[She's not going to treat him like he's stupid. She's not going to make a snide remark like No, with a... something clever that Beleth would easily think of. A pause. Pregnant pause, get it? Ha ha. But no. She's going to give him his dignity, merely with a pursing of her lips and a sour look up at him to indicate she knows he knows better.]
[ He plays chicken with her for a few seconds--four, at
least, spent blank and for all appearances clueless in the face of her
unimpressed expression. He could go on longer if it were necessary. But
it's not. He cracks, smiles a little with just one corner of his mouth, and
shifts his weight back without actually moving as if to get a better look
at her. ]
About a month ago. [She softens again at the tiny smile, at least enough to lean back against the bulwark.] It was with someone I don't even like. He was just cute and charming enough to be worth it, and I'd had a dry spell for so long--
[he doesn't need to know about this.]
Anyway, he doesn't know. Yet. And...I don't know if I should tell him.
[ Dry spell gets a very brief upward twitch of one eyebrow,
but no, not the point. The point is--
well, the point is that Pel is pregnant. But the subpoint is that
she hasn't told the father. His face doesn't exactly cloud, but
the line that appears between his eyebrows is, in this extended weather
metaphor, a halo around the moon. ]
[Her gaze falls. It's shameful, maybe. Selfish. She looks back at him with a plea in her eyes.]
Alistair...when I asked him about a burn scar he had, he said he burned himself lighting his farts on fire. It was a year ago. He was twenty-seven. I don't think he's a family man, and I don't want him to feel like he has to make himself one when I'll be fine without him.
Right. Is that what you'll tell the child? Sorry you've never met your
father, Pel Junior, [ pitched higher, helpfully, so she can
follow along with the characters in scenario easily, ] but he
wasn't very mature for his age.
I don't know if you have grandparents who might have liked to meet you, sweetheart, [ he goes on in his Old Mother Pel Voice, as if she hadn't said anything at all, ] but don't worry, they probably smelled funny anyway.
What? [Her face is getting red--anger and shame, that he's accusing her of an attitude she would never have and that he might actually be right and she's that horrible for even considering this. And she'd come here to hear his judgment.
Her words fail her, as they often, do, and instead both hands punch out to shove him away. She is small, but she is also surprisingly strong.]
[ He's taken off guard enough that he takes a reflexive step backward, exhaling and startled. Unfortunately it's not nearly enough to dislodge the chip on his shoulder. ]
Why are you talking about this to me? What did you think I'd say?
[He's right. She had expected him to say exactly this, just a little less insensitively. Her voice catches, and she pushes past it hoarsely.]
You're supposed to talk sense into me. Make me do the right thing because I'm too muddled to remember what it's like when someone decides the best thing for you is to be far away from someone who might love you.
[Tears spring into her eyes and it's not just the pregnancy hormones. She once fell in love with someone who never grew up, and he didn't just leave her. He never quite left--he left enough to be gone, but not enough for her to move on. Can she allow that for her child? A father who is there just enough to cause pain but not enough to be a father?]
[ Oh. Tears. Maker. He stops himself short and snaps his mouth shut, but he doesn't crumple in response; his shoulders stay straight and rigid with irritation, his expression cloudy. ]
It's the baby's life, Alistair. And if Saeris can't love this child enough to either be there or make a clean break, I'll have a child who has to watch its father walk away time and again. That's what I had to do.
And you're going to make that decision for everyone? Because you don't like his hobbies?
[ Hobbies is one way of putting it. A flippant way. ]
I'd have given anything for one day--
[ Abort, abort, deflective shields compromised. He Does Not Care About Maric and he Does Not Resent Fiona. It's fine. But he shuts up at that, leaves it hanging for a second, and switches tactics. ]
If you tell him and he doesn't come through, then that's on him.
[Mythal'enaste, Alistair and Anders both. Maybe that should mean Pel should do the thing, tell Saeris, but her brain isn't there yet.]
And on me, for not protecting--Alistair, your mother made the same choice, giving you away to protect you.
[That...isn't the right comparison. That's not at all what she's doing, nor is she trying to say that Alistair being abandoned by his mother was a good thing.]
[ HOW DARE EVERYONE KEEP GOING WHERE HE DOES NOT WANT THEM TO GO. ]
She gave me away because she couldn't keep me-- [ a pause to rein his own voice back in before it gets loud. He isn't going to shout at a nearly-crying pregnant woman. He is really really not. Morrigan would descend from the heavens to eat him on the spot. ] --but then she decided my father shouldn't see me, either. For my own good. That wasn't her right.
