Midnight bells echoed through the silent night in the Ostwick Chantry, their serene chimes a stark contrast to the young initiate's agitated mind. Miriam lay on the straw mattress, unable to find reprieve from her discomfort. The hard wooden bed frame, the prickly straw that irritably scratched her skin, and the almost constant insect bites left her feeling anything but rested. Her whole body ached from the day's grueling work, her swollen, red hands a testament to the constant manual labor of washing linens and helping in the kitchens. She scratched her greasy scalp, longing for the upcoming wash day to relieve her of the filth that clung to her.
The life of an initiate was not at all like the young girl had pictured it in her dreams. She had imagined herself spending her days in quiet study of the Chant of Light, preparing herself to preach Andraste's teachings to the people of Thedas. She had hoped to devote herself entirely to scholarship, with prayer and meditation as the only interruptions. And indeed, part of her day was dedicated to study, and there were times of prayer, but most of her time was filled with back-breaking work, the kind that left her exhausted and unfulfilled. Worst of all, she was constantly hungry, a sensation she had never really experienced before. At home, she had always been a notoriously picky eater, but she had never gone without food. The servants always had snacks at the ready, should she ever want them.
However, here in the Chantry, initiates were only given two small meals a day: a watery porridge for breakfast and a simple lentil soup for dinner. On rare occasions, they were granted a slice of onion or half a boiled egg to throw into the soup, but otherwise, the menu was always the same.
The hunger was so overwhelming that Miriam once dared to ask for seconds at the refectory, only to be harshly chastised for succumbing to the sin of gluttony. Mother Lucia's stern voice lectured her that the only way to be closer to the Maker was to abstain from the comforts of mortal life. Hard work and an empty stomach, she said, would lead her to Andraste's side. The initiate couldn't help but feel a pang of skepticism at the Mother's words. As the woman spoke, Miriam noticed the glistening remnants of pork stew on her lips, and then the girl's eyes drifted down to Mother's soft, manicured hands resting on her bulging belly. She wondered if the woman practiced what she preached. Surprised at her bold thoughts, Miriam took the reprimands in silence.
The girl had hoped to find kindred spirits and forge friendships with the clergy, but her dreams were dashed when she realized that her fellow Brothers and Sisters were cutthroat and fiercely competitive, focused only on achieving the coveted promotion as quickly as possible. It seemed that they had no interest in making friends or even engaging in idle chatter, making Miriam feel disappointed and lonely.
As she observed her peers more closely, she couldn't help but notice that the entire atmosphere of the Chantry was more akin to a commercial enterprise than a holy sanctuary dedicated to the Maker. Even the Revered Mother Petra, the leader of the Ostwick Chantry, seemed more interested in soliciting donations than fostering spiritual growth or spreading the Chant of Light. She droned through her services with a lackluster and disinterested tone, leaving the congregation listless and bored. It was as if the very air within the Chantry was permeated with competitiveness and greed, with little room for kindness, compassion, or a genuine spiritual connection. Despite her efforts to bond with other members of the Chantry, Miriam found herself adrift in a sea of cold ambition and hollow rituals, wondering if she would ever find the warmth and companionship she sought.
The girl traced her puffy, reddened fingers over the surface of her amulet, seeking comfort in the familiar lines of Andraste's undying flames. The amulet was a constant reminder of the only thing that kept her going in the Ostwick Chantry—the hope of fulfilling her dream of serving the Maker.
The one bright spot in this otherwise bleak initiate's life was the prospect of helping Mother Lucia look after the retired Templars. Ever since the day she was saved by a brave boy in the Redcliffe village, Miriam had been enamored with Andraste's warriors. A decade had passed since then, and while she couldn't recall the boy's face, she did remember the golden halo above his head, the warm touch of his hand and the feeling of safety as he walked with her through the busy streets. All of these were her most precious memories. Sometimes, Miriam wondered where the boy was now. Perhaps he was still in Ferelden, saving innocents and slaying demons. Or maybe he had moved on to serve the Chantry in Orlais. Wherever he was, she prayed to the Maker that he was happy and fulfilled. And when the time comes for him to retire, Miriam hoped that he will be well taken care of by a loving and caring Chantry Mother, just like she would be. For her, the thought of providing care and comfort to those brave men and women who had dedicated their lives to serving the Maker was a source of great joy and fulfillment. It was the one thing that gave her hope that one day she too would be able to serve the Maker with the same level of dedication and devotion as the Templars.
