Angela is my absolute favorite character, so I couldn't miss the chance to include her advice/comic relief in this chapter. Hope you enjoy.
Eragon wandered throughout Ellesmera as dusk moved into night, a part of the excited atmosphere yet distinctly separate. Oromis was gone as was Glaedr, Islanzadi had fallen, and Arya sat upon the throne, a public personage expected to meet with all visitors.
Around Eragon, elves danced excitedly about in the light of thousands multi-colored lanterns; reuniting with old friends; casting spells; and singing to trees, plants, flowers and whatever else they might find. He was not drawn in. His human memories of the previous celebration were clouded with chaos and time, yet there was a distinctly different tone this time. He could not lose himself in the festive spirit. The events of his past weighed too heavily upon him for such lightness, and he walked amongst the ghosts of his memories.
He found himself, suddenly in a clearing. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that it was the same clearing in which he had met Arya at the end of the first Agaeti Blodhren, after the dragons had changed his shape.
He sat quietly upon a fallen log and remained there without moving for a period of time, whether minutes or hours; he was unsure. He didn't know what he had expected to gain from returning to Ellesmera, but it was not what he had found.
His mind was carefully barred. He trusted neither the fey attitude of the pre-Agaeti Blodhren nor the strange prodding of elves' minds, and so it was only the soft tap of footsteps on the pine-needle draped forest floor that alerted him to another presence.
Arya. She stood in the center of the clearing, staring up at the sky. The moon was bright enough to see most of her face.
Abruptly and without conscious thought, Eragon stood.
In her peripheral vision, Arya saw the silhouette detach itself from a log set in the shadows and she froze. "I did not know another was here," she said quietly, shifting onto her back foot in preparation to leave.
"I don't mind," murmured Eragon.
She hesitated, "You are the visitor who created the mosaic with dragon egg shells, yes?"
"Yes," he replied simply.
"It is an incredible work of art."
"I thank you."
She inclined her head again, and for some moments they simply stood, several feet apart, looking up at the sky.
Several more soft steps broke through the silence. "I apologize, my Queen," spoke the Lord Daethdr from the clearing's edge, "but there are several here who have traveled far from the East. They wish to meet you."
In the silver moonlight, Eragon saw the tiniest hint of an impossible hope dawn upon her face. "From Mor'ranr?"
Eragon's heart stopped as her voice broke slightly. Irritation flashed across her face at this weakness as she berated herself silently, memories she had thought long-buried reawakening in the face of the twisting blue and green dragons immortalized in Eragon's offering.
"No, Your Majesty," Daethdr replied gently. Eragon wondered how much he knew or suspected.
"Very well." Once again, Arya had complete control of her voice and expression. She turned back to Eragon, as if remembering that he was there. "I am glad that you have visited our celebration and entrusted us with such a beautiful picture."
Eragon's mind was still reeling from the last few moments. A single syllable and tiny facial expression had sent daggers into his carefully constructed façade of nonchalance. They had destroyed his deliberate focus and the surety that Arya had by now long forgotten him. Still, nothing was guaranteed…
She politely said farwell and turned to leave. Eragon almost took a step forward, checking himself at the last possible instant. Daethdr followed Arya without another word, leaving him alone in the clearing.
Moments later, Eragon too returned to the city. He watched from the shadows as she greeted the visitors, and then moved to stand right beside the Menoa Tree. Her serene face betrayed none of the answers Eragon desperately desired.
Did she know he was here? He thought not. But then, maybe… Did she still think of him as often as he thought of her? Had she ever thought of him as much as he had of her? Was he an utter fool to still find himself head over heels in love? Was she happy, here, in a position she had never wanted?
The celebration began shortly afterward. The assembled elves watched breathlessly as Arya gathered a glowing orb of moonlight and directed it into the Menoa Tree. As one, the elves seemed to exhale and then jump joyfully into the midst of the celebration.
Eragon was pulled sharply into the festivities, forgetting his cares and regrets in the fierce music and dancing. Time passed sporadically, in strange fits and leaps, and also in long, dragging moments in which he recalled her face in the moonlight.
He remembered presenting his mosaic and the wild appreciation that had followed. He remembered eating airy delicacies constructed of honey and tiny bits of fruit. He remembered singing and jumping and spinning in endless circles and the beauty of the forest at night. He also remembered every moment he spotted her: speaking to a guest, half-glimpsed in the shadows, darting into a hall, or listening to a presentation.
She also had created a piece for the celebration. It was an anthology, of sorts, on the Great War. Her memories, imposed in clay, pigment, ink, and stone formed a comprehensive tale of the war's entirety. As much as she had remembered, she had inscribed. Her memories tinged the facts of the events, lending color and depth to simple scenes of violence or strategy. Ajihod, Islanzadi, Hrothgar, Orrin, Nasuada, Saphira… all were represented and depicted clearly.
