Midnight


It was funny. She'd never had issue sleeping alone before. Never had a problem with how big the bed was, or how quiet the chamber seemed. In fact the only issues she had with sleeping were as a direct result of her time in Gil'ead; a disorientating horror when waking in the dark, fearing she was back in that cell. Since Fírnen had hatched for her, and more recently since Eragon had been sleeping beside her, those occurrences had begun to swiftly vanish. Just knowing they were there beside her, or nearby her, was enough to stave off the moment of sheer terror when she woke in the middle of the night to find the dark seemed to be crushing in to suffocate her.

In the war, all she'd had was a candle.

Arya hadn't ever been one to toss or to turn. To lay restless in a bed that felt empty and cold. Never been one to reach out a hand, still far into the land of dreams, only to be met with cold sheets and empty space filled with a deep sense of abandonment and loneliness. She had never been the person who found silence to be stifling. Or who lay unable to sleep in the deep hours because thoughts and fears and what ifs and maybes overrode her mind and filled it with disquiet and disruption.

Currently it was, as it had been the past four nights, the words thrown at her by Lëyri that were tormenting her. Cruel words. Harsh words. Words that were truth. Truth that couldn't be denied or ignored. A staggering, crippling truth that devastated her to her core. Made her question who she was and what she was … a truth she had not known. Words that left her yearning for something she knew now could not be had.

It's a shame.

Arya lurched to her side and rolled out of the bed feeling sick to her empty stomach. The stone floor was chill and cold under her bare feet; shiver-bumps covered her flesh, racing up her spine and causing her to shudder and reach for the blanket draped over the back of a chair. Arya wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and wondered across the chamber over to the windows, where she stared out over the sleeping city below her that was being besieged by a roaring wind. Since Fírnen's departure and the turning of the weather, the windows had remained shut firm; had it not been so bitter Arya would have left them open. She didn't like it. She felt stifled and confined. Stagnant.

With a heavy sigh, Arya let her head fall against the window pane. Breath misted the glass and her eyes drifted shut.

Over a month since Fírnen and Saphira had left with Oromis and Jörmundur, and not a word or whisper had been heard of them. She'd not spoken to Eragon about it for there seemed an unspoken rule between them that if they spoke of it, then it meant they had reason to be worried and afraid. But whereas Eragon had been filling his time and thoughts with his army; reshaping, remoulding, rebuilding to suit his vision, what had she to show for her efforts?

It was growing ever increasingly clear that Däthedr was not the right person for her throne. Maelos of Ceris had taken her aside the other day after Arya had tried, yet again, to appeal to the Houses' better nature so they'd support their King. The conversation that followed had left Arya groping blindly for some form of safety net … only there was none.

The tall elf had waited for the others to walk on out of earshot, and then pulled Arya towards a window alcove where they could have some degree of privacy. Indeed Arya had learned swiftly in the past weeks that the only true privacy in this citadel was to be found in the Riders' Keep. Meddling diplomats and politicians had long ago disbanded and corrupted the wards built with the castle, making it so that wards for privacy were ineffective. It seemed, however, that their magic had not been able to penetrate the Keep – or maybe they were too respectful of the Riders of the day to try. Either way, Maelos waited until the other House Lords were out of earshot before speaking her mind to Arya.

"You need to stop." Maelos had begun bluntly.

Taken aback by her tone, Arya responded that she hadn't any idea what Maelos was on about.

"You are a fool, Arya Dröttningu. Playing a game you think you understand –"

"I do understand!" but by saying the words, Arya realised she had confirmed Maelos's point. The woman had regarded her for a long moment, weighing her words.

"As much as you like to deny it, you are still a child. Still learning. Still with much left untaught. And while I may allow you room for error and misjudgement, know that others do not." She spoke loudly over Arya's rising objections. "You are not at the age of Maturity, Arya, and you will not be for some time yet. No matter how you may want to wish otherwise, no one has forgotten just how young you are, dröttningu."

"What do you want?" Arya had snapped then.

"Däthedr will not see the month out as King. No matter what you try to do, whose better nature you appeal to, he is not going to last. And he knows this. Everyone knows this – except you it seems."

Glaring at Maelos, Arya retorted. "Then help me to keep him as king! Don't just sit there in silence, and yet claim that you support him –"

"I support Däthedr only because I support you! Do you understand me?"

Arya had frowned then, deflated and stumped, not sure what that bright burning was in Maelos Weldenevarín's black eyes. "I don't understand," Arya had whispered. "Why?"

"I'm not going to tell you," she had merely said.

At the black look Arya gave Maelos, she touched Arya's cheek with cold fingers.

