A/N: So hey! Um, just FYI: This story is meant to be a series of glimpses into the past. There isn't going to be much in the way of an arcing storyline...it's just meant to more fully flesh out the characters we all know and love. I'm mostly having fun with it, although I hope to touch on some of the things I've personally wondered about the history of our favorite heroes. If there's something in particular you'd like me to explore, let me know! Anyway, I hope the lack of a sound plot doesn't hamper your reading experience at all. And who doesn't love little Alistair? Enjoy - I know I am. :-)
They skidded to a halt as a groomsman ran by, shouting for assistance. The boy grabbed Lyra's hand and yanked her into the shelter of a nearby low wall. They crouched, waiting and watching, and then it occurred to Lyra to ask why they were hiding.
"Carriage coming," the boy said tersely, and Lyra accepted this without further question. They crouched there in the heat of the day for another moment before the sounds of wheels rattling over the cobblestones reached their ears, and then the carriage rolled up, turning the yard into a bustle of activity and running servants. Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde appeared a moment later, and the boy ducked back a bit more. Lyra watched in fascination to see who would come out of the splendid looking carriage.
The door opened, and a golden young man jumped out, a wide smile on his face. He threw his arms around Arl Eamon, laughing, and then bowed to Lady Isolde and kissed her fingers.
Lyra and the boy were too far away to hear what was being said, but it was clear even to a small girl that the young, blonde man was much loved, and that Arl Eamon was very glad to see him. The young man reached back to the carriage, and a delicate looking young lady stepped out, her soft fingers wrapped around his, squinting her eyes at the bright light.
"Who are they?" Lyra whispered, and the boy whispered back, "I think that's Prince Cailan."
"He looks older than Fergus," Lyra said.
"Who's Fergus?" the boy asked.
"My big brother," she whispered loudly. The boy's eyes lit up.
"The tall one with the brown hair?" he asked, and she nodded, her eyes on the carriage.
Another man was emerging…older, and bearing a great resemblance to the young, golden man, but his hair was darker, with reddish tones. The boy beside her stiffened, and his hands tightened on the wall. Lyra looked at him in alarm. His face was contorted almost as if he was about to be ill.
"What's the matter? Are you sick?" she whispered, remembering how she'd gotten sick a few months back and her mother had taken care of her. He didn't answer, just stared at the scene before them.
"Should we go get your ma?" she whispered when the boy didn't respond.
He shook his head and muttered, "Don't got one."
Lyra's eyes widened. How could anyone not have a ma? Her attention was captured again as another man exited the carriage…this one looked quite stern, with dark hair and a craggy face. He smiled warmly enough at Arl Eamon, though, and bowed to Lady Isolde. In another few moments all of the adults climbed the stairs and disappeared into the castle. Lyra started to clamber out from behind the wall, but the boy didn't follow, and she turned back and knelt beside him.
"What's the matter?" she asked again, wondering if she should just go get her ma.
He shrugged.
After a moment, Lyra tried again. "Do you still wanna play?"
He shrugged again, and Lyra sighed, disappointed.
"Alistair!" The boy's eyes widened and he scrabbled backward into the corner where the wall met the castle, crouching into the shadow. He was still perfectly visible, and Lyra thought he was being a little silly, trying to hide in plain sight like that.
"Alistair, are you out here?" the voice called again.
"Don't tell her I'm here," he whispered, his eyes apprehensive. Lyra nodded, and skipped out from behind the wall.
A blonde woman in chanter's robes was striding through the yard, looking around. She looked annoyed, and Lyra decided to take matters into her own hands. She ran up to the woman.
"Who are you looking for?" she asked, and the chanter smiled at her.
"Have you seen a little boy, with red hair and brown eyes?" she asked. "He's about so-tall, and wearing plain breeches and homespun."
"No, ma'am," Lyra said. "I haven't seen no-one like that." Lyra purposefully used the double-negative, but she crossed her fingers behind her back...just in case it was still considered lying.
The chanter sighed, and gave Lyra a distracted smile as she hurried out of the yard. Lyra watched her go, and then ran back behind the wall.
"She's gone," she said, and the boy relaxed. Lyra took his hand and tugged.
"Come on," she said, and he allowed her to pull him toward the armory.
