Fanfiction: Reflections of Maturity
Title: Reflections of Maturity
Rating: Everyone
Characters: Alistair, Teagan, mentions of a non-specified female warden and Eamon
Summary:
Alistair remembers the last conversation he had with Bann Teagan, not too long after entering the Chantry.
Fanfic.net link, for those that prefer.
This is my (late) entry for the Fic-a-thon, for Vehlr! It has been plagued with problems:
a) I went on vacation ending the day they were due.
b) when I returned, I couldn't find the memory stick I had saved my work so far on. Still can't find it. :(
c) I've had a rotten cold for the past week. I'm currently on cough syrup with Codeine, yay!
d) I started to write more of a narrative, more of a plot, and then remembered I'm much better with pieces that try to examine characters and feelings.
Anyway, it's already late, so here it is before I over-refine it.
I’ve never really had a family. My mother died when I was too young to remember. When I was very small, I was told my father was a dead knight in Arl Eamon’s service, and then I thought my father was Arl Eamon, and then he finally told me the truth.
For some reason, I had very few dreams of the king swooping down and claiming me as his son. Perhaps I overheard too many shouting matches over political wrangling coming from the arl’s study. Perhaps it was when I saw the prince’s glee over getting to run free for a short time when the royal party visited.
I did envy Cailen a little, having a father, let alone one who paid attention to him. I envied even more the common boys, with fathers who saw them every day, taught them a trade. Since the entire castle, nay, the village, seemed to believe I was Arl Eamon’s bastard son, no one really felt comfortable taking me under their wing, as they might have a “real” orphan boy. I wondered what it would be like, being his brother, even with the age difference between us. Supposedly, I’ve a sister, a half-sister, in the capital. I’ve daydreamed over having a real family with her.
So, today I’ve come “home” to Redcliffe Village. Arl Eamon is ill, they say, and the situation seems grim. Fortunately, the village is being organized by the man in front of me, someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time.
Bann Teagan Guerrin, the arl’s brother. He’s another man with whom I have an ambiguous relationship. My thoughts immediately went back to the last time I spoke with him.
I sat on the chest of an older and larger boy, a bully by the name of Ross. I was rubbing mud into his hair, yelling at him to take “it” back. He had called my mother a whore and me a bastard. I could handle such names myself, but my mother wasn’t there to defend her honor, so I would do it for her no matter the punishment. It didn’t matter that he was larger, or had slightly more training in fighting, because my cause was right.
The fight had ended up at the bottom of a mud puddle in a depression on a dirt track near the lake. We were both incredibly filthy; there was no way we could hide that something had been going on, so we might as well do it right. There was no one else around, and I’m not really sure anymore how far I was going to take that fight. While I can still say with certainty that I’m bitter over my lack of family, I’m not quite the angry boy I once was.
Someone cleared his throat from somewhere behind me. Like a cat, I jumped and turned at once, ending up on my back in the mud next to my assailant.
The younger, not-yet-bearded - he must have been in his late twenties then - Bann Teagan strolled up the path towards us, one eyebrow cocked. “Alistair, I expected you to fill your time, but somehow I thought it would involve your studies, or learning to make cheese,” he commented in a typically dry tone.
I imagine that I blushed, or hung my head in shame, but perhaps not; perhaps I was more defiant. I certainly insisted on my innocence: “Sir, he was calling my mother - names! Foul ones!” I certainly wasn’t going to repeat what he had said.
I don’t remember what Ross said in protest; I’m amazed I remember his name. I know that the Bann suggested what the Revered Mother’s reaction might be, and then said something to him that I couldn’t hear. He didn’t so much as ask me to pass the salt for the next six years. I do wish I knew what Bann Teagan said, because it must have been quite good.
