Full summary of the story:

Post-Inheritance, set fifty years after.

As the new leader of the Riders, Eragon and Saphira had spent the last fifty years in Alalea- the Elves' homeland; rebuilding what once was, and what will be. But when Fate takes an unexpected twist; Eragon and Saphira find themselves returning to the land they had once called home. Upon his return, Eragon realises that feelings do not change, nor do they ever die.

A tale of two kindred souls fated together, but destined apart
Separated by distance, but kept by a love that shall not depart-
A love that will outlast Empires; will always remain a fire,
A love that can never be forgotten nor can it ever die.

They look ahead and fly away
Hoping that ever still; Fate will find a way.

Chapter 1 - Prologue: A New Beginning

Fifty years had passed since Eragon Kingkiller and his dragon Saphira had set sail for the land of Alalea. Within that time, Alagaësia was restored to its former peace and harmony. The land was brought forth from the age of darkness, into a new era of light and hope. United by the sense of peace, all races came together in amity.

With power and strength provided by the Eldunarya- Eragon had sealed an irrevocable pact that also allowed Dwarves and Urgals to join the ranks of the Elves and Humans who could form bonds with the land's most majestic creatures- the dragons. Each race was content with the pact.

For fifty years, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, and her husband Murtagh- and this had been a cause for a land-wide shock- ruled the united lands of Alagaësia together. However, the peoples of Alagaësia had prospered under their rule and the quick judgement and bitter condemnation that people previously held in their hearts for the Red Rider gradually disappeared.

Although Nasuada and Murtagh were ultimately the rulers of the united lands of Alagaësia- divided; Arya Drottning of the Elves ruled Du WeldenVarden, Roran Stronghammer, of the now-prosperous city of Carvahall and the Spine, King Orrin ruled Surda, the Dwarven King- Orik, ruled Tronjheim and its remarkable surrounding cities, Nar Gazvhog, of the Urgals and Kull, and Grimmr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats- all ruled their races peacefully and joined in council and alliance of the lands and people of Alagaësia. With this remarkable unity, the land nourished and flourished. Fifty years of rebuilding and the land entered a gloriously golden era.

Eragon and Saphira Brightscales, leaders of the new generation of Dragon Riders, along with several of the Elves whom had departed with them, had rebuilt the original home of the Riders in the land of Alalea- a far away place located in the far east of Alagaësia. Upon their arrival, the elves, Eldunarya and Eragon were not surprised to find the land inhabited by other Elves. Such meeting was fascinating for both sides. The Alalean elves were astonishingly not surprised to hear of the atrocities commited by the previous tyrannt king Galbatorix. Through their connection with Alalea- which Eragon found out throughout the Alalean elves' knowledge- that it was a sister-land to Alagaësia. They were very much intuned to their land as Elves were in Alagaësia.

Alalea was a beautiful, serene land inhabiting a few hundred Elves- all of whom spoke the Ancient Language as a first language. Although, many of them were also familiar with other languages "other beings"- as they so termed them- spoke with. Eragon had perceived them to be highly knowledgable people, as gifted, graceful and beautiful as the elves of Alagaësia. Alalea was not exactly ruled by a leader, but Eragon instantly recognised the elf whom every Alalean elf regarded with the highest regard and respect; a male elf called Celebriän.

Eragon immediatey knew Celebriän was a significant figure-head. He had an authority about him that reminded Eragon of Nasuada's supremacy over the land, and Roran's determination and strong heart. He spoke on behalf of the elves of Alalea and had regarded Eragon with the same mutual respect and admiration. Eragon had been profoundly gratified by the respect.

The size of the Alalea was less than half of Alagaësia's, but there was no desert. With the arrival of the dragons, they initially refused the idea of having them reside in their land, but through the explanation of many concepts- which Eragon again, was amazed to realise that the Alalean elves had never heard of- the main one being Dragon Riders. The Alalean elves were peaceful people- for milleniums, they had experienced no conflict or chaos. So with the arrival of boisterous dragons and their Riders, they took a long while to persuade. However, with the help of their kin Elves from Alagaësia, the Alalean elves soon inclined.

