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modern-inheritance · 1 month ago

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Modern Inheritance: Stabilize, pt. 4 (Multi-part story, extended war timeline)

PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3 // PART 4 (You are here!)

Overall Summary: What should have just been an outreach mission to help heal and treat citizens of a recently captured city goes wrong. Arya finds herself tossed into her own mind with little to no control over anything around her, watching confused and in pain as the world whips by. Outside her body, Eragon, Saphira, Glen, Blödhgarm and the other spellcaster guards work franticly to stabilize her, uniting as a family Eragon and Saphira had not quite realized had formed around them.

Chapter Summary: With a moment to take stock as Arya is given time to rest before the debris are removed, Eragon seeks comfort and companionship, as well as some much needed humor and normalcy, in Saphira. But the world and the War wait for no one, not even dragons and Riders quietly struggling with a sudden near loss, and Eragon is quickly thrust back into a briefing with his allies in the Varden.

(A/N: No medical stuff for once in this one! And no continuation of the Dream State/Evandar situation just yet. Also, heads up that next chapters will be long in coming, I don't have nearly as much written out for them as I should before posting but I've had this ready for ages now. Cheers mates!)

~~~

MODERN INHERITANCE: STABILIZE, PT. 4: BRIEF

The street was remarkably quiet. Saphira still lay some paces from the broken wall, sharp gaze following the handful of remaining workmen as they moved the shattered materials into piles at Ísryn and Salis’ direction. The pockets of curious and concerned citizens had been cleared out, the parallel barricades blocking the area now manned by a line of grim-faced Varden soldiers.

‘Jörmundur arrived and took over not long ago.’ Saphira lowered her head at her partner's approach. He could feel her still keeping the workers in the corner of her eye, leery of having anyone besides their friends close after such an explosive afternoon. ‘Blödhgarm’s kept him from charging into the house.’

Eragon hummed and seized Saphira’s snout with both hands, bumping his forehead to it. The contact was a comfort he hadn’t quite realized he was craving. As intimate as linking minds together was, it seemed there was little that could completely replace the warmth and soothing feel of simple touch. They both drank in the sensation of being just together, some of the dregs of stress and anxiety slipping from muscles neither of them remembered being wound quite so tight.

When he felt he could finally breathe again, Eragon lifted his head with a deep sigh. ‘I’ll deal with whatever Jörmundur wants in a bit. He can wait a few minutes more.’ Saphira chuffed in agreement. ‘Where’s Wyrda at?’

‘Here. Take it.’ With a dampened clatter and scrape of scale across paving stones, Saphira lifted her chest off the ground a handful of inches. Wyrda glittered under the dappled blue flecks that reflected off the dragon’s body, the setting sun’s rays angled just low enough to catch through the buildings. ‘I will say, though. This horde business may have some truth to it.’ Her tongue rasped as she licked her lips, tilting her head like a curious feline. ‘Feels…oddly powerful. Sitting on some dead king’s favorite piece of metal.’

‘I’m sure Arya will be just thrilled to hear Wyrda described that way.’ Eragon couldn’t help the wry grin touching his own lips. The rumble of Saphira’s stifled chuckle vibrated his skull as he bent and fished the blade out from beneath her. ‘Maybe save it for when we find Galbatorix’s pile of ill-gotten gains?’

‘As if I would allow anything he’s tainted to touch my beautiful scales.’ That brought a light laugh from her Rider, more at the venom she suddenly wrapped around her words than any true humor. ‘I’d melt his gold down to chains for his corrupt nobles.’

‘Now there’s a thought.’

Careful, Eragon raised Wyrda to eye level, running his gaze over the sword in the way he had seen Arya do countless times. He wasn’t completely surprised that he found that there were no nicks or dents, the edge still perfect as ever. Dust-caked blood clung to the hilt and in the fuller, but beyond that and the half unraveled leather strip hiding the emerald pommel there was no sign it had just been through an arcane explosion or slaying of any kind.

‘...Don’t think I’ve ever actually held Wyrda before.’ Eragon mumbled to Saphira. He impulsively held it up for his partner to sniff. She humored him, eyes twinkling. ‘The weight feels different from Brisingr and Zar’roc.’

‘Like the falchion?’ A thought drifted through Saphira’s link before she could smoother it. A sudden and strange urge to have arms akin to his so she could see what it was like to wield blade, bow and bullet rather than tooth, claw and flame. The idea made him grin. ‘I suppose attempting to use a blade different from your own would feel like you had swapped limbs.’

