I don't own the Inheritance Cycle or any of the scenes I've borrowed from the books. All credit goes to Christopher Paolini.


Logos

Though the war was over and Galbatorix dead, Arya experienced neither joy nor relief. She knew well that many died in war, for many close to her had been victims of tragedy. But never in her wildest dreams did Arya expect Queen Islanzadí, her mother, to die in the Battle of Urû'baen.

When the news first reached her, she stood there in shock, unable to fully comprehend the information. It was not until the following morning Arya realized that never again would she embrace her mother. Though the two did not see eye-to-eye often, the unconditional love that a mother and daughter shared was still present.

Walking aimlessly through the Varden's camp, Arya pondered the recent events. It had been a long time since she was free to think without distractions. Despite the tenuous relationship, Islanzadí's death affected her like nothing else before. She had seen her friends, Glenwing and Fäolin, murdered before her eyes. It had wounded her deeply, but even that was nothing compared to this pain.

Focused on her intently on her thoughts, Arya did not realize where her feet were taking her until she stood in front of Eragon's tent. She debated whether seeking his company was wise. Surely he wanted to enjoy the aftermath of the war, not drown in Arya's misery. But she threw her worries to the wind and called out, "Eragon?"

Surely enough, the Rider parted the tent flaps and invited her to sit inside. Arya noticed he looked slightly nervous as he ushered her into his tent. "How are you Arya?" Eragon asked.

"Well enough," She replied curtly. Arya started regretting her decision to seek his company. The last thing she wanted was for people to pity her.

Eragon's eyebrows rose in suspicion, "You don't look it, Arya. You're paler than usual." When she stared at him blankly, he added, "Is it because of your mother?"

Arya nodded mutely. There was nothing for her to tell him. Everybody experienced death. Eragon himself had lost his uncle when he was still a boy; it seemed foolish to appear upset in front of him.

"You're not alone, Arya," Eragon said softly, "Saphira and I are here for you. As is everybody else."

"I know," She replied, still unwilling to mourn publicly. Long ago she learned to mask her emotions behind an iron wall. It was a useful ability, especially for her diplomatic responsibilities. Arya hoped her raging emotions were hidden; but knowing Eragon, he likely saw through her guise, in part at least.

The pair sat there in silence for a time, Arya thinking of the past and Eragon watching her. Finally, she said, "I've always thought that my mother would be the queen for a long time. For a few more centuries at the very least. I suppose I never thought circumstances would change so abruptly."

"I understand," Eragon said sympathetically, "I used to believe the same about Roran and Garrow. Never in my wildest fantasies was I anything more than a farmer in Carvahall." He paused, searching inwardly for a moment. "But everything changed and I learned to accept it, for the better or worse."

Arya nodded, the two were so similar in regards to the paths their lives had taken. Eragon had become a Rider and she an ambassador, both role changes coming abruptly and without warning. "When were you able to accept being a Dragon Rider?" She asked, curiously.

Eragon's eyes glazed over and assumed a nostalgic tint, "When I realized that I couldn't change anything. Nothing I did would bring Garrow back from the dead."

His voice held an unusual undertone and Arya finally understood just how drastically his life had changed in a few short years. It was a morbid thought that when a loved one died, never again would you hear their voice or see their smile. "I know that I can't bring Islanzadí back," Arya admitted, her cool façade diminishing ever-so slightly, "But the thought of her being gone is so foreign that I can't wrap my mind around it."

"That's normal," Eragon said quietly, "The only thing that dulls the pain is time."

Another mutual silence grew between them as they thought of those lost to the void. Only their memories of Islanzadí and Garrow remained, anchoring them in this life. She stood up to leave, "Where are you going?" Eragon asked.

"To think," Was her reply as Arya left the Rider alone in his tent. She needed to sort out her turbulent thoughts alone before she could truly overcome her grief.

Her right hand twitched involuntarily as she left the tent and Arya was uncertain whether it was her sustained injury that caused the spasm, or if it was simply her emotions.

Thinking of the legacy left behind by her mother, Arya realized that much of it was dominated by the love for her people. Queen Islanzadí had taken many risks to create a better future for the elves and Alagaësia as a whole. She had boldly supported the Varden and marched on the Empire when the time was right. She had kept Oromis and Glaedr a secret until a Rider was ready to be trained. She had fought Barth in hopes of reversing the momentum in the battle.

