The Shadow and the Flame-Chapter One Part 3

[communi_kate]

. Templar initiates were made up of nobles, commoners and those like Alistair who sat wedged uncomfortably somewhere in between. It was abundantly clear to which group these initiates belonged. If they were ever sliced in half by an opponent on the battlefield, he'd find 'noble sons' written all the way through them.

Alistair kept his eyes down and attempted to shoulder through them, but one of the nobles stopped him with a negligent hand on his shoulder.

"Well, if it isn't Arl Eamon's bastard!"

Alistair sighed. "What do you want, Giles?"

The noble stepped back and looked superciliously down at Alistair. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Alistair sidestepped, trying to avoid the small group, but they closed around him and he knew that he was doomed. He caught a glimpse of Palamon and Arcite at the back of the crowd. "Trying to avoid you lot."

Giles chortled. "Ha. Good idea, that." He smiled widely. His teeth were white and sharp as a drake's "I heard you've got a grudge against Orlesians."

Alistair shook his head. "I've got no quarrel with Orlesians. I just said that to get a rise out of Palamon. And it worked."

All eyes turned to Palamon, who scowled and touched a bruise darkening around his right eye. "That was not a gentlemanly act," he said stiffly.

“As Ser Giles here has taken such pains to point our, I’m hardly a gentleman. But I’m sorry.”

Palamon nodded curtly. The gesture could have come from a book of Orlesian etiquette. Position Ten: Accepting Apologies from Companions of a Lower Rank than Oneself. "I accept your apology."

Giles frowned. "Don't act so hastily, Palamon. This..." he paused "...commoner has not just insulted our Palamon with his poorly-chosen remarks. He's insulted me."

"Oh come on." Alistair said. "This is ridiculous. You weren't even there."

Giles's smile widened. "I'm guessing you didn't know that my mother was Orlesian?"

"Er, no." Alistair said with a sinking feeling in his chest. Of course, the afternoon's combat didn't have anything to do with Giles. Palamon was a noble, but he was an honorable one. Giles was a noble and a nasty, vindictive arse. "But that-"

"Would you not retaliate if somebody insulted your mother, Alistair?" Giles asked with a grin.

Alistair sighed. "If you wanted to beat me up, why didn't you just say so?" He could see exactly where Giles' needling was heading. It was going to end up with Alistair on the floor spitting teeth, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Giles shook his head. "It is a matter of honor," he said. "I'm not surprised that you do not understand. Let me explain. For example, if I were to say that dear Arl Eamon was far too pure and self-righteous to sire a child out of wedlock, that would be a compliment. But if I were to say that your mother was a common whore who opened her legs for every man in Redcliffe castle, now that would be an in-"

Giles got no further, because Alistair punched him in the stomach. It was a good blow, with all the force of Alistair's anger behind it. It should have wiped the smile from Giles's smug face and knocked the wind out of him for good measure. It was a pity that Giles had retained his uniform breastplate under his doublet. Alistair did more damage to his hand than he did to Giles’s chest.

"You'll regret that," Giles said conversationally as Alistair winced and cradled his hand.
"I doubt it."

"I wouldn't be so sure. For the laws of chivalry state that no true knight can suffer a blow to land on him without first returning it-" He raised his hand and backhanded Alistair across the face. Alistair saw the blow coming a mile away. He stepped back; attempting to avoid it, but the press of the small crowd around him forced him right into the punch and gave him no room to maneuver. The crowd parted like the waves as Alistair toppled backwards onto the cobbled path.

Arcite stepped forwards and aimed a kick at Alistair's ribs. Alistair twisted away, trying desperately to avoid it, but Giles put a hand on the initiate's arm. "He's got to get up first," he said gently, "Then we can hit him. We are gentlemen, after all."

Alistair wiped his mouth. He shook out his aching hand. "No. Can't have you stooping to my level. Stooping is bad." He stared at his skinned knuckles. "Maker's breath. That hurt."

"You only have yourself to blame,' Giles said reprovingly, "Really, I don't know why the Chantry wastes their time on you. You'll never make a Templar."

Alistair looked up from his position on the floor. As long as he didn't get up, he reasoned, he was safe. Ser Giles would never lower himself to hit a prone opponent."Good. I don’t want to be a Templar. I’ve got better things to do with my time than murder Chasind and wilders."

“How fortunate for you that you will never make the grade,” Giles murmured silkily. “Besides, it is not murder. The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker guides their hands."

Alistair snorted. "Righteous? You? That’s a laugh."

