bethen avilla ; the circle mage (bethe) wrote in thedas, @ 2010-01-10 05:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, & before 9:45, @ bethen avilla |
Who: Bethen Avilla
Where: The chapel in Kinloch Hold.
When: Two years ago, late evening, set after this, and slightly concurrent with the latter half of this.
Summary: As she sat alone, she asked for forgiveness, not just for her foolishness and her lack of faith, but for Constans.
Rating: T, mentions of blood and mild violence. And excessive angst.
The stone pressed against her knees, its chill seeping through the thin fabric of her robe. She shivered as she settled into the unfamiliar position, legs tucked under the rest of her body. Her mother, were she still alive, would have been upset to know this, but Bethen hadn't prayed often since arriving at the Tower. The habit of going to the chapel had been lost almost as soon as she realized there was no expectation of her attendance at least once per week. If one was counting, choice of practicing religion or not was at least one freedom she had gained in exchange for losing others. The Chantry watched the Circle and undoubtedly convinced many magi that they were vessels of evil power, but she had never been forced to believe in the words of Andraste as truth; it was merely enough to watch what they said and be compliant with their rules. To her keepers, it was not a question of faith as much as it was of obedience; her mother had expected both from her, hoping that the frequent recitation of words would eventually lead to the other. Mared would be disappointed, though. Her daughter could repeat the words flawlessly and explain exactly what they meant, but if one were to ask what she truly believed in her heart, her answer would not be in the Chant of Light. Andraste was a magnificent woman, heroic and courageous being among her many qualities to admire and make example of, but was she really the bride of an omnipotent deity who only spoke to her? What made her account of His word, even His existence, truer and more important than the traditions passed on between generations of Dalish clans, than the ancient legacy of the Stone, or the worship of a high dragon's blood? As a child, the Revered Mother always scowled when Bethen raised her hand during Chant study. If she weren't so young and thought not to know any better, her many tiresome questions wouldn't have been so gently regarded as innocent curiosity rather than dissident heresy. It didn't matter in the end, though. Beth wasn't in line for priesthood, not then, and certainly not after she displayed the makings of a mage. So what, then, was she doing there, kneeling before an altar of flickering candles, hands clasped together and head bowed low, whispering words of forgiveness to a higher power she wasn't even sure existed? And she knew it was selfishly wrong to plead to someone who mattered only when it was convenient for her. But in one of the tallest structures in Ferelden, housing over a hundred people, she could find nowhere else to go, no one else she could trust to listen to the thoughts that were eating away at her soul. Were she any less desperate, any less utterly alone, she wouldn't have been there. But the burden of knowledge was too great, and for a change, Bethen regretted having pursued the truth. Honesty. Responsibility. Duty. But what about loyalty? Trust? Hope, that he wouldn't have ruined everything with evil and malice? Constans was her friend. Maybe not when they had first met, as petulant children who called each other names, pulled hair, and played vengeful pranks, but they'd gotten over their differences with time. They had grown up, and grown close, first bonding over a mutual concern for his brother, and then finding that they had more in common beyond fretting over the boy's well-being. Finding companionship had always been easier for charming Constans than it was for awkward Beth, but he had given his time to her, out of all the other people in the Tower, and she had come to treasure every second. They could just as easily study in silence together as they could talk for hours on any given subject, and even if they disagreed on a point, she never felt rejected for her opinions. She even told him things that she hadn't shared with anyone else who hadn't lived through it. About the bodies, the wreckage, the nightmares she'd had for years, long after people stopped talking about Uldred and what he'd done. She trusted him, and she thought he understood right from wrong, understood her, cared about her, even. And yet...she knew that he was downstairs, bargaining with a demon that was more powerful and dangerous than he understood. Bethen had fought them in the Fade and seen them in the flesh, and even after telling him how horrible it had been, he had heeded none of her warnings. Instead, he had used his body to bring another through the tear in the Veil and was prepared to let it take control. It wasn't just a betrayal of the Circle and all that they stood for. It was a personal betrayal. He had lied to her face. He had asked her to participate in covering up an act that he knew full well went against all of her beliefs, that went against all that was good and right. How long had this charade gone on? People didn't just wake up one day and summon vile and corrupt spirits on a whim. He had planned it, and yet he had carried on as if everything were completely normal. The more she thought about it, the more she felt incredibly used, bitter, even doubtful that they had ever been friends, at all. Loyalty. Trust. His secrecy and actions said enough about what he thought of those two words in regards to their relationship. If they meant nothing to him, why should they have meant anything to her? He had brought it all on himself; exposing the situation and setting his downfall into motion was only inevitable and perhaps well deserved. Bethen tried to purge the anger from her thoughts. The decision had been made from a moral standpoint, not out of vindictiveness. Telling the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander had been a matter of responsibility. Constans, whatever he had been up to, was stopped before he could truly start. For his own good, and for the good of the rest of the Circle. Why, then, did it feel so utterly wrong? She was not an innocent victim in all of it, either. She had made the wrong choices, had been knowingly dishonest to people she cared about, and had become Constans' own Maferath. She was lucky Greagoir hadn't wanted her head, too -- he believed that she had been just that unwitting, and somehow that made it even worse. Why hadn't she seen the signs sooner? So wrapped up in her own life, her books and her dreams, to be blind to something that had possibly gone on for years, just barely out of her awareness. If she had just looked closer... And now it had come to this -- Demons in the Tower, Templars at his throat, and her hands stained with blood and betrayal. Perhaps there really was a Maker, waiting, watching, hoping His mortal children would repent for their sins and judging them when it was their time to come to Him. As she sat alone, she asked for forgiveness, not just for her own foolishness and her lack of faith, but for Constans. She was sorry for his actions, even if he wasn't, and didn't want his spirit to be trapped in the Fade forever if the situation came to that. She had made her request for mercy to the First Enchanter when she came into his office (sobbing and babbling, barely coherent for several minutes until he forced a cup of tea in her hands and insisted she calm down), but whether the Templars, once they found him, were going to take the most extreme measures against him or not was ultimately out of her hands. Regardless of their decision, she had condemned him in the same breath that she was going to protect everyone else. It wasn't fair. Why did the choice have to be hers, and why did it have to be so important? Saying nothing, she risked losing everything. Telling the truth, she had turned on not only one, but two, of the few people she had ever really come to love. He wasn't the only Ledaal brother she worried about losing; there was still Desiderio to consider. She would look after him as if he were her own kin, of course, but could she still look him in the eye, knowing full well that it was her word that had sealed his brother's fate? He would never forgive her. So she could never tell him that there was anything to be forgiven. Life isn't fair, she heard Irving's voice echo in her mind, but we do what we must, regardless. Beth understood those words better now than when he'd said it to her that day. All that had to be done had been, though reducing facts to a simple truth didn't make it any less a bitter tonic to swallow. She was uncertain of how long she had been at the altar, but enough time had to have passed for it all to be done and over with. By morning, she would find out his sentence. But for now, the young mage was no more at peace than when she had come in, though she was definitely much wearier. Her muscles felt stiff and joints sore as she stood and dragged herself back to her room. Her only thought was of crawling into a pathetic heap in her bed; however, to her distress upon arriving, she discovered it was still unmade from when Constans had slept in it hours earlier. She should have changed the bedspread and the wrinkled sheets. Instead, sentiment clawed at her heart, and sorrow tore into it; Bethen could only curl herself in the place where he had been and cry until she fell into a restless slumber. |