The Shadow and the Flame-Chapter Two Part 1

[communi_kate]

The Shadow of the Flame

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction by xahra99
 

Chapter Two. : Preparations - Palamon and the Pickpocket - The Bannorn- The Maleficar

The clanging of the Chantry bell woke Alistair, and the position of the sun on the wall told him that he wasn't late.

Yet, Alistair thought. He threw off the itchy blanket and jumped out of bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the ground. He winced again as bruised muscles tightened in the cold air. It was icy in the dormitory, but then it always was, apart from a few weeks in midsummer, when it became stiflingly hot instead.

He elbowed a sleepy Aleyne out the way and dragged a creased shirt from the chest by his bed. It had a name that wasn't Alistair's stitched into the neck, but at least it was clean. He pulled the garment on hastily before anyone else noticed. A padded jacket and thick trousers designed to be worn under mail went on top. He sat on the chest to pull his boots on and poked Aleyne with a bare toe that poked out from the hole in his right sock.

"Mn'nin," Aleyne grunted.

"You'll be late," Alistair warned.

"Got time."

The sliver of morning sunlight that etched the wall had moved a bare fraction. Alistair shook his head. "You haven't. Second bell rings soon."

Aleyne yawned. He pulled the blanket off his head and got up. "Wha' time?"

"First bell's rung already. But you've got a few minutes." Alistair rubbed his chin. "Think I need to shave?"

"Mn. Yes. No. Don't care." Aleyne yawned hugely.

Alistair frowned. He rubbed his chin again and decided that he was already too late to shave. He hunted in his chest for his worry ring and came up without it. "Seen my ring?" He pulled another shirt out of the chest and found the ring knotted in its folds. "Oh. Wait. It's okay. I got it."

Aleyne frowned. "You can't wear that. The Sergeant will notice. He'll say it's a superstitious bit of arcane nonsense. You know what he's like."

Alistair frowned. The ring, for all its runes, was about as arcane as a teapot. "It's my lucky ring."

"It'll be luckier if you leave it here."

Alistair glanced distrustfully around at the other four members of the dormitory, who were too busy to notice. He slid the ring on his finger, twisted it around, pulled it off again and stashed it back in his chest.

Muttering a hurried goodbye to Aleyne, he headed for the armory by way of the breakfast hall.

Ser Palamon and a small group of Templars were already waiting in the armory. Alistair recognized most of them. There was Ser Kyan, a tall, ascetic woman who tapped her foot impatiently and looked at Alistair as if he was a piece of mud upon her shoe. There was Ser Percival, a jovial, blond Templar who Alistair did not know well. And there was Ser Mark, who he knew only too well.

Ser Mark coughed as Alistair approached. "Ah. Ser Alistair. So glad that you could join us."

Alistair bowed stiffly. "Ser."

"Collect your armor and weapons, initiate. Once you are equipped, we shall meet in the main hall for the Blessing. Do not tarry."

Alistair nodded. He picked a set of initiate's scale armor from a wooden mannequin and armored up. Ser Palamon followed him. The armor was decent but worn. Alistair tightened straps and buckles. He swung his arms, trying and failing to achieve a better fit.

"I hate this stuff," he said sotto voce to Palamon. "It's like one size doesn't quite fit all."

Ser Palamon, who was the size and shape favored by the Templars (something akin to a turnip with a radish balanced on top) snorted. "You should train more."

"I train all the time. Only way I could get more training in would be if I did it in my sleep."

"That can be arranged." Ser Mark said from behind Alistair.

Alistair gulped. The Templar Sergeant, for all his bulk, could move as softly as a spider when the mood took him. "Yes, ser." He rapped the breastplate with his knuckles. "I just thought we'd you know, get proper Templar armor or something."

"Templar armor is reserved only for Templars. Which you are not. Nor will you be, if keep on asking questions and making foolish jokes."

"So this is supposed to protect us against a maleficar?"

"No armor forged," Ser Mark snarled, "will protect you against a maleficar. The only thing that will do that is the power of your faith and the strength of your sword."

Alistair hoped he didn't look as doubtful as he felt. "Okay," he said. "I just feel like bait."

"How perceptive of you," Ser Mark growled, and moved on.