Alalea's buildings were simple and definitely not grand compared to the likes of those Eragon recalled in fairths of Vroengard's- when it was still inhabited by Dragon Riders. However, with the gradual respect, amnity and permission of Celebriän, and more importantly the Alalean elves and along with the aid and support of the Eldunarya; all the elves and Eragon had reconstructed and rebuilt extraordinary buildings in which appeared akin to the ones of the olden days of the Riders. The Alalean elves were as skilled in magic and craft as the elves of Alagaësia's. However, in terms of swordsmanship and combat- as Eragon realised- they were barely incomparable.

But with the combination of Alalean and Alagaësia's elves' eye and thought for craft and design; glory and magnificence- as marble and intricate buildings- graced the land.

The main and the most grand building in the land was called Du Skulblaka Breaol, roughly translated into the common tongue as "The Home of Dragons". White pillars that reached over fifty feet high and expanded fifty feet across were constructed and they were so wondrously grand to behold. There were endless engravings on the hall's walls, from the entrance to the end; every dragon's name that ever lived – save for the Forsworn's dragons- were noted down in memory. In addition, narrow but long panes of window frames spanned one end of the hall to the other; providing daylight that always casted a warm glow about the building.

In the great hall of Du Skulblaka Breaol, hundreds of alcoves were carved on the walls. In these alcoves' place were the Eldunarya of both tamed and wild dragons who had survived the Fall of the Riders over a hundred and fifty years ago. In the spacious environment, the Eldunarya remained at peace and in contentment. Eragon, or any of the Elves or young dragons and their Riders who had since joined them throughout the fifty years of residing in Alalea, often came to the great hall to ask for advice or simply for company with the ancient dragons.

Throughout the land, huts and houses were built- in any fashion which suited and pleased the resident. However, Riders in training and their dragons had to live in the building next to Du Skulblaka Breaol. Several of the Elves who had originally left Alagaësia with Eragon and Saphira were also regarded as teachers on the land, although Eragon was acknowledged as the Leader. Through the guidance of Umaroth, Glaedr and the other older dragons, only Eragon could properly educate the hatchling dragons and their Riders with the right training. However, with skills such as basic magic and swordsmanship the other elves helped Eragon with.

Throughout the fifty years in Alalea, there had been a number of nine and forty Riders who came to live on the land. Out of the nine and forty, nine and twenty were elves- seven were female and eight were male, seventeen were humans- seven females and nine males, three were Dwarves- all males and three were Urgals- all males.

To Eragon's surprise one day, on his fifteenth year on the land- when the second group of new Riders arrived- one of them had been Ismira, who was Roran's- his cousin and his wife Katrina's daughter; therefore ultimately, making her Eragon's niece. The girl had been five and ten- the same age Eragon had been when he found Saphira- when she arrived in Alalea, along with her scarlet-coloured dragon, Latheria- and had instantly called Eragon Uncle.

Eragon had nearly choked when she had first addressed him with such title.

Ismira had dark, coppery hair- the same as her mother- and held a very striking resemblance to her too. At first, the girl was quite demure, again reminding Eragon of his sister-in-law Katrina. However, once he had gotten to know her, Eragon had then gathered that although Roran did not look a lot like her, they certainly held very strong similarities when it came to skills and personality: defiant, fierce and stubborn. Not to mention that Ismira also showed an exceptional skill in wielding a weapon- her favourite- a dual axe.

Eragon had smiled in amusement when Ismira engaged in combat with the weapon against another human male, nearly beheading him. She was slightly more graceful than her father, wielding the dual axes with swift and fiery fury.

In a short amount of time, he and Ismira had quickly bonded. Although Eragon treated her like one of his students, he could not also help in treating her like a niece. This show of favouritism had caused quite a jealousy amongst some of the younger Riders, and Eragon had since then attempted to restrain his favouritism from being too evident. As a result, Eragon insisted on her calling him Ebrithil rather than Uncle during lessons. Still, Eragon and Ismira shared a family bond that could not be denied. And Eragon rather enjoyed her company, as she strongly reminded him of his cousin, whose company he missed very dearly.

Entrusted with Ismira when she had arrived in Alalea was a long letter written by Roran. His cousin was profoundly saddened- and Katrina devastated- that Ismira had to leave them. However, through the mirror glass Eragon had long ago given to his cousin, he contacted them and let them know Ismira would be well looked after. And indeed she had been. Under his guide and family company, Ismira rose amongst her peers with flying colours.

