When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door,
that we do not see the ones which open for us.

-Alexander Graham Bell

Upon the hour of dawn she stirs, within the lulling glow of amenity and content, she slumbers wilfully between reality and a waking dream. She is herself and not herself, straying soundlessly within a veil of concealed warmth and euphoria as she drifts within and out her conscious being, falling through the depths and rising to the surface, aware and completely oblivious at the same time. The sweetness homing within the room held unmasked amid the air, sauntering her surroundings and inclining ever so delicately to her idle thoughts, provoking her softly to bestir and awaken upon its aroma. She is awake and not awake, and perhaps it is safe to assume that she enjoys this, being upon the subtle verge of tilting on either stupor, but she is in neither the clarity nor the right of the mind to decline either of them at this time. And so she drifts between both, lulled to the calling of their lenient consoles…

And now, upon stirring within the morning's quiet lucidity, her eyes begin to flicker upon the lights growing enclosure lapping her room, the vertical inclination of the sun mellowing throughout her surroundings, dappling their ambience and leaning to her senses. Upon its quiet arrival, though, she welcomes it entirely, open to its tranquillity.

She churns gently within her rest, shifting slowly as her feeble ligaments finally bid themselves the luxury of movement through her tender motions, the sheets encased around her body entombing the same, tender warmth sheathing lucidly within her abdomen. She feels alight, perched with ease, a gentle feeling. It was hard to distinguish.

Her eyes were partially closed, still, sealed and hidden from reality, but breathing in now, inhaling softly, she smiles faintly within the melodious of serenity filling her being, encompassing her state of mind and thought. She sighs, feeling everything and anything course within her body as she shifts again, moving, bidding her body to explore every insinuating detail roaming her able thoughts, content. How easily it was to sway her being.

However attuned she was to her surroundings; she would not be as easily swayed into a prolonged forgetfulness, as it would seem now. Her eyes slipped open, the light within the room greeting her without a break of measure. She allowed her sight to adjust, prolonging her subdued moments spent in warmth, knowing soon she'd have to rise and heed to the day, the ever dutiful elf, spiteful, yet adoring in so many symbolist ways. Agile as the lithe creature she was, she stretches, feeling her body succumb to lividness, and breathes in again… and beside her, a small, barely audible laugh sounds beneath the silence, quietly as though to elude her ears. She'd not be fooled easily…

Instinctively, quickly, she searches out the bearer instantly, looking, searching until finally her eyes fell upon him, and she smiles again. He was looking at her, still, his brow unflinching and his body unmoving, something strange lidded within his gaze, something she couldn't quite place, but doesn't think to note it further. How long had he been watching her? He seemed completely resilient to anything but her, watching her, looking as though she were on a pedestal, eyes afoot as though in a questionable manor. They were unfathomable and distinct, subdued within a deep, silent gesture meant only for her. He was lying quietly over his abdomen, his arm perched before him and hiding his face slightly, only a little, but she sees him no matter his efforts. She sees him smile suddenly, watches as he looks at her still, ever silent and cautious for reasons unknown to her, but were there nevertheless.

She turns toward him, moving only to mimic his posture as she lies over her stomach, feeling his eyes upon her, never faltering, never turning or moving away, always on her, watching, waiting. The sheets covering her fell suddenly, slipping casually over to the curve of her hips and staying there as she finally settles over the bed, long tresses of black hair falling over her back as she reaches out to take his forearm, sighing. Her voice is but a diminutive whisper to his ears, "How long have you been awake?" she asks, her eyes bright and ardent.

He doesn't say anything. She wonders, perhaps even speculates, whether or not he'd say anything at all, but still, as she waits patiently, there was nothing, not a word, and only silence. The smile on his face, however, small and becoming of his will, widened a little more as he watched her, only faintly, but enough to speak the words he refused to say beforehand. The merriment of his stare, the silent, prolonged sentiment layering his features, it was all there, perhaps hiding, but she knew well enough that he had been awake long enough…

His stare, willing and guarded, remained perfectly fixated upon her face, a surpassing moment lasting instances. She could feel the deep, gesturing gaze pierce the very forefront of her mind, watching, quiet, looking as though she was a fragmental vision dreamt by an idealist. She could feel every fracture of her being fall to the gaiety of his stare, the gentle rise and fall of his chest the only subtle inkling of his presence. "Will you say nothing?" she asks suddenly, voicing her thoughts before noting their abruptness. She doesn't regret it.

