(A/N poem is Propertius's love poem)
Secrecy
"Eragon Shadeslayer!"
He looked up at his unfortunate sparring trainer…master…instructor…whatever Vanir was to him.
Sparring with the elf would have been a great way to increase his skills, however, it was seldom just Vanir. The elf had a series of tests. Sometimes, Eragon faced as many as five elves at one time if Vanir was in a bad mood, four if he was in a better than bad mood.
To say the elves were less than pleased with the Rider since Oromis's ebirthil death would be a gross understatement. They seemed to think it was Eragon's fault the pride of their forests' lay dead on a battlefield. Hell, sometimes Eragon agreed it was.
Stop thinking useless thoughts and keep your mind sharp. You know better than to think like this.
Yes, Saphira.
It was for the best, really, her advice. For in front of him were three highly capable elves moving to surround him. Two remained dangerously close to entering the fray, a hand itching to go for their swords as they watched the sparring match with hateful eyes masked only by their indifference. He pushed his blade against the first elf's attack, successfully drawing him in. Lashing out with his legs, the Rider spun on the ground and knocked the elf over on his back. However, numbers played against him and before he could incapacitate the elf, his partners began their onslaught on his defenses. He was pushed further and further back, the coldness of his opponent's eyes getting to him. Eragon sighed, he had to move fast.
Giving himself some space, he flipped himself over his opponents and hit one of the legs available to him with the back of his blade, breaking the warrior's shin. Barely waiting, he flicked his sword up and muttered 'dead' before quickly gaining his position again.
Blocking a strong swipe his way, Eragon kicked another elf in the stomach causing him to fly a great distance away. His sword was too far away to move into position in time, so Eragon did the only logical thing and punched his last opponent in the nose. There was a lot of blood and a grunt of pain, but Eragon had finished him and went to finish the job with the elf on the ground.
"Impressive display of swordsmanship, Shadeslayer. I think you have mastered the skills of unhindered swordplay."
A thickly veiled insult if he ever heard one. Unhindered, my foot! Every sword was drawn and the metal reflection was moved to shine in his eyes. But he was better than responding to Vanir's taunts or the elves' actions.
"I believe we shall move onto a more difficult task."
Eragon narrowed his eyebrows before looking at Saphira for any hint at what that could be. She had no idea. He turned around to his sparring master.
Vanir held out a thick black blindfold.
"You shall have to use your hearing and only your hearing to defeat your opponents."
He knew the elves were angry, but this was ridiculous.
Eragon! Be careful of what you say.
I have no choice, Saphira. I must do as he says. He is my sparring master. And I cannot do anything to protect myself under my ally's wrath. If we do not follow every action, Islanzadi will pull her elves back into the forest after this loss, just as she did when Arya was captured.
She sent her disagreement, saying there must have been some other way, but remained silent after.
"Very well, Vanir – elda."
"I understand you feel you may not be ready for this step. But have only a few days until the funeral rites are over and you must be ready when you leave Ellesmera again."
The malice was apparent with his stressed words. He almost spat them at him, cutting a sword over his heavy heart. His logic was impeccable, except for his tone of absolute contempt as if he had somehow bested the Rider.
Eragon took the cloth from his master and tied it tightly over his eyes. Drawing Brisingr, he felt his way around the ground until he came across the familiar ends of the sparring ring. The tip of his sword grazed against the rink, eliciting sparks to leave the metal.
"Are you ready, Shadeslayer?"
"Yes, elda."
"We shall start slow, one opponent only and then you will work your way up."
"Yes, elda."
"And before we start, I would like to make it clear that any help from Saphira shall only hinder this learning experience."
"Yes, elda."
Hear that, Eragon, I hinder you.
He did not mean it like that and you know it.
Must you always look at the positive side of his words.
Do not help me, Saphira.
Fine, but if you get hurt, do not come crying to me. If they insult you, however, they will have hell to pay for this.
The exercise would have been much easier if his opponents were human men, as they would make some noise. But these were elves, and they hardly made any noise.
The first blade was blocked by a nice spot underneath his jaw.
"You are incapable of protecting yourself. It seems you are not capable of this type of swordplay."
He felt the warm trickle of blood down his neck, wetting the space in between his skin and his Rider's clothes. His opponent must have forgotten to block his blade. Feeling rather embarrassed and quite angry at this utter display of hatred, Eragon pulled his sword up and listened even harder for any sounds. A boot hit the ground roughly next to him, and Eragon sprung into action, attacking that spot.