Though Islanzadí had never been an exceptionally good mother, she had always placed the well-being of her people first and foremost; and for that, Arya respected her. It was ironic in a way, for it was Islanzadí's aloofness that isolated Arya; which in turn, spurred her to work for the betterment of their people as well.

These thoughts sparked something within her, a desire to continue her mother's legacy. Islanzadí had lived her life by serving the elven people, so Arya would continue to ensure the betterment of not only her people, but all of Alagaësia. Seeing as how she served initially as the egg courier, she would serve this role once again, but bearing the green egg this time. What better way to begin mending the fragmented land than to hatch the second egg?


"Where are you going?" Blӧdhgarm asked as Arya walked away from their camp.

"To stretch my legs," She answered shortly, already a fair distance from the camp. They were part of the group assigned to transport the egg to various locations in Du Weldenvarden, an honor any elf would jump for. Though there was no imminent danger to the egg, its utmost security was of paramount importance. It even took precedence over the heated debates of succession.

What Arya sought was privacy to ponder her thoughts. The white lie she had fed Blӧdhgarm merely helped her achieve that goal. Despite the elves being an inherently quiet race, she needed time to think without the judging eyes of others weighing upon her. The most free of thoughts only surfaced when none other was present, no matter how quiet the atmosphere.

Everything was different when Eragon was not around, for he had become her sole confidant. To him, she would slowly divulge her thoughts, though not in their entirety. Never in their entirety. But to the others whom she had known for many years, there was no strong bond between encouraging a profound trust. Devoid of her close friend as she was, Arya traveled the day in silence and craved solitude at night.

In a hidden and closely guarded pouch on her person, Arya kept the green egg hidden. Among the prestigious entourage, Arya had been selected to hold the egg. It was a great honor, bestowed upon her for her diligent duties concerning Saphira's egg. Though the egg was inanimate and mute, there was a certain intimacy between them. To her touch, the shell seemed to warm and its membrane soften.

Often, she would relax on a tree stump and hold caress the egg as one would a small child, staring at its unique texture for hours on end. The elf could not explain exactly what captivated her attention, for her feelings were mixed: full of wonder and curiosity, disbelief and fear. Each day she marveled at its beauty and wondered who would be fortunate enough to be its Rider. Yet she feared the day of its hatching, for then she would never again walk with it at night, slowly memorizing the patterns etched upon its shell.

There were unusual circumstances surrounding the egg as well, none of which Arya revealed to the rest of the elves. The area in her right hand where her nerves were frayed often acted up when in contact with the green egg. It was neither hurtful nor pleasurable, merely numb and senseless. The sensation seemed to radiate throughout all the adjacent muscles.

She dared not tell another soul, not even Blӧdhgarm, for Arya feared she would be relieved of her duties should her competency be questioned. The injury had never been a major concern for Arya. Occasionally it affected her grip, but that was nothing to be concerned over and certainly not enough to warrant alarm.

Sighing, Arya glanced around her, noticing she was in the center of a fairly dense forest, a league from the elven camp. It was late and she did not wish to worry the other elves, so she turned around and began to retrace her steps. She walked slowly and somberly, begrudging the ever diminishing time. Only at night was Arya was able to hold the egg and think in solitude.

Passing a nearby stream en route to the elven camp, Arya heard the distinct crackling sound of fish diving into the water. She paid no heed to the fish, for it was mating season and the males were busy attempting to impress the females, a courtesy she frowned upon in human society.

When she was a fair distance from the stream, the distinctive crackling sound continued to fill the night. Looking around, Arya could not see anything nearby that would give off such a sound. Touching the egg pouch for reassurance, Arya was immensely surprised to feel it wiggling beneath her fingers. Letting loose a startled cry, she hurriedly extracted the green egg from the leather, only to see cracks forming in several spots.

The elf set the egg on the ground as it shuddered violently, tiny squeaks emanating from within its shell. In the recesses of her mind, Arya knew exactly what was happening; but she stood there, rooted in shock. She gaped as a tiny dragon slowly clawed its way out of the confining shell. First, its head was visible; two tiny eyes peering at Arya. Then its stubby wings unfolded, still short and translucent.

As the vibrant green dragon emerged, Arya continued to stare mutely, watching it with astonished eyes. The hatchling sniffed the air, looking at its surroundings; half in curiosity, half in terror. Finally, its beady eyes rested upon Arya, staring at her inquisitively. It hesitantly made its way towards her, stumbling several times as it became accustomed to walking.