Miriam stood before the infirmary door, her heart racing with excitement. She smoothed her chantry robes and checked that her head scarf was neatly in place, wanting to look presentable for the retired Knights she was about to meet. Finally, the heavy footsteps of Mother Lucia, the infirmary's caretaker, echoed down the hallway. The woman strolled towards Miriam with a relaxed gait, stopping before her and producing a massive, old key from her pocket. With a screech of rusted metal, she opened the lock and pushed the door open, beckoning Miriam to follow her inside.
As they entered the dimly lit corridor, Miriam's eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing two doors facing each other. Mother Lucia gestured toward the one on the right. "Those are my quarters," she said, "where I prepare lyrium drafts and healing potions for the retired Templars. You are not allowed to enter there without my express permission. Is that understood?"
Miriam nodded vigorously, feeling a little intimidated by the woman's strict demeanor. They proceeded to enter the Mother's small but bright and clean room, outfitted with sturdy new furniture and windows overlooking the lush Chantry garden. As her eyes drifted towards the feathered mattress and warm woolen blanket on the woman's bed, Miriam couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy.
"You will also be responsible for cleaning my room and my linens at my request," Mother Lucia continued. "However, don't even think of coming near the potion bench. That area is off-limits."
With a sigh, Miriam resigned herself to the extra work of cleaning up after the woman. However, her excitement returned as Mother Lucia took the potion bag from the bench, closed the door behind them, and turned to the other side of the corridor. "Now let's go to the Knight's quarters," she said, leading the way with the confidence of someone who had been there countless times before.
As the woman pushed open the door to the Templar quarters, Miriam was greeted by a nauseating stench that assaulted her senses. The air was thick with the fetid odor of old sweat and urine, and the stagnant atmosphere made it difficult to breathe. The room itself was cramped and dingy, with stone walls covered in a thick layer of black moss that seemed to ooze from every crevice. The furniture, what little there was of it, was pitifully meager and mostly broken. The chairs were half collapsed, and the only table was wobbling precariously on three legs.
The two small windows were dirty and grimy, casting an eerie light into the room that only served to highlight its dismal condition. Worse still, the windows were barred, trapping the occupants within the prison-like walls. Outside, the view was no better. The courtyard was nothing more than a bare patch of muddy ground enclosed by high walls. Inside the premises, there were elderly men and women in tattered, grubby clothes shuffling aimlessly. Their hollow gazes and shaved heads created a haunting atmosphere. Some of them muttered unintelligibly, lost in their delusional thoughts, while others sat motionless in a trance-like state, swaying back and forth.
Miriam stood frozen in shock, her eyes wide with incredulity. The scene before her was too much to bear. She couldn't believe that this was where the once mighty Templars spent their remaining days, reduced to nothing more than a bunch of feeble-minded, old men and women confined to their own filth. It was a harrowing realization, one that made her heart sink with despair.
Mother Lucia was completely unfazed by the girl's reaction. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she ordered, "Start cleaning the chamber pots while I tend to the Templars with my potions."
As Miriam slowly made her way over to the putrid pots that lay scattered by the wall, her throat tightened with a lump, and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Just then, a desperate scream shattered the silence, echoing through the courtyard. Miriam's head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear and confusion, she ran towards the source of the commotion. There she saw Mother Lucia trying to pour a potion into the mouth of a female Templar. The Mother's face was red from exertion as she grabbed the woman's jaw and tried to force it open, "You stupid, old hag!" she spat, "Why is it always so hard with you?" The Templar's face was contorted with fear, and she struggled to fight back, but it was clear that she was no match for the Mother's strength.
Enraged, Miriam rushed towards them, her fists clenched in anger. The frustration of the last few months, coupled with the shock of this horrific discovery, made her bolder than she had ever been before. She grabbed Mother's hand, trying to unclench it, and shouted, "Stop it! How can you treat Andraste's warrior like this? Let her go!"
Mother Lucia was taken aback by Miriam's sudden outburst, but she quickly regained her composure. "This is none of your concern, girl," she hissed, her eyes narrowing. "Go back to your duties."
But Miriam refused to back down. "Don't treat her like this," the girl reiterated her voice firm. "She deserves better. They all do!"
For a brief moment, the Mother's piercing gaze lingered on the initiate, scrutinizing her with cold eyes. Without a word, she released the grip on the trembling Templar, who scurried to the other side of the courtyard, whimpering in terror. The young girl watched in pained silence as the elderly woman crouched against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her shaved head.
