A/N:*Grovelling for mercy* - This was the note I had written for myself as to what I was going to write to you guys and girls when I posted this chapter. I realise you all probably thought this story was dead. I can't explain how sorry I am. Explaining all the various reasons why I didn't have the energy or time to post this would take a large paragraph. I'm just going to say that life reared it's ugly head and that shit happened. Once more: Sorry. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out but I'll be starting work on it tomorrow.

Quick note: I've edited the previous chapters quite a bit and there should be around 3000 extra words or more spread over those 6 chapters. I haven't changed anything major but I have re-worded some things that irked me, fixed errors, added detail and some fresh paragraphs. Nothing too vital but I would recommend re-reading the previous chapters. Sorry for being a pain!

To the reviewers:

Sweetlilsunshine: This chapter should answer your question. Sorry.

Herbsandlemons: I'm glad you like it, sorry for the massive delay.

CamelCaseSpelled: Your comment made me chuckle. Then it made me sad. Sorry for the huge delay.

Ann: Here you go. Sorry for the long wait.

Jedo Master Albus: Cheers, mate. There aren't many options available to change things for Morcar without seeming like a crazy person and the Alienage seemed like the easiest one considering his location a great deal of the time.

Apollo Wings: I'm really glad that you find this story realistic. I'm trying real hard not to make things easy for myself ( To be honest considering what Morcar's been through by this point I don't really consider myself to be him anymore. He's changed too much. He's his own person) and please tell me the instant you think this is turning into a Mary Sue so that I can promptly kill myself. Read below to find Alistair.

Once again: Sorry. To the story!

Chapter 7

14th of Solace, 9:29 Dragon

Tourney Grounds, Denerim Outskirts

The sun rose over Denerim, alighting on the Fereldan city home to over seventy thousand. Rain poured down on the city. The cobbled streets in the palace district had already been converted into miniature rivers. It was worse on the dirt road streets and winding alleyways; these were quickly reduced to muddy bogs and soon those who used them were drenched in freezing mud up to their knees. An icy wind howled beyond the city walls buffeting the sea of tents that had been erected around the tourney grounds.

Alistair shivered.

While all the other serjeants had free time and were somewhere in the city – no doubt enjoying themselves – he was stuck in Ser Otto's tent polishing his armour and oiling all its numerous straps. This was all Godwin's fault. Alistair often endured jibes and insults from the other serjeants. It had been like that since he was ten and the Orlesian Bitch had Uncle Eamon send him to the monastery in Bournshire. He was reviled by the noble-born as he was a bastard and he was shunned by the commoners as they saw him as a noble. Him! A noble! The thought made the nineteen year old snort in derision.

Over the years he had little choice but to endure the insults and bullying. He was so used to them they were practically meaningless to him. The one thing he could not endure however was when they insulted his mother. Whore. That's what Godwin had called his mother last night when he could see that his traditional insults were having little effect. A "two-bit whore", to be more precise. Alistair, swollen with rage and hatred had lashed out and punched Godwin. He broke Godwin's nose. While this alone would not have merited his time in the tent what was worse was that this incident had been in the streets of Denerim, witnessed by citizens of the city. What had sealed his doom was that the scene was reported by a passing sister to the Knight-Lieutenant; and thus Alistair had felt the sting of the lash a dozen times across his back not an hour earlier. His surcoat had clearly marked him as a Templar; although the lack of flames surrounding the Sword of Mercy denoted him as one who had not yet taken his vows and been knighted.

He winced as a twinge of pain arose as he lent forward to pick up a gauntlet. The Knight-Corporal had not pulled his blows.

It was trivial, really. He had suffered through much worse over the long years in the Chantry and he was sure that it would get no better. He'd seen the older Templars. The ones they sent back to the White Spire. Sometimes they weren't that much older than him. Like the poor sod at the Circle. What was his name? Cardon? Carollo?

"Carroll." he murmured, the memory of the man resurfacing.

Fear, desperation, resentment and loneliness were his constant companions since he had been sent to the Chantry.