But he was a few nanoseconds too late. He felt a strong kick in his stomach and he hit his head against the hard ground roughly. Eragon tried standing up, but his head was spinning horribly.
Eragon!
He ignored the pleas of his dragon and tried in vain to put his sword in front of him. A blade cut across his chest producing a long gash, while another came siphoning down his back. An impact to his shin cracked the bone in half. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground.
He faintly heard the blade rising in the air before a voice stopped it.
"Enough!"
The blindfold was taken off of his head, but he was already losing consciousness because of concussion in his head. He felt a soft hand slip under his head, observing his eyes. He faintly saw the outline of black raven hair and emerald eyes before his sight went black.
Night had fallen when he finally opened his eyes again. The injuries were taken care of, but someone had instructed he put to sleep to rest his tired body. Pulling the covers off, he had towards the wash closet and splashed his eyes with water before sliding down the wall in frustration.
The cold wall against his back was the only indication his back was bare.
He thought back towards the day and slammed his arm against the hard wall. A tear leaked down his face.
It wasn't my fault! It wasn't my damn fault. I loved him more than all of you. He was just a matter of pride for you. I loved him! He was more than a father to me…more than father.
He put his head in his arms, drawing his knees in and silently let the tears stream down. His shoulders stayed still, as to not alert any one looking in of his distress. He was never meant for this life, never.
A knock on the door resounded a few moments later. With a lethargy he didn't know possible, Eragon opened it up before clearing his face of the salty water.
"Arya Drottningu."
He face held poorly hid surprise, but he quickly masked it and proceeded with the appropriate greeting.
"Atra esterní ono thelduin."
"Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr."
"Un du evarínya ono varda."
He stood silently at the door, waiting for her to speak, when she did not he moved away from the door.
"Would you like to come in?"
"Of course."
She stepped lithely inside…not making a sound. He inwardly groaned as he thought back to his earlier failure.
"Forgive my appearance, Arya svit-kona. I was not expecting your company."
He pulled out a soft green tunic from the chest by his bed and pulled it carelessly over his head. His statement was left unanswered.
"What can I do for you, Arya svit-kona? Am I needed in Queen Islanzadi's council meeting?"
She shook her head before looking around the room.
"It has changed since the last I have been here."
Many things have changed since the last you have been here.
"I was tired of coming home to a place I found boring."
She let in a ghost of a smile.
It was true. Eragon had put fairths all over the bare walls, giving them some décor. His favorite was of the view of Crags with Saphira flying over the large valley. The peace and serenity was of a caliber unreachable to him. However, a close second was the large fairth of the Tialdari Hall gardens where he and Arya stood on a small bridge over a small stream that ran through the gardens.
Here, Arya stopped to look the longest. An indescribable look on her face.
Perhaps she did not like it here. She was his closest friend, but maybe a fairth of their memories together in her favorite place may give her the wrong impression.
"I shall remove it if you prefer. I merely liked the gardens."
She furrowed her eyebrows when she looked at him.
"Do not. It is beautiful."
She offered no further comment on the matter. Moving around the room, she fingered her way over the binding of a few books on his small shelf above the desk. Moving a few papers around, she pulled out a few pieces of parchment with ink halfway down them.
Arya looked at him expectantly, springing him out of the awe her uninhibited wandering through his room and his things.
He stepped closer, peering to get a closer look. He was, perhaps, closer than necessary. But she made no move away when he came centimeters from her body.
"Ah, those. Ever since that poem was received well during the Blood – Oath celebration, Oromis – ebirthil encouraged delving into more poetry. I tried my hand at a few topics, but for some reason, I simply cannot finish them well."
Her eyes moved over a few lines here and there, before moving from parchment to parchment. She finally stopped when she reached one with an abundance of ink.
I have no fear now of the gloomy spirits, Cynthia,
Nor do I mind about the destiny that is owed to the final pyre
But that perchance my funeral may lack your love –
This fear I find harsher than the rites of death themselves.
Not so lightly has Cupid clung to my eyes
Her hands pulled it out slightly more until the rest was revealed.
That my dust could be void and forgetful of love.
There in the regions of the darkness the hero Protesilaus
Could not be unmindful of his sweet wife,
But, desirous to reach his joy with illusory hands,
The Thesselian came to his ancient home a shade.