Giles' face twisted. "I should teach you a lesson,” he snapped, "It's a good idea to shut your mouth when you're outnumbered." He beckoned Alistair up. "Get up, bastard, so I can hit you honorably."

Alistair had no intention of getting up just so Ser Giles could knock him down again. "I might be a bastard, but at least I'm not a noble,” he said. “They say the scum always floats to the top of the pot."

Giles scowled. "Nobles are the sword of the Chantry," he said. "You will never be a Templar. And you will never be a gentleman." He gestured to a couple of his cronies. Arcite and Stephen bent down and grabbed Alistair's arms. They dragged him, protesting, to his feet.

Alistair, reluctantly upright, took one look at Giles’s face and knew that he was in trouble. The noble wore gauntlets as well as his breastplate, and Alistair had no desire to collect more bruises to match the split lip Giles had already forced on him."Is five against one gentlemanly?" he inquired. "Come on, fight me one on one."

He watched Giles consider the options. Alistair had never been good at barehanded combat, but he wagered that Giles was even worse. Nobles did not brawl.

"Go on," someone said from the back of the crowd. "You can take him."

Palamon shook his head. "I don't think this is a good idea," he said to thin air.

Giles raised his chin. "I don't have to prove anything to you, bastard."

"Prove to me you're not afraid," Alistair invited.

He should have known better than to call Giles' bluff in front of all his friends. The noble took a step back and punched him. It was probably meant to be a gentle blow. Regardless, it caught Alistair on the temple. He reeled back into Arcite, who pushed him forwards, expecting him to fold. Alistair lashed out and, more out of luck than judgment, caught Giles on the chin. Giles toppled backwards like a felled sylvan. He fell into Stephen, who pushed him away instinctively. Giles, semi-conscious, mistook Stephen for Alistair-it was an easy mistake to make, they were both blond-and punched him instead.

Stephen hit Giles back more out of surprise than real malice. Alistair lashed out again and hit Palamon this time. Palamon snarled and let fly. Alistair ducked hastily and Palamon bloodied Arcite’s nose over Alistair's head.

Then it all went to hell in a wagon. There was only so much of Alistair to go around. Not all the nobles could punch him at once, so they punched each other. This sparked more feuds, and soon the small crowd of nobles that had gathered on the path was a wild brawling mess of men.

They scattered about five minutes later, when Ser Mark opened the window of his study and bawled in amazement. "All of you stop it now."

Alistair's brain finally kicked in. Through the muggy mists of semi-consciousness, he realized that he was lying on his back with someone who was not Palamon or Ser Giles punching him in the face. There was another bellow. His opponent vanished like melting snow.

Alistair groaned and dragged himself to his knees. He looked around. There was a conspicuous absence of other initiates. Palamon rolled in the grass of the graveyard a few strides from Alistair, making bubbling noises.

He looked around for Giles and stared instead into the scarlet face of Ser Mark. The Templar Sergeant took a deep, joyous breath. "What is all this about?" he inquired.

"I can explain," Alistair said hopelessly.

"Then please do."

"Um." Alistair brushed at his clothing. His surcoat was ruined; streaked with mud, grass stains and blood. "Okay, maybe I can't."

"I am so surprised." Ser Mark said sarcastically. "And you, Ser Palamon?"

The noble had pulled himself to his knees. He held his head tipped back to staunch the flow of blood from his nose."No, Ser. I'm sorry."

Ser Mark looked from one bleeding face to another. "Knight Commander," he snapped. "Both of you. Now."

"Yes, Ser." Alistair groaned in chorus with Palamon. He stood up tentatively and winced. His few remaining muscles that weren't already aching from training were making themselves known. His body was a blaze of pain.

Ser Mark marched them in silence to the Knight-Commander's office. Ser Glavin looked up as they entered.

"Palamon? I am surprised," he said, and then his gaze turned to Alistair. "And Alistair. Well, I am not. I rather hoped you'd reformed when Ser Mark told me of your performance in the training ground this afternoon. It looks like I was wrong."

"Sorry, Ser," Alistair muttered.

"You will only speak when directly asked a question, initiate!" Ser Mark bawled.

The Knight-Commander winced. "You should be fighting maleficarum, not brawling like common folk amongst yourself," he said reprovingly. It was a familiar litany.

The Templars have a proud heritage, Alistair said under his breath.

