Chapter Text
“Be brave, Ariadne,” Papa had said.
The wolves were out again, frightening the chickens, and Papa took his bow and quiver outside after supper.
She followed, because Mama was paying attention to the dishes, and Ariadne liked the snow when it fell earlier, glittering in the sunlight. It was only when she caught up with Papa, following his slow tracks by the bright cold moonlight, that the trees seemed to press in around her; the shadows grew a little too long, a little too many.
Her excitement abruptly faded when she reached his side. Papa’s hand settled on her shoulder, large and warm and comforting, but not enough to combat the chill down her spine. She was here now, but she no longer wanted to be in the woods.
The Chantry is warm. The Chantry is warm and inviting while she stands in the snowy street, staring at the open door. Light glows from within, a soft yellow beacon of safety in the dark.
But her feet remain still upon the cobblestones. Even though the Sister grasps her hand and tries to lead her forward, Ariadne doesn’t move - can’t. Snowflakes stick to her eyelashes, melting when she blinks.
She looks up at the woman holding her hand. The Sister looks cold, trying her best not to shiver, but Ariadne doesn’t feel the winter chill. She only feels strangely empty, wanting her father and mother. But they aren’t here, and neither is their little house, and neither are the chickens, and even the wolves are probably gone, scared off by the fire.
Ariadne walks inside, small footsteps on the slippery snow-covered stones, because Papa told her to be brave.
***
The Chant of Light teaches her to read. She knows the words long before she recognizes them on paper, can recite all of Exaltations by her second year just from listening to the choir during services.
Andraste teaches her to write. The Sisters place the parchment and pencil in front of her when she is six, open the Chant and tell her to copy the words. Sitting in the front pew, plank of wood across her lap, she fidgets on the hard, angular bench. Her writing suffers for three months, until she learns to ignore the discomfort.
From the day she arrives, the Sisters largely ignore her. She is quiet and respectful, a quick study and not an annoyance, not someone who requires their attention more than a simple direction. She takes up less space than the other orphans.
Ariadne’s pencil scratches against the parchment, louder and louder as she sinks into the words.
Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew
She blinks, focuses on the words on her page; black graphite against ivory parchment, perfectly-formed letters, not the indecipherable scrawl of her peers that careens downward at the end of each line. Graceful curves and swirls, her pencil moves in even lines across her pages. The bored voices of the others fall away into nothing, leaving only the memorized verse in her mind and the smooth scratch of her pencil.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you
In my arms lies Eternity.
She turns the page in the small, thick book. They’ve all been given books of blank parchment to work in, leather-bound, stamped with a sunburst, and tied closed with twine; basic and unremarkable, but sturdier than the sheets they began with. When he isn’t pulling the pigtails of any girl who won’t pay attention to him, Tristan Hill draws crude sketches in the corner of his book, makes the images move when he flips the pages fast enough. She’s careful not to make eye contact with him, and years pass before she learns the art of ignoring Tristan in a manner that doesn’t provoke him.
Winter wind blows drafts through the open room, making her candle flicker. She sniffs and brushes her fingers across the blank page before she continues and transcribes the final verse of the stanza. Deep brown leather cover, smooth cream parchment, her book looks just like those of her peers, but the edges are crisp and unwrinkled, the leather unscuffed. This book - her book - is not unremarkable. She’s nearly finished with the first canticle and has more than enough space left for the rest. The Sisters have given them all copies of the Chant for themselves, but this one - this one will be hers.
***
The faithful are treated better. A smile when caught reading past bedtime, a sweet from a secret pocket, a bit of understanding when childish arguments arise. None are treated poorly, but the faithful are treated better and all the orphans notice.
Some don’t mind. Others run away under the cover of night, whispering of unfairness and a better chance outside the Chantry’s walls. Ariadne sees them sometimes, when she’s old enough to stand beside the Chantry board; they rarely look as though they found those better chances. Most understand and display the level of faith the Sisters and Brothers and Revered Mother expect from them, some even pretend at more; even fewer succeed at fooling their elders.
Ariadne counts herself proudly among the few who do not have to pretend. Sister Caroline sends her outside for the first time when she is nine, to stand on the Chantry’s steps and recite Benedictions until the supper bell rings.
