(A/N: In my defense for my haitus, we can blame the new lathe I got and the constant feed of true crime content in my headphones not being conductive towards getting inspiration for writing. Here's what little I bashed out today of Eragon being cute and Arya liking his face.)
“Oh.” Eragon yawned, unable to stop himself. “Good morning.”
Arya’s lips curled up, eyes soft in the early gloom. “Good morning.” She kissed his forehead, wild fringes of her hair tickling his cheeks.
Propped up on her arm as she was, legs still tangled with his, Eragon realized she had been awake for some time. “Been watching me sleep?” The teasing tone was lost in another yawn, almost embarrassingly wide.
“Yes.” Arya’s grin reached her eyes. “I like your face.”
The blunt honesty caught the Rider by surprise, the amusement in her voice underlain by a sincerity that made his heart both soar and ache with joy. He stumbled for a moment, breath caught in his throat before he finally stuttered, “Thanks, my uh…my parents made it for me.”
Arya laughed as Eragon’s cheeks flared red at the awkward response, Saphira’s chuff outside nearly drowning out the bright sound.
Unperturbed and still smiling, Arya pressed her forehead to her mate’s, noses touching. “Well then. I’ll have to thank Brom when I see him today.”
Modern Inheritance: Pray with Me? (Pre-Eragon Short)
Modern Inheritance
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.
(A/N: In Modern Inheritance Cycle, Arya does not reveal her parentage to the rest of the Varden post-Eldest, but keeps it secret until she is forced to use Right of Blood to compel Blödhgarm to assign three of Eragon and Saphira's guards to the Nighthawks on rotation after Murtagh attempts to capture Nasuada post-Dras Leona, which is where the extended war timeline really begins in full. This call occurs a few hours after the initial war councils, a bit of rest, and a whole lot of explaining elven hierarchy and democratic election of monarchs rather than primogeniture. Nasuada wants things out in the open with Islanzadí, and this call is the result.)
~~
MIC SHORT: FAMILY DIPLOMACY
Nasuada completed the traditional greeting and allowed Arya to carry out her own before bowing her head once more in a gracious tilt. “Forgive us for the intrusion, your majesty. A matter has come to my attention that requires discussion with you at the soonest convenience. Immediately, if possible. Though I do not want to impose if you are in an ill defended position.”
Islanzadí lifted her chin slightly, golden eyes bright as ever in the shaded tent. Nasuada felt more than saw the queen flick her eagle-like gaze to Arya standing at a stiff At Ease over the Varden leader’s shoulder, as if attempting to gauge the situation from the young elf. Then she nodded the barest amount. “Now is acceptable, Lady Nasuada. Please, speak. I hope nothing is amiss.”
“Very well. Please, forgive my bluntness. But it has come to my attention that you and yours have been keeping rather important secrets from the Varden. Not only that, but members of the Varden, including members of my own council, have been bound to oaths to prevent them from speaking freely on this matter.” Nasuada did not turn when Arya shifted slightly, breaking decorum for a few millimeters of movement.
‘Good. Squirm. At last, some leverage to keep you in line!’ The thought made the young leader bite the tip of her tongue. Arya wasn’t exactly a troublemaker for the Varden. But, at the very least, having a way to slow the whirlwind of a warrior down, even for a brief second of reflection, was a Gokukara sent miracle. The mere idea of being able to hiss ‘What would your mother say?’ before the elf charged off in a dangerous stunt was not only amusing but useful.
Most of the amusement vanished as summer lightning flared in Islanzadí’s eyes as they narrowed in insult. “Bluntness not forgiven, Lady. You and I know full well that secrets, even among comrades, are precious indeed. Any oaths pertaining to my people that yours have taken were not extracted under duress. If you will not trust my word on this, then consultation with Eragon, Brom, Saphira, and–”
“Oh for fucksake this is stupid,” Nasuada and Islanzadí’s eyebrows shot up in unison as Arya’s poorly hidden mumble reached their ears. The young elf leaned over the Varden leader’s shoulder, hand braced on the desk, and half sighed, half growled, “Mum. Nasuada knows.”
Islanzadí’s brows damn near disappeared into her hairline, mouth opening in her mild shock as her head tilted to the side just so. In that moment Nasuada found herself cursing not seeing the similarities sooner. There certainly was some resemblance, though only in the tiny flickers of unbridled emotion that the Queen so quickly swept away.