Upon her fifth year of completing another Rider training, Ismira was allowed to go back to Alagaësia. In order to make her happy, Eragon had ordered her position there so she could be with her family. Ismira only had to return every several months or so to Alalea to resume her studies. Although a Rider could complete their Rider's training in four to five years' time, they never stop learning about new knowledge and ways to improve their skill- whether it be swordsmanship or magic.

Every day in Alalea, there was always the boisterous ringing of metal against metal, the explosion of vibrant magic against magic and the determined grunts of frustration and cries of victory of the Riders. In the sky, the mighty roars of their dragons echoed and blazes of fire lit up the sky in vivid, astonishing hues. On a particularly eventful day, the sky could appear like an eruption of dazzling colours. Ranging from bright yellow to bright blue, the dragons' scales had never ceased to astound and amaze their spectators.

Eragon was ever patient and diligent in his teaching. He was regarded as a kind but resilient leader. Although he was very young in years according to immortal standards- the knowledge and experience in his voice and way of understanding accounted for an unfathomable wisdom that made him sound seemingly decades older.

Although Eragon frequently walked the halls of Du Skulblaka Breaol, he and Saphira resided in the north-western part of the land. Overlooking the sea- due to a special reason why Eragon did so- he and Saphira had built a great house. The house had three fascinating layers; the bottom floor an underground fort that was inspired by the dwarves' construction, the middle floor and top floor was a huge tree fashioned and sung into existence- inspired by the elven and human construction.

The design was intricate; the tree and its long thick branches twisted and where some interweaved, left gaps that provided window-like purposes. Also inspired by the false impression of the buildings in Helgrind, Eragon had intoned permanent spells of some parts of the house that served as entrance ways for Saphira. Where seemingly appeared to be a physical obstruction, Saphira only had to fly into and she would then find herself inside the house. However- much to Eragon's temporary amusement- this had taken Saphira a slight while to get used to.

Much of the house's interior was again inspired by the Elves' designs. Wooden tables, chairs and other furniture adorned the rooms. Numerous fairths were hung on the house's walls; the painting of Iliria which was composed by Eragon's previous master- Oromis- was one such fairth. Others were of several cities, the village of Carvahall was the largest of the landscape fairths. It dominated much of the wall space of the house's living room.

However in the Rider's bedroom were fairths of a few people. One was of Roran, Katrina and their child Ismira- composed by Eragon on his first few days in Alalea. It depicted Roran's family happily, Ismira lovingly held in Katrina's arms and Roran's adoration and joy perceptible in his countenance. Another fairth was of Brom and Selena- Eragon's parents, which occupied the space next to Roran's family's fairth.

However, further away from the other two fairths was another. It depicted of a beautiful female elf- from the elegantly slanted brows and the delicately tapered ears. Dark, midnight hair cascaded down her shoulders, eyes a stunning emerald green that burned with concentrated and beautiful intensity and an expression that held such a strong fierceness that one was able to perceive the underlying defiance that graced her defined features. And yet, upon first impression, her warrior's fierceness was evident, there was also an undercurrent of vulnerability in the depiction- a gentleness that revealed her femininity.

The woman in the fairth was clad in black leather- a warrior's outfit and she held a stunningly burning emerald sword on her left hand. She was looking out, seemingly onto a distant expanse, her posture the epitome of grace and defiance- a female warrior. It was one the Rider Eragon cherished the most above all others. There was writing barely discernible on the bottom right corner of the fairth and handwritten in a neat, flowing stroke, it read, Arya.

Ismira, who was the only handful amongst those who had been able to enter the Rider's house had once questioned Eragon about the female elf, "Who is she, Uncle?" she had asked innocently when she first saw the fairth. Eragon's countenance had instantly acquired that of a sombre man. His eyes swam with deep sadness. There was a long filled silence before Eragon had deigned to answer, "She…is a dear friend."

The hesitance had been evident. Ismira pursued, but had appeared sad for Eragon and she asked gently, a question that could not be mistaken for its meaning, "Why are you not with her?"

Eragon had closed his eyes. If it had not been for anyone else apart from his niece, he would've ignored them and walked away. He was only ever going to say it once out loud, "Ismira, I regard my duty as a head Rider with such importance that I hold it above anything else." And that was all he dared say. But, much to Eragon's dismay, Ismira had held the stubbornness of her father.

"Can you not visit Alagaësia once in a while to see her, Uncle?" she had asked softly.