He looked at her, seeing her through the bearings of her soul, soundlessly, a glimmer within his eyes as he stared without moving. It seemed as if he could remain motionless for days, willing for her to compel into the mindless depths of her predicament. It was profound and reeling how everything now seemed, without demeanor or thought, reliant upon the sound of his voice. Something wasn't right.

"Eragon?"

Arya's eyes bore deeply into his from where she laid, resolute and unremitting through all aspects, her angelic face reflecting the very tepidity she felt within herself only moments ago, fading, her eyes ablaze with nerves as she looked at him. Something passed over his face suddenly, a contort of subdued conjecture, but it was soon diminished beneath his charade once more, only this time, she noted, something remained, something poignant. Now, as she watches him still, now, watching him carefully, he looks… sad. It was hard to understand why. Something within her withered and fractured.

"Eragon." She says, no reasonable motive or questionable dialect, there was only the name, and there was only her voice, straining through the confusion of his pretense. "Please…" she says, whispering, "Say something."

The smile was gone, vanished and fallen within his perplexing travesty. Perhaps, maybe, it was unnatural, she thought suddenly, to feel one thing and then fall within another. Nothing seemed apparent as she watched his face change suddenly, shift, and mold into something she'd never known him to possess until now. He was bearing into the pores of her delicate eyes as if he was reaching for her soul, caught within the vision of her irradiate features, his eyes reclusive now, hesitant, reluctant to even speak the words that seemed so minimal now. A complicated edge settled over her suddenly, something within her lurching and leering as though to mock her. Something was, as formidable as it sounded, indeed amiss.

"Please…" she whispered again, withering under his stare, retreating now within her barriers…

And then he smiles sadly, forlorn and completely subjected to some unknown instability mulling his rationality. She didn't understand it. He looked dejected; willing to accept whatever it was plaguing his mind, despondent to everything and anything now, and then he sighed regretfully. "Arya…" His delicate voice chimed like a whisper, hushed upon the tone of his quietness. It seemed, as she watched him still, it seemed he didn't want to say anything anymore. "You need to wake up."

A frown surpassed her wilful face, extending within the surbase of her being. "What?"

As though performing an act to reassure her suddenly, he slowly reached out toward her, careful not petrify her further into bewilderment as he made his careful actions clear by the hesitance he was taking, and placed it softly upon her cheek. They didn't move, everything stalling within their silent conveyance toward one other, her eyes agape in amazement as she watched him. "You need to wake up," he said again, and nothing more.

Her mouth parted slightly as if the words lulled to her lips were meant to be spoken, but were never said. He waited for her to comprehend, patient to simply watch her forever until the moment of recognition. Whilst her eyes had not left his, it was clear that, whilst still looking into them, that they had easily turned from confusion to concern. She really had no idea

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I," he whispered fondly, a smile within his voice now as he reached up and brushed the side of her face with a delicate hand, as if he was afraid that she'd wither and die beneath his touch. "But you cannot be here anymore."

She felt the trembling need to scream. "What do you mean?" So depleted suddenly, her emotions, compressed and impassively hollow. "I'm here, with you! You're not making any sense!" and now anger.

He shook his head, still smiling, still watching her. "I am, Arya. You need to wake."