Eragon resisted the urge to take the blade through a few swings, instead fishing for a rag in his belt. ‘You saw how long it took me to get used to using that falchion. Brisingr was made for me, so it wasn’t exactly an adjustment, but I wonder…’ He took his familiar seat on Saphira’s foreleg when she offered it out. ‘Rhunön probably made this sword for Evandar. And it probably had a lot of spells similar to those in Brisingr and the other Rider’s swords put into it while it was crafted.’

That was obvious to him now. He could feel webs of words and song warm under his fingertips even through the cloth he was wiping the blade down with. The sword was reacting to his touch, unlike any other blade beyond Brisingr had, and he found himself layering in another question. Was it because of his work with Rhunön during Brisingr’s forging, some remnant the smith accidentally left behind in his mind? Or if it was simply…well…thanking him for something? Either his relationship with its wielder, or just a basic thanks for the much needed cleaning?

Saphira tilted her head again. His questions were echoed by her own, though none overlapped completely. The smell of hot iron and simmering coal and coke, sawdust and pine drifted to Eragon’s senses, the scents of the ancient elf’s forge. A memory that was not his flickered across his mind’s eye, the blues bright and greens subdued, a momentary scene of Arya working alongside Rhunön as Saphira lay wrapped around a warm charcoal pile still cooking under layers of soil and clay.

‘Do you think Arya did the alterations?’ Eragon picked up on the thread of thought that had undoubtedly led her to the memory. He had known Arya spent plenty of her time growing up hanging around the forge and ‘being an insufferable pest,’ as Rhunön had alleged, but he hadn’t realized she was more akin to an apprentice than an observer. ‘Rhunön said herself she hadn’t worked on a blade since the Fall. She hadn’t come up with the plan to use someone else’s body before then.’

‘Maybe. Or, maybe Arya did not need the alterations to use Wyrda as her own.’

Another memory, this one colliding with his as they both ricocheted to the same image. The fairths in Arya’s rooms, both at her flat with Glen and the ones oft left unused, attached to her mother’s quarters. Evandar Könungr standing tall, his build familiar despite the difference between sexes. The easy stance and squared shoulders, the slight rise on the balls of his feet he probably didn't even know was occurring, and the bright, bright smile full of mischief done and mischief planned, eyes sparkling beyond the grave.

The sight of so much of Arya in her father, and how much the observation would mean to her if they told her of the realization, brought another smile to Eragon’s face. ‘You’re probably right.’

Eragon tucked the rag back into his belt pouch and, with practiced care, wiped both sides of Wyrda’s blade on the soft sleeve of his shirt in a final check. Satisfied that no specks of dust remained, he sheathed the weapon with a definitive click. ‘There.’

“Eragon!”

Saphira snarled as her head whipped around, nearly crashing her nose into Jörmundur’s wiry chest. Nasuada’s Second just barely threw himself out of the way with a coarse shout, back of his boot catching in one of the many new potholes on the street. Blödhgarm caught him by the shoulders and levered him upright before he could even wheel his arms, leaving Eragon to wonder if Jörmundur even knew he had nearly fallen.

“My apologies, Rider, but the commander has been persistent.” Blödhgarm’s smooth voice echoed with a hint of obvious frustration, the tips of his teeth glinting through the barest lift of his black lips.

“And your guards have been equally persistent in preventing me from carrying out my orders!” Jörmundur yanked his helmet off and shoved it under the crook of his arm. “Are you and Saphira harmed? What the blazes happened here, and where are the rest of your spellcasters? Nasuada’s swamped with reports of explosions and magic and has been trying to raise you by the mirrors for hours now!”

Alarmed, Eragon pushed his hand into one of the other pouches around his waist, feeling for the signal mirror he kept for scrying. The glass was hot to the touch, trembling as its linked partner in Nasuada’s pavilion was activated through the command he had taught her. It wouldn’t fully activate without his own response phrase, but even without the minor energy drain that would have accompanied the connection Eragon was somewhat surprised he hadn’t noticed it buzzing.

‘You’ve been a bit busy.’ Saphira excused. A trickle of annoyance tickled her thoughts. Nasuada typically understood that if Eragon did not answer her immediately then he had a good reason. But for the mirror to be as hot as it was then it had to be almost constantly being pinged, and the distraction could have been disastrous had Eragon noticed it before. Liegelord or not, Nasuada was dangerously close to asking too much of Eragon in the moment for the dragoness.

