Life as a Templar-in-training was hard.
Although life was a bit more comfortable without Isolde's cold presence controlling my destiny, the monastery was quite simply not for me. I was too bright and flamboyant for that quiet and grave place, needing to be acknowledged for what I made of myself instead of what people assumed I was. Unwanted.
At first, I hoped that they only knew of my status as Arl Eamon's ward who was a bastard of some unnamed important person. In time, however, those who had access to information from other sources learned of my parentage; there were plenty of third and fourth sons of various Arls and Teyrns in the Chantry where they could forge their own path and they learned the truth from their families.
What I truly wondered was who would bother telling the nobles, anyway? The King had never met me or deigned to notice me in any way that I knew. Did they all know because royal bastards could be considered heirs if something should happen– Maker forbid – to the true heirs? Definitely a good safety precaution, but if Maric or his lieutenants had ever met me, they would've known right away to get themselves a different bastard – the Chantry sisters bemoaned their fates over being stuck with me and my (hilarious, charming) greatly despised antics daily.
I'll show you, I thought to myself on a regular basis. I'll show you all what I'm made of and then you won't care that I'm a bastard!
Sadly, I wouldn't prove this until after I'd lost my adolescent ego. Couldn't just give me break, Maker, could You?
In addition to all the fun I had dealing with my peers, I hated the endless silence of the night emanating from the cold stone walls and the dull solemnity of my elders. The nicest thing I could say about them was that they didn't pretend to care about me at all. Well, the Revered Mother did care, but that's just what Revered Mothers do, so it changed nothing of my outlook on life.
I had no friends and, perversely, I missed the people who at least pretended to care about me. Even pretense was better than being so studiously ignored or looked-down upon. I even missed Isolde; at least her intense dislike of me meant that she cared that I existed, even if she would've preferred that I didn't.
I would've gladly endured her disdain if it only meant that I could be back in Redcliffe, near Eamon. I looked up to him and respected him; I knew even as I pushed him away in anger that he cared. I pushed and pushed, hoping that he would see what the Chantry was doing to me, to see if he would prove just how much he cared about me. He did prove it to me, eventually, but it was many years later.
When he stopped visiting me, I gave up hope and turned blindly to my studies and training. Eamon didn't want a child who couldn't free himself, so he would get a fully-trained Templar, instead.