Chapter 8

Ronan weaved swiftly in and out of the late day crowd on the streets. Everyone seemed to be making their way home. The sky was getting darker and the air was getting colder. It was time to sup one last time before retiring for the day. Ronan was also headed home. The thought drove him forward in excitement, but also in dread. He had failed to find Tristan. He could only hope that his mother was not as sick as they all had feared. He would never forgive himself otherwise.

As he contemplated his homecoming, he nearly stumbled as a beggar jumped in front of him, appearing from a dark and narrow alleyway like a shade. Ronan twirled around and caught his footing. He snarled angrily at the grey-haired beggar. "Watch it old man!"

"Spare some change, boy?" the beggar grabbed Ronan's arm while holding out his other in a pitiful plea.

"Out of my way!" Ronan threatened, shaking off the beggar. The beggar, however, clutched at him again.

"Not even one silver, for a veteran, a Night Elf?" the beggar continued to make his case. Ronan grew frustrated. The fact that the beggar was a Night Elf meant nothing to him. He knew that they had been an archer wing fighting under Loghain years ago, but that was all. He turned to the beggar and really looked at him. The beggar was old, wearing threadbare clothing, and he was an elf – a Dalish elf by the tattoos on his face. Probably exiled from his people, Ronan thought, for why else would a Dalish leave his clan?

"I've no coins at all. You would know that most Dalish care nothing for money." Ronan said with contempt. He tried to move on, but the beggar was adamant.

"Then how do you eat? Surely you could spare something for me…" the beggar pushed.

"The gods provide me with all the necessities." he snapped, glaring indignantly at the beggar.

The beggar sneered, showing off quite a few missing front teeth. "Words of wisdom from the young," the beggar replied sarcastically.

Ronan grunted, not impressed with being delayed by this dreadfully annoying beggar. "And you, you have turned your back on the gods and now you beg from humans on the streets of a pathetic city such as this."

"Oh, how you know it all. For shame!" the beggar cried out dramatically. "If only I had been as wise as you are when I was your age."

"Mock me if you like, len'alas lath'din, but know this: I can see in front of me what happens when Dalish leave their clans and place their trust in humans, fight for shem ideals, in a shem war. Believe me," Ronan said, looking over the beggar with disgust, "it is not a pretty sight."

The pushy beggar smiled mischievously and shook his head. "And yet, not one hour ago I saw you wandering these very pathetic streets with a human lady, asking questions, looking for the Grey Warden Commander, a human. If only you hadn't been so rude…"

Ronan was surprised. Who was this blasted beggar? Had he been watching Ronan and Melisende all this time? "Continue talking old man…"

"Oh, I would have told you what I know, happily would have, if you had not been so rude…" the beggar shrugged and turned around to walk away. Ronan frowned. If the beggar really did know something… he caught the beggar by the arm and dragged him out of sight of the late day crowd and into the darkened alleyway.

"You started it. Halam sahlin. This ends now. Tell me." Ronan demanded menacingly.

"I'd like something in return, first." The beggar laid out his terms. Ronan inwardly cursed. How did he know what the beggar had to say would be worth anything he had? He certainly didn't have anything of worth, besides his sword, shield, and light armor.

"I told you already, I've no coin." Ronan stressed.

"Your cloak, give me your cloak. The cold is coming. I need a new cloak," the beggar made a show of shivering.

"Mythal protect you if you have nothing useful to tell me." Ronan threatened as he reluctantly removed his cloak and handed it over to the beggar. He felt like he was about to be cheated. Suddenly, he wished Melisende was there. She had proven herself to be quite the bully. Ronan, on the other hand, seemed to garner only snickers when he attempted to intimidate his way through something. What was the deal with that?

The beggar quickly snatched up the cloak and placed it around his shoulders. He cleared his throat and began speaking quietly, "Thank you. You may be rude, but I always keep my word."

"Just get on with it." Ronan waved him on.

"The Warden Commander was with a woman merchant by the name of Brenna Redpath. She often comes to Gwaren to trade," the beggar explained.

"And where is she now? Where does she live?" Ronan asked impatiently.

"She is from somewhere around Lothering, not far from the Brecilian Forest."
Ronan frowned. "Lothering was destroyed in the Blight."

"Ah," the beggar answered, "but ask around for the halfling, for it is rumored her father was a Dalish elf. Local folk will know where exactly it is that she lives."

Ronan was taken aback. So, this woman that Tristan had been seen with was a half-Dalish, just like Tristan? Interesting, indeed, Ronan thought. Her father, could he have been from Ronan's own clan? He decided that it couldn't be, because he would have known of such a person. Though, he had to admit, that didn't mean anything since his own mother had kept Tristan a secret from everyone. "And did Tris-, the Commander leave with this Brenna woman?"

