So, it's been a while. As asked by several readers, I've decided to upload this one-shot of Eragon and Formora. The reason why this one took so long was because I had to rewrite it. The original one-shot takes place past the events currently happening in TMF so it would spoil a lot of the plot. Also, in regards to my back, I'm still in a lot of pain but I've been trying to exercise and do therapy for it. It's progressively getting better but some days, I just can't sit for long periods of time, hence my lack in writing. I've also been extremely busy this summer (but that's just an excuse on my part, I suppose). In any case, I hope to update TMF soon, but for all of you ExF lovers, indulge yourselves!
Releasing a breath of frustration, Formora gritted her teeth feeling highly, so very highly dissatisfied. She leaned back against the basin, letting the relatively hot water soothe her aching bones. Staring up at the ceiling of her washroom, the once Forsworn felt a deep sense of melancholy pull at her as the object of her affections kept surfacing in her mind. She loved him as shocking it was for her to admit it to herself all those years ago. She couldn't help but love the fool. Why do you love him? The question cropped up in her mind more than once, forcing Formora to think and most of all—to be true to her own heart. Years serving as a Forsworn had hardened her. The blood of her comrades whom she'd slain on Vroengard reminded her of why she kept others at a distance. Yet…why Eragon? Running a hand over her face, she peered between her fingers to the surface of the clear water that filled the basin. Love truly is infuriating…
Eragon had destroyed the life she thought she'd wanted. He'd made it painstakingly clear that somewhere along the way Formora had lost control of her own fate and let herself be pulled along. The games we play, she thought leaning against the side of the basin, were merely just games, Kialandí. The only Forsworn she'd ever dare say she was closest to was Kialandí, though their relationship had quickly fell to the wayside the moment Galbatorix took to the throne. Kialandí, like the rest of the Forsworn, became more obsessed serving at Galbatorix's every beck and call, almost as if he were domesticated. It was as if he'd developed tunnel vision for all he could see was Galbatorix. In short, it was nothing less of disgusting. The Order that Formora had betrayed and helped slaughter with her very own hands was slowly being reborn with Galbatorix at the head and the Forsworn his vassals.
She may not align rigidly with the elves' and their standards but she had her own, none of which fell to being Galbatorix's loyal servant. Sinking into the water of her bath, Formora reflected on her time spent with the Varden. It was trying with all the distrust aimed at her but she didn't regret a single minute spent within the halls of Farthen Dûr. She had meant for her time spent as Elvina to be a brief period in which she would be able to observe Eragon. He intrigued her so. Compared to the men she knew, all of whom seemed power hungry and bent to some degree, Eragon was perfectly imperfect in that he did not fit the stereotype in the slightest.
Years upon years she'd seen stronghearted men of all ages and from all races fall to the temptation of power, attracted to the allure of grandness however the word was defined to them individually. Eragon was neither attracted to grandiosity nor tempted by power. He simply…was. And she loved that part of him. Rough around the edges, wanting to do good but unable to convey it eloquently, and most of all a survivor of loss—those qualities attracted her to him more than she thought she would be. The darker tones of Eragon's personality appealed to her, luring her in as the days she'd spent with him grew and before she knew it, leaving was no longer an option.
Being with him, seeing his flaws so clearly reflecting the flaws within her own character made her feel a sense of contentment she hadn't felt in a long time. The pain in her mind from her dragon's basic, animalistic thoughts and feelings was overshadowed in his presence, barely even mentionable. Her own history felt unimportant be it as Elvina or as Formora. With him, she simply just…was.
Was that love?
"And yet he departs in two days' time," Formora murmured closing her eye briefly in an attempt to sort the confused web of feelings in her heart. "And I know nothing of where he is going or what he will be doing. All I have is his promise, nothing more."
She wasn't very materialistic, most likely because of her inherent dislike of secularistic things. Yet she wanted something to remember Eragon by. It made her jealous, irrationally so, to know that Arya held most if not all of Eragon's attention and that she seemed to be the sole exception to his irk. What does she have that I do not? From what she knew about the elven ambassador, Arya was fairly young by her people's standard, comparable to a young woman in her early two decades in human society. Begrudgingly, Formora had to admit that Arya was indeed quite beautiful. Formora's brow furrowed as an image of Arya flashed in her mind. She felt familiar, almost as if Formora had seen her before—but where? Irked that she could not recall where it was that she felt such a familiarity with Arya, Formora stood, the water gently sloshing about her.
