Chapter 1: Prologue
Notes:
Thanks for clicking! The first few chapters are mostly setup, so they’re on the shorter side.
Technically, I didn’t want to start posting until late April, to give myself time to prep, but I simply cannot wait any longer! You can expect the rest of this to begin on April 18th (depending on your timezone) and, aside from two dates—June 20th and July 11th—this should (spirits willing!!) update every Friday until it’s done :3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
authenticity & impenetrability exist simultaneously
Above even the roar of fire came the dreadful rhythm of Arya’s footsteps as she bolted out of the flames. The set of her face—slanted, determined eyebrows, narrowed green eyes, not a frown or a grimace, but a firm, determined press of her lips—was terrifying, but in the most beautiful way Eragon had ever seen. Her feet barely skimmed the stone floor as she flew toward the black dragon. She let out a shout of effort, one that Eragon knew would echo on in his mind forever, as she soared through the air and loosed the Dauthdaert into the perfect blue disc of Shruikan’s eye.
Time seemed to slow as Shruikan fell; Saphira and Thorn scrambled across the floor like frightened cats, first pushing themselves with their wings, then digging up chunks of stone with their talons as the black dragon hit the ground. Several of the pillars in the throne room began to crumble as the floor rippled like water from the impact, letting the flat stone plates of the ceiling collapse around them. Eragon’s eyes flashed around the room, narrowing them against the storm of dust and debris, looking for any sign of Arya. But he couldn't find her, his vision more obfuscated with the rising smoke sputtering and twisting from number of fallen, cracked lanterns. Shruikan was…incomprehensibly large, and…Arya had been so close to him when he fell…
“Eragon!” Elva shouted. “ Duck! ”
He dropped low to the floor, panic and adrenaline leaving him with only base, animal instinct, and saw from the corner of his left eye the white blade Vrangr soaring from one side of his back to the other; a heaving, desperate blow that surely would have killed him. Eragon turned around, Brisingr in hand, and surged forward, up, the force of his lunge causing his boots to skid on the dusty floor before gaining any traction. He thrust out with his sword, blindly, and felt only a moment of resistance as the point of it pierced through the layers of Galbatorix’s clothing and then into his stomach.
The man gasped, stepping backwards as he pulled himself off of Eragon’s blade with the same sick, ripping sound Eragon was intimately familiar with, having field-dressed innumerable animals with his own hands over his scant sixteen years. The tips of Galbatorix’s fingers gingerly probed the wound, staring down at the blood that smeared on and beneath his fingernails, worming its way into the creases of his hands, before he turned his wild, shaking gaze back to Eragon.
“The voices…” Galbatorix croaked, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again, as wide as they could go. “The voices are terrible. I can't bear it… Pain …so much pain—so much grief . Make it stop!” he shouted. “ Make it stop! ”
“ No. ” Eragon’s voice was hard, the word scratching its way up his dust-clogged throat. The spell he had used was an instinctive, impulsive variation of Elva’s curse; one that would be incredibly difficult to undo, even if he wanted to. The man in front of him—the man who had irrevocably haunted the length of each of their lives—was crying, not unlike a child would, even as he continued to bleed. And Eragon felt a momentary wave of pity before Elva, Saphira, and Thorn joined him where he stood. He looked briefly at each of them, reveling in the joy and triumph in their eyes.
Then Saphira and Thorn shifted, and from between them appeared Arya, haloed from behind by the still-sputtering flames. The exposed patches of her skin were covered in oozing burns, blood staining what was left of her armor. The ends of her hair were kinked where it, too, had been burned. If it hadn’t been such an inopportune time, Eragon might have thought she was even more beautiful for it. Eragon was desperate for her to look at him, but she stared unblinking at Galbatorix as he stumbled around, bleeding out in front of them, her eyes shining even brighter in the dancing flame-light.
Eragon took a step forward, tightening his grip on his sword as he advanced on Galbatorix. In his mind, he drew up a memory—one of his own, not from the Eldunarí: Arya, while they had traveled together to Du Weldenvarden. Watching with horrified understanding as she put the gyrfalcon out of its misery. Eragon nodded to himself. He wasn’t a killer; his experience with Sloan had taught him that. But this…this wasn’t murder. It was mercy .
He raised his sword.
When Elva shrieked, Eragon didn’t flinch, only took another determined step forward, raising Brisingr high, ready to speak its name.
When he heard her crumple to the floor, though, he paused. As he turned to check on her, he heard Galbatorix take in a shallow, bubbling breath around the blood pooling in his mouth. His eyes were bulging grotesquely, and though he was staring in their direction, he only looked through them, not at . Then, he shouted two words:
"Waíse néiat!"
And there wasn’t time for any other words after that.
Eragon reached out to the Eldunarí, drawing from their overwhelming pool of power, and cast a spell that would bring all of them—Saphira, Arya, Murtagh, Thorn, Elva, and the two nameless children—to the block where Nasuada was still chained. And then another spell to protect them all when Galbatorix’s lurching body simply…vanished, leaving behind only specks of light which expanded and contracted several times before blinding Eragon in a flash of white heat, halfway to Nasuada.
Eragon , an insistent voice repeated in his mind when his vision finally resolved into black. Tiny spots of brightness danced and began to fade in front of his eyes, the afterimage of Galbatorix’s spell, and each shaking breath he took was hot and tasted of… wrong. Though he couldn't see it, he could feel wave after wave of the explosion wash over the barrier he and the Eldunarí had created.
He blinked a few times after the spots had faded entirely, though he couldn't get his eyes to focus on anything other than darkness, feeling them fruitlessly shake from side to side in their sockets. I…I can’t see..! Eragon thought before the voice was back. Umaroth—it was Umaroth speaking to him!
Eragon, we cannot keep fueling this spell. You must let it go. Now, he urged. Eragon shook his head in frustration even though the dragon wouldn’t be able to see it, then abruptly stopped, clenching his eyes shut with pain; it felt like something had come loose in his skull and was knocking around inside it.
No! Eragon said, unyielding. We’re still in danger—if you give up now, we’ll die!
I am sorry, Umaroth said, his voice faint and strained. If we don’t end this, we will cease to be as well.
Eragon sniffed petulantly, and his nose was filled with wetness and the scent of metal—was his nose bleeding? It didn’t matter; a decision needed to be made, then. He didn’t know what, exactly, Galbatorix’s spell had done, but he didn’t have time to work it out and, involuntarily casting his mind out to check on Saphira, he knew that she of everyone else in the room would understand what he was going to do. Maybe not approve, but understanding would be…would have to be enough. He knew he could be impulsive, even at the worst of times; his true name reflected that proudly and unashamedly. And he cared deeply for his friends and family. He was determined, to a fault, to save them. Even the two strange children whom he had refused to let die.
Okay, he said to Umaroth, his confidence not-entirely a facade. Okay then, let it go. So I can save them.
Eragon, no—! the dragon shouted, but Eragon cut off his connection to him and the rest of the Eldunarí. Then, he walled off his own mind, fearing that, should any of his companions even sense what he was about to do, they would stop him from saving them.
And he had to save them.
He was blind now, of that he was certain, and the skin of his face felt twisted and too-tight as he stepped outside of the protective barrier. He could no longer feel Brisingr in his grasp, so he raised both of his hands as he reached within himself to the place his magic came from and, wordlessly, simply willed his companions to live.
The complete drop in his strength happened in an instant, not even allowing him the chance to brace himself as another wave from the explosion knocked him back off his feet. His head collided with something hard and devastatingly sharp, and Eragon was no more.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon gasped at the impact, feeling cool, fresh air fill his lungs. His eyes snapped open, looking from one side to the other as he took in long, shaky breaths. He was—
Where..?
He was in a forest, sprawled out on the ground among the underbrush. A tendril of fern danced over his face— I can see! —in the breeze. His body felt thin, shaved down, and, as he stretched, he realized he wasn’t wearing his armor anymore. He scrambled backward, dragging himself with his hands as he sat up. The ground beneath him was damp, and he could feel it soaking into the seat of his—wait, leggings? —as dirt clogged the gaps under his fingernails. His head swam, though it didn’t hurt so bad now, and his vision twisted like water soaking through an inked painting; colours were shifted and blurred, and the horizon bubbled and warped in front of him.
He was—
He was certain he had been here before. And despite the lingering shimmer at the edges of his vision, he was certain it wasn’t a memory-vision, either. Was it—?
Eragon let out an incredulous little laugh, his voice sounding weak and higher than usual as it reverberated in his head. Is this the Spine!? he thought. He shifted onto his knees and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He extended his mind outward, but it was sluggish and muted; he could hardly sense anything more than a meter away. There was a line of ants that crawled in frantic patterns beneath one of his feet, which he quickly removed from their path, moving to stand instead. His legs felt unsteady, too short, and he wobbled for a moment before drawing himself up to his full height. Even that felt off, though. The warm breeze was refreshing, if persistent, ad Eragon paused at its touch.
It had been approaching mid-winter when the Varden had made its move on Urû’baen, and the air in the Spine—if that was where he found himself—was far warmer than it should have been. He looked around, just to confirm that there was no snow to be seen. Ahead, some distance away, was a small clearing. Above, the sun was nearing the center of the sky, which—
He couldn't remember when he’d last seen the sky, had know the time. He couldn't remember what time it had been even before they’d entered the throne room.
At that, he frowned.
He couldn't remember why they’d gone to the throne room, or who they even were, for that matter.
He heard something snap in the underbrush on the other side of the clearing and reverberate around inside it, but when he strained his ears to listen for more, he found he couldn't hear anything over the sound of the breeze rustling the trees overhead. Without another direction to go, he sighed and started for the clearing, only stopping after two or so steps when he inadvertently kicked something on the ground, sending whatever it was skidding under another clump of fern. Squatting, he dug it out from under the tangle of green, then dropped it in his shock.
He fell back onto the ground as the quiver of arrows strapped to his back rattled, his heart racing. The rush of fear made his hands numb and shaky, and still, he reached for the object.
“No,” he breathed. “ How? ” he said, pleading to no one. He shook his head, uncaring of the lingering pain, and pulled the bow his uncle Garrow had made for him closer. It was intact; whole and undamaged, as if it had never snapped on the archery range in Ellesméra, the hazy memory of that place startling him so much he couldn't question it. He ran his hand over and over the wood, looking for any sign of the break, but its well-oiled surface still shone as if new. He clutched it tightly in his hands as he rose to his knees and then stood, still staring down at it.
Again, he almost fell on uncomfortably-short legs as he saw, where his sleeves had been pushed up in his scrambling, the raised scar on his wrist where he'd cut himself sharpening one of Garrow's scythes.
It’s back! Eragon thought, breathing heavily. He didn’t know when or where it had gone, but he was certain it hadn’t been there when he’d dressed himself that morning. He examined the backs of his hands and arms for more small, long-forgotten scars; it was as if the change he’d gone through—had he simply dreamed of a change?—had never happened. His stomach heaved as he remembered another scar and, with trembling hands, he set the bow at his feet and began pawing at his neck and back under his tunic, searching. A shiver ran up his spine, making the hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end, but all he could feel was unblemished skin. Shaken, he bent down to pick up the bow once more and held it tight.
He felt… lost . The last thing he remembered, and recalling it took no small effort, was…an explosion? He’d been talking to someone, or some ones , but still the images of their faces slipped away from his mind’s eye. He could remember a fair amount of his past—his family, most of his injuries, the shape and taste of his failures , though without any specifics—yet the pieces at the end, where he had just been and with whom, were faint. He could recall that he’d been blinded, but couldn't remember what had caused that to happen, or what had made his sight return. He could remember the ancient language of the elves, and he could remember magic and that he could do it, so perhaps he’d healed himself? He held his bow out on upturned palms and said, quietly, as a test, “Oramrysta, reisa.”
Immediately, he staggered on his feet and he hurried to release the flow of magic. Exhaustion dragged at him until he had no choice but to hang his head, bent over at the waist, trying to measure out his breathing so he didn’t pass out. The bow hadn’t so much as twitched. The sunlight filtering through the trees slowly warmed his back as he rested. Tears of frustration burned in his eyes but didn't fall as he looked blankly down past the bow, still held weakly in one hand, and at his boots. They were certainly a pair he'd owned, but hadn't worn in many, many months. Since...Farthen Dûr, he thought, the delayed memory finally surfacing.
