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modern-inheritance · 2 months ago

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Modern Inheritance: Keeper (Immediate Post-Galbatorix time period)

(A/N: This was just going to be a few ideas slapped together, and then it turned into...this...big thing. I don't feel like do a lot of notes right now, but be warned, there's going to be a bunch of new concepts tossed out there, and there are some instances of wound description. There will be other stories from this time period at a later date, but for now, take this.

Arya and Glenwing are informed by others that Islanzadí was gravely wounded by Barst after the citadel has fallen. While Glen tends to her mother, Arya waits outside the tent and grapples with the prospect of losing her remaining parent only a handful of years after reconciling with her. And then a particular bird drops from the damn sky.)

~~~ MODERN INHERITANCE: KEEPER

Everything here smelled of blood.

Arya braced her hands on her knees, forcing herself out of Trancing. The half-sleep state had snuck up on her mind despite the stress and chaos of healers and doctors and medics rushing too and fro across the churned up soil.

Apparently preparing for the end of all things after over seventy years of conflict, navigating a trap-laden fortress of a castle, being nearly talked to death by a megalomaniac, watching the love of one's life fight their half brother, and then fighting and taking down a dragon larger than what large could even define could make the unfortunate person experiencing such a day quite exhausted.

Shaking off the last traces, Arya leaned back in the folding chair and strained to hear anything past the canvas of the tent at her back.

Nothing. Warded.

When the healers had finally slowed and led them to the tent the elven Queen had been evacuated to, both her daughter and Glenwing had pushed to enter. Glen had only made it a single step inside, his head just past the tent flaps, when he had thrown his dented metal arm back and shoved Arya away.

“Stay out.”

“The fuck do you mean–”

“Arya, stay out.” Glen took her by the armored shoulders and walked her three paces back, almost into the frantic flow of medical personnel constantly surging between the tents. “You don’t need to see her like this, and I can’t focus if you’re in there and can’t compartmentalize. She needs the best right now, alright? And she would never forgive me if I let you see her in this state.”

His eyes were bright, hard chips of liquid gold burning from the inside. “Please. Stay out unless we call you.” Glen gave her arms a quick squeeze. “We– I – will do everything we can. But if it’s clear, then…”

Arya reached up and seized his wrists before leaning forward. He joined her out of instinct and long built trust, their foreheads pressed together in a moment of quiet.

“Just keep fighting. Don’t waste time with me, just fight to the end.” She wasn’t shaking, but her eyes were closed. “Please.”

“I understand.”

With that Glen slipped away into the tent.

And so Arya sat on one of the rickety folding chairs outside the tent. She had spent some time pacing until the thin layer of muck made of dirt and blood binding together in a paste coated her boots. After that she sat again and now found herself shaking off the half sleep state, still waiting, still out of the loop.

That’s when she heard it.

Arya bolted to her feet, head snapping up. That call. Among the cacophony of the camp, the pitched struggles still being fought in pockets out on the plains of Ilirea, the screeching and screaming and croaking of hundreds of thousands of carrion birds. One stood out, one piercing, warbling cry, keening and slicing through the cacophony.

Heart pounding, eyes glued to the dust and haze above, Arya began to run.

‘Not another one. Not today. Not here.’

Slipping between soldiers, leaping over supplies. A white speck the only thing that had her attention, the only thing important in that moment. The white dot wobbled and grew, following her as best it could on turbulent, low winds from the fires until the young elf burst through into a tiny clearing. Barely the size of three tents crammed together, a single piece of open land not flooded with people or bodies or equipment. Some long buried boulder or mass of roots sloped the ground up a foot higher than the rest, leaving the patch unusable except for a measly breath of fresh air.

Without a single thought beyond the damn determination to keep one more member of her dwindling family alive, Arya slammed a foot down as she crossed the threshold and leapt into the open air. Throwing her weight, twisting, she opened her arms.

“Blagden!”

Bloodied wings went limp, surrendering to exhaustion and long-stalled pain. With a morose crackling croak, Blagden, white raven of the Knotted Throne, plummeted from the sky like a rock straight into Arya’s chest.

Arya folded herself around the wounded bird and hit the ground with a solid whumph. The shock half absorbed by her armor vibrated her sternum and yet she refused to let it transfer to Blagden’s broken body, coughing as the air drove from her lungs.

“I have you.” The words were a wheeze. “You’re safe, Blagden.”

She could feel the rapid beating of the raven’s heart through the fingers holding him to her chest, his lungs heaving. His right wing was crooked even as it lay open, feathers tickling her neck. Sticky gore clung to his talons, strips of flesh still tangled in the shaggy fluff of his ruffled throat.

Careful, supporting his broken wing, Arya rose up to a crouch. “Don’t you dare give out, you damn bird.” Blagden merely grumbled in response, a short hiss of pain when the woman shifted to kneel and rest his body on her lap. “Shh, okay, just…fuck, okay, I’m going to…I’m going to heal your wing, alright?”

Arya reached out with her mind, ironclad barriers encasing the mental tendril. Her brows lowered, exhaustion creeping in again with just the minor exertion, when she encountered wards around the raven. Some were familiar, the spicy richness of sandalwood and sparking ozone so distinctly her mother’s magic that it made her heart twinge with a renewed fear of loss, but the other was…different. Like…like the cool, smooth, immovable stone carvings in Tronjheim, but half blanketed with soft moss. Crackling campfires, smokey and oddly similar to her own strains, the feeling of music without the sound, a sudden flash of flat stones skipping across a pristine lake–

It took everything she had left for Arya not to hug Blagden to her chest as the raven’s mind brushed her own and the image of her face above him, lightning brow tipping down, determination set at her lips, morphed into a face she only ever saw in hazy Recall dreams of years long past. In fairths and pictures and the few aching memories shared.

‘Da.’

“I won’t break them.” For the first time that day, tears dropped from Arya’s eyes. They wet Blagden’s feathers, rolling light streaks through the collected soot. “He stays with you. I promise.”

Glenwing was always healing any injured bird that he came across. He left the windows of their flat open most nights, an open invitation to any feathered friend to come rest out of the elements. Arya herself had helped on occasion, Fäolin lending his hand all those years ago when a third set of steady fingers were needed to help calm a nippy eagle or cradle a jackdaw deadset on flying before it was ready.

It was with those memories in mind pushing aside her parents, Arya found the gaps in the wards. Energy, warm and buzzing, trickled from the fingertips gingerly holding Blagden still. Apologies, something so unfamiliar between them, poured from her lips as the bird thrashed and cried out with harsh squawks as the hollow flight bones realigned like broken straws. They fused together smooth and strengthened, the energy moving on to fix bruised muscle, torn tendons and ligaments stressed beyond their limit from his flight–

And then the magic snapped like rotten rope, a surge from within the white raven’s own mind lashing out like steel blades to sever the connection. The mental ricochet felt like it slapped straight to the center of Arya’s forehead, a sting and a throb of a promised headache pulsing to the surface as she cursed and curled forward, catching herself on a hand before she completely folded in and smothered the ungrateful feathered wretch.

“Blagden, I’m trying to–”

It was almost pathetic, really. The way the bird flipped and flopped off her lap and managed to stagger to his feet with his undamaged wing outstretched. “A Queen’s touch only may apply! Only she will make me fly!” He hissed, loud and threatening, as Arya reached for him again. “Touch again and learn it well! Your bite’s not the only one to give hell!”

