"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 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.