Chapter 4: Tactics

Eragon stirred the stew slowly, deep in his thoughts. He ignored the glances the passing soldiers sent his way, instead focusing his gaze on the pot before him. He ignored the cold air biting at his flesh.

So Arya did not have not hope in him. Though it was true that he felt the same in the depths of his heart, hearing it from another was different. It pulled him from his idealistic illusions, and showed him a hard view of reality.

It was true, after all. How could he, after so many talented and experienced Shur'tugal have tried, make a difference in the state of things? He was but one rider. A single person standing before the might of several hundred dragons that was Galbatorix.

There has to be some way…

What could he do when faced with such impossible odds? Here was a foe with centuries training and power. And yet, he had trouble with Murtagh when alone. If he could not best the apprentice, then how could he possibly defeat the master?

So many questions, and all unsolvable…

"You cook your own food?" came a voice, surprised.

Looking up, he saw Roran regarding him with a raised eyebrow. "Is that so strange?" he replied back.

"More than you think." Roran took a seat beside him. "You're a rider. People expect food to be brought to you while you do… well, whatever a rider does."

Eragon turned his gaze to the stew. "Normally it is so. But I decided for a change."

"And why is that?"

"No reason in particular. Probably because I tire of the taste of what others make."

"Could you spare some to feed a hungry captain?" Roran asked with a grin.

Eragon rolled his eyes. "Roran, there's only just enough here for me alone. If you had your share, I'd be scraping the remains off the bottom with the spoon. Barely a mouthful."

There was a lull in their conversation as Eragon returned to his previous thoughts, and Roran looked up at the setting sun.

"Are you going to leave for the north?" Roran asked suddenly.

Eragon frowned. "What for?"

"A funeral, perhaps? I am not familiar with elvish customs."

The rider shrugged. "There is a battle here. Oromis would not want me to leave you to yourselves simply to visit his grave."

"Sometimes I really don't know what goes in your mind nowadays. Is it not your own wish to see your master for at least one time before he is buried?"

"I do what is right." Eragon answered.

"Even if it's against your heart?"

Eragon sighed. "Roran, it is from my heart and that of my masters to stay here. But enough of this. You did not come to me to speak only of my masters."

His cousin smirked. "You noticed? Then, I'll be as straight as I can. What is plaguing you?"

"Nothing." Eragon lied. "I am merely… weary."

"Nonsense."

Eragon started. "Pardon?"

"I said nonsense." Roran shifted his eyes to meet his. "I remember you having that look once. That time when I was preparing for Therinsford. You always had that haunted look about you, avoiding my gaze and overall looking as if you wanted to drown yourself. And you rarely seem this way."

The shur'tugal laughed. "So I look like I did then?"

"That, and then some." Answered Roran. He then stood up, and brushed the dirt from his clothing.

Eragon blinked. "And then you are just going to leave like that?"

Roran chuckled. "When you get that look, I know that trying to get anything out of you is a lost cause." Reaching down, he patted his cousin on the head.

"Just be sure that you don't sink too deep in it."

As he watched his cousin leave, he smiled softly to himself.

"…sink too deep, was it?" Eragon murmured.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!" The several men called. The rider looked up, annoyed.

What is it that they wan—

He found himself staring into emerald eyes.

Arya. The other Shadeslayer.

Eragon scrambled to his feet. "Arya Svit-kona! What—"

"I have decided that it would be for the best if we conducted your studies in your tent." She said briskly. The elf had a pile of scrolls in her arms.

"In my tent? Now?"

"Indeed. I find mine to be too small for two people."

"Here, let me." Hurriedly taking the scrolls from Arya, he walked into the tent and put them on his table.

"Eragon?" said Arya in a somewhat surprised tone. He groaned. He knew what was going to be her next—

"You cook for yourself?"

—question. Lifting the tent flap, he walked out.

"Many people forget that I was once a commoner." He muttered. "And it seems that you did as well."

The smallest hint of a smirk crossed Arya's face. "Few people look into your past, too blinded by your glory and power as they are. But for me, you will always be that foolish boy who had slayed a Shade through the help of my magic."

"Hypocrite." Eragon said with a laugh, as he extinguished the fire under the pot with a wave of his hand. "Guess that my dinner will have to wait until later."

But then Arya said the one thing he had never expected.

"No… if it is not of any annoyance, would it be of any bother if I joined you in your meal?"

Eragon's eyes went wide. Then he started to splutter.

"But is hardly fit for an elf of noble blood to—"

"In my years of experience, I find that one's cooking speaks volumes about his character." Her lips curved upwards into a smile. "Please, satisfy my curiosity for this one small matter."

Eragon's breath stuck in his throat. What in the hells was happening? Yesterday, she was desperate, angry and saw no future for the Varden; and yet now, she was asking him something that was so extremely unlike herself.

"You're… you are Arya, yes?" questioned Eragon hesitantly.

The princess sighed. "Yes." She replied in the ancient language.

"Well… I guess that it'll be alright."

Said by the one person who refused even his cousin a bite. Said a taunting voice.

Eragon's face burned. Saphira!

It is true, and you know it.

The rider managed to ignore his dragon as he handed a bowl to Arya, and prepared one for himself. Then, he steeled himself as he watched her bring the spoon to her lips.

She arched an eyebrow in astonishment.

"It's… surprisingly good."

To say that Eragon was shocked would have been an understatement. He could only accept the praise with a jerk of his head, and turn to his own bowl.

What followed was a silence as the two occupants of the tent continued their meal quietly. Arya seemed to be speculating something; and it was clear even under her emotionless mask that she was confused in some way.

Finally, after they had finished, Eragon could stand it no longer and spoke.

"And what did you perceive?" he asked as casually as he could.

Arya pressed her lips into a thin line. "I do not know. I will have to think of it. In the time between…" A map of Alagaesia was unrolled and spread across the table. "We will begin."

It was a strange thing, having Arya as his teacher. Though Eragon himself had never viewed themselves as equals, this was something different. She was his ebrithil now, and they were apart in status yet closer than they had ever been previously in life.

The lessons drew on. The complexity of war and its inner workings amazed Eragon. Carefully planned nets of spies and contacts, the routes of supplies, and the tactics in which a general should use to ensnare his enemies. Through politics, through battle, and through the hearts of the soldiers.

He grinned wryly. He was sure that, after he had learned all he could, that he would see Nasuada, Jormundur and the others in a much different light.

And so it went on.

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Blanket… warm pillows… (crawls blindly towards bed) my friends…

I hated writing this chapter… emotions between two people have never been my forte. But I hope you all enjoyed it.

And no, this will not turn into a cheesy Era/Arya fic. This is merely something to push the entire plot along.

The real fun starts a few chapters later…

So, what are you people waiting for? Review!