Eragon walked towards the armory. Normally he would never set foot in that direction, but today, today he needed to see Frederick about the quality of weapons of the common Varden soldier. Perhaps if they could make them a tad sharper and lighter weight, then the swords would easily penetrate the tough Empire chain metal.

He neared closer and closer, basking in the grim surroundings after the battle for Feinster. Glancing around, he took notice of the elves standing about, Arya was no where to be seen. It was to be expected, she was mostly likely mourning the loss of his masters as well. For the past few days, he had stayed relatively to himself, letting few in. Only with Saphira's prodding did he go into public, and when he did, it was for a formal, short affair. This time, however, Saphira's anger told him that he should take on a longer task.

"Run! Run from the armory!"

Brought out of his thoughts Eragon looked up to see the commotion, only to see a blinding light erupting in the distance. Something had blown up. The building was shattered into pieces, his elven senses picked up coughing and signs of distress. Gleams of a large fire were seen from where he stood. He ran.

Calling the elves nearby, the Rider led them to the explosion in the encampment. "Jierda!" the door broke and he entered.

Bodies were splayed everywhere, a few were coughing, others nothing. But one particular woman caught his attention. He immediately recognized the raven black hair and customary leather for the elven princess. Rushing to her side, Eragon picked her body in his arms, surprised at how light a body with that much power was and made his way out of the building.

Little one! I leave you for two minutes and something goes wrong! Is that Arya?

Saphira was flying overhead when she heard the noise, and hurried over when she saw Eragon enter the burning building. He ordered some men to put out the fire, but his attention was captured by the unconscious elf beneath him. Prodding her mind, he slipped through her defenses.

Arya svit-kona.

No answer but she was breathing. Examining her body, Eragon realized the impact to her head from the explosion must have rendered her unconscious. Carefully taking her body in his hands, he placed his healing hand over her head and worked his way through healing the injuries. She stirred in his arms, but did not respond otherwise. Satisfied she was healed and unmarked, Eragon picked the princess in his arms and walked to her tent. The fire was nearly put out, with the help of the elves and the spellcasters. The injured were being taken care of, the dead…there could be nothing done about. Checking for guards outside her tent, Eragon made his way through the flap and placed her gingerly on the cot. He left after muttering a spell that alerted him when she awoke.

"Shadeslayer!"

He turned his head to the voice, it was Blodhgarm. The furry elf was part of the effort to contain the damage.

"What is it Blodhgarm? Arya Drottningu is fine, she will awake shortly."

"Unfortunately Shadeslayer, I have not come for that. I have grim news, among the dead we found your cousin and his wife. Your cousin was testing new weapons, trying to learn the sword, and his wife was accompanying him that day. I am sorry for your loss."

Oh, Little one…

The Rider stood dumbfounded at the elf's words. Roran…dead. After all they had been through, Roran was dead. Katrina, their unborn child…all dead. The fact he was able to make a coherent sentence only gave way to the fact he had not at all grasped the new information.

"Thank you for the information Blodhgarm. I will come collect the bodies myself and prepare for their funeral."

The elf almost flinched at his unemotional voice, it was not the aloof voice many elves perfected, it was a biting voice, a monotone voice, one that suggested he neither cared for the elf or his words. He turned to walk away but the stirring in his head stopped him.

Arya had awoken.

Are you alright now Arya svit-kona?

Yes, Shadeslayer, what happened?

An explosion, we saved as many as were alive when we arrived.

Did many die?

I do not know. Get some rest Arya svit-kona.

Where will you be?

Arranging my cousin's and his wife's funeral. I shall see you later.

He continued walking from her tent. His elven senses picked up the swoosh of a tent flap, but he dared not turn, he dared not look into the eyes that could read past every protective barrier he place on himself. Eragon knew Arya was gazing after him, her sharp eyes burning a hole through his head. It was the idiocy of love, the one in love thought the other a mystery, and the receiver of the love thought the other a book. He could neither hide from her, nor avoid her. But he would try his hardest.

Little one, how are you?

It has not hit me yet Saphira. When it does, I will come to you.

Little one, please talk to me.

