(A/N: Also posted on tumblr. Takes place somewhere around ten years after Arya leaves Ellesméra and joins the Varden. I'll probably do another fic going into the injury that sent her back to Ellesméra for further healing {something that occurs probably every other year or so, as she's not a skilled healer and none of the medics in the Varden know elf biology} at a later date. Cheers! Oh, and a reminder, 20 years old is around 10 in human years apparently, or at least how we're going for MIC. Cheers again!)
Arya leaned back in her chair, eyeing the elf across the small camp table as he scribbled out another note in the Varden medical file spread before him.
Glenwing was the first and only person on Arya's personal, official squad. He had trotted up to her a day before she was to leave Ellesméra and handed off orders straight from the Queen that he was to become her medic in the field. Even after multiple readings and consultations with Oromis, the orders were clear and gave no leeway or loophole through which Arya could escape. Despite her obviously annoyed acceptance at his sudden addition, Glenwing seemed unfazed and calm throughout the entire process, and set out with his new commanding officer the following morning.
They had reached the edge of the forest now, camped upriver from Ceris at Arya's request. Three weeks in Ellesméra had left her antsy and entirely fed up with the prim and proper etiquette that made open speech so damned difficult in the pines, something she had not missed in her years with the Varden. Glenwing hadn't protested in the least, and had spent a majority of the time setting up camp asking her questions about her previous injuries, examining scars, and doing his best to ease into the more personal questions of mental health that he hadn't had time to ask before they left Ellesméra.
The silver haired elf signed a stop glyph at the end of his most recent note in the margins of Arya's file before tapping his pen against his lip. "Any trouble sleeping in the past six months? Falling asleep, staying asl–"
"Are you going to report all this to the Queen?" Glenwing looked up, somewhat startled by the sudden interjection. Arya had her arms folded now, regarding him with that solid stare that expected answers and would take no deflection or lie that he could give. "I'm assuming that's why she assigned you to me. People weren't exactly lining up behind me to join the Varden, so I doubt you volunteered. Plus, after this long she's probably realized that I need to return to Du Weldenvarden to be fully healed after larger injuries so she's probably not keen on giving me more time away from her influence and reach. So there has to be another reason that supersedes that. A way for her to influence and keep tabs on me while I'm away as well as while I'm in the pines."
Glenwing straightened from where he had been leaning on the table and carefully placed his pen parallel to the top of the file before meeting Arya's hardened gaze with his steady one. "Do you want me to?" There was a soft curiosity behind his golden eyes.
The question seemed to catch the other elf off guard. Arya blinked, lips parted to snap a retort that now didn't seem necessary.
"I won't lie to you." Glenwing continued. "The Queen has asked– or rather, she has ordered– that I report back on your status and any developments in your mental and physical health." Anger flashed through Arya's countintance, but before she could spit out a string of swears the elf across from her held up a finger. "However. You're wrong about me volunteering. I'm here because I want to be, not just because the Queen accepted my offer. That means that I have willingly taken you on as a patient, and while I am a subject of our Queen's rule, I am also your medic and doctor."
"Look, I don't care if you're a 'subject of the Queen' first." Arya snapped. The phrase seemed to have set her off enough to break through the final barrier of elvish manners that remained as she cut him off. "If you're going to be telling the Queen every little thing about me, I'm just not going to accept your help. You might as well go back home, alright?"
"That's not what I'm saying at all." Glenwing replied, voice calm yet lacking the patronizing edge that Arya had expected. "I'm saying that as my patient, you have complete control over your care, including who, and when, I give information to regarding it and your status in the past, present and future.
"If you don't want me to inform the Queen as she ordered, I won't, and I'll tell her as much. I'm one of the Queen subjects, yes, but now that you are my patient my purpose here is to keep you alive, and I can't exactly do that if you refuse care or don't trust me."