He finished polishing the gauntlet and placed it back in the arms chest alongside its twin. He breathed a sigh of relieve. He slammed the lid shut and darted out of the tent, cutting in-between the lanes of tents, leaping over guy ropes in the hope of getting in a couple hours of practice before the tourney started. Running through the main thoroughfare Alistair wondered if Ser Leofric would-

"Argh!"

He collided with something, bounced off and landed on a tent, causing it to collapse. He groaned and tentatively peeked his head out from beneath the heavy waxed material, hoping he hadn't knocked over anyone important.

"Oi!"

He raised his hand, attempting to shield himself from the sun which blazed behind the tall stranger, trying to discern who the person was. The sun ceased glaring down at him as it passed behind a stormy dark cloud and he could at last examine the person.

"Maker! Sorry about that! I didn't knock you into the mud did I?" He winced. The man's clothes marked him as someone much more important than him and was that a… griffon? Maker! The man was a Warden!

He groaned. He'd be in for another lashing at this rate.

"Blast it! I'm really … really sorry, Ser Warden. Uh… please don't report me?" The man, whose face had been turned into a frown accentuated by a prominent scar, gained a surprised expression and then peered down curiously at Alistair.

He waited awkwardly as the Warden gave him a queer look. He fidgeted. At least the Warden wasn't shouting at him. That must be a good sign, right?

I took in the Templar before me, broad details coming to mind first. He wore a red-purple outfit which was reminiscent of a Chantry habit, but which bore more resemblance to a surcoat. He was young, maybe around my age. Just from looking down at him he seemed like he might be around average height, perhaps a bit over. He had unruly copper hair. He was pale with dark circles underneath his hazel eyes and there was a haggard look to him.

He looked up at me despondently.

I put him out of his misery "Don't worry about it." I held out my hand. "Morcar... Corbett."

I pulled him to his feet and he shook my hand looking relieved.

The last name hadn't immediately been a necessity; many Wardens abandoned them as a gesture of commitment once they Joined. It wasn't so much that my comrades were curious about my background, in the Order a Warden's past was almost sacrosanct, but Duncan's second-in-command Reyor had asked questions. He did it with all new Wardens, a sort of background check as it were. It had become apparent that because of my literacy I'd have to pass myself off as a member of the upper class, thus the necessity for a family name. It was embarrassing and awkward, at least for me, that the vast majority of my friends, and indeed the rest of Thedas, didn't know how to read and write properly. Some people could read passably, writing was another matter. Being able to do both to what I considered a modern standard seemed solely the providence of the nobility, scholars or tradesmen who required the skill. I thus spun a tale about my mother having been a chevalier who fell in love with my father, a captured Fereldan rebel during the Orlesian occupation. I claimed that having no prospects as the third child of an impoverished line - one that became thus because both of my parents were cast out from their respective families for marrying the enemy - that I was sent off to squire for an old comrade of my father's before eventually having to make my way back to Orlais as my lord had died. Tragically, upon my return to Orlais I discovered my family butchered by vengeful chevaliers and so I fled Orlais seeking the Wardens in Ferelden.

"Alistair of Redcliffe."

I started.

Bloody hell, could this really be him?

I lingered a while, examining this person I felt so familiar with… and yet knew almost nothing about.

"Well, I must be going." I said after another moment had passed. "Good luck in the lists."

"Thank you, goodbye, sorry." he breathed out.

With that he scampered away. I stood there watching his robed form dash away, feeling oddly queasy to have encountered him in such an abrupt way. How surreal. A part of me never wanted to see him again. The part of me that kept me from being a gibbering wreck wanted to run after him and tell him everything. I could do neither.

I gathered my cloak around myself against the rain and left.

"What does the Chantry get out of this?"

"Not much. Elemena thinks that Duncan will stop pestering her if she holds a tourney in our name. I also heard that we're supposed to get whoever wins."

I gave Carac a sidelong glance, looking away from the pair of Templars duelling in the roped-off enclosure before us. He didn't seem best pleased at the prospect of having a Templar in the Order.

"You'd think it would be less trouble to just let us have a few mages; is it really worth the effort setting up all this?" I gestured with my hands expansively.