And then the Bann said asked me to walk with him, because we needed to talk. Our first stop was the lakeshore, before I started shedding dried mud like a snake. After that, we ambled about. I had never had a conversation that long with him, and I still carry snippets around in my head. I recall that he seemed remarkably frank with an eleven year old boy. He tried to bond over losing his mother as an infant and having a father he couldn’t remember. He wanted to know how the chantry was going for me; I stopped that line of conversation quickly by being equally blunt. The gist, though, was that he was there because I had refused to talk to the Arl three times since I’d been sent to the chantry.
Dumped. That’s how I thought of it, and still do occasionally. The whole world thought I was Eamon’s son, and keeping me around was becoming an increasingly awkward thing, with the arlessa and then their new son together.
“You do realize that you frighten her, Alistair. She’s from Orlais, where backstabbing is a way of life, and she can’t imagine a world where people just aren’t like that. A man doesn't just take care of an orphan. People don't just give up on titles. Eamon keeps telling her that you aren’t his, but she expects you to get yourself acknowledged as his son somehow - probably through blackmail of some kind - and then you’ll be looking to bump off the baby. She’s lobbed me in the same bucket; before little Conner was born, I was Eamon’s only heir, you know,” he had shared, shaking his head sadly at the thought of living without trust. "Dinners have become... tense, when I visit."
“You’re saying, sir, that the arl has sent me off to become an overly-pious mage-killer because his wife is paranoid?” I had asked incredulously, speaking before I thought too hard about my words, a habit I’ve never grown out of. Fortunately, Bann Teagan had just barked once with laughter.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that, I suppose you could. Not too close to him, though, unless you want to find out where he’d have you sent if he weren’t trying to take care of you!” Then he looked over at me, and realized I wasn’t half as amused as he was. “Really, Alistair, he’s drawn enough attention to you already. If he’d kept you as, say, a squire, how long before someone noticed your resemblance to - your father? This is safer for you, and you get to become something, something important.”
That, as they say, was that. My only excuse is that I was eleven. “Safer? Drawn attention to me?” I probably tried to sound menacing, but pre-adolescent boys seldom sound that way to anyone but each other. “I appreciate that you’re here to try to patch things up, sir, but if I’m ‘safer’ without the arl’s attention, maybe he should stop trying to visit altogether. Good day to you.” And I stormed off.
My mother had died when I was a child, so I can’t really say if she fought for me. If my father even knew I existed, he apparently didn’t care. The Arl had me raised as a little better than a servant, sleeping in the stable, and wasn’t even willing to risk the anger of the person who should be the most understanding of him.
That was the last time that I saw Bann Teagan.
I’ve grown up a lot since then. My last words to Bann Teagan were almost as childish as my last words to Arl Eamon, when he sent me to the chantry. Neither of them were any kind of replacement for a father, or even an uncle, but at one point, they were the closest thing I had to family. Upon sober reflection, I don’t know what I would have done differently than the Arl, put in the unenviable position of being asked to raise the bastard son of the king - who also happens to be your sister’s husband. I’m a little dodgy on the timeline, but even if Queen Rowan was already dead, that’s still… awkward is the least of the words.
Now, I’ve got the Grey Wardens. Er, or Grey Warden, anyway. She’s a good woman to have around, in a fight or out, even if we were stuck together by circumstance to start. That’s irony - never known any of my blood kin, but I’ve found bonds as strong as any with these complete strangers in such a short time. I only knew him six months, but I would have followed Duncan off a cliff. He would have pulled out some potion of flying or some such on the way down, I know.
My father has been dead for five years; I never had the chance to know him. My brother is dead and I was never brave enough to talk to him. My new brothers in arms, Duncan, all are gone.
It’s about time I did something to heal my ties with these men who tried to do right by me. There’s no time like the present, they say.
“I remember you Bann Teagan, though the last time we met I was a lot younger... and covered in mud, “I interject into the conversation. Everyone else mistakes the glint in his eyes for the light of recognition, but I know that he, too, remembers that long ago conversation.
Author's Note (Spoilers for The Calling):
Alistair may, of course, be Fiona's son. In this case, some of his thoughts in this story are even more tragic - Fiona and Maric just gave him up in hopes of him having "a normal life". If he isn't her son, Alistair's comments are still valid, just not quite as poignant.