Restless.
She felt it to the very core of her being. There was a gnawing feeling in the back of her mind, one that made her unable to enjoy her bath, savor her meals, and sleep pleasantly at night. And the root of it all was Eragon, the very same person who made her enjoy the daily necessities of life. Seeing him made her feel content, but lately she only felt a sense of panic and anxiety. An overwhelming fear clutched at her heart refusing to release its grip the more she thought of how Eragon was leaving and how the one reason for her staying at the Varden may possibly not come back. Drying herself with her bath towel, Formora pulled on her clothes, too agitated to sleep despite the lateness of the hour. Instead, she found herself pacing about in her living room, the sense of agitation not once lessening with each step she took.
What is wrong with myself? Have I fallen so low as to pine over him the moment he says he is leaving? Her sense of pride was taking quite the beating the more she thought of Eragon. Why did you have to fall in love with him? Why did it have to come to this painful ardor?
Formora stopped in place, taking a deep breath as she slowly counted backwards from a hundred to clear her mind. It was a habit she'd picked up since the Banishing of Names, whenever her dragon's thoughts became too much for her to handle, she would clear her mind and count for however long it took until she felt a sense of peace once more. The moment she was halfway through the numbers, she involuntarily caught sight of the red scarf gifted to her by Eragon decades earlier. Concentration effectively shattered, she resigned herself to the frustration of how easily overpowered her mind and heart were at the mere thought of the elf.
I should have never followed him here, Formora berated herself. She picked up the red scarf, taking notice of how well kept the piece of cloth in her hands was. Over the years, she couldn't bear to wear it out of fear of ruining it. There weren't many things that Formora held close to her heart apart from her dragon and her sword. Jewels and gold she had by the number during her brief tenure as a Forsworn. The allure of treasure was lost to her the more she accumulated. Her fingers tightened on the scarf. Yet, a simple scarf was enough to move her.
You and your infuriating charm, she thought as she remembered how coldly Eragon had wrapped the scarf about her neck before stalking off without any hesitation. Having stared at it enough, Formora returned the scarf to her dresser. Anymore fawning over Eragon would only add to injure her pride even more. Rebuffed by Eragon as many times as she was, Formora was surprised that her sense of dignity was still intact. Her advances, however forceful, were always met with cold unresponsiveness which did a number to her womanlier side.
Unable to think in the confines of her chambers, Formora made her way for the door. At first, she thought of going to Eragon's quarters albeit unannounced just to bother him but then decided against it. He was leaving in two days thus he needed his rest. Love has made me weak minded, thought Formora displeased with how much she'd changed. Some days, she couldn't even recognize the person she'd become. What happened to the strong Dragon Rider who was once feared across Alagaësia? Now she was playing nice with a group of people who could care less if she'd suddenly combusted before their very eyes.
Yet, this happiness that I feel…I cannot deny it.
A sound of frustration escaped her as she once more fell prey to the feeling of warmth in her chest whenever she thought about the past years she'd spent with the Varden. Formora would not deny her feelings when it came to the disgruntled elf. She loved him. She truly did. Though there was more to her emotions. The last few years she's spent living as she was had been nothing short of trying and yet fulfilling. Despite the frequent disputes she had with the dwarves, some of which Formora instigated herself out of sheer boredom, she enjoyed being relied on by the leaders of the Varden. It took them some time to warm up to her, some time being years but they did with Eragon's help.
As strong and powerful as Eragon was, he was also very cunning—manipulative almost with the way he went about handling the Varden's affairs. At first when Formora started living as she was with the Varden, distrust stalked the halls that she walked. No one apart from Eragon, Angela, and possibly Arya trusted her. Each soldier she walked by had their hands on the hilt of their sword, each person she saw regarded her with weary eyes, and each merchant she came across refused to sell to her. Indeed, life at first with the Varden was almost too difficult. Seeing that, Eragon had intervened. Whenever something involving outside attacks like slavers or mere bandits were involved, Formora was asked to deal with them. It was a way for her to take out her frustrations on pathetic humans, granted, though it was a way to gain trust within the ranks. Soon enough, Deynor and the Council of Elders were passing her tasks that Eragon could have easily taken care of had he not been busy with his many other obligations.
Within a few years, Formora had found herself elevated in their eyes. No longer did they spurn or sneer at her—barring the dwarves and a few exceptions here and there—but rather there seemed to be a reluctant acceptance of her presence in the Varden. Trust was a long way from coming, but given time she had a feeling it would naturally form with or without Eragon's extra help.
Suddenly finding herself in the fields where she'd once played the ball game with Eragon, Formora glanced about noting how dark and desolate the area looked with only a few flameless lanterns to provide any source of light. Not understanding why she did so, Formora found herself gathering a handful of tumbleweed to form a ball from. Why did I do that? There was no one else present but her. For a brief moment, Formora contemplated setting the ball on fire as a means to amuse herself. The moment quickly passed when she couldn't find it in herself to do so for some odd reason.
If there was one thing about her being in the Varden and being in love with Eragon, it was the fact that she had too much on her mind and no one to confide in. There was Eragon, who despite his stinging remarks, did listen to her whenever she needed someone to speak to. Talking to him about her love for him though was out of the question. She did once idly think about possibly speaking to Arya but the thought needled her like none other. Arya was still young and most likely never even entertained the idea of love. She was also too duty bound which made Formora want to antagonize her even more.
There once was a time in which she could confide with her dragon—hold meaningful conversations with him. Now, all that she heard and felt through their connection was his anger at the world, at the situation, and at himself. Guilt, hurt, and remorse filled her when she thought of how her life partner was suffering. He'd given her the honor of being a rider by choosing her and she'd repaid such an honor with her own selfishness. My whims have led me here…Her eyes stung. She most likely would have shed a tear had she not heard a rather familiar voice call out to her.
"Now who has the makings of a dejected child?"
Glancing up from her crouched position, Formora felt her eyes widen. Walking towards her, his appearance illuminated by the dim light of the lanterns was Eragon. Like always, her heart thrummed in her chest at the sight of him. He stopped before her, one brow arched.
"Should you not be resting?" asked Formora curious as to why he was up at such a time.
"I felt restless. A good walk would put me at ease or so I thought," he gestured to Formora, "What are you doing here at such an odd hour? Were you expecting someone else?"
"No, I came here by myself," she said feeling unusually embarrassed at having been caught in so vulnerable a time. She cleared her throat, "I was restless as well."
Had it been any other day, Formora would have teased Eragon about the coincidence of them running into each other at such a random moment but the thought of his inevitable departure kept her from doing so. It was in that moment that her wits had failed her.
"Would you like to play a game with me?"
The question asked in a relatively quiet tone had the opposite effect. It has been a long time since anyone has asked me such a question, Formora thought as she stood her usual aura of confidence breaking the surface. If this was Eragon's chance to give her a semblance of normalcy before he left, she would take it.
"Need you ask?" She lightly kicked the ball towards Eragon, who stopped it with the heel of his right foot, "Shall we add a condition for motivation?"
"If you need it," he replied, brown eyes gleaming with competitiveness.
"The defeated must grant the victor one request," declared Formora watching Eragon intently to gauge his reaction. He blinked, rolling the ball back and forth with the tow and heel of his right foot. She'd expected that he would roll his eyes and deny her, claiming that a childish game need no sort of gamble. But he didn't.
"Very well, we shall treat this like war: to the victor, the spoils," agreed Eragon moving away to draw the lines onto the field, spacing them a hundred meters apart. She watched in surprise as he moved the ball to the center, explaining the rules as he did so, "The first person to cross the ball over their opponent's line shall be declared the victor. There will be only one deciding match, no more. Do you agree, Formora?"
Snapping out of her thoughts, she walked over to stand before him saying in a resolute voice, "The terms are fair enough. Once is enough for me to be crowned victor."
"Let us see," eyes slightly narrowed, Eragon bent his knees, leaning forward slightly.
