138. The Aftermath

Alistair managed to hold in his spectacular bitchfit until dinner that night.

Kazar was a little impressed about that, actually. He knew a thing or two about bitchfits, and the one Alistair was nurturing was not the kind that was easy to restrain. By dinner, Morrigan had been dispatched to Orzammar to let the dwarves know it was time to mobilize, and Meila had grabbed Leliana and run off to do the same with the Dalish. Preparations were underway, and the shock of the Landsmeet was settling into popular knowledge. The only person not excited to get going was the queen, what with the whole dead-dad thing, and even her ire over her father being spiked like a roast pig had been soothed by a bit of diplomacy from Arl Eamon and Finian Tabris.

Fin was still glowing a little bit over dinner, all chatty and happy. Kazar knew a thing or two about power highs, as well, and Fin was riding a doozy of one. Kazar snorted into his venison at the thought... what sort of crazy did you have to be to enjoy all that political crap? Kazar was glad his only role during the Landsmeet had been to stand around and not fall asleep.

Ah well. Finian deserved to have his creepy sort of fun. It'd worked, after all.

The remaining Wardens, companions, and a few of Eamon's estate were gathered in the dining hall over dinner. Kazar was sitting between Garott and Felicity—who, he'd noticed, was not chatty and happy. He'd have asked what was wrong, but, duh, the Templar was marrying someone else. Kind of an obvious question.

It made Kazar a little angry at Alistair, actually, that he'd do that to Felicity... and wasn't that a weird feeling? The Amell woman had seriously messed up his brain, or something.

Thinking of his messed-up head made him mentally poke at the gaping empty hole in his mind, like a kid who couldn't help but pick at a scab. Or maybe it was more like a recent amputee, because he heard missing limbs felt like this... a ghost of a presence there from time to time, only calling attention to the absence.

He could hear echoes of Mouse, sometimes, right before he went to bed or after waking up in the morning. Dark chuckling in his ears... just memories, but haunting all the same.

Because sometimes, he'd think a thought, and know it wasn't really his own. A mention of kings or generals brought a pang of ambition, even though Kazar really wouldn't want a position like that. A twisted, dead tree would recall a memory of wandering the Fade in search of someone to feed on. The mention of Tevinter at the Landsmeet had summoned very, very old flashes of humans stepping through the Veil, watched from his position lurking on the Fade side.

And yesterday, Kazar had accidentally pricked his middle finger on a nail, just enough to bleed. He'd spent a good hour in his room, mesmerized as he squeezed the digit to keep drops welling out, his head spinning and breath coming short against silent whispers of power, the demon that was himself trying to bring the rest under thrall.

It was part of him now. Mouse was gone, that was certain... but he'd left pieces behind, and now Kazar had to monitor his own thoughts just to be able to keep it separate. It was exhausting, and he didn't know if he had the willpower to keep it up for long. Not without help.

Alistair stomped into the dining hall with a plate of meat and cheese and slammed it down on the table. "I have something to say."

Conversation instantly ceased.

Finian offered Alistair a quelling smile. "Is everything all right, Alistair?"

"No, everything is not all right!" Alistair glared at Finian, hard. "I'm mad at you. All of you a little, but you in particular, Fin. You made me bloody king. I thought you were my friends; how... how could you do this to me?"

Fin's face fell. "You did agree to it beforehand."

"Right, because you talked me into it! You once talked a bunch of bandits into walking to their own deaths, too, remember?"

"Got you there, elf," Garott mumbled appreciatively.

"It's the best for everyone-" Fin said soothingly.

"Everyone except me!" Alistair snapped. "Am I not allowed to be even a little selfish? After all the... everything we've been through?"

"We all have our duty, Alistair," Percival said evenly.

"Duty? Why does your version of 'duty' involve killing darkspawn, and mine is sitting on a throne I never wanted?" He paced away from the table. "I've hated my bloodline since the day I was born! I've spent my whole life getting away from it! And you go and shove it right back in my face!"

The one most suited to the power, because he does not even want it, whispered one of those Mouse-thoughts in amusement, and Kazar couldn't help but snort a laugh.

Alistair froze mid-step, then spun sharply and glared daggers at him. "What," he bit out, "Kazar?"

Kazar met his glare evenly, wondering why he wasn't rising to the obvious anger in the Templar's voice. Huh. "Just thinking that it was funny. You're gonna do it, but you're gonna hate it, and that's why you'll be good at it. It's funny."

Bitterly, Alistair snapped, "How does being miserable every moment make me a good king, exactly?"

"Because it's power you don't want." He paused, because the idiot didn't seem to be getting it. "Look, I know a thing or two about power highs, right? They're addicting things... make you do crazy, stupid crap. It's easy to forget that you're just a person too, part of this whole society of people who feel things like you do. You forget that, when you've got power." He found himself looking down at his dinner plate. "But you will hate it, which means you'll never feel that high. You're never going to be caught standing in front of an angry Landsmeet, calling them all traitors because they happen to disagree with your own delusions. No, you'd lay down your sword and submit to trial."

"You make me sound like a pushover," there was a little bit of a whine in his voice, but at least he wasn't spitting mad anymore.

Kazar snorted. "Yeah, right. This from the guy who fought me for a half hour straight without a healer because Felicity was in the Fade prying the demon off me."

Dead silence. Kazar glanced up to see Alistair staring at him in shock. "You said you didn't remember that."

Lightning crackling through the cavern. His clawed hand, tearing Alistair's shoulder from its socket. His own deep, demonic laughter echoing off ancient stone walls. "Snippets." A lie. Things had been coming back slowly, until now he remembered the entire fight. Alistair just kept staring at him, and now it was getting uncomfortable. He sighed. "Look, I couldn't give less a crap about this whole 'you're secretly the dead king's son' or 'brother' or whatever thing. As far as I'm concerned, blood, no matter how blue, all boils the same. But when I think of you with a stupid crown on your head?" He peered up at Alistair, picturing it. "I remember the guy who had a dislocated shoulder and a burn across half his face, and was still banging on his shield to pull my attention away from Meila and Leliana. And I think, 'yeah, this is the kind of heroic moron who just might be able to pull that off'." He shrugged and turned back to his dinner. "That's just me, though."

The hall was filled with a thick, heavy silence. Under the table, Felicity's hand found his knee and squeezed, and Kazar had no idea how to interpret that.

Finally, Alistair sighed. "I'm still mad at all of you," he grumbled without much bite and slumped onto the bench.

"That's fair," Garott grunted.

"If you wish, I am for hire," Zevran said. "Though I should warn you that, for obvious reasons, Finian is off limits."

"No assassinating," Alistair said firmly. "Why do I still even have to say that?"

"Because I like assassinating?" Zevran tried. "It's a bit of a habit, you see, difficult to break. Only a beautifully bosomed goddess might distract me from my terrible habits."

"Hear, here!" Oghren said, raising his tankard in toast to the elf.

Wynne sighed from her spot at the end of the table, enduring their leers.

Alistair's head thunked down onto the table. "Oh, right. This is why I said yes. Because any of you on the throne would be the doom of us all."

"Now you're gettin' it," Garott rumbled good-naturedly. He reached over to pat Alistair on the back, and Alistair sighed long and loud. "Don't die, else we might shove the throne at the Fireball Kid here out of spite. First royal order? Burn down the Circle Tower."

Kazar snorted, but allowed a small smile. "Wouldn't need to. Demons pretty much did that for me, remember?"

"Mm. Good point."

"Wouldn't hesitate to order a dance on its ashes, though," he smirked.

Alistair banged his head on the table. "Ferelden is dooooomed."