He refused to think about the effect such a simple spell had had on him. He knew that, once, he'd been able to do stunning pieces of magic no normal human should be able to. But still, he couldn't remember why . And he was completely, concerningly certain there was a why. Sucking in a deep breath, he stood again and squared his shoulders. He would investigate the clearing, find the source of the sound he'd heard on the other side of it, and then figure out where he was, if it wasn't the Spine. He could remember seeing Carvahall recently, from overhead, but again, the context of the vision eluded him.
"It's okay," he said to himself, still unsettled by the sound of his own voice. There was something wrong, more than just the pieces of his mind that kept spiriting away his memories. No, there was something wrong . The air here was fresh, but he could taste the wrong ness at the back of his throat. It permeated his body and oozed out through the pores of his skin, bubbling up around him like a cloud. He did not know where he was, dressed in these long-unworn clothes, but he knew with such certainty that it would surely be written in his true name:
He had been made the unwitting witness of something very, very wrong .
He faced the clearing and felt a bit more of the wrong ness evaporate away. There was something waiting for him there, on the other side. That sound he'd heard had been important. Determined and intrigued, he stepped forward.
With each step, it felt like more and more of Eragon's memory was restored. He could recall an old man, who'd been his friend; then, that the man had taught him magic and how to wield a sword; then, that his name was Brom; and finally, the he was Eragon's father. He could recall a dwarf; then, that they were brothers; then, that his name was Orik; and finally, that Orik was a king.
Brothers with a king! Eragon thought, amused despite his situation. But with each missing piece that was filled, each step toward the clearing, he felt lighter, more like himself. I wonder how that happened!
He could recall a tall, elven woman with long, raven-black hair; then, that she was royalty— The queen? he wondered—among the elves; then, that her name was Islanzadí; and finally, that she was Arya's—
"Arya!" he cried aloud. He looked around and behind himself; Arya was one of them , one of the people in the throne room with him! "Arya?" he called again, pausing to listen for her response, but only receiving an echo of his own disquieting voice through the forest. Then:
...Eragon...
The tiniest whisp of thought, his own name as soft as two leaves gently rasping together in the breeze. " Arya! " Eragon shouted, feeling his voice crack. Only his echo was returned that time, and he frowned at the absence of her calling his name, walking faster through the underbrush to cut through the clearing. Could that sound have been her? he thought. It has to be her.
He stepped into the clearing, glancing from side to side, alert for danger. A flash from the center caught his eye and, raising his bow, he stared unblinking at it. The flash had come from a stone, glinting with the sunlight as it passed uninhibited through the gap in the trees. It looked as though it were a cut of sapphire, perfectly polished and veined with faint white lines.
" Oh no, " Eragon breathed. He all-but threw his bow to the side, sprinting toward the stone—the egg . "No, no, Saphira, no , I'm sorry," he gasped, dropping to his knees and skidding the last foot in the loose earth. Fresh, hot tears of shame welled in his eyes and fell down his cheeks as he reached out, hands shaking, to pick up her egg. He cradled her in his arms and leaned forward, wrapping himself around her as he cried. "Saphira, please, I-I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to forget !"
He felt her whisper his name again in his mind, and he choked back a sob. A tiny tendril of comfort emanated from where he could sense her, now that she was so close. All of it, all of his memories, all of his forgotten companions, came rushing back to him. "I didn't mean to die," he whimpered, pressing his sorrow and regret toward her. The rush of memory made his head and teeth ache, but he didn’t care about that now; only her . "I-I didn't have a choice," he cried, desperate to explain himself, for her forgiveness. The egg trembled in his hands, and now he was freely crying, gasping for air around each horrible sob. He had died, yes, but even worse was that he had forgotten her . The scent of wrong ness filled each shaky inhale, the outpouring of it lesser now but still persistent, and at last, he understood.
He understood what terrible thing had happened.
Galbatorix had said in the ancient language, "Be not."
And now, Eragon's journey, his revenge, his triumphs, and even his failures weren't .
Be not.
Thus: he was not.
Notes:
As an avid conlanger myself, I tried my best. Please enjoy seeing my own additions to the ancient language. Translations here:
oramrysta | bow, from arrow + strong + thrust[er]
Chapter 2: Be Not: Part One
Notes:
Absolutely blown away by the kindness and encouragement I got from just posting my prologue!! ♡ So bam, here’s a surprise chapter 2! Y’all’re getting chapter 3 on the 18th but I’m skipping the 25th to make my calendar even
I have OCD and the structure of my calendar for this is very important to me, I say as a means to explain myself for being weird about this
Chapter Text
we take turns at knowability sans calamity or consequence
Eragon slowly blinked open his eyes and rubbed his raw nose. He had cried until he didn’t have the strength to continue crying, and so he had slept, basking in the undeserved comfort Saphira still weakly offered him. Emotionally, he felt a little lighter, but physically… He sat up slowly, clutching his head with the heels of his palms pressed to his temples; it felt as though his brain had been cocooned with cotton. His eyes pulsed with pain, and again he remembered that he had been blinded in the…the explosion; the Be Not. For a moment, he was simply thankful that that hadn’t followed with him, offering up his thanks to whichever god had aided him so. When he had finally collected himself to begin forming thoughts again, he drew Saphira’s egg closer to his face, nestling it between his chest and knees as he wrapped his arms around himself, sitting much like Arya tended to.
"...what do I do..?" Eragon whispered to the egg. It had remained still after Saphira's initial trembling when he found her in the clearing, despite how much he wished it would move again so that he could be reminded of her presence once more. He swallowed back the blind, animal panic threatening to make him cry again. "Are you—?" He cut off the treacherous question. He imagined a chest inside his mind, and took all of those thoughts—What if Saphira was Not , too? When, if at all, would she hatch? Would she still choose him? His gedwëy ignasia was gone, so was his Saphira even there?—into the chest, then imagined a key to lock it with, which he did. He took several cleansing breaths and decided to decide that it didn't matter. It would take some time for the belief to sink in, though, as each moment that passed allowed his mind to wander to other, darker questions. Without indulging them, he unlocked the chest, gently placed each thought into it (pinched between an imagined thumb and forefinger for fear of contamination) then locked it again. He repeated the process several times until, again, he felt as though he could think.
He was left with only a handful of questions which he felt he could handle pondering over in the moment:
How strong was his body now? He wondered this, lamenting the reliance he had had on his augmented strength and senses after the Agaetí Blödhren. He knew he wasn't as strong as he used to be, but he could fix that if he started training again. And though he'd have to do it alone, he felt confident that he could get back into fighting shape with the right attitude.
How much magic could he use? He needed to know his limits; he had been able to cast magic when he tried to lift his bow earlier, but he hadn't been able to see any results of its use before he had to cut the spell short. And he still retained his knowledge of the ancient language, so presumably, he could use it to its full extent.
What had happened to him? He knew it had something to do with Galbatorix's spell, but what exactly were the consequences of it? He couldn't sense the Eldunarí nearby and he spent nearly an hour searching for them in and around the clearing, in case they had somehow fallen out of the folded space when he lost his ability to do more complex magic. But they were gone, back in the Vault of Souls, he hoped. No, believed —he had to keep believing that, else he lose himself to his despair. Even so, what happened? Manipulating time with magic wasn't something Eragon thought Galbatorix would have the strength or ingenuity to do, even with the Eldunarí of his own.
And finally:
Where would he go? He knew that he could return to Carvahall if he wanted, but what would be the point? If he went back, then invariably, everyone there would be forced from their homes by the Empire again, no matter how badly he wanted to return to his old old life, now that the previous one had been so horribly taken from him. No, the safest thing to do would be to leave them in peace, to wait until Saphira's egg hatched, then find...someone. Someone who would belive him as, for as far as he could tell, he had been re-made at the moment when the Eldunarí reworked Arya's transportation spell to send Saphira's egg to him instead of Brom.
Eragon frowned. He didn't think Brom would be a good choice to confide in; what good was there in telling him about a grand adventure they could go on as father and son, only for Eragon to inevitably make another mistake that led to the old man's death… again? It felt like a selfish decision to make; one borne from the desire to simply spend more time with his father. And Roran was out of the question, as much as he loved his cousin. By leaving Carvahall—and by extension, Palancar Valley altogether—he would keep Roran safe and with Katrina—he would keep them all safe. It's my duty as a rider, he thought to himself, though the thought of essentially abandoning his family felt...unprincipled. They'd think I'd died in the Spine! And truly, that would be a horribly thing to force upon them.
He considered leaving a letter for Garrow, explaining that he was leaving Carvahall. He knew it might cause his uncle to worry more , wondering where, when, and from whom he'd learned to read and write. And, in that case, would his uncle even believe that Eragon had written the letter? Would the extra worry it caused be worth the risk?
Eragon continued his internal debate as he stood, trembling, his legs tingling as blood flowed properly back into them. He went through a few rudimentary stretches after he set Saphira's egg on top of his pack where he could keep an eye on it. Then, taking a deep breath, he begin the first level of the Rimgar on a patch of semi-level ground in the clearing.
His back burned with the effort, and tight, uncomfortable pain shot all the way up from the bottom of his calves to the tops of his thighs as he stretched. He found it hard to maintain an even breathing pattern and he resorted to holding his breath through the more difficult poses, which only served to make his head pound even harder. Gasping, he relaxed his body, tilting his head up to the fading sunlight. He couldn't recall a moment when, the first time, before , he'd ever had reason to contort his body like what was required for the Rimgar. It made a painful sort of sense that he couldn't do it now.
What time did I head home before? he wondered absently, watching the sunset-coloured clouds roll by overhead. An extra day or so spent in the Spine wouldn't hurt, though it did make him worry for Garrow; his uncle wasn't overly affectionate with him or Roran, but he did care a great deal for both of them.
"What do you think, Saphira?" Eragon asked, turning to look at her egg. It remained unchanged, so he carefully lowered himself to the ground and curled around both her and his pack. "Are you mad at me?" he asked quietly. Inside his mind, he felt her sorrow, and for a brief instant, he wasn't in the clearing, but instead looking at himself inside the Ra'zac's cave at the top of Helgrind, yelling for Saphira to go and leave him there as she shared her memory with him. He could feel her anger now, as well, and he pushed apology after apology toward her mind inside the egg. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
When Saphira was silent for a bit, Eragon turned to the rest of the clearing, sitting up on his knees. Everything that had happened before the Be Not had only spanned little more than a year. And still, despite the short time, his memory of the exact steps he took and when was shaky at best. I'll ask Saphira again later, he thought, closing his eyes and extending his mind out. I don't think she can do much now, anyway.
"We could go to Vroengard; see the Eldunarí," he said suddenly, surprising himself as the thought burst out of his mouth. "They might be able to help," he offered, glancing at Saphira's egg from the corner of his eye before closing it again. "No, you're right," he shook his head, "it took more than a year for you to be able to fly there, and we relied on Glaedr's strength for a lot of the journey..."
His eyes snapped open. "We could go to..."
...Ellesméra, Saphira's faint thought continued. Eragon nodded enthusiastically as the brief memory of flashing, golden scales filled his vision.
"Yeah. Okay, yeah! That could work, Saphira!" he said, jumping to his feet. He'd sent Sloan journeying to Ellesméra from much further south, and he'd been okay; a lone, unarmed human disappearing into the forest. Eragon didn't have anywhere near enough crowns saved up at Garrow's house to purchase a horse, but Sloan...even Sloan had walked! And Eragon was more than capable of fending for the two of them on his own. "Do you think you could help us find the way there?" he asked Saphira. Even if she couldn't, he knew he could manage to find the way.
On his pack, the egg trembled, then stilled again. His vision was filled again with one of Saphira's memories, of flying over Du Weldenvarden with Glaedr, the gold dragon's memories of Alagaësia being imparted to her. Yes... came her faint voice, ...can; I will.
Eragon couldn't help letting out a yelping, joyous laugh before he rushed to gather his belongings. Before he placed Saphira's egg in his pack, he brought it to his lips and kissed the top of it. I love you so much, Saphira, he said, sending her all the warmth and joy he felt at the moment. Then he secured his pack and began making his way down the Spine to Carvahall; he wanted to make good progress before nightfall.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
It was the first time he'd seen Carvahall in more than a year—the real Carvahall, undisturbed by the Empire. The trip would take roughly two days to make, even with the enthusiastic pace he set for himself, and it was on that first day that he'd had the chance to spot Carvahall from halfway down the Spine's last rolling mountain before the land sloped into the valley proper. He had leaned against the trunk of a think pine tree and looked out over the village as he caught his breath in the late afternoon. It had been cloudy for most of the day, but as he looked down over the valley, the clouds split in such a way that his old home was perfectly illuminated, the sun casting a bright glow over Carvahall.