‘She’s just worried about us.’ He suppressed a wince. He wasn’t quite in full agreement with Saphira’s irritation, but he could understand it. ‘They’ve had no clue what’s happened. All they know is that there was an explosion and I’ve been inside a random house with you sitting outside acting like you’re about to rip it apart to get at whatever’s inside.’

The dragon did not respond, still simmering quietly. They both knew he was right, but for the time being…Saphira simply wanted to be angry. It was more comforting than anxiety.

“We had to focus on our wounded.” Eragon nodded towards the house and leaned Wyrda against his leg. “To be brief, there was an ambush by a mage of some sort. It seems the spell went awry when one of my guards killed him and it seriously injured them. We’ve been trying to keep them alive and I wasn’t able to inform anyone of the situation.”

At the mention of an ambush, Jörmundur cursed under his breath. “Are you sure it was just the one?”

“As far as I know. I’ve been inside.” Eragon looked down and grimly raised his hands to prove his point, flakes of dried elven blood crackling off and fluttering to the ground as he did. “Not had much time to breathe since it kicked off.”

“From our interactions, this attack seems to be an isolated incident. The people here have been nothing if not helpful.” Blödhgarm was quick to add. “It was a group of civilians who first helped us contain the area before your men arrived. They were just as appalled as us.”

“That may be what it looks like on the surface, but this is an investigation now.” Jörmundur rubbed his furrowed brow. His ragged sigh smelled of hot cinnamon mints, something Eragon had noticed seemed to cling to the man whenever stress weighed on him. Glen had once commented that he was happy that the Varden’s military head had finally kicked his smoking habit, but Eragon wondered if he had simply replaced it with a dependency on Lithgow Sin Mints. “Everyone here will be rounded up and questioned, and we’ll have to scour the city for anyone hiding other mages. These Black Hand types come in hives, and I’m not going to leave my men exposed unless I’m damn sure none of these lot are going to stab us in the back.”

“No.” Eragon quickly interjected. “No, we don’t need to be aggressive with these people. Like Nasuada told us, they clearly have sympathies for the Varden, and we can’t risk that. Blödhgarm is right, they’ve been helpful.”

“We can’t risk you, either.” Jörmundur crossed his arms. A subtle click and muffled clank gave away the fact that he had armor concealed beneath his combat jacket. “You say this mage nearly killed one of your guards, and if there are more, just having my men barricade the street is barely–”

“We have added wards in front of the barriers, as well as around your men.” Blödhgarm’s smooth voice cut through the wiry man’s biting retort. “They will be safe from anything but the most devastating attack.”

“Devastating enough to send an elf handpicked to defend our only dragon and Rider through a brick wall?”

Blödhgarm’s midnight fur rippled about his neck as he blinked, yellow eyes bright. Jörmundur shifted only slightly when the elf licked his wolf-like teeth before replying slowly, “What happened here was a rare result of energy committed to a spell before its true completion. I doubt even the mage casting was aware of such a possibility, nor was our companion. It will not happen again.”

Jörmundur regarded the fur covered elf for a long moment before nodding stiffly. “Then I’ll entrust the safety of my men to you and yours, Master Blödhgarm.” He turned back to Eragon, one hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. “My investigators will be thorough, but not overly zealous. On that I give you my word. We cannot rule out more attacks, but if there were more assassins nearby, I doubt they would have abandoned the opportunity to strike while you and the others were tending to your spellcaster.”

“I hope you’re right.” Eragon sighed. “Thank you for your concern. And your understanding.”

“Only where it’s due. On to business, then.” Jörmundur replaced his helmet, giving it a solid double rap of his knuckles in ingrained Vardenite superstition. “I trust you’ll speak with Lady Nasuada as soon as possible?”

Eragon touched the pouch on his belt, the signal mirror firm under his fingers and slippery through the cloth. It had cooled somewhat, Nasuada apparently taking a break from speaking the command word over and over. “I’ll call her now, but a full report will have to wait. We’re not finished healing the worst of the injuries sustained.”

The veteran’s eyes flickered to the sheathed sword still leaning against Eragon’s leg, recognition flaring. His expression softened for the briefest moment. “She’ll understand.”

