(A/N: I still don't know how to write Islanzadí but I needed to get my 'Arya has always kinda been that person you don't expect to have a sketchbook but does' headcanon out of my brain. Have some really badly written, forced-out-at-11PM Islanzadí trying to be good!parent during MI!Eldest. Again, sorry for the quality, but I pushed myself to write this and I've been away from MI so long that it feels a little clunky to be writing it. Izzy is inconsistent and her reasons for doing things are all over the place and make zero sense. So yeah, you've been warned that it's a jumbled cluster.)

MODERN INHERITANCE
ART THERAPY, PT. 1

Islanzadí paused at the door, inspecting it as one would inspect a patch of earth suspected of concealing a minefield.

It was too early in the morning to be called late, but too late in the night to be called early. While it wasn't unusual for the queen's daughter to be up at this hour due to recent events and their lingering aftereffects, it was unusual for the light to be on. Islanzadí could see it now, a faint line beneath the door. Two conflicting beams, the soft red glow of a teardrop lantern and a bright slash of white light, settled across the mossy floor at her feet.

Islanzadí did not hesitate out of fear. A mother did not, should not, fear facing her own daughter. She told herself that she hesitated out of respect. This was Arya's room, her sanctum, after all. She called it a 'base of operations' in a close-to-home joke, the place she always returned to if she disappeared into the night to fight her inner demons side by side with old fyrn breoal. After everything that had happened the queen was loath to breach one more place of peace for her daughter.

Then again, it would not be the first time Islanzadí had entered in the dead of night, once more attuned to the natural instincts of a mother when her child is in danger. Finding her daughter curled in a corner with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees was painful, and the nights the queen had to wake the younger elf from the clutches of her dreams were worse.

The light on was something new. Something that she did not know how to react to. If Arya was awake then she didn't want to intrude.

But if she was having trouble again….

Islanzadí carefully opened the door, just enough to peer inside.

Like many nights before, the queen saw that the bed was still made, corners tucked tight in the strict, military efficiency that Arya had picked up in years spent alongside Varden soldiers. A sleeping bag was on the floor beside the bed with a spare blanket bunched at its end from restless sleep. The makeshift indoor camp was lit by the teardrop lantern on the nightstand above, cast in strange, ruddy shadows.

Compared to the gentle glow of the lantern the white light was almost startling. A simple white werelight hovered just above the knotted, cup-like roots of the stand at Arya's desk, bobbing and turning lightly with the imperceptible changes in the air.

Islanzadí breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she didn't even realize she was holding in. Arya had an arm folded on the desk and her head rested on it, her left hand laid over a page and pencil still loosely in her relaxed grip. The woman had fallen asleep in the middle of her work.

With soft footsteps the queen padded into the room. It wouldn't do to sleep in such a way. As she reached out to gently wake the younger elf though, the sight of what scattered the desk gave her pause.

What had to be over a dozen sketches littered the usually tidy surface. Islanzadí had known that Arya often drew when her mind was troubled, but she had never seen the results for herself. As gently as she could Islanzadí collected the papers together, curious at what had driven her daughter to such a late hour.

Brom started back at her from the first page, gruff around the eyes and holding his pipe up to his lips. The hard line of his jaw gave the impression that he had clamped his teeth down on the pipe stem, soft clouds of smoke wafting up around his nose. It was the face of a man who was thinking and grumbling to himself in equal measure, but there was a softness to it that led Islanzadí to believe that whatever was giving him such trouble was something he deeply cared about.

One was of a campsite. Brom was still present, perched on a rock with his ever-present pipe in hand and using it as a pointer as he called criticism to the two young men that danced around the burned down fire at the center of camp. One was obviously Eragon, Zar'roc a sudden streak of pastel red in an image that was dominated by only two other shades: the ebony of the pencil and the expanse of shaded blue that made up Saphira where she crouched beside Brom. The other man was unfamiliar to the elvish queen, but she suspected the lean youth with near-black hair and hand-and-half sword was Murtagh.

