Bright sun shines through the high-set windows of Eamon's library, dazing the eyes. Alistair blinks several times. "Pinch me, someone," he asks. "I can't have waken yet. We are going to… rescue Loghain's daughter? Fom the supposed danger in the hands of her father's best pal? At the word of an elven maid?"
Ned gives him an amused look. "A maid with the most innocent brown eyes and quite a talent for acting. 'He loved Cailan like his son, does he like Anora more? Who can tell, non?'" His imitation exaggerates both the zeal and the accent.
Oh yes, I forget: an Orlesian elven maid," Alistair mutters. "Why, of all the people, should Loghain's daughter keep an Orlesian maid –" he pauses as it dawns on him why they keep the company of an Orlesian – right, a Fereldan by birth but an Orlesian by the upbringing. "You think she's a bard?"
Ned twists a corner of his mouth. "I can't think of any other plausible explanation." He taps the elbow rest of his armchair with his fingers, then he laughs quietly and leans back, stretching his legs. "Anyway. This most probable Orlesian bard comes with a most improbable story, gives a heart-wrenching account of how Loghain loved Cailan, and does not forget to mention that Anora's support at the Landsmeet would be a valuable asset for us." He shakes his head. "Tell me, do I look like an idiot?"
The question is apparently rhetorical, yet Alistair never misses his chance. "Well – let me think for a moment."
"Think," Ned repeats with doubtful intonation. Alistair smirks inwardly, seeing Eamon's expression – I'd think you've had enough time to get used to this. The situation acutely reminds him of Duncan's reaction – the memory is bittersweet, since it was the last time he saw Duncan alive.
"Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance Remigold, I'm drawing a line, darkspawn or not."
An unexpected sound – Ned laughs, genuinely and wholeheartedly; the very first time Alistair hears him laugh since they met. "I'll get you some fancy stockings to go with the dress." He winks exaggeratedly. "You can trust my taste."
Duncan sighs at the exchange, his thought as clear as if articulated aloud: Oh, Maker. Two of them.
I do trust you, Alistair thinks, always will. "So, what do we do? Assist the lady in distress and hope we won't be in the need of assistance ourselves?"
"It would seem so. Even if I was willing to dismiss the whole Anora-in-danger thing as mere fabrication, I still cannot afford to miss our possibly only chance to sway the nobles to our side. We all know what our support currently looks like."
Eamon, up till now keeping silent, clears his throat. "Now matter how improbable the option seems to you, if they do kill Anora and blame it on us, the consequences will be disastrous."
Alistair raises his brows. "This reminds me of a guy back in the Chantry. He used to wear a helmet everywhere he went, in case a stone fell on him out of the blue sky. 'The chances are slim but I cannot take the risk', he used to say."
Ned snorts. "Exactly. Nonetheless, this is so evidently a trap that I simply cannot believe that they would actually expect me to believe it. It looks like a trap, it smells like a trap – what am I supposed to do when it eventually turns out to be a trap, yell 'gotcha'? I mean, what irritates me most is not the fact that it's a trap – after all, I guess I'd be disappointed if Loghain did not try anything – but that I have to walk in something that looks like a badly staged farce.
"I doubt very much that –" the gnawing thought finally makes itself manifest. "What do you mean, 'I'?" Since when is it 'I', not 'we'?
"Well – "Ned raises his brows in a perfect embodiment of innocence. "Since we know for sure that this is a trap, there's no reason why we should walk in it both, is there?"
"No reason? Like, you mean that you cannot expose me to risk? If I remember correctly, the undead, the demons, the werewolves, even the darkspawn were alright, but one Loghain is too much?"
Ned rises from his armchair, the spark of mischief in his eyes gone. "Alistair. Whatever we've been through, the danger was… undiscriminating. Impersonal. Whereas now – you are the key to our success. You are now more important than anyone else. I know it, you know it – and so does Loghain. All he has to do now to secure his position is to kill you. This is the endgame, do or die."
Alistair has to breathe very slowly. "Correct me if I am wrong – but since you have been the head figure in all we've done, the trap may well be set to ensnare you."
"So it may. Let's face the truth, Alistair – I've already done what I could. You are unexpendable now – I am not."
"What?" Alistair springs from his armchair. He knew – Maker, he knew that it would come to this, sooner or later, and now the face that Ned has made tells him that Matters Are Serious and that it has come to doing What Is Right. Maker, I hate this! "I'm simply not going to let you go through with this alone!"
"Nobody's asking for your permission."
Damn it, don't you try that cold poker face with me! "Maker's breath, Ned, you claim that you are going to make me king. Shouldn't you bloody well show some respect to what I want?"
Ned stares back at him for a moment, then says very softly: "When that day comes, I'll gladly kneel and swear fealty to you, you know that. But until then, I am the commander here."
You are. You made that crystal clear back then when you sacrificed Isolde. Not that I ever forgot but most of the time I have no problem with that.
Most of the time.
"Ned is right," Eamon interferes in the pause. "You will have to come to terms with the changes your new status will require– the sooner the better."
Great, that was exactly what I needed to hear, thank you oh so much – but it was all your idea, wasn't it. Alistair takes a deep breath. "I am very well aware that things have changed. It's just… It doesn't feel right." He looks Ned straight in the eyes. "Nothing I say really matters, does it?" Not waiting for the response, he sighs and continues: "Do me at least a favour – do take a decent armour for a change. I don't like the idea that a piece of lizard skin is all that stands between you and a little backstabbing job."
Ned blinks. "You mean I should go for a supposedly secret mission in my shiny clinky Warden Commander breastplate? Wouldn't it sort of spoil the effect? – Don't be silly, you know that the drakeskin is actually better against blades than most stuff you find at the market." Then he grins slightly, easing the atmosphere. "I'll leave Wolf with you, he's definitely no help for a quiet break-in."
"Great. I'm to be left in charge of one fleabag of a mabari. Anything else to take care of in your absence?
"No – but I think both of you could use some supervision, so I'm leaving Wynne behind, as well."
I see – the king-to-be is unfit to remain home alone. Great.
And the next sentence makes it even worse.
"Besides, you will need some support if I don't make it back."
Alistair loudly exhales in exasperation. Add a new item to the mental list of things-to-hate-about-the-royal-business: friends taking the risk istead of me.
And he can only pray to the Maker that the risk does not turn out to be a sacrifice.
