Fanfic: The Hang Of It
Title: The Hang Of It
Rating: E
Word Count: 1500
Spoilers: Very, very mild, if any.
Summary: Most of all, he could never get the hang of pretending to believe something he didn’t believe.
Notes: This is my contribution to the Seven Heavenly Virtues challenge. My virtue was Diligence. (I'm posting a couple of days early, because I think I may not get the chance on the weekend!)
Alistair simply couldn’t get the hang of swinging a sword and blocking a blow. He was completely useless when attempting to manage both at the same time.
He saw the attack coming a moment too late and could do nothing to parry, nothing to defend. As the sword connected with his stomach, he fell to the ground, doubled over and gasping.
“That’s the third time I’ve killed you today, Alistair,” said Ser Galbraith wearily, taking a few steps backward and sheathing his practice blade. “Where’s your head at?”
“Still attached to my neck, ser,” Alistair returned, as soon as he’d caught his breath. “Barely.”
“You jest now, my boy, but it’s no joke if a mage turns on you and you’re not able to summon a smite, or strike the killing blow necessary to save the lives of innocents. An abomination won’t be wielding a blunted blade, and they certainly won’t hold back their magical attack because you’re not ready. Things just don’t come easy to you, lad. You must be diligent in your training. You must work three times as hard, if you want to survive. Ten times, if you want to succeed.”
Alistair apologized profusely-apologizing was the one thing he did manage to be consistently good at-and obediently went back to practice.
The first time his training prevented a companion from being cut down in battle, he remembered Ser Galbraith, and sent a silent thanks to the man for his care.
#
There were plenty of things Alistair could not get the hang of. He couldn’t darn socks, for instance, and preferred holes to the lumpy patches he was capable of producing. No matter how careful he was, his bunk never passed inspection; he simply couldn’t pull the sheets tight enough, and dust bunnies were forever escaping and making nuisances of themselves when he least wanted them to. He knew very well why no one stood too near him during the hymn-singing portion of Chantry services and why his kitchen rotation was always met with a chorus of heartfelt groans.
Most of all, he could never get the hang of pretending to believe something he didn’t believe.
Oh, he’d no problem with the general idea of the Maker and Andraste and the Chant of Light, and he understood the threat of the maleficarum well enough. The Chantry had pictures, after all, and first-hand reports graphic enough to make even the most iron-stomached novice queasy. Alistair was dedicated to being strong enough and fast enough and smart enough to keep innocent people from dying at the hands of blood mages and abominations and apostates. He was often first to the practice yard in the morning, and last to leave at night. He worked on smiting until searing headaches made further practice impossible. More than once he had to be helped to his bed after too vigorous a session.
No, what he couldn’t grasp were the whys behind the rules, rules, endless rules of the templars themselves. He really couldn’t grasp why his reasonable questions and his need to understand were always met with stony glares or rolled eyes, or in one vivid case, a cuff to the side of his head.
Why the chastity? he wondered. Why the emotional distance? Why so grim?
He’d always rather thought the Maker had to have some kind of sense of humor, so why was laughter frowned upon, and stoicism sacrosanct?
Why were templars trained and brainwashed and lyrium-drugged into valuing duty and faith and ruthlessness above all else? Wasn’t the Chantry afraid of making men into monsters by stripping their humanity from them? Wasn’t that an abomination?
Unfortunately for him, asking these questions never netted answers he found adequate. Unfortunately for everyone else, asking these questions earned him endless rounds of kitchen duty, and the method required to make good stew always eluded him.
Until he was conscripted into the Grey Wardens, Alistair couldn’t get the hang of making friends, either. His place at Redcliffe had been too precarious to precipitate friendships, and his smart mouth had made him an unwise choice amongst the templar novitiates.
It was different with the Wardens. Men certainly no less competent than templars on battlefield or practice pitch clapped him on the back when he made a joke. They laughed. Duncan answered even the most onerous of Alistair’s questions with thoughtful precision and attention to detail. Finally, finally, things began to make sense. The templars would have been horrified to know easily Alistair mastered the holy smite after he’d officially left the Chantry.
Leaving the dogma of the Chantry and the templars behind, Alistair began to piece together a code worth following. Work hard. Protect the innocent. Value duty, but not at the cost of losing independence of thought. Remember the importance of a good laugh.
He trained without requiring urging. He could smite a practice dummy at a hundred paces, easily. Though he’d never been much of a reader (who wanted to read the dry volumes approved by the Chantry anyway?), he voraciously studied any book that mentioned the Wardens and their vocation. He didn’t just want to be a Grey Warden; he wanted to be a good Grey Warden. He wanted to succeed. He wanted to do them proud. He wanted to be worthy of them. They’d given him purpose in a world without purpose, and hope in a world rendered nearly hopeless, after all.
Alistair allowed himself to be lulled, to imagine himself as much a part of the Order as anyone else. He had friends. He belonged. He fit in.
Or he thought he did.
Being kept from the battle at Ostagar proved him wrong once again.
If he’d truly fit in, if he'd been a real Grey Warden, they’d have let him die with them.
