(A/N: This one needs some work. I put parts of it together and edited over wildly different times for me and there are sections that feel great and sections that need cleaning/expanding. But ah well. I'll figure it out when I rewrite it later!)
SUMMARY:
"Brom, I just want them back! I don't want anyone else to die and I want them back!"
"I know, kid."
"...I hate this fucking war."
"...Me too."
Everyone has a limit on what they can endure without cracking under the strain. Some people can move that limit when they must, push themselves a little further to endure more so that others don't have to take it on or see them hurting. But often it's those people who break the hardest when their limit is finally reached.
MODERN INHERITANCE:
LIMITS
Arya stared up at the plaster coated stone of the embassy ceiling. The events of the last twenty four hours played over and over in her mind, threatening to drown out her attempts to rest.
Ajihad was dead. The man everyone had been so sure would lead them to the gates of Urû'baen was gone.
Even after a lifetime of loss, Arya felt Ajihad's death hit particularly hard.
The man was a genius strategist and unparalleled negotiator. Under his guidance the Varden had not only survived but thrived even as Galbatorix increased his campaign against them.
That wasn't all. He was not just a military leader. Ajihad had been a personal friend to Arya, Fäolin and Glenwing. Despite being decades younger than the elves, the fallen commander always kept his eye out for them and encouraged all three to speak openly to him if any problems arose. He was kind, just and one of the most honorable men Arya had met during the entire hellish war.
Unbidden, the memory of one of the last occasions Arya had spent one on one time with the Varden's leader crept into her mind.
It felt like months had already passed, but just over two weeks ago
Ajihad had strode into Arya's tiny room in the medical wing with a thermos of her favorite tea balanced on a fresh set of her fatigues in one hand and a packet of notes in the other. Arya had expected him to give a few short condolences and exchange hurried niceties before launching into a formal debriefing about her captivity, the events that led to it, and the information that she had either collected or divulged during that time.
It was procedure, after all, and with the Urgals army fast approaching Arya understood that there would be little time for anything but the necessities.
But the Varden's leader did nothing of the sort. Instead, using mugs borrowed from the cabinet of the nurse's station, Ajihad sat and shared tea while he talked with the recently revived elf. They sat together, Ajihad somehow still looking regal and powerful while relaxing in a ratty old chair and Arya sitting cross legged on the edge of the hospital bed, barefoot and shirtless but very grateful for the pants and sports bra that provided more protection than a the hospital's light pants and open backed shirt.
Ajihad spent well over an hour telling her of the things that had gone on since she last left with Saphira's egg. Everything from an incident where Coop, the one legged veteran who owned the Varden's traveling bar, had used his prosthetic to knock out the instigator of a drunken brawl, to the Ingeitum clan's recent efforts to restart production of small tanks and new artillery, was discussed. It was informal, relaxing almost, and for Arya it brought an almost desperately welcome break from the constant questions about her state of mind and the well meant but invasive queries about her captivity and torture.
The tea had long since been finished when Ajihad paused, the boyish grin left from telling of Coop's improvised assault fading from his lips. He steepled his fingers and settled his elbows on his knees before asking if Brom had told her about the current situation between the Varden and the elves. When Arya answered in the affirmative, an edge creeping into her tone, he simply nodded. He knew that she would do everything possible to put relations back in order.
Still. She could see the questions in his eyes.
He didn't ask them. Instead, Ajihad gave her sincere condolences on the deaths of Fäolin and Glenwing. He did not apologize for their deaths, nor did he dither on about what could have been or should have been done, but he recounted their strengths and character, how much they meant to specific people in the Varden, and how much their support had meant to him and Nasuada during the early years of his leadership. It was heartfelt, and held no awkward silence or uncertainty as to how to address their deaths. Ajihad knew the importance of acknowledging their loss, while also understanding Arya's need for privacy in processing their deaths.
As he took his leave, Ajihad pulled three objects from the pocket of his vest and gently folded Arya's fingers over them. The subdued gleam of two hammered steel badges, bearing the Varden's seal and hanging from black ribbons, met her gaze when she carefully revealed the gifts. Under them, another medal, plated in dull brass with a sky blue ribbon, detailed a wolf leaping over a wall of snarled barbed wire.
As she tilted the medals in her hand, Arya's breath caught in the back of her throat. Etched carefully into the metal so that they became clear when light shifted, the glyphs that she, Glenwing and Fäolin had chosen for the motto of their tiny special ops unit shined back at her.
With a sudden lurch Arya sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, chest aching.
Even in their deaths, Ajihad had provided Fäolin and Glenwing permanent proof that though they were not human, they would always be a part of the Varden. It was a thought that Ajihad turned to solid fact during his time as leader, ensuring that the elves felt accepted and trusted in the fight against Galbatorix. It was why losing him felt like losing a another part of the family Arya had found in the Varden's ranks. A family that was quickly shrinking as the conflict reached the start of it's crescendo with Eragon and Saphira's arrival.
At the thought of family Arya's mind turned to Nasuada. Barely into adulthood and carrying the same strength and wit that Ajihad often displayed, Nasuada's love for her father was obvious. The two doted on each other as much as they butted heads, stubborn and unyielding in their conviction to help the Varden despite the danger.
