Chapter Text
Evelyn is sent away from the Ostwick estate at thirteen years old, skinny-limbed and irrepressibly stubborn.
The knife-eared servants pack her trunks into the wheel house while she paces tight circles on the lawn, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away, and they drip down onto the bodice of her dress, soaking the silk clean through.
“Please, I don’t want to go! Don’t make me! Please.” Evelyn begs through heavy sobbing.
When she had envisioned this scenario earlier, Evelyn had decided she was going to explain the facts of her argument reasonably. She was going to tell her parents that the Chantry could not possibly need another sister that badly. She was going to point out how hideous those sunburst robes were, and that she could not possibly be expected to wear them for the rest of her life. She was going to remind them of her status as a Trevelyan, one of them, and shouldn’t that account for something when they decided whether to ship her off across a whole continent?
But then it actually comes time to open her mouth and a fit of incoherent wailing emerges from her lips instead.
While Evelyn is surprised by the vehemence of her own resistance, her family seems to find this course of events entirely predictable. They have lined up outside the manse for propriety’s sake, never straying from their duty to noble etiquette, but are all of them studious in their effort not to directly acknowledge her.
Her siblings have always been exceptionally good at playing stupid games like this, at pretending to live in a world of make-believe where Evelyn doesn’t exist, and their only problems are each other.
Lorraine is expert at maintaining that expressionless poise befitting an eldest child, more distracted by her brothers’ irreverence than Evelyn’s whining; the two of them slouch defiantly by the door under the porch’s overhang, ready to make their escape at the nearest opportunity, instead of posing neatly behind Lorraine as they should have. Olivia watches the silent disagreement between her elder siblings with the attitude of a bored politician—vaguely polite and completely detached—and not so much as glancing Evelyn’s way.
Their parents, on the other hand, are far less practiced at finding avenues of distraction from Evelyn’s outbursts, and their patience is clearly stretched thin. Lady Trevelyan’s upper lip is curled back into a twitching sneer, her fingers tapping impatiently on the porch railing. Lord Trevelyan is stiffly erect beside her, busying himself with snapped orders at the knife-ears who load Evelyn’s luggage far too slowly for his taste.
It is strange, watching them channel their annoyance elsewhere when they would usually deal with her directly. It would be a blessing under normal circumstances, an opportunity to take hold of herself and act dignified, but right now she is being shipped away, and maybe if they would just take a little bit of notice (any kind of notice) it wouldn’t hurt so much.
Evelyn isn’t invisible, and she works hard to remind herself of this fact. She is not invisible.
“You can’t make me go.” Evelyn sobs desperately, “I won’t. This isn’t fair! I’ll run away and become a bandit and ruin our name. I hate this family, and I hate the Maker for putting me here. May He and Andraste rot in the Black City.”
It isn’t until the entire yard goes still that her brain catches up with her words, and Evelyn gasps. Lord Trevelyan’s face contorts in rage and Lady Trevelyan slowly flexes her hands. Oh no—she shouldn’t have—oh, Maker, please, no.
Evelyn meets her father’s livid gaze, silently pleading, but he whirls—Evelyn’s siblings flattening themselves against the side of the house to get out of his way—and disappears into the house. The door slams behind him, bouncing back off of the frame.
Her mother is more contained, but no less forceful in her authority. She steps down from the porch with slow measure and crooks a finger at her youngest.
Evelyn shakes her head no, refusing to budge an inch until her mother crosses the yard and takes her wrist in hand. The grip cuts off the circulation to Evelyn’s fingers. She drags Evelyn around the manor and into the back garden until they are hidden behind an old wisteria tree.
“You will not speak blasphemy against the Maker, you foolish girl.” Lady Trevelyan says in a quiet tone that belies the iron in her grasp, “The Trevelyans have served the Maker faithfully for generations, and we all play our roles in this, regardless of personal desire. The Bann of Ostwick—your father now and someday your eldest sister—rules over our holding with a firm hand guided by His will. Your brothers will serve our Maker on the battlefield, striking down those who would oppose His word. Your other sister will maintain a presence at court to ensure His influence among the wealthy and powerful.”
Her mother pauses when they hear the back door of the house swing open and shut.
“And you. Our irreverent last child. You will serve at the Maker’s side as a Chantry sister. You will spread His word to the masses. You will act as a pillar of devotion in the community. You will lead by pious example.”
Lord Trevelyan’s brisk steps click against the brickwork of the garden path, bringing him into view as he joins them beneath the dappled light of swaying branches. Though the initial fury has cooled from his face, his knuckles are white around the sturdy birch switch that usually rests on the mantle of the library fireplace.
Evelyn feels her body trembling.
“That is your duty to the Maker. It is what you owe Him and it is not a choice, now or ever.”
“Kneel,” her father says, and Evelyn does, fixing her gaze up on the hanging purple flowers above her and bracing her hands against the rough bark. Her body tenses and jerks when she hears the whistle and thwap of the stick between her shoulder blades. An involuntary rasping whimper escapes her.
Lady Trevelyan continues her speech as though without interruption. “You will go to Tantervale. You will serve the Trevelyan name. And you will rid yourself of this streak of headstrong resistance. We have had enough of it.”
Evelyn’s mother carefully times her words so that they might be heard between the cracking blows. The last comes after she finishes the lecture, hard enough to knock the breath from Evelyn’s lungs, and louder than any of the others—loud enough to scare birds from their nests in the branches above them.
“Show me you understand your duty to the Maker and this family. Recite the Canticle of Transfigurations and repent.”
“Th-these truths the Maker has revealed to m-me: as there is but one world, one life, one d-d-death, there is but one god, and He is our...our Maker…” In shaking breaths, Evelyn ignores the scorching burn on her back and utters the words of the Chant. She knows them so well that they are practically etched inside her eyelids.
Later, Evelyn’s mother ushers her into the wheel house. Her father is nowhere to be seen, but her siblings still watch from the awning. They are more alert now, at risk of suffering the blowback from their parents’ anger. How much they must resent Evelyn for it.
The space between her shoulder blades is still hot and stinging, and she has to curl up in a ball over her knees to prevent her back from bumping against the side canopy. Several knife-ears climb in with her, plainly dressed women who keep their eyes averted to their feet at all times, appropriate to their station.
Two of her father’s retainers mount their enormous black coursers and flank the wagon. Their faces are mostly covered by sharply angled helmets, but Evelyn can see one of them frowning at her through his eye slit with something like sympathy.
“Remember: Modest in temper.” Lady Trevelyan says through her teeth. Funny how Evelyn has never been told to be bold in deed, though that is undoubtedly the second half of their family motto.
The wagon jolts forward, and Evelyn focuses hard on the toes of her slippers and not the way her stomach tries to climb up out of her throat.
In Ostwick, Evelyn is secure in her knowledge of how to retaliate against her brothers’ jibes (honey trickled into Jean’s pillowcase to attract ants, and yellow mustard smeared on the back of Remy’s pale breeches), and which trees are best to climb when she needs to avoid a switching (the giant oaks lining the estate grounds camouflage her perfectly with their thick waxy leaves and clumps of Antivan moss). There is no such familiarity in the outside world, and it could hardly be kinder than the people who share her blood. Undoubtedly it will be worse.
The only thing keeping Evelyn from flinging herself out of the wagon and into the western forest is the thought that the Maker watches. She tells Him she is sorry for saying what she said, and please don’t rot on your throne next to Andraste. She prays for His strength and reassurance.
As usual, she receives no answer.