Weekly prompt 9: Jealousy

Jealousy

Alistair's hand slipped as he scrubbed at the large pot with a stiff-bristled brush, and barked his knuckles on the cold iron. He hissed in pain and dropped the brush, shaking his hand and sucking on the small cuts. After taking a moment to rinse his hand off in some clean water, he picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing pots. He'd been here for hours and it was likely he'd be here well past curfew.

Damn him and his big mouth. If only he'd managed to keep his lips shut when Ser Larsen had been lecturing, he wouldn't be in this mess. But, oh, no, not Alistair! Alistair had to go and open his big fat mouth and give some smart ass answer when Ser Larsen had asked what he thought was a particularly stupid question.

The joke had earned him a few chuckles and grins from his fellow initiates, but it'd also earned him an evening of scrubbing all the chantry's pots and no dinner. His stomach rumbled at the thought and he cursed quietly under his breath.

"Alistair!"

Ser Larsen's voice snapped out behind him, and his shoulders dropped momentarily before he turned.

"Yes, Ser?" he asked, unable to hide the sullenness in his tone.

"You'll not profane this chantry with such vulgarity, not unless you want to spend tomorrow evening in here as well. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ser," he said in resignation.

Ser Larsen frowned. "I do not understand you, Alistair. We've given you a home, food, clothing, an education, training and a vocation, yet you continually defy us at every turn. Your behavior has long since stopped being amusing—indeed if it ever was—and I don't know why you persist in conducting yourself this way."

Alistair said nothing and Ser Larsen's frown deepened. "Well? Have you nothing to say for youself?"

Alistair shrugged. "Sorry, Ser. I'll try to do better."

With a snort, Ser Larsen turned and beckoned to someone. Another initiate perhaps a couple of years older than Alistair came to his side, bowing quickly and with just the right amount of deference.

"Take Markum here. You'd do well to emulate him—both his behavior and his dedication to the Chantry." Standing slightly behind Ser Larsen, Markum smirked at him.

"I'll leave you to think on this, Alistair. The Maker surely has a plan for you here, and it would be better for all of us if you stopped fighting it. You will only lose in the end."

Markum hung back after Larsen left, leaning on the doorframe to the kitchens. "Aw, did the poor little bastard get himself in trouble for mouthing off again?"

"Sod off, Markum."

"Temper, temper, Alistair." He grinned maliciously. "You think you're better than us because some nobleman got you on one of his doxies, don't you?"

"I do not!" Alistair said hotly, ears burning.

"You do. Too bad it doesn't matter here. You're the worst excuse for a templar I've ever seen, and that includes Gort who's too stupid to even read." He pushed away from the wall. "Better get used to the view in here. The way you're going, you'll be ready for retirement in Val Royeaux before they ever make a real templar out of you."

Maker, please! was Alistair's thought, even as he chucked the brush at Markum's retreating form. Naturally, he missed, the brush striking the wall by the door and clattering harmlessly to the floor. Clenching his fists, his knuckles smarting, he took several deep breaths and then went to reclaim the brush.

As he headed back to the pots, he looked out the small window to see Markum with a group of his friends. His stomach clenched and he felt sick. They were, as a whole, perfect initiates—dutiful, hardworking and pious. They were constantly praised by their instructors, given the best of everything, and most importantly, were perfectly at peace with their lot in life.

Alistair watched them. There was friendship and camaraderie in that group, acceptance and understanding. He'd never been part of something like that, would never be part of something like that, and he wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if he could accept his fate.

Maybe…maybe he could stop acting out, dedicate himself to his studies and training, and someday—someday—he too might find himself both a part of a group like that and for once at peace with himself. It was so tempting. He ached to just be part of something, to be accepted and wanted because he was Alistair and nothing else.

Through the open window, he heard his name and the coarse laughter that followed it, and the faint hope died in his breast. It was pointless. That would never happen for him. So he could either do what Ser Larsen and the other templars wanted him to do and give up, become one of them, or he could keep being himself. And as much as he hated being alone, hated always being the butt of jokes, hated this Makerforsaken kitchen and Makerforsaken pots, he wouldn't give up the only thing he really had. Himself.

As he'd predicted, he was the last one back into the barracks. And as tired as he was, sleep eluded him for most of the night before he finally fell into a restless and uneasy sleep. When he woke the next morning, his eyes were bleary and he felt like he hadn't managed any sleep at all.

He still managed to throw himself into weapons training. It was one of the few things he truly enjoyed here, and he refused to let his behavior keep him from it. Thankfully, his instructors hadn't caught onto depriving him of this as punishment for his behavior. But then again, a templar would didn't know how to fight wasn't very useful to the Chantry.

Just after lunch, there was a commotion, and all the initiates—templar, priestess and brother—were herded into the chantry.

"What's going on?" he whispered to a templar-in-training next to him as they knelt on the stone floor.

"You don't know?" the other boy asked, surprised. Alistair shook his head. "The king's dead, lost at sea. We're to offer prayers to guide his soul to the Maker."

Alistair stared and didn't move, frozen in the spot. Maric. He had one—and only one—memory of the golden king who was his father, and that was of Maric and Cailan visiting Redcliffe. Father and son together, while Alistair stood on the outside yet again.

A gauntlet clad hand cuffed him on the back of the head. "Show proper respect, boy!" Ser Larsen hissed. "For once in your life!"

Alistair bowed his head and prayed. But it certainly wasn't a prayer shared by anyone else in the chantry.

Please, Maker, get me out of here! I'll do anything, just please don't leave me here!