There, whatever I shall be, I shall always be your image.
Great love crosses even the shores of death
There, thought that band of fabled beauties come,
The heroines which the booty of Tyro bestowed upon the heroes of Greece—
The beauty of none of these will please me more than yours, Cynthia
And (may just Earth allow this to be so)
Through the fate of a long old age should delay you,
Dear to me, to my tears of welcome, will be your bones.
May you when living have the same feeling for my ashes.
Then death would have no bitterness for me anywhere.
How I fear that, my tomb despised,
Unfriendly Love may drag you away from my dust
And compel you against your will to dry your falling tears.
The most loyal of girls is swayed by constant threats.
Wherefore, while it is possible, let us love and be glad together.
Love is not long enough in any extent of time
She looked up from the poem at his form laying down on bed. He was reading a scroll and seemed unaware that she had finished reading his work.
"Is this poem finished, Shadeslayer?"
"Which one?"
But he already moved up from the bed and looked at the words.
"Yes," he replied, "all but the title."
"Cynthia?"
"I do not even know a Cynthia. I needed a name. Saphira chose Cynthia."
He cocked his head to the side, seemingly delving into his earlier memories.
"Although, come to think of it. She might have said 'sink the ear.' Or something unusual. I think she was awake then, but I cannot be so sure."
A twitch of her lips signaled a rare smile, but it vanished and he correctly moved back to the bed…away from her.
She flipped through a few more pages to look for any others.
"Please sit down, Arya svit-kona. I cannot imagine standing and reading abysmal attempts at poetry could be more entertaining than sitting and reading them."
She took a seat in his wooden chair at his desk.
"On the contrary, Shadeslayer, your poetry is quite good. Excellent I would say. It was a beautiful poem."
He raised his eyebrows, but accepted the compliment.
"Thank you. But you would be one of the few."
"Somehow I doubt that."
But her voice was so soft he could barely tell if she had even spoken.
"Arya svit-kona?"
She looked up from her current inspection of another of his poems.
"Not that I mind the company, but was there a specific reason you sought me tonight?"
She haphazardly put the parchments on his desk in a smooth disarray.
"I wanted to see how you were doing from today's sparring."
He shook his head once in understanding.
"I thought I saw you. I know it was you who stopped Vanir from attacking again, but I could not be sure it was you I saw before I fell unconscious. Thank you for that."
She looked up in surprise.
"There is no need."
Arya looked away, tracing the outline of the parchment that held the poem she read. It was as if the words kept on drawing her attention away from the conversation at hand.
"I am well now. I merely must improve."
She tore her eyes away from the parchment and looked at him.
"Actually, you did quite well for the first time. Most cannot stay on their feet wielding a heavy piece of metal with no resistance. Most do not even attempt to learn that kind of swordsmanship."
He nodded, "But in any case, I must get better."
"Eragon…"
The use of his name surprised him. She rarely did use it, and only when she was saying something personal.
"I am sorry for Vanir's and the others' behavior. I knew the elves would not be so kind to you during the funeral rites. However, I greatly misjudged their misplaced anger. I do not think I can explain to all of them that it was not your fault. I am sorry for that."
He looked away, a ghost of a sad smile etched on his features before nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders.
"That is nothing to be sorry for. And in a way, I do deserve the punishment."
"It was not your fault. There was nothing you could have done."
"I should have let Murtagh go when I had the chance. He wanted to leave, wanted nothing to do with the Varden. But I insisted he stay with me, thinking it was a danger to me if I let him out of my sight. I failed to realize that he who evaded the Empire for so long could do so better than me."
"It was not your fault."
Her repeated words did little to mend his broken heart, but he appreciated the gesture.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Shadeslayer? Anything at all to make this trip not all bad memories."
He chuckled, "Not getting along with your mother well?"
In his defense, he looked mortified after he said it.
"I am sorry, Arya svit-kona, I should never have-"
But she gracefully cut him off with a small laugh. A sound he could never tire of hearing.
"What was the first sign?"
He smiled and looked away as she studied the parchment for a third time during their conversation.
"There is something, however."
She looked at him, her expression carefully blank.
"I…it would be…I…"
"It is a blessing your writing is more articulate than your words."
He laughed at her, knowing her jest was made in good humor. It served well to light the tension he had.
"Well, in a more articulate manner, I wanted to ask if you would help me learn to fight with my eyes blindfolded."
