The notable "intoxication" scene extracted from the chapter By the Banks of Lake Leona in Inheritance. Page 342, to be exact, where our dear author, Christopher, indulges us readers with a very eccentric outlook on mourning. Oh yes, nicking a fallen comrades drug-induced liqueur and quenching your grief as well as your thirst is highly gratifying apparently. So is dancing. Sociably, it is more so recommended and widely conventional between two infatuated and impassioned individuals who act on nothing of their own desires until their lonesome hour of separation, OR, when they're intoxicated on said comrades drug-induced drink of delights. Like now, for instance, with a few, shall we say, heated tweaks of my own. It's long, very long, but worth it in the end, I hope.

Need I explain further? Of course not, this is 'M' for Christ's sakes! (Sincere apologies to any christens out there)

UNNECESSARY WARNING: STRONG SEXUAL CONTENT LIES AHEAD. YE BE WARNED!

Creative muse:
Clint Mansell – Earth Music 2 (kudos to the Mass Effect devotees out there!)
Clint Mansell (again) – Stay With Me
Agnes Obel - Riverside

Disclaimer: I do not own the original or distributed works of Christopher Paolini, but he should envy my creative genius for placing his characters in those rather delectable scenarios that he himself can never do. Not on paper, that is.

Down By the Riverside
Oh my God, I see how everything is torn in the river deep,
And I don't know why I go the way,
Down by the riverside.

Agnes Obel - Riverside

He observes her beneath the fickle luminosity staged by the small waver of firelight suspended above their heads. And alas, through every large and lesser memory he held of her, he could not recall seeing her in such high morals until this moment. Bearing witness to her wakened emotional state now, Eragon faintly divulges his amusement in the small revelation as his clearly enrapt stare angled curiously over Arya.

His sensibility eluded him entirely as he did so. Watching her, seeing her, beholding her within a light unparallel to anything he'd noted previously. What little forethought that had arisen beyond the veils of her enthralls were later destroyed and forgotten. There was no opportunity to consider his rationality, nor were there any inner-quires to his actions. Her presence permitted him the luxury of comfort, and he'd sooner relish it and savour its warmth then consider his actions.

He wanted to watch her.

The sensations will wear off by dawn… he recalled her mentioning, a smile underlining the very musical core of her gentle voice. It seemed so long ago now, mere seconds seeming minutes as they tolled by ceaselessly without purpose. Fragile instances such as these, however, could persist to the very trimmings of the era, for all he cared. Nothing, as it were, seemed apparent. There was only them, an unlikely pair fated against the pities of a warring nation.

"Do you think it odd," he began, eyes straying precariously away from her now and levelling to the linen walls of his pavilion, appearing strangely bemused. "That we, two rather strong-minded individuals, are seemingly pitied upon anything and everything perilous in this world, and yet," he shook his head comically, subduing his sensibility and choosing to stare at her once again. "And yet when others fail, we live."

With the pad of her index finger delicately tracing a jagged fissure over one of the five wooden poles of his quarters, her curiously optimistic eyes observed him within the dimly lit pavilion. Her raven hair, save for a few loose strands, was pulled back and tied. Her head, though not wavering in the stupor of the elven drink, leant offhandedly against the pole as her finger continued to pry the wood, and he was remiss not to stare. The ashen firelight that flickered above them afforded him the delicacy of noting her disposition. She exuded a stirring calmness unlike any sentiment renowned previously. Perhaps it was the liqueur, he conjectured, but regardless…

And then she smiled, a minor but tempting allure that provoked him into a small forgetfulness. "Do you query our continued existence, Eragon?" Although she questioned him, her latent amusement in the matter ferried into her words just as easily as it had entranced him.

"My quires are endless." He replied.

"And do you, perchance, intend to query everything that falls in your favour, perhaps?"

"If not for its peculiarity, no." A reclusive sigh fell pensively from his lips. A gentle radiance fell over him. The warmth of the firelight along with the comforts of her companionship delighted him to no avail. Nothing was out of place; everything was ablaze in both thought and feeling. He sighed again, knowing quite well that he'd merely performed the same gesture but a moment ago. He too, though brazenly, afforded a smile. "Perhaps I am simply too… curious… as to why we live whilst others seem fated to die."

"A strange curiosity."

"And yet befitting for one such as myself, I think. Again, curious though, is it not?"

Her brow peaked ever-so slightly at the small insinuation, a small motion Eragon thought intriguing. As she regarded him lightly, however, and nonetheless fascinated by his eccentric temperament, her wary but cunning poise regarded him until she, too, sighed. "Somewhat."

A smile. "Somewhat," he repeated, more so for its value than for its taunt. His smile, though forced, never wavered. In fact, it lingered almost crossly, even as he watched her, and she him. Let it be her, he thought warily; let it be her to shed amusement in a time of mourning. Let it be her to procure the capacity of sensibility amongst those insensible, even if, be it now or ever, even if neither one them were being remotely sensible now, albeit somewhat cautiously. It was her temper, he concluded silently, her character. "Dare I say," he said now, coyly as though to deliberately elicit a negative reaction. "That you're lying." It wasn't a question.

Arya asserted a concentrated disposition, looking conclusively and profoundly into the inquisitive gaze of Eragon as she studied him carefully. "And I think you're jesting at truths you can neither see nor grasp." She said simply.

"Will you acknowledge a truth then if I asked it, perhaps?"

"That is dependable."

"Oh?" He tilted his head in question. "And, pray tell, what might they be dependent on?"

She neither flinched nor paraded hesitance under his careful scrutiny, but something… a unanimous whisper that could not be heard, something in her furtive stare held him overbearingly and without motion, even if it was he who initiated the question. He released a heavy breath as her mouth opened to murmur an easily conceived ploy to initiate another taunt on her part. "You're curiosity."

He inclined his head thoughtfully. His shrewd acknowledgement drew out a thin, wary smile from her, and he was astute enough to comprehend the taunt beneath her careful prose as her lucid eyes held him without sway. He was florid, amassed upon a pillar of both enlightened thoughts and feelings, which grew evidential by the small but satisfying sensations brimming throughout his body. The faelnirv, a particularly potent Liqueur he initially despised, had soon beset his mind as well his body. Mentally, physically, and by the drinks concoction, spiritually, he was alight. Despite this, whatever haziness that sullied his mentality, still he stared at her. Still he watched her. He could see her perfectly, completely, naturally…

He heard her shift suddenly, but as his heavily glazed eyes fell languidly over the gentle commotion, he perceived only Arya, naturally. She had merely shifted to indulge herself in another drink. He shook his head, but not before Arya inclined her head questionably and later handed him the flask. And then he too, despite feeling the numerous, if not, uncanny, effects of the drink already, gladly accepted and drank from the flask. His throat burned, his fingers prickled abnormally, and a shiver fell coolly over his feverish body. The feeling was beyond comprehension.

Blinking vapidly, he shook his head as he laboured to steady his hoarse breathing. His vision blurred, something he vaguely anticipated, but still it caused him innumerable spots of haziness. Singing… he thought he perceived singing…

"You should not drink so much."

A laugh, a cunning chore on his part, even as Eragon worked to rally his wits; it was difficult to even open his eyes. His head seemed to sway numbly, torpid and aloft, as he began to feel things within an altered effect. The world around him bent as his vision pitched back and forth between shadows and fragrance. "Am I," he shook his head, "Am I poisoned…?"

She murmured, and by the elusive chill that prickled his feverish skin, he thought she'd whispered it over his ear. Whispering from behind. What…? His blood seemed to rapture thickly beneath his skin.

"Breathe…"

A voice of unflappable poise and serenity attracted his attention. Her voice consoled him. Arya's voice consoled him. Singing… he thought he perceived singing… was she singing? No… Again, feeling now a sudden reanimation fulfill his physicality, he shook his head, and followed Arya's astute advice. He breathed.

Feeling reassured, a gentle light fell over him. Wayward particles of the haziness began to disperse, and when at last to he gained some clarity over his mentality, he noted that Arya hadn't moved. She had not bestirred and fixated herself behind him to whisper nonexistent things in his ear. It had, as it seemed, been in his mind, an illusion conceived by his wavering state of rationale. For there she was, leaning drowsily against the wooden pole and watching him still. She had not moved.

The smile playing upon her face stirred his line of thought purposefully, covertly, and without measure. A mere look underwhelmed him, and perchance, as he nimbly observed her unpredictability, he thought her cunning. Barely an hour ago, when he found her perched against his pavilion after the burial of one of their kinsmen, Wyrden, and holding a retrieved flask of faelnirv from his possessions, he hadn't known what to think of her motives. He thought she would be weary and mournful. But thereupon, when she offered him a drink, and in turn, her companionship, it confounded him more so than it intrigued him. Regardless of suspicions he may or may not have held, the invitation had been extended by Arya, and who was he to discard it?

