Chapter Six
Nostalgia and the Dangers of Melancholy
It promised to be a lovely day. The sun was already shining brightly and a faint breeze blew through the mercenary camp, rustling the tents and flapping the standards. Tristan was already up and about. It had become a habit to wake early, ever since the Blight really. The sense of urgency of those days taught him that there was never time to be wasted. Only one time since then had he languished in idleness.
Brenna. Thirteen years since you've been gone.
An image of her flashed in his mind. Raven colored hair, green eyes, shimmering pale skin, long beautiful legs. Her laugh and her ability to get him to see things he couldn't were what he missed the most. Yet, he didn't think of her as much as he used to. The loss still pained him. He still wore the guilt of her death like a second skin. But it wasn't nearly as consuming as it had been. The busier he was, the less he thought of her – even if busy meant lying with another woman. He felt a brief pang of regret for doing just so with Magalie, more than once, and then pushed it away as he reached the armorer's workshop.
"Bernard, what can I do for you this morning?" the armorer asked. He sat up from a bench and wiped the sweat off his brow with a rag. Antelme was one of the few Crimson Knights who spoke the language of trade, which was otherwise known as the language of Ferelden. Tristan often found himself chatting with the big man when Sam was otherwise occupied, which seemed to be the case more often than not lately.
"I've a few chinks on my chainmail which need repairing." Tristan deposited the chainmail onto Antelme's front table.
"From the fight with the wyvern?" Antelme came around and slapped Tristan on the back hard enough that Tristan was launched forward onto the edge of the table.
"Maker's breath, yes," Tristan replied, catching his breath as the armorer laughed.
"Everyone's talking about it. About you, brother."
Tristan turned to see Sam with drink in hand. Disheveled and unsteady, Tristan thought Sam probably had yet to find his bed, especially since it was still early morning. Sam never was an early riser.
"I didn't do it all on my own," Tristan said in annoyance. He was wary of praise, had never gotten used to people talking about his exploits, from his life before and especially not from his life now. Too much talk about him was like walking on a cliff's edge. One false step and everything would tumble down.
Sam rolled his eyes and took a sip from his drink. "Right."
"I can have it repaired in no time." Antelme said from behind. Tristan turned around to face him. Antelme held up the chainmail and pointed to a part with a long scratch. "Are you sure you don't want to leave that there, as a souvenir of your victory against the beast?"
"No, repair it." Tristan shook his head but grinned nonetheless. The armorer nodded and then went into his workshop. Tristan shifted his attention back to Sam, who studied him carefully behind his drink, a sly look on his face. "What are you up to?"
"Oh Bernard, c'est chaud!" Sam ran a hand through his hair as he shouted in a feminine voice. Tristan grew slightly embarrassed as he realized the younger man was impersonating Magalie."Oooh, don't stop! Merde! Merde! C'est chaud!"
"Wow." Tristan cleared his throat, wondering if anyone else had heard that. It was exactly what Magalie had yelled out the night before. He rubbed his chin, realizing that if Sam had heard it, then others certainly had. "I really don't know what to say. I think you missed your calling as a court jester."
"Ah shut up. You know you love it." Sam flicked a hand at Tristan before taking a gulp of his drink.
Tristan frowned, putting on a serious air now. It was time this stopped. He nodded toward the drink in Sam's hand. "I see you haven't missed a beat."
Sam took another swig. "What's it to you?" A bit of drink ran down his chin, onto his filthy tunic. The man was a mess, in need of a good scrubbing, in need of a good night's sleep.
"You've been drowning in ale lately."
"So?" Sam's expression darkened before he looked away from Tristan.
Tristan closed the distance between them and knocked the drink out of Sam's hand. It splattered onto the ground. Tristan was too late; it was already empty.
"You're better than this," he calmly stated.
Sam turned on him, his nostrils flaring in anger. "I don't tell you what to do, so don't tell me what to do." With those words, Sam spat on the ground and mumbled one last word before stalking off. "Bastard."