"If you truly want to know then you'll figure it out – you're not half bad at that side of the game. I'll give you this for free and all; don't assume the underlings have the same motivations as their employers, and don't assume also that those in charge share their motivations with their associates. Sometimes the motivation is the most important piece of all."

Not at all impressed with the conversation, Arya's patience – what little left of it there was – vanished. "Again I'll ask: What do you want? Or did you just feel the urge to scold me like a child!"

Maelos fell silent then; Arya had heard the sound of footfalls pounding along down the corridor and rolled her eyes at the disruption. It was only after they had faded again did the Breoal Valdr of Sönel speak.

"You were set up."

She snapped her head to the woman.

"Your abdication. Fiolr and some others – I do not know who – planned it all."

"I abdicated so he wouldn't start a war."

Maelos had just laughed. "You are playing a game you do not understand, Arya. Jumping in without first learning the rules, or the moves which have gone before."

"You need to stop treating me like some ignorant child who –"

Again Maelos had ignored her and spoke over her objections, her tone even and calm, but unyielding. "You abdicated because Fiolr wanted you gone. He's been planning the downfall of Jame since the early days of your father's rule. Ever since Evander beat him to the crown. Luck and fortune favoured Fiolr the day Fírnen Swiftwing chose to hatch for you."

She'd looked at Arya, a calming wave to the rising storm, lifting her chin with cold fingers. "Do not misunderstand me; your mind and wits are sharp … but you are brash, and overconfident and it shows. One day you will be standing where I am, and when that day comes this rage I see burning in your eyes directed towards me will fade."

A loud thwack! Arya jumped right out of her skin. Backing away from the window with her heard pounding, she clenched a fist against the surge of panic bubbling in her gut. Eyes snagging on the dying fire in the hearth, and spotting nothing out of place, Arya realised and reasoned the noise had come from outside. Indeed as she peered through the glass she saw a rather ruffled fluffy owl righten himself with a shake and then look around the small balcony. It froze and twisted his head to stare at Arya through the glass before stretching his wings and returning to the night.

Pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders, Arya sat on the end of her bed and stared at the flickering flames warming the chamber. Without the constant sounds of the city wafting in through the open windows, the room was oppressive and vast. She felt like an intruder. Arya missed the sound of Fírnen's heavy breathing, and the counter-harmony of Saphira's deep slumber. She missed waking in the night to the sounds of two huge dragons in a bundle in the middle of the room, and the reassuring feeling she got by knowing that she wasn't alone.

Maelos of Ceris may support her, for reasons as yet unknown, but political support wasn't a substitute for companionship. Nasuada had her hands full reassuring the ever increasing city populous that they were going to be safe within the walls of Ilirea. Delsá was busy sourcing information for Arya to use in court, and Orik … well Orik had stopped talking to her three weeks ago.

Even as she thought about her friend, she felt her jaw lock and her hands clench into fists around the edge of the blanket. It wasn't her fault! She hadn't set out to make his life difficult! Had never intended to insult an entire clan of dwarves on purpose. He was being stubborn and prickish about it, refusing to acknowledge her heartfelt apologies. All she had wanted to do was mend a few bridges with Dûrgrimst Quan. Delsá had been the one to tell her that all was well with the dwarves, but Arya – being the responsible Politian and leader her mother had raised – had wanted to see for herself that was so.

How was she to know that the clan chief of Dûrgrimst Gedthrall would view it an insult when she suggested he had not the capability to protect his city walls? The man had sent five and a half of his seven thousand strong force to Eragon's army; yes it was probably possible – just – to hold a city with two thousand troops, but why take the risk when Tronjheim could house the inhabitants of the city with no fear of siege and invasion. Especially since the tunnels Murtagh knew of and about to the hollow mountain had been collapsed for over two years. Her goal had been preservation of life and the prevention of bloodshed.

But no. Instead she'd just caused uproar and ridicule. Orik had all but thrown her out of the meeting and had not spoken to her since. He had been the first friend she'd made when she reached the Varden all those decades ago; he knew damn well her intentions had been honest and innocent, and that she'd not wanted or anticipated such a fall out. His stubbornness was infuriating, and Arya had made a point to sit opposite him in every council meeting or court function, and stare at him unblinkingly for minutes at a time. Just to unnerve him.

Arya slumped and fell back on the bed, staring up at the canopy of the bed. Unnerving Orik was a fun and amusing way to vent the frustration he was causing her, but it was no substitute to the fact that she missed his friendship. A low sigh escaped her chest. Eragon had asked her to manage the situation here in the castle – to obtain support for Däthedr and generally make the political situation somewhat better and easier.

Far from making things better, all Arya seemed to be able to do was make them worse.

How could she tell Eragon that they were killing each other now?

