Author's Note: The plot bunny for this built its warren in my brain during a conversation I was having with user deagh about Alistair's true parentage and his relationship with Cailan. We discussed the fact that somewhere along the line Cailan realized Alistair was his half-brother, and Anora confirms this. This is based roughly off of the dialogue where Alistair says he and Cailan once met, briefly, and then they drifted apart. He's being quite sarcastic in the dialogue, but what if they drifted apart because shortly after their meeting he was sent off to the monastery? Finally, the title of the story and the two parts is taken from the poem "Brothers" by Martin Miles, set to music by Carl M. Steubing.

Part I: Garments Quaint

The Arl force-fed him instructions the way a nurse might force feed gruel to a finicky toddler, and the reaction was largely the same.

"Do not sass the maids."

"But why…"

"Do not look up unless instructed."

"I don't…"

"Do not ask questions."

"I…"

"Do not speak unless spoken to, and then say as little as you can get away with saying," the Arl said, kneeling before the boy. "That is the most important of all."

So now he submitted to having his fingers scrubbed, Cora the maid paying careful attention to the dirt gummed beneath his nails. Angela yanked a comb none-too-gently through his sandy hair, grumbling while she checked for lice. Cora backed away swiftly as the second dumped a pail of tepid water over his head, washing away the soap and dirt and leaving his eyes stinging. But there was no rest, for now they scrubbed behind his ears until the skin was raw, and examined his face for any remaining dirt without paying heed to his burning eyes. He longed to ask what the point of all this was, but the Arl's first instruction had been firm, and he feared a thrashing. So he submitted.

When they hauled him out of the tub all he wanted was to go stand before the fire and warm himself. He spent his nights, even these cold ones, in the kennels. He found warmth in the unconditional snuggling of the Mabari hounds, and had learned to tolerate the smell. But a fire was a luxury. He gravitated to the hearth like a moth, but Cora grabbed him by his ear and began toweling him off. The rough fabric chafed, and he understood why the hounds would prefer to clean themselves with their soft pink tongues.

He fully expected to be draped in his tattered and dirty clothes once more, but to his surprise the two maids had laid out fresh, newly tailored clothing that actually fit him as he pulled it on. His old shirt had been too big, a hand-me-down from Jareth in the stables; his trousers barely grazed the tops of his ankles as he sprouted like the summer crops. As for his shoes, they'd worn out long ago. It wasn't anything he begrudged the Arl; like so many things in his life, it simply was.

"We've no time for a proper haircut," Angela lamented, jerking the comb through his hair once more and sending droplets of water flying. "I wish we'd had warning."

"Complaining does us no good now," Cora said, standing back and examining the boy. He kept his eyes trained on the stone floor as he'd been ordered, until she gave a shrug and a sigh. "That'll have to do. Remember, boy, you don't speak…"

"Unless spoken to first," he repeated. He had yet to learn reading and writing, but he was not unintelligent, despite his usual unkempt appearance. "Mistress…" he began, and shied away from the inevitable slap to remind him of his place. But it didn't come so he hazarded his question. "Where am I to go?"

She sighed again. "Of course you wouldn't know the castle. I'll take you to the stairwell, and then it's up to you. Can you do that?"

He wanted to stop at every painting, ever banner; he wanted to look at every beam in the ceiling, and feel the blue carpet under his feet. The new shoes felt funny; they pinched his heels and made his toes tingly. After two such pauses to admire all this newness about him Cora grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him along, stumbling beside her. "Follow the stairs down and do not dawdle," she whispered. Voices drifted up, but it was impossible to discern words. "At the bottom take a right, pass the suits of armor, and then you will be in the audience chamber. Remember your manners." She released his arm and nudged his back. He only had a moment to turn and give her an uncertain glance before she pushed him a bit harder this time, and he grabbed the railing to keep from tumbling down.

The voices grew louder as he descended, eyes still roving through the torch lit halls. He wondered about the bedrooms, and what it would be like to sleep there rather than the kennels. He recalled very little of his early life, and what did pass through his memory was blurry, like trying to see through the thick morning mists that rolled off Lake Calenhad. It seemed he'd never known much else than the way the scents of summer clung to the hay in the drafty stables, or the contented whines of the Mabari hounds as he curled against them to keep away the winter chill here in the south of Ferelden.

