A/N: Here is the first chapter! This takes place prior to Alistair's Joining.

~1~

The Chantry was in an uproar. Actually, the whole town was in an uproar. Loud noises, fantastic mishaps, drink, food, merriment, and all sorts of tomfoolery were alive within the streets. And Alistair, royal bastard/Templar in training, was stuck inside the Chantry's kitchen scrubbing pots, missing out on all the fun. As usual.

"Alistair, you do this to yourself you know. No one else to blame but you. Why can't you keep your mouth shut? Just for five minutes? Is it really so hard?"

The young man paused and tilted his head to the side, the rag hanging limply from his right hand. It appeared as if he was waiting for some ethereal voice to respond, but of course none came. Instead, he was left to answer the question himself.

"Of course it is so hard. You wouldn't be Alistair if it was easy now, would you? No, of course not."

Sighing, he glanced out the small window that allowed light to stream into his self-made hellhole, narrowing his eyes and smiling grimly as peals of laughter from the outside world trickled in to torment him.

He'd lost count of how many times he'd been sent to the kitchen as punishment for pulling some little prank or cracking up a little too wisely, but he was sure it was some sort of record. He would no doubt soon go down in history as "Alistair the Smartass, Royal Bastard, Almost-Templar that was Killed by His Own Comrades." Really, one would have thought he would have learned after spending more than a decade inside the Chantry's walls, but no, he had not.

"I suppose that's what I get for being raised by wild, flying dogs," he muttered to himself, looking sourly at the stack of pots by his knee. "A unique sense of humor that is not shared by anyone alive. No one understands me. Not that I mind…much."

He sighed dramatically again, sniffing as the sharp smell of an onion being cut tickled his nose. He wished that something more tolerable was permeating the air, something like cheese. Even a stinky cheese smell was better than an onion smell.

He glanced at the wooden door that separated him from the rest of humankind, contemplating whether or not he could ask the cook to do something about the smell, like maybe cut the little bastards outside or at the very least give him nose plugs. He quickly decided not to.

The cook was in a cooking fury, which was to be expected considering the occasion. It wasn't every day that the Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens came calling after all.

Everyone would be putting their best foot forward, everyone would be dressing up and polishing their silverware. Everyone would be taking a bath and combing their hair, perhaps even picking out the nasty things that were stuck in between their teeth. In short, everyone would look lovely for a change, their troubles forgotten for the time being.

And he was missing it.

"Couldn't stay out of trouble for one day, could you?" he asked himself darkly, his voice a low, bitter growl as he returned to his task. "No, you couldn't, could you? Could have been someone else doing this dastardly deed, but no! You just had to open your mouth and make a comment about Templar dress." He pouted slightly, a hurt look crossing his face. "It was a compliment, really it was. I didn't mean for it to come out sounding so sarcastic. Can't I say they look all nice and comfy in their nice, shiny armor?"

According to the Grand Cleric, he could not.

In retrospect, it was perhaps best that he was tucked away where the Grand Cleric's wrath could not reach him. At least in the kitchen he was not underfoot or milling about aimlessly. He had a tendency to do those things, even if he had a task. His mind liked to wander, and with all the festivities going on about him he would have been tempted to ditch his chores and join in.

It wasn't his fault that he was a "free spirit," as the Grand Cleric had more than once called him—and while he had taken it as a compliment he knew that she had meant it as an insult—and that he felt like there was just more to life than what he was doing.

Oh, he thought that the templar cause was a just one to be sure, and he respected those above him greatly and admired their bravery, but he just wasn't convinced that it was the life for him. He wasn't religious or devout, he wasn't serious or somber.

There was a sharp yell from the kitchen and Alistair couldn't help but snort. The cook was yelling at the help again, the stress of having only been warned a day in advance of the Warden-Commander's arrival grating on her.

Everyone was running about making a fuss, the Grand Cleric frowning and muttering as the chaos danced around her, no one quite sure whether she was upset over the fact that there was much to be done in so little time or that the Warden would more than likely be leaving with some of her men and women. Of course he wouldn't be taking them without a fight; the Grand Cleric was a stubborn one, determined to keep her Chantry fully staffed and capable of handling any crisis that came their way.

"Not like we have Abominations running about though. At least none that I've seen. Don't think they make pretty Abominations yet," Alistair said. "It wouldn't kill us to lose a templar or two to the Wardens. They'd be fighting for a very noble cause at the very least. The Grand Cleric can't object to that, can she? Oh wait, yes. Of course she can."

"Talking to yourself again? No wonder people think you're possessed."

Alistair let out a yelp and jumped to his feet, the pot that had been secured firmly between his legs falling to the floor with a loud clang. He hadn't heard the door to the pantry open.

Before him stood Ser Eryhn, one of the most accomplished templars in the order. She was fully decked out in templar gear, a slightly amused expression on her face as her eyes checked him over.

"S-Ser Eryhn," he stammered, a red blush creeping across his cheeks. "I wasn't expecting…well, anyone." He paused and mulled over her words, his cheeks puffing out in consternation. "The others don't really think I'm possessed, do they? Because I'm not. At least, I'm fairly positive I'm not. I haven't sprouted horns, have I?" He touched the sides of his head with soapy hands, searching.

Ser Eryhn shrugged, not really paying attention. "I've been sent to fetch you."

Alistair's eyebrows shot up. "Me? Who wants me?"

Another shrug. "The Grand Cleric I'd assume, since she was the one who told me to come get you."

Alistair cringed.

Well this can't be good.

"Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I swear," he said, holding out his hands in a submissive gesture. "I've been sitting in this dungeon all day, right where she put me. I haven't been out in hours. Just ask the cook."

Eryhn managed to let out a laugh. "You're not in trouble Alistair."

"I'm not?" he went to scratch the back of his head, remembered the filthy slop on his hands, and settled for shifting uneasily on his feet. "That's rather unusual."

"Yes, it is."

"Gee, thanks. Nice vote of confidence there, thank you." He rolled his eyes before becoming serious once again. "Did she say what she wanted me for? If I'm not in trouble, what could she possibly want from me?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Eryhn turned to go, shifting her head to the side. "Now are you going to keep her waiting or are you coming with me?"

Alistair looked at the stack of pots and then back at Eryhn.

He really didn't have a choice in the matter; the Grand Cleric got what the Grand Cleric wanted. And if she wanted him out of there, then so be it. He was only too happy to comply.

"I'm coming," he said, throwing down the rag. "Just let me stop by the dormitories so I can freshen myself up and get a change of clothes. And have you seen my hair? It's a disaster."

"Yes, yes, fine," she said impatiently. "Let's just go."

He nodded at the cook as they exited the pantry, bidding her goodbye. She merely looked to the heavens, as if thanking the Maker that he was leaving.

You'd think I'd have stolen all her cheese or something, Alistair thought morosely to himself as he walked past her. Oh wait…that's because I did.

As Alistair followed the templar out of the kitchen door, he got the eerie feeling that it would be the last time he ever stepped foot in the dreaded place. Casting one last look over his shoulder, his eyes took in every familiar detail, burning it into his mind. In all honesty, he would be fine never seeing the blasted kitchen again, but for some reason he knew he would regret if he didn't take this chance to tell it farewell.

Change was coming.