"Yes. Like I said, ask around for her and you will find the Commander," the beggar elf replied.

"Ma serannas, beggar." In spite of his earlier annoyance, Ronan grinned excitedly at the Night Elf veteran. He had lost his cloak, but he had a new lead, and with that, a new hope in finding Tristan. He eagerly turned around and ran into the increasing darkness to find Melisende.

…

Melisende flung herself onto the bed, burying her face into the pillows and squeezing her eyes shut. She was more tired than she thought. She rolled onto her back and winced in pain as she had accidently come to rest on the wrapped sword. She sat up and grabbed the package. Looking at it fondly, she unwrapped the bundle. Vigilance appeared, gleaming up at her. She still couldn't believe Tristan would part with his sword. She sighed loudly as she ran a finger along the flat edge of the blade.

"If only swords could speak of the secrets they held… where are you now Tristan?" she mused aloud as she carefully re-wrapped the sword and placed it to the side.

Melisende was completely at a loss of what her next move would be. She had been lucky to even track Tristan this far. She had been in the right place at the right time in the Denerim marketplace. How many lucky leads could she find? She doubted it would get any easier to find her lost friend. She wondered, as she yawned, if Tristan, being a former Circle mage, still had a phylactery. Or was it destroyed when he became a Grey Warden? It was something to think about. Perhaps she could go to the Circle. Why hadn't she thought of this sooner?

It was because of Ronan, of course. He had lead her around in an urgent rush, impatiently second guessing every move they made, cursing every bad break they ran into, and then speedily moving on without much thought. Funny, she missed the lout. It had only been a few hours since they had parted. He was brash and cocky, but she had seen hints of a gentler side. She had even come to trust him. Which was saying something, for Melisende had a difficult time putting her trust into strangers ever since the assassination attempt. She silently vowed to do everything she could to track Tristan down and bring him to Ronan's mother. For whatever reason, Ronan thought that Tristan would be able to cure his mother. A little odd, considering Tristan's skills lay in other sorts of magic and he only dabbled in healing magic when Anders was not around.

Melisende stretched out and told her mind to slow down. There would be time enough in the morning to ponder all these things. She began to undress, removing her leather armor and boots and tossing them carelessly onto the floor of the inn room she had rented for the night. She rolled up her sleeves and thought about removing her shirt completely, but it was a little cold, and the blankets on the bed looked a little ratty and hole-y. Remembering a story Zevran had once told her about Denerim's infested lodgings she shuddered involuntarily and then tossed the blankets onto the floor. She might be a warrior able to stand up to the ugliest and scariest darkspawn, but if there was one thing that gave her pause it was bugs.

Satisfied that the bed was not infested, she lay back and brought her right arm over her eyes. And then she gasped, sat up, and stared at her arm in horror. There was a small patch of purplish blue on her inner arm. At first glance, she thought it was some sort of bug. Then she touched it, felt the roughness of it, and realized it was her own skin.

"Maker's breath," she whispered in astonishment. Was she transforming, being overrun by the taint already? She rubbed the spot, hoping in vain that it was just dried up muck or something. She even would have been happy to find it was bug droppings. But no, it was still her skin. Try as she might, she could not hold her sobs in. They racked her to the core and she cried uncontrollably. "It's too soon…"

She sat transfixed by the small patch. She tried to think of all she knew of the taint and its spread. She knew that from the moment she drank the vial of darkspawn blood that her time was limited. Twenty or perhaps even thirty years before it overcame her, according to Alistair. Was that what he had said? It had always been an unpleasant subject, had always been left as an afterthought, and stored in the back of her mind. She couldn't remember if Duncan had begun to change. Though she didn't think it was talked about much. But she had only done the Joining two or three years ago. Surely it was too soon? She sobbed as reality overcame her. It would happen after all. Somehow she thought she was immune to the unpleasantness of being a Grey Warden. She wasn't. She thought of the Calling – having to go and die alone in the deep roads. She never liked the underground. How in the world was she ever supposed to do that?

She rocked back and forth in a panic. She wanted Nathaniel. He would comfort her. Calm her down. Oh, how she missed his sweet and soothing voice, his gentle eyes, and his reassuring touch.

An incessant banging on the door of her room broke her from her thoughts. Melisende quickly stood up, wiping her eyes. "Who's there?" she called out.

"It's me, Ronan," came the reply from the other side of the door.

Maker, what is he doing here? I can't let him see me like this. Melisende walked slowly to the door. She smoothed her hair and clothes down and took a deep breath. She opened the door. Ronan came crashing through excitedly.

"I've been looking all over for you! I was on my way out of the city, right? Then this beggar comes up to me asking for coin. I tell him to bugger off as I have no coin. Then, even though I was annoyed to no end and impatient to be on my way, we get to talking. He tells me that he saw Tristan leave the city, with a woman. She's a traveling merchant named Brenna. She lives just outside of Lothering. So, that is probably where he is!" Ronan exclaimed breathlessly.

