Again, wow, thank you guys so, so much for your response. I remain completely blown away by it. Thank you, really. Because I've had some people ask, I might take this up to the Blight, but keep in mind that events would unfold completely differently than they do in game. I'm mulling over over exactly how it would go, and I think it's coming to me. We'll see.
This chapter came kind of quick, maybe 4-5 hours of write time, so I hope everything works. I think it does. Please, enjoy!
Chapter Four
When they left Redcliffe, Alistair was a little wary. For all intents and purposes, he was going to be alone with Maric for days and was unsure what was expected of him. Would the king have questions for him? Would he expect Alistair to ask questions? Was Maric going to start telling him about all the things he would have to do now?
Those fears were unfounded. For the most part, Maric seemed content to just let him be. Oh, he talked with Loghain—which consisted mainly of Maric talking and Loghain answering with grunts or monosyllabic answers—and Teagan, and that conversation seemed to focus on boring things like politics, nobles and crops. He talked to Alistair, usually about nothing, merely pointing things out or chatting idly to the withdrawn little boy, untroubled by the lackluster response. There was a slight wariness that Alistair could sense from his father, but didn't know what the cause was. It didn't seem like anything he'd done, so he tried not to let it bother him.
The casual familiarity between the king and his men also surprised Alistair. Eamon would never dream of allowing his knights to address him like Maric allowed his guards to. And while he hadn't given to any thought of how they would travel back, he was shocked that Maric seemed to prefer that they made camp along the road and didn't stop at inns or nobles homes. His idea of what a king should be like was turning out to be nothing like how Maric actually was. Except….
Except for the fact that it was clear that his men respected him. They didn't fawn over the king, but there was a clear respect and deference to him. Maric sometimes watched them, then looked at Loghain, and both men would share a brief laugh that Alistair didn't understand.
At the outset of the journey, Alistair was told the trip to Denerim would take about a week and a half. It seemed odd to him at first since most in the party expected it to take less time, especially given Loghain's muttering. Then he realized he was used to going to Denerim with Eamon and Isolde. The arlessa always rode in a carriage and it was far slower than men on horseback.
Despite a shorter journey than he was used it, it was less comfortable. Riding in the back of a wagon, while not exactly the lap of luxury, he at least had some freedom to move, to even hop out and stretch his legs if he wanted. Riding with his father, caught between the front of the saddle and Maric's plate armor left him stiff and sore. Coupled with spending the better part of each day on a horse, and by the time they camped for the night, he was often hobbling into the bedroll he was given.
On the morning of the fifth day, Alistair stood waiting for Maric's guards to finish breaking down the camp, glaring balefully at his father's black charger.
"So," his father said, coming up behind him, "ready to try riding on your own today?"
"Ser?"
"Don't think I haven't noticed you limping around in the evening. I know it can't be comfortable for you, riding doubled with me, so we thought we'd try you out on your own horse."
Alistair gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. One of his father's men led a smaller, brown horse over to them. It stood quietly and Alistair just looked at it.
"Here," Maric said, touching his shoulder and drawing him closer. "She's a good girl, old enough that we don't have to worry about any nonsense." Clucking his tongue, Maric petted the horse, holding her head so Alistair could do the same. Her nose was velvety soft under his hand and Alistair laughed when she blew out warm breath against his hand and it tickled.
"See? She likes you. Don't worry. I'll be holding the lead the entire time. Now, up you go."
Alistair placed his foot gingerly into his father's laced hands and he was boosted up, swinging up surprisingly easily. He held onto the front of the saddle as Maric adjusted the stirrups to fit the length of his legs.
It was scary, being up on a horse by himself without his father's solid bulk behind him and controlling the horse. Still holding the lead, Maric showed him how to hold the reins, how to sit in the saddle to maintain his balance and how to stand slightly to stretch his legs while riding. Satisfied that Alistair seemed to at least understand the basics, he led the horse at a walk so Alistair could get used to riding alone.