That ripped a broken, choked laugh from Arya’s throat.

It was all too much.

The laughter, so incredulous and disbelieving at the gall this spicy raven always had boiling in his feathered body, transformed to ragged, gasping sobs. Fuck, why did she feel so small again? After everything that day, after confronting Galbatorix himself with Eragon, Saphira, Elva, Nasuada, Murtagh and Thorn? All of them little pieces in that mad king’s sick game, their lives and struggles all turned to seemingly useless specks of dust before his discovery and manipulations. After standing, blood cold, staring up at an ice blue eye with nothing in it but malice and hatred for all things and so…so much larger than she had thought possible, only to later meld minds with the smaller of its kin, Thorn and Saphira both, and feel dragonfire bathe her skin before making that fated leap to end its miserable existence…

Not once had she felt small.

It was here, kneeling on a torn up knoll with her sobs drowned out by the keening, wailing and screams of the wounded, the dying, the mourning, the lost and the found, being confronted by this damn two foot tall menace of feather and saucy tongue refusing to be healed by anyone but her mother, who lay, likely dying in a tent some distance away…it was here that Arya suddenly felt seven years old again.

So small. Barely a foot taller than the raven himself. The same raven that had perched on her father’s casket until it had lowered at the base of the ancient tree and had sung for days on end, mourning the man who had made him as he was. The friend he had become.

And now. Now he might sing again. Sing for her mother as they wrapped her body for the long journey back. Cry his funeral tune for days more. Clawing at her ears, piercing the bittersweet veil of the ended war. Reminding, for days and days and weeks and months that her mother was dead, as dead and gone as her father.

The feeling had her crying harder, the images of that casket long buried dragged up to dance with her new fears. Islanzadí, dying? How was it not impossible? How was there even such a chance? After so long at war, witnessing and experiencing and feeling it all in every shape and form and in every role of soldier, leader, wounded, captive, saboteur, assassin, bodyguard. The mourning mate and the warrior lover side by side with the man she loved the day one died and the day one triumphed.

She knew people died. She knew elves were not invincible, had screamed that fact at the Lords of House with her scars laid bare and her rage boiling. How dare they think that elves, hidden as they were, were untouchable, invincible, when Glenwing had his arm taken, when Fäolin didn’t even have life anymore, after her heart just about stopped too many times to count, actually gave out more than once?

But…but Islanzadí…she wasn’t an elf. She was their Queen. Her mother. And after Da, Arya should have known, did know, that the quietly whispered promises to a tiny child at night that they would never, ever leave her were lies to make her and them feel better…. But how could Islanzadí die?

Burning anger followed close behind. Arya struggled to stop her chest from heaving, teeth set, ragged near squeals of air pushing forward and back against them as her body clawed for the chance to submit to the emotions. She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of scuffed palms, dirt and avian blood smearing at her cheeks.

Galbatorix may be dead, yes. The promise she made to Brom all those years ago finally fulfilled, yes. But damn it all to whatever emptiness awaited the lost souls of the blood soaked war now ended–

‘I still have work to do. Now is not the time for tears and a fucking breakdown!’

“Right–right now–” Arya hiccuped, trying desperately to get tears off her cheeks with the rough straps at her shoulder. Their presence was a dim and hollow reminder, one that should have been bringing fiery hope but now felt heavy. The dragon egg, tucked at the small of her back in the hastily emptied and secured medic’s kit Glen had repurposed for her on the fly as they ran, was free. Her mother would have been overjoyed.

If she lived to see it.

“Right now, I’m the–the best you–you’ve got.”

Vision blurred, tears and dirt and blood clinging to her eyelashes, Arya dug into one of the side pouches on her leg and scrambled her fingers around until they met wax paper. She tore the packet out and ripped the paper away, the large muslin sheet flapping out like a flag. Swallowing a fresh wave of tears, the elf tied to opposing corners in a knot behind her neck and slipped her arm through the loop.

“Get in.” Still rough with contained sobs, but firm and carrying at least a hint of her mother’s command, Arya opened the makeshift sling slightly. “Get in and I’ll take you to her. You can’t…you can’t balance right with your wing like that.”

When Blagden did not move, wing still limp at his side, Arya reached out her fist. “She needs us.”

The white raven lifted his head, ruff rising. “Paths entwine, root and vine.” With a bit of a wobble, Blagden strutted forward and hobbled up onto the offered perch and allowed her to transfer him into the cloth’s embrace. “Our strength grows with your blood and mine.”

And that was how it came to this. Arya, sitting again outside the warded tent, eerie false silence as the world faded in and out around her. A bloodied white raven nestled in a sling against her chest, looking almost comical were it not for their surroundings.

Blagden had allowed her to carefully wrap his wing with strips of the muslin. He kept his promise of a painful nip as well, squalling his indignation at being restrained when Arya stopped him from marching into the tent like some knee-high, feathered general checking on his second-in-command. The puncture to the back of her hand burned, but it was a welcome distraction in the chaos.

The raven eventually settled. He slept now, head tucked into the cloth, talons flexing in his fever dreams. Arya gently rubbed her fingertips at the crown of his head, the spot he ‘loved a good tickle,’ as Islanzadí always said despite the halfhearted grumbling Blagden always made at such a description. His feathers were already wrecked, and she didn’t want to risk stripping them of even more of their precious oils by stroking his back.

Time passed, though Arya could not tell how long. The smoke from the raging fires and lingering dust of the king’s explosion nearly blotted out the sun, robbing her of any sense of time yet again.

A battle frazzled elf carrying a large crate of fortified nectar bottles hurried by, hastily placing two of the six bottle carry cases down at Arya’s feet. In a flash she caught his arm as he made to pull away, stopping him dead. His features, splattered with mud and flecks of blood, were hazily familiar, but Arya couldn’t spare the energy to find his name in the moment.

“How long–” Arya fumbled, at a loss for a point that she could draw reference from that the man would also know. She went with the first thing that came to mind despite the excess it would add. “How long since the explosion?”

The elf yanked his arm free, already moving on with the barest glance at a scratched timepiece hung around his neck. “About four hours. If you can stand, grab a crate from block eight and start passing these out to healers and the wounded!” And then he was gone, his call to action trailing into the masses of people looking for loved ones or tending to the injured.

‘Four…four hours?’

Just four hours?

The tent flap suddenly slapped against the middle support, one of the occupants stumbling out into the grey light. Arya bolted to her feet and caught Glen around the shoulders as he nearly pitched into the dirt.

“Easy! I got you, I got you.” The man feebly clung to his CO’s forearm, legs unsteady. He could feel himself being guided back, collapsing into one of the folding chairs hastily set up outside the hundreds upon hundreds of healing tents. “Sit.”

Glen raised his bleary gaze to Arya’s face. He had to tell her. “Arya–”

“Shh.” There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. “Here, drink this. It’s got the powder in it.” Something pressed first to his palm and then his lips as it was raised to his mouth. “Just…take a minute.”

