"You're not wrong," comes readily enough, as dismissive of Holden's refusal to entertain an elaborate hypothetical. His wrist is still idly hooked across the shell shaped pommel of his belt knife, casually forgotten.
"I only wonder whether the Divine is making that distinction known to the people following behind her. They've been taught their whole lives the shape of what you gathered in less than a year."
He'd straightened when he made his refusal, but relaxes somewhat now, letting his weight fall back onto his hands as he breathes out.
"That's doubtful. It's easier to sell people on a war if they think everyone on the other side is an enemy. And then she doesn't have to worry about justifying what the Exalted March does, either — like if they raze the first Tevene town they find."
The line of his brow quirks high and the angle of his temple tips with it as if to concur without going so far as to actually verbalize his agreement.
"I imagine," he says after a moment, nodding to Val Chevin's walls which gleam bright and pleasant in the warm afternoon daylight. "That regardless of what the man overseeing that city does or doesn't believe about the thing which has the Archon under it's thumb in Minrathous, the Divine's sensibilities are currently one of his utmost concerns. More so than what Celene is thinking in Val Royeaux.
"Even if she or Cuissard were to make it known that they were willing to negotiate a surrender, he will need to believe the Divine will abide by it before he will be convinced to budge. She's the one standing between him and home, and of the two of them—between the Divine and the Empress—I know of only one who has put surrendered Tevinter soldiers on the chopping block."
"Last summer when the Inquisition recaptured Montfort. Just before your time here, if memory serves," he says, unhurried. Not quite as if they are discussing the weather, but very like as if they are studying pieces on a board. In a sense, they are.
"And I would imagine that the news of such an approach has gone rather a long way to quieting any arguments which might have otherwise been raised in either the Magisterium or Publicanium by now. Correspondence captured during the retreat from around Montfort seemed to suggest that the entirety of the Tevinter force—to say nothing of the Anders with them—isn't wholly in the pocket of the Venatori."
He looks at him.
"But pride on the one side and fear on the other make rather good spurs."
He lets out a long breath, seems to deflate a little with it. None of this is surprising, actually; it certainly lines up with what he knows about the Chantry's attitude towards mages, rifters. With what he'd been drawn into speculating, just a moment ago. He doesn't expect them to be better, hadn't even hoped it, but it's still fucking disappointing.
"We need to find ways to build trust with the people. We have to earn it."
Which is clearly going to be an uphill battle. He glances back towards Flint to ask,
"The Inquisition has long used its allegiance to the Chantry as a means of legitimizing itself in the absence of a Divine's leadership. Now that someone has been restored to that position, I expect if they didn't support her wishes that they would quickly find themselves with an inconvenient lack of friends in a world easily convinced of their redundancy. The Divine has her March, and has recalled the Templar Order to her side. And if there is an authority when it comes to managing the damage done to the Veil, then it is Riftwatch. So if the Inquisition is effecting anything, it's the harboring of rebel mages whose alleged crimes the South has conveniently chosen to forget for as long as they are pointed in the correct direction."
There is uphill and then there is ascending a vertical cliff face.
"So," is like a punctuation mark or the act of turning to some new page. "If there is to be any clear path forward in this, I think it likely we will have to cut it ourselves."
"You already know how to discredit them if they get in the way."
He's interested in circling back to the idea of making their own path forward, here. But he's heard a lot of thought already put into opposing the Inquisition, and he doubts it's all — or only — about the notion of repairing relations with non-Venatori Tevinter.
He looks at Holden, the lines of Flint's face drawn in against the height of the sun. A lifetime of taking measurements from it has contrived to make this narrowed, squinting look the one his face wears most naturally.
He has to wonder if Flint thinks he's being subtle, suggesting that the Chantry is as much a problem in this war as the Venatori, then considering the value of taking one of their supporters off the board.
"It is," he says without faltering. Patient, steady, a stone comfortably planted or like whatever heavy tree once extended from the stump upon which he sits.
"I want to know what you think. What you would do about our current problem."
For some reason, he thinks of Isaac. Where we come from is the stakes, and I do live here. It's enough to lower his hackles, at least that little bit.