Alistair felt better once he no longer had the Templar Sergeant breathing down his neck, and he felt much better after he collected a sword from the weapons rack. Alistair had grown up with blades in the great castle at Redcliffe, and the Templars made good weapons.

It must be all that faith, he thought as he checked the blade for rust. It was an average Templar sword, which meant that it was superior to most Ferelden swords and cost more than a commoner would earn in a year. The edge was bright and untarnished-a far cry from the nicked and bated practice blades. Alistair admired it for a moment, distracted by the shiny steel.

Palamon coughed. "They're waiting."

Alistair picked a purple Templar surcoat from a pile of identical tabards. He buckled the sword belt on top and thought that he would have looked rather dashing if it hadn't been for the color of the Templar crest, which was bright purple bordered with gold.

"I always wondered," he said to Ser Palamon s they walked to the Chantry. "Why purple? It's not exactly a color that strikes fear into the hearts of our enemies, is it? I would have expected black. Or white, even. Red, maybe."

Palamon grunted. "You think too much," he said.

"That's the first time anybody's told me that," Alistair said, surprised.

"My mistake. You talk too much and think too little."

Alistair couldn’t think of a witty reply. "Well, you-you’re a prat.”

Palamon sniffed. He ignored Alistair from then on; maintaining a dignified silence until they both reached the Chantry. The Chantry in Denerim was one of the largest halls in Ferelden. It was airy and high ceilinged and on a day like this, bitterly cold. The racks of devotional candles that burned against each wall gave off little light and no heat at all. Alistair tried to shiver without his armor clanking. It was, he soon discovered, very difficult.

He had expected one of the Revered Mothers to lead the Chant, or even the Grand Cleric herself. Instead, he saw Knight Commander Glavin waiting at the lectern.

"Kneel,” he said to the small party.

Alistair followed the lead of Ser Palamon, who was following the other Templars, and knelt with his arms crossed over his chest. Maker's breath, he thought as the old man intoned the blessing. I wish he'd just get on with it. It's colder than here than outside. I thought that wasn't possible.

It seemed like an eternity before the Knight Commander ordered them all to stand. He flicked the sacred ashes from the votive candles over each of them in turn as he muttered a prayer. Alistair held his breath and tried his best not to sneeze. He half-expected the ashes to turn into a puff of smoke or sizzle away as they touched his armor, but they just slid from the polished steel like they had so many times before. The Knight-Commander made his slow way down the aisle of the Chantry, blessing each man in turn, and then he returned to the lectern and flung his arms wide. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, shall find true peace," he intoned.

Canticle of Transfigurations, Verse Ten, Alistair thought despite his best efforts. In Andraste's name! I have to get out of this place before I go mad.

Knight Commander Glavin clanked to the Chantry's main doors and flung them open, wheezing a little with the effect. "Go in the Maker's Light," he ordered.

Alistair bowed his head and followed the other men from the dim hall into the grey light of a springtime morning. The sun that had greeted him on waking had dispersed, replaced by a sky the color of ashes. Rain drizzled from leaden clouds.

Despite the weather, Alistair was elated. He felt as if he had been released from a cage as they passed the stone gates of the Chantry. The Templar guards at the gates crossed their arms across their chest and bowed as the small group walked by. Denerim awaited. Alistair was free.

He was brought back to earth rudely a few moments later when someone tried to steal his purse as they trudged across the marketplace to the great stone gates. Nobody would dare steal from a Templar, but the ragamuffins that haunted the square were desperate enough to consider the initiates fair game. Alistair caught the scrawny girl's hand at the last moment. After the initial shock, he loosened his grip, conscious of the bones that protruded sharply from her skinny wrist. "Don't try that."

The girl blinked at him with great sunken eyes. She seemed mute, or so terrified that she had lost the power of speech. Alistair reached for his pouch with his free hand. He thumbed it open and flicked her a coin. "Take this."

"She'll just take it to her parents," Palamon said disapprovingly as the child raced away. "And they'll just spend it on strong ale or cheap whores."

Alistair blinked. "Doesn't the Chant say something about charity?"

"Well, yes. But there's charity, and there's just being stupid."

