(A/N: So there's no actual sex in this, but there's implied sex happening because there's always been the question of 'what happens in groves' during Dagshelgr. Elves are weird. Even MIC elves.
Also, wow. I forgot how many titles I had for this one when I posted on dA.)
MODERN INHERITANCE:
THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES:
ARYA AND FÄOLIN
DAGSHELGR
The music was intoxicating.
And so was he.
Fäolin laughed as Arya leaned into him, swaying with the song that permeated the forest. Every nerve was alight with sensation, every brush and feathery contact like warm, charged lightning on her skin. The words of the song fell from her lips as it fell from his as well, the instinctive melody ingrained in their blood.
The words died in Arya's throat as she turned in his arms, still humming the strains of the music. He was just tall enough that she had to lift on her toes slightly to press her lips to where his jaw met his throat, smiling as his skin broke into goosebumps.
"Let's go."
She shivered at the sound of his voice, those two whispered words so deliciously husky as they were murmured in her ear. She found herself nodding, her entire body shuddering with want for him, and with a laugh took his offered hand.
Together they raced through the darkened pines, the rest of the world a blur as they focused on one another. Golden clearings lit with muted lanterns sped by like motes of dust on the wind, frenzied animals leapt out of their path, pale faces winked in and out of the gloom. And, through the wild, hazy perception of it all, wove the singing.
Even as they ran, they sang together. They sang of the forest and the trees, the animals and the coming spring. They sang of the water in the rivers and creeks that fed the land, sang of the misty air around them, and sang of the elves that lived within the sheltered pines.
And, here and there, ever so softly, they sang of each other.
A single lantern lit the grove they came upon, the golden glow soft in the light mist. The murmur of the haunting melody was muted here, but, somehow, nowhere else did it feel so strong. The elves here were whispering their songs, the quiet strains panted as they danced wildly with each other in more ways than one. They were there to fall deep into the spells of Dagshelgr, give the forest their all as they surrendered to the animal instincts of the song.
It did not matter that others were present. No one would remember the faces around them. In the magic fueled haze of wonder and revitalization, they would only remember the face of the one they had chosen with which to share the enchanted night.
Fäolin stopped at a secluded stand of pines at the edge of the grove, pulling Arya close. She nipped his neck lightly, inhaling his musky scent as he took in hers. It was a wordless dance, buried deep in their animal instincts, in the dragon blood that still lingered in their veins. The pheromones they gave off were only for each other, and the music of the Dagshelgr songs strengthened their effect.
Fäolin hummed along to the melody, running his fingers across Arya's skin. She sighed in appreciation, her own hands falling to his shoulders and fingertips slipping under his collar.
Oh, she had been gone so long. There was always another mission, always another battle, and always there was The War. Fäolin had all but begged her to let him apply to be her guard, but she always refused. She missed him, and would give the world for him, but after seeing the terrors of war with her own eyes Arya had admitted to being reluctant to let her mate see the battlefield. Glenwing's presence by her side gave Faolin some comfort though; his cousin was as skilled a medic as any and a fine fighter.
But he still ached to be with her, to see her face when he woke each day. The fleeting stops in Ellesmera to resupply and ask for aid were few and far between, but he knew he could not stop her from leaving. She was a fighter, a soldier, and he loved her for it.
So he cherished their time. He could feel the tremors beneath her skin, the muscles in her forearms twitching as he stroked the pads of his fingers from her shoulders to her wrists. Her body was warm, lean and beautiful to Fäolin's eyes. Arya, like all elves, had experienced Dagshelgr before. But never with a mate. And though he had taken a partner before during the celebrations, the woman had not elicited such strong reactions from him. Not like Arya did.
And all he could think was that he was hers.
Arya brushed her lips against Fäolin's cheek as he leaned in, her hands already beneath his light shirt and exploring his sides. She let out a soft breath has his mouth found her collarbone, her grip tightening on his body. Every touch of his skin on hers was like fire, sending her nerves tingling in bliss to dance along to the Dagshelgr's tune. He had told her of the revels having a mate would bring to the celebration, but nothing had prepared her for the dizzying and giddy onslaught of love and lust that coursed through her blood.
She nipped Fäolin's ear, laughing softly at the growl he responded with. She felt so alive with him in that moment, and with a playful push she shoved him away. He separated from her with a confused expression, then smiled as she freed first him then herself of their shirts.
He stepped forward again, framing her face with his arms against the ancient pine. She smiled up at him coyly, dark emerald eyes glimmering with the faint light of the lantern.
"I love you." Fäolin murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.
"And I love you." Arya kissed him, long and deep.
The song thrummed in their veins, rising to a fever pitch.
Together they sang and danced—in more ways than one—the night away.
Arya woke slowly. Her limbs felt heavy, and the warmth of Fäolin's body next to her was enough to make the woman reluctant to shake off the remaining tendrils of sleep.
She knew she had to eventually though. Arya stretched, reaching her arms above her head to tickle her fingertips on the side of the overgrown root that sheltered them. The damp mist kissed her face as she rolled over and smiled, taking in the sight of her mate as he dozed next to her.
