Just written because I needed a little AU fluffity-fluff after the heart-ripping ending of Inheritance. So have a little undefined, unplotted Eragon/Arya marriage.
Radiant.
So was the sun, streaming down onto the land.
And so was the woman, that breathtaking woman standing with her hair flying loose around her shoulders. A slight breeze stirred the raven locks. Her eyes sparkled.
So rarely did they glitter with this intensity; in battle, for sure, they burned with a fire that couldn't be matched by any of her race, and in fact by any member of any race. But so infrequently did they glow with this peaceful light, set on one thing and one thing only.
One person.
The scene was not traditional in any way, shape, or form. In fact, it was so grossly set apart from tradition that, had some of the old dowagers of the agency formerly known as the Varden been invited, they would have shielded their eyes at the improperness of it all.
"She's wearing leggings, for Gokukara's sake," Nasuada could be heard whispering furtively to Roran, who was standing next to her.
Roran shushed the queen of the Empire.
The two at the front of the small group were the focus of the day; the ferrety man in between them looked a mixture of elated and nervous beyond belief.
Later he would tell stories to his wife and children about that momentous day he had had; about he, just a lowly page in the queen's court, a nobody, had performed the wedding ceremony between the queen of the elven race and the leader of the New Dragon Riders. He would relive it many times, each reiteration coupled with a look of wonder, as if the aura of power that emanated from the couple at hand was still reaching him.
In reality, though, he would always get one detail wrong; it was not, precisely, a wedding ceremony.
"Eragon," said Arya Drötningu, a smile touching her rose-colored lips, "has always been enamoured with traditions."
The small group watching them all put their fingers to their mouths, comfortable laughter spreading through the forest. The elves' chortles were better than any musical accompaniment could have been.
The man next to her heaved his shoulders in a shrug, smiling and spreading his hands wide. "What can I say?" he asked, looking around at Roran and Katrina, both with hair greying, clutching the hands of their little grandchildren.
They clasped hands. No dowry was brought forth, for neither of them put much stock in material possessions. No family spoke for them, for they had no family but each other and the people watching them.
And they spoke their vows.
"Eragon," Arya said, her voice touched with amusement as she took in the spectacle of it all. "Eragon," she said again, tasting the word and drawing it out. "I had wondered what I would say to you, should a day like this come. I am accustomed to making orations, but what to say when it must deal with matters of the heart?" A self-deprecating laugh later, she continued.
"I do not believe that there is anything that requires me to speak for it. You are strong, Eragon, and you are brave, and your heart is kind. You have learned much, and taught much as well. It is for these reasons that I love you, not any material thing you have gifted me or any gilded words you have said. And I do," she said, her steady, musical voice wavering just the smallest degree, "love you."
She did not use any of his titles. They had agreed on that beforehand. They were not what was important.
"Atra iet wyrda waíse onr," she concluded. May my fate be yours.
Eragon smiled, the fine lines of his jaw accented in the sunlight as he beheld the elf in front of him,
"Arya," he began, imitating her way of initiating. "What to say, as you said? What to say to you? Many of those in attendance today are guilty of reprimanding me for my affection." Angela let out a loud ha! with no shame. "I attempted to prepare for this," Eragon said, "but there was no preparation that I could give. You are beautiful and wise, Arya, and for that I love you. You are my moon, my sun, my stars. I recall I once said that I would walk to the ends of the earth for you, and my sentiments have not changed."
He was tearing up. The herbalist mumbled something about "bloody saps" and went back to knitting furtively in her lap.
"I could not think of a better woman," he said, his voice thick as he looked at her, those glowing green eyes looking up into his own brown ones, "to spend the long years with. Atra iet wyrda waíse onr."
The man in between them pronounced them man and wife, but both of them knew better. Their bond was more than that. More intense and sophisticated than a lowly marriage.
Nevertheless, when they were given permission to kiss, both smiled at each other for a few seconds before drawing near. The elf woman's slight, strong hand cupped Eragon's cheek even as he held her waist.
Two dragons bugled, twisting in the sky. One the color of the finest sapphires, the other a fiery emerald, the buffets from their wings blew the tears right off the women's faces in the crowd, tangling Arya's hair around the neck of Eragon, her mate, her husband. Her life.
Radiant.
Yes, there was no other way to describe it.