Sweet, thick nectar slid down the medic’s parched throat. The gritty feeling of fortification powder did little to dissuade him once the liquid touched his tongue. He leaned back, dizzy, draining the bottle before tearing it away with a ragged gasp of air. “Arya–”

“No.” Arya’s voice lacked any bite. It cracked at the edge of the word. Through his steadying vision he could see the shine of tears clinging to her lashes, the pallor of her face beneath grime and streaks of blood. And yet…as always…the fire in her eyes. Different from any time he had seen it before, but still there. “Glen, I can’t…I can’t hear what you’re going to say right now. Just…take your time. Let me take care of you. Please?”

Numb. Exhausted. Blood, blood so akin to hers, caking the joints and creases and crevices of his prosthetic. Tightening and tangled in the fine hairs on his remaining forearm, flakes of it falling from his knuckles as he gripped his knees.

Glenwing nodded, and, feeling every one of his hundred and twenty six years, slumped back in the rickety chair’s embrace.

When he was next aware of his surroundings, cool water was pressed against his arm. Arya knelt before him, her face hidden by the bow of her head as she gently scrubbed away her mother’s blood from his skin. A clean bucket of soapy water was at her knee, several soiled rags in a rough hewn bowl beside it. His prosthetic wasn’t gleaming, but it was as clean as battlefield washing could get it without removing the plates.

Bandages, soft gauze and clips keeping pads in place, had replaced his left pauldron above the prosthetic. Tape over his right ribs. The slight tug of three stitches, her knots feeling as perfect as he had taught her, over his right eyebrow. Wounds he hadn’t felt, dressed and tended.

Arya’s voice was a shivering murmur, the woman still trying so hard to contain the tangled emotions at war in her chest. “I hope you…don’t mind some company.” She squeezed out the washcloth and used a mug to pour fresh water onto the fabric to avoid spoiling the bucket. “He’s cranky.”

Still bleary, Glen tilted his head down further and found a haphazard pile of feathers nestled in his lap. Blagden let out a half croak of protest, his bandaged wing flopping as he tried to make clear his displeasure. There was blood soaked into the white flight edges, soot turning his startlingly bright form a dingy grey.

“I healed his wing.” The tremor in Arya’s tone rose for a moment. She turned Glen’s hand over, began clearing the grime from his palm with shaking fingers. “He…he won’t let me do anything besides the bones.” Another fresh wash of clear water. “He wants her.”

Droplets of blood-tinged suds dripped from Glenwing’s fingertips. As his CO pulled away again, wringing out the rag a third time, he caught her wrist.

Still armored. The moisture made the aramid weave glitter.

“Arya.”

“Don’t.”

Carefully shifting a grumbling Blagden to the crook of his metallic arm, Glen gently seized Arya’s elbow and stood. She followed his motion out of ingrained instinct, trying to steady him, grasping his forearm.

The exhausted medic barely wavered, however. “Arya, look at me.” The younger elf refused, shoulders rigid, teeth set and face obscured by the wild, singed fringes of her hair. Glen gave her no choice, his heart bubbling as he cupped her jaw and turned her back. “Arya, listen.”

His palm was wet. Not from the water, but from the tears cutting streaks through the soot and blood on Arya’s skin as she finally looked at him.

“Glen, please.” He could feel her shaking. She was begging him, pleading. “Please, I can’t…I can’t take this right now.”

Damn it. She really always expected the worst. It’s what made her so fierce, always made her come up swinging. But right now was not a time that required fight. Not from her, at least.

“Arya.” Glenwing gently squeezed his war sister’s cheek. No, they weren’t war siblings anymore. She was his sister now, forever and always. Kid sister, who he would watch over and take care of just as much as she watched over and took care of him. And right now, he could ease her pain in a way she needed more desperately than any time before.

“Arya, your mum is alive.”

The green eyed soldier stared at him. Stopped breathing.

“Islanzadí’s alive, Ari. She’s stabilizing.”

A strangled noise, half released pain, half relief, and all bewilderment at the revelation, clawed its way from Arya’s throat. And then she tipped forward and fell against Glenwing’s shoulder, arms almost limp from the shock of it hanging around his body and let out a sob that he could feel deep in his chest.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Careful of the raven cradled in his arm, Glen followed his sister to the ground as her knees gave, holding her to his chest with a hand on her back. “It’s alright, Ari.”

He let her sob into his half-removed armor, cheek pressed to the side of her head as he stroked her unraveling braid and squeezed as tight as he dared. All the while he spoke, repeating himself over and over. Trying to prepare her for the inevitable.

“Arya, she’s alive, but she’s still hurt. We had to stabilize her fast. The only way we could was to take her arm at the shoulder.”

The feeling of muscle, pulverized, shredded, slippery arteries threatening to retract into flesh, all giving way under scalpel blade and held in place by unforgiving clamps made his throat convulse. A piece of a person separated, so clearly removed, across the tent. The white, purplish hue to the hand, so clearly lacking any bloodflow.

Deep, deep in his mind, Glenwing wondered if that was how his hand had looked to the healers that night now years in the past.

And then he shook himself and focused on the present, the woman shivering against him, thanks tumbling from her lips only half intelligible.

“She’s still weak. We’re putting her in the Dream State for a few days. The healers are going to keep working, they’re doing everything they can to preserve nerves and repair her collarbone and ribs, but it’s slow going, okay? She’s alive, and she’s stabilizing. That’s the important part right now.”

A few more long moments passed, the two of them clinging to each other, before Arya pulled away and rubbed her eyes dry with a scarred wrist. “Can…can I see her?”

Glenwing gave his sister a gentle smile and wiped away the last of her tears with his thumb. “Let them keep working, okay? She’s still in rough shape, and like I said, she’ll kill me if she learns I let you see her like that.”

A small nod and shaky breath in and out. “Okay.” Her smile was bright, eyes still shining, but there was that fire, that spark of hope and tenacity in the face of everything around them. “Thank you.”

They both slumped into the folding chairs, Glen passing Blagden off to Arya. He didn’t comment when she half wrestled, half shoved him into a bloodied sling across her chest. Just grinned and touched the back of her hand.

“Now. It’s my turn.” The exhausted medic lolled his head to the side, eyes flicking over his CO’s battered and burnt armor, catching on open spaces where pieces had cracked or fallen away during the pitched throne room battle. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Arya let out a soft laugh. “Don’t you dare go trying to heal anything. I’m alright. Just bruised and banged up a bit.”

Glenwing’s golden eyes were hard when Arya looked to him, pulled by his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t feel that?”

“What, you grabbing me? Of course I do.”

“Arya,” He chose his words carefully. “You look to have a lot of burns on your right side. Just from what I can see.”

Arya blinked. ‘Burns?’ She turned her gaze downward, following where Glen had indicated with his own eyes.

Most of the armor pieces on her right arm were gone. A few measly shards of spidersilk aramid hung limply at the connection points, edges and fragments sharp as glass. The undersuit was…adhered. In some places. In others it had burned away entirely, the tissue beneath bright cherry pink in rippling flares while shiny tissue spidered out around them.

Glen grabbed her hand, fingers interlacing with hers, when she went to twist the limb to further examine the damage. “Take it easy, don’t move too much.”

“Bit late for that.” Arya stared. What the hell had happened? She had barely fought at all, Eragon and Murtagh taking the brunt of the close quarters combat on themselves while Saphira and Thorn had rushed–

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Glenwing looked up from carefully wetting pieces of the adhered undersuit with the remaining water from the bucket. Arya had fallen silent for several minutes, eyes glassed and far off, when he began working on getting her free from the charred remains of her armor. He wasn’t exactly surprised at her muted pain reception, adrenaline still pumping even now in his own body, likely covering the pain of any of the injuries she had wrapped while he Tranced outside the tent. But Arya always hated burns, and always made that fact known whenever she had one.

