Like I said, I update when I see fit. It's unpopular, I know, but it works for me, mm'k?
And thank you, YellowMouse, for your very kind review. 200 words isn't a lot, and I'm glad you were able to over look that to provide a quality review.
Previously:
The sapphire dragon raised her large head, surprising the man in his seat- for he hadn't known that she had woken- and touched his brow with her snout, nuzzling for a moment. Happy day of Birth, Little one.
He set the deactivated bauble aside, taking care not to damage it, and with a small hitching sigh, he stood, unable to contain his raging grief, and hugged his dragon fiercely around her top and lower jaws.
His mouth opened, and his song of grief poured freely.
Saphira, settled her self deeper into the embrace, both physically and mentally and added her keening wail, to his dying groan.
And from the crying dragon stemmed a trickle of magic that gave their voices wings across Alagasiea.
Arya:
In the calm city of Elesmera, surrounded by the daunting, foreboding forests of Duweldenvarden, a dragons keen, and a man's groan of grief hailed from the far North West in uncharted forests. Green eyes, unwearied from their supposed slumber flashed open, and as the owner recognized the sound, she shuddered.
It had been thirty-two years to this date, that Eragon had slain the black king, Galbatorix, and every year, since that very day, his birthday, she would hear a report that she, and all others of her kin, knew by heart.
The grief of the last rider.
The grief of the last dragon.
The grief of two half-souls, lost and alone.
She lurched out of her sleeping chambers, dressed in whatever she could find and lurched out through the balcony, hitting the ground running.
Every year, she did this. Running in the direction of the mourning agony, whilst crying like a child, as the tormented sounds grew louder and more violent as she drew closer to it's epicenter. She wouldn't care for the scratches or deep bloody furrows caused by branches or thorns. She would just run. Trying to find him, with sound as her only guide; for he had not been seen in thirty years, and his whereabouts were unknown.
For thirty-one years she ran in search for Eragon Kingslayer.
For thirty-one years, she ran in vain. Returning to Elesmera tired, bloodied, gaunt, depressed, defeated, and alone.
So painfully excruciatingly alone. Thoughts of the last thirty years assaulted Arya's mind, as she dashed over thickets of thorns, vaulting through spaces between trees that would have been thought to be too slim for even an elf to navigate.
After she had been free of the city for more than an hour, her eye's rimmed with their yearly tears, not yet flowing over, but she dare not blink at all.
Arya had long cursed what she had done to Eragon, binding him under oath in the ancient language. Up until the death of the king, his oath had done exactly what she had wanted it to do. It kept him focused on the task at hand, and ultimately led to the death of the tyrant king.
She had not expected, however, that the very night of victory would be the night that Saphira would openly proclaim that she was kidnapping her rider far away, deep into the forests of Duweldenvarden.
By the time she found out, Eragon had already been spirited away.
Her errand, before she had discovered his absence from Nasuda, would have been to remove his bonds.
Her foolish act of binding him had driven him to feign escape against his will, his oath forced him to flee, now that the war was no longer a sizeable excuse to stay.
He faced down the dreaded king without so much as a second glance, but he fled for the sake of an oath to her?
Perhaps... she had been too convincing when she turned away his advances, and shunned his affections.
Arya gritted her teeth as the first bit of liquid spilled from her eyes, creating cold, slick trails on her face. Her breathing became tortured, and labored as she ran and silently sobbed.
What if she had been too convincing?
Her arm grazed a razor bush, one dagger-like thorn opening a minor gash. She paid it no mind. There was only one objective on this hunt.
What if he had done as she told him, and her pre-conceived notations about his stubborn nature had withered over time?
Her cries were now voiced, gentle whimpers echoing off the ancient foliage to torment her, alongside the howling of Eragon and Saphira.
What if fate had turned a cold eye on her now by switching her place with Eragon's; where she loves him, but instead of returning her feelings, he only assumes an impassive mask, and simply denies her by using her own argument against her.
...Too young, too old...
...human, elf...
...rider, princess...
If she found him, only to have her own words turned against her, she would beg for death at his hand. She would fancy her own demise before accepting that she had lost her second chance.
She wouldn't be able to blame him for it either. It was the last thing she had really asked of him before he had vanished. His final instruction that he promised to fulfill...
Arya's cries subsided, but her breathing had become hysterical, and the sounds of mourning still ground into her ears.
Would she be able to go back this year if she didn't find him? Could she cope with another year of coming home and being home, empty in more ways than one?
Would she return if he turned her away?
No.
She wouldn't have the strength to.
If she found that she had lost her second chance at love, and life, because of a selfless oath that turned out for the good of Alagaesia, her life would end; whether by her own hand or someone else's, it wouldn't matter then.
Arya couldn't breathe past the fissure that was her chest, and she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. Her face, some of her hair, and the front of her upper garment was bathed in tears.
The tears she's saved for a year.