It's been a while since I checked in on these two, but I felt like looking back into their pasts a little. Thank you for reading!
The vast dormitory had settled at last, the boys all either asleep or lost in their own private … contemplations. Alistair didn't like to think that the other boys all shared his urges. They told him so often enough, in terms both vulgar and titillating. But his dreams were private ones, and came with a sweetness he rarely heard any of the other boys mention.
In truth, he rather imagined the other boys would laugh at him if they knew how tame his fantasies really were. In part, this came from never having seen a girl undressed … but part came because he longed less for a way to relieve the physical needs he felt and more for someone to talk to, someone who would listen and understand, who would find what he had to say important. Certainly he was never going to find that kind of reaction from someone in the Chantry, where he was considered more or less a fool and a bumbler.
He knew just what she would look like, his perfect girl. Blonde curls just peeping out from under a frilly cap, a blue dress for her blue eyes, a basket under her arm as she hurried to the market. Because she was a maiden of modest resources, who must work for her bread. Alistair liked to forget that he was the bastard son of a king, as all those who knew the secret had always encouraged him to do. He would never have wanted the life of a nobleman. He didn't particularly want the life of a Templar, either, all things considered. He wouldn't mind being a farmer, working with his hands.
The girl would blush as they ran into each other, each stammering apologies, looking at one another shyly. Her voice would be sweet, soft, shy, chiming like little silver bells.
A shiver worked its way through Alistair as he thought of how she would put a delicate hand on his arm as he led her toward the market, how she would laugh that musical laugh as he told her jokes, the way her cheeks would turn pink when he complimented her. And it wouldn't matter that he stumbled over his words or didn't know what to say, because she would understand him.
He wondered briefly about his mother, about his sister. If he had ever known his mother, if he ever met his sister, would they understand? Would they put their arms around him and say "it's all right, Alistair, we love you" and laugh at his jokes and not mind if he wasn't funny all the time?
Rolling over onto his side, Alistair tried to vanquish his loneliness and just go to sleep, clearing his mind like a good Templar should be able to. But he wasn't a good Templar, and he was probably never going to be a good Templar, and his thoughts kept on going despite all his best attempts to shut them down so he could sleep. He felt as though he was all alone in the dormitory, the only one who couldn't quite seem to accept who he was and who he was intended to be. In the daylight, when all the boys were grumbling, it was easier to feel like one of them, to know he wasn't alone, but here in the depths of night, in the silence of the room, he felt lost. Bereft. Abandoned. And he lay wishing for something, anything, to change.
Thora Aeducan assumed an at ease position, hands clasped behind her. Next to her, she felt the movement as her second, Gorim, took the same position. This meeting was going to drag on forever, it appeared, as her brother Trian tried and completely failed to be charming to Lady Dace.
All her training kept Thora's face impassive in the midst of Trian's embarrassing bluster and braggadocio, and she hoped Gorim was maintaining his facade as well.
Of course he was. If anything, Gorim was better at concealing his feelings than she was. He certainly had more practice. She had caught him looking at her this morning, that momentary glimpse she had occasionally of his heart in his eyes, and it had made her feel guilty all over again. Not because they could never be together—that was beyond Thora's power to fix. But at least she could have returned his affection, concealed and forbidden though it was, given him something to … hope for? Work towards? Imagine was his?
No. Regardless of how you looked at it, the love of a warrior-caste second for his noble-born lady was doomed to end badly, and she would only harm the situation by pretending, or talking herself into, a return of his feelings. Thora was nothing if not practical. She would never lose her heart to an unsuitable match—and she would be doing Gorim no favors if she did, anyway. The slightest hint of anything untoward between them and Gorim would be banished to the Deep Roads … and that was if Trian was feeling generous and didn't just kill him.
Thora eased her shoulders back just a bit, stifling a sigh as Trian grinned into Lady Dace's eyes in a way she was sure he thought was enticing. Her real dream, far more real to her than any thoughts of marriage or even love, was to command the armies of Orzammar, leading them far into the Deep Roads to begin taking back their people's territory from the darkspawn—far from politics and caste and concerns about status, where the only thing that mattered was the sharpness of your blade, the speed of your reflexes, and the stalwart support of your comrades. There was a place there for everyone from noble caste down to the very casteless of Dust Town.
Yes. Let Trian and their younger brother Bhelen vie with one another for the throne. Thora wanted none of its power, or its headache.
Glancing from the corner of her eye at Gorim, she lifted an eyebrow faintly, seeing an answering small twitch of his lips, and began thinking of what they would have for lunch when this interminable meeting was over.