He dreamed that he reached out towards her, fingers stretching into an endless black void in which she twirled away from him, her hair swirling and her eyes bright. She moved with all the intent and inevitability of fate but also the moderation of wisdom and experience. As she rotated like a dancer away into a pinprick of light, she raised her hands to the heavens - their eyes met, and shards of light and pain blinded him.
Eragon awoke with a start, his heart aching with a dull, hollow beat that made his chest sore. Arya...
For the thousandth - no, ten-thousandth - time in his tumultuous life, his thoughts turned towards the raven-haired elf maiden who so troubled his waking dreams. Eragon slumped back against the harsh woolen blankets of his cot and closed his eyes, envisioning her image in his mind's eye as he had done so long ago in Ellesmera when she had broken his fairth...Her essence overwhelmed his every sense. He saw her beauty, her flashing fury and genuine compassion. He heard her lilting laugh, her saddened, ironic chuckle, and the rustle of her clothes over her skin. He felt the vise of her grip on his upper arm and the cool, soft touch of her fingers on his face. He smelled oiled leather and earthy pine. He tasted -
Are you awake, Little One?
Saphira, I-...yes, I have awoken.
It is well - Nasuada and Orrin are calling the coucil together. From what I overheard, I think they mean to march at the end of this week.
Eragon was shocked.
So soon!
It had barely been a week since the battles of Fienster and Gil'ead, and since Eragon and Saphira's masters, Oromis and Glaedr, had been slain by Murtagh and his fell red dragon, Thorn.
Hurry, Little One. They will be waiting.
Eragon shook his head to banish his waking dreams, and rubbing his hands vigorously over his worn face, swung his legs over the side of his cot.
Another day.