#Eragon vanquisher of snails

[modern-inheritance]

For another day: Rings

Have I ever told you lot that Eragon made rings for himself and Arya once they became Claimed Mates?

There are several stories and shorts about/containing references to and demonstrations of their enchantments just waiting for me to sit down and write them, but for today, since Keeper will be out this evening I think, I am just going to leave you all with a description of them!

Eragon made their rings out of titanium he pulled from the earth, much like the gold he pulled for Roran and Katrina's rings. However! These bands are not simple titanium!

For Arya's, he inlaid the middle with rich mahogony strips braided with a strip of pine, flanked by the titanium on either side. It represents his part in protecting and loving her, staying close at all times and holding on.

For his, Eragon added a thin strip of pine to the mahogany that encases a single strip of titanium at the middle (Mahogany, pine, titanium, pine, mahogany). Similar to Arya's, this represents Arya's role as his protector, and also that she is always with him and keeping him safe no matter where he and Saphira must go.

They both wear them at all times, even during battle. Again, there are enchantments protecting the rings, and other ones that to other stuff, but they cannot be lost. Few people really realize they are a matched set, just some elf design or keepsake, but those who know the two are involved are aware of them.

[modern-inheritance]

Eragon: Arya, I would like some affection if you're available. Arya: *half paying attention but heard the 'I need affection bit'* Sure thing babe. Arya: *gentle neck chomps* Eragon: Not what I expected...but definitely welcome. :3

They love each other

[alagaesia-headcanons]

Eragon: You know, the indigenous species of Vroengard can be real aggressive, so it's important to take all necessary precautions when approaching.

Eragon: *blowing an air horn at a snalgli* get fucked!!

[something-called-sno]

Eragon (And why this series is a gem)

Uhg, you guys. Ive been re-reading the_ Inheritance Series_ and browsing though the wiki, and can I just say, Eragon. I love him so much. Despite the series being.... Okay you know what, we where kids, like teenagers. Of course we loved the books despite the cheesy writing.   Okay, so this is like more of a rant/ adore post. So bear with me, its kinda messy. <3

Dumb as rocks Eragon, has some fantastic descriptions from the other characters of the book and his power. Yeah, he can kick anyones ass. Lets list them: Appearance:

He started out as a simple farm boy. Skinny, gaunt, almost starving.

Average height

Intense brown eyes

brown hair

An average nobody, honestly

He then starts to train and become more powerful and he has a magic spell cast on him to change his appearance:

Face more angular and smooth

Skin emitting a faint glow of magic

Slanted eyes and tapered ears

Hotter then a sexy dude, and more rugged than a elf.

Like, lets just pause there for a minute. Im swooning. thats like a perfect combination. No wonder everyone was falling over him. BUT HE WAS SO GOD DANG OBLIVIOUS to it.. Like bruh. 

And then how others describe him:

(In Battle) “Garbed like a prince”

“powerful and implacable”

“fearsome warrior”

More noble and feline

Dude. Eragon is so oblivious to all of that. Like amen, he was more concerned about NOT DYING, and running off to go do stupid things that actually turned out to be helpful, than what others thought about him. Hes like the most down to earth guy ever. How could anyone hate him. Hes only trying to survive while going through puberty. Literally. 

His Titles.. Like Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, you gotta step up your game. 

Shadeslayer 

Firesword 

Argetlam 

Shur'tugal

The Last Free Rider (Formerly) 

Bromsson

Son of None (Formerly) 

Bane of the Ra'zac

Morzansson (Formerly)

Elf Friend

Kingkiller

Grand Master of the Dragon Rider order

Leader of the Varden 

Vanquisher of Snails

Little One 

God dammit, if this isnt awesome enough. 

Love interests:

ONLY ONE. Like goddamn, he was oblivious to everyone else. Cough Cough Trianna you are weak. Go away. 

Arya. Arya was his one true love. AND GUESS WHAT? They. Did. Not. End. up. Together. By. the. End. Of. THE. SERIES.

Not even a kiss. (Im sure alot of us where disappointing, because finally Arya had warmed up to Eragon.) Urgm still salty about that. BUT, There was something better.

Arya is starting to reciprocate Eragon's feelings but her sense of duty and fear of Eragon losing interest in her and so betraying her keeps her from fully acknowledging her feelings. BRB, Going to go cry in a corner, because they are perfect for each other and never ended up together. (Im looking at the next book, CP, There better be a reunion with lots of drinking involved)

LIKE I know this shouldnt be about Arya, but Damn, if Im not squealing at thier growing relationship. And while everyone moans how Arya is a cold, rude person, SHE HAS SECRET FEARS AND FEELINGS OKAY?!

BUT THE BEST PART?! Eragon gives her his True name, and she gives him hers. SHE DIDNT EVEN GIVE THAT TO HER FIRST LOVE. If that is not relationship goals, then I need to reevaluate everything, becuase that is far more precious than any kiss ever. (but still, I wanted one kiss)

Ruling.

Eragon never really wanted to rule. Even when Nasuada was kidnapped and he was made successor, (Like what?) he stepped up to the role, but when things went back to normal he stepped back.  Like, his this super powerful magician/Dragon rider, who could probably pulverize everyone and anyone who as much blinked wrong in his direction and establish himself like a God. but no, Little precious Eragon was like:

“Bitch, I did not sign up to lead a rebel group, I only wanna be part of the rebel group and kick butt, while freaking out, because everyone is waiting for me to smash Galby the Evil King to pieces, but im not sure Im strong enough, and I dont want to fail.”  Like, awww. Lil Eragon, as powerful as he is, is a little unsure and insecure, even though he is like the most powerful person in the army. I love him for it. 

Defeating the Evil King:

LOOK AT THIS. Eragon defeated the most Tyrannical ruler by giving him a sense of EMPATHY.

