Fawley knew what the right military decision was. The correct one. It was to back Neill, there was no question.

But the captain had grown sick watching the treatment of the mages in this camp for the past year or longer. And not just because of Constance. Caging and beating people was not why he joined the army. Mages or not. And then, of course, there was Constance...

In the half second those thoughts took to go through his mind, Captain Lorent Fawley's mind was made up: mutiny. He would back the priest. Then he moved in an instant. No one expected the normally mild-mannered captain to act, so no one was guarding him. And in that moment he had Neill in a choke hold, his short sword at his throat.

If she prevailed, he knew, this action would be the end of him.

"Let the priest go," he instructed the Mordecai firmly. "He's a Templar, no country father, and he's the commanding authority in this camp."

Merric had barely registered what Captain Fawley had said when he at last dropped the other Mordecai.  His opponent appeared caught between the orders given by Captain Fawley and those of his direct superior.  Neill was in charge of the Mordecai within this camp, he answered to her.  And yet...

"You'll kill that priest!" Neill spat, despite Fawley's stranglehold.  "THAT'S AN ORDER!"

No, the decision was made.  He could not falter.  The Mordecai went for him again, but this time Merric was ready for him and swung the mace downward with brute force.  The blow collapsed the front of the Mordecai's skull, sending him crippled to the ground, unmoving.

Merric quickly turned and held an open hand out to Fawley.  "Don't, Captain," he said, peering at his hand on his short sword.  "Major Neill will be placed under arrest.  Her fate will be determined by a tribunal.  I am sorry it had to come to this Major."

Fawley gripped Neill tightly as she fumed in his grip, watching as the priest blew open the Mordecai's skull with his mace. Everything seemed surreal. This was mutiny. Real mutiny. Lorent knew that feeding information to the mages - as he'd been doing for months now - was also a sort of mutiny. But not like this. And somehow it didn't feel as morally clear cut as Fawley had imagined it would, when he'd imagined stopping the slaughter and brutality at the camp.

Suddenly, in this inopportune moment, he remembered what Constance had asked when he'd asked her if she trusted the priest.

"But I think he acted rashly, or else stupidly. I think things will be much worse here because of that decsion. And I don't trust people who don't consider the consequences of their actions, no."

He would just have to pray that they were doing the right thing.

So the captain nodded stiffly to the priest and used his free hand to grab hold of Neill's wrists. He didn't dare remove the blade before the Mordecai was contained. She was far too dangerous. "Come on, Major," he said gruffly, moving her towards the tent's opening.

Neill didn't struggle; she was smart enough to know when to bide her time. But her eyes shot poisonously between the two men. "You'll hang for this," she promised.

But Fawley ignored her, and ignored the loud pounding of his heart, as he led the Major and the priest to the cells: Where they would deposit the Major. And where Constance lay bloodied and beaten.

He would do more than hang, if Neill had her way, Mercuxio was sure of it.  He knew there was something about the Major that seemed off.  Such thoughts however, would have to remain behind him.  He had the authority of the camp, now, with Neill out of the way and Fawley at his back.  Order would be restored here.  And the source of rebellion would be cut out of this infected wound of a camp.

Merric hardened  himself, or tried to at any rate.  But when his eyes laid upon the sight of Constance, he quietly gasped to himself and immediately moved toward her.  His touch was gentle as he put a hand underneath her shoulders and pulled her up, mindful of her wounds.  He said nothing, but the truth was in his eyes, they glistened with a quiet sorrow as he pulled her up into his arms, cradled like a small child.

"You're a rotten bastard for a priest," Neill said, after Fawley practically threw her into her cell, slamming the door in her face.  "If anyone's going to burn it's you."  She hawked back mucus and launched it at his face.  It missed, narrowly, but Merric turned to her with a stern glare.

"So state the once exalted when they're humbled," Mercuxio replied coldly and stalked out of the prison cells.

Constance made a small sound, somewhere between a whimper and a groan, when Merric picked her up. But she didn't regain full consciousness. The girl was clammy with cold sweat and congealed blood coated her back where Neill had had her cained.

Fawley, meanwhile, stared at the girl's pathetic form in the priest's arms. She should be in his arms. He should be the one taking care of her. But that would help no one now. Fawley had to play his part, and not that was as the captain of the guard.

"You take her," Fawley said slowly to Mercuxio, his eyes never leaving Olive, "I will run damage control. Explain the new situation here before rumors explode."

Then he turned to the guard who they had brought in with them. "Don't let anyone else in here," he said, gesturing towards Neill and hoping he could trust this guard. "If any of the Mordecai try to come to her, send someone to me at once."

Fawley turned again to Mercuxio, nodding his head in acknowledgement to the new camp authority. Again, his eyes lingered on Olive, then he left to do as he'd said.

---

But Fawley wasn't the only one at work. There had been one more in the quarters when they had come from Major Neill. Her personal aid had been in the back room, unseen and unheard, hidden once he heard the conflict ensue. But he had heard it all. The priest. The captain. Traitors! And he would make sure everyone knew what had actually happened. Mutiny!

Mercuxio had few places he could think of to take her, anywhere that would be safe and quiet and secluded from guards or any of the other camp prisoners here.  He thought of his own quarters, but after what happened there and what she saw, he did not believe that was an option.  The makeshift chapel?  Perhaps, but there could be anyone in there now, praying or otherwise and he suddenly remembered the officer's dining room, where he ate with Bromlin and Neill. 

He moved there, laying Constance across the table and carefully extending her out along it.  He rolled up some towels where the plates were and placed it underneath her head.  After getting some water from the pitcher and wetting some cloth, he dabbed her forehead, trying to rouse her.  "Constance," he murmured.  "Constance."

In her mind's eye, Olive was back in Wulfbauer. Running through the fields, her wolfhound at her heels. Someone was chasing her. But it was just Cass, and Olive was laughing. They were racing and she was winning. But then the temperature changed. It wasn't Cass chasing her at all. It was the Adhara who had taken her from Uthlyn. Olive was running through the forest. The Adhara was going to lop her head off, just like she'd suspected... Just like...

...Constance...

No. She was on the floor of a cell. She was in the camps. Beaten raw and left on the floor.

Constance.

No. She wasn't, she... Olive felt the wood under her hand. The cell had no wooden floor. For a moment she faded out again, then her consciousness came swimming fully back to her and her eyes fluttered. But she didn't understand where she was and her memory of what had happened was foggy. The pain hit her next, slicing through her life dragons' claws. And she nearly went out again. When finally she realized that she was not alone, her eyes stayed for a long time on Mercuxio before asking hoarsely,

"Merric? What -?"

He didn't know what possessed him, but Mercuxio smiled.  He actually smiled when she awakened.  It was a small one and it flickered away after a moment, but he breathed a sigh of relief nevertheless.  "Shsh.  You're in the officer's dining room.  I've taken you out of the cell," he said as calmly as he could.  His expression was softened and he dabbed the cloth along her head.

He wondered if he ought to say the typical staples that came with the care of another.  That she would be all right, safe, and nothing would come to harm her.  But he chose not to instead and furrowed his brow.  "We can tend to your wounds now.  You've got some severe bleeding on your back.  It's clotted, but they need to be cleaned and bandaged.  I can help, but only if you allow me."

In the officers' dining room!

That didn't make sense to Olive and her face furrowed in confusion. And might have betrayed a little fear, as well. What had happened? How could Olive be in the officers' dining room? Her last memories, of Neill questioning her casually while the guards beat her, came swimming back to Olive. A panic suddenly gripped her. Her body stiffened and she tried to prop herself up to look around for who else might be there. But the sudden movement was a mistake and sent Olive light-headed with pain back down on the table.

"What happened?" she asked him, a mix of urgency and fear in her eyes. "Where is... But Neill was..."

But when the pain swept over her again, Olive swallowed her questions. Her eyes locked on Mercuxio for what felt like a long time, then she nodded in silent assent.

"I can explain later.  But for now, your wounds come first," he said as he turned her over gently as he could and observed the flayed flesh of her back.  He'd seen bad wounds, some fatal and beyond repair, and these were among the worst.  Bruising was setting in, spreading all around her skin around the flayed wounds and he tried not to wince as he took the wet cloth, he had and gently tried to wash them.

He remembered his prayers, and his blessings and said them silently as he cleaned her wounds.  The rag he held turned red rather quickly as he dabbed her as gently as he could.  He discarded it, tossing it aside and reaching for another clean cloth.  This was a long and arduous process, but he kept at it, patient as he went.

He remembered an old nursery rhyme then, something he remembered his mother used to sing to him as a child and he began to sing it very softly.  It was almost inaudible but it was gentle.  And slowly a pile of bloody rags began to rise beside him.

Olive drifted in and out of full consciousness as Mercuxio tended to the wounds on her back. The nursery rhyme echoed in her head, blunting the pain from the wounds. It was a strange feeling. In the moment, despite the effects of the beating, Olive almost felt safe.

As the healing process progressed, though, Olive's mind turned more and more to the present. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head to face Mercuxio. She was worn through, but she needed to know. "What happened?" she asked again, her voice weak and a bit cracked. "How are we here?"

There was instant hesitation.  He could put it off, wait to tell her and who knew what someone else would say?  Mercuxio bided his time in the few seconds before his response.  "You didn't kill Bromlin," he said gently.  "I know you didn't.  You know you didn't.  But Neill didn't care.  I killed Bromlin and Neill is held captive in a cell where she belongs.  I took you out, now here you are."

Mercuxio was afraid of saying too much.  If she wished to ask, she could.   Instead he focused on her back, and now began to bandage her midsection.

What!?

Mercuxio's news sent a wave of adrenaline through Olive. Bromlin dead? Yes, she remembered that now. That was why Neill was beating her. But... Neill in a cell? What about the other Mordecai? What about the rest of the camp? Who was in command now?

Her heart skipped a beat and for a moment she forgot about the pain her back. Because, if it were Lorent... There would never be another opportunity like this. Olive had never been sure about the arguments Darnell and others had made for attempting an uprising before. But that was before.

Now it was different. Or, now it might be different.

She tried to hold back all of the questions racing through her mind. Could she voice them all to Mercuxio, anyway? After all, he had killed Bromlin. Had he also locked up the Major? "Who's in command of the camp now?" she asked. "And... what about the other Mordecai?"

"The Captain is settling things now.  Likely the Mordecai will not react well to their superior being thrown into a cage like the dog she is," he said sourly, surprised in himself for so openly expressing his distaste for the Major.  He hoped Fawley could carry it out quickly, whatever was required before the other Confessors showed up.

If they arrived with the camp in disarray...it was the least to say, things would get very ugly very quickly.

Olive nodded. Heart heart was pounding in her had now. 'The Captain is settling things now.' She suddenly realized that she was also feeling relief: he was fine, he hadn't been caught up in all this in some nasty way.

"Is..." Olive paused, trying to hide her own interests as she asked, "Is the Captain in command now, then?"

((OOC: Olive doesn't know that Merric is a Templar, right?))

[Unless she saw him in his armor and uniform, no.  Let's assume he stripped down to like a simple shirt or something.]

Mercuxio only nodded to Constance, wrapping the bandages still around her waist.  The ones along her upper back would be more difficult to patch up, but he would try.  He resumed his work and directed her to move here and there to wrap them around her. 

"The Captain, I assume will do his best to keep order.  He helped me against Neill.  She would've hung us both."

Mercuxio, Olive noted, carefully avoided answering her question. She wasn't sure, however, exactly what that might mean. Had someone else already taken up Bromlin's mantle? Or was someone else already called for and on their way? Surely there hadn't been enough time for that. But Olive wasn't entirely certain how long she'd been in the cell. It could have been a night, or a day, or two. She'd been unconscious or near enough for so much of it. It'd felt like an eternity. It never would have occurred to her, despite his noble birth, that Mercuxio, a priest, would be the one to take command of the camp.

But she couldn't ask him any more directly. Despite everything - the Brynstones, Bromlin, the fact that it was him attending her wounds now - something still told Olive to be cautious with the man. But... he seemed to be on their side. And some priests were. It wasn't unheardof, if uncommon.

Olive wondered if she should say more, risk more, but instead she said with a snort, "I think she'd have done more than hang you. Unless you mean by your balls." Then, as if remembering that those were a priest's balls she was joking about, she muttered a short, "Sorry."

She didn't press Mercuxio further about what was going on in the camp. Instead she turned let her mind lapse back into a haze, a mix of possibility and pain, as Merric attended to the rest of her wounds. Olive had never been shy or particularly modest, and it didn't bother her to have the priest's hands on her bare flesh - what was left of it. And her wounds were nearly completely bound by the time Lorent unceremoniously entered the dining hall. The captain looked tired and concern creased his brow. When he saw her there, laying half-dressed on the table, he looked quickly away and Olive wondered if it was for Merric's benefit or an honest reaction to seeing her condition.