Arya stared down at her skin as the last strip of undersuit was gently worked off her right arm. Tongues of flame stood embedded in her flesh, licking up her forearm, thankfully missing her joint and skating up to her shoulder like liquid dragonfire had become one with her body.

“Shruikan breathed fire on me.” She cocked her head. The patterns were honestly quite pretty the longer she looked at them, raw flesh aside.

Glen reached to the back of his webbing, servos and mechanical joints whirring to manipulate his arm in ways a normal limb could not naturally bend. Burn ointment. Lidocaine ointment. Gauze. “Mm-hm.” He began smearing a mix of the medicines over the burns, quietly thanking whatever the hell may be out there, real or imagined, that the pain was yet to begin. These would not feel good when Arya finally registered the full extent of their spread.

“I had to go through it.” Even through the numbness of shock and exhaustion, Arya couldn’t suppress a sigh at the cooling feeling creeping over her skin. “Wouldn’t have been able to kill him if Saphira and Thorn hadn’t helped me.”

“That was nice of them.” Loose wrapping. Give it a little bit of air, space for any swelling. Once they both had rested they would reassess. Crazy as she was, Glen had no doubt Arya was going to pester him to let her keep some of the burns as scars. And it was only right, after all, having earned them by killing–

“Wait, what?”

Blagden’s ruffled head appeared above the edge of the sash. “Be kind, rewind! The thread of fate is confused this time!”

Both Arya and Glenwing stopped their motions and stared down at the beleaguered raven.

And then pointedly ignored his quip.

“I think the thermal shock is what exploded the armor.” Arya reached up and massaged the right side of her neck. Tiny scratches made themselves known under her fingertips where splinters of the aramid had sliced microtears in her skin. “Explains why my neck itches like mad here.”

“No, wait, hold on!” Glen grabbed her hand and pulled it down. “You killed Shruikan?”

“Saphira and Thorn did all the work getting his head down. And they came up with the plan.” A ghost of a grin touched Arya’s lips at the mention of Murtagh’s partner. “Thorn’s got a very kind consciousness. He’s confused, but he’s very sweet.”

Glenwing stared. As surreptitiously as he could, he used a free finger to palpate her wrist, checking her blood pressure in the most rudimentary way possible. “Ari, slow down a second, okay? You killed Shruikan?”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” The mumble would have alarmed him further had he not seen the bright green fire in her eyes, no hint of any muddling beyond that of exhaustion. “But Eragon and Saphira told us what Elva felt. There could be no saving him. And he was going to kill Saphira and Thorn and everyone else if I didn’t take the opening, so…” She shivered, and Blagden burrowed his head deeper into the sling. “I…I gave him rest. We could give him that much, after what Galbatorix put him through.”

Arya took a steadying breath again and shot Glen a wan smile from beneath troubled brows. “I hated that damn spear.”

Glenwing squeezed her hand. “He’s not being used anymore. That was the best thing for him.”

“True. But it still feels…wrong. To kill a dragon.”

“I know.”

The conversation lapsed, Glen focusing on the extent of Arya’s burns while the woman leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. The few minutes of Trancing here and there was doing wonders for the both of them, bringing the world back to clarity.

As he tucked the final tail of the bandage and sealed it with a clip, Arya raised her head and blinked away waking dreams.

“All good?”

The medic grinned and rubbed his sister’s head roughly. “Good as it’ll get for now.” He ducked a halfhearted swat and tapped his forehead to hers. He had seen the flicker of her eyes towards the tent, the glimmer of ache. “Do you want to go find Eragon and Saphira? Or Brom? Waiting is going to be more difficult than doing.” His voice was soft.

Arya stretched and winced as the movement sparked pain along the wrapped burns, quickly soothed by the numbing ointment encasing them. “No. No, they’re all needed elsewhere. Eragon’s working on the citadel wounded, and Saphira’s doing evac. Brom’s–” She paused, a whipcrack tendril of thought finding the old Rider among the thousands upon thousands in the camp. “He’s helping Jörmundur.” She looked past the tents arrayed before them, where the elven command center was nestled in the distance. “If you’re clearing me, then I think I need to find Däthedr. He’d have taken command.”

Glen raised an eyebrow. Of course she’d try to dive into work. In all honesty, he was itching to get back into some normalcy, as odd as their normal was. Taking stock and helping the wounded after a pitched battle always gave him a sense of strange calm, as if the differences made both on and off the field were evening out in alignment.

Motion caught his eye, snapping his attention to the throng flowing back and forth in the makeshift alley. People were parting, moving to the sides as if a force of nature split their river.

He tapped the uninjured back of Arya’s right hand, tried again when he touched the nerve-severed portion by accident, and pointed. “I think Däthedr’s already found you.”

The Queen’s aforementioned second was breezing up the muddied lane, the handful of the Lords of House that had not been left behind to tend to Du Weldenvarden fast on his heels.

Both Glen and Arya pushed themselves up to standing as they neared. Däthedr dismissed their tired salutes with an equally tired wave of his hand, bandages already smeared with dust from the thickened air flashing at his forearm. “Enough of that. I think we can forgo our culture’s formalities at a time like this. It is good to see you both made it out of the citadel.”

“It’s good to see the lot of you in one piece as well, sir.” Arya gave her mother’s advisor a half smile, one that wobbled at the edges when she straightened and gestured toward the tent at their backs. “If you’ve come about the Queen–”

“Finli has already informed me that Islanzadí lives.” Däthedr’s eyes softened, and, maybe with as much surprise to himself as Glen saw on the faces of the Lords of House, the elder elf stepped forward and gently hugged the woman before him. He pulled back after a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing that the lot of them were in public. “I wish I could say I am here solely to provide support, but time and power moves quickly. We are here to speak on official matters.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” Glen stepped forward to be shoulder to shoulder with his still somewhat bewildered CO. The hug seemed to have caught her off guard just as much as the others, completely unused to the calm and collected Däthedr of all people giving in to what equated to an emotional outburst. It didn’t help that Blagden, woken by the movement and determined to take part in official duties, had begun clambering out of the sling and up her cracked cuirass, using beak and claw to haul himself to a wavering perch on her left shoulder. “Queen Islanzadí is still being tended to, and she is to be put into the Dream State to heal for the next two days at least. With all due respect, I’m afraid you’re going to have to handle the politics on your own.”

Däthedr nodded, head dipping lower than usual. “Understood. We are not here to speak with Islanzadí, but to speak with Arya, and, by extension of your role, you, Glenwing.” He returned his attention to Arya, who seemed to have shaken off her shock, if not the raven clinging to her pauldron. “Nasuada, Eragon, Saphira, Brom and the other leaders are gathering at dusk. The choice of the Broddring ruler is to be made. Our own ruler must attend.”

Arya blinked, then pinched the bridge of her nose, elbow braced against the back of her scarred right wrist where the bandages did not reach. That headache that Blagden’s earlier snap had started was beginning to bloom between her eyes. “Right.” The word came as a barely contained sigh. Really? Now? “Regency. You need my okay to go ahead with electing the Keeper.”

“Keeper?” Glen’s hand at the small of her back was a brief touch, probably invisible to the gathering of elf lords and ladies in its speed. The message was clear, an offering of physical support if she needed it. The question he voiced, while genuine, a subtle way to allow her to catch her metaphorical breath.

It made her grin inwardly. Maybe he should go into politics.

“Keeper of the Knotted Throne.” Her responding quick tap of her knuckles to his assured him she was fine. “It’s basically a regent, put in place when our ruler is incapacitated until the king or Queen is able to resume duties fully, until they die, or until they pass the throne on to someone else.” Arya dropped her hand and squared her shoulders, ignoring Blagden’s half startled ‘whoop’ at the movement as she fixed her gaze on Däthedr. “They need my permission to put a Keeper in place since I’m the Queen’s next of kin. The Right of Blood, remember? They’re trying to see if I’ll push a claim.”

“Ah.” Glenwing tilted his head slightly. He had only heard Arya invoke Right of Blood a handful of times, all within the last few years, and only within Eragon and Saphira’s band of protectors. Blödhgarm was a reasonable man, and his thinking frequently aligned with Arya’s when it came to commanding the spellcasters that were technically under Eragon and Saphira’s control.

But cultural standards and hierarchy frequently tied his hands when it came to a few points of contention, and Arya had found her Right of Blood, given by her status as Islanzadí’s daughter and her military rank, allowed them to circumvent such blocks. When Arya spoke with the Right invoked, she spoke with the Queen’s authority, a temporary power but a very high one indeed.

Her use of it during the fateful meeting after Nasuada’s failed kidnapping had been what revealed her parentage to Nasuada and Orrin, and while a rather heated debate on the differences between nobles and primagenature monarchy for humans and elves had followed, the Right had been useful in the end.

Again, Däthedr bowed his head. Arya’s lips tightened slightly at the lower than normal dip, recognizing it for what it was. Deference. “Yes. We need your permission to name a Keeper.” There was no wary light in his eyes when he met her gaze, just honest exhaustion and a will to find a raft of normalcy in the new storm of uncertainty.

She could put this in his hands. Her Da had put his faith in him, and so did her Mum. He would not lead the Lords of House to a weak leader, and he would not allow them to manipulate his nomination, nor the Keeper’s judgment.

Arya sighed again, and this time made no attempt to hide it. She was sore, and she was tired. The sooner she and Glen got to work, the sooner she could forget those facts. Forget that her mother was laying in the tent behind her, arm gone, fighting it out in the Dream State.

“Alright. I put aside my claim through Right of Blood. You know her better than most, Däthedr.” She nodded firmly. “I trust you’ll find the right person to fill the role, one that the Queen will approve of.”

In the back of the gathered lords, a few shifted slightly. Whether they thought Arya would have pressed claim or were miffed she had so clearly appointed Däthedr to lead the search was unclear.

“Thank you. However, I’m happy to report that the choice has already been made now that you have given your consent.” Däthedr gestured toward Islanzadí’s tent. “Queen Islanzadí thought it wise to set in place a…living will of sorts. There were…” He paused, grey eyes flicking to the preening Blagden almost too quickly to notice. “Some fears that Islanzadí could be gravely injured or killed on this day. The nomination for Keeper of the Throne was chosen well in advance, as well as Islanzadí’s nomination for her successor should she be killed.” He swept his outstretched hand back, indicating the gathered Lords. “The Lords of House agreed then, and still do now, with the nomination. All that is left is to present the title to them.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but Blagden beat her to it. The white raven lifted his head, ruff proudly raised, and uttered a sharp croak.

“Wyrda!”

Arya scowled at him from the corner of her eye, voice harsh. “Cram it!” How a raven managed enough expression to look offended, Arya had no idea. He took the chance to nip her ear, growling softly. “Knock it off!”

Once the feathered terror had taken a few shuffles away from the side of her head, Arya put her hands on her hips, left palm settling on the guard of her father’s blade. A flicker of thought at the sword’s name, amusingly kinned to Blagden’s call, flitted through her mind before it was gone again.

“That makes this far easier. I’ll leave it to you and the Lords of House to alert the Keeper and prep them if they accept.” She shrugged. Entertaining the idea that the nominee, hand picked by her mother, would refuse the position was a nauseating prospect, but if chaos was what awaited them, then they may as well meet it head on. “If they refuse the position, just let me know when you come up with another one and I’ll do this song and dance again.”

Arya tilted her head towards Glenwing. “We’re going to head for block eight. Help where we can.”

“Very well.” Däthedr suddenly planted his staff in the mud and squared his shoulders.

“Arya Shadeslayer of House Tialdarí, of House Varden. You have been chosen by Islanzadí Dröttning, Queen of the elven nation, to assume the mantle of Keeper of the Knotted Throne, and to rule as Queen Regent until Queen Islanzadí is fit to resume her duties or pass them on.”

Däthedr’s voice rang clear in the crowded space, unmistakable power bonded to the truth of the Ancient Language. “The Lords of House are in agreement and stand united with Queen Islanzadí’s choice, made in sane mind and with due diligence done as required by our laws. This nomination is unanimous.”

Däthedr locked his grey gaze to Arya’s burning green.

“Do you accept this title, position, and the responsibilities it entails?”

It felt as though the entire camp had gone silent.

People in the lane stopped and stared, frozen by the authority lent by Däthedr’s voice. Though many had not understood the words, the overall feeling was clear. Something was about to change, a ripple through the fabric of the world ready to race out to enact it.

This was history.

…Odd how making history still felt fresh during such an already historic day.

And as the last of the sounds of Däthedr’s words rang, even time held its breath.

Arya stared back into Däthedr’s eyes.

And managed only a single croaked, dumbfounded word:

“Huh?”

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modern-inheritance · 21 days ago

Text

Modern Inheritance: Stay (post-established relationship, extended war timeline)

Summary:

Even though they've been Claimed Mates for over two months, Eragon keeps waking up to an empty cot, Arya fleeing into the night once he falls asleep. His frustration comes to a head when he catches her in the act and she still leaves despite his pleading. Angry and hurt, Eragon confronts his new mate in the morning.

Eragon and Arya have their first argument after becoming mates. Turns out being magic-using, sword-wielding, Shadeslaying war heroes doesn't stop young, quasi-immortal love from hitting the same stumbling blocks as any other relationship.

(A/N: Eragon has abandonment issues. Arya is always walking a line of self sacrifice and duty vs what she wants and loves. Saphira is rolling her eyes at these two because even though she's never had any sort of romantic nor physical relationship, even she knows that you can't stay happy for long if you don't openly communicate.

There's more to this on both Eragon and Arya's sides for why they both are hurting beyond just what we see here, but I can't find a way yet to work it into a long form story.)

STAY

Eragon’s breath was calm, the rise and fall of his chest against her back steady and even. He hadn’t moved for some time now, and for not the first and certainly not the last time Arya cursed her damaged temporal awareness. Had it been long enough? She didn’t want to wake him, not when he was obviously so exhausted from the fighting. But staying risked that far more than leaving.

Carefully, timing her movements by each breath he took, Arya gently took the arm draped over her waist and lifted it just enough to slip out from his hold. She eased herself to the ground beside the cot and gathered her boots and socks in one hand, keeping her new mate in the corner of her vision. Satisfied he had not stirred, Arya shifted to a crouch and rose, silently willing the world to remain quiet for just a few moments longer.

The elf held her breath and stepped toward the tent flap to make her escape.

And suddenly froze, warm fingers tangling with her free hand.

Arya’s heart sank. She turned back to him, feeling her pulse jump to her throat when she saw his face. Not entirely awake, his curls tousled and pressed to the side of his head. The upward tilt of his brows confused and…hurt.

“Stay?” Arya bit her tongue and swallowed hard at a single word so thick with emotion. Eragon’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Don’t go this time. Please?”

Her chest ached. The elf lowered herself to the ground again, knelt beside the man she loved and pressed her forehead to the back of his hand where he clung to hers. Tried to hide the trembling of her lips. That he could do this to her hurt. Just a few words from his mouth had her screaming inside to give in, to ignore her reality and simply climb back into the damn cot and huddle close to him.

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His grip around her fingers tightened. “Stay with me?”

Inhaling a shaky breath, Arya lifted her head and pressed reverent lips to his knuckles. “You need sleep.” He smelled of tilled earth, warm, soft cotton, dragonfire. Faint traces of milled soap and the tinny water from a washbarrel.

“I sleep better with you here.”

If she waited any longer she ran the risk of him convincing her, those liquid dark eyes and the pleas in his mellow voice.

She still could. She could climb back up beside him, the space she had abandoned still warm. Huddle up to his chest in the narrow cot and bury her face in his shoulder and forget everything for a few hours. Together just for the sake of drinking each other in, for the simple comfort of closeness that she never quite reached when sleeping with her shoulders pressed against Glen’s or waking under the weight of Brom’s heavy coat. Comfort and closeness brother and father by war could not give, and that she could not give in return.

She never wanted to leave him. Never, ever–

Arya abruptly stood and pulled away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Eragon’s outstretched arm remained where it was as the canvas flap whispered closed. His hand hung in the thin air where he swore he could still feel her warmth, dissipating in the chill night. He lowered the limb to hang limply over the edge of the cot and curled his legs close to his chest, shivering.

Outside, he felt Saphira stir slightly, the ache and confusion of her partner leaking through their connection.

A gentle hand against her scaled side, a pulse of apology that Eragon could not grasp, and the dragon settled again.

Saphira reached to him in the safety of their link and enveloped his pain with her soothing thoughts, curling around him as she would in their many nights of travel and solace. ‘Sleep, Little One.’

‘She doesn't want me, Saphira. We’re Claimed, but she doesn’t–’

‘Life and love are rarely so simple. Breathe, and rest.’ Saphira nuzzled her mental self’s snout against his chest. ‘Wild dragons such as Arya take time. Worry about this when the sun is up, and ask of her then.’

Throat thick with swallowed emotion, Eragon nodded and returned his partner’s mental embrace. He cast off the blanket and retrieved Brisingr and his shirt, donning them both before slipping out of the tent and clambering over Saphira’s forelegs. She lifted her wing slightly and let him settle against her, a soft hum vibrating through her side.

The low tone soon lulled his troubled mind back into a state of exhausted sleep, all the while missing the press of his mate’s body against his.

Despite morning finding Eragon well rested, he could not calm the roiling of his mind. The more he tried to put the way Arya left out of his thoughts, the more the splinter dug into his brain.

It was not the first time he had woken to an empty space beside him after falling asleep in Arya’s arms, or with her wrapped in his. They had been Claimed Mates for over two months now, and in the nearly two dozen nights they had shared a bed, passionate or otherwise, Eragon could only remember Arya remaining with him till dawn twice.

It…bothered him.

He had shared his troubles with Saphira before. At her urging he had asked Arya why she left, and her simple answer of him and his partner needing uninterrupted sleep had left him dissatisfied but quiet. Despite Saphira telling him in no uncertain terms to push her on it if he still felt upset, Eragon had shrugged it o ff at the time. They were happy together otherwise.

But now…now Saphira was mentally trying to drag him back from the brink of anger as he marched through the camp.

‘Little One, give yourself time on this.’ Saphira’s exasperation was clear, sour in her thoughts. ‘Cooler minds are needed. Do not start this angry, it will not end well.’

‘I have to talk to her about it. I can’t keep doing this.’

‘Then talk to her about it. Do not yell, Little One. I can feel your words pulling at your throat like a battle cry.’

He pushed her away. Saphira’s thoughts flared their wings, the draconic equivalent of throwing one's arms up in frustration, and she retreated to the edge of his mind, a trailing tendril monitoring him as he finally found the subject of his ire.

Glenwing raised his mechanical hand in greeting, fingers giving a chipper click against his palm. “Good morning!” Brom did the same, barely a grunt into his coffee as he took a healthy slurp of the burning liquid.

Arya looked up from the report resting between her hands braced on the camp table, and flashed her mate a bright, vibrant smile. “Well, look who’s up! Figured we should let you sleep in after all the fighting yesterday.”

Eragon gave his father and the medic a curt nod but did not return their typical morning greetings. Instead he stopped a pace away from his original bodyguard, fists jammed into the pockets of his hoodie, and tried to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“We need to talk.”

“Sure.” Arya dipped her head, swiping up the half-full mug of herbal tea that rested beside the morning scout report. “What do you need?”

A fresh surge of animus tightened Eragon’s still stubbled jaw. How could she act so casually when he had begged her to stay the night before? Even with their agreement to keep their relationship as under wraps as possible, how could she not even acknowledge it in the slightest? “In private.”

The mug stopped for just a breath of a second in its travel back to the table. Arya swallowed the sip she had taken, the fire in her eyes warping to stuttered surprise and trepidation for the briefest moment before the ceramic clacked twice on the wood. “Of course. Tent?”

“Please.”

As they turned to leave, Glen caught their attention with metallic knuckles rapped on the abandoned mug. “Meeting in an hour, command pavilion. Don’t forget.” Arya flicked an informal salute off her brow in acknowledgement before the Rider and soldier disappeared out the flap of the mess tent and into the early morning light.

“Are you alright?” Arya reached up a hand to touch his cheek, concern evident. Eragon turned his head away, refusing the contact. The walk to his tent had been short, but even that span had brought his anger to head. Everything felt tight high up in his chest, some creature snapping just below his throat and clawing to get free. He could feel Saphira hovering at the edge of his mind, keeping a respectful distance while taking in the exchange through his senses. She would intervene at a moment’s notice should things get out of hand, but for once Eragon found her presence far from soothing. It buzzed like a lingering insect just out of his sight, and it took all his self control not to push his partner away.

This was his business. Saphira had made her thoughts on the matter clear to him earlier, and he did not want another woman in his life tangling his emotions like so much forgotten yarn.

The elf before him seemed to flinch at his sudden distance, surprise and hurt flashing across emerald eyes in the dim light. The dark little creature struggling to free itself from his throat cackled in glee at the woman’s reaction, taking some satisfaction that she was hurting too, before Eragon felt disgust at himself well up. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be about.

“Eragon, what’s–”

“Why won’t you stay?” Though he did not raise his voice, the words were sharp off his tongue.

