8. New Territory (Part I)
"Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks."
― Samuel Johnson
Scout Harding surveyed the valley before her eyes. A breeze tickled the sheaves of kingstaff far below, creating the illusion of a sea of golden undulating waves. Harding squinted, her hand firmly planted as a visor over her eyes, attempting to make out the distance between the rocky cliff they stood on and the small clearing in the flowing valley below.
A little less than a mile, she guessed shrewdly. The surveyor would confirm it a day later. The spot was clear and above water. Its relative proximity to the road made it close enough to be practical, but sufficiently isolated to guarantee a modicum of discretion for the Inquisition's affairs in the area. She decided it would be a suitable location for a camp. Inquisition soldiers would follow in a day or so, guided by the cairns and other markers they had left along the paths they'd forged and she hoped to have staked out the area well enough to begin the building of an outpost of sorts: somewhere soldiers, agents, and travelers could find shelter.
Her party consisted of Barthes, Norsir, and Vartan, fellow Inquisition scouts, and a young private named Chauncey, whom Commander Cullen had foisted on them out of desperation. Apparently Chauncey had been responsible for a series of mishaps over the last few days, culminating in an accidental incendiary episode that resulted in the singeing of a few expensive and newly commissioned Inquisition banners. Commander Cullen had asked her to bring Chauncey along on their next scouting mission.
"It'll expand his horizons, help him understand the scope of his duty…" the Commander had added to his request, which had sounded more like an order.
Later on Norsir had laughed cynically when he learned what was happening.
"What he really meant is that it'll keep Struthers and Avery from expanding his other horizons, if you know what I mean…" the dwarf had cackled while pointing at his own rump.
Poor Chauncey had been stuck with Skyhold's cranky templars, taking his orders from the two gruff and impatient men. She had yet to meet a more discombobulated person than Chauncey. He was even worse than herself, she realized, making her own comical episodes of flustered babbling seem most eloquent by comparison.
"We should send him as a gift to Corypheus," Barthes had joked. "I heard he single-handedly demolished the armory in an afternoon."
Ah, yes. The infamous armory incident.
The boy had stumbled into a room filled with equipment ready to be distributed among waiting troops. He'd clumsily crashed into some armor, which had been painstakingly organized and aligned so that the Quartermaster could easily hand out all the required equipment, knocking it down and starting a chain of collapse that ended up with the armorer having to hold back an incensed and infuriated Quartermaster from leaping rabidly onto the terrified and apologetic lad.
She stared into the valley and turned back to her party when she had decided on the next course of action.
"Barthes and Norsir: go down the cliff, claim the clearing and begin a perimeter check. Vartan, Chauncey and I will find another path down," she announced.
She could almost hear the duo's sigh of relief when they realized they'd be free of Chauncey for a few hours.
"Why don't you just hold on tight to me and we'll rappel down the cliff together?" Norsir teased her, knitting his brows.
They all knew Harding was frightened of heights. She shooed him away, skittishness in her eyes.
Barthes was perceptive and agile. He'd been raised among hunters and trackers in some forsaken corner of Ferelden, and his keen awareness of his surroundings made him her go-to anytime they established a camp in a new location. Norsir was a dwarf—a bit shorter than she, strong, muscular, and— she couldn't help her amusement— incredibly hairy. She sent him off with Barthes as he was not only fierce in battle, but also clever and resourceful. Vartan, her usual partner, was elven, from the alienage back in Denerim. Short, even for an elf, lean, wiry, and moody, he was quick and light on his feet, spoke several languages, and was also handy to have in a skirmish. She also found him helpful in the sense that he stayed out of her way anytime they worked together.
She was gregarious by nature- friendly and observant. But she had no problem keeping to herself—she had plenty to knock around in her noggin, she figured. It was one thing she was grateful for as she trekked and hiked through the wilds around her family's home in the Hinterlands: she had learned to become good company to herself. She found in the sprawling wilderness great peace in which to pursue her thoughts. She'd figured out a long time ago that Vartan was a poor conversationalist and he did not care enough to do anything about his predicament. Despite his wit and eloquence, something she had observed in action on a few occasions, and fluency in several languages, he'd usually follow her, silently, speaking only to offer a succinct observation about their surroundings: water, some wild animal's den or lair ahead, tracks or other disturbances on the trail. She'd long given up on him.
She had been ready to spend the next hour in contemplative silence, mulling over all the things she needed to do before the soldiers arrived the next day. At first it seemed like everything would follow that plan: she and Vartan had found an overgrown trail that led down a surprisingly well hewn path descending along the rock. Just as she went through her usual routine to calm her nerves and averted her gaze from the edge of the path, still above the tree line, Chauncey decided to share his innermost thoughts.