[ Or it was, and Maric could have refused, but when they spoke Fiona was fairly insistent on being the one to blame for that, so here he is, blaming her. ]
If it were the other way around, and Sael--Saer--whatever was up here telling me that he wanted to keep a baby away from you because you're controlling and humorless and you'd ignore it for your research, I'd tell him the same thing.
[She punches him in the arm, which, despite her being surprisingly strong, basically amounts to trying to karate-chop a golem. She shakes out her hand and cradles it against her chest.]
I'm not humorless-- [she can't deny she's controlling] --and I would never, never, you brat--
[and this is the hormones, the squeaky weeping she breaks into. Otherwise, she would take it in stride and either be cold as ice or admit he's right and she needs to face up to this challenge. Anders has basically told her the same thing. But Anders doesn't know what Alistair knows. Anders doesn't know what really terrifies her about being a mother, and Alistair does, though he hasn't put it together, but used it as a weapon. And now she can't stop the squeaky, hoarse sobbing into her hands, though she tries.]
[ He looks at his arm when she punches it, then at her, faint amusement layered on top of his anger in a way that makes it not entirely friendly--though it would be if the circumstances were different.
But then she starts squeaking. ]
Maker, [ he says, staring with exasperation, because it's easier to be annoyed with her for crying than at himself for causing it, but it only takes the span of those two syllables for him to feel bad instead. He repeats it again more quietly-- ] Maker, Pel, don't...
[ And rakes a hand back through his hair. ]
I know you wouldn't. That isn't what I... I just mean that he might not know that you wouldn't, and he shouldn't decide--
[ What people think of her, probably, when they're being unkind. Everyone has some flaws. Pel is brusque and bossy. Alistair is obnoxious and childish and an enormous disappointment to everyone who knows him. ]
It was only an example. Of what he might say. And I'll call him an asshole.
[And now she's crying because Alistair would call Saeris an asshole for saying things about her. Or that's as close as she can figure, anyway. But trying to reason with herself isn't working, she's still crying, and she can't let herself continue to be seen like this. This is no state for her to be in in public.]
I'm so sorry. I have to be alone. [She turns away and starts trotting toward the Herald's Rest, sniffling loudly and ducking her head.]
[ But he doesn't go after her. He stands there for a long stretch of time trying to decide what's worse--going after someone who says they want to be alone, or not going after someone who's crying--and rather than come to a conclusion, eventually realizes it's too late either way. ]
[She's so embarrassed that she doesn't come back to him till the next day, after she has already spoken with Saeris. She approaches him at the Warden camp, carrying a loaf of bread and some fresh halla cheese wrapped in cloth. She offers both to him, barely able to look him in the eye.]
[ He's repairing his armor--a thick needle and heavy thread where the strips of leather between the silver scales is threatening to come apart. It's not delicate work. He can manage.
But he puts it aside, sure, and takes what he's offered without protest. He's not in the position to turn down gifts. Especially food. ]
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[ It's a good thing the pine cone had already left his hand, or his surprised turn toward her might have meant hitting her in the face with it. ]
With a baby?
[ I'm sorry. ]
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[ He plays chicken with her for a few seconds--four, at least, spent blank and for all appearances clueless in the face of her unimpressed expression. He could go on longer if it were necessary. But it's not. He cracks, smiles a little with just one corner of his mouth, and shifts his weight back without actually moving as if to get a better look at her. ]
Since when?
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[he doesn't need to know about this.]
Anyway, he doesn't know. Yet. And...I don't know if I should tell him.
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[ Dry spell gets a very brief upward twitch of one eyebrow, but no, not the point. The point is--
well, the point is that Pel is pregnant. But the subpoint is that she hasn't told the father. His face doesn't exactly cloud, but the line that appears between his eyebrows is, in this extended weather metaphor, a halo around the moon. ]
Why wouldn't you?
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Alistair...when I asked him about a burn scar he had, he said he burned himself lighting his farts on fire. It was a year ago. He was twenty-seven. I don't think he's a family man, and I don't want him to feel like he has to make himself one when I'll be fine without him.
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Right. Is that what you'll tell the child? Sorry you've never met your father, Pel Junior, [ pitched higher, helpfully, so she can follow along with the characters in scenario easily, ] but he wasn't very mature for his age.
