1215 AD
It would be remembered as "The Children's Crusade." Youngsters from all across Europe journeyed towards the Holy Land on Pilgrimage, only to be sold into slavery by the men who had arranged their passage. Maroofus had done his best to rescue scores of children and return them to their homelands. Yet there were too many children, and not enough good Samaritans (he often laughed at the way that wonderful tale had wended itself deep into modern Western culture) to rescue more than a very few.
Returning to some port from the Greek countryside where he had restored three children to their families, he laid down in a field to rest. He had just settled into a comfortable doze when the ground shuddered beneath him. He opened his eyes in surprise. Earthquake? No, not an earthquake. There was a roar and rush of feet and hooves. They were upon him before he was more than halfway to his feet. A battle raged around him. It looked like one army had driven the other back, and now they were at bay in this field. There were only a few horses. Most of the men in this group were desperate footsoldiers.
Maroofus did not waste his time on sympathy for the half of those men who had probably been pressed into service. He dove and wove making for the edge of the field and felt another Immortal's presence rise within him. Blast and damn it all! A wild man in a haphazard helmet made of bits of wood and metal, no different than the ones the Immortal had seen his ancestors wearing several centuries ago, tried to bring his heavy axe down on Maroofus' head. He caught the man's arm, shifting the trajectory of the strike just enough that the blade missed him and buried itself deep in the soil. He leaped past the swearing man and continued his dash for safety.
He managed no more than a few paces before he was shaken by a dropping sensation in his gut. He kept running. And then, the first burst hit him. It took him in searing pain and screaming anger. Images flashed through his stunned thoughts, only a few clear enough to see but he was in too much pain to pay attention to them as his being swelled. He caught control of it for a moment and all things became preternaturally clear.
The lightning bolts explained it. They danced in bizarre silence across the helmets of the soldiers. The men's eyes were open and they were screaming and running into each other in terror, but in that moment Maroofus could hear nothing but his heartbeat and another voice that rose to overwhelm him, wailing words he could not understand.
And then the lightning stopped. Maroofus lay curled into a ball as the alienness continued to jangle across his nerves and sicken him. He began to pull himself together, knowing he had taken someone's Quickening. He had eaten someone's soul and neither of them were happy about it. That sensation died, the sense of doubleness began to fade. He looked up to see stunned men staring at him, their clothes spattered with blood, all sporting injuries.
The fury twisted his face and he got to his feet. He pulled in the righteousness of his long battles to save the Jewish people and preserve the Holy Land. He pulled in the most recent determined hopelessness of his struggle to rescue the children of Europe. He threw back his head and shouted, "I AM THE WRATH OF GOD!" There was something to be said for not planning what you were going to say. It let you say the most interesting things.
He glowered around him at the quaking men. "FOOLS! You kill each other when the Holy Land and God's Chosen Children need you!" Oh great, he thought half-lucidly. I'm going to start another wave of crusades. "Go to your homes! Care for your families and pray that you will enter the Kingdom of Heaven when you die!" He drew in a great breath and bellowed, "GO! GO AND SIN NO MORE!"
It only took a moment. The men around him shivered and shook, then began to run. They set off the men farther away. Within a short time, Maroofus was alone on the field of death. With an exasperated sigh, he ignored the fallen bodies around him except to avoid them, and continued his journey to the port at which his ship waited.