When the dragon and Arya were within touching distance, the elf instinctively extended her hand, her mind unable to process the situation coherently. The dragon sniffed her palm delicately before gently touching its nose into the center of her right hand. The feeling was like nothing Arya had ever experienced before; there was a cold rush of electricity, followed by a fiery inferno of pain. She did not know how long she stood with her hand bonded to the green dragon, for the pure energy that coursed through her eliminated any notion of time.

When the sensations ceased, Arya exhaled deeply before examining her hand. In the center of her palm lay a bright glowing oval, radiating energy. In the furthest corners of her mind, Arya could sense a young, immature consciousness tugging at her thoughts. This was more than anything she could have dreamed of, to be chosen as a Dragon Rider was unimaginable. Her mind was muddled and confused as she attempted to process the events that had transpired.

"Arya! Are you hurt?" Blӧdhgarm shouted, sprinting towards her. In his wake was the remainder of the elves. "We thought we heard you scream."

"I'm fine," She replied. To her dismay, her voice had not yet fully recovered, shaking with uncertainty. Slowly pointing towards the green dragon on the ground nearby, Arya said, "The dragon hatched moments ago." She twisted her right hand to show them the Gedwëy Ignasia. "I am his Rider."


The elders are supposed to come to a decision today, Fírnen said to Arya through their link. Who do you think will be chosen?

Däthedr I'd imagine. Perhaps Levernain; both would be excellent choices, She replied. The many elders had met every day for the past month to decide the next monarch. It was a time-consuming task, one which Arya was glad she was not a part of.

I like Däthedr, Fírnen agreed, But Levernain seemed uptight when I met him. Fírnen was still young, barely a month old; not nearly old enough to have a firm grasp on elven politics. Not that he was dense, for he was much wiser than she. But not even Arya fully understood all of the nuances associated with elven politics even though she had endured them her entire life.

Arya ladled some soup she had prepared into a bowl. After Fírnen had hatched for her, she thought it fitting to live on the Crags of Tel'nair. Living away from the palace, one of the adjustments she had made was cooking her own food. The Houses offered to send an elf bearing food each day, but she enjoyed the labor of cooking. It helped distract her from other matters.

Blowing on the piping hot broth, Arya attempted to quickly cool the food. It was well past noon and she was ravenous after intensive training in the morning. Before she was able to taste her meal, there was a loud knock on the door, interrupting her self-administered isolation.

Opening the door, Arya found herself in the midst of twelve important nobles, Däthedr amongst them. She greeted them in the traditional elven custom, a ritual still heavily emphasized in their culture. Arya stepped outside of the house, for there was not enough room to hold thirteen inside.

"Arya, we have decided on a candidate for the throne," Däthedr stated, "As you may have surmised, we have come to the conclusion that the best person to lead the nation out of the war is you."

Nothing he said surprised her. Arya assumed that she was a top candidate for the position being the daughter of Islanzadí and ambassador of the elves. But she often chose not to dwell on the possibility, for she was a Dragon Rider; it would be unbecoming to take the crown. "I thank you for your consideration, but I cannot accept this honor," She said respectfully.

"You would denounce this opportunity presented to you by the Council?" One of the elders asked, the hard edge of his voice grating against her ears.

"I would," Arya restated firmly, "First and foremost, I am a Dragon Rider; I cannot accept this duty."

Another elder spoke up, speaking so softly that Arya had to strain her ears to hear him, "As you know, nine of the thirteen major Houses and thirty of the forty-five minor Houses must agree on a candidate. It is rare for anybody to receive more than the bare minimum of votes, but you received eleven major votes and thirty-nine minor ones. A huge margin, one of the largest in our history."

Däthedr nodded his head in agreement, "Yes, it is an unprecedented amount of votes; surely you would not refuse such a strong consensus?"

It shocked Arya that she had received such a large majority. It greatly eclipsed the consensus her mother received when she took the throne. But deep down, Arya could not accept the throne, it would be wrong to chain Fírnen to politics. "I still must reject your offer, wise elders; a Rider should never sit atop a nation: Galbatorix was a testament to that fact."

"Then we will return tomorrow, and each day after that," Faraen, one of the oldest elves alive, said. "Perhaps with some time to think, you will come to realize just how much you could help the elves."

With that, the elders retreated towards Tialdarí Hall. What do you think? Arya asked Fírnen. Though he was young, she had come to learn that her dragon's advice was invaluable.

