Hey! I finished my homework early yesterday, unlike usually, when I don't finish until past ten. I celebrated by writing a lot of these. This can be looked at as a sequel to A Final Parting, but I imagined it as separate.

Saphira landed. Eragon dismounted, looking around in wonder.

We have returned, Saphira said simply. Eragon nodded.

Aye. It has been long.

Both had changed much in the century they had been away. Saphira had grown much, but that was the most minor of details.

Oromis had told them once that with age would come wisdom. He had spoken the truth. Both dragon and Rider had matured immensely. Eragon had learned to let go of the past, not dwell on what had already occurred. He had learned to remember the past, hope for the future, and live in the present.

Every lesson Eragon had learnt, Saphira had as well. She had learned to simply fly to clear her mind, fly when she needed to think. An answer would come to her soon enough.

"The last time we were here, Oromis lived," Eragon murmured aloud. He felt Saphira's silent acknowledgement. "Has it really been so long?"

Without waiting for an answer, he moved toward Oromis's hut. How many times had they sat there together, copying out glyphs or sharing a meal?

He entered the hut slowly. He ran his hands over the smooth surfaces lightly, gently, almost reverently. Brom. Oromis.

It was true that he had not known Oromis as well as he felt he had known Brom, but memories of Oromis's kindness and calm tutoring had always been comfort when he felt close to despair. The thought of Oromis had been how he had mustered the strength to leave his home and depart.

From within his bags, he freed a scroll. Unrolling it, he spread it across the table. He knew the words written upon it well. He had written them himself. Oromis had presented him with the scroll a century ago, when he had left Ellesmera to rejoin the Varden. Eragon had taken good care of it, refusing to allow harm to befall the last gift from his beloved mentor.

He ran a finger over the perfectly formed glyphs, the graceful swoops, staring but not reading, observing for what felt like hours. Then he rolled up his poem and tucked it away once more.

Oromis's hut was small, but Eragon explored every corner. One wall was filled with alcoves containing numerous scrolls, exactly as they had been. Though they had been his inheritance, left to him in Oromis's will, he had not come back to claim them. To him, they would always be Oromis's, never his. It seemed wrong to remove them from where they had always been.

He selected several, running his hands over the smooth paper, greedily devouring the words he had not seen in a century,

The sun had set before Saphira called him. Come, Eragon. Agaetì Blödhren will begin, and attend we must.

Eragon had matured, but even so, he felt a childlike stirring in his heart at the sight of Arya. She hadn't aged a day in the past century, and she seemed even more beautiful than she had when they had parted ways. Now he was wise enough to restrain himself around her. He could enjoy her friendship.

She looked at him. It seemed to take her a moment to recognize him. It was understandable. Much time had passed, and his elven features were even more prominent than they had been.

A smile graced her face. She ran lightly towards him, stopping a mere foot in front. She touched her first two fingers to her lips, then twisted her hand in front of her chest. She greeted him, then Saphira. They both returned the greeting, Saphira leaning down to brush Arya's brow with her snout.

Arya embraced Eragon, a surprisingly warm welcome. He returned the gesture. When she drew back, she pulled both over to a point deeper within the forest, away from the crowds of elves.

"How have you two fared?" she inquired.

"Well," Eragon answered for them both. "We've missed here a great deal. And yourself?"

A small frown creased her face. "Well enough, though ruling the elves is no small task."

"Ruling the elves?" Eragon asked. "Your mother abdicated?"

Arya nodded. "She grew weary of the throne some twenty years ago. I wasn't expecting it to be so soon."

Changing the subject, she added, "I must admit, I was surprised you didn't return for your cousin's funeral. I went myself. After your departure, I spent much time in the company of he and Katrina. She had asked me to teach her to wield a dagger and sword. When I asked her why, she told me that though the war was over, she didn't want to be defenceless again. I grew to respect both her and Roran."

"I wasn't sure whether or not to go," he admitted. "We were close as children, but it had been long since we had met. When I ran away from Carvahall, I damaged our relationship. It never healed fully, despite the fact he had forgiven me."

Arya was silent for a moment. "It shall soon begin. Come, Eragon, Saphira."

They followed her, slipping around the trees. Even after so much training, Eragon could barely keep up with Arya. She was clearly at home. Eragon had been away for so long, he had almost forgotten the forest he had once known.

She stopped and held up a hand, gesturing for him to wait. He did so, sitting next to Saphira, who was humming contentedly.

Eragon reached up to massage his tapered ears. The last Blood Oath celebration had transformed him. He could scarcely remember not having the speed and strength of an elf. He could remember labouring to perform tasks he now found effortless, but he couldn't remember how hard it had been.

He returned his attention to Arya. She was raising her arms, like he remembered Islanzadí had done, setting the red werelight upon the Menoa tree.

