Disclaimer: I don't own the Inheritance Cycle or any of its characters. All of that belongs to Christopher Paolini.
The flower in Arya's hand is fresh-cut and sweet-smelling. Its petals are thick, and its center is brimming with nectar. It's perfect, at least on the outside. Sort of like her.
She wraps her fingers around one of the petals and tears it off. The single missing petal barely makes a difference in the lush forest of them that surrounds the center. That's her again - looking perfect on the outside, but on the inside there are pieces missing that nobody could ever fathom or see. ("Is it not the most perfect and lovely flower?" She had asked that night, and his response had been "Yes, it is," and "As are you." If only he knew).
Nobody can claim to understand flowers, and nobody can claim to understand Arya. She holds herself together with her iron will and her hate. It troubles her to think of what will keep the stitches in place when those are no longer needed.
I love him.
Another petal, picked with deliberate slowness, drifts to the ground. Arya's sharp ears can hear it as it wisps across the forest floor on an eddy of wind and disappears into the mystery shadows.
I love him not.
She pulls another petal.
But why is Arya playing child's games? Her heart is already in sincere agreement with the first and third petal. (But no, no, no, her head protests, not him, never him, you have your duties, you can't be distracted, you're making the wrong choice!)
I love him.Her heart agrees, her (oh so cynically dark) mind screeches in protest. The dissonant chorus makes her confused again. Unsure. Like a swimmer teetering on the edge of the pond, afraid to dive because the water might be cold.
That's silly, Arya thinks. Cold water is rejuvenating.
Then she reprimands herself for letting her mind wander. Discipline is key (she has always been taught this; by her mother, her father, Faölin, Oromis).
She plucks another petal, twirling it between her slender fingers.
I love him not.
Her sensible half nods, approving.
The petals fly by in a blur. Arya sits there and thinks of nothing but plucking - curling her fingers around the petal, tearing it away from its center (oh, this is how she felt when Faölin died), dropping it to the ground, damaged and useless (this is her after Gil'ead, after Durza). Soon, there is only one petal left (this is her, standing and walking alone, nobody by her side because she has shut the world away and maybe that's a bad thing).
She picks it.
I love him.
Casting the empty Black Morning Glory head to the ground, Arya runs off into the forest.