As Miriam let go of the Mother's hand, the older woman suddenly lashed out, her fist connecting with the girl's face with brutal force. The unexpected blow caught the girl off guard, causing her to stumble and fall to the ground, her nose throbbing with pain. Hot, wet streams of blood trickled down her lips and chin, staining her robes. Miriam was stunned by the Mother's sudden violence; it was the first time she had ever been beaten. Her parents may have been aloof, but they had never laid a finger on her. This felt like a nightmare coming to life. The girl couldn't fathom how the Chantry Mother could be so vicious and cruel. She had always been taught that the Chantry was a place of peace and piety.
"Don't you dare question my authority ever again." Mother Lucia snarled, grabbing Miriam by the collar of her robes and hauling her to her feet. The young initiate was no match for the older woman's strength, and she felt small and helpless in her grasp.
"Return to your duties, and if I hear you speak of this to anyone…. I'll be very disappointed in you." The Mother continued in a deceptively calm tone. "Don't forget to clean yourself up, you clumsy girl, you took quite a fall."
Miriam covered her bleeding nose with a trembling hand; her resolve was shattered. Fear replaced her determination as she turned and stumbled away from the courtyard, her legs weak and unsteady. The world spun around her, and she struggled to make sense of what had just happened.
As the sun set and darkness crept in, the girl trudged wearily through the dimly lit Chantry corridors. Her legs felt like lead weights, each step requiring immense effort. Miriam was completely drained, every muscle in her body aching and sore. She winced as she gingerly touched her nose, which was tender and swollen from the blow she received this morning. The girl's face was dirty, streaked with sweat and grime, and her mouth and chin were caked with dried blood. She hadn't had the chance to clean herself up yet, and the filth clung to her like a second skin. Her stomach growled hungrily, a reminder of the missed dinner. Miriam pressed her bony hands to her stomach in a vain attempt to ease the hunger pangs.
However, it wasn't just the physical discomfort that was weighing on her mind. A deep sense of shame and guilt consumed her. She couldn't help but compare herself to Andraste, the brave prophet who had fearlessly fought against the Tevinter Imperium to protect the helpless. How could she call herself Andrastian when she couldn't even stand up to one old woman?
A flash of the Revered Mother's robes at the end of the corridor interrupted her self-loathing. The woman's attire was a magnificent display of the finest silks, adorned with intricate gold embroidery that sparkled in the torchlight. Despite her age, Revered Mother Petra possessed a regal grace, her slim figure accentuated by her long, flowing garments.
Seizing the opportunity, Miriam summoned her courage and approached the Mother. The girl spoke up, her voice tentative and unsure as she addressed the woman, "Revered Mother, may I have a moment of your time? It's an urgent matter," she pleaded.
The woman turned to face Miriam, her sharp gaze scrutinizing the girl's appearance, taking note of her disheveled robes and dirt-stained face. "Even as an initiate, you are a representative of the Chantry. Take better care of your appearance, girl," she chided sternly.
Miriam took a deep breath, gathering her composure. "I will do as you say, Revered Mother, but first I must tell you of the terrible conditions in which the retired Templars live in our care and of Mother Lucia's cruel behavior towards them!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with indignation.
Mother Petra lifted her hand to stop Miriam from speaking further. "And who are you exactly?" she asked, her eyebrows raised inquisitively.
"My name is Miriam Trevelyan. I am an initiate under Mother Lucia and help her take care of the retired Knights of Our Lady Andraste," Miriam replied, her voice now more confident.
"Well, Miriam Trevelyan, for your information, the Templars Mother Lucia cares for are all low-born. We do not receive a single coin from their families for their care. The Chantry is generous enough to give them shelter and food for the rest of their days," Mother Petra explained, her voice firm.
"But their conditions are terri-" Miriam protested, but she was quickly silenced.
"If you are so concerned, you could ask your father to be more generous with his donations to the Ostwick Chantry. Then, we might have more to spare for the Knights," Mother Petra suggested.
Feeling a sudden surge of anger, Miriam clenched her fists. The girl thought back to the luxuries adorning Mother Lucia's room, wondering just what her father's money was actually going towards.
"In the meantime, could you please have a word with Mother Lucia? Because money has nothing to do with the cruel nature in which she treats them," she retorted, her voice now tinged with frustration.
"Your accusations are rather grave. Do you have any proof that she doesn't perform her duties as she should?" Revered Mother Petra crossed her arms, looking at Miriam expectantly.