Time eluded them momentarily as they conversed unreservedly. However astute they were, the peculiar sensations that came with one drink after the other still quivered fervently throughout his ligaments. Some words were distorted, others were forgotten entirely, yet still they spoke of things neither one of them would have voiced in the past. He spoke of his childhood, she spoke of hers. These sublime and magnificent feelings sported by her willingness to share stories afforded him the luxury of exhilaration. They elevated him from all apprehensions and suspended his mind from anything in regards to such feelings. She alleviated him entirely, but would she ever know?

"How fares your mind?" She asked. Her voice subtly conveyed a gentle concern for his wellbeing, and yet however timid she was, the manner of her disposition said otherwise. Despite her small trepidations, still her face exuded merriment. It seemed nothing, not even her own fears, could sully her renowned vibrancy. Regardless, she had asked him out of the morality of concern, and this pleased him immensely.

His eyes remained carefully fixated as he watched her. "Vague." He sighed assuredly with a small smile playing upon his lips when he noted her impassiveness. "Why is it you ask?"

Wavering somewhat against the pole, she closed her eyes for a scarce moment, as though pondering some inexpressible notion that he couldn't perceive. And when at last they slipped open and angled ever-steadily over his own once more, she gave a taut wave to dismiss his deliberations. "Merely intuition."

"An intuition that permits you to carefully scrutinize my every subtle twitch and budge?" he asked modestly, albeit somewhat shrewdly.

But her simple nature revealed little of her cares. "More or less," was her only counter in the matter. She intended for him to question her implication. However coy he was, she did not seem to notice. That, or she merely held no quarrels about it. He knew his first assumption was vain, for this was Arya, one of whom disregarded nothing in the face of a challenge. Every feasible detail, any delicate and restrained motion. Whatever reference that eluded others would catch her attentive sight. A ploy would go noticed and never without acknowledgement. No, he thought conclusively, she was simply teasing him… yet again.

"Perhaps," he said finally, declaring candidly. "You are merely inquiring about my state of mind because you think me feeble, yes?" He crossed his arms to assert his opinion, blinking. "You think I cannot hold my own when faced with drink?"

"Not at all."

"So, it was merely… intuition, as you called it?"

Another smile, faint, but there nevertheless. "Truths you can neither see," she piqued, "nor grasp."

He grumbled irritably. "And I despise riddles."

"Curious though, is it not?" She repeated softly, repeating his words, words he had spoken of earlier. She allowed them to tentatively seep into his rationale and assert themselves upon his confusion. She'd known, he concluded, she'd known he'd asked that merely an hour or so beforehand. Another taunt, another jeer at something incompressible.

Exhaling loudly and wavering somewhat into the budding sensations of his exhilaration, he shook his head. "Now you're simply teasing me." Again…

Her torpid eyes, falling within a quiet stupor of unexpected disorientation, suddenly alleviated and fell over his. They lingered without sway, half-lidded and enthralled. And then, once again, her face thinly lit up as she smiled evenly before murmuring, "I am."

She looked diligently over the flask of faelnirv in her lap, unfitted the stopper, and proceeded to have another mouthful. He watched her adamantly, ever intrigued, as her face ascended into that of euphoric guise for a scarce moment before it fell latently into a more eased disposition once more. In turn, she offered the reaming liqueur to Eragon, but not before pausing and asking coyly, once again. "How fares your mind?"

Assuming the only plausible action was to say nothing; he instead laughed freely into the budding hours of midnight and promptly coaxed the faelnirv from her unusually balanced grip. But before Arya could withdraw her hand, Eragon, upon irrational consideration, quickly grasped it and held her wrist carefully in his palm. She stopped, and so did he. Silence became them, and merely upon impulse, his pensive eyes flickered hesitantly over her face as he watched her reaction. More so, he waited for the consequences of his behaviour. Her posture never faltered despite the effects of the faelnirv. She was resistant, willful and totally aware. Aware of everything. And although he stared, she did not. In fact, her eyes remained fixed and unwavering over their hands, as though she were pondering. Pondering something he couldn't name. He heard her voice in his head, whispering heedlessly, Truths you can neither see nor grasp…

She was warm to the touch, her skin alabaster under the steady ember of ashen firelight. He'd left the flask by his side, still opened, but discarded nonetheless. He held her wrist in both hands, with fingers tentatively drawing over the softly pallid skin just below her thumb. Smooth, white, softly resilient, but consequently imperfect. "Your hand," he began, recalling mutely upon the causality of such imperfectness, of the action she'd taken in the darkened and despaired hollows of Dras Leona, damaging herself… deliberately, for him. But the skin here, he noted now, was unblemished. Perfect, he thought, but he knew better. "Blödhgram healed you?"

Still not looking up, Arya nodded slowly, murmuring, "Mostly." He felt her shift somewhat, but she never removed her hand, and he never held on. "I have full use of my hand now."

"You do?"

Lifting her head suddenly, she caught his gaze vaguely before gradually opening and closing her hand over his own, demonstrating her declaration. "But," she continued, starring still and holding his eyes without sway. "There is still a patch of skin by the base of my thumb," she sighed, inclining her head, "where I have no feeling."

His mind recalled the stark events the preceded her injury. They'd been hanging by their wrists, bound in chains and stooped upon the realization of their impending death to the Ra'zac. There was no worse a horror such as waiting, waiting to be devoured, waiting to die. But no longer. His mind could only fathom the pain, remember the feeling of absolute terror and agony, yet remaining resolved on their survival, and the gruelling circumstances they'd inevitably placed themselves in despite such resolves. When Arya, despite his insistence, had disjointed her fingers and broke her wrist to aid him, it left him angst-ridden. The very memory tormented him. But he was resolved to remember it.

His fingers slid delicately over her wrist as he reached out and touched the skin he thought she could no longer feel. "Here?"

"Here." And she gripped his hand and moved his fingers slightly down, to the right and below the spot he'd touched. Moments of silences pervaded them once again as his mind deliberated the sheer agony that must have befallen her at the expense of the terrible affliction. Imagining such an experience seemed utterly wrong, for it'd been inflicted deliberately and without remorse for the consequences. She did not reveal this to him, and though she never would, he knew just as well. It was a silent amendment that didn't need to be spoken. And it was at that moment, when his eyes desperately sought the remorse he wished she'd felt, he found nothing of the sort. Her stare was devoided of it. She had no regrets. No quarrels with what she'd done for him, and for that, a feeling of pure admiration and sadness ensued over his being.

The very breath within him quivers as he voiced these sentiments. "You know," he hesitated, "You know… how grateful I am." His voice was thick and lidded deeply with an emotion he couldn't name. He bowed his head somewhat before he moved to look at her once again. She hadn't moved. "I'm so sorry," he said. "What you tried to do… I could have prevented it somehow…"

"You could not have." Her voice held a sad grievance unlike anything he'd heard beforehand. She meant to be humane, he noted suddenly, as she appeared uncertain for scarce moment. But the dispute laced within her voice was easily discernible even if she acted to secrete it from him. They were both very much suspended upon an altered state of both thought and feeling, and either one could tilt for better or for worse. It couldn't be helped. She smiles weakly, seemingly troubled by his allegation, but she continued nevertheless. "Do not feel bad because of it." She sighed reservedly as her hand slipped from his grasp, leaning back now and appearing weary, but her regard for him never faulted. "It's impossible to go through life unscathed. By the hurts we accumulate," she affirmed, "we measure both our follies and our accomplishments."

No higher purpose or understanding would fall in his favour if he chose to pursue his trepidations concerning her welfare. It was absolute. Arya's view on the matter was indisputable. By the manner of her caring temperament, however, he knew his concerns were looked upon with esteem, even if she never revealed it. He knew. Sighing without further reservations about her health, Eragon collected the flask of faelnirv from his side.

Her former afflictions were simply memories now. It was done, he concluded, and no willful spite or concern could ever change the past. Dwindling would prove and resolve nothing. Resigned to accept her confidence, he instead favoured a reassuring smile. "How curious," he toyed, lifting the flask.

He took another sip, albeit a smaller and far more languid mouthful. Grimacing, he emptied the flask and waited for the resulting effects, exhaling loudly. The slanted points of his ears twitched as though irritant. A familiar warmth settled over his body. He grew steady.

For a short moment, his eye lids slipped closed as he readily glimpsed into the peculiar emotions stemmed from the drink. He felt, suddenly, elaborate and dumbly fascinated. He opened his eyes.

