-oOo-

"Maker, hear me"

Pleasegetmeoutofthis, Maker I'll do anything, anything…

"Holy Andraste, hear me"

Sweet Andraste, don't do this to me please…

"Your servant kneels before you to offer his Service." He goes to one knee before the altar, unwieldy plate creaking in protest.

"I vow total obedience to your Law." He bends his head in submission in the prescribed manner; inside he is screaming in defiance.

"I vow to uphold your Law with all my strength." He places his drawn sword on the ground before him, hand shaking.

"I vow to abhor those who break your Law." He knows what that means, has seen it, and really, really doesn't want to see it again.

"I vow to eschew carnal knowledge, lest it weaken my Service." He feels only wistful resignation for the loss of what he never had.

The Grand Cleric lifts the chalice and offers it to him, "May you prosper in the Maker's Service. Arise Knight Templar and empower your Vow."

He rises to his feet and takes the chalice. No more chances now. Time just ran out.

Ser Alistair raises the chalice of lyrium to his lips and drinks.

-oOo-

He shifts uncomfortably, not yet accustomed to standing still for such long stretches. All those years of weapon training, so he can stand in a library for hours on end like a living statue. He already feels his edge slipping away, finely honed technique rusting with disuse. If a mage split like a ripe fruit in front of him and an abomination stepped out, could he react quickly enough? Yes, perhaps, but what about in a year, or ten years? He doesn't want to think about that, the dreary march of time in the Circle Tower.

There are plenty of things to distract him.

And that's a problem in itself.

Growing up in a monastery hadn't prepared him for this. Mage robes are really…clingy. With braid that encircles…bits. With belts that hug…other bits. Standing round the edge of the library all day it's really hard not to watch them walk around, stretch for books on high shelves, bend for books on low shelves. He'd asked one of the older Templars how he coped with it all, given the whole vow of chastity thing. The man had looked at him like he'd grown a second head. They aren't women, he'd said, they're mages.

Yes, of course, silly me.

-oOo-

When the mages and Templars depart for Ostagar he'd do anything to be allowed to join them. But he's too young, too new. When the shattered remnants of them return, bearing news of the King's death and the decimation of the army, he's horrified. Cailan dead, what does it mean, what's going to happen? He wonders if Arl Eamon is dead also, but hears that he hadn't arrived in time to take part. That's a relief; at least there's someone left who's fit to take the throne.

-oOo-

He fights abominations and blood mages until his sword arm trembles, until he can't keep his shield high. Together with all the other Templars who were off-duty in their quarters, he is pressed back, always back, as Uldred and his coterie force their way towards the Harrowing Chamber. The ones who fall in battle are the lucky ones; they die with dignity. The others turn upon their comrades, empty eyes reflecting only the will of the smirking mage hiding behind Uldred's skirts. Or they fall into the arms of a desire demon, drawn by visions and longings invisible to everyone else. Eventually there are only two of them, forced into a corner at the foot of the Harrowing Chamber stairs; Alistair and red-haired Cullen, back to back trying to hold off the inevitable.

"It occurs to me that I'm not going to need my…ladies in order to break Irving and his pathetic supporters. Would you like these ones to play with, my darlings?" The desire demons stretch and purr, eyes glowing with fierce need, and Uldred smirks, "I think that's a yes, wouldn't you say so boys?" Those around him are almost all abominations now, consumed by the magics used. He reaches out lazily and flicks a finger. Blood spurts from the throat of one of the last remaining blood mages behind him; Uldred inhales the blood and breathes it out as energy, forming a pinkish column of force around the two Templars. The gurgles of the mage are cut off, as his skin splits and an abomination rises to take up its position at Uldred's side as he stalks up the stairs to the Harrowing Chamber door.

"Have fun."

-oOo-

The mages are all so beautiful. As they practice their spells their hands create graceful arcs in the air, the power of their magic making their hair float around them. They shimmy up ladders to reach a book, short robes hitching up their thighs. They drop their notes at his feet, plunging necklines gaping as they bend. "I vow to eschew carnal knowledge, lest it weaken my Service." His own voice drums in his head and he steps back, setting his jaw in determination.

"I will not break, I will not break, be gone demon." Whenever Alistair surfaces to reality, Cullen's litany is there to greet him. The man is scrunched up in the posture of a supplicant to the Maker, praying for strength, not sprawled on the floor, subject to the temptations. Not like him. Only his vows sustain him now. Whether he wanted to take Templar orders is irrelevant. He will not be an Oathbreaker. He will not.

The monastery cell is cold, but the bed is warm and the woman beside him is warmer, her skin against his, the robes of a lay sister pooled next to the narrow bed.

"Please Alistair; I can't take my Vows without having known a man. Don't you want me?"

