There's really no hiding from one another here. Not that either of them has been hiding. Alistair has possibly been taking minor pains to avoid the easily avoidable places where the man might be, and he has definitely been glaring straight through Loghain whenever it becomes impossible to avoid looking at him altogether, but that's the extent of it. He's not walking in the opposite direction when he sees him or hiding from public places. He was here first. And anything more would be childish, or something. Whatever.
But now, before the ships sail off to investigate whatever weird thing is happening in the ocean, Alistair sought him out on purpose, first lurking in the stables until he shows up to see to his horse, then standing there with his arms crossed and his shoulder against the wall, and aiming that so toward him like an elbow in the ribs. Ungentle. Listen.
"I've told Teagan Guerrin, who's told Eamon, who should have told the Queen, so you may as well know, too—Maric Theirin might be alive." Does he know how much that might mean to Loghain? Not really. Would he care if he did? Not even a little. "I think he's in Tevinter. You led the search for him, didn't you?"
The Inquisition grooms are well equipped to see to the horses of those personnel leaving on the voyage, but that doesn't mean Loghain is willing to leave Kirkwall without first stopping by Sooty's stall to say his farewells to the mare in person. He is, however, unprepared to find Alistair waiting for him like some dread bulwark to be scaled--to say nothing of the words that he delivers.
A direct punch to Loghain's nose might have less impact. He stops short, blanching, a thousand-yard stare on his face, and says with an intake of breath, "--what?" The rest of Alistair's words don't register, at least not immediately.
"Maric Theirin," Alistair repeats slowly—not my father, it's almost never my father, unless the fact is relevant. Right now it isn't. "Alive. Tevinter."
Slow enough? Small enough pieces of information?
An explanation might help, Alistair thinks, half unaware of and half just plain unsympathetic to the way Loghain's paled and frozen. He doesn't want to discuss anyone's feelings. And when things are awkward, he's always believed, just talk more and hope no one notices. It hasn't gotten him killed yet.
"Anders and I ran into trouble with some mages last winter, and I overheard—they wanted to send me there. Some cultist has a Theirin king imprisoned, something about weird blood, something about him getting old." He doesn't sound bored by this information, exactly. He sounds more like someone who's attempting to sound disinterested. But the distinction is subtle. "Fairly normal culty blood magic plot from the sound of it. And as much fun as it would be to dash in with swords drawn and cause a political crisis, I've been trying to narrow down where to look first."
Loghain presses one tightly curled fist against his mouth, fighting down a rush of unnameable feeling that threatens to overwhelm him. Tevinter. Had he been that close? If he had persisted despite Anora's objections, despite pressure from the Bannorn--
He angles his head away, just long enough to master his emotions. Another pause, and it's done. "We heard only rumours--nothing we could substantiate at the time, but I still have my notes from the investigation." Of course he does. "The trail went cold in Antiva, but I'll give you everything I have."
Alistair looks at Loghain's fist, then away. It's always weird when people you wish would die are not only alive, but acting like they have feelings, which they obviously do not. Because that would be weirder. But Qarinus. It doesn't sound impossible. He returns his attention to Loghain once he's talking again and sounds less like he's experiencing human emotions (which is impossible), and nods curtly.
"Thank you," he says, because the dogs and the horses raised him right. "I might know someone in Qarinus. Someone who knows someone there, anyway. Give me what you have and I'll see what I can find."
And that's it. He should go, before Loghain has another visible feeling. But he doesn't just yet; he moves on foot back and shifts his weight to it, planning to begin backing away but caught there by—
"Did you know my mother?"
He doesn't want to talk about it. He just wants to know what he knows.
What work he still has in his possession is packed away securely with his belongings in the barracks. He'll need to head back to retrieve them, and is in the process of turning on his heel to do that (Sooty will forgive him for delaying his visit a bit longer), when that question reaches him.
"Did you know my mother?"
He stops short and turns to face Alistair again, but whatever expression the young man wears now, Loghain can't parse it, save to mark again with a hard ache in his chest just how much he has grown to resemble his father. He considers his response, then says, "Not well, but--yes. We met once."