He shrugged. "It's the Chantry. They don't think that way. Maker forbid they ever let a mage out of one of the towers. Think of the children!" he said, gasping out the last part mockingly, leaning on his staff as if the very thought horrified him.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never rule over him." I droned.

"Do you have that memorised just to annoy me?"

I smiled at him. "Do you really need to ask?"

He chuckled.

I caught the eye of a Templar to the left of us. He scowled at me and walked off to a group off his comrades.

We lapsed into a companionable silence. I leaned on the rope fence observing the sparring knights technique, drifting off into thought. They both used longswords, dispensing shields in favour of using a two-handed grip. The full plate harnesses they wore precluded the use of any shield. It just wasn't needed. I'd also mostly abandoned my shield. I still took it with me when I travelled, it was a valuable piece of protection that could be snatched up at anytime, a much more portable alternative to constantly wearing armour when travelling when I knew I wouldn't need it. I was grateful that I could just about fit my left hand on my sword's pommel to wield it two-handed when necessary. I left my shield on my saddle when I delved into the Deep Roads. I didn't need a shield to keep a distance from the darkspawn as their taint no longer posed a threat. It was more efficient to let my armour deflect or absorb a blow rather than waste my energy carrying a shield. I'd taken to practising with one of Rordok's crossbows at the Compound. I could use a bow decently to hunt - read poach -with but I preferred the crossbow for battle; I was more accurate with it. The ability to pick off a few darkspawn before even closing to the melee was too much of an advantage. When they were near enough all I had to do was unhook my quiver from my belt and throw down my crossbow.

What the Chantry got out of this tourney had puzzled me at first - they certainly weren't holding it because they felt we needed more 'honouring' - but a brief conversation with Duncan had enlightened me. Duncan had asked the Grand Cleric to let him recruit mages. He couldn't just Conscript them. I'd learnt after my trip to the Circle that the last time Duncan tried to Conscript a mage his authority was ignored and he almost came to blows with the Templars. His appeals for help to the High Constable - the First Warden's second in command - had proven fruitless; there was little point appealing to the leader of our Order, he was seldom at Weisshaupt, being more interested in politicking and lining his own pocket than his duties. Francis told me he'd even written to the Divine. His letter was ignored, or at least it never received a reply. Carac was right. This tourney was Elemena trying to placate Duncan. Of course, Duncan would never be satisfied with this measly offering. The only benefit I could see coming from it would be that it might raise awareness of our cause amongst the people. Ample seating had been provided for the common folk; the Templars are seen as saviours and holy warriors, thus they were popular and were apt to draw a crowd.

Elemena's excuse for holding the tourney was that this year was the seven hundred and thirty fifth anniversary of the end of the Second Blight, a particularly auspicious occasion for the Chantry as when the Wardens' headquarters of Weisshaupt was relived from its siege by Emperor Drakon the Wardens were so impressed with the Orlesians that they'd converted to the Chantry. It seemed like they were stretching somewhat to find some meaning in picking that particular anniversary, though.

"Morcar!" A hand shook my shoulder.

"Sorry, what?"

Carac scratched his goatee, inclining his head behind me.

"Duncan's here. Time to go."

"Do we just stand here looking grim and vigilant?" Carac muttered to me through closed lips, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the seated clergy ahead of us. The Grand Cleric had a cluster of Mothers around her, of both the Revered and the usual variety. A Knight-Captain stood behind her with more of his ilk standing guard all around the viewing platform dedicated to those important enough to merit it. Seated to her left was Duncan, wearing a more elaborately decorated version of the formal clothing that had been given to me, and next to Duncan sat Knight-Commander Glavin of Denerim.

"In peace, vigilance." I whispered sardonically. "I also think we're supposed to look pleased, too." I added.

I received a smirk for my efforts.

I heard a gasp, I looked towards the sound and saw a sister staring at me.

At my face.

I looked down, discomfited.

While the scar could have been much worse and I knew I got lucky, the stares I received from children and curious adults made me uncomfortable. I'd never thought of myself as vain... but maybe that wasn't it. How could I go back to my old life looking the way I did now?

