"The Heretical and Pagan Customs of the Elven," Alistair lies, to tease. If Pel knows the actual title of the work he's referring to, the missing and reversed words in the title might give that away. If she doesn't, the book he picks up off his pile of blankets and furs has entirely different words on the spine and is too old to have been commissioned by Empress Celene.
He drops a blanket on her. Meat pie follows shortly—handed, not dropped, but a bit cold now, sorry—and then he sits alongside her and cracks it open.
It is in fact a very old, likely inaccurate, excessively detailed, and not particularly interesting account of the local political history of the cities that now make up the Free Marches, back when they were the southern part of Tevinter, during the Ancient Age. But every time someone's death is noted without further detail he adds a ridiculous cause, if that helps, and periodically slips into a silly voice. He's only half paying attention to what he reads; the other half of his attention is taken up by feeling awful for Pel and wanting to hold her parents over a high cliff by their ankles, so he has to stop once or twice to reread a sentence more carefully, silently this time, and make sure it isn't actually important.
Her brow furrows at the first joke. Not good timing for that one. But then there's a blanket and food to pick at, and she leans against him, her head on his shoulder, and listens. Her expression lightens as he reads, and eventually his jokes earn smiles that are progressively wider and longer lasting.
It's during one of his pauses, while he's rereading a bit, that she finally speaks.
"Maybe it's for the best. I can choose my own clanmates now. I can choose my daughter's clanmates. And when she's grown, she will be able to choose her own clanmates. But that's very hard to believe when I know everyone plans to go their separate ways after this."
"It will be over before she's old enough to know who anyone is," Alistair says, abandoning the sentence, and eschewing realism for comfort. Maybe they'll all be dead instead. But his mother raised him for a year, apparently, and he believe she was dead from the beginning, and turned out... mostly all right. He can buckle his own boots and everything.
The more comforting thing might be to say he'll be around, but that's a bigger lie than he's prepared to tell.
"Then you'll be able to settle down somewhere. Maybe you can convince Zevran to stay clear of Antiva and raise little elves somewhere safe."
"But I'm old enough to know who everyone is," Pel says, voice going breathy as her throat tries to close up again. "And the people I choose...there's no reason they should choose me back. Everyone has something more important. You have to be a Warden. James has to be a Templar. You don't have any choice about that. And the people who don't have to do things...maybe Cyril could be around, but he wants to make life better for the Dalish and that means spending most of his time away. I don't have anyone for whom I'm the priority. I thought I did, I thought there were these mythical parents who gave me up for my own good, that they'd welcome me back the moment they had the chance--and none of that was true. It's so selfish of me, but there's really no evidence that it's going to be anyone but Sina and me. That was never what I wanted. I wanted a better life for her than the one I had. I wanted a better life for me."
"I think having you for a mother is already a better life for her than you had," Alistair says, a bit at a loss. "Better than a lot of people have. The rest will work itself out."
Work itself out. Pel is so used to earning everything she has. It's hard to trust in something working itself out. But Alistair is right. She can't ensure things working out through hard work. Luck, or maybe faith, has to factor into any peace of mind she has.
She's silent for a moment, letting the panic slowly release her and fly away.
"You're right," she says at last. "Of course you're right. Thank you."
"I'm always right," Alistair says. "I keep telling people."
Possibly not always in the best state of mind to be reassuring anyone about anyone else's likelihood of sticking around, given his track record. But if it's worked anyway, that's fine. He dips his head sideways to knock his jaw against the top of her head where it's resting on his shoulder.
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He drops a blanket on her. Meat pie follows shortly—handed, not dropped, but a bit cold now, sorry—and then he sits alongside her and cracks it open.
It is in fact a very old, likely inaccurate, excessively detailed, and not particularly interesting account of the local political history of the cities that now make up the Free Marches, back when they were the southern part of Tevinter, during the Ancient Age. But every time someone's death is noted without further detail he adds a ridiculous cause, if that helps, and periodically slips into a silly voice. He's only half paying attention to what he reads; the other half of his attention is taken up by feeling awful for Pel and wanting to hold her parents over a high cliff by their ankles, so he has to stop once or twice to reread a sentence more carefully, silently this time, and make sure it isn't actually important.
no subject
It's during one of his pauses, while he's rereading a bit, that she finally speaks.
"Maybe it's for the best. I can choose my own clanmates now. I can choose my daughter's clanmates. And when she's grown, she will be able to choose her own clanmates. But that's very hard to believe when I know everyone plans to go their separate ways after this."
no subject
The more comforting thing might be to say he'll be around, but that's a bigger lie than he's prepared to tell.
"Then you'll be able to settle down somewhere. Maybe you can convince Zevran to stay clear of Antiva and raise little elves somewhere safe."
Maker knows Alistair won't be able to.
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She's silent for a moment, letting the panic slowly release her and fly away.
"You're right," she says at last. "Of course you're right. Thank you."
no subject
Possibly not always in the best state of mind to be reassuring anyone about anyone else's likelihood of sticking around, given his track record. But if it's worked anyway, that's fine. He dips his head sideways to knock his jaw against the top of her head where it's resting on his shoulder.