Chapter 4

Alistair had only just turned five and had no idea what the word meant. But he could tell, just by the way Jacen had said it, that he'd just been called something beyond insulting. After weeks of being pushed around, tripped into the weapons rack, shoved into a mud hole, he'd had enough. He gave a snarl of fury and launched himself at the larger boy, kicking his legs and pummeling at his face. He got in a lucky shot and bloodied Jacen's nose before his opponent's size advantage gave him the upper hand.

The Knight's son slung him around by the arm and sent Alistair careening face down into the dirt. He choked back tears and sprang back to his feet, turning around to confront his attacker. A sudden yank at his shirt collar restrained him. Jacen was being similarly held back by a guard and twisted furiously in the man's grasp, blood streaming down his upper lip and his face contorted with rage.

"That soddin' brat attacked me! And I wasn't doin' nothin'!" the older boy shouted, panting with the effort to get loose.

"Is that true, Alistair?" Bann Teagan asked, looking down at the blond haired boy in his grasp. All of the fight drained out of Alistair between one breath and the other, and he lowered his head sullenly, refusing to answer. His lip was already swelling and his eye ached something fierce.

Of course, no answer was as good as a yes when you were in trouble at Redcliffe Castle, and he could feel Teagan's hand tightening in the fabric of his shirt as he ordered the guard, "Dorek, get Jacen cleaned up and take him to his father."

The boy gasped with dismay, "He started it, I'm tellin' you! Look at what he did to my nose!" He made the mistake of touching it and cried out with pain as more blood coated his face, tears welling up in his eyes.

The guard grunted, wrapping his hand around Jacen's arm as he dragged the boy toward the barracks. "I'm sure your da is just dying to hear how exactly your nose got pounded in by a boy two years younger than you."

Teagan didn't say a word as he marched Alistair toward the stables. The stablemaster took one look at the young Bann's expression and beat a hasty retreat, mumbling something about needing to talk to the blacksmith. Then he sat down on a hay bale in front of the boy so he'd be closer to eye level and asked, "Alistair, is that true? Did you hit Jacen?"

The boy set his jaw stubbornly, meeting Teagan's eyes and doing his best not to cry. The man's stern face indicated that he wasn't going anywhere until he heard the whole ugly truth.

"Bann Teagan, what's a bastard?" Alistair finally asked, figuring that he may as well ask what it meant, since it was the reason he was getting in trouble in the first place.

Teagan stiffened at the question. "Did Jacen call you that?" he asked after a moment, and suddenly sounded a whole lot more like he was seeing Alistair's side of the story.

Wiping his nose on his dirt-stained sleeve, the five-year old boy shrugged and looked down at the floor. "He said I wasn't nothin' but a bastard." He wanted to tell Teagan how Jacen had been shoving him all around and being a soddin' turd, but his throat got all tight, and his face and chest were hurting so bad that he couldn't hold back that first sniffle. Swallowing it back made his eyes squint up so much, and then a tear got free and before he knew it he was crying harder than he could ever remember.

The Bann wrapped his arms around him, hugging him close. By the time he stopped bawling, the man's red shirt had a dark stain of tears on the front and Alistair had a bad case of the hiccups. "Eamon will want to know about this," he said, rising to his feet, and the boy wasn't sure if that meant he was in even more trouble or not. He was on the verge of blubbering again but the feeling went away when he was given another warm hug.

Together, the man and the boy walked across the courtyard, and Alistair felt like everyone in the castle was staring at him when they made their way up the stairs up to those big doors, through the main hall and long corridor before turning to reach Arl Eamon's study.

Eamon was sitting at his desk staring down at some paperwork and looked up as his brother lead Alistair into the room. Teagan walked around the edge of the desk and leaned down, whispering something into the Arl's ears, and whatever he said made the other man sigh once and lean back in his chair.

The blond-haired boy wiped his nose nervously as both men stared at him. It was that very moment that he realized the truth. "I… I really am a bastard, aren't I?" he said, his lower lip quivering. It didn't matter that he still had no idea what a bastard was.

Arl Eamon leaned forward and spoke for the first time, and his pale blue eyes were warm and kind. "Alistair, a bastard is nothing more than a child whose parents never married. Your mother and…" he paused and glanced at Teagan before continuing, "…your father never married. So, yes, in that regard, you are a bastard."

He blinked at that revelation. That was all it meant, that his parents had not married? It had seemed so much more terrible and insulting from the way that Jacen had said it. But now it just seemed a bit of a silly thing to have gotten into a fight over. Still, at least he'd gotten in one good shot on the older boy, that very nearly made it worth while. Even so, he had to ask. "Is being a bastard a bad thing?"

