Hi, guys. I wrote this while taking a break for school work, so I'm not too sure about the quality. Drop a review and tell me?
The tomb glittered brightly. She would say that it was like diamond, but she knew that wasn't true. It wasn't like diamond-it was diamond.
Arya's head was tilted to the side, her almond shaped eyes openly thoughtful for the first time in years.
She could be. It was over. The war was over. There was no cause to devote her entire being to anymore.
So she had come here.
She could have gone home. Gone home where it was peaceful, where she didn't fear closing her eyes. Where she was free to master whatever interested her. She eventually would.
But she hadn't yet seen it.
The tomb.
The tomb of Brom. Brom, the Rider, the mentor, the warrior. Brom, who had done more for the cause than just about anyone else.
Arya reached out a hand to brush the surface of the gravestone, tracing the inscription with a slim finger.
"Like a father to me," she read, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, but it rang out, loud in the silence.
Brom had been like that. He had been curt and direct, known for his bluntness. He never minced words. That held true for people he liked and he disliked. Yet, when he truly cared for someone, he would do anything for them. Whether they loved him or hated him, people had strong emotions toward the man. She had admired him.
Her own father had died a mere year after her birth. She had been raised by her people, her teachers. Her mother had had little time for her. She had occupied herself with the ruling of the elves. Arya understood that.
The closest thing she had had to a father was Oromis. They had spoken but rarely, even though he had taught her to wield a sword. He had needed time to recover from his disability, and during that time, he had taught her all he knew of the art.
After those years, she had seen him perhaps thrice a year. Then, after she had taken the yawë upon her shoulder and during the time when she had ferried Saphira's egg across Alagaesia, almost never.
Oromis had taught many, and he had taught well. Both Eragon and Brom had learned much while under his care. As had she.
"Stydja unin mor'ranr," she whispered. Who was she speaking to? Brom? Oromis?
"Arya."
Arya suppressed a sigh, acknowledging the Rider's presence by inclining her head.
"Eragon," she answered. He stepped forward to stand by her side. They greeted each other quietly in the ancient language before silence resumed. Eventually, Arya broke it.
"Were you and Saphira not departing for Vroengard today?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"We are," Eragon replied. "But I promised I would return."
He gestured at the tomb. Suddenly unable to look at it, Arya averted her gaze, choosing to look at the setting sun instead. Even that beauty couldn't distract her. Its light reflected off the diamond tomb. She looked back at Eragon.
"Arya...Islanzadí wishes me to convey a message." He spoke hesitantly, looking at her as if for permission to continue.
"Then speak," she ordered briskly, a note of irritation colouring her tones. She winced, her rudeness registering.
"She wants me to tell you that she loves you and wants you to return to Ellesmera as soon as you can. She says that you and she have matters to discuss that should be discussed face to face."
Arya nodded. She wanted to return, and return she would. But as soon as she could...that might not be for a long time.
Eragon took her hand. "Goodbye, Arya. Remember, Dröttningu, you will always be welcome in Vroengard, should you choose to visit."
"Thank you. And you, Eragon, will always be welcome in Ellesmera. Any elven city will welcome you with open arms."
She looked back at the tomb. A sudden question was pulled from her lips. "Do you miss him?"
"I do. More and more each day," he confessed. Arya nodded slowly, gently freeing her hand from his hold.
"Every day, when you come closer to letting him go, you learn something else that makes you want question him," he said wryly. "I feel that Saphira knew him better than I did."
"Perhaps it's not for your ears to hear," Arya told him softly. "Their conversations are-were-theirs alone, Eragon. Saphira will tell you when she deems it prudent. You'll find out soon enough."
For once, Eragon's attention was pulled away from her, returning to the gravestone that marked the burial place of his father. Arya took a small step back, letting Eragon stand in front of the tomb. She watched him curiously, noting the pensive expression that came to his eyes as he looked at the diamond grave of his bond's creation.