I do not know what to say.

It was the truth, and that sent his mind blank as a clean slate. He went to the recovered bodies, Roran's and Katrina's among the five that had died in the explosion. They must have been close to one another. At least they died together. But they left me alone. A messenger told him the Nasuada was looking into the details of the explosion, but the funeral was to be held later that day. Many would come to Roran's funeral, he was fine captain, and a finer man.

He found Nasuada and asked permission to dig his family's grave, it would a last act of honor that he could never give. A slight tear formed, but she nodded her agreement. Taking a shovel from the nearby warehouse, the Rider went back to his tent, cleaning himself in the river, and placing the customary mourning black on. Even his shovel was blackened from the rust and spoiling metal. Saphira landed next to him, but he heeded little attention, she was already deep within his mind. Magic would not do him good here, Roran's burial would be done the old fashioned way, the way Roran knew for years. The way he was best at.

A crowd gathered around him as he dug away at the ground by the river. Many believed he was crazy, the elves did not know what to believe. The dwarves believed the Rider to have some absurd want for a tunnel, but only the men and Urgals stepped forward and expressed their condolences. The Urgals respected Roran, and the men loved him. He was a leader in all cases, an exemplary man that even Eragon could never follow. It was near sundown when the grave had been dug. It was rectangle, and larger than most. Roran had often said that he would never part with Katrina, even in death, and so complying to his words, Eragon dug a grave that fit them both, and their unborn child.

He let the shovel stand upright in the ground while he and some men in Roran's company followed him to bring their bodies. Roran was placed in the ground first, his eyes closed, his face in peace, probably at having his wife next to him. Katrina was placed next to him, her face in a slight smile, and a hand resting on her ever growing belly.

He did not speak when various men and women spoke about them. Carn about Roran, a Kull as well. Elaine of Katrina, Nasuada about both. Everyone looked to him for closure, but he could give none. Instead he picked up the shovel and began the long process of packing in the dirt over their grave. But that task was easier completed. Men and women that knew and loved the couple had raised their shovels and began helping the dead body's cousin. Even the Urgals helped.

When the grave was packed in nicely, the Rider spelled the grass to grow over the mound and from the center burst a variety of tulips, Katrina's favorite flower. He remembered Roran sneaking through gardens when they were younger to pick out the most beautiful of lilies, and so Eragon ensured he would never have to search again. The crowd around him dispersed leaving him and a few lingerers, but even they walked away leaving him alone with Saphira.

"It was a fine burial Shadeslayer."

Arya had come, why she spent her time at his cousin's funeral, he did not ask. He turned to face her, his face in a mask, his eyes revealing no inner turmoil, and his mind blank from the day's events.

"It is to be expected Arya svit-kona, I have had much practice."

His curt words were both short as unexpected. Sometimes even Eragon had a hard time believing how much he had lost. In the past year or so he had buried his uncle, his father, Hrothgar, Ajihad, Oromis, Gleadr, and now Roran and Katrina.

"Shadeslayer, I meant no harm in my words."

"Even if you did, Arya svit-kona, it would not have mattered. I must ask you to excuse me if you are looking for a conversation, I am simply…aloof at the moment."

Eragon stepped back and around her – he wanted nothing more than to fall in her arms and cry for the death of his cousin, but he had to become stronger. No longer was he a child to be coddled for his losses, the time for mourning would be after the man responsible for such destruction died. After Galbatorix died.

He walked away silently, never turning back, his stance defiant, strong, confident. His gait straight, lazy, powerful.

I am sorry for his world Emerald eyes. He is mourning and he has turned colder.

It is no matter Bjartskular, his actions are to be admired. His control of himself is something many elves do not possess.

It may be admirable in your eyes, however I see his actions as weakness. Do not start your protests Emerald Eyes. I did not choose an elf for a Rider. I chose a human, a naïve, loving, strong, human. I never wanted my choosing to turn him into this, he is cold and unemotional. You may think he simply does not show his pain, the truth is he is numb. He is suppressing his feelings, and that is weakness. I want him to cry, I want him to face his sorrows, I do not want him to become an elf. Forgive my words if they caused you pain.

