(2022-10-11) By No Outward Thing

Details

Author:	inkie
Summary:	Months ago in the summer, in his training to be a paladin, Ben Hazan grapples with faith. And with assh*les.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Duthorian Rall paced the edge of the yard, arms folded, eyes shrewd, as he watched the trainees spar. The air shimmered with summer’s white midday heat, and most of the earnest young men and women in the yard were grimly red-faced with exertion in their gleaming armor, sweat trickling from beneath their helms.

Sev paused to lean on the fence near Rall, in the relative cool of the Cathedral’s slanted shadow. “Some reason you’re tryin’ tae melt ‘em, brother?”

Rall snorted and said under his breath, “Of course I’m not.”

Sev squinted at the clashing, sweating pairs of youths. “Sae why’re they all out there in full plate steamin’ like winter puddin’s, then?”

Rall shot him a wry sidelong glance at the metaphor, and then tipped his head toward a pair at the yard’s far end. “That one. Lord Rowlston’s youngest, Alisandar. Gave a rousing speech, I’m given to understand, to the rest of them in the armory. Something about trials of honor and endurance, and not letting themselves be bested by a bit of weather.” His voice slipped into a different register, imitating someone whose accent was both crisper and more nasal. “‘A true paladin will face foes more implacable even than the sun.’”

“Light hae mercy,” Sev muttered, and dropped his forehead to his folded hands on the rail. Rall laughed shortly.

Sev lifted his head again and squinted at the boy in question. “An’ ye didnae mention tha’ a paladin who doesnae want his arse implacably kicked will learn better than tae play a boiled fool for honor?”

“That,” said Rall, leaning back on the fence, “is now today’s lesson, Brother Sevastyn.”

“Ach.” Sev laughed. “Sae you’re a bastard, then.”

“Didn’t we know it?” Rall smiled, but his narrow gaze was fixed on his trainees again. He tipped his head. “And then there’s that one. Your lad.”

Sev shifted his focus to the youth sparring with Alisandar Rowlston. “No’ my lad,” he corrected. “Brother Elohad’s.”

Rall shrugged, still watching.

Ben Hazan circled the Rowlston boy warily, just out of the other’s blade’s range. He was the taller of the two, which gave him the advantage in reach, but at the moment he wasn’t taking it: only assessing, and moving to keep the distance.

“He’s grown some caution,” Sev said, approving and slightly startled. “Ye do that?”

Rall shrugged modestly. “He’s always had the eye for sizing them up. Just got him doing it more carefully now. A modicum of self-preservation rather than a first seized chance.”

“Speakin’ of self-preservation….”

Rall nodded again.

Hazan was the only one in the yard who wasn’t wearing his full plate. He was in cuirass and gauntlets but no helmet, and wore his workaday trousers and boots rather than plate and padding. He’d even left off the gambeson beneath his breastplate in favor of just his shirt, which was plastered to him with sweat where it showed beneath plate and straps.

He was also the only one in the yard not scarlet-red and huffing. He shook back a damp lock of hair from his eyes and watched Rowlston steadily.

“He didnae take tae Rowlston’s pretty speech?”

“Fairly sure Rowlston’s pretty speech was aimed to goad him. Or else he’s goading Rowlston. I wasn’t there, so I don’t know which came first.”

Sev raised his eyebrows. “Like tha’, is it?” he asked mildly.

Rall nodded once. “MARISE! Watch that back foot!” he barked, and then returned to a low, conversational register. “Rowlston’s actual ‘implacable foe’ is his ego. Hazan’s is his temper.”

Sev tipped his head from side to side. “Temper’s just another kind of ego,” he observed.

“Oh,” said Rall drily. “The collected wisdom of Brother Sev. Someday we’ll have it all writ down in a tome. The Book of Black.”

Sev snorted. “Someday ye’ll grow some wisdom o’ your own tae rely on.”

Rall grinned out at the yard. “Old dogs, new tricks, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll pray for ye, brother,” Sev told him, and squinted at Ben Hazan and Alisandar Rowlston again. “Sae what’s the grudge?”