With a sad countenance shrouding Eragon's features, he had merely repeated, "Duty before anything, Ismira. I must stay here." Eragon had then walked away, leaving Ismira in an unsettling silence. Ismira had never asked of the female elf again.

Overlooking the sea into the west, Eragon also had a wide balcony that he was often seen looking out of. This had been the subject of the many curious wonderings of some of the Riders in training; although throughout the fifty years, none were encouraged to ask why; nor also asked about the marvel of the golden lilies that surrounded the house.

Although, when one of the trainees dared to ask one of the original elves who had sailed with Eragon from Alagaësia- they had simply given a response that hinted of a sad story of love. If one listened hard enough, songs in the Ancient Language wove into the air, carrying a melancholy tune which riddled the night. It brought a sense of unbearable sadness and anguish into the hearts of those who listened. Roughly translated to the Common Tongue, the verses were just a little insight to what epic love truly was;

"He looks not ahead, but deep inside,
Conflicted; he fights with all his might

He longs for what could never be,
But equally what could be

He always hopes, but ends up lost in thought,
Still of times that pain a-brought.

A tale of two kindred souls fated together, but destined apart
Separated by distance, but kept by a love that shall not depart-

A love that will outlast Empires; will always remain a fire,
A love that can never be forgotten nor can it ever die.

He looks ahead and flies away
Hoping that ever still; Fate will find a way."

So forlorn and dejected the Rider looked whenever he observed upon the sea ahead, that quiet songs were sung at night that spoke of a sad tale of love. And above, as always whenever the Rider was out on the balcony, his dragon, Saphira always gave a long mournful keen. For most nights of the fifty long years, Eragon Son of None, Shadeslayer, Bromsson and Kingkiller, was reduced to nothing but simply Eragon. Known as the master, the Leader of the new generation of Dragon Riders, Eragon had held no such titles on those one or two hours of silent observance and contemplation. Because in those quiet moments; he was merely a man:

A man the same as any other; what his life, his hardships, what pain and experience shaped and moulded him burrowed deep into his chest and into his heart. A man the same as any other; with vulnerabilities and weaknesses that were capable of crippling. As invincible, powerful and wise he may appear in circumstances that demanded his neutral and professional façade; he was no more beyond than in those hours. A man the same as any other; haunted by his past and memories that were fought to be forgotten.

For in those hours, Eragon had simply thought of nothing but her.

The Present

Images flickered in Eragon's mind, shifting, evolving and floating aimlessly. Incoherent thoughts and words wandered around like a cluster of clouds on a blustery day. Eragon's sense of emotion was numbed in his dream-like trance, seemingly swathed in a thick blanket. He could sense them beneath the insensitivity and he knew that if he opened his eyes, they would return. It was a particularly beneficial quality of a dream trance, for it provided Eragon with a sense of deeper peace and serenity.

In this state, Eragon could also perceive Saphira's mind under a thin veil that momentarily separated them. Saphira's mind felt incoherent and vague most of the time- like his. Although through their united link, Eragon could glimpse snippets of strange dragon dreams. Often Saphira dreamed of chasing her prey and flying in the glorious skies.

Throughout the fifty years as a mentor and lead Dragon Rider in Alalea, Eragon had found the dream-trance rest very soothing. And, as advised by one of the older Eldunarya long ago, Eragon had enchanted spells around his seemingly sleeping form, preventing sounds from penetrating his sense of hearing, although at the same time, also acted as a protection ward to warn him of any one approaching him. Eragon had found the silence provided him with better rest and as he did not entirely fall into slumber every time, he also used the time to meditate. The frequent practice had honed Eragon's mind to be precise and efficient once he came out of his dream trance. The practice had achieved him one of the most meticulously disciplined minds- even compared to an older elf. However, whilst Eragon was in the trance, he let his thoughts wander, like abandoned leaves on a rippled pond.

Eragon inhaled deeply and slowly, coming awake. From the prickling of his skin and his now sensitive and rigorously practiced sense of surroundings- Eragon felt the sun rising. Normally, he would wake up instantly, not revelling in the warmth of his blanket nor the additional minutes his slumber gained him. But today was special, for today marked exactly fifty years since he and Saphira came to Alalea to live. It was an uplifting yet also poignant thought.

Eragon felt his body thrum into activity as he finally stirred himself.