Arya was silent for a long moment, the silver haired elf's words sinking in. The elven nation was a monarchy, yes, but there was always an understanding that any elf could act independently unless called to war in defense. Even then there was a choice of remaining behind to tend to the forest and those who returned. Orders given in common elvish, even from the Queen, were considered the rule of law, but in actuality could be challenged or even ignored if the individual thought the orders would cause more harm than good. It could incur the wrath of the Queen, yes, but there was no formal system of punishment beyond the decision of the council. Or, in personal cases such as Arya's own, the decision of the Queen herself.
That being said, most people followed their orders when they were given, and as such things were rare it was unusual to find an elf that was quite as willing as Arya to bend or break the rules so to speak. Yet here one was, practically raising his eyebrows in quiet eagerness to open loopholes and ignore centuries of custom all for a chance to…
...to what?
Arya chose her words carefully. "Glenwing...why are you doing this?" She gestured to the square photographs that were scattered on one side of the medical file, images detailing the numerous wounds of note, most in their unhealed state, that the young elf had incurred over the course of just a little over a decade of service in the Varden. "You've seen what it does physically. Magic can heal but I think we both know that the scars of the mind do not close so easily. I've almost died more times than I can count and watched countless others who were not so lucky lose their lives on and off the battlefield."
"I've seen war, Arya. I've not participated in one, but I've seen the damage it does."
"Then why join me?" Arya leaned her elbows on the table, shoulders hunched as her brows furrowed. "Why? I have my reasons, some of them more morally sound and others more or less reprehensible, and the things I've already done to further the goal of toppling Galbatorix… I've done some terrible shit. I'm not going to skirt around that. You know that you'll probably have to do similar things, get blood other than that of your patients on your hands. So why? Why risk everything like this?"
Glenwing held her gaze for a time before lowering his eyes to the table. With a fingertip he rearranged the pictures, aligning the edges so that they fanned out and displayed a gruesome line of war wounds over the years. "...I'm not much older than you are, you know."
"...Pardon?"
His lips twisted up slightly in sad eyed grin. "I was eighteen when the Fall began. My father was a healer, my mother a warrior." Gently, with the back of a fingernail, he dragged out one of the pictures, the one of the ragged stab wound to the abdomen that sent Arya back to Ellesméra most recently. "She died of an injury similar to this one. That's what they told me at least." Glenwing raised his eyes to meet Arya's, gauging her reaction to his next words. "She was in the final group that the King led. My father died beside her as he tried to heal her. They were bathed in dragonfire. Nothing to bury.
"I watched my father treat wounds like all of these as the injured returned. He never stopped trying to help, down to the last second of his life, and mother never stopped fighting for our people." He spread his hands out. "I cannot sit by knowing that I could do the same."
The he paused. "And there is another thing."
Arya swallowed. The mention of her father and the battle that had felled not only him but Glenwing's parents as well made her mouth go dry. The final moments of the conflict before Galbatorix hunted Vrael always did. "Oh?"
"You said that I should go home if I was to report on your condition to the Queen. I cannot return home, which only leaves obeying your orders and remaining as your medic my only option."
Glenwing's feral, bared tooth smile shocked a flash of familiarity and kinship through Arya's mind. She had seen that smile on her own face before, that wild unrestrained drive to right the wrongs of the world, to take on war and violence so that others could be at peace, tenuous as it was.
"You see, Arya...I was born in Ilirea. With Galbatorix on the throne, I have no home to return to."
To Queen Islanzadí, Your Majesty.
After a lengthy consult with the combat liaison I have been assigned, it has come to my attention that the mentioned patient, Arya, house of none, is against the sharing of medical information beyond a set of predetermined ailments and injuries. As I am bound first to act in the best interest of my patient, I must oblige by her requests. Arya has also indicated that any sharing of information without her consent would result in her refusing any treatment or healing by my hand, which has further forced this issue as she has displayed sufficient aptitude for wards that would block any of my attempts to heal her if the conditions presented were broken in any way.
However, Arya has agreed to allow the sharing of some small yet vital pieces of information concerning her health as seen fit. Thus, any injury resulting in amputation, permanent blindness or hearing loss, traumatic brain damage, complete mind breaking or death will be reported. Arya has impressed on me that she will continue to aid the Varden in the event of non-lethal injuries, and any report of the previous wounds will also include an evaluation on how she can continue to aid the Varden in her current state.
