Chapter 3
The little boy looked expectantly at Alistair, waiting for his reaction while the butterfly began to crawl across the small dirty palm, instinctively seeking out the highest point from which to launch back into the air. The soft blue glow of Wynne's healing settled over the child like a blanket and the sudden change in its perch startled the insect into taking flight.
It hovered near for a moment as though debating landing again and without even thinking about it, Alistair held out his hand. The butterfly swooped down before it seemed to change its mind and then fluttered out of range as Wynne ran up, seeking a more stable surface on which to alight.
The child made a small sound of disappointment as the insect flew away and then curiously regarded the healing glow surrounding him, stretching his hands out and turning them over as it started to fade away.
"Thank the Maker," the mage gasped with relief when she saw the little boy rising to his feet and clutched Alistair's shoulder. "I was not sure if the healing spell went off in time," she admitted, her blue eyes wide and face strained with stress and worry.
The King stood up, murmuring, "It's a miracle he wasn't hurt," and gave a slight shake of his head, blinking down at the youngster who stared back up at him with open curiosity. "In fact, I'm not really sure how to put this, but Wynne, he was fine before you ever even cast your spell," he informed her with a nervous chuckle and tried to ignore the fact that his hand shook when he ran it through his hair.
Wynne gave him an incredulous look, "Don't be ridiculous, there's no way he could have been uninjured. I heard the hooves strike him—I saw them!"
"They did," Alistair said and shuddered, remembering how had his stomach had lurched when he felt the horse's sudden missteps as those hooves thudded over the child's body, the sickening sight of him being pushed face first into the road as he was run over. "But he was already getting up when I saw him, no tears or anything—like they never touched him. He was chasing a butterfly…" he said, lifting his hands helplessly. Kids.
Shaking her head in disbelief, she gave the boy a warm smile and beckoned him closer. "Let me check and see if you are all right, little one," she said, her voice warm and gentle.
Wordlessly, he edged away from her and toward Alistair, reaching out to slip his small hand into the man's larger one. He didn't seem afraid of her, but at the same time, his hazel eyes were wary as they met hers.
Occasionally when Alistair was out on his royal trips, people would thrust their children (and themselves, for that matter) out at him, hands extended toward him to touch his hands, his clothes, whatever they could reach. He never really understood that, because when it all came down to it he was just another man, but he indulged them anyway. However, this wasn't anything like shaking a child's hand while moving through a crowd of people. The boy's simple handgrip about his own seemed to indicate a level of trust he wasn't sure he deserved.
The thunder of hooves approaching heralded the arrival of his guardsmen, including a very irate looking Guard Captain Lyndon.
"Uh-oh, someone's in big trouble," Alistair muttered under his breath. When the child's fingers tightened around his own, he said cheerfully, "Not you, me."
"When are you not in trouble?" Wynne asked with a raised eyebrow before looking over her shoulder at the wagon. Bayard's dark head could be seen moving around while Ithlayn saw to the horses and she added in a grim tone, "Speaking of which, I'm going to make sure that Bayard is all right before I knock him over the head for putting us in such grave danger." Her blue eyes flickered down to the boy and her expression softened as she told him, "I will leave you in Alistair's good hands for now, but you must let him know if you hurt anywhere, all right?"
The child gave her a solemn nod and, satisfied with his answer, the mage strode toward the wagon.
"Your Majesty, I've told you time and again that we cannot protect you if you go riding off like that," Lyndon said upon dismounting, scowling at the King. "While I can appreciate your worry and regard for your Court Mages, there was no way of knowing who or what lay in wait for you on the road! There could have been bandits, Orlesian assassins, disgruntled dwarves intent on causing another landslide... You should have let your guards worry about stopping the wagon."
Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes—it wasn't like he thought things out before chasing after Wynne and Bayard. "Hmm yes, assassins and bandits and dwarves, oh my! And look, I've caught their leader!" he said with dry amusement, raising the small hand he held. "Don't let his size fool you, it took all of us to take him down. He was a real beast." Stiffening with surprise, the little boy's mouth dropped open and he looked uncertainly up at the man, who gave him a reassuring wink and mischievous smile in return.
Captain Lyndon focused his sharp gaze on the boy in the dirt-stained smock for the first time and his sour look worsened. "Who's this child? Where did he come from?"
"Well the Chantry told me that the good Fade spirits just swoop down and leave them in your arms, but according to Wynne, when a boy and a girl really love each other…." Alistair started in, and grinned at the guard captain's pained expression before sobering a bit, "We're not sure. He was playing in the road when the wagon…." He paused for a moment, glancing down at the boy and carefully continued, "Well—it's a miracle he's not hurt or dead."
And it was a miracle, there was no other word for it. However, if Wynne of all people was skeptical when told of the child's lack of injuries after being trampled, he was certain that Lyndon would be even less inclined to believe him. With that in mind, there was no point in even mentioning it. "Speaking of injuries," the young monarch said, diverting attention away from the boy by looking beyond Lyndon and down the road, "was that Seamus who nearly got run down? Is he all right?"
The Captain grimaced and shook his head. "The wagon hit him, and got him good. I'm pretty sure his leg's broken. Welborne was to get him settled in Quartermaster Fisk's wagon and bring him along. They should be arriving here shortly." The man squinted up at the sky and shook his head. "There's no way we'll make the Imperial highway by nightfall. The bridge over the river is just a few miles up the road and there's a clearing just beyond that will have to do as a campsite."
Alistair nodded, "Make it so. Bayard will have time to rest and recover fully, and Wynne can have a look at Seamus."