Islanzadí's chest tightened when she shifted to the next page. It, and the one following, were done in what appeared to be frantic, almost manic motions. Most of the paper was dominated by deep grey, walls and barred windows all almost black cut through by patches of startling crimson red and the pearly, muddied white of a single light fixture high on the wall. The floor was a cooler tone but puddled with the thick red pastel, which collected under the iron cot and shredded, sooty sheets.

It was one of several views from a personal hell. A view from the corner.

And then it was a portrait again, another from frozen memories of travel. The light silvery tones that dripped from the foliage signaled an early morning, but half of the occupants of the work were asleep. Eragon lay sprawled comfortably beside Saphira, one of her wings draped over his form. Above him, the dragon was watching him carefully, as a mother would a sleeping cub, her gaze protective and gentle all at once.

Another page almost overtaken by dark ebony. A sliver of moon cast the starless sky into faintly silvered darkness, reflected by the path below. Trees arced and bent over the strip of earth, monstrous shapes boiling up from between their trunks. At the end of the path, a lone figure wreathed in ghostly red tendrils that coiled up and around their body like ethereal smoke.

Glenwing was next in the line of art, and beside him, arm tossed casually over his shoulders in friendly companionship, was Fäolin. Both were smiling, laughter playing at their lips. Fäolin had his free hand around the neck of a bottle of dwarvish beer, and by the fading background it was clear that the memory took place in a bar. Even without color the neon of the signs flickered and hummed, bringing a sense of welcome despite the clear signs around that indicated that the war was never far away.

Saphira's egg, the edges of the carry bag that was her home for over two decades pooled around the base. A gentle pulse of life and warmth in the blue and white that decorated the marbled surface. A glow of hope, all contained inside a single layer of shell.

A view from the branches of the Menoa Tree, looking down at the sprawling expanse of roots that raced away from the great monarch of the forest. Light played through the needles above, pinpricks of dappled sunlight that strained to reach the forest floor.

Eragon, his forehead pressed against Saphira's snout as the Rider and dragon shared a moment of quiet peace. The rigid hold of his far shoulder compared to the slope of the other indicated it was not long after the battle for Farthen Dur, a time of chaos, tumult and new realities. It made the frozen scene of simple yet deeply primal comfort that smoothed over Eragon's features that much more poignant. Reminded those that saw it that he was still a growing youth and Saphira was not yet a year old, yet they had been thrown into a world that required, demanded their lives for the sake of millions of others.

"One of these days we will give each other a heart attack."

Islanzadí couldn't suppress the sudden jerk of surprise at her daughter's bleary words. The younger elf lifted her head and stretched, tossing down her pencil as she did. Arya winced when the light of the white werelight caught her eyes, and with a tap on the floating orb the color changed to the same muted red as the lantern on the nightstand.

"I was going to suggest you move to your bed before you strained your neck." The queen gave her daughter a slightly forced, gentle smile, heart still fluttering at the start.

Arya nodded, still appearing half asleep as she rose from her desk and tapped off the light. She waved groggily over her shoulder to indicate to her mother that she was fine before she tumbled onto the bed, not bothering with the covers. It was a good sign. The younger elf was heavily in sleep debt as it was, and Islanzadí did not want to be the source of another night of under four hours of rest.

Islanzadí placed the stack of sketches back on the desk with a newfound reverence before following Arya towards the bed. She gathered up the discarded blanket on the floor and draped it over the woman's body, smiling again at the muffled mumble of "Thanks, mum." that drifted from where Arya had buried her head under the pillow.

She touched the lantern by the bed, lowering its intensity till it winked out. Gently pulled the door shut behind her.

And gave a very quiet, very tired, sigh of relief.

(A/N: Izzy has no idea how to parent and Arya's not the type to talk about what happened with anyone but people like Brom, Glen or Oromis {and Eragon later on in the MIC timeline}. But maybe Izzy will get there. I still don't know if that'll happen.)