The captain nodded his head in greeting to the priest, his eyes glancing sideways back at Olive and she could tell he was restraining himself. And, to her surprise, she found herself wanting to run to him, too.

"The men ought to hold for now," he told Mercuxio, pulling up a chair and sitting a respectable distance away from where Olive lay. "You and Bromlin had an altercation during an officer's meeting and he attacked you. Neill, herself of a holy order, moved to defend you and killed the lieutenant in the rush of her actions. She was then detained by myself and the guard present. However much we may - and especially the Mordecai - sympathize with her wish to strike in defense of an unarmed holy man, she's still killed a superior officer and will have to stay detained until the appropriate officials can arrive for a military tribunal."

"No word has been given to the mages yet. I thought you might say some words to the entire camp. When the time is right." His eyes flashed over to Olive for a moment, warning, and he added harshly, "I trust you can keep your mouth shut on that, Carwick. I think you've caused enough trouble for the time-being."

Olive frowned. His tone seemed awfully sincere, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might be - and perhaps rightly - mad at her. She'd told him, after all, that she'd stay out of trouble for a bit. She hadn't done too good of a job on that front. She nearly said something glib, but thought it might not be best now to be too familiar with him. "Of course, sir," she answered slowly.

She was hoping that she'd be able to hear more of what passed between the two men, and how they had come to work together like this, but the captain looked back at Merric and said, "If you're done with Lady Constance, I'd have a word with you in private, father. Her cabinmate is waiting outside, and can help her back."

The mending was done.  Largely so at any rate.  It was up to her now, whether they would heal completely.  There was a great risk that anyone that suffered the torture she did, would die just as easily of infection even if they got the proper care they needed.  Stop it, a small voice inside growled at him.  Mercuxio blinked, watching Olive in silence.  Your feeling sorry for these people won't change what you came here to do.  You are a Confessor, above all else.  You cannot save them.  Not even her.

He turned to Fawley and nodded at his suggestion and then back to Olive.  "If you're sure you're all right," he said, offering her a genuine smile before turning back to Fawley.  "We can speak in the Lieutenant's office," he said and led the way through the officer's quarters.

Merric remembered walking through these halls for the first time, when he first met Bromlin and Neill and Fawley too, the man stepping in behind him.  He didn't think it would end up like this...  He mentally shook himself.  He couldn't have known it would happen this way.  He was sent here to uncover dissention.  If not for Bromlin standing between him and his task, it might not have.  Such was the price that had to be paid.

But what if the price was higher still, he wondered.  The other Confessors were coming within less than a week's time, perhaps even sooner.  The ones closest to the camp would receive the missive and arrive as fast as they could.  Mercuxio could only hope to find the aggressor and crush them before it was too late.

He breathed gently, to relieve himself of undue stress and turned to Fawley once more.  "You wanted to speak?" he said, closing the office door behind them.

Olive's eyes watched the two men. Part of her wanted to argue that she should stay here and talk with them. But what reason could she give? There was none. And now that Mercuxio had finished the mending, she felt a heavy sleepiness set upon her. But she couldn't give into it.

"Yes, I think I can," she said. Her gaze turned to Mercuxio, settling uncertainly on him. She still wasn't... sure about him. But this, at least, she meant, "Thank you, father."

Fawley moved to gently help Olive up from the table. She winced, making an audible sound of discomfort as she was moved and she felt her head swim. But she steeled herself and hobbled somewhat as Fawley helped her to the door. On the other side was a skinny, wide-eyed, and frightened blond-haired girl of no more than 14. It was Orchid, whose story had started the chain of events that led them to this moment. With Orchid was a giant, shaggy Tracker. Fawley passed Olive over to Orchid, and she distributed her weight between her young bunkmate and the giant dog. Before she left, her eyes sought out Fawley's. But they weren't angry anymore. They were concerned, and steady, and calm... and something more. Olive found herself wishing very much that she could leave with him now.

But she followed Orchid out. When the two girls were alone in the cold, dark, damp of the camp, Olive stopped Orchid, who was leading her back to their hut. "No," she instructed quietly, "we need to go to Lloyd Bremen."

---

Inside the officer's quarters, Fawley followed the father. His heart and mind were racing. What he was going to suggest... What he was going to say... But no. He had made his mind. This place was evil. What was happening here was evil. Keeping people penned up like cattle... it had to stop.

"Father," he started slowly when they reached the final room. It was clear on his face that what he had to say weighed heavily on him. And scared him a little. But there was also a determination on his countenance; in a way, it was the boldest he looked since the priest arrived. "I believe you're a good man, father. A man of God. I don't believe you can condone what is happening here. I've known since you challenged Bromlin. I trust you." He said the last words firmly.

A brief, tense silence followed.

"But, father, if we want to change what is happening here. The window of opportunity is now."

The way Fawley began, Mercuxio inwardly held his breath, a feeling in the air making it seem as if it suddenly thickened.  It congealed and grew suffocating.  Merric clenched his jaw, watching the Captain with steady eyes.  He was in fact the commanding officer of the camps forces now.  It was his job to keep them under control, and there was no denying that what Fawley had to say certainly piqued Mercuxio's interest.

"Captain Fawley," he said, tilting his head slightly.  "I thank you for your words and I am honored to have you stand with me in this.  I couldn't have done it without your help.  But I'm afraid, I'm not sure exactly what you mean.  What is it that you're suggesting?"

Fawley looked simultaneously more nervous and yet more resolved and more determined than Mercuxio would have seen him. He paced the small quarters once or twice before turning to face the priest again. How could Mercuxio not understood what he had meant?

"Major Neill is detained, the Lieutenant is passed on, and no one is here to replace them yet," he heard himself saying. "If the soldiers were distracted..." Fawley's expression suddenly hardened and his fidgeting stopped. His gaze fell hard on Mercuxio. "This cannot go on, father. These people, they can't be kept like this, like animals in cages. Or worse. It cannot be allowed to go on. You are a man of God. You must know this."

Mercuxio understood.  And it was in that understanding that he feared what Fawley had planned exactly.  This wasn't good.  Not in the slightest.  Did the Captain even think about what he was suggesting?  What this could mean for them all?

"You are here as my second," Mercuxio said adamantly.  "I need you here to keep the soldiers here in the camp under control.  We must maintain control, Captain.  You are the last ranking officer.  Maintain control and there won't be any further atrocities.  This, what you're showing me now, this gumption, is exactly what will keep them in line.  Do not think that I do not understand what you're telling me, but it is not so simple.  If we set them all free, you will hang.  Did you think of the consequences?"

There wasn't any lack of compassion in his voice and he stared at Fawley imploringly.  He saw their suffering, and thought of his duty as a priest when he first came here.  He did what he could to comfort them.  But this was bigger than them all.

"'Won't be any further atrocities?!'" Fawley repeated, anger growing in his voice. He looked speechless at the priest for a moment, disbelieving the man's naievete. "Father, keeping people penned in like animals... that is an atrocity! And you think... you think what's going on here is just happening here? You think it just happened because of Bromlin? You really think that you can take a hundred men away from their homes, shut them up in a place like this, tell them that the people they're guarding are animals - and that is not only said here, father! - You think you can have that situation and not have abuses of power, beating, rape?"

Fawley stopped there for a second, too angry to continue. He paced again, then looked back at Mercuxio, eyes blazing. "You can't create Hell, father," he growled, "then expect the demons to act like angels You can't have this," he waved in a general direction around them, the camp, "and get anything humane from it. 'Under control?' The only way to keep somewhere like this 'under control' is exactly how Bromlin did. And if you don't believe that, you're a fool."

He was silent then for a moment, breathing hard, his gaze hard on Merric. He calmed a little, though, finally hearing the rest of what the father had to say. "Yes," he said in a low voice, "I have thought of the consequences. I know what my fate would be." If Fawley were a more religious man, he might make some argument about his eternal fate, final judgement, but he wasn't, so he didn't. He just stared hard at Merric, the challenge clear in his face.

"NO!  That is not the way!  There are better ways...."  Mercuxio had started with fire in his belly, and his anger cooled for a brief second and his eyes turned somber.  "Maybe after years of being stuck here, locked away behind gates of iron and held under the lash...  Men forget they are men, and we all become animals."

Mercuxo bit his lip, pacing out toward a corner with a small landscape painting of a snowy hill sloping down to a forest.  Behind it was a great mountain, tall rigid, overlooking the trees, but misty, half-hidden in the early morning gloom. 

"Why do you think Bromlin had a painting like this?" Mercuxio asked, leaning thoughtfully against the wall and gesturing to the painting.  "What did it signify?"

"What?" Fawley gaped as the priest turned to the painting. "You want to talk about art?! Do you know what's going to happen out there," he pointed to the door leading to the camp, "once rumors start flying? We have to act now, father!"

"I think he was trying to escape," Mercuxio went on, as if he didn't quite hear Fawley.  "I think he looked at this painting in this small, barely furnished office and saw it as a window to what he wished the outside looked like.  Certainly the camp is cold, but you don't see trees quite like these.  I never know what to make of landscape paintings.  They always seem so idyllic when we know life is hardly so.  But I suppose the comparison is apt since nature is by it's very nature, chaotic.  I imagine this was among, if not the most, of his treasured possessions.  What do you think?"

The captain couldn't take it anymore. Forgetting for the moment, or perhaps not caring, that as a Templar of course Merric outranked him, Fawley grabbed the other man by the shirt collar and slammed him against the hut wall.

"I'm not thinking about art and possessions and what made that swine sleep at night or not!" he growled at Merric. He could almost yell, but he still had enough of his wits about him to know that would cause too much trouble. "I'm talking about human lives, their souls, their dignity! Isn't that what you're supposed to care about?"

He gave an angry short, then shoved Merric once more before letting him go and taking a step back. "Or are those just the concerns of lowly parish priests? Not of the lofty templar?" he asked, all but spitting the last word.

The moment his back hit the wall Mercuxio turned his steely gaze to him.  He felt his blood turn hot with rage and he would have removed Fawley's head from his neck were it not for his own self-discipline.  That last comment angered him and Merric straightened when he stepped away.

"I must take into account the lives of all people!  Not just mages locked away in cells," he growled, damn near spitting on the ground.  "Do you!?  If you release all of them at once, what guarantee do you have that they will not take their wrath out on the soldiers here!?  People locked away from the world for years do not adapt to it so easily.  All they know is that world!  Perhaps some will not, perhaps some want only to go home.  And that I can understand, Captain.  Do not think I am without a heart.  But what of those that want only to deliver the same suffering to others that was delivered onto them?  What of those of people caught between them and their intended targets?  Did you even consider that, Fawley!?  Did you even consider that they would kill you too?

"You say you are prepared for the consequences, but I do not believe you.  You see only the forest for the trees, and that makes you more the fool.  The other Confessors are coming.  We will maintain order until then. To release the mages now would endanger the lives of everyone in this camp, especially the very people you are trying to save."

"No one can control the choices others might make. I can only control the choices I make. What is happening here is wrong. That is what I can change. Or would you lock everyone up for what they might do? Crimes they might commit? Is that just or-" But Fawley was cut short by what Merric said next.

The other Confessors are coming.

Hearing that sent a chill down the captain’s spine. And it gave him an even greater sense of urgency. And an even colder anger at the man across from him.

“All the more reason to act now!” he hissed. “Do you think we don’t hear rumors of what happens at the other camps? Where the Church has free reign over the penned up mages there? Of what they are doing, while no one is looking, and the body count piling up from their failed ‘experiments.’”

Fawley paced half across the room, rounding Mercuxio, his gaze suddenly hardening again. “Or is that the real reason you’re here? To clear out the camp leadership so the Church can swoop in and do whatever it likes to the men and women, the children, kept here like animals in cages. Tamper and alter and torture them in Angsar’s name!” It was taking all of his self-control not to yell now, pointing at Merric with his dagger in hand. It suddenly occurred to him: He’d let Olive think the dog priest was trustworthy. Even now she might be with the other mages, telling them Mercuxio was on their side…

Refocusing, he took a step closer to Merric, snarling, “And have you thought of what will happen to you, father, if the men here learn what really happened to their commanding officer? You know she got those wounds,” he gestured outside of the quarters in a vague reference to Olive, "protecting you? Because she wouldn't open her mouth about what you did. She could die from those wounds. She did that for you. And now you want to let her rot here like you owe her nothing. You filthy dog."

