"
It's Good to be King."
There were times when Alistair thought back to the past, his past more specifically. It was only natural, of course, but he had triggers. Every time he heard anything about Redcliffe or about the Guerrin family he remembered his childhood at Redcliffe as the embarrassing and unwanted suspected bastard of the Arl. He wasn’t, of course, but he was a regular royal bastard (and he had to credit a certain fellow Warden of his for coming up with that one as no one else in the know had been casual enough about it to make jokes) and his very existence was apparently a dire threat to Ferelden stability and, more to the point, his half-brother’s rule.
Every time he was in any way reminded of the Chantry (and as Ferelden was the rather religious birthplace of Andraste whose ashes had recently been discovered, this was rather often), it brought back the decade or so that he had been destined to become a slave to it. There were worse fates than that of a templar, he knew, but that didn’t make being a lyrium-addled templar a good thing and he wouldn’t want any of those lives that would have made being a templar seem that way by comparison. The Chantry was a good life for some, he supposed, but not for him and his lack of choice about the whole affair just made him resent it all the more. He had never had
any problems with the Chantry before being sent to live there, after all…but then he hadn’t known very much about it before then, either.
Every time Grey Wardens were mentioned he remembered those six glorious months that he had spent among their ranks before they were betrayed by that traitor, Loghain. He remembered their kindness, the first unselfish kindness he’d seen in years. He remembered for once not being the embarrassment, not being the screw-up. He was just one of them and even if he was the youngest and least experienced, he still had a place that he had belonged. He still had a family of sorts, people that he trusted with his life and who trusted his life to them. All the drinking, all the secrets, all the feasts, all the frustrations, all the celebrations, all the fears…the good and bad mingled together and became the first every home he’d ever known.
Every time anyone mentioned the Blight – which was at weekly if not daily – then he was taken back to the longest, hardest, most rewarding year of his life. The year they were on the run. The year everything had fallen to pieces. The year that he had to step up. The year that he was only one of two people standing between Ferelden and total annihilation. The year that he had had to stop hiding. The year that he stopped being an unwanted bastard, a failure of a templar, a desperate and unprepared Grey Warden and became a king.
It seemed that almost overnight he went from sleeping on the cold, hard ground to having people asking him about thread-counts on his almost painfully soft bed. No longer did he have to attempt to not accidentally poison himself while cooking as there were people hired to do that for him (well, cook at least. These people were not without skill). No longer was he ‘boy’ or ‘bastard’ but ‘your majesty.’ He wasn’t pushed to the side but looked to to take center stage. What he thought mattered and he was called upon to actually decide things. A thoughtless word from him could make or ruin someone’s immediate future. He could have a bath whenever he wanted. The first sign of damage to any of his clothing or armor and someone would promptly replace them with something new. He never had to have to choose between helping someone in need or having a place to stay for the night.
Being king…he
never would have seen that coming, King Maric’s by blow or not. It really shouldn’t have ever happened but since, between Loghain and the darkspawn (and okay, fine, the Bannorn didn’t exactly help matters), Ferelden was brought to the very brink of total destruction, somebody had to step up. Somehow, everybody had decided that that somebody would be him. He wasn’t raised for it and he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea – he rather found it terrifying – but he was also determined to do nothing less than his absolute best and to listen to those who actually knew what they were talking about, especially in those early days when he didn’t.
Somehow, as the days became weeks, the weeks became months, and the months became years, Alistair had slowly began to enjoy his new position in life. The elves were being oppressed again? Invite one to join his council. The people were feeling disconnected from the monarchy? Go out and visit them. Orzammar was working to push back the darkspawn from the Deep Roads? Send some troops to help out. Kinloch Hold too damaged to house the Circle of Magi anymore? Build a new, far less creepy one.
There were always sacrifices to be made, of course, and he’d lost a lot in terms of privacy and freedom when he’d shed his anonymity forever and accepted his father’s throne. Still, he always knew where his next delicious meal would come from, he never needed to worry about not having shelter, he could try to make life better for everyone. Not to mention all the little perks his losses were compensated with. When you thought about it, it really wasn’t bad for the son of a castle maid (or was it an Orlesian Grey Warden elven mage? He had heard rumors). And it was certainly good to be king.
Modifié par Sarah1281, 08 janvier 2011 - 06:30 .
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Not to mention that it saves me from writing an essay about the reasons when you have already done that in such an eloquently way. 
