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I--!! [Damnit Alistair, now he's getting flustered.]
--he asked me what my problem is. I told him. It's not... it's not a personal thing, obviously... [He looks down at his hands, which are fiddling with the hem of his tunic. When he speaks again, it's barely above a mumble.]
I just. ...don't want to be around... that kind of person.
--he asked me what my problem is. I told him. It's not... it's not a personal thing, obviously... [He looks down at his hands, which are fiddling with the hem of his tunic. When he speaks again, it's barely above a mumble.]
I just. ...don't want to be around... that kind of person.
[ Alistair eats while he talks, eyes narrow in a thoughtful sort of way—kind of. Thoughtful in the way someone might be if someone was speaking a language they barely understood. ]
I think that kind of person is more common than you realize, [ he says. ] Cyril's just particularly open about it.
I think that kind of person is more common than you realize, [ he says. ] Cyril's just particularly open about it.
No, but--
[Perhaps it is, and the idea makes Cade's heart beat uncomfortably fast. He frowns anxiously, hunching his shoulders.]
...but that's not normal. [Perhaps it is, but that's not what he wants to hear. If it's not normal, it means it can never happen again.] That's... that's not the way people are supposed to be.
[Perhaps it is, and the idea makes Cade's heart beat uncomfortably fast. He frowns anxiously, hunching his shoulders.]
...but that's not normal. [Perhaps it is, but that's not what he wants to hear. If it's not normal, it means it can never happen again.] That's... that's not the way people are supposed to be.
...because...!
[Unable to keep his hands still, Cade reaches for another bun, but puts it back in favor of pressing his fist against his lips, staring worriedly at a fixed point on the table.
It's obvious that he knows he's wrong, but admitting it... there's so much involved in that.]
[Unable to keep his hands still, Cade reaches for another bun, but puts it back in favor of pressing his fist against his lips, staring worriedly at a fixed point on the table.
It's obvious that he knows he's wrong, but admitting it... there's so much involved in that.]
[ Alistair isn't really a good person for this—he can listen fine, but dragging information out of people like pulling molars isn't his strong suit, and doing it sensitively and with unending patience is out of the question. He sighs and puts his roll down. ]
People hurt people all the time. It doesn't mean anyone who's like them in any way is also going to hurt people. Otherwise elves would have to steer a lot clearer of humans.
People hurt people all the time. It doesn't mean anyone who's like them in any way is also going to hurt people. Otherwise elves would have to steer a lot clearer of humans.
[Though it takes Cade a moment, he does at last realize that Alistair is joking. He doesn't laugh, however, just wilting again and looking uncomfortable. It's so easy for people to joke about blood magic, but the uses of it to which he's born witness have been no laughing matter. His stomach turns at the thought, and he looks at the kitchen door, perhaps considering whether or not this conversation might have run its course.]
...that's not very funny, [he says quietly, making a baseline effort to prevent the chasm between them from opening wider.]
...that's not very funny, [he says quietly, making a baseline effort to prevent the chasm between them from opening wider.]
[ Alistair gives him a brief, flat look, disinterested in debating what he's allowed to joke about or any sort of Templar lecture about the horrors of blood magic Cade might have prepared. Nearly every Orlesian Warden he's known over the last twelve years died as a sacrifice, and the rest he last saw bound to demons in the Anderfels. He knows.
But whatever. ]
Yes, well, [ he says, ] you can't be sure that anyone won't hurt you. That isn't how people work. There are men who—hurt little girls, instead of boys, too, but most of them don't, and you can't go around assuming they all do. I don't know what else to tel you.
But whatever. ]
Yes, well, [ he says, ] you can't be sure that anyone won't hurt you. That isn't how people work. There are men who—hurt little girls, instead of boys, too, but most of them don't, and you can't go around assuming they all do. I don't know what else to tel you.
[Although he's utterly incompetent at dealing with people, Cade can at least read them pretty well, and is aware of Alistair's mood shift almost instantaneously.]
Sorry, [he says hastily, cursing himself-- can he not make it weird just once? Just once. He's trying, for Andraste's sake, but fat lot of good that's ever done him.
He stares at the table while Alistair continues to speak, and is silent for several moments after, clearly having difficulty with the conversation and still unable as ever to articulate it sensibly.]
...do you think less of me? [He asks finally, meeting Alistair's eyes for a split second and then chickening out.]
Sorry, [he says hastily, cursing himself-- can he not make it weird just once? Just once. He's trying, for Andraste's sake, but fat lot of good that's ever done him.