It was, technically, still his home; the only real one he'd ever had. Anywhere else he'd gone during his journey, he'd been living in temporary quarters with previous and absent owners, or out of a tent pitched with too much haste to be properly comfortable. And in that moment, while he watched the villagers he'd known his whole life go about their business—Baldor running an errand for Horst, his father; Birgit and her sister Lenna walking side by side through the center of town, laughing to each other; Byrd welcoming his wife Felda home with open arms—he knew that he was willing to abandon it all if his choice meant keeping them safe.
"I'm...going to miss it, Saphira," Eragon had said softly. His pack had been on the ground at his feet as he rested, the top open just enough that he could see her egg. "I know I have to go, but...seeing it here, whole again, I..." He shook his head. "It doesn't mean that I want to..."
Then he'd set off again, loping down the mountain with his pack over one shoulder.
He'd spent most of the journey in silence, stretching in the morning and before laying out his bedroll at night, so that he could perform the Rimgar again without the type of soreness in his legs that kept him from walking as fast as he'd like. But, on the second day spent traveling down the mountain, he had begun to talk again. He directed his words to Saphira in her egg, but it was mostly for his own benefit; he missed being around other people, and even more painful, he missed his companionship with Arya. The silences they had spent together had been comfortable even at the worst moments; the silence with Saphira now only made him anxious.
He practiced speaking in the ancient language, theorizing over and constructing—with out magic—complex spells that would allow him to accomplish the same things he was once able to, but without the debilitating drain he'd experienced while attempting to levitate his bow. His main goal was to be able to set wards on himself and Saphira's egg. But he knew that, if the wards should be activated without his knowledge, the unexpected drain on his strength might come when he needed his strength the most. Or…while he was sleeping, and wouldn’t even know he was dying. He was, frustratingly, quite weak , weaker than he remembered himself being the first time. Then again, he thought wryly, I didn't know just how strong I'd get.
Saphira shared with him a memory of Eragon on her back, experiencing one of his seizures while they were mid-flight. He frowned as it faded, leaving him stumbling over a tree root. He didn't understand what she meant—words were difficult for her to form—but he guessed that she meant to show him a time when he'd been both strong and weak. When he thought as much to her, he received a light wave of comfort and affection, which meant his assumption was accurate enough.
Still, he refused to give up on his theories; perhaps he could word a spell in such a way that it would draw energy from the one attacking him, should one of his wards be triggered? He felt confident enough in his wording, but decided to wait until he was a bit stronger to actually try it out. And—he was especially worried about this —if a companion were to accidentally trigger one of his experimental wards, what would happen to them ?
A thought came to him then as he pondered over unorthodox applications of the ancient language near the base of the mountain; a thought that made him pause as his heart pounded in his chest.
"S-Saphira," he said to her, stumbling, but not falling. "Saphira, I can't remember it."
He felt her question in his mind, and he took a deep breath before he replied. It did nothing to calm him.
"The..." he started, his hands and arms tingling with nerves. "The Word, " he whispered. With the Word, he could do any magic he wanted; could stop Galbatorix now with just a single sentence and…and he couldn't remember it!
Saphira sent him a picture of the Eldunarí and her sense-memory of them describing the spell that had made Oromis and Glaedr forget about their work on the Vault of Souls. It was a... fine theory, but Eragon couldn't think of why the Eldunarí would keep the Word from him; especially if they'd had a hand in re-making him, which was the only theory he’d had so far that he actually believed could be true.
"I don't know," Eragon said as he forced himself to resume walking. "There's something we're still missing. I'm not saying I doubt they're involved, but..." he trailed off, considering. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other on the uneven ground, and the movement helped quell his anxieties.
The Eldunarí had been involved in sending Saphira to him, and the moment when, before, their magic had altered Arya's spell was the moment Eragon had been re-made. And before, they had shared how, by joining together, they'd been able to hide the secret of the Rock of Kuthian from almost everyone in Alagaësia, so...it did make sense… Eragon considered finding a werecat to ask for help, then dismissed the thought; he wouldn’t know where to begin looking for Angela and Solembum.
Even so, the Eldunarí had trusted him and Saphira with so much, had put so much faith in them, and to abandon them now felt...uncharacteristically cruel.
Eragon tried to shake off the feeling of betrayal as he approached the outskirts of Carvahall. It was early evening, and most of the villagers had begun making their way home. Eragon was thankful, as that meant less eyes to potentially see him lurking around and thus, less people who could report him to Garrow. He had wanted to see the village one last time before leaving, but now that he was here, he almost regretted the decision; how could he leave when his uncle and Roran were still depending on him to help with the farm? When all Eragon could offer them was a hastily-scribbled letter explaining that they'd never see him again?
They... Eragon slid behind a tree as a group of children laughed nearby, skipping between two houses—they were his family; they loved him. How could he leave when he loved them just as much, if not more ?
Again, Saphira shared the memory of the cave in Helgrind, and this time Eragon understood her meaning perfectly. With a final, longing glance, he made his way away from Carvahall to the farm.
When he reached the edge of their property, he slipped through familiar woods to the small thicket where, before, he'd left Saphira after she'd hatched. He didn't bother clearing it out completely this time, just made enough room so he could comfortably sit and wait. He dragged his pack around to rest between his folded legs and wrapped his arms around it.
His plan, he explained to Saphira, was to wait until it was deep into the night, when his uncle and cousin would be asleep, then sneak into the house to, hopefully, find paper and ink to leave the letter for Garrow. Absently, he rubbed the scar on his wrist as he spoke. He'd had some time to think about what to put in the letter and, while he knew she still struggled with full sentences, he hoped Saphira might be able to offer some perspective.
After he finished reciting it to her, she showed him an image of one of his own memories, when he'd married Roran and Katrina. Eragon frowned, trying to understand.
"Are you..." he trailed off. "What? Why that memory?"
Saphira was silent after that, but he could feel her mind turning and looping over itself before she said, ...love.
He shifted on the ground. It was just a little past sunset, but he still had several long hours to wait out in the growing cold. He considered pulling out his bedroll and settling in for the night, but worried that he'd fall asleep before long. The cold would keep him more focused, anyway.
"...yes," Eragon said, still not understanding. "I do love him; both, all of them. They're my family..." He was getting frustrated, not at Saphira, but at the situation. He could feel his anger and indignation building under his skin, heating him up, so he closed his eyes and started counting out his breaths. When he finally felt like he could speak again without snapping, he asked, slowly, "Do you mean that I should...simply tell them that I love them..?"
After a moment, he heard, ...no.
"Well then dammit, Saphira, I don't—!" he froze, the mixture of guilt and embarrassment making him feel sick. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't meant to curse at you."
He felt only amusement from her, which made him feel a bit better. He tried to smile, even though he knew she couldn't see it.
Pushing the thought of the letter aside for later, Eragon spent the rest the night practicing the ancient language; testing out what half-truths the language would allow him to say. He and Saphira had decided to head east for Osilon, the closest city in Du Weldenvarden to Palancar Valley, before continuing on to Ellesméra. He wanted to be as honest with the elves he hoped to find there as possible, but there were still things he was reluctant to share with anyone other than their teachers. So far, the ancient language had let him say that he had, on multiple occasions, had dreams of the future (which was true), that he had a... special connection with the dragons in general (which was, from a certain point of view, mostly true), and that he knew where the queen's daughter was (which was true, as he'd helped rescue Arya before). Those seemed like the most important facts to convey, to help them get to Oromis and Glaedr as fast as possible and into the good graces of the queen, Islanzadí. As privately as he could with their bond in his mind, Eragon hoped that Saphira would hatch before they reached Osilon.
And secretly, so far down inside himself that he blocked the thought from Saphira completely, he feared that if she didn't hatch before they arrived in Du Weldenvarden, the elves might take her egg from him, claiming that he wasn't meant to be her rider.
Or worse—deeper, a thought too large for his imaginary chest—that the elves might think he had stolen the egg from, then killed , Arya and her companions as a bargaining piece to get into the elven forest.
The most frustrating and curious thing about the ancient language, though, was that Eragon found when trying to say he had lived a for year in the future, he was unable to finish the sentence. It made his head hurt to consider the power of Galbatorix's spell. Or, the Eldunarí's magic, or the two in combination. He was able to say that magic had sent him back to a point in his own past, which was reassuring, but not that he had travelled from the future.
He wondered if he was unable to speak it because it wasn't true—a terrifying thought—or if it was because he still didn't quite believe it himself.
When he tried to say that he had lived in his own future, he was able to speak the full sentence.
Irritated, Eragon hunched over his pack, rubbing his hands over his arms to keep warm, and thought back to Oromis' lessons on magic until he found himself nodding off several times over Saphira's egg, his forehead resting on its surface. At that point, he was cold and tired enough to finally sneak back to Garrow's house. He dug the key to the house out of the bottom of his pack where he'd put it when he had left for the Spine, before , and began walking.
The trip back was, at first, more difficult than Eragon expected it to be, his reliance on his improved dark-vision still impeding his old, or current, abilities. Still, it was familiar enough territory, and soon his old memories helped him navigate through the forest until the trees thinned, and he was standing in front of a house he hadn't seen in more than a year. Even in the darkness, the blueish light of the moon illuminated it enough that Eragon was forced to pause and simply look upon it. He wouldn't be back again, he knew it, and staring up at the house that had been and would always be his true home, he knew he had to leave as soon as possible, lest he give in to the call of nostalgia and decide to stay. He assumed Garrow and Roran must be asleep, as he couldn't see any candle or lantern-light inside the windows; he planned to light a candle himself once he was inside, fearing what a light he created from magic would or wouldn't do in his current state.
He stepped carefully up the couple of stairs, avoiding the loose board he knew would squeak, to the door and slowly put the key in the lock, turning it and the doorknob together to keep the heavy tumblers of the lock from making a sound. When he pushed the door open, the inside of the house was dark. Relieved, he stepped inside.
Skirting around creaking floorboards, Eragon made his way to the kitchen first, in search of a candle. He nearly bumped into a chair covered in a dark length of cloth on the way, but managed to avoid it at the last moment. Heart pounding in his ears, he eased around the corner and gasped, stumbling backward into the doorframe.
Garrow was standing in the darkness, staring out the window. He glanced over his shoulder at Eragon, then back to the window. There was a short cup in his hand.
"You're late," Garrow said quietly.
Eragon couldn't make himself speak, and his uncle sighed.
"We were worried about you," he said gruffly. "You should've been home two days ago."
Two days ago!? Eragon thought. How long was I out there? "I..." What could he say? "I know," Eragon whispered. "I'm...I'm sorry." He'd been apologizing a lot lately, he thought absently.
"Some people in town thought you might've died up there…" Garrow said 'some people' in a way that Eragon knew meant 'Sloan', "...but Roran shut them up right away, saying there's no way his cousin would get himself into trouble—that you were too smart to get caught by any wild animals." Garrow shook his head slowly as he spoke. "I had my own ideas about what you were up to, but I didn't want..."
"I'm sorry," Eragon said again, stepping forward. "I am , but I—" What could he say? "—I'm not staying. I have to go."
Garrow lowered his head so that his chin was on his chest. "Aye," he said. "That's what I was afraid of." He turned around to face Eragon in the darkness. "Why bother coming back at all?" His voice was hard.
"What?" Eragon asked, incredulous. "I...I wanted to say goodbye!"
"So you snuck in here, in the middle of the night, to wish us well, then? To let us give you a proper sendoff?"
"No, I—"
"Or did you come just to sneak of with your belongings, leaving us to wonder what chaos you've thrown yourself into?"
" No! " Eragon almost laughed with dismay. "I was...going to leave a note..."
Garrow stepped forward and put his hands on Eragon's shoulders. "Eragon," he said, his voice pleading. "Tell me, son, please. Have you gotten yourself into trouble? Is it someone in town? Has Sloan been making...threats?"
"No," Eragon croaked as tears began to pool in his eyes. "I promise, uncle, nothing has happened in town. I just..." he trailed off, looking down. "I know what I have to do... I know who I am, now. And what my destiny is."
Garrow was silent for a moment, his hands tightening on Eragon's shoulder before he drew him into a quick embrace.
