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Chapter Text

“Arya. Arya! Come outside!” 

Arya was playing quietly in her room with the pieces for Runes when she heard her mother’s call. She stood up and dashed to the door before pausing and, after a moment’s hesitation, returning to stack the pieces neatly and put the game away. Mother was always on edge lately, and Arya had quickly learned even at so young an age as five, it was best to avoid anything that might aggravate her moods. Her mother had been teetering on a knife's edge ever since her father had left, alternately clinging to Arya, or retiring to her rooms insisting she could not be disturbed, snapping at every slight irritation. When she did come out, her eyes were distant, and Arya had learned not to bother her, rather than ask her to play. It was too hard to see her mother be both present and absent. 

Arya could hardly wait for her father to return, and things could return to normal. If nothing else, Father always knew how to soothe Mother. Arya had spied on them once, when mother had seemed so overwhelmed from the war, and her father had come from behind and wrapped his arms around her whispering something into her ear with a kiss. Her mother’s entire body had relaxed and she had turned and wrapped her arms around her mate’s neck. Arya had felt safe. The little girl craved that feeling of security again. 

“Yes, Mother?” Arya darted up to where her mother was waiting at the gates to Tialdari Hall, craning her neck, peering into the distance. Hardly looking at Arya as she approached, her mother extended a hand to her. Arya took it. 

“The army is returning.”

“Father’s coming home?” Arya’s voice rose in excitement and she bounced on her tiptoes. 

This time her mother looked down at her. Her eyes were dark, deep tunnels. Young as she was, Arya had been raised in enough of war to recognise they had been made by fear. There was a vulnerability there as well that Arya didn’t understand. 

“Yes.” She said brittlely. “We’ll go meet them at the hall as soon as your cousin joins us.” 

Arya smiled widely, although it was somewhat hindered by her mother’s mood. Father was coming home, and all would be right in the world. She bounced on the balls of her feet. Soon she saw her cousin, Vindar, come bounding up. He seemed solemn and grim. Mother must have already told him what was going on with her mind, Arya mused, since they left the gardens without any conversation. 

Others joined them to form a procession as they walked briskly, and stiffly, in her mother and cousins’ cases, down the path. Not many had been left behind when her father had led the army against Galbatorix, (who Arya knew was very bad ). The only ones who had stayed behind were those needed to maintain their borders and wards in Du Weldenvarden, and those with young children to care for. Many, as was the case with Arya’s own aunt and uncle, had left their children with family so they too could fight to defend the majestic dragons. In the growing crowd, Arya heard scattered laughs of other children who, like her, couldn’t wait to see family again. The rest of the adults seemed tense. Their faces were set forward and looked hard as a stone. Arya didn’t really understand it. She’d been told, to her immense frustration, to leave the room whenever the grown-ups talked. She knew things were bad--almost all the dragons were dead, and a lot of good people were hurt, and cities had been burned--but that was before her father had led the army to Ilirea. No one could stand against all of them with her father in charge! 

Arya started to crane her neck trying to see. Her mother was the King’s mate so they were at the front as they waited, but Arya was impatient. She tugged on her mother’s gown firmly asking to be picked up. Sighing slightly, her mother obliged, and hefted her onto the crook of her elbow. From this new vantage point, Arya could see the black banners of the returning company. 

“No,” she heard Vindar start in a breathless voice. She looked back at the banners, and wondered what was so significant about them. She felt more than heard her mother’s breath hitch, and her arms wrapped so tightly around Arya it almost hurt. Confused, Arya placed her hands on her mother’s shoulder trying to see better. All around her, people were hissing, and whispering, and some were keening. What was wrong? What happened?

“Mother?” 

“Hush, Arya.” Her mother spoke tightly. Feeling a bit hurt, Arya took the time to look at her mother's face only to find it wet with tears. This, more than anything, scared Arya. It must really hurt a lot, because her mom never cried at things that scared Arya, like the dark, or scraping her knee, or cutting her hand. Whatever was happening must be really, really bad . Arya wrapped her small arms around her mother’s neck. 

“It’ll be okay.” She whispered into her ear, which made her mother shudder as she choked on a blunt laugh that didn’t sound like she was really having fun. 

Peering out from the crook of her mother’s neck, Arya looked for her father as elves suddenly broke rank and ran to their families. There were shouts of joy, and more often screams of pain. One commander, Arya thought his name might be Lord Dathedr, approached them and bowed. Curious, Arya lifted her head to see him better. His face was wet too.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I regret I must inform you...the King is dead.”

Her mother keened with a high shriek that seemed to come from her lower belly. It bent her over it was so strong. It echoed through the trees and Arya almost fell from her mother’s arms as she howled. What did dead mean? Arya knew the word, had heard it often, and she knew that it meant something hurt, and people not coming back, and it was not good...but what about her father?

Blagden swooped in and shouted, “Wyrda!” before landing on her mother’s shoulder.

“Mother,” she whispered when she mustered the courage, “where’s Father?”

Her mother looked down at her as if she didn’t recognise her. Her Aunt Nira, her father’s older sister came forward and picked her up instead.

“He’s dead, child.” She muttered, placing her lips right beside Arya’s ear. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“He was hurt so badly by Galbatorix that he can't get better. He is...gone, and his body cannot move. It’s...it’s... he will be buried, and…” Her Aunt stopped and Arya saw tears in her eyes too, and it was unbelievably scary. Arya felt her heart racing ever faster, and felt her own tears sting her eyes.

“Where’s Father?” She shrieked, but no one answered. Vindar approached and asked his mother the same question.

“I regret to say,” she said haltingly, “that he, too, has passed into the void. As has,” she stopped and swallowed three times, “as has your elder brother.” She shook so badly Arya wondered how her aunt didn’t collapse or drop her like her mother almost had.

Vindar sank to the ground and wailed. Arya joined with her own tears feeling scared and upset more by instinct than understanding. The sight of her daughter and her nephew’s raw emotions stirred something in Arya’s mother. She stood taller, wiped her face, conferred briefly with Dathedr, and, using magic, raised her voice to address everybody.

“Our King is dead!” She spoke clearly, but there was something deep in her voice that spoke of immense bereavement giving her voice weight and presence. “Galbatorix has defeated us. And if he finds us, our people shall be lost. But we will not cower forever! We shall strengthen our wards, and guard our forest-cities until we find new ways to match him. However, until that day comes, it must be decreed that no one shall leave Du Weldenvarden’s borders without the direct permission of the new monarch, for those that do so shall jeopardize us all. We cannot allow any elf to be captured alive, and information to be extracted therein. Go home, grieve, and only when we are again strong, shall we dare to venture out once more.”