Lyndon's sharp-eyed gaze shifted back to his King and the little boy. "I shall have Rorick and Ithlayn scout around and see if they can't find the family."
"The family?" he echoed, confused.
The captain seemed somewhat surprised by his response and nodded, "Of course. The boy seems healthy enough and fed. Certainly he hasn't been living on his own, not at that age. If he's more than five years old, I'll swallow my sword. Likely he just wandered off, it's quite possible they don't even know that he's missing. By your leave, Sire?" Lyndon ducked his head down and walked off to confer with the scouts.
A slight frown touched Alistair's lips. He wasn't sure why he'd been caught off guard by the notion that there must be a mother or father out there who were probably worried sick about their missing son. The little boy was looking up at him and he grinned back, giving the small hand a gentle squeeze, "There, you hear that? You'll probably be reunited with your parents in no time flat." Something flickered in those hazel eyes, some inscrutable emotion that he could not quite put a name to, but the child said nothing.
Lyndon returned a few moments later and gestured one of the guardsmen forward, "I'll have Powell watch the child, your Majesty. Certainly you have better things to do with your time."
The young King raised an eyebrow, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the boy's, strangely reluctant to let him go. "Oh? Better things like what?" he asked with a wry smile. "He'll be fine with me. I think Wynne wanted to have another look at him anyway to make sure he's all right. As you were." He turned away from the guards in dismissal and walked toward the wagon, shortening his stride to make it easier for his small companion to keep up.
Bayard was sitting up in the back of the wagon, his face ashen pale against his black hair. Alistair wasn't sure if that was from the left over effects of his passing out, or the thorough castigation he'd received from Wynne, who was standing beside the wagon, her arms crossed and countenance grim. "Y-y-your Majesty, I am so very sorry," the mage stammered, his hands trembling. "I should not have tried to hide my exhaustion, not when it had the potential to affect so many people. My negligence resulted in two serious injuries and could have very well ended up killing someone as well. I shall tender my resignation immediately and return to the Circle of Magi," he stated, lowering his head with shame.
Wynne pursed her lips with disapproval, dropping her arms to her side as she gave Alistair a sidelong glance.
The King rested one hand on the edge of the wagon, considering the mage's downturned head for a long moment. Slowly, he said, "Those who cannot learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them. You think that you're the only one who's done something so bloody stupid others have paid the price for it? Not even I am immune to that, Bayard, as much as I might wish otherwise." He was vaguely aware of the boy's hand tightening around his own as he spoke in his most authoritative tone, the one Leliana had once referred to as his 'Royal Voice'. "I will not accept your resignation, Court Magi Bayard. You will not be permitted to return to the Circle of Magi."
The mage jerked his head up at the King's words. "Wh-what?" he said incredulously. "B-but Sire, if I... what if…?"
"Do you intend on letting your pride prevent you from admitting your weakness in the future?" Alistair asked.
The mage shook his dark head, his voice grim as he stated, "No. Never again."
Nodding, the King allowed the barest hint of a smile to curve his lips, "Well then, there you go." In a lighter tone, he added, "Besides, we can't have you leaving us when I'm so close to having you used to my refined and excellent sense of humor. What, you think I want to start all over with training someone new?" He straightened and called out to the balding guardsman standing near, "Powell, if you would please, drive the wagon to our camp."
"Yes, your Majesty," he replied and led his horse over, tying the gelding's reins to the back of the wagon before climbing into the bench seat.
Alistair spared a quick glance at Wynne, who gave him an approving nod as she stepped away from the wagon. "I could not have said it better myself," she murmured quietly when she passed him, shifting her staff from one had to the other. Quartermaster Fisk's wagon was just coming into view and they could hear the guardsman with the broken leg moaning from across the distance.
Bayard's face flushed with guilt at the sound and he climbed down from his wagon before making his way over to Seamus with Wynne, intent on making amends however he could. The blue glow of the magewoman's heals stilled the guard's pained cries and finally they were ready to move on to the campsite.
"You get your choice—which wagon did you want to ride in? The one with Wynne, or Guard Powell?" Alistair asked the little boy, who had still not released his handgrip on his. The blond-haired man chuckled as the boy pointed at him and then started walking, giving insistent tugs to pull him along. "I win out? Lucky me," he said cheerfully. Gathering Salt's reins in his free hand, the man and boy walked beside the horse but the little one's small stride made the pace slow going. The guardsmen refused to leave their King to lag behind and as a result, everyone crawled along.
After a quarter mile or so, Alistair had just about had enough of Captain Lyndon's impatient muttering and pulled his hand free to lift the startled boy up, settling him in Salt's saddle before climbing up behind him. Twining his small fingers in the grey stallion's mane, the little boy grinned broadly as he went on what was likely his very first horse ride ever.
Learning to ride horseback had been one of the few perks Alistair had found to being crowned King—he loved it. Ferelden tradition held that only the King and the guards and knights sworn to protect him rode horses. A rather idiotic custom in the current ruler's mind, it was also one he'd been edging away from by giving horses culled from the royal stables to the nobles he and Arl Eamon deemed loyal and worthy enough to receive them. Very few commoners even owned horses worthy of being called little more than nags, and only a fraction of those dubious mounts would ever be used for anything other than pulling carts, wagons and plows.
Chuckling at the child's enthusiasm, Alistair shifted his seat a fraction, altering his grip on the reins and giving Salt the subtle cues that made him change his gait from a walk into a high stepping parade trot. That got the boy giggling wildly and between that and the jarring steps, he had to tuck his arm around the child's stomach to keep him from bouncing right out of the saddle. After a few moments he let the grey stallion slow back to a steady ground eating walk. When the little one's laughter subsided, he leaned back into the man with contentment, not seeming to mind that the scale armor he wore made a poor cushion to rest against.