Like, what is this?!** Instead of stabbing him with a sword, he broke into the Kings mind, and made he relive all the sorrow and pain that Galby caused the people, and that broke the King so much, he killed himself!** Like, bro. Game on. Good job, Eragon. I was really hoping for some burning and like a slap, but emotions. Emotions killed the evil king. 

His relationship with Saphira. We gotta look at this backwards.

Saphira is like his mom. Lets be real here. She is the mom like figure he never had.

He cuts his hand on a branch? Momma Saphira is right there to smash the tree to pieces and make sure hes okay

He cuts his chin while shaving. Saphira claws down the bathroom door and gets stuck while trying to rescue Eragon from his clumsiness

Eragon is insulted (By Vanir), Saphira was ready to rip the insulters heart out with her claw.

Like Mom of the Year and LIFE award goes to Saphira his dragon. 

** **

God, I could go on and on about Eragon, and how imperfect he is, and insecure, and failing at picking up chicks, even though he is respected and admired by everyone, and would have no problem with it. 

But then hes like, Dude. I gotta man up and destroy this evil. And hes like, time to kick some ass, and along the way make friends with everyone and unite the whole land, live life. Get this shit done with and just chill out.

Eragon is like.. The best character ever, and his arch and development is so great, everyone needs to read the Inheritance Series. 

Okay, thats it. I think Im done. I could probably go on for like ever, but I ran out of wine and I would be here till like the end of the year.  ** THIS WAS MY CHILDHOOD SERIES. I GREW UP WITH THESE BOOKS. Im freaking 24, and I still kinda obsess over it. **

[modern-inheritance]

“You’ve told me and Saphira about Glenwing a few times, but you never mention Fäolin. Were you two not close?”

“…We were. We grew up together.”

‘Careful, Little One.’

“Sorry if that’s overstepping.”

“It’s fine.”

“…So, if you grew up together–”

‘You are rapidly approaching Carrion Tent levels of stupid.’

“How do you talk about the sun when it’s gone out, Eragon?”

“…I’m sorry, I don’t–”

“Exactly.”

[modern-inheritance]

THIS.

Okay, I haven't done much with it. At all, really.

But THIS is Brom.

Brom loves his son. He spent all of Eragon's life watching other people raise him. Sure, he helped out in MIC by babysitting when he was too small to help in the fields, always had his door open for Eragon to come and ask questions or just talk, he put wards on the kid even, though he had to scale those back dramatically to just ones that protected his internal organs and major arteries/veins so that it wouldn't be suspicious as to why this lil guy was injury resistant.

But he never really...hands on'd? I mean he did, but....i donno there was just something missing.

He treats Eragon just as he treats everyone else in his life, and he does this mainly to try and hide the whole 'I'm actually your biological father.' bit. He knows he doesn't really know how to 'dad' and feels like he missed so much, feels like he missed the times where he could have actually done any of the 'parenting' and that Eragon is practically a young man when he finally gets his chance.

But eventually...eventually he figures out that he doesn't just have to regulate his 'parenting moments' to wisdom passed down, to sparring, to magic instruction. All the 'big kid' things, just the training.

He figures out he can rip it up into little pieces. Little moments. After months of him and Eragon navigating their changed relationship after he reveals it to him at the end of MIC!Eldest, Brom starts to do little things. He eases into it. It's little stories or comments of what he remembers of Selena. Telling Eragon of all the things he noticed over the years as he grew.

And he tells him, every day: "I'm proud of you, boy."

Kestrel-dad not sure how to dad but he’s trying his best.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Not Your Fault (Arya to Eragon)

A part of the 2024 Modern Inheritance Whimsical Whumps of Winter prompt challenge! This is a mix of the prompt Nightmares (Eragon) and Not Your Fault (Arya to Eragon). Prompts are still open so feel free to submit a request via reply, dm, ask or reblog!

I tried my best but I don't think it's exactly what you were looking for @thearunadragon so I apologize in advance. You could look at this as a bit of a tie in to the previously established story far earlier in the timeline (as this story takes place in the weird and wild extended war area and the story I'm about to mention is immediately post-Brisingr) Collateral as it deals with some similar topics.

Anyways, on to it!

TW: Mentions of child death, civilian death in warzones, soft target deaths and general war trauma. ~~~ Eragon pries himself from his Waking Dreams, haunted by the specters of civilians lost in a recent battle where he was the leader. Unable to bring himself to tell Saphira of another guilt she does not fully understand, the young Rider finds himself aimlessly wandering the Varden's camp, followed by his Waking Dreams, until he comes upon Arya having her own moment alone on a cold night. ~~~

“Can I…” Movement in the corner of his vision stopped Eragon’s question dead. The little girl was still there, staring at him with wide, frozen eyes. 

“You said we were safe there!” Her voice wasn’t accusing. Shit, sometimes he preferred when they were aggressive, so he could push back and not feel so ashamed of it. But she– ‘Vivian.’ he remembered with a hollow pang, the screams of the child’s mother echoing through his skull –Vivian always sounded so small and terrified. Confused. “You said we were going to be okay!”

Eragon closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. The icy air stung his nose and crackled in his lungs. Even with the world shut out for a moment, he could still see the ghost of his Waking Dreams there. Off to the side still. Clutching at the gore soaked fabric of her woolen dress where shards of metal had shorn the cloth away to reveal destroyed flesh beneath. 

“Can I sit with you?”

Arya gave him one of her half quirked grins. “Thought we were past you having to ask.” With a sweep of her hand the woman cleared the thin layer of snow that had collected on the frozen ground beside her. “All yours.”

Eragon did his best to return the smile despite the child weeping in the corner of his eye. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime.” 

They sat together in silence. At least, it was mostly silent. Even at night the sounds of the Varden’s camp continued, subdued by the decrease of alert inhabitants and muffled by the thin blanket of snow falling around the tents. 

And of course, it wasn’t silent for Eragon. Somehow Garrow had entered his Waking Dreams, admonishing the little girl for getting so messy, telling her in clipped tones that Eragon couldn’t be everywhere at once, so stop whining that he let her die. After all, he let his own uncle die, the man who raised him, so how–

“Who are you seeing?” 

Eragon jolted at Arya’s voice, his head snapping to locate the sound despite her proximity. The elf turned the page of the small book she had splayed open on the fingers of one hand, entirely nonchalant. When the Rider did not answer, she repeated her question. “Who are you seeing?”

The young man worked his mouth, trying to find words. How could she tell? “I’m not sure I understand your–”

“If I don’t get to lie to you about my shitshow nights, then you don’t get to lie to me about yours.” Marking her spot with a finger, Arya closed the book and turned her head to look him dead in the eye. Ah. Of course she could recognize it. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I’m not going to force you.”

Eragon couldn’t tell if it was relief that rushed into his chest, or another wave of hurt. There he went, worrying the people around him again. 

He had so, so many people he could go to that would meet him with understanding and support. Brom, Glenwing, Roran, even Nasuada and Katrina had all comforted him in their own ways when he had confessed his troubles to them in confidence. Not to mention Saphira, his Partner of Heart and Mind, his everything, his other half! 

And yet somehow, sometimes, none of them completely understood. Even Saphira, who did all she could to give him comfort and clarity, did not always understand how he felt about the war. About the lives taken, intentionally or not. The others did, in their own way. Everyone experienced it differently after all. 

But this was Arya. Arya, who had joined the war at what was considered the elven equivalent of the age Eragon had found himself swept into the conflict. Who, at least from what he had learned, spent more nights awake than most grappling with her own feelings of how her actions affected those around her, and how to best take the weight off the shoulders of her comrades in arms. Duty and sense of right and wrong clashing with what needed to be done, making the choice and living with it. 

Maybe that was why he came to her, after all. Not Saphira, nor Brom, Glen, Roran. To her, the only other person who might truly, fully understand where this pain, this guilt, was coming from. 

His shaky breath out spawned a cloud of mist in the air before him. “I’ve been…having nightmares again.” 

“Visions?”

“No.” Eragon shook his head. “Nothing like that. Just…” He bit his tongue as Vivian’s crying reached a hysterical pitch. “The wolves. In my head again.” 

Arya did not respond with words. Instead, Eragon felt warmth hovering over the back of his hand and flicked his gaze down to find that the elf had hesitantly reached out to him. He gave her a tiny nod and her fingers settled over his, a point of contact for him to follow should he fall. 

“I keep thinking about the last mission. That town.” Vivian abruptly stopped crying at Arya’s touch. She vanished into the softly falling snow, Garrow following her, as Eragon finally shook off the final dregs of waking sleep with his continued speech. “I know…I know we did everything we could to get the civilians out of the way, but…” His voice caught suddenly. “The little girl. And all the others. So many of them died.”

“I can’t stop thinking that…” Eragon swallowed, the next words thick in his throat. A grim confession, an admittance of his guilt. “That she died, and the others died, because we were there.” The young man tightened his grip on his knees, fighting to contain the tears that welled up. “That fight wouldn’t have happened if we weren’t there. And it wouldn’t have gotten so out of control if Saphira and I weren’t there. It’s my fault.”

Arya did not answer immediately. The elf took a moment to properly mark the page she had held with her finger and set the book aside before she leaned her head against the rock at their backs. Eragon took no offense at her pause, having long ago come to understand that when Arya took her time it was out of sincere care for the subject at hand. 

She took a long, calming breath in before letting it steam out of her nose in twin clouds of vapor in the chilled air. 

“Your logic…” Arya began slowly. “Is not inherently wrong.” Eragon’s stomach sank. She must have caught his dropped expression, because the woman put her hand out in a gesture of calm. “Hold on. Let me finish. Your logic is not inherently wrong, but it only takes into account a single moment.”

Arya held her extended hand up and curled it into a fist, her thumb extended to the side. “Yes. That fight would not have happened if the Varden had not sent us there. However, the Varden would not have sent us there if the Broddring soldiers were not sent there to conscript all the men in that town for Galbatorix’s army.” She raised her pointer finger. “The need for more men to be conscripted to Galbatorix’s army would not have happened had the Varden not engaged the Empire in full scale war.” Another finger joined the others. “The Varden would not have engaged the Empire in full scale war had Galbatorix not sent the Urgals to Farthen Dûr to attack the resistance at its heart.” Again, another. 

“Eragon, I could go on and on and on.” Arya dropped her hand. “I can go back over a hundred years, to the day that Galbatorix and Jarnunvösk chose to enter the Spine knowing full well that it was Urgal territory and arrogantly considered themselves untouchable despite the known risks.” 

Eragon wiped his eyes. Even as the woman spoke, he felt the lump in his throat rising. “That’s true. But I still gave the orders that day. I…I’m the one who told the families to hide in that part of town, even though–”

“Eragon. Stop.” Rough palms settled on his cheeks, gently turned the young Rider to face her. Arya’s eyes shone in the darkness, flickers of familiar pain that Eragon was sure he would see had he found a mirror that night. “Enough. It was not your fault. This war, it is not your fault.” 

“But–”

“Shush.” Soft but commanding, Arya silenced him with a finger to his lips. “It is not your fault, and it is not Saphira’s fault, that you both were thrown into this war. This war was made by a man who never took time nor responsibility for his grief and instead decided to inflict it on the world. 

Every day, since the day I met you, I have seen you and Saphira take action.” She lifted his chin, swiped away a tear with her thumb. “And every time, I see you both consider the consequences in all that you do. You came into this war as children, forced into it without a choice in the matter, and you both have learned and grown so much despite your circumstances.” 

Eragon swallowed hard and tried to shake his head. Saphira, he would agree, had taken on her role like a fish to water, like…well, like a dragon to the skies. But him? The scruffy farm boy, the fool who had not only taken part in battles where hundreds of lives had been lost, but the imbecile who had cursed an innocent babe, had failed to save so many, had–

Arya’s voice took on a brittle tone for a brief moment. “Eragon, if you keep disagreeing with me right now while I’m trying to comfort you and explain this, I swear I’ll have Saphira relocate the cook tent’s viscera pile to your bedroll. Am I clear?” 

Oh, he did not doubt her in the slightest. He summoned his will to, at the very least, bite his tongue and nodded.

“Good. Now. I have met countless men and women three times your age and more, who hold the lives of their troops in their hands, and they did not even consider what could happen when they give their orders and make their choices. They didn’t even give time to the idea of thinking any of it over! But you and Saphira do.” 

Arya gave him a soft smile. “So I know. I know neither of you intend to hurt anyone you don’t have to. You try so hard to keep the civilians out of it. You set clear, hard boundaries and fight for them when they are tested or broken. But war…fuck, war hurts. It hurts everyone. And if you didn’t feel some guilt then I’d honestly be more worried about you than I constantly am!

“Eragon, it is not your fault that war did what war does. You and Saphira did everything in your power to try and keep those people safe. You stacked the deck in their favor and yet war decided to say ‘fuck you’ and snapped a cable in some shitty old Broddring artillery that shouldn’t have even been there and shouldn’t have been aimed into a town allied with its owners and sent a fucking cannonbomb into what happened to be the same area we, yes, we, agreed to shelter the civilians while we rooted out the soldiers.” 

Arya released her grip on his face and shifted her hands to his shoulders. “Eragon. It was not your fault.” She shook him gently. “Say it.”

“I–”

“Say. It. Don’t you call me a liar to my face. Say ‘War sucks. It’s not my fault.’”

Eragon dropped his gaze. “War sucks. Not my fault.”

“Say it again and maybe I’ll hear it this time.”

He breathed in. Breathed out. “War sucks. It’s not my fault.”

“One more time and maybe I’ll believe you.”

That quirked a tiny smile at the edges of his lips. Hell. He was starting to believe it himself. “War sucks. It’s not my fault.”

The elf pulled him closer after the words left his mouth and, in one of the favorite little gestures they shared, pressed their foreheads together. No words were spoken, just a thread of relief that passed between them in the contact. His relief at the confirmation of his lack of guilt, and hers at his understanding of what she tried to convey.

And then Arya drew back and settled against the rock again, shoulders squared. The posture told the Rider multitudes. Eragon was with her, and he needed help. Arya was protecting him, alert, watchful, that vigilance colored with warm care towards her friend. Not quite On Duty, but happily taking him on to keep his demons, real or imagined, at bay. 

He couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

Eragon sniffed one final time and rubbed away the last traces of tears on his face. He already knew her answer from the way she had shifted, but he always felt the need to ask. "Can...Can I stay here? I don't want to worry Saphira. She'd understand better if she finds you watching me."

"You can stay, but only if you get in here. I’m fucking freezing." Never taking her eyes off the tents around them, Arya lifted her arm so that her cloak opened to him, gathered warmth spilling out into the chill night. "Come on."

The easy smile she gave him was all he needed in that vulnerable moment. Eragon scooted over and let the elf drape her arm over his shoulders and rearrange the warm fabric so that it wrapped around them both. A gentle squeeze had him leaning into her side. He tucked his legs up to where he had pulled his arms and fists under his chin, and just like that...Eragon found himself being cuddled.

Arya rubbed his far shoulder with a quiet sigh that ghosted puffs of mist into the air. "Damn, you've definitely got that elven blood going. You're warmer than you used to be." With a deft flick of her wrist the elf opened her book to the page she had marked. "Now get some sleep. I'm not going anywhere." It was silent for a handful of seconds after Eragon closed his eyes. “...You’re going to keep me safe if Saphira gets jealous of this, right? This is usually her move.”

Eragon let a sleepy smile grace his lips. “I’ll try my best, but no promises.”

“Fantastic. Go to sleep, dork.”

[modern-inheritance]

I tossed the Chaos Trio image up on the Eragon Reddit. Did some edits beforehand. Here's the new one (without bad words!)

I love how Murtagh mentions in his book that Eragon's hair is always badly cut, but he's been out in hiding for over a year at that point and he probably looks like some kind of wildman.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: A Word from the Worldly (Eldest Short)

(A/N: The basic thread of this one has been around for a while, but lately I've realized that the first time I 'traumatize' Eragon in MIC, beyond the death of Garrow and the like, is when he first sees Arya's injuries from Gil'ead. In the bits and pieces I have for later Escape series stuff, Eragon has intermittent trouble just looking at her without remembering the wounds and how physically broken she looked. He's shellshocked that another living creature could inflict such cruelty on another, and that others would stand by and not just let it happen, but participate. Other humans!

It still pops up on occasion, even well past the events of Eldest, well into the war and even a few times here and there post-war. It's not an image he can get out of his head. But he learns to look past the wounds, the physical, and more see Arya's spirit as time goes on.