"Oliver! Brother!" Tristan shouted. He had to get through to him. He had to make him see that he was only hurting himself by doing all these things. "Get back here."
But Sam just ignored him and continued on his way.
Tristan shook his head. He could already feel another headache coming. Sam had developed a series of nasty habits and a nasty mouth since he was a boy. Not all of them were gained in Orlais, but the drinking had only gotten worse since they got there. The life of adventure he'd always wanted was not turning out to be what he expected. And Sam was at the age when he should have a wife and children by then. He should be by the king's side, living comfortably in Denerim. Not for the first time did Tristan wish Sam had never aided him in escaping Fort Drakon.
A stolen life. That is all I have given him.
"Commandant Duplessis veut te voir." A fellow mercenary appeared at his side, breaking him out of his thoughts. The mercenary gestured with his head to the commandant's tent and pointed at Tristan. Apparently, the commandant wanted to speak with him. With a sigh, Tristan nodded his thanks to the mercenary and walked in the opposite direction Sam had gone.
…
The commandant's tent was larger than the others, but it didn't mean it was furnished lavishly. It was rather austere, Tristan noticed. It was the first time he'd been in it. The company moved around a lot, mostly to middle of nowhere places, which was part of what attracted Tristan to them in the first place. He assumed the commandant didn't want to have to haul around a lot of junk when they did move around.
As his eyes adjusted to the lesser light, he spotted an identical cot to his own in the back. Besides that there was a large table and a couple of chairs. The commandant sat behind the table, reading a correspondence. He looked up once and then gestured for Tristan to take a seat in front of the table.
Tristan did as he was asked and then waited. For a long moment. He wondered what the commandant wanted with him. He was close to losing patience when the commandant put his correspondence down and turned his attention full on to Tristan.
"Orlais." The commandant sighed before continuing. "Things have never been the same here since Empress Celene was challenged by Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. Civil war, killing your own brothers, I've always despised such a thing. But I am not stupid. It has brought me many opportunities over the years. Tell me, Ferelden had its own civil war. Would you say it brought opportunity?"
Tristan straightened and leaned forward with chin on hand. Where was the commandant going with this? What did he expect him to answer? He had to be careful. "It brought opportunity… for bandits and thugs. For usurpers to vie for the throne. For the Blight to spread unchecked because foolish men were blind to the real dangers."
"You were not a fan of Loghain mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane?"
Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He eyed the commandant suspiciously, but could not discern any threat for the moment. "No," he replied, perhaps a little too icily.
The commandant either didn't notice the venomous reply, or he chose to ignore it. "That man was always a thorn in the side of Orlais. Many of us rejoiced when we heard that he had been killed by the so called Hero of Ferelden."
Tristan flinched. It had been a while since he heard his moniker used. He didn't know what the commandant wanted to hear, so he decided it was better to say nothing at all.
After a moment, the commandant leaned back in his chair. "I took a chance when I took you and your brother on. You did not even know how to ride a horse, did not even speak my language. The Ferelden tongue is the language of trade, I thought you might be useful and I never refuse a good fighting man, and that was what I saw in you."
Tristan felt the commandant's keen gaze watching him like a hawk. It took all his willpower not to squirm in the chair. Just what did the man want? Had he figured something out about him? About his real identity?
"I have heard stories of you," the commandant continued, "of how you fought in the Ferelden army during the Blight."
Sam..."My brother likes to talk."
"And you do not. He is very proud of you."
Tristan would have to have a chat with Sam, if the man would let him get anywhere near him. And he doubted that Sam was proud of him. "He is too young to remember."
"Even so, fighting darkspawn has hardened you into a formidable warrior." The commandant leaned forward, a thoughtful look on his face. "If only all my men could face the darkness then I would have a formidable army and perhaps challenge for the throne myself." He chuckled at the thought, his brow arched challengingly in Tristan's direction.
"Fighting the spawn is no laughing matter," Tristan warned. "Most die of the taint before they even get to wield a blade against the monsters. It is an agonizing death. Others touched by the taint turn into ghouls, nothing more than mad pawns of the darkspawn until they die."