The change in pace meant it only took about half an hour for them to reach the bridge over Gherlen River. It was a sturdy stone and wood structure, spanning the wild river beneath. The banks were swollen by the spring snowmelt that rushed downstream and the shoreline on both sides was littered with slick, jagged rocks. Eventually the waters would reach Lake Calenhad to the East. When they were about a hundred yards from the bridge, Alistair resettled his grip around the little boy's stomach and turned his head, cocking one eyebrow at Captain Lyndon.
The man stiffened at the expression on his King's face, muttering, "Dammit," as he gathered the reins in his hands in preparation for what he knew was coming.
The curse had barely left Lyndon's mouth when Alistair kicked Salt into a gallop, the guard captain's own chestnut mare following a half a length behind. Gasping at the sudden change in speed, the boy closed his eyes, lifting his face to feel the breeze rush over his skin and stretching his arms out to the side like a soaring bird's as the horses raced forward and across the bridge, his expression pure joy. It only took a few moments for the horses to reach the opposite side of the bridge and when they slowed down to a walk before halting in the broad clearing that would be their campsite for the night, the child slowly lowered his thin arms and gave a happy sigh.
"You do that every time we cross that damnable bridge," Lyndon grumbled, clambering down to the ground and giving his mount an affectionate pat on the neck.
Alistair laughed as he slid to the ground as well, commenting, "Well I knew you'd be disappointed if I broke the tradition. It's good luck, I've decided. That and I love the sound of the hooves thundering over the wood planks. All right then, down you go," he said to the boy, lifting him off of Salt and setting him down on the ground. The boy wobbled at the sudden change from riding to walking and he took a few ginger steps as though trying to get his land legs back.
Both men began to remove the tack from their mounts and as Lyndon lowered his saddle to the ground, he glanced over at the child, who had given up on walking for now and sat cross legged in the grass watching them. "Not much of a talker, is he? When my sister's kids were that age, they'd near about talk your ear off."
The King shook his head, his expression thoughtful. "No, he's not. In fact, I've only heard him say one thing since finding him on the road. Perhaps he has nothing to say? That's quite all right—Wynne's said on more than one occasion that I talk enough for two people anyway," he stated cheerfully and the boy a wink, which earned him a smile.
"That's the Maker's own truth," the captain grunted.
The others rode into camp a few moments later and everyone settled into the familiar routine of setting up the campsite for the night. For a while the boy watched everyone bustle around, propping up tents, tying up the horses' picket lines and seeing that they had food and water, but eventually his eyelids began to droop. He ended up slumping over Alistair's saddle to sleep.
Wynne, with Bayard's help, had to set and heal Seamus' broken leg. The bones were knitting back together, but he would have to ride in the wagon for a couple of weeks as the limb was too weak to let him sit comfortably in the saddle despite the healing he'd received.
The hearty smell of Fisk's nug stew filled the air, the meat courtesy of their dwarven hosts from the days previous.
It was with great relief that Alistair finally had settled in enough to shrug out of his dragonscale hauberk. He slowly worked the leather and steel up and over his back and shoulders before letting it fall on top of his saddle blanket with a heavy thud. Rolling his shoulders, he arched his back and stretched, glad to be free of the extra weight. At least his days of travelling Ferelden at Lyna's side in heavy or massive plate armor were over, and travelling on foot, no less. You're going as soft as a noble, he thought to himself with self depreciating humor.
"Alistair, might I have a word?" Wynne asked, walking toward him with a serene smile on her face—the smile she tended to have when she had some special torture in mind just for him.
He eyed her warily and said, "I'm feeling particularly generous tonight, so I'll give you two."
Unfazed, the mage nodded and ticked off two words in turn on her fingers. "Bath. Water."
"Pardon?" he spoke after a moment's hesitation, not quite sure he'd heard her right.
The warm light from the fire lit up her blue eyes with mirth. "Those were my two words. Bath. Water. As in, would you be willing to help a frail old woman draw some bath water?" she asked demurely and—did she just bat her eyes at him?
Alistair raised an eyebrow at her. He knew she loved baths but on the road, she always took one every other day. "Wynne, have you seen how slippery those rocks are by the river? Fisk nearly broke his neck bringing up water for supper. If I go down there, there'll be no need for Orlesian assassins, I'll slip, kill myself and save them the effort." And then he waited for it. She didn't disappoint.
Her eyes crinkled and she gave him a sad nod, "Very well then. Pity, that. I was going through my bags and found a huge chunk of halla cheese—my goodness, it must have been about this big." She spread her hands apart.
The King started salivating. "Halla cheese?" he heard himself say faintly. Not only was that particular cheese one of the finest in all of Ferelden, it also happened to be virtually impossible to get, which made it even more irresistible.
Wynne inclined her head and breathed a heavy sigh. "Oh well. Perhaps that nice lad Ithlayn would be willing to help me then, I'm sure he'd appreciate a taste of home…"
"You're wicked. You know that, right?" he said with a resigned sigh. "All right, where's the bucket. I don't know why you want a bath anyway, you smell fine to me."
She laughed and pointed over at the little boy, who was finally starting to stir to wakefulness. "Actually the bath water is for him. He's utterly filthy and that smock, well, I think I've got something more suitable in my bags for him to wear than that disgusting thing."