I apologize that I cannot carry out the full extent of your orders. Unfortunately, it is clear that any deviation from the agreed upon conditions that Arya has set would likely result in severe injury to Arya's person and would constitute reckless and wanton disregard for my patient's safety and health on mine. I cannot in good conscience go against her wishes, nor can I do so if my conscience were to tolerate it. Arya has forced me to agree to these conditions in the Ancient Language, and I cannot break my oath.
I continue to serve to the best of my ability, and will do my utmost to ensure Arya's health is taken care of.
May the stars watch over you.
Yours in service,
Glenwing of House Svanran.
Islanzadí folded the letter again, put her elbows on her desk, and allowed herself a long, frustrated sigh.
Leave it to Arya to ferret out her reasoning for accepting Glenwing's offer and so quickly appeal to the young elf's sense of ethical duty. A political force the Queen's daughter was not, but she still had a knack for picking up on a person's true motives and finding ways to fit them around her own.
However, this was faster than anticipated. Maybe this Glenwing's true motives weren't what he presented to Islanzadí at all. There had been something about his energy that seemed familiar. The Queen now recognized it as a glimmering thread of that determination and wild resolve that Arya so openly displayed.
But what to do now? Islanzadí rubbed her temples, a headache coming on. She knew that there was little she could threaten them with if she ordered Glenwing to return to Ellesméra. The young elf had volunteered after all, and even under duress Islanzadí doubted she could convince any other elf as skilled as he was to abandon their calm life in Du Weldenvarden for years of conflict and uncertainty outside the forest's protective stands. And she couldn't just call him back and not send a replacement, not with the state Arya had been in when she finally made it back to Ellesméra. What little Oromis had told the Queen of her wayward daughter's injuries past and present clearly indicated that an attached medic was a necessity if there was any hope of Arya making it through the war alive.
So what to do….
The clatter of talons on well-polished wood sent a cascade of jolts through Islanzadí's burgeoning headache, the pops and clicks that followed doing nothing to help the pain.
"The latch is open, Blagden." The Queen leaned back in her chair and massaged her forehead as the white raven swooped in. Blagden alighted on the desk with a gentle flap of his wings to slow his speed and cocked his head at her, looking smug as he always did. He parted his beak slightly. "Don't you say i–"
"Wyrda!"
Even as the Queen winced at the cried word the raven flipped a small, densely folded paper onto the desk with a flourish of his leg. He pecked at it twice before fluttering to his carved stand on the back of the chair, settling in before starting his usual fastidious preening.
Confused, Islanzadí picked up the folded note. It hadn't been but an hour since Glenwing's letter had arrived, but the glyph that graced the fold of this paper was the one Arya always used. Blagden must have dropped it while flying and went back to retrieve it. The Queen unfolded it with a hint of trepidation in her heart, as always accompanied any correspondence with her banished child.
The young elf's handwriting had started to take on a sharper shape, but was no less bold in its strokes. It still held the same familiar base that reminded Islanzadí so much of those days that Arya would scamper into her mother's study and throw notes of love for her mother and records of her daily adventures onto the desk before scampering out, giggling as she departed for her next escapade. All those notes still sat in the drawer to Islanzadí's left, bittersweet.
The headache throbbed, chasing away the memories. The Queen focused in again, and was somewhat surprised to find only a few short sentences.
Stars watch over you.
Good medic. Intelligent, can toe lines if needed. Fixed a scar issue in short order. I like this one. Requesting permanent assignment.
~ Arya of Du Weldenvarden, combat liaison officer
Islanzadí frowned slightly as she caught sight of a different handwriting in the bottom corner. It was Glenwing's, and she couldn't help but chuckle as she read it aloud. "Please?"
Maybe this Glenwing would be a good influence after all. With that in mind, and the comfort of Arya now less likely to return maimed (or not at all), Islanzadí picked up her pen.
Granted. May the stars watch over you. Queen Islanzadí.