Title: Angel On My Shoulder
Published: May 22, 2008
Completed: April 6, 2008
Notes: This was my first EVER published Fanfiction story, so go easy on it.
Warnings: Spoilers (For those newly acquainted inheritance devotees) No Saphira (though she's not dead) AND Sexual Content.
Disclaimer: Characters, events, and places belong to author Christopher Paolini.

Even the rain can hurt

Everything seemed to clear when he was out within the palings of the stone corridors, the smell that seeped off the sand stone walls mixed with the cool air and rain, creating a fresh, hard, musky sent that somehow rejuvenated his thoughts from weariness. It relaxed him, and the soft brushes of the wind gently throbbing against his body from the large open windows along the corridor calmed him as he breathed in the air collating around him.

He walked until he reached the courtyard of Borromeo Castle, where mounds of hay collected by summer farmers were scattered in small bundles across the shards of grass; dirt paths with prints of all shapes and sizes laid between them, spreading in all directions and eventually leading to the iron gates leading out into Aberon. Small juniper trees stood tall and healthy, only few, then following the thick stone wall around the courtyard, cutting off the city from the castle.

Eragon finally relaxed at the base of one of the trees, gently nestling himself under the dappled leaves coaxing the branches, feeling the slight, stinging coldness prick him every time the due fell from the leaves and spill into his hair, left by the rain that had fallen from the grey-stone clouds so heavily. He didn't care. It didn't bother him that bitter cold droplets were still falling and soiling the ground; only faintly, as if it were only heavy mist. It was enough to dampen his face and his hair, which was already soaked and dripping wet. But, again, he didn't care.

Time didn't seem limited anymore, and alone with the soft misty rain upon his cheeks, he found that with no one around here to disturbed him, he could finally relax without having to think about Murtagh or anything to do with the war. He wanted to leave it all. But he, of all people, knew he couldn't though.

It wasn't just Murtagh; how he wished it would end there, the betrayal, all the oaths, all the pain caused by betrayal. He wished it ended there. He thought it would after the rescue of Katrina, and finally relinquishing the Ra'zac along with his truebrother, Roran, but it didn't. Somethingwas still there.

He ran his hand over his gently composed face, feeling the dampness swathe underneath his skin from the rain. He pulled his hands through his hair, squeezing his brown locks through the webs of his fingers, and feeling the soaked water run down his knuckles like a creek through a canyon.

It bothered him. It bothered him how he knew what that somethingwas, but was he too ashamed to admit it without causing his heart to clench, to skip a beat every time he thought of it, and to become a hopeless idiot every time it crossed his mind; but to mourn for what he could not have… that was painful, but at least that was something.

Passion…passion was that something, and it grew and leered at him cunningly to the form an elf that practically clawed his heart out with her own cold bare hands every time he saw her. It was above the pain of Murtagh, above Galbatorix and above the war. Aryawas that something that kept toying with his mind, his heart, the something that was still there. His love for her was still there. It wouldn't go away. It was driving him insane with every intake of air.

"Too young… Too old…"

"Princess… Rider…"

"Human… Elf…"

The same words kept repeating over and over again, as if playing like a half haunting melody that enjoyed tormenting him. They had been words of truth, words that had been spoken in the Ancient Language; several times…

Of course, it was all true. Different ages, different ranks and different species. But did it really matter?

He had hoped it didn't…

But obviously fate was unkind to him, just like all other things in his miserable life. He was a child, and even as he gripped his leather leggings with a strong hand because he was too selfish to admit it, he was a child. What use was it to even tryto get along with the elf without upsetting her, let alone speaking of relationships? She would never accept that anyway…

It started raining again. The tree he sat under offered itself as a shelter, but even then the rain would simply slide down the leaves and onto him, and in a matter of minutes he was soaking wet, clothes sticking to his skin, water dripping from his hair, skin going cold. Well that's just great.

He didn't care.

Everyone he ever did care about is either dead or suffering. He wasn't sure how Saphira felt, but if he was feeling this much agony then so should she. His agony would be passed onto her, and there was nothing he could do about it. Fate had been ill to her as well. Both of them.