Alistair glanced in that direction and then scanned the camp. "Neither Rorick nor Ithlayn has returned with any news regarding the boy's family. I'm not sure if that's bad news or good news," he spoke with wry humor, turning toward the mage again.
Wynne nodded, looking between the child and man before she reached out to rest her hand on his arm. "Alistair, he's not a puppy you get to keep because he followed you home," she gently informed him.
He blinked at her and then flushed, lowering his head a little. "I know that. It's just..." His voice trailed off and he admitted, "I don't know. I've never really been around children before, other than Connor and since he was possessed by a demon at the time, I'm not really sure if he counts," he grimaced at that memory. "He's just so innocent and trusting. I've never seen anything like it. I think it's that, well, being around him is reminding me of things that I missed out on when I was growing up, and things that I'll miss out on again since it doesn't seem likely that I'll be having any more children, thanks to the taint."
Smiling sadly at him, she gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "You never know. For what it's worth, I think you would make a great father," she told him.
A choked laugh escaped him. "Thank you—for what it's worth." He shook his head to regain control of his emotions and patted her slender hand with his before tucking it in his arm. Together, they walked the short distance to her tent which was set up next to his. A pair of large empty buckets waited just outside. "I see you're well prepared," he said with dry amusement.
"Mmhmm. Fisk said dinner was done, so when you bring those up, we'll put them on the fire. By the time we finish eating, the water should be hot enough for the wash basin." Wynne smiled, "And don't eat too much. Remember, you'll be having cheese for desert."
"Oh please, dear lady. There is always room for more cheese," he said, chuckling as he picked up the buckets and headed down the rocky path to the river. Fortunately the excursion was uneventful and when he returned, Fisk was ladling out dinner. He helped Wynne set the buckets over the fire and then collected two bowls of nug stew, one large and one small and then settled down on the ground next to his saddle.
The little boy had been fully awake since he'd gotten back from the river, and his stomach growled audibly as Alistair passed him the small bowl and a spoon. "I see you're as hungry as I am. Be careful, it's hot," he warned as he dipped his own spoon into his dinner, blowing over the surface and started to eat. Wynne joined them a moment later, though she sat on an upended bucket instead of the ground.
After giving him an odd look, the child set the bowl down in his small lap and started shoveling the hot food into his mouth so fast that Alistair worried he'd choke. "Hey now, slow down! There's plenty more where that came from, no need to rush."
Wynne pursed her lips as the child frowned up at him, but ate slower at least. "He eats as though he hasn't eaten a decent meal in days," she noted.
"Not days, perhaps, but at least not since yesterday," Ithlayn stated as he walked into the camp. The human scout Rorick followed a few steps behind him. The others murmured quiet greetings to the pair of scouts.
It took a minute for the Elf's words to sink in. "Since yesterday?" Alistair echoed with disbelief, his food forgotten. "How do you know?"
Rorick shrugged, "Because that's when he came out of the river," as he accepted Fisk's dinner offering. Gesturing to the East with his spoon, he explained, "Sometime around noon, about a mile downstream. That's where he came up on shore, though I have no idea where he might have fallen in."
"Or been thrown in," Ithlayn said darkly, his tattooed Elvish features fierce looking in the flickering light coming from the fire.
The human scout grimaced agreement, muttering, "Or that, yes."
Silence lay over the campsite a dark blanket at the Dalish elf's words and the guardsmen's quiet chatter faded away. The little boy had stopped eating and stared down at his empty bowl, his small head lowered and, unsurprisingly, not saying a word.
Wynne was the first to speak, and she was aghast. "Are you telling me that you believe someone threw this child into the river? On what evidence would you base that assumption?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
"The river," was Ithlayn's simple reply. "Surely you've felt the water, how cold it is from the snowmelt from the Frostback Mountains. No one, not even a strong man, could survive in such icy water for more than a minute or two, and for someone as young and small as he is, his chances of surviving for long would be greatly diminished. It's quite possible he was thrown in from the bridge there." The elf gestured toward the Gherlen bridge with his hand.
Rorick nodded, "It'd make sense, if he had been. Carried along by the water for a mile before he was able to reach the shore. He'd have been half frozen but would still survive. Obviously," he added, his gaze resting on the boy's downturned head. "He curled up and slept in a mossy patch of grass just within the treeline. When he woke up early this morning, he made his way to the road and started walking toward Orzammar."
Alistair was so furious he did not trust himself to speak. What kind of monster would throw a child into a whitewater river? His fingers clenched so tightly around the spoon that it began to bend. A small dirty hand brushed lightly over his white knuckles and tried to calm his temper before mustering a smile for the little one. The child pulled the bent spoon free from the man's hands and frowned at it, then tried to bend it back into shape, poking his tongue out the side of his mouth as he strained with the effort.
"Perhaps he fell in?" Wynne suggested, as though hoping that was more probable than the alternative, that someone would be monstrous enough to push a small child off of a bridge.
The two scouts looked at each other without speaking before looking back at the mage, but it was Captain Lyndon who realized why they had reached their conclusion. "There weren't any tracks, were there?" he asked, his lips tight with anger.
"No, there weren't," Rorick stated, stirring his nug stew. "The only tracks by humans for miles, either up or downstream, occur at two spots. Right there," the scout pointed toward the narrow trail where Alistair, Fisk, and likely anyone else who'd ever used the clearing as a campground, had headed down to the river, "and where he came ashore downstream."
"If he'd fallen in, a normal person with any sense of decency would run down to the river and follow the bank downstream to see if somehow, he'd made it to shore in spite of the odds. Only no one did," Alistair grated, hardly even recognizing the sound of his own voice. The boy had given up on trying to straighten the bent spoon and returned it to him. With a quick twist of his wrists, the spoon was returned to its original shape. He held it up for the child to see and was rewarded with a pleased grin.
