So, as a reviewer pointed out, I probably ought to mention that this is "ExA". Paolini... Ugh. Who writes a love story without a happy ending? What sad, miserable existence would exist for the rest of us lesser mortals if even fictional romances ended tragically? There's enough of that in real life.
Sorry. Rant concluded. Thank you so much, everyone who reviewed.
Two days later, the column-like immensity of the trees began imperceptibly to morph into homes and halls lodged in the ancient wood. Flowers twined over log and rock, and even the soil seemed springier. With each step, the magic lavished in expectation of the impending celebration lifted Eragon's spirits. Derren, too, was quick to smile, to laugh at a trilling bird perched at the tip of a small sapling. The streams ran clear and cold, bubbling and splashing at the whim of excess magic.
Slowly, he noticed them. Elves, flitting about in the clearings, skipping lightly around the boles of forest monoliths. Their bright, angled eyes; their dancing walk; and their high, lilting voices created a vision of ethereal beauty. Eragon, so accustomed to his own appearance and that of the few elves with whom he'd spent the better part of the last century, drank in the vivid and musical display before him.
"We will present ourselves to her majesty," said Derren quite calmly as they entered the city. He did not command, but neither was his sentence posed as a question.
Eragon felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. He bit the inside of his cheek repeatedly, worrying off little bits of skin as they approached the center of Ellesmera. The faux happiness produced in him by the presence of so much magic withered and died when exposed to the reality of his memories. He had not expected to see her so quickly, had, in fact, never decided whether he intended to speak to her at all.
Maybe he should never have come. She had made her choice, and he had made his, yet every word of her true name remained burned into his blood all these years later. Every time he decided to leave without speaking to her, he remembered again her name and felt a foolish flicker of hope. Maybe, some feeling for him remained in the elven queen. Or perhaps, he reminded himself, there was never any feeling—in the way he wished—in the first place.
And then they were there.
Eragon followed Derren into the same hall he'd visited the very first time he'd stepped foot into Ellesmera. At the time, Islanzadi, in all her splendor, had sat upon the knotted throne. Now her daughter sat upon that very throne, greeting an endless line of visitors that stretched all the way to the entrance.
Her appearance had not changed in any way since they had parted. She still looked no older than twenty. Other than these most basic observations, Eragon could not form any more sentences to properly describe her appearance. He tore his gaze away as the anguish of a long separation revived in him. Unwillingly, however, his eyes would return to her face, and as the line shortened slowly, snaking its way up to the throne, he watched her every action.
Eragon wrapped ward after ward around his mind, shielding it in so many layers that not even a flicker of his thought would be visible without a direct attack. Slowly, he also regained his sense of reality and ability to think coherently without despair incapacitating his heart. That sense of helplessness, hopelessness, tethered him to his place and time, enabling him to watch calmly as Derren spoke to the queen and, as his turn came, to step dispassionately forward.
"It is our pleasure to host you in our halls," she said, in a tone that Eragon had never before heard. More than anything, she sounded like Islanzadi. Her voice was... imperial? stately? Either way, it was as if the weight of the throne over the passing years had impressed its duty into her very voice.
"It is my honor to visit your eminent city," he replied with barely a second's hesitation, nodding his head politely.
"Derren-vodhr has informed us that you have created an exemplary piece of art for our celebration."
"He is too kind," answered Eragon politely, "My work is but a shadow compared to the beauty of Ellesmera."
"You are modest, perhaps."
"Not really, Your Majesty," he replied truthfully.
She inclined her head, her expression as smooth as ever, betraying nothing. Yet Eragon noted a spark of restlessness in the assembled lords and ladies around them. His sentences were constructed with the utmost care, but the fact remained that he had disagreed with their queen.
Upon comprehending this, he stifled the hint of a bitter smile that twitched onto his face. He belonged in no land: not amongst the elves, dragons, men, urgals, or dragons.
This realization made him bold. Instead of waiting for the Agaeti Blodhren, as was proper, he displayed his art immediately.
"It is here, Your Majesty." With a subtle flourish, he reached into his sleeve and retrieved a small square of metal. Smoothly and quickly, he began to unfold the square, which doubled in size until it was nearly as tall as a man. The resulting large square was shiny silver and sturdy, despite its thinness.
As soon as the last unfolding took place, the silvery finish began to shift. Colors swirled and coalesced into a mosaic of two dragons, twisting in the sky. One was azure and slightly larger than the other, a smaller emerald one. Though neither dragon moved physically, the slightest movement of the metal frame caused light to dance across the dragons' scales and background, sending the dragons into endless, effortless flight.
Eragon watched Arya's face as the picture formed. She sat upon the throne, immobile as a statue. Her body language gave away nothing, but her eyes drank in the scene before her. He realized she had stopped breathing. Around him, the elves murmured appreciatively at the work, his faux-pas relegated to the background, at least temporarily.
After several moments' viewing they turned to look at Arya. Still, she said nothing. Gazes flicked rapidly between the queen and the visitor, and they watched impassively. With a sudden thrill of surprise, Eragon realized they were nervous. She had not behaved as expected, and they worried that she had not approved, or that Eragon had given offense in some other way.
Just as surprising was Eragon's understanding, a half-second later, that he was unconcerned. Her approval was written in her eyes. So clearly was it written that he was surprised they could not see it. After one hundred years, he knew her better than anyone of them still.
She blinked, and her eyes snapped from the far away past into the present. She stared at him for a long moment. Finally, "Why did you choose those colors?" she asked calmly, but appreciatively enough that the assembled elves relaxed, almost imperceptibly.
"They were the only two colors I had," he said. While not precisely true, blue and green were the only colors he had in sufficient quantity to use, thereby allowing him to speak in the Ancient Language.
She eyed him, "What is the medium you used? I do not recognize it."
He smiled faintly, though the smile did not extend to his eyes, "Neither paint nor magic nor anything else I could think of would give the colors I desired. I used fragments of dragon eggs."
The mood in the throne room solidified into ice. "Excuse me?" Arya asked with perilous calm.
He understood. The only eggshell pieces they knew of were those that remained where they had shattered, unborn dragons murdered during the war between the elves and dragons, or else by Galbatorix. To use such fragments would invite eternal enmity between such an unfortunate individual and the entire elven race.
"Hatched eggs," he replied, matching her tone.
"And where did you find such eggs?" she asked, in a more moderate tone, though she raised one eyebrow so high that Eragon doubted it would ever return anywhere near her eye.
"I have traveled far," was his response.
She scrutinized him carefully, eyes slightly narrowed as they travelled across every aspect of his appearance. "I see," she said, nodding her head in a clear dismissal. He was certain that she was burning to ask more questions, but had dozens of other travelers to speak with before the celebration began later that night.
He bowed politely and exited the hall, moving to join the rest of the elves in their preparations for the upcoming festivities. He caught a fragment of Saphira's consciousness as she reunited with Firnen in the forest beyond. He hoped Firnen was shielding better, else Arya would know his identity.
He simply didn't know if he was ready for that yet. A very distinct part of him wanted to avoid any further contact.
And part of him wished passionately to speak to her as himself. Part of him wanted nothing more than to abdicate his position in Mor'ranr and live in Ellesmera with her for the rest of his life. How could love, so long unrequited and separated, still exist so strongly?