"I think the bastard nicked me a bit, after all," Alistair said to Duncan after they had stepped into one of the pavilions appointed to the winners of the melee. Braziers had been set up in the big tents, and inside it was nice and warm, if also a bit dim, cramped and stinky. Most of the finalists were established fighters who hired retinues of several people to take care of their needs in a tournament, and those retinues took up a lot of space and made a lot of noise. Alistair was the only one around with only one person for company.
Duncan helped the novice out of his surcoat, splintmail hauberk and the thick dog-hair shirt beneath. His linen under tunic was torn where the chasind's mace had connected, and clotting blood crusted his sleeve from shoulder to elbow.
Alistair sat down. "Wow," he exclaimed, staring at his arm. "Just... Look at that."
"I'm going to get a healer," Duncan said.
"No, no! It's just a scratch. I'm all right. Save the healers for anyone who really needs them. I saw some bad things happen, out on that field."
Duncan conceded and just fetched bandages and hot water from a sister outside. When he returned, Alistair was already munching on a chicken leg and drinking weak ale from a tray that had been set on a bench in front of him, apparently by a busy elf servant who flitted to and fro in the pavilion, carrying food and drink for the contestants.
Duncan made the novice take off his baldrick and shirt and set to washing and bandaging his wound.
"I didnt' feel anything," Alistair said. "It only started to hurt after the fighting stopped."
"The battle compells us too strongly to notice such things." Duncan fastened the bandages and turned to inspect Alistair's collection of fresh, ugly bruises.
Alistair mumbled something around the pork pie he was stuffing his face with. Well, at least his appetite suggested that a little blood loss wasn't going to slow him down. He certainly looked like a man who could survive a beating or two.
"My, my, you are a nice little cock," a husky, heavily Antivan female voice said from nearby. Alistair got some pie stuck in his throat and coughed violently, growing red in the face.
"W-what?" he wheezed finally, and stood up to face a buxom warrior. The woman was surrounded by two retainers who were busy sewing her into an elaborate, foreign-looking gambeson. Her thick black hair was tightly braided around her not at all unpleasant face. Alistair wiped grease from his jaw.
"I say, you are a fine looking young rooster." The woman smirked and let her green eyes travel down from Alistair's face. Her smile widened as she took in his heavy arms and chest, covered by scant copper hair. The inquisitive gaze travelled down his midsection and lingered for a moment even lower. Alistair had grown so red that Duncan was afraid he would faint on the spot.
"Nice. My name, it is Ser Ophelia," she said. "You come to the feast after, hmm? I will discuss some matters with you. Battle always makes me hungry for... conversation."
Somehow Alistair managed to bark out his name. "Well met, Ser. I – err. I'm not sure I'm coming. Am I, Duncan?"
The green eyes shifted to the Warden-Commander, who bowed to the Antivan. Duncan had heard of Ser Ophelia. Most of the talk had been of her battle prowess, perhaps surprisingly, since it did not seem her only quality worthy of a rumor. She was said to be one of the finest blades this side of the Waking Sea. Women in Antiva were generally not allowed to learn the ways of combat, so there had to be more to her story, but not much else was known.
As Duncan chose to keep his silence, the woman turned back to Alistair.
"Oh, so coy, little warrior. When I kick your ass into the nasty hard ground, it is only polite to... check after, that no damage has happened. I will make a thorough check, do not worry. Meet me at the feast and I shall make it worth your while. But most unfortunately, our time now is limited. Luck be to you." She nodded and sauntered off, and the two retainers tried to follow without messing up the cords of her gambeson. "Oh, yes. Such a nice ass it is," she could be heard saying, as she turned to look over her shoulder at Alistair's backside.
Alistair fell back on the bench. "Could I... could I get my shirt, by any chance? I feel... naked, all of a sudden. Dunno why that is. Maybe because I have so few clothes on?"
Duncan handed over the tunic and dog-hair shirt, and Alistair donned them quickly. His face was still burning. He fell back to his food, if looking somewhat more thoughtful than before. "I didn't even remember that they are arranging a feast. I can't attend, can I, commander?"
It sounded almost like plea. But Duncan did not answer.
* * *
Noon brought an even harder wind, and sparse snow began to fly across the landscape from the heavy sky. A bleaker and colder winter tournament day none could remember.
After returning to their seats from the bonfires and warmed tents, no one wanted to tarry with the formalities. Knight-Commander Glavin's representative quickly announced the finalists, most of whom needed no introduction. Ser Ophelia was there, gathering snowflakes on her beautiful Antivan armor, as was fair-bearded Ser Morgan whom Duncan remembered meeting earlier. A varied amount of cheering rose from the crowd at the contestants' names. To Duncan's surprise, there was quite a lot of yelling and foot-stomping for Alistair. He realised that the novice must have caught the gamblers' eye.
The rules for the single combat were more complicated than for the melee, but not much. There were no more challenges. If a fight took too long, judges would decide on the winner. Very short matches were expected today, as the air grew colder and colder and the judges appointed by the Grand Cleric shivered in their seats despite their heavy fur cloaks.
Three matches were fought before it was Alistair's turn. His first opponent was barbarian warrior. She was a huge thing, taller than him. The big two-hander she wielded seemed to weigh nothing in her hands. When she charged, her warcry was loud enough to shake the snow from the canopies. Alistair retreated as fast as he could before the mountain of muscle and steel, and blocked huge swings that sent splinters of wood flying around from his shield.
After she had driven him right across to the lists without receiving one attempt at a counterattack, she stopped and laughed. "That's it, boy! Flee! I will make a necklace of your balls!"
Alistair straightened and twisted a crick out of his neck. "Right," he said and attacked. Two shield bashes and a lot of shouting later, the woman was kneeling on the ground, holding a broken wrist instead of the greatsword and spitting curses at him.
It was decided that the wrist was an accident.
"I haven't crossed swords with women before," an embarrassed Alistair explained to Duncan at the fighter's area. "I tried to avoid them in the melee as much as I could. Threw me at first. I'll get over it."
A few bouts later Alistair was called to the field again. This was to be his first defeat. After what was considered enough unresolved swordplay, judges were called on to decide the winner, and the decision went against him.
In his third match, he faced Ser Morgan, who wore full templar plate, and wielded a shield and sword like him.
Ser Morgan was even less gracious than Alistair's first opponent. "Darkspawn take you for all I care," was all that he said as the former training partners regarded each other across the field. Custom dictated that he had to greet his opponent, and he bowed stiffly before charging.
Alistair waited for Ser Morgan where he stood. He met the templar's sword with his own and employed the same trick Duncan had seem him use against the chasind who wounded him; he ducked and swung his shield into the templar, who staggered like a great tree being felled. Immediately Alistair bashed into Ser Morgan again, his full weight behind his shield, and the other man stumbled backwards. Before Alistair could deliver a final blow with the flat of his sword, however, Ser Morgan had regained his stance and was able to counter the maneuver, if only barely.
Ser Morgan was not a bad swordsman, but it was obvious that Alistair knew his tricks through and through. The judges weren't needed. After barely a minute, Ser Morgan was lying on his back in the grey snow, with wind knocked out of his lungs, sword and shield lying whichever way, and the crowd cheered for the other man.
Alistair extended his hand to the templar. "Thank you for the fight, Ser Morgan," he said.
"Get away from me!" Ser Morgan scrambled to his feet. "Filthy whoreson! Remember what I once said? You can take the vows, but you will never be one of us. Your life in the order will be a living hell, that much I can promise!"
Alistair's face went hard for a second, then he grinned. "No, all I recall being said is that you intended to lick my bottom in this fight. Or was it kick? I can't remember."
The audience laughed. Ser Morgan spat at Alistair's feet and stormed away, collecting his gear as he went.
Back behind the lists, Alistair shrugged at Duncan's questioning look. "He must really, really hate poetry."
The fights were starting to take their toll on the contestants. Alistair won another battle by judging, but then he was set against the yet undefeated Ser Ophelia, who wielded two lovely curving sabres and laughed as she fought. It was clear from the start that the novice was badly outmatched. Duncan knew that the Antivan could have ended the match whenever she wished, but the woman chose to amuse herself, to embroider the air with her weapons and occasionally almost brush against Alistair as she danced around him and his attempts at a counterattack.
Finally, when the judges were about to end the uneven fight, Ser Ophelia feinted and kicked and down Alistair went, on his back in the muck.
Ser Ophelia sheathed her swords, stepped forward and stood over the novice who just lay where he was, breathing heavy and holding his midriff.
"Owwww," Alistair moaned. "That was... mean."
Ser Ophelia laughed heartily. "Best in this backwater village, you may be, little warrior. But there is a lot you must learn about real ways of combat. Perhaps I teach you later, hmm..?"
She extended her hand and helped Alistair up. The novice smiled at her sheepishly. "If that's how girls fight, I'm no longer sorry that somebody said that about me once."
Ser Ophelia laughed again, obviously approving of the jest. "Come sit at my table at the feast, my fine young rooster. What a fine discussion we have!"
"My lady..." And then Alistair completely lost his composure when Ser Ophelia slapped him firmly on the bottom, sending the audience into roars of laughter.
An older male warrior putting his hands on a young female one would have been disqualified. But there were no rules the other way around, and when Alistair got back to the fighter's area, he seemed hardly scandalized.
"I don't know whether to run away or not," he said to Duncan. "She's going to laugh at me, and I don't mean the good kind of laugh, either. I mean the kind that will have the entire chantry point and snicker at me for a week."
Duncan realised that Alistair had no clue how attractive he was.
There were no female templars, in training at least, and any kind of intercourse between templar novitiates and the younger sisters was strictly forbidden. The servants at the monastery had all been old. Ser Ophelia could very well be the first sexually interesting and available woman Alistair had encountered during his adult life. And the novice didn't seem like the type who would swing the other way, and court his male companions when there were no women around.
The tournament was nearing its end. Alistair won one more match, but only because the other man – an older templar from Highever – was exhausted and no longer sure in his footing. Alistair could pretend to miss an opening once, but twice would have embarrassed his opponent. The novice seemed almost apologetic as the templar bowed to him after the fight and left the field.
After that, Alistair was well and truly beaten by Ser Kalvin of Denerim.
"I was starting to fear I would have to fight Ser Ophelia again," he said after returning to where Duncan waited. "Maker, I don't think I've ever been this exhausted! I could eat a mabari. And after that, sleep for a week."
Duncan turned to look at the field, where the final battle was being prepared, and at the gallery of honor beyond. "I'm afraid the day is not yet over, Alistair," he said.
"Well, there is one more match left --" Alistair glanced behind him, where Sir Kalvin of Denerim and Ser Ophelia of Antiva City were just greeting each other.
"That is not what I was referring to," Duncan said. "But all will be settled soon enough."
Alistair gave the Grey Warden a rather odd look, but didn't press the matter.
Am I right? Duncan wondered. Is it wrong to take someone so young? He has barely started to live. He is yet to bed a woman, to fight a real battle, to sire a child, to make true friends, even. What if he never will? And even if he survives, he will die sooner than most. But Duncan knew he could not wait. They would make Alistair take his vows, or worse.
When had he decided? Duncan wasn't certain. He only knew that the novice had displayed courage, skill, modesty and grace in battle. Duncan knew what had to be done. If only the knowledge of it didn't weigh so heavy on his heart.
Winner of the final match and the tournament was Ser Ophelia.
Winter days were short in Ferelden, and the overcast sky was already starting to assume a darker hue when the winners were called to stand before the gallery of honor. Great torches had been lighted and were held by guards left and right. The Grand Cleric stood up and lifted Queen Anora's shield in her hands. The three winners were covered in heavy red cloaks with the arling's heraldic symbol, a tower on a cliff, emblazoned on the back.
Around them, the snowfall was getting thicker. Wind carried delicious smells from the feast site. Everyone was eager for the formalities to end, including Knight-Commander Glavin's representative, who perhaps out of sheer hunger committed a fateful blunder.
"At the third place, Alistair of the templars – ah -- representing Duncan, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden!"
Not noticing his mistake, the crowd hollered and stomped their feet. But the Grand Cleric nailed the unlucky official with a withering gaze.
"This man does not represent the templars," she said. "Nor will he ever do so."
The cheering gradually degenerated into a puzzled drone. All eyes turned toward the Grand Cleric, who now lowered the shield and pointed a finger at Alistair.
Now it comes, Duncan thought. She has had the whole day to brew her revenge, and this is it.
"I renounce Alistair's position as a templar-in-training. By conceding to this act of insubordination, he has gone against the will of the order, and is not fit to be initiated. This man is no longer with the order. He is cast out in shame and will never become a templar."
A shocked silence fell across the listeners. Alistair stood transfixed where he was, staring at the Grand Cleric with no expression at all.
Being cast out – after such a disgrace, there was no honorable order of warriors that would take Alistair in. He would be forced to become a mercenary, or worse.
The Knight-Commander's representative made no attempt to continue. Ser Kalvin and Ser Ophelia stood staring like everyone else.
Only Arl Eamon was not left speechless. "Outrageous!" he shouted and pushed himself to his feet, shaking with fury. "Utterly... outrageous! I shall take this matter to Cailan! You old conceited fool, I will have you thrown out of the order!"
"That will not be necessary," Duncan said.
"Of course it will be necessary! Alistair is – he is --"
"Eamon," Bann Teagan said, with a warning in his voice. Again Duncan knew something was not as it should. His instinct hammered at the back of his head – wrong, wrong, wrong, it was all but shouting to him -- and yet another voice there was saying that he had rarely been more right.
"He grew up in my household! I gave him to the Chantry to be raised, to become a good man, not dishonored by such –!" The Arl turned toward his friend. "Duncan! I hold you personally responsible for this! Have you anything to say for yourself?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Duncan said.
All eyes turned toward the Warden-Commander.
"Well?"
Duncan looked at Alistair and nodded. He saw the novice's eyes widen as realization started to dawn in them. Then he turned back toward the gallery of honor.
"I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription and remove Alistair into my custody. By the power bestowed on me by King Maric, I shall make him a Grey Warden. And may the prophet look kindly on us all, for an Archdemon has risen in the West, and a Blight is coming."
* * *
That's it for today, and probably for a few days more as I have a nine to five job.
I don't know where this Ser Ophelia character came from, but I like her, and I have a small role for her in the story later on.
If you like the story, please leave a comment! I don't know if I already said this, but this is my first fanfic in something like ten years.