Lying in the cold stone room that night, Eragon allowed thoughts of Arya to overtake him. He knew that she hovered perilously close to death...and that somewhere in the vast city-mountain, the whole of the Varden's magician corps was bent over her thin, lifeless frame, trying frantically to revive her. He had only been able to heal the worst of her wounds - she still remained bruised and battered from whatever horrors she had endured at the hands of the Shade. He could not fathom what such repeated brutality could do to a person - he could not believe that she was still sane. With a jolt, Eragon recalled the cursory exchange between their consciousnesses and the deep, vibrating chords of an ancient sadness...Arya was not only marked physically, but would be forever haunted by her own memories.
He imagined her whip-scarred form chained in the dark cell where he had first dreamed of her, and the baleful gaze of her deep green eyes. He remembered her posture vividly - doubled over with pain, a being of sorrow. What unspeakable things the Shade had done he might never know... He found himself overwhelmed with a deep melancholy that formed tears at the corners of his eyes. As a heavy drop rolled down his cheek, he mourned that such pain could be visited on one so beautiful.
Little One. Saphira whispered gently. Rest now. Once you regain your own strength, we shall go together to inquire after Arya. But for now, sleep...
Eragon sighed ane rolled over. As he closed his own brown eyes, his consciousness was fixed by a fleeting image of piercing green.