~~~

Once Jörmundur left to see to the start of his investigation, Eragon briefly consulted with Blödhgarm. The fur covered elf gave him a quick rundown of the wards placed around the area, who was keeping guard and where, and a general report on the energy levels and status of each of the elves under his command.

Yaela was down for the count, to be replaced by Uthinarë once he and Laufin returned. Amaris was in far better shape, but depending on how they controlled the blood loss during the removal process would likely have to be switched out. Everyone else was decently rested, though those who had previously aided in the healing were beginning to feel a drain on their resources.

Shifts and future fill-ins decided, Eragon took a steadying breath before he retreated to sit underneath Saphira’s wing. As anxious as he was to check up on Arya again, he knew the sooner he took care of the report to Nasuada then the sooner he would be able to put his full attention on her. Going inside would distract him, and there was little place more private than tucked up against his Partner of Heart and Mind. The perfect spot to deal with sensitive calls.

Enough of the setting sun’s light filtered through the membrane of Saphira’s wing to illuminate the space, though only just. Wanting to conserve as much of his energy as possible for the healing ahead and impatient to have the conversation over and done with, Eragon dismissed summoning a werelight and focused on the signal mirror cupped in his hands.

The glass seemed to ripple twice, then swirled with a familiar inky blackness before resolving into Nasuada. The woman was seated at her desk, the red cloth of the command pavilion around her muffling the weakened sunlight. She straightened when Eragon locked eyes and dipped his head, lips parting to speak before his greeting cut her off.

“Forgive me, Lady Nasuada, but I cannot talk for long. I understand you want a full report, but I have wounded and they still require extensive healing.”

Nasuada did not blink at her vassal’s tone. Instead she gripped the arm of her chair and shifted forward slightly, candlelight flickering under her cheeks. “Are you and Saphira injured?”

“No, ma’am. One of my guards–”

“Are there any casualties? Civilian or our own?”

Eragon’s throat tightened. “None, though the healing process is…delicate at this stage.” He couldn’t bring himself to say out loud that Arya still had a chance of dying.

Nasuada’s shoulders, rigid beneath the gold and red stitching of her dress, relaxed only enough to be interpreted as a quick sigh. “Good.” She nodded and slid a hand over the desk, moving aside papers to give clear access to a fresh writing pad. “Then report. Give me the facts and if more is necessary then it will be addressed.”

And so Eragon did. In quick, choppy sentences he told her of the half failed ambush by the apparent mage, the energy release, and a brief, terse explanation of Arya’s wounds and her tenuous situation. Angela’s appearance earned a raised eyebrow but little other reaction beyond what seemed to be an asterisk beside the observation in Nasuada’s notes. Eragon left out his momentary lapse of consciousness, but was sure to include the state Yaela was in after her emergency donation. He did his best to highlight the energy needed even before they had started truly healing the actual injuries, the magic required just to get the elf close enough to stable before attempting the dangerous process of removal already beginning to tax some of them.

“Arya won’t be able to be moved until we get her internal injuries healed, and even then it is up to Angela, Glen and Blödhgarm to determine the safest steps.” Eragon resisted pushing a hand through his hair, one of the more annoying curls slipping from behind his ear to tickle his cheek. “Travel, even on Saphira, would be too dangerous until we heal her ribs as well. I understand that the Varden is to move on tomorrow afternoon, but–”

“The situation has changed.” Nasuada’s expression betrayed nothing as she finished her last line, scrawling out a stop. “For better, I would add, though it has become more complex. We will remain here for another two days, possibly three.”

A tension in Eragon’s chest he didn’t realize he was holding eased. “Thank you.”

The Varden’s leader sat back in her chair, elbows braced on the rests and slim fingers falling together. “Don’t thank me for that. The people of this city have made it clear that they are far more sympathetic to the Varden than we previously realized. Their council has offered to set up supply trains for us while we are within the Empire, but they are still haggling over what we could offer them in turn.” Nasuada’s eyes drifted to a point Eragon could not see, a glassy sheen to them as she fell back into her own thoughts. “With you and your spellcasters currently out of commission, it has removed one of our bargaining chips. Though I’d rather have the lot of you healthy and whole rather than run ragged and into the ground for the chance at stale bread and watered mead whenever we approach Uru’baen’s gates.”

The latter statement was half mumbled, but Nasuada shook herself back to the situation at hand before Eragon could ask if she was feeling well. Rings around her eyes betrayed lost sleep, a familiar sight after a city’s capture. “Problems abound but hope on the horizon, yet again. Have you alerted Queen Islanzadí to one of her spellcasters being badly injured? I do not remember there being any plans for replacing any of the elves if one fell.”

The woman’s lips flickered, eyes flashing when she saw Eragon’s expression falter at her words. Saphira’s growl must have rumbled through the mirror as well, for Nasuada grabbed a cup of pens as if concerned they would topple over.