Like pieces surging back together, Eragon's mind was immediately cocooned into protection and order- as he had been practising for decades. Eragon stood up, leaving the warmth of his blanket and into the refreshing sting of the cold of a new day. Eragon's bedroom was large, although not overly luxurious or extravagant. He was content in his minimal furnishings; a bed- which ultimately what a bedroom should contain, a table, a chair and a couple of fairths had proven sufficient enough. However, Eragon's study was a different matter.

The study consisted of many paintings, objects and endless books and fairths, all of which Eragon had read over the fifty years residing in Alalea. His study was the biggest room in their distinctly designed tree house- excluding Saphira's.

Saphira had her own room- much to Eragon's initial amusement when they had first built their house on the first few years in Alalea. Initially, Saphira had refused such a "two-legged" comfort as she so termed it- but to Eragon's persistence- she finally agreed. Saphira's room was on the same floor as Eragon's, just located a few steps away from his.

To the untrained eyes, the house had no huge openings for a Dragon to access, although if one knew where to look; they would know that several parts of the house was enchanted with an illusion spell where parts of the wall appeared solid, but was rather in fact, not. A dragon- if they ever flew into these specific enchanted walls, would find themselves inside Eragon and Saphira's home. However, Eragon had fashioned the spell so only Saphira could enter and leave. If any other Rider and dragon dared do so without permission- they would find themselves in an… unpleasant predicament. In addition, from the inside perspective, where these "secret" entrances were located, Eragon and Saphira can clearly see outside.

Garbing himself in a navy blue tunic and dark pants, Eragon made his way around the house. Over the fifty years, Eragon's height had notably increased. Upon arriving in Alalea, his height had been- compared to now; a measly five eleven- and now he was the tallest amongst some of the elves (excluding the Urgals that was) residing in the land at six four. The growth had been a surprise for Eragon, considering that he knew his family had only markedly been around average in height. However, Eragon's hair was still slightly wavy and he always fashioned it fairly short. Eragon never let it grow too long, as it had always blocked his eyes whenever he sparred or trained. Eragon's hair colour had remained mostly dark, but now, it was tinted with a combination of a few shades of dark brown.

Over the years, Eragon's elven features had also altered slightly and had become more pronounced. His ears still remained tapered like an elf's and his brows were slightly slanted but not too much like so. His features appeared graceful for a human, yet rugged for an elf. Eragon's built both retained and maintained its sinewy and lithe form, but it had also remained evidently masculine. His muscles were hardened and toned through his extensive and rigorous training over the years. They rippled dangerously in his swift and yet also graceful movements.

Eragon's broad shoulders- a little wide for an elf but not wide enough for a large human- whittled down into proportionately narrow hips that gave his build robust strength, but also the swift agility of an elf. Eragon's distinct and ultimately very handsome appearance had received numerous admiration and flattery from the females on the land- although Eragon did not return any romantic interest. He would smile modestly and although Eragon had years to practice it, he could never properly hide his embarrassment at their praises. A tint of red would always colour his cheeks and betray him.

Though fifty years was a long time, one can never erase such a properly ingrained trait.

As Eragon finally collected his items and equipment for the day- his magnificent sword Brisingr and various bodily equipment, he made his way to Saphira- whom from their link, he discerned to be still fast asleep. He half-smiled at the mental sight. So gentle she looked, yet when awake, she could be as ferocious as a wild dragon.

Saphira had also grown significantly bigger. Her wings now spanned an impressive several metres longer. Her body, albeit still graceful and streamlined, was also considerably larger. As Eragon observed Saphira's sleeping form, the sun had significantly risen higher on the horizon- discerned by Eragon through the mirage of one of Saphira's secret entrances infront of him.

The sun had cast light on her sapphire scales. Eragon's heart swelled at the beauty of his dragon. Saphira's scales were more magnificent than any colour of jewels and the refraction of the light filled the room with dazzling sapphire hues. Eragon thought it utterly stunning. He smiled as he gently said, Wake up partner-of-my-heart-and-mind; a brand new day awaits us.

Saphira uttered a soft growl in response and opened one huge eyelid slowly. A soft plume of smoke jetted from her nostrils. Directly infront of her line of sight, Eragon smiled. Did you know today marks our fiftieth year here in Alalea, Saphira?