She moves against him, and something in the sinuous movement feels repulsive, but Oh Maker he burns for her and he closes his eyes, giving himself over to sensation. Templar senses are screaming at him, but it's so hard to concentrate when a woman's hand is drifting down over your stomach, down and down, trailing towards the source of that burning need. There's magic around them though he can feel it, taste it and he pushes out his will to dissipate it. He opens his eyes then and sees her clearly, and in his mind the words reverberate, "I vow to abhor those who break your Law."

Waking on a cold floor, hips jerking, armour too tight is embarrassing when you wake to find an audience gazing at you. He flushes to the roots of his hair and gets awkwardly to his feet.

There are two young female mages outside his prison, staffs crackling with power, "We can get you out, but you have to trust us, you have to give yourself into our hands." Rescue, safety, release; his hands twitch, ready to reach out to them and then he realises there is something missing. No frantic litany. No Cullen. His sword is in his hand, and instinct drives the arc that cuts through them as though the barrier does not exist. "I vow to uphold your Law with all my strength."

"Tis clear the demons have been playing with their minds like cats with mice. Foolish boys like these could not have resisted of their own will." This time the female mage is wearing even less, and the demon has not even bothered to disguise its strange eyes. The woman beside her is in full plate, sword and shield on her back, short tousled black hair around her face and bright brown eyes cautiously regarding him.

"Filthy blood mages, getting in my head; I will not break, I'd rather die." Wait, what? That was Cullen's voice.

The warrior's voice was mellow and musical, "You are not going to die, not if I can help it." Two more people burst through the door, a beautiful red-haired woman in leathers and an elderly white-haired mage he recognises.

"Wynne?"

"Ser...Alistair is it not? Rest easy my boy, help is at hand."

"Silence! Don't listen to anything they say!" Cullen is on his feet, glaring at the two mages with undisguised hatred. The one with the feline eyes seems to be outmatching him on the hatred though.

"Cullen, I think they're real."

"My, you're brighter than you look, for a chantry-slave." The dark-haired mage's sinuous movement as she circles his prison reminds him unpleasantly of some of the visions he's been fighting against, but if this is a desire demon's trick, then it's very subtle. Hate and insults haven't exactly been their tools of choice.

Cullen scowls, "Don't blame me for being cautious; the voices, the images, are so real. How…how did you get here?"

The warrior answers him, her voice and bearing making it perfectly clear who is in charge of this motley band, "I'm Melissa, a Grey Warden, and I'm trying to save the tower." A Warden? Here? He'd heard they all died at Ostagar. Doubts of their reality creep back in, but they have asked him for nothing. His vows remain intact and that is all that matters.

"Good, kill Uldred, kill them all for what they've done. They caged us like animals, turned the others into monsters and abominations," Cullen is almost spitting with rage and disgust, "To think, I used to feel pity for the Circle. Now I'd like nothing more than to wipe their taint off the face of Thedas."

Wait, what? "No! Cullen, the First Enchanter is up there and some of the mages will have survived," Alistair turns pleadingly to the Warden, "Please, don't listen to him, what he's gone through has turned his mind, filled him with hatred for mages."

"You can't save them; you don't know what they've become."

The Warden, Melissa, cocks an eyebrow at Cullen, "And you do?"

Cullen's subsequent rant about the effects of blood mages fails to impress her, for which Alistair at least is thankful. The Warden and her comrades pass into the Harrowing Chamber, and the two templars wait in tense silence, listening to the sounds coming from above. When their magical prison collapses, they know that the Warden has defeated Uldred; they run up the steps, almost crashing into Irving and his companions coming down.

-oOo-

When the Grey Warden asks for help to save Arl Eamon's child, Alistair immediately requests permission to be assigned this duty. Both Greagoir and Irving seem somewhat impressed with him since Uldred's defeat, perhaps comparing him to Cullen, who still can't be trusted in the presence of a mage after his ordeal. Whatever their reasons; his request is granted, to his enormous relief. He desperately wants to save Connor, even if the only part he can play is guarding the mages doing the ritual. Staying at the Tower waiting for news would be unendurable.

The trek to Redcliffe is wet and windy and tastes like freedom. It's ironic really that mages see Templars as their prison guards, muses Alistair, tromping through the mud at the side of the First Enchanter. We are as much prisoners as they are.

Teagan's delight in seeing him is reassuring, although his pleasure is somewhat marred by Isolde's obvious and towering disdain. The Grey Warden, Melissa, takes no pains to hide her opinion of Isolde, openly accusing her of causing all these deaths through her own selfishness, and bidding her to be thankful that her family at least will not be paying for her stupidity. It makes him feel warm all over to hear someone speak so to Isolde. But not as warm as it makes him feel to see Connor wake safe and sound. Thank the Maker for Irving and his mages.

-oOo-

"You asked to see me Knight Commander?"

"Yes, Ser Alistair. You may sit."

Greagoir has a letter in his hand, and the depth of his frown expresses his dissatisfaction with the contents. "You have served the Order well this last two years, and I am pleased with your performance. Despite a tendency to levity, you have demonstrated strong resolve and devotion to your duty, particularly during the… unpleasantness."