“I am not saying Arya should be taken off duty, and I am not saying she is going to die, Eragon.” Eragon swallowed hard and nodded. Nasuada’s voice had shifted only slightly, a softness often unheard when dealing with the daily trials and tribulations that faced her. “But even as long as I’ve known her, Arya has never been this close to death, the obvious moment aside. Queen Islanzadí has a right to know the status of the people she has assigned to us, and she needs to know if there is a chance of losing her and the effects it will have on your guard. You need to contact her as soon as possible.”

Eragon bit the inside of his lip. Islanzadí had been hovering at the very edge of his mind, looming like a thunderhead waiting to rain down lightning. To be honest, she was the last person he wanted to tell about Arya’s injuries. The longer he waited, the better the chance Arya would be on the mend, and Islanzadí would be harder pressed to find fault with him and the Varden for the lapse. Not that it had been intentional! But Islanzadí had an annoying habit of losing her cool when it came to Arya, blaming everyone and everything when any misfortune, due to Arya’s self sacrificing streak or not, befell the young elf.

“I’d…rather wait. To inform Queen Islanzadí.” The grin he gave Nasuada’s slight raise of her chin was tired. Eragon chose his words carefully, doing his best to frame his worry as more of a compliment than fear. “The Queen is certainly wise in many aspects, but…she’s fiercely protective of her people. Even when they’ve taken up oaths to give their lives in service if necessary.”

Nasuada nodded, the familiar glint in her eyes revealing she had understood. Her dealings with Islanzadí had been few beyond war council meetings by mirror and the odd call or two when the Queen requested a direct conversation, but she had enough experience to gauge the elf’s tempestuous moods and underlying fiery temper. “Agreed. And she is quite fond of our combat liaison, if past events are any indication.”

Eragon wanted to tell her. He really did. To strip back the curtain and blurt out that Islanzadí was fond of her daughter, almost rabidly protective of the last pieces of her mate’s legacy and the tenuous relationship they had started to mend. But Saphira’s metaphorical hand on his shoulder stayed his tongue before the oaths he took had the chance to do the same.

So he instead spoke another truth. “Yes, she is. With all due respect, I think I’d rather not tell Queen Islanzadí at all.” He scratched the base of his neck to dispel some of his growing trepidation, and quickly added, “Not till Arya’s completely out of danger at least. The Queen isn’t as fond of me as she is of Saphira or Brom, and I’m stretched thin enough out here. To put it plainly, I need to focus, and the more I can then the faster we can get Arya healed and the faster we’ll have fewer reasons for the Queen to be angry.”

Nasuada leaned back in her chair, pointer finger drifting to her chin as she regarded him through the silvered glass. For a moment Eragon thought that she would deny his attempt at skirting this particular duty, the path of diplomatic placation tempting when it wasn’t her on the receiving end of the Queen’s golden eyes. Arya’s fiery glare at annoyances and deadpan stares when she was truly enraged were both fierce in their own right, but her mother had the iciest scowl in the country, one that ran rife with dangerous and fickle lightning. She didn’t even scowl, per say, just…looked.

Eragon suppressed a shudder. He didn’t need that bored into his mind while he tried to keep Arya from bleeding out or while he pieced her ribs back together.

“Very well.” Eragon snapped his gaze back to the mirror in his hands. Nasuada was reaching for the writing pad again, folding back the page of notes to expose a fresh sheet. “Queen Islanzadí will be told of this, but you are not to be the messenger. I’m sure she will appreciate that you are far too busy tending to Arya and the rest of your spellcasters to divert your attention. Caring for one’s subordinates is something she understands.”

Nasuada picked up a pen, then casually tossed it over her shoulder when she found it had run dry. Grabbing another from the cup, she began scrawling out orders in quick, precise strokes. “For as long as the area is secure, you, Saphira and your spellcasters are to remain where you are and focus on keeping yourselves and Arya safe and on the mend. Saphira’s presence so openly in the city will likely have a positive impact on our negotiations, and it would be unwise to split up your guards if you were to return to camp to rest and eat.”

The candlelight caught in the young woman’s eye, sparkling in the deep red-brown mahogany of her iris as plans came together within her mind. “I’m sending a cart of elven provisions, cots, and bedding so that you may set up without having to find further accommodations. Brom will bring it with him.”

“Brom?” Eragon blinked. Last he and his father had spoken before the battle the old Rider was working alongside Anders and Mia, the odd married duo that ran his Vardenite interpretation of the Black Hand, gathering information on troop movements to their east. “He’s free?”