She felt completely hindered and rendered useless suddenly, forsaken under the anger and sorrow rising within her. What did he mean? Why was he being so impenetrable? Nothing was making sense, she didn't understand. Gone was the feeling of amenity, lost upon a trivial notion falling within her bemusement. She wanted to stow away toward something more meaningful and understanding. This malady of rage and lunacy tearing through her head was beginning to unhinge her comprehension for reason, her sense of mind and intelligence. It was purely demoralizing, and he hadn't moved at all, unflinching and ever watchful over her being, secluded

"You cannot be here," he said again, willing for her to listen, murmuring. "You need to open your eyes, Arya…"

She felt departed and astray, slumbering between reality and a waking dream. The awareness of such raw emotion began to strain her vivid mentality, forcing her to succumb to whatever it was he provoked within her, her thoughts and feelings amuck. She was beginning to doubt anything and everything that passed within a flash of her torpid eyes. "They are…" she said, exhaling as though straining through each feeble breath.

"No…" he whispered fondly, "They're not."

Everything stilled, everything lulled to the words of his pretense, murmuring little things that went amiss beforehand. A violent tremor of reanimation suddenly conversed within her, a disorienting feeling joining the crevasses of her soul together and stabilizing them as if the two separate unities were ready to combust into nothingness. She felt herself slip, falling forever, delving into unknown scapes, her consciousness seemingly beginning to leave the very pores of her being as she drifted skyward. Everything, indeed, backwards. Realization seemed utterly mirthless.

"Open your eyes…"

She was completely motionless; the only movement flickering between them lidded soundlessly within her eyes, reassuring herself that this was, in retrospect, realistic and authentic, but she knew better then to believe such a thing. She knew now, despite what oppressive feats lurked beneath her, she knew.

"No…" she trembled with such sentiment, breathing, whispering slowly, "I don't want to."

"You must," his voice seemed to fade, "And you will."

"No."

"Arya," his voice was measuring, reassuring, but still unwavering in his argument. "It's only a memory…" he whispered suddenly, his voice but a hushed enclosure of his finale remorse.

Her vision suddenly swung and pitched between scattered images and depicted thoughts, feathering upon a stupor of both strange and immobile feelings. He spoke as though she was nonexistent, feigning reality and passing through unexpected voids. Sights and sounds passed within her like a whirlwind of reminiscence, bellowing throughout remembrance as she watched him beneath her lashes, his face, his eyes, and the way each subtle emotion played upon his features like a forgotten melody, and the way he watched her, still, his fingers delicate of over her face, starring. He seemed different now, overshadowed somehow, as though some unknown darkness began to lap the room and pass within his being. He seemed to fade, just as his voice had barely moments ago

"I'm dreaming…" she whispered suddenly, her apparent unconscious eyes beginning to glaze over within a blur of vividness upon the notion.

"No," he said, leeringly amused as he grinned against the bed, growing fainter, "Remembering…"

"You're not here."

A shadow within his eyes. "No."

She tried grasping the remaining fragrance from disappearing from view, but he was fading now, leaving her, blurring within her makeshift reminiscence of things beyond. It was pointless to even attempt to withhold it. The passing moments withstanding between them, leaving now, she relishes within the feeling as it washed between them. She longed for more, but all she could do was see within solace, and watch through the solitude of comfort, of a memory.

"Open your eyes…" she heard, the voice sounding oddly familiar…

And then nothing, she was alone, lost upon a nothingness consuming everything from within her view. She felt like crying out, screaming within the blackness where nothing could hear her, hindering herself useless until every part of her soul was quenched and drained of life. She was drowning upon the emptiness of the foreshadowed barren, depriving her of all feeling. She felt… nothing.

"I love you…" a voice, fickle amongst the darkness, one she knew, but couldn't identify…

And then, like the undertone of a silent murmur, a hum of remembrance summoning her waking thoughts once more, she plucks a memory from within her being, exhaling suddenly upon the recognition. "Eragon…" her voice again, strange yet still sober, bestirring among her head as if to rally her from a waking dream…

"Goodbye…"

She was slipping unconditionally, straying downward into oblivion. Everything seemed like a feeble illusion of sudden reemergence, a type of rebirth into a world full of revelation and captivity. It was happening extremely fast, wavering within and out a glance of shadow and night swept surroundings. She felt herself being pulled further and further from an unknown chimera, as if awakening from a forgotten slumber. "Wake up, Arya…" she heard again; seemingly for the last time in this conjuring dreamscape, a gentle voice… a familiar voice.