[I know Spice mentioned 'Church experimentations' before with other characters, but Confessors don't really need or want to experiment on mages.  I can't imagine what they'd gain by doing so.]

Mercuxio set his jaw.  But he wouldn't dare let his anger get the best of him.  He was quickly seeing now that Fawley was no longer a viable asset.  Every second, his intent grew stronger and Merric could see now nothing could convince him to change his mind.  He was desperate.  And desperate men were dangerous.

Mercuxio flared his nostrils and sighed heavily.  "Whatever you may have heard, those camps are not held by my Order, Fawley.  And for a man who is so sure in what he determines as right and wrong, you are rather quick to demonize me.  You are right, we are all responsible for the choices we make, and responsible still for what happens to those under our care.  So you would consider yourself above reproach should the mages here come to harm others.  Just let them go, that is your solution?"

Mercuxio looked back at the painting with steely eyes and then back to the Captain, recognizing his determination and knowing therein lied a threat.  "I am here to maintain order, Fawley, and see that Justice is served.  Forgive me if I spoke harshly to you.  I respect the courage it must have taken to bring the matter up with me.  And I will consider what you have said."

Merric rubbed his chin and stepped in close to the Captain, his eyes cold.  "But I will not shirk my duty.  And neither will you.  You are dismissed."

[[I actually thought about that! But what does Fawley know, right?]]

Fawley seethed, but he would not be dismissed. Not like this. His brown eyes glared hard at Mercuxio, but he forced his anger down and stood resolutely in place.

"Then tell me what your Confessors will do. How it can possibly be better than the last two years of misery here. Tell me, father, how your Holy Order will 'humanely' cage these people. How you will keep in line every soldier and every guard who has grown accustomed to their only pleasure being the rape and beating of the mages. How do you think you can change that?

"You talk about protecting the people out there from the mages made angered and bitter by their experiences here. So the longer they stay locked up, the more dangerous they become by your reckoning, and perhaps in reality. So what are we to do? Keep them forever? And what about the effect of these camps out there? You think they do nothing to fuel the war that is killing innocents, rather than these 'dangerous mages' who might?

"How do you propose keeping children and elderly captive, away from their parents and children and loved ones, in a way that is 'just,' Father. Since that is what you claim interest in, justice. For who, I can't see. But I'm dying to hear."

"I'm sure you are, Captain Fawley.  But as I said, this conversation is over, and you are dismissed.  Please see to it that Olive is tended to.  At least make yourself useful in that endeavor," Mercuxio replied matter-of-factly and moved to Bromlin's old desk, removing the papers that resided in the drawers and began to sort through them.

“I see.” Fawley watched the priest, his gaze angry, hard, but also thoughtful. He was making a decision. It was clear on his face.

Without another word, he turned and left Mercuxio where he had stationed himself in Bromlin’s quarters. Constance, it seemed, had been right to not entirely trust the man. “I believe him when he says his motives were good, I think.” That’s what she had answered when he’d asked if she trusted him. The last time he’d really seen her… But the captain wasn’t so sure about Mercuxio’s intentions anymore. But whatever the priest thought he knew, whoever he thought he was serving, it wasn’t the people here. And it wasn’t justice. Because this place was not just. It couldn’t, in any form, be just. Human beings weren’t animals. They weren’t cattle to be herded and slaughtered at the whims of their masters.

It had to end. And this was the only chance he could see. Even if it was a slim one.

Going to any of the mage leaders - and he did, of course, know who they were - would be too risky for him. He was too visible. Constance was normally the liaison between him and the mages. But he wasn’t the only uniformed man in the camp who did not feel easy about what was going on here. He wasn’t the only guard or soldier willing to stop the cycle of violence. So he went instead to another guard he knew to be sympathetic and gave the message to send to Bremen, one of the mage leaders.

It was to spread the word. To make people ready. That night there would be a fire in the west storehouse where the munitions were kept. And at the east gate, guards posted who would leave the door open, and go with the mages once they were all out. It had to be tonight. It had to be quiet. It had to be quick. The priest was not to be trusted. If they stayed in the camp, the Confessors were coming.

The word was spread, too, to the guards Fawley trusted. His trust in the guards, in the end, was not misplaced. None betrayed them. Instead, after the word had spread, it was a skinny, shifty-eyed mage who knocked on the door to Bromlin’s quarters that evening. One who had never fit in well with the other mages, and didn’t trust his chances on the outside.

“...Father?”

The sound of that door closing echoed much louder in Merric's mind, and he felt the vibration of it closing as if struck; a hard punch to the gut.  Something cold and sharp entered into his stomach and he felt cold.  Mercuxio stared into the painting he'd been looking at before, into the loneliness of that mountain and knew then, resolutely, that Fawley was no longer an asset.

What faith had been placed in him before was broken now because Merric would not bend to his will.  He was a priest of the Church, and a Confessor of the Order of St. Agratha.  He too had his oaths, and his beliefs in what was right and just.  Perhaps this camp was not just, no man deserved to be caged like this.  But in times of desperation, desperate measures were taken.   Fawley could not see the forest for the trees.  And it would be his undoing.

He wouldn't begin to speculate what he might do, but Merric would take mental precautions.  The lieutenant could no longer be trusted.  If he had to, Mercuxio would level the entire camp.

He was lost in his musings for that time, working mindlessly through the left over paperwork that Bromlin had left over.  Most of them were transfers and balances, figures that were kept in a shaky hand struggled to remain still.   Merric's eyes bored into the papers, inspect the curvature of the ink and where some of it was smeared by the curve of the side of Bromlin's palm.  It seemed he was not quite as well as he tried to portray himself to be.  Perhaps the priest had done him a favor after all.

Abruptly he looked up, the sound of the knock disrupting him.  His hand reached for the handle of the sword at his belt, instinctively resting his hand upon it, but ready to snap at a moment's notice.  Stepping up from the desk, he walked to the door and opened it slowly.  "Tomas," he murmured, a little surprised, but opened the door further.  "Please come in."

Father Merric he still was, even in the garb of his Templar rank.  When the mage stepped inside, wringing a rag in his hands that had served as a hat, Merric inspected him more closely.  "Father, are we alone?" he asked gently at first, staring at the ground.

"Yes, Tomas.  Bromlin's cabin can't hold an entire contingent of soldiers I'm afraid.  The windows  are closed as well."  Merric gestured to a chair but the mage refused, shaking his head.  "Is something the matter?"

Tomas couldn't speak.  And only then did he look up, eyes filled with distress.  "Something is going to happen, Father.  Something really bad."

Mercuxio visibly straightened, but his face was no less concerned.  "Bad?  Bad how?"

"You have to come, too, Olive." Orchid's face was pleading, tear-stained, and the twins looked on, terrified. But it was a sort of terror that came with a thrill of excitement. As scared as they were - Orchid, only 14, and the Carriage twins just ten - they had a chance now. A chance at freedom! And they were young enough to believe that, afraid as they were, the worst wouldn't really happen. What could be worse than this place?

But Olive shook her head. "No, I... I'll come in the second group, okay?" If the second group made it out. Maybe they would. Olive didn't know. But she wouldn't risk going in the first group. For one, she wasn't sure she would make it with any group. The timing was right for an attempted escape - maybe even an attempted uprising? - but it wasn't right for her. She could feel the chills of fever creeping up on her, adding a shaky feeling to the pain searing her back. If she went with the first group, they'd never leave her behind; she was 'Lady Carwick.' No. The first group should be able to get away faster. And even the children and the old men and women could move faster than Olive now. But also... she bit her lip. Stupid as it was, she didn't want to leave without Lorent. None of this would be possible without him. And as much as she'd told herself that their 'relationship' was no more than a means of procuring goods and information, her heart lurched at the idea of leaving him behind. She turned back to look at the three faces watching her, and added with the best reassuring voice she could muster, "Take Dac with you, okay? He'll protect you better than I ever could. And he's a Tracker, so if we don't find each other right away, he'll be able to find me, okay? Then we'll be together again."

They nodded. The twins were too white-faced and wired for tears, but Orchid cried openly and flung her arms around Olive.

"I promise we'll find each other," Olive whispered to her, regretting the words even as she said them. That wasn't a promise she could keep. "Now go. They're assembling now by the east gate."

Olive watched Orchid, Milo, and Lucy go, Dac padding bear-like alongside them. She wouldn't go to the east gate. She would go to the west. As soon as word had spread, they had decided that it would never work if all mages went to the east gate. That was obvious. So a second diversion would be undertaken. While the fire raged in the armory, a group of volunteers would go to the west gate. The guards stationed there were not part of the plan. The mages would attack them all the same, so that it looked like that was where the escape was being attempted. It would give more time to the mages at the east gate. The guards there were allies, and would let them out and defend them once they were in the wild. Olive knew she couldn't fight at the west gate, but she also knew her presence there would make it seem more legitimate. Would make it seem like that was where the escape was happening. She swallowed, running a hand through her hair. Her bangs were slick against her forehead, and she wondered vaguely if she'd ever see Orchid, or the twins, or her dog again. She swallowed, then slowly, painfully, made her way to her 'station.'

---

"Very bad, father." The man swallowed, shifting nervously. "But father, if I tell you - they'll kill me. Please, father, I beg you. Say that you'll protect me. Please."

But before Merric would have an opportunity to swear it or not, an explosion sounded in the distance, shaking the foundation of the camp. It was the armory. Things were moving faster than Tomas knew!

"The west gate!" he squealed, realizing that his time to curry favor with the priest was now. "The mages - they're planning an escape at the west gate!"

Tomas, it seemed, was an unwitting part of the ruse. Deciding he could not be trusted, they had given him the wrong information. Poor Tomas, he had no clue.

Mercuxio had jumped at the sound of the explosion and his heart dropped like a stone into a black river.  Turning to hear the screams and cries of those frightened by the explosion, that was the splash that reverberated in the priest's ears.  He held his breath but for a moment, eyes soon narrowing as Tomas spat out his exclamation.  But already he knew.  He said nothing, just shoved the poor mage aside and shot out the door.

As soon as he stepped out, another explosion resounded and he could see smoke rising over the shacks and huts sloppily assembled.  He called for the guards, but already men there were screaming and crying out in futility, as the fire leapt from the armory to another building with mages trapped inside.  Boots slapped hard on the cold wet ground, heavy with determination.

And rage.

His hand flew to his mace, unhooking it as he saw mages already  throwing themselves at Mordecai and other guards, attacking them with farming tools and other equipment that they had hidden from view.  Smoke billowed up and out, the fire looking for more buildings to engulf and people to swallow.  A woman screamed, as flaming debris from the roof above smashed down onto her and her child. 

"Get the priest!" somebody exclaimed, and other mages turned to Mercuxio, now an enemy standing in the robes of his order.  He could not separate himself merely with a cassock anymore.  No matter what, there would be blood.

Merric's vision turned red, and the guns that two mages had taken from the fallen guards were aimed at him.  The first was not aimed with care and the musket ball slammed through a wood paneling, puncturing it with the devastation that would've wracked Merric's body should that aim've been true.  But that split second aim was all Mercuxio needed to close the distance between he and them. 

The mace arced and slammed down on his skull, caving it in just as Merric ducked to avoid the second shot.  His ears rang, but that didn't stop him from rolling his shoulder up and catching the end of the flanged mace underneath his chin, shattering his jaw and throwing him backwards.  A final slam to the head ended him.

A contingent of guards rounded the bend, coming to tend to the chaos that had become the West Gate.  "Father!?  Are you all right?"

"Don't worry about me.  Get to the others."

Blood made the ground slick, of soldier and mage both.  Mercuxio focused on the armory.  The longer the fire spread, it would surely bring the entire forest to its knees.  He looked up to the sky, and raised his mace, whispering words of prayer.  The sky immediately began to darken and brew as clouds stirred.  Thunder rolled and the first few droplets of water came down.  He did not finish the prayer, knowing fire would rain down from the sky should he do so.

Rain began to come down hard, and the fire squealed and screeched in response to where it had flourished so brightly once before.  It hissed where it was put out, and soon nothing more came out but steam.  Arrows still shot down from lookout towers, and mages still came out in full force.  But with the threat of fire no longer a distraction, they could focus on the task at hand.

Merric ducked a flying blade his way.  The din knocked all around him.  And his assailant came crashing in from the side.  Mercuxio slipped in the muddy ground, dropping his weapon momentarily, staring up at one of the prisoners.  He was easily a foot taller than the priest and possibly twice his weight and carried over his head one of the headstones taken from the graveyard.  "I know what you are, Confessor...I know what all of you really are," he hissed and proceeded to slam the headstone down onto Merric.

