3. MEMORIES: CHILDHOOD

"I was a timid child. No, really…stop laughing! I told you who I am now has little to do with Bryce Cousland's son. Maker, why did I agree to this.

The thing is, I was always small for my age. Even now, I am not tall and while I filled out as an adult, I am still nearer Leli in size and strength than Alistair. And as a child, I was thin. Like many small boys, I was picked on and bullied by the others. It's a familiar enough story.

Yes, I can see why you would be surprised that bullying of the Teyrn's son would be allowed. To understand that, you need to understand Bryce Cousland's mindset. He did not want to raise his children to be the sort of awful spoiled brats so many noble sons are, their heads swollen with the knowledge of their grand heritage. And so, I was trained and educated with the other boys of the castle, the sons of the guards and men-at-arms. I was not to be shown any special favor. It's not that I wasn't to believe I was better than them—oh, you have to know I was told over and over that I was a Cousland. But my innate superiority should show itself through my behavior; I was not to expect anyone to defer to me, just because of who I was. I can't say that I really disagree with this philosophy, but—boys will be boys, as they say—it did mean that I had a rough time of it sometimes.

For the most part, I dealt with this by running away and hiding. I was small, but I was always fast. I could usually outrun the boys two or three years older than me, let alone the ones my own age. And hiding—oh, I was good at hiding. I knew every inch of Castle Cousland, every nook and cranny that a child—and remember that I was a small child—could squeeze into, I had investigated. Some of them were deliberately designed as secret passages, others were weaknesses in the old masonry where water had got in and enlarged cracks.

Fergus? Oh, I can see why you would think that. No, Fergus did not bully me…most of the time, because Father wouldn't allow that. Other boys my age, yes, that would toughen me up, get me to prove myself. But neither was Fergus my protector, as is sometimes the case with older brothers. And for that, I fear, I had only myself to blame.

You see, I had a mischievous side as a child…and a clever tongue that enabled me to get myself out of trouble. Which meant that poor Fergus was constantly getting blamed for my pranks. Who fed the new batch of ale to the mabari hounds, getting them all drunk the day of the annual great hunt? Fergus. Who spiked the soup with madder root dyeing it a glorious shade of rose pink when the royal family was visiting for dinner? Fergus. How he must have hated me—it's a wonder he's forgiven me now.

Meanwhile, I was thought to be a quiet child, shy, timid, studious. Much of the time that I was supposedly in my room reading, I was not even in the castle, having found a passage within the walls that could get me as far as the entrance hall from my bedroom. From there, it was easy enough to distract the guards with something—toss a coin in the opposite direction that would get the hounds yelping, for example—long enough for me to scurry out into the courtyard. I could creep through the hedges—remember I was small—and I had found a place where I could scale the outer wall while remaining concealed by a gnarled old tree.

It was fortunate that I retained enough of what I read when I actually did study that I was able to sustain the reputation for being a student of history. In reality, I enjoyed the tales of exotic places and the more romanticized historical accounts, but the Chant of Light bored me, as did the drier (and likely more accurate) histories of Andraste's life. I suppose I was fortunate that my father did not take my supposed scholarly bent as a sign that I should be given to the Chantry. It's a common enough pattern after all—first son inherits the family titles, second son to the Templars. What a catastrophe that would have been! Fortunately, Father had enough lands that he was not overly worried about dividing the family inheritance. When I was deemed old and responsible enough to manage my own lands, I would receive a fief and be a vassal of Fergus.

Of course, as a Bann, I would be required to fight to protect the citizens of my village from bandits. So it was necessary for me—as it is for every noble's son—to learn to fight. And here Bryce Cousland's designs went terribly awry. Noting that I was small and weak, he was determined that I grow stronger. I was outfitted in the heaviest of chainmail, so heavy I could scarcely move, let alone fight. And I was trained in the use of two-handed weapons—can you imagine me fighting with a claymore? Well, until I was sixteen years old, that was my weapon of choice.