The others remained silent for now, returning to their meals. Bayard was sitting beside Seamus, no doubt still trying to make amends for his lapse of judgment earlier. He gave his soup bowl a dubious look and then scooped out a spoonful to eat. Thoughtfully he considered the taste for a moment and said, "Well, it certainly doesn't taste like chicken."
A few of the guardsmen snickered. Seamus poked at a chunk of meat in his soup, "No, but it's more like lamb, maybe. Lamb that's been incredibly over cooked and over seasoned. No wonder dwarves are so short, if this is one of the only meats they eat. Give me a chicken or some salted pork any day over this."
The child picked up his empty bowl, carrying it over to where Quartermaster Fisk sat by the stewpot. He lifted the bowl up, his eyebrows raised in a silent request for 'more.'
The heavyset man laughed, saying, "Oh, so ye be wantin' ta put a bit more meat on dem bones, are ye? Not sure if'n nug stew be good 'nuff for dat but it canna hurt." Fisk ladled out another serving into the small bowl and tousled his matted dark hair. Grunting, he glanced over at Wynne, "See if'n ye canna cut his hair a wee bit, 'tis bad 'nuff that he be kin to a wild sprout, no sense in 'im lookin' like a gel ta boot."
The boy frowned, cocking his head at the quartermaster while he reached up experimentally to feel his own hair. His brows drew together as he considered the length of it and the feel of it before looking around the camp at the other's hair. All of the guardsmen, Fisk and Alistair himself had short hair, no more than a few fingers in length. Bayard's hair was long enough for him to have decorative braiding worked in, but even then it was no longer than the collar of his mage robe. His expression remained thoughtful as he carried his bowl back to the King's side and sat down cross legged to eat his second helping, though at a normal pace now that the worst of his hunger had been sated.
After supper, Alistair carried the hot water into Wynne's tent and poured it into the round metal tub she used as a wash basin. Then, of course, he had to make one final trip down to the river for a bucket of cold water—the hot water was too hot, she said—and finally he settled down in front of his large tent to end the day as he typically did, by polishing his armor and sword.
He'd barely started buffing the russet dragonscales when he heard Wynne hiss, "By the Maker and all that is holy!" Tossing the armor aside, he rolled to his feet and quickly made his way over to her tent, not even bothering to announce his presence before he pulled the tent flap aside and ducked in. The steaming bathwater made the tent interior warm and humid.
She had her back to him, crouched down and Alistair could just see the boy's dark head in front of her, tinged blue by the glow of her healing spell. It took a moment for that to sink in, and his breath caught in his throat as he asked with disbelief, "He was hurt? This whole time?"
Wynne gave him a brief glance from over her shoulder and he instinctively took a step back at the raw fury in her blue eyes. Angry mages were A Very Bad Thing. She turned her attention forward again to the child and asked in a rough whisper, "Who would do such a thing to you?"
Alistair found his voice and made his way to her side, "Do what to him? Wynne, what's been ….?" His question trailed off when he saw the boy standing before her, naked but for his smallclothes, his dirty smock a wad of fabric balled up at his feet and—Maker's breath, were those holes in his shoulder? He sank down to his knees at the mage's side and studied the angry, puckered wounds, suddenly realizing there was something appallingly familiar about them. "Those… I've seen wounds like that. I've had wounds like that. Those are spider bites, like the ones from those giant spiders we saw in the Deep Roads during the Blight." He lifted his right arm, pulling the sleeve of his tunic up to a pair of pale circular scars in the meat of his forearm. During the fight, he'd been pinned to the ground by one of the large arachnids and held his arm protectively over his head.
The child fidgeted at their inspection, his face drawn and worried.
"Just a moment longer, dear, I promise," Wynne soothed him with a tender smile. "That's not even the worst of it," she said to Alistair and with a brief move of her hand drew his attention downward to the boy's legs.
He almost vomited when he saw how many bite marks covered the boy's thin legs, scars identical to the ones on his forearm. There had to be dozens of them, they dotted nearly every inch of flesh on his thighs. "That's monstrous," he rasped out. "Who would torture someone like this? Especially a child?" Waves of anger emanated from him and his fists clenched. If he ever found whoever had done this, Andraste have mercy on them, because he sure wouldn't.
Wynne brushed her fingertips over two marks. "Some of these are old. See how these bite holes are further apart than the others? I suspect that is because they were among the first he received, perhaps soon after he was born, even. They've spread out as his body has grown, the scars shifting with his growth. This has been going on for a very long time." Her face was haggard as she looked into his eyes. "For years, Alistair. Years."
Murderous rage, that's what Alistair was feeling now. Even when he'd executed Loghain he'd never felt this level of fury before and it very nearly took his breath away. It was bad enough finding out the boy had been tossed away like he was nothing more than a piece of garbage, but what had been done to him prior to that was infinitely worse. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out as he tried to calm down by using the discipline learned during his years training as a Templar. It wasn't working this time.
The feathery brush of fingers over the furrowed lines on his forehead startled him into opening his eyes. The little boy was standing right in front of him regarding him with apprehension. "Angry," he said in a small sad voice, lightly pressing his hand into Alistair's face as though trying to smooth out his ill temper.
He sighed deeply, his brown eyes softening when he felt the rage suddenly melt away. By the Maker, did he think that Alistair was angry at him, for what had been done to him, like it was his fault? Lifting his hand, he took the child's and drew it down to give a gentle squeeze. "Not at you, little one." He forced himself to smile, "Now how about that bath? I suspect Wynne thinks you smell like a Dust Town nug by now."
