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The Pariah
I hate my father.
The thought echoed in my head as I walked towards the market, the raindrops beating against my body in a relentless rhythm. The damp shirt clings to my form, enveloping me in a cold embrace, and I can't help but shiver. Beside me, my mother paces, holding my hand, her grip so tight it’s bruising, and though my fingers grow numb and pale, I endure the discomfort. She's suffering too. The judgmental glances we receive from the villagers and the hushed whispers that follow us everywhere we go are constant reminders of our reality. Even a simple trip to the market, where we scramble for scraps offered to us as a charity by some sympathetic vendors, feels like an arduous ordeal. Some pity us, the destitute wife and child of a man who turned his back on them. Most treat me and my mother with contempt because we are the family of a renegade Templar who fled the Circle with his mage lover. Whatever their perspective, one thing remains consistent - no one wishes to be associated with the kin of the scum who defied the teachings of Andraste.
We returned from our hut from the market and midden piles, carrying a meager haul—a handful of half-rotten turnips and a small bag of potatoes nibbled on by mice. It's not much, but it will sustain us for a little while longer. I pray to the Lady, hoping that someone will show compassion and offer me honest work or take me on as an apprentice. I may only be twelve, but I stand taller and stronger than most of my peers, and it gnaws at my heart that my father's sins overshadow everyone's perception of me. I could easily reside to begging on the streets, as we do now, or even join a gang, but I cling to the principles of dignity and righteousness that have been instilled in me by my mother during her lucid moments.
Ever since the news of my father's betrayal spread, her health has rapidly declined. Her emotions fluctuate wildly, swinging from moments of overwhelming despair, where she weeps and tears at her hair, to episodes of maniacal laughter. At times, she gazes at me with an intense and hateful glare, cursing my father through clenched teeth. These outbursts are often followed by beatings until I am barely conscious. Yet, when exhaustion takes over, and she comes back to her senses, she always embraces me, gently strokes my head, and through tearful sobs, pleads for forgiveness. Despite this agonizing cycle, I find it in me to forgive her time and time again, grateful that she loves me enough not to abandon me like my father.
The Famished
I hate my mother.
The thought echoes in my head as I watch the flames of the communal pyre ascend to the heavens. The love she held for me wasn't enough to endure a life of misery, and so she chose the easier path. I discovered her lifeless body hanging from the ceiling, her feet hovering just above a pool of urine and remnants of her bowels.
The hot air dries the tears streaming down my face as I stand amidst the other mourners, who like me, lacked the means for an individual funeral. I'm overwhelmed by the tangled feelings of bitterness and despair trying to tear my heart apart. She left me, just like my father did. Yet, her betrayal cuts deeper because now I am truly alone in this world.
A warm hand gently rests on my shoulder, and as I turn my head, I find a frail, elderly man looking at me with a sympathetic expression. It’s Brother Travis, the trusted aid of the Mother who oversees the orphanage. Despite the shadow of my father's deeds, the Chantry has extended its welcoming embrace to me, and for that, I'm profoundly thankful.
I manage a brief, forced smile in acknowledgment of the Brother before returning my gaze to the consuming flames. He gives my back a reassuring pat and then moves on to offer words of solace to the other mourners.
The flames slowly recede, signaling the conclusion of the service, and the crowd begins to disperse. With only a few people remaining, engrossed in conversations with the Brother and the clerks yet to collect the burnt remains, there's a brief moment when the ashes are left unattended. I find myself staring at the gray and black mass, the coals still hot and flickering like fireflies, realizing that my mother is now a part of it. It suddenly dawns on me that in a matter of moments, she'll be taken away, gone forever, just as she wished. I can't let her go. She will stay with me, whether she wants to or not.
