"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 was getting to that," Alistair says. He doesn't especially care how long Nathaniel knew Cousland or anyone else. Bully for him and his whole noble family—the voices resume, albeit a little more restrained. "—that would have been great, maybe that way we'd know whether he was doing something useful or sleeping his way across the Bannorn in disguise."
Can you stir stew viciously? He tries.
"If you want to send Wardens into the Deep Roads for him, we're going to need to know why he might be worth their lives. Their lives specifically. What he is that's worth trading Inessa and Ciri for. Unless you'd like to just go yourself to tell him off for spurning your sister. Then, by all means."
Nathaniel ignores the bait. "Right now, we're trying to set ourselves up as the true Wardens. Different from the northern ones. And so far, our only differences are that we are poorer, smaller, and entirely lacking in both influence and publicity. Oh, and we tried not to perform blood sacrifices and take over whole nations, but for all anyone out there knows, we might do it anyway. The only ally we have is the Inquisition, to the point where it looks like they sit around with their hands up our arses making us say what they want. What are we doing? Are we going to ride their coattails to victory only to find at the end we're still poor, friendless, and now with a massive debt to the Inquisition?
"We need to remind people what the Wardens really are. And there are exactly two people in the entire world who can make people remember, just by having their name spoken or their face seen. One of them is Jonas. And if Jonas is dead..."
He makes a gesture to Alistair, as if letting him complete that thought.
If there's any doubt remaining that Alistair's can we not attitude about the Blight is more than false modesty, any suspicion that he might actually enjoy the attention, then maybe the way his face immediately drains of some color and the challenging squint drops directly into an expression of genuine (mild) fear will help settle the matter.
He sits back, leaving the stew to its own devices, and thinks in silence for a few seconds before deliberately recovering and rearranging his face—into a smirk, this time, which might not be a great sign, but it's the same smirk he gives people he actually does like when he antagonizes them out of love. Nothing too hostile.
"I don't know, Howe, I think you'd make a great public face," he says, and gestures grandly with one hand as if making a speech. "No matter how far up your arse that stick is lodged, you, too, can learn to pull it out and beat darkspawn with it."
Buying a moment. He's still thinking about Cousland.
That...was kind of a backhanded compliment. Not about Nate being a good public face, but about him beating the darkspawn with the stick up his ass. The public face thing is more obviously a joke. Nathaniel refrains from comment, since for once, it looks like Alistair is actually thinking.
"Looking for him doesn't mean he's alive," he says instead. "It doesn't mean we'll find him at all. He sought the Deep Roads entry in Kal'hirol. He might have been looking for the Architect, or he might have...mistaken the false Calling for the real one, and gone and got himself killed. That the trail went cold is not a hopeful sign. That place has a history of being a nest for the darkspawn. We could be throwing lives away for nothing if we pursue this. Or we could come home with the ultimate prize. Our need remains the same regardless."
"I'm sorry," he says, without any particular difficulty. Understanding when he's wrong is hard for him sometimes. Admitting it once he's realized it, less so. "You're right."
He puts his boot on the edge of his pot to tip it and check the contents. They're still distinguishable from each other instead of slop. It's not done yet.
"We could send someone to Kal'Hirol," he says. It's not a decision, just conversation. "Volunteers. No one who doesn't agree it's worth it."
Finally. They should have a code word just between them that lets the other know they're serious so they can skip the fight before every important conversation. Nathaniel settles in for the long haul and considers Alistair's words carefully.
"That...is a good solution to the dilemma. A small party of volunteer scouts could move quickly. The people tracking him before weren't Wardens; we might come up with something they couldn't. If we don't, then the trail is well and truly cold. If we do, we could send more forces to back them up. Standard operation, but the location makes it especially dangerous. It's high risk, but it would put some questions to rest."
He hesitates.
"If we find nothing, or if we learn he is dead...you wouldn't have to do anything you didn't want to. But if you decided to step up, you wouldn't likely have to do very much differently from what you're doing now. There could still be a joint leadership, in practice. Your name would just happen to be mentioned in all the propaganda."