The crowd waited in silence, but it seemed there were no more words or explanations, and slowly the army disbanded and the people dispersed, defeated. Arya saw that whatever energy had filled her mother when she spoke had left, making her look terribly deflated, lost, and worn. 

“Come, Arya,” she waved a hand looking exhausted. “We must pay our last respects to your father before the funeral.” 

Arya scrambled down from her aunt’s arms and timidly took her mother’s hand fearing what awaited her. Blagden swooped overhead. 

In a grove her father lay wrapped in what she was told was a shroud. He looked like he could be sleeping, and Arya didn’t understand, at first, why this was so scary. Why couldn’t he just wake up? Why couldn’t they just wake him up? He didn't look hurt. He didn’t even look sick. 

“Why won’t he wake?”

“Because he isn’t there, child.”

“Huh?”

“His spirit, his essence, is gone. There’s just his body, but he cannot make it move, or work, or think, or fight, because there is no energy left in him. All that he can offer now is his flesh to give life to the forest. His final offering.”

Arya tried to understand, and as she got closer to her father she started to. There was a stillness to him that was not natural. His skin looked like it could be clay. His hair was perfectly coiffed. Too perfect. Father had had a habit of running his fingers through it. He was like a perfectly sculpted figure of her father...but her father was no longer there. Her mother leaned forward to kiss her mate’s brow, but Arya screamed as the moment comprehension struck her. She screamed and ran through the woods for as long as she could until she tripped from her blurry vision. Tears streamed down her face, as she shrieked once more. Howled in an irrational belief that if she screamed loud enough it would scare everything bad away, and her father would hear her, and come as he always did. All that happened was her mother finding her, holding her, and rocking her, until Arya faded into her dreams. 

She awoke when she was alone in her room. Feeling like a heavy weight was pressing on her, she slowly rose, changed, made herself “presentable,” mother was always strict about that, and went to the dining area. Her distant cousin, Niduen sat there, as did Vindar. Running up, she gave them both a hug, mostly to reassure herself that they, at least, were still there.

“Where’s Mother and Aunt Nira?” 

“In meeting with Council,” Niduen replied softly as Vindar poked his food. “They need to determine who will rule us next.”

“When will they be back?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt they shall leave until they have decided. We cannot afford instability at the moment.”

“Instability?” Niduen sighed and it irritated Arya. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know big words yet.  

“It means that the people need to know who is in charge lest they panic. With Galbatorix in power and hunting us, we need to be strong.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, now you should eat. I need to take you to see your father.”

Arya furrowed her brow. “I thought he was dead.”

“He is. You’ll just be seeing his body to say a final farewell. It’s traditional to take at least a day for everyone he was close to to pay their respects.”

Arya nodded, and tried to force some fruit down her throat. It was hard where it was so clogged. She didn’t want to see Father again. It was too upsetting. She noticed Vindar ate nothing at all, but merely moved the food around his plate. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Arya resolved to look only at her plate.

“I’m done, Cousin Niduen.” She announced after she’d eaten what little she could, and Niduen rose and escorted her to a special room where her father’s body lay.

“I’ll leave you alone with him then. Come out when you’re ready.”

Arya nodded resolutely and walked up to the bed where the late king lay. 

“Father?” She whispered tentatively. She was confused about why she was supposed to be here, and what she should say. “I love you.” She paused. “I miss you.” She paused again. This was weird, because he wasn’t answering. Normally, her father would laugh, or smile, or pick her up, or get down on one knee to see her eye to eye, or ask her how her day was, or tell her stories. Arya wasn’t sure what to do with an unresponsive lump. “I hope you’re okay.” She finally concluded, and copied her mother by kissing him on the brow. She walked out feeling hollow. 

Niduen must have seen the lost look in her eyes for she knelt and wrapped her arms around her youngest cousin and began to softly weep. Hugging her back, Arya realised tears were leaking from her eyes again too. 

Arya hid in her room afterwards saying she didn’t want to see anyone. It was true. She’d far rather play with her toys alone in her room than face everyone acting so...weird, different... sad. She played until she was bored, then paced around her room, and finally crawled into bed to try and escape into her waking dreams. She must have lain there for hours as she ignored requests that she join for both lunch and dinner. The room darkened and her mother entered as the night reached a level of stillness that suggested most every creature must also be in bed. Arya felt her trail the back of her hand over Arya's cheek.

“Oh, my poor daughter,” she whispered, and laid down on the bed next to her, wrapping her in her arms. Blinking twice, Arya woke properly and looked at the diadem on her mother’s forehead, the one she had once seen on her father. 

“Are you Drottning now?” She whispered.

“Yes,” her mother replied in a weary tone, and closed her eyes. Somehow, Arya knew her mother was too tired to talk. So she rested her ear against her mother’s breast, and tried to soothe herself with the sound of her mother’s heartbeat. 

When she awoke again her mother was gone, but her great-grandfather, who was over a millenia old, was waiting for her. 

“Arya,” he greeted with gentle power, as he knelt before her to grasp both her hands in his. “I’ve volunteered to answer any questions you have. You saw your father yesterday, correct?”

Arya nodded, unable to speak. It was rare that her great-grandfather, Ailangr, deigned to talk to her...or anyone, but especially not youngsters. He preferred solitude and contemplation out in the woods, occasionally visiting with other aged companions. 

“There are others of our family who were also lost to the void. Would you see them?”

Arya gulped. Summoning her courage she dared to ask.

“Who else is...dead?” She assumed then that this “dead” was what “lost to the void” meant. She’d heard it for so long to only now know what it meant. 

“Your grandmother, your grandfather, Niduen’s parents, and your other elder cousins: Hjanar, Dathan, and Ilia.” 

“That’s--that’s--”

“Aye,” in that moment her great-grandfather looked truly old. “That’s half our family. We’ve lost a lot in this war. I fear--” He stopped and shook his head. Then he kissed her on the forehead. “Would you like to see them?”

Arya felt like a coward but shook her head no. Seeing her father had been weird, and strange, and unnatural; she didn’t want to see the rest of her family like that.

