After leaving Lothering, he never expected to enter a chantry again. Once Bethany had gone with the Wardens, he had no reason to. When he joined the Templars, Garrett had been furious, hurling insults. Garrett hadn't cared that he was, in some way, preserving Ser Maurevar's name. His older brother saw only the sun shield, and what that once meant for their sister. Mother had seemed disappointed, but much as he loved her, he couldn't bring himself to care.
Carver had never held much belief in the Maker. Bethany had been the pious one, always spending time with the sisters in the chantry. He never understood it, but some days—days he felt particularly protective—he had gone with her. Often she would close her eyes, her grinning expression carrying a serenity he had never seen at home. He had wondered what peace she found, what thoughts had crossed her mind as they sung of the horrors of magic. She had spoken of it as an affliction, and perhaps it was. But what could such thoughts bring other than more guilt?
As a Templar, he spent several days a week in the Hall's chapel. Mostly, his visits involved communal prayers or studies, but his visit that day was his own accord. He sat comfortably in one of the middle pews, burdened only by his off-duty tunic. Following in his sister's footsteps, he closed his eyes and listened to the chant that filled the room. The tempo was as familiar to him as anything else, but the words somehow felt out of place.
A few verses passed, he assumed, before he heard footsteps in the doorway. The steps were sure and even, like those of a seasoned knight. When he opened his eyes, he wasn't entirely wrong.
The knight-captain stood at the back of the chapel, his hands at rest behind his back. He wore the very same tunic as Carver, making him indistinguishable from anyone else. The idea of them being equals brought a small smirk to the recruit's face. If the rumors were to be believed—aside from the obvious separation of rank—they were anything but.
"What good is the Chant if I can't even understand it?" he asked quietly, watching as his superior took a seat next to him.
"You've never heard the Chant in Orlesian? Neither had I until I came here." Cullen stared ahead toward the altar. Were it not for the beginning conversation, he would have sworn the man was lost in thought.
"I understand this is normal in other Marcher cities," he continued. "Several of the knights are transfers from Orlais. I suppose it makes them feel at home."
Carver scoffed. "What do they do to make us feel at home? Bark?"
He placed a closed hand in front of his mouth to stifle a soft, knowing chuckle. "Some would, I imagine. I could not count how many times I've been called a 'doglord' or some other name."
"At least you aren't a refugee," he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "When you came here, you already had status."
"I have been more fortunate than most from Ferelden, this is true… But I don't count myself among them." For the first time that day, Cullen looked directly at him. The intensity bored into the recruit's skull and he refused to return the gaze.
"You were born there, weren't you?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably.
The elder Templar nodded and looked back at the altar, much to Carver's relief. "Yes, but from the time I was ten years old, I was raised in a monastery. We were told just as you are being told now that we could go anywhere in the world. Our service did not simply stop at the country's borders. I may speak and behave as a Fereldan does, but I am an arm of the Chantry."
"I don't know if I like the sound of that. Being only what the Chantry makes me." For years, he had been only what his brother had made him. He was the younger sibling who took the fall or the punch line to every joke. To free himself from that only to find he was in yet another shadow was less than what he had envisioned.
"Then, if I may ask, why did you join the Order?"
Those hazels eyes stared at him again, and again his body reacted in a nervous shift. "I've been living in my older brother's shadow my whole life. I wanted to make something of myself. I thought I could do that here."
"If you are looking for a strong sense of achievement, you will not find it," the knight-captain replied. Out of the corner of his eye, Carver could see the man mirroring his actions. He also leaned forward and pressed his elbows to his knees, though he clasped his fingers before him. "Mages are becoming more and more difficult to contain. With their increased numbers, all we can do is replenish our ranks."
"It sounds like the Templars are becoming a lost cause, Ser." As soon as the words passed his lips, he felt the lecture coming. The idea unnerved him only slightly less than the other man's gaze.
As expected, Cullen's soft-spoken voice adopted a stern tone, one more becoming of his station. "Doing the Maker's work is never a lost cause, Carver. What we do may not be popular, but it is right. We are the world's primary defense against magical corruption. If powerful mages can corrupt the Golden City with their vice, who is to say they could not swallow Thedas whole?"
"I guess you're right." He wanted to continue the conversation, to tell the knight-captain he'd lived most of his life among free mages. They'd never fallen to the corruption every Templar feared. However, doing so would only bring further suspicion, and he suspected the man already knew.
The knight-captain seemed to rethink his approach and brought his tone back down to its normal state. "We must protect them from themselves. I know you don't believe that having lived as you did, but the sooner you realize the danger, the better off you will be."
"This is all a... much larger burden than I expected," Carver admitted, his tone softening. "What would you suggest?"
"I would suggest looking to Trials 1:1 for guidance. Do you remember what it says?"
He nodded before repeating the lines, mimicking the tempo of the Chant. "Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."
"Good. Keep that in mind as you continue your prayers." With a straightened back, Cullen rose and left the chapel.
Whether Carver agreed with his superior or not, he would have to make a decision. He had been so busy trying to find his own way that he never bothered to consider what way that was. With a weary sigh, he started to get up and make his own exit, but something pulled him back down. Perhaps it was the statue of Andraste looming over the pews, or the memory of his sister's face. Whatever the reason, he repeated the canticle's passage a final time, and began to pray.