Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon nor any of its characters.
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The sheets were soft. Almost unbearably so. It made it hard for Vanir to get up and leave when he had to. Light filtered through the broad array of thick oaks that made up Oromis' small realm upon the mountains; sweeping steadily across his dusty floors to swath the lovers, twisted in sheets, and wrap its fingers of loving warmth across their exposed skin, flushing them pink. Like twin skies of setting suns.
Vanir shifted in Oromis' arms, in the embrace that they entrapped him in. Contorting his body gently so that he could raise himself slightly, resting his bruised cheek on the small of his palm, and allowed himself to gaze at his masters sleeping form. If only for a second. Only when he slept was Oromis' face as relaxed as this. The small crease of concern in the middle of his forehead – which kept his brows tight knit – and the tiredness that that gathered under the susceptible patches of his eyes drifted away in these moments of peaceful unawareness. Vanir loved Oromis' arms. Strong, reliable, capable.
How many times have those arms caught hold of him? Held him tight? Kept him safe? Strong enough to split a man in two. Reliable enough to press the tips of a healing plant into a deep wound and avoid the sting. More than capable to wield a sword with unquestionable skill.
Vanir loathed all the properties that showed Oromis' weakness. The frail see-through-ness of his skin. The battered cough. The dark hollows of his cheekbones. And the tiredness. That heavy tiredness of sickness and age that he dragged about with him. Vanir shifted again. Twisting away until he had escaped Oromis safe embrace...
When Oromis lifted the heavy lids of his eyes to the daylight he was blinded for half a moment by the sun's relentless rays. Then there was Vanir. He sat on the end of the bed, presumably so as to not to disturb Oromis, pulling on his heavy, black boots unaccustomed to the elves. His back, bent double like one of those human beggars Oromis had seen once or twice before; proudly displayed the criss-cross of angry, red scars from battles lost and won. On his right shoulder an ominous blue had begun to swell into view.
"Where are you going?"
Oromis hates them. The scars. The bruises. How vulnerable they made Vanir look, though he will always be too young and proud to realise it. He hates the fear they instil inside of him. The realisation they bring that one day Vanir may go and never come back.
"I have to leave. Back to border. There's been a lot of activity going on there. You know this." Vanir's reply is short and to the point. It would have probably even been cutting if he wasn't talking to him. Vanir stood and began to tug on his black cotton shirt, as he did so Oromis allowed himself to reach up and wrap his long, bony fingers around Vanir's small, bony wrist and steal him back into his welcoming arms. Oromis ran his light fingers across Vanir's stomach. He loved the newness of it. The potential Vanir's body brought. His small defiant chin...
Bringing Vanir's palm to his lips, his kissed it, and, like a sullen child, murmured.
"Let others fight."
He could feel the irritation that sentence brought the youth by the seizure of tension that ran through Vanir's body and the sharp tap he received as the hand was snatched away. But then Vanir relented. Resting a hand gently against the hollow of Oromis' right cheek and pressing his lips softly against the corner of Oromis' mouth he replied, more kindly and more regretfully.
"I have to leave. It's my duty."
And then Vanir was gone and only the memory of his body remained. Falling back against the deflated pillows and shading his eyes from the sun with his arm, Oromis laughed at himself and the childish thoughts that continued to swim through his mind.
If only he could stop Vanir from leaving.
If only he control the young.
If only he had power over the sun. But far above him, high in the heavens of an arrogant sky, the sun continued to rise and time drifted on.