“Will I really never see them again?” Her voice quavered.

“No, you won’t.” He replied. “Not even their bodies after the funeral.”

Arya rolled over and stared at the wall. Her great-grandfather let her be and left the room, for which she was grateful, but he did send her a thought.

You can hide in your room forever, Arya, but even if you cannot see it, the forest still mourns, and your father is still dead. But you are alive, child. Alive and healthy. Live, because your father cannot, because many cannot, and someday you will go too. Be brave. Live because you are still alive.

Arya wrapped her arms around her pillow and wept. She sobbed for what must have been an hour, sobs that wracked and shook her whole body. She had never known you could cry for so long and so hard. She remembered how it was when her father would quietly step into her room and wrap his arms around her. Everytime she had been sad, he had found her. He was big, and strong, and warm, and he’d made her feel safe in his cocoon. She missed it and cried harder, almost choking. She was alone. Be brave. Those were the same words her father had given her before he’d left.  

“Why do you have to go, Father?”

“Because I am the King; I have to lead our people.”

“But why do they have to go?”

His arms encircled her and he lifted her onto his lap. 

“You know about the Dragon Rider who got rid of all the other Rider’s and made himself King?”

“Galbatorix.”

“Yes, him. He must be stopped Arya. And I must do it.”

“Why?”

“Because a King, in fact any good man, cannot ignore evil, Arya. If someone hurt you, I would protect you. I would not have you live in a world where you are unsafe, or if you are already hurt, where it is not condemned as wrong.” Condemned was a big word, but Arya thought she might know what it meant. “A King is a father to all his people. Galbatorix will hurt every elf if he isn’t stopped, and the dragons who are our family too will be lost forever; I cannot stay here while that is true. Our people need me.” He looked at her carefully. “You cannot do nothing while others are hurt. Do you understand?”

“Uh. Huh.” She nodded sadly. “I think so. But I’ll still miss you.”

“And I you, my heart.” He said softly and kissed her on the cheek. “Be brave, my daughter. It’s okay to be afraid, but you are Drottningu, and sometimes you have to go where fear lies, so that others can be safe from it.” 

“Like you do.”

“Yes, like me.” He hugged her tightly again. “Take care of your mother for me.” He winked. “It shouldn’t be too long.” Then his expression had darkened and he’d lifted her chin. “I love you.” He said it so firmly, Arya knew that this was important to him.

“I love you too, Father!” She said throwing her arms around him and kissing him back. “Even more than all the trees in the woods!”

He laughed. “Than all the trees in the woods?! I am a lucky man indeed.”

Now he was gone, and Arya had to be brave. She sat up and wiped her cheeks wondering what that meant, and what she should do. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry; she should eat. 

When she arrived in the communal dining area she found her entire family having breakfast...what was left of them. Her aunt Nira, her cousins Vindar, Niduen, and Tamanr, and her great-grandfather Ailangr. And that was it. Her only family left. There used to be twice as many. Galbatorix had taken them. Looking at those remaining huddled together, Arya realised how much was gone. And Galbatorix had done this to every family in their kingdom. All of them. Mother had lost her entire family in the burning of Luthivira, except grandmother, who had just now died. Anger burned up inside her again, and she clenched her fists. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they had to hide while that mean traitor-king lived...while her father did not. She felt tears brimming in her eyes once more, but rage creeped into her heart.

“Oh, Arya,” her aunt hurried forward with gentle grace. She resembled her younger brother so greatly, Arya struggled to look at her. She loved her aunt, but it was her father she wanted. Nira piled food onto her plate and set it before her. “It’ll be good for you to eat. Your mother’s in a meeting, but she’ll be here for noon meal, and she said the rest of the day she’ll spend with you.”

“Okay.” Arya found the energy to murmur. She felt inexplicably lonely, but she mustered the will to push the food into her mouth.

“I’m glad to see you took my advice.” Her great-grandfather said smoothly. “We in this family were never ones to run and hide. We stand our ground. That’s why we have been empowered where others have not.” 

“For all the good it did Uncle,” Vindar muttered petulantly.

“From my mate, to my daughter, to my grandson we have ruled.” Ailangr mused. “We had to fall eventually. But there will be a rebirth, a reckoning. There always is.” 

Vindar threw his fork down as he ran from the room with his mother hurrying after him. Arya noticed he had burst into tears.

“It won’t be him if he continues that attitude.” Ailangr muttered as he spread jam on his bread. Arya said nothing, afraid that he would be so indifferent to her as well. 

“My mother is Drottning now, right?” she asked tentatively, worried she was speaking out of turn, especially with Ailangr at the table.

“Yes,” Niduen confirmed. “I dare say they chose well enough. Your mother is fueled by grief and fear of loss. And she was always one to maintain control even without that. She will rule the people cautiously and with a firm hand, but neither will she forget what she has lost, and neglect the Oath-Breaker.”

Neither will I, Arya decided. It was her and her mother now. Taking care of each other. And no one should get away with hurting so many people. It wasn’t fair. 

“What are we to do now, Mother?” Arya asked as they meandered around the garden upon her mother’s return. She hoped her mother might help her know what to do. Everything felt so sad, it was like trying to move through a dark haze. 

“Galbatorix is too powerful for us to face right now. He stole...power from the dragons, and he has the Wyrdfell’s support.”

“Is he going to find us?” 

“No...not yet, I think. He knows not where we are, and we did do him some damage at Illirea. His dragons may try to burn the forest and find us, but they have not the strength, I think, to face us so blinded. It will take time for the Mad King to consolidate his power.”

“Consolidate?”

“Master. Control. Gather.” Her mother explained. “It shall take him decades. But we shall have to be especially cautious for the next few years, at least. He may retaliate.” Her mother breathed in deeply to steady herself. “However, if he doesn’t, as would be wise of him, we will have time to hoard our energy. Already we are sending word to all the elves to bring their jewels to the centre of their cities where we shall work to fill them with power for our magic. And I have tasked all of our best spell-weavers to work on finding new ways to gain energy, and to attack the King. And Brom,” she pursed her lips tightly, and Arya smiled thinking about what a scandal it had been when Master Oromis had had to knock him unconscious when he’d caused a scene in Rhunon’s forge, “has begged my permission to allow him to leave the forest to search for more dragons, or energy sources. And to help others fight against the King.” She sighed deeply. “This I have granted him, once his Master deems him fit and stable enough to ward off mental attacks. I cannot allow knowledge of our location to be lost to Galbatorix.”

