Title: Angel On My Shoulder
Published: May 22, 2008
Completed: April 6, 2008
Notes: This was my first EVER published Fanfiction story, so go easy on it.
Warnings: Spoilers (For those newly acquainted inheritance devotees) No Saphira (though she's not dead) AND Sexual Content.
Disclaimer: Characters, events, and places belong to author Christopher Paolini.


Teasing Thoughts Think Alike

The stone slab beneath him was cold and bitter, though Eragon Shadeslayer cared little for its effects. With his legs drawn up and crossed lethargically as he sits leaning against the wall of his quarters, he stared at nothing in particular, but simply watched with dotting sadness. The only sounds he could perceive were the small droplets of rain flowing off the windows like liquid diamond soaking the ground as it quickly absorbed into the soil. It offered a faint glow of Maya blue, filtered only by a lone candle sitting beside him. To him, it seemed like the only thing that had calmed him in spite of everything else. But the words chimed with his head, and like a guttering entity, they lingered.

Morzan is your father…

He'd grown up on nothing but malicious rumours and stories of that wretched man. But now... Now, he loathed him. To realize that he was his true father: a deceased traitor. Murtagh, his own brother, another traitor, only he still lived and breathed… but not for long. Eragon made a mental note of that in his head. He would kill Murtagh for his deceit, whether or not he had a choice to join Galbatorix. His crime to the Dwarven clan; murdering their beloved king Hrothgar had already spelled his utter doom. He would pay… He would kill Murtagh for his treachery, even if it killed him…

He had no choice… his own voice said, softly chirming in his head as if it was a delicate tune from a willowed flute. How do you think he feels? He's bind by the ancient language, Eragon. He cannot escape.

He killed Hrothgar! Another voice came in. It was filled with anger that sounded as if fire itself was overwhelming it with madness for fuel. Eragon's mind was melted into this one, however, prepared to face off the other. He never regretted it!

Is that the only excuse you can think of? Now it sounded as if it was teasing him. He didn't like it. His own thoughts teasing him! It only added more wood to the fire in his other burning thoughts. Eragon, you have much anger within you. Don't you think it is clouding your judgment?

No! I offered to kill him, save him from his pain and all he did was laugh! Laughed! He refused! Sounds like he had choice to me!

Would you have done it if he accepted though? Eragon wouldn't respond, and he hated the fact. You wouldn't have killed him, it continued. He was your brother, and you would have never forgiven yourself if you had killed your own brother…

I would have made the right decision though…

Yes, but you wouldn't have killed him. You couldn't kill him. And there were so many more options that could have passed his fate… other then killing him, and condemn a dragon to death, when there are only so few…

What then! What else could I have possibly done!

You could have captured him! You could have offered to capture him and help him break his bonds! But you didn't… your head was set on revenge…

Eragon slid his hands through his hair, pulling at his locks and closing his eyes tighter. He felt utterly lost. He, now, was on the verge of tears. Tears! How weak he must seemed, how pathetic! He was so confused. His mind was confused. No! he shouted, letting his own voice radiate through his troubled thoughts. The dwarves… they would have killed him on sight… I couldn't…

The dwarves wouldn't be able to stand againstyou and Saphira. You could have protected him. Nasuada could have protected him. You know she would be willing to help, more than anything, to bring him back to us.

I am a member of the clan! I would have been shunned and cursed! And Murtagh killed Hrothgar…! Orik would…

Is Orik not your friend? As much hatred flows through him as you, but he would understand, as much as it pained him.

No…

Imagine if it had been you, Eragon… imagine if it had been you who had been dragged from the tunnels, transported to Uru'baen, forced to touch a dragon's egg unwillingly or not, forced to swear allegiance to him, tortured and poisoned until you do… imagine, Eragon… would you last against such things?

Eragon pulled his hands out of his hair. He opened his eyes, and leaned his head against the wall, breathing as slow as could to pace his crumbling heart. No… he admitted, his own voice softening. I wouldn't last…

Then you know he would have died if he didn't. He wouldn't leave his dragon to another that Galbatorix magically binds him to unwillingly. He thought of his dragon, Eragon. You would have done exactly the same for Saphira. You know he has love in him. That's why he didn't capture you, because he cares.

Yes…

Then you know there is still hope… he is your brother. Brothers forgive each other, do they not?

Yes…

Then you can forgive him…

Eragon wiped his tears away. He wouldn't admit that he still carried hatred for Murtagh though. He still killed Hrothgar. He had a choice about that, and he killed him. He wouldn't forgive him so soon. Forgiving him will take longer than you think…he grumbled, gritting his teeth together and standing.


She paced her room, feeling the essence of the chilling air swathe her like layers upon layers of frigid moist. She felt, suddenly, suffocated under the humidity. The only light came from her window, and thus, her quaint little room was besieged in shadow and candlelight. The rain drew heavy upon the glass, and though it merely natural, it irritated her beyond normality.

Arya hands; they were shaking. She couldn't stay still for a minute. Seconds seemed to toll listlessly like hours. A minute was simply agitating. An hour would drive her to the brink of insanity. She paced deliberately =, thoughtless, so as to keep herself from growing furthermore annoyed with anything and everything. There was reason in madness, perhaps. Madness and mayhem of the mind was daunting, but that didn't stop her from feeling overwhelmingly anxious. Her fidgetiness was causality for something. Anything. But she couldn't name it.