"Thank you Knight Commander."

"In view of our severely reduced forces I have had it in mind to promote you, to groom you myself to eventually be my successor," Greagoir shifts in his seat, giving the offending parchment a forbidding glare, "however that option is no longer open to me."

Alistair isn't at all sure what the answer should be to that, and he's had plenty of opportunity to learn that Greagoir hates being interrupted, so he waits as patiently as possible.

The Knight Commander leaves his seat, clasping his hands behind him and pacing the room. Uhoh, that's never a good sign. Greagoir turns finally and bends his fierce glare on the younger man, "You are summoned to Denerim by the Grand Cleric herself. You have two hours to pack. As she has commanded, an escort of Knight Templars will accompany you and act as your guard."

"Wait, what?" Alistair's thought processes have just dissolved into a confused puddle. Go to Denerim? By order of the Grand Cleric? But it's the last bit that his brain picks out as most confusing. "You're sending a set of Knight Templars to guard a single Knight Templar? With all due respect Commander, that doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it wouldn't make sense boy." Greagoir is as snappish as a bear; something has really got his knickers in a twist, what on Thedas is going on.

The Knight Commander draws himself up to his full height, his posture that of a man declaiming the Chant, "The Grand Cleric will be waiting for you in Denerim, together with Arl Eamon and the last of the Grey Wardens. In view of your… blood - which they have only now been kind enough to inform me of - Her Eminence will issue a proclamation declaring you the rightful holder of the throne, sent by the Maker to save Ferelden from the usurper Loghain. You are to go to Denerim to have your claim put before the Landsmeet."

I must be dreaming, this can't be real, can't be happening.

-oOo-

The Chantry's proclamation combined with the Grey Warden's proof of Loghain's vile deeds, roll easily over any dissenting voices in the Landsmeet, and without any real opportunity to protest Alistair goes from being a Knight Templar to the reigning King of Ferelden.

The Warden and the army go to do war against the Blight and the Archdemon, while the Grand Cleric keeps her Templar King well back from the fighting. Her pawn, her playing piece, Eamon's ace in the hole, that he was forced to hand her on a plate to get the Chantry's support and her permission to release him from his duty at the Tower. He feels he will overflow with bitterness, drown himself and everyone around him, as once again his fate is woven by those who control him.

And when the war is ended, all rejoice, and mourn the death of the Hero of Ferelden, this Melissa Cousland, who faced down the Archdemon so that Ferelden may be free of the Blight. King Alistair presides at her funeral, and speaks solemnly of the bravery of a woman he barely knew, hiding the envy that eats at him. Oh, to be a Warden, and die saving your country. If wishes were gryphons…

At the end of the glittering coronation, with the crown not yet warm on his head, the Grand Cleric and Arl Eamon inform him that his bride is on her way from Orlais. She has been chosen by the Divine in Val Royeaux herself; a pious girl, an obedient daughter of the Chantry, and niece to Empress Celene. A fortuitous match, they say.

Henriette d'Arlesans turns out to be a slim, pretty, blonde girl who keeps her eyes down when she speaks. He has virtually no opportunity to speak to her before the wedding, and he studiously avoids her company afterwards. He thinks he is beginning to see what is happening, the pattern in his life, and he will not permit it. He will not.

-oOo-

"Your Majesty, the Queen informs me that the marriage has not been consummated." The Grand Cleric and Arl Eamon are both watching him, and he grips the back of the chair he is standing behind. They have finally run him to ground in his study. Here it comes at last.

"Your information is correct, Your Reverence."

Sire, we must secure the succession. You must have an heir."

The King's smile is grim as he answers softly, "I'm afraid that won't be possible, I am tied by my vows."

"Your vows?" Eamon is staring at him as if he has run mad, "Alistair, you are not a Templar now, you are a King."

"Oh?" Alistair releases the chairback, forcing his hands to relax, to be ready, "Are vows to be set aside when convenient then?"

The Grand Cleric exudes benevolence, "Sire, I release you from your vows, that you may serve Ferelden."

"I didn't make them to you." The menace in his voice stops them dead in their tracks, staring at him in astonishment and a slight edge of fear. Good, if they are afraid, then I'll soon be free.

Alistair advances towards them, hazel eyes hard as stone, "You've been clever, really clever and subtle. I congratulate you; for a long time I genuinely thought it was over. But here you are once again, trying to make me break my vows so that you can possess me."

His sword frees from the scabbard easily, and slices through them both before they can properly react. Blood spreads quickly across the floor, but Alistair does not remain to see it. He is already striding towards the Queen's Bedchamber, sword dripping blood, eye twitching madly, seeking the demon masquerading as his Queen. In his head the words thrum loudly, I vow to eschew carnal knowledge, lest it weaken my Service.

-oOo-