Rall shrugged. “Rowlston’s a lordling with a brother and sister already knights — with the 7th, not the Hand — and his father’s promised to buy him a commission. He came to us expecting to be king-on-a-hill.” A dry pause. “I do not believe Hazan has much patience for kings, on hills or otherwise.”

Sev smiled crookedly.

“It doesn’t help,” Rall said, “that Hazan has experience to back him up. He and a couple of the others” — he lifted his chin to indicate another sparring pair — “joined us already soldiers, having seen combat, which put Rowlston out of joint even before we got to Hazan’s side of it. Tyroll and Rees, though, have never back-talked him, because of the title. Hazan, well.”

Sev nodded. “Well,” he agreed wearily. “How much a problem is it?”

“I don’t think either of them is destined to dedicate himself to the path of Compassion,” said Rall drily.

“An’ neither of ‘em’s destined for a paladin at all wi’out its grace,” Sev observed.

“The Light’s come to worse sorts.”

“Aye, an’ we hold oursel’n better,” Sev snapped. “Or ought. If all a man wants is tae fight, he can see Fordragon for th’ king’s army.”

Rall cast a mild, raised-brow look over his shoulder.

Sev sighed. “Beg pardon, brother. Sorry.”

Rall smiled and looked out at the yard again. “SWIFT! Stop looking at your feet! If you can’t tell where they are, you’ve got worse problems than Blain’s sword.” Lower-voiced, he asked, “The baby, or the girl?”

“My wife and son are both well, thank ye,” Sev told him. “But the one of ‘em’s nae sleepin’, which means none of us is.”

Rall scoffed. “You’ve kept your share of sleepless vigil.”

“Aye,” Sev agreed. “But have ye heard a bairn scream? It’s a sound the Light made a’purpose tae test a man’s soul.”

Rall flashed him a grin, not entirely sympathetic, before refocusing on the yard. “The trouble is,” he said after a moment, thinking aloud from an earlier chain, “that though they both believe in the Light’s grace, Rowlston knows all the prayers, the symbols, the outward trappings, and trusts this is enough to mark him as chosen. I doubt he’s ever truly listened for the Light, or grappled with his soul or conscience.

“Hazan doesn’t know the right words to mouth or signs to make and suspects this makes him somehow less deserving of the Light, which in turn makes him shy of trusting his ability to wield it, no matter that he does nothing but grapple. And he resents Rowlston’s confidence.” He chewed this over, eyes narrowed. “So he goads Rowlston as a fighter, and Rowlston goads him with the Light.”

“Hn,” said Sev, and scratched his jaw.

“To wit,” said Rall, and nodded at the pair; Rowlston had just stepped back and raised a hand, and Sev could feel the Light he gathered to throw. “SHIELD, HAZAN!” Rall bellowed.

In response to the warning — the wrong response, but a response — Ben Hazan lunged forward and slammed his actual, physical shield full into the unguarded Rowlston’s face.

It had the desired effect, at least. Rowlston staggered, silenced, the spell never leaving his hand, and nearly went to a knee. Around the yard, the other sparring pairs stopped and gawped. Someone gave a shocked titter. Hazan fell back a step, chagrined.

“Shit,” said Rall under his breath, and then raised his voice again. “Not the shield I meant, Hazan. You’ll drill with Sister Marta later. Rowlston, never drop your guard like that.”

Rowlston took his hand from his face; he was bleeding profusely from his nose and lip.

“If you’ve lost a tooth, pick it up. Brother Morgan will see to it,” Rall told him mildly. “That’s enough for all, for now. All of you back inside, out of armor. Dunk your heads and get some water — don’t chug it, you’ll be sick — and then we’ll have a little talk about the Light’s faith in us to have some common sense.”

As Alisandar Rowlston brushed past Hazan, he said loudly, “I forgive you, Brother Bennarin.”

