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"Did you call him brother?"
His words carry the weight of an accusation, and Mahariel frowns against it, the quirk of lips a shield. Alistair's cheeks are flushed and angry, his eyes bright, and he's drawn himself up to his full, indignant height- towering over their slight frame by at least a head and a half.
This was not the boy- clumsy and bright and cheerful and good- who would make them laugh or tell stories on dark, sleepless nights when the nightmares lurked too close to the surface. This was not the young man that had bashfully presented them a rose, calling them beautiful and pure, who had kissed them in the oppressive blackness of the Deep Roads, when the walls closed in and breathing was too arduous of a task to undertake. This was not the Alistair who shyly held their hand or brushed stray locks of hair behind their ears or wish them sweet dreams.
This was just another angry shem, looking down his nose at them.
(It was painfully easy, now, to see him as they had known he was deep, deep down, a spineless and petulant child, throwing a tantrum when things did not go his way--)
"Did you call him brother?" Alistair repeats, this time a demand, his voice pitched slightly louder.
Mahariel tilts their head, blinks big, brown eyes at him. "I did. It's what he is now, isn't he?"
Grey Wardens were murderers and rapists and thieves, nobles and knights and princes, but they were all Wardens, and whoever you were before the Order didn't matter, because you were no longer that person. That was what Duncan had impressed on them, at least.
Alistair seems to bristle, his shoulders drawing up as he glares down at them, his expression screwed into something ugly and furious. Mahariel doesn't understand- the decision had been a sensible one, unfettered by their own personal desires. They had never asked to be a Warden, but they did their duty to end the Blight nonetheless; the more of them to fight the darkspawn, the better. Why didn't Alistair see that?
Loghain was no longer Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, war hero and regicide, but Warden Loghain, new initiate. Just as Alistair had ceased being a prince, bastard or no, and a templar-in-training, as soon as he downed the chalice.
He sputters something, and Mahariel's dark brows raise and then furrow. Alistair throws his hands up with a frustrated sound, then turns on his heel, ceremonial armor that had once belonged to his brother rattling noisily with every step. He pauses, fingers closed around the door handle, and turns to look at them with unkind eyes.
"Hopefully your new brother won't murder you in your sleep."
The heavy wooden door slams shut behind him in lieu of a goodbye, and Mahariel flinches.
Something breaks inside of them at the sound of his boots stomping down the hall, a wound that bleeds and bleeds more than anything they'd experienced before, sharp and painful. They crumble to the floor, hard, on their knees, and this time when they gasp for breath, there is no one there to hold their hand and coax them through it.