After greatly enjoying deagh's recent "young Alistair" stories, I found myself wondering what story I'd want to tell about Alistair as a child. What sprang to mind a few days later was a pair of random lines he says in Denerim Market and inside the Wonders of Thedas... the resulting story is as much about the Arl as about Alistair.
"Hey! The Wonders of Thedas! Arl Eamon once bought me a miniature golem doll, here... when I was young. Really young."
"Where do you think they get all this stuff? You think they, um, have any miniature golem dolls?"
- Alistair
Eamon scowled in irritation at the servant. "I'll unpack my own things," he snarled, and waved her out of the room.
He knew Helda didn't really deserve being spoken to like that, but he'd been in a foul mood for days, and her non-stop chatter – usually a soothing sound – was grating on his shredded nerves.
The peremptory summons to attend on King Maric in Denerim had come at a particularly annoying time; he'd had plans, many of them revolving around the expected visit of his brother, Teagan, due to stop in for a few days on his way to Rainesfere. Instead he'd had to take horse himself, and miss Teagan's visit entirely. He'd consoled himself with the thought that there must be some important reason behind the summons; some problem that he could help the King to solve, that would further display to the other nobles of the Landsmeet how valued his opinion was.
He'd been incensed when he'd learned the reason behind the summons; not anything actually important, just Maric's desire to question him about the health and well-being of that cursed by-blow of his, the bastard Alistair.
It still angered him that of all possible people Maric could turn to as a caregiver of the brat, it had been him that the man had chosen. Yes, in some ways it was an honour that he'd been trusted to keep the child safe and secret. But – had the man no sense? Maric had been married to Eamon's sister, for the love of Andraste! The birth of a bastard son so soon after her death was a complete desecration of her memory.
It was with great reluctance that Eamon had taken on the burden of looking after the child. It had seemed blessedly easy at first; he'd found a new mother willing to wet nurse the cursed brat, left his raising to the servants... and then the rumours had started to reach his ears. He was infuriated when he first heard that people thought Alistair was his child – his bastard! - but in the name of keeping the child's true parentage a secret, the most he'd ever been able to say about Alistair's parentage was that he was the orphaned son of "a friend". Apparently no one believed that "a friend" business; hardly surprising, it being such a transparent lie.
It had gotten worse when he finally married Isolde, of course. She was a pious woman, and deeply attached to him; the thought that he had fathered a bastard during the years they'd been courting had distressed her deeply. But as much as he loved and trusted her himself, the secret of Alistair's fatherhood had not been one he was free to share with her. He'd had to ask her to trust him that Alistair was not his bastard; she'd professed to take his word for it, but he could tell she didn't believe him either. It had been a constant strain on their otherwise happy marriage.
Naturally he'd banished the child out of the castle proper as soon as he could do so; let the child be raised in the stables, with the dogs and the horses and the other dog- and stable-boys – it was better then the by-blow deserved. And at least once he was no longer so obviously underfoot, Isolde's temper had finally cooled; she was still unhappy about the child's presence in their household, but at least wasn't reminded of it quite so often. It had also put an end to the worst of the rumours; after all, people reasoned, if Alistair had been Eamon's child, surely he'd have found an appropriate fosterage for him rather then turning him out to be a stable boy. A fragile peace had returned to the household.
And then Maric, and the endless questions about the boy, whom Maric seemed to have some fond idea was being raised by Eamon as if he was the man's own son. Eamon had bitten his tongue more then once to avoid disillusioning the man; he needed the King's good will too much to risk offending him.
When he'd finally satisfied Maric's many questions, he'd been given a final task; Maric had actually purchased a present for the boy, a hideously expensive enchanted toy from the Wonders of Thedas. The sort of thing appropriate as a gift for Prince Cailan, perhaps – at least when he'd been a few years younger, the boy would be more excited by a suit of armour just his size or a good sword now – but certainly not for the bastard Alistair!
"And how am I to explain this... extravagant gift?" he asked, forcing himself not to protest it in stronger terms. "I can hardly explain who it is from," he pointed out.
King Maric actually looked embarrassed. For a moment, Eamon hoped he would come to his senses and change his mind about it... but...
"Couldn't you just say it's from you?" Maric asked hopefully. "Surely no one would question you giving a nice present to a young boy you're fond of...?"
Eamon somehow managed to control his temper. He drew a deep, calming breath. "Yes, my King, I suppose I can do that," he reluctantly agreed.
The entire ride back from Denerim he'd been aware of the toy in his saddlebag. He wished more then once that he could take it out and throw it away, but hadn't quite dared to. And so he'd ridden home with the presence of the cursed thing taunting him the entire way.
Stepping over to his saddlebags, he unstrapped the flaps and rooted around, pulling out the toy in question. A doll. A golem doll, enchanted so its eyes glowed and it could walk about a little if stood upright on the ground. The magic wouldn't last long – part of why the enchanted toys were so ruinously expensive – but while it did, it was the sort of toy any child would be ecstatic to own.
He held the toy in both hands, hands clenching the soft fabric body with crushing force, then growled a curse. He tucked one of its arms through his belt, hiding it under his cloak, and stalked down to the stables, further annoyed that he had to ask one of the stable hands where the dratted boy could be found, sure that his passing interest in the child would be the talk of the castle by nightfall, and that his welcome home from his wife would be a cold one.
He reached a small stall in a rarely used portion of the stables; these boxes only came into use if they had a lot of mounted guests. Peering over the stall doors, he eventually located the right one. The boy sat in the middle of the clean straw with which the stall was heaped, his hair almost the same dark golden shade, playing some silent game with twists of straw arranged in ragged rows before him.
"Boy. Alistair." Eamon called, getting his attention.
Alistair looked up, light brown eyes going big at the sight of the tall man looking over the gate. "Yes, my lord?" he asked, hurriedly rising to his feet, hands brushing futilely at his stained thigh-length tunic, his bare legs scratched and dusty.
"Here," Eamon growled, holding out the toy in one hand. "This is for you."
The boy stared at it, eyes widening further in surprise and awe. "For me?" he asked hesitantly, taking a step closer, hand rising toward it, before he stopped and gave the Arl a frightened look, making sure it was really okay for him to take such a fine thing.
"Yes, for you, boy – go ahead and take it," Eamon growled.
Alistair's face lit up with a joyous smile, and he took it almost reverently from Eamon's hand, staring at it in wide-mouthed wonder before hugging it tightly to himself. "Thank you, my lord!" he exclaimed, giving Eamon a near-adoring look that frankly sickened him. He didn't say a word, just turned and headed back to his rooms.
At least that was taken care of. He'd have to remember to speak to the stable master soon, and point out that the boy was big enough to be earning his keep instead of playing in the straw all day. Might as well get some use out of him, after all.