It was strange, but the longer he was mounted, the more used to it Alistair got and began to relax a little. His father smiled encouragingly at him and he found himself grinning back. He felt like one of the boys in Redcliffe, whose fathers had shown them things in exactly the same way. It all seemed so…normal, and slowly a warm, tingly feeling kindled in his stomach.
Maric finally seemed satisfied and led the mare back over to his own horse. The black sniffed at Alistair's mount and then snorted, dismissing them both. Still holding onto the lead, Maric swung up into the saddle and drew the mare closer, so that he would be close enough if Alistair needed him.
While they had been busy, his father's men had finished packing up the camp and now they were ready to head out. The first of the guards started down the road and Maric, Alistair and Loghain took up their customary positions in the middle of the column.
He never did find out what spooked his horse on the third day.
One minute, he was riding beside his father, talking about something unimportant, and the next his horse was rearing under him. He tried to hold on, and managed to the first time the mare reared. But a second time was too much, and he found himself sailing through the air.
That was actually a little bit fun, underneath the terror, right until he landed.
On the road.
Hard.
Pain exploded along his back, head and arms and legs. For one heart stopping moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't make his lungs work to draw in air. He finally managed to draw in a choking gasp of air, and then another.
"Alistair!"
He heard his name being called and tried to sit up. Hands pressed his shoulders back down and something leaned over him, blocking the sun from his eyes. His father.
"Just lie still. Don't move." Maric's voice was tense, anxious, but the hands holding him down were gentle, exerting just enough force to keep him from moving. The hands moved off his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing gently. "Tell me if it hurts."
Maric didn't let him move until he had checked nearly every inch of him and made him wiggle all his fingers and toes. Then he gently helped his son sit up, softly feeling the rising knot on the back of Alistair's head. Frowning, his father took a good long look in his eyes and then nodded.
"Aside from that bump on your head, which is going to hurt a whole lot later, and some bruises, you'll be fine."
The sound of a metal shod boot grinding on the stone of the highway next to him caught Alistair's attention and made him look up. Loghain stood looking down at them, an inscrutable expression on his face. Alistair flushed. Loghain made him nervous. It seemed like the man was always judging him and finding him wanting. He waited miserably for the teyrn to make some biting comment.
"Well," Loghain began and Alistair braced himself, "he's definitely your son."
There was a moment of silence—in which Alistair tried to understand the comment—before Maric started laughing.
Alistair looked at his father, but Maric was looking up at Loghain, a wide grin on his face and laughing. For his part, Loghain's visage softened into…something. What, Alistair wasn't sure. Not a smile—he was fairy convinced that if Loghain ever did actually smile his face would crack and fall off—but an expression of something less harsh. It was then that Alistair understood that the comment wasn't really about him, but about something Loghain and Maric shared that was far likely older than him.
Wiping his eyes, Maric rose and helped Alistair up, dusting him off. "Come on, we'll put you back with me for the rest of the way back."
He hesitated. Not that he wanted to end laid out on the road again, but he didn't want to give up. The knights at Redcliffe always said you got thrown at least once when learning to ride and that you had to get right back on. Going back to riding with his father now would feel like he failed. Not the mention he wasn't looking forward to having his bruises pressed against all that silverite plate.
"Uh, ser? I'd…like to try again, if that's all right."
One of Maric's brows rose. "Are you sure?"
"Um, I think so. I mean, yes, yes, I'm sure," he added hastily at the doubtful expression on Maric's face. "I think I could hold on a little better now and I'll be watching for it. I just wasn't paying attention. Please, I'd like to try again."
With a thoughtful hum, Maric looked at Loghain, who in turn looked at him, the mask that let no thought or emotion through back in place. "Maybe not so much like his father after all," he said quietly. He shrugged. "Let the boy try again. Maybe by next time he'll have learned how to fall."
"All right, then. Up you go." His father lifted him into the saddle. "I'll keep her snugged up to me a little closer, so if she rears again she won't be able to go so high. And if it happens, try to hold on as best you can."
"Yes, ser."
Threading the reins back through his fingers like he'd been taught, Alistair took a deep breath, trying to relax. Every step the horse took made him wince, the motion jarring the rapidly rising bruises. The last couple days of this trip were not going to be fun.