“So...we’re just waiting, and storing up energy?” Arya enquired, struggling to understand the concepts her mother was explaining.  

“It’s all we can do, Arya: Wait, prepare, and hope.” 

Arya nodded vigorously and leaned her head against her mother’s knee. 

“I’ll help.” 

“I’m sure you will.” Her mother whispered distantly, and they spent the rest of their time wrapped together in silence until it was time to prepare for the funeral. 

All the elves gathered around a large field where lay the many hundreds of  bodies lost in Ilirea, which Arya had been told was now called Uru’Baen. The various family members placed seeds and young shoots of flowers, shrubs, and trees of their preference over the various bodies. Arya and her mother went likewise and placed young pines, and maple saplings over the fallen King. Arya couldn’t help but notice her father was being buried with his sword. 

“Mother,” she whispered frantically, “can I take his sword?”

“Yes,” her mother said after a moment of hesitation, “you may as well. It is yours by right, and Rhunon says she will forge no more, and all know her swords are the best.”

Stepping forward, Arya pulled her father’s elegant sword off him, struggling with its size. Her mother made to help her, but Arya refused and, wrapping her arms around it in a tight hug, waddled her way with it back to the dais they were to stand on during the ceremony. This was her father’s sword, and Arya felt protective of it, and bound by it. Looking somehow even more saddened, her mother followed her and when everyone was finished paying their last respects, she made a speech honouring the fallen, and vowing to work towards their vengeance. Justice would be served. Arya clutched her sword tightly and vowed the same. Everyone’s voice rose as all in Ellesmera sang of loss and rebirth, of death and life, of hope and despair. The flowers and the plants grew, as the bodies descended into the earth never to be seen again. The sight brought a sense of finality to Arya instinctively feeling the end of one part of her life, the beginning of another, the endless cycle.

Before she allowed her mother to tuck her into bed that night, Arya gently placed her father’s sword in a corner of her room where she could always see it as it gleamed in the moonlight. Rubbing a hand over it reverently, she noticed the symbol etched into the metal. 

“What does it mean?” She asked as her mother raised the blankets up to her chin. The Queen took a long time before she answered,

“Wrath.”

Chapter Text

It had been over five years since Arya’s father had been killed. Memories of him had started to fade until all that was left for Arya was an ideal, a vague recollection of a kind smile, of strong, warm hugs, and of security. She frequently begged stories of him from her aunt, and her mother, when the grief did not seem about to overwhelm her. Mother, when she was not in court, had a fragile air about her, but in public, she was strong. She had to be, because every elf lived in the dread that today would be the day the Black King set their world aflame. Sometimes Arya thought the strength her mother showed outside of their hall was paid for by the time her mother spent locked in her room when she returned.

Arya lived under this cloud, and a burning rage grew inside her to rival a dragon’s flame. She resented the feeling of being trapped, especially by the person who killed her father and the dragons. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. She wanted her mother back. She wanted her life back. Beyond that, she yearned to see the worlds outside Alagaesia. In her free time she devoured histories of her race as they had lived in outside cities, and dreamed of being the one to wield the sword that freed them. Arya loved her home, but she already had learned to despise anything that told her what she had to do...such as stay there. She wanted to wander. She wanted to do what she wanted without all of the rules and bindings. Galbatorix had stolen that from her too. Would she ever see the oceans blue? Would she ever see the wonders of Tronjheim? Would she ever see Ilirea as it once was?

Being helpless in the face of it all just seemed to add insult to injury. For all her many hatreds, there was nothing Arya hated more than being unable to do anything about it. She wanted to climb out of the shadows and rail at the False King herself. She wanted to declare herself Evandar's daughter and heiress and cut Galbatorix's head off in the proper punishment for traitors. So there came the day the young girl could not concentrate on her studies, because the Rider, Brom Holcombsson, had returned to Du Weldenvarden. Arya couldn’t wait to catch a glimpse of him. He would be staying in her family’s hall. If only she knew when he would be arriving!

“Focus, Drottningu!” Her mentor reprimanded her. Arya huffed loudly relishing the childish display of her temper. Let her frustration be known! What use were numbers when a Rider, who was human, and had left the forest to fight for their freedom was coming to her home? Arya wrote the answer to the problem set before her and looked out the window again craning her neck.

“Focus, child!” Master Dinor sighed deeply, and this time Arya actually took the time to look at him. She felt a surge of pity. Dinor was a well-respected mathematician who looked as slim and precise as the working he favoured. He was thin, and long, and wan in every respect from his silver hair to his grey eyes. It must be difficult to be renowned as a genius with arithmetic only to teach a recalcitrant Princess. Arya pursed her lips, and mumbled an apology with her eyes downturned. 

“Then focus,” he replied. “Even if Brom-finiarel enters this room, you shall not be permitted to speak with him until your studies are complete. You better serve your goal by focusing.”

“Yes, Master.” Arya huffed and threw herself into completing the obnoxious fractions. The moment she was done, and formally dismissed, she dashed off to the gardens waiting for Rider Brom’s arrival. 

Arya did not have to wait terribly long. The gates to the garden opened and in walked her mother who looked impassive as ever, but Arya suspected she was frustrated. Next to her strode a man Arya vaguely recognised from her father’s funeral: Brom Holcombsson. He was somewhat shorter than her mother with brown hair, intense blue eyes under dark eyebrows, a funny looking hooked nose, (no elf would ever have a nose like that), and an impassioned air about him that seemed palpable. It was like he moved faster than the world could keep up with, almost like his body was merely riding his own current. He seemed quite displeased about something, but that had naught to do with her. Arya could feel her heart racing in anticipation of their meeting. Here was a man who openly defied the king. Here was a piece of history. 

“Brom-vodhr,” her mother spoke briskly, “I believe you remember my daughter, Arya.”

“Indeed so, Your Majesty.” He bowed slightly in her direction. “And even if I did not, she resembles you greatly.”

Arya was not about to waste such an opportunity. Touching her two fingers to her lips, she greeted him. 

“Atra esterni ono thelduin, Brom-elda.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed her mother’s lips purse slightly at the use of that particular honourific. Arya wondered what had happened between them. Rider Brom had something of a reputation amongst the elves for being an incorrigible, even dangerous, trouble-maker. Secretly, Arya thought it sounded rather fun to kick up that kind of a fuss. She was always expected to be good.

