#fuck the Templars

[elvenforestwitch]

The Tevinter Templars are fucking insane. Dead elven slaves embedded in your walls in case of emergency necromancy? Fine. Summoning spirits to ask about ancient relics and then aggressively pestering them until they are corrupted into demons? Totally chill bro everyone makes mistakes. Skipping out on church? Rad. Blackmailing the elf you consider your sister? Okay. But you use bLOOD maGIC? Terrible. Horrible. The line has been fucking drawn. How dare you.

[kulttuurinkurittama]

I was feeling sick so I drew Anders. I've really been into drawing long noses recently and who better to draw than this guy?

[moontheoretist]

I don't know which Wardens, but definitely not my HOF.

Again fuck Rolan and his lies.

Who even gave you the right to decide if abominations are welcome or not within the Wardens? Like literally HOF traveled with one.

It's really weird how Chantry keeps being interested in Anders. They seem to be unable to leave this guy alone even though there were countless mages who joined the Wardens over the centuries and were left alone, because Chantry has no jurisdiction over the mages within the Wardens' ranks. Anders however seems to be a special case to them. So much that it's almost suspicious why they keep it all up.

I personally choose to interpret it as Chantry's attempt to invigilate the Wardens and take control from the inside. I also assume that Anders was not the only victim, but the only one that survived as he took out most of the people engaged in this, and later HOF weeded out others.

[mourn-and-watch]

I haven't paid much attention to it during my previous playthroughs because I was already overwhelmed with all the mass murders, power abuses and hate crimes happening in the game but oh boy. the templar order in kirkwall is even more messed up than it seems because despite all the big words about "noble cause" and "protecting the people" no templar genuinely believes or cares about that. among the ones in charge at least.

the thing is, one of the main motivations for hawke and carver (or hawke and bethany but mage hawke's case gets more hilarious in the following acts) to join the deep roads expedition is to escape the templars. they aren't planning to move in the deep roads until meredith resigns or something, they need to get money to escape the templars. to bribe them. and this is actually what happens in act 2! hawke is rich af and nobody bats an eye there is a mage living in hightown and breaking chantry laws whenever they want! they can approach cullen to show him alrik's documents and he immediately suspects they're the one who killed alrik but then proceeds to do nothing. they can spit in elthina's face by calling her useless and still. she does nothing.

it gets better and better in act 3. hawke is a champion and them being a mage is practically a common knowledge. and not just a mage, but a very skilled and dangerous one. also their friends are a possessed apostate and a dalish blood mage. these three are literally the type of people templars are obligated to capture asap. it's like, red alert levels of danger. yeah, meredith can blackmail hawke if they try to turn her down, but she still let them walk freely while they do some favors for her. she acknowledges this. she sees hawke as a threat, but won't touch them as long as they're useful. oh, but where did the "we must protect the city from mages! we must protect the mages from themselves!" bravado go?

templars won't lay a finger on hawke because everyone in the city, the nobles as well, will be mad if someone threatens their favourite friendly amell neighbour and then their champion. if someone threatens champion's friends the champion will be mad too.

kirkwall templars have a reputation of being strict and distrustful but capable, when in fact they beat frightened kids up and make them tranquil for exchanging love letters but if someone who can actually fight back shows up they will shit their pants. even the most dangerous and self-righteous ones.

does meredith believe that she is doing the right thing? I guess so. will she make an exception for extremely powerful uncontrolled mages because otherwise they will endanger her position and become an obstacle to her seizure of power? oh sure she will.

it's not a game conventionality though. if it was one we would get another inquisition where you simply can't be unhinged or say or do stupid reckless shit because it would put the whole organization in a very unpleasant position. inquisition just doesn't give you that option because it had no intention to elaborate on it. meanwhile in da2 all these topics are addressed: hawke can be rude to people in power, they can be openly pro-mage and other characters acknowledge that as well as their class and it makes sense. that's just a templar hypocrisy at it's finest for you.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Also, not gonna lie, loved seeing Templars getting their shit rocked. Including Tassia. Fuck the Templars includes the ones the narrative wants you to like.