I think, Fírnen started, That this is a decision you must reach on your own. You've spent the better part of your life working for the betterment of your kind, it is only fitting that you decide how you can best help them.

But if I accept the crown, Arya argued, Then you will irrevocably be bound to elven politics. It is as much your say as it is mine.

Perhaps, but I don't know what would make you happiest. Just know that I will fully support whatever decision you come to.

It was times like these when Arya truly realized just how important Fírnen had become to her. He was the pillar that kept her strong this past month. I won't accept it, She said stubbornly, No matter how many times the elders come, I won't change my stance.

It was all too soon when the sun rose the next morning. Arya had received little sleep as she tossed in her bed, thoughts racing through her mind. There were several reasons why she should not be the queen, but there were just as many that supported her ascension. But Arya knew that she could not accept the title in good conscience, even if she wanted to. Nobody should accept a position of such power if there were even the smallest doubts.

There was little surprise when Däthedr visited her home in the midday. This time around, there were fewer elders present, only half a dozen accompanying Däthedr. "Have you changed your mind, Arya?" He asked.

"No," She replied. "My reasons are the same: I'm not suitable for the job."

"We believe that you are the most qualified person to take the throne," Däthedr responded coolly. "You wish to serve the elven people in the best way possible, what better method than to become their queen?"

Arya had anticipated this counter and had her own response pre-planned. "If I were to become queen, the entire balance of the races would be thrown off. Surely you see the other nations rising up against us?"

"I am sure that Eragon Shadeslayer will personally vouch for your impartiality as a Rider," Däthedr said, "The humans and dwarves would have no argument if he assures them of your validity."

Eragon would support her should she choose to take the throne, Arya did not doubt. But the last thing the fragmented lands needed was tension regarding the dragons. "Still, I must refuse the crown, for I cannot do something I feel is unethical."

"I see. We will return on the morrow, think on the topic with an objective view, knowing that the majority of the elves believe you to be the most capable," Däthedr said before leaving.

Arya slumped in a wooden chair; everything had become so complicated of late. First, she could not contact Eragon in any form, for it might jeopardize Fírnen's safety, something she would never do. It was only logical that she cut off all communication, for much depended on her dragon. But no matter the reasons, it still hurt to cut herself off from her one friend. Now, the Knotted Throne served only to make everything even more convoluted.

How long will it be before you succumb to Däthedr's reasons? Fírnen asked innocently.

I won't. Her response was weak and she knew it. What do you think I should do?

Whatever makes you happiest, He responded gently.

Can I truly be happy being a queen? Arya knew from experience that being a monarch entailed countless hours of work with little personal happiness. Especially for one without a mate, as Arya would be if she took the throne. There must be other candidates besides me who are more than capable of taking the crown.

Perhaps, but the elders see something in you that other people do not possess.

Arya pondered his statement for a moment. I am neither the wisest nor the oldest elf. I have considerably less experience than others in regards to politics. I believe that there are others who can rule better than I can.

The next several days passed similarly; with Däthedr arriving at her doorstep with yet more reasons to accept the crown. Every time he came, it seemed as if her convictions weakened and she leaned more and more towards ascending the Knotted Throne. And each time he returned, there were fewer elders accompanying him. Perhaps he perceived that his companions put Arya on edge, doing nothing to further his case.

The customary knock arrived as Arya had just finished eating her lunch. It was the seventh day since the elders first offered her the elven crown and Arya grew tired of the game she involuntarily participated in. Opening the door, Arya found only Däthedr standing before her. Gone were all the other elders that had originally accompanied him.

"Arya, are you ready to accept the crown?" The elf in front of her asked.

"No," She replied swiftly. Nothing had changed since Däthedr's last visit.

"Would you like to hear why the elders chose you and nobody else?" He asked. Without giving Arya time to respond, he continued, "We all believe that you possess a certain fire within you that none other offers."

"What do they see in me?" Arya asked, part cynically, part curiously.

"They see an indomitable flame to pursue the greater good. Time and time again, you have proven that you will sacrifice yourself for the betterment of all." She opened her mouth to protest, but Däthedr silenced her with a finger. "And you are unique among the elves for being able to take the initiative. When everybody else was content to sit in Du Weldenvarden, plotting how to overthrow Galbatorix, you pushed the nation in the right direction by aiding the Varden."

Arya could see the point he was trying to make, and she grudgingly accepted his reasons as valid. But they still were not enough to change her decision. "Surely there are others like me who would make a better monarch?"