“Thanks,” said Hazan, a beat too late and even less sincerely. He waited alone until the rest had begun filing into the armory, and then trailed in at the end of the queue.

#

Sevastyn found him a couple of hours later seated in the cool, incense-haunted shadows of the Cathedral, alone in a pew near the back. He was sitting hunched, his hands laced together between his knees, gazing up at the altar. Sev didn’t think he was meditating.

He eased in to settle along side the youth; the wood creaked beneath him. “How’s it goin’, then?” he asked gently.

Hazan didn’t turn to look at him. “Reckon you seen how it’s goin’,” he said. And then amended: “I expect you have saw– saw how it’s going, sir.”

“Some,” Sev agreed. He looked up to the altar as well.

The afternoon light spilled in fractured rays through the hundreds of gold-tinted panes of the high, arched windows, and down the over the footpace in a unified amber fall. Brother Joshua was a solitary haloed figure, head bowed as he consecrated and wrapped in linen dozens of candles to be sent north to Light’s Hope and the Dawn.

Hazan glanced sidelong at Sev, his dark gaze puppyish. Sev had learned better than to trust in that puppyness, but he didn’t grudge the lad his masks, either. Everyone wore theirs differently.

“You come to tell me I’m out, sir?”

Sev settled back in the pew, hands on his knees, and gazed back at him mildly. “Why d’ye think ye’d be out, lad? D’ye think ye should be?”

Hazan looked at his own laced hands. “I am maybe not cut out for a paladin, sir.”

“Why no’?”

“I do not have the– patience, maybe. Or the sweetness.” He knit his brows at his hands.

“D’ye think Alisandar Rowlston has the sweetness?” Sev asked.

Hazan snorted and then winced, immediately penitent. “I could not say, sir,” he said. “Ain’t my pla– It is not my place to judge him.”

“Whether it is or no’, ye do it all the same.” Sev paused and watched the shadow of guilt slide across the young man’s face. “As he does of you, aye? Tha’s human in all of us.”

Hazan eyed him cautiously, sidelong. “You don’t judge folk.”

“‘Course I do,” said Sev comfortably. “Every man does, an’ if one tells himself he doesnae, then he’s no’ sat wi’ his conscience long enow. The difference is tae know you’re doin’ it, tae know the Light doesnae judge as we do, an’ that the Light’s grace shines in every soul.”

“I do not think I believe,” said Hazan, and didn’t bother masking the note of bitterness in his voice, “that every man has got the Light in him.”

“The Light is life itself, lad. All livin’ things hae a spark of it in ‘em, an’ those sparks make the constellations tha’ thread us all taegether. Whether all men recognize tha’ spark in themselves, or are willin’ tae stoke it… well, tha’s another matter, and one out o’ our hands.”

Hazan looked back at the altar, his jaw set.

“I think,” said Sev, “it’s your faith that’s wantin’.”

“I have faith,” the youth told him. “I know the Light is. I have heard it an’ felt it. I have seen what good people can do with it.”

“What people can do wi’ it,” Sev corrected mildly. “Ye’ve seen flawed men an’ weak wield it.”

Hazan narrowed his eyes at the altar. After a moment, he nodded concession. “The Scarlets,” he suggested.

Sev shrugged. “No’ just. Any man or woman ye’ve seen use it. We all hae our flaws.”

“You sayin’ the Scarlets are just as worthy to wield the Light as folks like you an’ Sir Elohad an’ Cole?” There was a flint edge of anger on Hazan’s voice this time, even as he kept his gaze turned away.

“What’s worth got tae do wi’ it, lad? The Light is available to all, because it must be. If the Light didnae love more than men can, if it didnae forgive more than men will, what's in it for men t' aspire to? The Light in all of us is the chance for each of us tae be better, tae do better.

"Just because no' all men will seize that chance, or because they'd take advantage of it for selfish or wicked ends, doesnae mean it should be denied 'em– that the Light can deny itself to them. Because that would run against its very nature: Hope. Potential. Ye cannae deprive any man o' that, no matter his wickedness, because how can any man be saved from wickedness or turn toward righteousness wi' out hope of himself or the world?