He walked past the suits of armor as he'd been bidden, flicking his gaze between the silent sentinels as if they would come alive. He paused at the entrance of the audience chamber and peered around the wooden doorframe. Arl Eamon was there, his red and gold doublet crisp and smart and his blue eyes twinkling. The other man had hair the color of wheat ready for harvest that he wore to his shoulders and sometimes fell in his bright blue eyes while he spoke with the Arl. And there was a boy there with them, older, but still not near manhood. It was the Arlessa, an Orlesian woman named Isolde, who spotted him.

"Eamon, the child awaits," she said in a tone as chill as the winter that raged outside the castle. She clung to Eamon's arm, curling tendrils of golden brown hair framing her porcelain face. She would have been pretty if she wasn't so cold.

"Alistair, welcome." The Arl pried Arlessa Isolde's fingers off his arm and took a step toward the waiting child. "Thank you for coming. Please, enter."

Alistair entered, fending off the chill from Isolde on one side, and feeling subjected to the scrutiny of the blond man on the other. Eamon's instructions tumbled through his mind and just as his eyes drifted upward he remembered to stare at the stone. "Alistair, this is King Maric," Eamon said.

He was torn between looking up at the King's piercing blue eyes and obeying the instructions forced into him. He wanted to say hello to the King but the King had not spoken to him first. He dared a glance at the blond boy with the King, but he was playing with a loose thread on his own blue and green doublet.

"Hello, Alistair. How do you do?" The King had a pleasant voice, and it was kinder than Alistair might have expected.

"Well, sir," he mumbled to the floor. He clasped his hands, too clean, behind his back and squirmed in his well-fitting, if plain, clothes. His feet hurt.

"Look at me, Alistair," King Maric ordered, standing right in front of the boy and gazing down at him. Alistair looked over at Arl Eamon first. Did the King's command outweigh the Arl's? Would he be put in the stocks, or receive a thrashing for disobeying the Arl's direct order? Or would the King have his head cut off if he didn't obey? In the end, Alistair looked up, but at a spot on the ceiling that made it seem he was looking at the King. Even if he wanted to he wouldn't have been able to meet those sharp blue eyes.

King Maric said nothing. He watched Alistair's discomfort, saw through the veneer of cleanliness to the simple stable boy beneath.

"Father, I'd like to go to the practice yards now, if it's all the same," the other boy said, snapping the stillness like a twig.

"And this is Prince Cailan," Arl Eamon volunteered. "King Maric's son."

Cailan glanced over at Alistair and shrugged, then without waiting to be dismissed, turned on his heel and left. "He knows how to play the part only too well, I'm afraid," King Maric said, turning from Alistair and watching his son go. "He's only fourteen, but the Maker only knows how he picked up those airs. He certainly didn't get them from me." He returned his gaze to Alistair. "How old is this one, then?"

"Nine, though he'll be ten come Wintermarch," Eamon said. This surprised Alistair, for he barely knew when his own birthing day was. For the Arl to know made him feel important, if only for the briefest of moments.

"It is the youngest the Chantry will take novices," the Arlessa spoke up.

King Maric turned from Alistair and strode over to the Orlesian woman. She glared up at him, her brown eyes hard as the frozen ground in the stable yard. "You intend to send him to the monastery?"

Her voice dropped, though Alistair could still hear some of what she said. "It is an appropriate place for a bastard child. Far more appropriate than here," she said, stressing the last word. Alistair had no idea what she was talking about, and when he glanced in her direction she seemed angry with him. He went over the list of instructions in his head, but couldn't find any that he'd violated. Then again, the Arlessa was always angry with him, as if his very existence offended her.

The king seemed to want to say something, but thought better of it. He turned back to the child, ill at ease around the adults. "Thank you for coming to see me, Alistair," he said. "Maker watch over you."

"And over you." The response was ingrained in Alistair by rote, so he said it even over the shock of receiving the Maker's blessing from the King of Ferelden. "Your majesty," he added hastily, when he saw Arl Eamon turning a bit red at his impertinence.

