It was very strange, seeing Conlan so uncomfortable. Ordhan was certain that his friend felt uncomfortable often enough, but he showed it no more than Ordhan showed his own emotions, only masking them in sarcasm rather than stoicness. He always had plenty of words, enough for the situation and then some. This was either a rare moment of transparency, or something had happened to affect him deeply enough to rob him of his easygoing manner.
Ordhan's steady gaze remained on Conlan when the other looked away, paying careful attention to every word. A knot of dread grew in his stomach as his friend spoke. At first, Ordhan wondered how Conlan could be so certain, but the visions did not seem a thing to belittle. Conlan was a Grey Warden now. Those of the order could sense the monsters; perhaps this was connected to that. Regardless, with his oddly solemn manner, Ordhan would not have doubted him.
"Then it is true, then," Ordhan answered. In that moment he looked much older than his thirty-six years, the lines of his face intercrossed with the scars of battle, his eyes those of one who has seen more than a lifetime's worth of horrors. He let out a long, silent breath, gathering himself again; now he looked as he usually did, a battleworn knight with only a few years added by the strain of his life. "I had hoped it would not be so," was all he said before taking another drink of ale.
Conlan's continuing only confused him. "Of course the better days are without war." There was something in the way it was said that kindled something anxious in him, and he looked suddenly back when he realized what it was. That was it. Conlan thought he loved battle for the excitement, thinking him a glory-minded fool that the mercenary often berated. At an utter loss for what to say, Ordhan looked back down at his mug and hid his face in taking another drink. No wonder Conlan had taken such offense to his and Hilda's congratulations after his Joining.
Almost as if encouraged by the recollection, Conlan went straight to that subject. Ordhan's first thoughts were flustered, wondering if he had really been that obvious in his attentions, or if Conlan were merely teasing the fact that Ordhan could speak more than two sentences with a woman for once. "I...she is not that," he muttered sheepishly, before hastening on.
"It is different with their people than in Ferelden," Ordhan said listlessly. "They remember the fallen, even those who didn't die in battle. They do not...let them give their lives and be forgotten." This was drifting too close to bitterness, but Conlan's honesty brought out Ordhan's own, even if what was dredged up was better hidden in secrecy.
Ordhan did not want to speak of this, to feel the trampling of his own beliefs again, but Conlan's rare earnestness should not be denied. Perhaps in the process, Ordhan could try to convey that he was not one of the glory-seekers Conlan so loathed. "That is not what they mean to me. It is good to know that the world has faced hardship before, and come through it. Otherwise, it would be difficult to hold to hope." Strange to hear the word hope from so solemn a man, but as distant as it was Ordhan held his own version: that even if he never saw it, that his life would be spent taking Ferelden one step closer to safety, one step closer to freedom from the Darkspawn threat.