As the guards formed up around them again, Alistair caught several of them giving him approving looks and small grins. One of them even nudged him as he rode by, murmuring, "Good on you, lad."
He flushed with pride, trying to sit up a little straighter in the saddle. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Loghain watching him and turned to look the teyrn full in the face, without trying to show his nervousness. The thoughtful look returned for a moment before Loghain turned his gaze away, dismissing him.
Alistair let out the breath he'd been holding, feeling unaccountably like he'd won some sort of victory. That had been…interesting. As the column picked up speed, he turned his focus back to his horse, determined not to get thrown again—and also to keep his thoughts off the fact that Denerim really was just a couple days away. Alistair was pretty sure that once he arrived, problems like not getting thrown from his horse were going to be among the least of his worries.
Denerim lay less than a day away and they had settled down for the last night on the road. Camp was set up as efficiently as it had been on each of the previous nights, and soon all the tents were up and two freshly caught deer were cooking over the fires.
As Alistair crouched by one of the fires, breathing in the rich scent of roasting venison, he looked over to where his father was sprawled by his own fire, Loghain and Teagan next to him.
On the journey, they had passed towns more than large enough to provide lodging for the night, but the king had avoided them. It could have been the cost that made Maric eschew the comforts of an inn—Alistair had no real idea about what something like that would cost, only that it probably wasn't cheap—but he didn't think so. They'd also passed keeps and castles of various nobles. They had risen on distant and not-so-distant hills and rises, solid stone structures more than large enough to hold the contingent of his father's men.
No, he was getting the suspicion that Maric liked traveling like this. And the thought occurred to him that his father might have lied to him that night in Redcliffe castle, and that maybe Maric had never gotten used to sleeping in one spot. He shivered. The thought wasn't reassuring and left him wondering how badly he would adjust once they got to the city.
Trying to put the thoughts out of his head, because thinking about it wasn't helping, he turned his attention back to the roasting meat, watching the golden juices drip off into the fire. Would it be possible to swipe his finger across the haunch real quick to get just a quick taste? He didn't think anyone would mind, and edged slightly closer to the spit.
"You'll burn yourself."
Alistair started guiltily at the gravelly voice and looked over his shoulder to seen who had spoken.
An older man, his face worn and scarred, was watching him sternly. Alistair licked his lips and was about to apologize when the man suddenly grinned, the lines on his face becoming ones of humor, and he let out a breath realizing he wasn't in trouble.
"It'll be done soon enough, lad. No sense burning your fingers because you can't wait another half hour." The man patted the log he was sitting on and Alistair walked over to join him. Together, he and the warrior watched the fire.
It had been easy for Alistair to stick to what he knew on the trip. He'd always been more comfortable around the soldiers and working men of Redcliffe and in camp he naturally gravitated toward the same types of men. There had been a day or two of the guards being a little unsure of his presence, but he suspected his father had said something since after that they accepted him without comment.
They were kind to Alistair, answering questions or letting him help out with tasks if he asked to. That kindness turned into a warmth as the soldiers realized he wasn't some spoiled lout looking to bother them or waste their time with useless tasks. In the time they'd been on the road, Alistair had learned how to pitch a tent, start a campfire, dig a latrine ditch and the basics of how to care for armor and weapons.
He liked spending time with these men, even when it amounted to nothing more than just allowing him to sit and watch, as he was doing now.
"You're a good lad."
"Ser?" Alistair looked at the knight.
"You. You're one of the good ones, I think. You're quiet, you keep a civil tongue in your head and you do as you're bid. Quick, too, especially here." He reached out and tapped the center of Alistair's forehead with two fingers.
Alistair flushed. The man was kind, if what he said was untrue. He'd gotten in trouble enough at Redcliffe to know he was loud and clumsy and that he spoke out far too often. As for doing as he was bid, well, that was better than a cuff to the back of the head. And he didn't need the memories of being scolded and chastised to remind him of how not quick his mind actually was.