Oh, and a lot of elves? They need an attitude adjustment considering they were nearly wiped out by Galbatorix, a stinky human, with help from the majority elf Forsworn. I'm jus' sayin', y'all are talkin' mad shit for people being in sword poke range once your wards go down.)

~~~

A WORD FROM THE WORLDLY

“A word of caution?” Arya tugged on her elbow behind her head, stretching out muscles stiff from spending days on end pacing around the rafts like a caged animal. “Other elves…” She paused, rethinking her phrasing with a wry grin. “Best way to put it is that I am a horrible representation of my race.”

From where he sat lighting a twig over Saphira’s handily offered nostril, Brom let out a loud bark of laughter. He lit his pipe before taking a long drag and chuckling again. “Understatement of the century.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say.” Eragon knit his brows together. Brom had already alluded to Arya being…different. But surely….

The elf laughed. “Oh, it’s worse, but that’s beside the point. I wanted to warn you, though, that many elves seem to have the opinion that they are…eh, I wouldn’t quite say immortal, because we technically are, but…ah, indestructible.” She gestured in the air, as if pulling more adjectives from empty space as they floated by. “Infallible, untouchable, perfection personified, incapable of being wounded, beyond the rot and ruin of flesh, deathless in all forms, etcetera, etcetera.” 

‘You missed insufferable, if your description is correct.’ Saphira grunted. 

“That too. To the extreme in some cases.” The grin was a broad smile now, Arya quite happy that the dragon was catching on. “But Eragon, I want you to always remember something, especially if some elf starts harping on you for being human, or starts singing praises to just how ‘perfect’ they think elves are compared to your race.”

Eragon jumped slightly when the woman suddenly clapped her hands on his shoulders and steered him to look her dead in the eye. “We are but flesh, bone, nerve and brain, just like you. None of us are indestructible, none of us are quite as immortal as we think, and yes, we can be hurt, we can be killed, we can be dragged down by the limitations of our flesh and what our bodies can withstand. We are far from perfect, and far from truly immortal.” 

Her eyes took on a darker light, their flame flickering. “You and Saphira, of all people, know that better than most. I might be different in personality and culture than most of my people, but my body is just the same as theirs.” Eragon felt a rush of heat in his face when Arya slid her hands to his cheeks. “Do not forget that. If anyone says humans are inferior, remember that you did what I could not when you killed Durza.” She patted him on the cheek and beamed at him. “And if they don’t let up after Saphira has a go at them, send them my way.”

Unbidden, Eragon saw, for the briefest moment in his mind’s eye, Arya’s mutilated body as she lay unconscious across his lap, his hand shining with the first healing spell as he fought back nausea at the damage. Wondered at how she had survived, how she had fought in this state, shuddered at what else might be under the blood and bruises, the wounds long since healed before she had been sprung from her imprisonment. 

Elves could be broken. In body, yes…but not spirit. 

At least, not her.

Eragon swallowed. He could still feel the imprint of her hands on his face, warm and oddly rough from decades of life in the greater world. “I won’t forget.” 

“Good! Maybe you’ll put a few of them in their place.”

[modern-inheritance]

Random Bits of Writing #6: Some Credit

(A/N: This takes place well before Arya and Eragon become a couple, but they're at a very easy and very good point in their friendship, where Eragon is pretty much almost at Glen and Brom's level for how Arya sees him in her 'war family' in a way. Saphira's always been way up there, but it's been a decent amount of time and Eragon has regained her trust after the whole Bloodoath thing. Everyone has been looped into a black tie fundraiser in Surda to try and get in some more support for the war effort, and Arya was volun-told to be Eragon's platonic date to keep an eye on him and keep others/strangers from dancing with him to keep him as safe as possible. They both have perfected their outer masks for how to look and behave at official events, and they're doing their best to keep them up while also chatting on the way there. I bashed this out in 15 minutes, so it's crap but I had fun.)

~~~

"I promise I won't embarrass you." Eragon smiled as the elf took his offered arm. Together they walked the entrance, simply two more people in the sea of faces that were streaming towards the massive courtyard lit with golden lamps and shimmering with faint music. Saphira's bulk was already curled in one of the open corners, her scales reflecting the lights in a beautiful display.

Arya shook her head with a soft smile at his assurance. Even as she did, her eyes never stopped scanning the people around them, roving across hands and faces and ceremonial blades. "Hate to say it, but I'll probably be the one embarrassing you. It's been a long time since we've had one of these." At that thought the smile faltered, though only just long enough for Eragon's sharp eye to catch it before it returned.

The young Rider nodded to a passing nobleman, murmuring through his false flash of teeth, "I'm guessing you and Fäolin were a pretty stunning sight for all these folks." He found himself somewhat surprised that the dead elf’s name didn’t bring any flash of jealousy. Instead he felt some odd sense of warmth, almost like the soothing peace before finally falling asleep. Happy that she had someone, even if he was gone now. 

If she noticed his different tone, Arya showed no sign of it. She kept that little grin at her lips, the nearly coy expression of a hastily selected piece of arm candy that many of the noblewomen around them held. A mask to hide the sharp steel of two blades down the sides of her flat soled boots and the pistol strapped to her leg beneath the high collared black dress. “I couldn’t show favoritism. Glen, Fäolin and I were a packaged deal or we didn’t dance at all.” The grin took on more of a smirk, the very tips of draconic teeth showing as she suppressed an eyeroll Eragon could practically feel in a tiny shiver up the arm that wrapped around his own and heard in the dry tone creeping into her voice. “‘Course, if I showed up with or danced with any man we could hear half the place whispering about how I must be sleeping with him. I swear the Surdan court has nothing else to talk about besides who’s ffff…flouting about with who.”

A choked off wheeze snuck past Eragon’s guard at Arya’s quickly caught swearing. Oh, she was trying very hard not to be herself. “Well, that shouldn't be a problem tonight. Everyone here knows you’re a bodyguard for Saphira and me, and I’m pretty sure they all know we’re close friends.” As if summoned by his mention of Arya’s true duties, a couple moved to brush by the pair. With practiced ease, Arya shifted her stance, pushed Eragon just enough in the direction she needed to force them to squeeze past her side rather than his. ���And it’s open war right now. I doubt anyone thinks you of all people are sleeping with anyone considering your service history.” It was his turn to smirk, a slight blush on his cheeks as boldness in their familiarity still made his heart patter just a little faster. “Not that I would know if you were sleeping with anyone.”