He stares at the table while Alistair continues to speak, and is silent for several moments after, clearly having difficulty with the conversation and still unable as ever to articulate it sensibly.]
...do you think less of me? [He asks finally, meeting Alistair's eyes for a split second and then chickening out.]
Not yet, [ Alistair says, which may not be brutal honesty, but is not very gentle honesty, probably, either. ] I—I know you probably can't help who you do or don't feel comfortable with, but you can't go around insulting people who haven't done anything wrong.
[That wasn't entirely what he meant, but Cade is willing to accept the answer nonetheless. He nods, not seeming to mind the tone of the answer; gentleness is a quality he's encountered only recently in his interpersonal dealings. It still throws him off, and isn't as effective.]
I didn't mean to, [he says again, and squints his eyes with a rapid shake of his head. He's not an idiot, he's not into self-pity and knows how pathetic that sounds.] ...I'll... try. Not to. [He doesn't always necessarily know what will and won't insult people, but he's made an effort to learn in some cases.]
I didn't mean to, [he says again, and squints his eyes with a rapid shake of his head. He's not an idiot, he's not into self-pity and knows how pathetic that sounds.] ...I'll... try. Not to. [He doesn't always necessarily know what will and won't insult people, but he's made an effort to learn in some cases.]
...sorry.
[He sounds a bit defeated, but decides to busy himself by actually going for the sweet roll and filling his mouth with it before he can say anything else stupid. He chews it for a while, staring at the table, simultaneously hunting for a new and less catastrophic conversation topic, and being mad at himself for being so impossibly awkward. It's not very productive.]
[He sounds a bit defeated, but decides to busy himself by actually going for the sweet roll and filling his mouth with it before he can say anything else stupid. He chews it for a while, staring at the table, simultaneously hunting for a new and less catastrophic conversation topic, and being mad at himself for being so impossibly awkward. It's not very productive.]
Nathaniel sits down with Alistair by a fire and passes him two letters: one from Eamon Guerrin and one from Fergus Cousland.
"You ought to see these. Then we should talk about whether it's worthwhile to pursue this."
The letters both have the same jist: a number of fruitless leads on Jonas' location, that his last known location was Kal'hirol, and that Nathaniel is very optimistic to think he can resuscitate a dead horse to keep beating it despite all the efforts of Ferelden's resources to find its prince-consort.
"You ought to see these. Then we should talk about whether it's worthwhile to pursue this."
The letters both have the same jist: a number of fruitless leads on Jonas' location, that his last known location was Kal'hirol, and that Nathaniel is very optimistic to think he can resuscitate a dead horse to keep beating it despite all the efforts of Ferelden's resources to find its prince-consort.
Alistair accepts the letters and reads them twice, brow furrowed and jaw set firm. No one can see his feelings if he doesn't let his face move. That's how acting works. He stares at Eamon's name for a particularly long moment—he'll still admit he behaved abominably as a child, he still understands that Eamon owed him nothing, but during the Blight he was championed and then cast aside again with whiplash-inducing speed.
But that was twelve years ago. He holds the letters back out to Nathaniel with one hand and reaches to stir the pot of stew over the fire with the other.
"Well, I'd love to chase after him," he says, "but I'm not allowed in the country. What a shame."
But that was twelve years ago. He holds the letters back out to Nathaniel with one hand and reaches to stir the pot of stew over the fire with the other.
"Well, I'd love to chase after him," he says, "but I'm not allowed in the country. What a shame."
"What conversation, exactly? Where's Prince Cousland? Maker's arse if I know." This isn't a temper tantrum, exactly. It's too quiet. More of a frantic, manic attempt not to have any feelings. He's doing different voices, too, to make it easier to follow his imaginary conversation, and Nathaniel's very welcome for that. "Sure would have been nice if he'd told anyone where he was going and why before haring off and abandoning everyone. Yes, that would have been great—"
Nathaniel grinds his teeth. Is this really their rightful Warden-Commander? This child? This is what he's given to work with when trying to save the world and the Wardens both? It doesn't take long before he can no longer bear it.
"I knew him longer than you," Nathaniel hisses. "His father was at my father's wedding. My sister was going to marry him. I used to watch him and Thomas playing together as boys. Stuff your baggage, Alistair. We have to decide whether to officially give him up for dead."
"I knew him longer than you," Nathaniel hisses. "His father was at my father's wedding. My sister was going to marry him. I used to watch him and Thomas playing together as boys. Stuff your baggage, Alistair. We have to decide whether to officially give him up for dead."
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