He looks back to the city, strangely peaceful from the outside. And on the inside: possible zealots, probable terrified forces, a city held hostage. People whose lives could easily be lost in the crossfire of an Imperium, of Orlais, of the Chantry.
"I'd want to negotiate terms of surrender with whoever's in charge in there. Cuissard won't be a hard sell. Grimonpon and the admirals will be a problem, but probably not as much as one as convincing the March to let the army leave in peace, as long as they're willing to. Holding them to it will be even harder." Then he pauses, and adds, remembered, "Though considering we've lost part of their army once, maybe not."
Remember those forces that vanished from Ghislain, that sure happened. But soldiers looking for action can always find the front elsewhere; reassignments may be enough to sate the more glory-hungry Orlesians. And it's not hard to imagine the Chantry contingent, who don't actually care about Val Chevin, agreeing to a ceasefire — here, specifically, and nowhere else.
More seriously, "What we'd need is some kind of leverage. And for the Tevene forces to be willing to leave, or the whole idea falls the fuck apart."
"Of the three, the Orlesians are the most likely to see reason. They're ostensibly the party here with the most to lose and the highest risk of losing it. The Tevinter commander in there," he says with a nod to the city. "At least has the luxury of his men knowing that their best chances are to stick close beside him."
Out here, the Orlesians have a whole disgruntled, exhausted army who might at any moment decide they preferred to slip away and a whole countryside into which them might go.
"What do you imagine this leverage over the other two to look like?"
And everything that entails, which is no small thing. Not just the ability to leave unmolested, but the ability to clear out without retribution, without punishment or death for being the poor fucks stuck here.
It might not be enough for them, of course. But they'd have to be stupid to refuse; that, or everything Holden accused them of being not ten minutes ago. He's trying to give faceless forces the benefit of the doubt now that he's realized he can; because, honestly, he prefers to.
"For the Chantry?" He shrugs. "Something they want, that we have, and that we can withhold until we've seen they've held up their end of the deal. If I had a better idea of what that is, I'd already be back at the command tent."
"If such a thing exists, we don't currently have it in our possession," is his immediate reply. Not impatient, just firm as Flint's eyeline scans back across the clear cut land to the great city lying below them.
It's a last look, shortened by the fact that they have done so at their leisure and there is little left to see. His hand comes away from its resting place at the dirk in his belt; the heels of heavy boot scrape softly in the loamy earth, early spring stalks of grass whisking about his calves. Flint rises with a great sway of the shoulders, sunlight dappling the nearly-black green of his coat into shades of yellow and rich brown.
Flint's answer isn't unexpected. That would be, of course, too easy; and wouldn't Fred Johnson have a good laugh, ask how Jim's hypothetical is any different from his holding onto a sample of the protomolecule.
(The difference is, of course, that it's the fucking protomolecule.)
"It was a deliberate question," he corrects, getting to his feet in turn. He looks back towards the encampment, mouth already pulling into another frown; there's no answers to be had there, very possibly nothing else to learn before they leave. "I hope you learned whatever it was you wanted to."
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no subject
"I only wonder whether the Divine is making that distinction known to the people following behind her. They've been taught their whole lives the shape of what you gathered in less than a year."
no subject
"That's doubtful. It's easier to sell people on a war if they think everyone on the other side is an enemy. And then she doesn't have to worry about justifying what the Exalted March does, either — like if they raze the first Tevene town they find."
no subject
"I imagine," he says after a moment, nodding to Val Chevin's walls which gleam bright and pleasant in the warm afternoon daylight. "That regardless of what the man overseeing that city does or doesn't believe about the thing which has the Archon under it's thumb in Minrathous, the Divine's sensibilities are currently one of his utmost concerns. More so than what Celene is thinking in Val Royeaux.