Clearing his throat, Bann Teagan said, "It's not really a matter of it being bad or good, Alistair. You either are one, or you're not. It's not your fault they never married, and it's not something you can change about yourself, any more than I can change the color of my hair." The nobleman ran his fingers through his russet red hair and smiled ruefully, "As much as I might wish otherwise."

That made the boy grin, and he ran his small fingers through his own pale blonde hair. The cook said it was starting to get darker, but it certainly looked nothing like the Bann's. Alistair shifted his brown eyes over to Arl Eamon's hair. It was a light brown, almost golden in a certain light. Thinking over what he'd just been told, he cocked his head when he suddenly realized that no one had ever really spoken to him about his father, about what kind of man he was. His mother had been a serving girl at the castle—not Redcliffe Castle, but the Royal Castle in Denerim—he knew that much, and everyone said she had been sweet and kind. But this was really the first time anyone had mentioned his father, and he was almost ashamed to think that he'd never even wondered before now about who he was or the kind of man he had been.

"Did my father die before I was born too? And that's why I came to live with you?" he asked Eamon. "Did he live at the Royal Castle in Denerim?" Both men gasped at the same time when he asked those questions, and for a brief moment he thought he might be in trouble for just asking about it, though he had no idea why that'd be. But then he had a glimmer of a notion, and a hope as well, when he compared his hair to Eamon's another time. "Are you my father?"

Neither of them answered for an awfully long time and Alistair began to fidget in the silence. His nose had finally stopped running, but he wiped it on his dirty sleeve anyway.

Finally, Arl Eamon answered, shaking his head. "No, Alistair. I am not your father, though I took you in. And neither is Teagan, before you ask." He lifted his hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes. "I knew eventually you would want to know, and I suppose now is as good a time as any that you know the truth." The man looked him square in the eye with such a serious look that the boy stiffened, squaring his small shoulders and lifting his chin. "But first, I want a promise from you. A vow, that you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you right now, or so help me, boy, I'll have your guts for garters. Do you understand me?" As if he weren't nervous enough, the Arl put his hands on the boy's shoulders to emphasize how serious he was.

He nodded quickly, feeling like he had the day he'd decided the water beneath the Redcliffe docks wasn't that deep at all. He'd jumped right on in, only to find that he was in way over his head.

Teagan gave a soft cough, explaining, "This is a promise you can't break. A solemn oath given." The man's quiet laugh sounded all choked and caught up in his throat when he went on, "Honestly, if you tell anyone, the vast majority of people will think that you're lying anyway, and that alone is a good reason to not say anything about it at all. And those that don't, well, I know this is hard to understand but it could be dangerous. Not just for you, but for your father as well."

That made no sense. How would other people knowing who his father was be dangerous for anyone, especially him? But even though he was only five, Alistair could tell that both Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan both believed it, and if they did, then so should he. "I promise not to tell." His fingers traced out the cross guard of Andraste's flaming sword over his heart, just so they knew for sure he was telling the truth. Then he held his breath and waited.

Eamon nodded, his glance flicking to his brother and he said, "There's not really an easy way to put this. Your father is alive, and yes, he lives at the Royal Palace in Denerim. Because, well… he's the King. King Maric Theirin is your father."

The air rushed from him in a soft whoosh of breath and he couldn't help the nervous giggle that erupted from his chest. "Are you having me on, now?" They had to be, of course, because what they said made no sense. But as he looked from Eamon to Teagan and saw how neither of them was smiling like this was the best jest ever and then it began to sink in. His father was not dead. And his father was the King of Ferelden. He swallowed, his small face drawn into a frown as he worked things out in his head. "Does that make me a Prince?"

The Arl shook his head and said simply, "No Alistair, it does not. Bastards cannot be Princes."

Nothing changed. He was the son of a King, but he still slept on hay in the stables at night. He fed slop to the pigs and weeded the garden and put a frog in the bread box, just to see what Cook would do. She fainted dead away and made it the scolding he got from Arl Eamon worth it right there.

When the scolding was done with, Eamon drew him close and reached into his desk drawer to pull out a necklace. "I should have given this to you weeks ago, when I told you about your father, but it took me a bit to remember where I'd put it away. Here."

Alistair took the offered necklace and looked down at it. The triangular silvered pendant dangling from the thin chain had an etching of Andraste's Flame upon it.

"That was your mother's," the Arl said with a smile. "She wanted you to have it, when you were old enough."

He was breathless and had to blink back tears when he put it around his head for the first time. It was the only link he had to either of his parents. He grinned broadly and threw himself at Eamon to give him a hug.

One morning he woke up and there it was, lying in the hay with him and curled up on his feet. It was a tabby kitten and had a bright red ribbon tied around its neck. "Happy Birthday! From E & T" said the little attached note. He was seven years old. He named it Trouble, because that's what he always seemed to be in.