“Atra du evarinya ono varda.” He replied.

Arya added the optional third line, and Brom grimaced.

“Well,” he said in a strange drawl, “maybe there would be peace in my heart if the world wasn’t filled with--”

“Enough, Brom-vodhr,” her mother rebuked. “The matter is settled.”

Arya raised her eyebrows in disbelief. She knew Riders were above any monarch, (something her grandmother Dellanir had disliked, a disliking that had trickled down to her descendants), but it still amazed her to hear someone so openly express frustration with her mother, or anyone in Du Weldenvarden for that matter who was not a close friend or relation. And to do so so thoroughly her mother seemed at the edge of her temper. It thrilled her.

“Mother,” she said seizing an opportunity presented to her, “perhaps I could show Rider Brom to his rooms? You must both be very tired.” 

Her mother looked at her piercingly, and whatever she saw, smiled slightly, and gestured her consent. Arya did her best to try and not look too pleased. 

“This way, Silverhand,” she gestured with an arm towards the entrance path trying, and failing she was sure, to make the gesture as graceful and regal as her mother would have accomplished. Brom-elda followed after her and Arya wracked her brain trying to figure out how to turn the conversation to her advantage. She knew if she messed this up, and Rider Brom complained to her mother, she would not be allowed to speak with him again. She was too young to be able to truly initiate a conversation with him within the bounds of courtesy, but perhaps if she made some inquiries about his comfort after his journey the talk might naturally shift?

“You have travelled far and widely, Brom-elda,” she started nervously trying to adopt her mother’s inflections and word choice, “We have tried to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. You’ll have our best rooms, and there will be fresh clothes and food waiting. Is there anything else you desire?” 

The Rider shook his head. “What I desire I’m not bound to get anytime soon.” He grumbled. 

“Are you certain? What is it that you desire?” 

He snorted. “Courage. But it’s in plenty short supply.” 

Arya bristled. “What do you mean? My father died defending us! Elves do not lack for courage.” Horror filled her as she realised that she had spoken so out of turn to an elder. Mother would surely reprimand her, and she would not be allowed to talk to such distinguished guests again. To her shock though, Rider Brom laughed which softened his face considerably, and made him look much younger. Distantly, Arya remembered hearing that he was quite young, even by human standards, and still in his twenties.

“Well aren’t you a spunky Princess!” He chortled, and in the blink of an eye his face was somber once more and lines etched across his forehead. “Peace. I didn’t mean to offend you. I fought with your father. He was brave. I fear seeing him struck down has turned your people timid. It’s understandable enough, I suppose, and caution is warranted, but we’ll never have peace if we hide in our burrows like rabbits. Eventually, the foxes will find us. I’d rather strike first. Not foolishly. But first.” 

Mustering all her daring Arya asked,  “Is that what you quarreled with Mother over?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” 

And nothing more could be said, since they arrived at their destination.

“By your leave, Brom-elda,” she said politely. He nodded at her as he entered the room. Already removing his sword and pack, he closed the door behind him. 

The moment he was out of sight Arya hopped on her tiptoes before racing to find her mother. She had to know what had transpired. Just before she reached the door outside her mother’s quarters, she composed herself lest her mother chastise her for her haste. She knocked twice on the door frame.

“Enter!” 

Arya did so and took a seat on the floor by her mother’s chair, leaning her dark head against her mother’s knee. It was a familiar posture. At her desk was the only way Arya ever saw her mother these days, unless it was in bed. She absent-mindedly soothed her daughter’s hair. She had a distant, haunted look on her face. 

“What happened, Mother?”  

Her mother laughed hoarsely. “An angry fool bent on vengeance, who is both short-sighted and arrogant, taunted us.”

“What do you mean?” 

Her mother sighed deeply. “Brom-vodhr is of the opinion that we need to begin systematically assassinating the remaining members of the Wyrdfell.”

Arya frowned. She couldn’t see what was wrong with that. They could hardly defeat Galbatorix when he still had so many of his Dragon Rider servants. She told her mother so.

“Yes. Yes. But Arya, we have not the means to do it. Brom-vodhr was of the opinion that we should place spies to tell us where the various members go, and when they are alone, we should ambush them. He came to us, because we are the strongest race, best able to help him.”

“Why did you refuse him?”

“Because, Arya, we have not the strength to match them.”

“But if there were enough of us...and it was an ambush?”

“Perhaps we would succeed, but if Galbatorix suspected our involvement, as he surely will. Will he not rain down destruction on us? We are far too weakened to take such risks now. Worse still, if even one of our race is captured, and that Mad-King were to find our locations, we would all be doomed.”

“Oh…” Arya trailed off thoughtfully. “But won’t Galbatorix come eventually?”

“Probably, but it will be decades upon decades before he is ready to truly try, unless we test him. By that point, we will have stored away enough energy to be able to defend ourselves. Until then, we shall bide our time. I’ll not condemn our race to extinction for one man’s foolhardiness. He is so despicably...human.” She sneered. 

Arya frowned at that, absorbing it. Human. It was thrown around like a curse-word these days. Galbatorix was human. He was unstable. A failing in their race, or so it was said. Their kind should never have been allowed to be Riders. Arya couldn’t say one way or another if it was true. Brom-elda was the only human she’d ever met, but ever since his outburst towards Rhunon-elda, the mutterings had increased. Some had denounced his actions as grief from the loss of his dragon, but even so, it did hint at an inherent instability, a lack of discipline. Humans were smelly, short-sighted, and short-lived. They charged forward without considering all the consequences, even if people were trampled under foot. Barbarians, in other words. Mother was saying that Brom was too angry, and wild, and not in the good way, to see that he would hurt people. Brom was human. Arya knew not what to say. She sympathised with Brom, and wanted to take down the Wyrdfell, but she trusted her mother’s judgement even as she dreamed of ambushing those who had betrayed their race, Order, and cause. And everyone spoke ill of humans. Mother was probably right.

“Let us speak of other matters, Arya. I dislike this topic, and you are far too young to be worrying over it.” Arya disagreed, but knew by now to hold her tongue. She so rarely got to spend time with her mother as it was. “Master Dinor tells me you were difficult today.” Arya shut her eyes tightly. She should have known she would not escape the day without a lecture. Behind her eyes she felt the welling of tears. Sometimes, it seemed to Arya, all Mother ever did when she even saw her was criticise. Arya wondered why she bothered to even try. 

