Chapter Text
Moving the armies of the Inquisition and its allies from the Frostbacks to the Arbor Wilds is a monumental - and very slow - task. They are split into many divisions in order to ultimately take different positions across the uncharted forests. And, more difficult than that is the fact that it is deep in the winter months (though, Arravir reasons to herself, most months in Ferelden feel like winter months) and the thick snow and icy paths slow down even the most practiced soldiers.
The cold confronts Arravir with a barrage of unwanted memories: memories of being a lost child in the harsh winters of Ferelden, not yet found by Clan Lavellan, and not wanting to be found by anyone at all. The cold had been something less than life itself, an emptiness that had worked its way methodically into the space between every bone in her small, malnourished body. Her throat had been raw and cracked. She had hidden in the haylofts of barns for days, unable to move much beyond that. When feeling particularly brave, she would light some of the hay on fire with a spark of her hands and sit with the breathing , flickering thing that was her magic.
Now, nearly two decades later, she is a leader in a fight against an evil none of them truly understand. And the cold tries to work its way into her body the same way as it had then, weighing them down into its sleepy arms. Days are ended earlier than they would like, for fear of losing footing in the dark and being lost in the snow. Mounts are walked very slowly over frozen streams as they try to avoid overloading and cracking the ice.
At one point, Arravir finds herself giving something of a pep talk to her own stubborn hart. His shaggy fur has collected fine icicles that slip from him as he gives a forceful shake of his massive head. He has paused suddenly right in front of a shallow but frozen-over river, white lines stretching out through the light blue of it.
“Is something wrong, Da’ghilana?” She asks, knowing the creature might sense something is wrong while the rest of them trodd along without fear. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she then reaches a gloved hand over the leather saddle and onto his back, feeling the powerful muscles above his shoulders clenching and unclenching. Her fingers are numb from cold despite the warmth of the magic that beats through her veins, and yet she is comforted by the feeling of her hart’s strength, so familiar to her now after these long years together.
Looking up, she scans the other side of the river, some seventy feet across. While it is the widest stream they have crossed yet, it is not too unbearable of a distance, and the snow is falling still, so it is unlikely the ice has melted to any degree that might make it unsustainable for crossing. But…
Da’ghilana paws the ground and heaves his head to the side again, his antlers nearly grazing her as he bucks suddenly back.
“Hey! Watch it,” she says, giving him a firm pat between his shoulder blades. Her hand travels up his thick neck and towards the softer fur of his head and she scratches the sensitive skin there. Head leaning back instinctively, Da’ghilana huffs a half-frustrated, half-content breath into the air, and she watches the fog of it scatter into the early afternoon lit by a sun half-shying away.
“Inquisitor,” Cassandra calls from behind her, “Is there something wrong?” Not all of her companions are with her, as many have divided themselves among the various groups marching forth, but she has kept a few of them beside her. And, at her own order, she always leads the charge.
Her choice mattered little, however, since before parting with a team of her scouts, Leliana had made a sage remark that such actions may be necessary anyway for morale of the troops, to see the Inquisitor literally leading them into battle, bold and without hesitation. It had been one of the few moments where it had felt obvious that her Spymaster had begun her career as a bard, and yet the lyrical words had brought no comfort to her. They had left Skyhold days before, but the words itched at her still, as if her under armor clothing had ridden up and the chainmail now rubbed raw against her skin.
Arravir turns around on the saddle, careful not to clench the stirrups into Da’ghilana’s side and meets the Seeker’s eyes. “I’m not sure. Da’ghilana does not want to cross, but…”
“That hart has always had a mind of his own, Inquisitor. I don’t know why you still choose to ride with him.”
Da’ghilana exhales sharply again, as if he had understood Cassandra’s words.
“We understand each other,” Arravir says simply, and faces forward again. “Alright, Ghi, let’s try one step. If not, we will find another way.”
She looks down at the smoothed-over rocks she can still see looming beneath the ice, and presses her feet into her hart’s sides, urging him to move.