"That's the Crusade's failure: no' that they're nae ‘worthy’ tae wield the Light, but that they've despaired o' their fellow men. Despair is the great sin o' the Crusade, and the Light's greatest foe.

"The Light doesnae judge because it cannae. It has tae hope e’en where we cannae. It is hope. We judge, for good or ill, because that's in our nature, and it's tae that end a paladin lends himself tae the Light. We hold a sacred trust in judgin’ for it, an' wi' it. So we must know ourselves and our own consciences well enow tae know when we're judgin' a man clear-eyed or clouded, and tae judge ourselves as clear an’ fairly. Wi’ the Light’s grace in mind for both.”

Hazan sat back and folded his arms defensively. “I am pretty sure the Light thinks that fellow’s worthier than me. It does not come to me how it does to him, or the rest of ‘em.”

“Lack of faith,” Sev agreed, “and judgement.”

Hazan snapped his head around, his gaze hot with anger. “I told you I got faith. An’ you just said judgement’s the job.”

“I said judgin’ clear an’ fairly, in the Light’s grace — yourself, as well as others. And tha’s where your faith falls down. Ye tell me that ye think the Light chooses who’s worthy, an’ then ye concede that the Scarlets can wield it. Sae you’re tellin’ me no’ just that ye suspect you’re less worthy than Rowlston but less worthy than a Scarlet. Tha’s no’ the Light’s judgement, lad. Tha’s you. The Light doesnae care about worth or unworth — or, if ye like, it finds all of us equally worthy. But you have tae decide y’are. Alisandar Rowlston’s ne’er once doubted he’s entitled tae grace — and whether ye like t’agree or no’, he’s correct. But he’s nae more or less entitled than you.”

“Pretty sure he don’t think so.”

“How’s that bear on anything? Ye don’t think a Scarlet’s entitled, but the Scarlet doesnae give a shit what ye think and goes on ahead. Reckon ye’d like tae think Rowlston’s no’ entitled, but he doesnae give a shit ye think so or no’. So why’re ye sat here twistin’ their judgements o’ ye intae your own? You’re no’ just lettin’ ‘em judge ye — which, fair, ye cannae stop ‘em — you’re agreein’ wi’em.” He held the lad’s gaze steadily, saw the flinch of hurt behind the simmering resentment. “Ye come north from Westfall ready tae throw fists at all o’ them ye thought were judgin’ ye. You’re less ready with fists nowaday, but that anger’s still in ye. An’ it’s always been because ye take their judgements too much tae heart. Instead o’ knowin’ they’re wrong and movin’ on, ye want tae prove ‘em wrong sae ye’ll stop believin’ ‘em yourself.”

He paused and waited but Hazan had nothing to say to this, only regarded him with sullen unease.

Sev shrugged at him. “And are ye provin’ ‘em wrong? Does it make ye know he’s wrong, when ye spit at a man or hit him or write him off for a ‘city fellow’? Or d’ye no’ suspect in some part o’ ye that maybe you’re just provin’ ‘em right?”

Hazan bristled and balled one hand into a fist on his knee. “They ain’t right.”

Sev nodded curtly. “I know that. Your father knows it. Cobalt Company knows it. When are you gonna know it, sae ye can stop fightin’ the world over it? Other men can be weak an’ fallible, an’ ye must bear it mercifully in mind in judgin’ ‘em. But ye must bear it in mind judgin’ yourself, too: not on their terms, but your own. Sae ye can quit hatin' yourself for another man's opinion.”

Hazan spread his hand again on his knee and looked down at it. “But that’s kind of what I mean, about not bein’ cut out,” he said. “I do not think that I am real good at judgin’ mercifully an’ even-handed.”

“I know you aren’t. That’s why we’re havin’ this talk,” Sev told him drily. “Bein’ furious at the world can make a man a hell of a fighter, but it won’t make him a paladin. That doesnae mean you’re no’ cut out for it. Just means ye’ve got tae learn tae rein in your worse impulses some. Same as Rowlston needs tae learn some respect. And tae keep his damn guard up against a proper fighter.”