The priest, though out of breath, rolled out of the way, arm flailing outward to grasp the handle of his mace.  The prisoner growled and instead balled his fists into one and slammed it down on Mercuxio's back, and stomped on his side.  Merric howled, eyes turning toward his assailant, as he tried once more to crawl away.  The slab was picked up again, giving him time to draw the other sword from his belt.

Mercuxio screamed with that rage, lunging arms upward to stick the blade upward into the belly of the slobbering beast.  With a splash, the slab slipped back into the mud and was soon followed by the prisoner's body.  Merric's eyes were wild, that icy blue staring down at him, as he crawled over to retrieve his sword.

He picked up both weapons, rehooking his mace, and turned upward toward the cry of one of the lookout towers.

"THE EAST GATE!  THE MAGES ARE ESCAPING!" someone howled with such ferocity their voice broke in hoarseness.

"The East Ga-"

The lookout's cry ended in a strangled gargle as an arrow sailed up from above and pierced his throat. It was from one of the guards on the other side of the wall. Protecting the fleeing mages. The first group of mages had made it out of the east gate, disappearing into the deep mist of the forest. Only the last two guests accompanying them remained behind, sending bullets and arrows from where they hid amongst the trees before they, too, disappeared.

They were gone. Inside, the mage still behind fought all the fiercer. The longer they fought, they knew, the longer the others would have to flee. Half the mages had escaped, and though the remaining half numbered more than the soldiers, they were being quickly rounded up.

Aching and shivering, it was all Olive could do to more or less stay out of the way. But her heart buoyed. She could hear from the guards shouts: they made it away. And even though the soldiers were disarming and rounding up the remaining mages in that very moment, that made it all worth it.

That was what Olive was thinking when a firm hand grabbed her from behind, clapping over her mouth. "Looks like your boyfriend is too busy to protect you now, Lady Carwick," a voice growled menacingly in her ears. It was Schemler's, she recognized it at once. Her heart stopped. She tried to bite down on the hand gagging her, but it only earned her a smack across the head from the second man. Harret.

"Careful, my lady," Harret sniggered, "the rougher you are with us, the rougher we'll have to be with you."

With that, they dragged her away. And with the chaos raging in the rest of the camp, no one would notice one mage or two soldiers less.


Not far away, a breathless Mordecai ran up to Merric, taking him by the arm and helping him to his feet. His face was troubled, and not only by the events that were unfolding. The mages were mostly rounded up, but...

"Father," he stated in a low voice, "now that I see what you are... I have to warn you," he panted between labored breaths, "an order has been sent out for your capture. Dead or alive."

The West Gate massacre was quickly coming to a close, even as a few mages were still resisting.  They were immediately put down however, knocked unconscious if necessary.  For all the fight they had in them, fresh guards that had time to prepare and to act were all that were needed.  They were soldiers trained for situations like these, and those that were not dead were captured and immobilized. 

Mercuxio's breath came out cold in the freezing rain, and blood splattered the once white and blue trim of his robes.  This was Fawley's doing, and his fist clenched hard in response.  He would find him, and punish him justly for such an act of disobedience.  Oh, no, he was not the mastermind.  But he knew the lieutenant was most certainly the catalyst.  Mercuxio nearly reacted violently to the grip of the Mordecai that clutched at his arm.

He pulled away.  "You are all under my command now," he growled, snatching the other man by the shoulder and shoving him.  "Fawley is responsible and any other in lieu of him will be likewise punished. Any soldier not here now cannot be trusted.  They are in league with the lieutenant.  Fall in, gather a contingent and find those mages!  I want them back!"

The mordecai nodded, saluting hastily.  "Yes, Father.  You Sloan!  Come with me, now!  Gather Hauselman and the others.  We've got mages to catch.  I want horses, archers, the whole lot of them!  NOW!"

"Right away, Major Anavril."

Mercuxio stepped back and observed the final rebel being clubbed on the head with the back of a musket.  His eyes quickly counted them.  "Someone's missing," he whispered and immediately ran toward the nearest barracks. Empty.  And the one beside it, also empty.  He hissed, knowing that if they were among the dead...

There was a hissing scream nearby, and the breaking of something within one of the shacks.  Merric  turned around the corner and when he heard a man's voice of violent disgruntlement, he kicked through the door.

The door gave way, revealing a snarling soldier and none other than Tomas, the snivelling mage who had run to warn Merric of the planned escape. In his attempt to flee from the guard, Tomas had climbed over a table and landed on a chair, which had then fallen and broken. Hence the scream and breaking noise Merric had heard from outside.

"I found this one hiding in here, probably looking for arms" the soldier growled when Merric appeared in the doorway.

Tomas, seeing Merric, threw himself at the priest's feet. "Father! Father! Tell him, father! Don't let him hurt me! Tell him how I warned you! Tell him I'm a good, obedient prisoner, father!"

But bigger troubles were brewing outside. A mage escape was one thing; mages were a clear 'enemy' to the soldiers and mordecai and guards. At least to those who had not been in league with the escaping mages. A change in military power, however, was another matter, and was looking to be a messier one. In such a short time, Bromlin had been murdered, Neill imprisoned, and now there were conflicting orders from the Captain and the priest. Who should they listen to? To many of the soldiers, the guards especially, loyal to their captain, it seemed that the priest had come and usurped power from all their military leaders.

To that end, the Mordecai returned, running up to Merric. All of a holy order (and believing that Merric was aligned with Neill, thanks to Fawley's false reporting), the Mordecai had an easier time in turning their loyalty to the Templar. "Father! You're needed in the square. The guards have corralled the mages, but they won't submit to your authority. They haven't seen what you are - or don't know! They say they'll stay loyal to their captain. Please, come quick! I fear if this matter isn't settled swiftly, there may be a confrontation between the Mordecai and the guards."

Merric clearly hadn't been expecting to find the pair inside.  And what the trouble was between Tomas and the soldier - since Tomas was clearly an idiot - was not the focus of his concern any longer.  The mage had done his job, and this guard had no business in here, when there were mages out there that needed to be maintained!

"You!" he growled, pointing to the other guard.  "Fall in with the rest outside!  NOW!"

The soldier was clearly torn between his wrath and his duty and he shot daggers at the groveling Tomas.  "What about him?"

"I'll deal with him later," Mercuxio said.  "Both of you outside."

When the Mordecai came back in, the priest turned to him.  Of course.  This day just couldn't get any better.  "Onward then," he said and moved past the Mordecai before coming out toward the square.  With the mages corralled, Mercuxio watched as a pair of guards bat back a Mordecai that tried to get at a mage that spat on him.  Whether they were defending the mage or preferring to deal with him themselves wasn't clear.  But a heated exchange of words could quickly turn into a blood bath.

"NOW ALL OF YOU LISTEN!"  Merric howled, stepping up to the platform that gave him leverage over the rest.  "I will hear out your squabbles.  But you will not take them out on each other!  We maintain order in this camp if it is the last thing we do!  Now I am in command here. And will not have Mordecai and soldiers tearing at each other's throats like wild dogs!  Should any of you wish to challenge that, step up before me now."

There was silence and murmuring amongst them all.  And one man, raised his sword, a Bromlin loyalist and pushed through the soldiers.  He stepped up to the platform.  "I have a problem with you.  I have a problem with a sniveling priest coming in here and playing soldier.  Actin' like 'e knows his way around!  I have a problem with a priest sitting on his high horse and declaring himself our better!  Slog down there with the rest of us, and even then you wouldn't ever be worthy of commanding any of us!"

Several soldiers cried out in unison with that declaration, raising their weapons.

Mercuxio stepped back, giving two feet of ground and drew his blade.  "Your rank, soldier."

"Lieutenant," the man replied through clenched teeth.

"Well Lieutenant.  If you believe you are the better man, draw your blade."

The soldier did so without hesitation, and lunged toward the Templar.  Mercuxio side-stepped and slammed the pommel of his own sword between the man's shoulder's knocking the wind out of him and sending him to his belly upon the platform.  He growled and got to his feet, gasping for breath and drawing up his sword again.

Mercuxio gauged him and struck out first.  The soldier screamed, blade meeting blade, steel clashing and he parried a blow to his midsection, turning his wrist and throwing Merric's hands up.  The priest lowered his stance and met a downward arc from his opponent.  He threw his weight into him, knocking the soldier backwards.  Mercuxio had no soft sedentary body, he was strong and as tough as any soldier worth his salt - perhaps even more.

Merric was done with the man's games.  For though he could fight, he'd yet to establish an opening for a killing blow.  A swift blow to the head sent the soldier reeling backwards, that uncoordinated balance making Mercuxio inwardly roll his eyes.  Weakly, he brought his sword up in an attempt to recover, one that the priest quickly swatted away.  He spun on his heel and brought his blade full circle, and all the lieutenant could do was blink.

He stood there, unsure of what happened before he felt himself choking.  His hands went up to his throat, trying to contain the blood therein.  Mercuxio would not let him suffer for long, and sunk his blade deep into his belly, swiftly pulling out and letting the man fall to he ground.  Mercuxio panted a little, and turned back to the crowd.

"Any others?"

"Is that how you start your leadership, Father? By slaughtering a man under your charge?"

The question hung over the crowd of uneasy soldiers, guards, and Mordecai. It came from none other than Captain Fawley, who was cuffed on either side by two Mordecai who had, under the Templar's orders, apprehended him. They brought him forward now, but the Captain looked more confident than he had yet. Finally, for the first time since coming to this god forsaken place, he was acting on his conscience.

But though he looked confident, even proud, he did not look untroubled. A shadow cast over his countenance. He may be a military man, he may sympathize with the mages of the camps, and he may know in his heart of hearts that what happened here was wrong and that any actions to end it was right, but he took no pleasure in the shedding of blood. Even when the cause was just, and the responsibility for the fallen bodies weigh on his shoulders. But he met Merric's gaze with clear eyes.

The question had caused a moment of silence over the assembled men. When it passed, a murmur of agreement and dissent followed from the soldiers and Mordecai, respectively. A few angry shouts from the guards rang out at the sight of their captain so handled... and by the orders of the priest.

But in the end, all eyes turned to Mercuxio. Waiting.

Merric straightened when he saw Fawley.  At least the man had the guts to face him, after all he'd done.  And in the end, though he would never see the bigger picture, Merric felt a vague respect for him.  He took action, did what he thought was right.  Even if in the end he was wrong.  Mercuxio could not afford to harbor more questions than necessary, there were tasks to be done at hand.  And the moment was dire.

With the silence hanging over them, he allowed it to simmer, even as people murmured in hushed tones and those few indignant cries from men watching their Captain bound.  Mercuxio held his hands in front of him, watching him approach.  Well, watching the Mordecai dragging Fawley up to the podium.

"Well, Father?" Fawley repeated expectantly.

Mercuxio didn't even quiver, just met the Captain with those cool eyes.  "No," he answered with a polite nod.  "The man here wished to challenge me.  I gave him the opportunity to do so.  When he failed, he fell.  Such is the consequence of such actions."  Father Merric bowed his head to Fawley again.

"Do you value the lives of your prisoners over the lives of your men?  They trusted you, Captain.  You betrayed your oaths, your promises, your pledges.  You betrayed them.  I will not attempt to shame you.  There would be no use in that.  But I cannot allow your transgression to go unpunished."

"We have all betrayed our oaths, our promises, and our pledges. To serve our country justly. To bear arms in the service of our nation - for the good of our nation. But there is no justice here, Father, and no good can come of what is happening here, or at any camp. Not for the prisoners, not for the men-at-arms, and not for Connlaoth. In perpetuating this, we have all betrayed our nation." Fawley was no fool. He knew his end was near; there was no reason now not to speak his mind. "Worse than that, in attempting to justify these sins to ourselves - for it is sin, what has happened here - we have betrayed ourselves. And our god."

A murmur ran through the crowd, both amongst the guards and amongst the detained mages. A murmur of surprise, doubt, and anger. Some were offended at the Captain's very words, but others were left uneasy. Because while many soldiers and even Mordecai were not ready to aid in the escape of the mages, as some of their compatriots had done, the Captain's words nonetheless struck a chord with them.

Fawley, meanwhile, looked at the Templar levelly. "No," he said in a lower voice, meant for Mercuxio alone, "I wouldn't expect you to."

"Aptly put, Captain.  But not all of us.  Some of us still intend to keep the promises we made.  And make still.  For all we have in this life is our word, and we are bound to it.  Our nation, our faith, our oaths, still mean something to some of us.  To many of us.   It is not without a heavy heart that I must do what must be done.”