His seventh birthday was also the first day that Teagan made him take lessons in the chapel with the Knights' and guards' children. Many of them seemed to resent his presence, seeing him as little more than a glorified servant. He'd grown taller and sturdier and they were careful about picking fights with him, not just because they all thought he was Arl Eamon's bastard—if only they knew the truth—but because he was tough and fast and wouldn't back down. Jacen's nose never did straighten out completely. He quickly learned that if he twisted their insults back on them by turning them into stupid jokes, they grew tired of baiting him and let him be.

Trouble followed him everywhere, almost like a dog, and no one said a word about it because everyone knew the cat was a gift from Eamon and Teagan. Between the many tidbits of food the kitten was slipped, and the vermin he caught around the castle, he grew to be a very big cat indeed. "Half lion, and twice as fierce," Bann Teagan said on more than one occasion.

The Hero of the River Dane and Commander of the King's Army, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, came to Redcliffe Castle while Arl Eamon was gone to Orlais. The whole castle turned out to greet him when he rode in on his bay warhorse, his silverite armor gleaming in the sunlight. The horse had a long, hooked nose and flat, unfriendly eyes. So did its rider.

Bann Teagan woke him up late that night and made him go up to the castle, into Arl Eamon's study. He would not even meet Alistair's eyes as he gestured for the seven year old boy to go into the room where Loghain waited, brooding in silence by the fireplace, and quietly shut the door behind him.

The large man walked toward him, his silver armor clanking and hawkish face drawn into a sneer as he looked Alistair over from head to toe. "Bann Teagan tells me that you've been told the truth about your unique heritage," Loghain enunciated the last two words with all the severity of a judge announcing a death sentence.

"Yes, your Grace," the boy said formally, realizing stupid jokes would do nothing more than irritate this man, and Loghain Mac Tir was not someone you would ever want to irritate.

It took every ounce of courage he possessed not to step back when the imposing man leaned down and met his eyes. "Then I trust that you have no delusions of grandeur about your future," he said grimly.

Alistair shook his head and said in a monotone, "I am a commoner and a bastard. Bastards can't be princes. Or kings."

The place was in an uproar and there were more guards around than you could swing a dead cat at when King Maric and Prince Cailan arrived in Redcliffe Castle. Arl Eamon had only been married to the Arlessa for a month, and rumor had it that the King was infuriated with his lifelong friend for marrying an Orlesian woman.

Wait till he meets the shrew, Alistair thought to himself. She'd hated him from the moment they met, and that was before he tripped over the edge of a rug and knocked a bottle of wine over her best velvet dress. He knew why she despised him though, because she thought he was Eamon's bastard son. Arl Eamon might love the woman, and from his besotted, soft-eyed expression every time he looked at her, the boy had no doubt he did. But the man still didn't trust her enough to tell her the truth about who the clumsy orphan in his care's sire really was.

So the moment finally came when he met his half-brother face to face. "Greetings, your Highness," Alistair said, bowing politely just as he'd been taught before looking up at the sixteen year old boy with features so similar to his own.

Cailan studied him with mild curiosity. The Prince inclined his head once in acknowledgement of the greeting before he turned his attention to the man at his side. "Now then, Bann Teagan. You said something about showing me the armory?" And that was that.

Alistair never spoke to his father face to face. On more than one occasion during the days he was at Redcliffe Castle, though, he would look over and see Maric watching him. The King's blue eyes were always dark with emotion, and even though he was only eight years old, he could both see and understand what he saw in them. Regret.

"You never wanted me here!" he raged, trying his hardest not to cry and failing miserably. "I've been nothing but a burden for you all along, haven't I?"

"Alistair, please," Arl Eamon begged, raising his hands in placating gesture and his expression torn and guilty. "That is not it at all."

Sneering, the ten-year old brushed away tears with the back of his hand. "Isn't it? Now that I'm old enough, you can kick me out like you've always wanted, can't you? I don't care, maybe at the Chantry they'll at least care enough about me to let me sleep in a real bed instead of on a pile of hay in the stables!" He felt hot and flushed and he could feel the cool ceramic of his mother's necklace against his skin. Without even thinking, he yanked it off with a quick jerk and threw it at the wall. It shattered into pieces.

The thing he hated the most about living in the Chantry was the silence. It was always training, lessons, the Chant of Light, or silence. Sometimes, he thought he'd go mad with the silence and one time, he felt as though he nearly did. He screamed, a long, drawn out sound that filled the silent void and echoed through the stone walls of the monastery. Priests and brothers alike came running to see if he was all right, and then stared in disbelief as he dissolved into loud, raucous laughter.

There was never silence in the kitchens, not with the quiet rattle of pots and pans, and the gentle scrape of the scrub brush over their surface. Screaming never got old.