At that Arya let out a genuine laugh, and Eragon could not help but rip his gaze from the crowd ahead to take her in. There was warmth in her eyes, enough to break through that familiar happy squint as she covered her mouth to try and stifle the sound. For once nothing escaped her braid, carefully combed back and done in a traditional crested braid style that ran from the front of her forehead and down her back after much fussing over from Glen. Damn it, she looked stunning in an altogether different way than he usually saw. And while she glowed in the low light and looked every bit a goddess to him…he wished more of her true self shone out of this odd, put together facade that they both had to play in official events. Give him a goddess of war any day, and as long as it was her….

“No. No, I’m too busy.” Arya’s voice, still bubbling with laughter, shook Eragon from his reverie. There was the familiar smile, the wild fire in her eyes and feral love of life gleaming in the sharp teeth she bared. A flash, a moment, only for them to share as she leaned in closer and hugged his upper arm to playfully growl, “I spend all my time having to watch over this whelp of a Rider that’s got such a taste for trouble that his dragon has twice the wit he does and even more brains in her head after how many times people have tried to bash his in.”

Eragon barked out a laugh of his own. “Oh, owch, Major! Credit where credit’s due!” Arya just beamed at him, and he had to stop himself from jumping when she subtly pinched his ribs through his suit coat. “Saphira has at least three times my wit!”

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Civilized Dinner Conversation (MIC Chats, post war)

Eragon, Arya, Brom, and Murtagh are all having a bit of dinner together at the Riders school. It's well before any students/new Riders arrive, and Murtagh and Brom just got there for their first extended stay. Eragon & Arya: *using Riders signs to speak across the table while Brom and Murtagh are conversing so they don't interupt) Murtagh: *keeps flicking his eyes over to them and getting increasingly flustered* Murtagh: Aye, but ya can't just build the library right next to the hatchlings dens! Brom: We had the library next to the hatchlings in probably six different locations before. There weren't nearly as many chewed books as you would think. Murtagh: *glances over again and turns an even darker shade of red* True, but you're forgettin' that they'll have our trio of troublemakers as role mod- Murtagh: *slams himself upright, knocking over his chair behind him and slaps his hands on the table* Murtagh: OH, YOU TWO ARE FECKIN' //FILTHY//, YA KNOW THAT?! WE'RE BLOODY TRAYIN' TA EAT! Eragon & Arya: *Both freeze mid-sign* Brom: *looks over and does a double take at what exactly each of them were about to sign* Eragon: ...Ah. Eragon: I uh...see Brom taught you some Rider's Sign on the way over. Murtagh: *flaming red* Yeah, a bit! Arya: *trying very, very hard not to bust out laughing* Brom: Young lady, I know exactly what that transition sign means, it does NOT belong at the dinner table. It barely is even appropriate for the bedroom. Arya: Hey, at least Murtagh is getting lessons on proper elven intercourse. Nasuada will thank me later, I'm sure. Murtagh: *slowly sits back down* Fecking...just...//you// I can understand, ya crazy elf, but tha //baby?// Eragon: *mutters into his soupspoon with poorly disguised devilish grin* Not much a baby anymore, Arya'll attest to that.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Cracked Armor (Short) (Extended War Timeline)

(A/N: This devolved into Saphira and Glen quietly squeeing to each other while Eragon and Arya have a camaraderie moment completely oblivious to the possible deeper meaning of Eragon being so understanding of Arya's connection to Fäolin and Arya being so touched by it. It started out as a touching piece where Arya feels vulnerable about Fäolin and Eragon is, as said before, very understanding of it, but I had to run an errand in the middle and we ended up with this badly toned, no one is consistent with previous characterization slop. So take it with a grain of salt.

Also, if you ask Arya if she's superstitious, she'll say no. However, she finds many things the Varden soldiers do to honor their fallen friends a good way to respect the memory of the dead, so she follows some of their traditions. She also wears Fäolin's dogtags on her belt, muffled by magic ofc so they don't jangle around.)

CRACKED ARMOR

Glen looked over when Arya let out a soft curse. “Ah, damn it all.” The familiar sound of an armor release clip clicked into the still dust laden air as the younger elf undid the fastenings at her right forearm. “Fucking Wardbreakers. I can’t fix this out here.” 

The dismay in her tone was enough that Glen leaned over his battlemate’s shoulder to take a look at the damage. The bracer was dented in significantly, enough that a dark bruise was already blossoming up on Arya’s forearm as she lifted the sleeve of her combat suit to check for any bleeding. Cracks shot out from the divot in the mix of spidersilk and aramid weave, all the way down to the interior layers. The thin sheaf of spongy aerated gel peeked through in places, a shimmering, foamy white among blued steel and matte black.

Mentally mapping out the angle of impact, Glenwing racked his brain. He was sure at some point he had–

“Ah!” The medic looked down. A blob of malformed metal was embedded in the abdominal region of his own armor plates. “Was wondering where that ricochet came from.” 

“Are you alright?” That she had asked him was telling, at least in their odd little language. The round must have stung on impact, enough that she was worried it had not slowed enough to prevent him from being harmed. He would have to look at her arm, but for now he was pleased she was moving it without any wincing or restricted range of motion. 

Having made his own assessment, Glen waved away Arya’s increasingly troubled frown. “Barely felt it. Looks like your armor’s the most damaged of all of us.”

Frown eased, the disappointed air returned to Arya’s face. “Yeah. Better the armor than any of us, but…” She trailed off, fingers tracing the damage. 