"Okay," Garrow said. "Okay, I understand." He pushed Eragon backward by the shoulders and searched his face for something Eragon couldn't comprehend. Then his uncle smiled tightly and said, "I don't have to like it, but I know you. You're a smart boy, and if you have to go, well... Me and Roran will just make due. " He pulled Eragon into another embrace, and Eragon thought he heard his uncle whisper the name ‘Selena.’
Eragon stepped away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'll just go...get my things," he said, looking awkwardly around the dark kitchen. "Should I...wake Roran before I go..?"
"No," his uncle shook his head. "I'll tell him in the morning. It might be easier hearing it from me, anyway."
Eragon nodded. There was so much he wanted to tell his uncle, so much he wanted to explain, but he knew it would all just sound like nonsense to the man. That, or Garrow might try to keep Eragon at home, fearing for the state of his head. So, instead he settled for, "Thank you."
His uncle had returned to his cup and the window and simply said, "Go on, now. Before I change my mind."
Eragon hurried away from the kitchen and toward the stairs; there was more he wanted to say, but didn't have the words for. And, thankfully, it seemed as though Garrow didn't have words either, cutting their conversation as short as possible. The house was silent save for the creaking of the wood under his feet and the sound of the wind outside. He crept up one step at a time and then made for his room, but found himself colliding with Roran's chest instead.
His cousin's eyes were wide, his eyebrows drawn together, hands fisted at his sides.
"I—" before Eragon could finish, Roran grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a crushing hug.
"Don't," Roran breathed. His voice cracked with grief. "Please don't go, Eragon. I know who you are—your destiny is with us."
"I can't," Eragon said weakly, burying his face against his cousin's shoulder; he'd forgotten how much shorter he'd been before. "Roran..."
Once, they'd been brothers. And now, they would never have that bond again.
"I have to go, Roran. As soon as possible, I can't... I can't stay here."
He felt Roran nod. "I know," he said, and Eragon felt a hot tear splatter against the side of his neck. "I was so worried about you when you were gone, and people kept... talking about you, like you were already gone, and—" Roran stopped, choking back a sob. "And now you're back, but you're leaving. I just...thought if I asked, if I said please ..."
Eragon tried to pull away, but Roran held fast.
"We only just lost mom," Roran whispered. "I don't want to lose you, too."
"I know," Eragon said. And with a bit of force, he did pull away. It hurt seeing the look on Roran's face, tears falling from his eyes, knowing that he was the cause of his cousin's pain. "But Roran, I have to go. My place isn't here anymore, it's..." he trailed off, waving a hand to encompass all of Alagaësia. "I don't know where exactly it is, yet, but I know where to start looking. And Roran, brother...I need to go now, because I am so close to giving up and staying."
He'd said more than he meant to, but Roran seemed to appreciate the honesty, stepping away from Eragon and crossing his arms.
"I get it," Roran said, attempting to smile. "But when you find that place...brother...let us know you're alright, yeah?"
"Aye," Eragon grinned.He tried to think of anything he could say that would help Roran out after he was gone. "You and Katrina are going to be fine," he said. "And...Horst will be looking for a new apprentice. You should ask him if he'll take you on."
Roran smirked. "I know; he offered it to me yesterday morning. Said he was going to ask you , but since you never showed..."
Eragon laughed, more relieved than he had a right to be. Roran held out his arm, and Eragon grasped his cousin's forearm as tight as he could. "Brothers?" he asked without hesitation.
Roran rolled his eyes, but he grasped Eragon's forearm as well and smiled.
"Brothers."
Chapter 3: Be Not: Part Two
Notes:
Sorry if the date on this is weird?? I saved it as a draft on April 13th and it made the posted date for this chapter the same. It’s posted today, no fear! Just my inability to work the draft system, lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
immeasurable silent applause erupts regularly
Three weeks; he'd been walking for three weeks. At least, as far as he could tell it’d been that long. On good days, when his leg joints didn't ache from exertion and his head didn't hurt from dehydration, he ran—though his pace was slow and labored. On bad days, which were more frequent than the good ones, he walked. Though after three weeks, his boots were beginning to wear thin, and he regretted not stopping in Ceunon to purchase another pair. Before he'd left home, Garrow had handed Eragon a pouch filled with a handful of crowns and the look on his uncle's face had left no room for argument.
At night, Eragon would spread his bedroll out against the nearest vertical surface—usually the trunk of a tree, sometimes a large rock—and slept sitting up, wearing his pack against his chest to keep Saphira's egg safe. It made his neck twinge each morning when he awoke, but it was the best protection he could offer when the strongest ward he'd been able to set so far was a carefully-worded, near-paragraph that would only alert him if someone drew near his makeshift camp but caused no harm to the intruder, draining the necessary energy from a few specific plants around him. It would also tell him the general temperament and number of intruders. It was functional, but the wording he'd used meant that he'd need to un- and re -set it every morning and night.
It has only been activated once when several deer had passed by him just before sunrise. Eragon had stayed perfectly still, muffling his breaths with his pack, until his ward told they'd all gone. Then he'd started running east as fast as he could, his paranoia blunting the pain in his legs and feet and back.
And, much to Eragon's relief, with each day that passed, Saphira's voice grew stronger in his head. When he asked her why she still had yet to hatch, all she could tell him was that she wasn't ready. He wanted to be frustrated, but so much time in the open air—without any pressing obligations but his own self-set goal—had loosened something in his chest.
"It seems," Eragon said, smiling at the treeline on the horizon that Saphira had told him marked the start of Du Weldenvarden, the home of the elves, "that we may have needed some time away from the war!"
Indeed, little one, Saphira replied. She still called him that, which he thought was quite amusing, seeing as this was the smallest she'd ever been.
She'd shared some navigational memories with him during their journey, memories from Glaedr's point of view, which were almost impossible to interpret through the lens of both dragons' minds. Still, they had helped, and Eragon knew that they'd reach the forest within the day so long as he kept up a steady pace.
As he walked, he and Saphira worked on their, well, not story for the elves, but rather their plan . Saphira listened as Eragon practiced sentence after sentence in the ancient language to ensure that there was no hesitance at any point in their—okay, yes, story . He knew exactly what he could and couldn't say to the elves, and hoped that they wouldn't question him about anything more specific than he'd prepared. Which, he lamented, they probably would, so he also hoped it would happened in private; without an audience.
With his knowledge of Arya's current location and condition, he hoped for an escort to Ellesméra and an audience with the queen, though he also knew how improbable that really was.
But hope, though...
Hope was something he hadn't bothered with in a while. At least, not with this kind of acceptance; even if the elves thoroughly interrogated him, he knew he would be fine. Even if they thought him the criminal who had locked Arya away, he had the memories to prove his innocence. Even if they decided to take Saphira's egg...
That will not happen, Saphira assured him. I will hatch for you; you are mine, and I am yours. We are bonded—I can tell, even from inside my egg. It’s just... I need more time.
Eragon understood. What he'd done, without warning her, in the throne room was...
He understood.
They spent the rest of the day in light conversation, remarking on the passing landscape since neither of them had had a reason to observe it before for themselves. By unspoken agreement, they had decided not to speak of their future plans until they'd had the chance to speak with Oromis and Glaedr. Though, an undercurrent of anxiety ran through their words and minds when they realized that they hadn't really made any plans.
There was the chance that the elves would turn them away from the start and refuse to hear their words of the upcoming war.
Still...the fresh air was doing wonders for Eragon's mood. He was able to clear his mind of his worries and, without any pursuers, it brought him the same sense of peace his journey back to the Varden from Helgrind had. Until it hadn't, but back then, he'd had Arya by his side to keep him company.
His heartrate picked up as he thought of her, and he offered a quick prayer to any god that might be listening for the elves to belive him about her capture, and for her quick rescue.
It will be okay, Saphira said. They will belive you, and she will be fine. You'll see.
"I know," Eragon panted as he ran. "I just...well, you know."
Saphira laughed inside his head. Yes, unfortunately, I do.
Eragon frowned and said, "I don't mean like that! I respect her too much to..." he trailed off, embarrassed. "It wouldn't be the same, anyway. The only reason Arya and I had the...friendship we did was because I stopped being an idiot about things between us."
Hmm, Saphira's voice rumbled. And despite that, I still find myself waiting for you to stop being an idiot in all other matters.
She was amused, not angry, but Eragon couldn't help the wave of guilt he felt from making his feet slow. "Saphira," he said slowly. "I'm...I'm sorry that I—"
Oh, he couldn't say it. He'd done an idiotic thing in using the last of his energy like that; even if Galbatorix had used a different spell, Eragon would have had no way of knowing whether or not his sacrifice was in vain.
Continue...please.
They hadn't spoken about this, either. The last few weeks were spent in comfort, not confrontation. But Saphira had brought it up, and Eragon owed her a real apology. She was his partner in mind and heart, and he hadn't even warned her first. He'd just been so desperate for her and their other companions to survive that the ends—namely, his —justified the means.
It felt like such an awful thing to say, though; to admit.
It felt like admitting he'd given up.
Eragon stayed silent, breathing as evenly as possible as he ran several hundred feet until they reached the treeline, and Saphira sent him a pulse of understanding; they both needed this. Once he was out of the fading sunlight and under the cover of tall pine trees, the temperature instantly dropped. Eragon slowed to a walk, then stopped to look around. He could only see several meters ahead before the knot of trees and underbrush became too thick. Leaning against the trunk of the closest pine, he set down his pack and pulled out Saphira's egg, cradling it in his hands as he stood.
"Saphira," he said softly. "I'm sorry that I—" still, he struggled to say it, but forced it out anyway, "—I'm sorry that I killed myself with that spell," he finished in a whisper. "It was a bad idea, and I regret it so much. I know that I could have reached out to you for help protecting us when the Eldunarí were failing. Or Murtagh, or Thorn, or...or Arya. None of us wanted to die there and I...I thought it was the only way. I'm sorry."
In his hands, the egg trembled, reflecting tiny drops of blue light onto his face and chest. She didn't offer him a reply, though, and Eragon shifted from one foot to the other, nervous. Then, the egg began to roll back and forth across his upturned palms, and he hurried to sit down in case it rolled out of his hands completely. He set the egg down on a hastily-assembled bed of pine needles and raised his hands in the air, waiting.
After a moment, he began to hear a faint tapping sound from inside the egg, and he couldn't help laughing, tears of joy beginning to fall down his cheeks.
"Yes!" he cried. "Yes, please, c'mon! You can do it, Saphira!"
When her tiny blue head poked out of the egg, his breath caught halfway between another laugh and sob. He watched, nearly vibrating with excitement, as Saphira clambored and stumbled indignantly out of the shell, like a cat that had fallen into a pool of water.
He opened his arms to welcome her to their new, terrible world, nearly shouting, "Oh, Saphira, you're back! "
Then, two things happened:
First, Saphira practically flew into him, knocking him backward so he was laying on the ground with the force of her jump, going from the eggshell directly to his chest. Eragon stayed on the ground with his arms still spread, laughing and crying as Saphira began to lick the closest part of him she could reach, which happened to be just a little higher than his jaw.
And second, Eragon promptly passed out, the entire world fading to the freezing, burning sensation of the gedwëy ignasia blossoming over the lower left side of his face, from just below the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone near the outside of his eye.
When he finally regained consciousness, he bolted upright.
They were already bonded; in the before, they'd already bonded and they’d guessed that that was why they were able to communicate in the now, before she'd hatched. So...what had happened? Why had it happened again? Did she know it would happen?
"My face!?" he yelled.
In front of the remains of her shell, Saphira sat on her haunches, cleaning bits of membrane from between the talons of one of her back feet with her tongue, her leg sticking out awkwardly from her gangly, newborn body. She paused for a moment, just long enough to say, embarrassed, I missed you, before she resumed cleaning, sending him sidelong glances.
"My face!?"
It's not my fault that—
"No, no, no, Saphira! It's my face! Everyone will be able to see it!" He raised a shaky hand to run his fingertips over it; the skin was indented slightly, but smoother in texture. "How will I grow a beard?"
Irrelevant, Saphira snorted. You do not need one.
He stared at her for a moment before yelling, again, "My face!!"
Once he had collected himself, he stood. "You did that on purpose," he grunted, hefting his pack over his shoulders.
Saphira looked up at him and blinked innocently.
"You did it that as punishment , didn't you?" It was hard to be so angry at her when she was so cute; he hadn't had the chance to properly appreciate her before and he was, despite everything, excited for the chance to do so now. He sent her an image of her own wide blue eyes, and she bared her teeth at him in response.
