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[CLOSED] | I'll say you haven't met me,
WHAT: Touching reunions.
WHEN: Drakonis.
WHERE: Outlying Camp Shady.
NOTES: The touching may be with fists.
He still isn’t certain how he’s been talked into this.
Alan would’ve been fine never meeting the man. Would never have even had to know that he was here. Through the years and a child's eyes, the faces have long since unravelled.
The facts came later, sharper: Wardens. Cousland. A Blight,
He would have been fine. He is. But Beleth was so — invested — had such faith in the idea, and if he's fine (and he is, because there's no reason not to be, no alternative,) then this is only proof.
His posture changes to approach the camp; stride lengthens, shoulders press out angular. When he arrives, his expression wears its usual distance. If you don't know him, it's difficult to notice the new tension in his jaw.
"Hello," A glance up, unblinking. "It's been a long time."
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Or set someone on fire if they don't behave, maybe.
Once they arrive in front of Alan, Beleth moves closer to Alan, resting a hand on his arm, and giving him her warmest smile. "Thank you again, Alan. For agreeing to this." Then she takes a step back, so they can do their...talking thing.
Is it a good thing? Learning the ugly secrets of your past? But wounds left ignored will only fester, grow dangerous. Kill someone. If you want it to fully, truly heal, you have to expose the wound to light, rip off the band aid you tried to hide it with. She can only hope that this will help with that healing.
If worst comes to worst, she's completely prepared to burst into ugly sobs until everyone does what she wants.
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No one has to know Alistair at all to see his tension as Alan approaches. It comes out mostly as nervous energy. He rocks and bounces on the balls of his feet, turns his head at an odd angle in an attempt to crack his neck, and glances at Beleth and her tiny dragonling three times. She has the weirdest taste in friends. And he includes himself in that, yes, thanks. Himself, the dragon, and this fellow.
While Beleth grants him a few more seconds' reprieve, Alistair crosses his arms for a second, a defensive impulse that he corrects so quickly it's like they're bouncing off his chest, then sticks out a hand instead.
"Alistair."
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"Alan." He eyes Alistair's hand, as though not quite sure what to do with it. It's a moment before he reaches up to clasp it, grip hard, quickly released. "Alan Fane."
No lowlander uses that word any more, but above these hills it marks him as surely anything would. Alan, of the temple.
"You came to our village." Alistair is all anxious motion. It’s enough to make him nervous, and that only makes him more still. His voice stays steady, even. "You, and the others. Why?"
Alan knows what he’s been told. He knows what he’s plucked from Genitivi’s wretched writings, as condescendingly detached as any Chantry scholar. But he wants to hear it from Alistair; from a face, a voice, that he thinks he now knows.
They were misled, he’d told Beleth. It's the same thing he tells himself. But is it true?
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Beleth doesn't know why all her friends are weird and have copious issues. She's starting to think that maybe she should invest in some friendships with normal people, who aren't from dragon cults or have killed villages of dragon cults, and don't require her to referee a tense discussion involving dragons and cults and killing them. None of which she has any experience with. But these are the friends she has, and they're important to her. Enough that she's going to act like she has her shit together, because someone needs to.
She glances from Alan to Alistair, and reaches out to pat him on the arm as well. It's okay! She's right here!! That will somehow help!!! "Well, Alistair, is there anything you'd prefer to discuss first...?" He's a master at avoiding directly saying anything, but--she's not sure what else they could possibly talk about. Maybe what an idiot she is.
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Maybe there's some reason that he’d want to drag out this discussion for any longer than strictly necessary. Possibly Beleth knows it, and can supply the proper civilized etiquette for opening a conversation on the opposing sides of a slaughter.
Except then she’s talking, and then she's touching Alistair, and then she's just passing the ball right on back. His head tips slowly to the side, still watching. Owlish. He doesn’t seem to be breathing quite as much as a normal human being is required to.
Yes, Alistair. What do you want to talk about?
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Anything that would make this feel a little less like an interrogation. He can handle interrogations, but he handles them by being a pain in the ass, and this is for Beleth.
He sighs, short and heavy. Obvious surrender.
"We were looking for Andraste's ashes," he says. "Brother Genitivi had gone missing after he went to Haven to find them, and people kept trying to kill us when we looked for him, so..."
So.
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Her brows furrow in worry, but she is supposed to be the composed diplomat. She's supposed to keep things...not violent, if not cordial. So she takes a deep breath, trying to focus herself. How...is she even supposed to make what Alistair said sound diplomatic?
