Author's Note: This fanfic will attempt to fill in and detail the lives of our favorite characters before the Blight began. I have not read the books that are out thus far--though I know the basic gist of them--so this is mostly game canon and not book canon... though I tried to align it with the books as well as I could. I am starting with Alistair, though Morrigan will be next, and after that Zevran... or at least that's the plan. It won't be finished until I have done prequels for the characters to my satisfaction. Whether or not it'll be any good or not... well, I guess we'll see. The first five parts will deal with Alistair though.
Any comments or corrections are welcome.
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Arl Eamon dismounted from his horse, allowing the stable boy take the animal away to care for him. He wasn't quite sure why he had been summoned in the dead of night by the king, but he wasn't one to refuse a royal summons even if it got him out of bed. He brushed his knuckles against the velvet of his cloak as he looked around. The palace was dead this time of night. No one stirred save for the guardsmen on duty, and perhaps a few of the kitchen staff, readying the kitchen for the breaking of the nightly fast in a few hours.
Why in the Maker's name...? he wondered to himself. However, it was no use standing about waiting for the king to appear and hand him the answer to this mystery summons. He left in search of his liege. In all likelihood, Maric was either in one of the numerous parlors or meetings rooms, or in his royal quarters. Royal quarters, Eamon thought to himself. At this time of night, I'd be waiting there if I were him. Eamon strode through the courtyard to the doors, where he was allowed admittance. A bleary eyed servant bade him to seek the king in his royal chambers--aha, one mystery solved--and offered to guide him. Eamon waved off the offer as he knew the royal chambers well from having visited his sister here many times, and strode with purpose down the halls.
In the twelve years Maric had been king, since he liberated Ferelden from the Orlesians, he'd become secretive, even to his closest companions. As Eamon was busy setting Redcliffe to rights and away from court often, he noted the changes more sharply than those who constantly surrounded Maric, seeing the changes hidden cleverly beneath a veneer of geniality. The king was bitter, resentful, though sometimes with reason. His was a lofty purpose, and the goal was achieved, but what now? Maric had been groomed to lead Ferelden to victory, but was the actual ruling of the country too much? The court abounded with intrigues now, or so he had heard, with the nobility jockeying for position and the favor of the king. Some were dismissed with prejudice after some plot or another had been uncovered, or just for... crossing the king. Rumors and gossip, and such stuff the arl should not pay any attention, yet it was on every tongue, even in the winesinks in the common quarter. Eamon had no fear that Maric would remove him from his station, but he did not want to be involved in any intrigues. He lived a quiet life with his wife in Redcliffe, and he strove to keep it that way.
As Eamon climbed the stairs to the royal apartments, he reflected on the last time he had been here, shortly after Rowan's death. Young Cailan had no idea what had happened, and kept calling for his mother. Maric, deep in mourning, had turned away from his son, surrendering him to the army of nannies that attended the royal prince. Was that when the distancing had started, with the death of his wife? They'd been promised to each other as children, but it was only in the years before Cailan's birth had they been close, in any real way, or so his sister had told him. After the loss of Rowan, it seemed to Eamon Maric would not recover... yet he did, in time. He was not the same as before, but how could he have been? He was harder, cynical. A changed man from the early days of easy camaraderie; Eamon saw it if no one else did. Logain... ah, Logain would have noticed, and no doubt encouraged the harder edge. All the better to keep Ferelden safe.
He put those thoughts aside as he approached the royal quarters, and checked his appearance in one of the mirrors in the hallway. He saw a man approaching middle age, dressed hastily in plainly cut clothing, though of very fine material. There were crow's lines around his eyes, the beginning of age to show. He was not old by any means, but nor was he young, and the years had been tumultuous to say the least. Even the sturdiest of men would show the signs of stress had they lived through what he did. Eamon made a few adjustments to his clothing and hair, striving to appear as if it were midday instead of the middle of the night. He signaled his readiness, and the guards gave a quiet knock to the huge double doors which guarded the king's personal quarters. At a muffled response, Eamon was ushered in without much ado; the mystery was about to be solved firsthand. Resolute, Eamon told himself he was not getting into the politics and intrigues of the royal court.
The royal chambers were huge, but sparsely populated with furniture. A divan or two, Maric's desk, and a table along the side of the wall for holding refreshment. Another set of double doors led into the bedchamber, opposite the entrance. The room was dominated by a huge fireplace to one side, set deeply within the walls. Maric was standing before the fire, watching the flames lick the logs. A cloud hung over him, or so it seemed to the arl. His face was lit with flame and shadow, giving his monarch a broody look. "I have arrived, Your Majesty," Eamon announced, but Maric waved him to silence. He held a glass in one hand, the other returned on the mantle, as if he were poised to throw himself into the flames.