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I don't see why we have to plague each other for the rest of our lives just because a couple of his swimmers got through.
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Her words fail her, as they often, do, and instead both hands punch out to shove him away. She is small, but she is also surprisingly strong.]
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Why are you talking about this to me? What did you think I'd say?
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[He's right. She had expected him to say exactly this, just a little less insensitively. Her voice catches, and she pushes past it hoarsely.]
You're supposed to talk sense into me. Make me do the right thing because I'm too muddled to remember what it's like when someone decides the best thing for you is to be far away from someone who might love you.
[Tears spring into her eyes and it's not just the pregnancy hormones. She once fell in love with someone who never grew up, and he didn't just leave her. He never quite left--he left enough to be gone, but not enough for her to move on. Can she allow that for her child? A father who is there just enough to cause pain but not enough to be a father?]
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[ Oh. Tears. Maker. He stops himself short and snaps his mouth shut, but he doesn't crumple in response; his shoulders stay straight and rigid with irritation, his expression cloudy. ]
It's not just your life.
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[ Hobbies is one way of putting it. A flippant way. ]
I'd have given anything for one day--
[ Abort, abort, deflective shields compromised. He Does Not Care About Maric and he Does Not Resent Fiona. It's fine. But he shuts up at that, leaves it hanging for a second, and switches tactics. ]
If you tell him and he doesn't come through, then that's on him.
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And on me, for not protecting--Alistair, your mother made the same choice, giving you away to protect you.
[That...isn't the right comparison. That's not at all what she's doing, nor is she trying to say that Alistair being abandoned by his mother was a good thing.]
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She gave me away because she couldn't keep me-- [ a pause to rein his own voice back in before it gets loud. He isn't going to shout at a nearly-crying pregnant woman. He is really really not. Morrigan would descend from the heavens to eat him on the spot. ] --but then she decided my father shouldn't see me, either. For my own good. That wasn't her right.
[ Or it was, and Maric could have refused, but when they spoke Fiona was fairly insistent on being the one to blame for that, so here he is, blaming her. ]
If it were the other way around, and Sael--Saer--whatever was up here telling me that he wanted to keep a baby away from you because you're controlling and humorless and you'd ignore it for your research, I'd tell him the same thing.
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[She punches him in the arm, which, despite her being surprisingly strong, basically amounts to trying to karate-chop a golem. She shakes out her hand and cradles it against her chest.]
I'm not humorless-- [she can't deny she's controlling] --and I would never, never, you brat--
[and this is the hormones, the squeaky weeping she breaks into. Otherwise, she would take it in stride and either be cold as ice or admit he's right and she needs to face up to this challenge. Anders has basically told her the same thing. But Anders doesn't know what Alistair knows. Anders doesn't know what really terrifies her about being a mother, and Alistair does, though he hasn't put it together, but used it as a weapon. And now she can't stop the squeaky, hoarse sobbing into her hands, though she tries.]
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But then she starts squeaking. ]
Maker, [ he says, staring with exasperation, because it's easier to be annoyed with her for crying than at himself for causing it, but it only takes the span of those two syllables for him to feel bad instead. He repeats it again more quietly-- ] Maker, Pel, don't...
[ And rakes a hand back through his hair. ]
I know you wouldn't. That isn't what I... I just mean that he might not know that you wouldn't, and he shouldn't decide--
[ Blast it. ]
Please don't cry.
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Is that what-- [hiccup] --is that what everyone really thinks of me?
[Because those are things she thinks of herself. And Alistair just said them.]
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[ What people think of her, probably, when they're being unkind. Everyone has some flaws. Pel is brusque and bossy. Alistair is obnoxious and childish and an enormous disappointment to everyone who knows him. ]
It was only an example. Of what he might say. And I'll call him an asshole.
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I'm so sorry. I have to be alone. [She turns away and starts trotting toward the Herald's Rest, sniffling loudly and ducking her head.]
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[ But he doesn't go after her. He stands there for a long stretch of time trying to decide what's worse--going after someone who says they want to be alone, or not going after someone who's crying--and rather than come to a conclusion, eventually realizes it's too late either way. ]
The next day
Here.
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But he puts it aside, sure, and takes what he's offered without protest. He's not in the position to turn down gifts. Especially food. ]
Thank you. [ A beat. ] Are you all right?
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