He does not.
Arravir can feel Cassandra, Dorian, Cole and more than a dozen other troops’ eyes all on her as she presses her feet into Da’ghilana’s sides again. He paws the ground again before placing his front hooves on the ice and then, seemingly without reason, backs up again, nearly causing them to lurch into Cassandra’s raven-colored horse.
She pauses, looking at the spider-web striations reaching out into the ice again, and thinks of Leliana’s words, thinks of how much she hates being a symbol, being something holy to these humans. But, regardless of how she feels, some part of them -- whether it be their faith or their very lives -- is in her trembling hands.
“We’re going a different way, taking the longer route,” she says suddenly, pulling on the bridle to guide Da’ghilana through a sharp turn that takes them further up the bank. Raising her voice into her now-practiced one of authority, she calls “We’re taking no chances on thin ice today.”
She hears Dorian from somewhere behind her yell up, sounding less grumpy than he has in weeks due to the snow, “You know, that might be the best decision you’ve ever made in this whole club of yours!”
Then, the voice of one of the soldiers cuts in, a man with the thick accent of a rural Fereldan. “Inquisitor, it don’t look that thin! I grew up ‘round here, promise I know what dodgy ice looks like. It’ll be faster, let’s just go!”
There are a couple inaudible words that she can only assume are of agreement until the soldier says, “I bet I could do it, no problem! What are you lot waiting for? Buncha cowards. We’ll lose time because her mount is scared? I could do it! And my bleedin’ horse would be fine with it, too.”
Before Arravir can reply, Cassandra’s voice cuts across sharply, “The Inquisitor has made her decision. Are you speaking proudly of insubordination, or are you simply an idiot?”
“I don’t believe the two things are mutually exclusive in this case,” Dorian muses.
“Neither, I’m makin’ a point! ” the man says proudly. There’s a clatter of hooves then as Cassandra pulls back, and then the soldier says nothing, just mumbles something none of them make out. Cassandra makes a noise of disgust.
Arravir almost smiles as she clicks her tongue, encouraging the hart to a trot once they reach flatter ground, and they follow closely beside the river as it curves through the frozen valleys of Southern Ferelden.
The rest of the day passes without incident and without any encounters with hostiles -- no red templars, no bandits, not even wolves. They set up camp in a clearing of near-barren trees, not too far even now from the river.
As Arravir sits on a log in front of the crackling fire that she had cast -- in full view of the soldiers who did not visibly flinch at her magic, and with proper kindling rather than stolen hay, the disobedient soldier from earlier approaches, standing nervously on the other side of the dancing flames.
She looks up from the report she had been writing and copying to send to the other troops, updating them on the day’s progress, and looks at him silently but expectantly. The man is pale, especially so in the bright light, and fidgets from foot to foot. He steps closer to her, pauses, and then pulls his wool-lined hat off, exposing his bare head to the freezing night air. He has short, mousy hair, and a wide frame that he looks like he is still trying to grow into. He is so young.
“Are you going to sit?” She asks curiously, trying not to edge impatience into her tone.
“Um...May I, ma’am?” He hesitates.
“I do not own the fireside,” Arravir remarks.
“Right,” he nods, staring at the fire now. He moves then, without looking away from the fire where a log splits and spits sparks into the blackness. Sitting himself on another log, he perches awkwardly, hands still fidgeting with his cap. “I’ve just had a talk with Lady Pentaghast, and I think it’s best that I...apologize. So, I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”
“For?” Arravir asks. She knows what for, but she wants the man to say it.
He seems confused by that. “For what I said today, about crossing the river. It was out of line.”
Arravir levels her gaze at him, letting the quill she was writing with roll down her legs and rest on her lap. Crossing her arms, she says, “What is your name?”