Resentment and insecurity haunted Arya. It bothered her how distant her mother had become. Arya had lived in a world of shadows since her father died. Clinging to her mother as her only parent left, Arya had worked hard to appease her, to be brave and strong and supportive. She brought her tea when she had a long day. She brought her flowers she picked in the forest. She woke her mother up on those days it seemed Mother would never get out of bed and just stared at the wall. Mother roused herself usually only for Council, for meetings, for when Arya needed her attendance for lessons. If Mother had any energy beyond these events that could not go on without her, Arya rarely saw it. Even when her mother could be convinced to come out and play, on the rare opportunity she was not lost to grief or politics, she still seemed only half-there. Arya rarely asked anymore. When Father had been alive, Mother had come whenever Arya called. Father was gone now and Mother went with him. There was now just Drottning and her expectations.

Arya was tired of never feeling good enough. She was starting to wonder if there was even a point to trying at all.  I fear seeing him struck down has turned your people timid. Arya did not want to be called a coward, did not want to be viewed as a coward who ran around everywhere trying to please people. She was Drottningu. It shouldn't work like that. Light glinted off her father’s sword which remained in the corner of her room. Arya wished she were old enough to wield it, but even if she was. What would she do with it if she wasn’t allowed to leave? She rolled over and huffed again. What was the point of any of her efforts at all? 

“Mother,” she asked at breakfast the next day. “When will we oppose Galbatorix?”

Her mother raised her head and stared at her from across the table. Arya thought she detected a hint of anger in her eyes. “When we are ready,” she replied.

“How will you know when we are ready? When we have enough energy? It’s been years since Father’s defeat. Surely, we’ve stored enough in our jewels.”

“That, uh, is, I believe, what I said.” Rider Brom said with a hint of amusement. He was seated between them as their honoured guest. Niduen and Tamanr sat on the other side. “And you can die before capture if things go that badly. We need to reduce the threat.”

“And, since I must repeat myself,” her mother said haltingly, “it is insufficient to combat the king. As we speak, our spellweavers are working on new means of harnessing energy, on weapons to rival the Dauthdearts of old, on new spells. We will not march to war again until we are ready. We cannot afford to attract the King’s eyes or lose any more elves. We are not prepared for more losses.”

“And if the Forsworn all band together and attack? Wouldn’t it be better to pick them off one by one? What if you never find the means in time to harness more energy? What need do you have for more weapons? Can the ones you have puncture an artery? Pierce the heart? Yes? Then, they’ll work! Take them one at a time rather than hoping just maybe you’ll survive them all at once!” Rider Brom’s voice rose in a fervour.

Mother closed her eyes tightly, after a brief pause she spoke, enunciating every word with care, “There are many variables, and possibilities, but my decision is final. A former Rider you may be, but you do not command my people. I do. And I shall not waver on this point.”

“So be it.” Rider Brom said tightly as he shoveled food into his mouth. 

“And, Arya,” Arya gulped as her mother looked at her sternly. “I would speak to you after breakfast.”

“Yes, Mother.” Arya said quietly knowing that in her anger she had violated the bounds of courtesy and etiquette by questioning her mother so, and worse in front of a guest. 

Chapter Text

A restlessness emerged in Arya after Brom had left. Perhaps she simply hid it less. Arya often thought of her father’s parting words: 

“If someone hurt you, I would protect you. I would not have you live in a world where you are unsafe, or if you are already hurt, where it is not condemned as wrong.”

Arya could not understand why her mother would not give her a straight answer on when they would attack Galbatorix. When would they try to do what Rider Brom was doing and attack the Forsworn one by one? You were supposed to stand up to bullies! 

Arya could understand not being ready yet. Everyone Arya had ever known had lost someone in the war, multiple someones even. Her people were in hiding, but how long before they fought again? Why would mother not answer her? By doing nothing, Arya felt her mother was saying what happened was okay…that the way things were was okay. 

“Galbatorix will hurt every elf if he isn’t stopped, and the dragons who are our family too will be lost forever; I cannot stay here while that is true. Our people need me.” 

That was why Father had left. That was why he had left her . Sometimes Arya laid awake at night raging against her father for leaving her behind. Other nights she cried. Why did you have to leave? Some nights she screamed into her pillow. To Arya it seemed every ounce of her pain and misery could trace back to that moment. 

She had yelled at Aunt Nira when she had mentioned her brother. Tears had covered both their eyes. Aunt Nira had sighed though. It was almost like she understood. There was a gleam in her eyes like fire, but also dulled like the salt water was smothering them. 

“Don’t blame your father, Arya. I’m angry too, but Galbatorix was always going to try and kill him. Your father fought as hard as he could. Blame Galbatorix; blame the forsworn, but do not blame the innocent party.” 

And Arya understood that, rationally, even if it was not always easy. Emotional control was something Arya was often lectured on.

“You look upset, Arya.” Her mother rebuked. 

“I am upset.” Arya pouted. She couldn’t even remember the offense. It might have been anything. 

Did Mother blame her for Father’s death? If Arya hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t been so little…Mother would not have been left behind. Certainly, Arya must have done something wrong for Mother to treat her so. 

“Well stop looking so upset. We can’t leave the hall if everyone can read your every thought across your face.”

“Yes, Mother.” Arya swallowed and scraped her hands across her face. She steeled her face, and tried to look as impassive as her mother. As heartless as her mother, she thought.

Mother not telling her when they would march out again made her rage worse. If mother would not fight, if it was not necessary to fight, then why did Father leave? Why die and leave her with this mess? …Didn’t he love her? 

Arya knew in her heart that he did. It almost made it worse. Her father had asked Arya if she understood why he had to leave. Did she understand his duty? She had said, yes. If she could understand…why couldn’t Mother? Why didn’t she seem to care? Mother was more than happy to use her father’s memory against her. 

“I’m trying to protect his legacy, your legacy. This throne will likely be yours someday.” It had made Arya want to puke. Then there was the mournful sigh, the look of disappointment; Arya told herself she was immune to it. “What would your Father think if…”

“Well, I don’t know what Father would think!” Arya had snapped. “As he isn’t here to tell me.” She had turned on her heel and ran to her room, uncertain once again which parent she was angrier at. 