"I'm not stupid." Alistair said defensively. He gestured at Palamon's belt. "Beside, you should look to your own purse."

Palamon groped for his cut purse strings. He spluttered. "That little-"

'There's charity, and then there's just being stupid," Alistair said. He pointed at the skinny girl. She sat on her heels in the mud, clutching the coin. "That was charity. That-" he pointed at Palamon's empty belt," was stupid."

"Shut up." Palamon snarled.

Alistair fell silent, but the grumpy expression on Ser Palamon's face made him chuckle all the way out of Denerim.

His good mood did not last out the morning. If it had not been for the continuous rain, the muddy paths and Ser Mark breathing down his neck, he might have been a little more cheerful. As it was, the foul weather soaked into his boots and dulled his spirits.

Beside him, Ser Mark took a great lungful of air. The rain was so heavy Alistair thought it was a wonder he didn't drown. "Ah! The thrill of the chase, boys!" he said as he exhaled, spitting water from his beard. "This is why we all became Templars."

"Actually, I became a Templar because-" Alistair began, and stopped at the look on Ser Mark's face.

"It's certainly nice to get out of the Chantry," Ser Palamon said.

"At least it was dry in the Chantry." Alistair muttered. "How much further?"

"Oh, a few days," Ser Mark said breezily, as if the length of their journey was of no consequence whatsoever. 'The Maker will guide our steps."

"I wish the Maker would stop it raining."

"Alistair, act like a Templar. Do not whine." Palamon gestured around them. They trudged through muddy rain-swept fields. "Things could be worse. You could be a commoner."

"You're a prat." Alistair told him.

Ser Mark intervened as Palamon's face turned a rather alarming shade of red. "Ser Palamon, kindly hold your tongue. The Templar Order is not composed entirely of nobles, whatever you might think. Our duty is to serve the common folk. We protect them from the ravages of foul magic and they aid us in our mission of mercy. Ser Alistair, hold your tongue or I will run this sword through you. You will not melt."

"I'll rust." Alistair muttered. He had not intended anybody to hear, but Ser Mark heard him anyway.

"If you rust, then you will have to clean that rust off tonight. I told you to be silent."

Alistair nodded. "Tongue. Sword. I got it."

Palamon looked smug. "What sort of maleficar are we hunting?" he asked.

Suck-up, Alistair thought.

Ser Mark shrugged. His massive steel armor clanked together with a noise like grinding rocks. "You will see." Despite Alistair’s best efforts, he volunteered nothing more. They walked on in silence through the continuous rain.

The camp they pitched that night was wet and muddy. Alistair had hoped that they would stop at a village, or even a tavern, but they camped under the shelter of a small copse of trees. Ser Mark set Alistair and Palamon to work cleaning their armor before he joined the other Templars. The knights sat around the fire on logs they had dragged into a rough circle. They looked like heroes straight out of the legends, but they didn't look they were having much fun.

Alistair rubbed wax into his breastplate with a cloth. "I was right," he said morosely."My armor's rusting already."

"At least we're not in heavy plate like them," Palamon said. He looked over at the Templars. Rain dripped off his nose and soaked into his surcoat. "Can you imagine trudging through mud in full kit?"

"I did wonder about that," Alistair said. "Oh, sure, they say it's because we're not full Templars, but they could have given us plate armor without the Sword of Mercy on it. I think it's because we're expendable. D'you reckon Ser Mark's going to use us as bait?"

"Don't be silly." Palamon said. "Although if you carry on whining he might make an exception.'

"I don't whine."

"You never stop. Look, if you hate it that much, why don't you leave? Do us all a favor."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Oh. How observant of you. I don't know why I haven't thought of that already."

"Don't mock me," Palamon said dangerously. He rubbed at a spot of rust on his mail.

"I'm not. I tried. Four times, in fact. Once I hitched a ride on a caravan and made it all the way to Redcliffe."

"Why didn't you stay?"

"Things-things had changed." Isolde gave birth to Connor, and decided she didn't want her husband's bastard son cluttering up the place. "Arl Eamon sent me back."

"Oh." Palamon wiped his nose. "Well, why don't you make the best of it? Move on."

"That's all right for you to say. You're a noble."