All of Ferelden went into mourning when King Maric died. He was seventeen and felt something—some unidentifiable emotion that he could not put a word to. Was it grief? Regret? Bitterness? How do you mourn a father you never knew?

Alistair went from being sound asleep to full awake so suddenly that when he bolted upright in his bedroll, he was quite disoriented. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings, he had not dreamed so vividly since those final weeks before the Blight ended, when it seemed as though he could feel the Archdemon watching him through his dreams. These dreams had seemed just as real, if not more so.

Judging from the amount of light coming through the slivered opening in the tent flap, it was just after dawn. The others were beginning to stir as well from the sound of it. He could hear the quiet rumble of Fisk's voice and smell breakfast cooking. The little boy was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if he'd dreamed that as well.

Despite getting a full night's sleep, he felt drained and out of sorts. His eyes ached and when he raised a hand to rub his cheek, he suddenly realized his face was streaked with dried tearstains. "Definitely no more Halla cheese before bed," he muttered to himself as he got up. The first thing he did was wash his face and he felt a lot more human after that.

A thin layer of frost coated the ground and trees in the area, and there was still a distinct bite to the air when he emerged from the relative warmth of his tent. The King was glad he'd put his gambeson and scale armor on, they provided a bit more protection from the chill.

The thin, lanky guard on duty outside his tent gave him a quick nod, "Good morning, your Majesty." His breath misted in the cold.

"Morning, Merrill," he returned, stretching and rolling his shoulders as he looked around the camp. It seemed everyone was up and moving about with the exception of Bayard. Lyndon and the guards were helping break camp. Wynne and the boy were sitting on a log in front of the fire eating a breakfast of pan biscuits and bacon while the Quartermaster stowed things away.

"Rough night of it, Sire?" Merrill asked in a low voice without looking at him. "Powell and I noticed that you, ah, didn't sleep nearly as soundly as you usually do."

Alistair reddened with embarrassment. Maker, had the whole camp heard him blubbering in his sleep? "I hope I didn't wake anyone up?" he asked carefully and gave the guard an inquiring look.

Understanding the nature of the question, Merrill shook his head. "No, Sire, of course not. We heard mumbling rather than the usual snoring, is all. Looked in on you, beggin' your Majesty's pardon, but you were clearly out of it. Wasn't even loud enough to wake the boy. Powell's right put out with himself about the boy slipping past him and getting to your tent without him knowin' by the way, but he figured since you didn't call for him to be hauled out, you must not have minded too much."

Relaxing at the reassurance, the King gave his guard a crooked smile, joking, "Had a nightmare about Bann Xorien's wife coming to the castle for a royal visit again," with an exaggerated shudder.

The thin man snickered and made a face at the mention of the notoriously homely woman, with a foul personality to match. "You reckon the Maker dropped her into the ugly tree and she hit every branch on the way down?"

"Probably figured it couldn't hurt," Alistair quipped. Wynne turned to look at him with a smile and he lifted his chin upwards in greeting before giving a wave. "How long ago did the boy get up anyway? I must have been really out of it, I'm usually not such a heavy sleeper."

"About an hour, I'd guess? He's been following us around, watching and keeping quiet." Merrill's eyes were lit up with amusement. "Welborne let him tag along when he went to give the horses their nosebags and when he turned around he realized the tyke had gone down the picket line behind him and untied the horses as they went along."

The King chuckled. It sounded like something he'd have done at that age. "Cheeky."

The guard grinned, "Cheeky indeed. Luckily, the animals were all more focused on eating than wandering off, but Captain Lyndon was a bit put out about it and gave him a scolding. Not that the boy seemed to care, he just stood there staring up at the Captain through it all without saying a word. After a few minutes, the Captain gave up on the lecturing, picked him up like a sack of potatoes and carried him over to Wynne. She's been keeping him out of trouble since."

"She's quite good at that, isn't she? It's worked on me for what, nearly six years now?" He could feel his stomach rumbling hungrily and gestured at his tent. "Everything's ready to go into the wagon, just leave my sword and shield." He may have been King but he still kept both within reach when he travelled—he felt naked without their familiar weight on his back, and his armor too, for that matter. The neckline of his dragonscale armor pressed into the back of his neck and he shifted it a touch, adjusting how it was settled on his shoulders. "Oh that reminds me, who's to blame for my shining armor?"

"Seamus, your Majesty," Merrill responded, gesturing at the guard who was hobbling around on a crutch someone had made for him. "Said it was the least he could do since he'd be about as useless as tits on a boar until his leg's better."