"They needed the ashes to save Arl Eamon," She turns to Alan, still looking worried, but picking her words carefully. "He was the Arl of Redcliffe at the time. And he's the man who raised Alistair." 'Raised' might be a little generous, from what little she knows about the situation, but she needed Alan to see the personal connection.
"And he was needed, to stop the traitor Loghain." This, she knew even less about, and was mostly going off the history books. She glances at Alistair for confirmation, wishing she could just. Pat both of them at the same time. Maybe a group hug. "When they went to Haven, all they wanted was to find Brother Genitivi, and to keep Arl Eamon from dying."
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"You wiped us out," His voice strains. "For ashes."
Alan finally looks away, presses his hands together as though he can will calm into them. Most of it's nothing that he didn't know, but the skin still stretches white. Ashes. The last vestiges of a corpse she’d already moved from. Dust.
"For one man, you wiped us out." He pauses, "I wonder what She would have thought of that."
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He can get defensive, though, apparently.
"We didn't hurt anyone who didn't attack us first," he says. Whatever he thinks of Cousland now, there was always that: anyone who could be talked down was talked down, anyone who could be lied to or distracted was misdirected. "That just happened to be nearly everyone in Haven. You might take that up with—"
The priest. Who's dead. Never mind. He shuts his mouth with an audible teeth-clack.
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But she can't just ignore this in favor of a dragon, however cute and small and possibly trying to eat Alistair it may be.
"Alistair isn't a bad person," She insists, bouncing the dragon like it's some kind of actual people infant, which he takes with disgruntled grace. "He's a good man. He'll make wisecracks, and fool around, but he's always tried to save lives when they can be saved. He saved mine. He would never kill someone unless he didn't have another choice."
She glances down for a moment, because she doesn't want Alan to feel like she's completely siding with Alistair, either. "I'm sure that the villagers were doing what they believed was honestly necessary, that they were protecting something--someone--that was truly worth protecting, with their lives. And that they were willing to make such a sacrifice speaks to their bravery, to their sincere believe in their cause."
She glances up and Alan, then at Alistair. "From what I've heard, I think that a lot of violence could have been avoided if everyone had just...sat down, and talked. But they didn't. This is a chance to be able to...do some of that talking, that should have been done. I know it won't change the past, but..." She glances at the dragon in her arms (who bites her on the nose, though Beleth tries to carry on with dignity).
"...Maybe it can change the future. For the better."
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But it doesn’t. And it won’t.
"Yes." The word comes harsh. It’s as much feeling as he’s ever had in his speech — which is to say, not a terrible amount, save by contrast. He watches Alistair’s hands through the corner of his eyes.
"In the future," What future did they have, orphans in the Frostbacks? He doesn’t know. Has never met another to know. Can guess well enough why. "We can leave when asked."
There’s always a choice, it’s just not always the easy one to take. It’s just not always a price you’re willing to pay. Haven was. She’s right that it might mollify him, except she’s speaking in theys and thems, and there’s no way for her to know it, no reason she should think of it,
Only that they weren’t ever a them. Only us, even still.
"I don’t think you’re a bad person." And that sounds like it’s pulling teeth to manage, "But you always had a choice."
It's one that most of the Inquisition is happy to ignore. He's nearly fallen into it himself, with that Templar in the Palace, with the Freemen outside. And that's wrong. Can't be allowed to become the way of things.
They don't just get to burn their way through problems.
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He sounds like Clarel. He hears that. He looks aside for a moment, raises one of his loose almost-fists to press the knuckles to his mouth, drops it.
"—I was twenty years old, and I couldn't see it. I'm sorry."
There's more. There's not meaning to hurt anyone; there's having permission to stop in the tavern before they left; there are missing knights and a missing scholar and signs of violence in a back room. He wonders if he would want Clarel to explain—if he spoke to her, if he could stand it—or if he would want her to just stand there and take it, and for now he holds his tongue and looks at Beleth. They're her peace talks.
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"Leaving isn't always a choice." She stares down at the ground, trying to figure out the words to say. She's going to say something wrong, and Alistair or Alan or both will hate her, because this was her shitty idea, and she failed at executing it. But this really isn't her tragedy to get upset about, so she sucks it up. "They were sure that if they didn't get the ashes, that they would be forfeiting all of Fereldan."
Is she just repeating what Alistair is saying? Ugh. When Alistair looks at her, she gives him a strained smile, then closes her eyes. She can do this. She's not completely pathetic (except she is, but she can act like she's not).