She breathed in, closed her eyes, and slipped away

A whisper… "It's only a memory…" and then nothing.



And they opened.

She was lying on the ground, upon the surbase of where the grass met the willow above her, shadowed by the silhouette of its mass. She couldn't begin to fathom how long she'd been there, drifting, wavering upon a darkness lost to the recollections of her thoughts. Her wistful thinking had eluded her entirely, making her feel somewhat foolish and resentful of her sudden forlornness, but she doesn't think much more of it. Instead, discarding her deliberation as well as her plaintive thoughts, she sits up.

It was night, she noted dully, her mentality drudging forgotten woes for her deliberate forgetfulness, but she cannot tell how late it's grown, however. Enveloping the darkening woodland into a silhouetted confinement, the radiance of silver moonlight seeped through the night and dappled the ancient pines like water through cloth. It seemed undeniably peaceful, tranquil, suspended within a deep admiration unknown to her previously. It seemed as though it'd been forever since she looked within the night's conformity. It was beautiful.

Taking a quick breath, she exhales within night as she runs a hand through her hair, feeling the silken strands pool between the webs of her hands and fall through the air. She looked to night once more, thinking, wondering upon so many notions that eluded her beforehand, reminiscing. Dreams were such fickle things, she thought. Sometimes, they could be agonizingly perfect, warm, and golden; a taste of utopia as you slept. Sometimes they were simply agonizing, a silhouette of the troubles that plagued you within a waking life. She often thought nightmares were merely tools to render their victims useless, but perhaps, upon some stray thought bellowing within the forefront her mind; perhaps she'd be wrong to assume such a thing. A nightmare never says goodbye. A nightmare never says "I love you…"

Sighing quietly amid her deliberation, she cannot help the stray emotions within her from running rampant now. She cannot presume to know what life may hold, or what feats may crumble in the sign of desperation, but she knows only so few ideas that hold truths amongst lies. She knows realities measures, and what dreams provoke. She knows that dreams offer the solace in which reality can never grant, and she knows that dreams provide the wisdom in which reality never knows. She's had dreams, and she's had nightmares, and perhaps, now, it was safe assume she only overcame her nightmares because of her dreams. They were only memories, after all…

Cynically, she'd never been intentionally afraid of the dark whenever she closed her eyes. More or less, she felt dependent on it, waiting to simply find the solace awaiting her on the other side. Not a spectrum of loneliness or some self-induced hatred of reality was going to stop her from thinking otherwise. The darkness was kind, her dreams were kind. They were never nightmares.

But she knew, despite these issues, the pity and the personal sympathy, she knew now that some things could simply never be. He would never be there, waiting for her, still…

And as she watches, her eyes bright and luminous within the night, looking still for some unknown consolation, she knows now to accept that. She needed to let go, even if it left her hindered, she needed to move forward.

Stirring quietly now, moving as though not to make a sound, she stands quietly and goes to walk, sighing once more in her wake, consoled. There's a breeze within the thicket that guards her presence, a shadow upon her back that obscures her being, but neither are tempting to look to, neither are bestirring her hesitance and looking to see what eluded her beforehand. It was beneath her now.

The Du Weldenvarden held the sweet lucidity basking throughout its dwelling, the gentle wisps and hums of the nights growing enclosure ceasing all subtle train of thought. She would always be strung up by the awe in which it held and the authenticity of its untouched wonder. Her breathing is mellowed, gentle like the easing balm of a faint mist upon the body. She is peaceful, content, and composed, her form attuned to the motion of her steady breathing as it rises and falls without a feebleness. And without a thought, able as her heart bids it, a tear slowly surpasses her eye as she walks, but smiles suddenly as it fell without a notion.

