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Prologue, continued
Addicted
Redcliffe Chantry, ten months before The Blight
He jolted awake to the sound of a large book dropping on the table in front of him.
"Alistair," growled the large, armored man in front of him. "If you cannot pay attention in your lessons, then perhaps we will have to find another duty for you," he threatened, looking pointedly to the outhouse through the stained glass window.
Alistair straightened and cleared his throat.
"Oh, you wouldn't want that," he said quickly. "I'm really no good at cleaning. I'm sure it's almost impossible to make an outhouse an filthier, but, trust me, I'd find a way." He laughed nervously.
The captain glared at him a moment longer before picking up his book and walking back to the head of the table.
Around the table where Alistair sat were a handful of young men, all with the same goal of becoming full-fledged Templars.
He had been in training for a good few years now, but in the beginning it was mostly classwork – learning the history of prophet Andraste and the Chantry, the beginning of the Templars and the work they did now. He found most of it incredibly dull, especially considering that becoming a Templar was not something he'd chosen for himself.
He shook his head to wake himself more, but was relieved to find that this particularly dreadful lesson had ended, and they were actually going to start practicing spells. He followed his fellows outside where they formed a line, eagerly awaiting a dose of lyrium.
The spell-casting had begun only a few months ago, but he found that he greatly enjoyed it. Well, he enjoyed the lyrium part of it. He and the other trainees, as well as the Templars, were periodically given relatively large doses of it. With every dose, Alistair found himself looking forward to the next dose more and more – lyrium made him feel powerful, imbued him with a sense of magical strength and cleared his mind. After it wore off, he became sluggish and tired, as he had been feeling when he drifted off in class.
The captain handed him his little bottle, filled with a blue liquid that glowed faintly with power. Alistair hurriedly removed the stopper and tipped his head back, letting the lyrium flow into his mouth and down his throat.
The effects were immediate – he felt himself surging with power as he took a deep breath, straightening up, his vision becoming sharper.
"Now then," said the captain after he'd handed out the last bottle. "Let's begin."
xxx
Alistair lay in his small bed, staring at the ceiling. He tossed about restlessly, unable to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. Frustrated, he kicked off his wool blanket and sat up, putting his feet on the cold stone floor. Standing slowly, he tiptoed out of his room and down the stone hall that led to the Chantry. Perhaps he could sneak out the back and go for a walk or-
He froze in the hall, hearing a desperate moan coming from around the corner. Walking slowly, he peaked around to see one of his fellow fledgling Templars standing guard outside a door.
"Ho there, Erik," he said in a low voice, hailing his friend.
"Alistair," he responded brightly, straightening up. "Glad to see you, I was…nodding off," he admitted sheepishly. "Not that it's easy with this fellow," he shrugged to the door next to him.
As if on cue, another wail of pain came from behind the door.
"How inconsiderate of him," Alistair murmured drily to himself. "What's all that about?"
Erik looked around conspicuously.
"Templar, you see," he began in a whisper, pausing to listen for footsteps. "He was supposed to hunt down an apostate, but he let her get away, the witch." The last word came bitterly.
Alistair shuffled uncomfortably. Another downside to being forced into the service of the Templars was that he didn't share the particular…viewpoints that the other recruits did. Many of them joined up out of sheer hatred of and fear towards mages. Alistair did it for, well, lack of options.
"Anyway," Erik continued, the anger clearing from his eyes. "Captain Kelford ordered him to be kept in here-"
"Please," came a whimper from behind the door. "Just a little."
Erik rolled his eyes. "Just ignore him. I don't know what he keeps asking for. He's got plenty of food and water…"
"Lyrium," Alistair said suddenly. He didn't know where the answer came from, but he could hear the exhaustion in the man's voice. Other than food and water, the only thing that the Templars and trainees received regularly was lyrium.
"Oh," blinked Erik. "Yeah, I guess that'd be it then." He shifted uncertainly, looking around. "Maybe you should be off…" he said slowly, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation.
"Right," responded Alistair. "Well, goodnight!" he feigned the cheerfulness easily before retreating to the barracks.
He climbed into his little bed and settled beneath the woolen blanket.
That Templar in there…
Alistair couldn't force the desperate sounds from his mind. It troubled him deeply – the man was obviously suffering from withdrawal. He thought about how he felt after only going a few hours without the stuff, and he shuddered. Perhaps he ought to start weaning himself off.