His dark hair was tousled from the activities they had performed during the Dagshelgr incantations, snarled spikes of it poking out in all different directions. His parted lips were still flushed, the tip of his left ear slightly discolored where Arya had nipped him and marked him as hers. The pink scratches on his torso and the blunted bite mark where his shoulder and neck met both raised welts on his tanned skin, creating a discordant but somehow pleasing pattern to Arya's eye.
Reaching out, she smoothed a finger over the bite she had left. His skin was warm even in the cool of the morning dew.
Despite the rather animalistic sense of pleased accomplishment that still lingered with the last tendrils of the Dagshelgar's spells, a twinge of regret sparked in Arya's mind when she saw the marks she had left. She'd never meant to hurt him. In the throes of wild and ancient magics, laced with golden light and filled with a blurry buzz akin to drunken and drugged excitement, nothing had seemed wrong or right but purely there for happiness and pleasure.
The hazy memories were still...pleasant.
"G'marnnin." Fäolin mumbled, snapping Arya back to the present. He yawned, stretching languidly. "That was…. Oh, man. Whew."
Arya chuckled. "Yeah. Something like that." She moved closer to him, snuggling up to his side in the pine needles that covered the forest floor. "I'm impressed we had the foresight to find at least most of our clothes."
Her mate laughed as well. "Most! I've only got my pants. I've no idea where my boxers are." He sat up, the blanket that covered them pooling around his waist. Arya watched with her head propped up on her fist, unabashedly taking in the view as Fäolin again stretched and flexed his muscles before picking at the hem of the blanket. "...Where did this come from?"
"I've no idea." Arya twisted around and spotted a few other new items as well. A thermos sat against the tree root, flanked by two familiar mugs. A container of fruit was in front of it, nestled atop two folded shirts. "Check it out." Still feeling the drain the revitalization spells had caused, as well as the drain from...other… activities, the woman rolled onto her belly lazily and dragged the items over. As she did, a note fell from where it had been tucked in the thermos handle, and she snatched it up as Fäolin set about filling the mugs. "Oh, hey. It's from Glen."
"What's it say?" Fäolin grinned. He figured his cousin would find them after the celebration.
"'Good morning! I found your shirts in the bushes. Enjoy the breakfast and try to clear out before the Queen goes on a morning walk. From, Glen.'" Arya laughed. "He has a point. We should probably get going."
Fäolin passed his mate a mug of steaming tea. "We will." He assured her before settling his arm around her shoulders. "There's time for a sunrise, though, don't you think?" The orange glow was just starting to filter through the pines, setting each needle, mote of dust and dewdrop ablaze with vibrant, fiery light.
Arya smiled and hummed her agreement into the rim of her mug as she leaned against her mate's chest. The light turned Fäolin's near black chestnut hair a dusky golden brown, and for a second she couldn't help but stare at him in wonder.
Then she settled into his embrace and turned her gaze to the tops of the trees, happy to bask in the warmth of the coming day with the man she loved.
Yes. There was always time for a sunrise.
Years later, that night outside of Sílthrim, Arya overheard Eragon asking Brom if she was alright after the intensely awkward explanation of the Dagshelgr invocation. The old man had only grunted noncommittally, and when the young Rider had started to approach her, Orik stopped him.
"You saw what the magic does to us, lad. It's different for them. Leave her be."
She didn't miss the concerned and troubled expression on Eragon's face before he turned back to the campfire.
The boy had no idea.
It felt like she was being torn up inside. Alone in the second camp, knowing that Narí and Lifaen were fully enjoying the celebration together, knowing what she had lost…. It all hurt, but at the same time the memories fought to give her happiness.
Instead of the wonder and intoxicating joy she had felt in years previous, all that was left was a pit of pain in her stomach. The urge to join the singing was there, but none of the happiness that used to come with it. The need to grow and give to the forest felt more like a sacrifice, the promise that the pines would protect her and those she loved in return more empty and hollow.
Arya loved Du Weldenvarden. She would always love her homeland and would always give of herself to protect it, even if it had failed the three of them that night. Had failed him.
But this one night, this one time, as the Dagshelgr invocation swirled around her and tugged at her blood, Arya let herself glare towards Sílthrim and the closest source of the music.
For one night, she let herself hate Dagshelgr.
It forced her to remember him. It made her remember that no more memories would be made for them, ever again.
(A/N: Well this WAS going to just be a nice fluff story, but it's MIC so it felt incomplete to me without a little angst.
Something that I try to highlight in my MIC stories is that while Arya may have been in captivity for 6+ months after Fäolin died , she hasn't had the luxury of actual time to process or deal with his death. Her mindset is usually more 'too much to do and a war to fight, I'll grieve if I survive but right now I need to fight to keep others from dying.' She'll make small snarky comments or 'jokes' about her torture and things like that but it's more coping than actually confronting what's happened. Which is why several of my drabbles have her rubberbanding between losing it and acting relaxed in Ellesmera, where she's forced to take downtime and can't distract herself from everything that's happened.
Anyway, cheers!)