(A/N:This came about after I spent a lot of time playing a game called The Long Dark and kept listening to their 'Elegy' trailer. A line in the trailer's poem always really hits hard and reminds me that while Arya is fairly comfortable talking about her participation in battles and talks about her comrades and the ones she's saved, we never hear about the ones that she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried.

Anyway, this is what came out of that, and also serves as a reminder that the ones on the other side of the war? They're people too.)

Pray with Me

(Pre-Eragon, during Arya's first decade with the Varden.)

They hadn't made it in time.

The village was ransacked when the Varden's unit reached it. Fresh blood soaked the dusty road where bodies had fallen, streaks of it marking the macabre path to the shallow mass grave the soldiers had the decency to dig for the slaughtered villagers.

Weldon broke the tense silence, voice steady and low as he called for groups of three to search each building and the piled bodies for survivors. For the woman to his left, however, he had other orders.

"Do what you do, ambassador." Arya nodded silently as she dismounted, subconsciously giving the tired horse a pat on its damp neck. "Any survivor is a gift, friend or foe. Do what you can."

That's how it had come to this.

Standing between the splintered jambs of a broken door, staring down at the soldier propped against the far wall as he met her gaze with leaded eyes.

She had heard him. Picked the ragged breaths and quiet sounds of pain out of the ambient noises that now filled the village. Followed them to the shack at the edge of civilization. Found him there, bleeding. Dying.

The man did not flinch away when she approached. He searched her face briefly, eyes catching on the obvious points of her ears, before wandering back to watch as she knelt and silently checked the gaping wound in his belly. The buckshot had taken him right in the middle, the blast close enough to shred his insides yet not far enough to send pellets into his heart to quickly end his suffering.

Arya saw this all and more. Even if she attempted to heal him, he didn't have long. He may have lived till now, but to call him a survivor of the battle would be a lie.

"Do you have wards?"

The man set his teeth and shook his head, the slightest twitch sending waves of agony radiating from his ruined core. And then the pain was gone as quietly murmured words spread a soothing blanket over his body as nerves were deadened.

Arya stood. "I cannot do more. I'm sorry." She turned to leave the wounded soldier to his death in peace, to prepare himself for whatever afterlife he sought.

To her surprise, and maybe his own, the man suddenly reached out to her.

"Please." Blood oozed from his lips as his ragged voice wheezed out. "I…I don't want to die alone."

Arya paused.

All peoples had their beliefs. A lack of faith was a belief in and of itself. And though the names of gods and demons, saints and martyrs, worlds above and below all changed with time, culture, and the ones who held those beliefs…all believed in a dignified death. All held fear of whatever was beyond, even if that afterlife was simply a void and end to all things.

She turned back. Knelt beside the man again.

"There are humans here as well." She gently tipped her head towards the door. "Would you like me to bring their Chaplin?" She didn't have to say what the question really asked. Would he be fine with her here, in his last moments? A creature, a person, not of his race, one that he very well could view as a monster after the handful of decades since the Fall?

"…No." He shook his head again. "Please…stay with me."

Arya nodded.

"I'll stay."

The man turned his gaze to the soot–covered ceiling. Took in a shaky breath. "Do you have gods, Elf?"

"No." Arya watched the thrum of his faltering pulse at his throat. She felt no urgency nor itch to leave him, only a calm as she bore witness to his final moments. Sealed away a memory of his face and voice so that, if none else, at least she would remember him. "…Do you?" She whispered back.

He coughed again, bringing up scarlet tinged foam at the corners of his mouth. "I never listened much. Went to the Shrine when Ma asked." A twisted grin touched his lips, memories playing before his dimming eyes. "We always had a feast. Badan brought our crops through the winter." He choked out a laugh, coughing out his words. "Made the work I did…seem like a joke."

He paused, dragging breaths that seemed more water than air. The smile slowly faded.

"Rather be there…breaking my back for those crops…than killing farmers for this damned king."

He tilted his head to look the woman beside him in the eye.

Reached out a hand.

"Will you pray with me, Elf?" His pulse was stuttering. "To Badan? For my family this winter?"

Arya stared at the offered hand, and for reasons she could not understand she felt her heart jump to her throat.

She took it. Folded her fingers around his and squeezed his hand in reassurance. "Aye."

They bowed their heads together.

Arya could not pray. But she could hope.

As she sat with the dying soldier she hoped that his passing was one that did not bring panic to his mind. She hoped that his family would find peace. Hoped that they would live strong and find solace in each other through the pain. Hoped that they would have a good feast that year, and that…that their hard work would see their crops through the winter.

She heard his last, straining breath. Felt the final throb of his heart through his pale fingers.

Arya took the time to show him the respect his comrades had not. Laid him back, covered his eyes with a shred of dark cloth. She left one of his tags around his neck, wrapped the other around his stiffening hand.

She left the shack and continued her search until the sun sank low and turned the sky bloody.

She found no one.

The dead, no matter their affiliation, had all been lain out in accordance to local custom in a new grave. The last shovelful of dirt was tamped down under the early stars.

Weldon gave the elf a questioning glance as she regrouped with the others, his expression grim when she shook her head in response to his wordless query.

The unit did not look back as they trotted off into the night, a heavy silence hanging on their limbs.

There were no survivors.