Faolin.

She still whispered his name to the dark sometimes, just to taste the syllables, just to remember what it had been like to add "I love you" to the end of them.

Faolin.

Of course, the whisper was quiet, nothing more than a breath, like a kiss blown back to a lover but kidnapped by the wind. It would not do for anyone to hear that whisper; it gave too much of her soul away.

Faolin.

The first grief had been like a knife stab to the heart, a wave of shock, denial and pleading disbelief. But she hadn't understood, really understood what she had lost until those quiet times came, when Durza had left and the wounds were just pain and not blinding agony. Then she had whispered his name over and over, like a talisman or a wish, to try and fill the hole of emptiness his senseless death had left behind.

Faolin.

She never wept, of course. Durza, ever watchful for a way to break her, might have tried to exploit the weakness. Arya had never wept for Faolin, not in all the months since she had lost him forever. In time, the torture blurring her mind and reducing her strength to nothing, the terrible loss had become an ache, a quiet pain, jolting sometimes with a far worse agony than any abuse visited upon her body by her captors.

Faolin.

The time of torture was over now. She was reunited with her mother, with her home, with all the memories of him that had made her return something to dread, and which filled her time in the forest with such bittersweet recollection.

Faolin.

The memories. So many of them, thronging her mind with things she should forget, joy she would never have again and sorrow such as she had never dreamed of feeling. Elves gathered many memories; they had eternity to do so. There, said the memories, There we walked and spoke of dragons, there under the bows of that oak we first kissed, beside that brook he pledged to follow me to whatever lands I had to journey to.

Faolin.

He had never judged her for the decision that had split her from her mother and her home. He had known that her fate was to chase dragons and the dreams of them, to guard any hope there might be of their return. He had guarded with her, and he had died for it.

In the dark, under the trees of Du Weldenvarden, Arya wept, the tears spilling down her cheeks from beneath eyelids lightly shut, as if to keep the memories in, to trap the grief where none could see it.

Faolin.

In the dark, her lovely face still streaked with tears, Arya smiled. Faolin would have laughed to see Eragon, to watch his training as he changed from farm boy to dragon rider. He would have smiled at the way Saphira's scales caught the sunlight when she flew. Oh, Faolin. No matter what kind of man he becomes, Eragon will never be as dear to me as you were. Arya sighed. Poor boy. She saw his eyes on her, how he tried to prove himself to her, attentions that had been foolish and annoying at first and now simply echoed how futile unrequited love could be. She could not love him back, not really. Not with her whole heart. His smile was not the right smile. His willingness to fight for her was not the quiet, simple courage of the elf she had once loved. Whatever joy she took in him, now that his face was changed and his scar healed, Eragon's arms around her would not be Faolin's.

Faolin.

She whispered it, so soft not even the wind could hear. Then Arya stood up, making no sound in the dark of the trees. Maybe, one day she could forget him, the love that she had lost, her Faolin.

A/N: This thing was total stream of consciousness; I suddenly had an urge to write about Arya and Faolin, because I always wanted to know more about their relationship. I would say the story takes place in Du Weldenvarden just after the Agaeti Blodhren. Review, if you wish, it would be nice!