"Back to the stables with you, boy," Arl Eamon said. "Take the underground passage, for it has started snowing again in earnest. You're likely to get lost in a snowdrift if you walk in it, especially in the dark."

"Thank you, your grace," Alistair mumbled, his mind as much a whirl as the snowstorm. He left the audience hall, daring only one glance back to see King Maric watching him. He would have thought the man would be happy to be King, but he looked almost sad. Alistair wondered if Cailan knew that his father was sad. If Alistair had a father, and he was sad, he would have asked what was wrong. And then maybe he would hug him. Sometimes he hugged the dogs, but it wasn't the same. They didn't hug back, just licked his face with wide, slobbery pink tongues.

He followed the Arl's directions through the kitchens and the larder, pausing for his nimble fingers to filch an apple left out here, or a crust of bread left there. His pockets were full when he descended into the dank basement, ready to return to the cold and to the only family he had.

Part 2: Silent Plea

Visits to Redcliffe were so dull, yet his father insisted on them. It wasn't that Cailan disliked his Uncle Eamon and Aunt Isolde. They always saw to his comfort. It was just hideously boring. If his Uncle Teagan was also visiting from the tiny Bannorn of Rainesfere, things were passably better. Teagan would tell stories about his time in the Free Marches, and sometimes let Cailan ride his horse. Well, he'd let Cailan sit on the chestnut stallion, while he led it around the exercise ring.

But many visits, like this one, left the adults talking and Cailan seeking out some way of entertaining himself. If he knew he could avoid a lecture, he would have snuck through the tunnels that came out in the windmill overlooking the town. But his father was watchful, and would find out; he had a supernatural sense about him when it came to his son getting into mischief. Cailan could recall the times when he was very young, and his father would just disappear, either into his rooms or elsewhere. But the last time that had happened was nine years ago, and since then the King had been very attentive to his son. It was also in the last nine years that they'd started making regular calls to Redcliffe.

Cailan found his way to the covered, three-walled practice ring easily enough. It was cold, but at least he was away from the stuffiness of adult talk. The nuances of politics bored him. His tutors complained about his inattentiveness. Cailan wanted to tell them that if they just let him pick up a sword every now and then…

He found a blunt wooden practice blade on a rack and dragged a straw dummy into the center of the ring. The effort made him sweat in spite of the cold, and while he was sure this was not permissible, he was also sure no one would dare reprimand him for it. He didn't know much about sword play; his father wanted him to learn first and foremost about fighting with words and knowledge. But those were as dull as the practice blade in his hands right now.

Cailan spun and whacked the dummy in the side with the edge of the sword. It tipped over and he picked it up, then jabbed his sword at its straw-filled stomach. It wiggled, but stayed upright, and Cailan dodged an imagined swing of a sword only he could see. This continued for a time, until a zealous swing toppled the dummy again. Cailan was sweating with the effort of fighting, even if it was an enemy that took the beating quietly.

As he bent to one knee he became aware someone was watching him. He looked around and spotted the boy at the far end of the yard. Snow flitted down like feathers, settling in his hair. The cold air made his cheeks red. Cailan got to his feet and gave the boy his most imperious glare. "What are you waiting for? Pick it up."

The boy's eyes widened, but he obeyed. As he neared, Cailan recognized the boy from the audience hall. He didn't recall the name. He was nimble and scrawny, but not very strong, and Cailan had to help him pick the dummy up anyway. Then he stood there, eyes on the dirt, hands clasped behind him. Cailan went back to hitting the dummy, and the boy just stood and stared. "Who are you?" he asked at last, because another boy, even if a few years younger than him, was better company than the straw dummy.

The boy looked up, shocked that the Prince would want his name. Cailan didn't repeat the question; he drew himself to his full height, which wasn't very impressive yet, and stared down his nose the way he'd seen his father do. "I'm Alistair. Your highness."

"Alistair. Stop calling me your highness." The boy, Alistair, nodded quickly, his eyes wide with uncertainty. He moved with quick, jerky motions, always watching Cailan as if afraid he'd be beaten for the slightest misstep. This was Redcliffe after all, a simple Arling with simple people who were bound to have simple reactions. Cailan sighed. "Where were you going?"

