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On the first day of Bloomingtide, a tourney will be held in respect of our visiting Grey Warden guests. Those lucky and skilled enough to enter the winner’s circle will be considered for recruitment amongst the honored order. Only the best recruits need apply. May the best win, and be blessed by the Maker’s will.
It was on the Chanter’s Board that Alistair first saw the announcement, and he jumped at the opportunity. The Grey Wardens—it would be his salvation, his way out from a life of servitude in the chantry. He was still young, but years spent training as a Templar had left him with many skills, and confident in his talent as a warrior. As he read over the leaflet again and again it was the most hopeful he had been in years.
The sharp ring of metal on metal echoed through Alistair’s ears as his sword hit his opponent’s. He dug his feet into the ground, straining to keep his strength up as he pushed back against the weight of the other man. It was more difficult than he realized. The fight had been challenging for Alistair as soon as it began, his rival, Ser Kalvin, a highly trained warrior in the art of swordplay. Alistair barely managed to counter each swing, dodging attacks by the skin of his teeth.
Exhaustion was already pulling at his bones, and he panicked. It couldn’t end this soon, not when the tournament had just begun. Already he had lost his other matches, and without a win, he’d be ousted. He wondered if it was fair that he had been matched with somebody who was obviously a more superior soldier when he realized it had probably been done on purpose. The tourney was simply a method of weeding out the weak, like him. Only the best could serve the Wardens.
As doubt clouded his mind, Ser Kalvin swung his arm down in a large arc, and before Alistair could blink, he was on the ground, his arm crushed beneath the weight of his own plate-armored chest. Pain radiated through his skin, down to the bones as he struggled to stand, realizing he could no longer grip his weapon in the correct hand. It was over.
“Yield.” He sighed, eyes stuck to the ground, staring at his feet. “I yield.”
As the crowd cheered, the official moving to acknowledge the winner, Alistair struggled to lift his arm, wondering if he had done more than land on it wrong. If it were broken, his training as a Templar would be set back—another failure. Alistair continued to nurse his injured arm as he walked away from the ring, his lips heavy with a frown. This was perhaps his only chance to leave this sheltered life in the chantry, to escape the future he had been forced into. And in typical Alistair fashion, he had botched it.
As soon as he reached the dugout on the far side of the sparring arena he threw his sword down in defeat, the clang of metal echoing in his mind and reminding him of his mistakes in the field. He collapsed onto the bench with an aggravated sigh, closing his eyes tight in frustration. It was hard to swallow this loss, knowing he could’ve—should’ve been able to match his opponent.
He was mumbling to himself, face in hands when he heard steps, ignoring them as they drew closer to him. More fighters would be making their way here as the tournament proceeded, and it was foolish for Alistair to assume he’d have any privacy to grieve. When the footsteps quieted, and he felt the stare at the back of his head Alistair leaned back, peeking open his eyes as he pulled away his hands. Before him stood an older man, and it didn’t take him long to realize he was not a fellow Templar.
His armor had no recognizable heraldry, the silverite worn and faded from years of ware and use. On the man’s back sat a large dagger and sword, and Alistair wondered if he was truly a duel-wielder, or if they were simply for show. He doubted that this older man could be as skilled as he appeared, the black in his hair fading to grey at the roots. He was looking at Alistair, his intense stare and creased brow unsettling, causing a ball of nerves to settle in his stomach.
“Alistair?” He finally asked. Alistair nodded in response, raising a curious eyebrow.
“That’s what they call me.” He replied, finding his tone more sarcastic than usual. Truly, he wasn’t in the mood to be talking to strangers, especially after his latest humiliation. “Alistair.”
“My name is Duncan.” He nodded his head, half-bowing. Alistair was even more curious now, wondering how he deserved that show of respect. “I am a Grey Warden.”
“Oh.” Alistair answered, before wiggling his brows. “Come to congratulate me, then?” He mockingly spoke. “Sorry, but not sorry. You won’t be eligible for this group either.”
The man named Duncan only perked up a brow. “You are mistaken.” He clarified. “I am the Commander of the Grey, here in Fereldan.” He continued, and Alistair felt his expression mold into one of quiet embarrassment. After all, this was the man who had called for this tourney—or so Alistair thought.
“Oh.” Alistair repeated, blinking a few times to gather his thoughts. How many times would his brain allow him to screw up today? Duncan nodded once and Alistair copied him as he reached up to scratch at his temple; a nervous tick. “What can I do for you…erm…SerDuncan?” He asked.
“Duncan is just fine.” He assured, one hand rising as he spoke. “I am here to recruit you into the Grey Wardens.”
Alistair widened his eyes, his jaw going slack as his lips parted in a soft gasp. Surprise wasn’t going to cut it; he was beyond the feeling of disbelief. He blinked, several times to check to see if he had actually died on the tournament field, and that this was some twisted vision in the Fade.
“You’re kidding. I—” Alistair floundered over his words as Duncan simply shook his head. “I’m nobody. I’m a bastard, don’t you know? You’ve had to of spoken with the Revered Mother. She’d have told you, about me…about where I come from.”
“Yes, I know.” Duncan spoke, his expression softening slightly. Alistair wondered if he simply pitied him. “About your heritage, about your past. Though, it is not always about where you are from, but where you are going.”
“But the Wardens?” Alistair continued to debate. “You can’t be serious. Why would they…you want me?” He shook his head again. “I didn’t even win! Why not Ser Kalvin, or, or Talrew…or Eryhn?”
Duncan sighed, before reaching forward to clasp Alistair’s shoulder, giving a light squeeze, as if for encouragement. “Because you are strong, Alistair.” He started. “In your heart.” He continued. “Because even as you claim to be miserable, here in the Chantry, you have remained faithful, loyal to the Order.”
“I thought the winner would—”
“I never intended to offer the winner the prize of recruitment.” Duncan spoke. “It was not my intention for there to be any contest, but your Knight-Commander insisted. I came here looking for a warrior with character. Not a mindless soldier programed to fight.”
“I am a bit mindless at times.” Alistair couldn’t help himself. Duncan only sighed, but Alistair grinned as he caught the glimmer of amusement in the older man’s features as his lips twitched back a fraction. “Are you sure you aren’t just pitying me because I lost?”
Duncan shook his head, and Alistair believed him before he even spoke. “It is not pity that influences my decision.”
Alistair took a moment to allow the conversation to sink into his mind. His thoughts were jumbled, his heart racing as he went over the offer again and again. To join the Grey Wardens; it was a future of service, just like the Templars, but an order Alistair found more appealing, a cause already more important to him than a life devoted to serving the Maker. With a smile, he nodded at Duncan.
“You know, the Grand Cleric won’t be pleased.” He quipped, trying hard to hide his giddiness. “The old bat seems content to keep me on ball and chain.” He could only imagine the scowl that would twist her face. Duncan regarded him, and for the first time, Alistair saw the man smile, his head shaking in amusement.
“Do not worry Alistair.” He spoke, his calm and even tone relaxing the nerves in Alistair’s heart. “You will become a Warden.” Duncan nodded his head once before turning, prompting Alistair to follow him, a small skip in his step as they walked towards the Chantry. “Come, let us gather your belongings. We will be leaving immediately.”
Of course, Alistair would never know the whole truth—that Duncan had a promise to keep. Sacred words he spoke to a long-forgotten King and his former Warden companion. That he would keep their son safe. Duncan glanced back to find Alistair grinning and he couldn’t help but chuckle at his youthful spirit, one that reminded him of his old friend. The boy was sure to flourish, his attitude on life exactly what the order needed. Maric would be proud.