"For the Templars have a proud heritage, and -wipe that smile off your face Ser Alistair. I think you'll find that you have nothing to smile about-and you shall not-I repeat not-drag our name through the dust by brawling like commoners!." His gaze flicked from Alistair to Palamon and back again. "You are comrades in arms. You should have no reason to fight."
We are comrades in name only, Alistair thought. He waited for the inevitable punishment, wondering if it would be prayers or extra training.

Ser Mark moved behind the desk and whispered in Ser Glavin’s ear. The Knight-Commander's expression grew a little more severe. "Ser Mark tells me that you did not fight alone," he said. "Your punishment will be less harsh if you tell me the names of the other initiates who joined in." He glanced from one face to the other. "Well?"

Alistair shook his head. Whatever punishment Ser Glavin would assign would be soft compared to what the other initiates would deal to Alistair if he ratted them out.

The Knight-Commander sighed, as Alistair's silence was yet more evidence of his regrettable criminal tendencies. He turned to Palamon. "Ser Palamon?"

Palamon knew the unspoken rules of the initiates as well as Alistair did. He mutely shook his head.

The Knight-Commander's face turned scarlet. "You have both brought the brotherhood into disrepute!" he thundered.

Alistair hung his head. He didn't want to be a Templar. In fact, he couldn't decide which was worse-failing the test, or passing it and becoming one of the stone-faced men and women that were little more than weapons. However, neither did he want to be waiting before Knight-Commander Glavin at this particular moment.

I'll die first. I'll go crazy. I'll jump off Fort Drakon's tower and-

"Alistair!"

Alistair looked up.

"Are you listening?"

"I was-uh-contemplating the severity of my crimes," Alistair lied.

The Knight-Commander shook his head. “I believe that both you boys are in need of a lesson in perspective," he said. "There is an expedition leaving for the Bannorn tomorrow morning. They are going to apprehend an illegal mage. It should be an easy mission. You will go with them. Ser Mark will command you."

It was almost worth the pulled muscles and the split lip to see the expression of surprise that Ser Mark tried, but did not altogether succeed at concealing. "Knight-Commander?” he asked. “These lads should be punished. Not rewarded."

"The mission will remind these boys why they want to be Templars," Ser Glavin said.

I don't want to be a Templar, Alistair said silently, although even he was not rash enough to say that to the Knight-Commander's face.

Ser Mark cuffed him around the shoulder. "Thank the Knight-Commander, boys."

Alistair joined in with Ser Palamon's markedly more enthusiastic response. "Thank you, Ser,"

Knight-Commander Glavin waved one hand. "You may go," he said.

Alistair bowed hastily and left the study. He did not wait for Palamon before hurrying down the corridor back to the dormitory. He heard Palamon call out behind him, but he did not pause until he reached the small room he shared with Aleyne and four more Templars in training.

The dormitory was quiet and blessedly empty. Aleyne had spread out all his armor in the middle of the floor and was industriously polishing a helmet with a rag. He looked up from the centre of a pile of greaves and gauntlets as Alistair entered. "Was it that bad?"

Alistair flopped down on the bed with one hand across his eyes. "I suppose it could've been worse."

Aleyne looked sympathetically across at him. "Here," he offered, "I cleaned your armor too. What did they assign you? Extra chores?"

Alistair outlined the afternoon's events, only to find that Aleyne's reaction was not what he had been expecting. "That's great!" his friend said enthusiastically. "I thought you'd be punished for sure!"

"This is a punishment."

"No, it's not. You get to go outside the Chantry! Outside Denerim, even!"

"I'm still with the Templars," Alistair said. "Andraste's flaming sword! I'll have Ser Mark breathing down my neck, and Palamon, and who knows what else?"

"Some of us," Aleyne said pointedly," might think that being a Templar isn't such a bad thing."

Alistair rolled over. "I'm sorry. I'm just...er, nothing.' He hesitated. "Maybe it's just me."

"Maybe it is," Aleyne said. He didn't speak to Alistair again until the evening Chant and then only to intone the Canticle of Benedictions.

Alistair didn't mind. He had enough to think about. He winged the service with the ease of long, long practice; repeating scripture without thinking about the meaning of the words, rising and sitting again at the appropriate times. After the service, the initiates were dismissed straight to their dorms. It was the first time Alistair had ever been thankful for the Chantry's strict curfew.

He lay on his bunk and stared up at the rafters. Below him, Aleyne managed to sound disapproving even while snoring.

All I want is not to be surrounded by people who think I'm not a complete idiot, he thought.

Of course, maybe things wouldn't be different. Maybe I am just a complete idiot.

The thought was not reassuring. Alistair fell asleep nonetheless.