Arya blinked, startled at his venom. “I don’t under–”

“You never stay.” Eragon threw a hand towards the cot they both had abandoned the previous night, the bunched blanket cold. “Every time we’ve spent the night together, you leave. You say we’re Claimed Mates, that means we’re there for each other, but the second I’m asleep you run off like you can’t wait to be rid of me!” Arya’s lips parted, eyes wide at the outburst, but he cut her off again. “Arya, you’ve said you love me. You said it in a language that, at its core, should not let you lie! But–But right now, I am really, really starting to question if you picked up some tricks in Ellesméra last time, because the way you act when you leave is sending some mixed signals here!”

He forced his next words past a growing lump in his throat, that angry creature turned to a whimpering and confused ball of pain. He hated that he was even voicing such a question, hated that she had him questioning it all. And hated, most of all, that he was unsure of her answer.

“Do you still even want to be mates?”

Arya grabbed his shoulders. He could feel her hands trembling through his shirt, her grip tight. Something in her eyes was screaming to him before she blinked and tried to cover it, that damned instinct to conceal any weakness even– especially – from him rearing its head. “Yes! Yes, Eragon I–” She suddenly faltered, barely hid the crack in her voice in time. “Unless you don’t, I just…I just want you to be happy, and–”

“Really? Are you sure about that?” Eragon crossed his arms, heart hammering in his chest. Her reaction was not what he had expected. But it was in the open now, and stopping now would fester their thoughts and feelings like fetid meat. “Because out there, we have to pretend that we’re not together, that we’re just what we were before. This tent is the only space we can truly be what we are to each other. And you won’t even stay till dawn!”

“Eragon, you–”

Oh it was well and truly out now. Everything came rushing out of his mouth like dragonfire, spilling and tumbling without the breath to guide it. “Oh, spare me! You’ve already used up the needing to sleep excuses!” Eragon bit down on his tongue, hard, at the sudden panic that flitted across his mate’s face. His voice had jolted in volume, and he had to struggle to pull it back down to kinder levels. “Just tell me the truth. Why won’t you stay, Arya? Do you want this relationship or not? Because honestly, at this point, I don’t need sleep,” A tremor of his lip escaped his control, the lump still building up and threatening to burst from his throat. “I need you! And if you don’t want that, then I think I deserve to be told.”

Arya’s shoulders were hunched, fists tight at her sides as she stared over his shoulder. He could see her shaking through the trembling of the wild fringes of her hair, the bob of her throat as she swallowed.

The silence stretched.

Every second hurt.

Still outside the mess tent, Saphira shifted uneasily. Eragon could smell the trickles of smoke leaking from between her teeth despite the distance. The push-pull of her affection for both of them, her loyalty to and love for him in his pain while a strange understanding of the elf hovered just out of his full vision.

And then finally. Arya spoke.

“I didn’t realize this upset you so much.” Arya’s words were a soft mumble.

Eragon lifted his chin. Her acknowledgement, however small, sparked a trill of pride at making himself heard. “It does.”

Blazing emerald met his gaze, and with a sudden pang Eragon saw unshed tears. “Eragon. I am so sorry. If I had known, I wouldn’t…I would have told you. I didn’t want you to lose sleep over me and–” She stopped herself, taking a deep breath and holding it for a long, long moment. “I do want to remain your Claim Mate, if you would still have me despite this. I haven’t broken the oaths we took. My stars and sun still burn for you.”

Relief flooded Eragon’s chest. A twinge of the hurt remained, but he had her word at the very least. Legs suddenly weak, he stepped back and sat heavily on the cot. Rubbed his face, feeling the prickle of stubble that he had yet to remove as the wave of emotions crashed down from the crown of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes.

At last he looked up at her. Arya still stood, now in front of where he sat, eyes downcast as his had been. Apprehension, something so unusual to see on her, hung about her shoulders in the dimly lit tent.

“Then why won't you stay?” All his pain and confusion leaked into his words. In some odd way, the emotions flowing out made his teeth tingle, as if magic and energy were a part of his raw feelings now made real in the air.

She would not meet his gaze. “I meant it. You need sleep.”

“Damn it, Arya….” The exasperated curse slipped out before he could stop it. He winced, knuckling his forehead as the thread Saphira held with him fired a zap of a warning into his mind. “I’m sorry. That was wrong to say. I’m…I just don’t understand.”

“We’ve said worse while we sparred.”

“That was then. We’re trying to communicate right now, not beat each other black and blue.” Eragon shook his head, curls flopping about his face. “Context is everything. I’m sorry.”

The phrase seemed to snap something in the elf’s countenance, a flutter of sharp brows dipping, the press of lips together in a momentary frown. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Arya pushed her hands into the pockets of her combat pants. Through the spidersilk-enforced fabric Eragon could see the barest outline of her knuckles rising up as she dug her fingertips into her legs. Seemingly unsatisfied, she pulled one free and settled it on the hollow between her neck and right shoulder, massaging some knot out of the muscle. “Eragon, when I say you need sleep, I’m…I’m saying you’re less likely to get it when I’m around.”

Eragon snorted softly. It earned him a gentle bump of her boot against his. “I have better self control than that.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The prickly tone pulled him out of the admittedly juvenile lapse. Arya’s frown had returned, expression hard. “I mean me being here would more likely wake you up.” Another jolt of apprehension. She turned her head and looked to the tent flap, fingers pushing hard into the back of her shoulder. “...I get nightmares.”

“I know.” Eragon reached out, offering his hand. That the simple gesture brought a tinge of a blush to the elf’s cheeks warmed his heart through his new confusion. He knew this of her. They had spent plenty of nights wandering the camp together, running laps with Saphira gliding overhead, and shared many late night meals throughout their friendship as the three of them worked their way through memory and misery.

Despite the anger draining, he couldn’t help the edge of exasperation that crept into his voice. “I already told you, Arya. I’m not going to hide when it gets tough. We’re supposed to be here for each other. You’re always there for Saphira and me. I can’t be there for you if you keep running.” He pushed his hand up further, closer to her. “Let me help you. Please! Stop treating me like the kid you met then and just…accept that we’re together in this.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? It’s not that simple!” Eragon blinked at the snap in the elf’s tone, her sharp teeth clicking together with a frustrated hiss. Still, he kept his hand out, not a hint of hesitation displayed anywhere. Arya closed her eyes and breathed, brows twitching as she tried to force the wave of her own anger down. “I don’t like to leave you. I don’t want to leave you. But this isn’t…just nightmares. You deserve–”

“How about you let me worry about what I deserve?” Eragon frowned. “And if it’s complicated, then explain it to me.”

“It’s not–”

“Arya. Enough. Talk to me, please. I want this, I want us, to work more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.” Still, he refused to move. He would fight for this. For them. “And we can’t do this unless we’re truthful with each other.”

Eyes still closed, Arya bit her lip. Using the afterimage of his outstretched hand burned against her lids, she gently pushed the offered comfort down. She couldn’t take it, not when he was right about this. She had been hiding the truth from him, no matter if it was from a place of concern for him.

“I’ve…I’ve been getting Recall. With the nightmares again.”

Calloused fingers closed around hers. Arya opened her eyes to see Eragon clasping both hands around the one she had tried to push him away with. His gaze was clear, completely unwavering as he held her in place with both touch and emotion.

