Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. If I did, it would be an adult book, filled with slash and femslash. …Seriously, though. Me no own.
Rating: T 'cause of M/M love, implied sexual activity, and because I'm paranoid.
Prompt: Never part without loving words to think of during your absence. It may be that you will not meet again in this life. – Jean Paul Richter
Why? Why hadn't he said it? Why hadn't he shouted it for the world to hear? Why hadn't he done it?
Fear. He had feared His response, had feared His scorn. He might not even have scorned Eragon, but would He say it back?
Eragon knew the answer. No, He would not have. Not with battle so close, with the threat of death so near. He would have simply assumed Eragon was scared, confused.
But the young man wasn't, not at all. He had known his feelings for months, known his love to be pure and true. And now he was suffering for his cowardice.
Little less than an hour ago, He had been alive. Fighting a fierce battle, yes, but alive. Then there was Murtagh and Thorn, the battle, the slaughter.
Eragon sobbed, the sunrise having the opposite of its usually calming effect; they had always watched it together in Ellesméra. Saphira looked to the peachy sky and howled in sorrow- her other half was broken, his heart torn to shreds.
Having been sent to give Eragon his lover's will, Arya paused at the sight of her two friends' grief. She had been telling Nasuada of their pain, of how the Rider and Dragon needed time to heal before fighting again- they could become suicidal- when an elven messenger ran in the leather tent, panting.
The elf had been sent by the Queen to tell of Eragon's lover's fate and to read His will. Arya sighed. Of course He would have prepared a will, having no delusions of what could happen to Him. He had not believed that He would survive the war this time, and it was common knowledge.
Sighing once again, she made it over to the Dragon and Rider. Softly squeezing his shoulder, showing him that she would always be there for him, Arya pressed the will into the boy's hand and turned away. He was too young to be going through all this pain, all this heartbreak and death.
Eragon took no notice of his once beloved elf's departure as he looked at the letter in his hands. The flowing script was all too familiar, as was the gold ink. It was simply addressed as Eragon.
Hands trembling, fingers locked in a death grip, he opened the envelope and read the first of two pages.
Eragon,
Forgive me. I know not what else to say, for if you are reading this, I have died and left you in a world of war and despair. I know I have abandoned you, and despite it being my fate, I cannot help but loathe myself for it.
Know this, though. I love you. I love the way you bite your lip when thinking, the way your hair always seems to be in your eyes, and gods, your eyes… Your kind and loving spirit is an anchor, keeping me from just floating away in today's confusion and madness, and your determination lets me know that even if this world is doomed, you are going to save as many people as you possibly can.
Love, I know you feel the same. I can see it in your eyes, feel it in your little touches, hear it in your moans… I know that you are not ready to tell me, but I know. And I'm still waiting.
Forever Awaiting Our Reunion,
Oromis
Eragon's heart fluttered, his mouth smiling even as his brown eyes flooded with tears. His master had known all along, even felt the same way. He stood now, head held high and proud and climbed onto Saphira- the other page could wait till that night.
He would defeat Galbatorix and save Alagaësia. He had to get it done. His master was waiting for him, after all.