"Goodbye, Brom...Father. I will return. I can promise you that."
He didn't mean for Arya to hear his words, but she heard them nonetheless. Her lips twisted into a small smile. Brom. The man notorious for blunt speech. He hadn't minced words, Brom.
Whether they had loved him or hated him, everyone had felt something. It had been impossible to be neutral toward him. Even dead, he was Eragon's anchor to his homeland.
Eragon turned back to Arya, who examined his face carefully.
His face was neither human nor elven, but a cross between the two. His catlike features were rougher, more rugged than any elf's. His expressions were blunter, lacking subtlety. He was neither, and he was both. He was a Rider.
"Farewell, Arya," he murmured, jerking her from her trance. She nodded, grasping his shoulder.
"We'll meet again soon enough," she promised. "I look forward to it."
In a rare moment of emotion, Arya embraced him, her usual composure abandoning her. When she drew back, it was only far enough so that she could meet his gaze. "Goodbye, my friend. Return to Ellesmera for the Agaetì Blödhren, if you cannot come sooner. It may seem distant, but a century will pass in the blink of an eye."
"I'll keep that in mind," Eragon nodded. Arya looked at Eragon, then back at the grave. Then she turned and walked away.
"Arya."
When he called her back, Arya turned, though she didn't return to his side. She cocked her head, lifting a thin eyebrow high. Eragon hesitated. Arya had grown accustomed to seeing him appear strong and confident. It had been long since she had seen the vulnerability that she saw now in his eyes.
"I...I still see them," he confessed. Arya sighed, then began to walk toward him with measured strides. She moved with catlike grace, her dark eyes fixed upon him.
"Eragon. What you need to understand is that we all do. My first kill was decades ago. I can still picture it as clearly as if it were yesterday. Time doesn't erase all wounds, Eragon. It merely fades them. I can look back at that kill without breaking down, but killing changes you. You are no longer Eragon, the farm boy. The sooner you accept that and let your old life go, the sooner you can move on."
Her words were harsh, her tone neutral. Arya spoke quietly, her voice detached. Her hand supported Eragon's cheek, cradling it gently, her palm cool against his warm skin. Her tenderness surprised him, especially when compared with the frigidity of her words.
"I am sorry you are unable to forget, Eragon. I truly am. It pains me to know that you have been unable to find peace with yourself. But it is no problem I can mend. Magic heals only the most superficial of wounds, mere flesh wounds. And the true marks left by war are on a person's soul, not body."
Eragon cracked a grin at that. The elven ambassador sounded much like her mother, queen of the elves. "And the mind."
"And the mind," Arya conceded. "Mental scarring isn't pleasant."
Arya seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but she stopped herself, looking away. After a pause, she asked, "Do you ever find yourself longing for the life when you were but a farm boy?"
Eragon took a long while to answer, his brow creased as he frowned. "I...miss the simpleness of life. I miss knowing my place. But I can't long for that life. That's no longer who I am, and if I returned to that, I would feel lost. I can't be content with farming the land now that I've travelled and seen so much. And...I wouldn't have Saphira. Life without her is now unimaginable. Losing her..."
Eragon shook himself. Arya nodded.
"Closer than family," she murmured to herself. She wished she had been closer to her family. Her father had died when she had been but a swaddling babe, and her mother had banished her from her presence for seventy years. She walked alone, a lone wolf in the truest sense.
"How can someone who knows every thought you have not be closer than family?" he asked. Arya inclined her head, conceding the point. The closest she had ever had to someone like that had been Fäolin. She missed him.
"Goodbye, Eragon. She'll be waiting for you. It's best not to keep her waiting."
Eragon nodded again. Arya's hand was still against his face. He covered it with his own hand, leaning it to brush his mouth against hers. "Goodbye, Arya."
"Farewell," Arya answered. For a time, they stood there, still. Then they turned and moved away from each other. Neither looked back.