"Without you, Arya," Däthedr said, "We may never have won the war. It would be in the best interests of the elves if someone of your fiery determination and moral values were to lead us out of the aftermath of the war."

Finally, she saw what the elders found in her. She was an elf who could change the political landscape forever. Only she had lived with humans and dwarves for an extended period of time and learned their customs. With Arya as their queen, the elves could move towards a stable, solidified Alagaësia. She was the only logical choice for the crown, for no other elf could hope to improve relations with other races as much as she could.

In the end, her decision was made and Arya knew she was making the right decision for herself and for the elven nation. "I will accept the elven crown, Däthedr."

The elf standing before her smiled widely before bending on one knee. "May your rule be a prosperous one, my queen."

As he departed to tell the elders the news, Arya asked Fírnen, Do you accept my decision?

Of course, Fírnen snorted, I knew you choose this, even if you did not. I don't think you could have been happy walking away from the offer.

Perhaps you are right. Arya was immensely glad Fírnen was with her each step of the way. He aided her like none other could. It is an honor to be your Rider, Fírnen.


Are you ready to meet Eragon and Saphira? Arya asked Fírnen. They were on the last leg of the journey to the location Arya designated in her brief letter to Eragon. It had been half a year since she last saw her friend; it would be good to speak with Eragon once again.

Of course, Fírnen replied. Though he did not show it, Arya knew his excitement bubbled near the surface. Many a time had she regaled Fírnen of stories about Eragon and Saphira, and he had awaited his chance to meet them through the long months. I wonder what Saphira will think of me.

That you're brave and strong, Arya assured him, placating his anxiety. First impressions were of paramount importance to dragons. There's no need to fret, Saphira is very kind; you will like her very much.

And Eragon? I know you value his opinion highly.

Arya patted the scales on Fírnen's neck, Eragon only bemoans those who hurt the innocent. Despite that, he still has compassion for them, no matter what they have done. He will accept you as easily and assuredly as he would anybody else. Even more given that you are a dragon.

The rest of the flight was silent, each busy thinking of what they would say, what they would do. The dragon and Rider were a league away from their destination when a triumphant roar sounded over the barren fields. Saphira ascended from a plateau below, soaring towards Fírnen. She's a magnificent dragon, Fírnen murmured.

Arya agreed with him as Fírnen and Saphira circled each other. She saw Eragon sitting atop Saphira and she raised her arm as he waved at her. Though it was difficult to see while the two dragons were moving so fast, Arya glimpsed a bright smile on Eragon's visage.

In a rush of excitement and frenzy, Saphira and Fírnen chased each other through the brisk air, spiraling towards Eragon's encampment. When they landed, she disengaged herself from Fírnen as quickly as possible. Running to the center of the clearing, Arya intercepted Eragon as he made his way towards her. "Atra esterní ono thelduin, Eragon." Eragon was the Master Rider, and she an ordinary Dragon Rider. It was only right she paid her respects to him.

"Atra du evarínya ono varda, Arya…Drӧttning?" He answered hesitantly, unsure of her new rank.

"Drӧttning. My people chose to give me my mother's title, and I chose to accept." Arya had imagined this rendezvous often in an attempt to picture Eragon's reaction to her coronation. Even after her deliberations, Arya could not say with any certainty how he would react.

But for now, his attention was diverted to Fírnen. It was no surprise, for aside from Murtagh and Thorn, he and Saphira had believed they were the only dragon and Rider left. "Eragon, this is Fírnen. Fírnen, this is Eragon," She said, introducing the two males.

After parlaying for a few minutes, Fírnen resumed his examination of Saphira. Arya could feel the excitement and adoration Fírnen held for the other dragon. Leaving them to their own devices, Arya and Eragon walked a fair distance away from the dragons. "You must think badly of me for ignoring you and Saphira for so long and for keeping such a secret as Fírnen," She said, raising the issue that had plagued her mind for months.

"Did you receive my letter?" Eragon asked.

From the depths of her tunic, Arya withdrew a folded piece of parchment. It was beaten and battered after having been opened countless times. Oftentimes, Arya would read the letter, wishing she were able to send a reply. It had become a sentimental object to her, for it was the only item she had from Eragon. If nothing else, the message helped her maintain the silence.

"Why keep him hidden?" Eragon asked. Apparently, the lack of communication had also weighed on his mind.

It was a simple reason really; Fírnen's safety took precedence over all else. The only logical approach to protect him until maturity was through complete secrecy. "With so many of Galbatorix's servants still on the loose and so few dragons remaining, I did not want to risk anyone finding out about Fírnen until he was large enough to defend himself."

