"Aye." she replied.
"What have they done to you?" said Arya in awe. She stepped forward and held Eragon's face. "Oromis thought they may have changed you but this…. this goes far beyond what I thought possible. How?"
"I know not." replied Eragon. "But I am grateful because it has opened many paths to me."
Arya narrowed her eyes and removed her hand from Eragon's face.
"Would you like to talk about it? It must be quite a shock and an adjustment."
"Nay, I simply want to enjoy the night." said Eragon, gazing into her eyes.
Arya seemed hesitant at that answer but she lead the way deeper into the forest.
Together they wandered the dense woods, which echoed with fragments of music and voices from the festivities. Changed as she was, Eragon was acutely conscious of Arya's presence, of the whisper of her clothes over her skin, of the soft, pale exposure of her neck, and of her eyelashes, which were coated with a layer of oil that made them glisten and curl like black petals wet with rain. It didn't escape Eragon's attention that Arya now was even taller than her now, easily half a foot if not more. For some reason that made her feel even more enamored.
They stopped on the bank of a narrow stream so clear, it was invisible in the faint light. The only thing that betrayed its presence was the throaty gurgle of water pouring over rocks. Around them, the thick pines formed a cave with their branches, hiding Eragon and Arya from the world and muffling the cool, still air. The hollow seemed ageless, as if it were removed from the world and protected by some magic against the withering breath of time.
In that secret place, Eragon felt suddenly close to Arya, and all her passion for her sprang to the fore of her mind. She was so intoxicated with the strength and vitality coursing through her veins, the thrum of magic in her veins dulling her senses—as well as the untamed magic that filled the forest—that she ignored caution and said, "How tall the trees, how bright the stars … and how beautiful you are, O Arya Svit-kona." Under normal circumstances, she would have considered she deed the height of folly, and in some distant corner of Eragon's mind she could hear screaming protest, but it was soon quelled for in that fey, madcap night, it seemed perfectly sane.
She stiffened. "Eragon …"
She ignored her warning. "Arya, I'll do anything to win your hand. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. I would build a palace for you with nothing but my bare hands. I would—"
"Will you stop pursuing me? Can you promise me that?" When she hesitated, she stepped closer and said, low and gentle, "Eragon, this cannot be. You are young and I am old, and that shall never change."
"Why? Is it because of this new form? I will change it if I have too, I can work those spells," retorted Eragon, looking up at her. "Now I would take any body you desire, speak it and I will make it so."
"After this long amongst the elves you should have learned by now we place little weight in constructs as fragile human gender. No your form is fine enough," replied Arya haughtily. "It is the person within that I take issue with. You have undergone a great change and I will forgive your words now if we end this conversation immediately for you are not yourself."
"Do you feel nothing for me?" Pressed Eragon, "Truly nothing?"
"My feelings for you," she said with the tone of a glacial stream, "are those of a friend and nothing more. I am grateful to you for rescuing me from Gil'ead, and I find your company pleasant. That is all.… Relinquish this quest of yours—it will only bring you heartache—and find someone your own age to spend the long years with."
Eragon's eyes brimmed with tears. "How can you be so cruel?"
"I am not cruel, but kind. You and I are not meant for each other."
In desperation, she suggested, "You could give me your memories, and then I would have the same amount of experience and knowledge as you."
"It would be an abomination." Arya lifted her chin, her face grave and solemn and brushed with silver from the glimmering stars. A hint of steel entered her voice: "Hear me well, Eragon. This cannot, nor ever shall be. And until you master yourself, our friendship must cease to exist, for your emotions do nothing but distract us from our duty." She bowed to her. "Goodbye, Eragon Shadeslayer." Then she strode past and vanished into Du Weldenvarden.
Now the tears spilled down Eragon's cheeks and dropped to the moss below, where they lay unabsorbed, like pearls strewn across a blanket of emerald velvet. Numb, Eragon sat upon a rotting log and buried her face in her hands, weeping that her affection for Arya was doomed to remain unrequited, and weeping that she had driven her further away.
Within moments, Saphira joined her. Oh, little one. She nuzzled her. Why did you have to inflict this upon yourself? You knew what would happen if you tried to woo Arya again.
I couldn't stop myself. She wrapped his arms around her belly and rocked back and forth on the log, reduced to hiccuping sobs by the strength of her misery. Putting one warm wing over her, Saphira drew Eragon close to her side, like a mother falcon with her offspring. She curled up against her and remained huddled there as night passed into day and the Agaetí Blödhren came to an end.