Alistair thanked the guard and began to make his way around the camp, pausing to exchange quiet words of greeting with Seamus and the rest of his men as he did every morning. It was something he'd gleaned from his time spent with Lyna, when they'd travelled all over Ferelden with their hodgepodge group of companions. Most of the guards were looking forward to getting out of the mountains and reaching the relative comfort of Redcliffe Castle, and sleeping on beds meant for men and not dwarves like the ones in Orzammar.

Bayard was just emerging from his tent when the King collected his breakfast plate from Fisk and sat down beside Wynne to eat. A night of rest had clearly done the Court Mage some good, for he showed no lingering traces of the strain and exhaustion he'd displayed the previous day. He went over to Seamus, much to Alistair's amusement. The guard had confided in him that Bayard's profuse apologies were starting to get more painful than the injury itself had been.

Wynne wrapped her thin fingers around her mug of tea and shifted away from Alistair when the little boy moved around to squeeze between them. "He's been waiting for you to get up, I think," she said with a smile and tousled the child's short, dark hair as he looked up at the man. He was still clad in the clothes that the mage had given him last night, and though he still had no shoes, his feet were protected by a pair of woolen socks. Someone had wrapped the boy in a fur cloak to keep him warm, and the thick wrapping all but swallowed his small body up.

"Has he?" He gave the boy a sly wink, "I heard you've been busy helping Welborne feed the horses, among other things."

The grey haired woman smiled, "Yes, Captain Lyndon is quite put out with him at the moment, if Merrill didn't tell you." She finished the last of her breakfast and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I've been meaning to ask you, has he told you his name yet?"

Alistair blinked at the question. "No, actually. Not that I've asked, now that I think about it. Some manners I've got. Why, what is it?" he asked before taking a bite of food.

"I have no idea, he wouldn't say." She ducked her head down and her blue eyes were warm and kind. "What is your name, little one? What are you called by?"

The boy stared back at her without expression and said nothing.

She rested her hand on her chest and patiently said, "As I said earlier, my name is Wynne. And this is Alistair." The child shifted his gaze from her to the man at his side, tilting his chin as he peered upward, but he remained silent.

Suddenly thinking back to the one-sided conversation he'd had with the boy the previous night, Alistair asked, "Is your name a secret?" The child frowned in denial at that question. "Oh well, it was worth a try. Though I'm not sure if I should be disappointed or relieved, I confess."

Wynne sighed. "Perhaps he isn't comfortable enough with us to tell us his name yet."

"Have you tried guessing? You know, throw out some names and see if one gets a reaction?" he suggested hopefully and then made a face when the boy shook his head again. "Blast it. It's probably just as well, I despise guessing games. Well this won't do, what're we supposed to call you, 'Hey you'?"

The child shrugged, starting to look bored with the whole discussion.

"I was hoping you would have better luck than I had," she admitted. "I suspect he will tell us his name when he is ready." Her gaze was inquisitive as she observed, "You slept late this morning. You're usually up even before I am."

"Sorry bout that," Alistair apologized after swallowing down a bite of his biscuit. "You know how I need my beauty sleep. Not that it did me much good last night," he added ruefully.

The mage studied his weary face and clucked with sympathy. "I am sorry, Alistair. When I woke up and saw he was gone, I suspected he'd slipped into your tent and your guard Powell confirmed it. However, he said you were both sleeping soundly, so I told him that the boy would be fine staying there the night, since you apparently had no complaints. In retrospect, I should have kept a more careful eye on him so he didn't keep you awake. You look as though you barely slept a wink."

Absently breaking a piece of bacon in two before offering half to the child, he corrected her, "Oh I slept all night. I just dreamed so much, I feel like I didn't get any rest at all. I mean, usually I have one or two dreams that I can vaguely remember, but last night… I'm not sure if it was the Halla cheese or what, but I haven't dreamed so intensely since the Blight."

"Bad dreams, then." Wynne's words were more a statement than a question. She and the others had been awakened on more than one occasion by both Alistair and Lyna during those final days before the Battle of Denerim.

They hadn't been so much bad dreams as they had been memories, now that he was awake and thinking about it, bad and good memories. Some were of things that he'd put out of his mind for years. Alistair was a man who was much more content to focus on the present than he was to brood over his past or just as bad, worry about his future.

The little boy ate the piece of bacon and licked the crumbles and grease off of his fingers. The fur cloak's hood kept dipping down over his eyes and he pushed it back over his neck with an impatient gesture. Nonchalantly, Alistair reached over and pulled it back up, giving the front edge enough of a playful tug downward that it now covered the child's entire face. He froze and then huffed, pushing it back up again before peering up at the man with suspicion

He shrugged, trying to look his most innocent and pointed at Wynne, who quirked an eyebrow at them. "She did it. I'd never do such a cruel and nefarious thing," he announced, and pulled the cloak down over the boy's face again, which made him giggle. "Ack, it's a bear!"