#
Alistair admired the other surviving Warden. He admired the drive, the determination, the single-minded focus. He admired the perseverance, the unwillingness to accept defeat. He followed because he saw in the other Warden what he wished he saw in himself.
Alistair didn’t so much admire the way the other Warden sided with Eamon when the secret of Alistair's birth inevitably became known.
When they started talking about making him king, for some reason Alistair couldn’t shake the image of himself lying sprawled at Ser Galbraith’s feet, with the older man’s tired eyes on him, and his voice saying, “Things just don’t come easy for you, lad.”
Alistair was pretty sure being king would involve a lot of things he wouldn’t get the hang of, a lot of things that wouldn’t come easy to him. Oh, he’d have someone else to darn his socks and make his stew, and he imagined the exigency for holy smiting would drop drastically.
In return, he’d have to know about a lot of things he didn’t know about: politics, law, etiquette. He’d have to know which knives and forks were appropriate for what courses of the tedious state dinners he’d be forced to host and attend. He’d probably need to learn to speak Orlesian.
He was relatively certain he’d never have a real friend again. Everyone would want something from him. He’d marry a woman chosen for him (that it might be Anora sent shivers of horror down his spine), he’d have to work diligently at the near-impossible job of producing a Theirin heir in spite of the taint, and he would be lonely. Lonelier than he’d been at Redcliffe. Lonelier than he’d been at the Chantry.
He didn’t want to do it. He refused outright. He sulked. He pouted. He griped. He whined. He let himself be named king at the Landsmeet because the other Warden demanded it of him, but he didn’t stop plotting how he’d get out of the duty. He nursed dreams of running. When Riordan shared the secret to defeating the Archdemon, Alistair allowed himself to hope he might be the one to administer the final blow: all the glory with none of the unbearable obligation to rule afterward.
Then, on the roof of Fort Drakon, it was the other Grey Warden who died. Whatever hopes and dreams the Warden had cherished were ended in an instant. Without hesitation, the Warden took that final blow, banishing the Archdemon, ending the Blight. Without hesitation, the Warden sacrificed one life to protect all.
It suddenly seemed very petty indeed to have spent so much time bellyaching about being king because he was scared of using the wrong utensil at dinner.
Every innocent life in Ferelden rested in the king’s hands, after all.
He wanted to succeed.
He wanted to do them proud.
He wanted to be worthy of them.
He wanted to be worth the Warden’s sacrifice.
Even if it meant working harder than he’d ever worked in his life.
After all, the most significant thing Alistair had never gotten the hang of still remained:
He couldn’t pretend not to care when he did.
Rating: E
Word Count: 1500
Spoilers: Very, very mild, if any.
Summary: Most of all, he could never get the hang of pretending to believe something he didn’t believe.
Notes: This is my contribution to the Seven Heavenly Virtues challenge. My virtue was Diligence. (I'm posting a couple of days early, because I think I may not get the chance on the weekend!)
Alistair simply couldn’t get the hang of swinging a sword and blocking a blow. He was completely useless when attempting to manage both at the same time.
He saw the attack coming a moment too late and could do nothing to parry, nothing to defend. As the sword connected with his stomach, he fell to the ground, doubled over and gasping.
“That’s the third time I’ve killed you today, Alistair,” said Ser Galbraith wearily, taking a few steps backward and sheathing his practice blade. “Where’s your head at?”
“Still attached to my neck, ser,” Alistair returned, as soon as he’d caught his breath. “Barely.”
“You jest now, my boy, but it’s no joke if a mage turns on you and you’re not able to summon a smite, or strike the killing blow necessary to save the lives of innocents. An abomination won’t be wielding a blunted blade, and they certainly won’t hold back their magical attack because you’re not ready. Things just don’t come easy to you, lad. You must be diligent in your training. You must work three times as hard, if you want to survive. Ten times, if you want to succeed.”
Alistair apologized profusely-apologizing was the one thing he did manage to be consistently good at-and obediently went back to practice.
The first time his training prevented a companion from being cut down in battle, he remembered Ser Galbraith, and sent a silent thanks to the man for his care.
#
There were plenty of things Alistair could not get the hang of. He couldn’t darn socks, for instance, and preferred holes to the lumpy patches he was capable of producing. No matter how careful he was, his bunk never passed inspection; he simply couldn’t pull the sheets tight enough, and dust bunnies were forever escaping and making nuisances of themselves when he least wanted them to. He knew very well why no one stood too near him during the hymn-singing portion of Chantry services and why his kitchen rotation was always met with a chorus of heartfelt groans.
Most of all, he could never get the hang of pretending to believe something he didn’t believe.
Oh, he’d no problem with the general idea of the Maker and Andraste and the Chant of Light, and he understood the threat of the maleficarum well enough. The Chantry had pictures, after all, and first-hand reports graphic enough to make even the most iron-stomached novice queasy. Alistair was dedicated to being strong enough and fast enough and smart enough to keep innocent people from dying at the hands of blood mages and abominations and apostates. He was often first to the practice yard in the morning, and last to leave at night. He worked on smiting until searing headaches made further practice impossible. More than once he had to be helped to his bed after too vigorous a session.