And then it stopped. The rain slowed again, then turned to mist, dusting moist against his soft cheeks once more, and then it was only ever mist. But the bitter cold hit his body like a tipped dagger, striking his body with every nerve impelled by the sudden chilliness. His hands were shaking, but whether it was from the dropping temperature or something else, he didn't know.

Even amidst the ashen clouds, he could tell that night would be settling in soon, and the coldness was already growing to such an extent. The darkness seeping through clouds gave him the logical, obvious hint. And the smell in the air, the decreasing temperature. Still, he didn't care.

"You ought to be inside, Eragon." He froze when the voice spoke up, feeling his stomach drop dead. The gentle voice filled with sympathy; it was no more than a soft murmur like the cooing of a flowing river. "It might do you harm."

When he turned, he saw only what his heart desired the most, but at the same time, wished it was the one person he would never have to face again without the humiliation… the somethingthat passion took the form of and leered at him with everlasting affection.

"Arya." His own voice was soft, apart from the shivers that escaped his mouth after. She was standing there alone. She was wet… Had she been standing out in the rain also? How long had she'd been standing there!? He grew still suddenly, feeling anxious.

Her hair was soaked, falling to her perfectly formed shoulders, sticking to her skin. She was just as wet as he was. Her artistic features as pale as her normal tone, water trailing down her cheeks, clothes saturated. She had been standing out here this whole time. But why?

"What are you doing here?" said Eragon, having the urge to stand up suddenly and out from under the tree, only feeling more water fall as he pushed the branches aside.

"What are youdoing here?" she retracted, her voice betraying nothing, not even the shivers that ran up her spine from the rain. Eragon sighed, seeing the thick foggy air seep out of his nose as he breathed out, as if the frost itself started forming within his nose. So, were they to act like children now? Was that it?

Every time he looked at her he felt his gut wrench and pull at his insides. He felt his passion spring to the foremost point of his mind, body and soul, but this time he was lucky enough to control it. It still didn't hide the fact that he was going insane! No more pain; he didn't want it. Fate wasbeing cruel. "I needed some air," he finally answered. "The castle walls can be… somewhat constricting sometimes. Coming out here seemed a good idea at the time. Though now, I'm not quite sure." He managed to block his emotions. However, if it would stop her from easily reading them like an open book, he didn't know.

"You chose a rather peculiar time to stand out here then, did you not?" she noted, inclining her head as though intrigued by his disposition.

His eyes narrowed to the muddy ground, and watched. He was avoiding the stern look she suddenly gave him; her flourishing green eyes never seemed to cast to another direction but him. His blood rushed to his head, and he was forced to look away to a tattered puddle left by the rain.

"I suppose." His voice cut off to a mellowed whisper. There was still a faint mist that lingered around them, somehow mesmerizing, yet still forlorn. But the castle, the gates; everything was still visible through the saturating mist. And the coldness was still bitting him in every direction; he wasn't sure what Arya felt, but she was just as pale as he was. "Why are you out here?" he finally looked up to her, meeting her hypnotic gaze, and finding what courage he had before it deserted him.

"Walking." It was a simple answer, a straight answer. Eragon expected more from her then just that, but he wouldn't push her. He bowed his head slightly, enough for his soaked hair to fall over his deep brown eyes, but he still looked at her and she returned the gaze like icy pelts sprawling straight for toward him. And then silence. It stretched out, and it was agonizing; Eragon was beginning to fidget and Arya simply tucked a fallen wet strand behind her perfectly pointed ears. Still silence. Was she expecting him to reply to that simple answer? What? She was acting rather odd, and from his rather heart-aching experience, even he could tell she was not herself. She would have left him there in the mist if she were. That was the casual Arya thing to do, was it not?

Mindlessly, he cleared his throat and looked at her, straightening his posture and lifting his head at the same time. "I… um, better be going then. It's getting rather late and, well cold too…" He pulled his hair back, absorbing the water as he squeezed his hair through his fingers, and making himself look somewhat more respectable in her presence. "I pray you have a good night, Arya Svit-kona."

He began walking away, striding past without so much as a nod, and leaving her alone in the mist. He avoided her gaze, though she seemed conflicted as he passed her without further contemplation.

"Eragon."