Rating: Everyone
Characters: Alistair, Teagan, mentions of a non-specified female warden and Eamon
Summary:
Alistair remembers the last conversation he had with Bann Teagan, not too long after entering the Chantry.
Fanfic.net link, for those that prefer.
This is my (late) entry for the Fic-a-thon, for Vehlr! It has been plagued with problems:
a) I went on vacation ending the day they were due.
b) when I returned, I couldn't find the memory stick I had saved my work so far on. Still can't find it. :(
c) I've had a rotten cold for the past week. I'm currently on cough syrup with Codeine, yay!
d) I started to write more of a narrative, more of a plot, and then remembered I'm much better with pieces that try to examine characters and feelings.
Anyway, it's already late, so here it is before I over-refine it.
I’ve never really had a family. My mother died when I was too young to remember. When I was very small, I was told my father was a dead knight in Arl Eamon’s service, and then I thought my father was Arl Eamon, and then he finally told me the truth.
For some reason, I had very few dreams of the king swooping down and claiming me as his son. Perhaps I overheard too many shouting matches over political wrangling coming from the arl’s study. Perhaps it was when I saw the prince’s glee over getting to run free for a short time when the royal party visited.
I did envy Cailen a little, having a father, let alone one who paid attention to him. I envied even more the common boys, with fathers who saw them every day, taught them a trade. Since the entire castle, nay, the village, seemed to believe I was Arl Eamon’s bastard son, no one really felt comfortable taking me under their wing, as they might have a “real” orphan boy. I wondered what it would be like, being his brother, even with the age difference between us. Supposedly, I’ve a sister, a half-sister, in the capital. I’ve daydreamed over having a real family with her.
So, today I’ve come “home” to Redcliffe Village. Arl Eamon is ill, they say, and the situation seems grim. Fortunately, the village is being organized by the man in front of me, someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time.
Bann Teagan Guerrin, the arl’s brother. He’s another man with whom I have an ambiguous relationship. My thoughts immediately went back to the last time I spoke with him.
I sat on the chest of an older and larger boy, a bully by the name of Ross. I was rubbing mud into his hair, yelling at him to take “it” back. He had called my mother a whore and me a bastard. I could handle such names myself, but my mother wasn’t there to defend her honor, so I would do it for her no matter the punishment. It didn’t matter that he was larger, or had slightly more training in fighting, because my cause was right.
The fight had ended up at the bottom of a mud puddle in a depression on a dirt track near the lake. We were both incredibly filthy; there was no way we could hide that something had been going on, so we might as well do it right. There was no one else around, and I’m not really sure anymore how far I was going to take that fight. While I can still say with certainty that I’m bitter over my lack of family, I’m not quite the angry boy I once was.
Someone cleared his throat from somewhere behind me. Like a cat, I jumped and turned at once, ending up on my back in the mud next to my assailant.
The younger, not-yet-bearded - he must have been in his late twenties then - Bann Teagan strolled up the path towards us, one eyebrow cocked. “Alistair, I expected you to fill your time, but somehow I thought it would involve your studies, or learning to make cheese,” he commented in a typically dry tone.
I imagine that I blushed, or hung my head in shame, but perhaps not; perhaps I was more defiant. I certainly insisted on my innocence: “Sir, he was calling my mother - names! Foul ones!” I certainly wasn’t going to repeat what he had said.
I don’t remember what Ross said in protest; I’m amazed I remember his name. I know that the Bann suggested what the Revered Mother’s reaction might be, and then said something to him that I couldn’t hear. He didn’t so much as ask me to pass the salt for the next six years. I do wish I knew what Bann Teagan said, because it must have been quite good.
And then the Bann said asked me to walk with him, because we needed to talk. Our first stop was the lakeshore, before I started shedding dried mud like a snake. After that, we ambled about. I had never had a conversation that long with him, and I still carry snippets around in my head. I recall that he seemed remarkably frank with an eleven year old boy. He tried to bond over losing his mother as an infant and having a father he couldn’t remember. He wanted to know how the chantry was going for me; I stopped that line of conversation quickly by being equally blunt. The gist, though, was that he was there because I had refused to talk to the Arl three times since I’d been sent to the chantry.