Ellesméra was rendered within a beautiful vibrancy of Maya blue, veiling the trees and interlacing within the dark. The dappled leaves and fertile life knew no bounds, but only ever grew to extend beyond the ever intertwining splendor of its untouched beauty. Elves still loomed within night, filling their occupations and leisure's of constant interest. The occasional glance stowed her way, saying nothing, but wondering so many unsaid things. Few would stray past her, quiet and able as the night bid them contently, and they would smile politely, greet her silently, she'd return it, and they'd continue, and so would she. A never ending charade of civility amongst strangers, but Arya was never one to deny them.

Just beyond the realms of Tialdarí Hall she stops, looking, eyes afar in a silent conjecture. Strengthening her resolve, she wipes what feeble tears are left, angry at herself somewhat for allowing them continue, but she doesn't think much more of it. Composing herself steadily, she rallies what sensibility she has left and slowly continues forth, ready for whatever laid ahead.

The gardens were just as lovely during the night, the sweetness of the flora held unmasked and collectively apparent beneath the pine mainstays lidded within the hall, flourished and radiant through every thriving aspect known within the eye. Sounds like whispered mutterings upon the evening hush greeted her casually, soothing and appeasing to the ear as they grew faint when she walked on. Another sound greeted her ear suddenly…

Arya stopped by the small bed of lilies shrouding the hollow by the stream, shadowed slightly by the juniper trees lingering over the glade, mind abroad in silent wonder. She wasn't sure at first, feigning rationality as she stood silently in the glade, her ears perched and listening. There was a restrained noise, near and fidgety, and then a sudden risible giggle emanating from within the underbrush. She frowned first, still unsure, but waited nevertheless despite her reasonable doubt playing at the forefront of her mind. Had she heard correct?

She watched then, silent, delving through both moonlight and shadow as her mother, Islanzadí, suddenly sauntered from around the bend of junipers with a distinct look upon her face, walking slowly toward her. Arya merely stood there, unmoving and gallant for no apparent reason, quiet as her mother finally stood before her, soundless and ever watchful, still. She nodded curtly, something strange lidded within the elf's eyes, "Arya."

Silence followed after, simply because Arya didn't know what to say. What ploys did her mother wish to invoke on her, what hidden masquerade had she set? Not long ago, she remembered, Arya had been searching for her, but something seemed strangely…

There was another noise, close this time, loud and veiled in merriment, the same giggling she heard before. Frowning once more, Arya's lips parted silently as she looked to her mother, but stopped when Islanzadí smiled suddenly. Arya's manor clearly exhibited the questionable notion upon her face, taken aback suddenly by her mother's act of exuberance, but her eyes were no longer on her mother. They were somewhere else.

Her eyes were by the juniper trees again, where they stayed inactive and still as she watched silently, motionless by the glade and attuned to the sounds shrouding the area, something within her lulling to the easement of her able thoughts, waiting.

A boy, no older than five or six, small yet immaturely brawny and adept in so many ways, ran through the junipers suddenly, giggling. Arya watched, silent, eyes alert and aware to the sudden change of atmosphere pressing her body, something within her, whatever attentive attribute that may be, lurched and sighed in every calming way. The feeling was ecstatic, rich, and undeniably endearing. And the smile, broadening over her face now, enchanting her being into complete and utter adoration, widened further until it knew no bounds. Nothing more seemed apparent anymore, all able thoughts, all surrounding elements and concepts, it all stilled, halted, falling soundlessly within the eyes of him. It was as though she could look forever without fading.

"We've been looking for you, my daughter." She heard, noting her mother's voice almost instantly, but she isn't listening. She kneels over the grass, still smiling, heart poignant and content in every way possible, and holds out her arms for him. Laughter filled her ear again, and she welcomes it like no other, stalling to hear it again, and again, and again. A beautiful joy, her joy.

And when she feels him run into her arms, lively and jovial upon each racing step, she wraps her arms around him securely, pulls him to her and holds him close to her chest, sighing fondly into his untamed auburn hair. "Eragon…" she whispers suddenly, leaning her head down over his own, content to simply hold him forever, her son, her own.