.oOo.
"Is the boy here, Eamon?" Maric asked, naked enthusiasm in his tone, and Eamon ran a hand through his hair.
"He's supposed to be at lessons with Chanter Sarah right now, but I'm afraid he's run off again," the arl apologized. Maric nodded, a slightly disappointed look on his face.
"I hear he's doing well." Maric looked casual enough, but a hint of longing in his voice belied his feelings, and Eamon nodded.
"He's bright and healthy. Isolde has suggested to me that we send him to Denerim, to be schooled in the chantry…what say you to that, Maric?"
The king considered. "I suppose concessions should be made for the future…"
"He may take an interest in the Maker. Or, if religious contemplation is not what he desires, he could become a Templar," Loghain suggested. "It's by no means a bad life…and there are vows he would need to take, to be sure that no unexpected… problems… are created."
"Loghain, he's only a boy," Maric laughed, and Loghain's eyes hardened.
"Boys become men, my liege. It is never too soon to begin thinking of the future," Loghain said. "Didn't we do just that when we betrothed our two children, years ago?"
"I suppose you're right…" Maric mused. "Very well, then. Have him sent to the chantry in Denerim. I'll keep a bit of an eye on him while he's there."
"Very good, your Majesty," Eamon said. "I'll have him sent soon after the wedding."
"If you'd prefer, we can take him with us when we leave Redcliffe," Maric said, something like hope behind his eyes. Eamon hesitated, and then Loghain spoke up.
"Maric, it isn't a good idea. The boy shouldn't grow attached to you…it could cause problems." And if anyone sees him standing next to you, they're likely to make assumptions, Loghain thought.
Maric sighed. "Very well. But you will let me know when he leaves for Denerim?"
"Of course, your Majesty," Eamon said, and then Cailan and Anora entered the room, having cleaned up a little after their long trip. Anora was looking around her with interest as they approached.
"Redcliffe is beautiful, Arl Eamon," Anora said. "This is quite a large holding, is it not?" Her eyes darted around the hall as Cailan laughed.
"Anora's always interested in finding out about the places we visit," Cailan said. "Sometimes I think she should have been the heir to the throne, and not me!"
"Well, she'll make you an excellent queen, then," Eamon said with a smile. "And when will the two of you be joined in the Maker's eyes?" Cailan grinned, and Anora smiled as well…perhaps a bit less widely.
"Not this week," Maric smiled. "This week belongs to you and Isolde." He clapped Eamon on the back, and Loghain's eyes darkened slightly. He had made clear his feelings about the orlesian noblewoman marrying one of the most powerful men in the kingdom so soon after the nearly age-long orlesian occupation of Ferelden…but Maric had pushed his warning comments aside, saying that he was jumping at shadows.
.oOo.
Throughout the day, more and more noble families rolled in, and the castle bustled with activity. Rendon Howe and his three children arrived late in the afternoon, by which time nearly everyone else was already there. Eamon's wedding was the social event of the year, and no one was willing to miss it.
Alistair and Lyra snuck down out of the castle yard and to the field nearby where the tourney was being prepared for, and watched the men and horses. They were careful to stay out of the way, since neither one wanted to be caught. There wasn't much talk between them beyond "Look at that!" and "Come here!" and "Let's pretend that…" In the manner of lonely children everywhere, they had found a temporary friend in each other, and it didn't matter who they were or what existed beyond the next moment.
As the afternoon wore on they were joined by more children, and then more, and soon they were running about like a pack of puppies. Alistair was having the time of his life…with Lyra's easy acceptance of him and her natural leadership of the others, no one was questioning his right to be there, and for the first time ever, he was able to relax and simply enjoy being a kid.
"You lot go hide, and the rest of us'll find you after we count," Lyra was saying, and a group of children began scattering.
"Close your eyes!" Lyra shouted, and then began leading the count. Childish voices joined in as they made their way to thirty, and then Lyra called for them to begin the hunt. It was the most fun Alistair had had all year, and he hoped the week wouldn't end too soon.
