#christian bible references in my fic? apparently more likely than you'd think

[nine-blessed-hero]

A Wrong Turn but a Right Deed

CW: Single graphic depiction of a child's death This... is maybe not what anyone was expecting - least of all me. Triggered by this post by @groundrootvegetable. Tagging @hannah-heartstrings and @wispstalk as they expressed interest.

When Martin and his Hero leave Kvatch, it's by way of the sandy heathland at the city's back. It's safer, says the hero; the only dangers are desperate wolves come down from the Highlands. They walk for three days, meeting resistance neither from bandits, animals or terrain. It is only as they crest a small rise, the land falling away in a dramatic sweep and a salt-air breeze rising to meet them, that they realise something is amiss. Martin purses his lips. "Either Lake Rumare is significantly larger than I recall, or we have taken a wrong turn…" The Hero simply curses the Abecean's merry little waves.

Since they're here, Martin suggests going into Anvil. The Hero isn't happy about it, but supplies are needed. With Matius' cuirass rolled in the Hero's pack, they'll simply be a pair of refugees. The hazy mist burns away as they make their way down the cliffs, revealing a sky as clear and empty as the azure Abecean. Despite it being the end of summer, the air warms quickly around them, as if the Gold Coast hasn't quite gotten notice of the changing season. They trudge on with increasing stickiness, halting only when the lighthouse hoves into view.

The sands between them swarm with people. There's laughter and singing and sounds of splashing in the air. In the warm waters, older children frolic while elders swim sedately. On the beach, men play-wrestle and race while women help young ones shape the wet sands into crenelated forts. Their liveliness is incongruous with the horrors Hero and Priest have just witnessed. Both stand, dumbstruck, until a gull's harsh call prompts the Hero into action.

The Hero, eyes intent and wide, says, "You should wait here. There's too many people. We can't risk someone spotting you and commenting on it around the wrong ears." Martin ducks his chin, a pallor under the ruddy glow of his cheeks. "Here." The Hero manoeuvres him around the side of a boulder. "Sit here. You won't be visible, but you can see down the beach both ways. Don't talk to anyone. If you see someone approaching that doesn't look right, you run and hide nearby. I will find you." Martin nods dumbly, siting where he's told, eyes glazed. "And Brother Martin?" His focus snaps back to his Hero, unlooping some trinket from around their neck. "I will come back," the Hero says, pressing the trinket into his hand. Then, just like that, the Hero is gone. Ownerless footprints track away from him and there is nothing for him to do but settle back, watching the people of Anvil frolic from behind his stone barrier.

He's so engrossed with his watch, that Martin starts with surprise when, sometime later, a purple leather ball bounces along the sand, rolling to a stop on his side of the boulder. High voices call out and a child of around ten summers comes trotting after the ball. Lithe but short, dark hair and dark skin, he instantly reminds Martin of a child in the Kvatch congregation. "Hi," the boy grins. Martin's gore rises as he recalls finding his parishioner cloven in two, mere paces from his home. The boy frowns. "You okay there, mister?" Abruptly, Martin realises what he must look like, with blood smeared over his cassock. Heavens' forfend! – what he must smell like. "Yes. Thank you. I… was… helping deliver a child at one of the farmsteads." He smiles. "A healthy little girl. I'm afraid I may have dozed off on my way back to chapel." "Okay," the boy says.

He scampers off with his ball, and Martin thinks that will be the end of it. But no; the boy returns shortly with a flask. Shly, he holds it out. "It's Aloe and Watermelon. Nice and refreshing." Martin finds he has to blink several times before he can take it, his vision suddenly hazy. "Thank you, my child," he says, voice thick. "This is most kind of you." The drink is indeed sweet and refreshing – perhaps the best thing Martin has ever tasted. "S'alright," the boy says, kicking his heel. "Mam says you should always offer a hand to them as looks like they needs it. And you…" He goes shy again, waving a hand to complete his point. "Your mother is very wise, and raising a good son." Martin passes the flask back as the boy ducks his chin, colour rising in his cheeks. "Thanks. And, hey." The boy's head shoots back up with another grin. "If you need any help getting home, ours is the yellow and purple parasol. Just come ask for Lazarus."