Maybe now you will not forget our bond, Saphira said, then turned and began trotting deeper into Du Weldenvarden. Eragon obediently followed behind her as she loped along. She moved like a newborn deer on still-stiff legs, and Eragon struggled to keep from laughing at her. She looked at him over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. I suppose I could have put it somewhere less obvious, she offered. Perhaps the back of your neck. You could have grown out your hair to cover it.
Eragon snorted. "Why would I do that? I'd look awful."
Better than you would with a beard, though.
"Hey," he scoffed. "Rude!"
Ahead, she shook her head, then sped up her trot so that Eragon had to jog to keep up with her. I think you would look very nice, she said quietly. With another quick glance back, she began to move a little faster.
"Saphira!" he growled. "Slow down!" When she didn't, he groaned, "Okay, okay, fine! I'll grow out my blasted hair, if that's what you want, just slow down! Please!"
He could feel her satisfaction and amusement as she reared up, opening her fluttering, leathery wings to stop. Thank you, she said warmly, padding to his side. I think it's only fair after what you've put me through. The words stung, but there was no venom in her voice.
"I love you, too, Saphira." Eragon shook his head, but still smiled at her.
After a few more meters, Eragon sighed.
What is it, little one? Saphira asked, stepping in front of him and stopping. And, oh—the sight of her, so small, still made him want to giggle at the nickname.
Instead, he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. "I know we’ve only just entered the forest, but we haven't seen any of the elves," he said after a moment. "It's making me worry...'"
She shrugged her pointed shoulders. They will come, she said with more confidence than Eragon thought the situation deserved. You forget, they were much more wary of outsiders before we travelled to Ellesméra. Worry not, Eragon, for I am with you; they will come for me.
He couldn't help the little laugh that escaped him. "I really do love you," he said. "You... We're so different, you know? But somehow we're still..."
The pinnacle of perfection? Yes, I think so, too.
Eragon grinned; it seemed some of her confidence was rubbing off on him. "Do we want to stop here for the night?" he asked. The deeper they went, the less waning sunlight filtered through the pine branches. And without his dark-vision...
Yes, we should be safe until the elves come, Saphira said. Then, her eyes narrowed at him. It bared repeating; she was just too cute.
"What?" he laughed.
I just realized...I cannot shelter you under my wing anymore. She agitated her wings against her sides and hissed. This is ridiculous, Eragon; I cannot do anything at this size!
Eragon dropped to his knees and scooped her up in his arms. Her talons kneaded at his shoulders, catching in the fabric of his tunic, before she finally wrapped herself around his neck, her face pressed against his gedwëy ignasia, humming softly.
Little one, she murmured, what are we going to do?
"Wait for the elves, like you said. We'll rest for the night, and in the morning, we'll make such a racket that they cannot ignore us any longer. And besides, you've only just hatched, you know. You need your rest!"
She curled around him tighter in response to his teasing, and he laid out his bedroll, looking forward to a night of well-deserved, horizontal rest. He was still nervous, though, and kept shaking himself awake every hour or so. The forest was alive with the sound of birds singing and flitting among the pines, calling out the arrival of a dragon in Du Weldenvarden, and each snapping twig made Eragon imagine some unknown predator coming to take advantage of Saphira's still-newborn status. And, again, he was so frightened of something or someone coming to take Saphira away from him.
They'd exacerbated their already-tenuous bond—which had still connected them, even before Saphira had hatched and they had yet to touch—during the journey from Palancar Valley, and now Eragon felt like they were closer than they'd ever been before. The thought of losing her, after everything...
From where she'd been laying, curled up against his side, Saphira climbed onto Eragon's chest and held her face directly in front of his. She angled her head so that one of her blue eyes was only an inch or two from his own. Sleep, she urged. When he stayed quiet, still ruminating over his worries, she moved close enough that Eragon's eyes closed reflexively in a flinch. When he blinked his eyes open again, he could see that she'd pulled her head back a bit. She yawned, exposing rows of sharp, white teeth that stood out menacingly in the darkness, her tongue a wrinkled fold in the back of her throat. Still half-awake, Eragon was tempted to stick his finger in her open mouth like he'd done with a stray cat that had stayed on the farm with them for a few years before moving on just to annoy her.
"I'm allowed to be worried, Saphira," he murmured. "I think our situation more than warrants it."
Her mouth snapped shut with a spine-chilling clack, and he was glad he hadn't indulged. She sniffed, feigning offense. It's good you didn't, she said, her tongue darting out of her half-parted jaws. Though...I suppose I would have stopped before biting off your hand...
"You suppose?" Eragon huffed, but he couldn't help smiling.
Supposedly, Saphira hummed. It would stain my reputation if others found out I'd bitten off the hand of my rider, simply for being an idiot.
Eragon shook his head, then reached up to run his fingers along the stubby spines of her neck, down to her shoulders. She hummed louder, purring like a cat, and kneaded him with her talons. On his chest, the warmth of her body began to seep into him, lulling him back to sleep, and after several more minutes of petting her, his hand dropped back to his side in his sleep.
When he awoke the following morning, he felt completely refreshed. He hadn't properly rested since... Eragon blinked in surprise. Since some time before, he guessed. Maybe before he'd ever found Saphira. He stood, stretching, and began the first level of the Rimgar while he watched Saphira prowl around their makeshift camp with her nose in the air.
It was getting easier, stretching and contorting his body, which renewed his sense of optimism; they were making progress. Halfway through the first level, Saphira came and sat where she could watch him, head cocked to the side. With his shoulders and elbows extended, trying to un-bend his knees, he grunted, "What did you find?"
Nothing. She sounded disappointed, and without saying anything else, shared her view with him. He groaned; his form was far from correct, but Saphira said, You're getting close, though. Oromis will be able to help.
Eragon released the pose and sighed. His stomach was tight with hunger and, though he'd been able to hunt and scavenge enough for himself while they travelled, he worried about Saphira. He'd already lost a bit of weight over the last few weeks, and if they couldn't get the attention of the elves soon, he didn't know if they'd make it to Osilon unscathed. In Ellesméra, there had been numerous fruit trees lining nearly all the paths, but out here, they were still on the outskirts; in the wilds. No such cultured growth existed, only the wild magic of Du Weldenvarden itself.
"Nothing?" he asked, just to make sure. Saphira shook her head from side to side in quick, bird-like movemens. He could feel in their bond her frustration and hunger as well. Gathering up his things, they began to walk.
They walked until the sun had risen to the center of the sky, calling out in the ancient language to no avail, and then Saphira sat on his shoulders as he walked until the sun had dipped back behind the trees again. She'd darted behind the wide trunk of a pine tree once to catch herself a meal, but Eragon refused to hunt here. His anxiety, fueled by his hunger, had fixed his determination; they would find the elves, or he would starve. When the bits of the sky they could see through the canopy overhead started turning orange with the sunset, Eragon began to panic. He hadn't seen any sign of the elves or of Gilderien the Wise, who guarded the way to Ellesméra. Though, Eragon did think they might be too far to feel the elf's presence. Still, he wanted to make his intentions as clear as possible.
He called out in the ancient language as loud as he could, then switched to his own tongue, hoping for any response, and then back again. His voice broke on his last shout of, "Eka aí fricai un Shur'tugal!" and he stumbled, dropping to his knees. Saphira slid to the ground from his shoulder and began nosing his hands and face. His eyes and throat stung with unshed tears; he couldn't give up, but he was just so...so frustrated! There was no way Du Weldenvarden could be this empty, could it? Saphira had said they were a week or two away from Osilon...maybe the elves just didn't come this far out anymore?
Eragon reached for Saphira, pulling her into his chest, and buried his face against one of her tiny shoulders, avoiding the nubby spikes. She leaned into him and hummed. He counted each breath, in and out, trying to calm himself, but his worries would not leave him.
Little one, Saphira said, pleading.
"I know," Eragon choked. "But we're so close, and they just—"
As he pulled his face away from her to speak, he saw a pair of wide, frightened eyes watching them from several meters away.
It was an elf, crouched defensively half-behind a tree.
Eragon gasped sharply and whispered, "Kvetha...fricai." There was a bow in the elf's hands, an arrow nocked but not pointed at them. At his words, the elf half-stood. A little louder, he called, "Fricai onr eka eddyr!"
As the elf stood fully and began taking careful steps toward them, two more elves appeared from the depths of the forest. One held a sword with a two-handed grip, and the other had no discernable weapon at all. Eragon stood, too, Saphira climbing back onto his shoulders, but they made no move toward the three newcomers.
He slowly brought the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips, looking to each of the elves, and said, "Atra esterní ono thelduin."
There was a moment of silence where, Eragon presumed, the elves spoke to each other with their minds before the third elf—the one without a weapon—raised their fingers in the same gesture and said in a confused, feminine voice, "Atra du evarínya ono varda."
Relieved and surprised, Eragon grinned. "And may peace live in your heart," he said in the ancient language, almost laughing. "I'm...so thankful you came. We've been calling and..." He trailed off, then bowed. Saphira had to dig her talons into his back and shoulders to stay perched as she swayed with his movement, but he didn't flinch, even when she pierced through his tunic and into his skin. "Just...thank you," he said.
He stayed in the low bow, back aching, waiting for them to speak. When nearly a minute had passed in silence, Eragon finally stood. The first and second elves still held their weapons ready, but the third approached when he met her wide gaze.
"Who...are you?" she asked slowly in the ancient language.
He'd practiced this enough that the sentences came naturally. "My name is Eragon, and this is Saphira. We have come to Du Weldenvarden to seek an audience with your queen. Would you please allow us to pass? I apologize, as Saphira is still young, I would require the use of one of your fine horses to make the journey to Ellesméra. I know how to call them, if you would permit me to do so."
Several heartbeats passed, until:
"Why..." asked the elf with the sword in a harsh, masculine voice, "...would you seek our ruler?"
"I have information about the elven ambassador between Du Weldenvarden and the Varden. I have seen the ambassador in visions—dreams, and I am confident she is being held captive by a Shade in Gil'ead." Eragon's heart thumped almost audibly in his chest. They had to believe him, they had to trust him, or else...he didn't know what.
Again, the trio looked at each other wordlessly, though the expressions on their faces changed minutely as the time passed between them.
Eragon rushed to add, "Th-the egg she was carrying, it ended up in the Spine, near Palancar Valley. I was there where it appeared, by magic."
I am glad that it did, Saphira said to all four of them. I would not have found my rider otherwise. Though I, too, fear for the elf who carried me so diligently. May we please pass?
The elves seemed...bothered by Saphira speaking to them, as they flinched away from her. Eragon didn't understand; last time, they'd been welcomed with open arms and cheers?
While the other two continued to speak, or at least ignored them, the elf woman turned to Eragon and Saphira, gesturing to the left side of her face. Eragon blanched—he'd forgotten about that.
"I...she licked me," he said, embarrassed. He resisted the urge to hide the mark on his face with his hand. "She was so happy to see me, and...at the time, I didn't even think about the gedwëy ignasia." Eragon could feel himself blushing under the appraising eyes of the elves. "It's..." He let his voice fade, not knowing what to say; it was obvious enough that they thought him... lesser.
Saphira kneaded the shoulder she stood on. Eragon, she said inside his mind alone, agast, I am so sorry, little one. I did not realize that...that they of all beings would be so quick to think poorly of you for something like this. She rarely offered apologies unless she truly meant them, and it did give Eragon a bit of relief; she hadn't done it on purpose, and she really had missed him that much. He reached up and pressed a hand to the side of her neck.
Saphira, he said to her. I know; it's okay. I'll get over it, and eventually, they'll all be so used to it, it won't draw any attention.
"You two seem so close," the elf woman said, almost fondly, pulling him back out of his shared thoughts.
"We are," Eragon said without hesitation. "She's the partner of my mind and heart; I would have no other with me in my life."
When Eragon turned to look at the woman, she was smiling. "As it should be. You are...very different," she said graciously. "We've known riders before, and none were as...as you are."
Eragon didn't know whether her words were a compliment or an insult, so he simply nodded.
Finally, the elf with the sword scoffed and turned from his bow-wielding partner. "Fine," he said haughtily. "Call up a horse if you can, child. But we shall ride with you to Osilon, and then a decision will be made."
Eragon bowed again, trepidation flowing freely inside his and Saphira's bond. What kind of decision would they be making?
