Arya: LEAVE NOW, BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE! GO! RUN! SAVE YOURSELVES! LEAVE M—
Evil: (clamps hand over Arya's mouth and drags her away) Hiya! You can just ignore her. She hates me, that's all. This really isn't going to kill you.
Ajihad: Or at least, that's what she wants you to believe.
Evil: … OKAY. Before we get anywhere, we really must get one thing straight here. You. Are. Dead. Very. Very. Dead.
Ajihad: I know! (innocent, sweet smile)
Evil: Oh, my! Look at this! A beautiful, shining, lustrous, elegant, sharp, deadly, lethal dagger! (gasp) WOW! I can't wait to try it out! (pointed stare)
Ajihad: Lalalala you can't hurt me! I'm immortal, remember?
Arya, Eragon, Saphira, and the rest of the cast: (eyes squeezed shut) This cannot end well, for either of them…
Evil: Yes. I know. But in this story, there is only one rule: Evil is god. And if you forget that rule, she will personally eviscerate your immortal intestines!
Eragon: Eeps. Never trust anyone who refers to themselves in the third-person.
Evil: I HEARD THAT!
ONE
Eragon flopped out of bed with a groan, shielding his eyes against the light that streamed in the windows.
"Orik," he complained, "it's seven o'clock!"
The dwarf finished tucking the curtains into their retainers and turned around, smiling broadly. "Yes, but it's the first day of holidays!"
"Yes," Eragon said slowly and deliberately, "all the more reason not to wake me so early." He paused briefly. "Wait. Holidays? What holiday?"
"No idea," Orik shrugged, "apparently 'tis a Human one. Queen Islanzadí heard about it from Brom several decades ago, and Ellesmera's been celebrating it ever since. If you ask me, doesn't matter what holiday it is. They always involve food and free drinks; what else could we ask for?"
Still muttering under his breath about woken up early, Eragon dug around for his shirt and tugged it over his head. "So, you woke me up for some stupid festival that you don't even know the name of? On the first day of my break from training?"
"Of course!" Orik smiled as though it was the most natural course of action in the world. Eragon stared at him through sleep-dulled eyes.
"Forgive me if I'm not quite grasping this," he said, looking at him pointedly, "my sleep-deprived brain can't handle too much stress right now."
"Oh, did I not mention it?" Orik chuckled, "Sorry, it must have slipped my mind. Now, get to it. Very important. Yes, yes, get to it."
"Get to what?" Eragon demanded, now growing exasperated.
"Oh, dear me. I neglected the point again—"
"Are you drunk?"
"Now, Eragon-dearest, what in Alagaesia would make you think that?"
"Nevermind. What is so important?"
"The princess Arya has requested that you join her for breakfast," Orik exclaimed. "Honestly, laddie, you must be half-deaf not to have heard me the first four times."
"Arya wants me to join her for breakfast?" Eragon echoed, somewhat louder than Orik had said it. He stood stock still for a moment, then burst into a flurry of activity, rooting about in his drawers for nicer clothes, trying to shove his legs into them, and promptly falling flat on his face as his toes caught on their hems. Orik laughed loudly and sauntered out of the room, his job done.
"What in the world would she want to see me for?" Eragon wondered aloud, his mind racing as he hopped about with one leg successfully dressed and the other still struggling to follow suit. "Perhaps…" He blushed. "No, surely not that." He blushed deeper. "No, most certainly not that." His cheeks burned even more until he felt sure that he could cook an egg on them. "That would be really nice…"
Finally managing to dress himself, he sprinted for the door. Slamming on the brakes and rushing back, he checked his hair in the mirror, and then dashed back out. He took the steps in leaps of four until he lost his balance and almost fell, saving himself only by making a mad grab for the banister. More carefully, he finished the remaining hundred steps to the ground and took off toward the palace.
He slowed his pace only just before reaching the corridor that Arya's rooms opened onto to allow himself to catch his breath. He knocked twice on her door.
"Come in," her voice called from within. His heart pounding in a mixture of nerves and excitement, he pushed the door open.
He'd never been inside her palace rooms before, and so as he wandered in, he took a look around. It was simply and elegantly decorated, in deep greens and blues, with the occasional bit of purple. There were trios of tall pillar candles in every corner, enchanted so as not to drip wax. A huge bay window afforded an overview of the city, and a curving window-seat couch beneath it provided a place to sit and observe.
Eventually he found his way to the dining room, where Arya sat at a table set for two, a book in her hands. Her hair was loosely braided, but many pieces had escaped and hung about her face, and Eragon guessed that she had slept with it that way. She sensed his approach and motioned for him to sit.
He did, of course, uneasily tucking his chair in and watching to see what she would say or do. For a long while, she didn't do anything, but continued to read her book.
She looked up. "Eat," she instructed. "I had this prepared for you, but it is most likely cold by now. You took longer than I had expected in getting here. When you have finished, we will talk."
Longer than she'd expected? Curse that Orik!
Chastised, he did as she asked and took a bite of the mix of vegetables in front of him. It was good, he discovered, though it was probably better hot, rather than warm, and he finished it quickly.
She arched an eyebrow. "Are you alright? I do not believe I have ever seen anyone eat so quickly without consequences." Eragon blushed and looked down at his empty plate.
"Apologies, Arya Svit-Kona," he murmured.
"Anyhow," she continued as if he had said nothing, "assuming you survive, I have a favour to ask."
"Anything," he replied, looking up.
"This holiday…" she began, frowning slightly, "I believe it is called Michaelmas? I do not approve of it. It causes only problems for our city, encouraging our elves to drink and spread mischief. My mother, though, thinks otherwise. I know little of the traditions origins, but I presume you do, being as you are Human, and I would like you to talk her out of it." Michaelmas? Queen Islanzadi celebrates Michaelmas? "Will you do it?"
"Uh, yes," he stumbled, "Of course, Arya Svit-Kona."
She dismissed him, and he left. How? How am I supposed to talk a queen out of her favourite holiday?