And then he stopped, and couldn't help it. He closed his eyes painfully and sighed. He didn't want to stop, but obviously his body wasn't sharing the same thought or sentiment as his mind was. He was compelled, forever and always, no matter her feelings toward him. Resigned, spiteful, and affectionate, he was resigned to her will. Feeling shivers run down his spine, he stayed where he was, unmoving. He wanted to walk away, but he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot with no escape. He didn't know if he had the courage to defy her wish anyway.

He felt her come up behind him; her steps were lithe and quiet, impossible to hear if he were still human. Eragon felt his heart stop, not literally, but it was painful enough to cause him to feel himself tremble. He sighed deeply once again, and he allows it to be heard. Perhaps she would sense his distress within that one gesture, and then perhaps she would let him walk on like nothing had ever happened.

He was a fool to think such a thing.

She was beside him now, her captivating eyes bearing into his like fire and ice. And, as she drew ever-so near, her scent of crushed pine needles drew heavy upon his senses. He stopped breathing as the enrapturing smell caused him to shudder involuntarily. Though, evidentially, he continued when he was sure he could manage the intoxicating aroma. What is happening to me? She didn't notice his conflict, much to his latent relief. Nevertheless, he found it impossible to look away from her.

"I'm sorry," she spoke only in hushed tones, but her breath washed against his skin as she drew dangerously closer. Oh, she was killing him. I hate you, he thought internally.

"What for?" He whispered, though he knew the answer. He needed to hear her say it. Something about the night, about her, sparked a boiling inferno inside him. With Arya standing beside him, looking straight into his eyes, being so close to him… it only made it worse. Infinitely more worse. She had no idea what she was doing to him. Would she ever know...?

"Eragon," her voice was firm now, almost demanding. "You know why."

Oh.

He still couldn't turn away, as much as he wanted to. His mind was pulling in all directions, but mostly toward Arya. She was intoxicating him, suffocating him. He didn't know what else to do. She was so close, and all he could do was listen and survive her wrath of beauty.

"I'm sorry, Eragon," she said again, voice going soft once more, speaking in the tongue of the ancient language. "I'm sorry for everything I have done to you," she continued. "For everything I might have made you felt, for everything I might have made you endure," she sighed, still looking at him. "I know what you must feel now is excruciating, and I'm sorry for your loss. I was cruel that night; during the Agaetí Blödhren, but you must understand that all that I spoke of must stand, for you must have also known what I felt that night." He watched, silently, as she began to rub her arms. He also noticed that she was fidgeting, rather impulsively. How odd.

Eragon remained calm, but inside he was still raging with something akin to loathing and devotion. "What you felt?" he dared to ask, joining her in the ancient language. No lies now, elf.

She nodded, slowly. "I felt terrible that night, Eragon. You must understand that even though I cannot return your feelings in the way you had hoped, doesn't mean we still cannot remain friends like we once were. I value our friendship very highly, Eragon, and I would wish to keep it that way."

She was pleading, he realized. She was willing to make amends for the emotional endures they had both committed to each other. She wanted that, but he wanted more… but obviously this was as far as she was willing to go. At least he was grateful for that, but it still didn't help the fact that he continued to feel his gut wrench every time his eyes found her.

"We already discussed this, Arya…"

"Yes we did, but that was in the verge of battle. I want to discuss this now, with no battles, no politics; just us."

He couldn't help but smile when she had said "just us."It meant that she cared for him when he thought she didn't. He was grateful… for something.

He sighed again, and he leaned forward slightly, but not too close. That was as far as he would go… but Arya wasn't moving when he made the slight doting gesture. "You know I value our friendship, Arya, more than anything," he said. "Apart from Saphira, you are the closest friend I have…" he paused. "I only thought… hoped that…"

"Hoped that it could be something more." It wasn't a question. There was no hateful tone in her words. They were all gentle, understanding words.

He turned away from her then, facing the ground again. He felt powerless. There was nothing he could do to stop his feelings, and as much as it caused such conflict within him, conflict between Arya and himself… he didn'twant them to go away. He wanted her…

Instead, he nodded; hoping it was thing to do. He still refused to look her in the eye again

And then he felt cool, overly rigid and soft fingers trailing up his back. He stiffened. He didn't believe it at first, but when the feeling of her fingers, slowly tracing the curve of his back and reaching his shoulder before she settled them there, he closed his eyes and only wished it could last. She had touched him, that's all, and this is what he felt. Something within, something deep and profound, nameless to his calling, stirred violently.