Nay, do not apologize, I said it was something to be admired, but that in no way means I admire it. I enjoy his emotions, he taught me to feel once again, and I am not so keen on losing them so soon. I suppose my words did nothing to help him.

He does not need extravagant words, only those that show there are some that still care for him.

Eragon never seems to need any comfort.

Did you ever seem to need comfort?

No, never.

And yet you took it, his comfort as you looked into your past, and when our masters died, you looked to his comfort. You two legged creatures seldom seek comfort directly, but rather wait until it comes to you. It is baffling for a dragon, not that you seek it, but rather you continue to after a long time of waiting. But you two legged creatures are baffling for another reason. Even if it takes days to years, someone able to comfort you will always come along.

I suppose you are right, I shall go after him.

Nay, do not. He is not looking to be seen now, rather alone. In this state even I dare not seek into his mind, it is clouded and far beyond the limits of my own mind.

Why?

He is in meditation.

Meditation clears the mind.

When the surroundings are dampened with death, when the last of your family had just passed away, leaving you utterly and completely alone, the mind will never clear. It is an unfortunate fate – losing those you love to death early in your life, and then sentenced to killing the last of your bloodline.

I do not underst-

Murtagh, Emerald Eyes, Murtagh. Eragon is sentenced to killing his brother, to deal with the loss of being alone, knowing full well that the true reason of your abandonment is your own fault.

Eragon is not at fault for killing that traitor.

Is he not? The fact remains that when Murtagh expressed the desire to leave, Eragon convinced him to stay, and he was captured, tortured, and now forced to fight against the side he once would have died fighting against.

How can you blame him?

Blame him? I do not. And neither do I blame you.

How am I at fault?

It was for you that Eragon wanted help getting you to the Varden. And that day, it was for you that Eragon ignored his masters predicament and helped you slay the Shade, and today it was for you that Eragon left his cousins, knowingly or unknowingly, in the flames while he saved you. Are you at fault?

No, had I known, I would have…

Done things differently. It is no fault of yours, and it is no fault of his, but he feels guilt, as do you. I did not say this to upset you Emerald Eyes, only to see what wonders his mind is capable to thinking. It is illogical to say that he is at fault, yet his mind finds the logic. He is strong on the outside, but his mind and heart are being raged at. I await the day he will be overcome by his emotions and break, I can only pray that when it happens he will be surrounded by his few friends than many enemies.

I will go speak to him.

It is not the best time.

It is the only time, I will not have him break because of this. He needs to know that there are those who still care for him.

That does not provide as much comfort as you may like Emerald Eyes, be warned He does not need to know that more people he loves could lose their life in this war.

I believe you said he does need to know.

He does not need to know now, after a little time perhaps.

And does he?

Does he what?

Does he still love me?

More than you ever know. It was never a childlike infatuation, he truly loved you, that love does not leave so easily. He thinks of me half the time, and you the other half. He had never looked at another, and he has no notion of even moving on. He is happy in his miserable state of you being in love with you.

Will he never stop?

Would you like him to?

Arya thought to herself, it was a simple enough question, but with a far more complicated answer. The truth was she liked knowing that she was loved, but did she love that, more so did she love him. He had grown, there was little doubt. Grown from the boy admitting his love to the man that worked hard to keep his friendship. He was colder, and she was becoming more distant as well. Monitoring her actions over the last few days, she thought back to the aimless walkings in the forest, wishing Eragon was by her side, she thought of her casual walk across his tent, but her less than casual look at it. She needed his company, but was that love? He was attractive, and she forced her protests down at any notion of another woman pursuing him. Jealousy was not in her personality, but she still felt it gnawing at her when another of her gender battered her eyes at them.

Emerald eyes, I have lost you. Do what you think is necessary. I must hunt. Be careful of your head. My Rider healed as best as he could, but it still could be sensitive.

Saphira took to the skies uncaring the elf looked after her. Arya walked towards his disappearing figure. Meditating elves were not that hard to find, but Eragon was off her radar. For the life of her, she could not find his mind.

Saphira Bjartskular?

What is it Emerald Eyes?