“Ah. She knows that.” A quirked, slow grin crept across Islanzadí’s port lips, and damn if Nasuada didn’t fully expect to see the tip of a frighteningly large canine peeking out before the smile was gone. “Pardon my brash language, Lady Nasuada, this is for my daughter. It’s about bloody time, Arya.”
“Oh, spare me the lecture! I’ve had far too many in the last twelve hours.” Arya flicked her hand off the desk, the gesture obviously some sort of elven insult if the sharp flurry of Common Elvish and withering, familiar parental glare that followed it was anything to go by. As was Arya’s subdued mutter of, “Yes, ma’am.”
Modern Inheritance: Vinr Älfakyn (Short) (Post Galbatorix death or something)
(A/N: Jesus fucking christ I think this is Roran's first ever official appearance in MIC. 2024 is the year of firsts. Oh no I made an accidental smut joke there oh no okay just take this short and go away.)
~~~
“Roran!” He turned at the hoarse call of his name. Arya slowed her jog to a stop beside him, one hand landing on his shoulder as if to steady herself. “Sorry, you’re…a hard man to find in this mess. I thought I missed you.” The elf took a moment to catch her breath. If he hadn’t seen the same action done by half the injured elven warriors he passed in the last hour, he would have thought it was impossible. “Katrina? And Ismira?”
The names of his family softened the set of Roran’s jaw. “They’re safe. We just sent word to them that we won.” He tilted his head forward, shaggy hair falling into his eyes. The image of Barst swinging that damn mace of his like it was no more than a toy played in his mind. “Your mother?”
“Alive.” The word came as a cough. In the far distance, Roran saw Saphira’s wings sweep up in preparation for flight. Arya must have dashed the entire length of the sprawling camp, dodging wounded and worried alike just to reach him, Stronghammer, of all people. “Alive! In no small part thanks to your intervention.”
Arya drew herself up then, taking two steadying breaths. “I’ve been named Queen Regent until Islanzadí is back to full health.” She stumbled on the word full, falling silent for a brief moment.
“Congratulations.” Roran offered in the quiet between words. The sentiment was hollow, the former farmer knowing full well that Arya would have taken any job other than Queen of anything in less than a heartbeat. “That’s a step up, even temporarily.”
Arya let out a crack of a laugh, picking up on his tone. “I already hate it. But it does allow me the honor of this.” She reached into one of the pouches arrayed on her blood splattered combat belt. “It’s not up to the proper craftsmanship, and I’ll get you one made right when it’s not chaos. But…skipping the formal stuff that we’ll probably have to put a show on for later…”
Arya took both Roran’s calloused hands in one of her own rough palms and, in a voice ringing with power despite the exhaustion at the edges, proclaimed, “By my power as Queen of the Elves, I bestow on you this ring. Your actions and strength have done a great deed here today, for all of the Älfakyn, and for that, and for the help you gave in Queen Islanzadí’s hour of greatest need, I name you, Roran Stronghammer, son of Garrow, Vinr Älfakyn, an elf friend. You may use this ring to access all the benefits and honors that title carries.”
When she pulled away, Roran opened his hands to reveal a burnished gold and titanium signet ring. Stamped in the metal at the top was a familiar symbol, one burned into his memory from flashing at Brom’s finger countless nights of stories and shared meals.
“This…” Roran slipped the cool band around his finger. He lifted his hand to the half light of smoke-hazed dusk and watched the weak sun reflect in the metal. “This means a lot to you and yours, doesn’t it?”
He lowered his arm. The weight of the ring was miniscule, but all at once the true meaning of the gesture and the bestowment dawned on him.
Him. A farmer’s son. Roran, Roran Stronghammer. Was now at the same standing with the elves as one of the Dragon Riders of old. The same standing as Brom, the living legend.
The normal life in Palancar Valley suddenly felt so very far away indeed.
“Yeah.” The still somewhat out of breath grin would have caught Roran off guard if he had the energy for surprise anymore. “If you, Katrina or Ismira need help at any point, find an elf and show this to them. They’ll help you, no questions asked and no complaints. Unless it’s something heinous, I guess.”
Roran had only half a breath to flick his gaze to Arya’s face before the woman suddenly pulled him into a fierce hug that made his tired bones creak.
“Thank you.” Arya murmured in his ear. “Thank you.”