"That's wonderful." Melisende replied. Ronan regarded her with a puzzled look. No doubt he expected her to be more enthusiastic about this new piece of information. Melisende tried to look away as he scrutinized her. He must have noticed my dried up tears, my puffy eyes…

"Are you all right?" Ronan asked her, a little awkwardly. She nodded her head, trying to reassure him and then turned and walked back to the bed, taking a seat.

"I don't believe you." Ronan quietly said, following her to the bed. He sat down near her. Melisende couldn't help but notice how uncomfortable he looked. He probably isn't used to being kind, she angrily thought. No, that wasn't fair to him; she quickly took the snappy thought back.

"What's wrong?" he ventured again after she said nothing. Melisende wasn't planning on letting loose her feelings, but she did. Maybe it was the concern Ronan was showing for her, even though it obviously annoyed him to get into the wimpy "share your feelings with me" routine. She held up her arm. Ronan looked at her, utterly perplexed.

"I don't get it." Ronan admitted after staring at her arm for a few seconds. Melisende sighed and then pointed to the patch of purplish blue skin.

Ronan shook his head and then grinned playfully. "I still don't get it. A tiny blemish? It's the size of my little finger." He grabbed her arm and placed the tip of his little finger on the spot. Melisende quickly drew her arm away, embarrassed that he would touch the disgusting thing. But he didn't look disgusted. Instead he smirked at her teasingly. "I didn't think you were that vain."

Melisende let out a little laugh and playfully shoved Ronan in the shoulder. "No, silly. Do you know anything of Grey Wardens?"

Ronan shrugged. "They fight darkspawn?"

"But do you know why the Grey Wardens have the upper hand over others when it comes to fighting darkspawn?" Melisende probed further. Why was she doing this? She should just change the subject.

"I know nothing of the Grey Wardens beyond that they end the Blights. Why them? Damned if I know." Ronan admitted.

"It has to do with who we are. We are… tainted. Maker, I shouldn't even be telling you this…" Melisende turned away from Ronan.

"What do you mean, you're tainted?" Ronan gently turned her back towards him, curious now; she could see that she would have to continue her explanation.

"To defeat the darkspawn, a Grey Warden must become like the vile creatures. Suffice it to say, from the moment we become a Grey Warden, we are fated to die before our time, in one way or another." Melisende tried her best to explain without giving away all the secrets of her order.

Ronan frowned at her. "You are speaking in riddles, woman. Are you trying to tell me that this little blemish is … for the love of the gods I have no idea what you are trying to tell me." Ronan exclaimed in frustration. Melisende was about to continue, but Ronan stopped her. "If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to."

"It's not that I don't want to talk about it… it's just… it's… I'm sorry."

Ronan placed a comforting arm around Melisende's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "Don't worry about it. Tomorrow, you'll wake up and be your usual spitfire self."

"How do you know?" Melisende looked at Ronan with a pout.

"Because tomorrow, I will be my usual insufferable self and you will have a hard time not showing me up as we try to find our way to the home of this Brenna woman." Ronan grinned.

"You're continuing the search, then?" Melisende looked and felt pleasantly surprised. Ronan nodded. She wouldn't have to continue on her own. She felt a little better already. "Good."

Ronan released her and then stretched out and yawned, patting the bed with interest. "It's very cold outside and I have bartered away my cloak. Do you mind if I join you tonight?"

Melisende regarded Ronan askance. Did he just ask to join her, in the bed? Ronan laughed.

"On my honor, I assure you, I am so tired that I can do nothing but sleep," he reassured her.

Melisende didn't realize she was holding her breath. She let it out in relief. "Alright then. I suppose a good night's sleep is just what I need."

They lay back, fidgeting a bit as they tried to get comfortable. "Besides, do you really think I would touch a shem?" Ronan muttered sarcastically. Melisende chuckled. She could have retorted with a "you already touched me, though not in the way you're thinking" but she decided to ignore him. Let him act macho. He had already shown her how normal and caring he could be. Bit by bit his walls were coming down. Melisende smiled with satisfaction as she shut her eyes to wait for sleep.

…

In the middle of the night, Ronan awoke with a start. He had been dreaming of something, which left his mind as soon as he woke up. He cursed the gods for taking away his vision before he could remember it. And then he saw that he was lying very close to Melisende, his front snuggled into her back, actually, with his arms around the woman's waist and her arms resting comfortably on his. He glanced at her face; she was so calm now in her sleep. He was embarrassed to find himself in this position. He thought of turning around or pushing her away, but he rather liked the feel of her body against his. It felt… soothing. He closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep.