Ripples


He kissed her. "I missed you."

"I noticed," she mumbled against his lips. "Can you tell how I've missed you too?" he grinned, his left hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, his lips tracing her jaw and then her neck. Arya groaned, fingers digging painfully into his shoulders as she pressed herself against him. "Perhaps I ought to convince you," her words were heavily laced with want that sparked and ignited his own.

Regretfully, Eragon pulled away.

"Don't you stop now," she glowered, hands snagging on his shirt unwilling to let the moment fade. She bit his lip and added breathlessly; "Not when I came all this way."

Gently he pried her fingers open and gathered them in his hands. "As much as I want nothing more than to fall into bed with you," he murmured, "the day is not yet done, and there is much I still must do."

"Can't it wait?" She demanded with a hint of desperation.

She was truly captivating, Eragon decided. Truly. The instant he glanced at her, he was captivated. He simply could not look away. He could sit and gaze at her all day and be content. Graceful and sensual and so utterly captivating that it took his breath away and caused his heart to skip a beat … or two. And she was his. He'd never been overly possessive – at least not until he'd found himself in her bed. Now he wanted nothing more than to have her again and again until all the world knew that she belonged with him.

A slow smile worked its way across her lips. A knowing glow in her eyes as she stepped up to him and ran her hands over his chest (she had no qualms with showing her possessiveness). Her visits were sparse and few between; they were both just so busy. It had been over a week since he'd seen her last - she'd had to leave before dawn that night he'd had the strange dream. It wouldn't take long … not long … he just needed a few moments to reaffirm what they were to one another … a few heated moments to carry them through the rest of the day … to satisfy the growing heat in his gut ...

You tumble into bed with each other and you won't leave it until dawn. Umaroth rumbled. Riders, he cursed, you're all the same.

Arya huffed and dropped her head to his chest. "Alright," she conceded bitterly. "Alright. Fine. I won't distract you further."

Eragon pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You may as well come with me since you're here." He knotted her fingers with his and pulled gently, urging her forwards. "Come on. Before Blödhgarm takes it upon himself to come find us." That got her moving. He tugged her hand again and led her towards the makeshift door to the rest of his pavilion.

"You want me to come with you?" she asked with a snort. "Won't that undermine your High Supreme General Lord Dragon Rider Shadeslayer status?"

"It will you tease me like that," he grinned, but Arya had turned pensive and withdrawn, the light humour and loving glow snuffed like a candle as she retreated within herself. Whatever had been on her mind while she waited for him to arrive once more weighing upon her. Eragon dropped her hand and snatched up his gloves from the table as they passed it. Strewn with maps and parchment, counters and markers, inkwells and pens, the odd goblet and a plate of crumbs, Eragon refused to let anyone clean it out of fear he'd misplace a vital scrap of paper.

Arya drew her cloak about her shoulders as they stepped out into the frigid air. Just as summer had come early that year, so too had winter. He wouldn't be surprised if it snowed before nightfall, the clouds were low and full, the air still, and the ground hard. With Arya at his side, Eragon led the way through the tracks of the camp to the assembly that would be gathering at noon on one of the many training-fields. He did not reach for her hand again, as much as he wished to.

In the month since he'd taken charge of the joint forces preparing to combat Murtagh (who was still lingering down by the southern tip of Lake Leona, making the city of Belatona very nervous and baffling Eragon, Blödhgarm and everyone else) he had been forced to rethink many principles and ideals he had held. Peace, in the truest and honest sense of the word, was something he was beginning to think couldn't and didn't exist; arguments and disagreements would arise from anywhere and everywhere and there was no way in which everyone could be pleased, no way everyone could get along. Contentment was a far more reachable state, and tolerance far better than distrust.

Right and wrong was becoming skewed too. He always knew there was a grey area between what was and what shouldn't … since taking command he was learning that white and black were merely shades of the grey. Often the disputes he had to deal with, or hear of, had no right and no wrong; they were all a matter of perspective. Each man believing he was in the right, that he was the one wronged. When he'd stumbled upon the realisation that every man was the hero of his own story, he had been unable to sleep for three nights, plagued with the disturbing thoughts that Murtagh probably felt he was the hero, and Eragon the villain.

The Urgals called him a dreamer. But Eragon didn't feel like one; what sort of dreamer gave up a principle that had been a fundamental part of who he was. What sort of dreamer – one who hoped of peace and prosperity and unity – condemned a man to death because he could not think of another option? What sort of dreamer ordered a gallows built instead of concocting a scenario that did not result in a life lost?

Which led him to a memory from way back when. A recollection of one of many moments in which he looked at Arya and knew she was wondering why Saphira had to pick him.

"You should have killed him."

"Maybe, but I couldn't"

"Just because you find your task distasteful is no reason to shirk it. You were a coward."

Eragon bridled at her accusation. "Was I? Anyone with a knife could have killed Sloan. What I did was far harder."

"Physically, but not morally."

"I didn't kill him because I thought it was wrong." Eragon frowned with concentration as he searched for the words to explain himself. "I wasn't afraid … not that. Not after going into battle … It was something else. I will kill in war. But I won't take it upon myself to decide who lives and who dies. I don't have the experience or the wisdom … Every man has a line he won't cross, Arya, and I found mine when I looked upon Sloan. Even if I had Galbatorix as my captive, I would not kill him. I would take him to Nasuada and King Orrin, and if they condemned him to death, I would happily lop off his head, but not before. Call it weakness if you will, but that is how I am made, and I won't apologise for it."

"You will be a tool, then, wielded by others?"

He had known he had not the experience nor the wisdom to decide a man's fate back then. But he was older now. Older, wiser, and full of experiences from the good to the bad. Wryly Eragon could now see Arya's point of view – could understand where she was coming from and why she had been so irritated with his idealism. It was all very well declaring he had no desire to choose who lives and who dies, the issue was in how willing and trusting he had been of Nasuada and Orrin as figures of authority and justice.

Especially when he, as a Rider, had been – and was – the ultimate embodiment of justice. If anyone had the right to choose, it was him.

I will kill in war. Eragon wanted to laugh at himself. He'd been at war! His foray with Roran to Helgrind had been part of the war; a now documented and established event of the war that was vital to the downfall of Galbatorix. The entire period of time between the Urgal's attack on Tronjheim, and the siege on Urû'baen, had been war. Some claimed the first act of the war was when Durza captured Arya, others argued it was when he and Murtagh had rescued her from Gil'ead. For Eragon it had all started when the Empire had killed his uncle. War wasn't just the odd battle here and there. War was a state of hostile tension between two or more parties, something he had failed to understand last time. Not that Eragon was unhappy with how he had gone about dealing with Sloan; if he could find a way, he'd do the same thing again.

A heavy huff brought him out his reverie. "You're awful quiet of a sudden," Arya touched his arm. "What is it?"

He grunted, glancing round at the filling mess-tent as they passed it. "Lot on my mind." She pulled him to a stop, fingering the hem of his sleeve as she stared him down, waiting. "I …" with a sigh he slumped down on a nearby bench. "I just …"

Eragon tapped the table top as he focused for a moment at Arya's boots. He could feel the weight of the soldier's glances as they looked over their shoulders, watching and murmuring; he knew he shouldn't be having this conversation with Arya out in the open. A mumble under his breath ensured their words were guarded from prying ears. "Reports from scouts state Murtagh has half again as many men as I do here. At least a third are the dead-men."

"Then call for more soldiers." She shrugged, "There's plenty of them about."

He shook his head, "I can't," Arya was frowning when he looked up at her. "The other soldiers are needed where I've sent them. Dwarves to defend the Beor Mountains, elves – those that came – to protect the boarders of Du Weldenvarden. I have every Urgal Nar Garzhvog could summon and as for Nasuada's army … There are provinces north and south of Ilirea that require a military presence. Murtagh could have another army hiding somewhere in the shadows. I can't summon every man to me and leave the rest of the land undefended.

Arya dropped to the opposite side of the table, swinging her legs over the bench as she took his hand between hers. She asked, but it wasn't with the same focus and attention as she usual listened with, as if what weighed on her mind couldn't be silenced. "Then do you have a plan?"

"I have many plans," he dismissed. "Trouble is, they all rely on circumstances. All rely on what ifs and well maybes." He worried at his lip for a moment before adding, "I'm three thousand elves short."

"What do you mean you're three thousand short?" An Urgal in a linen apron approached the table and asked if they wished for anything to eat. Eragon and Arya both shook their heads and waited as the Urgal placed two tankards of ale on the table before marching away, unconcerned as he went about his duties.

"I have just shy of a hundred thousand soldiers in this army. I don't know how the elves decided who sent soldiers for me to command, but they didn't sent enough. That is how I'm three thousand elves short." He took a drink, watching Arya do the same and then scrunch her nose up at the bitter, watery taste.

"Who sent troops? I know that Lady Yeveen did – she won't stop yammering about it in court. Who else?"

"Fiolr."

Chocking and spluttering Arya's eyes came alive with devilish delight. "Fiolr? Well … well …" a little, almost wicked, gleam danced in the green depths of her gaze. "I shall have some fun with that bit of information I can tell you." Eragon didn't want to know what schemes she was thinking up – or involved in. She'd tried the first time she came to visit to explain what she got up to; he'd decided after much confusion and questioning that he didn't want to know the details. He also refused to read into why material she could use in the council rooms made her eyes light up when she'd been so absent since departing his pavilion. "How many?"

At Eragon's puzzled expression, Arya clarified; "How many has he sent? I want the details."

"So you can scheme?"

"So I can scheme."

"Around fifteen thousand or so. Yeveen sent seven in the end. I'm three short and I'm growing tired of the mutterings from the generals and stewards. I have things under control here now, near enough. People are getting along, grudgingly, and I even hear laughter when I pass the mess-tents and firepits – but everyone knows the elves are letting the side down and they aren't happy about it."

"Is there anything I can do?" Arya slipped her fingers under the hem of Eragon's sleeves, absently tracing obscure patterns on the inside of his wrist. Skin on skin contact had been something he'd swiftly discovered she adored. Just by that he knew she was still determined to drag him to bed for reasons not entirely to do with love.

He watched her for a long moment, hair – mused from their earlier tryst in his pavilion – swept off her face in a braid that cascaded down her left shoulder, and cheeks pink from the chill air. Eyes guarded. "Can you get me three thousand more elves?" he asked curious to see how confident she was with her prowess in the council rooms.

A dismissive laugh and nod of the head. "I can."

Fairly confident then. He cocked his head. "How?"

"Gat Halvin has been head of my House since my father became King – unlike with the dwarves, you can't be head of a family and head of the nation at the same time. I'll ask him."

"I thought Delsá said Gat Halvin wasn't supporting Däthedr. Or have you managed to get him more backers in the month you've been at court?"

"Not really. It's complicated. No one is willing to openly support anyone right now."

Eragon's gut clenched. "So things have gotten worse?"

"No, no worse – no better, but no worse. Just … well … just perilous," Arya exhaled. "Everyone is waiting with bated breath for something to happen, only nothing's happening." She snorted wryly. "I'm almost tempted to make something happen … just to see what people will do."

"You're a menace."

"I've had less flattering names over the past month. The House of Jame will send you what you need," Arya stated firmly.

"How can you be sure Gat Halvin will send men?" he pressed.

Arya met his gaze, irritation seeping through and staining her words with a snap. "Because he's my uncle!"

Eragon grunted. "From what I gather, family means little in politics … or war."

"Depends on the family, iet taji." Eragon watched the light in her eyes dim as she uttered the endearment. Saw the irritation increase and turn to sparks of bitter frustration. He recognised the look in her eyes; she was now two wrong words away from spoiling for a fight.

"What is it?" he asked, grabbing her wrist with considerable force before she could pull away. "Tell me."

"It's … it's nothing," she murmured.

"Arya."

For a moment he thought she was going to tell him. It hung between them on a knife edge before Arya shook her head and pulled her hand away from his grip. Wrapping it neatly round her tankard of ale, she changed the subject, fury suppressed and discomfort lurking in her eyes. "How are those demoted captains?"

Eragon let it drop, but did not forget. "I think after three weeks of digging latrine pits they've come to have a new appreciation of their fellow soldiers."

"You going to give them back their rank?"

"No."

Arya nodded in approval. "Blödhgarm tells me the elf-children are here. Dusan and Alanna."

"I didn't recognise Dusan when I saw him first. Somehow I just assumed he'd still be a boy. He had a message from Rhunön for me. Turns out she's growing tired of guarding the egg hoard under her workshop and wants to know when I'll be moving the clutch. Dusan seemed terrified of her much as a boy terrified of his grandmother."

"He is still a boy. Elf children don't mature and come of age until they reach twenty-two one hundred. Still plenty of years of boyhood ahead of Dusan." Arya smirked at him then. "You should've been born an elf. Think of all the childhood transgressions you could still commit."

Eragon chuckled and trailed off as he calculated the years.

"Don't you even," Arya warned, eyes flashing again. He considered the wisdom of saying nothing, remembered the itch in Arya's gaze that had told him she was close to hitting something, but decided the urge to tease was too great; decided it was worth risking that ire she was striving to smother.

"You're not of age yet are you?" Her stony silence was all the answer he needed. Her hand twitched, as if she'd contemplated throwing the tankard of ale all over him but stopped herself at the last instant because of the soldiers watching. He laughed and she glared, cursing him unflatteringly in dwarvish.

Blödhgarm found them then, and Eragon's humour shattered like a stone through a window. He itched his nose and settled his face back into sobriety as his friend approached. Arya followed the direction of his gaze over her shoulder to see Blödhgarm. The elf inclined his head to Arya, then called to Eragon.

"It's time."

"I know. I was on my way."

Getting to his feet, Eragon ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the bumpy edge of his ear – the one with the missing tip.

"Cold Blödhgarm-vodhr?" Arya asked with a raised eyebrow.

Blödhgarm blew into his cupped hands; while he had been slowly coming around to the concept of clothing, exchanging his loincloth for breeches shortly after leaving Alagaësia due to a rather windy incident, and then discovering boots after their return, the sudden onset of the frosty cold had convinced Blödhgarm fully. Three days ago he'd bade Eragon goodnight in his usual attire of breeches and boots, the next day he greeted Eragon wearing a shirt, heavy brocade jerkin, full trousers, and a cloak. He'd feigned ignorance when questioned about it.

"Not particularly, Arya Dröttningu. Will you be joining us?"

"I shall, though I don't know where we are going."

Blödhgarm looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't say?"

Eragon grunted. "Hasn't come up."

Blödhgarm turned to Arya with a sigh, "I have tried, dröttningu, to educate him in the delicate arts of romance but he is woefully unteachable in this subject."

"I hardly think he needs your advice, Blödhgarm," Arya shot back. "From what Delsá tells me, you've been far more attentive to my mate than you have your own these past weeks."

Blödhgarm paled. "What has she said?" he demanded. "I never – I didn't mean – I …" he pulled himself together quickly, and bowed his head. "I am evidently needed elsewhere. Eragon, my friend, I must tell you that a hanging is hardly an appropriate romantic outing, and that your cousin will be carrying out the sentence in about ten minutes time." With that, he turned sharply on his heel and all but ran through the tents, probably to scurry all the way to Ilirea and Delsá.

"What did Delsá say?"

"Nothing. Only that she misses him. He misses her too. Zoûta." Idiot. Admiration warm in his belly, Eragon smiled at his istalrí; if she was half as good at reading and manipulating people as she'd just proven, then the fools in the council rooms stood little chance. "A hanging?" she asked quietly after a moment, falling into step beside him.

Eragon's good mood faded again.

"Eleven people were found dead in their beds. Night after night another one. We caught him before it became an even twelve."

"Who was it?"

"A dwarf from Dûrgrimst Gedthrall. None of his victims were Gedthrall dwarves." Eragon felt the need to explain, "I couldn't think of another way. Not … not like I did with Sloan. I tried. I didn't want to … but he killed eleven people … just because they were different to him. At least the people Sloan killed, he killed them to protect Katrina."

"The price of leadership is to make such decisions. Something you failed to grasp last time."

Up ahead the dirt track opened to a training-field. The straw dummies and targets had been cleared away, as had the racks of training weapons, shields, and other paraphernalia. The open field was slowly beginning to fill with soldiers from across the camp. Not everyone could fit on the trampled ground to witness the hanging, but enough were cramming into the area for word to spread. A hushed expectance buzzed through the crowd, eyes thrown towards the gallows standing empty and forlorn. A menacing structure lurking at the eastern end of the green. It had been built by the Public Conveniences Guild almost overnight.

Eragon led the way to a nearby pavilion where he knew Roran was waiting with the generals and other stewards. The condemned man was under guard at the back of the tent, a squad watching his every move while they waited for the nod to start the long walk to the noose. "I see it's snowing then," Baldor commented when he looked up from his conversation with his gruff companion. Eragon glanced at Arya; white specks dusted her hair. "Almost doesn't seem right to hang a man when it's –"

"Let's get on with it shall we?"

Baldor considered him a moment before nodding his head and turning to a steward. The man nodded and approached the squad, taking the dwarf by the arm and leading him out the pavilion and through the crowd. Five of the squad flanked them, two went ahead to the gallows, while four more accompanied Roran as he followed behind. The pavilion emptied almost at once after that, leaving Eragon to linger in the doorway under shelter; he had no desire to join the crowd for he had a perfectly appropriate view where he stood. Arya watched beside him, the cold staining the tips of her ears and nose a dull red. Her teeth worried at her lower lip.

