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“Exactly how much murder is the normal amount of murder for a Dalish clan?” Alistair’s voice was somewhat bewildered as the last of the bandits was revealed to have bled out just a little deeper into the woods.
“What a strange question…” Thren plucked a cloth from one of the pouches in his belt and set about cleaning his daggers. It had been a good fight, the kind that left him feeling victorious rather than empty. These had been surprisingly well fed and well armored bandits, not poor starving country folk looking for something, anything, to help them survive. “How much murder is the normal amount for a shemlen?”
“Shemlen… right…” Alistair murmured and Thren was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that. Shems got so touchy about having classifications. “Well. There’s always fighting like this during a crisis. People get fighty when there’s a crisis.”
“There is always a crisis.” Thren drawled slightly, letting his accent come in just as thick as he would have back home. “If we killed each other every time there was a crisis, how many of us would there be left?”
The ladies had been fighting at a range and were quite possibly having their own uncomfortable conversation, Thren witnessed as Alistair struggled for a response. He’d been a little pointed, perhaps. It was uncomfortable somewhat to be so surrounded by shemlen at all times. Perhaps he should try again.
“I simply mean, we do have strict laws to protect life. There are obviously always going to be bad people, among every race there is a potential for darkness.” When he was satisfied his blades were clean he sheathed them and began wiping his hands as well. His armor he could handle later but he hated the feeling of blood sticking to his hands. “What makes you ask of murder in the Dalish?”
“Well, it’s just… daggers, right? They’re very personal.” Alistair began cleaning his own sword with a bit of a scowl. Thren knew that he had a point in all of this somewhere, he was just having some difficulty getting to it. “It’s a murder thing. Like not a battle thing, it’s a murder thing. They’re different things. And you’ve trained with those.”
“Perhaps that is why Duncan thought I was special.” Thren’s eyes narrowed as a grin split across his face, people often seemed unable to decide whether his grin was reassuring or not, Alistair did not seem particularly comforted by the expression. “No, I know. Now I see. My partner and I were trusted as protectors. The Dalish survive by being always on the run, never being seen long enough to line up a shot, see? No. I make sure you don’t. If I must slit your throat while you camp? For the good of the clan. My clan has lived a long time because shemlen who find us do not report back to their nobles.”
“You just kill whoever sees you? Just for stumbling on your camp or something?” Alistair seemed extremely disturbed. Honestly Thren thought it was a bit hypocritical of the man, they were as far away from everything as they were because they’d gone after the fleeing bandit to avoid word making it back to Loghain.
“I had a friend when I was younger, our clans would meet once a year and every year she and I would exchange gifts. One year I had crafted her a doll out of spare wood, it was not very good and either way it is not the point, I only remember because that year when our clans met she was not there. None of the other children were. They did not have a system like ours to protect themselves, they did trades with the shemlen in nearby towns. One day when everyone was set in their rhythm and busy, the locals of the town swept down upon them and murdered everyone still left in the unprotected campground.” Thren sighed, he was too tired to feel all the sadness and grief that were supposed to come along with this memory. He’d been working so hard to avoid grief, not think of loss. In the sleeping hours, between monster visions of the Archdemon, thoughts of Tamlen tortured him. “As in battle, as in life, you do not let the scout live to tell his tale.”
Alistair took a slow deep breath and shook his head. “I’m sorry. About your friend…”
“There are a million stories like this, friend. We are Grey Wardens, are we not? We know evil must be done in the service of good. You look at your people and you think ‘yes, I will do everything in my power so you don’t know evil.’ And you will take that evil upon yourself because we who are tainted may keep the people pure.” Thren shook his head and looked up to the sky, one of the moons was still visible despite the hour of morning and whimsically he sent a small blessing to it for being beautiful on an ugly morning.
“I feel like you’re trying to indoctrinate me into a cult.” Alistair said, his voice low and humorous as it got when he was in a bit of a playful mood. Either Thren’s answer had resonated in a way, or Alistair had decided it was all too uncomfortable to keep talking about and was changing the subject. “I feel like as senior warden I don’t have to hear more speeches about taint.”
“Ah the taint, such is our burden. To carry the weight of all the world’s taint.” Thren sighed dramatically, clearly the tone had shifted so he shifted with it. Their ranged friends were almost upon them and wasn’t it far more fitting of Morrigan’s opinion that she find him laughing about taint rather than contemplating the moral acceptability of murder.
“I think perhaps you were right,” He heard Leliana’s voice coming close, “leaving the boys alone is a terrible idea.”
“Our burden and our curse.” He grinned again at Alistair and this time got a more friendly response.