Whilst he tilted forward earnestly, as though spying something that lured his astonishment, he noted Arya's inquisitive stare upon his demeanour as he did so. Watching him as he had with her merely moments ago. She remained decidedly quiet as she anticipated his motions carefully. Nevertheless, he continued regardless, even if his rash performance seemed idiotic.

Reaching forward suddenly with his arm across the firelight, he simply, if not deliberately, glided his hand through the air around him. Watching it adamantly, he moved his fingers into the light suddenly.

As though coaxing an unseeing entity, his hand played through the air and bent accordingly into the portions of dappled light suspended above them, forming small, elusive shadows through the pavilion, and over her face. Dancing apparitions, silhouettes veiled through the flicker of firelight, dancing and fuelled by the movement of his fingers through the dimly cast light.

And when at last… through the veiled light and darkness, when he inclined his head down and again noticed her unceasing stare… he smiled amusingly. "And what are your thoughts now, Arya?" He asked suddenly, watching intently and without hindrance as the shadows he created fell upon and swayed delicately over her brightly lidded features. "Curiosity?" His eyes narrowed over her, flicking his fingers, and brandishing the shadows over her face. She did not, as he continued lightly, move. It was eerily hypnotic.

Her attentive stare imprinted upon him a strange feeling mixed with keen interest. He felt his pulse beat so quickly under her stare, so quickly and so hardly that he felt the blood beneath his skin throb and pound through every artery and ligament. Transfixed through both shadow and ashen firelight, he toyed with the apparitions over her face deliberately, leaning back in ardour and setting himself against the sturdy pole that occupied the middle of his quarters.

This feeling, though nameless, far exceeded anything that countered it. Her eyes gleamed under the darkness, and more so, when he deftly swept his hand closer to where the light was stronger, she was luminous. The shadows he procured drew upon her evenly, but when he moved his fingers, the patterns interwoven under the light sharpened her face. They glided almost hypnotically. Though partially hidden, what little darkness that fell over her face exemplified and adorned her eyes. They were unfathomably compelling, as though energized and thrilled by the motions he attained.

His mouth parted, stricken with awe.

She leant against the wooden pole, just as stupefied as beforehand, fortified by mere will and tracing the small crevice over the wood still. He suddenly, if not momentarily, yearned for her to speak, to lessen the silence and his growing attachment before it shattered what little resolve he had left. He ached. His entire being sighed with revere for her words, words she had not yet spoken. The need become adamant, resolute and utterly compelling. The liqueur within him pulsated thickly. It drummed beneath his flesh and beckoned him with richly infused music. An enticement too vibrant and forthcoming to discount. His very essence seemed to drone and palpitate with wonder.

She whispers, "Interesting," and his body soars. She looks at him, and the searing breath within him perishes. It was but a simple, non-perceptive response on her part, yet still it invigorated him, still it tempted him. Tempted…? His mind was drowned with such sentiments. It was utterly profound, overwhelming and substantially insatiable. His mouth, parted still, grew dry and wistful. All the while, as his pensive thoughts conflicted to no avail, Arya watched him beyond the flicker of darkness.

He drew his hand back from the light slowly, looking now and appearing enrapt. His head lolled to the side somewhat, eyes closing, opening, and then glazing over intensely. Singing, again… he thought he perceived singing… was she singing? A shiver clambered over his skin. "Do you…" his voice faltered as he trembled animatedly, hearing again the music that lulled and reeled his attention. He moved forward suddenly. "Do you hear…?" he knew he sounded anxious, perhaps even bemused, but the thickly beat and pulsation that compressed his heart compelled him regardless. Prompted strangely to investigate, he made to stand. The music grew louder.

And when he did, his body wavered unnaturally. He had stood too hastily. With a quiet fretfulness that almost amounted to torture, he moved to steady himself against one of the supports, but his eyes suddenly became frightfully dim. Shivers clambered over his spine. He became dazed and completely lightheaded. It was uncontrollable, for his body was not his own whilst the mixture of the liqueur quivered and seared within his fervid blood. Fire bellowed within his veins, yet still he shivered.

Within his stupefaction, a flicker of movement befell his vision, and then a cool voice of collected poise and serenity whispered from beside him. "Breathe, Eragon…" She had stood some point during his flurry of movement. He could feel her move in front him, he could see her…

"Arya." Her name elicited a shudder as he spoke. And he doesn't know why he does it. His rational thought had since eluded him upon his decision to accept the faelnirv, long ago it seemed, and yet even then he knew to maintain a careful disposition, particularly before her. Especially before her. But now, as he fell forward abruptly and reached out before him, he cannot help it. He doesn't know why he does it. It happened quickly, and rendered swiftly under the veiled inlets of his encumbered eyes, he couldn't even comprehend his own movements until it was too late to withhold them.

His hands sought her immediately, instinctively, and without second thought. He felt the fervid skin of his cheek chafe her forehead as he melded against her suddenly, reaching out, clasping her, and enfolding his arms up and around her body before she inevitably pushed him away in malicious resentment. If she objected, he never heard her. His head fell into the soft camber of her neck and feeling now, beneath her pallid skin, the deep and evocative pulse of blood underlying her flesh. It was strong and rapid, beating thickly and palpitating deeply without waver. His lips parted without heeding caution as they moved impulsively over her neck, eyes slipping closed and falling irrefutably against her. He pushed her brazenly against the oaken table as they both wavered under the weight of one another. He faltered against her and moved hastily to steady their bodies, holding her still… and pressing into her.

A welcoming and extremely soothing warmth suddenly stretched contently over his upper arms. How this affected him, he did not know entirely, nor did he know the cause of such comfort, for his mind could not comprehend its effect and source. In silence, he concluded that it was the faelnirv. It was the only explanation.

Breathing heavily and sighing against her neck, his body prepared for her onslaught before he even totalled the necessities to apologise. If she objected, he still could not hear. But it was scarcely in vain, for he knew the consequences for his inexcusable actions. He always did. He braced himself for the ferocity that was sure to come as he felt the befuddled recesses of his mind fall to the reality of his actions, on what he was doing to her, what he was still doing to her. What have I done…?

But Eragons state of mind faltered upon another reality, one of which bewildered him entirely.

The warmth that encapsulated his arms was not from an effect spurred by the faelnirv.

It was from the clasping of hands, two hands, holding him firmly in urgency.

Arya's hands.

Everything stilled, everything lulled to the sudden awareness of their situation. Whatever deluded particle that passed within his altered sight suddenly ceased and dispersed as everything fell into place. His heavy breathing subsided, his movements halting. And then suddenly, as the shadowed haziness settled and his mind recoiled from the liqueurs effects, he grew to understand.

She never intended to push him away. His thoughtless actions never incited a rejection from her. She wasn't shouting, she never antagonised his imprudence, and she never raised any objections against his irrationality. And neither of them, neither he, nor Arya for that fact, were moving away from one another.

He could feel her short but tempered breaths against his shoulder as his head resided steadily within her neck, blinking vapidly and thinking mutely on the rather crude placement he'd forced them into. A shiver fell over him once more as he felt her breath against him. The sultry and sublime breaths consequently seeped through the cotton fabric of his tunic and over his fevered skin. It caused him to shudder and pull at her urgently, and simultaneously, as her breathing hitched in accord, he rolled his hips slowly against her own upon mere compulsion. A diminutive sound, small yet erratic, fell from her lips.

He knew not what to think. Arya was holding him against her as though urged by an irrational impulse, just as he had been. The unwavering grip fastened over his arms held him firmly against her as they wavered somewhat against the sturdy table Eragon had incidentally levelled them against. One hand laid flat against the table, the other against the plane of her arched back. He leaned into her, breathing laboured and tethered by the predicament, but his refusal to move away or speak for that matter seemed to spur the moment. He felt her shift.

She curved her head delicately, cheek grazing against the taut blade of his shoulder deliberately, and sighed ardently over the fervid skin of his neck. His eyes slipped closed, the sensation gripping him. Eragon's capacity to comprehend their situation was hollow. He was confused, he was petrified, and he was undeniably startled by her erratic behaviour. He was taken aback by her burning acceptance for him, for she'd never conceded to anything beforehand. Never. He could scarcely recall a moment in which she'd accepted anything in regards to his attachment to her. She never wanted this, she'd said, a voice of cold apathy. This cannot be. His adoration had always been stripped and abandoned. She drew no hints. There were never exceptions. For his obsession, as she had constantly noted, would only distract them.

Yet she held him now, gripped him to no avail, without yielding to the penalty of rousing such feelings, and she wasn't letting him go.

