"Rest assured, their superiors were quick to comment on their actions and correct their mistakes." There are always the Templars that are all too quick to fall into the party line without a second thought, those devoted to every line of the Chant and every order they are given to the letter, and those who barely see mages as people if at all. "If there were those who joined in quieter dissent, I would be unable to say."
After all, no one dared double check the work or question the word of a Seeker of Truth, even if they were disliked.
"After..." He had not described directly any actions or details during; that made it more bearable. The aftermath, then, seemed more difficult to articulate. His hands squeeze behind his back, eyes drawn back down in memory and consideration. It had hardly been his first battle with many dead. Hardly his first fight against mages. But the first time he thought, truly thought that his opponent didn't deserve to be an opponent. Though his first commander had been exiled, he'd imparted advice and teachings to Malcolm that he kept close to heart.
The Chantry is not always right. The people within the Chantry are still just people, and people are flawed. Even the Divine was once a woman with a name.
They had sought to destroy everything, just as the Templars who went back that Araceli heard tales of had sought to do. And it was wrong. By all teachings, it was right, and what those people were doing--it was dangerous. And yet, they had lived, survived, thrived despite it. To slaughter the people, burn their books, to take joy in kicking the doors in and destroying possessions, how did that seem right? Would Andraste have agreed? Would the Maker approve? Had they gotten it wrong all along?
In the aftermath, with blood enough spilled to turn parts of the ground to mud, with smoke stinging, he had never felt more empty, rarely more afraid. The urge to run and disappear from these brutes who did not join him in argument, who raised their weapons without hesitation, had been dizzying.
It was a long pause between words. Malcolm scarcely spoke without a very good idea of what to say, and words seemed so far away. "There was cleaning, burning, a message sent to the nearest Grand Cleric and another sent straight to Val Royeaux. The others...had mixed feelings, it seemed." Difficult to remember the individuals, so wrapped up in his own horror and trying so hard not to show it. "Some had never seen battle of this scale, too fresh. Shouldn't have been there. Some celebrated the well-earned victory. Others still acted as if this were just another day. Perhaps to them it was. We count our dead, we pack up, we ship off."
no subject
After all, no one dared double check the work or question the word of a Seeker of Truth, even if they were disliked.
"After..." He had not described directly any actions or details during; that made it more bearable. The aftermath, then, seemed more difficult to articulate. His hands squeeze behind his back, eyes drawn back down in memory and consideration. It had hardly been his first battle with many dead. Hardly his first fight against mages. But the first time he thought, truly thought that his opponent didn't deserve to be an opponent. Though his first commander had been exiled, he'd imparted advice and teachings to Malcolm that he kept close to heart.
The Chantry is not always right. The people within the Chantry are still just people, and people are flawed. Even the Divine was once a woman with a name.
They had sought to destroy everything, just as the Templars who went back that Araceli heard tales of had sought to do. And it was wrong. By all teachings, it was right, and what those people were doing--it was dangerous. And yet, they had lived, survived, thrived despite it. To slaughter the people, burn their books, to take joy in kicking the doors in and destroying possessions, how did that seem right? Would Andraste have agreed? Would the Maker approve? Had they gotten it wrong all along?
In the aftermath, with blood enough spilled to turn parts of the ground to mud, with smoke stinging, he had never felt more empty, rarely more afraid. The urge to run and disappear from these brutes who did not join him in argument, who raised their weapons without hesitation, had been dizzying.
It was a long pause between words. Malcolm scarcely spoke without a very good idea of what to say, and words seemed so far away. "There was cleaning, burning, a message sent to the nearest Grand Cleric and another sent straight to Val Royeaux. The others...had mixed feelings, it seemed." Difficult to remember the individuals, so wrapped up in his own horror and trying so hard not to show it. "Some had never seen battle of this scale, too fresh. Shouldn't have been there. Some celebrated the well-earned victory. Others still acted as if this were just another day. Perhaps to them it was. We count our dead, we pack up, we ship off."