No. I can't think of that. Move on.

I looked back up and forced a smile at the sister, although I felt that it might have come out as more of a grimace.

Another whisper: "Made a new friend?"

"I doubt it. How long does this last?"

"We'll be here a good two hours until Andréa and Jacquelyn relieve us, at least the rain has stopped. Didn't you listen to Francis?"

I suppressed a groan. "I wasn't there. I went to the Alienage."

"At least we don't have to talk to that old crone all day. Poor Duncan."

A thought struck me and I looked around.

"Notice how they're all ignoring you?"

"All of them except the Templars. Looks like Duncan's plan to irk them worked."

"Is that why he had you bring your staff?"

The staff in question was a far cry from the standard fare that would be issued to a mage in a Circle, being more reminiscent of a weapon of war wielded by a knight. The weapon had a similar design to a pollaxe, with a thick squared off hardwood staff mounted with a steel spike on the top, and two more vicious implements beneath it. On one side was a hammer head, the surface like a meat tenderiser to allow more purchase when striking curving surfaces such as armour. Opposite the hammer was an axe blade. The head of the weapon was securely riveted to the pole with long steel langets. A round hilt-like disk called a rondel was placed just below the head to protect the wielders hand and to deflect blows. What marked it out as a mages instrument was the crystal infused into the just below the head of the weapon and the runic enchantments inscribed into the weapon. The weapon was made by the Order, forged and enchanted at Weisshaupt to transform an already deadly mage into a positively vicious foe, whether at long-range or in close-quarters combat.

Under Francis' instruction I'd become familiar with the more mundane version of the pollaxe and had taken to wielding it as my primary weapon, relying on my sword as a backup. Pollaxes were designed to combat heavily armoured opponents. The thick spike to pierce through mail or narrow gaps in armour, the hammer to break bones and concuss an opponent, and the axe for lighter armoured foes. Darkspawn wore crude, ill-fitting armour that was laughable compared to a well-fitted suit of plate crafted by a master armourer. Their arms and armour were often of low-quality, spotted with rust, and maintained to the barest standard necessary to function. Not all darkspawn wore armour, but enough did that a weapon like a pollaxe was often more useful than a sword.

A sword was a good sidearm, the medieval equivalent of a pistol, easy to carry at your side and readily available when needed. But, as the modern infantryman uses a rifle, spears and other polearms will almost always be superior to the sword. The extra reach enabled one to keep a foe safely away, whilst still enabling the user to strike, and with more force than using a one-handed weapon. A formation of infantry maintaining a shield wall with six or seven foot long spears could rarely be defeated by an equivalent formation armed with sword and shield. This required numbers and a well-disciplined force, though. We had discipline, but not the numbers. With single combat, the spearman is at a considerable disadvantage to an adversary with a sword. The spear has the longer reach, but once bypassed is unwieldy and vulnerable to the nimble sword.

In previous Ages, Wardens were much more numerous and could afford to devote the training and equipment required to maintain companies trained to fight in formations several hundred strong. The Anderfels with over a thousand Wardens could still deploy troops in this fashion. In Ferelden, we were forced to take a different approach. We trained mostly for single combat and fighting skirmishes, and would have to rely on the support of external troops for larger engagements. We maintained enough horses to mount every Warden, and as such could field a highly mobile force able to react rapidly when word of a darkspawn raid reached us.

Carac nodded in affirmation to my question. I watched Ser Eryhn fight her latest opponent; a Knight-Lieutenant from Gwaren if I'd heard correctly.

"If you weren't at the meeting then you can't have met Duncan's friend." Carac again.

"Oh? Who would this friend be, then?" I enquired.

"He's visited before from time to time, you were away in Highever the last time he was here. His name's Riordan. A Warden-Lieutenant from Jader. I think he's Duncan's Joining-brother. " he murmured.

Riordan. What next? Will I see Flemeth in the market? I don't have much time left, that damn Architect will be awakening Urthemiel soon.

"Why is he here?"

"I overheard them talking. Something about increased darkspawn presence in the Roads. I think he wanted to check if it was the same here."

