The Riders Of Olympus; a Percy Jackson and Eragon Fanfic

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   The Dragon Rider society had grown at an alarming rate since two hundred years ago, when Eragon overthrew Galbatorix's reign of power. All that remained of the war were tall tales of glory and legend. No one wished it was true more than Arya. She wanted the stories of Eragon's unrequited love for her and only her to ply her senses for eternity, convincing her of their forever together. Yet, the one she wanted to be King remained away from Alagaesia and the man who sat on the throne beside her remained a stranger. If he sat among a crowd of elves, she'd never be able to pick out his face while she could spot Eragon's elbow millions of miles away. She may have once resisted her love for Eragon, but that was so it wouldn't be so hard to let go. Now why was loving Eragon the only thing that had ever seemed easy?

Arya hadn't pined after Eragon in such a way for a very long time. She hoped maybe she was with child, and in an emotional state of turmoil for that reason. It would be a sad denial for her at first, again solely because of her non-committed commitment to Eragon, but for the elves of the nation under her careful rule it would be a blessing and an ode to their goddess' good graces. Arya knew that this wasn't likely, though. Elven children were impeccably rare. The amount born since the war had increased largely, however, and Arya had begun to suspect it had something to do with the will or happiness of the parent-hopefuls in question. Arya had no extremely profound sense of happiness, and no will whatsoever either when it came to a child, unless solely to bear an heir for the throne. Hopefully, one day her unwanted king's will would be enough to ensure a child, and they'd get to stop trying for one. The man who committed or would commit the deeds in question loved doing that so. Maybe Eragon could save her from her cruel eternal destiny at this man's all to loving hands... If only he'd return to Alagaesia.

At first, Alya had been mad at Eragon. He'd never returned to collect the eggs, to attend the Ceremony of Riders systems that she'd set up. He'd missed her wedding, Murtagh's knighthood. The birth of Tray, Roran and Katrina's latest child. He'd missed love, life, laughter. He'd missed the happily ever afters at the end of each fairytale he'd played a hand in scripting. Had he missed theres, too? He'd missed everything else: the Empire that was being built in place of Galbatorix's corrupted system, the rebuilding of the Urgal culture- no, make that the rebuilding of the world as they knew it.

Arya couldn't help but wonder. Had he somehow missed missing her, too?

   It wasn't her concern either way. Arya was Queen- she had her duties, and she'd do them right. Just in a few hours, the Du Weldenvarden Ceremony of Riders was to commence. Maybe after that was over, all thought of Eragon would leave her head. Yet, maybe they would just multiply by tenfold as they usually did when she associated herself with faces that would one day associate with the one face she had longed to see for 200 years, but could not. If those faces happened to be the faces of the outsiders, though- Arya was done for. No one was ever good at handling their curiosity, and after years and years and years, that hadn't changed, even for Arya. She was hopelessly curious when it came to the foreigners.

   There were many of them: four couples and their offspring, who'd washed up on the shore years ago. Along with them came a strange, underdeveloped dragon who shimmered in the sun, the colours of no egg she'd ever seen. The Urgal people had welcomed the strangers, who spoke no languages of Alagaesia's land besides an odd version of the humans' words. They told them all they could communicate of our island's tale and tragedy. They were not surprised.

   "All of beauty and perfection follow a path to lead them there," Arya muttered to herself in their tongue. She truly knew not what it meant, nor did any of the people of Alageasia. The Urgals believed everything told by the foreigners who had proclaimed stories of grand adventures rivalling Eragon's. They'd brought them eventually to Elesmera to introduce the elven people Arya ruled over. There had been a rogue issue she'd called Eragon's new team in on at the time, and it had gone strangely awry. The proclaimed gods had been brought into the High Council meeting. Arya had listened to their advice on handling the matter. She took special liking to the blonde with storm-cloud eyes and her quick wit, and would have called her to council time and time again if the humans hadn't already taken interest in her as well as her husband who had acquainted with one of Roran's many descendants- she hadn't bothered learning the names of her lusted-after ex-lovers family for quite a long time, though she was sure the rest of her court had.

   After all, they were practically royalty in a world that consisted majorly of democratic fantasy, excluding Elesmera's classical monarchy which she wouldn't have a problem surrendering to society's qualms if not for the elves' respect for historical values and their ancestor's culture. Arya felt like her great great grand ancestors wouldn't give a damn if she handed down her legacy to a group of non-heirs elected by citizens, but her councillors thought otherwise.

   "My lady, they have arrived." Is all Arya's handmaiden bothers to inform her. Arya knew precisely who, when, where, why and how, and either way, she wouldn't care to know at least half of those had she been given a choice. Arya's servants knew this better than anyone. She'd entrusted a maid for a moment of her troubles pining after Eragon, or just plain something more than the idiot of a king she had chosen solely for his differing opinions and proclaimed looks. He was nothing like Eragon, nor anything compared to him. The maid, of course, blabbed but once and her secret had spread to the lips of each individual member of her castle's staff in a matter of moments. Now, they all knew precisely why her mood was swinging precariously. Of course, beyond the palace's walls she knew nothing of peoples' knowledge of her love affairs nor emotions despite her hopes it was no more than zip.

   "Good," Arya whispers to her walls. She'd been dressed to greet them for quite some time now. All that was left to do was set down he dagger she had been fiddling with and stride to the door where her escort and unfortunately also her husband awaited. And think. She always had to be thinking about something, or else her thoughts would wander, and she hated where they took her when they did so.

   "My lady," the king bowed deeply. Arya merely curtsied slightly and looped her arm through his, proceeding briefly in their journey to the doors of the palace where her guests waited.

   Quite honestly, Arya was slightly excited. A rare occurrence, as all elves had seen plenty enough in their lifetimes to make boredom come easily. These particular visitors were highly spoken of, and she'd rarely conversed with them. She had much to learn of their costumes and ways, for all she truly knew was that they seemed to be flawless examples of the good provided by humanity. She hadn't heard any of the horrors of gossip in her scrying conversations that covered all the rule-breaking and scandalous behaviours of other inhabitants of Alagaesia, primarily the richer elitist humans.

   The doors in front of Arya flung open. A band of strangers decked out in Urgal or Human, rarely Dwarf, formalwear stood before her. She nodded her head to the guards who stood at the ready behind them, and their steel grips on their dwarven spears loosened.

   Arya marvelled at the sense of unity before her. She remembered the faces of all the adults, but the others she was weary of. Yet, Arya relinquished her weariness. These strangers were here for the Ceremony of Riders. The dragons would inform her if they were truly worthy. For now, she would assume they were indeed.

   "Welcome, friends."

   Arya hoped her unwanted husband's words of rare wisdom were not taken lightly.