Determined, I sprint towards the embers and plunge my hands into the scorching heat, searching for her body. The intense pain tears through me as my skin turns to char, but I manage to grasp a piece of bone that I know belonged to her. Without hesitation, I put the fragment in my mouth. It burns and lacerates my throat, drawing blood. Yet, somehow, I manage to swallow it. I start coughing violently, and saliva tinged with crimson spills from my lips. The agony of it all makes me dizzy, and the last thing I recall is Brother Travis's frantic shouts for a healer.
I wake up on a cot within the Chantry's infirmary, weak and with a throbbing pain in my hands and a parched mouth. Raising my palms, I notice the bandages covering them. The movement of my fingers brings sharp twinges as the new skin brushes against the rough spun fabric. With a heavy sigh, I let my hands drop and close my eyes, embracing the exhaustion.
The distant sound of the Chant of Light drifts in through the window, offering a soothing and comforting ambiance. I hear the arrival of two healers into the ward, their conversation carried out in hushed tones, though I manage to catch their words.
"The boy is fortunate to be alive. That bone could have easily pierced his throat or caused damage to his intestines."
"We were unable to remove it. I've healed the tissue surrounding the fragment and stopped the bleeding. But, due to its position, it's embedded in the walls of his stomach. There's no way to extract it now."
"The poor child will have to live with it. It's bound to cause him pain."
As those words reach my ears, a smile curls upon my face. "You will stay with me forever, mother," I whisper, finding comfort in the permanence of her presence within me.
Brother Travis is kind enough to visit me frequently during my recovery. On the first day, he asks me about what happened at the funeral, so I make up a story about picking up a bovine bone from the ground. I tell him that I was so hungry that I ate it and that the resulting pain made me stumble and fall into the embers. Brother Travis looks at me in silence for a long moment and then begins to pray over me. I can’t tell if he believes my lie, but he never broaches the subject again. In the days that follow, he simply sits beside me and weaves tales of the Maker's Bride while holding my hand. His presence reminds me that someone still cares for me. And I begin to find comfort in picturing a scenario in which I could be his kin.
It took me a few weeks to heal properly, but finally, I was discharged from the infirmary. As I step out of the ward, the only reminders of the incident are the burned scars on my hands and the occasional sharp pangs of pain in my stomach.
I'm greeted by Brother Travis, who, upon seeing me, smiles warmly and approaches me with words, "Ryker, my boy," he speaks in a gentle yet earnest tone. "The Maker has blessed you with strong health. Look at you, recovering so swiftly." Pausing for a moment, his expression turns solemn. "Promise me you'll never do anything so reckless again."
"I promise, Brother," I reply with determination. "I'll stay strong and healthy so I can help you around the orphanage."
"Oh, young man," he remarks, "As much as I would welcome your strong back, I believe you're better suited to a life of brotherhood in the Order. There is a great emptiness in your heart, and only a path of devotion to the Maker can fill it.”
Taken aback by his suggestion, I protest, "But don't you know I am the son of a traitor? I'd never be accepted."
"Let your father's sins will be the spark that ignites your devotion," the Brother replies, his eyes, pale with age, suddenly bright with fervor. "Officially, the Templars can't just reject you based on the sins of your father, so I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen. And to prevent your fellow Recruits from judging you harshly, this old man can pull some strings to get you into the Order under your mother's maiden name."
My eyes widen in surprise, "Why would you go this far? Why are you so set on me becoming a Knight?"
The Brother's shoulders slump slightly. "You see, my boy, I knew your father. He was stationed here at the Chantry for quite a while. He was a good, honorable man. I saw potential in him, so I convinced him to ask for a transfer into the Ostwick Circle. It's a more challenging post, but it's where you can climb up the ranks." His face contorts with grief as he shakes his head. "If only I knew how it would end, I would never have suggested it."
"It’s not your fault that my father turned out to be a traitor and a fool!" I feel my anger rising.