Gracefully, the sapphire dragon craned her neck back, twitching her wings and body as she stretched. The refractions of light from her movements and her scales caused Eragon to squint slightly. The sun had now gradually risen on the horizon, its warm rays blazing the sea ahead with its stark yellow light. It appeared like a splendid field of gold. Finally completing her stretches, Saphira leaned on her hind legs. The room was huge, but as Saphira rose to her full height, the room seemed to shrink. She smiled- as any dragon would come close to the expression- and responded to Eragon's earlier question with her own, Is that so?

It is so. Eragon confirmed rather joyfully and leaned against the wall of the room, looking out into the mirage gateway. Although not properly clear, the view of the room overlooking the sea slightly daunted Eragon at that moment. Traces of his smile faded, it has been fifty years since we left Alagaësia, Saphira.

Unbidden, Eragon's sadness washed over their link and Saphira regarded him with deep sympathy, I feel the longing in you to return, little one.

There were no secrets between them and Eragon allowed his admittance to become evident in their link. He sorely missed his home; his old home. Although Alalea was the true home of the dragons and their Riders, Alagaësia was Eragon's first home- not to mention, his family and friends still resided there.

However, through the wave of pain, there was a sharper and larger wave- a pain that caused the heart to tighten. Saphira did not need further observance to know what- or more precisely- who Eragon had been thinking of that caused the sudden intense anguish.

Although fifty years had familiarised her with the sentiment, Saphira could not help but feel the raw sadness every time at the thought of her Rider in suffering. She had learnt that words could not alleviate her Rider's pain, so she did what she always knew would at least comfort him. She sent him her profound sympathy and encompassed his mental presence with her own, like a mother embracing her child. Eragon responded in kind.

Although letters from loved ones intended for Eragon always arrived with each new Rider who came to live in Alalea- the main bulk of the letters being from Arya, Eragon still felt the unfathomable longing in his heart to hear her voice and see her face as she would if she spoke the words she had written. What they conversed of mainly consisted of discussions of the land- Alalea and Alagaësia's progression, and some notes regarding the inexperienced Riders who had just arrived. Although occasionally they asked of each other's welfare and safety, Eragon felt the distance as well as the years had forced them apart. Still, his feelings for her had never changed nor diminished.

Although Eragon had found a few females since Arya striking and beautiful, the elven princess- or Queen as she was for a recent amount of time Eragon spent with her before he left for Alalea- remained the constant core of his heart. None had captured it like Arya had, nor he had expected anyone to.

And not a day passed in the last fifty years he had not thought of her.

Eragon had suggested on several occasions on their letters to each other that she should visit Alalea sometime, but she had always evaded the question with reasons such as duty over the land. Although Eragon was pained at her refusals, he very well understood her for he was assigned the same enormity of responsibilities over Alalea. It seems as if neither of them will ever truly see each other again- at least, not for another several decades. The thought alone sent Eragon into a spiral of profound despondency.

It was in their mid thirtieth year that Eragon began to consider forgetting about Arya. In the several celebrations they had held on the land, Eragon had even deliberated courting a woman. Although try as he might at every occasion, the face of the woman Eragon approached would always transform into Arya's beautiful face. The illusion always confounded and pained Eragon and he had always chosen to walk away. It seems as if he could not rid of her. She was ubiquitous in his thoughts and Eragon was almost sure that she had taken permanent residence in his heart. And she had- Arya's true name burned heavily in his mind and heart, forever reminding him of the woman he loved and still does…

Into Her Thoughts

"Stay with me-"

"I can't Eragon."

"Stay with me until the first bend of the river," he whispered hoarsely. A tear rolled down Arya's face.

She was so, so torn.

Her overwhelming emotions had forced her throat to thicken, so she nodded, her lone tear now accompanied by others that streamed down her face. Everything Arya saw in Eragon's eyes- she had hoped did not reflect too much on hers. After all, she was Arya- cold, ruthless, emotionless. Facades were her forte. Yet, every single one she ever wore and used as a mask diminished in the face of Eragon's anguish and hers. Absolute, raw pain stripped her of any impassive expressions. Everything that showed on her countenance was a reflection of what she truly felt.

Fírnen's sympathy leaked through their link and as much as Arya cherished his comfort- it did little to ease the pain in her heart. A vague yet nevertheless sense of deep understanding passed between them and Fírnen said softly, My presence will be a thought away. Arya could not compose a coherent response, but she sent him her acknowledgement and profound gratitude. Although Fírnen's was now a part of her, Arya was grateful for the little privacy.