"Bad business," someone muttered darkly from Eragon's elbow. Orik. "Arch," the dwarf king spat on the ground. "Eragon must you?"

"He killed eleven people, Orik."

"Then have him flogged." He gripped Eragon by the arm, tugging him into the tent. A glare at Arya had her remain outside, her hands held before her in submission and irritation dancing once more in her eyes. "Find another way," Orik hissed.

"No."

"My people will not take kindly to this!"

"Then bring them in line," Eragon told his foster brother, folding his arms across his chest. "If you want me to spare him I won't. My sentence has been passed and my judgement is final."

"He's the Grimstborith's son! Dûrgrimst Gedthrall will not forget this! Curse it Eragon, with the feud between you and Az Swelden rak Anhûin, I don't need another!"

"I don't care who he is," Eragon hissed back. "He killed eleven people Orik – eleven. Three of those were from your own clan – my clan."

"I am well aware the details," he snapped, grinding his teeth and squinting up at Eragon. "You've disturbed the pond. You've caused ripples Eragon. I know you've done well – done good here – but people don't like it all the same. Change frightens them. The rulers of Dûrgrimst Gedthrall feel you have undermined their authority and they will not thank you for killing this man, regardless of what he is accused."

"He was found with the murder weapon in his hand by four squads!" Eragon all but shouted. "Eighty men found him with a bloody dagger in his hand and his eleventh victim at his feet."

"Then have him flogged!"

"No."

Orik shook his head sadly and plonked himself down on a bench. Outside the pavilion Eragon heard his cousin state the charge and the punishment to the assembly; he heard the heavy, reluctant, footfalls of the dwarf as he was marched up the wooden steps of the hastily built platform. "Bah! I thought as much. You understand I had to ask."

It occurred to Eragon that Orik was scared. Afraid.

"What is it?"

Orik threw a glance to the closed flap of the pavilion. "Four of my clans, including ours, have aided you in this war. I had confirmation this morning that two have allied with Murtagh."

Eragon swore.

"The rest are picking sides. War is brewing Eragon. A Clan War. Dûrgrimstvren."

"When?"

"Years? It'll take years before it breaks into bloodshed … but the seeds have been sown here today."

"Because I had that man hanged?" Eragon pointed to the tent door.

"No, no … but hanging him has escalated the situation."

From the other side of the canvas, there was the sound of wood clattering against wood and a split second later, a rope snapped taught. The crowed murmured in hushed voices and a cry of "Wydra!" echoed across the camp. Eragon shivered despite himself.

"For my part in this," Eragon said to Orik, "I pledge my sword when the time comes. As Lord Rider, and as your brother."

Orik patted his arm.

"And you know that Arya will help too."

At this, Orik snorted.

"What?"

"Nothing. She's …" he searched for the right words. "She is certainly her mother's daughter … put it that way."

"How so?"

"You never saw Islanzadí when she was in court, dealing with her lords and councillors did you?" Eragon shook his head. "When I was idling by in Ellesméra, I was invited to a few of those meetings. The way Arya is dealing with the elves and the humans up in the castle …" the king chuckled to himself, "Islanzadí would be proud. I don't know how she knows some of the things she knows, but even I have secrets I do not wish her to use."

"Is that why you wanted her to wait outside?"

A sad sort of smile broke out over Orik's weathering face. "Arya was born and raised to walk the halls of intrigue and diplomacy. She's making ripples just as you … hers however are subtler, arguably somewhat deadlier, and far more reaching. I fear what you have unleashed, setting her loose in the council chambers and political hallways of the world."

"Does she frighten you Orik?" Eragon asked quietly.

"Arya and I are friends, allies. Born the same day and year even." Eragon waited. Orik sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped. "But when she is across the table from me in that hall … yes. By the gods yes. She frightens me."

Good. That meant she terrified everyone else. Eragon made to point this out to Orik, but the dwarf king was not done. And he may as well have poured a bucket of liquid ice down Eragon's throat with what he said next.

"Someone's planning to have her killed, Eragon. Someone's bought a knife and has written her name on the blade."


A / N : 'you should have killed him ...' quote is from Brisingr, the chapter entitled Escape and Evasion. I'd give the page number but I only have access to my kindle versions of the books, not the physical copies. Also, the updated/new chapter is the chapter before this one - sorry for the confusion.