"Maric, please brother," he said in reply, eyes locked on the fire, using a friendly term. Eamon felt unease creep into mind as well as curiosity. He wants something of me, something important, the arl thought, trying to suss out the situation. Why else draw on our familial connection? The king looked tired and drawn, and after that, seemed to pay his visitor no mind. Eamon waited patiently. Maric might be exhausted by whatever burden he carried now, but he was no fool. Whatever he was doing now was intentional, planned out with meticulous care.
After a few minutes, Maric turned from the fire to face the arl. "Tell me, Eamon," he said ponderously, "do you think I am a good king?"
Of all the things Eamon expected him to say or ask, that was the last on his list. "I do, Maric." He paused for a moment, "What is this about?"
Maric waved his hand idly again, "The court might disagree with you. I have a tendency to 'disappear', they say."
"That business with the dark roads?" Eamon asked. He'd heard about it, somewhat. Maric had volunteered to show the Wardens the way when their guide had been lost. He didn't know exactly what for; he'd been in Redcliffe at the time, and rumors and gossip only went so far.
"That, and other things," Maric said, moving to his desk to refresh his glass of wine. He looked up, "Would you care for some?" When Eamon shook his head, the king poured another glass anyway, "You'll drink it anyway." He offered it to the arl, "An order from your king."
Eamon took the glass of wine and sipped at it, to be polite. Maric stepped away from the desk again, moving back to the fireplace one more to stare morosely into the flames. "It's not so much the responsibility of being a king I was running away from, but my failure at... being a father."
Eamon set his glass aside. He stepped up to the king, and clasped Maric on the shoulder companionably. "That's not true. You adore Cailan. He's a fine young lad."
Maric smiled bitterly, the fire reflected in his eyes, "You're not here, brother. You don't see what I see, or hear what I hear."
An enigmatic answer to say the least. "What's this about?" Eamon asked anew. "You're not one to play games like this."
Maric breathed in heavily through his nostrils, almost snorting in reply. "No. No, I'm not." His voice held a mournful tone, and when the king glanced at Eamon to shake his head, Eamon could see the sadness etched in Maric's features. He had never seen the king like this, so gripped with melancholy and regret. Was it Rowan and her death he was regretting? Or giving Cailan over to tutors and nannies to raise? That was the fate of a royal prince; there was no shame in having another raise your child, especially when there was a whole kingdom to rule and keep together. Eamon could only wish he had that fate to bear; in all the years he and Isolde had been married, they had yet to be blessed with a child. "I have a son," Maric said, his lips tight and voice quiet. It jerked Eamon out of his reverie.
"Yes: Cailan," Eamon replied, his brow creasing. Was the king going mad?
Maric shook his head in negation once more. "No, I've another son. A bastard." He took a long drink of his wine while Eamon blinked in surprise. The king turned away again, back to the fire. "From... from a servant girl here in the palace. She died in the birthing. And I... I need to ask you a favor." The gaze switched back to Eamon again, and Maric licked his lips. "Brother."
"As you say, Your Majesty," the arl responded. He could guess at what favor Maric was asking.
"I want you to take the child with you, back to Redcliffe," Maric said, a shadow of his command returning, banishing the sad note in his voice for a moment. "I can't bear to have another child here, and not one who may threaten my trueborn son's rule, one day."
"But a bastard has no right to the throne--" Eamon began.
Maric cut him off, "Unless some unruly nobles one day decide that perhaps this other son might be more pliable. It's not me, or Cailan even, that I am worried for. It's the future of Ferelden." Maric drained his wine glass and set it on the mantle, turning away from Eamon and looking back into the flames. "It's happened before. A royal bastard is a knife at any king's throat." He shook his head slowly, side to side, as if it pained him to think of it. "And what sort of life would he have, this bastard of mine? He would be wooed and threatened in turn by the scheming beasts of the court. He'd be branded everywhere he went, thought of as a weapon, a tool to use against the Theirin line. Him and his children both, one day."
Eamon was speechless. All this was true, of course, but Maric was taking it so... to heart. He sensed something underneath the king's mien, but with such murky waters, the current was impossible to read. "As you command, Your Majesty." What else could he do?
"I don't want him to know he's mine," Maric said, his voice slurring. "Let him have a normal life, live, and die in happy ignorance."
Eamon ran a hand through his hair, "Your Majesty..."