In all fairness, I'm sure I did grow stronger as a result of lumbering around in heavy armor and flailing about with that claymore. But struggling with the weight prevented me from really ever learning good technique. And I was not accustomed to failure—I was a skilled rider, a strong swimmer, a clever (if less dedicated than supposed) student of languages and history. But I was a poor fighter, and because I was poor at it, I hated it. Honestly, though I rather obviously gained a bit of skill in fighting since then, it's still not something that gives me any real pleasure. I'm not just talking about not enjoying fighting for my life. I don't even like sparring very much; it's just something I do because my life has given me little choice but to maintain those skills. It's been a very strange path through life, certainly nothing like what I envisioned as a child or what my father had in mind.

How did I imagine my future life? Well, to be honest, I supposed I would be stuck doing my duty, like a proper Cousland. Which likely meant living in a castle in some dreary village in northern Ferelden, marrying the daughter of some Arl or other, and raising children to do their duty in their turn.

I wanted to travel, a desire that grew stronger still when Fergus married Oriana, who told me many tales of far away, exotic Antiva. Marriage and raising children did not attract me. I had little interest in girls—not so unusual at 12, but more surprising by 14 or 15—though I had no understanding of why that might be, not yet.

Whenever I could, I slipped out of the castle into town. I could not really wander freely without being recognized of course, even though I would uh…borrow clothing from the servant's children. I was fascinated by the glimpses of town life that I managed, however, and sometimes dreamed of running away—although I certainly knew that my life was privileged beyond belief. Still, something that you cannot have is always enticing, even when you know you would be a fool to trade what you have to get it.

It became harder to slip away after a little adventure I had where I encountered a traveling group of players rehearsing a show. Since they were from out of town, they had no notion of who I was, and I managed to persuade them to let me watch and even participate in the rehearsal to a degree. It was enchanting…imagine being able to spend life pretending to be other people, dressing up in strange costumes, doing new roles all the time! In another life, I might well have become a performer. They actually told me I could appear in a small role on stage, though I suspect they were merely humoring me. I did get dressed up along with some of the other children in the cast, however, and learned a few lines.

Unfortunately, guests had arrived at Castle Cousland in the meantime and the fact I was not—as had been supposed—quietly reading in my room. At first my poor mother feared I had been somehow kidnapped, but they soon determined that I must have used the passage to escape the castle and soon the castle guards were all over the town looking for me.

They eventually found me at the players' camp just outside the town gates, dressed as a little girl—players often use boys for female roles—and spouting some nonsensical lines from an Orlesian drama. Needless to say, Father was furious on a number of counts. The poor players had to leave Highever without even getting to perform, though it was hardly their fault. After that, my parents and Nan kept a rather closer watch on me than before, and the passage from my bedroom to the entrance hall was sealed. A pity that last, as it would have been useful when Howe attacked.

And so my life went for its first sixteen years…a quiet boy, clever, perhaps more adventurous and less dutiful than he appeared, without much aptitude or inclination for the martial skills that define the pecking order for young men. Then one day, as I was making another desultory pass at practicing my swordsmanship with my claymore, a young mercenary named Iain was watching me. He had been hired by my father to act as a scout, and something of a spy. Although Ferelden is nowhere near as riddled with intrigue as Orlais, Father did need to keep an eye on what was going on in Highever.

Iain was clearly entertained by what he was seeing…in fact, I daresay he was near breaking up with laughter. Needless to say, when I became aware of his amusement, I was furious. Iain explained that his mirth was not because I was inept, but because my training had been so misguided. The heavy armor and weapons had succeeded in completely neutralizing my natural talents: speed and coordination. He told me to shuck the armor and he would teach me techniques that would enable me to easily best my bigger and stronger opponents.

Iain taught me for a few other things as well, but it grows late, and I think we shall have to save that part of the story for another day.