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon almost regretted not stealing away—or at least bartering for—a horse for his trip from Carvahall to Du Weldenvarden; what would have taken him weeks to walk took only six days, thanks to the elven horses. As they traveled northeast, the trees began to grow in size, until Eragon thought the trunks of the surrounding pines would be large enough to encompass all of Carvahall.
The elves he travelled with—he couldn't really call them companions —hadn't made much small talk on the way, wanting instead to hear from some higher authority on whether he could be trusted or not. They had not offered nor asked to see into his mind which just made him too anxious to sleep at night, for fear that they'd try to look into his confusing, nonsensical dreams of events that hadn't happened yet. Already, they thought him 'touched' in some negative way; he didn't need to give them another reason to dislike and distrust him.
Fördea, the elf woman, had at least shared a little bit about herself and her interests with him, and Eragon responded in turn, telling her bits about his life on a farm in Palancar Valley. She, out of the three elves, seemed the most interested in who he was as a living being. The other two, Ranör with the sword and Laríne with the bow, hardly communicated with Eragon at all, aside from the suspicious glances they sent him when he worked through the first level of the Rimgar every morning. On the fifth morning, Fördea joined him, and Eragon was left both impressed and embarrassed; his own efforts felt terribly juvenile by comparison. On the sixth morning, they day the were to arrive in Osilon, he relayed as much to her.
She waved him off, saying, "You move like you know what you're doing, so I'm sure you'll be able to achieve decency in most if not all of the first level within a few years."
Her estimate was a blow to his ego, and as much as Eragon wanted to hear condescension in her voice in order to blame her for his pain, she had said it genuinely. Still, despite the wave of self-revulsion it set off inside him, Eragon managed to thank her as politely as he could.
When they arrived in Osilon, Eragon was surprised by the low set of the buildings; in Ellesméra, the houses and halls had been raised off the ground so they blended in with the forest canopy of the massive pines. In Osilon, the buildings looked as though they had been sung from the ground itself, nestled in with the surging roots of the, even by Ellesméra's standards, gargantuan trees. The bark on the trunks was coloured a dark, dusky red, and Eragon wondered what would have caused them to be so different. He recalled Islanzadí mentioning, before , that humans from Ceunon had taken to this part of Du Weldenvarden to cut down some of the larger trees, and he tried to imagine what they would have used to do so; they were just so big!
Fördea must have seen the look on Eragon's face as he glanced around the city, for she leaned over on her horse to point out the largest tree in the center of the city, with a ring of doors around its base, and said, "That is where we are bringing you." Around the tree were several large gardens, spread out in overlapping and concentric circles where crops were growing, some Eragon recognized from his own family's farm and some he had never seen before in Alagaësia.
I am...uncomfortable, Saphira said to him. She had grown much in the last few days, though she was still small enough to ride in his lap on their horse. Her tail twitched against the horse's flank, and Eragon had to calm it with his mind— again . The horse he'd rode in Ellesméra had been completely unbothered by Saphira and Glaedr's presence—more or less—but this one had a more... feral quality to its mind.
I don't think I like it here, either, he replied. Everything in Osilon seemed too different from Ellesméra. Though, he supposed it was his own fault for assuming that all the elven cities would be alike.
He soon learned, as Fördea explained, that Osilon was primarily an agricultural city, and that each of the offices in the central building was dedicated to the cultivation of a specific crop variety. And that each crop, for whatever reason, seemingly required an entire bureaucratic retinue to oversee it. Fördea, Laríne, and Ranör paraded him in front of the central building as the agricultural officials, and other elves, gathered around. And, while Saphira preened under the attention, Eragon again fought the urge to hide the mark on his face.
The officials seemed to pity him for it, speaking down to him as if he were a particularly stupid child, though they never made the mistake of speaking to Saphira in such a way. In fact, they hardly spoke to her at all. When one of the officials moved to actually touch his gedwëy ignasia, Saphira pushed in between Eragon and the elf and hissed, snapping her jaws at the offending hand. Privately, Eragon thanked her, and the officials refused to be within a meter of either of them after that.
They only spent a night in Osilon before whatever conversation needed to happen between the elves had concluded; as they still suspected him of being involved with Galbatorix, Eragon was not allowed to participate. And because of their distrust, he was made to camp outside of the city for the night. When morning came, Ranör and Laríne stayed behind, but Fördea and another elf named Thân joined Eragon and Saphira on the way to Ellesméra.
Thân was much more companionable, telling jokes about the various Osilon officials and exactly where they could stick their edicts, which seemed to ease whatever anxieties about the new dragon and rider Fördea had had. And the two of them would join Eragon in the Rimgar each morning, eventually encouraging him to move on to the second level with them. They teased him good-naturedly about his lack of flexibility, and cheered when he finally, through sheer force of will, perfectly performed the first level for them. They also cheered for Saphira after each of her hunts, which pleased her just as much as it annoyed her.
Eragon, she growled to him after several nights of 'celebration,' I know that my size is deceiving, but they must think me an utter fool to do this to me.
They were lying together in Eragon's bedroll, the stars bright overhead. Fördea and Thân were engaged in a quiet conversation on the other side of the small campfire they'd lit, their voices inaudible.
I know, Eragon smiled at her in the dark. She'd looped her neck overtop his, which made it hard to breathe, but the sound of her snuffly inhales and exhales was lulling him to sleep. Still, it's kind of them, right?
I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just come right out and say it. Eragon; they think you a fool, too.
He grimaced. Aye...I know.
And it's not kindness, it's an insult to our abilities!
Abilities we don't currently have, Saphira! I know it's demeaning, but please allow me this small comfort? Eragon shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't wrong for him to imagine the beginnings of friendship in their cheers and jibes...was it?
No, it's not. It's that fool heart of yours, Saphira said, lifting her head. She blinked at him, slowly. You deserve so much praise, little one. But not from those who refuse to know you.
Eragon meditated on her words as he drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, Fördea and Thân were chattering excitedly on their horses, waiting for him to wake up. As he sat up, yawning, Thân called out, "Hurry yourself, Shur'tugal! Word arrived on the wind but a moment ago that some members of the queen's court are coming to take you the rest of the way to Ellesméra; we must go and meet them!"
Eragon scrambled to his feet, wrestling his bedroll into order, while Saphira pranced anxiously around him, wings fluttering. Breathless, he called his own horse over and, like he did every morning, calmed its mind while Saphira used his body like a ladder to climb up onto it. Eragon followed after her, and she settled into his lap as he and the elves urged their horses into a gallop.
They hadn't exactly dawdled before, but knowing that Ellesméra and Islanzadí—and, their teachers—were so close, Eragon couldn't help pushing his horse faster and faster as the morning turned into mid-day. Thân laughed as Eragon sped past him and, yelping, he and Fördea joined him, letting their minds guide their horses in increasingly complex maneuvers around the encroaching pines and over protruding roots, corralling Eragon's horse in the right direction. Eragon laughed, too, though he was much more conservative in his riding. He had to make sure Saphira stayed secure across his thighs and that she didn't accidentally claw the horse while trying to stay balanced; his overzealous pace had already sent her talons clutching into the scant meat of his thighs more than once.
After several hours of vigorous riding, Eragon blinked up at the sky, trying to judge the time, when a white blur appeared overhead.
"Blagden!" Eragon cried in surprise. He nudged his horse with his heels, signalling for it to stop. He held up his left forearm, using his right hand to brace Saphira against his legs as he arched his body up. The raven fluttered like a moth above him before alighting on his outstretched arm, his claws digging into Eragon's skin through the sleeve of his tunic.
The bird hopped up Eragon's arm to his shoulder and twitched his head from side to side. "Aptr!" Blagden warbled. "Moi!"
Fördea and Thân gave Eragon curious looks.
"What an odd thing to say," Fördea hummed.
"Ah, but you know how that creature is," Thân said, waving a hand dismissively. "What's odd is that Eragon here already knew his name!"
Thân had said it in jest, though Eragon could tell the elves were eager to know more, especially since Blagden had come right to him at his request.
"What can I say," Eragon shrugged, and Blagden beat his white wings against Eragon's ear to stay perched. "My dreams have shown me many visions of the future over the years, some of which I did not understand until much later. Perhaps this could be one of them."
Thân gave Eragon a knowing nod, then a friendly smile, saying, "I see, Shur'tugal." He sounded impressed with Eragon's manipulation of the ancient language; though privately Eragon could admit that he hadn't exactly been subtle.
As they continued riding, Blagden hopped down to settle onto Saphira's back, ignoring her when she swung her head around to snap at him. The horse's ears flicked back and forth, unsettled, but did not otherwise panic.
Aptr-moi, Saphira mused between the two of their minds. It does have a nice ring to it. And we did go through something of a backward-change.
It'd be nice to have a name for what happened to us, though I'm not sure how I feel about the name coming from...well ...him in particular, Eragon said, eying the raven as he preened a downy, white feather from his wing. And I’m not sure about it having a name at all.
Saphira huffed against his leg. I suppose, she said. After a moment, she seemed to dismiss his worries, saying, It can't be helped.
It was only a little into the afternoon when Eragon spotted several well-armored riders on horseback through the trees, flanking their group. He looked from Thân to Fördea, but neither elf seemed to react to their new shepards. When an especially well-decorated elf pulled their horse up in front of them, Eragon struggled to stop his steed in time, nearly sending himself, Saphira, and Blagden tumbling over their horse's rear.
"Who approaches?" the elf demanded. Their voice was hard, and Eragon had a hard time determining if they were male or female. They had long hair, but that was common among all elves. And their face was covered by the swirling metal of their helm. Eragon decided it didn't really matter, and looked back over his shoulder to Fördea and Thân.
He was shocked to see the armored elves had weapons pointed at them; hadn't these new elves been warned ahead of time who Eragon was; which elves he was traveling with? Weren't they here under Islanzadí's orders to guide them all to Ellesméra? He turned back to the elf in front of him.
Stuttering, Eragon repeated the same greeting he'd used with the first elves he'd met, though his nerves made him stutter over the words more than once: "My name is Eragon, and this is Saphira. We have come to Du Weldenvarden to seek an audience with your queen. In...in Ellesméra... Would you please allow us to pass?"
"Aye; Islanzadí Dröttning has given permission for you to pass into Du Weldenvarden, under guard, until such a time that she may speak with you herself."
Eragon was relieved, but still more than a little intimidated. Without another word, or even a passing glance, the elf turned their head away, and their horse followed suit, setting off in a trot. Eragon looked back to see if the others were following and, when he confirmed they were, urged his horse forward as well.
They rode in silence until night had fallen, and then continued on until the morning light. Eragon struggled to stay awake once darkness had moved in around them, and Saphira kept having to dig her talons into his leg to keep him from falling asleep and possibly falling off his horse. Blagden had left them as soon as the sun had set, with a final cry of, "Burthro!" Born. To keep his mind occupied, Eragon played a silent word game with Saphira, one she had learned from Orik. She said he called it 'The Green Glass Door' and Eragon struggled to understand the rules, which Saphira found immensely amusing.
I may bring an apple through the door, she'd said, but not corn.
Eragon had laughed out loud, giddy with lack of sleep, saying, But what would you do with an apple? Balance it on your nose?
She'd snorted, startling their horse— again —and said, I may bring feet through the door ...and a foot.
And so on the game went until they had arrived outside of Ellesméra by the next mid-day without him having figured out the trick to it. Eragon was annoyed that the elves had not let him rest, but he had remained calm and collected through the night, which felt like enough of an accomplishment to be proud of. Still, he had not seen or felt Gilderien the Wise, and Eragon struggled to contain his anxiety. His tiredness made him worry that, without the elf's permission, the magic Eragon imagined protecting Ellesméra wouldn't let him in. Would it cause him harm? Perhaps he had already seen Eragon and Saphira arriving, and would let them enter without meeting them first?
He accepted that his worries would not be answered when the group made to enter Ellesméra-proper, and the armored elves dismounted and stood in a ring around Eragon, Fördea, and Thân, signalling for them to say on horseback. Then, they began to match the trio into Ellesméra.
There were elves lining the flowering pathways they travelled down, arriving in greater numbers as they went deeper into the heart of the city. Eragon could see a few on his left occasionally pointing toward him, his face, and he felt himself blush.
Saphira hummed against his leg, kneading his thigh.
It's okay, he said, reaching down to scratch her behind the jaw.
