Blessed is the hand outstretched to him
Who looks back in anger
For wrath unrestrained will bring about hate.
He who has set down on a hedgehog
Will look exactly like Ser Blayne
And what hast thou, Sister Rylock, used
To get that stick up y_
[From The Chant of Light, Canticle of Benedictions 4. The last abruptly ending four lines were added in a hastier hand; the rest of the page is blank.]
Something stirred in the darkness. There was the grating sound of claws scraping on stone. The creature approached the child on the floor, coming ever closer and closer.
"Hello there," the boy said. The skinny rat sat back on its hind legs and sniffed the damp air hopefully.
"You're locked up in here as well, are you? I'm Alistair. What did you do to end up here, talk back to the top rat?"
The rat twitched its whiskers and scurried back into a corner.
Alistair peered into the tiny hideout since there was very little else to do. He'd seen a tame rat once. It could perform tricks and walk on two legs and play fetch. Perhaps he should train the rat, like warriors did their war dogs. Having a war rat, now that would be something! He could paint it like a proper mabari and it would growl - alright, squeak - menacingly at his enemies. He chuckled as he entertained the image of the lady Isolde standing screaming on one of her richly embroidered chairs. A war rat was just what he needed.
He was still glowing somewhat painfully, but that was nothing compared to the bitter, seething anger that filled his ten-year-old body to the point of bursting. If you got punished for something you did, well, fair enough, but for something you didn't do? That was just plain wrong. Yet lady Isolde had taken one look at her broken porcelain doll and one look at Alistair and next thing he knew she had him beaten and thrown into a cellar before he could get a word in edgewise. To add insult to injury she'd given him one of her prize-winning looks of disdain and coldly stated that she didn't put up with liars.
He had half hoped that she'd become nicer to him when she had a child of her own, but if anything, it had grown worse. Which of course wasn't Connor's fault, he was just a baby. Arl Eamon, proud as a preening pheasant, had let Alistair hold his baby son once. He thought of Connor as a noble cousin he would one day tell stories about dragons and griffons, except that naturally the arlessa would eat her braids before letting the bastard boy near her precious firstborn. It was completely unfair. He threw a wrinkled winter potato to the other side of his prison where it unimpressively bounced off the wall.
Eventually his anger died down to a simmer and he curled up on the cold stone floor. The only sensible thing he could do was sleep, even if his dreams were strange and filled with dragonfire and dancing rats and flying dogs. The grinding noise of the door bolts startled him awake, and soon one of the servants was leading a shivering and blinking Alistair back into the world of the living. The girl hastily explained that the arl had decided that he, Alistair, was to apologize to the lady Isolde and then would be free to go.
That particular order - for that was what it was, no matter that it was delivered by some kitchen maid and not Eamon himself - made him stop dead in his tracks. "I am to do what? I didn't do anything!"
She sighed. "You're a stubborn little lad. Just give them what they want and be done with it!"
He rolled his eyes in reply and she resorted to desperate measures. "I'll save you some cherry pie if you just get it over with."
Very well. There was regaining your dignity and there was cherry pie. Not much of a choice, really. Alistair stepped into the room with the red tapestries. He could do this.
Lady Isolde was inside with Connor, and the pure, unconditional love in her large brown eyes pierced Alistair's heart like a knife. No one'd ever looked at him like that, at least no one he remembered. He'd never admit it, least of all to her, but he'd have given anything for someone who would. Feeling sore was so much easier than this. He already regretted his decision, but there was nothing he could do but brace himself for the inevitable moment when Isolde's face would harden as she looked at him instead of her treasured, trueborn son.
The arlessa carefully put the sleepy Connor back in his cot among his fluffy blankets. They had little lambs on them. "There is no need for this," she said dismissively. "My lord husband insisted on the apology, not I."
"I didn't do anything," Alistair muttered to the carpet. It was red and yellow and fraying in places, and suddenly utterly fascinating. Lady Isolde made an impatient gesture. "Who did, then? Connor?"
"I didn't-"
"Regardless of what you did or did not do, Alistair, you deserved everything you got," she interrupted him sharply. "If not for what you did today, then for tomorrow or the day after that."
Alistair opened his mouth and closed it again.
"That will end," she said as firmly as the terrible Orlesian accent would allow. "Tomorrow you'll come to Eamon's study, and we shall see to your future."
His future? He mumbled a half-hearted goodbye, turned on his heels and fled.
The next morning was a whole lot better. He had to abandon the idea of a war rat, however, and also that of a war cat. The rat hadn't shown itself again and the cat didn't appear to be interested, or indeed very amused to be painted with mud. Leonard however, one of lady Isolde's guards, was willing to share some impressive Orlesian swearwords. This looked to be a promising day, or at least it was until Alistair remembered his summons to the arl's study.
