Author's Note: This chapter is rated M to be on the safe side for two sensitive topics, namely domestic abuse and denunciation of religious beliefs. So even though it is nothing too explicit, please, if you are easily offended by any of those topics, stop reading now.
I also want to stress that the opinions expressed in this story are the opinions of the characters and not necessarily my own where religious belief is concerned. Please also keep in mind that the Andrastian belief system, even though there might be parallels to actually existing beliefs, is a fictional system. I do not mean to offend but simply to tell a story.
With that said: enjoy the story!

F is for Faith

August, 9:10 Dragon

He is bored. He is always bored during mass but today especially so because it drags on and on and on for much longer than he is used to. Mother says that's because it is a special mass, that they are to remember Andraste and her sacrifice today. Father says it is rubbish but that they have to be good little Andrastians anyway and be an example for all those common folk morons who actually believe in the fairy tales the chantry tells them. It would raise some suspicious eyebrows if the Arl's family was missing the services and especially the services held on the holidays.

He doesn't know which explanation is the right one but he knows that he likes his mother's more. Sometimes she tells him stories about Andraste and Maferath and the Maker and they sound like big adventures and he likes that.

That does not mean he likes mass more because of the stories, though. It is still boring, with the Revered Mother ranting in her pulpit in that monotonous, fretful voice, talking nineteen to a dozen, but for his mother's sake, he tries to pay attention and sometimes he even succeeds. Maybe also because he knows that if he lets his boredom show, his father's riding crop will be waiting for him as soon as they get back home, teaching him a lesson or two about why not paying attention at mass does not do for the son of an Arl.

He can still vividly remember the last time he dared to dangle his feet under the bench and ask his mother why the chapel always smelled so strange. He does not feel like repeating that experience any time soon and so he pays attention. For his mother's sake and because of the riding crop.

The Revered Mother is talking about Andraste's faith and how it helped her overcome even the most dreadful of odds. That believing in the Maker the way Andraste did will keep you from all harm and that only those with a strong belief will finally see the Maker's shining light and be united with their loved ones when their time has come.

When mass finally is over, he asks his mother if that is why she insists he and his siblings pray every evening, because she does not want them to get hurt and his mother smiles and nods. He can see that she wants to say something but his father's raised eyebrow and the expression in his hard eyes make her look away and remain silent and he doesn't ask any more questions. It is not smart to ask questions when father looks at you like that.

He thinks about the matter, though, and he likes the thought that the Maker is watching over him. He imagines Him as a kind old man with a big looking-glass that shows Him all the many people in Thedas and that, when there's something not right, He reaches down with a big, long pair of pincers and punishes all the bad people. It is a comforting thought and he is determined to pray extra hard from now on so that the Maker and his mother can be proud of him.

His resolve last exactly until they arrive at the Keep. They have barely exited the carriage when his father grabs his mother's arm none too gently and almost drags her up the stairs and into their private quarters. He knows what that means. It means mother has done something wrong. It happens sometimes and when it does, he can hear his father yelling at her even from his room at the other end of the hall.

He follows his parents inside quickly and quietly and when the door has closed behind them, he runs the rest of the way to his room as fast as he can. His trembling hand has barely touched the door handle when he already hears his mother crying out and his father's angry yelling.

He doesn't want to hear it. He wants to crawl into his bed and pull the pillows over his head until it is over but for some reason, he lets go of the handle and slowly, carefully crosses the distance between his and his parents' room instead. Their door is not completely closed, he can see a slim band of light illuminating the red velvet carpet in the hallway.

For a moment he is frozen to the spot, paralyzed by the shouts he can hear coming from inside, followed by the sharp, distinct sound of a hand connecting with bare flesh. It frightens him but despite his fear he inches closer, crouches low and peeks through the crack of the not-quite-closed door.

His mother is huddled in the farthest corner of the room, right in his line of sight and his father stands over her, his hand repeatedly slapping her in the face and his hard travel boot connecting with her ribs and stomach.

"… dare talking to him about this bullshit ever again, bitch!" he hears him yelling. "The boy is too soft already!"

He flinches when another slap, another kick hits his mother's huddled form and he feels tears burning in his eyes. He wants to help her but he knows he can't. It will only bring his father's wrath down on him instead and so he slowly retreats from the door before they notice him eavesdropping.

And that is when he hears his mother pray.

My Maker, know my heart
Take from me a life of sorrow
Lift me from a world of pain
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

He hears her broken pleas and he finds himself folding his hands and pray with her. Maybe her prayers are not strong enough and the Maker does not hear her among all the other people who are talking to Him. Maybe if he helps her, those great pincers will come down from above and make his father stop beating her.

He concentrates very hard and prays with more honesty then ever before but nothing happens. Neither is the ceiling opening up with the Maker's wrath, nor are there any great pincers coming down. He can still hear his mother's cries and the slaps that rain down on her like mad and that is when he knows that his father is right.

It is rubbish. All of it. If those with faith were kept from harm as his mother has told him, why isn't she? She is the most faithful person he has ever known but that doesn't safe her from his father's anger now. If there really was a Maker He would do something, right?

His hands fall down by his sides, disappointed, angry tears streaming down his face as he gets up from the red velvet carpet and walks back to his room, all the way accompanied by his mother's desperate prayers.

Quietly, he closes the door behind him and quietly, he crawls into his bed and pulls the pillows over his head. He doesn't pray before lights out. He doesn't pray ever again.