Wynne watched their antics, lifting her cup to take a sip of the cooling tea. In a low voice, she observed, "He's growing quite attached to you, you know. Which is not really a surprise, I suppose. Given what little we know about him, it's quite possible you were the first person to ever show him any kindness or compassion."

"That's not such a bad thing, is it?" Alistair asked and grinned as the boy lurched to his feet with the cloak still drawn over his head and hanging over his short arms. Low growls came from beneath the grizzled brown fur. "Who let this bear into the camp? I specifically remember saying that no bears were allowed—wolves, yes. Lions? Naturally. But I draw the line at bears!"

The child laughed with delight and growled even louder, lumbering around as though searching for someone to maul. He made his way around the end of the log, intent on coming up behind both Alistair and Wynne for his 'attack'.

"Not necessarily, but I'm not sure it's a good thing either. You are the King of Ferelden, after all," she gently reminded him and wrapped her hands around the mug.

Gasping in shock, he stared at her with his jaw hanging slack. "By the Maker, you don't say? And I never noticed?"

Wynne gave him a long, steady look before taking another sip of her tea. "Alistair, if you were any other man, it probably wouldn't matter. But you are the King. People are going to notice the presence of a little boy in your royal entourage, especially if he's riding in the saddle with you when you parade through town."

As much as he wanted to argue with her, he knew she was right. Kings, even Ferelden ones, did not pick up foundling children off of roadsides and keep them. While he understood the reasoning behind the little boy's attachment to him, it did not explain Alistair's own—connection?—he wasn't quite sure what word was appropriate to describe his feelings. Certainly he wanted to protect the boy from further harm and from anyone who'd use the unique gifts he possessed to their own ends just as much as Wynne obviously did, but beyond that? At the end of it all, he supposed it had to do with the fact that he'd just recently lost his own child. He had just shifted his desire to be a suitable father to the first convenient target he'd found.

The 'bear' attacked him from behind with a fierce snarl, throwing his thin arms around the man's neck and clinging to his shoulders. "He got me, I'm done for!" he exclaimed and dropped his plate. Moving his hands to hold the boy in place, he stood up and spun around a few times until they were both dizzy and he was laughing so hard he had to sit down before he fell down.

The moment his feet touched the ground again, the boy let go of him and staggered back, chortling and shaking his head. He careened into Wynne and hung on to her robe sleeve breathlessly as he waited for the dizziness to fade.

"Maybe we could pass him off as a royal page boy?" Alistair murmured as the world slowed down its spinning and he picked up his plate again. He carefully rose to his feet and held out his hands to take Wynne's dishes as well before carrying them over to drop into the wash bucket.

She considered that as she hooked an arm around the boy and drew him into her lap. "He's a bit young for that, but it's not a bad idea. Perhaps he could be passed off as a page boy in training. Though honestly, if I keep him at my side, I doubt people ask too many questions. That is one advantage of being a mage." Her lips quirked up in a wry smile, "I suspect half the time they fear the answer."

"He'll need clothes when we get to Redcliffe. And shoes, for that matter," the King said, focusing on more practical matters as his gaze dropped down to the boy's feet. The wool socks were damp from where he'd walked around while pretending to be a bear.

Bayard had just collected the remaining two biscuits and bacon for his breakfast and Fisk was doing the last bit of clean up before they finished breaking camp and got on the road again. "Clothes and shoes, Sire?" he inquired, having just caught the tail end of the conversation.

Wynne nodded and shifted the squirming little boy in her arms. "For this one. It won't do to have him walking around in naught but clothes too small and a borrowed pair of guardsman's socks."

The black-haired mage looked nonplussed. "Oh."

"Do you have some objection to that?" she asked, tilting her chin up to look at him.

Bayard had just taken another bite from his biscuit and struggled to swallow it so he could talk without a mouthful of food. "No, of course not. It's just, well, I suppose I expected we'd be leaving him at the Chantry in Redcliffe. Or an orphanage, assuming the village is large enough to have one? I admit I haven't spent a whole lot of time away from the Circle, so I'm not sure what is normally done in such a situation, when a child has no known family or home to return to."

Alistair avoided looking toward Wynne at the other man's words and focused on readjusting his arm bracers. They did have such a tendency to slip.

"That is what is typically done, yes," the magewoman acknowledged, "but I was just telling King Alistair that given the potential severity of his injuries, I think it might be best if I keep an eye on him until I can be sure he's completely healed." The Court Mage exchanged a veiled glance with her King.

Grimacing, the mage ducked his head with guilt. "I still feel completely awful about yesterday." Bayard walked over to crouch down in front of the boy, who gave him a curious look. "I'm so very sorry about that, er..." He paused in the middle of his apology, admitting sheepishly, "In all the excitement, I don't think I ever caught his name."