Taking Eragon's arm, she boarded the ship with him. There was complete silence, their footsteps lost in the night. Arya had forced her walk to slow, cherishing every second that she had with him. Noticing her gradual steps, Eragon too slowed his pace. Arya's heart tightened and just ever so slightly, so did her grip on his arm. Another tear swiftly escaped her.

This was what they had both decided- what they wanted. And yet…neither of them seemed to have wanted this. Every part of Arya's entire being screamed, cried, begged to leave with him, to finally live in peace after a hundred years of conflict, turmoil and war. But, she knew, dreaded, deep down that it was not meant to be.

As they finally walked to the prow of the ship- just to the side- Arya felt her chest constrict even more. As if it could not have tightened further. She restrained a whimper; Arya had never taken her arm off his. She treasured the warmth and strength his touch gave her. She did not know when she would next feel it. The heart-wrenching thought sent her deeper into a flurry of raw emotions. No matter what inconsequential part of her being wished for it; she did not also know if she would want to feel it from someone else other than him.

His name burned in her heart: Eragon. Arya had stifled a little cry as she saw the first bend of the river just ahead. Deep sadness filled her. Here they were- immortal; thinking their days and lives were endless.

Yet, time now pursued us, Arya thought despondently. For the first time in her life, time had actually mattered.

The waters were silent and flat- undisturbed and at peace. Like the surface of the sea, Arya's exterior was calm… but it was merely the eye of the storm. Inside, a furious battle raged on. A torrent of emotions, words screaming to be spoken and feelings pleading to be declared clashed violently within her. For another first time in her existence, she was at a complete loss of what to say or do. But, as much as she wanted this, as much as she absolutely, utterly and unconditionally wanted this; Arya's sane- or insane- part of her kept dragging her back to reason and duty. Damn him for this! Arya exclaimed in her thoughts, torn between yelling at him, and yet at the same time, hold him close until the sun rose and set.

And for everyday that would have followed.

Arya's chest constricted to the point of near unbearable pain. The first bend of the river had finally arrived. Eragon turned to her, his eyes- as bright as diamonds, yet also tinted with warm brown- gazed upon her with an unfathomable, burning intensity. Eragon's voice was thick, sending waves of profound emotion crashing through her. Arya knew what he was going to say- she felt it in her mind and heart. It soared at the mere thought of hearing those words. But how can it fly when it was slowly breaking into a million pieces?

Arya bit back a small whimper, restraining the anguish and pain to escape her lips. She was trying so hard to hold herself together. Don't you dare break, she warned herself.

She was failing.

"Arya…I," Eragon began gently…

But- as much as she desired, needed to hear those words, Arya forced herself to stop him. To stop him before he won the game they had both been playing for a long while. And, it was a dangerous game- for the price was their hearts. Arya's was on the line. All it would have taken were those three damned words.

So, she gently placed three of her fingers upon Eragon's lips and held them there until his eyes locked with hers. She wanted to say those three words. Those three words that would both shatter their worlds; those three words that they both desired and yearned to hear; those three words that Arya wanted to hear.

But… she could not. It would break her too much. A deep, unfathomable grief swept through her, searing Arya's heart with absolute and raw pain. She gasped and then inhaled shakily. Eragon's eyes were heart-breaking glimmers under the moonlight. Those soft hazel brown eyes were gentle, delicate. But, his gaze soon turned into a scorching star. Inferno sparked within her body, igniting the passion and… love she had for him. Arya had never wanted anything so bad, so desperately. Eragon looked at her a little longer- he knew the answer, but they both wanted to see who would break it.

Arya conceded.

They could not. She could not.

Perhaps in time… and when that time arrives, Arya would pour out all her love to him. Within herself, she resigned with heavy defeat. In that moment, she realised she had lost the battle. Her heart shattering into a million pieces, she whispered gently, "Farewell, Eragon Shadeslayer."

Arya could endure long and exhausting runs, yet one measly step took every ounce of her strength. She held his gaze- the burning, the intensity, the raw pain remained between them. It needs not to be voiced; it was simply there, out in the open. The gaze was intimate- Arya felt as if she was baring his soul. And hers. She was both terrified and thrilled by it. Arya strongly resisted the urge to take back her step and run into his arms…

Instead, she raised her right hand to the sky. Another tear streamed down her face. She forced a small smile, but failed. Eragon saw this and returned the same expression she wore. Arya saw the pain contorted his features and his lips had set in a tight line. Tears rolled unashamedly down his face and that was enough to deliver the final blow to her heart. There was nothing more painful than a broken heart. She felt the raw pain shudder through her entire being and it was beyond incomparable to any emotion she had ever felt.