Arya’s contrariness continued for weeks. Mother continued to be short with her when she deigned to notice. Arya resented it, yet lived for every reprimand. These were the only moments her mother seemed to remember she had a daughter. If it was unpleasant then it was unpleasant, but at least it was something. Besides, Arya wanted the world to see how upset she was. She was tired of hiding and pretending, tired of not mattering, and tired that no one cared. There was always an excuse. 

Cousin Niduen adored weaving. It was what she devoted much of her time to. Arya loved to sit next to her and watch as the threads came together to form an image, a story. She marveled at Niduen’s ability to handle all the threads so masterfully. She wondered if she would ever be so good. Niduen had taught her the basics, letting her weave baskets in the corner as she indulged Arya’s need for stories. 

Niduen’s weaving room had been Arya’s calm refuge, especially since her father’s death. Niduen often spoke in metaphors; her loom was like the world. Each thread was a life; they wove together to form something greater than the whole. Sometimes the threads got cut, like Arya’s father. Arya did not always understand the analogies, but there was a quiet, soothing wisdom in Niduen’s weaving room.

But not today.

“Your Mother has a great many responsibilities.” Niduen felt the need to explain when she noticed Arya acting out. “She has to balance the many Houses, their alliances and factions, and protect our people. It is not easy.” Arya huffed and crossed her arms. She knew all of this already. Everyone was always telling her this. She didn’t need to hear it again. She was sick of hearing it!

Be a good daughter. Be kind, calm, and patient. This is a difficult time. Your mother has many responsibilities. Arya knew all that. She wasn’t stupid! Her behavior wasn’t the issue. Arya had been pulling her weight. She also wanted to help protect their people. …All she asked in return was that her Mother just spend some time with her. All she asked was to be appreciated and loved, but no one listened. It was always about Mother, never about her daughter. No one told Mother that she ought to be better to Arya. No one ever took Arya’s side. No, of course not! If Arya was angry now then it was justified. Not that anyone cared.

Arya ceased to bring her mother tea. She ceased to run to her to show her the poem she wrote, the picture she had drawn, or the cool story she had read. She ceased to sit at her mother’s desk. That loss was the hardest. Those moments her mother had spoken to her, or ran an affectionate hand through Arya’s hair had been treasures. Still, that was precisely why Arya had stopped. Arya wanted to know if her mother would seek her, the way Arya sought her mother. Would her mother even notice? Was the affection real? Or was it all in Arya’s head? Did anything she did even matter? Was she replaceable? Worse, was she an unwanted burden?

Arya’s heart burned as the weeks passed. Sometimes her eyes stung and she resented them for that. If Mother didn’t care, why should she? Arya’s eyes followed her mother whenever she entered a room. Any meal they shared, Arya sat quietly. Neither Niduen nor Tamanr, when she returned from her son’s mate’s house, could pull a word out of her. Mother merely sighed and accepted it. She never tried to talk when it became clear Arya wouldn’t. She never asked why. Once Mother grumbled she was being childish, but “one day you will understand.” That was it. Mother just assumed she was right, just assumed Arya was being childish, because of course she did. 

Well, Arya didn’t care about some would-be “one day” that might never come. What she understood now was that Mother didn’t actually care how Arya felt. Mother didn’t miss her enough to bother actually talking to her or asking what was wrong.

Arya decided to run away from home. 

Running away was easier thought than done. She would have to slip her minders. Arya was used to guards. There was Niduen and Tamanr, of course. They made sure she did what she was supposed to do when she was supposed to do it. There was the guard that accompanied Arya if she ever wanted to leave Tialdari Hall by herself. Then there were just the gardeners, cooks, tutors, and other elves going about Tialdari Hall and the grounds. 

Always, always there were eyes watching Arya. It was so annoying. She could never just climb a tree. She could never just visit a friend. No, she had to be watched doing it… and everything reported back to mother for scrutiny. Arya was a prisoner, she decided. A prisoner not just in this forest, but by her Mother, who did not appreciate her, but felt content to keep her here against her will.

Arya had not minded so much the watchful eyes when she was smaller, but now it began to chafe. She was ten! At ten, why was her room the only place Arya could go and be alone? Vindar didn’t have minders everywhere he went. Why did Arya have to?!

“He’s older!” Mother or Aunt Nira tried to reason; Arya would not relent. Even when Vindar had been her age, he had not had guards, but what Arya thought and felt no longer mattered. It didn’t matter, because times were different now. 

Arya rolled her eyes at the common phrase. Times were different now. In the Before, there had been riders. Elves had dominated Alagaesia. They were the power. Now, they hid in the forest. (But what were they doing about it? Did anyone even care that her father had died?) And because times were different now, it was dangerous to be outside without a guard. There were restrictions everywhere she looked. 

Arya didn’t see how she should be in danger from her own people, but Mother simply would not take the risk. Grief-stricken people looking for someone to blame might attack her to get back at her mother. Mother said some people blamed her for their defeat and lost loved ones, which seemed weird to Arya. Mother said people did not always act rashly. Arya couldn’t help but agree. Otherwise, why bother looking out for Arya? It’s not like her Mother cared. 

That was why the worst answer above all was being told she was too precious to risk. That had stung. 

“Why do you never spend time with me then?!” Arya yelled, and stomped her feet, resenting the tears that stung her eyes again. How could her mother even believe such a thing well enough to say it? Mother didn’t even bother to respond. She went cold, as she always seemed to in these moments. It enraged Arya how her mother’s quiet voice somehow carried further than her impassioned yells. 

“Because I am trying to protect not only you, but every elf in this forest. Or do you think your wishes are more important?”

Arya fled to her room, angry she had no retort. She heard in the distance. 

“If you do not wish to be treated like a child, then do not act like one.”

But Arya knew the truth now that it really didn’t matter how she behaved. If Mother cared about her, she would want Arya with her. She would ask after her instead of assuming Arya would get over her “childishness,” as if Arya hadn’t been doing her absolute best since Father had died, nor could Arya help in other “productive” no matter how she behaved. She was helpless.

Arya knew the rules. She would never be allowed near politics until she was fifteen. This was the tradition. From ten, her current age, she would begin studying political theory. She would begin studying under the eldest of her House, Tamanr, (but sometimes Ailangr helped), to block out people who would read her thoughts. Only when she mastered that could she be allowed to know state secrets. Until she was fifteen, she would be allowed nothing. Not even to know when her Mother planned to attack Galbatorix and avenge them apparently. 