It was something – had to be something, something to cause such nuisance, something bickering with her mind. But what was it? There was a constant itch at the back of her mind, she knew the answer, but couldn't seem to grasp it. It was toying with her, that she knew; dangling right in front of her emerald eyes. She was going even more insane now just trying to find it; that something.

The rain grew heavier, just as her annoyance grew. It was really starting to infuriate her now, and all she needed to do was come to realization, but even that was hard to accomplish, and she hated it.

It had not long been a month since the battle of the Burning Plains, the waste lands of Alagaesia. The Varden had gained victory; yes, but what did that accomplish? As far as Arya counted, all it had accomplished was death and pain. Needless destruction of souls too young to die. Death of so many other souls, all rotting and left as a feast for the crows, and pain that Galbatorix managed to hatch another dragon within so little time, and the fact that it was Murtagh, Murtagh, appeared to only damage and shatter poor hearts. Not hers, but Eragon's.

She had noticed. Of course she had noticed the change in his personality. He was different. An outcast. The young rider barely showed himself in public anymore, and when he did, it would only be brief. He was isolating himself, hardly ever coming out of the gloom of his cold and fairly overcast room. Murtagh's betrayal had shattered the poor boys heart, and it only added to the miserable happenings that filled his life; something else she noticed, only recently.

Sure, Nasuada seemed pained by the ill-fated news, but her heart was not as fragile as Eragon's. She had known Nasuada longer to know this, but she had spent more time with Eragon in the Varden and in Ellesmera to realize just how fragile his heart truly was. And, honestly, it was nearly shattering her own…

For a boy, no, for a man to appear so resilient and fragile at the same time. It was enigma.

It was only faint now, as if it had suddenly reduced to a thick fog. The rain now gently thrumming along the cool surface of the window, but still hard enough to make the usual dripping noise it made every time the droplets fell. It was peaceful to the ear, even hers; gently cooing her from all thoughts, relaxing her… but even now, her fingers still twitched and had to at least fidget with something. Insanity might just overpower her…

"Stop it!" she whispered, mainly to herself, in a hushed voice that still seemed to echo in all corners of her small room. "This is ridiculous." Her hands, now reaching for her forehead, gently massaged her temples in small round circles; they were still shaking, and she dropped to the floor and leaned against the wall, now finding it pointless to even walk without getting overly stressed.

Fragile? – Eragon? Eragon's heart was fragile. He was kind and caring, willing to help anyone in need of it. He didn't deserve such a betrayal, his now newly found brother. His heart would crumble if anyone close to him died. He would break, he would shatter. That's what was happening now. And she wasn't much help. Of course, her rejection must have added to the pressure. But he was young, she was old, and nothing could prevent the truth.

He was young. Of course he would break, shatter and crumble. He was only seventeen, and already he has witnessed too much death. Too much has come from those he has loved, and which have faded away in death. She knew the list kept going, she only wondered if he knew that she did.

She breathed in, only to release it as a heavy sigh weighing down upon her. What was she thinking? Was it now that she suddenly realized just how much pain she might have caused him on the night of the Agaetí Blödhren? Surly he must have known what would happen if he continued his foolish quest, his adored affections. He must have. He should have known.

Then whydidhe continue? A voice at the back of her mind said, firm and gentle. Why doyouthink he did?

She closed her eyes, feeling as if she could suddenly turn invisible and hide away from the world. Softly, she replied to her own voice, I don't know…

Then what would you know, Arya? How would you know what he was thinking that night? Arya's hands continued to shake; she didn't know how much longer she could withstand it. She knew her voice was right. It continued, Perhaps he felt an urge, perhaps it was lust, or maybe it's becauseeverythinghe said that night was true… and you know it.

"Stop it!" she repeated out loud again, her voice now loud and no longer held softness.

You know it's true, Arya…

"No…"

It's not just a childish infatuation…

Her eyes shot open, shaking her head, her hands now running through her midnight locks.

How do you feel…?

She stood suddenly, her hands at her sides now, preventing them from fidgeting any longer. Her own voice; teasing her at the back of her mind. She wasinsane, and she would ignore it, not knowing what to do anymore. She was so confused. She shouldn't be confused. She was an elf! She knew what her feelings were. As she had said on that night: "My feelings for you are those of a frie…"

Are they…?

"Stop!" She had had enough. Sick to death that her own yarning voice at the back her mind kept teasing her. Teasing? Yes, it was teasing her, and she hated the fact. It wasn't right. It couldn't be right. But it was her own voice…

She was walking to her door now, only slowly, as if nothing else in the world mattered, and at the moment she didn't really care about the world. Her hands were still shaking!

The "something" that kept causing her growing tenseness was finally overwhelming her. It had been there all along; all she had to do was come to realization, and she finally knew what it was that was toying with her at the back of her mind. Dangling right in front of her. Making her insane. Teasing her.

Eragon…

She opened her door and closed it behind her with an unmistakable force in her grip as she let go of the handle.