Maric held up a hand to forestall any protestations, "You've no children as of yet." He raised his brows a little in question, glancing to his vassal.
"No, no of course not, brother, but Isolde..." How would Isolde take this? Not well, Eamon realized ruefully. Not well at all.
"She can't know," Maric said hastily, filling the silence. "This must remain a secret, else all would be for naught."
"I... understand, but she may take it badly."
A smile flickered upon Maric's lips. "I quite understand the sensitivities of women, Eamon." The smile was there and gone in an instant as the melancholy set back in. He sighed, resignation laying heavy upon his features, "I would not ask this of you if I felt there was another choice." A pause, "I trust you, Eamon."
And there it was. Eamon bowed his head. Isolde wouldn't like it--that was true--but he could hardly refuse a command from the king, even if it was phrased like a request. More than that, however, he couldn't refuse the trust the king placed in him. "Thank you, Maric." He paused for a moment, feeling out the words, "I will guard him as if he were my own."
Maric nodded, seeming on the verge of saying something, then shrugged slightly. He glanced at Eamon and the words between them hung unsaid. "Thank you," he said instead.
"Where is the child?" Eamon asked, his own resignation echoing Maric's from a moment ago. If the bastard were to be kept a secret, he obviously wouldn't be at the palace.
"The Black Pearl, with his wetnurse," Maric replied, moving back to the desk for more wine. "It seemed... appropriate."
No doubt, Eamon thought to himself sourly. This night would spawn many rumors, but perhaps this was for the best, if this facade was to be kept. "I will leave now, my liege, unless there is anything else?"
Maric nodded. The king reached into his tunic, and withdrew a pendant and chain. "This," he said, handing it to Eamon carelessly, face turned away. "This was his mother's. See that he has it when he comes of age." The king's voice was thick, but likely that was from the wine. "Thank you, brother."
"You are welcome," Eamon replied after pocketing the amulet. The arl lingered for a few moments more as Maric stared into the flames. He could not miss the regret in Maric's posture, his expression. He bowed his goodbye, though the king ignored him, and exited from the royal chambers. He walked swiftly, his mind afire. Who was the mother? Was she truly a servant? It seemed unlikely, but the king had been reluctant to marry again, though there was some pressure from the nobles to do so. A king with only a single heir made the nobility nervous, as the line of succession was far from secure. Cailan was only nine, no... ten now? Regardless, the heir was young, and there were still many diseases which could claim his life, not to mention accidents, or assassinations... no, it would be better if Maric remarried, but alas, the king was not inclined to do so. Eamon shook his head; it was useless contemplating the whys of the matter. Far better to deal with the reality he faced, which was raising someone else's son.
As he mounted his horse, thoughts of Isolde ran through his mind. She would not like this at all. There was no way to hide a child from her, and he wouldn't want to do so anyway. People would think the child was his. Even without him saying one way or another, rumors would spread. The lack of a child between them would weigh heavily upon her because it would seem as though he were fertile, but she was not. He loved his wife with all his heart, but she was touchy at times, if only for the simple fact she was Orlesian and it was not that long ago Orlais controlled Ferelden. She still feared, after all these years, that the people viewed her as someone to mistrust, moreso because she hadn't given him an heir. Eamon himself was not worried. If the worst came to pass, Teagan would take over upon Eamon's death.
As he plodded through the streets to the whorehouse, Eamon sighed and shrugged it off. He would just have to reassure Isolde as he couldn't refuse his king's request. That was unthinkable, and Maric was right--a royal bastard was a knife at the king's throat, and the prince's. There were too many ways the child could be used against them. There was still time for Maric to marry again, father more Theirins...
His thoughts broke off as he arrived at the Black Pearl. It was a whorehouse, but one of some repute. He dismounted and told the boy to hold his horse here instead of stabling it. The boy bowed graciously, and shot a crooked smile as Eamon passed him a silver bit. The arl walked inside, and was pleasantly surprised by the demure decor. It wasn't as garish as he feared, but it was still a whorehouse. Marshalling his lordly demeanor, he turned to the man behind the desk, who was rousing himself from a light nap for the new customer. "'ow can I 'elp yah, mate?"
"I am here for the child, and his nurse," Eamon replied. The quicker the better, in his estimate, before anyone recognized him. The clothing he had picked... people would know he was a noble, but with luck, not who he was exactly. He did not want it getting back to Isolde he had been visiting a whorehouse.
The greeter's sleepy eyes flicked open wide. "Ah, o' course, ser." He made a gesture for Eamon to wait, then backed out of the booth he had been sitting in. Eamon could hear footsteps, words being exchanged, and then the man returned. "It'll jes' be a second, ser." The man licked his lips nervously, "Would ya care fer a mug o' ale while ye--"
"No," Eamon said curtly, cutting the man off. "Just what I asked for."
