Lady Beatrice Trevelyan has been beside herself with worry for the last few years. Her daughter Miriam, the youngest of the Trevelyan brood, has been suffering from a mysterious ailment that left her development stunted. Despite reaching the age of fifteen, Miriam has not yet begun her menstrual cycle and her physical attributes have remained childlike, with no sign of the curves and changes that normally accompany a young woman's growth.
Desperate to find a cure for her daughter, Lady Beatrice called upon the services of multiple healers, each one failing to offer any meaningful solutions. Determined to find a solution, she has summoned the most renowned healer from the prestigious Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux. It cost the Trevelyans a small fortune, not just for the healer's fees, but also for the added expense of the Templars who are required to accompany the mage.
For Beatrice, the thought of her daughter being unable to fulfill the duties of a wife and provide an heir was a source of unspeakable distress. Last year had been filled with exciting marriage proposals for Miriam, but with her unusual affliction, the prospects of a successful union were practically unattainable. The opportunity to secure and strengthen the Trevelyan family through a favorable marriage alliance was rapidly slipping away.
The pressure was on to resolve the situation before any further chances for matrimony were lost. This was not just about securing a future for her daughter; it was about preserving the legacy of the Trevelyan family.
Earlier this year, young Miriam began to receive multiple visits from various mage healers. First came the mage from the local Circle of Ostwick, a middle-aged man with a shaved head, dressed in simple, linen robes. After a thorough examination, he delivered the devastating news that Miriam's reproductive organs showed little signs of vitality and that no cure was available. Lady Beatrice, furious with the results and the lack of remedy, sent the healer away with a disgruntled look. Bitterly, she refused to accept the diagnosis from a "clueless ill-bred peasant" and proceeded to summon healers from larger, more prestigious Circles.
However, despite the repeated efforts of the mages, the diagnosis remained unchanged. With each passing day, Lady Beatrice's anxiety grew as the prospects of securing a future for her daughter and the Trevelyan family seemed further from her grasp.
Due to the frequent and costly medical visits, the family's finances began to dwindle, forcing Bann Albert Trevelyan, head of the household, to make the begrudging decision to stop any further attempts to find a cure for his daughter. Therefore, the last and final healer summoned from Val Royeaux became the Trevelyan's last hope.
The Orlesian mage cast a spell over Miriam's still form, as she lay motionless on her bed, dressed in a plain white housecoat. Despite the unpleasant tingling sensation of the magic, Miriam barely registered it, as her mind was elsewhere. This time she felt no hope, some part of her already knew what the outcome would be – she could never become a mother. Deep down, Miriam had accepted her fate the moment it was first explained to her. Marriage and family were simply not in the Maker's plan for her. It was harder for the girl to witness her mother's disappointment and listen to her constant lamentations than it was to come to terms with her own condition.
Miriam's mind wandered to her mother. Lady Beatrice was a stunning woman, the kind that could turn heads when she entered a room. Her features were delicate, yet striking, and it was clear that she had been blessed with natural beauty that had only grown more refined with age.
But there was something about her appearance that was cold and unapproachable. Her eyes, though bright, were often cold and distant, giving the impression that she was looking through people rather than at them. Her lips, though full, were often turned down in a tight frown, conveying a sense of irritation and impatience. Her skin was smooth and flawless, but it had the coolness to it, as though it were a surface that others could admire but not touch.
Miriam pondered what life would be like if Lady Beatrice were kinder and more loving to her, the mere thought of it making her heart ache with longing. She couldn't help but wonder why she had been deprived of such a simple yet profound bond that so many others took for granted.
The First Enchanter of the Circle of Val Royeaux, an elderly and seasoned mage, released her spell from the young girl with a heavy sigh. She was not wearing a mask typical for Orlesians, but her extravagant silk robes with golden embroidery and elaborate hairstyle were a telltale sign of her country of origin. Her features were weathered with exhaustion, and her normally poised demeanor was replaced with a troubled expression. Lady Beatrice, standing by Miriam's side, gazed at the First Enchanter with a mixture of hope and apprehension. As the silence lingered, the tension in the room became palpable, even suffocating.
"There's nothing that can be done milady," words from the mage, no more audible than a whisper, broke the silence. She cleared her throat, and continued more firmly, "Magic can mend the damage from illness or injury, and return the tissue to its original state. But your daughter didn't suffer any of those, she was just born this way…" First Enchanter trailed off, her eyes fixed on Miriam.
The young girl looked back at her with resignation, her hand clutching tightly an old amulet around her neck. The amulet was similar to those worn by members of the Chantry, and though smooth from constant handling, the carving of Andraste's undying flame was still visible. The young girl's silence was only broken by the sound of her fingers tracing over the amulet's carved surface.
Lady Beatrice paced agitated, from one end of the room to the other. She pushed uselessly at her disheveled hair with shaking hands, her full lips pressed tightly together. Suddenly, she started speaking, not looking at or addressing anyone in particular, "This cannot be! Do you want to tell me that all my efforts were for naught? So much money spent, and for what? I get the same answer from the peasants of Ostwick and the First Enchanter of Val Royeaux! What did I ever do to deserve this!?"