Chewing his lower lip as all three adults looked at him, the child began to finger the edge of his borrowed fur cloak and said nothing.

"Nathan." Alistair supplied the name without even thinking about it.

The little boy stiffened and then a broad grin spread across his small face. "Nathan," he repeated and nodded vigorously.

Wynne's eyebrows twitched but she said nothing.

"Ah! Well then, Nathan, as I was saying," Bayard continued, "I'm very sorry and very relieved you're all right." He patted the boy on the knee.

Alistair cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So, Bayard, were you planning on driving the wagon today? I'll need to tell Powell if you think you're not up to it…"

"Yes, I did," the mage responded, standing up again. "At least, if there are no objections that is," he said and gave Wynne a crooked smile.

"I do not mind, so long as you feel you are up to the task," she returned.

Bayard reassured her, "I am fine, I swear it. And should I feel any bit of weariness coming on, I will tell you at once." He turned, aiming a slight bow in the King's direction before excusing himself to go help take down his tent.

Nathan wiggled free of Wynne's arms and down to the ground before making his way over to Alistair. He peered upwards and raised his hands in a wordless demand for 'up.'

Laughing, the King bent down and lifted the child, settling him in his arms. "Ready to head on to Redcliffe, are you? It won't be long before we head out."

Wynne levered herself to her feet and moved close to them. She adjusted the cloak on the boy's shoulders and when he turned to look at her with his hazel eyes, she asked him, "What is your name?"

"Nathan," he stated firmly and lifted his small hand to his chest. The simple gesture mimicked the same motion she had made earlier, when she had tried without success to persuade him to tell them his name.

"I said I didn't like guessing games. I never said I wasn't any good at them," Alistair pointed out with a half-hearted grin, but he understood her unease. The boy had to have a name for them to maintain a sense of normalcy and Nathan was the first name that had popped into his head. That didn't explain the child's immediate acceptance of the name as his own, unless he had happened to guess it outright on the first try—out of the thousands of other possible Ferelden names.

"Mmm," was her noncommittal response. "Why that name? Was it what you would have named Chana's babe, had it been a boy?" she queried, studying him intently.

The question caught him off guard. It took him a moment to formulate a response, and when he spoke, he could hear the pain in his voice as he admitted, "No. We were going to name him Duncan." The little boy shifted in his arms and rested his head on Alistair's shoulder.

Her blue eyes darkened with sympathy and she rested her hand on his forearm. Wynne shifted her gaze to Nathan and she ruffled his hair with her fingers. "You know what it means, don't you? His name, that is?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Not offhand, why?"

The magewoman pursed her lips thoughtfully and walked away.

The name's meaning came to him later when the little boy was dozing in his arms as they rode Salt.

Given.

This segment of the journey from Orzammar to Redcliffe went far more uneventfully than it had the previous day. The royal procession reached the Imperial Highway and turned south to travel along Lake Calenhad. The number of settlements increased by the mile along the road that made such an important part of Ferelden's trade network.

It was with some reluctance that Alistair handed Nathan over to ride in the wagon with Wynne. The boy sighed, but that was the only sign of complaint he made as the mage settled him between herself and Bayard on the bench seat.

Captain Lyndon and five of his guardsmen flanked King Alistair as he ranged further ahead of the wagons. News of his arrival spread quickly the closer they got to Redcliffe and as a result, more of his subjects emerged from their homes and fields when he rode past, waving, bowing, and smiling at him. He always felt rather silly at such times, raising his hand to acknowledge their adulation from atop Salt, but it was just one of those things that Kings did, he supposed.

Nowhere in all of Ferelden was he more popular than he was in Redcliffe, because the citizens saw the King as one of their own since he'd grown up in Arl Eamon's castle. They certainly did not forget that he fought and bled alongside the townsfolk and militia helping defend the village from the undead armies during those terrible days after Eamon was poisoned. The Chantry there claimed that he'd been blessed by the Maker himself when he, Lyna and the others had returned from the Ruined Temple with Andraste's ashes and cured the Arl of his illness. Lyna might still be known as the Hero of Ferelden, but Alistair was the hero of Redcliffe. They were a little biased, of course.

The milling crowd of happy subjects slowed their progress as they passed through the village on the way to the castle. Alistair and the guardsmen kept the horses moving though, and eventually the number of people began to thin out as they made their way up the sloping road that wound up to the castle. Quartermaster Fisk had led Bayard's wagon along a different route that bypassed most of the crowd and thus, they were waiting in the clearing by the windmill.

Wynne carefully climbed out of the wagon and then lifted Nathan down to the ground as well. She held his hand and together they made their way over toward the road.