"Back to the ken… stables, your… Um, yes." Alistair looked back at the ground, apologetic. "I sleep in the hay," he confided with all his childlike innocence.

Cailan quirked an eyebrow, a trait his father also had. Often Teyrn Loghain, his father's best friend, observed how alike the two were. The Teyrn commented frequently that Cailan reminded him of Maric when they'd first met, which made Cailan blush and Anora, Loghain's pretty daughter, giggle. "So you're not a page for the castle?"

Alistair looked up at Cailan, his left eyebrow quirked slightly in a way that ignited something in the back of Cailan's mind. "No, highness. I'm… I don't rightly know," Alistair said. The look was gone, fleeting as a summer storm, and the boy was looking at the dirt again.

"Then who are your parents?" Cailan picked up the sword again and fought with the dummy, but of course it didn't fight back. He eyed the scrappy boy before him. "Fetch a sword," he ordered.

Alistair scurried to do as he was told. "I have no parents. My mother died when I was born, and my father… well, I don't know. I'm a bastard," he said in a small voice that reminded Cailan of how young the boy truly was. "Drouin, the head stable hand, says everyone thinks the Arl's my father though."

Cailan circled Alistair, who held the wooden practice blade as if it were a poisonous snake about to bite him. He lunged forward, and Alistair jumped back, blue eyes wide with fright. "I see. That's why the Arl keeps you around, then?" Cailan's stare bored into the boy's face until Alistair had to look away. He didn't look a thing like the Arl; but what other reason would Eamon have for continuing to shelter this orphan?

Alistair warily watched Cailan circle. "The Arlessa says I'm to be sent to the monastery when I'm old enough."

Cailan took a swipe at Alistair, and knocked the blunt blade right from the boy's hand. Alistair fumbled for his weapon, but Cailan held the tip of his own blade to Alistair's throat. "Yield," he said, the way he'd seen knights at tournaments in Denerim do. Alistair fell back in the dirt, eyes nearly crossed as he stared at Cailan's blade. At last the Prince laughed, and the sound echoed in the still winter night.

"Thank you for indulging me," he said. "I can count on you to clean this up and keep this a secret?" he asked. Alistair nodded, his young face solemn as if betraying his Prince was the worst thing he could think of doing. Cailan refastened his cloak about his shoulders and combed his fingers through his golden hair and swept across the yard and into the night. He paused and looked back only once. Alistair stood next to the practice dummy, watching the Prince's departure with something like sadness in his stance. Cailan looked and before he knew quite what he was doing, he waved. Alistair merely kept staring, and Cailan could almost feel that sad, childlike stare on him the entire snowy trek back to the castle.

They left Redcliffe the next day, making this the shortest visit to the southern Arling in Cailan's memory. "Where did you venture last night, Cailan?" King Maric asked as they rode along, surrounded by the knights Teyrn Loghain had hand-picked to escort them.

"Just to the practice yards. Why?"

"A father can't inquire about his son's doings?" the King asked with a slight smile.

"I sparred with that boy. He wasn't very good."

The King was quiet for a time, until Cailan wished he would say something, anything, even if it was disapproving. When he did speak, it was surprising. "He hasn't been afforded the opportunity to train." The King watched the road ahead between his horse's ears.

The miles passed in silence, and though so many questions burned in Cailan, he didn't have the courage to ask them. Sometimes a specter of a smile would touch his father's features, but for most of the time King Maric just looked sad, as if he'd lost something. "Father?" he asked at last. "Why did the Arl bring that boy, Alistair, to see you?"

The King glanced at his son, with the morning sunlight on his fair hair and a silent plea in his sky blue eyes. "It's not important, Cailan." He turned the conversation to an impromptu history lesson of the Bannorn, but as they crossed Ferelden on their return trip to Denerim he could see his son's mind working. He could tell Cailan was considering the child, Alistair, and what their audience had meant.

But Cailan could also see his father watching him, and schooled himself to put Alistair to the back of his mind. The years would pass and he would never speak of the boy again in the presence of King Maric. But when the templars came, bringing their tournaments to Denerim, he was there, watching. Sometimes two sets of blue eyes met across the yards, but never were words exchanged.

Silence said it all.