He fidgets, exhaling deeply, breath starkly visible before him. “Reg, ma’am. Short for Reginald Sanders.” A thought seems to dawn on his face as he grows more pale. “You’re not going to report me to Commander Cullen, are you? I--”
“No, Reg,” she says calmly, with the barest trace of a laugh. “I just wanted to know.” She sobers instantly. “You called us cowards earlier. Be honest: is that your opinion of me?”
“No, ma’am!” Reg says quickly. “Was a stupid thing of me to say. I was just frustrated, is all. I’m itchin’ for battle ‘s all, and I don’t like anything slowing us down, ‘specially something I’ve done so many times before.”
It is Arravir’s turn to take a deep breath. She looks briefly towards the trees, towards the snow that almost glows in the moonlight. She wonders how many more nights like this will pass before they have reached that strange and foreign forest where they will find what Corypheus seeks. She understands that drive to be doing something, that restlessness. It has controlled much of her life, and has dominated her for the nearly three years it has been since she first woke up with a mangled hand in the ashes of the Conclave.
Seeming to be uneasy with the silence, Reg adds suddenly, “It’s just maddening to me, not knowing if we could have crossed alright back then, and how much time that’d save us, you know?”
That urges her to speech, the words almost come tumbling out, but she is still sitting so still. “Yes, we will never know if the other path would have worked. But we will also never know if one of us would have fallen through. We will never have to know if we would lose a soldier -- or their legs or their arms -- senselessly to frostbite.”
Arravir leans forward and looks at Reg directly in his eyes. They are hazel and wide eyed in the flickering light. “That is the choice I made today, Reg, even if it took us off route. I am not a coward. I am keeping my people safe. ”
Reg lowers his gaze, almost shameful. “Well, I can respect that. Me parents had a friend who lost both his legs, knees down, during the Blight. Kept saying for months he could still feel the pain as if his legs were still hangin’ there. He’s a good guy, but sweet Andraste, I can’t say I want to be like him, Inquisitor.” There is an odd tone to the last part of his words, as if he is grasping for humor but could not quite wrap his words around it, as if it is just one branch beyond his reach. “Thank you, then. And...Can I ask something more?”
Arravir pauses, mind reeling with images of all the elves in the alienage she knew as a young girl, all the people whose limbs had been cut or mangled working in the docks or some human's remodelling of their estate. Her father had always walked with a limp. She could no longer remember the story.
Finally she speaks. “You may.”
Reg hesitates. “How’d you decide all that based on your hart, though? I’d call me horse a lazy ass if he tried somethin’ like that.”
A pang strikes her in the chest, and she uncrosses her arms. It is one of those occasional moments when she realizes how alone she is in the Inquisition, how much she misses Clan Lavellan, and how much she fears she will never be understood.
“My People have a different respect for our animals. We work together, we do not own them. Da’ghilana -- my hart -- and I are the same way. He is...a difficult mount, but he is dependable. And even if I did completely believe that the ice was safe to cross, I would not force him to. The Dalish don’t do that. We want our animals to trust us.”
Reg nods thoughtfully. “Alright, then. Think I get it. Wouldn’t have the same trust in me own horse, but it would be nice to, actually.” He gives a breathy half-laugh.
Arravir stows the report in her bag then, carefully putting the quill and her half-frozen ink in their own pouch as well. There are some other troops lingering nearby who will take first watch and attend to the fire, she knows. “I am glad you talked with me, Reg.”
She stands then, and notices him hovering between standing and sitting, unsure of what to do with himself. He puts his cap back on.
Arravir stares into the heart of the flames, contemplating his questions and odd statements. She wishes she could dissipate every snide comment made at her expense over the past three years into the cloudless night. Then, she shakes her head, as if dismissing the thought. There is no use lingering on what cannot be changed, she reminds herself.
“There is one more thing, however,” Arravir says evenly, not moving her gaze from the dancing flames that warmly light the brown of her skin, the reddish highlights in her dark hair, and the vallaslin that climbs across her resolved expression.
“One of these days, you shemlen are going to have to decide whether or not you trust me.”