"That's odd. It was nice and quiet the last time I was down there. You should have seen how disappointed Fendrel was."

He nodded. "I know what you mean, you know that entrance Arl Wulff wanted us to deal with?"

I closed my eyes, tuning out the polite clapping for Erhyn's victory over her opponent to visualise the Arling of West Hills.

"The one by Berwick-upon-Wyre?"

He shook his head; "No, the one south of Elmridge. Well, we were there for about a fortnight while we showed Wulff's masons how to close it properly this time. We dealt with a small group of darkspawn around the entrance and we felt some more in the distance, but after that nothing."

"What? Nothing? The Roads are normally teeming with them that close to Ortan Thaig. Did you tell Duncan?"

This isn't a good sign. How long until the Blight starts?

"Reyor did."

"What do you think they're doing?" I felt horrible pretending I didn't know what was going on. They were probably busy digging up the damn Archdemon. There was no point shouting to the world that a Blight was coming, though. Who would believe me? Duncan had been sceptical when I'd told him of my 'vision' of a Blight. I doubted trying again would make any difference; he'd know himself soon enough.

"I don't have the foggiest idea. It must mean something. Duncan will know." He answered in a low, hopeful voice.

I wriggled my toes and bent my knees a few times. I'd seen soldiers faint on parade before and I didn't want the same happening to me.

"Ah, that feels good." Carac groaned as he sat down on the bench beside me. I had to lean towards him to hear what he said. We'd been relieved a short while ago by our two female comrades and now sat amidst a group of Templars just below the dais where Duncan and the Chantry officials were seated. I cradled my helm in my lap and watched with rapt attention as the latest bout between Ser Talrew of Lothering and Ser Kalvin drew to a dramatic end as Ser Talrew, eschewing the deliberate bladework at which Ser Kalvin excelled, flung his shield at the Knight from Denerim. The instant's surprise was enough as Ser Talrew charged Ser Kalvin and tackled him to the ground. In the short scramble that followed Ser Talrew managed to draw his misericorde and held the narrow blade ready at Ser Kalvin's visor. The pinned knight acquiesced his defeat at the hands of his opponent and the two soon sprang to their feet, gallantly clapping each other on the back to mixed groans and cheers from the watching crowd.

"Jacquelyn looks bored out of her mind." Carac opined next to me.

I twisted around on the bench and looked upwards. He was right. I could just make out Jacquelyn and Andréa standing behind Duncan's chair from the angle I was sitting at. Jacquelyn was a model of stiff-backed dignity. Having picked up on her mannerisms though I could tell from her facial expression that she was not at all enjoying herself.

"At least this'll be over soon." I replied.

I was about to turn around again when I caught sight of the look on Duncan's face. I'd seen that look before.

He's planning something.

I leaned back as far as I could until my back was resting against one of the wooden pillars supporting the dais. I closed my eyes and strained my ears trying to ignore the sounds around me.

"...friend Warden, why... your brow furrow?"

There! That was Knight-Commander Glavin.

"I have seen many fine warriors of stout heart... but... across field... one Templar who has not been called to fight." Duncan.

Damnit! I'm missing half of what they are saying... are they talking about Alistair?

I snapped my eyes open and craned my neck to see over the Templar seated in front of me. I scanned the field looking for the copper-haired serjeant.

Aha! There he is!

He was surrounded by other young men and women wearing the same habit, initiates or serjeants most likely. The envy on his face was apparent as he looked at the knights sparring on the field.

"That... troublemaker... mouth and his attitude... wilful streak... not worthy of the honour of fighting..." The Templar again.

"...find the best... not the most polite. Let him fight."

Alistair was poked by one of the initiates beside him who pointed towards the platform behind me. He scowled and turned to face the Knight-Commander. His expression changed to one of surprise before transitioning to confusion. He must have seen something that reassured him that he was actually going to be allowed to fight as he flashed a grin towards the dais; presumably towards Duncan, before he darted off in the direction of a pavilion flying the Templar's Sword of Mercy.

He emerged from the crowd some time later with armour and weapon and entered the fray. From the raised voices and angrily gesticulating Templar's all over the field it was apparent that they weren't happy with him getting an opportunity to fight.