“You two okay?” Eragon was tugging off his helmet as he approached. He had caught the concern in the voices of his companions and, leaving Saphira in Blödhgarm’s capable hands to finish up the final nicks and scrapes, went to investigate. “Sounds a bit depressed over here.”

Arya held up the damaged bracer. “We took a casualty.” Eragon took the armor piece and let out a low whistle. “Don’t know who the hell fired it, but it was definitely a Wardbreaker.” Her expression soured further, eyes oddly soft despite the obvious annoyance. “I can’t repair it out here. Rhunön’s the only one who can fix something this broken, and who knows when we’ll go back.” 

Eragon passed the bracer back. “You have spares, don’t you?”

The elf shrugged. “For this one in particular, yeah. I guess it’s lucky in that regard.” 

“Oh.” Glen’s voice was muffled as he slid his chestpiece over his head. Once free he gave his currently wild silver mane a good shake to clear his eyes and tilted his head in condolences. “It’s that one.” 

At Eragon’s raised eyebrow, Arya rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s…a good luck charm. It’s not my original bracer.” Glen rolled his eyes and not-too-subtly kicked the side of his battlemate’s foot. “Fine! Fine. It’s Fäolin’s.” An unexpected blush met Eragon’s gaze when he flicked his eyes from the damaged armor back to Arya’s face. “Some…old tradition a buddy of mine taught me. Even if our dead stay dead, they can protect us in a way. I might have taken that literally.” 

To the elf’s surprise, Eragon was smiling at her when she finally looked up. A genuine, gentle smile that lit his face. Shit, why did he suddenly look so much like Fäolin in that moment? Not really, not his appearance, but the feeling he was giving off, that warmth? 

“That’s a wonderful idea.” The Rider touched Arya’s shoulder. “I know I’m not much on the whole repair side of things, but if Rhunön made it, then perhaps her spells from forging Bris–my sword. From forging it could help?” 

Glen didn’t move. This was a moment. Don’t breathe, don’t move, let them have it. He could feel Saphira’s mind hovering at the edge of his, questioning, and he let her in to explain and show what exactly was going on. The pleased amusement that radiated into his thoughts echoed his own, though far less tense in anticipation. 

…These two dorks were fast becoming a fascination for the dragon and medic alike.

“Thank you.” Arya’s hand covered Eragon’s at her shoulder, genuine appreciation thickening her words with emotion. “That…that you offered means a lot. But Rhunön’s armor spells are different from her weapon spells.” 

Ah! Glen could see another hint of blush on both of them now. He shared his internal excitement with Saphira. The equivalent of a draconic high five buffeted his mental form in equal elation.  

“I see. Well, if you do want some help with it, just let me or Saphira know.” Eragon shifted his grip and gave Arya’s hand a quick squeeze before pulling back. “I think Rhunön did pack me some aramid repair tape when she was going through Saphira’s saddlebags. Would that help?”

“Immensely. Thank you!” The gentle squeeze was returned and just like that, the two separated. 

Glen hastily busied himself with unlatching the hidden clasps at his left bicep, a grunt of dismissal all Eragon got for a goodbye. The difficulty wasn’t entirely false, the armor never having been altered to fit over his prosthetic properly, and it provided the perfect cover to hide his smile.

A bit too tight still. Damn it. Okay, now he actually couldn’t–

“Oh, come here.” Arya reached up and seized a handful of his combat suit, giving the stretchy material a firm yank. Glen hit his knees with a whuff of surprise, eye to eye with his friend and giving her a sheepish grin. “If I get you out of this without taking your arm off, then will you tell me what the hell that weird look you were giving me and Eragon was?”

“What look?” He may have sounded the picture of innocence, but the open handed cuff to the side of his head made clear that his face was betraying him yet again. “It was nothing! I just hadn’t realized that you and Eragon had talked so much about Fäolin.” 

Arya rolled her eyes and, with practiced ease, teased the stubborn clip open with a satisfying clatter. “Uh huh. You looked like you had eaten some fermented mango again.” 

“I did not!” A teasing smile had started at the edge of Arya’s lips, her fingers finding the next clasp in the system out of pure habit. At the positive sign Glen lowered his voice. “Okay. I really didn’t know how you two were getting along. Neither of you mention it, but the Bloodoath is almost two years past now. You both seem…better. Even better than before.” 

A softness flitted across his battlemate’s eyes as she lifted away the medic’s bracer. “He’s really grown up. Saphira too. They’ve both matured a lot.”

“Yeah.” 

The silence between them grew until Arya had finally shimmied the armored glove off Glen’s prosthetic. She regarded the final piece with a thoughtful look before turning back to her bestest of friends and, as gently as gently got with Arya, whapped him on the side of the head with it. 

“Stop being so weird about me and Eragon, weirdo! We’re friends! Stop making it weird!”

[modern-inheritance]

I’ve been slipping lately, but Eragon is like this. With a very interesting exception that seems to subvert it.

When Eragon REALLY swears, it’s in the old language. As in, the original dialect passed down by the people of Mad King Palancar from the first human lands. It’s not spoken as a full language anymore really, but in Palancar Valley, and especially the more remote villages tucked into or up against the Spine, it’s still wedged into phrases, curses, and daily chatter here or there with a word or two.

Brom still uses it more than anyone else, though it’s more of him trying to keep the language alive. Roran uses it with Horst and other leaders of Carvahal as their own coded language when they want or need to have privacy while among the Varden, and this actually revives it among the villagers enough that most can now speak in sentences that are more Old Tongue than Common.

Eragon, though, primarily uses it for swearing when things get particularly bad. Even Saphira picks up on it, delighting in the way the words feel in her mind.

Still one of my favorite details of Garrus’ writing is that one of his go to curses is crap.

