alistair, only a boy, no mother, and a father he canât speak of. theirin. a curse on his tongue, a blessing everywhere else. he doesnât know who he is, or what heâs supposed to be; the horses are his only company.
alistair, barely older, nothing more than a nuisance. she doesnât want him here. rumors spill in his wake, mocked for what he is, and shamed for what heâs not. she resents him; he doesnât understand, not yet, his motherâs memory shattered on the stone. he leaves angryâgood riddance. but the chantry is no peaceful haven.
alistair, a teenager now. a new home, a new tormentor. heâll be a templar, one day. itâs not what he wants, but choices have been few, and wishes even fewer. his life isnât his, and he finds solace in the kind of education they offer here, a warrior in the making and a sharp mind to boot.
alistair, ever the jester. a half-wit to most, but heâs aware. heâs always been, and itâs become second nature to him, to joke, deflections that serve him well. it distracts, but it reassures as well, and itâs how he copes, brightening his way through the turmoil looming over him, and so long as none can catch the hitch in his breath, sometimes he even manages to fool himself.
alistair, a young man now, and oh, maker. he doesnât want to take his vows. he doesnât. heâs taken away, again, but for the first time in his life, he follows willingly. duncan takes him under his wing, and he rises, a fatherly figure he never expected to find.
warden alistair, a choice, his own. the journey ahead is a harsh one for such a young battered heart, but he thrives among his peers, and he feels like he belongs.
warden alistair, quiet pain creeping underneath mirth, and his demeanor rarely ever betrays him. but she sees. right through him, and when death comes, when blood spills and when breathing just isnât enough, she is, enough, and she helps him stand again.
warden alistair, with so much more than he could ever have hoped for. thereâs only two of them now, grey against red, and a convoy of misfits by their side. he likes her. the one who sees, and oh, he sees her. strong, despite her own losses, a rare and wonderful thing amidst the darkness that surrounds them. she shines through, and his heart beats faster.
warden alistair, and thereâs a war brewing. civil war, as if the blight wasnât enough. rumors roam faster than darkspawn, hearsay and defamation, and he doesnât particularly like where they go, or how they go. damage splatters in loghainâs wake, and duncan comes to mind, every time. she appeases him, and so does she, the older mage. wynne. she mends his socks and she heals his wounds, and she indulges him more than she should, when he teases her. in many ways, she feels like the mother he never had, and perhaps, to an extent⌠heâs like the son she never knew.
warden alistair, young still, but older, hardened. she loves him, and he loves her, and beyond this war, he canât imagine his life without her. his life, his own to share, to give, if he so wishes, and thereâs nothing he wouldnât do, to keep her safe.
warden alistair, and heâs learned well; victory demands sacrifices, and they arenât always dealt in death. he does what he must, for the greater good, greater than all of them, because even now, he knows that some things are more important than what he wants.
king alistair. theirin. it never meant much of anything. it was a name, a curse, a father he never knew. it was blame and rejection, mockery and infliction, and now⌠now itâs a nation, an army, an influence and an authority. a future. he has to face what it means, even if he isnât sure what he means, only a throne, and itâs a relic he canât relate to.
king alistair, only a man, and she is the hero of ferelden. the archdemon dies the same way it lived; forceful, terrifying, a blast of energy knocking them down and away, splitting the skies. his ears ring, a dull silence as dust and wind wash over them, disbelief in the burgeoning clamor; it explodes in victorious cries and darkspawn flee and men rejoice, and alistair laughs, his lover by his side.
king alistair. a sovereign. a grey warden. a husband. a long path behind him and a longer still ahead, but more than that⌠alistair. the man heâs become and, in spite of his losses and struggles, never lost sight of his kind heart.
alistair. the man he chose to be.
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