For the first time in his young life, Alistair was forced into a routine. He didn't like it. Not at the beginning, any way. At Redcliffe he'd woken up whenever the stable hands had started prepping the horses (usually well before any of the castle's inhabitants) and he would run down to the lake to splash and bathe if it was hot, then run to the kitchens to beg some food. He'd discovered early on that cook liked it if he was clean and presentable. She was more likely to give him the good pastries if he was polite and charming as well. Sometimes he would beg extra for the boys in the village.
The rest of the day he would spend avoiding people, usually. Teagan would snag him for lessons every now and then that he soaked up if he felt inclined and fidgeted through if he didn't. He would visit the barracks and talk to the soldiers, some of whom would indulge him in a bit of swordplay and training if he was especially charming.
He would hide in the mill or play tag with the other boys. Or pretend to be in battles. Sometimes he had fights - usually with the older boys who would tease him for being a bastard. He found he didn't mind so much that they teased him, only that their teasing would make the other children avoid him for a time, as though they'd remembered he had a contagious disease or smelled like rotten cabbage.
They would always forget, though. And each little bitter encounter with the older boys just made him more determined to have fun with his friends.... and more skilled with his fists.
He found himself thinking back on those days regretfully. Now he was up with everyone at dawn and he had no time for himself at all. The boys were herded - like cattle - into lines and taken down to the river, where they were forced in for a wash (even in the middle of winter, some of the older boys told him gleefully). Then they were herded into a dining hall where they were fed porridge and cold tea. Then they were marched off in two groups - those of them destined to be templar initiates into one area, the rest of them into another.
There were only twenty boys (and some girls) who were to be templars. Most of them had been placed there by their families. Some were the sons and daughters of nobles, the others were the sons and daughters of merchants and farmers who had reasoned that a career as a templar was a better life for a fourth or fifth child than anything they could offer.
The girls were educated separately, of course. In fact, apart from the sisters, Alistair hadn't seen a single one of them since he'd arrived at the Chantry. He wondered, sometimes, where they were hiding. On the one or two occasions when he was able to sneak out on his own he spent a little time searching for them, pretending to be a knight in shining armour, rescuing princesses from the evil chantry priests.
He never found them.
The days were then taken up with lessons. Maker, the lessons. They were endless and repetitive and boring and he thought he would die from the tedium. He liked hearing the Chant of Light - especially the Canticle of Threnodies - anything to do with the Blights he loved learning about, but the other canticles were so dull and he was expected to know them all.
He didn't much mind the History of Ferelden, either, especially when they got to the good bits about Loghain and his fights against the Orlesians. Part of him felt funny, though, whenever Maric was mentioned. His father, he would think. The words never seemed right. In his head, his father was someone else entirely - someone dead. Like his mother was dead. He didn't have a father.
He'd met him, once. Only once. He could still remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He'd been eight years old. When Eamon had told him that the king was visiting he couldn't help but think that he was coming to fetch him. Part of him had been excited.
But he'd been disappointed. More so than he would ever have admitted.
"So this is the boy?" Maric had said, his blue eyes cold as they ran over him.
"Yes, your majesty," Eamon replied. "Healthy, as you see. Normal, in every respect."
The blonde head nodded once, firmly. "Good," he said, then turned to Eamon and motioned for the Arl to follow him, leaving Alistair standing in the audience hall, alone.
He never spoke with Maric again.
So when the king's name was mentioned in his history lessons, he remembered that cold blue stare and the businesslike tone of voice and shivered, sometimes. He didn't think he looked like his father. His eyes were brown - his hair was more red than blonde. He would look at himself, reflected in the water of Lake Calenhad, or in the water trough, and imagine that he looked more like his mother. Not that he knew what she looked like, either. He only knew he didn't want to look like Maric. He didn't want to be his son. He wanted to be someone else's son - anyone else's - because if he was someone normal he wouldn't be in the chantry, locked up with forty other boys, most of whom hated him. He'd be with his family.
The other boys avoided him when they could, which he didn't mind - at first anyway. It was only when he overheard a conversation between two of the brothers that he realised why.
He was on his way to chores in the kitchens (this was every afternoon after lessons) with two other boys who were walking well ahead of him, occasionally looking back and sniggering. Brother Avery and Brother Leland were standing talking in the corridoor. The looked up as he passed and Avery smiled - a sly smile with a good deal of malice in it. Alistair nodded at the brothers and kept walking, ducking around a corner and waiting, wondering what they were talking about.
"Eamon's bastard, I heard," Brother Avery's voice came. "Got him on some serving wench."
"Huh," Leland replied. "That explains the airs he puts on. Little turd. Acts like he owns the place."
"No wonder the Arlessa wanted him out of Redcliffe," Avery finished.
"Do the other boys know?"
"The ones who still talk to their parents do. Everyone knows about him, who's ever been to Redcliffe. He used to sleep in the stables, they say. Probably felt more at home with the beasts than with his betters."
Alistair flushed to the roots of his hair. He hadn't known his past was talked of like that - in the Chantry of all places. The brothers were supposed to be focused on the Maker and the Chant. They were supposed to be.... good. Or at least trying to be good. Wasn't that the point of being here? The brothers moved off, still talking, but too softly for him to overhear. He stayed, leaning against the wall for a long time, his jaw clenched, his mind racing.
He was late for his chores. "Where've you been boy?" the sister scolded him.
"Nowhere," he said sulkily.
"Nonsense, child. You must have been somewhere."
"I'm here now, aren't I?"
She tsked at him. "Smart comments won't get you anywhere, young man. You'll stay back and help cook tonight. You can be late for dinner as well."
Since dinner was served out to the boys in one lot, that meant he would miss out on dinner altogether - a sore trial for a child who had been hard at work all day. Cook wasn't like the cook at Redcliffe, either. She didn't take kindly to boys trying to beg food off her, even charming and clean ones.
He kicked a milk bucket in anger. But only when the sister was out of earshot.