No, what he couldn’t grasp were the whys behind the rules, rules, endless rules of the templars themselves. He really couldn’t grasp why his reasonable questions and his need to understand were always met with stony glares or rolled eyes, or in one vivid case, a cuff to the side of his head.
Why the chastity? he wondered. Why the emotional distance? Why so grim?
He’d always rather thought the Maker had to have some kind of sense of humor, so why was laughter frowned upon, and stoicism sacrosanct?
Why were templars trained and brainwashed and lyrium-drugged into valuing duty and faith and ruthlessness above all else? Wasn’t the Chantry afraid of making men into monsters by stripping their humanity from them? Wasn’t that an abomination?
Unfortunately for him, asking these questions never netted answers he found adequate. Unfortunately for everyone else, asking these questions earned him endless rounds of kitchen duty, and the method required to make good stew always eluded him.
Until he was conscripted into the Grey Wardens, Alistair couldn’t get the hang of making friends, either. His place at Redcliffe had been too precarious to precipitate friendships, and his smart mouth had made him an unwise choice amongst the templar novitiates.
It was different with the Wardens. Men certainly no less competent than templars on battlefield or practice pitch clapped him on the back when he made a joke. They laughed. Duncan answered even the most onerous of Alistair’s questions with thoughtful precision and attention to detail. Finally, finally, things began to make sense. The templars would have been horrified to know easily Alistair mastered the holy smite after he’d officially left the Chantry.
Leaving the dogma of the Chantry and the templars behind, Alistair began to piece together a code worth following. Work hard. Protect the innocent. Value duty, but not at the cost of losing independence of thought. Remember the importance of a good laugh.
He trained without requiring urging. He could smite a practice dummy at a hundred paces, easily. Though he’d never been much of a reader (who wanted to read the dry volumes approved by the Chantry anyway?), he voraciously studied any book that mentioned the Wardens and their vocation. He didn’t just want to be a Grey Warden; he wanted to be a good Grey Warden. He wanted to succeed. He wanted to do them proud. He wanted to be worthy of them. They’d given him purpose in a world without purpose, and hope in a world rendered nearly hopeless, after all.
Alistair allowed himself to be lulled, to imagine himself as much a part of the Order as anyone else. He had friends. He belonged. He fit in.
Or he thought he did.
Being kept from the battle at Ostagar proved him wrong once again.
If he’d truly fit in, if he'd been a real Grey Warden, they’d have let him die with them.
#
Alistair admired the other surviving Warden. He admired the drive, the determination, the single-minded focus. He admired the perseverance, the unwillingness to accept defeat. He followed because he saw in the other Warden what he wished he saw in himself.
Alistair didn’t so much admire the way the other Warden sided with Eamon when the secret of Alistair's birth inevitably became known.
When they started talking about making him king, for some reason Alistair couldn’t shake the image of himself lying sprawled at Ser Galbraith’s feet, with the older man’s tired eyes on him, and his voice saying, “Things just don’t come easy for you, lad.”
Alistair was pretty sure being king would involve a lot of things he wouldn’t get the hang of, a lot of things that wouldn’t come easy to him. Oh, he’d have someone else to darn his socks and make his stew, and he imagined the exigency for holy smiting would drop drastically.
In return, he’d have to know about a lot of things he didn’t know about: politics, law, etiquette. He’d have to know which knives and forks were appropriate for what courses of the tedious state dinners he’d be forced to host and attend. He’d probably need to learn to speak Orlesian.
He was relatively certain he’d never have a real friend again. Everyone would want something from him. He’d marry a woman chosen for him (that it might be Anora sent shivers of horror down his spine), he’d have to work diligently at the near-impossible job of producing a Theirin heir in spite of the taint, and he would be lonely. Lonelier than he’d been at Redcliffe. Lonelier than he’d been at the Chantry.
He didn’t want to do it. He refused outright. He sulked. He pouted. He griped. He whined. He let himself be named king at the Landsmeet because the other Warden demanded it of him, but he didn’t stop plotting how he’d get out of the duty. He nursed dreams of running. When Riordan shared the secret to defeating the Archdemon, Alistair allowed himself to hope he might be the one to administer the final blow: all the glory with none of the unbearable obligation to rule afterward.
Then, on the roof of Fort Drakon, it was the other Grey Warden who died. Whatever hopes and dreams the Warden had cherished were ended in an instant. Without hesitation, the Warden took that final blow, banishing the Archdemon, ending the Blight. Without hesitation, the Warden sacrificed one life to protect all.
It suddenly seemed very petty indeed to have spent so much time bellyaching about being king because he was scared of using the wrong utensil at dinner.
Every innocent life in Ferelden rested in the king’s hands, after all.
He wanted to succeed.
He wanted to do them proud.
He wanted to be worthy of them.
He wanted to be worth the Warden’s sacrifice.
Even if it meant working harder than he’d ever worked in his life.
After all, the most significant thing Alistair had never gotten the hang of still remained:
He couldn’t pretend not to care when he did.