He forced his eyes shut and tried to quiet his mind. He could deal with it tomorrow.
xxx
The next day, when he was handed his first bottle of lyrium, Alistair took a small sip and glanced at the captain, discreetly dropping his hand to the side and letting the rest of the contents pour onto the dirt behind him.
He felt the familiar energy, but it was much less strong and very fleeting. A hot surge of disappointment coursed through his body, but he shook the feeling and tried to focus.
His spells that day were terrible – he was able to cast very few, and those that he managed were weak.
Captain Kelford frowned at him.
"Try and get some more sleep, boy," he advised while scrutinizing Alistair. He didn't know if he'd imagined it, but his heart quickened when he thought he'd heard a trace of suspicion in the captain's voice.
But Alistair only nodded solemnly. Somehow he knew that skipping lyrium doses would result in harsh punishment.
xxx
And so it went. Each day Alistair took less and less of the lyrium and his spells grew worse and worse. Some days, he was able to draw enough energy from himself to cast passable spells, but that left him exhausted and weakened.
The guard captain had noticed, as had his fellow trainees, and when Alistair was summoned to the captain's office one day, he felt a knot of apprehension tightening in his gut.
He knocked gently on the thick wooden door.
"Enter," he heard the captain say.
He turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly, edging inside the room.
"Alistair," said the captain. "This is Duncan," he motioned to the man next to him. "He has some business that concerns you."
Alistair's pulse quickened. What did this man want with him? His imagination went wild – was he being taken away? This fellow could be a slave trader for all he knew, probably from Orlais – they'd put him in chains and make him serve food to rich noblewomen while wearing tight leggings and funny hats! He shivered.
He could only manage a nod in Duncan's direction.
"Well met, Alistair," said Duncan. He relaxed a little – Duncan didn't have an Orlesian accent. But then he could be concealing it. "I've come to Redcliffe seeking candidates to join the Grey Wardens."
Alistair blinked. The Grey Wardens? The great warriors who defended the people of Thedas and fought against darkspawn. They were revered, albeit not as much as they once were.
"I have learned from…someone of good authority," Duncan continued, "that you may be one such candidate."
Arl Eamon, Alistair thought. Maybe the man knew how much he disliked the Chantry and his forced duty.
Captain Kelford opened his mouth to protest. "This man is training to be a Templar," he said. "Our numbers are low as it is, and we need as many capable men as possible to control the mages."
Duncan turned to him rigidly, his brown eyes hard. "I understand your concern," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But the Grey Wardens have reason to believe that a fifth Blight is upon us."
Kelford snorted. "And what reason is that?"
Duncan did not waver. "The Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn forces massing- above ground," his voice grew louder to cut off captain's protests. "Well away from Orzammar. While preventing the potential evils of magic is important work," Alistair could hint a trace of derision in this last part, "our first priority is to stop the Blight before it even begins, and I will invoke the right of conscription if necessary."
Kelford could not protest. Laws decreed that the Grey Wardens could conscript into service whomever they chose to aid against a Blight.
"Very well," said Kelford tersely. "Alistair, pack your things. You will leave immediately."
"Captain-" he began.
"Now."
Stunned, Alistair turned and went back to his room.
Don'tIhave any say in this? he thought. But he knew the answer. If Duncan was willing to invoke the right of conscription, nobody could deny him.
He returned to his room and gathered his few possessions, packing them into a burlap sack which he tied at the top. He hoisted it over his shoulder and looked around the barracks. Everyone was either in the practice yards or doing classwork – he supposed he wouldn't be able to say his goodbyes to any of them.
He walked back the way he came and found Duncan standing outside the captain's door.
"Are you ready to depart?" he asked.
Alistair looked around, considering the possibility that he might never again see the people he'd spent the last several years of his life with. He felt a twinge of sadness, but with it, a growing light of hope. He'd never belonged here, and he was living far too close to Arl Eamon for his comfort.
"No going away party?" he asked, feigning disappointment. Duncan did not so much as smile. "Right then," said Alistair weakly. "Onward."
If he had known that many of his fellows would be dead by the time he returned, perhaps he would have tried harder to bid them farewell.