"And how long have you been queen?" The burning curiosity was carefully hidden deep within the layers of Eragon's voice. But she knew him well enough to hear through his emotionless tone.

"Since a month after my return." Arya could have explained the entire ordeal, but those details were rather insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It was crucial that he understood why she accepted the role and not so much how.

His questions seemed endless, though Eragon could not be blamed. Two monumental events suddenly revealed at the same time. Such a reaction was normal and expected. "Was it because you are Islanzadí's daughter, or was it because you had become a Rider?"

The intricacies of elven politics were far too involved to be degenerated into such simple reasons; but to explain the underpinnings of their society, it would take a century to do it justice. Arya racked her brain, trying to think of a simplified explanation. "Our politics are far more complicated than those of the humans or the dwarves, and choosing a new monarch is never easy. Every choice is part of a subtle game that we have been playing amongst ourselves for thousands of years. There were many reasons why they wanted me to become queen, not all of them obvious."

"The Riders aren't supposed to support any one race above the others," Eragon said, voicing the age-old concern.

"The world is not as it used to be," Arya countered. This much was true; the Fall had dramatically changed the scene of Alagaësia's politics. The Dragon Riders would be hard-pressed to avoid politics, for they were the sole force of stability remaining in a torn land. "With Islanzadí dead, I felt obliged to take the task upon myself." I cannot abandon my people now, when their need is so great."

He was silent for a moment, and when he resumed talking, Eragon's voice was low and quiet. "They will always have need of you."

"And I will always answer their call," Arya replied. This was the one thing she was sure of; she would always do what was best for her people. She would do as her mother had done and care for the elves like they were her own children.

"I understand why you did not contact us for so long. I probably would have done the same in your place," Eragon finally said, dropping the issue.

"Thank you," Arya replied, a genuine smile touching her lips. His acceptance meant more to her than Eragon knew.

While the pair spoke of the past, Arya felt a spasm of pain in her left leg. Looking towards the dragons, she noticed Saphira had bitten Fírnen on his left thigh. It was not a playful nip, but a serious challenge. Arya knew what Saphira expected of Fírnen; she expected that Fírnen prove himself to her. If you want her to respect you, then you have to bite her in return, She said good-naturedly to both Fírnen and Eragon. It was customary that the male prove himself worthy of a female's affection. Such things were not given freely.

Her dragon heeded Arya's advice and proceeded to wrestle with Saphira. The two grappled on the ground for a moment before Saphira shook herself free of Fírnen's embrace. Reacting instinctually to Saphira's growl, Fírnen let loose a heated torrent of fire. Through their connection, Arya felt an immense sense of pride emanating from her dragon; for he had never breathed fire before.

The two dragons leapt high into the air, spiraling around each other with flames still flowing from their mouths. From her studies, Arya knew they had begun the mating ritual, an ancient tradition that was both terrifying and glorious. Saphira and Fírnen eventually traveled such a great distance that Arya could hardly feel Fírnen's presence. "Well, that didn't take long," Eragon said.

Arya continued gazing into the far distance where Fírnen had disappeared. To see the first mating ritual since before the Fall was humbling to say the least. Arya counted herself fortunate, for she was unsure if she would ever witness such an act again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw that Eragon held a stone tablet in his hand. Before she could inquire, Eragon threw the smooth stone at the ground. "Kausta," Arya said, causing the tablet to careen towards her open hand.

Though Eragon did not speak, she could tell he was distressed. In her hand, Arya immediately noticed that the tablet was a fairth depicting her. It was a good, honest picture; not drawing unreasonable comparisons to perfection as he once had. It showed her both her subtle flaws and good qualities, attempting to exaggerate neither. Arya stared thoughtfully at the picture for a minute, recognizing how Eragon had changed in some aspects and remained the same in others. He certainly was much more mature than he used to be, and Arya could not deny how much she valued his continued friendship.

In a moment of clairvoyant trust, Arya exposed her vulnerable side; something she had never done before to anyone. "Eragon, if you are willing, I would like to tell you my true name." In all her life, never had Arya dreamed of trusting another being so completely that she would tell them of her innermost soul. Eragon had far surpassed all her expectations of him.

The man across from her nodded mutely, in obvious surprise at the turn of events. Arya could only hazard a guess at what was going through his mind. "I would be honored to hear it."

