Arya
It was a few days after the siege of Feinster, and so many emotions were coursing through her at such a speed it made her head spin. The fear of another Shade, the relief that she and Eragon had defeated him before he could wreak havoc like Durza, the elation that they had won, and the heart-breaking sorrow and grief that they had lost Oromis and Glaedr, the last of the Old Order.
She wouldn't cry again. Tears were a sign of weakness, and nothing about her was weak, at least externally. But she had cried into Eragon's shoulder. It was because she was so shocked and so grief-stricken that primal instincts had taken over her, and like a human woman, she sobbed and mourned, and clung to one thing that could give her comfort. And that had been Eragon.
When she had, she almost had believed it had been Faölin who was holding her. But to her knowledge, Faölin had never cried. And Eragon had cried.
He had cried harder than she, and even in her grief, she had realized that even for a child, Eragon loved with more power than even elves possessed. He loved Oromis and Glaedr, even if they had frustrated him, and he mourned them as if they had been his parents, his flesh and blood.
It had surprised her. They had been the elves' greatest secret and hope, and naturally, she mourned, but his grief was far greater than hers.
Arya gently shook her head. It wouldn't do to dwell on what had past. It was how men had been driven mad. Eragon and Saphira were the last free dragon and Rider, and now the hope of Alagaësia rested on them alone.
Almost automatically, the run back to the Varden crawled back into her mind, especially the night that the spirits had visited them, and they had really talked together.
"Did you love him?" Eragon's question ran through Arya's mind.
"Yes, Eragon, I loved him. I loved him to the extent where I would have gladly given my life for his. We were planning to create a child, to show the world the strength of our love. But alas, circumstances were against us, and I shall never bear Faölin's child." Her ready answer rang between her ears, mocking her.
Her eyes filled with the tears she hadn't shed over Faölin's death. She allowed only a few to spill, but she quickly dried her eyes, and rid herself of tear streaks. Her thoughts turned to Eragon himself.
He mourned Oromis and Glaedr. He had a brave face, but with Saphira he was unusually silent and solemn, and when she was on her midnight walks, she heard him weeping in his tent. Her heart went out to him, sharing his grief, but unknown to him.
When she thought of him, she had conflicting emotions. On one hand, he was a child, constantly getting himself deep in peril and needing help, but on the other hand he had grown wise and strong, a man by human standards.
But she was over a century old! How could she love someone not even a fourth her age? But the heart rarely listens to reason. She knew what falling in love was. She wasn't a foolish human maiden who swooned and sighed over the one she desired. However, she was falling in love with Eragon, no matter the arguments she posed to her heart. And for the moment, it would be wise to not speak of it yet.
Arya was sitting on the ramparts of Feinster, watching as the blood-red sun set in the west. Nasuada was planning on moving the Varden out in a few days, and Arya was gathering her strength. The struggle with the Shade and an entire battalion had drained her energy much more than she had anticipated. These days of rest were needed.
Her ears pricked as she heard someone climb the ramparts and sit beside her, silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw who she suspected: Eragon. He turned to smile at her, and then looked out at the sunset, sitting in companionable silence.
He hadn't pressed his suite in a long time. Perhaps he had forgotten. No, she chided herself. He's just content to stay this way. And so was she.
They sat that way, in comfortable silence, until the velvet night sky shone with the bright diamonds that were stars.