Alistair Theirin
King of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 123
((12 Harvestmere, 9:32; Late night; Nicolette O'Hara ))
He was running away.
And he wasn’t coming back.
Ever.
At least, not for a few hours, damn it.
Alistair slipped into a heavy cloak, glad that it had gotten cool enough that it wouldn’t look strange. Beneath it, he wore his old splint mail with a sword lifted from the armory belted at his waist. Just for tonight, he was going to be James again. Just for a few hours.
He had to get out, get away. Eamon was driving him crazy, shoving every unmarried female under the age of thirty at him, constantly harping on his duty to marry and beget an heir (he actually used the word beget, for crying out loud). That was his chief duty, too, since actually ruling Ferelden was apparently considered beyond his capability. Eamon and his cronies on the Royal Etiquette Brigade told him what to sign, what meetings he could attend (without saying anything, mind you), who he could talk to … pretty much everything but when and how long he was allowed to go to the loo, and he was fairly sure they’d be getting around to that if they ever figured out just how much of his thinking was done in there.
So … yeah. Getting out for a while. Leliana had showed him some of the lesser used passages and exits, and he made use of them now, emerging into the chilly night air in a shadowy alcove on the east side of the palace, glancing around warily, part of him expecting assassins or some other danger to be waiting in the darkness. Even after a year of relative peace, the memories of those months during the Blight, when danger was a near-daily event, remained strong, and the absence of the companions who he had come to rely on - trust - remained keenly felt. Aedan was in Amaranthine doing the kind of Grey Warden things that Alistair was now Too Important to be risked on, Oghren with him. Zevran and Leliana were off doing things that neither of them could talk about. Sten was back among his people, Shayle gone to seek her own past in the Memories of the dwarven Shaperate. Wynne was making use of the respect that her role in ending the Blight had gained her to travel among the Circles of Thedas. Morrigan was hopefully trying to teach a fire-breathing toddler to use the privvy (a mental image that he cherished, even as he devoutly hoped that the babe was just a normal eating, sleeping and shitting machine with no powers whatsoever).
All of them off living their own lives, leaving him to live the life that had been thrust upon him, and no matter how often Alistair told himself that he was being childish, he couldn’t help feeling abandoned, resentful, even a bit bitter. Or more than a bit, some days. He didn’t like the feeling; another motivation for this outing was to try and banish it. An adventure, even a small one, would go a long way toward countering the stifling boredom that had come to define his life.
The guards at the gates were scrupulous about inspecting every individual seeking to enter the palace, but Alistair had noticed that they were not so attentive to the ones leaving. Pulling the deep hood of the cloak up to conceal his face, he started in the direction of the gate.
“Nice night for a stroll.”
Alistair did not leap three feet in the air at the voice behind him. He did not squeal like a girl.
Much.
But when he came down, twisting toward the source of the voice, his hand was on the hilt of his sword, the blade half out of its sheath and the cloak flipped back to let it be fully drawn.
“Sorry, Your Majesty.” The shadowy form stepped into the moonlight, hands open and empty at its sides, and Alistair felt his heart rate start to slow.
“Guardsman … Donal, isn’t it?” Eamon hand picked his guard detail, and Alistair suspected that they had all been instructed not to give in to his attempts at small talk. He’d given up after the first few weeks of monosyllabic responses and awkward silences - and after the one that he’d managed to coax into a bit of banter had been dismissed the next day. Donal had been his replacement.
“Yes, ser.” He was tall and broad shouldered, with curly black hair, blue eyes and a handsome, open face that likely drew the ladies like flies to honey. He was also out of uniform, in a tunic, trews and cloak, with a sword belt that looked to have been hastily buckled on. “Donal Jeffries.”
“You’re not on duty.” Alistair let the sword slide back into the sheath.
“No, ser,” the other man confirmed, “I was about to go out myself, but I saw you, and -” An awkward shrug, but the blue eyes never wavered. “You shouldn’t be out in the city alone, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve done it before.” Alistair tried not to sound like a petulant child, but it was frustrating. “I do know how to take care of myself.”
“Yes, you do.” Nothing patronizing in the tone or expression. “But things can happen, and if they happen to Ferelden’s King while he’s out alone …” He trailed off, but his expression finished the sentence for him.
Alistair could have gotten angry. He wanted to get angry, but the man was just doing his job, protecting the last of the precious Theirin bloodline, completely unaware that , barring a miracle or another bastard popping out of the woodwork, the Theirin bloodline would end in thirty years - give or take a few - regardless of whether Alistair married or not.
His shoulders sagged in defeat. “All right,” he sighed. “I’ll -”
“If I go with you, you won’t be alone.”
Alistair blinked, surprise - and a spark of hope - warring with caution. “That could get you fired,” he warned the other man. “Arl Eamon has told you not to let me wander, hasn’t he?” They were always polite about it, but his guard detail never failed to herd him back onto the beaten path if he began to stray from his daily itinerary.