"Yes, I will."
He looked at her in surprise.
"Thank you, Arya svit-kona."
She gathered herself and moved towards the door.
"Will you at least stay for a cup of tea?"
Arya narrowed her eyebrows, "I hardly think it becoming to drink tea before sparring, Shadeslayer."
"We are going now?"
"Did you need more rest than the eight hours you have slept since afternoon?"
"No…not at all."
He gave her a small smile before attached Brisingr to his side and following her out. She led him towards an unguarded patch in the woods. She pulled a pot from the base of a tree and threw the rope so it hung ten feet in the air.
"Close your eyes."
He did so, only to feel the touches of soft cloth of his eyes and her hands deftly moving at the back of his head tying it together.
"The way to succeed in this type of battle is not to react to sounds that are obviously made to attack you, but to appropriately listen to all sounds. A blade moving in the air creates a sound. You must be able to hear it. Footsteps can tell you the exact position of your opponent. A lack of noise can tell you volumes. A body twisting in the air can also be determined."
Her voice kept on surrounding him, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. She was encircling him.
She walked a little closer to him, standing underneath the pot. And pulled on a string.
"This pot has water in it. A drop of water has a distinct sound. When you hear it, you must slice the droplet in half. Only then will you have the perfect timing and hearing required for this type of battle."
The leaves did not rustle when she glided over them, but her movement he sensed because of the faint reduction of the intensity of her unique pinecone scent.
"Now start. The first drop has already fallen."
It would be utterly pointless to slash around like a madman, so he waited and waited. Slowly expanding his sense of hearing beyond their normal capabilities. He slowed his mind down, reducing its thinking to a minimum as he focused on his surroundings. He listened.
Crickets chirped here and there, nothing out of the ordinary. A wolf howled in the distance. The wind rustled the leaves beneath him, occasionally bringing the scent of pinecones his way, distracting him momentarily.
He descended deeper into his senses. Crouching down, he lowered his body in concentration, his pose almost meditative. He noiselessly drew his sword and waited for any progress.
And finally, finally he heard. His heartbeat became louder and louder, and so did a steady one close by.
Arya's.
He smiled.
Every scratch a rough leaf had on its fallen companion reached his ears. His breathing became more and more apparent and his apparent motionless companion's breath fell loudly on his ears. It was his only indication that she actually did breath, other than the fact she was alive.
And finally he heard something else. Past those outwardly sounds he heard the slow clank of a drop of water rustling a leaf beneath it. The crackling sound became more and more apparent.
To the left.
No, now to the right.
There it is, right in front.
He timed the distance and raised his flaming sword. The crackling of fire not disturbing his hearing at all. In one smooth movement, he slashed through the air. Carefully, he ran a hand over the blade and felt the moisture in the middle of his blade. Tearing the blindfold off, he looked at his flameless sword.
"I did it!"
His exclamation was not exclusive. Looking at his teacher, he smiled broadly.
"Thank you, Arya svit-kona."
She smiled at him.
"You are done for today. But I expect you here tonight once again. You took nearly an hour to hear it. You must do so faster next time."
"Yes, elda."
She looked at him sharply, "Do not call me elda."
He looked alarmed at her outburst at his address of respect.
"I shall make that mistake again, but may I ask why that title of respect angers you so?"
She looked away, the tips of her ears with a twinge of red.
"I believe it makes me sound old."
Eragon raised his eyebrows and looked away, saying nothing.
"And you shall not repeat this to anyone."
He motioned to his lips, as if locking it with a key and throwing the key away.
But he could not contain himself for long.
"Really though? Because it makes you sound old."
She narrowed her eyebrows at him.
"I believe you said you would not speak of it to anyone."
"Yes, but it is you. Vanir is younger than you, and he does not mind elda."
"You would compare me to a young, pompous, rather vain Elvin warrior whose prefers to praise himself before anyone else. Yes, I suppose he would like to be called with respect."
The Rider held his hands up in surrender.
"I shall never call you elda again." His words in the Ancient Language put a small smile on her face, but she kept walking.
"Tea, Arya svit-kona?"
"No, not this late. I should rest."
"May I walk you to your home?"
She glanced his way, "I am quite capable of escorting myself."
Thinking quickly, he chose his words.
"I would have offered the same to your mother or a small child on the streets. It is not that you are not capable of doing so, but I do not believe you should have to. No matter how powerful a lady is, I do believe she must be treated with same respect. Even if she is more likely to save my life than I am hers."
