He wouldn't talk. Not to Teagan. Not to Eamon. Certainly not to the chantry sister who had come to accompany him back to the monastery. They couldn't make him talk.
They could make him do everything else, yes. Could rip him away from everything he'd known, dump him into a monastery to become something he never wanted. Separate him from the only family he'd ever known - not that it was a real family any way, not that he cared about anyone in Redcliffe.
But not make him talk. That was his choice.
He felt sick though. He'd never been on a boat for this long before. It was taking a lot of effort not to throw up. He thought it was just because he was upset so he refused, no matter how terrible his stomach felt, to give in to it.
His fingers reached to his neck for the familiar comfort he usually found there but this time he found nothing. Tears welled in his eyes and he shut them tight. You don't even have that any more, he told himself. You are nothing. You have nothing. You will be nothing.
You deserve nothing.
"I'm sure you'll do well, son," Eamon was saying. "You'll make a fine templar. Captain Sumner says you show a lot of promise with the sword and shield."
You would know that, Eamon, he thought furiously at his former foster father. If you'd ever bothered to come and watch me.
He remained silent.
"Come on boy," Teagan said. "It's a good opportunity. The Templars won't take just anyone for an initiate you know."
He clamped his lips shut even tighter, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. Maybe they'll refuse me too, that thought gave him some comfort, until he remembered the look on Isolde's face as he left. If the chantry turned him out he would have nowhere left to go.
Good, he thought. I'll run away and live with the Dalish. Or become a traveling bard like in the Orlesian tales. Or join Loghain Mac Tir's army and fight for Ferelden.
Or become a grey warden and ride a griffon through the air, slaying armies of darkspawn.
Yes, he liked that thought the best. Redcliffe would be besieged by the horde and he would swoop in and slay them all. And Isolde would beg him to forgive her and he would bow his head regally and tell her she was mislead, but she was only human. And she would weep. And he would fly away and never come back.
He wondered how old you had to be before you could be a grey warden.
He was brought before the Revered Mother first. She was wrinkled, with white hair. Ancient and crabby. She scowled at him.
"The boy will have to speak eventually," she said. "We don't expect our students to be mute."
"I'm sure he will snap out of this," Eamon said. "He's usually very vocal actually."
"Alistair is just a little shocked at the transition," Teagan said, his hand on Alistair's shoulder. "He didn't know he was coming until yesterday."
The revered mother raised an eyebrow. "Really?" she said. "Well, that would take a little getting used to." She turned her gaze back to Alistair. He shifted uncomfortably. He felt like a piece of livestock being investigated before the slaughter.
"Well, he'll be housed with the orphans for the first year or so," the revered mother said. "We'll get started on his education. Can he read?"
Eamon shifted, looking confused. "A little," Teagan said. "I taught him what I could."
"I can read," Alistair burst out angrily. Then he realised he'd promised himself not to speak and clamped his lips shut again.
The revered mother's eyebrow shot up again and he thought he saw the smallest of smiles around her mouth. "And speak, it seems," she said. "Well these are two very useful skills for a templar. I hope you continue to practice them."
He glowered at her. She pursed her lips, and turned around to pull a cord behind her desk. Two sisters came to the door - one obviously only in her teens and the other almost as ancient as the revered mother herself.
"Sister Adela and Sister Constance will show you to the boys' quarters," the revered mother said. "Say goodbye to your uncles now, I wish to speak with them in private."
They're not my uncles, he thought furiously. And I don't want to say goodbye to them. He turned his back on the two men and walked towards the sisters.
"Alistair," Teagan's voice came then, chiding, almost sad. He clenched his hands into fists. He would not look around.
"Don't push the boy, Teagan," Eamon's voice came. "We can come and visit soon. Maybe he'll feel better then."
Alistair squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and made a vow to himself. I won't speak to you again, he said. No matter how many times you visit.
Never again.
He walked out between the sisters. He didn't look back.