It was night, and Gwenn lay on her side in her little bed. Although it was late, and their faces were heavy with weariness, and already in mourning at what they knew was to come, her parents sat either side of her. Her father spoke gentle words of encouragement.
“Gwenn, they’ll teach ya letters, readin’ and writin’, and how to speak proper. You’ll be a little clever clogs. The clev’rest Fisher there ever was.” Her father smiled, but even the little girl, through her young eyes, could see that her father held back tears. Her mother had already lost that battle. She ran her fingers gently through her daughter’s hair, singing gently, a hymn[1] that was often heard to echo within the Chantry walls.
The Maker stands beyond the Veil,
Andraste is his bride.
She brought his chant back to the world,
He raised her to his side.
His works are all made manifest.
All men, the sea, and sky.
His righteous he is sure to bless
The wicked are denied.
The sound of footsteps came into earshot, growing more swiftly closer. Gwenn felt her mother’s hand tremble as it moved through her hair.
His children are all of his hand,
the greatest to the low.
From kings to slaves and in between,
The Maker made them so.
They are the just who in his sight,
tell truth and good deeds show.
And those who rightly do his works,
He’ll make his peace to know.
The footsteps came closer, closer. Voices could be heard. The sound of chain as it moves, nearer, nearer. She felt her father’s hand tense at her shoulder. Her mother’s voice came, softer, softer.
My spirit will not wander lost
when trav’’ling through the Fade.
For I shall rest at your right hand,
the place for me you’ve made.
His children are all gathered to
his side when their time comes.
No more as strangers nor bereft
but children in their home.
A metal-plated fist struck hard against the door. Gwenn was tugged into a tight embrace, and she held her parents close. She took a breath. Salt. Light sweat. A hint of rose water. Warmth. Love. Her mother spoke again, her voice strained, and Gwenn felt her hair dampen as her mother cried.
“We love you very much, dear. We know you will use this blessing the Maker has given you well. You’re a good girl, Gwenn. Remember to say your prayers, and brush your hair, and to tie your laces tightly when you put your shoes on, and-“
“Open up! Bring the mage child quickly, and there’ll be no trouble.” Her parents kissed her cheeks, lingering for as many moments as they felt they could take before their door was broken down. Her father’s voice was hoarse as he lost the battle with his tears.
“We’re so proud o’ you, Gwenn. We’ll ne’er stop thinkin’ o’ you.”
One templar took her left arm. Another took her right. And as Gwenn was dragged from her parents' sight, and everything she knew, she heard a cry of anguish - her mother’s - pierce the silence of the dark.