"I hope you're not too distressed," chimed Islanzadí, a hint of amusement laced within her words as she watched the pair, "It was difficult not to rebuke his attempts firsthand when he insisted I take him to the Menoa Tree this morning. He can be rather… demanding when he wants to be, I'll admit. Much like yourself so long ago."

For the first time today, Arya found herself laughing, free and joyous, tilting Eragon's head toward her and feathering her lips over his forehead tenderly, looking into his eyes now, and he her, the deepest color of brown, as silent words were exchanged between them. He giggled again, cheeks red and brow radiant under the moonlight, starring at her warmly before leaping, running now, fast and agile toward the junipers again, occupying his mind with whatever recreational pursuit addled his keen mind, still laughing. She watched him for awhile, starring for no apparent reason, only watching, and then stands suddenly.

"Stories of the old and new, I'm assuming?" She asked, turning now to her mother once again.

"And climbing," she said, a hint of resentment within her voice. "He's quite the mischievous voyager, as it seems. Quite like his father."

Arya's smile faltered somewhat, varying slowly between cheerfulness and grief, subdued silently over the shadows befalling her heart. Beside her, she hears her mother sigh. "Arya," she says kindly, a grievance atoned within her careful words as she spoke softly, "I do not mean to tread upon such fragile feelings, but…" she paused, thinking, "Sometimes… no matter how much faith we have, we lose the people we care most about. But you never forget them."

Her eyes were to the ground, delving through unknown manias, listening ever willfully to the laughter aiding her ears in the distance. She could listen to it forever…

"And sometimes," she continued, willing for her to listen, "Sometimes, it's those memories that give us faith to go on." Arya felt a hand over her shoulder suddenly, pulling her from her forethought and rallying her mentality. Islanzadí looked at her quietly, a trace of a faint smile lidded over her beautiful face as she consoled her back to reality. "Reach out for the joys you have, Arya. Put them away in your mind. Keep them. Memories are the times you borrow, not to be caught up in. A simple moment lasts for a second, but the memory lives on forever, through both you," she gestured toward Eragon, "And through your son. They are, of course, only memories after all."

Arya watched Eragon, forestalled by the merriment within his laughter, the way he ran, his eyes, his voice, and they way each simple movement conveyed his adoring spirit. They seemed so simple, so casual and yet so complex at the same time. It's possible to forget how alive she truly feels, deep within. People can become dry and tired, angered by what fate deprives from them, just existing, instead of really living. Too often had she reminded herself of all the things she's constantly lost, drained upon the injustices of reality and its ever intertwining casualties. But it is too often people miss the things that matter, the moments that count. Always, she often found herself living in things forgotten, past moments, memories. But looking at him now, watching as he laughed, smiled, and ran, she cannot help her own smile, her own joy. He was absolutely adorable.

"Go now," Islanzadí began to walk away, looking once toward Eragon, and then back toward Arya, "The night is late, and tomorrow is bound to be another day of unknowns. He needs his rest, and so do you," she smiled once more, and then nodded graciously. "Goodnight, Arya."

She watched her mother go, leaving her alone within the night. Eyes lingering far too long upon the area of where she stood only moments ago, she breathed in once, suppressed whatever trepidation lingered within her, and started walking toward Eragon, smiling again.

"Come along," she said, reaching out her hand as he grasped it gently, still laughing, still smiling. And together, they walked toward her chambers, exchanging little talk and laughing together, hand in hand, her son, her joy, together.

Silence now, quiet, as he lies on his side over the bed, head inclined and arm just covering his beautiful face, eyes closed and straying through dreams, but she watches him still. There would be a night that she'd never need, a memory to quell an anger that she'd never miss, but if she could fall asleep knowing that he'd be here beside her every waking moment, then she'd open her eyes feeling completely content and disembodied from anything that treaded to cease it.

She leans her head down slowly, lays it upon the bed where he rests his, and watches him sleep. His breathing is soft, mellowed like the easing breeze through the night. He is peaceful, unmoving, and composed, his small and lithe form attuned to the motion of his steady breathing as it rises and falls without a feebleness. He is beautiful.