[spitedemon]

i really don’t think it’s “typical dragon age fandom nonsense” for people to be genuinely upset about the world state choices. combat, level design, art direction, gameplay gimmicks, those have all varied across each dragon age game. the one thing that’s remained constant are nods to our previous choices.

i wasn’t expecting my HoF to come riding in on a griffon, but i can’t find a monument dedicated to warden tabris somewhere around the anderfels? lucanis couldn’t have some lines about the time that one arainai boy was stirring up trouble in antiva city? you’re gonna tell me that making a mage the new divine wouldn’t have some impact on nevarra and antiva? on the anderfels, the supposed most devout militant andrastian nation in thedas? you’re saying nobody in the north is paying attention to who rules orlais or ferelden? come on.

[clingyduoapologist]

most fucked up part about assassin's creed is that desmond was 25 and literally was at the club… but they ripped that boy out his natural habitat…

[lemonerix]

fixed up my templar sketch bc he's just so fun to draw :DDD

[robocop1906]

Just going to the store for some milk

[snurtle]

I've been thinking about the templars lately. they were promised honor, virtue, told that they would be charged with protection of the innocent... And then those same people are systemically exploited and abused, abuse others because they're taught to regard everyone else as either sheep who need to be lead or potential threats. Never equals, except in their brothers/sisters-in-arms. They act as the guard-dogs and military arm of an entirely different organization that they're only a functionary member of but have no governing say in. Even the chantry aren't their equals- they function as the templar order's supervisors! And all this isolation and closing of ranks ends in disability, addiction, death, and abandonment by the system they spent their bodies in service of.

To top that off, retaliations against them just confirm the paranoia they were taught to embrace. It's probably a long hard road to get out of that hole.

Like, listen. the dichotomy of mage vs templars is a satisfying and easy one, but the system is tearing them apart too. have you ever heard of a retired templar?

at the end of it, mages and templars need to unite against the real threat. the chantry.

[yahargul]

the more i see anders discourse come back due to the new da game it would be so great if people also acknowledged he is fulfilling a specific kind of white revolutionary fantasy. he positions himself as knowing better than the very people he wants to save and ends up directly responsible for many of their deaths and considers that an acceptable cost. well who accepted those terms lmao

[moontheoretist]