Modern Inheritance: Bad Reaction (Eldest Supershort)
(A/N: I have had this in my head for a while, but Arya showing Iz her scars and revealing the curse Durza left finally gave me a bit of a push for this. Again, Arya and Glen are Platonic Soulmates, Fyrn Breol, and have fought together for 50-60 years, a majority of those without Fäolin. And they just learned like two to three weeks ago that their best friend is alive, only for them both to start going through massive trauma recovery 'it gets way worse before it gets better' type deals. For even further context, Arya is very, very out of it here and just knows that Glen seems to be hurt and is singleminded on fixing that.)
{Glen and Arya tried to test the curse Durza left in her scars. Just a little nick with a scalpel over one of them, just enough to draw blood, and Glen would heal the cut to test if the curse allowed full healing of new wounds over the old.
It didn't...she had warned him that it would be bad, but...for a moment, he lost her again and he didn't know....}
~~~~
BAD REACTION (SHORT)
Arya had seen Glenwing cry before. She had seen him cry at funerals, when he saw newly hatched little birds, when he was angry and sad all at once. She’d seen him ugly cry about the good things and the bad, little hiccups escaping him while he laughed at his outburst of emotion or as he tried to hide the tears streaming down his face as he packed up bloodied medical instruments beside the body of a fallen innocent.
So she couldn’t pinpoint why hearing him crying, body damn near convulsing with the strength of his ragged, gasped sobs, felt so different this time. Maybe it was because she had never heard him cry like this, nothing so pained, so visceral. It sounded like it was being dragged out from his very core, the deepest parts of himself.
Arya blinked and tried to raise a hand to touch her cheek. They were wet. His tears had fallen on her face, slid down her cheek and splashed on her forehead. For some reason her movement had Glenwing redoubling his sobs, and it was only when he tightened his grip did Arya realize the man was holding her cradled against his chest, arms wrapped tight around her body, the left one unyielding in places where there should have been some softness yet still so warm.
Her throat hurt. So instead of speaking she reached out to him and managed to brush fingertips on his neck, unable to raise her hand any higher. Fuck, she felt so, ridiculously weak, weak and sore and like there were thunderclouds arguing in her skull.
But Glen was crying. Glen was crying and he could be hurt so he had to come first, he was hurting and hurting bad, so she could wait. Fyrn Breol takes care of each other. Pick up the pieces, bring each other back. And Glen was crying and whatever had her muscles aching and body encased in lightning, that could wait until Glen…until Glen was okay because fuck, he was all she had left, and she couldn’t let him get hurt–
“Spirits, I thought I killed you!” If it were even possible, Glen held his friend closer and buried his face into her neck, his words nearly lost to the choked sounds of his tears. He rocked them both back and forth, trying to find some way to breathe. He knew he had to calm down but it had been so…so much worse than he thought, and it had lasted longer even when he had ripped away from the magic–
Head snapping back, a ragged, unimaginable sound of agony, of a soul torn to shreds in an instant. The force of the scream or the body remembering, he didn’t know but blood had already filled her mouth before she convulsed to the ground. Tearing away from the magic felt as though it took eons but in reality it was only three seconds of healing, of attempted healing, crimson still trickling from the tiny cut they had made to test it. The seizures didn’t stop when the link was broken, a handful more seconds until she stilled and her eyes were still open–
“Ari, your heart stopped.” Glen forced it out with a ragged gasp, and, unable to stop himself, his sobbing began anew, curling around her as if to try and protect her from his own memories. “I thought I killed you, I killed you, I didn’t know if I could get you back, and I–I thought–”
A hand settled on the back of his neck.
“Got me back, though.” Oh, her voice. It was rough and barely above a croak, but he could hear the gentle smile there. “You didn’t kill me, birdbrain.” Arya rested her cheek on the top of his head. “He did. A couple times. But hey…I’m here now. You brought me back.”
“I thought I killed you.”
“I know.”
“I thought I killed you!"
“Shades can…can eat a bag of the fattest of dicks.”
When he pulled back and saw her cracked, wild smile, tired and sore and teeth stained with blood but very, very much alive and very much still the Arya he knew…
Glenwing broke out in a tearstained laugh and pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t…don’t do that to me again!”
Modern Inheritance: A Simple Matter of Luck (supershort, post-Brisingr pre-Inheritance limbo)
(A/N: The elves are pretty upset about Murtagh and Thorn after Oromis’ death. Arya takes a moment to tell her mother, in a roundabout fashion, that the hatred and anger is misplaced. And also tell her that, if it weren’t for a simple matter of luck, things could have been very…very different.)
~~~~~
A SIMPLE MATTER OF LUCK
“Mum.” Islanzadí looked up, her scowl breaking. Even now, her heart smiled when Arya called her that. Her involuntary grin fell when she saw the troubled frown on her daughter’s face. “Murtagh…he’s a good kid. It’s not his fault.”