Arya leaned in close, whispering her true name to her closest of friends. When she had said all that she was, Arya stepped back, staring intently at his face. Trusting that one would not misuse a true name was only one part of the risks; the other was their acceptance of all that a true name entailed. She sighed in great relief when Eragon said, "You should be proud of who you are. Thank you for sharing it with me. I am glad to call you my friend, and I promise that I will always keep your name safe…Will you now, hear mine?"

Eragon was about to tell her the most confidential of secrets, one that required complete confidence to be given. "I will. And I promise to remember and protect it for so long as it remains yours."

The Rider leaned in, much as she had done, and told her the name of his soul. Eragon stepped back, watching her reaction. Many thoughts raced through her head, recollections of the changes he endured appealing to her. The name he shared was undoubtedly derived from his tremendous personal growth over the last few years. "You have a good name as well, Eragon. You've grown much since we first met."

"I've had to," Came his reply as Eragon breathed in obvious relief.

In his name, Arya found herself mentioned in part of it, a result of the deep, lingering emotions Eragon had for her. Once, she would have dismissed them as a child's fantasy, but his love for her was real and Arya knew it. "You are still young, but you are no longer a child." It was a simple statement, one that required no response to verify its validity.

A new worry seemed to bother Eragon as he looked at her apprehensively, "Arya, what is to become of us?"

The question forced her to evaluate everything she knew: his feelings, her feelings, their duty, their age, their races. "I don't know…Once, as you know, I would have said, 'nothing,' but…Again, you are still young, and humans often change their minds. In ten years, or even five, you may no longer feel as you now do."

"My feelings won't change," Eragon replied confidently. His voice made Arya want to believe him, though history had taught her otherwise.

Arya looked into his eyes, searching for honesty and love, commitment and maturity; all of which she found. "If they don't, then perhaps in time…" Arya rested her hand on his cheek as a gesture of hope. "I do not want to make a mistake with you, Eragon. You are too important for that, both to me and to the whole of Alagaësia." She meant what she said; if they rushed into a commitment rashly, then everything might fall apart. That was an outcome Arya would not be able to live with.

"But we don't have time," Eragon said, his voice strangely choked. "We can't hide the eggs or the Eldunarí in Alagaësia. So Saphira and I have decided that the only thing we can do is leave Alagaësia and raise the dragons elsewhere, far away from other people." He rushed through his explanation rapidly in an attempt to explain everything at once. "Saphira and I intend to leave as soon as we can, and if you stay…I do not know if we will ever see each other again."

The news shocked Arya to her very core, rattling her grasp on reality. It hurt her unbearably to know that she would lose her friend to fate. "Are you sure about this, Eragon? Is it really the only way—to leave behind everything and everyone you have ever known?"

"It's necessary, and our departure was always meant to be," Eragon said, alluding to his fortune-telling. Arya had always been skeptical of such foretelling, but Angela was more powerful than any of them could imagine. "Will you come with us?"

Arya seriously contemplated the offer. No matter how much it wounded her, there was nothing that could prevent her from carrying out her duty. That was what she lived by. "I cannot." As she said this, unbidden moisture coated her eyes and Arya clutched the fairth closely to her body. It would find a place in her home, an ever-lasting memory of Eragon.

"We still have some time together. You will not leave immediately," Arya said, grasping desperately at whatever time remained. The couple stood together awaiting the return of their respective dragons in mourning. A small gesture, Arya touched Eragon's hand lightly. She felt her world become both whole and empty when Eragon grasped her hand in his, setting fire to her emotions.


"It's a fine day," Arya remarked as their boat, the Talíta, sailed smoothly down the Edda River. It was a picturesque horizon, nary a cloud in the sky. If it had not been for Eragon's impending departure, the sight would have pleased her. As it was, Arya and Fírnen unanimously agreed to accompany Eragon and Saphira all the way to Hedarth.

"It is," Eragon agreed. There was a palpable tension in the air, but neither of them deigned to speak of it. They both knew nothing good could come of such a conversation. For Arya, it was difficult enough to stand beside Eragon knowing she might never see him again.

"We should be nearing Hedarth soon," She informed him, "Don't expect anything extravagant compared to Ellesméra or Tronjheim; the place hasn't been used since the Fall." Their destination had once been a small trading hub used by the elves and the dwarves. But since Galbatorix's uprising, trade between the races had been scarce, causing Hedarth to fall into disuse.

Eragon nodded, "With any luck it will see more traders now that the war is over."