The Mordecai brought Fawley, forcing him to his knees before the priest, but he put a hand up to ward off any further rough treatment.

Merric crouched down in front of Fawley, face filled with sympathy.

“It is a shame, really,” Merric murmured to the Captain so that only he could hear.  “I know you cared for her, Lorant.  I saw it in your eyes when you begged me to save her.  I did what I could.  I knew Olive…in passing.  She was a friend of my young sister’s.  You must imagine my surprise to find her in a place like this.”

Merric’s thumb ran over Fawley’s forehead, signing the Spear of Ansgar, and he held his face in his hand, holding him there in case Fawley tried to look away.  For now, he remained stagnant. 

“It is a shame that you would do this without saying goodbye to the one you cared for most.  You ran a crusade when you should have been with Olive, at her side, caring for her.  You will never know if she will live or die.  She needed you Lorant.  If anyone, she needed you.  And now here we are.”

Fawley’s lower lip wavered and he stared up at Mercuxio and the priest solemnly wiped a tear away with an attentive thumb.  He stood and pointed his sword over the man’s head.  He murmured last rites, and kept his eyes only for the Captain.  “For the crime of treason, Lorant Fawley, I hereby sentence you to death.  May God bear you mercy.”

He slowly raised that blade over his head before separating Fawley’s head from the rest of his body.  And he slumped lifelessly onto the platform, head rolling off toward one of the Mordecai’s feet.

Mercuxio stood with a heavy heart.  Ice blue eyes scanned the crowd, but did not find her present.  If she was alive, he wished her well.  If she was dead, then he only hoped it was swift.  But now with Fawley dead, there was real work to be done.

After the execution of the captain, the tensions between the guards and the Mordecai (and the priest) eased, at least to a simmer. They might resent it, but they saw who their master was now. So in the following hours of night, the mages were detained; those who had attacked the guards at the west gate kept separately from the rest, awaiting the judgement of the Templar. A search party was sent out into the night to find and detain the mages who had escaped, and bring back the guards who had aided them to face punishment for their mutiny. The same punishment, they all wordlessly knew, that had befallen Captain Fawley.

As night settled, so did the camp. But it settled into unease and disquiet.

Soldiers and Mordecai were still working into the night, searching for mages that had hidden in the camp, collecting the dead, repairing what they could. It was during these late hours that a knock came at the door of Bromlin’s quarters, where the Templar had set himself up.

A Mordecai entered, dragging behind him none other than Constance, alive. Or just about. She looked far worse than when she had left Merric last. Pale and shivering with fever, except for a fresh dark bruise on the side of her face and around her neck, and it was clear from her gait that she was stiff with pain. Her eyes, wet and red, didn’t follow the Mordecai or go to the priest, but were cast down to middle distance, lost in a private emotion.

“Sir, we found Lady Carwick hiding in a supply building,” the Mordecai addressed the Confessor curtly, not saying in what state he had found her. “We have reason to believe she was involved in planning the escape. Should we confine her with the others?”

The anticipation was the worst of it all.  While the other mages were being detained and questioned, guards busied themselves with sorting through the rubble and ashes left over from the fire.  The damage would have been even more devastating had the rains not came down in sheets.  For once the air was humid and thick and made the earth warm, as it washed away the blood.

But it didn't last longer than a few hours.  Mercuxio peered up at the Mordecai that held Olive in hand.  And if Merric hadn't known any better he might say she had been in a fight.  And perhaps she had.

He looked between her and the Mordecai before standing.  "I will deal with her personally," he muttered, standing up from behind the table and walking around it. The Mordecai bowed, once Olive was in hand, and Merric shut the door behind him.  Silence filled the room.

"You're shivering," was all he could say.

Olive didn't move when the Mordecai released her and stepped away to bow to the Templar. She stood as if frozen; but when the Mordecai left and the door slammed shut behind him, the sound caused her to jump.

'You're shivering.' Was she shivering, she wondered, or shaking? Olive's red-rimmed eyes turned to Mercuxio and for a long moment she just stared. But her face was tight, as though holding some emotion in, and her eyes gaze was hard.

"You lied," she finally croaked, her voice hoarse from muffled screams. "You said you would help us."

Mercuxio met those eyes, and for a moment they seemed sharp enough to cut stone.  He blinked and paused a long moment, taking in a slow steady breath.  He had promised to help them.  He had tried to go about it the hard way - as if this method was any easier.  He tried, and kept trying, but Bromlin had countered him at every turn.

What could he say?  That this was what he called trying?

"I never lied," he said steadily, meeting her gaze.  "I fully intended to help you.  All of you.  And I still do.  Bromlin wasn't going to do anything.  He didn't give a damn!  I still do!  You were-  You..."

He couldn't believe it.  His own face was growing hot with frustration and he slammed a fist into the door, and braced himself against him.  "Of all places..." he murmured and looked at the door, thinking of his sister and all he left behind.  And all everyone else in this camp left behind.

Olive stifled another startled jump when Merric slammed his fist into the door, but she visibly tensed, fear momentarily in her eyes as the last slamming door flashed back into her mind, trapping her alone with the men who'd tortured Orchid for so long. She hugged her arms tight around her chest and fought to control her emotions, but tears welled up unshed in her eyes as she stared hard at the priest.

Silence hung in the room for a long time. When Olive finally broke it, her voice was tight and thick with the emotion she was trying to repress. "Then let them go," she said, shaking as well as shivering now. "If you 'give a damn.' Keep us here. But call back the search party. Let them go."

Mercuxio felt the tears welling up in his eyes and he wiped them away.  But even as he turned toward Olive, a desperate huff escaping him, the evidence remained in  his eyes.  He gave a soft sigh.  "I can't," he murmured.  "The search party been gone for hours.  If I send out a patrol now, by the time they find them it'll be too late."

He sniffed.  "They're to return alive.  They must!  Or it'll all be for naught."  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wiping his face, but it didn't stave away the heat.

"You're making excuses!" The exclamation came out almost as a strangled cry, half accusational, half desperate. But there was something harder behind the choked emotion. And if Olive felt any sympathy for Mercuxio's tears, she didn't show it. If she had the presence of mind to think about it, she wouldn't even be sure they weren't crocodile tears. More lies to ensnare their trust. "Send the patrol out now, and there's a chance they'll find the search party first. Do it now, or admit that helping us was never your plan, Confessor."

She was no longer able to keep her own tears in check, and they flowed freely down her bruised and dirty face. The look she gave Merric then was a fierce, fevered mix of anger and righteousness, but also helplessness and betrayal. She'd confided in him. She'd trusted him. She'd protected him while Neill had her men beat her half to death. And now this.

"I will admit no such thing!  Do you think I don't care about all the people out there?  That my sympathy is reserved only for the prisoners here?  If I send out that patrol, and they retreat back to camp, the soldiers will turn on me.  And who will they turn their wrath on?  The remaining prisoners!  They will slaughter the lot of them, and I must protect everyone in this camp.  Including what prisoners remain."

Mercuxio  looked at her just as fiercely.  "I am responsible for the lives here.  I always was even before I took up arms.  And so are you.  You were doing what you could to help these people.  Help me help them, Olive.  Please."  His eyes were red, fierce and tear-stricken, his cheeks wet.

"No, I don't think you care! About any of us. What have you done? To help us? To protect anyone?"

The last question came out as a strangled sob. She let out a sound of helpless frustration then turned, as though she were going to do something, but only half-sat, half-collapsed into an empty chair, holding her head in her hands. Was this all really happening? Was it really not a dream brought on by her fever? She didn't... She couldn't do this now. She sweated and shivered under the fever. The bandages Mercuxio had prepared for her back had been half torn away, and blood oozed through what remained and into her tunic. Her body was sore and beaten and violated by Harrett and Schemler. She just wanted it to stop. Wanted to go to sleep, or...

She sat slumped and silent for what felt like a long time, except for the soft sound of tears and her ragged breaths. When she finally spoke up, her voice had changed somehow. The priest wouldn't help them. Surely there would be a purging of scapegoats, mages they coudl blame for what happened today. That would have to include her. Maybe it was over. Or would be soon.

"Can I... see the captain?" she asked quietly, not looking at Merric. Olive still didn't know what had happened and assumed that Captain Fawley would be held in detention, just like Major Neill was. "Not for long just... please. Then you can do whatever you want with me."

Words would not assuage her, this Mercuxio knew.  Still, he could not shake the core of his own distress.  For how could he possibly be in any position to help anyone if he couldn't even control himself.  He cleaned his eyes and pushed his hair back again, moving around the room, quietly putting off Olive's question.

He returned with a bowl of water and a rag and placed them before her.  He dipped the rag and cleaned the blood from her face, stopping at her tears and holding out the rag if she wished to do it herself.  He moved it then to the water, rang it out and left it on the side of the bowl.

"What happened to you?" he asked quietly, examining her features.  "It's more than Neill's treatment.  Where did you get that bruising on your neck?"

Olive watched the priest hawkishly, sniffling as her eyes slowly began to dry. She just wanted to see Lorent, just for a moment, then let him throw her in whatever cell he wanted. She just wanted to curl up and sleep and block out the last day. He was avoiding answering, she could tell, and was about to say so when he came over and and reached out to clean her dirty face.

"Don't touch me!" Olive jerked from his outstretched hand so suddenly and violently that both the chair she'd been sitting on and the basin of water were sent clattering to the floor. Olive was on her feet, tense and wild-looking like a cornered animal. Tears welled again in her eyes, but they blazed fiercely at Mercuxio. She stayed like that, looking like she was ready to fight, for another moment. Then her eyes flicked to the spreading pool of water on the cabin floor, then back to Mercuxio.

"You didn't answer me," she said flatly, voice thick, well aware that she was likewise not answering him.

"It was Schemler and Harret wasn't it?" he hissed and loomed over her.  "Answer me and I will answer you."

Olive tried hard to keep Mercuxio's gaze, to not shrink away when he stood and loomed over her, but in the end she wasn't able to. She scurried backwards to put a larger, safer distance between them. Her eyes cast down and she felt her face heat with shame.

She didn't want to answer him. She didn't ever want to speak of it. Acknowledge that it happened. She just wanted to bury it deep, deep inside of her. And part of her hated Mercuxio for demanding it of her now. For striking this cruel bargain.

But she knew there would be only a short amount of time left for Lorent. And maybe for her. So, eyes still on the ground, burning with shame and anger at Mercuxio, she simply nodded.

At that affirmation, that cold rage that simmered beneath the surface settled and Merric stepped back.  "Lorant is dead," he said simply.  "He was executed hours ago."

Olive let out a sound that was somewhere between a choke and a sob, clasping a hand to her mouth. He was already dead. He was already dead? She stared at Mercuxio in disbelief and... something else. Why couldn't he have just told her that? What had he made her admit to the... to... Why had he made her admit to that, forcing her answer with a bargain about the captain, just so he could calmly tell her that he had been executed already?

Her disbelieving expression wordlessly asked Mercuxio those questions.

Olive took a few steps backwards, the expression on her face mirroring the tumult of emotions inside. She felt tricked, and betrayed, and ashamed, and dirty, and... hollow.

He was already dead. Hours ago. Had it been when she...? Finally her frozen stance melted and she buried her face in her hands. If she hadn't been... Could she have done something? Could she have... A sickening guilt wrenched her stomach.

After a moment, she finally looked back up at Merric, eyes red and cheeks wet. And she asked hoarsely, quietly, "Why... why didn't you just tell me that?"

Mercuxio looked down, at the necklaces that hung under his collar.  They could not readily be seen, but he could feel them.  And at that moment they felt like a harness and may as well have been an anchor to seal him to the earth.

"You have your answer," he muttered. 

Olive didn't move. She just stared at him, mouth open, anger rising in her. Her voice was still thick and strangled, but it was harder when she looked at him and asked again, "Why did you make me answer that?!"

He had pressured her into something she hadn't wanted to do, with a false bargain. It felt like another violation, and filled her with helpless anger. He could have just told her Lorent was dead. Was he punishing her? Bent on shaming her as penance for aiding in the escape?

"Because I aim to finish what Bromlin never started.  The first thing you ever told me was of Harrett and Schemler," Mercuxio blasted back.  "That was where I tried to help first.  But in the face of so much opposition what could I have possibly done?  The only way I can make a goddamn difference is if I do it myself!  Do you think I wish to see people who have committed heinous crimes walk freely?  And whatever I have done, I am prepared to answer for.  But in the here and now, I will not let them act as if those men can return with impunity.  What would you have me do?"