What he thought was irrational suddenly seemed pleasing, and as his timid hand creased the material over her lower back, pulling her, and holding her firmly against him… he staggered, mentally and physically. Their small motions slowed as they both kneaded the fabrics that covered their bodies. The small waver of ashen firelight above them flickered suddenly as Eragon's will to control it faltered. Eye lids slipping open, his attentive sight suddenly alleviated from the haziness.

And yes, as he noted now, trusting his sight… they were her hands. It was Arya, and she was holding him. It seemed she was dependant on his touch as her own provoked the feelings he'd suppressed long ago. Her head was lolled into his neck, just as he was in hers, and both were breathing against one another as the air around them seethed and dampened their skin. His clothes suddenly felt constricting and uncomfortable.

Growing steady and curving intently against one another without wavering, he felt the quiet shudders that encapsulated her body suddenly. The way she held him, and the very breaths that fell from her trembling lips. He could feel them parted over his neck, as though intending to continue, but remaining stagnant by mere sensibility, an emotional impulse he himself felt slipping away by every subtle breath and budge against him. Their breaths were attuned, an anomaly he wondered if she picked up on. They breathed together, irregular yet slow and shallow. Voices were discerned amongst the night despite its hour. It was well over midnight, and he briefly wondered just how much time had elapsed during their vague interlude. Nevertheless, he knew the voices were merely stationed militia. Whoever they were, they were oblivious and unaware of their slight… dilemma.

Eyes open, he watched her carefully, scrutinizing her every move. Her fingers knotted the fabric that lined his arms, and even then, when they purposefully slipped down and over his forearms where the fabric had been rolled up, he still watched, fascinated. Curiosity, it seemed, stemmed from something unnaturally new, perplexing, and unforeseen. Everything about Arya was enigmatic, but more so profound and reeling. He sighed as her movements remained constant. Curious indeed…

Torn and cast under the enigma of her actions, he waits for her. He felt her fingers over his skin, sliding delicately on either side of his forearms where they soon remained. And when all but the distant voices penetrated the silence, they became immobile.

But when at last, when his heavy-hearted soul could afford no more silence, he released a deliberate sigh and started gently, "You told me once," he whispered now, his voice barely audible, but he knew she could hear him. "That this could never be."

He felt her waver and hesitate. "You would build me a palace with nothing but your bare hands." She reminisced.

His eyes slipped closed upon the dire recollection, "And that it would be an abomination…"

Parting her mouth slightly in uncertainty, he sensed her sudden trepidation. She was pondering his perplexity, her actions, and their willingness to forgo both as they adjusted to the situation. They held each other without sway or measure. She was levelled against a rigid table, positioned there by Eragon upon an urging, unnatural motivation to simply have her. She held him, and he her. They were pressed firmly against one another. No gap, no speculation, and no open mind to the price of such feelings. Neither were letting go, and they were both encouraging it despite past indifferences.

He heard her voice chime delicately amidst his thoughts. Truths you can neither see nor grasp… he was suddenly inclined to lose himself completely. This cannot, nor ever shall be…

But Eragon was stricken by its profoundness. He could fathom absolutely nothing in regards to her intentions, or his for that matter. The awareness of her body, and of his, pressed together in an utter disregard for their emotional instability suddenly became too much. He could bear it no further.

"I…" He ached for the correct words. He was timid and anxious, for he didn't want this to end. "I cannot…" he paused, looking away and turning his head over her shoulder as he stared at the entrance of his tent, where night still guarded the world in both moonlight and shadow. "I need air." He said simply, before he swiftly released her without further deliberation or conflict.

Desolately overwhelmed and more so frustrated, he could bear the night no more than the quickening rhythm of his thudding pulse. His mind was sealed, and as such, he never awakened Saphira. He would never allow her, or bear her witness, to the proceedings but a moment ago. And so he left her be. She needed not concern herself with such unabashed carelessness. And Glaedr… He closed his eyes painfully as he remembered the stern dragon. Eragon knew, beyond a fickle doubt, he knew the dragon must have noted the entire thing. He saw, sensed, and attended to everything, willingly or not. Shame bridled his entire being.

Darkness rapidly befell his attentive sight as he moved without delay, irritated at himself for shifting too quickly. His mind was still hindered. He was unbalanced and staggering almost as he hurriedly amassed himself and moved throughout the startling white pavilions. His sight seemed to accentuate everything around him as meagre things leered and taunted him with faceless apparitions. Accounting for his actions seemed pointless. Leaving Arya behind had not been.

He discerned few individuals as he found himself upon the outskirts of the encampment. He heard voices peek in curiosity, curiosity, as he passed them. "Shadeslayer," they'd said, but he would sooner ignore them then acknowledge the bearers. No questions were ever aroused in wake of his insensitivity, and even if they were, he found no motive to burden himself. He harboured little cares for their wretched curiosities.

A frigid chill befell his body abruptly. The air was thick and bitter as it pressed against his fevered body. His breathing became irregular once again as he worked to steady himself, but the act was futile. Trees swayed and rasped innately to the distant winds, and he noted languidly, dazed and confused, that his path had become elevated. He clambered over a hill, travelling halfway to anywhere as he disregarded his whereabouts entirely.

He was lost within a tethered woodland, where foliage and strewn undergrowth besieged his vision. And then the hill stooped downwards, and he found himself stumbling listlessly over the grassland knolls through the interwoven pines further. The land before him was suddenly black and devoided of life, and he realised with trivial relief, that he'd walked a good league away from the Varden… and to where the waters of Leona Lake dispersed and abated into the starry darkness.

In the distance, however, and through the veil of disorientation, he could vaguely discern the cold break of morning. A hue of red, dew-drop and daubed within a misty glow of ember.

It was calm, adequate, but ultimately aggravating. Every small sweep and bend of the water crashed and withered his state of being. Mellowness altered into anxiety, and soon, he found himself lumbering helplessly to the ground. It was pathetic, he concluded mutely. He thought himself confident and shameless barely a moment ago, but now he was levelled dejectedly in self-pity. "What have I done…" he murmured reclusively, resigned to the fate of his actions. He felt the moisture of the grass stain his leggings as his knees dug into the cold ground, but again, he harboured little care. The knoll was comforting somewhat, sloped and angled naturally toward the shores of the raspy lake, yet still…

A sharp clamour over the hill penetrated the air. Startled, he moved to stand and veer to the source of the noise. To further his indistinctness, he lost his footing over the dampened ground and fell forward, but not before two hands, familiar and placid in their spur, reached out and gripped him suddenly. One seized the collar of his tunic, the other slipped to his waste, and he fell unintentionally into the warm enclosure of their embrace. But he'd already staggered upon the fall, and consequently, both toppled vainly to the ground within an unexpected disarray.

Eragon felt her exhale heavily against him as his sturdy weight compressed her into the cold and humid knoll. He pressed his hands into the grass to lift himself off her body, but alas, he had prompted his movements too quickly. Wild and contorted blackness dappled his vision, the fragrance causing him to blink feebly as he adjusted his eyes to the peculiar woman beneath him. His blood beat thickly, his breathing ragged. His mind was at odds with anything and everything that passed within him. Confusion, resentment for his behaviour, his lack of control, her encouragement…

Arya held him in place, but not before her hands slipped to the ground to lift herself from beneath him. And as she did so, everything from the distorted haziness to the brazen feelings exploited beforehand, suddenly became utterly and abruptly clear. He watched her in the darkness, silent.

He wanted her.

The unanticipated urge became increasingly apparent. Watching her move, it surged forthwith through every reserved pore of his being. It was hot, it was shameless, and he could deny it no more. He was drowned.

Succumbing to the prevailing impulse and the thickly beat of his heart, his lips collided over hers unabashedly and without caution. His hands gripped the soil beneath him as he leaned into her, but whatever qualms that pervaded his mind and lingered dejectedly over his being- as his lips moved and caressed her own eagerly without heeding to the stern sensibility within him- he felt a drawn and quivered sigh against his lips as Arya reacted to his ludicrousness with equal vigour and desire. A momentary state of bewilderment surpassed him, but it was soon forgotten as Arya's lips grazed against his own, ardent and forceful, as though moved by the very same desires. Urged by her compliance, he pushed against her.

Her already rigid arms tensed and wavered as he bore down against her, desperate and bold but spurred by the drive of her motions. Giving in to his compulsion, she released the ground beneath her, one hand after the other, and seized his head within her unwavering grip. They fell against the ground as her support faltered languidly. But with little regard or prudence to their wellbeing, she pulled him against her as they dropped to the moistened grass together.