"Very nearly," the magewoman agreed with a tiny grin. "Reminds me rather of you."
Alistair gave her a hurt look, complaining good naturedly , "I do not smell like a Dusk Town nug, I smell like dog. A big, mangy slobbering dog—from the Anderfels, no less."
Wynne laughed, her blue eyes twinkling. "That is rather what you smell like, now that I think about it, yes."
"Well that's what I was raised by, didn't I mention this? Dogs," Alistair gave the boy a wink as he helped him out of his smallclothes. "Lyna once said it explains my manners too, we went over this soon after we met, you know. Come on then, in you go," he said and lifted him into the washtub. He watched the boy get settled into the water and when he began to slowly wave his arms back and forth, watching the ripples of current his motions caused, the young man began to get to his feet. "All righty then, I'm going to head on back to my tent and…"
The child grabbed his arm and frowned, shaking his head, indicating his desire for Alistair to stay. He couldn't help but chuckle at the youngster's insistence. "Or perhaps not. Though I'm really not sure this is so safe, water is very dangerous for me," he confided with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
That earned him an inquiring look from the boy, and Alistair explained, "Because I'm so sweet. Sugar melts in water, you see. Now, Wynne here has nothing to worry about. Salt lumps."
Wynne dipped her fingers in the water and flicked them at him, spattering droplets all over his face.
"Hey!" he protested, laughing and the child giggled as well before imitating Wynne's gesture and spraying more water on him. "No ganging up on the King, or I shall be forced to call in my Royal Guards for protection."
"Enough play for now, you two," Wynne said, ignoring the fact that she'd started it by splashing Alistair in the first place. The magewoman picked up a cup, quietly directing the boy, "Tilt your head back." He complied, lifting his small face upwards. "Yes, that's good." After pouring enough water over the dark matted hair to wet it through to his scalp, she picked up the bottle of soap and herbs and poured a generous dollop directly onto his head before lathering it in with her fingers.
Alistair dipped his finger into the soapy lather and put a white dab on the boy's nose. The child grinned, his hazel eyes going cross-eyed as he tried to look at it. The bite marks on his thin shoulder seemed even more stark as the sloshing water washed some of the dirt away. "Wynne, I could have sworn I saw you healing him when I came into the tent," he said, looking at her.
Her expression tightened and she replied, "That was actually the third time I'd cast my healing spell on him, for all the good it did."
"Wait, are you saying that the spell didn't work?"
"Does it look like it worked?" Wynne asked, still scrubbing the child's head.
"Well, no, but I'm just saying…" Alistair's voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Does that happen often? I mean, I don't know a lot of mages as old as you are, does the magic just kind of fade away? Perhaps Bayard…"
She scowled at him, interrupting, "It has nothing to do with my magic. A mage's magic does not wither away like a dying plant in winter. If anything, it gets more powerful as we age and learn to use our skills at maximum efficiency." Wynne sighed and lifted the back of her hand to rub against her nose. "Give me your belt knife."
He was pulling it from the sheath before he'd even considered what she might do with it.
The mage rinsed her soapy hands in water and took it from him. With a quick jerk, she drew the blade over her finger before giving it back.
Alistair fumbled with the blade, cleaning it with a rag he kept tucked away before he returned the blade to the leather sheath. His brown eyes were wide with surprise at her action. "You're not going to whip out some blood magic on me, now of all times, are you?" he asked drolly.
She shook her head, watching as the blood welled up over the thin wound. The familiar blue healing glow settled over her body and the small wound closed almost instantly. She reached for a rag and wiped the blood away to reveal the thin white scar her healing left behind. "See? It's not my spell."
The pale blue light lifted and enveloped the child. The little boy squinted and held up his arm, poking it through the glow of her healing spell. But his wound remained unchanged.
Alistair watched as the spell faded and said slowly, "So, you're saying that healing magic won't work on him. That any time he gets hurt or sick, he's got to heal by natural means." Well that certainly wasn't good.
Wynne shrugged, smiling at the boy as she dipped the cup in water to rinse his head. "Perhaps. It occurs to me that healing magic may not be the only kind of magic that doesn't work on him." She pursed her lips, the worry lines in her face lengthening as she quietly informed him, "I can't help but think that if he's unaffected by healing magic, then there's a chance that he'll be similarly unaffected by all magic. Benevolent and malevolent."
"Rather like a dwarf then?" Alistair said, studying the boy's features. He didn't look like a dwarf child, he wasn't short or stout enough.
"Dwarven resistance, such as it is, is limited to only hostile magic, but nonetheless that is still a good analogy. Complete magic immunity though—I've never heard of such a thing in all my years as a mage, either by word of mouth or in anything I've read over the years. Until today, I would have thought it impossible." She reached out with a fingertip, brushing the soap off of the boy's nose and smiled, "Tilt your head back and close your eyes, so we don't get soap in them."
He flashed a quick grin and lifted his chin up, his eyes closing as she began to pour the water over his head with quick even movements.
Alistair had never heard of such a thing either. He watched as the water sluiced down over the boy's dark hair, rinsing away the soap and a thick clump of hair as well. Another matted lock dropped down into the water with a plop and he reached down to pull the dripping length out. "That's just gross. Wynne, what kind of herbs did you have in that soap anyway?" the King asked, wrinkling his nose as he shook it away.
Wynne's jaw tightened and she continued to pour cupfuls of water over the boy's head. "Nothing that would cause hair loss to this extent. It's the same bottle of soap I use on myself and I'm far from bald."