Alistair beckoned for the guards to wait a moment and directed Salt toward her. Resting his elbow his thigh, he leaned down to speak to her. "Heading on into the village already?"

"It'll be sundown soon, and the shops will be closing, if they haven't already, since they practically declare it a holiday any time you come here," she pointed out with a slight smile. "I think it best that he look as unremarkable as possible, and having clothes—not to mention shoes—will help. We won't be long."

"Agreed. You have enough money, right?" he asked.

Wynne opened her mage satchel and withdrew the coin purse Alistair had given her back in Orzammar. Her blue eyes were bright with mirth as she gave it a slight jingle. "Oh, I think we'll be fine," she said serenely.

Alistair winced, muttering with good natured humor, "I knew I was going to regret giving that to you." He gave Nathan a stern look. "Don't let her spend it all in one place—and none of those high-collared doublets. They itch."

The little boy nodded.

"Oh, a doublet! That sounds splendid, perhaps in purple, pink and green!" Wynne declared, using her staff for a walking stick as she and the boy began to walk down the road to the village.

The King grinned, wheeling his horse around to rejoin his guards. A short time later, they had ridden their horses through the portcullis and into the courtyard, where Teagan and his family all waited, along with an honor guard of Knights from the castle.

A hostler held Salt's reins as the King dismounted and all of those present bowed low with respect for their monarch as he made his way over Teagan.

"Your Majesty, welcome to Redcliffe Castle," Teagan said, straightening up with a warm smile.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan, or should I say Arl Teagan?" the King asked, with a mischievous grin as he held out his hand. Eamon had only recently decided to abdicate his Arling to his younger brother, so he could focus on his duties as the Royal Advisor and Chancellor.

Laughing , Teagan clasped Alistair's hand and gave it a firm shake, "Well you know how it is. No good deed goes unpunished. You remember my wife Kaitlyn and my son Bryce?" He gestured toward them.

"Of course, how could I forget?" Alistair asked, flashing a quick grin at the two. "You're looking as radiant as ever, my Lady, and Bryce is growing like a weed, I see."

Lady Kaitlyn was a far cry from the frightened girl Alistair had met more than five years ago in the town Chantry when the dead were walking at night. She glowed with happiness at her husband's side and dipped into a low curtsy. "It's good to see you again, your Majesty," she returned with a smile, resting her hand on her son's red head.

Only three, Bryce's round cheeks were still dimpled with baby fat, but he gave a deep and formal bow to greet the young king. Clearly he'd been practicing. "Like that, Papa?" he asked, looking up at his father who laughed.

"Exactly so, my boy. Well done," Teagan said in approval and gestured for Alistair to precede him through the doors. "Come in, come in. You must be bone tired after travelling all the way from Orzammar. I expected you this afternoon, actually, but your scout Rorick showed up earlier today and said there were some delays?"

"When aren't there delays?" he asked with amusement as he walked into the main hall. "Nothing too serious, though. A bit of a rockslide is all, but it took us a bit to get it cleared away."

The bearded man nodded, "That's good to hear, at least. Honestly, it's just as well, it gave us a bit more time to prepare for your arrival," he confessed, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"For which we are quite grateful," Kaitlyn agreed, hefting her son up onto her hip as she followed them into the hall. "Between you and the other guests, well, the whole castle has been in an uproar. Not that we mind, of course," she hastened to reassure him. "We are always thrilled to have you stay with us, your Majesty."

"Other guests?" Alistair echoed, looking from Lady Kaitlyn to Teagan.

Arl Teagan's eyes flickered with a hint of unease. "Yes, they arrived last night. They should be joining us…" He shifted his gaze behind the King and smiled, "Ahh, here they are now."

Two elves walked into the room, but Alistair only had eyes for one of them.

Her grey tunic emblazoned with the emblem of a rearing griffon, Ferelden's Warden Commander kept her expression neutral as she walked up to him and held out her hand in greeting. He took it in his own larger hand more out of reflex than anything else. The Dalish Elf bowed her dark, braided head low over their joined hands, but when she lifted her face again, her pale green eyes held wary humor.

"I heard a rumor," Lyna began lightly, "that some royal dimwit who doubles as a hat rack has been looking for me…"

AUTHORS NOTES PART DEUX:

I've always been someone who's fascinated with names and their meanings. As some of you may know, Alistair's name is a variant of Alexander and translates into "Defender of Men". Mara, the name of the baby girl that he and Chana had, her name meant 'Bitter'. It didn't make sense for the baby name to be something happy and cheerful when her birth-and death-were anything but.

Anyway, I just wanted to note that the name Nathan literally translates into "He has given" but I confess I twisted the meaning a touch for the sake of the story, I hope you etymologists forgive me.