It would always be a test, in reality, merely to see which ones are worth passing, and those that are worth fighting for. After all this kind of sad ordeals and wallowing, even more, Arya finally came to a point in her life where she needed solitude more than comforting, more than a memory. She just needed to stop thinking and start enjoying what she called living. And now, before each night, the occasional smile on his face lets her know that he needs her as much as she needs him. There's a solitude in that, and no longer a darkness, a night in which she needed more, a meaning. No longer. She has him.

She raises her hand deliberately, guarded by her movements, but never hesitant over their spur. Carefully, she places her hand over his cheek, starring soundlessly at his face as she watches him silently through the night, her eyes searching for nothing in particular. Her hand strays down, just below the neck, cautious and attentive, and rests it tentatively over Elvalëryn, The Neverwinter pendant she'd given him… to remember his father…

Sometimes you don't know what you're missing until you reach out and touch it. Sometimes you can't see how beautiful something is until it steps back into the light. What she thought was comforting merely turned into something inessential and unnecessary, but needing nevertheless. Perhaps it was even a burden to remind her of what she could no longer have, what she could no longer share, but of course, in the end, everything just… lights up.

He stirs quietly, moving within a small lurch of his unceasing trance, but then settles almost immediately within sleep, his body lulling to the silence once more. She slightly withdraws her hand, cautious not to disturb him further, but he does little more than sigh in comfort, unwavering. She waits silently, hushed upon the tone of his breathing, watching. He still doesn't move, as if his dormant consciousness deliberately holds until dawn, his body perfectly eased. It is until she knows for sure, with his being entirely content and solaced, that she lifts her hand once more and places it upon the curve of his small neck. She leaves it there for the remainder of night, unsure of his awareness, satisfied by her amenity in his significance, peaceful.

When the sleep came, she allows her eyes to close upon its arrival, slipping closed with Eragon resided among her thoughts, both of them. She could feel herself smile as she drifted within quietness, her hand upon his neck unmoving. Darkness once again lapping her sight, only this time with lighter atones entwined with it, she dreamt beyond all measure, seeing through a world hampered with clouds, swaying unto morning. One door closes, another one opens…


He stands there amongst the trees, silent and displaced within everything else that stands between him and her. He's watching her, still, smiling slightly as he walks toward her, his eyes cunning and withdrawn as though speculating, still cautious, still hesitant, always with her. It seems he'll always be, as though the very notion was encrusted deep within his rationality, demanding for his tentativeness whenever he watched her. She only smiles in return when he finally stands before her, rendered within the silence of their conveyance.

There was a flicker in his eyes, a silent murmur within a small glint, and then he sighs gently as he leans down slowly, still smiling, and feathers his lips over her own, inviting and warm, and holds her to him, gentle, tenderly, as though she'd eventually break and slip from within grasp like silken fragrance. But he knew, nevertheless, that she wouldn't. Everything slips away, sooner or later, but nothing is ever forgotten, nothing is truly discarded like bittersweet moments of fragility. He knows, she knows, and it's what leads them forward, forever until either one of them moves on, whether it be in this life or the next. Sooner or later, they'd see one another again. But not yet.

It is, of course, only a memory.

-
Hush, it's okay, dry your eye,
Soul mate dry your eye,
'Cause soul mates never die…

Placebo – "Sleeping With Ghosts"
-


BAM! Questions disclosed? Speculations at ease? Fabulous! Down to the point though, He's dead! But they have son, whom she named after Eragon, and every night she lividly, if not depressingly, basks in the memories of what they once contently shared. Yeah? Of course, I had a scene that explains what, exactly, happened to our lovely protagonist, all noble and valiant, the usual hoo-ha, but I decided to go against it and have you, the reviewers, sum up your own inquisitive conclusion. Because I'm that nice. Tah. Honestly, it kills me that there's over 100 or more views per chapter and I get only 10. 10!

Fair thee well for now.