By the time all of the soap had been rinsed away, so had most of his hair. The snarled matted locks were all gone and the hair that remained was surprisingly even in length. "That's just creepy," was the best that Alistair could come up with as Wynne fished out enough of the shed hair to finish bathing the boy without getting her washrag all tangled up.
Thank the Maker, the rest of the bath passed uneventfully. The mage toweled him off from head to toe. His black hair was now as short as any of Alistair's guardsmen and somewhat spiky on the top. "It looks like you just gave him a haircut. Only you didn't," Alistair commented, reaching out to brush the palm of his hand over the dark spikes. It felt like, well, hair.
"As far as anyone else knows, that's exactly what I did," Wynne said firmly, giving the King a significant look as she pulled a small tunic over the boy's head and then helped him into a pair of pants. They were a bit too small, but definitely an improvement on the filthy smock he'd been found in. At Alistair's inquiring look, she explained, "These were for Bann Teagan and Lady Kaitlyn's boy, Bryce. He's just over three now but I wasn't sure how much he had grown in the past year. I made them large with the expectation that he'd be able to grow into them sooner or later. They'll do for this little one until we reach Redcliffe."
Wynne wrapped the shed swathes of hair in the long strip of cloth and then Alistair, with the help of the guard Welborne, lugged the water basin outside and emptied it. The boy followed them, grinning broadly as Fisk and a couple of the guards complimented him on his smart new haircut. They went to the privy and then returned to Wynne's tent, but the mage wasn't there.
Alistair sat down on the thick blanket Wynne had spread over the floor of her tent and sighed. It'd been a long day. To his amusement, the boy sat down beside him and sighed too, clearly imitating him. Laughing, he said, "This has certainly been a day full of surprises. I think I'm about full up on them, in fact." Quirking his eyebrows upwards, he looked down at his small companion to ask with playful trepidation, "You haven't got any more, do you? Surprises in store for me, that is?"
The boy tilted his head to the side in thought and held up three fingers.
"So—wait, so you're telling me you have three more surprises for me?" He sincerely hoped this was a joke, or at the very least, a misunderstanding.
Frowning uncertainly, the child lowered one finger after a moment, reducing the number to two.
"Two or three surprises. Yay. I hope my heart can take it," he muttered under his breath, giving the boy a sidelong look. "And you're not going to tell me what they are, either, are you? No doubt I'll have to just figure it out with my usual bumbling skill. Because that always works out sooo well," he drawled sarcastically.
That earned him a quick grin before the little one flopped over, resting his head on Alistair's thigh and giving his knee a comforting pat. Wynne returned a few minutes later and it was just as well. His leg was starting to fall asleep. The boy was so quiet and still that he thought he might have a fallen asleep, but he sat up as the mage began to putter around the tent, tucking away bandages and salves from treating Seamus' leg. The blonde King gasped as his position shifted, sending blood flow to his aching foot. "Ow ow ow tinglies, tinglies," he whimpered, trying to keep his leg as still as possible.
Quite deliberately, Wynne bumped into it as she passed him and he hissed in reaction, glaring up at her. "You're an evil, evil woman. And where's my cheese? You promised me halla cheese."
She laughed, inclining her head. "So I did." The magewoman reached into one of her satchels and pulled out a leaf-wrapped bundle. She carefully unfolded the fronds, revealing the distinctive mottled green rind of the cheese beneath. A few moments later the cheese was cut into small, white chunks. Alistair was given four, and Wynne split the remaining four between herself and the boy. "That's all you're getting tonight, so do not pester me with requests for more, young man," she said, shaking her finger at him.
The King popped a bite into his mouth into his mouth and closed his eyes, savoring the rich, sharp flavor and sweet aftertaste. "Maker's breath, that's some good cheese," he breathed with contentment.
"You really were not kidding when you said you had an unholy love of fine cheese, were you?" Wynne asked, chuckling as she lifted her own piece of cheese and ate it with typical delicacy.
"My dear lady, if there is one thing in life that I am always serious about, it is fine cheese," Alistair informed her sincerely. "I have to say, that's one of the best things about living in the Royal Palace, we never run out of cheese. And there's always so many different kinds! I see I'm not the only one who has such excellent and discerning taste," he gestured at the little boy, who smiled with delight as he finished his first piece of cheese. "There you go, boy, don't eat it too quickly or you don't have the chance to really taste it," he nodded with approval as he started in on the second piece.
Of course, the fact that the King had been given the most pieces of cheese meant that he was also the one who still had one more chunk left by the time the others finished. The little boy stared intently from that final piece of halla cheese up to his face and back down again. Alistair frowned when he saw the child's hopeful expression. "Oh come on, get on with you. This is fair. I'm the biggest of the three of us, so naturally I get the most cheese. It's not only fair, it's logical."
The boy's lower lip quivered.
"Look now, I…." He tried to avoid that pathetically sad face and of course, that meant looking at Wynne. The mage raised one eyebrow and he heaved a resigned sigh. "Ok, fine, take it. Quick, before I change my mind."
The chunk of cheese was gone almost as soon as the words left his mouth, though the broad grin he received from the boy made it worth the loss.
"It's a good thing the nobles don't know what a pushover you are," Wynne commented, a smile curving her lips.
"I am so not a pushover," Alistair said defensively. The little boy yawned and began to crawl over the man's leg to curl up in his lap. Instinct led him to settle the child against his chest. It seemed as though only moments had passed before the small body in his arms went limp as he fell asleep.