Her lips parted blatantly as she gasped against his mouth, clinging to him and possessing him in unrestrained want. He felt her against him, her trembling lips, her breath, and her fanatic hands through his hair. The humidity from the ground, now over her hands, dampened his hair and caused him to shiver impulsively against her.

Sharp exhales resounded distinctly throughout the glade. What little light that was afforded by the dawn gave him only vague, ashen glimpses of Arya under the darkness. Her skin was pallid and contrasted deeply against the fertile grass beneath her. Her eyes were only accentuated by the dim and stark morning light, highlighted and beautiful. Her hair, still tied, was matted to her face, as was his, due to the wetness of the ground beneath them. But their concerns were little in the face of one another's control, which slowly, as they pressed heatedly into one another, only plummeted into oblivion.

When her hand abraded his cheek roughly, intentionally or not, he groaned impatiently over her lips, a sudden but brief shock. His lips ached upon his consistency to remain impelled against her own. He wanted nothing more, as he blatantly shifted and devoured the flesh just below her neck, lips fervent and unyielding, and in a rash tirade, he drove himself against her hips and shuddered.

Her serene voice resonated thickly within the bitter air, arching back and tilting her head over the grass as she gasped loudly. His yearn pulsated deeply and prickled his flesh as he gripped her hand and interlocked his fingers with hers against his cheek, and grinding against her simultaneously, incited and completely perched upon the sound of her voice, he pushed her hand abruptly over head and held her in place. The rim of her damp tunic edged over her hips due to the revealing position it presented. His other hand, cold and wet by the morning due, fell to the pale skin of her hip and kneaded the skin just above her hem. She inhaled sharply, eyes visible for a scarce moment, luminous and bellowing with feeling, but slipping closed one again as his lips drew roughly over her exposed collarbone.

Breathless and torn, he murmurs, "I don't, don't understand…" But her next words do little or nothing to dispel his reservations.

"I know."

The feeling of her adamant body compressed into the ground, arching into him, compelling him to persist… it was unbearable. His insistent body trembled by the mere thought, and it further strengthened his resolve when he felt the heel of her boot dig into the back his thigh. The fingers interlocked with his own above her head tightened to such a degree that he muttered indistinctly against her skin, and feeling her other hand slip under his tunic and fumble over the taut muscles of his abdomen, he groaned. Abruptly, he used his knee to separate her legs, and whilst he settled between them brusquely, his hand slipped below her thigh and draped her knee over his hip.

She was prepared, and propelled by the placement of their driving bodies, he felt her rise her hips and grind herself against him.

No measured instant or spectre of time could surpass this moment. When he felt her roll against him, arch and thrust upwards to meet his drive, his mind fell to the dark recesses of his mentality where only her voice resided. She consumed him. There, he heard her moan and whisper diminutive things that forced him to hasten his movements rashly, where they stemmed and swayed into reality. But it wasn't his mind that perceived her voice, for she was beneath him now, whispering, urging him, and holding him relentlessly against her as he pushed against her again. They moaned together, in unity, and the gasp that followed her caused him to repeat the same movement, only harder. Her nails grazed painfully over his knuckles. It was a surprisingly pleasing reaction.

His behaviour took him aback. It was not within him to act on mere impulse, upon a desire so strong that his throat seemingly constricted and throbbed in unbridled want. His knowledge of women, of what little he could discern, was scarce. He was inexperienced in such… affairs. His uncle and aunt had mentioned only so few things during his childhood, and neither of their meagre explanations had elaborated on anything as remotely substantial as this. They spoke of courting, of affection, and of love and adoration alike. Never this. He hadn't known what it meant to hurt, to carry a love that he was implored to keep restrained. To lust and desire was strange to him, and his comprehension for their effects puzzled him entirely. It was the need. The feeling of rapture beneath his fevered skin, and the madness that resounded throughout his ligaments.

And yet here he was, acting on an impulse that was by no means mere. His desire was unrestrained, his skin hot and zealous, and the very breath within him constricted and throbbed to such an extent that he yearned to sate its source. Its rapture pulsated thickly within his blood, and his need to succumb to its effect drove him into complete madness.

He wanted nothing more, no one more, then for Arya to alleviate it.

It was only ever, always, her.

He knew then, finally, what his aunt and uncle had meant when they'd attempted to explain to him what it was to truly, without misgiving or distrust, to truly adore someone.

Yet, amongst his delirium, he knew respect, something he remembered all too well. Great restraint on his part conceded for him to slow down, yet still he held her, as she did with him, intertwined and winded by the desperation within their motions. His stomach knotted unnaturally as their movements suddenly slowed. His clothing became uncomfortable, but still he cautioned to restrain himself. This was Arya, an enigmatic woman of careful prose and receptivity, and he would sooner die than destroy the bond that had escalated beyond normality.

His breaths grew long and listless against her, feeling now the slight sheen of perspiration dampening their bodies. It caused him to shiver against the cold morning air. Brushing his lips slowly over her neck, he made to move so as to look at her. But he would not get that far.

As he made to kneel between her thighs, the hand he held above her head quickly unlaced itself from his and sought the collar of his tunic once more. Her movements were ethereal, for he'd only glimpsed her for a short moment, eyes brilliant and determined, before she'd ultimately fell into the shadows procured by the trees. And then he felt her climb into his lap and press her lips over the dampened skin of his forehead. His restraint faltered, and whatever caution that lingered within him shattered fruitlessly into oblivion. His desire to take her became excruciating. His arms wrapped around her instinctively as her hips pressed against him earnestly. He nearly slipped as his mouth parted to graze her jaw, and he cannot help it. Caution, it seemed, was no longer an option. It never had been.

Their staggered voices mingled together as their movements became erratic. Her hand had woven itself under his tunic again whist the other worked to knead the soft flesh of his neck. His own fell just below her breasts, and as they creased and pulled at the fabric, his knees dug into the earth beneath them to keep them aloft. Here, he could see her clearly. The small remnant of the morning light was dim, pale, but still he could see her. Her eyes were open, watching, and unwavering. The emerald was shocking under the darkness, and he briefly wondered what could possibly trigger such vividness, but alas, he was at a loss. He always was with Arya.

Her boots had been discarded, cast asunder and thrown by the waters. They'd inevitably been dishevelled and unlaced amidst their frenzied activities, and all the more, encouraged by her resolve, his hands gripped her by the thighs roughly and pushed against her. A small whimper fell between her lips, her voice vibrating against his skin. He kept them steady, but the morning dew seeped through his leggings and caused him to slip once more. The action propelled him into her again, albeit unintentionally, but pleasantly regardless. She breathed heavily as her lips sought his, and he relented gladly. All the while, as his hands worked the fittings of her leggings, she raked her nails over his back and laboured to unclasp his own.

It seemed only natural, despite whatever small qualms lingered within him. Nevertheless, they were defiant. His body seemed spurred unnaturally, an experience alien to his understanding. But regardless. For his mind, heart, and soul knew very well what they wanted, what they needed. And Arya… as he grazed his teeth teasingly over her collarbone where the neckline fell exposed by his hand, breathless and torn, Arya seemed all the more headstrong and determined to take that which he'd gladly give within a heartbeat.

A bitter wind fell against his body, spurred from the lake. It caused Arya's long and tousled hair to sway and bend at the back, as well as the few loose and wet strands to its effect, as it also dishevelled his own, but neither the coldness nor its bitter crispness could hamper the searing heat that washed from one body to the other.

And then he felt the same, bitter coldness suddenly strike his groin, and he knew Arya had released him from his holds.

His own hands were fumbling to no avail. His fingers were rigid and desperate as they flickered urgently over the leather holds of her leggings. His own had loosened around his hips, courtesy of her effectiveness, but a cold and frantic ache had settled over him maddeningly. The thinly cotton fabric of his tunic stuck to him, as did hers, and whilst their urgency increased, Eragon suddenly leaned forward once again and propped her against the knoll. She gasped loudly and hotly against his ear, causing him to involuntarily thrust against her and press her into the grass. But finding himself inclining further and further into insanity, kneeling between her, he took hold of the leather hem of her leggings and pulled.

His fingers had still been clutching them when she readily pushed herself forward once again, and he was foolish to decline her. Her skin was smooth and unexpectedly warm, a vast but welcomed contrast to the coldness hampering their bodies. He relished the feel of her against him. She must have concluded the same anomaly, as she elevated herself against him and felt the unnatural warmth encapsulate her body. She shuddered against him as he kneeled into the ground once more and slipped his hands beneath her tunic. He laid hands over her back.

Nimble fingers of trepidation ran affectionately over his face, and as his head lolled comfortably into the camber of her neck, he took her hips with his hands pushed himself inside her.

