Alistair's muscles burned and his tunic clung to him, sticky with sweat as he hefted the shield in his left hand and darted in low with the sword in his right. He grinned with satisfaction as it sliced a hole in Will's sleeve and the other boy cursed poisonously. Will twisted, dodging just in time as Alistair's sword whistled past his head, lifting his own sword to parry it. A high pitched shriek made both boys grit their teeth as the blades collided. Alistair turned with the motion of their weapons, letting the force of the blow propel him forward as he swept Will's legs out from under him and brought his shield down on Will's wrist, the other boy's sword thudding against the packed dirt beneath them.
Will groaned, and didn't bother getting back up. "I yield, you Maker-damned bastard."
Alistair laughed, no trace of bitterness at a word that had often been used against him in less congenial settings. "I don't know why you're complaining. This means you don't have to fight Tanith, and you know she's going to destroy me."
"You make a good point, my friend," Will said, taking the hand Alistair offered to pull himself to his feet. He clapped a hand on Alistair's back. "I wish you luck."
"I'm definitely going to need it," Alistair stated cheerfully. Of all the templar recruits at the monastery, Tanith was by far the best at combat. Alistair might be second best, depending on who you asked, but she still beat him three matches out of five. If it weren't for her religious fervor, it would have been enough to make her his favorite of the trainees.
But he wouldn't have to face her until after lunch and personal devotion time, so he pushed the thought of her righteous superiority out of his mind and followed Will back toward their quarters.
Lunch was simple fare—buttered bread, leftover roast from the night before, and an apple. He scowled at the conspicuous lack of cheese; it seemed that Brother Felix was still punishing him for the stunt with the Revered Mother's hat.
After lunch they were supposed to retire to their rooms, or the chapel, to contemplate their service to the Maker and their understanding of the Chant of Light as it applied to their future duties. Alistair had made a few genuine attempts at those tasks over the years, and had fallen sound asleep every time. There had been snoring involved. And rude awakenings via a slap upside the head from Mother Marana.
After being harangued in front of the other recruits one too many times, Alistair had decided to avoid the chapel, and religious contemplation, entirely. Which left him with an hour to fill and very few inconspicuous options.
Despite his lack of religious devotion, it still felt improper to use the time for the more personal pursuits as some of the other less devout recruits did.
Luckily, the monastery had a large library, open to all who lived and studied there. There were a surprising number of decidedly not-Andrastian texts stored there, in part thanks to the knowledge-hoarding tendencies of the Sister who was head Archivist, and in part because the Chantry believed you should know the truth of your enemy in order to combat them.
Alistair respected the tactical thinking there, even if he often disagreed with the definition of said enemies, but mostly he just loved the books. There were tomes on the history of Ferelden and Thedas, treatises on magic by Tevinter magisters, biographies of various Divines and rulers, even texts on the complicated nobility structure of Orlais. The only difficult choice involved was what to read next when he had so many options.
He'd read a little bit of everything, but had a few favorites. His enjoyment of the various texts by mages made him grateful that he was able to pass off his particular fascination with magic as a need to know what he would be facing as a Templar, and grateful that despite what they would like you to believe, the Sisters could not actually read minds. History was a favorite, and tomes on military leaders and strategies. He occasionally chose texts on politics and nobility, morbidly curious about the life he could have lived if his mother had been the King's wife instead of a maid. But his real guilty pleasure were the adventure stories, particularly the smutty ones.
Checking to make sure that Sister Kenna, the dread guardian of the archives, was nowhere in sight, Alistair slipped the Adventures of the Black Fox off the shelf and carried it to his favorite reading spot. There was a window with a built in bench set in a secluded alcove that offered privacy and light, and he considered himself lucky that few other templar recruits had the inclination or temerity to brave the archives in search of their own privacy.
It was the closest thing he had to a true refuge, here in this life he'd been assigned to, and with every day bringing the assumption of his duties closer, he intended to enjoy it while he could.