She hummed a little louder at his touch. Would you like to continue our game? Perhaps that would take your mind off of these pretentious elves and their...prejudices, she snarled. For example, I can bring a tree into the room, but not a leaf!
It's okay, Saphira. Really, he assured her. He was too tired for the game, and longed for the day to done. Taking a deep breath, he set his shoulders and held his head high, refusing to pay any attention to the onlookers. When Saphira caught any of the elves gawking or, gods-forbid, laughing at Eragon, she would snarl and hiss and snap her jaws at them until they backed away from the procession. Ahead, he could see Tialdarí Hall, though not Islanzadí. And embarrassingly, hopelessly, he couldn't keep from searching out Arya's face in the crowd, despite knowing she wasn't there.
Their parade pulled to a stop in a large ring on onlookers surrounding the entrance to Tialdarí Hall, set into a wall of saplings, and Fördea and Thân hopped down from their horses to stand at Eragon's side. Fördea's face was an expressionless mask, but Thân was frowning, and he held out his arm to help Eragon dismount his horse with Saphira over his shoulder.
"Thank you," Eragon whispered to the elf and Saphira paced gracelessly across his back and shoulders before spreading her wings and gliding down to the ground. She glared at seemingly every elf in the clearing, staying close to Eragon's side.
Thân shook his head, disappointed, Eragon guessed, by the welcome they had received. Around them, the crowd murmured excitedly as the armored guards split their ring, lining the way through the gardens and up the steps of Tialdarí Hall. Hesitantly, Eragon started walking forward, nearly tripping over Saphira as she swarmed between his legs. He looked over his shoulder; Thân and Fördea were staying behind. Again, he rolled his shoulders back and lifted his chin, entering the hall with the helmed-elf at his side.
Inside, Eragon recognized the mossy room where Islanzadí's council met, and where he had first met the queen, though the room was empty now. The elf led him through the room and under an archway that led to a modestly decorated nook with a large, ornate desk in the center that looked as though it had been sung from an acacia tree. Behind the desk sat a woman who, for a brief, heart-aching moment, Eragon thought might be Arya. Her swan-feather cloak was draped over the high-backed chair she reclined in.
"You may leave us," Islanzadí said to the elf, and they twisted their right hand across their chest, bowing slightly, before turning and marching out of the room. Then, she was silent, watching him as he looked around the nook. The farthest corner was constructed of shelving that went all the way to the ceiling; on one shelf, between a myriad of books, was a fairth of an elf man Eragon had never seen before, but who memory told him was the late king, Evandar—Arya's father. He stared at it for a moment, remembering his own fairth of Arya with hot embarrassment.
Then, Eragon remembered himself, turning quickly to face the queen with two fingers on his lips. "Atra esterní ono thelduin," he said in a rush, wincing at his rudeness.
Islanzadí raised one eyebrow in response, but repeated the second line of the greeting with a flat voice, and even let Eragon complete the third without comment.
In the tense silence that followed, Saphira said, I do not think she is happy to see us.
No...it certainly doesn't seem like it, Eragon said, and it took a bit of effort to keep from scowling in frustration. Before, she had Arya again. I suppose we, in our current state, do not measure up to such a gift.
What is the matter with these twisted elves!? Saphira growled, lashing her tail. Islanzadí's eyes tracked its movement.
Eragon tried to formulate his thoughts, to word a reply to Saphira that would ease her nerves, but the queen spoke and his eyes snapped up. "I've brought you to this chamber because word has reached me that you know the whereabouts of my— our —ambassador. I do not wish for this knowledge to become public just yet for reasons that I venture you already understand. The ambassador,” and here she said the word with a strange inflection of emotion, “is of great import to myself.”
Should I..? Eragon asked Saphira.
Why not? Saphira blinked up at him in response.
Shrugging, Eragon said, "Aye, I know that she is your daughter."
"And how do you know this?" Islanzadí demanded. Her face was calm, and her voice betrayed only the faintest hint of desperation. Eragon, too, was desperate to bare all he knew of Arya to her, but he restrained himself.
"As I already informed the elves of Osilon, I have received visions in my dreams for much time now, dreams that reveal certain events and knowledge to me. I also have an understanding of many things that you believe to be secret to your people, and I mean no harm to you with what I know, I simply wish for you to understand that I am not an enemy; my greatest wish is to see Galbatorix defeated. And I believe that I can," Eragon said. It was the truth; he hardly had to manipulate the ancient language at all.
Islanzadí was silent for a moment, looking him up and down as if guessing what he really knew or was capable of and what was overconfident rambling. "What secrets know you?"
"I know who Togira Ikonoka is, and I wish to speak with him," Eragon said, ignoring the faint, sharp gasp from the queen. "I know of the Dauthdaert, and that Niernen resides in Belatona. I have seen the Crags of Tel'naeír and I know who resides there. I know my namesake, and his importance in your history." He took a deep breath before continuing. "And I know where Arya Dröttningu is, at this very moment."
" How? " the queen asked again, shaking her head. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a perfect mirror of Arya's fiercest expression.
"I cannot say, not until I speak with the Mourning Sage. There is, I believe, dragon-magic involved in me...becoming this way. But I need to speak with him about this before anyone else learns of it. I believe that only he…has the answer to that question." As he finished speaking, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. It felt as though the queen was talking in circles, and he didn’t know how much longer his patience would last.
The queen leaned back in her chair, considering Eragon's request. At his feet, Saphira stood up on her hind legs and tapped a talon against his hip. He squatted down so that she could clamber onto his shoulders, then stood again. Saphira raised herself as high as she could and stared down at the elf seated before them.
Islanzadí Dröttning, Saphira said cooly, my rider does not lie. He is the most noble rider that any dragon, even Umaroth himself could ask for! He has done more for Alagaësia than you will ever know, even if you were to kneel at his feet and beg to hear his tale. You will let us see the Mourning Sage so that his questions can be answered, she was hissing as she spoke, flanks heaving against Eragon's neck, or I will raze this damned forest to barren dirt the moment I can breathe fire again!
Eragon's body was cold with panic. What are you doing!? he shouted at her. He tried to pry her off his shoulder, but her talons only pierced him deeper, holding on. Glancing at Islanzadí, he saw that her eyes were wide with indignation. But Saphira wasn't finished.
There is nobody more suited to this task than him! He is strong and kind, thoughtful and creative, and though he appears young, his youth belies years of wisdom and experience that you could only dream of enduring as he has! He has been given the hardest task that any rider, elf or human, could hope to accomplish, and he has left behind everything in his life to do so! I am finished with seeing him looked down upon by your kind; you will let us go!!
Through their bond, Eragon could feel all of Saphira's determination and love and pride and righteous fury on his behalf, and he couldn't stop a tear from escaping the corner of his eye as he listened to her.
Islanzadí appraised them both for another heartbeat with a furious expression on her face, then made a sweeping gesture with her hands. "I see that I have been misled about your intentions. Thank you for elaborating so...thoroughly. Though my own questions have not been answered, I understand a little more of why that is, and I no longer wish to linger over such…evils. I will allow you to meet with the Mourning Sage at dawn, and then maybe he will deign to reveal more to me of your circumstances." She sighed, seemingly defeated, and slumped back in her chair. "I tire of this, please, at least tell me what you know of my daughter before I turn you loose in my kingdom." She was markedly less enthusiastic about welcoming him, and despite their poor manners, Eragon was still hurt by it.
But still, Eragon did as she bade, explaining that Arya had been captured by the Shade Durza, Glenwing and Fäolin killed, and that she was being held in a prison in Gil'ead. He told her in detail which cell Arya would be in, the types of wounds she would have, that she'd been poisoned, and that she required Tunivor's Nectar to counteract it.
When Eragon finished speaking, Islanzadí blinked once, unbreathing for several moments. Then, instead of commenting on Eragon's information, began to tell him where he could stay—begrudgingly gifting them Vrael's tree house, same as before —but Saphira cut her off again, snapping that they knew the way. With that, she leapt from Eragon's shoulder and stalked away, her tail whipping from side to side, agitating her wings. Eragon hesitated for a moment before saluting the queen, right hand twisted on his chest, and darting out of the nook after Saphira.
She was waiting for him on the other side of the open hall, near the large door that led out into Ellesméra. Her talons clacked against the floor as she growled and hissed, stalking in circles.
"Saphira," Eragon said gently, trying to sooth her. "You did not need to do that for me."
I didn't do it for you! she snapped. I did it for us! These beings are so fickle and self-absorbed...they dare not take us at our word? What have we done to make them feel this way? Is it simply our age; our size? Do we really inspire so little trust?
If she could, Eragon thought she might cry with frustration. He knelt down and corralled her in his arms, and after a moment of squirming, she finally looped her neck over his shoulder.
I know, Eragon said. And I can't deny that it...hurts. But still, thank you for saying what you did. I know that we are partners, but sometimes I...I have doubted my worth in your eyes. It means so much to me, knowing how you feel. He pulled her closer, tightening his grip into a forceful hug, trying to impart all of his gratitude in the gesture.
Little one, Saphira said, shocked. I'm sorry for making you worry over something as definite and irrefutable as how much I love you. You are mine, and together, we will again overcome the terrible obstacles placed before us, just as we did the first time. I promise, we will make it out of this.
Eragon nodded against the side of her neck, unable to speak through the wave of emotions Saphira sent him. Instead, he stood, and together they walked out into the city.
The tree house was exactly as Eragon had remembered, and the realization shocked and unsettled him so thoroughly, Eragon could not bring himself to fully explore their quarters. What would be the point? Why wouldn't it be the same? Even before, the house had remain unoccupied until Eragon came to Ellesméra. But seeing it exactly has it had been, it felt as though no time at all had passed between his and Saphira's visit with Oromis and Glaedr before the advance on Urû'baen and now. And, Eragon realized, no time had passed, the time had simply...ceased to be.
There was only food set out on the table, and when he glanced through the screen door at the bed, he still found no spare elven clothing as had been left for him their first time in the city. There was no note from Bellaen of House Miolandra either. The gesture—or lack thereof—stung, and rather than eat, he immediately made for the bed, intending to sleep. He stored his pack half-under it and kicked his worn boots away, trying not to pout.
Saphira hopped up on top of the blanket as soon as he'd settled, and he lifted it, letting her underneath to curl up against his chest.
Why aren't you sleeping in your usual place? Eragon asked her, unable to keep the bitterness he felt towards the elves out of his mental voice.
She nipped at his fingers as he ran them under her jaw and said, I didn't want to be alone tonight, is that so bad?
He felt guilty for his attitude, and Saphira sent him a wave of comfort. No, I'm sorry, he said, squeezing his eyes shut. He pulled the downy blanket overtop his head, cocooning them both in dark warmth. I'm too tired to think properly, I didn't mean anything by it.
Do not apologize, little one, Saphira said, kneading the mattress with a little more force than Eragon thought was necessary. It's them who need to apologize to you. I cannot believe the way we've been treated; like foolhardy children to be looked down upon or pitied...like enemies to be mercilessly interrogated before being killed. I... she trailed off, snorting. I didn't know what to expect when we decided to come to Du Weldenvarden, so far ahead of our previous schedule, but it was certainly not this. I am sorry, Eragon, she said sadly, I am sorry for marring your face, for being too small to protect you from the harshness of others. I wish, so desperately, that I could wrap you under my wing and hide you from the world, or that I could grab you in my claws and fly you out of Alagaësia and away from these heavy burdens, never to return.
Eragon jerked away from her, unable to stop himself when he heard the worlds of Angela's fortune, but he quickly gathered Saphira into his arms, ignoring her undignified squawk. "Thank you," he whispered, feeling the tears well in his eyes. Saphira squirmed until she was on her belly again, and batted at his knees with the tip of her tail. "Saphira, I—" he couldn't finish. I don't know what I would do without you. If I had woken up in the Spine and you hadn't been there...I just... He was too tired to hold back the tears, and Saphira hummed softly, nosing his face.
She stayed pressed against him, warming him under the blanket, and let him cling to her until he, once again, cried himself to sleep.
It was only an hour after dawn when Eragon and Saphira emerged from the trees to a clearing of red clover. The elf they had traveled for more than a month to see was standing next to Islanzadí, and as Eragon signaled for his horse to slow, Oromis turned slightly to watch them dismount. Eragon stumbled briefly as a strong wind blew over the edge of the cliff, and Saphira surged forward to help him stay upright. Eragon's cheeks burned as he noticed Oromis's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly.