"Modest, too." He grinned as Alistair blinked at him. "You don't believe me, but you'll see. Ought to be interesting to see you with the crown prince."
Oh, Maker. Cailan. Alistair's stomach clenched at the thought of his half-brother. Memories of the one time he'd met the prince hadn't left him very hopeful of what would be waiting for him in Denerim.
The warrior chuckled at his grimace. "Don't look so troubled, lad. You'll be fine. Just remember you're as much the king's son as he is and don't let him boss you about."
"Easy for you to say," Alistair muttered and the man laughed outright at that.
"Aye, I suppose it is," he said, clapping Alistair on the shoulder. "Mark my words, though. Your da's a good sort, too, and I think you favor him, as does Cailan. Now, I think that deer's just about done, so get yourself back over to the king and we'll see about getting you fed."
Alistair nodded, getting to feet. Walking back to the nobles, he wondered how much one soldier could see from a boy in little more than a week to have the confidence that said boy would be just fine in the royal palace.
No sooner had he sat back down at Maric's fire than several men brought platters of food and some jugs of ale over. Obviously, though they had passed towns and not stopped, some of the men had gone for provisions since there was fresh bread to go with the venison. Alistair saved his for the end, when he could dip the bread in the drippings, sopping up the tasty liquid. Teagan occasionally snuck him a sip of his ale, making his nose wrinkle at the bitter taste, but taking in nonetheless because it gave him a thrill to have something usually reserved for adults.
Warm and full, he drowsed by the fire, the low voices of the men lulling him into a comfortable stupor. The sound of his name made him blink at his father. "What?"
"I was just saying, Alistair, that we'll be in Denerim tomorrow, and after Redcliffe, it might be something of a shock."
Alistair shrugged. "It's big, and there's too many people, but I don't think it'll shock me like it did the first time."
"First time?" Maric's voice was puzzled and he frowned quizzically. "Alistair…have you been to Denerim before?"
He nodded. "Yes, ser. Arl Eamon's been letting me come and stay at his estate when he goes to the Landsmeets."
There was silence around the fire and he looked up to see the three men looking at him intently. The scrutiny made him squirm slightly and he sighed in relief when they looked at each other instead, something unspoken passing between them.
"Alistair," Teagan said carefully, "I usually stay at Eamon's estate during the Landsmeets and I don't think I've ever seen you there."
With a laugh, Alistair shook his head. "I don't stay in the estate, Bann Teagan. I stay in the kennels." He smiled at the memory of cuddling next to warm, furry, wriggly puppies and of helping the kennel master care for them. That was always fun, and he felt a small pang of loss to realize he wasn't going to get to do that anymore.
It took him a moment to notice the deafening silence around him, not only among the nobles, but among the guards who were carefully and unobtrusively backing away. When he looked up, Maric's face was white with shock.
"Y-You…" he began and then stopped, gathering himself. "You stayed in kennels?"
"Y-Yes, s-ser," he stammered, the warm feeling around the fire completely dispelled. And suddenly Maric was The King and not his father and Alistair wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die."
The king surged to his feet. "I'll kill him," he said simply. He turned and started to walk away from his fire. Loghain and Teagan both hurriedly got to their feet, Teagan reaching out to grab Maric's arm, and Alistair realized that his father's stark sentence wasn't just a meaningless statement.
"Your Majesty, please. Calm down a moment. This is not the time for hasty action. I'm sure Teyrn Loghain would agree."
"Indeed," Loghain drawled. "Get a good night's sleep first, Maric. I might even join you if you leave in the morning."
"My lords, please! Your Majesty, I understand you're angry, but—"
"Angry?" Maric cut him off incredulously. "Angry? Bann Teagan, angry doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling right now. I've just discovered that due to your brother's foolish actions, I've likely been within a hundred feet of my son several times and never knew it. And not only that, but that your brother saw fit to have my son sleep with the dogs!"
Maric flung his arms out to the side, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Alistair was caught between the desire of wanting to slink away into the darkness and wanting to see where exactly his father's tirade was going to go. He chose to stay put.
