It hasn't been a short amount of time since I read Inheritance, but I think this all ties in. It should. I couldn't remember if Eragon left to raise dragons WITHOUT riders, or just needed a new place for dragons and dragon riders to live. I assumed the first, because the second makes no sense as dragon riders were supposed to protect Alagaesia and they can't do that when not in Alagaesia.
There were miracles all across the land of Alagaesia. Gilded lilies, tombs of diamond, flowers in the ocean so large across a dragon could ride them like a raft- splendid gems that dotted the land. They were priceless, rare, and coveted.
What didn't make it onto the list were the grass boats.
They weren't especially valuable. They were interesting, yes— small boats woven from blades of grass, not more than four inches from bow to stern but complete with rails, rigging and portholes. They drifted through the air, powered by the life energy of the plants and animals below, forging along some uncharted course where no boat ever sailed before. The way of the miniature vessels was always constant, and they always took the same path, but where their end destination was no one knew. They sailed over the boundaries of Alagaesia and into the land to the East.
Because no value came from these boats rather than contemplative wonder, and they clearly served some purpose, the elves left them alone, sometimes following in their wake to marvel at their design. They never touched them, and never found the notes wrapped up inside, and indeed they only followed them to the border of Du Weldenvarden before dropping back and seeing the boats across. The humans never saw them; the dwarves never paid them any heed; and all the more curious species that would have plucked the boats from the air never encountered them.
So the boats always reached their destination.
When they did the grass was drying and the magic was straining, but the man always received them and always dismantled them to get to the notes inside, often with a frenzy seen in a man desperate for some glimpse of news. This was all he had of her, all he had of his land, these scraps of parchment and slanted handwriting and yellowing grass.
The writing told him of many things- the affairs of the elves and men, with occasional mentions of the dwarves. The first few spoke of Roran, but after his passing both he and Carvahall were rarely mentioned. There was a whole page devoted to Orik's death, when it came. There were mentions of the new Riders and their dealings, and talk of possibly restoring Doru Araeba and the Rider's original stronghold (this proposition never seemed to go anywhere, however- every time she wrote, there was a mention of the issue resurfacing as a new epiphany, although it was apparently always forgotten soon thereafter).
What he craved most, however, once Roran and Orik and Nasuada were reported to have gone from this world, was news of her. And that came rarely, indeed.
She had not married, but it had never been Arya's style to settle down so permanently, and as she was already restricted to the confines of Ellesmera most of the time he had expected no less of her. She complained often about her new limitations regarding space, and he did, to some extent, sympathize with her— he had grown up being able to roam the Spine at will, only to join the Varden and be grounded with Saphira for their own safety. While she did not speak of herself much, however, most (if not all) of her letters contained some reference to Firnen. It was funny for him to hear of Arya discovering things he himself had learned years previous. She had always been the more knowledgeable of the two of them, and to have their roles reversed greatly amused him, and he wrote to her saying just that.
He longed desperately to go back. He had only ever properly considered it once, when Roran had died. Katrina had passed away some years before, leaving her husband with their two daughters, Ismira and Elifa, and their only son, Kardic. He had considered going just to pay his last respects, and to see the man he had held in his heart as a brother and not a cousin one final time, but he dared not. Had his project not been in its delicate first stages, he might have considered botching the prophecy and heading back anyways, but he wouldn't abandon the young dragons.
There had been four hatchlings where Roran had died. He had finally found the perfect place— a bend in the river, not more than eleven days dragon flight from the borders of Alagaesia, with fertile soil for him to farm and full of wildlife and game for the dragons, ringed around by mountains as protection. He liked it. Saphira liked it. The little dragons seemed to like it. The other elves had spread out between the mountains and the river, singing themselves dwellings from the trees and generally seemed quite happy, even if they waxed the occasional mournful song about leaving their motherland.
He had built himself a small hut, eventually, right on the river, and had realized only after starting that he had unconsciously modeled it after Oromis' sparse dwelling. He built himself a small farm, more out of nostalgia and to fend off boredom than need for food. As serene and perfect as the new setting was, he couldn't help but hate it. The hut and the farm were visual reminders that he had put down roots in a place far from everything he had known and everyone he had loved. In her letters, Arya tried to sympathize with him, but her efforts fell somewhat short.