Finally, Lady Beatrice halted, and looked pointedly at the mage, as if realizing that she was speaking aloud this whole time. Collecting herself she put on a forced smile and proclaimed in a high-pitched tone, "We greatly appreciate your help First Enchanter. It is disappointing of course, that you could not offer us any help, but I guess, magic can only go so far. If I may offer some refreshments for you and your Templars before you depart, it would be my pleasure."
She walked straight to the door, opened it, and stood in the doorway, making it clear that the conversation was over.
Despite being faced with a blatant display of discourteous behavior, the elderly woman remained seemingly unfazed. She rose gracefully to her feet, took hold of her elaborate staff, and made her way toward the exit. She turned back for just a moment, casting a sorrowful gaze upon Miriam. The sight was a pitiful one - Miriam's locks of brown hair appeared thin and lifeless, her small frame frail and bony, her face elongated and gaunt, and her eyes sunken and pale. The old woman shook her head in defeat, offering one final look of pity before departing the room.
Lady Beatrice closed the door after the First Enchanter, no longer trying to hide her raging emotions. She started pacing again, this time speaking to Miriam, "I can't believe this is happening to me! Why does the Maker punishes me so…is it because your uncle Roland converted to the Qun? Or is it something else?"
The young girl sat on her bed in utter silence, tightly grasping the amulet in her delicate hands. Lady Trevelyan began to list every conceivable explanation for why the Maker and Andraste might have to forsake her, unsurprisingly, not a single one of those reasons could be attributed to her personal flaws or shortcomings.
Despite Miriam's determination to remain stoic, her mind was plagued by fear and uncertainty as Lady Trevelyan's words echoed in the room. The weight of the situation was pressing down on her, making her feel small and helpless in the face of her mother's onslaught of emotions. Unable to bear it any longer, Miriam got up from her bed and walked over to the woman. She took her mother's well-manicured hands and pleaded, "Mother, please calm down. Surely there is a reason for this. The Maker works in mysterious ways, perhaps family life is not my calling."
Hoping to cheer her up, Miriam looked into her mother's eyes and smiled shyly, "Have faith Mother, I could help the family by becoming a Sister in the Chantry. No money would come of it, but our family would gain some respect."
In response Lady Beatrice huffed. "Respect won't buy me a new summer house! Why are you so calm anyway? Sounds like you never wanted to get married in the first place."
She took her hands away from Miriam with annoyance, "It seems that I am the only one in this family who is trying to move us forward. At least I have three normal, healthy sons to compensate for your disaster."
Miriam hung her head, feeling a sharp pang of pain at the words spoken. But despite their sting, she couldn't deny that there was some validity to them. She had no desire to be bound in marriage to any of the wealthy and entitled nobles who pursued her, their eyes solely fixated on the potential financial gain of their union. At a tender age, Miriam had come to understand that the Maker had not blessed her with physical beauty. Her slender figure lacked the coveted curves and her features were anything but conventional, with a long face, a slightly crooked nose, and deep-set eyes. It was all too clear to Miriam that these suitors were only after the advantageous connections and wealth she brought to the table.
She thought that while her yearning was nothing short of foolishness, she still wanted the same type of love Andraste and the Maker shared: all-encompassing, eternal and never changing. If the possibility of marrying for love was out of reach, then Miriam would rather devote her life to the Chantry. The fact that she would never be a mother brought sadness to the girl, but there were many orphaned children in the Ostwick Chantry, she could always find a baby to look after when she grew up. The Maker was wise, she concluded, he just gave her a chance to avoid a loveless marriage in an unexpected way. Who is she to doubt His decisions?
However, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. Her mother had longed for the prestige and status that came with a successful marriage. She thought that maybe if she rose in Chantry ranks and became a Revered Mother, Lady Beatrice wouldn't consider her such a disappointment.
Her mother shrugged her shoulders as she blew out an exasperated breath. "Perhaps you are right after all. Becoming a Chantry Sister may be the only way to salvage your situation." After a pause, she added, "I need some rest. Talk to your father about your potential priesthood, and if he agrees, I will support you." And with that, Lady Trevelyan turned around and left the room.
Miriam stood in solitude, her mind a tempest of tumultuous emotions. Guilt, relief, optimism, and sadness battled within her, creating a maelstrom of confusion and distress. Desperate to find peace, she closed her eyes and focused on the present moment, seeking solace in the power of prayer. Falling to her knees, she tightly gripped the amulet around her neck and began to chant, her voice filling the silence of the room. The words flowed from her lips like a soothing balm, calming the storm within and filling her with a sense of inner peace.
"O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me rest in the warmest places.
My Maker, know my heart:
Take from me a life of sorrow.
Lift me from a world of pain.
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride."
Miriam rose from her knees with newfound clarity. The amulet felt warm in her hand, a physical reminder of the comfort she had found through her prayer. She smoothed out the folds of her housecoat with a gentle touch, her heart overflowing with hope. With eager steps, she made her way to her father's chamber.