Winter has arrived in full force, bitter wind burning her cheeks pink, but the Chantry is warm at her back. It’s warm the first day, and the second, and every day after that. She stands on the steps and sings out proudly, spreading the Chant as far as she can without shouting. Rain or snow or sunshine or fog, she stands up straight and believes every word she says.
She turns around when the bell rings, and the Chantry’s open doors are bright and inviting, just like the night she arrived. She smiles when she walks inside, donation jar heavier than anyone else.
She’s ten when she finds the necklace. Lost and forgotten and stuck in a muddy boot print, it’s only when the clouds part in an especially-rainy Drakonis that the sun catches on the golden charm. A tiny gold sunburst on a simple gold chain, she slips the necklace in her pocket and only takes it out at night, when the rest are long asleep.
Sometimes the others - led by Tristan, until he runs away one night - tease her for the strength of her beliefs, surrounding her and mocking her for her silence and faith, calling her names when they grow old enough to sneak out at night and overhear the slurs coming from the tavern down the street. The boys turn especially cruel when she’s of an age they think she should fancy them and she does not, and some of the girls join in when they realize what her lack of fancying boys means.
Ariadne squares her shoulders and ignores them, remains quiet in response for days and months and years, but brings out her handwritten copy of the Chant, the one she finished when she was nine, still pristine and perfect, though a little worn around the edges from reading; she finds comfort in Trials, reading by moonlight. The Chantry is home, she tells herself, wiping her tears away, awake long after the other girls have long fallen asleep. Or at least home enough, she adds on particularly bad days, when the others are meaner than usual and she receives more insults and spits of tobacco than donations while standing on the Chantry steps; on those days, she sets Trials aside and dreams of a small house in the woods, of chickens, of a smiling mother and a kind father whose faces she can no longer recall.
The Sisters leave her to her own devices, let her study as she pleases as their energies are drawn toward new orphans needing comfort and the older ones causing trouble. Revered Mother ignores her, letting her slip past as a welcome reprieve from her peers, the ones who have chosen not to leave but to stay and be difficult, requiring discipline and strained talks with shopkeepers missing inventory. Weeks pass when she barely says a word to anyone, when barely a word is said to her.
But the Chantry is home. Arched ceilings and stained glass, soothing soprano singing the Chant every morning in practice, soft golden candles and spicy incense wrapping around her like a blanket, it is home.
***
A month before her thirteenth birthday, her fingertips spark while teaching Benedictions to one of the younger orphans. Revered Mother gives her two hours to collect the few things she can call hers and say goodbye to the people she never called friends, before she is dragged away from the Chantry.
It’s a small spark, a tiny point of light arcing from her fingertip to the parchment, extinguished before it even lands on the paper. If it weren’t the middle of a humid summer, she thinks she could’ve explained it to a horrified Sister Maud as static, simply dry air and metal. Static sparks look different, feel different, make a snap in the air, but Ariadne is good and quiet, never a bother - she thinks she could’ve explained it, and stayed.
But it is Solace and raining, and Revered Mother has no tolerance for even a whiff of magic outside the Circle. A runner sprints across the city with a notice.
Escorted by two towering templars, Ariadne walks out of the Chantry’s doors into a summer rainstorm, sobbing hard enough that she trips and falls down the steps, scraping her hands and knees on the cobblestones. Her bag falls open beside her, half its meager contents spilling onto the wet street. She shoves her belongings back into the canvas; her clothes may be soaked, but at least her Chant is unharmed, safe at the bottom of her bag with the necklace.
The female templar kneels down next her on the stone and helps her up, gently holds her arm. “It will be okay,” she says, with a kind smile.
Ariadne focuses on the sunburst tattoos on the templar’s hands until she’s steady on her feet again. She doubts the templar’s words. The Sister who brought her to the Chantry said the same thing, and it was for a while, until this afternoon, when it suddenly wasn’t. The templars will pick her up and carry her, even restrain her if necessary; she’s seen it before - the Chantry sits on the main road through Ostwick. She sniffles and wipes at her cheeks and lets them walk her through the city, away from the Chantry’s high arches and brilliant stained glass, to the Circle’s intimidating tower overlooking the coast.
Be brave, Ariadne.