Three days later the snow stopped. Shipments started arriving a few days after that. Alistair's templar training was cancelled and he couldn't help but wonder if Reynard and Malcolm were in pain - if the shipments would arrive in time to save them from irredeemable insanity.
He didn't mind that his classes had been cancelled. The part of him that had been chafing at four more years in the Chantry had been replaced by a creeping horror of what was to come after. It no longer felt as though he was serving a sentence in a prison. Now it felt like he was awaiting execution.
They moved him to his own room. At sixteen he was the oldest in the dormitory - all the other boys his age who weren't initiates had left and he'd been sleeping in a cot with his legs hanging over the end for the past six months. He found he didn't mind. There was no hitch in his breath at entering the room by himself. His childhood fears had been replaced by others that had nothing to do with solitude. These days privacy was more than welcome.
It was over a week before his training began again - and Ser Reynard wasn't there. A new templar from Denerim had arrived to take his place. Harrith was just as grim and efficient as Reynard had been but Alistair didn't warm to him. He couldn't help but look at the man and wonder. What would he look in the throws of lyrium withrdrawal? Would he hold out - the way Malcolm had? Or would he collapse, like Reynard? Did it matter how well trained you were? How much lyrium you took? Did the Chantry give you a dose a day? Did they force it down your throat our could you choose when you gave in to the temptation?
What good was all the discipline they were learning if they could so easily be reduced to animals?
He walked under a black cloud for months. Finally, one evening in the library, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Sister Adela.
He tried to smile at her. Usually the mere thought of her made him smile, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to work the way they used to and all that came out was a grimace. She beckoned to him. He closed the book he'd been reading and followed her out of the library.
They made their way to the what used to be the boys dining hall, without speaking. Now it held rows of armour and weapon racks. Practice swords and shields. There were a few initiates and brothers here and there, polishing or repairing or checking equipment. Alistair found he couldn't look at the suits of templar armour without shuddering.
They found a bench and sat.
"What is it?" Adela asked him finally.
He rubbed his hand through his hair. How to explain? Adela had been his only friend in the Chantry since he first got there, but even she hadn't bothered to let him know what his future held. Did she think Eamon and Teagan had told him, the way everyone else seemed to?
"I saw Reynard," he said eventually. "When he was in lyrium withdrawal."
Adela nodded. "It's not an easy thing to contemplate," she said evenly. "What could happen. You just have to remember that it doesn't happen very often."
"Is he... did he die? Do you know?"
She sighed. "No, he didn't die. He'll make a full recovery, in time. He just needs some care and we're not equipped for that sort of care here. I doubt he'll come back, though. They'll find him a posting nearer Orzammar - or in Denerim."
"You thought I knew, didn't you?" he said then. "What Templars had to do.. to track apostates. You thought they told me before I came here."
She looked at him, puzzled. "You mean they didn't?"
He snorted. "Of course not. What would a ten year old understand about that any way?"
"I... didn't think. I thought maybe the Arl would have written to you, or..."
Alistair shrugged. "Maybe if I'd agreed to see him he would have told me. Or if I'd ever opened any of the letters he sent. But I didn't. And...." his thoughts crystallised suddenly, into a hard core of anger and resentment and understanding "he wouldn't have let me go back any way."
"Why not?"
She didn't know. Of course she didn't. No one did, save perhaps the Revered Mother, and why would she tell a lowly sister? It was better that no one knew. And the less he knew the better as well. It must have been a great relief to them all, when Isolde suggested the Templars. It was all about controlling him. Keeping him in line. He wouldn't be able to lead a rebellion against his brother if he was dependent on the Chantry for his daily fix. I never even wanted to be king. Couldn't they have trusted me?
"It's... not important," he said bitterly. "I just can't go back, that's all. This is my life now. I don't have any other options."
"It's obviously important," she said. "There's something you're not telling me."
He gave a small, desperate laugh. "Well, that's a switch."
"Alistair?"
"I'm not allowed to tell anyone," he said, clenching his fists. "It's not my choice. Nothing is my choice."
"There are always options, Alistair," she said softly. "Remember that." She got to her feet. "If you feel like telling me what you're not allowed to tell me," she said with a small smile, "you know where I am."
He looked up into her kind grey eyes and felt a surge of feeling. "Why are you so nice to me?" he blurted. The words fell out of his mouth, without checking in with his brain first. He felt the flush of embarrassment rush to his face.
She laughed. "Because you're a good person," she answered simply. "It's easy to be nice to you."
"Do you mean everyone else is taking the hard way? I find that difficult to believe."
She reached out and touched his shoulder. "Sometimes what's easy for one person is hard for another," she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He had to resist a sudden urge to take her hand and squeeze it back. Not proper behaviour for a templar initiate. Or anyone, for that matter, with a sister. He sighed instead. She grinned at him and turned to go.
He sat for a long time in the armoury, his mind churning. Finally he got up, took a practice sword and shield, and made his way down to the field. Mindless violence would help. For a while.
They heard of the death of Maric later than most. News took its time to reach the monasteries. Alistair supposed it was because everyone thought quiet prayer and contemplation didn't need to be distracted by what was happening in the world. He wondered how long it would take them to tell them the Orlesians had invaded again.
Of course the boys and the initiates didn't know why they were being called to a special day of sermons. All they knew was they had to be on their best behaviour.
For once he could ignore the pain in his knees. They had held funeral services before, of course. The Chantry serviced the surrounding farmlands and many of the Brothers and Sisters had died of old age during his time. He had tried harder to be respectful, even though those services were longer than usual. This time he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to fidget.
His father (it seemed strange to call him that) was dead. That meant Cailan would be king. He could still recall his father's face - the cold blue eyes, the appraising stare, but it was more difficult to picture his brother. Of course, he'd been very young, and Cailan had only been thirteen years old himself - but it seemed strange that the boy he remembered could be the ruler of Ferelden.
I suppose we were all boys at one stage, he thought. Creepy.
There was to be a coronation. The Revered Mother was arranging to send some of the Templars to it, and some of the initiates. They asked Alistair if he wanted to go and he refused, much to the confusion of the other initiates. It wasn't just because he didn't want to see Cailan crowned. He told himself he didn't hold anything against his brother. He didn't want to rule - he wasn't suited for it. But he did envy him with a deep, coiling envy that wrenched at his guts. At least, at the funeral rites he attended he was able to acknowledge that Maric had been his father. At least he'd known his mother, before she died. At least he'd had a family, for a time.
He imagined what the coronation would be like. Everyone would be there - Eamon, Teagan, Isolde. They would expect to speak to him, and he didn't know how easy it would be to avoid that without giving away more than he should. He also didn't know if he'd be able to control his temper if he was faced with his former guardian. Maybe he had been stubborn and stupid, not to see him when he came to visit, not to open his letters. Maybe he would have found out what awaited him if he'd been less... childish. But the damage was done now and Alistair felt it was too late to try and repair it. It was better he stay in the Chantry.
For now, any way.