The light here isn't right. It's too yellow. Too harsh. And it all comes from above. For a moment, I'm not sure why that seems wrong. The sun… that's always been there, right? What am I remembering? The word comes back to me. The Fade. I am a mage. I've spent time in the place I remember. It is a land of mist, of dreams. And I'm right; the light there is different, emanating from the ground, the walls, not a single pinpoint source. But I've never been more than a visitor there. Why does it suddenly feel like home? What else can't I remember? I sit up, and the light brightens, darkens, steadies. The throb in my head returns and without thinking, I draw on a breath of mana to drive it away. The pain lifts as the magic settles over it, soothing and cooling. I try to think. Let's start with something simple. My name. What is my name? I am Anders. I am Justice. This never used to be so hard. Suddenly it comes back to me. Justice's voice, my voice, speaking through the rotting face of the body he once claimed. "It is time. You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced. Do you have the courage to accept my aid?" I knew what he offered. To stay in the mortal realm, he needs a host, a body to inhabit for a lifetime, not a corpse which will rot out from beneath him. If I gave him that, he would give me all he had, all he was. Together, we could remake Thedas into a world where justice rules, not fear. A world with no Circle. No templars. A world where every mage can learn to use their gifts and still return home at night. Where no mother ever need hide her child… or lose him to the fear of his neighbors. Where magic is recognized as a gift of the Maker, not the curse it has become. It's almost too much to imagine. The Circle, the templars, they've shaped my life. I was no more than twelve when they came for me. My mother wept when they fixed the chains to my wrists, but my father was glad to see me gone. He had been afraid, ever since the fire in the barn. Not just afraid of what I could do, but afraid of me, afraid my magic was punishment for whatever petty sins he imagined the Maker sat in judgment upon. I always knew I wouldn't submit. I could never be what they wanted from me -- compliant, obedient, guilty. But before Justice, I was alone. I never thought beyond my own escape: Where would I hide? How long before they found me? Now, even that thought repulses me. Why should so many others live with what I will not? Why must the Circle of Magi stand? Just because it always has, just because those who read Andraste's words twisted them to mean that mages must be prisoners? Why has there never been a revolution? "He's coming to." A voice, getting closer. Someone I know. A Grey Warden. "What in the Maker's name happened to him?" There are two of them. This one I don't know. "He just went crazy. His eyes were glowing… His bloody skin cracked open and it was like he was on fire inside. Just kept raving… something about injustice, a revolution. Thought I was going to have to put the blighter down like a mad dog, then he just collapsed." "Damned mages." I struggle to stand, to open my eyes and face them like a man, not the chewed-up pile of hurlock spew I feel like. I can see them now. It's Rolan; of course it is. The price I had to pay for the Grey Wardens' generosity in recruiting me out from under the templars' noses. He was one of them, before his Chantry was destroyed by the darkspawn and he felt the calling to join the Wardens. No one ever said a deal had been struck, but as soon as the templars stopped their protests, Rolan turned up in the Wardens, and we've fielded every assignment together since. It's all too clear the templars sent him to keep watch. And whatever possessed me to make my deal with Justice anywhere he might witness? As he appears, I regret that choice of words, because something stirs inside me, and I wonder if it's harder for Justice to exert his will in a body that a living consciousness still inhabits. But it's a futile question, because his thoughts are mine and he is me, and I'm no longer sure what I was even asking. Rolan is in front of me now, and the white griffin on his chest plate blurs in my sight with the steel-grey sword-of-flames on his companion's armor, and I know with white-hot certainty that Rolan has betrayed me. "The Wardens agreed we can't harbor an abomination," he is saying, nasal voice vibrating with smug satisfaction, and I don't need to hear more. He's brought the templars down on me, on us, and this is just what we've been waiting for. I don't see myself when I change, only the reflection in their eyes and the sound of their screams. My arm lashes out and silverite doesn't so much break as explode in a shower of molten metal. The sword melts, running down the templar's chest, and I follow up with a wave of flames which scorch the flesh from his face, leaving only bone so hot it smolders. The trees are burning… the tent… everything around us. Rolan is still standing, and I smell the lyrium he drank, which guarded him from the blast. But he's afraid. I see his shield jerk and know he barely resisted the urge to flee, and I have a sudden thought, "What am I?" for I've seen him face both broodmothers and abominations without fear. And then his sword is level with my chest, and I let it come, because it is only steel and cannot hurt me, for I am not of mortal men. And when it sinks hilt-deep in my flesh with no reaction, that's when he gives up. He turns and runs, and from behind, I tear his head off at the neck, no magic, just me, whatever that is now. His blood splashes into my open mouth and it tastes like honeyed wine and the warmth spreads through me. He hated me, and he is dead. He feared me, and he is dead. He hunted me, and he is dead. They will all die. Every templar, every holy sister who stands in the way of our freedom will die in agony and their deaths will be our fuel. We will have justice. We will have vengeance. And suddenly I'm alone, standing in a burning forest, with the bodies of templars and wardens at my feet. So many, and I didn't even know they were there. Didn't even know I had killed them, but the evidence is all around me. Not the aftermath of a battle as I've known it, but a bloody abattoir of rent limbs and torn and eaten flesh. This is not justice. This is not the spirit who was my friend, my self. What has he become? What have I become? We must get out of here. There is no place for me in the Grey Wardens now. Is there a place for me anywhere?

Anders Short Story by Jennifer Hepler

I dunno how you, but I disagree with everything that Rolan says here. I don’t know WHICH Wardens he asked, but those must have been some party leaders who decided on their own and didn’t even think to ask my Warden Commander what to do, because if they did ask my Warden they would know that she had no issue with “harboring abominations”, hell, she already defeated an Archdemon with one in her party. So as far as I am concerned they were all just traitors.

Whatever deal Rolan made with the Templars, it has nothing to do with my Warden Commander. My Warden Commander was a mage, and she would rather eat her own hand than let some Templar scum willingly into her ranks. So I understand this not as Warden’s idea to keep Anders in check as I saw some people doing, but instead as an infiltration done just under my Warden’s nose, and that deserves the punishment they got from Anders. As far as my Warden is concerned, Anders was acting in self-defense and destroyed a cell of Wardens that were a potential liability, as they had some deal with Templars she didn’t know about. If only Anders just came back to ask...

I don’t blame him. He was on a run for so long that it was probably hard for him to trust anybody, even his commanding officer. It was easier to assume that my Warden allowed this to happen than hope.

[baejax-the-great]

Playing Veilguard like:

[zkretchy]

It's 2am and I can't sleep, have this silly doodle

[maleficore]

concept art Cullen is the superior design, you can't convince me otherwise

I love everything about him -- the discoloration on his face, the nose bridge scar, the sunken in cheeks, eyebags for days... and of course the mole...

THIS is my man, I don't care what the game says

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”