Arya let out a small smile.
"Very well, come with me then."
They walked in easy silence, their only mutterings of how beautiful the marked moon was in the starry sky. Soon after, Tialdari Hall came into view.
Eragon could not be sure, but it seemed that his companion had imperceptibly slowed her pace as her home neared. But even the slowness could not stop the inevitable. They stopped at the large door.
"Good night, Eragon."
He smiled at her.
"Good night, Arya svit-kona."
She turned away, but he called her back.
"Wait, I forgot to give you this."
He stepped up a few stairs and handed her the soft cloth. But her fingers curled around his, enclosing the material in his hand.
"Keep it. You will need it these coming nights."
And with that, she turned away leaving him standing at her vanishing figure. Swallowing, he turned around and left the door, a skip in his step he knew not.
How such happiness could erupt from once such pain he did not know. His love was just as deep as it was before. That was no doubt. But every moment in her presence and every word she spoke made his heart skip a beat and soon he was moving around the deserted wood with a large smile on his face. One he could not even wipe from his face.
With no desire to sleep, he slumped back in the chair where her scent of pinecones remained strongest in the room.
He pulled his chair closer to his desk and the poem Arya had praised.
In his elegant handwriting, he addressed the work to her.
Dear Arya svit-kona,
May you enjoy this work for the centuries to come and longer.
Your friend,
Eragon
Satisfied, he pulled a beautiful ribbon, cutting the appropriate length and tied up the parchment like a gift. Placing it on his desk, he blew out the candles and fell into a deep sleep. He awoke reenergized the next morning.
Meeting Vanir by the sparring rings, he tied the blind fold around his eyes and tried to achieve the same depth in hearing. Vanir was getting impatient, but he still made his master wait…and finally, after twenty minutes, he descended into that deeper hearing.
"I am ready."
The first attack came shortly after, no warning whatsoever. But not to worry. Eragon could hear the movements. He blocked and parried, attacking only ever so often only to gain his bearings. Eragon was doing fine, he was at a stalemate. But a little miscalculation landed him on his back as he hit the outer edge of the ring he was encircled in. Feeling a cool blade against his neck, he heard the smirk of his opponent.
"Dead."
Sighing, he pulled his blind fold off and bowed to his master before redoing the knot and starting once again. He came back with bruises on his back from the various places he fell. Night fell and he made his way over to the patch in the woods. His teacher was already waiting for him, her eyes flashing a bright green against the night sky. Her eyes held their own lights, their own fire within them making light unnecessary to see them in the dark night.
"You have improved greatly. I watched you spar. However, you must learn to mind your surroundings. You cannot see, but your opponent can. Your opponent will avoid all the areas you must avoid as well. Follow your opponent's lead, push him back and he will lead you away from areas of danger."
She walked over to him, pulling the soft cloth from his hands gently. Slowly, she turned him around with a hand on his shoulder and tied the blindfold behind his head. A delicate hand on his back pushed him forward, signaling him to take his position.
He drew his sword and waited for Arya to strike at him. A rustle of leaves on his left, he moved in time to block her sword. Giving her no time to think, he pushed back against her, forcing her to move into a defensive position. Instead of attacking, she tried to switch the lead, pushing against him and forcing him to walk backwards.
But he did not move, instead, he pulled her even closer where he could use his hands and ears to spar with. Grasping her sword hand, he pulled her toward his blade, but she flipped out of his grip and over his head. A feeling of satisfaction swept over him as he once again, began the push forward.
Sure enough, Arya's movements signaled he was nearing a dangerous spot, and both of them moved out of the way quickly. However, she was gaining the advantage with her swift movements.
She kicked his hand causing Brisingr to fly away into a tree. The air moved as she once again flipped over him, using his momentary weakness to her advantage and placing herself in between him and his sword. But he was faster, he pulled her leg down and her entire body came crashing down on him. He grunted at she fell on top of him and his hand reached for her sword. She struggled to get up in his grip, but he flipped them over so she could no longer have the advantage of getting up. His hand came across a metal edge and in vain he tried to keep it down. But his hands were burning from sparring all damn day.
"Eragon…"
Her voice was breathy and he felt her hand lose resistance in their battle for it. The movement of other hand signaled it was coming towards him, but too slow for an assault. Instead he froze where he was, his body rigid over hers. The blindfold was being undone by her soft fingers as she lingered far too long in his hair, pulling away at the knots. Finally, she pulled the blindfold off revealing his chocolate brown eyes.