If only I had been faster. She still couldn't shake the sound of the young woman's wail as it reverberated through the tunnels. Even in the warren of passages that the Urgals had escaped through she had heard the agonized sound clearly. I should have used magic to drive the Urgals back. Then maybe Ajihad, Murtagh and the others would have gotten out.
Arya tightened her grip on the sheets, feeling her nails dig into her palms through the material. No. I can't do this now. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the lump in her throat down. Took several slow, deep breaths and settled back into the bed. There's too much to do, too much at stake. Doubt and grief can come later. We'll mourn later.
Right now, sleep. Then take the day one step at a time. The Council meeting tomorrow. Prep for travel back to Ellesméra. Keep an eye on Eragon and Saphira, make sure no one tries anything while we're in chaos. Make sure the Council doesn't try to steamroll Brom's advice.
She breathed in again, closed her eyes. Loosened the fists she had made and forced her tired body to relax as she let it out. The tightness in her throat hadn't gone away fully, and the heavy feeling in her chest remained. But it could wait. It would have to wait.
Keep on keeping on. It's all we can do.
Resigned to sleep yet still uneasy, the elf subconsciously rolled over in the bed and reached out for the comforting, familiar warmth of Fäolin's body beside hers.
Her hand fell through open air to land on cold, empty sheets.
Arya's eyes snapped open.
Brom rubbed his face, chewing once again on the stem of his empty pipe. Arya had banned him from smoking in the embassy, but he was in no mood leave his room, much less go outside.
A heavy shroud covered Tronjheim in the wake of Ajihad's death earlier that day. People were openly crying in the tunnels and crowded together for solidarity in their grief. The Rider didn't want to be drawn into it. Instead he preferred to reflect on his emotions and the events alone with a shot of strong bourbon and his pipe. Sometimes one or two close friends were welcome, but the number of people he counted as such had dwindled over the course of the war till less than a handful remained.
Brom sucked in a breath through the pipe, tasting the remnants of his years of smoking in the wood. He hadn't known Ajihad all that well, but the man made quite an impression on him the times that they had met face to face as well as when the two exchanged letters about the Varden. Brom found his decisions sound and his leadership to be well in line with the values that the Varden had been founded on. His death was a blow to the group for sure, both in a strategic sense and an emotional one.
The question of who would take over the Varden now haunted the Rider's mind. Brom had been almost completely out of contact for the fifteen years he watched over Eragon in Carvahall, never mind the handful of years he spent infiltrating Morzan's mansion. He had no idea who would be best to succeed Ajihad, but knew one thing: the Council was not to be trusted with the final decision.
Brom growled in quiet frustration. In his opinion a majority of the current Council were a bunch of power hungry, manipulative jackasses.
But still...the Council was an important part of the Varden's structure. Without them t–
Brom bolted to his feet, chair clattering to the ground as a ragged scream ripped through the embassy. The Rider was out the door and in the hall when a resounding crash followed not a moment later.
Brom staggered as Arya's door opened easily, fully expecting it to be locked when he jammed his shoulder against it. He stumbled into the darkened room and stopped, feeling a twinge of tightness in his chest as he took in the somewhat familiar scene.
Arya was sitting on the floor below a fresh hole in the plaster that hid the pipes and utilities anchored to the stone walls. Her shoulders, littered with angry red and raw scars that peeked out from the loose collar of her nightshirt, shuddered every few moments. Her left hand clenched over her face to hide her eyes while her lips pressed tight together to prevent any hint of sound.
Her right hand was limp at her knee, torn and bloodied. Deep bruises already bloomed at her first two knuckles where skin still remained.
Brom carefully stepped over scattered chips of plaster and sank to his knees in front of the crumpled elf. "Hey now…" Arya's jaw clenched tighter and she turned her face away from him at his soft words, still covering her eyes. "Don't do this, girl. We've talked about this." Gently but firmly, the Rider grasped the woman's left wrist and tugged.
A long second passed as Brom kept up the pressure, feeling the silent trembling through the limb until she finally dropped her hand. Arya looked up at him through the tears that streaked her face.
"There we go." He gave her a soft smile. Eragon was his son, it was true. But family reached further than blood, and he'd be damned if he didn't see the woman before him as his daughter. He had watched her grow from a small child, eager to fight in the name of her people, to a woman that now endured a multitude of wounds in the hope that her deeds would lead to a better future for all the races.
It wasn't the first time he saw her like this. Wasn't the first time he had consoled her after years, decades of pushing aside her own feelings for the sake of others, for the sake of the war, finally shattered through her carefully constructed walls. She had seen him the same way before as well. They both knew it was not likely it would be the last.
So he did what he had done before. What they both had done. "Don't hold back, girl. I'm right here."
Arya shuddered. Squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. But she didn't resist when Brom pulled her into his arms.
Instead she gave a choked cry, seized a fistful of his shirt, and sobbed hard into his shoulder.
(A/N: I've said it 10,000 times and I'll say it over 10,000 more: Brom is Everyone's Dad!
Also though Brom would be in and out in the middle and later years that Arya's been in the Varden, they're each other's support system now. They've both lost so much but know that they just have to keep fighting so they don't lose more. Plus they're the easiest for me to write due to having a better feel for them XD Anyway, cheers!)