Where is Eragon?

Near the river off of the cliff by the hanging tree not three miles from his tent.

Thank you Bjarkskular.

Once out of sight from the Varden, Arya took off running towards the forest. She easily weaved her way through the trees, surprised at how long it had been since she stretched her legs. It took no more than five minutes to come upon her destination, and she had not even begun to breathe hard.

Leaping from branch to branch, she landed softly on the grass behind the dark figure before her. Eragon…it was most definitely him. He sat, his eyes closed, his legs crossed, his body fluidly rigid – in itself a definition of grace. She delved in his mind softly, curious as to the reason why she could not recognize his mind before.

His mind was wonderfully unguarded, and so she slipped through without his knowledge. The faint sounds of a flute came into her ears as she delved deeper, thoughts of focusing on his breath first on his mind. She sought deeper, and the flute grew stronger and stronger, thoughts of sadness and depression the underlying emotion. Unsure of how far she could go, she pulled back a little, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she delved into the depths of his mind.

The first images shocked her. No longer was the flute sweet, soft, and relaxing. It was strained almost, its sounds shocking to any listener. Never had she heard a flute played harshly, rushed, but here she had. Behind the flute were the waves of the ocean, crashing against the rocks, the sounds of smacking water and stone frightening to any listener. The images were running even worse. Sights of Brisingr plunging into soldiers' hearts over took, the killing, the bloodshed. The sky was darkened, storming, lightning flashes reflected in his eyes. He stood before the scene, watching as the Varden and Empire raged around him, fighting, slaugtering. The outside of his eyes were covered in a blue ring outside the brown chocolate color, as if some dark promise of secret power, some dark attractive force, some mysterious pull to him. His mind drew her closer and closer to his eyes, finally breeching his defenses, going seemingly into his mind from the wall outside. And inside she saw pictures of brightly lit fields of Ellesmera, the thick trees providing a dense cover. And in the middle of it were two elves against a larger tree, beds of lilies surrounding them. She would have recognized the man from a distance twice that far. The windblown dark brown hair with some sun burnt light brown hair crowning him was unmistakable, but the woman she did not know. And for some reason, she felt the irresistible urge to never speak to the Rider again. The scene became closer and closer and Arya squinted to see who the woman in his arms was.

Her eyes widened in surprise, as the woman in his arms was someone she knew, knew all too well. She was staring at herself in his arms, her face filled with a happiness she never believed possible, a happiness that had long since died with the death of her father and her mother's ignorance. A happiness that rendered Arya unrecognizable even to herself.

Have you see enough Arya svit-kona?

She jumped at the sound of his voice, how he had known she was deep within his mind, she would not know. Most elves had no notion of it.

Forgive me Shadeslayer, I fell prey to my curiosity.

It is no matter.

"I only apologize that you are inconvenienced by what you have discovered. No doubt it puts you in a compromising position."

His cold voice hurt her, she believed that when they were alone at least, he would not be so unemotional. The truth was Arya feared she was losing his friendship as well.

"Arya svit-kona, if you do not want your thoughts to be read, I strongly suggest you leave my mind."

Alarm crossed through her, why did she not notice she made such a mistake? Why did she not pull out of his mind when he first alerted? Why Arya found his mind a comforting presence and so familiar to her was a mystery. She pulled out of his mind, feeling rather incomplete and empty without the comforting presence of his mind.

"What have you come for Arya svit-kona? Has there been any pending work to be done?"

"Nay, I simply came here to talk with you."

"Is something the matter?" His voice had not changed from its mask, its façade as Saphira had called it.

"Eragon, you need not apologize for my own mistakes. I did not realize you still felt that way."

"Forgive me."

"I do not mind."

"Surely this puts you into a compromising position, I am but a Rider in love with one who cannot return my feelings, my age and naivety causes for concern."

"Eragon…I – "

"I fear I must leave you now Arya svit-kona."

"We are alone, there is little need for formalities."

"I do not respect you in public only to disrespect you in private. In any place or time, you will always be wiser than me, a role model in all ways. Far more elder."

"Age means nothing when the experiences are the same."