He whistled, impressed, leaning outwardly.
"That's a big fall, isn't it?" His thumb jutted and pointed towards the neat drop.
"Yes. Yes, it is," Harding offered politely but nervously.
"I think if a person were to fall off at this point, he or she would die!" he announced with conviction.
"Then don't fall off," Harding laughed uneasily.
For a few blessed moments, they proceeded in silence, Chauncey enrapt with the height of the fall below.
Commander Cullen, she thought with annoyance, you owe me. BIG time.
To her enormous chagrin, Chauncey punctured the silence with further yammering.
"Is it true you are afraid of heights, Scout Harding?"
Perhaps the truth would set her free.
"Yes, Private. I am," she explained tersely.
As if on cue, Chauncey stumbled forward, almost falling flat over the rocky passageway. Harding held her breath.
"That was scary…" Chauncey offered, looking behind him while still walking forward.
"Watch where you're headed," Harding quipped tensely.
"But you shouldn't be so scared because, you know, dwarves are so much closer to the ground," he explained knowingly.
Maker. I must have lit Andraste's pyre in another life. What else could I have done to deserve this?
"Besides, I thought dwarves were comfortable with rocks."
"I'm afraid of heights, not rocks," Harding reminded him.
She heard Vartan's footsteps approach them.
"Doesn't the stone obey a dwarf's commands?" Chauncey continued, intrigued.
"Obviously not: you are still talking, pebbles-for-brains," Vartan finally spoke up behind her. "Now shut up before I personally assist your descent," he said irritably.
Chauncey did venture a furtive glance back, but whirled his head forward again when he saw the unsympathetic look on the elf's face. She remained in silence, startled that Vartan's temper had flared so quickly.
They continued their trek uneventfully, finally reaching tree level, where the path became less steep and large tree trunks flanked both sides of the trail.
"How are you doing, Scout Harding?" Chauncey called out to her.
"Fine," she told him. It wasn't a lie.
"Are you all better?"
"All better," she assured him.
"Do you know what I was always told about fears?" he continued.
"What's that?" she wondered, deciding to humor the boy since she no longer feared for her life.
He pointed at his head.
"They're all in here."
She heard Vartan snort in contempt.
"And you have to make it so there is no more room for them to stay."
She hesitated to ask the next question as Chauncey was becoming more excited by the second.
"And how do you do that?"
Vartan groaned.
"We play a game! " he said spritely, "And the loser has to perform a consequence."
"Let's bypass the game and just toss you over the edge," Vartan mumbled behind her.
"What's that, Scout Vartan?" Chauncey called out obliviously.
"Nothing!" Harding interrupted. "But perhaps we can skip the consequence since we need to focus on our descent."
Chauncey turned around, his eyes large and sad at her.
"Watch out!" both she and Vartan cried out in a panic as he almost lost his footing around a hairpin turn.
"How about this?" she offered, once she was able to finally let go of Chauncey's leg. "Instead of performing a consequence we get to…answer a nosy question?"
Chauncey began to cheer, apparently tickled by her solution while Vartan glared at her.
"I want no part of this," he grumbled.
The game itself was simple. It was a name game. They had to come up with the most names beginning with a certain letter until someone blanked out at his or her turn. They were going through all the women's names starting with an "R." She and Chauncey bounced back and forth to each other, running through an assortment of names: Rosalie, Riva, Rolanda…Until Chauncey scratched his head and admitted he couldn't come up with anymore.
"Oh, Scout Harding. You win this round. What would you ask me?"
"To shut up!" Vartan yelled out.
Harding smiled, ignoring him.
"Very well…What is…your favorite food?"
"Noooo!" Chauncey protested. "That's not a good nosy question!"
"Well, what would you have me ask?" she protested.
Chauncey grinned.
"Something more exciting…Like…" He pressed his lips together for a moment. "Like…'Who do you find the most fetching person at Skyhold?'"
Harding blushed. Well, now…Foolishness.
"Go on! Ask me!" he encouraged.
Oh, what the heck. The likelihood of her losing to the lad was slim.
"All right, Private. Who do you find the most comely at Skyhold?" she asked with resignation.
"Ambassador Montilyet!" he declared without skipping a beat.
Harding couldn't help giggling.
"The ambassador herself, huh? She is lovely," she concurred.
"Isn't she?" he sighed. "She is real pretty and is always so well dressed."
