A/N: Angst warning ahead! This chapter took me much longer to write, but I'm glad with the way it turned out. Special thanks to all my reviewers, you guys are like drug dealers to my crack (review) addiction.

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Eragon is learning.

She is making it very clear that she is not interested in him. Her lithe fingers brush away his hand when he reaches out to make a point, and her words are firm, as if he will not understand, when she says, "There's someone else."

And, although he wants to scream, I'll kill him, he keeps his wits and slowly sighs. Eragon cannot be upset with her because he wants her to stay. He is growing up, little by little, and a man would never act so foolish. He cannot be furious because he is a Dragon Rider, and leader of armies, and savior of Alagaësia, and he has so many responsibilities.

But his heart is splitting as her long legs carry her away, so he lifts his blue eyes and calls out, "Does he treat you well?" He thinks he knows the answer, but he all he wants is her presence for a little bit longer.

Arya hangs her head and turns back to stare at him. The look on her face reminds him of long ago, when he tried to keep Saphira a secret from Garrow and Roran. It is troubled and amused, and perhaps a bit unwilling to speak aloud.

After a long pause, Arya tells him, "She treats me very well."

With a soft rustle of fabric, she takes leave of him to return to her own residence. He watches her hair blow behind her and has no words to call out this time, so he sits in the dirt with the sun beating down on his neck.

In the following weeks, the curiosity gnaws at him because he has no idea who has Arya's love. Saphira does not speculate with him, but he is beginning to think it must be one of Blödhgarm's spellcasters.

This suits her very well: two beautiful elves that are too perfect for anyone else. And for a while, Eragon feels the pain subside because dwelling on Arya is becoming too much of burden for him, and his own maturity is beginning to shine through.

Early one morning, before the sun is even risen, Eragon wakes from his tent to search for washing water. He shuffles his feet wearily to the wells and sees Nasuada's bright red tent in the distance.

Two figures stand with their foreheads pressed together and, even from so far away, he can identify the two women in their silent embrace. Arya reaches up to stroke Nasuada along the cheekbone, leaning in for a kiss, and Eragon drops his water basin.

It shatters, and in the half-dark they look toward the noise, but the young man is already sprinting back to his tent, back to Saphira, back to his loneliness. They looked so beautiful together that he is ashamed to want to tear them apart.

Eragon drops again to the dirt, pushing away Saphira's concerned questions. He curses his adulthood and wishes he could act like a child again. Images of screaming in their faces swirl before his eyes, but he knows that he would accomplish nothing.

He wants jump from a cliff or drink poison or plunge a knife in his chest. But he won't, he can't, because there are two women that love him very much, but are in love with each other. Eragon knows that they would cry for him, and he does not want tears to stain their lovely faces.

Little by little, Eragon is learning how to make his world a better place, even though it sometimes hurts him terribly. And now, when he thinks of Arya's tiny smile as she looked into Nasuada's eyes, his heart breaks in half again.

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