"But not you."
The commandant scrutinized him closely again. So much so that Tristan had to stop himself from squirming. He was letting out far too much information about himself. It wasn't wise. But he didn't like that the commandant had reduced the darkspawn threat to a simple joke. Perhaps he'd gotten a little too defensive. There was no taking anything back though.
"They say the archdemon was a dragon," the commandant said.
Careful now, Tristan."I did not see it myself."
"Yet your brother said you fought on the very rooftop of Fort Drakon against it."
He vowed to settle Sam as soon as this meeting was over. The man talked too much for comfort. "He likes to spin tales."
"Either way one of you is lying to me." The commandant slammed his fist onto the table. "I do not tolerate liars within my company."
"But you tolerate thieves, rapists, and murderers." Tristan fought hard to keep his calm. It wouldn't do to let his anger take control. He might say something he would infinitely regret.
"In this business, there exist no hands which are not stained with blood." The commandant paused and gave Tristan another long look. "These thieves, rapists, and murderers you speak of, they at least have the gall to own up to their crimes."
"What are you getting at?"
"Why did you leave Ferelden? Which category do you fall into; thief, murderer, or rapist? Perhaps something infinitely viler."
Tristan fought to keep his growing anger in check. "Like you said, the Orlesian civil war brought opportunity – something that was lacking back home."
The commandant remained silent, pensive. Why now? Why was he asking Tristan these questions now? Had something come to light? Had he been discovered?
"Did you ask me here to talk of my past?" Tristan ventured.
"No. On the contrary I wish to talk of your future." The commandant reached for the correspondence he read earlier and waved it in the air. "I have just received a plea from Jader's merchant association. There have been frequent raids on their caravans in the past year. Used to be sporadic but now they have picked up steam."
So the questions had just been a long lead up to another mission. He would have sighed in relief had he been sure it would not arouse suspicion. "Who? And why?"
"The locals call them Les Rebelles Masque– the Masked Rebels. They have not given their purpose. From all I hear, I suspect that they are Dalish."
"And what does Jader wish us to do?" Tristan asked.
"Stop them."
"I see." Masked Rebels? Are we to do the job of the state now? And why would he suspect it was Dalish behind caravan attacks?Tristan had to admit that the rebels being Dalish made a bit of sense as Jader was close to the Dales, if not a part of it. He wasn't quite sure of the exact geography. Though if these rebels were masked, they could be anyone.
"Is there a problem?" The commandant turned his hawk-eyed gaze onto Tristan once more. "Your tattoo though it is somewhat faded, it resembles those I have seen decorating the faces of those savage elves."
"It is nothing," Tristan lied. They were something, but that was a lifetime ago. He was not that person anymore. Truthfully he had never thought of himself as Dalish, even if he had the blood running through him.
The commandant lifted his brow suspiciously. "Will I have reason to doubt your loyalty should I bring you to Jader as my second in command?"
"Have you had reason to so far?"
The commandant stared at him a moment longer before bursting into laughter. "For nine years you have fought through the ranks. One would think you'd be happier to gain position."
Tristan had felt so defensive that he hadn't realized the commandant had just promoted him to deputy. He shrugged and grinned rather sheepishly. "I never was an ambitious man." Not to mention I already reached your rank by the time I was twenty-one. "I will accept this position only if I can bring my brother with me."
"Ah but of course he may come. I would not wish to break up such a happy little family. But... keep him in line. Oliver has been more trouble than he's worth. If it weren't for his connection to you I would have severed ties with the pup long ago."
"As you wish commandant." He definitely needed to have a talk with his brother after this.
"I never believed the tales your brother told until yesterday. I knew you were good with a sword, but merde, what you did to that wyvern when those supposed chevaliers could not. Merveilleux. Amazing."
Tristan had nothing to say to that. When the commandant realized this, he stood up and gestured Tristan away.
"We leave tomorrow. I am taking twenty of us and leaving the rest here under the command of my other deputy. You may go make preparations. We will discuss strategy when we get to Jader."
