Davin's rush of anger took him off-guard; in the three years that he had known Davin, Ordhan had rarely seen any sort of temper, despite the many provocations the boy had to endure. Now the brown eyes usually so quietly thoughtful and solemn glared at him, reddened from tears. Ordhan flinched at the shouted accusation and stared back in stunned surprise. Why couldn't he understand? Why was he so ready to throw his life away?
Even as he wondered, raw, burning shame blossomed inside him. Here was a child willing to do what he was not: to risk himself in a hopeless pursuit, the only purpose of it being the very effort to do the right thing. It was a determination befitting a hero from one of the old story-songs of the past. The glowing ideals Ordhan had grown up with were long since abandoned, squelched by the dirt and grime and despair of Denerim--but Davin had lived all his life in the gutters of that city. What was it about the place that leeched all that was good out of a person, killing them if they refused to let go?
Before, it was Cecil, and now, Davin. What a waste.
The guard gave no reply for several long moments. He then shoved himself to his feet, too quickly, lightheadedness rushing in as chain armor jangled from the sudden movement. The gentle worry in his face was gone; in its place, a glare to match Davin's. There was little he could do to stop Davin from going short of sitting on him, but he had one last idea.
"Very well," he snapped. "If you don't want them all to die, the least you could do is stay home. They will only be in more danger having to look after a worthless child, and you will only slow them down."
The words were even more venomous aloud than they had been in his mind. It was a gamble; crushed pride could lead to discouragement, as he wished, but they could also lead to even more recklessness. But his bitterness was only half-feigned. It was real anger that fueled the scowl on his face and curled his fingertips into the leather palms of his gloves. The insult itself riled him less than the fact it was true. That a mere child, half his age and half his height, could have twenty times the courage he did stung like salt poured in open wounds.