The mage chuckled softly, "I stand corrected. You are an oak." She got to her feet and was careful to fold the leaf fronds over the remaining bit of halla cheese before tucking it into her satchel again. When she turned back toward him again, her age face was solemn. "Alistair, we need to talk."
He grimaced, shifting the slumbering child a little. "Yes, I suppose we should, though I am not really sure what there is to say."
"First, I want to apologize to you," Wynne admitted, lowering her head. "When you told me that the boy had been unharmed after being trampled by the horse before I had ever healed him—or cast my heal spell on him rather—I should have believed you, or at least taken the time to question you more thoroughly before making a decision one way or the other."
Alistair shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. "That's quite all right. I almost didn't believe it myself, and I was there."
Tapping a finger along her chin in thought, Wynne shook her head. "So he is run over by a horse, but emerges from that unharmed. That makes no sense—why would it be impossible for a horse to trample him, but yet he still has spider bites covering his body. Perhaps he has a particular vulnerability to spiders, and just spiders?" she suggested dubiously.
"Well who could blame him for that? They are rather scary, especially the pony sized ones," he pointed out with a shudder. "Why'd his hair fall out when you gave him a bath, while we're throwing out the 'whys'?"
"That reminds me, I have something to show you," the mage told him and reached over for the length of cloth she had wrapped the boy's shed hair in, unrolling it in front of her. Digging in her sewing bag for a moment, she withdrew her scissors and glanced up at him. "Watch." Wynne worked the scissors with her hands, hacking at a lock of hair without any sign of actually cutting a single strand.
It wasn't exactly a miraculous demonstration, but it got the point across. "I don't suppose the scissors are just really dull?" he asked.
Without saying a word, she tugged a bit of her grey hair free of the bun she kept it tucked in and lopped off a swath with a quick snip of the scissors.
"Oookay. So his hair can't be cut and instead, what? He saw that the guards had short hair and decided that's how long his should be and the rest just, kind of broke off?" Alistair considered the boy's short dark hair and muttered, "Well I suppose it's just as well we're not in Avvar, or his hair might be down past his hindquarters."
Wynne put her scissors away and rolled the hair back up in the cloth to place in her mage satchel.
They stared at the little boy for a long moment, each of them lost in their thoughts. His small mouth hung half open as he slept, his cheek pressed against Alistair's arm and his hands curled up beneath his small chin. He seemed completely unremarkable.
"So what do we do?" Alistair finally asked, wincing as he shifted the boy in his arms. His muscles were stiffening from sitting in the same position for too long.
"I think it best that we keep him with us until we get to Redcliffe at the very least," Wynne said slowly. "And we keep his more unique attributes to ourselves."
"I agree. His secrets stay between you and I alone." His one-sided conversation with the child from earlier suddenly came to mind and he coughed quietly. "That reminds me, he happened to let slip that he's got a few other 'surprises' for us."
Her blue eyes sharpened as she asked, "What kind of surprises? Did he say?"
"No, he didn't actually 'say' anything," Alistair explained. "I commented that I'd had enough surprises today to last me for a good while and asked him if he had anything else up his sleeve. He showed me three fingers. So I asked if he meant he had three surprises and he nodded." His story seemed to ramble on even more than usual, but that was exactly how it'd happened, more or less.
Wynne studied the boy. "So three more revelations are in store for us. Well that doesn't bode well."
"Maybe he meant typical little boy surprises like the ones I used to have when I was his age, you know, worms in his pocket at the dinner, or the frog in the bread box," the blonde King said hopefully.
"Do you really think that's what he meant?" she returned, raising one thin eyebrow.
"You never know," he said with light humor and then added in a more serious tone, "I cannot help but think that the bite marks and scars have to do with some kind of blood magic. If it were just one or two bites, I'd be more inclined to believe that it had something to do with a spider attack he managed to escape from—like how I got the bite marks on my arm. But there are so many of them, and they're all on his thighs, and only on the front side at that. Perhaps he was used as the focal point of a blood ritual, though it's not one I've ever heard of, not even from when I was in training as a Templar."
The mage sighed, leaning forward to brush her fingertips over the boy's hair with a gentle motion. "Even if we've never heard of such a ritual, one thing is obvious. His blood would be a source of great power in the wrong hands, especially if our suspicions regarding his magic immunity and extraordinary durability are correct." Wynne's face was stony as she continued, "Let the Templar in you consider that frightening notion—a maleficar who was immune to both sword and spell. He or she would be virtually unstoppable."
Alistair's stomach turned over just thinking about it. "I'd rather not," he grimaced, shuddering. The movement jostled the boy enough that his eyelids fluttered and he made a quiet sound of protest.
"Enough talk for one night. It's bedtime, for all of us," Wynne said and gestured for him to lay the boy down on the extra bedroll she had stretched out beside hers. Together, they settled the boy down to sleep for the night and covered him with a thin blanket before Alistair retired to his own tent for the night.
Powell was standing guard just outside and the young King murmured, "Good night" to him before slipping beneath the canvas tent flap. One of the guardsmen had polished his dragonscale armor for him and laid it flat over his saddle blanket. Alistair made a mental note to ask Lyndon who, so he could properly thank the right person in the morning.
By the time he finished polishing Starfang, he was in serious danger of nodding off. After sheathing the runed black blade again, he blew out the candles and lay back on his large bedroll to sleep. Alistair woke up a short time later with a vague notion he was no longer alone in his tent. The reason why slipped in beside him and began to use his arm for a pillow. Yep, must be as soft as a noble's, he thought to himself and fell asleep again.
Alistair dreamed.