The Queen stared, absolutely aghast. Was Arya…defending Morzan’s son and his devil of a dragon? After what they had just done? “Arya, he killed Oro–”
“I already told you, Galbatorix was controlling his body.” Arya’s voice was firm yet oddly soft. “Don’t blame them for this. It’s not been easy for either of them, and they’re not in control of any of it. You know that.”
“I’m sorry, but I disagree.” The brittleness creeping into her tone was hard to suppress. “There is always a choice.”
Arya dipped her head, just the barest shift. Islanzadí stiffened. Her child’s eyes had gone glassy, hollow. She stared at some unknown point near the mirror, expression blank. That, at least, was some comfort. Whatever she was seeing…it wasn’t causing her pain. Not physically.
And then she blinked, and the dimmed emerald fire sparked back to its usual intensity.
She didn’t look up.
“Mum…I never told you this.” Arya shifted. Her mother couldn’t see it, but she was sitting cross legged on the ground in her tent, mirror propped up on a borrowed supply crate. She gripped an ankle with one hand, her other trailing her fingers along the thick band of scarring around her wrist. As odd as it was, it was…soothing. “When Eragon was captured by Durza, there were already plans in motion to take me to Uru’baen.”
The grin she gave Islanzadí was crooked, underlain by the upturned tilt of her brows. “Three days. If Eragon, Saphira and Murtagh hadn’t sprung me then, I would have been taken to Uru’baen in three days. And Durza had already told me of what Galbatorix wanted of a broken elf under his control.”
She tightened her grip, clasped her free hand around the scars and squeezed. Remembered the feeling of magic-laced iron and steel biting into her flesh. The control it robbed her of, the short leash pain and metal and magic kept over her while in Gil’ead. Oh, she had fought. Every second she could spare, she fought.
And yet…it was a stalemate. She never clawed any of that control away from him. And he never gained more than he initially had over her. It was not victory, but she could not say it wasn’t some form of defeat.
Arya couldn’t imagine the pain Murtagh was going through. Her shackles had been physical. She had no doubt Galbatorix had, and still was, torturing the young man. But to have a Partner of Heart and Mind…
Thorn was Murtagh’s salvation and his curse. His own shackles made of red dragon scale and anguish of shared pain and the terror, horror, agony of being forced to watch someone he loved be, for lack of better words, ripped piece by piece to control him.
If Fäolin had been there. If Glen had been found alive by the man shaped monster that night. If, like Murtagh, Arya had been whisked away to Uru’baen and one of the eggs had hatched at her touch…
She wanted to say she would not have broken had it played out that away. As she always said, she would never break. It was a point of pride, a boast. A softly whispered reassurance. Her truth.
She wanted to say that she would not have broken. That she would have taken their place, made him hurt her instead, or that she would find the resolve to suffer their screams in silence.
But she never wanted to find out.
It was with that in mind, the path not taken, the future unseen, that Arya met her mother’s golden gaze.
“So…when you say you hate Murtagh and Thorn, or call them monsters and traitors and think they’re evil…. Just remember that. Because, dragon or not…
Islanzadí rubbed her forehead. Brom’s news of Kialandí was…difficult. She couldn’t truly say she felt happy her elder brother was dead. Relieved, maybe, but less so due to his death and more for the conclusion of a long, painful situation no peace could be found in.
Blagden fluttered to her shoulder when the Queen stood, her slim fingers flicking him away from worrying the edge of her eyebrow with a barely parted beak. She smoothed the fine hairs down with a thumb, a sudden heart clenching pang jolting her chest as she remembered the movement being one of his little quirks.
Lost in thought, Islanzadí reached the door of her study and pulled it open. Oromis and Glaedr and likely been informed already, but…she wanted their guidance. How to handle the news being released through the darkened pines.
Someone was already standing in the doorway.
Islanzadí froze.
Arya was…taller.
Her emerald eyes were still backlit by that brilliant fire, but they were framed now by a face that held a touch more. A bit more angular, sharper about the jaw and cheekbones. Skin darkened to a rich honey from exposure to a sun and sky not blocked by towering trees.
Rings around those green eyes. Lost sleep. Bloodshed. The look Evandar had the day after every battle. Maybe just a little hollow at her cheeks.
Not yet truly full grown. But at the start of the second surge of growth, maturation of her features.
Her child was growing up.
And Islanzadí couldn’t say a damn thing.