"Even if she or Cuissard were to make it known that they were willing to negotiate a surrender, he will need to believe the Divine will abide by it before he will be convinced to budge. She's the one standing between him and home, and of the two of them—between the Divine and the Empress—I know of only one who has put surrendered Tevinter soldiers on the chopping block."
no subject
"When the hell did that happen?"
no subject
"And I would imagine that the news of such an approach has gone rather a long way to quieting any arguments which might have otherwise been raised in either the Magisterium or Publicanium by now. Correspondence captured during the retreat from around Montfort seemed to suggest that the entirety of the Tevinter force—to say nothing of the Anders with them—isn't wholly in the pocket of the Venatori."
He looks at him.
"But pride on the one side and fear on the other make rather good spurs."
no subject
"We need to find ways to build trust with the people. We have to earn it."
Which is clearly going to be an uphill battle. He glances back towards Flint to ask,
"The Inquisition supported that?"
no subject
There is uphill and then there is ascending a vertical cliff face.
"So," is like a punctuation mark or the act of turning to some new page. "If there is to be any clear path forward in this, I think it likely we will have to cut it ourselves."
no subject
"You already know how to discredit them if they get in the way."
He's interested in circling back to the idea of making their own path forward, here. But he's heard a lot of thought already put into opposing the Inquisition, and he doubts it's all — or only — about the notion of repairing relations with non-Venatori Tevinter.
In the way, he says, not our way.
no subject
He looks at Holden, the lines of Flint's face drawn in against the height of the sun. A lifetime of taking measurements from it has contrived to make this narrowed, squinting look the one his face wears most naturally.
"But what good would that do us?"
This too is an act of calculation.
no subject
"Is that supposed to be a real question?"
no subject
"I want to know what you think. What you would do about our current problem."
no subject
He looks back to the city, strangely peaceful from the outside. And on the inside: possible zealots, probable terrified forces, a city held hostage. People whose lives could easily be lost in the crossfire of an Imperium, of Orlais, of the Chantry.
"I'd want to negotiate terms of surrender with whoever's in charge in there. Cuissard won't be a hard sell. Grimonpon and the admirals will be a problem, but probably not as much as one as convincing the March to let the army leave in peace, as long as they're willing to. Holding them to it will be even harder." Then he pauses, and adds, remembered, "Though considering we've lost part of their army once, maybe not."
Remember those forces that vanished from Ghislain, that sure happened. But soldiers looking for action can always find the front elsewhere; reassignments may be enough to sate the more glory-hungry Orlesians. And it's not hard to imagine the Chantry contingent, who don't actually care about Val Chevin, agreeing to a ceasefire — here, specifically, and nowhere else.
More seriously, "What we'd need is some kind of leverage. And for the Tevene forces to be willing to leave, or the whole idea falls the fuck apart."
no subject
Out here, the Orlesians have a whole disgruntled, exhausted army who might at any moment decide they preferred to slip away and a whole countryside into which them might go.
"What do you imagine this leverage over the other two to look like?"
no subject
And everything that entails, which is no small thing. Not just the ability to leave unmolested, but the ability to clear out without retribution, without punishment or death for being the poor fucks stuck here.
It might not be enough for them, of course. But they'd have to be stupid to refuse; that, or everything Holden accused them of being not ten minutes ago. He's trying to give faceless forces the benefit of the doubt now that he's realized he can; because, honestly, he prefers to.
"For the Chantry?" He shrugs. "Something they want, that we have, and that we can withhold until we've seen they've held up their end of the deal. If I had a better idea of what that is, I'd already be back at the command tent."
no subject
It's a last look, shortened by the fact that they have done so at their leisure and there is little left to see. His hand comes away from its resting place at the dirk in his belt; the heels of heavy boot scrape softly in the loamy earth, early spring stalks of grass whisking about his calves. Flint rises with a great sway of the shoulders, sunlight dappling the nearly-black green of his coat into shades of yellow and rich brown.
"Forgive me. It was an unfair question."
slaps a bow on this
(The difference is, of course, that it's the fucking protomolecule.)
"It was a deliberate question," he corrects, getting to his feet in turn. He looks back towards the encampment, mouth already pulling into another frown; there's no answers to be had there, very possibly nothing else to learn before they leave. "I hope you learned whatever it was you wanted to."
Even as he says it, he sounds level, unoffended.