Eragon watched in astonishment. The elves murmured amongst themselves, the shock of her work for once overcoming the insanity of the night. Arya's monument to the war was astounding and an amazing addition to the recorded history of their race. It was also an incredibly private and personal collection. Such memories, laid bare for anyone to see. Images of Galbatorix looming large in the citadel in Uru'baen, conversations among the high command, a raised carving of a gemstone rose… And all tinged with emotion that brought the work to life. The helplessness and fear when faced with the crushing power of Galbatorix's mind, the despair of the leaders desperate to beat the overwhelming odds, the panic of losing a friend in battle…
The elves were a race of reserved individuals. Even more than her countrymen, despite her time amongst the flamboyant race of men, Arya was a more private person than most. Her thoughts, emotions, and rationale all hidden beneath an impenetratable façade. Yet here it all was on display.
Conspicuously missing, however, were images and writings of Eragon. There was one of his flaming sword held aloft and another of him riding Saphira high above the clouds. Yet nothing more.
"Surprising, isn't it?" a voice to his left elbow asked mildly.
Angela, her round face framed by bouncing curls, stood beside him. Her bright eyes watched Arya intently. "She's changed, the queen has."
"What?" asked Eragon stupidly, rising to reality as if clawing to the surface of a lake.
"Arya Drottning," Angela said slowly, as if wondering how she managed to find such a dim-witted elf, "I've known her for a long time. I never would have believed that she had the strength to do this."
"What?" he repeated.
She raised an eyebrow, "She mentioned this project to me, but I never thought she'd have the courage to go through with it."
Eragon bristled. "She is one of the most courageous people I know."
Angela snorted. "Just because you're still enamored with her doesn't mean I have to be," she replied languidly with bright eyes and a knowing smile. Utterly speechless, Eragon gaped.
"You haven't changed a bit," she tsked, shaking her head.
He recovered himself, "Neither have you."
She smirked.
"How did you know?"
"That you're masquerading as a real elf?"
"You make me sound like a cheap actor."
"Thank goodness you're not. You'd starve. Actually," she frowned thoughtfully, "you'd probably be rich. People'd pay you to leave their towns alone."
"Please don't tell her I'm here."
She cocked her head to the side, "You haven't told anyone?" her tone conveyed both disbelief and displeasure.
"No," he replied softly, "I just…"
Angela eyed him for a minute, raking her eyes across his face and down to the sword belted at his waist. "She may be courageous, but you're not."
He sighed, "Angela…"
"Don't 'Angela' me. You know I'm right. Let me guess. You didn't want to come. You still aren't sure whether you're actually going to talk to her or not. You're afraid."
"Of what?" he asked flatly, ignoring the accuracy of her previous statements.
"Of her rejecting you. Of her not caring. Of her having forgotten you. And so you'll have to go back to your little island upset and wishing you'd never come."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "Yes," he murmured after a moment, "Probably."
The hard lines around her mouth and eyes softened. "She misses you," Angela admitted.
"It's been a hundred years."
"What is time to an elf?" the phrase echoed through Eragon's mind, though he could not remember who had first said it to him. "Furthermore" she continued, "just look at what she has created. Do you understand it? The meaning behind it?"
Eragon shook his head.
"They are forgetting. The people of Alagaesia, even the elves to an extent, are forgetting the War. Perhaps it is good to do so. Wounds heal best with time as does hatred."
Eragon frowned, trying to figure out if the last line was a grammatical mistake or if, like everything else with Angela, it had some other meaning.
"Still," she pressed on, "They should not forget. Already the dwarves bicker with men. Already the great-grandson of Nasuada has taken a few more privileges and rights than she. He is no Galbatorix, true, but that does not mean it cannot happen again.
"But there is more to it, I think. Notice how few times you make an appearance in her visible memories? She's hiding something. I don't know what," she flicked her hand dismissively, "but there's clearly something there that she wishes to hide from the rest of the world. Maybe it's hatred," she shrugged carelessly and Eragon rolled his eyes.
"And I think she's showing her people that she doesn't belong here. She accepted their invitation to reign but never wanted it. And this is her proving it to them. Her personality has never meshed with the rest. It doesn't matter though," her eyebrows knitted together, "because for some reason they love her all the more for it. I have never seen a monarch so dearly beloved."
The fey elves had resumed their celebration now, and Eragon could feel the music tugging at him. He strained to focus on Angela, who seemed unaffected.
"What would she do if she abdicated?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," she replied pointedly.
The magic was clogging his mind. "How did you know it was me?" he asked again, realizing she'd never answered the question before.
She smiled. "You just look like Eragon. Something about the way you walk… and the incessant staring in the queen's direction. That might have tipped me off." And she slipped away into the night.