"So? Your father's a noble. Even if you are a bastard."

"Mmm. It's a pity that people always leave the noble bit out."


"Oh, come on. Half the Order are bastards. Don't be so touchy."

Alistair put a bit more force into his polishing. "It’s all right for you. You have your father and your family. And that glorious old tradition of sending sons to the Templars."


Palamon looked miserable. "Well, maybe that's all not it's cracked up to be."

"What d' you mean?" Alistair asked curiously.

"You were right. The reason my family sends its youngest sons to the Chantry is to stop them meddling with the succession. We're not so different, you and I. We were both sent to the Chantry to get us out of the way."

"Oh. Sorry," Alistair said, and wondered why being right for once felt so bad. "I apologize."

"Maybe you're the lucky one, not being a noble,” Palamon said. “At least you have more freedom. You don't have to hang around with Giles and his pack."

"I thought you liked Giles?" Alistair said. He had not expected Palamon to confess his thoughts so easily.

"His father's a friend of mine," Palamon said. "It's complicated. And political. At least your Arl Eamon's a good man."

"He is," Alistair said.

Palamon gave him an odd look. "But it's funny. You certainly don't look much like him. In fact, you remind me of someone else. Someone...familiar. But I can't think who."

"I must look like my mother," Alistair said. He inched back into the shadows ever so slightly and hoped that Palamon was not familiar with King Maric or his son. Palamon just shook his head and polished industriously.

Maybe he's not such a prat after all. Maybe he's just a rich noble's son who doesn't want to be here anymore than I do, Alistair thought. The thought was troubling and unsatisfactory. It had been much easier when he'd had a reason to dislike Ser Palamon rather than simple jealousy.

He rubbed at his mail and succeeded only in streaking mud over its surface. As Alistair's luck would have it. Ser Mark chose that very moment to saunter over. "How're you doing, lads?"

"Very well, ser," Palamon said.

Ser Mark peered at the armor. "Very well?" He tapped Alistair's breastplate. "You call this well?"

"It's muddy," Alistair said defensively.

"The armor of faith should be kept shining brightly," Ser Mark said. "See to it. I want to see my smiling face in those breastplates by morning."

Palamon and Alistair nodded dispiritedly. Ser Mark squelched off. They watched him go in shared misery.

"We'll need a miracle to get this stuff clean." Alistair said.

"Better pray to Andraste, then." Palamon said, and scrubbed harder.

They set off at dawn the next morning. The Templars marched in front and set a hard pace. Alistair, whose wet boots were beginning to rub his heels, gazed enviously at a pair of horses grazing in a field as they marched past. "Maker help us," he said sotto voce to Palamon, "I wish we'd brought a wagon."

"I wish we'd brought saddles." Palamon glanced over at the horses. "Though I doubt those poor beasts would carry us far. The black's lame, and the chestnut mare has Withrow's shingles in both of her front feet. Poor girl."

Alistair looked at the horses. They looked perfectly all right to him. "I'm glad Templars can't ride. I fall off horses. It's this thing I do."

"I don't." Palamon said enviously.

"How'd you know so much about horses, anyway?"

"I miss the horses back at home. I had a horse of my own in Ramsdale." Palamon sighed. "Once I take lyrium, I'll never be able to ride again. They don't like it."

Then horses and I have at least one thing in common, Alistair thought. He tested the waters cautiously. "What'd do you think of that, exactly?"

"The lyrium?" Palamon looked confused. "It's an honor."

"It's a drug."

"It helps us to develop our talents."

"It's addictive. It lets the Chantry control us."

"They already control us."

"You say that like it's a good thing." Alistair said.

"It is a good thing." Ser Mark said without looking around. He dropped back and threw a huge arm around each of their shoulders. Alistair wondered if the gesture was meant to be reassuring. He guessed it probably wasn't. "It reminds us of our servitude. You cannot be a Templar without taking lyrium." He looked at each of them. "And you will become Templars. I will see to it personally. Even if it-" and he looked pointedly at Alistair, "it kills me."

"Lucky me." Alistair said.

Ser Mark sighed. "Or if it kills you, Alistair. Which is somewhat more likely."

Palamon snickered. Alistair glared at him evilly.