Time passed, and a buxom young woman with pale hair was led out holding a heavily swathed bundle, the child of course. Eamon resisted the urge to bow, as he would have in polite society. "Is this him?" he asked, voice stiff.
"Yes, m'lord," the nurse said, dipping a quick and clumsy curtsy with the child in her arms.
"Let me see him," the arl commanded. The nurse obeyed quickly, unswathing the child to show the arl. The boy seemed to be as any other child, but Eamon looked close for any distinctive features of Maric's. It was hard to tell so early, but he could not say for certain this was Maric's son. He hoped the child took after his mother rather than his father. He reached forward and stroked the child's head and cheek, drawing a line down the side of the child's face. "Thank you," he replied, his voice stern. He had a great distaste for this deception, but it could not be helped. It wasn't the girl's fault either, and he tempered his voice to a softer tone, "Come with me, lass."
The nurse bounded the child up again, dipping another curtsey and scurrying after him. The boy was still outside with the horse, and it had started to rain. Just a drizzle, but enough to make everything wet. Eamon turned to the wetnurse, "What is your name?"
"Marya, m'lord," she replied, lowering her eyes in respect.
"Marya, I'll have you on the horse and walk you back to the estate. You will tell my staff what you need for the child, and make ready to leave..." he looked up at the sky--it was nearly daylight--"on the morrow. Today it is too late to make our return to Redcliffe." He paused, considering the wetnurse, "Where is your own child?" If she was giving milk, she had to have given birth more or less recently.
She made a noise, and clutched the king's bastard tighter to her chest where he made a muffled grunt of displeasure, "Dead, m'lord, this past week of a fever." Marya shook, but she kept her voice as even as she could, given the circumstances.
He frowned, "I am sorry." He didn't know what else to say, but at least he wouldn't be traveling with two children. One would be bad enough, and him so young... Eamon studied the woman for a moment, "Will you be able to care for him adequately?"
"Yes, m'lord," Mayra replied, hugging the bundle closer. "We'll be just fine, won't we, my fine bonny lad?" She cooed at the baby, stroking the child's cheek with a coarse finger, tears threatening to spill. It was obvious to Eamon she was substituting the king's son for her own, but it played out just as well. Someone needed to take care of the child, and keep him from Isolde's view.
"Good," the arl said. "Come now, good woman. I cannot let you walk, not while holding him." He glanced skyward, "And not in this weather." With her murmured thanks, he helped Marya mount the horse, which she did so awkwardly. Her skirts ran up to her thighs unladylike, but she was unconcerned, worrying over the baby she held. Eamon was unconcerned himself; the entire night had been an exercise in pushing away concern and dealing only with the present problem at hand. He led the horse through the streets of Denerim back to his estate, deep in thought.
Once they arrived, the sun was peeking over the city walls. Eamon made sure Mayra and the baby were settled, then summoned his castellan. He informed the man briefly of the situation, and bade him to have someone see to the child and nurse's needs. With that, he sank down behind his desk and felt the burden sink in, the finality of it. The child didn't even have a name yet, he mused. He needs one, and soon.
The amulet was heavy in his pocket, and out of curiosity, Eamon retrieved it to examine it closely. It was plain of make, something one would see in any jeweler's stall. There were no engravings. He ran his fingers over it, contemplating. He knew why Maric chose him. Once he gave his word, it was forever. That, and the ties between them... he knew Eamon lived away from court, only journeying to Denerim when the Landsmeet was called, though he maintained an estate here. He wants me to protect this child, defend him from the court, the arl thought. He could have given him over to any of his servants, or nobles, yet he's placing his trust in me. I should be honored. Not everyone got to raise a king's bastard. He thought of the boy, fingers running over the mother's pendant. He'll have a decent raising, and be trained in what courtly ways I can teach him, Eamon decided. I'll raise him to be a loyal king's man, and perhaps, in time... Maric will change his mind. Or he'll need to recognize him, for whatever reason. Since he was bound to do this, he would do his best to raise the boy so that Maric would be proud.
On the morrow, when they were ready to go, Eamon stopped at the wain which had been found for the wetnurse and the child. Marya held the boy up for Eamon's inspection and approval. "The little one is good and safe, see, m'lord?" The boy himself waved a chubby fist at the sky, eyes focused on a cloud or the sun, perhaps.
"Alistair," Eamon corrected. "His name is Alistair."