The pair stood on the boat, observing the passing scenery for hours in grim silence. It was not until an involuntary tremor overtook her arm that Eragon asked, "Are you alright, Arya?"

"Of course. My muscles are a little tense, that's all," Arya lied. In truth, the injury she had sustained at Helgrind was beginning to alarm her. Occasionally, her muscles would spasm without warning. None other than Fírnen knew of her condition, for it would cause unduly worry should her subjects perceive her weakness.

But Eragon had known her for too long to be misled by her deception; he had become accustomed to reading beneath her carefully concealed layers. "Say it in the Ancient Language."

She tried to form the words in her mouth, but the ancient seals held fast and rendered her mute. For a moment, Arya considered circumventing the truth as she often did, but deceiving Eragon left her feeling guilty and sullied of late. "My hand injury has been nagging me," She said, sighing in resignation.

He lifted her hand gingerly, as one would a porcelain vase. "Isn't there anybody who can heal this?"

Arya shook her head, "Blӧdhgarm is among the most elite healers; if he cannot mend it, then no one has the knowledge to do so."

Eragon frowned, obviously displeased by this latest news. It felt oddly gratifying to have someone worry over her, a feeling lost to Arya long ago. "Will you allow me to try to heal you?" Her friend asked.

"There's no need to waste your energy Eragon," She said, "It is something I must to live with." Arya felt no remorse, for there had been a price to protect Eragon from the Ra'zac and she had paid it without hesitation. She would have done the same with her other hand had circumstances demanded it of her.

"But you are hurt on my behalf," Eragon pleaded, "Just let me try—"

"Do not blame yourself, Eragon," Arya interjected, "It is a wound I received while performing my duty. I would not have it any other way." To her, the remnants of injuries were badges of honor; they identified her as a person who carried out their duty, no matter the consequences.

The remainder of the journey to Hedarth passed rapidly; and before Arya knew it, they had joined Orik and his men who had waited for their arrival. They feasted for a day and a half, all of which passed far too quickly for her liking. The moment of Eragon's departure hauntingly crept closer and soon, Arya found herself standing alongside the elves as Eragon bid his final farewells.

She stood behind the other elves, her white hood drawn over her head. Such raiment was an elven custom that preceded a great loss. Each of the elves who accompanied Eragon to the lands beyond had given up their past lives for the dragons. Arya's hood was drawn for the bonds that were breaking, not only with Eragon, but all the accompanying elves as well.

As Eragon somberly touched Roran atop his shoulder and turned towards the solemn column of elves, Arya whispered, "Eragon." It was a simple statement that held meaning beyond words. There was nothing either of them was willing to say to lessen the burden of the ordeal.

"Arya," He said hoarsely, "Stay with me—"

She thought she knew what Eragon was asking for and Arya had to interrupt him before it hurt to talk any longer. "I cannot."

"…Stay with me until the first curve in the river," He finished, looking her directly in the eye. It was not the request she had anticipated, merely a forlorn plea to prolong their time together.

Though it would have been easier to part ways there and then on the shore, Arya could not deny her heart and nodded. Grasping his arm, the couple slowly strode across the ship until they reached the prow. It was an absurd moment; for there she was, standing on a ship departing Alagaësia, and Arya was loathe to take the logical choice and fly back home.

As the boat approached the first turn, Arya felt a sense of finality in the air. Eragon's hand gingerly peeled her hood back and their eyes met for possibly the last time. "Arya," He said, murmuring her true name. A curious feeling of recognition coursed through her, for Eragon knew all that she was.

"Eragon," She replied, following his example. Arya could see the visible effect it had on him. She saw Eragon for who he truly was, and that was the closest she had ever felt to another elf or human.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Arya quieted him gently with three fingers. There was no need to suffer any longer. Words between them would only leave them in doubt, guessing what could have been. It was simpler this way.

Arya raised her hand high in the air and said her final words. "Farewell, Eragon Shadeslayer." As she knew he would, Fírnen soared through the sky, picking her up with his claws.

Before they were out of earshot, Arya vaguely heard Eragon's ghostly whisper, "Farewell." Tears streamed from her eyes as she mourned for what never would be.


Author's Note:

I know that the previous chapter had a lot of scenes directly from the book, but that was an unavoidable part of this story. Hopefully none of you were turned away by that detail. I appreciate all reviews and (mild) criticisms of both my story and my writing style. As long you're not inflammatory, your opinion will be considered. Until next time ;)