The game came to a laughing conclusion, and they were all rather breathless with running when two newcomers caught everyone's attention. A dark-haired boy looking to be about ten or eleven and a pretty, dark-haired girl of perhaps thirteen were crossing the field, dressed in finery unbecoming of a good roll in the mud. After hours of outdoor play, some of the children looked as though they might need a sound scrubbing before they could truly be identified as children again.
"Lyra," the boy said by way of greeting.
"Thomas," she said, scowling at him. Thomas Howe was not one of her favorite people. They saw each other fairly regularly, and being close to the same age had meant they were forced to play together, much to their mutual chagrin. Thomas' sister Delilah wrinkled her nose at the younger girl in her breeches and dirt-smeared shirt, smoothing her fine pink dress.
"What are you playing?" Thomas said. "Some baby game, I bet."
"Hide and find," another girl spoke up. "Want to play?"
"Hide and find is a stupid game," Thomas said, and Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Let's play knights and bandits. I'll be the head of the knights, and you," he pointed at Alistair, "can be the head of the bandits."
"What do the bandits do?" Alistair asked, somewhat troubled by the other boy's tone, and the look on Lyra's face.
"The bandits steal and rob and loot and pillage, and the knights have to stop them."
"What's pillaging?" another boy said, and Delilah spoke up.
"Thomas, don't get dirty. Father won't be pleased if your tunic gets messed," she said in a bossy voice.
"Shut up, 'Lilah," he said, and she flounced off, not interested in joining their games.
"Whoever wants to play knights and bandits with Thomas, go with him. I want to keep playing hide and find," Lyra announced. "Anybody want to play with me?"
"I will," Alistair said quickly, and Thomas stepped up to him.
"You're supposed to be one of my bandits."
"I don't wanna be a bandit," he said, and Thomas scowled.
"Come on, Alistair," Lyra said. "Anybody else who wants to play hide and find, follow us." She began moving purposefully off of the field, and most of the children followed. Thomas was dismayed by the departing crowd, and ran after them.
"You can't follow her," he said. "She's just a whiny little baby."
"Am not, Thomas!" Lyra said. "You're the baby."
"I'm older than you. You prob'ly still wet the bed," he said smugly, referencing a humiliating instance of the previous summer that Lyra would really have rather forgotten.
"Do NOT!" she cried, her cheeks burning with anger and embarrassment.
"Your mother probably has to feed you herself. Can you talk yet, little baby? Can you-"
"Don't talk to her like that," Alistair said.
"What's it to you?" Thomas said, his tone derisive. "You in love or somethin'?"
"No!" Alistair said hotly.
Lyra pushed her way forward to stand before Thomas, her small chin thrust upward defiantly. "Nobody wants you here, Thomas. Go 'way. Thomas crossed his arms.
"Shut up, Cousland. You're just a baby. Can you even walk yet?"
"I'm no baby!" Lyra cried out.
"You're the biggest baby here. Why are we listening to her, anyway?" Thomas sniped.
Alistair shoved Thomas, and Thomas shoved him back. Lyra joined in, blessedly forgetting about the wooden sword shoved through her waistband, or perhaps things would have gotten even worse than they did. As it was, it was only seconds until the three children were scuffling like pups, shouting and rolling in the dirt and doing their best to beat each other senseless. The children around them formed a circle, hollering and cheering, and some of the girls began to cry. Delilah Howe went running to the field, and it was only a moment later that several adults arrived to pull them off of each other.
"What is the meaning of this?" Bryce Cousland wrestled his daughter into submission, and Lyra struggled in his grasp, wanting another shot at Thomas. Her hair was readily unbraiding itself, and her lip was swelling and split where she had taken a boot to the face. Alistair went pale, and shuffled his feet, guilt parading itself across his face and a large bruise darkening his cheek. Thomas's nose was bloody, and a long scratch on one cheek was puffing up. His fancy tunic was torn, and grass stains marred his breeches.
"Thomas, you will tell us at once." Rendon Howe's voice brooked no argument. Thomas sniveled.
"He started it," Thomas gestured to Alistair and wiped at his nose. "I was just defending myself."
"Alistair did not! Thomas was being mean to all of us! He called me a baby!" Lyra cried. Alistair was silent.
Rendon and Bryce looked at each other, and then another voice caught their attention.
"Trouble with the children?"