His vision pitched to and fro as it worked to disband the sudden haziness that fell over him. A guttered moan resonated deeply within him as her body suddenly trembled in his embrace, lips parting hopelessly over his shoulder as her whimper mixed with his wavered voice. Her fingers clutched at him without release, and he was resigned to hold her forever like this. To keep her.

Their movements were slow, laboured and agonizingly perfect, different compared to their urgency shared but a moment ago. He held her firmly, hands kneading her hips and slipping up and around her back as he worked to keep her against him. In accordance to the steady pace, her breathing pitched and swayed unevenly over his shoulder. Her arms were around his neck. His were clutching at her back. And whilst his head remained pressed to the searing flesh of her neck, she held him unwaveringly. Her hips were undulating against him, slow yet deliberately so. And upon each roll and thrust against him, he met her in earnest. Their pace was immaculate, at least to him, for he knew nothing more than the impassioned feelings Arya roused within him. As they moved against one another, muttering sounds indistinct and riddled with pleasure, they both stirred and met one another in dynamism.

He could feel her everywhere. The enigma before him began to unravel as they bestirred emotions neither one of them would have acknowledged previously. As he drove heatedly into her, again, over and over, he felt the breath within him perish and falter. He felt her lips brush his face.

Her tongue wove nimbly into his mouth, and the groan that escapes him suddenly causes her to buck against him impulsively. His reaction was immediate. His hands gripped the front of her tunic and moulded the flesh beneath, and simultaneously, as his lithe fingers slipped beneath the fabric and took hold of her breast as his other fell to her hip, he arched into her roughly and kissed her throat, thrusting forward and gripping her against him. His lips were frantic in their pursuit. His teeth, eliciting a startled sound from Arya, suddenly grazed her jaw affectionately and chafed her collarbone once again. She clutched at his tunic in retort, pulling now, and urging it above his head. Lifting his arms, he allowed the fabric to fall to the ground, levelling her against his body as he straightened, dug into the earth, and thrusted. Her legs tightened maddeningly around him, meeting him roughly as her thrusted again, moaning.

Soon, their pace escalated. His chest fell and lifted through every uneven breath he took, pressing against her own, and hoisting her roughly into him. He grunted, hand twisting beneath her tunic as he knotted his fingers into the cotton and pulled her against him. Her mouth was parted endearingly over his cheek, arms clutching helplessly under his shoulders and rolling against him with ease. He met her, as she him, together in unison until their mangled breaths mingled incoherently with each another's whimpers and moans. His legs ached as he supported them over the knoll, but the position was intoxicating. Raking his hands roughly over her tensing thighs and hearing her moan and whimper, because of him, it was overwhelming.

It was arduous to believe that they were actually doing this, panting against one another in deep, sated thrusts fused by the mounting echoes of their distorted voices. They were fixed urgently in need, spurred by the feelings accumulated by the liqueur. But what was felt, experienced, and emphasised by the grinding of hips and hastened motions of one another's fervency, was authentic. No drug-induced liquid could replicate this. This was real and fixated deeply into the pores of their rudimentary beings. The mere thought propelled him into a mania unlike anything conceived in realism. It gripped him, consumed him, and he fell gladly to the sensations it procured.

Soft yet pressing hands slipped over his taut shoulders. Her fingers were cool over his skin, and as they slipped above and around his arms, his rigid back, and his neck, Eragon shivered involuntarily against her. His leggings, now sullied with mud and grime, began to constrict his spate movements and cause him to lose his already laboured balance. Her hips worked rhythmically against him regardless, rolling and swaying hypnotically under seemingly unnatural movements. Together, their breaths were strained and irregular. He seemed to shudder upon each strenuous inhale and exhale, while Arya's lips remained parted as their heads fell against one another and rose with every breath and thrust. Beneath his brawny hands, he felt the bones and muscles of her back bend as they contorted under the dampened tunic. With another deep and innate thrust, he revelled in the sound of her guttural moan.

It seemed a dance, a thrilling yet methodical dance. Upon each concentrated drive he generated into her, over and over again, she would simultaneously roll and curve against him and meet him under the same provocative impulse that stirred within him. The sounds she emitted tore into him. They wove within and sprang upon his soul like entangled veins intertwined within the earth beneath them. It was completely overwhelming, for Eragon was enthralled with anything she did.

The resounding, thickly beat of blood within him grew heavier and erratic. His thighs began to irritate him, for the ache proceeded by his unremitting thrusts, as well as the placement of their bodies, caused him strain. Despite this, however, he was ambitious to preserve it. He kneeled upon the ground, perched upon the dampened knoll. Within his arms, he suspended a woman beyond his conception. She held him relentlessly, thighs firm yet tense over his wavering hips as her legs hung on either side. She moved when he moved, vivacious and without measure. Her breaths were rapid, as were his, and together their bodies pulsated and milled to one another equally, hastily and fervent, and propelled with desires neither one of them could fully understand. They were quick, and they were urgent, and in the end, it was their capacity to meet one another equally that guided their quickened movements.

With a hand slipping to the soft, rhythmic flesh of her hips, gripping her brusquely whilst maintaining the rapidity of his motions, his other hand slipped to the camber of her tense neck. With quavering fingers of nimble effect, groaning, Eragon pried them through her hair and, pushing against her and listening to the sated moan through her lips, he unfastened the tie and pulled. Her smoothly dampened hair fell sinuously over his hand, and running his fingers through the tresses, he suddenly felt her convulse lithely against him.

A hard, impulsive thrust caused her to clench the tightly knotted tendons below his neck. The pain was trivial, but incited by her sudden tenacity, he drove into her harder. He heard her rasp provocatively over his ear, "Ah…" and his name, mixed with a tepid whimper and gasp, fell slowly from her lips. Keeping them aloft strained him. His knees dug sharply into the earth beneath them, but regardless of the numbness, the aches and the dampened air seething round them, it mattered little. Her vigour caused him to act impulsive, a forethought that begged him to drive harder and faster. She was a trigger, a marvel of causality that provoked him to act heedless and unbound. Let it be her. Let it be her to consume him, always. He wanted nothing more.

His hands gripped her roughly and encased her. Coarse and abrupt, he drove into her repetitively, his knees beginning to slip. His mind was in toil as he acted without reflection, on sheer impulse. What little air that sustained him sharpened and wavered languidly into deep, guttural rasps. Arya too, meeting him briskly with uncanny durability, a provocative drive equal to his, panted and grated breathlessly over his cheek. Her nails clutched at him, her thighs tightening. He held her firmly regardless of the stirring heat and sweat over their bodies. She rolled and bore down against him, quickened and seemingly prompted by a sudden, evasive urge that ignited him further. His legs were numb, his knees wavering. They were slipping still, and he could do nothing. Yielding to her unchaste sensualism, he released a heavy moan. And clutching her, bearing his hands lewdly down her hips and gripping, he angled his hips sharply and thrusted, hard and without caution, and staggered thoughtlessly as he released. His vision swung.

What little resolve left ultimately plummeted upon his rapid pinnacle. His carnal and undulated drive met her roughly as he felt her own release, supplemented with a deep, sated moan over his ear. And with little regard or prudence to his abrupt actions, they fell. They fell together at an ill and discomforted way, clumsy by their own haste. Their bodies struck the cold ground beneath them, a tousled flurry of ligaments and mingled cries of both pain and pleasure bellowing into the humid air. His weight fell against her uncontrollably. He heard her gasp, pained yet incited, a lustful sound. Regardless of its nature, a violent shiver encapsulated him as they tumbled wildly down the knoll, rolling and swaying against one another almost erratically and without measure. It couldn't be helped. Could it ever?

Sheer and bitter wetness suddenly edged through the dirtied leather of his leggings. Without intending to, they'd inevitably fallen down the slightly elevated shoreline of the Leona amidst their entanglement. The water struck his skin and seeped through his boots. He grunted at the sudden jolt over his skin. Arya's lips parted hotly against his neck as she too felt the cold waters saturate her bear legs. Upon this startling comprehension, however, Eragon took heed and became aware of another reality. His eyes grew suddenly dark.

Arya lay beneath him, strewn and breathless. Her breaths were languid, strained, yet eerily beautiful to his fevered ears as he watched her under the stark and ashen daybreak. Glistened, her pallid skin was matted with small tendrils of grass and, of course, smears of dirt and grime. He knew, as he breathed and lay against her, he knew with certainty that he was too, and he found little care for it. Her long and obsidian hair tangled beneath her, wet and lustrous despite their predicament. And her eyes, perched upon his own and vivid under the small yet defining light, her eyes by far alleviated his physicality. It rendered his mentality completely.