“He will be when I tell him to be.” Nasuada’s voice took on a chipper lilt at that, a wry grin lifting one side of her mouth as she slipped the orders into an envelope. “I had hoped to have his advice on the supply train negotiations, but his talents in placating Queen Islanzadí far outweigh his ability to haggle a few extra sacks of grain. He will act as liaison while Arya is unable and will lend his help as needed.”

A warmth settled in Eragon’s chest, chasing away some of the tension in his shoulders. His father’s presence was always a steadying one for both himself and Saphira. To have him here, now, when it felt so much like things were falling apart while the younger Rider and his Partner frantically tried to grasp on to the threads whipping around them like angry snakes…he couldn’t think of anything more stabilizing than that. Well. Other than none of this happening in the first place.

“Thank you.” Voice thick with emotion, he bowed his head. “Brom knows how to handle the Queen. Better than Arya does sometimes. That’s a massive relief to not have to worry about it.”

“It’s the right move for the board we have set.” A glob of sealing wax dropped like thickened blood to the envelope before being pressed with Nasuada’s personal seal. “For now, worry about yourself, Saphira, and your guard. The rest is handled.” Waving the paper to cool it, Nasuada’s gaze turned back to thoughtful, a glimmer of worry buried behind the softened expression. “How are you and Saphira holding out?”

Eragon couldn’t help the huffed sigh that escaped his nose. He rubbed his eyebrow, then stopped and wiped away flakes of blood tangling in the fine hairs with the back of his wrist. “We’re…doing okay. We have energy reserves, but just getting the initial bleeding under control was more than we thought.” He gave his commander’s slight frown a wobbly smile. “Like I said, we’re going in stages so…we’ll have time to rest.”

“I was not simply asking about your physical states, Eragon.”

A broken chuckle burst from Eragon’s chest at the words. Blunt, a caring thread woven through them, all the friendship Nasuada could show him during official hours. Concern. She was worried about them, and for some reason that was enough to slam a crack into the young Rider’s facade.

Feeling warmth trickle down the corner of his nose, he again rubbed his wrist against his face. It came back damp with unexpected tears, slipping from his eyes without any notice. “In all honesty, My Lady,” Eragon choked out another humorless laugh, “I really thought Arya was gone for a moment there and we did not handle it well. I don’t like seeing her like this. She always gets up, and this time, even now, there’s a chance–”

Saphira’s low hum vibrated through his back, as close to a hug as she could give when he was tucked against her side. It broke his spiral thoughts like a mallet to strands of glass, her thoughts tinged with just as much worry and confidence in equal measure. In him, in Arya, in Glen and Blödhgarm and all the others working to make sure his favorite, batshit crazy elf with Firebright eyes and dragon-sharp teeth would be on her feet and yelling at him for using so much energy on her as soon as possible.

Eragon took a steadying breath, juddering and tight but still…a long, deep breath. “We are…managing. My Lady.”

When he finally met Nasuada’s eyes again he saw in them understanding. Gentle and deep and forged through the years she had seen conflict and loss tear through the people she called home. “I am sure Arya will pull through, Eragon. She’s in the best hands anyone could ask for.” Eragon swallowed again, wiped his other eye as he nodded. “Remember to take care of yourselves as well as you do her, and it will all work out for the best. Am I understood?”

The words unspoken. Don’t drive yourselves into the ground. Accept the help of those around you. Be vigilant, not only of your surroundings but your own state. Take care of yourselves first, or you won’t be able to take care of anyone else.

A strange thought, tangled in the riled emotions he was struggling to push back down, flicked to the forefront of his mind.

Nasuada gave good hugs. Brief, but good. Despite their slim difference in age, her hand on his back during times of trouble was always a welcome warmth and reminded him of Ajihad’s firm grip on his shoulders before his first official presentation to the Varden.

What she couldn’t say aloud, Nasuada could always say through the small gestures of her hands, shoulders, a tilt of her head, a touch lasting no longer than a blink. And while she couldn’t give him the hug she knew he needed in that moment, couldn’t be there for him as a friend, he heard and saw the offer in her words, the opening of her palms.

A sign that she was there for him and his, would be a support during the chaos and uncertainty he suddenly found himself and Saphira struggling with.

“Yes ma’am.” Eragon’s small smile was genuine this time. “Understood.”

Nasuada’s mahogany eyes glimmered in the candlelight as she nodded. “Good. Dismissed.”

~~~

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