Formora tried her best to ignore his familiar scent which always served to distract her. Then without any warning the two of them lunged forward at the same time, their feet propelling them forward faster than any human could be capable of doing. It was close, but Formora due to her nimbleness was able to kick the ball between Eragon's legs and out of his reach. Knowing that she only had a split second advantage over him before he regained his bearings, she spun around him, bringing her left foot forward to connect with the ball as Eragon followed, his long legs easily outreaching hers.
Her earlier melancholy gone, a deep sense of competiveness surged from deep with the depths of her heart. She was a terrible loser in every sense of the word. Be it a battle to the death or a simple ball game. In her eyes, there was no point in competing if one didn't aim to become victor. Consolation prizes be damned, she'd long taken a liking to complete and utter victory. Kicking the ball of tumbleweed ahead with the side of her feet, Formora struck her elbow out behind her, hitting Eragon square in the chest. She heard his grunt of pain. There was a slight tinge of guilt—but only slightly since she knew one measly elbow would do little to hinder his massive strength and skill.
Formora knew, since she'd first met Eragon, that he was not normal. She'd prided herself in her memory, learning the names of every rider, be they in training or not, on Vroengard. Yet, never had she heard of a rider named Eragon. A rider with two blades, the work most definitely belonging to Rhunön. He could be silent about it all he wanted, she knew the master blacksmith's work when she saw it. And he was an elf no less.
In fact, she knew little about his history.
Rushing forward, dribbling the ball between her feet, Formora nearly stumbled over her own feet as Eragon lunged forward to kick the ball out from her. Dark eyes peered at her briefly as he effortlessly rounded about, running in the opposite direction. I was distracted, thought Formora mentally berating herself. Rushing after him, she held out her hand, saying in the ancient language a quiet spell.
"Formora!" Eragon's sharp words reached her. The ball he'd been skillfully dribbling, immediately reversed directions, rolling rapidly towards where she stood.
Her heart skipped a beat when he turned a scowl on her. As handsome as he was all stoic and indifferent, his irritation made him irresistible. It made her want to tease him even more.
"All is fair in love and war," she replied, the words easily leaving her. The ball nearly upon her, she prepared for a quick victory. Fast as he was, Eragon wouldn't be able to make it to her to prevent her from scoring on him.
"It is far from over!" With his own spell, the ball just shy of where she stood zoomed back in Eragon's direction.
Eyes narrowed, Formora lifted her hand once more, calling the ball back to her. What was supposed to be a simple ball game soon turned to a tug-of-war of spells as the two of them pulled at the ball of tumbleweed, their competitive nature refusing to allow them to yield. Unbidden by her, a wide smile stretched across her face. The opposite was said of Eragon. The furrows in his brow became more and more pronounced as he tried to tug the ball back in his direction.
I really do not know much about your history, she thought, staring at him, all I know is what I have seen…I want to know more. It was unfair. Unfair that she could love him so much—to the point her true name had changed—and know less about him compared with Arya. Her pride, which had taken a beating over the long duration of their relationship—if one could call it that—flared. Bursting forth from the back of her mind, a surge of energy tore through her, surprising even Formora. Then before she knew it, the ball of tumbleweed was flying in her direction, ripped cleanly out of Eragon's magical influence.
For a split second, the two stood stock still, stunned into motionless. Then realizing that the game depended on the next few moments, they both sprung back into motion. Eragon lunged for her, hand outstretched, magic glowing in his open palm. The momentum was now in her favor and she refused to let up. Letting the ball land a few meters behind where she stood, she closed the distance in several strides, using everything in her arsenal to slow Eragon down as she kicked the ball closer and closer to his goal line. Protecting the ball from magic, she brought her right leg forward with enough force to kick the spherical object over the line, signaling her victory.
"Cheat," muttered Eragon coming up behind her. His words contrasted the faint smile on his face. Despite his complaints, his outward appearance told Formora that he enjoyed the game as much as she did. Odd, she thought, staring down at the ball, to think one day I would enjoy a mere child's game. Did love truly change one to such an extent?
"Where would the enjoyment be if we played by the rules?" Then with a triumphant look, Formora stared down at him, basking in the brief moment of glory. It was petty, but she wouldn't deny how much enjoyment she was getting from being one up on Eragon. "Now, I suppose I should start thinking about the favor you owe me. What was it that you said again? To the victor goes the spoils?"
Eragon rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "So long as it is within reason and within my power. I am always a man of my word."
"You need not tell me twice."
She knew that Eragon was very noble in that regard. Barred everything else about his personality, he had a very rigid sense of honor, which went hand-in-hand with his own brand of justice. A man who played devil's advocate—who could see the world from both sides and accept that at times, only evil can conquer greater evils when there was no justice. Now, I am back to square one: ridiculous admiration, she thought in equal parts annoyance and resignation.
"Have you thought of anything yet? Or shall we stand here the whole night waiting for an idea to strike your fancy?" Eragon's words, though not unkind, pulled her out of her contemplation. He was staring at with such intensity, it was difficult not to be flustered. Calmly masking her expression, Formora made a show of tapping her forefinger against her chin in faux hesitation.
"What do you have that I want; I wonder? What to do…What to do…" She almost smiled outright when she saw the familiar crease near the corner of his lips when he frowned ever so slightly. Riling Eragon up was a favorite pastime of hers. What she found most attractive about him was how he challenged her more often than not. Challenged her beliefs, her past, and her present—there was never a moment's boredom with him around.
"We may have longevity in our favor, but let us not squander it. Tell me when you have thought of something to amuse yourself with," he said dryly.
There was only one thing she wanted—wanted for the last few decades. Holding his gaze, Formora searched his brown eyes before she steeled herself. The sense of nervousness she felt made it difficult for her to get the words past her throat, but she managed all the same. "There is one thing I want above all else," he raised a brow, quietly waiting for her to continue. Her throat suddenly felt dry and for once the confidence that she always prided herself in was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was his constant rebuffs that made her hesitate or the fact that she was naturally unsure when it came to matters of the heart. She wouldn't know.
"Formora?" He called her name, a touched concerned when she didn't immediately continue with her train of thoughts.
Clearing her throat, she glanced skyward. Mentally cursing at her lack in initiative, she steeled herself. She was Formora, a feared former Forsworn. This behavior was painfully sickening to bear. Drawing herself up to her full height, spine straight, she found her voice once more, switching to the ancient language.
"I care about you greatly, Eragon. Will you not consider my feelings for you?" The words came out almost painfully awkward but still sincere. He was the only person who she could trust—could love—without fear of betrayal, manipulation, or worse. And as much as she cherished their friendship, the selfish part of her wanted more. It'd always wanted more. And now, more to her was in the form of the elf standing directly before her, a distant look on his face as he seriously considered her words.
For all of his roughness, Eragon was still a gentleman. He would not scorn her nor belittle her feelings. As broken as she was as a person, he overlooked her flaws. Apart from a slight snub here, a gentle tease there, and humored mocking now and again, he was always considerate about her feelings. There was never disdain or dismissiveness. And now she waited for him to answer her once more, heart pounding in her chest, a feeling of uncertainty gripping her.
"I have," there was no teasing in his voice, no mocking. Only a quiet seriousness that put her on edge. His brown eyes showed a hidden depth she rarely saw. He looked tired, older, and…lost. "I, too, care about you, Formora. You, despite my showing it, are a close friend of mine. I…"
He trailed off, struggling to find the words. Formora watched him, saw the turmoil in his eyes, and for a brief moment regretted bringing up the topic of her feelings with his departure looming overhead. Yet, she wanted to hear it from him. If there was ever a chance of her feelings being reciprocated, she wanted to take it. Because that was how she was.
Finally, he released a deep breath, almost in surrender. "I have loved another for so long that I do not know how to respond to your feelings," an apologetic and torn expression graced his countenance before he settled on a more neutral look. "It is difficult for me to think of anyone else. You know just as well as I do that long-lived races are stubborn in relinquishing past feelings."