Alistair looks at him with the same closed-off expression a few moments longer, then breaks to nod and shift his attention to the nearest horse. It's a dismissive turn, nearly imperious, the sort of thing that used to get him shoved into mud at the abbey. He doesn't have anything else to say. There are a few dozen other things he'd like to ask, details he'd like to be able to stuff into the holes of his own history, even though it changes nothing, even though it's like trying to replace missing bricks with handfuls of straw—dozens, but none he's willing to lower his guard any further to ask Loghain. He can go.
Whatever else he may feel compelled to ask, Loghain doubts he would be able to provide substantive answers to his questions. Maric shared much with him, but there was just as much about his king that will always remain just out of reach.
Loghain doesn't speak to him again, but steps past him to find his way further into the stables. It won't take him long to see to Sooty; then he will be gone.
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no subject
There's really no hiding from one another here. Not that either of them has been hiding. Alistair has possibly been taking minor pains to avoid the easily avoidable places where the man might be, and he has definitely been glaring straight through Loghain whenever it becomes impossible to avoid looking at him altogether, but that's the extent of it. He's not walking in the opposite direction when he sees him or hiding from public places. He was here first. And anything more would be childish, or something. Whatever.
But now, before the ships sail off to investigate whatever weird thing is happening in the ocean, Alistair sought him out on purpose, first lurking in the stables until he shows up to see to his horse, then standing there with his arms crossed and his shoulder against the wall, and aiming that so toward him like an elbow in the ribs. Ungentle. Listen.
"I've told Teagan Guerrin, who's told Eamon, who should have told the Queen, so you may as well know, too—Maric Theirin might be alive." Does he know how much that might mean to Loghain? Not really. Would he care if he did? Not even a little. "I think he's in Tevinter. You led the search for him, didn't you?"
no subject
A direct punch to Loghain's nose might have less impact. He stops short, blanching, a thousand-yard stare on his face, and says with an intake of breath, "--what?" The rest of Alistair's words don't register, at least not immediately.
no subject
Slow enough? Small enough pieces of information?
An explanation might help, Alistair thinks, half unaware of and half just plain unsympathetic to the way Loghain's paled and frozen. He doesn't want to discuss anyone's feelings. And when things are awkward, he's always believed, just talk more and hope no one notices. It hasn't gotten him killed yet.
"Anders and I ran into trouble with some mages last winter, and I overheard—they wanted to send me there. Some cultist has a Theirin king imprisoned, something about weird blood, something about him getting old." He doesn't sound bored by this information, exactly. He sounds more like someone who's attempting to sound disinterested. But the distinction is subtle. "Fairly normal culty blood magic plot from the sound of it. And as much fun as it would be to dash in with swords drawn and cause a political crisis, I've been trying to narrow down where to look first."
no subject
Loghain presses one tightly curled fist against his mouth, fighting down a rush of unnameable feeling that threatens to overwhelm him. Tevinter. Had he been that close? If he had persisted despite Anora's objections, despite pressure from the Bannorn--
He angles his head away, just long enough to master his emotions. Another pause, and it's done. "We heard only rumours--nothing we could substantiate at the time, but I still have my notes from the investigation." Of course he does. "The trail went cold in Antiva, but I'll give you everything I have."
no subject
"Thank you," he says, because the dogs and the horses raised him right. "I might know someone in Qarinus. Someone who knows someone there, anyway. Give me what you have and I'll see what I can find."
And that's it. He should go, before Loghain has another visible feeling. But he doesn't just yet; he moves on foot back and shifts his weight to it, planning to begin backing away but caught there by—
"Did you know my mother?"
He doesn't want to talk about it. He just wants to know what he knows.
no subject
"Did you know my mother?"
He stops short and turns to face Alistair again, but whatever expression the young man wears now, Loghain can't parse it, save to mark again with a hard ache in his chest just how much he has grown to resemble his father. He considers his response, then says, "Not well, but--yes. We met once."
no subject
no subject
Loghain doesn't speak to him again, but steps past him to find his way further into the stables. It won't take him long to see to Sooty; then he will be gone.