Brisingr

“Be honest. You dote upon her words as if each one were a diamond, and your gaze
lingers upon her as if you were starving and she a grand feast arrayed an inch beyond
your reach.”
A plume of dark gray smoke erupted from Saphira’s nostrils as she made a choking-like
noise.
Eragon ignored her suppressed merriment and said, “Arya is an elf.”
“And very beautiful. Pointed ears and slanted eyes are small flaws when compared with
her charms. You look like a cat yourself now.”
“Arya is over a hundred years old.”
That particular piece of information caught Roran by surprise; his eyebrows went up, and
he said, “I find that hard to believe! She’s in the prime of her youth.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, be that as it may, these are reasons you give me, Eragon, and the heart rarely
listens to reason. Do you fancy her or not?”
If he fancied her any more, Saphira said to both Eragon and Roran, I’d be trying to kiss
Arya myself.
Saphira! Mortified, Eragon swatted her on the leg.
Roran was prudent enough not to rib Eragon further. “Then answer my original question
and tell me how things stand between you and Arya. Have you spoken to her or her
family about this? I have found it’s unwise to let such matters fester.”
“Aye,” said Eragon, and stared at the length of polished hawthorn. “I spoke with her.”
“To what end?” When Eragon did not immediately reply, Roran uttered a frustrated
exclamation. “Getting answers out of you is harder than dragging Birka through the
mud.” Eragon chuckled at the mention of Birka, one of their draft horses. “Saphira, will
you solve this puzzle for me? Otherwise, I fear I’ll never get a full explanation.”
“To no end. No end at all. She’ll not have me.” Eragon spoke dispassionately, as if
commenting on a stranger’s misfortune, but within him raged a torrent of hurt so deep
and wild, he felt Saphira withdraw somewhat from him.
“I’m sorry,” said Roran.
Eragon forced a swallow past the lump in his throat, past the bruise that was his heart,
and down to the knotted skein of his stomach. “It happens.”
“I know it may seem unlikely at the moment,” said Roran, “but I’m sure you will meet
another woman who will make you forget this Arya. There are countless maids—and
more than a few married women, I’d wager—who would be delighted to catch the eye of
a Rider. You’ll have no trouble finding a wife among all the lovelies in Alagaësia.”
“And what would you have done if Katrina rejected your suit?”
The question struck Roran dumb; it was obvious he could not imagine how he might have
reacted.
Eragon continued. “Contrary to what you, Arya, and everyone else seem to believe, I am
aware that other eligible women exist in Alagaësia and that people have been known to
fall in love more than once. No doubt, if I spent my days in the company of ladies from
King Orrin’s court, I might indeed decide that I fancy one. However, my path is not so
easy as that. Regardless of whether I can shift my affections to another—and the heart, as
you observed, is a notoriously fickle beast—the question remains: should I?”
“Your tongue has grown as twisted as the roots of a fir tree,” said Roran. “Speak not in
riddles.”