Well, Arya was done trying. She didn’t really know what she would do, or where she would go. Probably not very far, because Mother would look for her. Right? She squared her shoulders. This was the final test. And when Mother looked, would it be because it was expected of her? Or would the Queen actually bother to care?

Arya decided not to bother with a note. It would defeat the purpose. She dragged Vindar into a game of hide and seek. Pretending to the guards and servants that she was crawling away to hide, she snuck out. It had been surprisingly easy. A finger to her lips, a quick giggle, and they felt they were in on the secret. The visiting guests also provided a nice distraction. Arya wasn’t certain if she felt ashamed or proud. 

She ran into the forest looking for a hollow to hide in. She did not go far. Arya wanted to be certain she wasn’t caught, but she also wanted to see if Mother looked for her. Her heart raced with excitement at her daring when she finally curled up out of sight. 

Hours passed. Arya shivered and wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself. It was nearing evening. The excitement had worn off by now. She had enjoyed reading the stories she had brought with her. She had enjoyed the wildlife…but now she was tired and wanted to go home. 

It didn’t matter. She grit her teeth. She was sticking this out, and if Mother didn’t come looking…then Arya…Her throat tightened. She still hadn’t decided what she would do, but she would not go back where she was not wanted!

She had seen her aunt and cousins look for her. The servants and guards had joined in, even calling her name. They must have realised she wasn’t in Tialdari Hall. As more people came out to join the search, Arya scanned them looking for just one person. Judging by the tone of their voices, the searchers were starting to panic. Arya wanted to reach out and reassure them, but they were not who she was testing. Where was her mother? She should have heard the news by now. 

There! Arya’s eyes widened. The Queen had come out and she looked upset. Arya’s heart sped up again. Would Mother call out for her? Arya’s mouth opened in anticipation, eager to call out. Eager to be found. She swallowed in disappointment when her mother nodded her head in decisive fashion and turned away. Arya watched the motion; her vision was blurring and her cheeks were wet. She only noticed when she began to gasp and her breathing became irregular. 

No, she reminded herself sternly. She couldn't afford to cry, especially when Mother wasn’t. She needed to be quiet, and not get caught. Where would she go? Arya wiped at her cheeks, rolled up in her cloak and fell asleep.

She dreamed it was her Mother when she felt strong arms gently lift her. She blinked blearily. It was a silver-haired man. 

“Father?” She mumbled. Her vision cleared and her heart sank. She felt humiliated. Father was dead and this was–this was-

“Oromis-shur’tugal!” Arya squirmed in his arms, ashamed to have been found like this. Oromis-elda gently lowered her into a standing position. 

“Your Mother sent me to look for you.” He spoke gently. There was kindness in his grey eyes. It made Arya want to cry. 

“Why did Mother send you?” Arya spoke softly past the lump and tiredness in her throat. She wasn’t sure how she felt anymore. It was vaguely numb. She wanted to be happy Mother had sent him, but why had she not seemed frantic? Why had she herself not gone looking too? Where were Mother’s tears? Why was she an afterthought to be left to everyone else?

“She feared you had been kidnapped. She felt I was the best hope of finding you, and discreetly. She did not want…”

“She did not want people to think our House had enemies, or at least not ones who could strike a blow against us.” Arya intoned by rote. She should have expected politics to touch this too. Mother had sent someone, but was it only politics? Arya’s stomach felt hard as rock.

“Do I have to go back?” She whispered. Oromis kneeled before her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. 

“Why do you not wish to go back, child?” She looked into his kind eyes and wondered if she should bother telling him. Arya felt a new desire to go mute. What was the point in talking if no one listened? The calm steadiness of his shoulders reassured her. There was a softness in his gaze. He looked at her like he genuinely did want to know her thoughts. He looked at her not like she was Drottningu, or Evandar’s daughter, or a child whose thoughts and feelings were irrelevant or to be laughed at.

“No one cares.” She started off slowly and softly, testing the waters. Oromis-elda remained silent but attentive. She continued like a dam had burst. Tears came and Oromis-elda held her. Bizarrely, it made her cry harder. 

Arya had few masculine figures in her life besides her great-grandfather, who was difficult for Arya to relate to. Arya had not realised how much she craved male attention. She had not realised how many more tears were left inside her for her Father. She had not realised how much she had buried her pain for the sake of everyone else. 

When she had cried her fill, she eased back out of the rider’s arms, feeling ashamed of her sobbing and shaking. Her chin still quivered. She did not know him, and she had shown weakness. She had aired family secrets. Her fears must have been written across her face, because he tenderly cupped her chin and lifted her face. 

“I am a rider, child.” His voice was soothing like cool water. “I am here to help and to listen, and nothing you tell me will be told to others.” He smiled. “Apart from my dragon, of course.” 

Arya smiled weakly. It was hard to feel discomfort in his presence. 

“I am sorry you feel the way you do.”

Arya’s heart lurched. She almost cried again just from hearing anyone acknowledge that she too had experienced pain. It was like they all thought losing her Father was the only loss she had experienced. It was like they all thought she had less right to her anger and grief than her mother, just because Arya wasn’t the Queen. 

“I hate her.” She whispered and gasped. She was speaking the language of Truth. How could she say something so horrible? In shame, she looked away from Oromis. “I love her.” She spoke just to test that she still could say it. “I hate her.” She tried again and the words almost stopped in her mouth, but she remembered her mother’s distance and it came. Her face rose in confusion. “How can I say both?”

Sorrow filled the rider’s eyes. “You are growing up, child. You will find you can feel multiple things all at the same time.” He sighed mournfully. “You love your mother; of course you do. That is why you hate her too at this moment, because you think that what you have loved so dearly has not loved you. It is a normal response. You are not a bad person.” Arya nodded gratefully and thoughtfully. “You will have to go back, but I will talk to your Mother.”  Arya wondered if she had misheard. 

“You’ll talk to her?”

“Yes,” Oromis stood and extended a hand which Arya took. “It is possible she simply does not understand the situation.”

Arya shook her head. 

“Well, we will never know until we discuss it with her. You can only know what she does or does not know or understand unless she tells you, and unless you tell her how you feel, maturely, she will not know the pain she causes either.” 

“She ought to.” Arya muttered as they began to walk down the path. 

“Maybe she should, but we are all imperfect, Arya.”