Travis grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a firm shake. "He should have been stronger, yes. But don't be so quick to blame him for his folly. You don't know those mages, they are demons in the flesh of a man. They serenade lies from their foul lips. They lead you astray. They seduce you with temptations so sweet..." He suddenly stops himself, as if realizing he was getting carried away. "But I sense strength in you, resilience enough to withstand it all. To become the Templar that your father couldn't be.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I feel responsible that the Order lost a decent Knight, and you lost your family. I want to correct that, to give the Templars back a good man and give you the comfort of growing up in a brotherhood who would embrace you. You’d be clothed and fed for your service. Would you let me help you?"
I contemplate his words, and the notion of proving myself stronger and better than the man who abandoned me feels enticing. So, I nod in agreement. Brother Travis smiles at me, a look of relief in his eyes. "Thank the Maker. I know you will find your happiness in the Order, my boy."
The Obsessed
I hate myself.
The thought echoes in my head as I come to a stark realization—I am no different from my father, a man I've deemed weak and pathetic. The thought churns my stomach to the point of nausea, but I can't deny it. I fell in love with a mage. Evelyn Trevelyan embodies both the worst and the best of the Maker's creation. She possesses a seductive allure that could rival that of a desire demon, a scorching intensity more potent than that of a rage demon, and the ability to evoke more tears than any despair demon ever could.
Yet, when we first crossed paths, I didn't perceive any of this. I stood guard during her training, observing her conjure flames that twisted around her hands like serpents before coalescing into a single fiery sphere. I paid little heed to it; she was just another mage, another abomination waiting to happen.
As a Templar, I'd seen and bedded my fair share of women like her. But then, the wings of fire sprouted behind her back, resembling those of a phoenix, and their sheer beauty stole my breath away. For a brief moment, I forgot that she was a perilous danger and that I should remain vigilant around such potent magical mutations. There was no fear; only warmth and the soothing comfort of her flames beckoning me. The emptiness and loneliness that had gnawed at me for so long were eased and calmed as I reached out to touch those fiery feathers. Yet, before my hand could make contact, they vanished, leaving me grasping at empty air.
Since that day, everything has changed.
I find myself yearning for her, for both her presence and the flames she commands. Night after night, my dreams are consumed by images of our bodies entwined, tightly pressed against each other in a suspended embrace within the Void. I am almost drowning in pleasure, but that’s still not enough, so I whisper pleas in her ear, and she smiles knowingly in response. Then fiery wings unfurl from her back, wrapping us both in searing flames. The ecstasy and agony blend into an overwhelming surge of emotion that jolts me awake. And as I lie in bed, moaning softly, tears streaming down my face, self-loathing grips me.
With each passing day, it is getting harder and harder to think about anything else but Evelyn. The blighted mage inhabits every crevice of my mind, every minute of every day. I attempt to distract myself with other women, seeking solace, but they fail to satisfy me. I even subject myself to flames, scorching my flesh, but the anguish doesn't offer any pleasure. The absence of the mage exacerbates the hollowness within me, reaching an almost unbearable point. During these moments, I press against my stomach, where the piece of my mother is lodged in my entrails, deliberately provoking pain. It serves as a reminder that I am not alone, and for a fleeting second, I find a semblance of comfort.
After months of struggling against my desires, I finally surrender to them. I tried to be as decent and honorable as a Templar should be, but I'm not perfect, and I'm exhausted and tired of holding back. Brother Travis was so very wrong in thinking that devotion to the Maker could fill the void inside me. The only one who can do that is Evelyn; that's why I love her, and that's why I hate her.
I watch as she gathers her chestnut hair with blond tips into a ponytail while sitting behind the table, engrossed in her studies. Her movement reveals the delicate nape of her neck, igniting a surge of lust within me once again. I pass by her, briefly running my hand over her ponytail. She gazes at me with confusion, but I don't stop; I continue walking. Two hairs remain in my palm. Leaving the room, I roll them between my fingers until they form a tiny, tight ball, then I place it in my mouth and close my eyes. The taste is divine, and I shiver as waves of pleasure course through me.
When the feeling subsided, I made the decision: Evelyn Trevelyan will be mine, one way or another.