In the early days he had often fallen into brooding moods which not even Blödhgarm could pull him out of. They may have been a result of lack of success, for as soon as the first dragon hatched, he brightened up again considerably (Saphira was rather taken aback that another dragon had been able to snap him out of his brooding when she herself had not been able too). The dragon had been a pale pink female, and Saphira had treated it like a mother.
"She is the dawn," Blödhgarm had said to all those gathered, although he never elaborated whether he was remarking on the hatchling's color or significance.
The dragon population had grown, unbound to any elf, human, dwarf, or Urgal. Before long there had been jewel-toned creatures filling the skies, humming with content and interacting playfully with each other, developing their own sense of being. He had been surprised to discover that despite having no Riders, the wild dragons could communicate with the elves the same way Saphira did. It made for an interesting experience, as all the new dragons, despite their size, coloring, or age, viewed Saphira as a mixture of mother and teacher. They consequently held a considerable amount of respect for him as well, despite the massive difference in proportion. Having several dozen adolescent dragons listen attentively as you explained flying maneuvers or the significance of fireweed was, at times, unnerving.
The grass boats continued sailing forth and returning. Letters, poems and anecdotes were exchanged like market goods.
Time passed. He stopped measuring time in days and weeks and began using seasons instead. Soon he became unconcerned with the passage of time all together, as he was certain that the next day would dawn exactly as the day before it had, and that the sun would set in the same manner. He began to grow more dependent on the letters than he would ever have admitted to anyone other than Saphira, who passed up the ripe opportunity to poke amiable fun at him, as she pined for Firnen in a similar manner.
Another generation of dragons was born, starting with the two eldest of the clutch he and the elves had brought over. The pink female and a striking indigo male had become the proud parents of a clutch of six one spring, all of whom were varying shades of pink, to their mother's delight and their father's dismay. He noted this in his next letter to Arya, and she replied that she found it wonderful and amusing.
And then he had received a ship more detailed than the others— a trireme with three masts, complex rigging and a name spelled out in tiny white flowers on the side. The Dragon Wing. He noted the sentiment and did not dismantle her boat this time, but carefully extracted her message through a panel in the top deck.
It was a question.
Are you still on the River?
His reply was one word. Yes.
The letters stopped coming after that, and he started to get worried. He sent boats out but they never returned, the writing left undeciphered, drifting throughout the Ellesmeran trees unread. Saphira sensed his dismay and tried to console him, but he refused to be comforted. She was his last link to his homeland. If she was injured, if she was killed…
Saphira refused to fly him back to Alagaesia and he became furious at her, until he saw how deeply she cared for him and apologized. He can sense that she's worried, too, though not quite as beside herself as he is, and has never been as unreasonable.
He eventually accepts that Arya's letters have stopped and that there's nothing he can do about it. He isn't waiting, because as far as he knows there's nothing to be waiting for. His world now consists of the land inside the ring of mountains and the skies above it. He knows all of the dragons by name, even though their number has grown into the hundreds.
It is, therefore, a surprise when a dragon he does not recognize spirals down over the river and lands in front of his makeshift house with an earth-shattering thud.
He recognizes the dragon instantly, and joy overwhelms him. It doesn't matter how long she'll be staying, be it five minutes or five centuries, just that she's here and he can see her again.
He knows that he doesn't look the same, and suspects that she won't either. The last few centuries, while he did not feel the barbs of their passing as acutely as humans or dwarfs, have aged him, and he knows it. His hair is no longer a monochromatic brown but now displays a fair amount of silver as well. His hands, while not gnarled twigs, have developed thick callouses from work. His face is more lined, he knows, though now it is from age and not worry.
Trust Arya to turn his mind toward vanity for the first time in centuries, he thinks, smiling to himself.
He feels the feather-light touch of her mind before he sees her properly.
Atra esterní ono thelduin, she says, ever formal in greeting. To him, there has never seemed a time less deserving of formality.
Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr, he rushes, and he can tell that she notices.
Un du evarínya ono varda, Eragon, she finishes, and her joy bursts forth into his mind. It had been so long, for the both of them, but they reunite like long lost lovers.
Which, perhaps, they are.