Hazan showed the faintest twitch of a smile. Still looking at his hand, he asked, “He lose a tooth?”

“He did,” said Sev. “He’s got it back now, thanks tae Brother Morgan. And he’s had a talk wi’ me already, as well.”

Hazan cast him a look of surprise. “He– oh.”

Sev shrugged. “No’ the same talk. An’ he’s got some different penance tae make. But it’s likely we’ll make paladins o’ the both of ye yet.”

“I am pretty glad,” Hazan admitted, with the grace to look ashamed, “that he lost a tooth.”

“So am I,” said Sev. “But for different reasons, I expect. An’ I’m just as glad he’s got it back, an’ I hope ye’ll both do better in the future.”

“An’ what if I try to, but he don’t?”

“And what if?” Sev raised his eyebrows. “Ye need him tae shift first? He’ll dictate your steps for ye? It’s no’ a starin’ contest, lad. It’s a question of which of ye gets tae dictate your character. Who’s the master o’ your soul?”

Hazan mulled this, forehead furrowed. “But — I mean, what if I decide to be the bigger fellow first, like you say, ain’t I doin’ that mostly out of spite and not sweetness?”

“Maybe. Or maybe in some part, an’ in some part because ye genuinely want tae do better. But even if it’s purest distilled spite — if you’re goin’ tae do a thing for the wrong bloody reasons, at least let it be the right thing. Ye practice right action, ye sit with the Light an’ your conscience, an’ ye pray your reasons’ll catch up wi’ time an’ practice.”

Hazan brooded at his hands.

“What if I tell ye,” Sev offered, “that Alisandar Rowlston’s father’s an arsehole? Made the lad’s life hell.”

Hazan looked up sharply. “He is?”

“I said ‘what if,’” Sev told him. “Does it matter? Would it change your heart on him? If that’s all it takes, maybe whene’er ye run across a fellow whose teeth ye feel like adjustin’, ye tell yourself, ‘His father might’ve been an arsehole, too.’”

Hazan scoffed. “Cheap trick.”

“Ye’d prefer an expensive one? Temper’ll cost ye enow someday, if ye carry on wi’ it.”

“Temper’s took me this far.”

“No,” said Sev. “Learnin’ tae bite it back has. D’ye think ye’d be a Cobalt lieutenant, the Ference heir, or marrit tae that shy little wife o’ yours if ye were still finishin’ conversations wi’ your fists?”

Hazan flushed.

“Imagine what ye’ll make o’ yourself in the world when ye’ve mastered it entire,” Sev said. “And when I say ‘imagine,’ I mean you. You imagine it. Because Rall, Shadowbreaker, Brother Elohad, myself — we all have already. We need ye tae catch up now, lad.” He rose to his feet and stretched.

Hazan gazed up at him cautiously. “I got no– um. Do I have no penance, sir?”

“Ach, ‘course ye do. Here.” Sev took a folded paper from his pocket and held it out. “Some readin’ ye might find instructive. And ye’ll do a vigil in the low chapel tonight. You an’ Rowlston together will. I expect nae blood on the stones in the morning.”

Hazan, who’d been reaching for the paper, froze. “You said he’d got a different penance from me.”

“He does,” Sev agreed. “He’s got tae keep his vigil wi’ you.”

“That is,” said Hazan with stiff dignity as he took the reading list, “a pretty cheap trick, sir.”

“Sure,” said Sev. “I'm full o' those. An’ if the cheap one works, why spend more?” He stepped out of the pew and turned back. “Light’s wisdom, brother,” he said, and passed a blessing over the lad.

Hazan, who’d been squinting at the reading list, looked up and then rose respectfully. “An’ to you, sir,” he said. He hesitated and then lifted a hand, and Sev felt a little candle-flicker of blessing fall across him in return.

He smiled.