Arya returned to them, her face alight. She took Eragon's hand, pulling him along with her. Saphira followed at a distance, elves rushing to greet her. She spread her wings as wide as she could in the small space, stretching her neck. They stayed away from Eragon, allowing their queen to speak with him in private, exercising a small amount of restraint.

Arya took his hands, spinning him around in a circle. An elf rushed up to her to offer two goblets of wine. She took them both, handing one to Eragon. They both drank deeply. The rich taste made Eragon's tongue tingle with pleasure.

An elf at the front of the clearing was singing, a wild, lively melody. As she sang, a hand closed on Eragon's shoulder. Eragon spun, downing the rest of his wine. A wordless exclamation of delight was pulled from his lips, and he pulled the elf he had once hated into an embrace. "Vanir!"

Within moments, he was pulled away, losing sight of both Vanir and Arya. Now a elf covered in dark blue fur that he recognized as Blödgharm was presenting his offering...

"Eragon!"

He turned to see Islanzadí, her usually restrained features filled with mad delight. He began to greet her, when she silenced him, laughing...

Arya's offering was another poem, longer than what she had recited during the previous celebration, but of equal merit. Islanzadí sang, a song that sent chills down Eragon's spine, her voice much like her daughter's...

Eragon presented the elves with a series of scrolls, scrolls he had laboured over for years. They contained the best of the poetry he had written, the finest of the drawings and paintings. His artistic ability was nothing near Oromis's, but he made effort and gave time.

Arya accepted them gladly, with thanks from the elves...

Saphira had etched trees and flowers on a slab of granite, much to the delight of the elves. Arya and Islanzadí had thanked her for it together as the last two members of the elven royal family.

It's incredible, Eragon complimented her. She blew smoke into the air smugly...

He encountered Arya again, offering her honey cakes while eating from a bowl of stew. She took one, then turned to address Saphira, hair whipping behind her.

Arya offered her a goblet of faelnirv, tipping it into her mouth when she nodded eagerly...

I can participate in their revels without succumbing to madness, Eragon realized excitedly. He quickly relayed the information to Saphira, who laughed a low, rumbling chuckle.

Aye, we are just two more mad ones in the crowd, she agreed, snapping up a slice of pie someone had given her.

Eragon found himself between Vanir and Arya when the Caretakers began their dance. The day after the last Agaetì Blödhren had been the first time he'd ever defeated Vanir.

The elven women in front were dancing rapidly, the beat kept by the stamping of their feet. For the first time, Eragon felt something close to what he had felt a century before-alive, enthralled.

Arya took a small step back, murmuring something to Saphira that Eragon didn't catch. Saphira blocked that from him, refusing to let him know the words spoken to her.

May I not have my own conversations with Arya? she asked mildly. She is my friend, after all. If she wishes to speak to me, allow me to keep what she tells me to myself. If she wants you to know, she will tell you.

Eragon returned his attention to the dancing elves. Saphira was humming, a deep rumble. The dancing elves raised their voices in song, chanting in the ancient language. Eragon raised his voice in song along with them, not sure what he was singing, just that his words were weaving a spell.

His hand rested against Saphira's shoulder. His other sought out Arya's. She allowed him to take it in his...

Elves, human, and dragon spun in a circle around the clearing, hand in hand, illuminated by the crimson sky.

"You will depart on the morrow?" Arya queried calmly, dark hair tumbling freely past her shoulders. Eragon nodded. He gazed upon her, the beautiful elf he had once known. If a union between them had been unlikely before, now it was impossible. The elven queen could not have a Rider.

Eragon knelt, bowing before her feet. "I bid you farewell, my queen. Saphira and I must rest before our departure."

His tone was neutral, but his words tasted bitter in his mouth. He longed hopelessly for something he could never have.

He rose, taking Arya's hand at the same moment she reached for his. She squeezed it lightly, her emerald eyes filled with a melancholy acknowledgement of what could have been.

"My friend." Her accent seemed more prominent than usual with those two words, as if she was about to switch to the ancient language, a language with which Eragon was now more comfortable with.

Alone on Vroengard, he and Saphira had spoken only in the elven tongue. Sometimes he feared he had forgotten his own. Arya clearly knew it well, at least as well as he.

Arya took his face within her hands, looking deep within his eyes. He gripped her wrists. "I missed you a great deal, this past century. You shall depart when morning comes. A week after a century. Seeing you...it's been like taking a sip of water after being in the desert with none for three days."

She silenced him when he opened his mouth to speak, pressing a slender finger against his lips. "Go, my friend, I do not seek to stop you. But know that I love you."

And she sealed her lips to his.

The kiss was simple, seeking no passion, a mark of friendship more than anything. Eragon could feel that. But he didn't know what love she meant when she said she loved him. Nor did he know what he meant when he said those same words.

All he knew was that, even if he never returned, he would remember her.

Arya.