#mic fills

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

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

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

“Can I sit with you?”

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

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

“Anytime.” 

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

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

“Who are you seeing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Visions?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

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

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

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

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

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

Eragon’s smile, if even possible, grew wider. “They’re growing wildly different plants in the same spot. Look, look!” He again grabbed Murtagh by the wrist and pulled him to the closest raised bed, pointing to a short plant with ragged edged leaves. “Look, this is strawberry. But other there, on that corner, that’s a blueberry bush. Blueberries need acidic soil but strawberries prefer neutral. These two shouldn’t be growing so well in the same bed!” 

Eragon dashed off again, pointing out the plants he knew and chattering excitedly about their proper growth conditions and how the climate for some of them shouldn’t be attainable underground but somehow the dwarves had to be using magic to alter spaces around specific plants to allow them to flourish. Murtagh followed a bit more slowly, taking in the smell of pungent herbs as they wandered into an area apparently dedicated to their growth. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but it was nice to just take a moment and appreciate the simple lives of plants. 

“No way!” Murtagh jerked, startled by Eragon’s raised voice. He realized then that the young Rider had disappeared from his sight, and with a sudden pang of anxiety he bolted down the green corridor. 

Brom always said Eragon was a magnet for trouble, and Murtagh believed him. ‘I can’t leave him alone for two bloody minutes!’

The young man skidded to a stop, heart pounding...to see Eragon happily cramming a handful of leaves into his mouth. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Murtagh rushed forward, grabbing the younger boy by the cheeks. “Spit it out! You don’t know what that is! I swear you’re worse than a bloody puppy!”

Eragon grinned and pushed Murtagh back, swallowing his newfound treat as he did. “I know exactly what it is!” He plucked another leaf from the bushy plant that practically spilled over the edges of the raised bed in front of him and held it out. “This is Virestalk. It grows all over Palancar Valley. It helps you get back on your feet after being sick.” He offered the leaf to Murtagh. “Want some? It’ll probably help you get over that concussion.” 

“...I think I’ll pass on the magically grown plant in the magical garden with apparent energy restoring properties.” Eragon shrugged and popped the leaf into his mouth before grabbing two handfuls off the bed and shoving them into his pockets. “Come on. It’s almost dinner time. Arya’s probably awake by now and losing her mind over where you are.” 

“Can we stop at that little place we passed earlier with the chicken kebabs? I’m getting hungry again….”

~~~

Murtagh paused, flattening himself against the wall to allow a group of dust coated dwarves past as he looked around. Eragon had fallen behind again, and, with a few choice swears, Murtagh followed behind the grimy workers and retrace his steps.

He found the young Rider staring into the window of an empty shop. 

“Hey. That’s not the chicken stall you know. They’re going to run out by the time we get there if you don’t hurry up.”

Eragon slowly turned his head to stare at his friend. He blinked twice, eyelids moving almost comically slowly before he slurred out, “Murtagh...there’s so many colors.”

Murtagh stared back. “...What?”

“The parrot. It’s got...so many colors. Where’d you find it?” He raised an arm and pointed towards Murtagh’s shoulder. “Where’d you come from, bird?”

‘...Oh. Oh this is not going to go over well.’

~~~

“Why do you smell like...oooooh like cotton candy?” Murtagh did his best to resist the urge to just drop Eragon down the short flight of steps leading up to the embassy door as the boy nuzzled his face against his sleeve. 

Instead he grit his teeth. “Because I was born in a cotton candy factory.” Really, it would be so easy. Just...sling him over his head from where he was draped across Murtagh’s shoulders and dump him down like a sack of unruly potatoes. 

Eragon let out an impressed gasp as his human transport kicked the embassy door, yelling for Arya to open it. “Woooooow! Are you made of cotton candy?” 

“Don’t you DARE–” 

Both stopped dead, Eragon with his teeth halfway to Murtagh’s arm and Murtagh flexing in preparation to throw him, as the door swung open to reveal not a very groggy elf, but instead a rock dust sprinkled Brom. 

He took in the scene with a deadpan expression before asking, in an equally deadpan voice, “What the hell is this?”

“Just let us in and let me put him down, will you? He’s heavier than he looks.” 

By the time Murtagh had deposited Eragon on the couch, Arya had dragged herself out of her room to see what was happening. She took a cursory glance at her charge where he lay ‘catching butterflies’ that floated around his head, sniffed the air twice, gave an amused snort, and settled into an open armchair to sleep again. “I smell Divining Sage. Nice going, Murtagh.”

Brom rounded on the young man. “You let him eat Divining Sage?! Do you have any idea what the hell–”

There was a crash from the direction of the embassy’s warehouse where Saphira usually settled down. 

“S’all right. I’ll get it.” Arya waved Brom off and pulled herself out of the chair. “Keep tearing into him.”

Murtagh felt his face going red. 

What the hell? What the hell. So they all foist Eragon off onto him and when something, because it’s ALWAYS something with Eragon, happens because the boy’s a complete idiot when it comes to self preservation, they all blame him? 

“Divining Sage is a fucking hallucinogen, why– how did you even find–” Brom threw up his arms, a flabbergasted mix of angry and confused as to how the situation even came to be. “Are you THAT DENSE?!”

“I don’t see you looking after him!” Murtagh angrily pointed to the Rider currently petting an invisible cat and cooing nonsensical praise to it. “You left him here alone with a practically anesthetized bodyguard and said ‘Yeah, sure Murtagh, keep him busy for a few hours!’” 

“I didn’t tell you to get him high, you idiot welp! Where did you even–”

“Oh don’t you blame that on me!” Murtagh jabbed a finger in Brom’s direction. Even as angry as he was at becoming the scapegoat for Eragon’s own idiocy, he knew better than to try and throw hands with the old man. “If I was going to get him high it wouldn’t be off some backwater psychedelics, it’d be off some proper Urû’baen kush and plenty of stout! He ate that crap himself!”

That finally gave Brom pause. “...He what?”

“He stuffed his face with it! I tried to stop him, but he said it was Vire-vine or something.” 

Brom slowly turned to stare at Eragon. Eragon smiled widely back before pointing and laughing at Brom’s face. 

Then the old Rider sat down and began to laugh as well.

“Virestalk. He thought...it was Virestalk.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Of course he did. They look almost identical. Damn fool probably wanted to give some to all of us to recover after the fight.”

Murtagh approached slowly. Now that Brom was no longer yelling, his own anger began to fade. He puzzled over what it was being replaced with before asking tentatively, “He’s...going to be okay, right?”

Brom sighed and nodded. “Yes. He’ll be fine. The effects wear off within a few hours. We’ll just have to watch him and Saphira till they do.” There was another crash of falling boxes in the warehouse, followed by faint Common Elvish swearing. “Hallucinations affect both partners so….” He gestured down the hall as Eragon took another swipe at a nonexistent Urgal. The sound of the boy’s war cry was mimicked by a loud growl from an apparently hallucinating Saphira. 

“Oh.” Murtagh paused. “We have a hallucinating dragon in the building.”