Dragons? [she asks with a laugh. This is a fun exercise. Keeps her on her toes. She zaps that pinecone and realizes he does not at all mean dragons. His mother is alive. Which necessarily means his mother was not there for his upbringing, his formative years, his life. Everything that was important. She sobers quickly.]
I...used to say they didn't have a choice. But they did. And meeting them and then leaving was always torture. They loved me, but not as much as they loved...whatever it was that kept us apart. Tradition, the system, whatever it is. They had greater respect for that than for the sacred bond of parent and child. But I don't think they knew they had any other choice. I don't really know. Maybe I never forgave anything. I just started blaming something else. Myself, most of all.
It's not your fault, [ Alistair says automatically, maybe hypocritically. He hasn't sat down to wonder, in as many specific words, what might be wrong with him that makes it so no one faced with a choice ever chooses him (except Duncan, except Zevran—thus the unwavering loyalty)and if asked he'd say it isn't his fault either. But it's a hard sense to shake. ] Would they have been allowed to keep you if they'd tried?
[ That seems like such an easy thing to him now, leaving one clan for another clan. Probably because he doesn't know much about the distinctions between Dalish clans. And because he's twenty years removed from being the child who threw a years-long fit over being sent away from Redcliffe. And not thinking of it correctly—it would be more like leaving the Wardens than leaving a place. But he's not thinking of it that way, and it sounds easy, and for a moment he looks indignant on Pel's behalf, before her question makes him try to smile and mostly fail. ]
Zevran found out and told her she had to tell me. She's here. We'd spoken before. [ He picks up another pinecone, tosses it up once to alert her. ] She couldn't have kept me. She's a mage. [ He flings the pinecone as far as he can, at an angle. ] Could have written, though. She knew where I was. Everyone else was lying for her. She says she made Maric promise—I've hated him so much.
[ That's a lot of words, for him, without a joke in sight. When he notices, he wrinkles his nose and says, ] Why are high dragons so irritable?
[She made the king promise. Alistair could have been king, once, but probably not with a mage's blood in his veins. Politics. It makes cold, awful sense, and makes it even worse that other people abandoned him as well. Of all the people he was handed off to, why didn't just one of them decide to put Alistair first?]
Why? [She sounds distant, but she gets it. Joking helps him cope.]
aha I changed my mind in that tag but now it's in this one
Because when you're a thousand years old, everything seems to drag-on, and on, and on. [ There. He feels a little less whiny. And in defense of his unseen mother, he also adds, ] She's an elf, too. And Orlesian. Loghain Mac Tir would have drowned me like a litter of kittens.
[ That's not true.
Probably.
He might have considered it. ]
Maybe I'll send Her Majesty a letter to keep under her pillow so she can sleep a bit better at night.
Mythal bless you. [Because really, who could have picked a worse mother for a king's son?] If people knew when you were a kid, you wouldn't've stood a chance.
No, [ Alistair agrees, subdued. ] So it isn't her fault, and it isn't his fault. [ He brightens a little, smiles sideways in a half-sly way, like look at him paying attention to what she says. ] It's the system's fault.
The system isn't the only thing that failed you. There were plenty of people who should have put you first and didn't. You mother...in her way, she was putting you first. She shouldn't've been the last one.
[ Alistair keeps smiling, in a faint and baffled sort of way, like he isn't quite sure what to make of her at the moment but is reasonably sure it isn't bad. He opens his mouth--
He could make excuses for all of them, individually; he understands why Isolde felt threatened, he understands that Cailan was Eamon's real nephew and the Guerrins were nothing but selfless to shelter his potential competitor. He feels sorry for Fiona. He's fighting to stay angry with Maric. Duncan would have to do more than lie to him and feed him darkspawn blood to lose Alistair's favor.
--and shuts it, looks aside for a moment to process how touched he is, and then opens it again for a different reason entirely. ]
Eleven elves go hunting, [ he says, ] and kill a bear so large it takes all of them to move it--I know the reasonable thing would be to cut it up, but you have to work with me--it's so large they're all dragging it together, barely making it, [ that's not the punchline, just a bonus, ] and one of them straightens up and wipes sweat off her forehead and says, Creators, I wish we'd brought a twelf.
[A huff of a laugh through her nose.] Two humans go into the woods and one gets badly hurt. The other one carries him to a Keeper and he says, "I think my friend is dead!"
The Keeper tells him, "All right, stay calm. First, we have to be sure he's actually dead."
The human slits the wounded man's throat with a knife, turns to the Keeper, and cries, "Now what?"
[ He laughs—mostly silent, mostly air, but his chest shakes—genuinely startled by the punchline, and shakes his head. ] Now you've made it mean, [ he says, without fire, because he understands social dynamics well enough to know that elves are a little entitled to Stupid Shem jokes. After a moment he adds, ] Thank you, [ and throws another pinecone. ]
[She giggles and affectionately touches her cheek to his shoulder. But his thanks catches her off-guard enough that she almost forgets to zap the pinecone. And for a second, she wants to blurt out foolish things. She wants to tell him she will always put him first, but that sounds besotted and it's also a promise she might not be able to keep. Maybe. Would she? She can't always tell when something like that comes from the heart and when it comes from that destructive place Keeper Deheune raised her in. The question she has found is this: will this bleed her dry, like she bled for her clan since she was nine?
No. This evening, she has listened. She has related. And she has laughed. She feels renewed, not drained. This is how it's meant to be done, not the other way.]
It cost me nothing, [she says quietly.] And I want you to know that if you need me, I will be here. It doesn't matter if I'm working. If you need me, you can find me, and I will stop whatever I'm doing and help you.
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I...used to say they didn't have a choice. But they did. And meeting them and then leaving was always torture. They loved me, but not as much as they loved...whatever it was that kept us apart. Tradition, the system, whatever it is. They had greater respect for that than for the sacred bond of parent and child. But I don't think they knew they had any other choice. I don't really know. Maybe I never forgave anything. I just started blaming something else. Myself, most of all.
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casual animal cruelty simile ahoy
Zevran found out and told her she had to tell me. She's here. We'd spoken before. [ He picks up another pinecone, tosses it up once to alert her. ] She couldn't have kept me. She's a mage. [ He flings the pinecone as far as he can, at an angle. ] Could have written, though. She knew where I was. Everyone else was lying for her. She says she made Maric promise—I've hated him so much.
[ That's a lot of words, for him, without a joke in sight. When he notices, he wrinkles his nose and says, ] Why are high dragons so irritable?
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Why? [She sounds distant, but she gets it. Joking helps him cope.]
aha I changed my mind in that tag but now it's in this one
[ That's not true.
Probably.
He might have considered it. ]
Maybe I'll send Her Majesty a letter to keep under her pillow so she can sleep a bit better at night.
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Mythal bless you. [Because really, who could have picked a worse mother for a king's son?] If people knew when you were a kid, you wouldn't've stood a chance.
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He could make excuses for all of them, individually; he understands why Isolde felt threatened, he understands that Cailan was Eamon's real nephew and the Guerrins were nothing but selfless to shelter his potential competitor. He feels sorry for Fiona. He's fighting to stay angry with Maric. Duncan would have to do more than lie to him and feed him darkspawn blood to lose Alistair's favor.
--and shuts it, looks aside for a moment to process how touched he is, and then opens it again for a different reason entirely. ]
Eleven elves go hunting, [ he says, ] and kill a bear so large it takes all of them to move it--I know the reasonable thing would be to cut it up, but you have to work with me--it's so large they're all dragging it together, barely making it, [ that's not the punchline, just a bonus, ] and one of them straightens up and wipes sweat off her forehead and says, Creators, I wish we'd brought a twelf.
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The Keeper tells him, "All right, stay calm. First, we have to be sure he's actually dead."
The human slits the wounded man's throat with a knife, turns to the Keeper, and cries, "Now what?"
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No. This evening, she has listened. She has related. And she has laughed. She feels renewed, not drained. This is how it's meant to be done, not the other way.]
It cost me nothing, [she says quietly.] And I want you to know that if you need me, I will be here. It doesn't matter if I'm working. If you need me, you can find me, and I will stop whatever I'm doing and help you.