Dumped. That’s how I thought of it, and still do occasionally. The whole world thought I was Eamon’s son, and keeping me around was becoming an increasingly awkward thing, with the arlessa and then their new son together.
“You do realize that you frighten her, Alistair. She’s from Orlais, where backstabbing is a way of life, and she can’t imagine a world where people just aren’t like that. A man doesn't just take care of an orphan. People don't just give up on titles. Eamon keeps telling her that you aren’t his, but she expects you to get yourself acknowledged as his son somehow - probably through blackmail of some kind - and then you’ll be looking to bump off the baby. She’s lobbed me in the same bucket; before little Conner was born, I was Eamon’s only heir, you know,” he had shared, shaking his head sadly at the thought of living without trust. "Dinners have become... tense, when I visit."
“You’re saying, sir, that the arl has sent me off to become an overly-pious mage-killer because his wife is paranoid?” I had asked incredulously, speaking before I thought too hard about my words, a habit I’ve never grown out of. Fortunately, Bann Teagan had just barked once with laughter.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that, I suppose you could. Not too close to him, though, unless you want to find out where he’d have you sent if he weren’t trying to take care of you!” Then he looked over at me, and realized I wasn’t half as amused as he was. “Really, Alistair, he’s drawn enough attention to you already. If he’d kept you as, say, a squire, how long before someone noticed your resemblance to - your father? This is safer for you, and you get to become something, something important.”
That, as they say, was that. My only excuse is that I was eleven. “Safer? Drawn attention to me?” I probably tried to sound menacing, but pre-adolescent boys seldom sound that way to anyone but each other. “I appreciate that you’re here to try to patch things up, sir, but if I’m ‘safer’ without the arl’s attention, maybe he should stop trying to visit altogether. Good day to you.” And I stormed off.
My mother had died when I was a child, so I can’t really say if she fought for me. If my father even knew I existed, he apparently didn’t care. The Arl had me raised as a little better than a servant, sleeping in the stable, and wasn’t even willing to risk the anger of the person who should be the most understanding of him.
That was the last time that I saw Bann Teagan.
I’ve grown up a lot since then. My last words to Bann Teagan were almost as childish as my last words to Arl Eamon, when he sent me to the chantry. Neither of them were any kind of replacement for a father, or even an uncle, but at one point, they were the closest thing I had to family. Upon sober reflection, I don’t know what I would have done differently than the Arl, put in the unenviable position of being asked to raise the bastard son of the king - who also happens to be your sister’s husband. I’m a little dodgy on the timeline, but even if Queen Rowan was already dead, that’s still… awkward is the least of the words.
Now, I’ve got the Grey Wardens. Er, or Grey Warden, anyway. She’s a good woman to have around, in a fight or out, even if we were stuck together by circumstance to start. That’s irony - never known any of my blood kin, but I’ve found bonds as strong as any with these complete strangers in such a short time. I only knew him six months, but I would have followed Duncan off a cliff. He would have pulled out some potion of flying or some such on the way down, I know.
My father has been dead for five years; I never had the chance to know him. My brother is dead and I was never brave enough to talk to him. My new brothers in arms, Duncan, all are gone.
It’s about time I did something to heal my ties with these men who tried to do right by me. There’s no time like the present, they say.
“I remember you Bann Teagan, though the last time we met I was a lot younger... and covered in mud, “I interject into the conversation. Everyone else mistakes the glint in his eyes for the light of recognition, but I know that he, too, remembers that long ago conversation.
Author's Note (Spoilers for The Calling):
Alistair may, of course, be Fiona's son. In this case, some of his thoughts in this story are even more tragic - Fiona and Maric just gave him up in hopes of him having "a normal life". If he isn't her son, Alistair's comments are still valid, just not quite as poignant.