Olive was still reeling from learning that Lorent had already been executed, that at first she didn't register what the priest had said. But once she did, she looked at him with angry indignance.

"'Help?' What have you done to help anyone? You inspire rebellion," she said, referring to his shocking laying of the byrnstones. Maybe he actually didn't know what emotion that incited, but she wasn't going to give him the benefit of the doubt then, "just so you can crush it yourself! That's helping?

"And I told you of many crimes when you first came here. You think men like... like... them should be locked up? Lock up two, there are twenty more! I told you that, too! But you don't listen. You just want to punish two so you can pretend you've stopped the crimes of many! If you want... want... this to stop," she said plaintively, no longer able to bring herself to say the actual word, as tears of anger and shame flowed down her cheek, "then call back the search party. Then maybe half of us will be safe. But you won't make any difference punishing two when the rest are free to act as they please. This," she gestured with her eyes around to signify the entire camp, "is the crime, Mercuxio. I think you know that, but you don't want to."

Mercuxio felt a pang go to his chest and he lunged forward to grip Olive's face in hard desperate hands.  He could crush her skull where she stood, just turn it to pulp and mush between his fingers but instead he didn't.  She wouldn't understand.  He kept her gaze and loosened his grip, stepping away from her.

"Dani missed you greatly when you were gone," he murmured.  "She always raved about you.  You were her best friend, I think.  She misses you still.  I think she'd want me to tell you that."

He knew he obviously couldn't get them all.  Evil was inside every man, apart of his very being, and could be rooted out by rudimentary means.  Harret and Schemler would get their dues, but what mattered was maintaining order.  The Confessors would be here within a day.  That missive had already arrived.

Olive cried out when he lunged at her, his small assault causing the earlier, more serious assault to flash in her mind. She jerked violently to try to strike him or try to escape his grip. But Mercuxio was stronger than her in good condition, and her condition was poor. She didn't stop struggling, spitting and hissing like a wildcat, until he let her go.

Olive scurried quickly backward away from him, never taking her eyes off of him incase he came at here again. She panted, adrenaline coursing through her, glaring balefully and defiantly at him. Did he really expect her to believe that he was different than the men he condemned? When he resorted to physical domineering and intimidation to force his point across. He was no different. Olive saw that now, and the knowledge shone in her eyes.

And his attempts to placate her, as she saw them, by bringing Dan into it did not work. Dani hated him, they both knew it, and now Olive did, too. Though perhaps with a more genuine ire than his little sister did.

"Am I free to go?" was all she asked. "Or are you going to detain me somewhere?"

She didn't really care if he was. As long as it wasn't here. She just wanted to be away from him.

"Get out of here.  As far as you can," he murmured, looking back up into the painting that he'd observed of Bromlin's.  Why he kept it there, he couldn't say.  All he felt was shame, and disgust at himself.

He walked out of the room and into Bromlin's office.

The day wouldn't be done yet.  Hours went again, words whispering amongst the guards.  Where were Harrett and Schemler?  They were gone when Fawley had been executed, and had only recently reappeared.  Guards were angry and brimming, stirring in the collar that Mercuxio had set for them.  There were traitors in their midst, and it only served to anger them further to think that there were those among them that could not be trusted.

It was said that misery loved company, and very much so did death.  Harrett and Schemler were each found in separate sections of the camp, their throats cut and shoved into shallows beneath shacks and buildings.  They weren't the only ones either.  A few others were slain in much the same way.

When the next dawn was arriving, the sound of a horn rang out through the air.  The search party had returned.  With the prisoners in tow.

Olive had had a fitful night. She slept and woke between sweating out her fever and nightmares of the day and the fits of crying that followed. And it was the first time she'd been alone in this hut. Without the comforting presence of Orchid, Milo, and Lucy - who she always felt she'd been taking care of - Olive found herself scared and jumpy, constantly fearing that every sound was Harret or Schemler.

The next morning was cold and hazy, and Olive wasn't the only one who looked like she was in a malaise of pain and disbelief after the previous day's events. Unsure what to do after so much upheaval, many moved numbly towards their usual work shifts, trying not to notice that half of their fellows were missing. But there was something in the air, too - a sense that even if they were still here, the others might have made it.

Until the horn sounded.

And the gates opened.

And the search party returned.

It would be absolutely correct to say that the soldiers returned with the escaped mages 'in tow.' That was the only way those mages were going anywhere was 'in tow.' The soldiers were returning triumphantly into the camp. And behind them, piled in supply carts, were the mages. Dead. Every one. The search party had not brought a full fleet of carts with them, so the mages were piled high and haphazardly on the limited carts they had.

Olive put a hand to her mouth, standing gaping next to a middle aged women whose silent tears were flowing freely down her face. This wasn't possible.

The living mages gathered alongside of the marching soldiers, a silent disbelief hanging in the air. The mages who had escaped in the first group had been the weakest of them all. The aged, the young, women and children and grandparents. A few young and strong who went along to protect them, care for them. And now each and every one of them stared at the camp with filmy, lifeless eyes.

And the flickering feeling of hope was, in that moment, extinguished. Like a candle blown suddenly out. And a pregnant silence lay over the camp.

Until someone threw a stone.

Mercuxio stepped out of Bromlin's office, when the clanging of armor and marching of boots on the ground confirmed the arrival of the search party.  He knew he'd been right.  Even if he wanted to call them back, it was too late to do so.  Even if the patrol found them, they probably would've caught them in the middle of their wholesale slaughter.

And needless to say, Merric was not pleased.  He saw the bodies.  The great heaps of them, and it took everything in him to contain his horror.  He'd acted on his anger so much, so quickly in the past few hours, that should it get the better of him again, there was no telling what would happen.

"Halt!" he cried out, when at last the search party stopped.  He marched forth to the Mordecai he'd sent out to retrieve the escapees.  "Major Anavril!  What is the meaning of this!?"   He turned toward the stone that had been sent sailing toward one of the men, smacking into his armor.  But nothing happened. Satisfaction had already been theirs.

Major Anavril met Mercuxio with a calmed, self-assured look. "Father," he greeted curtly. "We have complied with your orders and have returned every mage that escaped, and every mutinous guard that aided them."

A palpable ripple went through the camp. Every one. Every mage. The orders of the priest - no, the Confessor - who only days ago had given the rites to the mages killed by Bromlin's men. He had laid the Byrnstones. Now not only was he revealed to be a Confessor, but he had ordered the slaughter of the escaped mages? A choked sob rang out in the silence. But below that an angry murmur was growing.

Mercuxio couldn't have felt colder in that moment, and his heart sunk into his chest at the bodies.  "I ordered their return Major," he said steadily, eyes boring deep into the Mordecai's.  "Where in those instructions did I say kill them?  Was there a misunderstanding, Major?"

"They resisted," Anavril replied, his jaw visibly clenching, but somehow maintaining form.  "Of course they would not want to be returned to this place.  How else did you expect them to come back?  Alive?  Willing?"

Merric turned to look at the bodies again, their images burned in his mind.  "And I imagine the children put up a great deal of fight for a powerful Mordecai such as yourself."

"There are always casualties in war," the Mordecai answered coolly. "The mages would not let us separate the children. And bullets cannot discriminate between man and child."

But it was clear to anyone close enough to see; there was more than one dead child that had been hewn down by the sword or the axe.

"You sent them, Confessor!" The loud, angry bellow came from a large man - a mage - who was clamboring towards the front of the crowd. He was a hulking man, with a fresh bruise on his face from the previous day's skirmish. He had, Olive knew, two children of his own. They weren't mages, and had been left fatherless when they had come to take him to the camp. He voiced his worries more than once about how his wife would be able to provide for herself and the two growing children. "Don't pretend you didn't know what would happen! This blood," he pointed at Mercuxio, "is on your hands! How will you answer for it?"

The guards, still bearing a grudge against Mercuxio for usurping power within the camp and beheading their captain, prepared to detain the man. But for that moment, hesitated. Everyone's eyes turned to the Confessor.

"We bury them.  Proper burials.  So easy it is forget the skin we bear," he finished with a low whisper.  But that only seemed to make the angry mage more irate.  He turned his head to the mages and then the bodies. 

"No," he quickly corrected himself.  "I will bury them."

"Don't you dare touch them!"  The man flung himself at the priest.  But before he could get within two feet or range, a musket butt cracked him across the jaw, knocking him out.

Merric stared at them, wide-eyed and frowned, deeply.  He took a deep breath, to keep himself from cracking in the rest of the man's skull and then looked to the Mordecai.  "Burn them.  The dead bodies.  Burn them all."

The musket smacked against the man's skull, and an electric ripple went through the crowd. For several moments, there was complete silence.

Burn them. The dead bodies. Burn them all.

The first voice to speak out came from someone in the middle of the crowd, not easily seen from between everyone around him. "How long until we're all dead bodies?!"

There was a murmur. Then, choked through a sob, "You can't burn them! They're children! Where are the byrnstones now?"

Stones might have been too charged a word. Because after that, a stony chunk of rubble from the last night's fire went sailing through the air at Mercuxio. Several more stones followed, aimed for the Mordecai and soldiers. In response, two soldiers tried to force their way through the crowd to drag out the stone-throwers. But the mages weren't having it this time and set upon the two soldiers.

Crack!

The sound of a flint-lock firing ripped through the air, and into the crowd of unarmed mages.

The crowd stilled, some screamed, at the sound of the shot.  Others weren't going down so easily.  Merric turned and took a musket from a nearby Mordecai and cracked another shot in the air.  "That is enough!  Mordecai, quell these mages!"

He had given his sympathy to them time and again, and this was how they acted.  He turned back into frame of Bromlin's office and saw a bird flying overhead, a small leather pouch on it's foot, as it landed toward the roof, and went in through the window.  Merric vanished inside the building.

He took the message from the bird's ankle and unfurled it.  It wasn't even that long ago that he'd sent the bird in notice to the other Confessors.  And finally a signal that they were well on their way.  In fact they would arrive before dawn.

The Confessor should have been more specific in his orders if he wished no more bloodshed. But Olive, at least, was beginning to suspect he was willfully oblique in his orders for just this reason. So the escapees would come back dead-eyed and piled on carts without claiming any responsibility for himself. And now, to 'quell the mages', Mercuxio would hear another shower of musket fire. And a dozen more bodies were piled on to the carts to burn.

And more Confessors were to arrive.

Olive had never felt such a sick dread. Life in the camp had never been more unbearable than it was now. And that was just after the arrival of one Confessor. What would happen with an entire regiment?

She wasn't the only one with those feelings. Olive wasn't sure who said it first, but the plan - the decision - spread like wildfire through the camp. Not only the dead would burn. This time, the entire camp would. This time it wouldn't matter if anyone escaped. This time, tonight, it would end.

If he'd had more time, perhaps things might have been different.  Already the people here were divided when he arrived.  Perhaps this was all inevitable from the start, with or without him as a witness.  All he'd wanted was order, but neither mage nor soldier was content simply with that.  One hand must always rule over the other.

Peace was only in death.

The screams that rang out in that night were nightmare-inducing.  And just when he had hoped the fire had been quelled, it transformed into a raging inferno.  The fire of rebellion.   It happened in the blink of an eye.  Tonight, it was do or die.  Yet tonight the latter, it seemed, would reap the harvest.

Mages that would rather die than live in this nightmare another day rallied against the soldiers, taking those that were unwary and cutting their throats.  Others were not slain so efficiently.  Soldiers that had tortured their captives were dragged away and beaten with fury.  Weapons and armor were taken from the fallen.  This had not been a planned attack, not with the same strategy as the escape had been.  And it's sheer surprise had thrown the soldiers and Mordecai off balance.

Mercuxio ran out into the muddy ground, the soil drenched with the blood of a Mordecai at his feet, and he stared for a few long seconds in horror.  The chaos all around him was almost too much to comprehend.  Fire did not need to leap up to turn the night sky red.  Soldiers fell back, again and again, until they managed to regroup and attempt to push back against the rebels.

Those that did not fight, tried to hide from the slaughter.  Soldiers would kill any mages that they found.  It was all they could do stay alive.  An oil fire broke out somewhere far to the west, near the chapel that he'd erected.  Mercuxio felt his stomach fall.  Fire threatened everyone, not simply soldiers killing mages, and vice versa.  The entire camp would turn to ash, and the bones of the dead with it.

He ran off in that direction, pushing around behind a row of shacks, listening, holding his breath for fear that it might be too loud. Many of the shacks were already empty, or filled with still bodies.  Still he looked and waited, and the sound of wood collapsing inward was quickly followed by a scream.  "Help me!"