The soil beneath him gnawed within his hands as he held himself above her. Her own lay languorously above her head. Their legs, entwined and motionless, were draped heedlessly in the waters, where they rose and swayed delicately just above their waists. It was cold, but neither saw fit to move or raise unease despite its bitterness. It was more so soothing than anything else. Nevertheless, they remained stagnant, watching one another, waiting.

Eragon was conflicted. Upon every rickety inhale and exhale, he found himself with at odds with what had just transpired. The sensations will wear off by dawn… He'd been intoxicated, unsure, and undoubtedly taken aback. His actions were not his own. Much to his utter dismay, his mind seemingly repelled the thought, the memory, of when and how they'd even stumbled upon this compromising situation. He couldn't remember how either of them got here. She had followed him, of that he was certain of, but how long ago? This thought, this antagonising realization tainting his mindset, only caused him further divergence. His mind, body and soul had been influenced. They had not been his own. Neither had hers, it seemed, but what of her? What of Arya? How did she fare in all this? When he looked at her, still and cautious, he saw nothing that alleviated his plight. Nothing at all. Closing his eyes, a grated sigh fell from his lips.

And then he felt a cool hand over his neck, moving slowly, chastely, until the palm of Arya's timid hand fell delicately over his cheek. "Eragon," she breathed.

No question, no subtle assertion or indication. Only comfort, only his name spoken faintly by her trembling lips. He could feel it within her touch, hear it in her voice. His eyes, bearing little desire to look at her, were still closed. So, inevitably, he could not see her. He was ashamed.

So when he felt, suddenly, her body shift beneath him, and a brace of soft but urgent lips upon his own, his cautious mind revolted. His eye lids slipped open, albeit faintly. Tilting her head to the side, her lips had sinuously sought his, propping herself up and running her hands through his dishevelled hair. Her lips, parting slightly as though unsure, then moved precariously over his jaw. He sighed once again, enraptured. It was vividly overpowering. He felt the conscious being within him, however small, topple and yield to the tenure of her endless inferno. And further inciting his bewilderment, he felt her legs spread submissively beneath him, and he was forever engulfed.

Her tunic lay open before him, still enfolding her, still clinging to her dampened skin. With little regard, however, he took hold of the hem and raised it over her head. She arches to assist him adamantly and without question, lifting her arms, breathing, and allowed him to remove the fabric completely. Her softly pallid skin was ashen under the faint yet dappled morning light, beautiful. The languid move had lifted her, revealed her body like an offering. Her luscious waist, the delicate bounce of her breasts as she breathed. But he's given little time to gauge upon her splendour, for she too was insistent on removing whatever article of clothing lay between them.

His lips are everywhere when he feels her pull at his already loosened leggings. Complying, he rummages above her and steadies her hands over him. He could feel her fingers fumbling deliberately, but sustaining himself over her, he pulls at the leggings again, as does she, and twists his legs and torso to remove them. The water made it easier, for the liquid beneath them abated the strain. His boots were discarded as he moved to remove the leather, feeling her hands, her fingers, all of them, run dangerously over his lower torso. He breathed in sharply.

Water drew bitterly over his skin as he released himself. It pulsated and bended to the friction caused by their urgency. Legs interwove and slipped upon one another. Their bodies became obstinate in their rush to press against one another, and a familiar inkling of desperation tainted Eragons mind sight and body as he simultaneously rolled his naked hips brazenly against her own. She moaned, and by the strain kindling one another, it'd been a sound he'd grown to adore.

He presses his forehead animatedly over her shoulder when he begins to feel the welcomed yet insistent pore of desire circulate within him once more. It was rapid and unyielding. He exhaled loudly, strained yet temperate over her fervid skin, before pressing himself against her suddenly and murmuring unanticipatedly, "Stay with me." There was an ache within his voice, a tentative craving. He doesn't know what possesses him to say such a thing. His arms encircled her, lifting her sensuously against him. He's pressed against her mindlessly, suppressing her down and into the ground and waters beneath them. It was a primal heed, a notional and desperate act. He felt her arch and cumber against him. He could feel her breasts, supple against his skin, and her hands slipping around and over his taut shoulders.

He could feel himself departing from the gallows of his sanity. He murmurs, "Stay…" and he feels her hips abrade roughly against his deliberately. Her leg had bent and curved over his hip as she motioned again, causing him to elicit a small yet arduous groan into her neck. Lips parting, his body seared with covetous desire. The rapture had overridden his state of sensibility once more, alien at firsthand, but familiar and welcoming as their bodies shook with urgency. What little light there was afforded him one last direct look. He lifted his head and pressed his forehead steadily against her own. His hair, wet with perspiration and due, matted over her as he watched her. Her eyes were bright and luminous in the gentle light and shadow of his being.

Looking down and beholding her starry vividness under the pale luminosity, he felt compelled to equal her in every way suddenly. To be her equal. Through every move and every look, he was compelled, utterly and irrevocably. She stared, and so did he. A silent indication. When she tilted her head intriguingly, as though fascinated by every subtle shift and budge he exuded, he followed. He mimicked every movement she procured. She watched him musingly, insightfully, and all the while remaining vigilant. Eragon felt the alteration in the air grasp him suddenly. The change in the atmosphere was rapid and unyielding. The air around him seemingly seethed and dampened as though to intoxicate him. He knew, by the small yet subtle effect her eyes exuded, he knew she would stay. Words never needed to be spoken.

She moved to speak, parting her lips slowly, but Eragons ambition pooled to the forefronts of his mind. Slipping against her, he captured her mouth and tilted her back. Her head fell into the ground, and breathing sharply, her hands collapsed almost numbly around his neck. And he seemed utterly resilient to anything but her. Arya lips were chaste and heedless, a dependency to match his own. And when he angled himself preciously against her, his hand kneading the flesh of her hip and gripping, their breaths accumulated sharply to sate their moans. They moved, wet and breathless, and when he at last buried himself within her again, their stability on the world faltered into oblivion.

He's encompassed by her, and she him. Their fervid bodies moved in sensual accordance, an equal drive without measure or thought. It was a carnal urgency, satiable yet utterly maddening. His thrusts suppressed her into the moistened ground beneath them, and her arch met him thoughtlessly, unbound and completely engulfed. The waters below them swayed and lapped over their naked waists, yet its temperature no longer affected them. It amounted to their friction, aiding their motions. As they pushed and drove against one another briskly, their moans and breathless gasps mingled sharply within the glade. Shadows exuded by the omniscient willows tethered by the bank wavered into the soft budding winds. The morning mists feathered under the copse of trees began to wither away, and a soft ember of ambient light fell over the knoll. Their skin glistened under its effect. And arching and winded by their hastened movements, together they drove their incited lust forward into their dynamism until they lay panting and withered in the waters of Lake Leona.

He drove, she met. Their voices growing laboured as they moved against one another… He had woken, hindered in both thought and body, not barely an hour or so beforehand. Now, upon the verdant tendrils of the lakeside knoll, he sits. In quietude, he drifts upon a reverie of distorted memories. He had awakened to the stark realization that he'd been evidently naked and alone, bared to the shades of the woodland grove and angled idiotically in the waters of the Leona. He'd been weak, ill, and undeniably angered with himself… and of her.

For Arya had not been there beside him when his eyes slipped open, and even after, when he had finally bathed in the waters and lapped coldly in longing, she had not been there.

Here and now, as his pensive eyes cast bitterly over the forlorn waters, he waits. She'll come back, he thinks. She'll stay with him. He felt her teeth, exciting and undeniably alluring, abrade his neck and bite teasingly into his flesh. These sublime and contorted images anointed his mindset. Without conjecture, he allowed them to fall and disperse throughout his waking thoughts, for he could do nothing but sit and ponder over his plight and lapse angrily in frustration. When he had wakened beforehand, however, recalling now the small memory, he'd ultimately found a set of folded clothes waiting for him. These clothes, as he recalled, had not been the dishevelled clothing he'd worn previously.

They were the elven garments he procured from Ellesméra. His boots too, the same pair, had been placed beside them. He knew very well who had placed them there upon his awakening, for Arya had finally come back to him. She'd come back. He could feel her. Sitting wistfully, he had seen her come from the corner of his eye, but he knew not what brought her back. It had been an hour, and more even. Lips tantalizing, a provocation to his desire, and he pressed her heatedly into the waters and thrusted. Her encapsulating moans hollered brazenly in his ears, and he felt her cling to him desperately…

It amounted to torture, waiting in silence and nothing more. Why had she not been here with him? And why, upon a trivial notion she called respect, why had she come back to him now? When the ground beneath him stirred to the lithe weight of her body as she came to sit beside him, he could do no more but recall the cold dawn in which they'd slept with one another. The memories were tempestuous within his head. His eyes lapped wistfully in darkness as fell hard against her…and feeling her beside him now, after she'd left him alone, the memories only grew boundless. It caused him strain. They made him uncomfortable, because they did nothing but drown him in aching desire. For her, always for her. He hears her whisper, although he cannot place her words, she knew he was listening. "Eragon…" and her arms enfold him.