Alistair's eyes shot downward as King Maric strode over to investigate the tussle. He peered at Alistair, but the boy refused to look up, staring at the dirt below. His small feet kicked at a clump of grass, and Maric's heart twanged in longing. The boy wouldn't even look at him.
"With your leave, your Majesty," Bryce murmured, and Maric gestured quickly, not wanting to interrupt.
"None of us saw what happened," Bryce said. "But all three of you were clearly fighting, so I think it's only fitting that all three of you be punished."
"I think that's fair," Rendon said, and Maric nodded slightly.
Lyra's eyes flashed, but she said nothing, and Bryce took both his daughter and Alistair by the hands and led them back to the castle, followed by Rendon and Thomas. Maric watched them go, a strange, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He turned back to the field, but his interest in the tournament preparations had ended. The other children broke up quickly, seeking other entertainment, and Maric watched as some of them sought their parents.
As he usually did when this mood came over him, he found himself thinking of Fiona…where she might be, what she might be doing, and whether or not she realized how quickly their son was growing up.
.oOo.
"He started it, ma, I swear," Lyra said with difficulty as Eleanor dabbed at Lyra's fat lip. Alistair was seated nearby, a poultice pressed to his cheek. Thomas was across the room, being tended by one of Arl Eamon's maids.
"And you finished it," Eleanor said, and guided Lyra's hand to hold the cloth in place next to her lip. She moved over to the red-headed boy and pulled the poultice away, inspecting his bruised cheek. He submitted meekly to her ministrations, his eyes solemn.
When Alistair needed help, normally it was Gert, the cook who saw to his small hurts. As she had been a friend of his mother's, she was willing to look after him to a small degree, but just now Gert was overseeing the preparation of dinner for several hundred people, and had less than no time for an eleven-year old boy. So Eleanor Cousland had taken pity on him, and he was drinking in the feeling of being cared for by someone who wasn't impatient or harried. Eleanor dipped a cloth into warm water and gently daubed his cheek, wiping away the sticky serum left behind by the poultice. She unscrewed a small jar of ointment and began smoothing it onto his cheek as she spoke to her rough-and-tumble daughter.
"Lyra, you cannot use your fists to settle an argument. I'm afraid you're going to spend tomorrow in your room, young lady."
"No! No, ma, please-" Lyra sounded horrified, and Alistair's stomach flopped in sympathy.
"Yes, Lyra. Not another word or it'll be two days," Eleanor said as she began bandaging Alistair's cheek. "You've got to learn to control that temper, sweetheart. If a day indoors doesn't do it…" she sighed. "I don't know what will." She heard telltale sniffling behind her, and shut her eyes. It hurt, a lot, to make her daughter cry. She smoothed the bandage onto Alistair's cheek, and then planted a kiss on his other cheek and used the rag to clean his face and hands a bit more as she listened to Lyra's small, despairing sounds.
"There. You're all set, my dear. Try to keep that on for the rest of the night, alright?" Eleanor said with a smile, and Alistair nodded and hopped off the bench. He lingered for a moment, and then found his courage and spoke up.
"Um…would it be okay if I stayed? With Lyra, I mean…for awhile?" he asked, and Eleanor considered. The poor boy looked so lonely. She knew who he was – Eamon's ward, Alistair. There were rumors that the boy was Eamon's get, but seeing him up close now made Eleanor wonder. The boy looked like Maric, and Cailan, although less so. Alistair and Maric were practically two of a kind…and Rowan had been Eamon's sister.
He has compassion, Eleanor thought, touched that he should think of Lyra's feelings. For a moment, the politician in her made an appearance, over and above the mother. And who knows what the future may hold…
"Certainly, Alistair," she said with a friendly smile, and Alistair sat beside Lyra on the bench. Lyra was sniffling, tears trickling down her cheeks as she contemplated an entire day spent in her room.
"I'll be back in a few minutes to take you to your room, Lyra," Eleanor said. "You'll have dinner there tonight, and afterward you'll go right to bed." Lyra let loose another sob, and Eleanor's heart broke a little more, but she was hoping that a severe enough punishment would stay with the girl long enough to finally make an impression.
Eleanor gathered her bandages and ointments and moved off, leaving them together in the small room. Thomas and the maid had left sometime before, and so the room was empty but for the two children.
