"Uh. Maker. If you're there, it's me.. Alistair."
His knees are already achey, but the Revered Mother will lynch him if he skips prayers again, and right now that threat is bigger than a pair of scuffed knees. He re-clasps his hands together and swallows hard.
"It's.. been a while. Sorry about that. I've been busy, you see, and.. oh, right. Can't lie to you. Sorry. Again." He sighs into his lap. "You know I have trouble with this kind of stuff. Bear with me, okay?" He shuffles slightly, ruing the fact that he was dragged straight from training – this would be a lot more comfortable had he not been wearing this bulky armour. But ambushed he was. They were determined to drill religion into him by force, it seems.
"I don't even understand why I have to pray to you," he continues. "Am I a.. bad templar if I don't? Because I'm pretty good at everything else. Maybe a bit reckless with a shield, but.." Sighing again, he thinks. "I'm trying. I really am. Life has given me this lot, and I'm trying not to be ungrateful, but.. I'm good at the discipline and not much else." He closes his eyes. "And I'm not just doubting myself, here. I.. I know I'm not great. I just.. don't.. believe enough."
This is a big enough revelation in itself. He has never uttered these words to a soul – in the middle of a Chantry, it seems to be a bad move, he thinks with a hint of a smile. But his doubts are strong enough to warrant questioning what the Chantry says, even if not openly.
"The thing is.. I'm not happy here. Maker knows it.. sorry," he adds hastily. "I never was. I wasn't meant for a life of servitude and.. and mage-watching. That Tower.. it's soul-destroying. I don't.. I'm not a templar, not in my heart." He stares at his hands, joined so tightly in desperation. "But I don't know what I am supposed to be. And.. I guess that's kind of important. In the grand scheme of things. But.. I'd.. I'd like a sign. If that's not too much to ask for."
And really, is it? He has been in the possession of the Chantry, and he knows in his heart that this is not where his future lies. He is fully aware that he is not meant for greatness, a bastard prince kept under wraps, but that is fine by him.
"All I really want.. is a future, Maker. Is that alright? Because everyone here has one – they're all cut out to be great templars, or scholars, or Chanters of the Light. And.. I'm not cut from the same cloth. So.. if it's alright with you, I'd like a clue as to where I'm meant to be." He looks up to the altar. "And if I could get it sometime after tomorrow's tournament, that'd be good too. I'm looking forward to seeing the fights, even if they'll keep me on the bench." That should be enough time to appease the Revered Mother. He pauses for just another moment. "And.. thank you, I suppose. For not striking me down with lightning for not believing in you as much as everyone else." Standing up finally, his gaze lingers only for a second on the Revered Mother, who nods approvingly as he walks out of the chapel.