Just last week she had rounded a corner after leaving the council chamber with Delsá at her side, only to lose her footing and slip in a pool of what turned out to be freshly spilled blood. Delsá had caught her before she'd fallen head first over the prone corpse slumped on the cold stone floor. Someone had evidently crept up behind the poor bugger and slit his throat from ear to ear, giving him a mocking and gaping grin; he couldn't have been more than an hour dead at most.

Nasuada and her entourage had then swarmed around her and Delsá; murmuring and muttering, some people gasping while others remained silent. Later, Arya had learned the man had been the missing secretary to the City Guard who had – conveniently – been in possession of documentation needed for the meeting. Needless to say that the documents weren't on the dead body found in the corridor.

It wasn't as if it were the first dead body that had been discovered in the past weeks. The various individuals that were inhabiting the citadel at the moment were all poised waiting for something to happen. Like a group of children passing a glass ball from person to person as though it were a molten orb of dragon fire. Waiting with bated breath from someone to drop the glass and shatter it everywhere – just as the Isidar Mithrim did all those years back when Eragon drove Zar'roc through the Shade's chest and slew the fiend Durza.

Eragon.

Arya glanced at the windows – now wishing the view was west not east – and wondered what he was doing right now. Most probably sleeping in that poor excuse for a bed, piled high with blankets to ward off the cold that seeped through the canvas of his tent. Arya found it difficult to get comfortable in that bed; found the mattress too thin, the frame to frail, and generally just too discomforting. Of course the low quality of the bed vanished from her thoughts whenever Eragon kissed her into oblivious paradise.

It must be cold out there; with only canvas and blankets and a few braziers to ward off the chill. Magical wards could only do so much to strengthen fabric walls against the biting wind. Perhaps he had retreated to the warmth of the city? She'd heard that a number of squads had wondered through the city gates around midday, and the rumour had also mentioned how a number of officers were among the number. Arya knew that on their days off, the soldiers traipsed into the city in search of the taverns and inns … and the brothels.

But Eragon wouldn't. Why would he? He'd not once left his camp since he'd established it, and if he did come to the city, he wouldn't linger in the lower market with his soldiers drinking the taverns dry – he'd explained to her how important it was to maintain the order of leadership and command, even during downtime. The officers had been invited to the citadel by Nasuada who had offered dinner and rooms for the night. Arya had chosen to dine with Delsá and Ismira, who had been buzzing all evening with the delight that her mother and brothers had won the dispute with Roran, and were on their way to the city.

After dinner Arya had been walking back to her chambers when she'd passed Lëyri on the stairs. The woman had smirked at her even as she asked after Eragon.

"I heard Nasuada had fish prepared for dinner. I do hope Eragon wasn't too disappointed. You know he isn't overly keen. The smell, you know, it gets to you after you live near a beach for some time. Is he staying long in the city?" Then Lëyri had paused, cocked her head at Arya, smiled again, and touched Arya's shoulder. "Oh but of course – you weren't there were you? Such a … shame … I hope he didn't miss you. But I hear the conversation and company was truly stimulating so thinking about it, I doubt it. I guess it's all for the best though, don't you think? All things considered. I'll say hello to him for you, shall I?"

Heart in her throat, Arya had struggled to contain her need to both hit the woman, and get as far away from her as she possibly could, all in the same instance. But before she could wrestle her mind into a decision, Lëyri was sauntering away. Arya had done her best to ignore the encounter altogether. Then as she'd clambered into bed several hours ago, shivering at the cool sheets and yearning for his warm body beside her to curl up to, doubt started to dance about her thoughts.

The worst part of it was that she knew – knew – deep in her gut that Lëyri was all talk. If Eragon were beside her now, or if Fírnen (or even Saphira) was settled comfortably on the cushion twice the size of her bed, her worry would not exist. A nagging in her gut, telling her that it was only a matter of time; that crippling truth Lëyri had spelled out to her four days ago … if Eragon knew, then he would not want her.

And why should he?

He deserved someone who wasn't falling apart, piece by piece. Defective and broken. Bad enough she could hardly string a sentence together when Durza's name was mentioned … or that the simple task of keeping a bunch of fools from tearing each other's throats out was beyond her capabilities … and now this truth that had been there all along in plain sight. It would ruin everything when he found out – and he would find out. Arya didn't have it in her to keep it from him, to lie and deceive him as Lëyri had done on that island … she loved him far too much to ever hurt him intentionally.