Lyra's sobs were soft and pitiful, and Alistair felt awkward. He wanted to help Lyra feel better somehow. He considered, and then scooted himself closer to her and put one arm around her shoulders. She turned to him and began wailing on his shoulder, opening herself up to the closest source of comfort.
Lyra was used to love. When she was hurt, someone nearby offered succor….this was simple, the order of the world, and just plain the way it should be. For Alistair, things were not nearly as simple. He had observed men comforting women in this manner, but to have a girl actually sobbing on his shoulder was a bit disconcerting. He kept at it bravely, though, and after a moment Lyra sat up and rubbed her eyes, sniffling.
"Are you okay?" Alistair said, and Lyra nodded.
"Tomorrow will be awful," she whimpered, her swollen lip making talking difficult. Alistair nodded, not sure what else to do. She was right; it would be. He had spent more than a few days in confinement himself for various offenses, and it was nothing short of the worst thing ever.
"Can you read?" he asked, and Lyra nodded.
"There's some books I could bring you…if you want. To pass the time," he offered, and Lyra wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"Okay," she said, her voice sounding a little stronger. Alistair hesitated, and then spoke again.
"D'you think your ma would let me spend some of the day with you? I'm 'sposed to be punished for fighting too," Alistair said. Lyra shrugged.
"We could ask, I guess," she said. "But we wouldn't be allowed to play." She touched her lip with hesitant fingers, and then worked her tongue along the swelling. It felt, and tasted, funny.
"I know," Alistair said. "Chanter Sarah will make me do lessons tomorrow. Maybe… we could do them together."
Lyra sniffled again, and her sleeve saw more use. Alistair swung his legs on the bench.
.oOo.
"He looks like Maric, Bryce."
"And?" Bryce said, pulling his socks off. Eleanor had long since tucked Lyra into bed, and had given Alistair permission to spend some time with Lyra on the morrow – on the condition that Chanter Sarah would work with both of them, doing sums and letters.
"And…do you think it's possible that he's Maric's?" Eleanor stepped out of her gown and hung it up gently, intending to wear it again the following day after it had been brushed out. She undid her breastband and pulled her nightgown over her head, then freed her hair from its constraints and drew her comb through her long tresses as they continued to speak. She was beginning to gray, and it bothered her more than a little…she wasn't even forty yet.
"If he is, he's ill-gotten," Bryce said bluntly. "Rowan's been gone for fifteen years or so."
"But think, Bryce. If anything happens to Cailan, Maric will need another heir. And he and Lyra are very close in age…"
"Matchmaking, Eleanor? Lyra is eight years old!"
"And she's a Cousland," Eleanor said, drawing the comb through her hair.
"Yes…and I want her to marry for love, no matter who she chooses. Of course I'd prefer if the lad came from a good family, but if she ends up choosing a hedge knight or a dairy farmer I'll be just as pleased," Bryce said firmly, and Eleanor looked at him in horror.
"A dairy farmer? You're not serious," she said, scandalized. Bryce chuckled.
"If I had been a dairy farmer, would you have married me, my darling?" he teased, and Eleanor smiled, and then began to laugh, remembering their own courtship.
"Well….when you put it that way…" she said, and then sighed in amusement. "My parents would have disowned me, and we would have raised cows together, I suppose." Bryce stepped up behind his wife's back and slipped his arms around her waist as she began to section her hair for overnight braids.
"Of course, I don't seriously hope she chooses a dairy farmer," Bryce said. "And if this Alistair turns out to be Maric's, or if he's simply an orphan that Eamon took pity on…well. Let's leave the future to itself, and worry about the present, shall we?"
Eleanor nodded, conceding that it was altogether just a bit too unlikely that all of those potentials should line themselves up in just such a manner. First, for Alistair to actually be Maric's son, and then for something to happen to Cailan, and then for Alistair and Lyra to actually marry…well, it had been pleasant enough to daydream of her small, headstrong daughter ruling Ferelden one day.
"Cheer up, Eleanor…" Bryce said with a grin. "Perhaps something will happen to Anora, and Cailan will take an interest in Lyra…in ten years."
Eleanor had to admit that it was infinitely more likely than the scenario she had imagined.