It hurt. Formora would not lie and say otherwise. She knew Eragon longed for another. It was clear in the way he closed himself off and in how driven he was. Any mention of love was almost always brushed off in annoyance, disinterest, or feigned boredom. Perhaps we are the same in that aspect, thought Formora, almost laughing derisively at the thought, chasing what is unattainable…pining for the unreachable.
"Is she…?"
"Dead?" He finished for her, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I as good as killed her because of my selfishness. At least, here and now."
"I do not understand," bemused by his last words, her brows furrowed. What did he mean by here and now?
"There's no need to," he murmured, running a hand through his hair. "Regardless of what I do now, I doubt I shall see her again. Not the person I came to love in any case."
He was speaking in riddles and half-truths. It irritated her as much as it irritated her to know that Eragon did indeed love another. Would this be where she admitted defeat? Settle for friendship and unrequited love? Her stubbornness made it difficult for her swallow his reasoning. His lack of a concrete answer frustrated her. Unable to put her chaotic thoughts into words, Formora did the only thing she could think of. Her fingers reached out to grip him by the front of his tunic, pulling him roughly to her. Then without any gentleness, she pressed her lips to his, trying to convey the depths of her emotions. She loved him. She wanted him. And she didn't want to hear his pathetic excuse as a reason to dismiss her feelings. Longing for a dead person, at least she assumed his lover dead, was not like him. She wanted him to be strong and decisive. To let go of his past, however horrible it may have been.
I want to be his second chance.
When she pulled away, her face directly before him, their noses almost touching, Formora waited. Eragon's eyes were closed. He looked conflicted. When he opened them, there was an almost pained look in his irises. Stop looking like that, she thought, a pained feeling in her chest. She hated how attached she was to him. When he smiled, she felt lighter. When he was in pain, it hurt her just as much or even more. Being so emotionally dependent on someone was a first for her in a long time.
"I am here, Eragon," her words came out in a whisper, almost borderline harsh as they were filled with a myriad of emotions: hope, anxiety, warmth, stubbornness, desire, and concern. "Not dead, not in a far off land, and not a ghost. I am here. Everything I have done was because of you—for you. I want to hate how weak-willed I've become around you. I hardly even recognize myself anymore. I become anxious when I cannot see you…happy, almost embarrassingly so, when I can glimpse your face if only briefly. I feel all sorts of confusion whenever I am in your presence. If there is even the slightest chance that you can feel the same for me…"
He wrapped a large hand around the hand she used to grip the front of his tunic. "Formora," he said quietly. "I am not the Eragon you think I am. In truth, I am a cruel, selfish person. A person so vile, he risked everything he knew, all the people he loved for a mere chance at life. For most of my life, I have lied to those around me: the elves, the Varden, Arya, and even you."
"And I slaughtered an entire Order," she bit back, almost too harshly. Whatever Eragon's past, she did not care for. A person was more than their history. More than their mistakes. He'd shown her that. "I killed the people I swore loyalty to. Murdered my once comrades. Nearly drove an ancient and powerful race to extinction with no other reason because it gave me purpose. I care naught for your history. Only for the person standing before me."
"What if my crimes transcends yours? What then?"
The gleam in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. Not for the first time, Formora truly wondered what Eragon's dark past held. She worried her bottom lip. Empty words meant nothing now. Empty condolences were even more unwanted.
"Then I suppose I will have to learn to accept that there is someone more threatening than I. A little practice will also be needed else people will grow to think I have become soft," she said gently in the ancient language, trying to ease the heavy tension with slight teasing. It worked for Eragon scoffed slightly in amusement.
The both of them fell silent, thinking about their conversation, trying to determine where to go from there. At this juncture in time, there was no turning back for them. She'd pushed him to this point and Eragon had no choice but to respond honestly. Eventually, he turned his gaze to her, brown eyes unreadable.
"What do you want from me, Formora? I do not wish to hurt you or belittle your feelings."
She turned her hand, fingers lacing with his. This was the decisive moment. "You said you long for another," despite her best efforts, her voice shook slightly. "I know how it feels to have unrequited feelings. And I know how difficult it is for elves to let go of their past. But you will never know unless you attempt it for yourself. What I want from you…I…Even if you cannot return my feelings now," She faltered, unsure of where her courage went. Gathering her strength, she continued. "Then lie to me."