"You have my word!" Miriam exclaimed, her confidence returning.
The old woman chuckled. "The word of an initiate against the word of a respected Mother who has served in the Chantry for more than twenty years. I'm afraid you'll need more than that," she replied, her tone dismissive.
"But..." The girl started to speak, but her words trailed off as she didn't know what else to say.
"I know, Mother Lucia can be rough with initiates sometimes," the Revered Mother said, gesturing to Miriam's bloodied face. "But she is a hardworking, faithful Mother, and I will not doubt her just because you say so."
Defeated, Miriam's mind went blank. All of her anger and frustration dissipated, replaced by a deep sense of fatigue.
"Now, return to your quarters, initiate; I have matters to attend to." Having said this, Revered Mother Petra continued on her way down the corridor.
Miriam watched the woman disappear behind the corner. At this point, all she wanted was to collapse onto her bed and forget this terrible day ever happened. Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed her head and slammed it against the wall, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through her body. She stumbled back, her vision swimming and her ears ringing from the impact. Too shaken to call for help, she was dragged unceremoniously into a small, dark storage room with no source of light except for a faint glow from the moon seeping through a window. Her eyes strained to adjust to the darkness, and her heart raced as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Miriam's attacker let her go, and the girl whirled around, only to come face to face with Mother Lucia. Before she could react, a heavy blow landed on her stomach, causing her to double over in pain. She clutched her midsection, gasping for breath as she crumpled to the floor, tears welling up in her eyes. In the eerie moonlight, the full figure of the woman loomed over her, casting a dark shadow.
"Insolent, little shit!" the Mother snarled, her voice laced with fury. She glared down at Miriam with contempt. "Do you think that I won't keep an eye on you after what you've done this morning? "
Miriam whimpered in response, too weak to defend herself as the woman kicked her with all her strength. The force of the blow sent her sprawling across the floor, her body aching with agony.
"The audacity of this inbred bitch, complaining to the Revered Mother, trying to ruin my reputation. Let me show you, how disappointed I am," the old woman spat, and started to rain down blows upon the girl, her rage uncontrolled and relentless.
Miriam could do nothing but curl up into a ball, her hands covering her head in a futile attempt to protect herself. Through her tears, she pleaded for mercy, begging the Mother to stop. But her pleas fell on deaf ears.
With each strike, the initiate felt herself growing weaker and weaker, her body battered and bruised. Helplessness and despair gripped her heart and she was overcome by the primitive instinct to survive. A single thought was at the forefront of her mind - I don't want to die. As she became fixated on the idea, a brilliant blue light exploded from her body, pushing Mother Lucia back with such force that the old woman crashed through the wooden door and landed in a disheveled heap on the other side.
Miriam's eyes widened in shock as she found herself suddenly surrounded by a shimmering, translucent blue barrier, shaped like a half sphere. She felt an ethereal cord connecting her to the barrier, and strangely, she found it comforting. Every inch of her battered body ached as she tried to sit up, but the pain was too much to bear, and she sank back down to the floor.
The girl could hear panicked screams and cries for the Templars ringing outside the room. Before she could even attempt to process the situation, three heavily armed Templars barged into the storage room with their swords at the ready, their eyes fixed on Miriam.
"Remove your defenses, apostate, and surrender," demanded one of the Templars, his tone laced with authority.
Miriam's heart raced with confusion and fear. "Please, believe me! I am not an apostate. I am not a mage. I am just an initiate in this Chantry" she protested, her words coming in short, frantic bursts.
However, the Templars didn't look convinced. One of them said in hushed tones, "She is covered in blood; she could be a maleficar."
The idea of being mistaken for a blood mage sent shivers down Miriam's spine. Trying to plead her innocence, the girl reached out her hand to the Templars. Instantly, all three men tensed. One of them fell to his knees, slamming his sword into the floor, and a wave of holy energy washed over Miriam, blinding her with its suffocating brilliance. It felt as though the bright light was piercing her very soul. She sensed a jolt as though an invisible cord connecting her to the barrier had been abruptly severed by a sharp, swift sword. With her head spinning and her stomach churning, she rolled over onto her back. The barrier surrounding her dissipated into thin air, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
At that moment, her gaze was drawn upwards, towards the ceiling. Through bleary eyes, the girl saw a pillar of radiant light descending from above. It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up and were reaching out to her in a glorious display of divine power. As the light engulfed her, the dazzling brilliance of it overwhelmed her senses, and she succumbed to unconsciousness.