" When you teach someone your true name, you place everything you are in their hands.”
“I know, but I may never have the chance again. This is the only thing I have to give, and I would give it to you.”
“Eragon, what you are proposing…It is the most precious thing one person can give another.”
“I know.”
A shiver ran through Arya, and then she seemed to withdraw within herself. After a time, she said, “No one has ever offered me such a gift before…I’m honored by your trust, Eragon, and I understand how much this means to you, but no, I must decline. It would be wrong for you to do this and wrong for me to accept just because tomorrow we may be killed or enslaved. Danger is no reason to act foolishly, no matter how great our peril.”
Eragon inclined his head. Her reasons were good reasons, and he would respect her choice. “Very well, as you wish,” he said.
“Thank you, Eragon.”
A moment passed. Then he said, “Have you ever told anyone your true name?”
“No.”
“Not even your mother?”
Her mouth twisted. “No.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”
He half shrugged. “I didn’t. I just wasn’t sure.” Silence came between them. Then, “When…how did you learn your true name?”
Arya was quiet for so long, he began to think that she would refuse to answer. Then she took a breath and said, “It was a number of years after I left Du Weldenvarden, when I finally had become accustomed to my role among the Varden and the dwarves. Faolin and my other companions were away, and I had a great deal of time to myself. I spent most of it exploring Tronjheim, wandering in the empty reaches of the city-mountain, where others rarely tread. Tronjheim is bigger than most realize, and there are many strange things within it: rooms, people, creatures, forgotten artifacts…As I wandered, I thought, and I came to know myself better than ever I had before. One day I discovered a room somewhere high in Tronjheim--I doubt I could locate it again, even if I tried. A beam of sunlight seemed to pour into the room, though the ceiling was solid, and in the center of the room was a pedestal, and upon the pedestal was growing a single flower. I do not know what kind of flower it was; I have never seen its like before or since. The petals were purple, but the center of the blossom was like a drop of blood. There were thorns upon the stem, and the flower exuded the most wonderful scent and seemed to hum with a music all its own. It was such an amazing and unlikely thing to find, I stayed in the room, staring at the flower for longer than I can remember, and it was then and there that I was finally able to put words to who I was and who I am.”
“I would like to see that flower someday.”
“Perhaps you will.” Arya glanced toward the Varden’s camp. “I should go. There is much yet to be done.”
He nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.” Arya began to walk away. After a few steps, she paused and looked back. “I’m glad that Saphira chose you as her Rider, Eragon. And I’m proud to have fought alongside you. You have become more than any of us dared hope. Whatever happens tomorrow, know that.”
Then she resumed her stride, and soon she disappeared around the curve of the hill, leaving him alone with Saphira and the Eldunarí. "

― Christopher Paolini , Inheritance (The Inheritance Cycle, #4)