He didn't know who it was, he didn't care.  Merric rounded the entrance, but the way was blocked by the collapsed wood and debris.  Instead he moved toward a window, shattering it with blunt end of his mace, and climbing through.  He held his breath, covering his face with the collar of his robe, struggling to see through the smoke and flames.  There he saw a man crushed beneath a section of the roof, and trapped behind him was a small boy, too young to fight, too old to have left with the others.  "Hold on!" Merric cried, and stood back, looking for a space between the flames.

He couldn't afford to wait, the whole thing would come crashing around them.  He took on step back, then three steps forward and lunged over the debris, crouching down before the youngling and snatching him up.  He snatched him up and pulled him over to the side, just as more of the roof came down and blocked the way they came.  With no way out, Merric turned, desperately looking for something, and he could see only the frail wall that cornered them.  With a cry he raised the mace and smashed it against the wood, smoke seeping into his lungs.  But his arm struck it again, and again until the wood splintered and cracked and he could bash through it with his shoulder.  He pulled the boy through, falling to the ground.

They both coughed, gasping for fresh air, but given only that which had been tainted with blood and iron.  The boy did not wait for the Confessor to stand, and he rose and ran off.  "Wait!" Merric cried out.  But he did not, and he vanished from sight.  Merric stood, staggering and trying to gain some ground.  When he came around a corner, there he saw Olive, and a soldier with a blade raised before her.  The priest collected his senses just enough and charged at the soldier.  He knocked him aside and the man staggered.  With a loud shiiiing! the blade on his own belt came free and he parried a low blow, returning the hit with a turn of the blade, sinking it deep into his gut.  He fell with a thud, sinking into the soil.

Mercuxio turned, dazed and fell to his knees beside her.  However she got here, however she managed it, he didn't know.  "Olive!" he panted, shifting toward her and grabbing her by the shoulder, shaking her a bit.  "Olive!  What are you doing here!?  You've got to go!  Now!  You've got to get out!  They'll kill you!  Please!"

In the state she was in, there had been little Olive could do to aid in the uprising. But she was there none the less. Aching inside and out, both physically and emotionally, Olive was ready to fight to the end. She was ready for the end. That night she'd lost sight of some hopeful end. What Neill hadn't taken from her, Harret and Schemler and the news of Lorent's death and the slaughter of all those who escaped had.

When the soldier came at her with his blade raised, she clutched the short knife she'd taken off another fallen soldier, ready to strike if she could.

But she never got the chance. Before she knew what was happening, the soldier was dead and a man was grabbing her. Olive jerked violently away from Merric. If she saw him as anything different than the rest of the soldiers, she didn't show it. She clutched the knife in her hand, but didn't strike. Constance Carwick wasn't a fighter yet. She didn't know how to bend her will to attack a man with the intention to kill.

Instead she stated at him, eyes hard and unforgiving. "Go where!?" she answered, half imploring, half accusing. "Where can I go, Mercuxio? Into the wild, so your men and their dogs can hunt me and run me down like an animal!?" Brought back in a bloody heap like the others. And Olive knew that alone in the wild, she'd soon die anyway. Of infection or starvation. The wounds on her back still too fresh, too raw. "Where would you have me go?" Her voice cracked from the acrid smoke in the air, and from desperation. There was nowhere to go for her. And she would rather die fighting than fleeing.

But before Mercuxio could provide her an answer, a bugle rang through the night. The note was bright and clear and audacious. The Templar had arrived.

Her obstinacy, though fear driven, was rage inducing.  But it was a trust he realized then he had broken.  What more could be done to make amends.  He steeled himself, sitting straight despite the call of the Confessors that heralded their arrival.