"It is normal to develop feelings for someone beyond the bonds of friendship, Eragon," she thrummed quietly, leaning closer. The elf was completely oblivious to the torment raging within him. "Do not think that our friendship will end because of these…"

He looked up then, feeling suddenly spiteful and extremely uncomfortable. "I understand…" He did, but he wished she would remove her hand, it only caused him more pain, and all she was doing was holding his shoulder… He so confused. What was he doing? What was she doing? To him!

Regretfully, he gently shrugged off her hand, showing his uncomfortableness towards her. "I'm sorry…" he said. "But you must understand how Ifeel. I… I have tried to forget my feelings for you; to hate you even, with all my heart," he staggered with his words, feeling the ancient language grip him for the truth to be revealed. "I… cannot…"

"I'm not asking you to…"

"But it's what you want," He finally found the courage to stand away from her, the mist in the night air shifting and swirling in his movements. "And I'm sorry for that." No you're not.

And at this, Eragon finally found some form of emotional flaw within her obscured features. She was confused. "How so?" she asked.

And then he was looking down again, his face covered by his wet hair again. How much longer was he going to suffer; all because of passion and love. It would kill him one day, and he knew it.

"Because it will never happen," he affirmed "As much as I, myself…" No you don't. Don't lie. "I cannot. I apologize, Arya Svit-kona, but it is late and I must be getting back to my room. Goodnight." He rushed his words, trying unbelievably hard to condemn his feelings behind a mask of stone, but he knew she had already taken notice of them, as usual. She had seen everything.

And then he was leaving again, and this time he wouldn't be stopped, not this time. Turning his heel and walking away from her to avoid anymore humiliation, he left her alone and without respite. He'd had enough, he didn't need any more. He couldn't hear her coming after him. She was actually letting him go. Inside him, he already felt a sigh of relief flow through him, but it wouldn't be enough to extinguish everything else. He kept walking, and never wanting to stop.

Behind him, Arya stood where he had left, watching him disappear within the mist and finally into the walls Borromeo Castle. She would not follow him, as much as she wanted to explain just how sorry she truly was, she wouldn't follow him, and she was left alone in the bitter cold night until she retreated back to her own rooms. She hated it when things became so complicated between them. Driving her practically insane…

It was still there... the something that kept clawing and hacking into the fores of her mind. But she would not follow him. It was clear that he wanted to be left alone, so she let him walk away.

Somethingwas filling her with a new desire, something she hadn't felt for a long time, and she was beginning to wonder, only briefly, if it was what she wanted... if only he knew... How imprudent of her, to feel and want something so...

What? What do you want, Arya?

Eragon was on the verge of literally falling to his knees and crying out until every breath in his lungs evaporated to a dying breath. How much crueller would fate be to him? And Arya! How much cruller could she possibly be?! Would she ever know? Would she ever realize just how much he loved her?

With his hair still soaked, his cloths still wet, he staggered into his room. The candle that had stood silently beside him previously, still burned, still lived, the flames still licking at the air until it would burn what wax was left. It would still burn, hopefully for another hour.

He pulled his shirt up over his shoulders and tossed it into a far corner, not having the decency to hang it over a chair to dry. He couldn't be bothered. All he wanted to do was lie in his bed under the warmth of his blankets, and forget the day. His hair was still wet, so were his leggings, but he didn't care, still didn't.

He fell to his bed, his cheek falling hard to the soft mattress beneath him. He slipped under the blankets, pulling them close toward him as if they were the only things he could treasure safely. Feeling himself gently slip into his trance, he suddenly felt a pang of guilt; guilt of leaving Arya there, alone in the courtyard, with nothing to comfort her but the cold mist. He forgot it soon. The thought had only crossed his mind once, only briefly, and soon his was relaxing for the first time in ages, forgetting Arya and all that had occurred in that day.

It was still there though. The words that kept repeating in his mind second after second, and never seeming to leave him alone. Haunting words, unforgettable words, words that would still be reminding him of what passion took form of, leering at him, teasing him.

"Too young… Too old…"

"Princess… Rider…"

"Human… Elf…"

"Confound you, Arya." He muttered, beyond falling into a light trance.