Inner Circle + Prayers

lafaiette:

• Cassandra prays at night after reading one last chapter, when Skyhold is quiet and she can be alone with her thoughts and the turmoil raging into her like a dragon’s fire. She prays in the same way as she fights: hard, unrelenting, not knowing what awaits her, but ready to face everything coming at her, sure to win if the Maker is by her side.
  Her last words before blowing out the candle are for Anthony.

• Blackwall feels scorching shame when he dares to mutter a prayer under his breath. He doesn’t feel worthy, because he is not supposed to ask the Maker anything. He swears he will find redemption before speaking to Him again, but some days are harder than others, some nights he can almost hear the Calling – it’s not real, of course, it’s not the darkspawn who is talking to him, but the voices and screams of the people he murdered, reminding him of his sins, of who he really is.
  He closes his eyes and mumbles half-forgotten lines of the Chant, scared, shivering under the blanket, begging the Maker for one last chance against the darkness.

• Varric isn’t used to praying. It feels silly, especially when those prayers aren’t heard and things go downhill the same. But there are times when he feels the urge to clasp his hands together, close his eyes, and ask Andraste for a much-needed miracle; there are times when all he wants to do is go to the chapel in the garden, kneel before Her statue and pray for his companions’ safety, for Bartrand’s health, for Bianca’s happiness.
  He prays in his head when the Breach first appears in the sky, he prays softly for the refugees they meet in the Hinterlands, he prays loudly when they run out of the Fade and Hawke still hasn’t come out of the Rift.

• Vivienne doesn’t pray often; she has too much to do, too many things need her attention, too many people need to hear her voice. She knows she can do it alone without any assistance, anyway. There is no need to bother the Maker nor his Bride; she is perfectly capable of finding the solutions to all her problems and fights without any divine intervention.
  The only time she prays for a miracle is when she pours the potion into Bastien’s mouth, when her heart counts every second, filled with hope, before he passes away.

• Cole does not pray, but he runs to everyone who does. He listens to their requests, to their problems, to their needs, and tries to help, to give what the Maker or the Creators don’t give. He listens carefully, a bright spirit wandering through scared, hopeful, shy souls. There is no pride in what he does, he doesn’t see himself as a god nor as a superior creature. He simply provides comfort, his mind devoid of any further motive.
  Sometimes, though, he wonders why people feel good even when their gods don’t answer them.

• Dorian never speaks his prayers; he lets them simmer inside, boiling like hot water, bubbling into his chest, his head dizzy when he finds the answers in a glass or between the pages of a book. He convinces himself that there must be someone who hears them, there must be someone greater than them all who knows and understands how he feels. At dusk, when the library is quieter and the crows don’t make as much noise as during the day, he rests his head on his soft armchair and looks out of the window, lips sealed tight, a single word trapped behind them, screaming inside.
  Please, please, please.

• Sera puts on a strong façade, but most of the time she is so scared, she can’t even sleep at night. She lacks the right words to say, she doesn’t know how to express herself in a good way, but she knows that Andraste can read people’s hearts, so words aren’t really that important, are they? She just has to think strongly enough, list all the people she cares for in her head, ask for simple things – always simple things, never too big-ass miracles – and Andraste will do the rest.
  One day she finds a book of prayers forgotten by a Sister in the courtyard and even if some lines are weird, even if she doesn’t understand all of them, she tries to learn them, hoping they will make Andraste happier.

• Iron Bull doesn’t know how to pray. Nobody prays in the Qun, there is no need for it because there is no need to ask for something different. Roles and rules must be followed, the will of the Qun cannot be changed through petty pleas, people live the life chosen for them, not able to wish for anything else. He doesn’t know how it feels like to believe in a deity who can change one’s life just because they asked hard enough. Would he feel happier? Would he feel safer? Or would he feel completely and utterly alone, at the mercy of an entity he cannot relate to because so distant, so different, so indescribable, so beyond one’s grasp?
  He wonders if this is how people feel like when they try to understand the Qun for the first time.

• Cullen prays every day. He prays in the morning, thanking the Maker for letting him live another day; he prays in the afternoon, when his head hurts more than ever and his hands twitch, body longing for lyrium; he prays at night, kneeling in front of his bed, asking for strength and courage, for hope that so often seems far and unreachable. He prays for his family, for his soldiers, for his friends, for the Inquisition itself. He prays until his voice is a hoarse whisper and his legs throb more than his head.
  When the dawn comes, he starts again, never sated, but always a little bit stronger, even if he doesn’t know it.

• Josephine thinks she should pray more, but most of the time she is so busy or tired she can’t really bring herself to do it. There are so many practical matters she has to deal with that spiritual matters become secondary. She thanks the Maker after a huge success, of course, she wishes people good things by calling Andraste’s grace upon them, but she rarely finds the time to stay alone with her own thoughts, anxiety, fears, wishes.
  However, when she does, when she can finally relax or rest on her bed instead of falling asleep gracelessly on her desk, she talks to the Maker or Andraste with earnest enthusiasm, praying for her family, for the Inquisition and all the people at Skyhold and in Thedas, asking for their happiness in their behalf.

• Leliana prays a lot, even more than before, but it doesn’t feel the same. There is an emptiness gnawing at her heart now, the Chant tastes old and bitter on her tongue, the Maker’s name gives her doubts rather than relief and answers. She keeps doing it because it’s part of her, it’s something that has defined her for all these years, but the more she bows her head in front of the altar, the more it feels heavy; the more she thanks the Maker, the more she wants to accuse him of Justinia’s death.
  The more she prays, the more her voice cracks and wavers.

• Solas hears all the prayers, as he did so long ago, in a different time, in a different world. He listens to them quietly, without judging, without laughing at their simplicity, respecting the pain or joy of those who murmur them, but he offers no advice, no support. He hides in the shadows of their dreams, unseen, a sad beast lulled by their pleas.
  He hopes a god better than him will answer them.