Propaganda. Right. That's what they were talking about.
Alistair rubs his eyes with his hand, punching in toward the bridge of his nose. His blighted name. He'd happily be eclipsed by Cousland for the rest of his life, outshone by anyone at all bright enough to make him invisible, if it meant never having to hear you're not what I expected again.
But if he's what they have, he's what they have.
"Let's see if we find him first," he says, dropping the hand from his eyes. "If he's alive and not hiding intentionally—" which doesn't sound like him, however bitter Alistair is; if he's alive he's being held against his will or is on the trail of something legitimately more important than Corypheus and the breakdown of the Order or... just hasn't heard the news, somehow. "—then he'll probably take his job back and the two of you can sort it out."
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"Not you," Nathaniel says pointedly. "The Wardens. I'm serious. It's a conversation we can't put off any longer. We've put it off too long already."
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"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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Can you stir stew viciously? He tries.
"If you want to send Wardens into the Deep Roads for him, we're going to need to know why he might be worth their lives. Their lives specifically. What he is that's worth trading Inessa and Ciri for. Unless you'd like to just go yourself to tell him off for spurning your sister. Then, by all means."
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"We need to remind people what the Wardens really are. And there are exactly two people in the entire world who can make people remember, just by having their name spoken or their face seen. One of them is Jonas. And if Jonas is dead..."
He makes a gesture to Alistair, as if letting him complete that thought.
steals a mass effect joke
He sits back, leaving the stew to its own devices, and thinks in silence for a few seconds before deliberately recovering and rearranging his face—into a smirk, this time, which might not be a great sign, but it's the same smirk he gives people he actually does like when he antagonizes them out of love. Nothing too hostile.
"I don't know, Howe, I think you'd make a great public face," he says, and gestures grandly with one hand as if making a speech. "No matter how far up your arse that stick is lodged, you, too, can learn to pull it out and beat darkspawn with it."
Buying a moment. He's still thinking about Cousland.
at least you're keeping it in the family
"Looking for him doesn't mean he's alive," he says instead. "It doesn't mean we'll find him at all. He sought the Deep Roads entry in Kal'hirol. He might have been looking for the Architect, or he might have...mistaken the false Calling for the real one, and gone and got himself killed. That the trail went cold is not a hopeful sign. That place has a history of being a nest for the darkspawn. We could be throwing lives away for nothing if we pursue this. Or we could come home with the ultimate prize. Our need remains the same regardless."
no subject
He puts his boot on the edge of his pot to tip it and check the contents. They're still distinguishable from each other instead of slop. It's not done yet.
"We could send someone to Kal'Hirol," he says. It's not a decision, just conversation. "Volunteers. No one who doesn't agree it's worth it."
no subject
"That...is a good solution to the dilemma. A small party of volunteer scouts could move quickly. The people tracking him before weren't Wardens; we might come up with something they couldn't. If we don't, then the trail is well and truly cold. If we do, we could send more forces to back them up. Standard operation, but the location makes it especially dangerous. It's high risk, but it would put some questions to rest."
He hesitates.
"If we find nothing, or if we learn he is dead...you wouldn't have to do anything you didn't want to. But if you decided to step up, you wouldn't likely have to do very much differently from what you're doing now. There could still be a joint leadership, in practice. Your name would just happen to be mentioned in all the propaganda."
no subject
Propaganda. Right. That's what they were talking about.
Alistair rubs his eyes with his hand, punching in toward the bridge of his nose. His blighted name. He'd happily be eclipsed by Cousland for the rest of his life, outshone by anyone at all bright enough to make him invisible, if it meant never having to hear you're not what I expected again.
But if he's what they have, he's what they have.
"Let's see if we find him first," he says, dropping the hand from his eyes. "If he's alive and not hiding intentionally—" which doesn't sound like him, however bitter Alistair is; if he's alive he's being held against his will or is on the trail of something legitimately more important than Corypheus and the breakdown of the Order or... just hasn't heard the news, somehow. "—then he'll probably take his job back and the two of you can sort it out."