“That’s never happened before, has it?” Concern was thick in his voice. His anger at her had seemingly fled at the confession, leaving only hurt, confusion, and, in some ways, relief at her assurances. Worry lingered, which was exactly what she had wanted to avoid. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

A nod of confirmation. “It started after Varaug.” At least she could name that Shade without her lips twisting in disgust, the syllables catching in her throat whenever his name came up. “He brought up some memories I apparently buried and didn’t really…understand the extent of until then.” Arya shrugged. She felt muscle etched at the surface of what remained of her skin ripple beneath the fingers still gripping her shoulder. “Dras Leona made it worse. It’s just how it goes with these things. I…I didn’t want you being distracted by my stupid fucking issues.”

Eragon pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, a mirror of her actions the previous night. Asked her with deep brown eyes, liquid and softly gleaming, to trust him, to tell him of her hurt so he could hold it with her. The need to know. And the need to help.

“You don’t need to always protect me.” His lips brushed over her skin with each word. “Let me help. Please, Arya. Stay.”

It damn near broke her to refuse him again.

“Eragon…I can’t always tell when I sleep if a nightmare will trigger a Recall episode.” Careful, she knelt down before him, staring up into his face as she covered his own grasping hand with hers. The abandoned patch of scarring pulsed weakly in protest, quieted to a prickling chill at the sudden absence of extra stimulation. “They’re not…they’re not like the times you’ve seen me have them before. The ones where I’m just seeing things or get a flash of something.”

Her grip tightened over his, just barely a second before she forced it to relax. Trying to hide that building stress he could feel hovering over her skin like a smothering blanket. “I never want to leave you. I hate it. I really, really fucking hate it. But Recall like what these nightmares can bring isn’t…it isn’t something you should see. It’s not just something I can be tapped on the shoulder and brought out of, it’s….” She stopped. When she spoke again, her voice was small. “It’s terrifying sometimes. Glen and I see each other through them. We’re more used to it and still, it’s scary to see someone you care for go through it. Grounding doesn’t always work, sometimes you just have to let them ride it out and stop it on their own. And mine are…loud.”

Faster than he could catch, Arya suddenly yanked her hands away from his. She let herself rock back, arms crossed and tucked in close as she pulled her knees up and folded in on herself. As Eragon watched, this woman who had become his goddess of war, second only to his goddess of the skies, seemed to grow smaller right before him in a way she never had before.

“Brom and Glen and Saphira all already know. They didn’t tell you because I asked.” Eragon lowered himself from the cot and settled beside his mate, shoulder to shoulder with her. The fact that his father, her war brother and his Partner of Heart and Mind all knew before he did twinged a spark of jealousy in his chest, but it wasn’t entirely surprising. She had always gone to them first, familiarity and long ties a comfort in chaos when she didn’t want to worry him. “I don’t want you losing sleep because I woke you up with my fucking Recall. I know you. You worry. You’d spend the next nights thinking you need to stay awake to stop it from happening.”

She turned her head to look at him, bracing her cheek on one knee to force herself to remain. “I don’t want you remembering when I woke you up because I was screaming. I…I can’t be the reason you lose sleep. That’s why I leave. That's why I can’t stay.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, Eragon leaned over and settled his shoulder against hers, his head tilting to rest against her hunched upper back. The patched leather that protected her shoulders smelled of her, gunsmoke, worked leather, pine and a battlefield frenzy that lit up her eyes like blazing infernos. It was cool against his cheek, soft even. Her heart muttered through her bones and echoed in his ear, little flutters from a deep seated anxiety she couldn’t quite mask when her very lifeblood could give it away to him.

“I love you.” The mumbled confession, heard so many times before, lifted a scoff he could hear through her shoulder blade. “I love all of you, Arya.”

She rolled her shoulders, the warning subtle, and he obediently lifted his head. A twinge of nerves, still oddly uneasy about him being so close to her scars. It hadn’t been that way till their relationship had started, her shyness about the remnants of her torture surprising them both.

No matter how many times he told her that he loved her inside and out, that strange little spark of concern for how he saw her remained. He filed it away in the back of his mind, a reminder to find some way to put that worry at ease. Someday.

So instead he mirrored her position and tilted his head back until he felt her shift beside him, felt her eyes boring into him as she sat up. Eragon gave her a gentle smile and reached out a hand to toy with her fingers, trying to distract her from the growing apprehension that always accompanied her forays into such vulnerable moments. “Hey?”

“Hm?” Arya blinked at him, owl-like. Still not quite relaxed, but easing into his soft presence again.

“Do you think…” He slipped his fingertips under hers, stroking the patterned ridges of her fingerprints with ghosted traces of his own. “Once the war is over, these Recall episodes will stop?”

Bitter sharpness tinged his mate’s response. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“I know, I know.” He kept his voice light, tried to show her through gentle touch and gentle words what he was aching to convey. “But look. Arya. I’m going to be with you as long as you will have me.”

Something flickered in her eyes, a quiet realization.

“I’m going to want to stay with you, and keep you close for as many nights as you can stand.” Careful, letting her read his movements before he got close, he tucked a few of the many wayward strands of hair about her face behind a pointed ear. “I know this is scary. For you, and for me. But I can’t take the running anymore. Not if it’s going to keep happening forever.” He drew his thumb down her cheek and felt her lean into his touch. “So maybe…maybe we try this. I can talk to Glen, if you’ll allow it. He can teach me how to help you when you get Recall. And we’ll both learn. We can try this out, just for a while.”

Eragon leaned in and pressed his forehead to Arya’s. Kissed the tip of her nose. “No matter what, I sleep better with you here. I promise. I love all of you, and that means I am ready to stand by you and hold you through whatever you need me to. And you won’t chase me off.” His eyes were bright, hopeful as she met his gaze. “Please?”

Arya closed her eyes. Drank in the scent of him, the feeling of him close. The things she wanted every time she forced herself to slip away.

“...Okay.” Eragon sucked in a breath as she finally spoke. “I’ll try.”

He kissed her cheek. Her lips. Lingered as she threaded shaky fingers through his curls to keep him close when he broke the gentle contact. “Thank you.”

It was a handful of nights before their schedules aligned again. Arya had trudged into his tent after knocking, looking as utterly exhausted as he felt. Unable to do much in such sorry states, they had simply kicked off their boots and shed their daily outer combat gear and fell into the waiting cot.

He didn’t know when sleep had taken him. The last thing he remembered was Arya’s back through the material of her shirt warm against his bare chest, his hand draped over her side and feeling her breathing even out.

Now, blinking a waking dream from his eyes, Eragon felt a familiar absence. Nothing pressed against his body but the cool night air.

Numbing weight settled on his chest. She had promised him.

Eragon reached out his mind for Saphira’s comforting presence, and then suddenly stopped.

Arya’s mind was still near his. Muted, guarded, ironclad and yet…fuzzy with sleep.

Careful, shifting his hip just so to avoid the one unevenly tensioned patch on the cot that always creaked, Eragon pulled himself to the edge of the frame and peered down.

The sight had him grinning despite the loss of warmth at his side. ‘My silly elf.’

As if she had heard him, Arya let out a soft mumble of protest, coming half awake. She didn’t seem to notice her mate looking down at her, only blindly felt around for the corner of the blanket she had commandeered from their stash and tugged it over her shoulder. She turned again, effectively rolling herself into a woolen cocoon with another soft grumble.

Eragon watched her settle again before laying back. He let one arm drop over the side of the cot, his fingers brushing against his mate’s shoulder.

‘It’s a start.’

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