AUTHOR'S NOTE: So it's been a really long time since I've written anything, but with the recent release of Inheritance, I decided I had to do something. I felt like the final scene between Eragon/Arya needed something more (well, in truth, they should've ended up together...), so I added a little something in between two passages on page 848. Italicized is Paolini's writing. Enjoy!

"Arya," he said. And he whispered her true name. A tremor of recognition ran through her.
She whispered his true name in response, and he too shivered at hearing the fullness of his being.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but Arya forestalled him by placing three of her fingers upon his lips.

The light pressure of her slender fingers consumed him, cold and delicate as a spiderweb. He fought to retain control over himself, restraining the desperate yearning that nestled under his skin. He wanted nothing but something that came at too high a price, and he knew he had no authority to desire it. Still, as he lost himself in the art of the emerald in her eyes, his responsibilities and worries slipped away. He began drowning in her existence, succumbing without caution, without shame. Aware only of her presence and her light, he burned for her, desperate to assert his dominance over her as much as he wanted to sink to his knees and revere her. She removed her touch, and for a heartbeat, his world turned gray and lifeless.

And then with a swift, aching movement, she kissed him, her lips hungrily reaching for his. Storybooks had spoken of the sweet fragility a first kiss possessed; theirs was instead one of reckless abandon and an infinite, violently colored passion. It was painful and right and alive, and left them both breathless. This was what their lives had been meant for; this-not the death of Galbatorix nor the crowning of Nasuada nor the discovery of the third Rider-was the denouement of their journeys, this effortless, singular moment in time.

She pulled back slightly, and his heart stuttered. "Stay with me," he whispered to her, his words drenched with vulnerability and a flicker of hope. Her eyes reflected his own, and in their depths he saw an endless amount of devotion cradled in an unparalleled sadness.

"Eragon," she murmured, and he heard the helplessness in her voice, understood everything she wanted him to understand in the three syllables of his name. He knew that in another time, another life, perhaps, she would have given everything to him, would have let herself go. But this was Arya, and he knew that she had to leave him and return to the elves; if he kept her now, she would grow to resent him. She had given up too much for him, and now it was time for him to honor her independence and repay his debt. He would wait for her as he had done before, though there would be no pain this time-he knew now that her heart was his. Maybe she would come to him when her time as queen was over, or maybe one day he would return to her and prove his prophecy wrong. Either way, he was certain there was a future for them, and he would wait for that day.

"I love you," he said, softly yet shamelessly. Salty tears pricked at his eyes, but he clutched his composure tightly. This was not the end.

An intimate silence encircled the two of them for a few, brief heartbeats. Then Arya spoke. "And I you."
Despite Eragon's efforts, a tear streaked down his cheek at her words. They had had the ability to make him ache, powerful in their quiet, regal simplicity.

Ever so gently, she kissed the crystal drop on his face.

She stepped back from him then and raised one arm over her head.
"Farewell, Eragon Shadeslayer," she said.
And then Firnen swept down from above and snatched her off the deck of the ship, buffeting Eragon with the gusts of air from his wings.