a/n: Inheritance spoilers. And I apologize in advance for the epic failures you read ahead. xD
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solitaire
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i.
Arya knows.
She knows many things—pretty things, useless things, royal things, all smashed up in broken card towers. Somewhere within those intricacies are memories, and inside those are not-so-pleasant feelings.
In the quiet of Ellesméra, (up on the tip-top tree-house), she is allowed peace. Thoughts, mostly. She ponders the meaning of life and all that, twists cryptic words to paper, but the melancholy soon slips in.
She trusts her poker faces enough, though, to become Queen every dawn and leave Arya the Shadeslayer behind and – never mind all the rest.
ii.
Little one.
Where did you get that from? She bemusedly pats Fírnen's shoulder, watching the stars shine there.
Dragon-blue-bright-scales. A coil of smoke rose from his nostrils. Saphira.
Ah.
They sat there for a long while, Arya tracing the pinpricks of night, Fírnen humming his baritone rumble. She wonders how Nasuada fares. Fine, of course, since Alagaësia is. She wonders if the Urgals and dwarves have gotten their dragon eggs to hatch. Only time would tell. She wonders, a little painfully, if Eragon had reached his destination yet. Perhaps. Probably a fistful of mishaps along the way, she thinks, wishing the irrational warmth inside her chest would disappear….
Arya! You fell asleep, so wake up.
The watercolors lurch forwards, once, twice, then she's springing to her feet, the cold steel of Támerlein in her hand.
Look, Fírnen says.
In front of his snout, a ship lists, drunkenly, beautifully, teasing, well met indeed, Shadeslayer.
iii.
Once the ship is cradled in her arms, Fírnen takes to the sky.
It must've rained, she realizes, her thin fingers grasping the droplet-laced prow. Far from perfect, the ship – crooked masts, the deck askew, sails fastened backwards. Even worse was when she read the glyphs etched in squished berry juice, it looks like.
Vanquisher of Snails.
It makes her snort in an un-ladylike and un-wise-elf way, but it brings a smile to her lips anyways, carries her high in the glittering arc of the day ahead.
iv.
We have found the place, and it is filled with trees.
She lays the letter on her desk, his thick, rather clumsy handwriting blatant against her own (and it is silly, really, how un-jaded she could become). Inside the grass knots was the letter, tucked in some amazing manner— (she's surprised it didn't fly off along the way here). Her fingers also find bits of seashells and a flower, petals brittle and lashing and oh-so-beautiful.
It reminds her of the past ambassador days, politely answering human questions at banquets and such. On certain days, the young women were handed letters and blossoms, from their (not really) faraway soldiers, blushing and even the wiser ones became like a certain mad white raven.
She sighs, and—
—stops herself immediately.
v.
Crooked masts wobble away, and she watches with glassy spectacles, smiles tired. Gone, for a few hours, her circlet of gold. But once the sun rises again, bleeding colors and serpentine captured clouds, she is no longer Arya but Dröttning again. A cycle of seasons, almost, except there is only spring and winter, flimsy ecstasy and ice.
(-and that is enough for her.)
That, and the mirror mounted on her wall and the extra fairth beside her bed.
Somehow, she knows that despite everything - she misses him, too.
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