"Isn't this wonderful, husband? Isn't our life perfect?"
The Templar's wife smiled at his side and leaned her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, a hand on his chest, and the Templar breathed her in. He smiled, caressed her cheek and wrapped both his arms protectively around her.
"Yes," he mumbled. "It is all perfect."
They stood there for some minutes in their embrace, just having finished supper. The children have already climbed upstairs to their rooms, although he could still hear their giggling and teasing.
"Everything is just as you wanted, my knight," said the Templar's wife. "Our love and our family are more than you hoped for." She looked up at him, blue eyes bright and hopeful and lovely, a prayer most wonderfully answered.
'Tis all perfect indeed.
It has been years since he quit the Order and chose his family. It has been a difficult decision, for all his life he dreamt of becoming a Templar, to make his parents proud, and to make something of himself, to prove people something. He trained, fought and gained the rank and respect he needed, but at the price of his happiness — he had to sacrifice everything to become a part of the Order, after all. He also had to sacrifice the happiness of the woman he loved most. He thought he needed no one in his life, but once she passed and life at the Circle became much more difficult than he anticipated, he began to question everything: the true purpose of the Order, the true purpose of the Chantry, the purpose of the Kingdom, the purpose of all life and its Maker, and most especially the purpose of his own being.
Must all rely on the glory of rank and connection, the want of attention and duty to the blade? Must all depend upon others' expectations to find comfort and contentment? Must all be tied to the words of the outsiders who only concern themselves with the security of their own happiness and not of others? Why can't one be left to his own devices, let him walk his path to the future of his choosing? Why can't anyone find true success in the plain and the simple, where no one and nothing will hurt them?
The Templar's wife straightened up all of a sudden and glanced around. The Templar glanced around as well, then looked back down to her.
"Do you hear something, love?" he asked her, carefully withdrawing from their embrace and turning to the corridor across where the front door was, where his wife seemed to be looking.
The wife shook her head.
"It is nothing, my darling. Just the door." She began to take a few steps back and made for the living room. "I will get it. Tuck the children into bed while I see who it is."
The Templar smiled and said, "Don't be long. The children will want to kiss you good night."
"I will be but a moment, my pet." She then disappeared to the front door, muttering something while the Templar climbed the stairs and entered the children's bedroom. The lamp was still alight but his son and daughter were already fast asleep, tucked comfortably underneath their blankets. The ghost of a smile was imprinted upon their faces. No troubles, no pain. Just peace.
A scream rang downstairs, pulling the Templar from his train of thought. He exited the bedroom and returned to the kitchen, crossing the corridor to the front door. His blood ran cold.
There, by the door, were four figures and they loomed before his wife who was starting to back away. She turned, found her husband then ran towards him, slipping behind him, both hands grasping his shoulder. She was crying.
"T-They're going to m-murder the children!" she sobbed. "You must stop them!"
The Templar looked around and found his sword leaning against the wall beside him. He did not know why it was there and cannot remember who placed it in that spot, but he grabbed it anyway and faced the bandits. He studied them, noticing the one at the front was rather short and skinny, both hands holding long daggers. He noted the pointed ears sticking out from her short curtain of dark hair and the swirling tattoos on her face — she was an elf. Behind her was a man carrying a sword and a shield, and two women on either side of him carried staves, the one to the left rather old and frail, and the other one young and harsh. They looked rather odd to be bandits, but he held his stance anyway, sword raised and his free hand shielding his crying wife.
"They will not get past me," he said through gritted teeth. He charged at the bandits who, for some reason, were telling him to stop. There was the clang of steel and the exchanging of wounds. The next moment he knew, he was freefalling into darkness.