"Indeed!"
"She has the prettiest little freckles on her face," he mused dreamily. "I saw her up close once, when I was helping with package delivery one day. She smiled at me— she has a nice smile, you know, and she didn't even get mad at me when I dropped all the packages I was carrying. I probably should have brought them in two trips, but Cook had just put out a freshly baked batch of honey bread and if I didn't get myself down to the kitchen fast enough, everything'd be all gone," he explained, peeved.
Harding was chuckling.
"Anyway, I think the Ambassador is the most gorgeous person in Skyhold. Maybe all of the world," he added.
"That's quite the declaration," Harding noted. "I suspect you find her more than comely!"
"Maybe…maybe…" he continued sadly. "But between us there can be nothing," he revealed dramatically. Harding had to work hard at not bursting out in laughter; the thought of the heroic Ambassador swept off her feet by the clumsy private was beyond hilarious to her. "It'll have to be 'lay splinter decor per doos' between us," he said wistfully.
Harding tilted her head quizzically, having no idea what the boy was carrying on about.
"That's Orlesian," he informed her, most pleased with his knowledge.
Vartan hissed.
"Ok!" he shouted, startling her. "Now let's do men's names with the letter…Y!"
Harding found herself struggling to conjure the names. Yves, Yoachim, Yannick…
"Give up?" Chauncey asked mischievously after she had remained in silence racking her brain for a name.
"Yvaim?" she tried, hesitatingly.
"I used that one earlier!" he chirped. "You lose!" he declared to the entire mountain. "My turn to ask!"
He turned around briefly to grin at her. He stopped in his tracks and as he did so, his eyes lingered over her face.
"Say, Scout Harding. You have freckles, too!" he remarked.
She blushed deep and hard. She felt a firm tap on her shoulder and turned to face Vartan, who was pointing to something encrusted in the stone wall along the trail.
"Veridium," he noted dryly.
She nodded hastily and noticed he furrowed his brow when he caught the flustered expression on her face.
"My turn!" Chauncey shouted, relishing his moment of victory over her. "So now you have to answer this: Who do YOU find the most fetching in Skyhold?"
She was quite certain she had turned a bright shade of crimson by then.
"Well, now…I haven't really given it much thought…" she lamely asserted.
"I bet it's Commander Cullen, am I right?" he egged her on. "All the women like him," he explained knowingly. "Right, Chauncey! See if you can manage to stay out of everyone's way now," he performed a hammy imitation of the Commander, botching the accent pitifully.
Harding burst out laughing at last, the sting on her cheeks still fresh. Chauncey laughed along with her, his eyes crinkling happily.
"Now you have to answer my question!" he continued eagerly. "Who do you find the most fetching!" he continued. He playfully stood straight and brushed off the front of his uniform. "It is me, isn't it?" he joked.
She grinned.
"Maybe someday, when you are fully grown into adulthood, Private," she kidded.
He pretended to be terribly deflated by her comment.
"So who is it?"
"I don't think that's an appropriate question," she began.
"You agreed to the terms of the game; it is only proper that you honor them. What kind of example do you wish to set?" Vartan stated in a cloyingly mocking tone.
Two against one, she thought crossly. What had possessed Vartan to partake in such nonsense?
"Fine! I think Lord Pavus is the handsomest man in Skyhold," she blurted out in one breath.
Both her companions erupted in protests of disbelief.
"The Tevinter?!"
"You can't be serious…"
She raised her hand commanding their attention.
"I find him quite fetching," she argued, somewhat incensed. "He is strong and fit and he is always groomed and dressed impeccably," she declared defiantly.
He also smelled good and she found him exceptionally charming. She always felt giddy anytime she saw him approach any encampments with the Inquisitor's party. He often flirted with her, complimenting her on her skills and observations, saying delightful nonsense such as "Must we always meet under such tragic circumstances, my dearest Scout Harding?" And once, at a particularly dismal forward camp in the Storm Coast, he had loudly declared to everyone, "The only things worth salvaging from this wretched place are my moustache and Scout Harding!"
"That is my answer and I do not intend to explain myself further!"
"I suppose one cannot justify such predilections, although they reveal puzzling curiosities about character," Vartan mumbled with derision.
"If you have such finer tastes, then, who do YOU find comely?" Harding brazenly asked him.
She watched the elf run his long fingers through his long, fine silvery hair before averting his eyes.
A/N: This clocked in at over 5000 words, so I thought I'd split it into a more digestible two parts. Is that cheating? I was never good at math...*Wanders off sheepishly*