“He has.” Donal’s gaze remained steady. “But I work for the King of Ferelden, not his Chancellor. Protecting you is my job, and if I get fired for doing it -” Another shrug, not so awkward as the first.
Shame washed through Alistair. He shouldn’t even be considering taking Donal up on his offer, risking his job, and maybe that was just what Donal was counting on. But that would only be a risk if they got caught, and while Alistair might be a piss-poor King, he’d spent his entire life up to a year ago being a commoner. He could go out, drink a couple of ales, listen to some music and blend in without drawing so much as a curious glance.
If he was lucky.
Surely he was due for some luck.
“You’ve got a deal, Guardsman Jeffries,” Alistair told Donal. “Shall we?”
“One condition, ser.” There was a firmness in Donal’s voice that Alistair heard from no one but Eamon these days, but there was no hint of the condescension that generally underlay his Chancellor’s demeanor, so he regarded the guard expectantly, the faintest nod indicating that he should continue. “If I decide that a situation is too risky, we leave immediately.”
A part of Alistair wanted to argue, but apart from the fact that Donal’s expression strongly suggested that the condition was non-negotiable, he knew that the guard was right. He might not like it, but he was the King of Ferelden, and he could not treat those who sought to protect him as nuisances, no matter how frustrating it might be.
“Agreed,” he replied with a nod, and Donal fell into step beside him, drawing the hood of his own cloak up to match Alistair’s. Alistair felt himself tensing as they approached the gate, but the guardsman exchanged brief greetings with the pair on duty, and then they were through an on the streets of Denerim. Free, for a precious few hours.
“Where to, Your Majesty?” Donal inquired in an undertone.
“James,” Alistair responded, glancing around and fighting the urge to dance a jig from sheer glee. “Call me James, please.”
“Understood … James.” Donal sounded as though he expected lightning to strike him down. “Where to?”
“Not the Gnawed Noble,” Alistair mused. He’d risk being recognized at that establishment. “Maybe the Dragon’s Flagon?” He, Aedan and the rest of their companions from the Blight all had pewter tankards on the shelf behind the bar at the Flagon. Bernie’s eyes were sharp; she’d almost certainly recognize him, but she was also smart enough to recognize from his attire that he was incognito and play along. “Get a table in the corner, listen to whoever she has playing tonight, maybe a game or two of darts?”
“That’ll work,” Donal agreed, and they set off in the direction of the Market District, Alistair feeling the soaring exultation of a bird escaping the confines of a cage.
He was running away.
And he wasn’t coming back.
Ever.
At least, not for a few hours, damn it.
Alistair slipped into a heavy cloak, glad that it had gotten cool enough that it wouldn’t look strange. Beneath it, he wore his old splint mail with a sword lifted from the armory belted at his waist. Just for tonight, he was going to be James again. Just for a few hours.
He had to get out, get away. Eamon was driving him crazy, shoving every unmarried female under the age of thirty at him, constantly harping on his duty to marry and beget an heir (he actually used the word beget, for crying out loud). That was his chief duty, too, since actually ruling Ferelden was apparently considered beyond his capability. Eamon and his cronies on the Royal Etiquette Brigade told him what to sign, what meetings he could attend (without saying anything, mind you), who he could talk to … pretty much everything but when and how long he was allowed to go to the loo, and he was fairly sure they’d be getting around to that if they ever figured out just how much of his thinking was done in there.
So … yeah. Getting out for a while. Leliana had showed him some of the lesser used passages and exits, and he made use of them now, emerging into the chilly night air in a shadowy alcove on the east side of the palace, glancing around warily, part of him expecting assassins or some other danger to be waiting in the darkness. Even after a year of relative peace, the memories of those months during the Blight, when danger was a near-daily event, remained strong, and the absence of the companions who he had come to rely on - trust - remained keenly felt. Aedan was in Amaranthine doing the kind of Grey Warden things that Alistair was now Too Important to be risked on, Oghren with him. Zevran and Leliana were off doing things that neither of them could talk about. Sten was back among his people, Shayle gone to seek her own past in the Memories of the dwarven Shaperate. Wynne was making use of the respect that her role in ending the Blight had gained her to travel among the Circles of Thedas. Morrigan was hopefully trying to teach a fire-breathing toddler to use the privvy (a mental image that he cherished, even as he devoutly hoped that the babe was just a normal eating, sleeping and shitting machine with no powers whatsoever).
All of them off living their own lives, leaving him to live the life that had been thrust upon him, and no matter how often Alistair told himself that he was being childish, he couldn’t help feeling abandoned, resentful, even a bit bitter. Or more than a bit, some days. He didn’t like the feeling; another motivation for this outing was to try and banish it. An adventure, even a small one, would go a long way toward countering the stifling boredom that had come to define his life.