A nudge in my ribs. I glanced left.

"Looks like Duncan's got his eye on someone. Why do you think he asked for that serjeant to be allowed to fight?" Looks like Carac has been following the proceedings as closely as me.

"He must know something we don't. Nothing new there. " I replied.

I looked back at the field and did a double take as I watched Alistair standing triumphantly over a fallen knight.

Damn, that was quick. The knight can't have been expecting much from Alistair. Probably let his guard down.

Alistair grinned down impishly at his opponent and extended his hand to help him up. The knight looked to be a good sport. He accepted the helping hand and seemed to congratulate Alistair before making his way off the field.

Five minutes later and another knight was sprawled in the mud at Alistair's feet. This one was considerably less sporting. He slapped away Alistair's hand and scrambled to his feet on his own.

"My goodness, Ser Temerin. I expected better; they'll knight anyone nowadays." Alistair crowed, mocking his opponent who stormed off of the field furiously. Alistair turned towards Duncan and shrugged, displaying a toothy grin. The crowd chuckled.

I snorted in amusement.

Alistair's bouts followed the same format. To those he bested, he reached down, smiling. Those who refused his hand were mocked.

He's certainly a good swordsman. Then again, he's been training to be a Templar since he was ten. If my memory serves me right I don't think he actually wins this tourney, though.

Whilst Alistair was certainly a formidable opponent he was far from the most experienced warrior taking part. He was defeated by Ser Kalvin, being made to seem slow compared to the experienced knights lightning-fast strikes. He was overwhelmed by Ser Eryhn's skill and strained to exhaustion by Ser Talrew's stamina.

Once eliminated Alistair withdrew to the sidelines, panting from his exertion but seeming pleased with himself.

Ser Talrew and Ser Eryhn faced each other for the final bout. The woman from Highever emerged triumphant.

The tournament done, people's eyes were drawn to Duncan. They were expecting him to announce that he would be taking Ser Eryhn as the winner of the tourney. They were about to be disappointed.

Through a brief moment of silence I overheard Duncan as he turned to the Knight-Commander and stated: "I will recruit Alistair."

The Knight-Commander looked apoplectic at the decision and seemed to be about to launch into an argument before he suddenly stopped and looked resigned. Probably remembered that Duncan can just Conscript Alistair, and we'll certainly be getting away with it in front of such a large crowd. They wouldn't dare deny us after putting all this together. Then again, looks like the old biddy is going to try.

I could see the Grand Cleric leaning towards Duncan and whispering furiously if her facial expression was anything to go by.

"...apologies... my choice... Invoke... of Conscription." Duncan's reply. It was done. Alistair was to be a Grey Warden.

The Grand Cleric glared at Duncan. Knight-Commander Glavin stood up and announced Duncan's choice. The angry mutterings and indignant stares soon followed.

"Carinus' blood! What's Duncan up to? Why choose that Templar when he wasn't the best?!" Carac exclaimed.

I made to reply but was interrupted. "But I didn't even win the tournament!" Alistair protested loudly, he looked shocked.

Duncan was making his way over the field to Alistair, guided by Glavin, an entourage of Templars and Jacqueline and Andréa.

"Come on." I said, tugging Carac after them.

We jogged until we reached the group and fell in behind our comrades. Jacquelyn threw me a bemused look as I walked behind her. I shrugged at her.

Duncan had reached Alistair.

"I did not ask for the tournament," Duncan responded. "Nor did I offer recruitment as its prize. I came here seeking a warrior of character, and I believe I have found him."

A/N: You made it this far! Thank you!

What did you guys think of the short introduction from Alistair's POV? Too jarring? Never again? More? Please let me know in the comments, I really wasn't sure whether I should have done it or not.

Also; the dates. Too confusing? More immersive? Let me know! I might include the calendar on my profile if it'll help you guys out, although as ever Google is your friend.

Part of the dialogue in this tourney section was drawn from Volume 2 of The World of Thedas in order to keep with canon.

Next chapter will include more Alistair and perhaps a Joining depending on how things progress.