His face turned hot at their position. She was inches from his face, how could he failed to see her proximity. She was breathing heavily from their sparring…or at least that was what he thought it was from. Trying to get up, he found himself restricted somewhat. Glancing down between them, he saw his chain with a flower pendant a small girl in the Varden gave him for saving her father's life was locked around a similar flower around the princess's neck.
"Sorry, Arya svit-kona. It will only take a minute."
He glanced down at the chains again, trying, with restricted hands, to undo the knots between them. The Rider forced his gaze from traveling down the more intimate parts of her body that he could almost feel grazing his forearms. Faints brushes in his hair told him the wind was getting stronger, but he thought it strange only his hair felt it. He looked around and saw Arya's hand was still twirling in his hair. He looked at her questioningly and saw her gaze had that same indescribable look he had seen when she was staring at the fairth of the gardens.
With a sudden comprehension, she muttered. "There is a large amount of foliage in your hair. I was merely getting rid of the majority of it while you work on the chains."
He took her explanation, thinking nothing of it. She was so close, yet so far away.
Perhaps that was why he did not realize their proximity, any distance between them was far too great. She relaxed against the ground and rested her hand on his shoulder bracing herself against his weight.
Finally, his hands had solved the puzzle and separated their chains. Leaving her no other option, he lifted himself up and waited till she joined him. Picking up her sword, he handed it to her.
She thanked him before moving for her home. He had pulled his sword out, but lingered around, looking for something. He lit his sword up and pointed it to the ground, illuminating the darkness for his lost item.
"Looking for this?"
Arya held the blindfold in her hands, her expression once again falling into its blank state.
He nodded and walked over to her standing frame. Taking it lightly in his hands, he curved it around his hand and looked at her.
"I am sorry for that, Arya svit-kona."
She looked at him with mild surprise.
"We fell, Eragon. It happens when sparring." And with that she turned towards her home, leaving him awestruck.
Stopping, she turned around, "Will you not walk home with me tonight as well, or does your chivalry only include Wednesdays?"
"Oh, right." He gave a little laugh at his temporary ignorance and followed her.
Even the silence had changed around them. They were walking on needles it seemed. Their relationship held by knifepoint. Even the air seemed charged around them. Something had changed, and they both wanted to bolt from it. Or at least that was what he interpreted the adrenaline rush through his body every time he smelled her pinecone scent.
Tialdari Hall came upon them and Eragon breathed in relief. He needed to get out before he did something he would regret. She stood in front of him and placed a cool hand against his cheek.
"Good night, Eragon."
He stayed silent, his hand plastered across the burning sensation on his cheek. He walked like that all the way back to his tree house. He was still in love with her, that would never change. The only difference was now even her indifference could not defer him.
The next day with sparring came easier and soon Eragon had defeated his opponent within the second attempt. Even Vanir was surprised at his improvement in the past two days. The third time, Vanir sent three elves against a blindfolded Rider. But Eragon quickly changed his fighting style and came to an impasse with each of the warriors. An hour and a half of swords clashing later, they all claimed tiredness and called a draw. Vanir was pleased with his performance, but for some reason, Eragon knew the elf had something under his sleeve. But it would be for the next time he came to Ellesmera. He and Arya were leaving the next day for the Varden as the funeral rites for Oromis had ended.
Marching his tired body back to his room, he walked up the stairs and collapsed in the wash closet for a nice warm bath.
He must have fallen asleep in the water, a dangerous notion if the wash closet was not so small. The water had gone cold and night had fallen. A knock on his door resounded, and Eragon quickly launched into action. He pulled on a pair of underpants and then his felt pants over them before letting a towel drape over his shoulders. Answering the door, he opened it fully.
Arya stood in front of him, taking in his appearance with a careful eye.
"I am sorry Arya svit-kona, I fell asleep while I was bathing. I did not know the time."
She moved past him before answering, "Actually, we are not to meet until a few hours later if we were meeting later tonight. But there is nothing more I can teach you with fighting blindfold. I merely wanted to discuss our plans for leaving tomorrow."
He nodded before shutting the door after her. Walking towards her, he stood in front before slightly pushing her to the side while he reached for his chest near his bed. Pulling out a dark purple tunic, he pulled the soft Elvin material over his head. Walking over to his meeting area, he warmed some water for tea.