Tristan arose and politely nodded to Commandant Duplessis. "Thank you, ser."
As he left the commandant's tent, he wasn't at all sure that this promotion was a good thing.
...
Sam had been asleep when he first searched him out. Now that the day was waning he figured Sam would be up and about. Tristan knew just where to look. The mess tent was a busy place at the end of the day. Mercenaries lined up for a meal and then stayed on long after to drink, to talk, and to gamble.
Sure enough, he spotted Sam's mop of blonde hair among a group of gambling Crimson Knights. It didn't matter that Sam could not understand a word of Orlesian – the gambling tables all spoke one language, the language of coin.
This night they were playing cards. Sometimes it was dice. Other times they played a queer bowl game shown to them by an elf named Stanislaw, one of a very few elves in the company. Tristan stopped behind Sam and cleared his throat. Sam either didn't hear or chose to ignore him.
"I need to talk," Tristan said.
Sam continued to play cards. His opponent across from him looked up at Tristan in annoyance.
"Are you deaf?" Tristan asked. "I said I need to talk."
Sam put his cards down and looked up at him over his shoulders. "Are you blind? I'm playing a game of cards right now. I'll get to you when I'm done." Sam returned his attention to the game and laughed, shaking his head to downplay the interruption to the other players.
"This is important," Tristan tried one last time. If Sam didn't listen this time, then he would have to do something Sam would not like.
"Go away," Sam snorted.
Tristan sucked in his breath. He crouched to Sam's ear level and whispered, "You asked for it. I humbly apologize for what I'm about to do to you." Tristan grabbed a hold of Sam's hair and pulled.
"Hey!" Sam dropped his cards and tried to swat away Tristan. But Tristan didn't let go and as a result Sam pulled himself up and Tristan dragged him away from the game. Laughter echoed behind them. "Fuck sakes, why did you do that? I'm long past being a child now."
Tristan folded his arms over his chest, unimpressed by the protests being hurled his way. "Then start acting like the man you are."
"Look," Sam rubbed his scalp and smoothed his hair down. "I'm sorry about earlier, but you didn't have to do that."
"I need to talk. It's important."
"So you said. Fine." Sam waved his hands in frustration. "Talk. I'm listening now."
"The commandant asked a lot of questions of me today. Questions that were only spurred on by your loose tongue." Sam was about to protest, but Tristan quickly halted him with a hand. "I think he is suspicious of us. Though, I don't know what game he is playing. He promoted me to deputy. We are to go to Jader and flush out rebels. You are to behave yourself."
Tristan realized he didn't have the heart to repeat what the commandant had said about Sam, about how he would not have put up with him if it weren't for Tristan. Sam was already filled with a deep melancholy and this just might make things worse. He realized also, that he did not want to bring up the vices Sam was engaging in just yet.
"Suspicious?" Sam echoed with a thoughtful smirk. "And yet he promoted you, after nine bloody years. It took him long enough. Perhaps he does this to all he elevates."
"Even so," Tristan warned, "rein in your tongue or we will be discovered."
Sam frowned. "I never say anything specific."
"But you say enough that the commandant questioned me about the archdemon, about Loghain even."
"Fine. I'll shut up, but I can't promise that if I've drunk a pint or two of ale." Sam had an air of nonchalance, of amusement even. Tristan wished he would take this seriously, as he was.
"Behave. I'm serious."
Sam grinned mischievously in return. "I'm as good as Andraste was."
"Right. Joke about it all you want..."
"Ah, don't worry about me. You're a big shot again." Sam gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning away and returning to the card game. He might have hidden behind jests, but Tristan did not miss the sorrow in Sam's eyes as he departed. He would have to intervene with the man. He just didn't know what to say anymore.
Perhaps Jader would be good for them both. It was almost like going home, close as it was to Ferelden. They would have to be careful in that city for that reason alone.
The thought of hunting down Dalish rebels, however, gave him a bad feeling he couldn't quite bury.
Translations:
c'est chaud = it's hot/that's hot