She wasn’t even supposed to be there.
The door opening seemed to have been just as much of a shock to the combat liason as her presence had been to Islanzadí. Arya quickly drew herself up, shoulders as square as possible with one arm tucked in a sling, and snapped her gaze to a spot over the Queen’s shoulder.
“I have correspondence from the Varden’s council for Queen Islanzadí. I assured them it would be presented to her attendant personally.” Islanzadí’s heart stuttered again. What on earth was the girl thinking, going against direct orders and breaking the laws of her banishment? Why would she tell the council she would personally–
Arya bowed slightly and held out a wax sealed envelope…
To Blagden.
“Please see that this reaches the Queen’s hands at the earliest convenience.”
And, just as if it were completely and utterly normal, Blagden gave an approximation of a similar bow and took the missive in his beak.
Both straightened, the white raven shifting to grasp the letter in the clutch of one of his taloned feet. Arya snapped to and held a formal elven salute until Blagden let out a series of pops and bobbed his head in obvious dismissal.
“Stars watch over you as well, sir.” Arya released the salute, turned on her heel, and marched stiffly down the hall.
Islanzadí could only stare after her. A little dazed, a little angry, and, above all else, very confused.
Saphira's good at picking up on Arya's swings into darker thoughts, is especially good at sensing when the elf is holding back on going to Glenwing or talking through it with Brom.
The dragon doesn't do big shows of affection with her partner's bodyguard. It's little things, things that remind her of the dim memories inside her egg, the gentle brushes of thought, concern, warmth. Paying those moments back with the barest graze of her jaw against the back of the elf's head, the drape of the very tip of her tail over her feet, a low resonance hum only they could hear when she passes by. Saphira never asks, only voices her concern and care in words a sparse handful of occasions, but she always can feel the tension ease, at least enough for the woman to breathe deep.
Eragon doesn't always pick up on it. At first, when he did, he gave her space. She always seemed to have someone else to go to. Glenwing, her twin in all but blood, Brom, the father she never had, even Blödhgarm, war torn and so easy in hiding it.
But then he started to notice. Started finding her curled up and asleep beside Saphira's wing on nights she was scheduled off duty, caught her staring off with hollow eyes, crossed paths with her during restless nights pacing the camp looking for danger.
She confessed to him, one of those high-strung nights, that she didn't like bothering the others. Glenwing coped better than she did, and while she knew he was always open to her and would spend as many nights as she needed awake and by her side and ready to comfort her waking nightmares...she worried it would drive him just as mad as it had her. No matter how much he assured her it wouldn't, she didn't want to keep him awake, not when his own demons could raise their heads.
And Brom. Brom was under so much pressure already. She could feel the guilt under his skin when she made passing remarks about her captivity. Blödhgarm was of an entirely different generation of warriors, his experiences similar yet vastly different from hers. He never really understood.
And she told him that she would never seek him out, nor Saphira, for comfort when Gil’ead or the bloodsoaked past came calling.
She would linger near them, yes. Take solace in their very presence in her life, an anchor to time after, after the Shade, after he died, after the years and years fighting battles that seemed in retrospect to have only gained inches rather than miles. But she would never, never wake them, swore to never trouble them with her memories and her pain. They had so much of their own, and so young at that. They didn’t need to shoulder hers as well.
Eragon hurt at the statement. He was her friend. Hell, he loved her.
So he found a way that she could come to him, come to them, without breaking her promise.
The next time he felt that telltale tension, heard her soft pacing outside his tent, he went to her. Ignored that she pointedly looked away, matched her steps and fell into stride beside her.
It must have looked so silly to observers. But he didn’t care.
He offered his hand. Palm up. Waited patiently, step for step, never faltering, never dropping his hand.
Hesitantly. Jerkily.
Her hand settled into his.
He did his best to convey his trust in her through the contact. The warmth he felt, not the romantic yearnings but the simple companionship of a friend forged in experience and shared pain and joy and all the things they had done together. Told her through the simple touch that he was there. He would always be there, as long as she needed him to be, as long as she wanted him to be.
There didn’t have to be words if she didn’t want to share. He and Saphira would do what friends did.
Arya’s fingers tightened around his palm. A soft squeeze of thanks.
And so it went. For years. Decades. Centuries.
Whenever they fought their demons, wrestled with them in their minds and refused to let others see and hear…one of them would be there. Holding out a hand. Palm up. Simply waiting.
There was no ‘Are you okay?’ or ‘How are you feeling?’