"Then you miss some grievances in your life Arya svit-kona. I regret to inform you that I must retire for the night, taking care of Roran's and Katrina's will falls to me as I am the only family they had."

"Please stay for some time, perhaps I can help you with it later."

He stayed silent, but made no move to leave her side.

"Eragon for my sake, do not give me a formality."

"Very well…Arya."

The lack of a formality on her name seemed to break any inhibitions she had about confronting him. She moved closer, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I only wanted to tell you that I would be here if you needed a friend."

Eragon was breaking, his mask, his unemotional was front was breaking. Could she not see how much pain she was putting him through. He reveled in not feeling anything, and now just to feel comforted he was forced to break the steel walls he put on his heart. The pain by simply looking at her became more and more prominent. Was this what she wanted him to do? Feel nothing but the agonizing wrenching of his heart. His cousin was dead, for the love of anything holy in this world, his cousin was dead. Roran was dead, his last relative was dead. He could kill the king to exact his revenge, kill the king and pray that those dead souls would live in peace as he avenged them. But fate, how could he kill fate, who could Eragon blame for a freak accident like this? It was bad enough the most powerful man in Alagaesia was out to break him, and now even Fate is helping him do that.

Arya's rejection, his revelation that Brom was his father turned his heart into feeling as if his father died a second time, his masters' deaths, still fresh, and Roran and Katrina's. Who was next?

He laid his head on his arms, his knees up to his chest. Eragon refused to cry, refused to shudder, he was out of tears to shed any more. He felt her hand moving soothingly up and down the center of his back, but even that left a searing hot pain scorching through him. The sky changed under his ignoring of it, the once blue skies turned dark and black, and now opened their heavens and pelted him with icy sharp rain. Lightning struck the ground in the distance, thunder rolled the grass beneath him, and finally Fate was helping him cover his anguish.

He let the tears flow down his face, looking up in the skies and having them wash away. He was not happy, but perhaps things would take a better turn. If helping him cover his façade of strength was Fate's way of an apology, then so be it, he would not fight it.

"It is getting cold Arya, we should head back to our tents."

He lifted himself off the ground, surprised at how sure his movements were even with hot tears cascading down his face. His voice rarely shook anymore, his crying consisted only of tears left unnoticed down his cheeks. The princess rose from her position, critically eyeing his face. She moved to touch his cheeks but he recoiled as if a snake had attacked him. If she touched him, she would feel the sharp contrast and cold and hot, and she would know of the tears that shook him.

Arya dropped her hand, her face hurt at his refusal of contact.

"Good day Arya, until the next time we meet."

If there was guilt, he could not feel it for making her feel that way. He turned in the direction of the cliffs, obviously waiting, watching for something. Without warning he jumped. Arya screamed his name, running towards the edge of the cliff to see if he could still be salvaged. Alarm was evident in her eyes, but she caught herself. Saphira had flown underneath and Eragon was safely sitting on her back, his body crouched near her neck and one hand resting on the long scaly extension of her spine as he lay against her. If she was not mistaken, she could almost see Eragon's chocolate brown eyes watch her as they flew above the storm.

Arya turned towards her tent, it was cold and her headache had not let up much. Eragon…why had he recoiled at her touch, his back was open to her and he did not flinch, but why was he so adamant about his face? Why did he look up only when the rainstorm started?

And his eyes, his eyes were brown, a ring of blue, but red. The usual serene white surroundings were red…he had been crying. And he recoiled because if she touched his face, she would feel the hotter liquid against his face. She ran towards his tent, hoping he would be there soon.

It was surprisingly bare for a man of his standing. Clothes were filed neatly away in a bag like apparatus. A small mirror lay forgotten near his set of armor. He had one book, Domia abr Wryda, Dominance of Fate. How he obtained a banned book, she would have to ask him later. His cot was simple, a pillow and a blanket. The bed was more of a weave with thick pieces of fabric running through the lines.

"Arya?"

His voice held some emotion this time, one of genuine surprise. She was breaking his mask.

Without turning she began to speak, her voice melodious and full of the emotion she worked for years to keep contained.

