Little one, you are being absurd, said Saphira. Just because she gave you that look, doesn't mean she feels for you.
Saphira, I am only being rational, said Eragon. I sent that poem to her home, and twelve hours later she gives me a smile. How else could you explain the connection?
She's had a burden lifted off her shoulders, now that she and Islanzadí have made amends. Or perhaps she is indebted to you for saving her, and she wants to extend her appreciation.
A smile like that, Saphira? It's fondness and affection. She knows it, and she means it. Just you wait and see.
A moment later, Arya knocked on the door of the treehouse.
"Eragon, I'm so glad to see you," said the princess, her face aglow and alive like the sun rising over the woods. "I've been waiting for the right time to tell you and now it's here, and you're here, too!"
"I've been waiting for this, too, Arya Svit-kona," he said in a swoon. "Er, I've been waiting to tell you something, I mean. I hope you received my—"
"Oh, then! You've gotten the invitation to our homecoming ball?" she said. "Oh, I can't wait for you to see it. There will be dances and feasts and speeches among all the nobles of Ellesméra—oh, I'm so glad you both will be there!"
All time and space went still and quiet as he stood there with mouth agape, and Arya turned on heel and went out the door. As his cheeks and ears burned and his eyes panged with tears, a murmur inside his mind said with a singsong voice:
I told you so...
Meanwhile, a fire was spurting sparks into the night when a bird rustled in through the plume, and the red-coated soldier who was warming his hands gave a start and raised his head. It wasn't a bird, but a piece of paper neatly folded and creased, flying in from points unknown. The bird's wings rustled open, smoothing out into a flawless sheet of paper that lay limp in his hands. Across its unblemished face, italic hand written in a tidy string of loops and dots.
I dreamt of you again last night,
I dreamt of you throughout the day,
I dreamt in silly stupid hope
That I could put these dreams away.
O damn these wayward thoughts and hopes,
God knows they'll never come to be!
But if I could ever be so bold:
O darling, do you dream of me?
Yours sincerely,
The man who longs for your heart
The soldier stared dumbfounded at the poem, his mouth hanging open. But without warning, his wide face lifted in a weepy smile, and he turned his head past the flames and down to the next tent but one.
"Oh, yes, Roland, I do," he drawled. "By the gods above and below, I do..."