Relates heavily to last chapter.
A Memory, II
Alistair
He swallowed as he looked at it, trying to stop his hands shaking, wiping damp palms on the hideous initiate's uniform.
How could something so small be so, well... terrifying?
He glanced around at the other initiates, but none of them seemed to be as nervous as him, all of them staring steadily at the templar in front of them. Drawing his eyes back to the small heap of blue powder - almost a pretty colour; the Maker had a sense of humour, to make something like that pretty - he chewed his lip.
Ser Trevor smiled in a way that was almost genial, but there was something sharklike behind it. "This, children... This is your future. Your power and your holy right."
He heard the disapproving murmur from the others at being called children, the comments that some of them were as tall as the templars now, and rolled his eyes, making sure the templar didn't notice it; he was still sore from the last time he'd showed any disapproval at anything.
"This will hone what you have learned, build upon it, allow you to fulfil your true potential." The man's voice curled around the last word, and Alistair shifted uncomfortably, fighting to restrain his dubiousness. He knew exactly what this stuff was.
"We show you now to allow you to become comfortable around it; the effects may be slightly disconcerting at first, but that will soon wear off. Once you are old enough, you shall be given small doses."
Then, of course, he didn't know why they waited until they were a certain age - his older self can tick off a list of side-effects, including disruption of growth, madness... Things a thirteen-year-old doesn't want, and shouldn't need, to know.
There was one thing he did know, though, and it was through his lips before he could stop it. "Isn't lyrium... addictive, ser?"
He sighed as the other templars pulled him from the room by his ear, refusing to let his eyes water, and returned the Revered Mother's glare in full.
All he'd done was ask.