Arya felt the wind around them. Fírnen swooped down and she caught his claw. The force took Arya upwards- away from Eragon. He held her gaze as she hovered above the ship, never wavering against her stare. Arya saw his tears- still diamond clear- glistened under the melancholy moonlight. As distance increased between them, so did her pain. She finally lost his gaze and he, hers. But she continued to stare at his outline on the ship, where she could see he still remained frozen, unmoving. Until they were far away, enough that she could no longer see him, Arya finally closed her eyes.

Somewhere, she heard singing. She felt deeply attached to the words, and although she thought the melody beautiful, the lyrics sent her further into a state of unreserved torment;

Away, away, you shall fly away
And never return to me.

As Arya listened to the words, felt the melody interweave within her, as if embracing her- she finally succumbed to the pain. It engulfed her in one fierce wave, rendering her speechless, helpless and hopelessly powerless. But through the intense tumult, Arya felt a clear light piercing through the fog and storm of anguish. A single thought of him and with everything she was feeling and she had, she poured her intent to the words as she whispered:

Eragon's True Name.

She uttered it ever so gently, ever so softly, letting the breeze carry it, hoping that far away Eragon will feel a part of her with him.

A mere second later, Arya felt a shudder run through her body. A delicate touch; a gentle, intimate caress. In the soft silence of the night, Arya heard her name, her True Name. It wrapped her entire being, encompassing every corner, every deep confines of her mind that no one ever reached nor dared to. It was intimate beyond anything she had expected, as if their souls had touched. She treasured the feeling. And that moment- that single extraordinarily beautiful and fleeting moment- she would remember for eternity.

[...]

…And ever since their goodbyes at the lonely edges of the river, Eragon had never once uttered her True Name. He dared not.

But, as the fiftieth-year mark burned strongly in his mind, Eragon considered. He wanted to say her name, feel the words roll of his tongue in a soft cadence. It was not merely for the sake of saying her True Name, but also, Eragon was ever curious- as was his rooted nature- to see if Arya had remained the same person she was. Fifty years might not have been very long for an immortal, but Eragon knew that it was enough time to change someone's True Name- whether intentionally or not.

Eragon sighed- caught at the thought of thinking of Arya again. He truly did not know how to rid of her. Fate pushed them apart, yet at the same time, it seemed to want them together. Eragon almost smiled. Would he be doomed to a future where he had her in his heart, but not beside him? It was a daunting thought, but one Eragon also- albeit sadistically- hoped to be true.

After all, he only wanted Arya. Only her.

Eragon shook his head again. It was still the beginnings of a new day and what was his head in?

In a cloud that has been wandering the skies too long, Saphira said with some slight amusement. Yet, Eragon immediately saw the truth in her words.

Still, Eragon smiled and asked gently, how can you tolerate it, Saphira? In every waking and fading moment, she wanders my mind.

Saphira had moved from her previous position minutes ago and she was now looking out into the open sea ahead with Eragon. They stood side by side. I would say that in a way, she has become a part of us, said Saphira softly, I do not blame you, nor do I want any guilt to befall you little one because she has done so. I understand how you feel for her. A small pause. But the blame of not thinking of your beautiful and majestic dragon all the time falls heavily on you.

Not expecting the amusing comment, Eragon laughed. A whole-hearted, carefree laugh. He responded with the same level of mirth, I apologise, o-magnificent one. I shall keep thy thought in thine head for every moment in eternity.

Laughing together, both Rider and Dragon felt jovial at their exchanged jesting. The fifty years together had brought them even closer and Eragon always cherished his dragon's company.

Eragon inhaled deeply. So, a new day awaits us. And not only that- today is also a significant day for us. What say you on how we begin it?

Saphira held her neck back in a swift movement and in response to Eragon's question; she roared joyfully, we fly!

ExA muse song for this chapter:

And the shadow of the day
Will embrace the world in grey
And the sun will set for you

-Shadow of the Day by Linkin' Park.

~Rocket