Life devoted to the Chantry was hard – and entirely not for me.
I just couldn't understand the desire to pray for hours. I could barely stay awake during the short chants, never mind the longer ones, Maker forbid. If I had to do this for the rest of my life, I would rather kill myself. Or run away to make my own adventures, but I never saw myself as the hero in my dreams, so I shot that idea down quickly enough. I was always the witty sidekick, who helped the hero to save the day at the last minute and make some clever comment about their enemies in the process.
I knew that everyone wanted to be a hero, but I thought that would be a lot of responsibility for someone who sometimes forgot which boot went on which foot. Honestly. Some people were just cut out to be amazing in a support role and my witty one-liners had been shined and polished for years now, so I knew I had the resume to back up my dreams there.
One thing my mind never truly decided was whether the Hero I dreamt of was a man or a woman. At night, it was usually a woman, but the heroic deeds were related more closely to the naughty stories the other boys bragged about rather than the manly deeds I helped perform during my lessons, in daydreams.
The daydreams I had when I should be memorizing the stages of Lyrium withdrawal, of course. Maybe I could get a hold of a ton of Lyrium and go batty – for real, not the kind of batty that I pretended to be to get out of advanced lessons in boredom – and then I could be free.
But completely and irrevocably batshit crazy.
Tough choice, honestly.