"Your eyes were red, the only time you looked up was when the rain took your tears away. You jumped back at my touch because you knew that I would discover that you shed tears."

His voice had gone cold again, "And what of it?"

"My question for you Eragon, is why do you let rain comfort you when I was next to you? Am I worse of a friend than the stormy sky? You told me once that you would always be there for me, yet you do not trust me enough to be there for you."

"It is not a matter of trust Drottningu. I was simply not able to speak with anyone then, much less you."

"But you needed someone."

"And what makes you think that someone is you Arya?"

She stood staring back at him, unsure of what to say. Arya had not thought it from that angle before, was there someone else closer to him than she was. Surely she would have noticed. Why would she have noticed? Why was it the last few months she was paying closer and closer attention to each and every of the Rider's movements and actions? Why did she know it had been nearly five days since she last say him smile? Why did she know that his hand was clutching the shovel today as if it were his life?

"Arya? Are you alright?"

That question sent her into a different spiral. Alright? How could she be alright? She was an elf, a princess, over one hundred years of age, and she was still in a state of shock at his jumping off the cliff. In a state of shock enough to barge in his tent without permission or even checking to see if there were any wards up, which thankfully were not. Why had Arya felt fear, like a tornado in the Hadarac Desert, rise and fall in her, turning herself inside out when he jumped off the cliff? It was not customary for her to feel that particular emotion. Annoyance, anger, perhaps, but never fear. And not fear clutching to her sides, rendering her utterly useless, as it had today.

She thought back to Saphira's conversation, Eragon still loved her, but did she love him? Were these feelings as a result of her love for him?

"Arya, I do not think you are well. Stay here for a while, and I shall be back shortly to see how you are doing. Perhaps Angela can take a look at your head."

He was leaving…

"No! Please stay here. I did not mean to cause you any concern. It was a simple daze on my part." She took a seat in the chair opposite the bed and waited until he sat on the cot.

"Is there a particular reason you wished to see me?"

"Eragon, is there someone else you confide in?"

"I believe you know that I confide in no one."

"Not even Saphira?"

"Saphira is an extension of my mind and soul, we cannot confide in each other for we feel similarly. We are one entity, nothing less."

"Forgive my ignorance."

"It is no matter."

His hard exterior was bouncing back, he was glad she was here, glad enough to at least be courteous, but the reality of the situation dawned on him. Arya was hurt that he did not look to her for support with the death of anyone. He was harsh with her, he had no one, as much as he wanted Arya, he never would.

"Why will you not confide in me? Surely I can be a better friend than most."

Of course she would ask this question.

"I cannot tell you."

She raised an artisan's eyebrow, "Cannot or will not?"

"Cannot, my vow to you prevents me from doing so."

"Then I release you from it. The truth Eragon."

If she was willing to hear the truth, why should he hesitate to say it. This second rejection would be harder, if anything, he reveled in the fact that one day she would see how much he had changed and come to him, but that was not the case. That hope he lived in was set to be shattered today.

"Confiding in you as a friend opens up doors that are best left locked. My love for you has given me nothing but pain and sorrow, but I cannot stop it. Comfort from you, of any means, would only reopen those doors and I would be left feeling worse than when I was dealing with the pain myself. That is the simple truth, Arya, of why I cannot confide in you. I will be there for you when you need me, however, I cannot take help from you."

His frank answer surprised her, she knew he was in love with her, but to this extent was unheard of. He stopped talking, the most he had ever said to her in one sitting, and it was as if the melody had stopped in her ears. His mind was like an elf's multiple layers, music flowing easily from end to end, and it was not the usual screeching or soft music she was used to, it was loud, resonate, and peaceful. More elflike than many elves. His soul was surrounded by darkness, but his essence remained pure and good. His voice was deep, far deeper than elves' voice, the last remaining bit of human she saw in him. But even the human voice of his was overcome with a certain strength and confidence, something she was hard pressed not to be deeply attracted to. He was not a gentle man, his actions were not sweet, and but he exuded a grace hardly able to be mimicked.

Even as he sat, his body was upright and confident, his gaze sharp, but his features were fluid, his entire stance exuded movement even in stillness. He was like water, motionless to sight, yet every particle constantly moved within it.