As it turned out, the tirade didn't go much further as Maric seemed unable to put voice to his anger besides a few choice, pithy curses. He finally just shook his head and asked, "Did you know about this?"
Teagan's eyes widened. "No, of course not!"
"Then we'll discuss this later." With that, he walked away from the fire, into the darkness.
Alistair saw a couple of guards follow his father. Without prompting, he immediately went to the larger tent he shared with Maric, pulled his boots off, and crawled into his bedroll. Hot tears dripped from his eyes and he scrubbed at them angrily, not knowing what he was feeling or why.
He lay awake for a long time, long enough to hear his father return and enter their tent. He kept his back to his father as he heard him putting things away and taking his own boots off. There was silence for a long time, and Alistair thought Maric might have gone to sleep, when he heard his father's quiet step next to him and the quiet rustling of his clothes as he sat next to Alistair's bedroll.
Finally growing too tense with the silence, Alistair turned over.
"I'm sorry I upset you, Alistair. I'm sorry that you're seeing me angry like this. It's not fair to you."
"You wouldn't be this angry if you'd left me in Redcliffe," Alistair replied quietly. "You can send me back, if you want. I won't be upset." That was a lie, but he wasn't about to show anyone how much of a baby he was.
"This last week's been really great, but I understand that I'm too much trouble," he went on, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I won't mind, ser."
"But I would mind." Maric shook his head. "I need you to understand that I'm not angry with you, Alistair. I'm angry at someone I trusted to do something incredibly important and it appears that the more I discover, the more I learn how absolutely this person failed me."
"Arl Eamon."
"Yes, Arl Eamon." Alistair heard the frustration in the king's voice. "I'm beginning to wonder why I ever sent you there. It's not like I ever wanted to send you away in the first place."
That admission was probably unintentional, something said without conscious thought, and something let go inside of Alistair when he heard it. A decade of wondering why suddenly came to a head.
"Then why did you?" he asked harshly. "If you didn't want to send me away, then why did you? Why didn't you keep me?"
Pain and sorrow flickered across Maric's face. "The answer to that is…very complicated, Alistair. I wanted to keep you. From the first moment you were placed in my arms, I loved you and wanted you with me."
"Then why didn't you? You're the king! You can do what you want!" Alistair could hear the hurt and anger in his voice, and flinched back from his own outburst. Maker's breath, he was surely going to give the king every reason to send him back.
But Maric merely nodded, accepting Alistair's anger.
"You're right, I could have kept you. There's nothing that could have stopped me if I had decided to do that. But…I was trying to do right by your mother, Alistair. To honor her wishes. We were both trying to do what was best for you, but I never envisioned it would go like this, and I think I can safely say neither did she."
"My mother?" No one ever spoke about Alistair's mother. He didn't even know her name. The only thing he had of hers was the amulet around his neck. Out of everything he owned, meager as the collection was, it was his most prized possession. It was his and his alone, having belonged to him for all of his life and the only thing not given to him out of necessity or as a gift.
"Yes, your mother. That's another very complicated story, and one that I'll tell you someday, but not now. Suffice it to say that mistakes were made by everyone along the way, and sadly, you're the one who ended up paying for them.
"I will make this up to you, Alistair, as much as I can, if you'll let me. I know nothing can change what's happened, but it can be better."
Maric's voice was intense, almost pleading, and for the first time, Alistair was beginning to understand that sending him away had hurt Maric. Not in the same way it had hurt Alistair, but maybe just as deeply. For a moment, the voice in his head surged forward. Good, it said. It had better hurt. He deserves it. They all deserve it.
He shoved it back. The voice had helped him, become a source of strength where none other had existed—as both armor and a weapon to face the struggles life threw at him. But it wasn't helping now. So he ignored it as best he could. It wasn't gone, but at least it was quiet.
Instead, he just nodded jerkily. Maric's hand hovered over his head for a moment before settling on the back of it, a warm, comforting weight.
"Get some sleep," Maric said hoarsely and got up to head to his own bedroll.
Sleep eluded Alistair for a long time, long enough to hear the noises from the other side of the tent that sounded suspiciously like weeping.