Lëyri was probably telling him right now. Or maybe she'd already told him and that was why he hadn't come to see her. He knew and he wanted nothing more to do with her. He was no doubt sitting on Lëyri's bed, playing with that child he once had thought was his, without even a care or thought in her direction. He visited often, Lëyri had said four nights ago. Visited when he could, and asked after the boy and made sure they were provided for and cared for and protected. Brought presents and gifts too, Lëyri had said. Little trinkets he spotted that made him think of them …

A gust of heavy wind rattled the windows in their frames. The glass wobbled and flexed as the lock gave out and the groan of hinges was lost to the din. Cold, icy wind whipped through Arya's chamber, upsetting paper, riffling pages in books, and causing items to take flight. Abandoning the blanket on the bed, Arya dashed on light feet across the room to wrestle the window shut once again. With the lock broken she sealed the opening shut with magic, cursing the castle's wards for failing to have any effectiveness on cold winter winds.

Turning her back on the raging night beyond, Arya surveyed the upheaval around her with a sigh. She was being paranoid for no reason; Eragon loved her. Loved her more than words could ever express and she knew this for she felt it in her very soul every time he looked at her, or spoke her name. If her truth was his, she'd not care for him any less so why would he?

Arya reflected dully that she seemed more prone to creating havoc than peace; had she just made a clear choice one way or another, then things would be far less bleak. Had she actually heeded those lessons her mother had given … had she just tried … just chosen one way or the other until it was too late: be the Queen, or be the Rider.

And now the good people were paying for her indecision.

They were facing the brunt of it all; governments were at each other's throats, divided and split and no one seemed to be listening to the people's concerns. No one but the Dragon Riders … but then what could three people and two dragons do? From what the market place rumours were saying, the common people were feeling let down and abandoned. According to the whispers, she – Arya – had been who the people believed stood for, spoke for, and understood them. While no one seemed to begrudge her too harshly for abdicating, the general consensus seemed to be that they would like very much if she was queen once again – so she could drive some sense in to Nasuada and the other leaders.

None of this of course served to make Arya feel any better. If anything it made her feel worse, knowing that while her choice had been the right one for her, it had been the wrong one for the common people. That she was a Dragon Rider seemed not to matter much to the populous; Delsá said no one felt as though Arya would overthrow the governments and rule the entire land as Galbatorix had once done. Small mercies. But still guilt ate from within.

Telling Eragon all this would hardly cheer him up, in fact it'd probably serve to drive him further away from her.

I'll say hello to him for you shall I?

Eragon hadn't left the Ridge of Galdri in over a month. Why would he come to the city now, when there was no reason for him to be? No meeting or council taking place that required his presence in person. No celebration or feast that wished for his attendance. He would have told her if he was in the castle … would have forgone the fancy meal Nasuada hosted for the officers in favour of the quiet evening with his niece.

No matter how many times Arya convinced herself that it was so, she couldn't shake the unsettled churning in her stomach. A queasiness that was dread chipping away at her resolve. Her doubts and fears were all in her head – she knew this! It was Gil'ead and Durza … fearing the unknown and the unknowable … conquering the panic the Shade let loose in her hadn't cure her of her disquiet. And fear had always plagued her in some form or other, long before Brom placed Saphira's egg in her hands and made her swear to protect it with her life. The fear that she wasn't going to live up to the expectations her mother had of her – that her people had of her … fear she wasn't going to be enough to make a difference …

Arya lurched forwards and grabbed her boots from the foot of the bed. Scrambling around trying to dress as well as reorder the chaos brought on by the assailing wind, Arya didn't notice at first the bleak grey of predawn. By the time she'd pulled on as many layers as she could find, and given up searching for the wool-lined leather gloves Eragon had given to her, her chamber was illuminated in that stark shadow-less glow that distorted perception and made everything somewhat hazy.

The fire in the grate had burned to embers and ash.

On light feet, and holding a candle to light her way through the semi-dark corridors of the citadel, Arya made the journey to the stables. All this sitting and fretting and worrying was doing her no good. She had to see him. And if he wasn't going to come to her then she was going to go to him; the courts could manage without her for a day. It wasn't as if anyone was likely to agree on anything any time soon anyway. And Lëyri could go to hell because there was no way Eragon would crawl back into her bed after what that woman had put him through; no matter how many hints she tried to drop, Arya refused to allow herself to believe them.

The stables were in a shambles when Arya arrived, just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. The raging winds during the night having exposed how old and poorly constructed the out buildings were; a host of men and women were all standing around looking perplexed. Or else arguing with one another on how to approach the situation, and whether or not they could even start to rebuild until they had permission from Queen Nasuada. Knowing she wasn't likely to get a horse until some order had been established, Arya strode forwards and took charge.

Arguments and disputes fell silent as they Rider established productive peace in her wake.


A / N : I feel I should explain that I realised that this chapter had to happen before Eragon hangs the murderer and Orik tells him about an impending Clan-War (Chapter: Ripples), which is why I have taken so long to update. Apologies folks.