"I would have you live.  Turn your anger to help others.  I see it now.  I have failed you.  I have failed the people here.  But live for you, Olive.  That is all anyone can ask."  And he grabbed her shoulder despite the threat of the weapon in her hand.  He gazed into her eyes and felt the warm and calm of Sanctus flowing through him, and the force of that prayer would seep into her as well, offering what healing it might provide to the fresh wounds on her body and mind. 

~~~~~~
The fire went out when there was nothing left to burn.  What mages weren't killed in the ensuing fight were all taken outside - the stragglers, the fearful, the ones that had that one stroke of unluck.  The lucky ones were all ready dead.  The Confessors took command under Saint Sarebin, the red of his robes, white in comparison to the dirt and smoke that blackened Mercuxio's as he stepped over bodies.

"It seemed we arrived, if only in time to keep the swine from turning your insides out, Templar," Sarebin said, tone even, scowling at the younger man.  "This was the mess you wanted us to clean up was it?"

Merric kept his cool, too tired and covered in blood to speak back.  "This...is all that's left of the mess left by Lieutenant Bromlin."  He sighed, panting as he scanned the faces of the prisoners that were left.  He felt himself grow silent, feeling heavy, sinking down into the soil, like the rest of the bodies when the earth came to claim them.

Olive's question hadn't been a rhetorical one. Where could she go? Where could any of them go? There was no safe haven in Connlaoth for them now. Mercuxio might wish her to live, but that wouldn't save her body from the heap if she somehow escaped now, made it through the melee and into the wild, only to be caught again. She would burn with the rest if she didn't die first.

she tried to jerk away from him again when he took ahold of her, but after a moment she could feel what was happening. What he was doing. That she was healing. Even though it disgusted her. She wanted nothing from Mercuxio Rangstonlir. As soon as his grip was loosened, Olive tore away. She held his gaze for only a moment, hard and wild and unforgiving, then she ran from him. Whether she ran to flee, or to fight was unclear. In every direction chaos raged.

---

What followed had been terrible. In their efforts to 'control' the mages, the Templar and soldiers killed many of them. It had been swift and ruthless and awesome once the Templar arrived. The mages, sick and thin and weak, fell like stalks of wheat beneath the scythes of their swords. Olive wasn't sure how she survived, but here she was. Standing in the muddy, ash-covered ground with the fifty or so others who had made it this far. Their eyes all strayed to the heaps of dead the soldiers were gathering now. Did their eyes hold longing? Wishing that they were alongst those set to be burned? Freed by death and fire?

They were all too afraid to ask the question: what would their fate be?

The Templar, however, had no such qualms?

"What should we do with the survivors?" a young Templar asked Saint Sarebin, ignoring Mercuxio outright.

The answer was simple. "Kill them. They are all contaminated with the seed of rebellion. It can't be allowed to spread."

[Just FYI, Templars is just a rank.  Collectively they'd just be Confessors.]

Merric blinked, doing a double-take to the young Templar that approached the Saint in charge of this contingent.  He quickly turned to him, expression incredulous, and Sarebin, clearly expecting it.

"Kill them?  And who are you to sentence them so quickly?" Merric snapped.  "You have not been here.  You have not seen what I have seen."

Sarebin appeared unmoved.  "Then you would be the better candidate then, Templar?"  He crossed his arms over his chest, raising a brow at him expectantly.

"No," Merric countered.  "I mean killing them will solve nothing!  Look around you!  What has fighting done to solve anything?  What you seek to destroy, cannot be slain in mortal flesh, though try as you might."

Sarebin was growing red in the face at this insubordinate Templar that dare tell him what to do.  "You will do well to know your place Templar!" he growled.

Mercuxio huffed and squared his jaw, ice blue eyes meeting the older man's obscure grays.  "Enough blood has been shed this day.  This place is cursed, tainted with madness that in turn poisons the mind of any who remain here for long.  Killing them will only prove that within yourself."

The Saint laughed.  "Madness?  We've only just arrived."  He sobered quickly and smirked at the young priest.  "Very well, Templar Merric, I'll humor you.  For now.  Just what would you have me do with this rabble?"

"Send them away from here.  Far away from this nightmare.  Another camp, anywhere."  Mercuxio said, looking at the soot-covered faces of the surviving mages.  His heart was beating in his head, but he glanced back to Sarebin.

"Send them away? To another camp? Templar Merric, you cannot be serious."

Saint Serabin turned to survey the mages, stance bold and upright, and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked like a man surveying livestock, and spoke of them in much the same way. As though they were not thinking, feeling, hearing human beings, most of them well within earshot.

"Rebellion is a disease, Templar. These mages have all been affected. You were sent here to prevent the outbreak that has happened," he added sharply to Mercuxio, "and perhaps had you been more diligent in your duties, they could be spared. But disease cannot be allowed to spread. An outbreak cannot be allowed to turn into a plague. It must be contained here, quarantined, and destroyed. That, Templar, is the compassionate thing to do. You must understand that."

Something between a moan and a murmur passed through the mages; a miserable sound from a miserable group. Olive's hand was taken by the person standing closest to her; she glanced over. He was a nearly middle-aged man, his face busted from the fighting, but still alive. For now. She squeezed his hand. And silently they all wished that they had died with the others. Olive wracked her brain. She had to do something. Say something. She couldn't let herself fall silent now. She was still Constance Carwick... wasn't she? Suddenly she wasn't so sure. But the weight of responsibility pressed on her heart. And before she knew what she was doing, she squeezed the man's hand, then pushed her way to the front of the small group of mages.

The movement caused a stir from the guards, who jabbed a bayonette in her direction, scowling. But Olive ignored him. She looked only at the Saint.

"Exile us." The words left her mouth before she had thought them through. But she could think of no other bargain. And even this one, she knew, was likely doomed to fail. "If we have been infected, then send us like lepers out of Connlaoth. Turn us out to the tundra beyond our borders to fare as we can off the frozen ground. We will never return." How could they? "We will 'infect' no others there."

"And who, pray tell, bade you to speak mage?!" Sarebin turned to Olive, eyes of iron burning down at her.  He could see the defiance in her eyes, as she fought the weakness of her body.  By mere appearance, Sarebin could tell she'd been here for quite some time.  But so did just about everyone here.  What shame that she did not die with the others.  A mistake he would be quick to remedy.

"You have no say, mage, in this decision.  Save that which you prove in action.  You wish to speak for the others, hm?"  And he looked out expectantly to the crowd.  There were nothing more than hushed murmurs, noises that immediately dissipated.  His lips curled into a wicked smile.  And his brow furrowed.  "Nothing then?  Then you will quickly be made an example for the rest!"

He pointed to two of the Confessors closest to him.  Within the blink of an eye they were upon Olive and yanked her from the front, dragging her down to her knees. 

"Stop!"  Merric flew forward and stayed Sarebin's hand as it gripped the haft of the axe at his side.  "Don't you dare!"  His eyes flared wildly and they met to the Saint's in fury.

Sarebin pushed Mercuxio off of him, staggering back a few feet toward the other Confessors that held Olive.  Mercuxio collected his feet beneath him.

"What is this?  Love for a lone mage?  You show weakness Templar...and that why this camp has become the mess it has become!  You are hanging by a thread, Mercuxio, and for your insubordination, I should have you slogging through latrines with lacerations decorating your flesh!"

"You will not harm her, Sarebin!  What is the matter with you?!"

"I am in full possession of my faculties.  But you, I question if spending time in the dust would not remedy your sudden sympathy for the rats in the larder.  You wish to save one lone mage?  Very well!  But the rest, then, will suffer her intended fate!"

Olive was ready to answer him exactly who she thought she was. He might not respect her title or her bloodline, but what other card did she have to play? And what did she have to lose? But his men hauled her away onto her knees before she got the chance. Olive choked from the impact of her half-broken body onto the ground, the wind knocked out of her lungs. All she could do was watch as Mercuxio tried to intercede on her behalf. Olive was sure it was a lost cause. But at the Saint's last words...

'...the rest, then, will suffer her intended fate.'

"No!" Olive choked out her protest, trying to scramble to her feet. But the two Templar pulled her roughly aside, steel grips holding her firmly in place.

Serebin gave a nod to the guards who had been poised this entire time, keeping the mages contained and in line. Their muskets were already loaded, already aimed. And at Serebin's nod, the first round of bullets flew into the crowds. It was met with screams and panic, but there was nowhere for the people to go. By the time they were tripping over the bodies of the fallen, the next volley of musket fire ripped into them. The cycle continued until all that was left of the mages was a bloody heap of spent humanity. Miserable groans suggested not all were yet dead.

As it went on, Olive tried to cry out. But no sound came out of her mouth. She struggled, but she had no strength compared to the Templar. But she did not shed any tears. The emotion coursing through her now was not sadness. It was anguish, but anguish that turned into anger. And when her gaze finally turned to Mercuxio, it held no gratitude that he had saved her. Her eyes burned with anger. Outrage. Accusation.

"Burn the bodies," was all Serebin said when the massacre was over.

Sarebin was mad.  He had to be.  It was the only reasoning Mercuxio could see to keep himself grounded, to keep from screaming in rage and striking down the man where he stood.  But from where did that anger stem?  And toward whom was it truly directed?  At the Saint, or himself?

Merric stood, as he watched Olive pulled to her feet once again.  "Exile you?  As if the would should suffer your defiance, mage," Sarebin growled and then looked to Merric.  "You will do your duty and take the dregs of this camp to Karth.  A patrol will follow along.  I will expect no less from you than perfection, Templar Merric."

Mercuxio huffed, feeling as if the life had been drained from him, feeling the burning hatred that stemmed from Olive's expression, and the pangs of guilt as if they were the tearing vollies of musket fire.  He was empty, and staring Sarebin for what seemed an eternity before bowing his head.  "Yes, Saint Sarebin," he said and moved to prepare for departure.

When she'd come to Valinarus, Olive had been escorted politely by an Adhara. She'd been brought back to her quarters in Uthlyn, allowed to pack whatever possessions she desiered and could carry. She'd been allowed to bring her dog. She'd traveled with the Adhara in a coach. Now she had no possessions left to bring. Her dog had gone with the twins in the failed escaped and had been killed trying to protect them. And for the journey, the Confessors hauled her into the back of a supply wagon. She felt the slam of the doors and heard the loud click of the lock in the back of the wagon. Gloomy light seeped into wagon, but there was little to see. Olive was locked up with the scraps of whatever petty supplies the Confessors brought with them. But nothing she could use.

And what would she use it for now?

Olive's body shook as she let out a long exhale. It was too surreal. Of all the souls at Valinarus, only sh survived. Only Olive. How could it be possible? Curling up against a sack of flour, Olive squeezed her eyes shut, the faces of the dead flashing before her eyes as she tried to force herself to sleep.

The hours passed in solemn silence and Mercuxio felt that emptiness inside take home, reverting to the cold reasoning he'd always possessed.  He knew he would answer for what he had done in that camp.  God was watching that day, and had done nothing.  He'd been watching him...and offered no guidance.  Mercuxio could not blink away the horror of that slaughter, and he wouldn't allow himself.

Those images would stay with him until the end of his days.  He had tried to make a difference.  But one thing was for certain, he had no tried hard enough.  Where reason could not take control, blood reigned.  And it was his fault.  It was a mistake he would not make twice.

Was there any relief in saving one lone mage?  Was there any reprieve from the weight that made his shoulders heavy?  How could the horse beneath him carry him along with the rest of the Confessors?  Mercuxio felt himself slipping gradually back, allowing Sarebin's lieutenant to take the lead and he rode alongside the squeaking wheels of the supply cart, and listened to the faint breathing that came from within.

It wasn't long before the patrol came to a stop.  A moment of rest for the otherwise restless.  It was clear that the other Confessors wish to be on their way.  But for now, it was enough time to water the horses and eat a small meal.  Mercuxio had taken his own blanket from the saddle, and carefully unlocked the door to the supply cart, stepping within as quietly as he could.

He said nothing, hoping not to wake Olive as she slept, and placed the blanket over her.  The night would only get colder.

Olive had eventually fallen into an exhausted sleep made heavy by the physical and emotional traumas of the last few days. But the movement of the blanket being drawn over her pulled her abruptly out of her sleep.

She came to with a start, clamoring backwards to face whoever had come into the cart. It took her another moment to realize: it was Mercuxio. Olive was bleary with exhaustion and she stared at him now with less malice than before. If anything, in that moment, she looked more small, helpless, than she looked fiery or defiant.

But there was no mistaking the wary frown on her face. She was neither happy or relieved to see him.

"What do you want?"

Merric knelt back on his knees, resting an elbow on his thigh and observing her features in the obscure dark.  Already night was falling again.  "Nothing," he said, eyes flickering to the blanket.  "I don't want anything. I think I've taken enough.  But I can't imagine this supply cart is any more comfortable."

"Yes," she answered slowly, still thick with sleep, "I think you have."

He'd taken everything. Every one of those souls. All gone. All dead.

Olive shifted, shuffling upwards so she was sitting up more. She stared for a long time at Mercuxio, pale and dirty, with an odd calmness. "What are you doing back here, Mercuxio? If you're here to congratulate yourself on keeping me alive..." She couldn't quite finish that sentence. Instead she looked away. For the first time since the slaughter, she felt hot tears filling her eyes. "I wish you hadn't."

"I know," he said, tone heavy, yet with a solemnity behind it.  "I guess I just wanted to see how you were...  I don't think anyone would congratulate themselves for what happened.  Except perhaps Sarebin...  This was all mistake.  I should have never cosme to Valinarus.  But, perhaps, it is too late for regret."

He brushed his hair from his face.  "I was not prepared to find someone I knew in a place like this...  I haven't seen my family in over a year...  I had forgotten about you.  About the lives of those that I cared about.  I'm...sorry.  For whatever little it is worth."

That made Olive angry. She looked back at Mercuxio again, her eyes wide and expression tight. "Then go see them!" she nearly spit the words out. Disgust was plain on her face. In truth, before being sent away, she probably also hadn't spent as much time with her family as she ought to have. She'd been eighteen. But now... if she could see them. Or even send word to them... But Mercuxio could go see his family. Mercuxio could still do whatever he wanted.

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry if my presence made your mission uncomfortable. I'm sure it would have been much easier to slaughter all those people without your kid sister's mage friend there to muddy the waters for you."

Still Merric stolid.  He frowned at her.  "I wish I could," he said gently, looking down at his hands.

"But it was inevitable, anyway," he said after a time. 

It was inevitable? Olive could be sick. Even with as low as her opinion of Mercuxio had become, the way he tried to excuse his responsibility hit her like a blow to the stomach.

"'Inevitable?'" she repeated incredulously. "You owe those people more than that! Senseless, meaningless death..." Her voice tightened again. She felt tears returning to her eyes, remembering the pile of the dead. "That should never be called... inevitable."

"This was never my intention.  You know that.  But you refuse to believe it because you want a scapegoat upon which you hoist the blame.  I know what I have done, what I am responsible for.  I will not let myself forget all that was lost.  And I know you won't either."

He felt sick just thinking about it.  "I didn't do what I should have done, and for that I take the blame.  People died that didn't deserve to.  And for that I will take the blame.  But you cannot believe that Bromlin would have allowed the mages to escape.  But neither he nor I is better than the other."

"You're right," Olive agreed, "you're no better than Bromlin." She looked levelly at him, jaw set, eyes bright with unshed tears. "And if you hadn't killed him," she said in a hissed whisper - it seemed even with her animosity towards him, she didn't want the other Confessors to hear that - "there wouldn't have been an attempted escape. If you hadn't called the rest of these snakes." She paused for a moment, expression hard, but faltering. She felt her throat tighten before she finally managed to get out, voice thick, "You could have let them go!"

"I do not believe that.  I don't think you would have honestly stayed in that camp if you saw the opportunity to escape.  And Bromlin would have ordered a recapture.  Dead, preferred than alive.  I failed because I did not try enough.  Bromlin failed because he was content to let things get as bad as they were before I arrived.

"I sincerely wished to help your people, Constance.  What I did do, the last rites, the Brynstones.  Those I meant.  But this wholesale slaughter...was not what I wished.  But I failed you.  But I ask this, what would have happened to the mages that remained?"

He frowned and shook his head.  It was no use speaking of what-ifs.  There was no justification, no peace, no remorse that would fix what happened.  It happened.  And she was all that remained.

Olive looked away as Mercuxio tried to explain himself. Her tears, previously unshed, slipped silently down her cheeks. She couldn't keep out the images of the things she spoke of. And a wave of exhaustion swept over her.

"Who are you trying to convince, Mercuxio?" Olive asked wearily, turning back to the priest. "You sound like you're trying very hard to convince someone. But I'm not sure it's me."

She didn't answer his question. What was the point? These games of 'what if' could go in any direction. She could tell him that he could have helped Fawley from the beginning, as soon as Bromlin had died. And maybe some of them would have escaped. Had survived. What would it matter what might have happened to the rest, left in the camp? Those people were already dead.

Even now, he was trying to convince himself that he hadn't stoked the flames yourself. Was she supposed to think back to the Byrnstones and believe that had been a harmless action? Perhaps if he hadn't done that, honoring those who had fought against the guards and died, the rest of the riots never would have happened. Perhaps they would have remained cowed and meek and frightened and hopeless, and alive.

"I want no part in helping you feel better about what you've done, or haven't done, father," she told him levelly, coldly. "Is there anything else you want from me?"

She was right, he knew.  Still, Merric looked at her.  Somehow he knew she wouldn't let herself die here.  She'd come too far, suffered to much to give up now. He needn't worry.  Did he ever have to?

"No," he said gently.  "I'll leave you alone now."  He looked down and rubbed his hands together.  "Dinner will be served soon."

Dinner was a bleak affair. Olive was fed little, and she had little appetite. She had to convince herself to eat at all. But the survival instinct was still strong enough that she was able to make herself eat however much they gave her. She made a point not to look at Mercuxio any time they stopped. If she needed to communicate anything, she spoke to one of the other Confessors. But she had little to communicate. When they weren't stopped, she curled up in the back of the wagon, wrapping the blanket Mercuxio had draped over her tightly around herself.

The other Confessors also spoke little to Mercuxio; no more than they needed to. Their glances lingered on him; full of unspoken curiosity and, in many cases, judgement. It went on like this for several days until they arrived at the northern border of Connlaoth. There was no camp here, but on the hard, frozen rocky road leading into the Kilanthro mountains and out of Connlaoth, there was a caravan of grim-looking Mordecai, some soldiers, and locked wagons. Hidden in those wagons, presumably, were mages.

This was as far as they would go. Continuing on would be a waste of the Confessors' times.

"Get the girl," the head Confessor said to one of the younger members of their party. "We hand her over here."

Mercuxio kept his distance from the rest of them.  He paid no heed to their lingering stares for they proved a waste of his precious time.  All of this was a mess, and he did not allow himself to linger on it any longer.  The sooner he was back south the better.

He watched in quietness as the other Confessor pulled Constance from the cart and led her off to the Mordecai, where they waited patiently beside the caravan.

It was colder here than it had been in Valinarus, and Olive felt stiff and numb when the Confessor came to drag her out of the wagon. She blinked back from the light out here in the open, quickly taking in her surroundings. The cold wind, the looming mountains, the locked wagons that Olive immediately surmised were full of people. People like her. And were eerily silent.

The mountains were great here and snow was just beginning to fall, floating slowly and gracefully down from the sky. She shivered. Her warm clothes had been given to the twins and to Orchid and had, afterwards, burned with them. Her breath was white and frosty before her. She understood that they were at the borders of Connlaoth. And while Mercuxio and the other Confessors were going south, back into their homeland, Olive understood that she was not. She, and the unseen mages in the closed wagons, were leaving Connlaoth. Leaving their homeland. Leaving the sight of any eyes that might still guard over them. What would happen there, she wondered, beyond the mountains? Beyond her country, her homeland? The question put an icy, sinking feeling in her stomach. Mercuxio might be heading south, but Olive began to fear that she never would.

"Come on," the Confessor grumbled, breaking her reverie and pulling her over to the Mordecai. They handed her roughly over, though she gave no resistance. She didn't struggle. Olive felt oddly calm. "This one's a trouble maker," the Confessor warned the Mordecai as he handed her over.

The Mordecai didn't say anything. He just glanced down at Olive, then nodded curtly to the Confessor. Even the Mordecai, it seemed, were intimidated by the Order of St Agratha. He led her to one of the wagons, and a soldier unlocked the door. Before she entered, she glanced over her shoulder back at Mercuxio. This time, it wasn't a look filled with anger or hatred or indictment. It was just a look, clear-eyed and calm. Then the soldier gave her a shove, and she disappeared into the wagon.

The door to the wagon shut heavily, and the lock clicked.

Wherever they were going, it was out of his hands now.  The folly of it all would stay with him, that much he knew, a sifting memory that would arise when he least wished it so.  A fleeting memory to the other Confessors that had marched here.  How dare they judge him, but judge him they would.

Nothing would remain of Valinarus. Merric had smelled the smoke in the hour of their departure.  It was of flesh, and what wood remained.  Valinarus would become nothing more than a black patch of scorched earth, bones to be buried in an unmarked grave.

Mercuxio bowed his head, saying a silent prayer for those that died.  For all of them, soldiers, Mordecai, and mages alike. 

He mounted the horse, the procession of Confessors ahead of him.  And he watched the caravan pull away.  When they all but vanished, only then did he turn away, following back the way they camr.