Diamond Cut Diamond

Chapter Five: Names

Arya spent her evenings in the library. She grew used to Murtagh's occasional presence, leaning against the wall, catching up with her reading at lightning speed, and they'd go back and forth about points in history. In general, they agreed on what was right and wrong and in government, but when they got down to single events themselves, they could not seem to agree on anything.

He won, she won, she won, he won, each conceding defeat without any bad feeling on their part.

So it passed for a week, as they signed paper after paper, and even began drafting the Doctrine of Alagaesia. Endlessly drafting.

Arya kept her role and the one who ended the running-in-circles. She moved things along as often as she could without seeming impatient.

Murtagh still hated his name every time he signed it.

Life gained an odd sort of normalcy. Arya realized it had been nearly over three weeks since they had killed the king.

"Time flies when you're having fun."

The people had begun to have their own ideas about self-government, and Nasuada had been forced to factor that into her plans. During the interim, as Nasuada called it, most towns had taken matter into their own hands, and were managing quite well. Now the king was gone, they eliminated their own corruption nicely—if a little bloodily. Arya still found it hard to rue the fate of Teirm's officials, and Jeod, the mapmaker, had seemed positively enthralled.

Thus, Nasuada had sent word to the cities (by Eragon, who else?) that they were to elect an ambassador to help with the Doctrine.

Which had, of course, complicated things even more, but Arya was beginning to actually feel some confidence in Nasuada and her dreams.

Arya's sense of misdirection wasn't gone though, and she shoved it out of her mind, knowing she'd have to face up to her purpose-less-ness sometime, and wanting to delay that as long as possible.

Eragon was busy, and Arya hated how Nasuada seemed to stretch him—the boy (man?) had just killed King Galbatorix, he deserved rest. Arya could tell he was not healed from all his life had thrown at him over the past two years. (That little? No!) But there was naught to be done.

And so, things passed, and the night of the full moon, Arya was on guard duty.

"I certainly have the most useless duty of the night," she thought.

No one, no one who was powerful enough to take the egg was anything but on their side.

"Nasuada's paranoid. But I knew that. She couldn't even let the Dwarves elect their king in peace; she had to send Eragon as watch-dog.

"I wish I could go up to the library.

He might be there.

I wouldn't mind.

I'd like—ARYA!

Arya shook herself.

"Fool!

I'd like another decent debate. He's the only one around who seems to have the affinity. Eragon's so…so...frank. He doesn't have the skill or desire to banter.

For the sake of the Dwarves non-existent gods, stop thinking like this! He hates you!

And he should, because I'm just a hold, hard, bitch who can't be friendly, who never loved, who could never be loved, never, never, never—

Arya began to recite the steps of the rimgar, from the lowest level to the highest. She breathed in and imagined the scent of the flowers in the gardens of Tiadari Hall.

Halfway through the first phase, she was fine again. She had learned control. She had had to learn control.

"My own mind—my own mind hates me," she thought, with a wry smile.

An elf—and elf whose name Arya knew but couldn't bring to the forefront of her mind came to relieve he, and Arya fairly dashed up to her library. It was one of the only places she felt safe. Safe, alone a place where she could be herself, not the image she tried to project. She wasn't good at tearing down her wall—Eragon could sometimes to it for her, as he had around the campfire that night when spirits roamed the plains, but not often.

Eragon reminded her of herself. Maybe that was why she couldn't love him, didn't love him, would never entertain the thought, even though she wanted to love him.

"I am sorry Arya. I wish it could be."

"I—I understand, Faolin."

"Stop!"

Arya forced her breathing to slow as she reached the door of the library. She turned the knob, and was guiltily unsurprised when she found the room occupied.

Murtagh looked up from his scroll.

"Good evening."

Arya nodded to him and went to find her place. She found the scroll she had been about to start was gone from the shelf. Her eyes moved to the window seat—

"Which is mine!"

"Don't be a child, Arya"

—where Murtagh was holding it, unperturbed. Arya wondered for a moment whether her had done it one purpose before realizing how improbable that was. She was about to skip to the next volume when Murtagh spoke up.

"Interesting thing, elf, I talked to Eragon earlier today. He didn't have any idea about a 'tower library' and seemed to think I'd finally gone mad. You haven't told anyone, have you?"

"No," said Arya, carefully, attempting to find one time in her memory he'd called her by her name, and coming up blank. "No, I haven't. Why?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"You evaded the question." Arya's temper was beginning to flare, deep within her.

"As did you."

"Eragon doesn't have time to read these works, nor does Nasuada or anyone else important. What good would it do? Besides, I'd rather the room wasn't common knowledge. These books are more valuable than mountains of gold. They tell us of the riders, the Golden Age! It's fascinating."

"There's another reason. You could have told Nasuada, she would have assigned you to read them and kept it quiet. Why have you been hiding up here, elf?"

"Arya," said elf hissed.

"What?" asked Murtagh.

"ARYA! My name is Arya! Arya! After my mother's mother! You have not once called me by my name!" Arya was not sure why she was shouting, but it felt good. She had not shouted like this, over something small and petty for a long time. She had not lost control since Eragon had nearly died, since Oromis died. And that was fear and grief—this was giving away to pure, unbridled infuriation.

"What is it about this place?" asked Murtagh again, and Arya fixed him with a look of fire and ice.

"Say it. Say it. Say my name."

"Is it because—"
"Say my name!"

"Do you feel safe here? Alone—among books, not people?"

That scared Arya, and she didn't know why.

"You bastard! You can't even give me the common courtesy to treat me like a person! I am! I may be an elf, but I am a person!" The room was quiet for one second...two seconds…

Arya turned her head regally and walked out the door, letting it swing behind her, and walked slowly and sedately down the steps, feeling every bit like the rejected, adolescent girl she had once been, on a night much like this.

Up in the cloistered tower, the air still seeming to reverberate the words and the door's slam, Murtagh spoke aloud.

"I do too, Arya. It's different up here—everything that has happened can't seem to follow us."

Short. It's short. I'm sorry. But it just felt right to leave it where it is.

Arya's little outburst…I'm so sure I like it. But things needed to move forward a little.