Formora would have laughed at the sight of Eragon's stunned expression had she not felt her heart rapidly pounding in her chest. She smiled, shakily. "After all, I told the longest and largest lie in all of history for nearly thirty years. At least until it became true."
"Formora…" His eyes darted away and back to her. "What if you come to hate the truth?"
The question came out as a whisper. Formora blinked several times, her eyes stinging. His question sounded almost final. It scared her. Truly. Being in love was difficult for her. It terrified her to know how much he meant to her. So terrified she was in trusting another person implicitly, her desire to become more with Eragon overshadowed that fear—fear of not knowing his history, of placing her heart in his hands, or taking this step towards the unknown.
"Do you hate me?"
Eragon held her gaze for the longest moment. Then before she could figure out what was happening, he was pulling her in, kissing her, softly and tentatively. This time it was Formora's turn to be shocked. As many times as she put her advances on him, she was a complete novice at romance. Lust was simple. It was primitive. Love was more complicated. Their relationship more so. Spurred into action a few seconds later, she pressed closer to him, hungrily drinking him in, trying to keep her heart from bursting from her ribcage. Then when it became absolutely necessary to come up for air, they pulled away, leaning their foreheads against each other. He was so close, she couldn't help but stare at him, taking in every little detail of the elf she came to greatly care for.
His lips parted, the flow of the ancient language fluttering against her ears. Her limbs momentarily locked, a shudder running down her spine. Hearing her true name made her body shiver in recognition. "It will be difficult for me," murmured Eragon. "I am ill-versed in the ways of the heart especially for another…but I will try for you, Formora."
"Since when has it ever been easy?" Unable to stop the smile from curling her lips, Formora's blue eyes sparkled, a near victorious expression on her face. "The two of us will search for the truth together. And when we find it, nothing will change," she reached up with her other hand to caress the side of his face. "I will always be on your side, Eragon."
"For such a feared Forsworn, you sound much like a young love-struck maiden," there was a small hint of teasing in his voice. Perhaps it was his way to cover any awkwardness on his part. She didn't mind. He was trying, which meant he wanted to return her feelings. That was more than she could ask for. More than she deserved.
"Your fault entirely." Forcing herself to return to her usual ways, Formora gently squeezed his hand. Eragon glanced off to the side. There was a tentative squeeze in return. Hiding her smile, her eyes darted to the ball of tumbleweed lying not far off from where they stood. To think that a game would lead them here.
As if reading her thoughts, Eragon asked, "Would you like to play another game?"
"I suppose I can indulge the defeated a chance at redemption," she heaved a feigned long-suffering sigh to which Eragon raised a brow but chose not to comment. "Shall we play with the same conditions like the last bout in mind?"
"To the victor, the spoils?"
Formora debated for a moment, taking great pleasure in Eragon's proximity and how their hands were still intertwined. As backwards as their relationship was, she was oddly content. There was a tug on her arm. It was his silent way of telling her he was still waiting for an answer. "It would be unfair if we played by such a condition," she said eventually, almost cheeky.
"Why is that?"
A smirk donned her features, walking closer to Eragon, she leaned forward so that she could kiss the side of his head, whispering in his ear as she did so. To her great delight, the smallest tremble ran through his spine, almost unnoticeable had she not been so close to him.
"There is nothing left for me to win."
So, how did you enjoy it? In regards to ExF in this one-shot, due to the nature of Eragon's relationship with RL Arya, he doesn't immediately reciprocate Formora's feelings. In this aspect, she has to work harder to gain his love, but with time and after the convergence, I'm sure ExF here will be completely mutual. This romance also has a different feel than ExA. Since Arya is young compared to Formora, her romance in TMF is more innocent and love-struck. With Formora, they both have the same characteristics and have seen the world in a harsh light, therefore it makes them rough and distrusting which makes the entire dynamic of their relationship reflect their broken views of the world. Hopefully, ExF shippers can enjoy this one shot. The two of them definitely make quite the pair. They have to try harder at it because of their past and their flaws but there is an undeniable kinship that they share. In any case, I hope this was an enjoyable one-shot. I hope to update TMF soon!