The guards at the gates were scrupulous about inspecting every individual seeking to enter the palace, but Alistair had noticed that they were not so attentive to the ones leaving. Pulling the deep hood of the cloak up to conceal his face, he started in the direction of the gate.
“Nice night for a stroll.”
Alistair did not leap three feet in the air at the voice behind him. He did not squeal like a girl.
Much.
But when he came down, twisting toward the source of the voice, his hand was on the hilt of his sword, the blade half out of its sheath and the cloak flipped back to let it be fully drawn.
“Sorry, Your Majesty.” The shadowy form stepped into the moonlight, hands open and empty at its sides, and Alistair felt his heart rate start to slow.
“Guardsman … Donal, isn’t it?” Eamon hand picked his guard detail, and Alistair suspected that they had all been instructed not to give in to his attempts at small talk. He’d given up after the first few weeks of monosyllabic responses and awkward silences - and after the one that he’d managed to coax into a bit of banter had been dismissed the next day. Donal had been his replacement.
“Yes, ser.” He was tall and broad shouldered, with curly black hair, blue eyes and a handsome, open face that likely drew the ladies like flies to honey. He was also out of uniform, in a tunic, trews and cloak, with a sword belt that looked to have been hastily buckled on. “Donal Jeffries.”
“You’re not on duty.” Alistair let the sword slide back into the sheath.
“No, ser,” the other man confirmed, “I was about to go out myself, but I saw you, and -” An awkward shrug, but the blue eyes never wavered. “You shouldn’t be out in the city alone, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve done it before.” Alistair tried not to sound like a petulant child, but it was frustrating. “I do know how to take care of myself.”
“Yes, you do.” Nothing patronizing in the tone or expression. “But things can happen, and if they happen to Ferelden’s King while he’s out alone …” He trailed off, but his expression finished the sentence for him.
Alistair could have gotten angry. He wanted to get angry, but the man was just doing his job, protecting the last of the precious Theirin bloodline, completely unaware that , barring a miracle or another bastard popping out of the woodwork, the Theirin bloodline would end in thirty years - give or take a few - regardless of whether Alistair married or not.
His shoulders sagged in defeat. “All right,” he sighed. “I’ll -”
“If I go with you, you won’t be alone.”
Alistair blinked, surprise - and a spark of hope - warring with caution. “That could get you fired,” he warned the other man. “Arl Eamon has told you not to let me wander, hasn’t he?” They were always polite about it, but his guard detail never failed to herd him back onto the beaten path if he began to stray from his daily itinerary.
“He has.” Donal’s gaze remained steady. “But I work for the King of Ferelden, not his Chancellor. Protecting you is my job, and if I get fired for doing it -” Another shrug, not so awkward as the first.
Shame washed through Alistair. He shouldn’t even be considering taking Donal up on his offer, risking his job, and maybe that was just what Donal was counting on. But that would only be a risk if they got caught, and while Alistair might be a piss-poor King, he’d spent his entire life up to a year ago being a commoner. He could go out, drink a couple of ales, listen to some music and blend in without drawing so much as a curious glance.
If he was lucky.
Surely he was due for some luck.
“You’ve got a deal, Guardsman Jeffries,” Alistair told Donal. “Shall we?”
“One condition, ser.” There was a firmness in Donal’s voice that Alistair heard from no one but Eamon these days, but there was no hint of the condescension that generally underlay his Chancellor’s demeanor, so he regarded the guard expectantly, the faintest nod indicating that he should continue. “If I decide that a situation is too risky, we leave immediately.”
A part of Alistair wanted to argue, but apart from the fact that Donal’s expression strongly suggested that the condition was non-negotiable, he knew that the guard was right. He might not like it, but he was the King of Ferelden, and he could not treat those who sought to protect him as nuisances, no matter how frustrating it might be.
“Agreed,” he replied with a nod, and Donal fell into step beside him, drawing the hood of his own cloak up to match Alistair’s. Alistair felt himself tensing as they approached the gate, but the guardsman exchanged brief greetings with the pair on duty, and then they were through an on the streets of Denerim. Free, for a precious few hours.
“Where to, Your Majesty?” Donal inquired in an undertone.
“James,” Alistair responded, glancing around and fighting the urge to dance a jig from sheer glee. “Call me James, please.”
“Understood … James.” Donal sounded as though he expected lightning to strike him down. “Where to?”
“Not the Gnawed Noble,” Alistair mused. He’d risk being recognized at that establishment. “Maybe the Dragon’s Flagon?” He, Aedan and the rest of their companions from the Blight all had pewter tankards on the shelf behind the bar at the Flagon. Bernie’s eyes were sharp; she’d almost certainly recognize him, but she was also smart enough to recognize from his attire that he was incognito and play along. “Get a table in the corner, listen to whoever she has playing tonight, maybe a game or two of darts?”
“That’ll work,” Donal agreed, and they set off in the direction of the Market District, Alistair feeling the soaring exultation of a bird escaping the confines of a cage.
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