"They thought they had to go on, just like your village thought they had to be stopped." Back to Alan, expression trying very hard to be more sure of herself. "There aren't always choices, and--sometimes, it's hard to see choices at the time. I...know that isn't much comfort. And I'm sorry, too." She moves towards Alan, reaching out to touch his arm. She's not sure what else she can really do.
"You don't have to stop being upset. You have the right to that. But--Just. Try to understand. And see if you can forgive."
someone cover junior's eyes
Alan watches people, even when he doesn’t understand them. He knows the things that are meant to signal hurt, and something in him wants to tip sympathetic — recognizes some symmetry in that. Pain is a circle, that just twists and eats itself. Neither an ending or beginning in whole.
It almost helps. Almost.
And then Beleth is touching him, again, and this time he can’t keep it in, it's all too much and too close. Alan jerks away with startling speed to throw himself towards Alistair, teeth bared in a snarl. It’s no coordinated attack. It’s barely a conscious decision at all. His first attempt at a punch is — bad. Really bad. He's clearly never learned how to throw one. Whether it lands or not, his hands scramble randomly for any purchase, sharp nails searching for exposed skin.
If he was feeling a little more articulate at the moment, he might whip out some tired one-liner. Like, Only the Maker forgives. Or: How do you like these choices?
But he doesn’t say a word, just make this awful. Noise. In the back of his throat, steadily rising in pitch, like a cat doused in cold water.
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And that's well enough, because nails follow shortly after. That's when Alistair makes his first noise of surprise, bringing up an arm to block his face. That hurts. And it carries with it an instinctive stomach-flipping fear, one that's hardly unique to him among Thedosians, but amplified of late: not his blood, not his blood.
"Andraste's—" he says. Which garment or body part of Andraste's he was about to invoke in front of a clawing boy who believes he helped murder her, no one gets to know. Not because he realizes it's a bad idea. It's just that another one occurs to him—turns into a wolf, Beleth said before, a wolf and who knows what else—and he shuts up to breathe and slam the force of his will into Alan, into whatever it is in a mage that reaches through the Veil. Just for a minute, until the clawing stops, before it gets more literal.
As if to compensate for that excessive presence of mind, he also takes another step backwards, directly onto an uprooted chunk of ice, and stumbles and falls flat onto his back.
Is Beleth crying yet?
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When Alan throws himself at Alistair, Beleth's too stunned to move, to yell, to do anything but stare in silent shock. But panic is a familiar companion, and it's quick to move in. What had she done wrong? He'd freaked out when she went to touch him. Was that the point she'd fucked it up? Were either going to forgive her again?
It's Alistair falling to the ground that finally induces Beleth into movement, instead of just standing there sniffling. Alan is--a friend, one she likes, but Alistair occupies a place that few other people do. And when she realizes that he could really get hurt, she only hesitates for long enough to set Kolgrim Jr down, before jumping between Alan and the fallen Warden.
A 5'3 elf comprised mostly of limbs and eyes full of tears is probably not the ideal meatshield. But Beleth stands her ground, even as she sniffles, staring stubbornly at Alan. She should probably say something moving, something that'll make him stand down. She wouldn't want this or you're becoming the people you're so angry at, something thoughtful and moving. She doesn't have those words right now.
"I won't let you hurt him." It's all she can manage, tone obstinate, and expression sullen, through the tears. She may have fucked this entire thing up, but she won't let Alistair become of victim of her failure.
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Instinctively, he reaches for it, the shape of that other soul — but there’s nothing there, nothing but the smooth face of air, and fingers that should stretch into feathers, into claws, instead hook only with the form of their own stubborn flesh.
It’s panic, or it would be, except that Alistair’s fallen. He's fallen, there’s an opening, and you can take the wolf out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out of the increasingly strained metaphor. Alan’s preparing to dive back in on only his own stubby merits, until at once Beleth’s in the way. She’s a little thing, but really, so is he; she blocks enough of his view to force him to pause.
It’s hard to say how much of the words even land, his face contorted into something a bit beyond reason, bobbing to hunt for a way around her. But the meaning’s clear, and he isn’t so far gone yet. Alan twists suddenly, to stalk a short distance from them both, head lowered at an unnatural angle.
He says the most hurtful thing he can think of, and he can't say which one of them it's meant for:
"What did you think would happen?"
Another moment, before he huffs and takes off into the snow. It's the edge of the treeline before something cooperates, and pale skin finally spools out into rough fur. Something big and black and angry disappears into the woods beyond.
It’ll be a few days before he’s back.