There was hardly any hiding from her feelings, there was nothing she could do. Whether it sprang at her like a snake waiting for its prey or like the steady flight of a bird rising higher and higher as its wings grew stronger, she did not know. What she did know was that she loved him, she loved the Varden's Rider, she loved the man or elf in front of her with every fiber of her being so intensely that she was reduced to a catatonic state of being if he did not smile.

She lifted herself easily from the chair, her body movements fluid in their own sense. Arya heard the soft intake of breath as she walked closer and closer to him, reducing the distance to mere nothingness in her eyes. Bringing her hand slowly to his face, she ran it down – over the bridge of his nose, lingering at his lips, down the stubborn chin, and stubbled jaw. Her fingers traced his cheek bone and still he remained motionless, his chocolate brown eyes growing darker and darker as she continued her exploration of the artistic face she held in her hands. Her eyes trailed down his neck, a scar ran from his ear to the nape of his neck, a forgotten injury he let heal naturally because of his neglect.

"Arya, what are you doing?" His voice was strangely husky, but retained its strength and confidence, there was nothing that could make his voice quiver, not even the king, not even the object of desire of thousands of men, not even her.

Ever so softly, she brought her lips closer and closer to his, willing him to feel what she was doing, willing him to understand why she was doing this. Her body was foreign to her, inside all she felt was this unbelievable gnawing at her insides, as if there was fire deep within her core that spread through her entire being, that strangely caught hold of her heart and burned it, branding it as his, as Eragon's. She felt the pure raw need to kiss him, to call him hers, to be called his.

Rapidly closing the distance between them, she pressed her lips against his, coaxing him to respond. She expected anything from repulse to anger, even surprise, but he took a different route. She felt his hands rove over her body, lifting her up to the cot so she was better positioned against his mouth. And his lips…had a mind of their own. They opened, closed, pressured, and even nipped here and there on her own lips.

He was kissing her back, he could not even bring himself to stop, not even for a moment to think clearly of what they were doing. Her hands left a burning trail over his entire being, shooting electricity between their bodies, how was such passion possible between two warriors hardened the point of icy shards? But that did not stop him, he pushed her back on the cot, his lips never leaving hers, and his hands tracing the curves of her lithe body. Eragon imagined this, even then he could not fathom the enormity of their actions.

"I love you." Her voice was breathy, the words left her as if looking for release the entire time.

"Say it again." His voice was gruff against her throat, his teeth nipping playfully at her crevices in her neck, lapping at the rainfall still holding shelter there.

"I love you Eragon." She could deny him nothing, but she knew neither could he. Her hands clutched at his hair, burying themselves deep within the thick locks, disappearing from the surface. He kissed his way up her neck near her ear, playfully nudging and biting at her earlobe, and then he stopped, his breath ragged, rough, but never harsh.

Arya never found his kisses or actions harsh. He began again, slowly taking his time, kissing her, savoring the feel of her underneath him. He pulled back softly, his brown eyes gazing into her own emerald ones. She ran a hand down his abdomen, resting over muscled torso. Bending down, he captured her lips once more, his mood again, gentle and savory.

His hands framed her face and waiting until her eyes met his. "Arya…" And he broke into a smile. For five days she had wandered unable to see the phenomena before her, his smile, his wonderful, glorious smile.

"I love you Arya Drottningu. Love is such an insipid word for what I feel for you. Had you but asked I would have laid my life for you as I have laid my heart for you. There has never been another, there can never be another. I cannot promise my heart, I cannot promise something that is not mine, and it has not been mine since I have fallen in love with you. It does not beat for much else than to see you, hear you voice, listen to your breaths. I love you Arya, I always have, and I shall never stop for as long as I live." His promise in the Ancient Language was not to be taken lightly, but then again, neither was his love. The sun had sunk from the skies, the storm driving it away bringing in a rather early night. He moved off of her when she remarked it was late, but she made no move to leave. Instead the elven princess picked up the forgotten blanket and covered their bodies from the cold, and for the first time in a long while, she slept peacefully holding the man she loved in her arms.