No words could amount to the anger that resided within him. It was not because of her apparent abandonment. He was not angry because she'd left him alone, beared and shameless amidst the morning lucidity. That was nothing but a small, contrived irritancy compared to the utter and crude resentment pooling into the pores of his sanity. He'd been reckless and intoxicated and aggressive with her. He remembered his urgency, the rapture, the dependency that amounted to torture. He'd grown mad with it, and Arya had allowed it. Arya. Why? Why would she, of all sentient beings, why would Arya allow such heedless actions to befall them? It was his thoughtlessness that caused him grief. Could he not control himself? He'd never known that such an animalistic virtue resided within him, and it was aggressive. His carnal desire had overwhelmed him, and he'd been lost to its effects.

And his voice is thin and lidded with deeply emotion when he asks, "You are well, I hope?"

But her concentrated words do little or nothing to sooth his conflicts. "More or less."

Hands slipping over his abdomen, tracing the soft fissures of muscle. She sighs above him, lips parting, and drawing nearer to his neck as he clutched her firmly. He watched her. Her hair was down and clean. She must have bathed before she'd inevitably left him. She wore a deeply verdant tunic of shaded lime with long sleeves aptly cut to the forearms on either side beneath a felt cloak, which was slightly dishevelled and swept back over her shoulders. With the faded hem of the tunic cinched just below the hip, a leather-bound headband fitted over her brow and tied behind her head, her entire disposition exuded a stirring calmness unlike any sentiment noted beforehand. Was she not irritated? He thought as much, but she didn't seem as such. She should be angered. It was only fitting.

But instead, taking heed suddenly and noting his discomfort, she murmurs, "You think I am angered," she declared, voice delicate and willing for him to listen. "You believe I hold a grievance with what happened this morning." She paused, silent, and then, "About what we did." A moan, lingering and deeply sated. She quivers beneath him as he holds her arms above her head. Eragon exhaled loudly, allowing it to be heard. His rationale thought was beginning to elude him, and she steered it. It was not what he'd intended to hear from her, but it was a subject he expected nonetheless. And the fickle memories that bellowed within him only further incited his indecisions to feel either comforted or troubled. He was titling toward the latter.

He says, "Barely," but the word seems false in his mouth. Choosing to remain self-guarded by his own guise, he favours a thin smile as penance for her unease, but it was never returned. A whimper, small yet laced deeply with ardour. She sighs profoundly over his skin, holding him, and hindered by his tenderness…"Arya," he began, feeling the memories of their behaviour this morning consume him, and her abandonment when he'd awakened. The recollections were beginning to agonize him. "I understand," he said timidly, "I understand the… ramifications of our actions, and I'm willing forgo my feelings," he paused, feeling his breath catch and waver as he thought about his next words. "I'll never speak of our behaviour, if you wish to disregard what we-"

A memory: She whispers, "Eragon…" and he slips longingly into darkness, with her fingers tenderly caressing his face. "Stay," she says, and then he felt her withdraw carefully… "Stay here…"

And now, over the knoll, he hears her whisper, "Eragon," and the words prior to the memory fumble into oblivion. He stops, waiting, and heeds her whisper just as clearly as he'd heeded her this morning. Another recollection pervaded his thoughts suddenly. Of Arya, walking purposefully towards him amongst the pavilions of the Varden. A boy had called for them, he'd shouted "Shadeslayer," and Eragon had thought he referred to himself, but it'd been Arya. The message had been for her, not for him, and then suddenly everything became naturally apparent.

"You were with Nausada," he said, a feeble breath of respite escaping from his parted lips. "She'd asked for an audience an hour before the dawn." And she'd been delayed, so it seemed, because of him.

"And you were in dire need of clean garments," she added, a smile surpassing her vivid face. He recollected once more, when he'd fallen back against the knoll, angered, dejected by her absences and cold from the water he'd awoken in, he remembered the clothes that had been neatly folded and carefully placed within the grass. He'd known it was her, logically, for who else would trek halfway to anywhere? He merely concluded she was being attentive to his needs so as to seem sympathetic to his predicament, but that was it. He smiled, feeling abashed, but nonetheless reassured. She herself must have decidedly worn her 'unclean' clothes back to the Varden's district. It'd been that thought alone that made him laugh suddenly.

And he could feel her hand, as it slipped and coaxed his fingers apart to intertwine with her own, he feels her hold him gently as the daylight grew dim through the dappled leaves. An enticing feeling abruptly rose within his body once again, enrapturing and undeniably strong as the sensibility within him acted to suppress it. Here and now, how easy a mere touch could draw out such a euphoric feeling. By merely thinking about it, remembering it, and everything it exuded. He was taken with her. And hadn't it always been as such? Of course it had been. He simply didn't have the stability to comprehend just how deep the emotion ran until he'd taken her without forethought, as she'd done with him. How easily he surrendered to its overbearing attraction, to her.

No, he suddenly heard, feeling the gentle poise of Saphira's thoughts interlock with his own. It's sickening how easily you succumb to her gambits. There was a flicker of triumph under the tentative folds of his mentality. And also, a smile underlined the dragons delicate voice as he felt her tease encumber his mind.

Leave it, he said simply, knowing full well that she never would. He watched Arya carefully, and noted suddenly that a thinly placid smile had formed over her lips. His beloved dragons voice had reverberated throughout both minds. Which he knew, to his utter dismay, that Arya had heard what Saphira had crudely acknowledged to him. He felt inclined to leave suddenly, feeling somewhat brazen and mortified.

But the fingers intertwined with his grew firm as he moved, and he listened, intrigued, as Arya murmured fondly, "Stay with me." and she curved their hands intently into her lap, holding him immobile. His eyes fell latently over their conjoined hands, and then finally to hers as she watched him purposefully, and in turn, he her.

You will never again stand in Alagaësia… He closes his eyes, feeling the burdens of his fate clutch at his heart unremittingly. But the feel of her hand, her lingering presence and her able willingness to remain with him, seizes him entirely. A deep and utter sadness gripped him as the words of his destiny mingled within him, but there was also an unmistakable happiness to this plight. Arya would stay with him. How long she would, he knew not, but for now…

For now everything they held within a luminous light merely exemplified into that of a gentle, cordial feeling of constant exhilaration and idolization, a brighter light.

He sighed unreservedly as he held her, as she with him, and collectively they stared as the ambient light filtered beautifully throughout the glade.

The answer is no. No, I could not have split this into two chapters. A moody piece should never be separated, and I did warn you this would be long, eh? Anyway, this needed to be done. I know I'm not the only avid reader who was sincerely and mortally pissed at the conclusion of Inheritance, but nevertheless, it is what it is. Also, I've been corrected a few times with some words. Words such as "apologise," and how it should be spelt "apologize." I'm sorry, but either way is plausible. I'm an Aussie/pom, and some words are different in regards to American spelling. I just wish to clear some of that up. Thank you though for the concern. And I've changed a few words to the American spelling to try and ease both ways.

Another thing, this is also an apology for the delay of Sweet Silent Thought. That, I'm afraid, will be delayed further. When Inheritance came out I felt I couldn't continue the story as I originally intended. Bad, bad writers block has struck me with that story. I tried desperately to conclude it beforehand, but circumstances were pitied against me. So, this is for you guys. Sorry.

One more thing. This particular fanfiction category is lacking in Eragon/Arya stories. For those who cannot find the time, or do not wish to attempt it, I ask you this: How do YOU, the reviewers, wish to see Eragon and Arya 'hook up?' You know very well what I'm talking about. Is there a moment in either books where you felt the tension rise? Or is there an alternate universe in which you think they should sate it? So, present me with some ideas, and I shall dedicate the next oneshot to you. Praise, congrats, all the hooha, will be for you. But again, only if YOU THINK you cannot see it through and wish for me to write it instead. I will gladly dedicate the most interesting idea to you. So, any takers?

And I know E/A's incited lust took place by a lakeside, not a riverside as the title suggested. The title, and song, was fitting though. Just clearing that up too.

Tah, and REVIEW, please? They are, quite literally, the only delicacies we get back from writing. Constructive, or just a charming loather. Bring em'!

Euphora.