Flubbing in flirting? Crap

Mech showing up for a fight? Crap

About to get blown up by a bomb? Crap

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Racketball (Post-Eragon Pre-Eldest Supershort)

(A/N: I grew up going to 'tennis camp' at a local, non-hoitytoity tennis club in the woods. Us kids would find racketballs people left behind and spend hours tromping around the racketball courts inside, throwing the balls at the wall and playing our own version of dodgeball. Thus, this short. What do you do when the local doc tells you to do low impact PT but not to do laps around the giant city?)

Saphira settled down next to the two Riders, glittering eyes never leaving the brightly colored ball as it ricocheted around the enclosed space. If Eragon wasn’t equally enraptured, he would have noticed that her tongue flickered just the barest bit outside his partner’s lips at each wallop of the rubber, as if itching to join in the odd little game. 

“What’s she doing?” Eragon finally asked. Brom grunted into his mug, signaling the youth to give him a moment. “I thought Vilks told all of us to take it easy.”

Arya’s voice gave a slight echo off the walls. “This is taking it easy.” The ball snapped into her waiting palm mid spin, not a hint of effort in her words despite being momentarily parallel with the ground and twisting in a way that had Eragon’s scar twinging in sympathetic pain. A slight twitch of her wrist sent the projectile whizzing around the room again, cracking and slapping against the walls too fast for him to follow.

“This is low impact for her. Good way to establish a new baseline for Vilks.” Brom lowered his half empty coffee and wiped his beard out of habit. “It’s also the only way for her to stay in shape without him whacking her in the head with another clipboard.”

“That would imply…” The elf slowed just enough for Eragon to see her form without a trailing blur for the briefest moment. “That I am or was out of shape to begin with!”

Brom merely hummed as he lifted his mug again. He flicked his eyes to his current students and then back to the room before slurping a sip. “Saphira and Eragon are in danger.” 

A sharp crack echoed in the racketball court and Arya was suddenly flat on her face and holding the back of her head, a now nearly inert ball bouncing away from her prone form. 

“That wasn’t fair!” Eragon covered his grin with a hand at the sharp whine in the elf’s voice. The woman hoisted herself up, curses flowing from her lips and glare sharp in Brom’s direction.

Saphira had no such qualms at hiding her amusement, a rough racking laugh emitting from her throat. ‘That impact sounded distinctly hollow, didn’t it?’ 

“That was the ball! The ball! Is! Hollow!” Arya growled. Brom shook his head when the elf suddenly curled in on herself, a low groan accompanying the annoyed mutter, “Ohhhh, I fucking think I just concussed my damn self.”

[modern-inheritance]

A Moment Alone

Arya: *soft smile* My silly man. What are you trying to grow on your face?

Eragon: *blushing like crazy, grinning and melting because yeah...never gets old for him*

I might try to do this but again...faces and I do not mix.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Shotglass (Short) (Eldest)

(Rough, not reread, quick word vomit when the idea came to me.)

Set in the extended timeline where there's a few days between Ajihad's funeral and leaving for Ellesmera. Eragon and Saphira are still grappling with the loss of Murtagh, so Brom and Arya take the duo to the Varden's traveling bar run by an old friend of the elf's. Since Arya is technically off duty, she decides to indulge a bit and order a bit of alcohol, leading to the reinstatement of a very old rule.

~~~~~

“Is this really necessary in front of Eragon and Saphira?” 

“You know the rules.” Brom chided. He gestured with a crooked finger, eyes crinkled at the edges and stern. 

Arya stifled the aggravated sigh that was rapidly building in her throat. She hadn’t had to suffer this song and dance for a long while, even by her standards. Glen and Fäolin hadn’t particularly cared, they trusted her judgment and knew she had a firm grasp on her limitations. 

But Brom? She honestly thought he was just showing off at this point.

Though, whether it was showing off her deference to him– a deference not of fear or respect for the chain of command but built off their years of work together and her true respect of his opinion, mind you– in front of Eragon and Saphira, or him showing off the tricks and casual abilities of his wild child former ward, Arya hadn’t decided yet. 

Still. He had asked nicely. Even if she wasn’t on duty, she’d do as he asked. Ridiculous as it was. 

The elf crouched slightly and allowed the old Rider to delicately place the shotglass atop her head. 

Eragon watched, dark eyes filled with their usual curiosity. Flickers of thought passed through the air, images, sights, sounds, before he perked up with a cracked grin that split his face like joyous lightning. 

“Drunk elf detector.” He giggled to himself and spun around on the squeaky stool Coop had cleaned off just for him. From outside, her bulk too much for the bar just barely holding together at the seams, the raking cough of draconic chuckling rattled the dusty windows panes. Saphira’s snout peeked in through the doorway, taking in the sight with her own eyes before another ruk-ruk chorus filled her throat. 

Brom stepped back to check his handiwork. “And an effective one at that. The second that glass falls, she's cut off for the night.”

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Arya mumbled, slipping into her usual seat. The shotglass balanced on her head didn't wobble in the slightest. Coop already had her usual waiting, the former Combat Engineer having disappeared off to the back to prepare for the night’s usual rabble. “You realize you’re going dry tonight?”

A sour expression colored Brom’s face. “Don’t remind me, girl.”

Gentle, a tug pulled at the thread she left open in her mental defenses. Arya allowed her former mentor in, taking a sip of her drink as Eragon began chattering about the tavern in his hometown. 

‘It’s worth it.’ The old man rumbled in her mind, soft and affectionate in a way she so rarely heard from him. He couldn’t hide it here, not completely. She could almost read him like a book after so long, and he had stopped trying to keep her from his true feelings when they spoke this way. ‘Worth it to see him smile again.’

‘I’ll drink to that, old man.’