It was hard to tell what was going on. There certainly was more washing activity than usual, which unfortunately included him as well. Alistair was no expert, but he was pretty sure ears weren't meant to be soaped. Maybe they were going to Denerim again, he wouldn't mind that; he slept in the kennels last time, when Eamon visited the arl of Denerim, but at least the mabari were soft and warm and quite possibly smarter than the average noble, even if they did tend to sit on him (the dogs, not the nobles). There was this store too that had everything from miniature golems to magical runes to staves that could spew fire and melt someone's face right off, or so he'd heard.
At the door to the arl's study he hesitated when he heard some unfamiliar voices. He pushed against the heavy oak, just enough to open it a crack without making any noise. There was a templar in there. He had his helm tucked under his arm, one of those narrow-slitted headpieces that always filled Alistair with suspicion. If you hid your face and wore the same as everyone else, you could get away with anything.
Leonard walked down the hall, whistling a quiet tune. The guardsman stopped when he caught sight of Alistair and chuckled. "Oh come on," he said cheerfully, "take heart, kid. It can't be that bad. I didn't see them bring in any darkspawn."
"Pity," Alistair muttered darkly.
The guard clapped him on the shoulder. He had to admit that he wondered himself what was going on. Castle Redcliffe wasn't all that exciting, not compared to the bustle back home in Orlais. He intended to satisfy his curiosity later by making another round.
Nearly half an hour after he saw the boy knock politely and enter the study, Leonard sauntered by in what he hoped was a casual manner. He had to take a hasty step back to avoid being slammed into by a furious Alistair storming down the hallway. The boy's normally easy-going temper had flared to a full-blown anger he'd never seen in him before. His dark eyes were glittering with rage and unshed tears. His shirt was torn where he'd ripped himself free from someone's grasp and the medallion of Andraste that he usually wore around his neck was gone.
"Easy there," Leonard said, bewildered. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Alistair spat back. "Nothing important. I better go pack." He shook off the guardsman's hand and broke into a run.
"Pack?" Leonard echoed. He was still nonplussed.
"Yes, pack," Alistair sneered back. "They're sending me off to the Chantry." He shot the guard one last look of fierce resentment and disappeared around a corner.
In his warm and cozy room, baby Connor was making urgent little noises and stretched out his chubby hands towards lady Isolde's collection of Orlesian porcelain dolls. He liked the dolls. He didn't want any of them broken, he just wanted to nuzzle them and put their tiny porcelain feet in his mouth. He stared intently at one with a mass of soft, pretty golden curls and a white frilly dress.
The doll stirred as Connor willed it to move. This time the toy didn't shatter; it floated down solemnly, turned upside down with the dress falling over the painted porcelain face, but Connor didn't give up. The upside-down doll slowly hovered towards him like a very small ghost. Connor grabbed it and hugged it to his chest. He suddenly felt very tired. Clutching his prize, he put his thumb in his mouth and soon fell asleep.
It was raining. A persistent drizzle made the outside of the castle smell of wet dust. Judged by the grey air the weather didn't look like it was going to improve anytime soon. It was as miserable as Alistair's mood. He deeply regretted throwing the medallion, the only keepsake he had of the mother he never knew, to the wall where it shattered, but he was too proud and too angry to ask for it back. What would be the point anyway? It was broken.
The arl and arlessa had walked with him to see him on his way. Isolde looked pleased. Of course she did, the sneaky Orlesian witch. He should have seen it coming. Why had he felt like he'd hit his head when they finally told him? Everyone seemed to know already, they just forgot to tell stupid little Alistair that playtime was over.
Arl Eamon looked a little forlorn. He fingered his beard a lot and didn't say much of anything. When the time came for him to say his goodbyes, he took a step towards Alistair, then thought the better of it. "You're a bright lad, Alistair," he said instead. "I'm sure you'll do well."
Alistair hoisted up his pack - all of his life in such a small bundle. "Do well?" he repeated incredulously, his voice cracking with rage and tears burning bright in his eyes. "Do what well? Smite people who eat fish on tuesday? Sing the Chant of Light 'til I go baa?"
The cleric the Chantry sent to accompany him looked like she'd bitten a lemon. The templar just snorted in disapproval. "The boy does have a mouth on him, but I'm sure we will take care of that."
A look of profound doubt flashed over Eamon's face, but he hid it well quickly enough.
Alistair looked back only once, when they neared the village. The castle looked like a strange place already. So they want me to go swing a sword, he thought. Good. He'd always prepared for that, dreamed of it even, he'd just never been smart enough to figure out it would be a templar sword. But one day, he vowed bitterly, one day when all the world is a dark mess and they come to me and my sword for help, I'll turn my back on you. All of you.