"Still rosemary chamomile?"
Arya seemed surprised he knew her favorite type of tea, but she quickly masked it.
"Yes, please."
He handed her a cup while she sat at his desk. Taking the towel once more, he moved it over his head to stop the dripping. His hair was in a mild disarray and he tried in vain to tame it, but to no avail. Arya must think him unkempt, she was watching his every movement like a hawk.
Sitting at the edge of his bed closest to her, he began talking.
"I believe we should leave early and cover as much distance as possible. I would like to at least cross three fourths of Hadarac Desert and I do not want to go anywhere near the capital even though that is shortest way."
Arya nodded her approval
"We should go over the Spine instead of over Hadarac. It will be quicker that way."
He swallowed uncertainly. She was right.
"Any problem with that?"
"No," he stammered, "as long as we do not stop near…near Carvahall I shall be fine."
"You grew up there. Did you not?
He swallowed thickly and nodded.
She, thankfully, ignored his predicament.
"We should be long gone by the time we stop."
"Aye."
He sent his agreement, but she was taken in by the fairth of the gardens he had hung over his bed.
"It will be a shame to leave these here. I grew fond of having some decorations around where I live."
She let a faint smile show through.
"And that reminds me. I have something for you."
He took the tied up scroll from his desk. He had embellished the gift a little. He used the best paper and calligraphy, as if it was to hang for all to see. Without a blemish he folded both the original and the copy together and pressed a Black Morning Glory flower in between the tie.
"As a thank you for your help."
She took the scroll from his hand and deftly untied the knot and unfolded the scroll. Holding the flower with a certain reverence, she smiled as he realized the poem she was reading was the very same the captured her attention two days ago. A smile stayed on her lips as she read over the neatly written copy.
"You still have not thought of a title."
"I could not think of one."
The Elvin princess smiled before carefully redoing the tie. She stood up and walked herself to the door.
"Thank you for the gift, Eragon."
"Thank you for teaching me, Arya svit-kona."
"I shall see you in the morning. Good night and may the stars watch over you."
"Good night."
She turned, leaving him at the open door staring after her. He sighed, a large smile on his face as he sank in the chair she occupied only moments before.
He did not know how long he sat in her chair, reminiscing against his better judgment, but he sat until he heard a knock on his door. Surprised at the hour, he opened the door once again.
"Arya svit-kona, is everything alright?"
She pushed past him.
"Who is Cynthia?"
He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.
"I don't understand."
She pushed a paper at him, the original parchment.
On the back, in his unmistakable handwriting, were the words For my Cynthia.
Barzul. I had forgotten I had even written that.
How was he going to explain this one?
Granted he could not just say that she was his Cynthia, that he thought of her when he wrote his love poetry. How complicated of a lie was he going to have to make to get out of this one?
"Arya svit-kona, Cynthia is just a name Saphira happened to choose."
She gave him a hard stare, her icy glare piercing his soft chocolate eyes.
"That is not the truth and you know it. Who is 'my Cynthia'?"
He remained silent, not sure what he got himself into. Why did he even bother to make a kind gesture? It always slapped him back. His blessing with Elva, asking Murtagh to stay with him, and now a token of appreciation for all that she did for him. His lies would be futile. She would know the truth eventually and it would be better if she heard it from him before someone else.
"I cannot lie to you. You are my Cynthia, Arya svit-kona. Are you happy now?"
She regarded him with a guarded expression before speaking.
"I am afraid I cannot accept this gift." She seemed to reluctantly let go of the scroll on his desk before turning her back to him.
He closed his eyes, "Wait! Please."
Her back remained to him. At least she stopped, that was more than what he was expecting.
"When I wrote the poem, I had no intention of letting you see it or even giving it to you. You happened to enjoy it and I wanted to give you something for helping me stand my ground against Vanir. A token of my gratitude, nothing more. I honestly did not remember that I had written that on the back. I am sorry, Arya svit-kona, truly I am. But I had no intention of pursuing that topic again by giving you the poem."
Grasping the scroll tightly in her hand once more, she finally spoke after a heavy silence.
"Nay, Shadeslayer. It is I who is sorry."
And with that, she turned on her heel and strode out of the treehouse, the scroll still grasped in her hand.
She took it back, that was something he supposed.
He hit the bed with a heavy heart, hoping his friendship could still be salvaged.