Islanzadí paid them no mind as they slowly approached, and Saphira let out a low, continuous growl. It was only once both elves turned fully to face them that she quieted. Eragon quickly bowed with is right hand over his chest, then said with two fingers over his lips, "Atra esterní ono thelduin."
Oromis seemed bemused at the queen's resentful silence, and without comment, replied with his own slight bow, "Atra du evarínya ono varda." When the elf stood and removed his fingers from his lips, Eragon could see a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Eragon recited the third line of the greeting, but remained silent in front of the queen; he was practically vibrating with anticipation, and even Saphira was unable to sit still, her claws tearing at the grass. When several awkward minutes passed in silence, Oromis finally turned to Islanzadí.
"I think that will be all," he told her, not unkindly. "The boy's mind is well-shielded, yes, but neither my partner nor I can sense any ill intent in either of them. And they are young; there is nothing they could do that would pose any danger to Du Weldenvarden." The queen still looked unconvinced, and Oromis continued, "I will let you know the moment I suspect otherwise."
Then Oromis bowed and turned away from her, as clear as dismissal as anything. She scoffed, but moved away, raising a hand into the air. A moment later, a beautiful horse appeared, its white mane intricately plaited, galloping over the hills, and Islanzadí swung herself on its back as it passed by.
Eragon and Saphira stood silently, looking between where the queen had been and Oromis. Once the queen and her horse had disappeared, there came a sound—more a feeling than an audible noise—on the air. Saphira began prancing around Eragon's legs, and he, too, felt his heart beat faster in his chest as a great, golden gleam appeared from between two sunrise-red clouds and began making its way toward them.
Notes:
As an avid conlanger myself, I tried my best. Please enjoy seeing my own additions to the ancient language. Translations here:
Aptr-moi | literally 'backward-change'
Chapter 4: Be Not: Part Three
Notes:
Okay, aside from June 20th and July 11th, these should come weekly!
Chapter Text
we are all here with our noise-cancelling headphones around our necks
The moment Glaedr landed, all of Saphira's excitement and bravado seemed to vanish, and she clawed at Eragon's shoulder and neck until he released her so that she could dismount herself. She coiled herself into a tight spiral when she had, only visible as a flash of blue amidst the grass. Oromis remained seated where he was, waiting for Eragon to dismount as well, which Eragon did with no amount of grace. Had it really been so long since he’d been on Saphira’s back? Or was it simply that he was not used to riding a dragon as large as Glaedr? Then Orormis, too, dismounted, seeming to leap from Glaedr's back with elven ease and stood watching as the dragon stalked behind the hut and out of sight before he turning to Eragon, his head tilted slightly to one side.
There had been no other way to reach Oromis' home, and so they had flown on Glaedr. For a moment, Eragon lamented how they would return to Ellesméra when the meeting was finished.
"Shall we proceed?" Oromis asked, his voice warm and curious.
Eragon nodded, and they followed behind the elf, Saphira clambering back into his arms and onto his shoulder. She looped her neck around his own, her face pressed against his gedwëy ignasia and her tail curled tightly around his bicep. Oromis ducked into the hut and reappeared a moment later, only his back visible as he began pulling a table outside and onto the lawn; it seemed as though their conversation would be a long one for the elf to bring so much outside, and Eragon rushed forward to help him, apologizing for his absence as he sidled around it to grab the other end.
"I have no need for apologies, Eragon," Oromis said, "for I did not tell you what I intended; how would you have known?"
Eragon frowned, and Saphira tightened her tail around his arm. "Of course, ebrithil," he muttered and lifted the end of the table, grunting with effort. The wood it was made from was dense, and thus it was heavy.
Dammit, Saphira, this shouldn't be so hard! He let it drop for a moment, catching his breath, and mumbled another apology to Oromis, who simply observed him patiently. To Saphira, Eragon said, I'm sorry I cursed again. Please forgive me, I'm just not used to this. Even before, in all of my memories, I recall myself being more...more capable than this. I find this...immensely frustrating. It feels as though this time I am...less. And I don't know why!
I find your propensity for politeness endlessly amusing, she hummed. As long as the words you speak aloud do not condemn us to a quick death, what you say between us has no bearing with anyone else. Swear as much as you like; I know I don’t have any such reservations. Saphira laughed for a moment, then said, Perhaps they will have an explanation for this, once we speak.
When Eragon and Oromis had finished moving the table outside, along with two stools, Oromis returned to the hut to brew a pot of tea. He was gone for several minutes, during which Eragon and Saphira remained silent, not even speaking to each other. They still let their emotions flow freely through their bond, so that Eragon could feel her embarrassment and shame about the size of her body—specifically, the fact that she couldn't fly, and that she could only reach his chest at her tallest—and she could feel Eragon's own embarrassment and shame for the state of his body—specifically, well, everything .
Oromis returned with the steaming pot and two cups, which he set on the table and filled with tea. Then, he sat on the stool and leaned forward, watching them. Eragon was more than familiar with his teacher's lesson on patience, so he simply picked up the cup and cradled it in his hands, letting the warmth sooth him. From the smell of the tea, he guessed it was blackberry, and he shared the observation with Saphira. She, too, was familiar with Oromis' and Glaedr's peculiarities, so after resettling herself on Eragon's shoulders, she closed her eyes to wait.
Several minutes became an hour, and Eragon emptied his mind as he watched the sun fully breach the horizon, sharing his view with Saphira. He could feel Glaedr brush against their bond, but he did not feel the need to block him out completely; his presence in their minds had become something of a habit, a reassurance. Then, curious, Saphira opened her eyes as well, and allowed Eragon to see the sunrise through them. With Saphira's vision, he could see more of the mid-day blue in the sky, and he told her about the red-orange that coloured his sunrises in contrast.
They traded their observations and viewpoints until Glaedr rounded the hut and began to speak as he moved.
Your mental shields may be strong, but not so strong as to stop me from seeing into your minds. He settled some way back from Oromis.
Eragon glanced down at Saphira, who had ducked her head behind his shoulder. He opened their bond wide enough to encompass Oromis as well, and said to all, I apologize, ebrithil. I felt you touch us, but did not belive we had anything to hide. We were simply observing the sky.
The golden dragon twisted his head to stare at them with one narrowed eye. You two speak with one another as if you have been dragon and rider for years. Yet you are only hatchlings.
He said it as a statement, not a question, and Saphira shrunk back further.
"...yes," he said out loud, then withdrew himself so that only Saphira would hear him. Should we just start explaining everything to them? How likely would they be to believe us?
I don't know, she said. She sounded frightened.
Saphira, what's wrong!?
I have never...never seen him like this; from this point of view. I know he is our teacher, but look at him, Eragon! His forefoot alone would be enough to crush and kill me, and I wouldn't have a chance of defending myself! She dug her talons into him. I am frightened... I have never felt this way before, seeing another dragon...not even when we encountered Shruikan. Then, I only felt determination, and was confident in the knowledge that I was his better...
Eragon bit his lip. He wanted to speak, to get it over with for both his and Saphira's sake, so that they could return to the tree house and be hidden again, but he didn't know how to start. "Ebrithilar..." he said, then took a sip of tea to stall for time.
Oromis spoke while he did. "Your patience is impressive, both of you. I have taught many humans before, and patience was the most difficult lesson for any of them to learn."
Eragon glanced down at Saphira, taking another sip of his tea. He remained quiet as Oromis continued.
"Queen Islanzadí has shown me the report she received from Osilon. And she has told me of the meeting she had with you yesterday. You made many claims, revealed much knowledge, though you, Eragon, have maintained the insistence that this is due to dreams and visions. I do not doubt that this is an ability of yours, but as the queen has told me, we are the only ones with whom you will fully explain this." His voice was perfectly neutral, edging on cold. "And you," he said, looking at Saphira. "Islanzadí has reported an interesting phrase you used in your ranting, 'When I can breathe fire again.' We are very intrigued by this, as well."
Eragon opened his mouth, though he didn't know whether it was to try to explain himself, or to berate Saphira for the slip-up that had somehow missed his observation.
But before he could, Glaedr growled, You will tell us how you have come to know these things, and you will not hide anything as you do.
"We have agreed to see you for a number of reasons," Oromis said, almost placating. "One of which is to satisfy our own curiosity, so please, indulge us in this. You have stirred up a great many theories between us, and we wish to know which is correct."
I... Eragon said to Saphira.
Just start from the beginning, Saphira said, defeated. She had rested her head on his shoulder again, her tongue darting out to lick him near the mark on his cheek. I do not know how we will get through this otherwise.
So Eragon did, telling their teachers about his hunting trip in the Spine, roughly a year ago from his own perspective, and the flash of light that had thrown off his shot. He told them of the blue stone he found, and the trip back to Carvahall where he tried to sell the stone.
Remembering his later actions, he told them of Sloan, and the type of affronted, angry man he was, and how he would have only paid few crowns for the stone, and so Eragon had kept it. He told them of his uncle and his cousin, and how he kept the stone with him for several weeks until the traders arrived, and how he and his uncle meant to sell the stone to one of them.
He told them of the stone hatching later that night, waking him from his sleep, and his meeting with a dragon.
When Eragon did not say that that dragon was Saphira, Oromis's face grew dark, and Glaedr began to growl, and Eragon imagined they must be thinking something of Galbatorix. But he did not interrupt his story.
He told them of how he kept the dragon in the forest outside his home, and how he spoke with the town storyteller, an old man named Brom, about the dragons of the past, and how he received a list of dragon names from the man, the last of which being Saphira. When he offered the name to his dragon, she accepted.
Now, Oromis and Glaedr seemed more at peace, though still intrigued. As Eragon spoke, Glaedr moved a bit closer.
He told them of his trip into Carvahall, and of the warning about the Ra'zac, and how Saphira had flown him deep into the Spine, injuring his legs.
Tears came unbidden to Eragon's eyes as he spoke of finding his uncle half-dead in the ruins of their home.
He told them about Brom finding them, inviting himself on their quest for revenge, giving him Zar'roc, teaching him swordplay and magic, teaching him the basics of reading and writing, and his dreams of an elf woman he had never met, whom he could scry. He told them of Tierm, of finding the trail of Seithr oil to Dras-Leona, of the ambush in the cathedral by the Ra'zac, and of Brom's death.
At this, Oromis looked aghast, but he remained silent.
He told them of meeting Murtagh, son of Morzan, and, at that, Glaedr lifted his head and roared so loud the cups on the table shook and rattled.
He told them of his capture-turned-rescue in Gil'ead, of fighting Durza and saving Arya with Murtagh's help. He told them of their mad rush to Farthen Dûr, the child he had cursed, and of the battle that took place underneath the mountain-city. Of the wound and curse Durza had dealt him before the Shade's death at Eragon's own hands, and they mysterious voice that had kept him from falling into madness. He told them of Ajihad's murder and Nasuada's succession, of Murtagh's capture and reappearance with his dragon, Thorn, at the Battle of the Burning Plains.
But, he explained, before that, he and Saphira traveled to Du Weldenvarden, to Ellesméra, to learn from the Mourning Sage—The-Cripple-Who-Is-Whole—and the months of training he and Saphira underwent at the hands of their teachers, Oromis Thrándurin and Glaedr, son of Nithring.
At this, Oromis stood, slamming his palms on the table. "You lie! " he said, though he wasn't angry, just...in shock. Eragon and Saphira exchanged a brief look, then they opened their minds to their old masters and showed them the memories instead.
They showed their teachers the Agaetí Blödhren, and the gift the dragons had given Eragon. They showed their memories of the battle, Hrothgar's unnecessary death, their defeat at Murtagh's hands, of Helgrind and each of their journeys back, of Eragon's sentencing of Sloan, and of the attack on the Varden by Galbatorix's unfeeling, laughing soldiers.
Oromis cursed under his breath, and when Eragon offered to stop, the elf refused, encouraging Eragon and Saphira to continue.
So they shared the election of Orik as the new dwarven king, and their return to Ellesméra after the celebration. Eragon told them of Solembum the werecat's riddle and the brightsteel he found beneath the Menoa Tree, of his visit with Rhunön and his sword, Brisingr.
As he went to tell them of their final meeting, Eragon stopped, explaining that he needed a moment to collect himself, and he downed the rest of his tea. Wordlessly, Oromis refilled his cup.
Eragon and Saphira told them of their final lesson; the Eldunarí. And that—
Eragon could not stop himself from crying out with grief as he instead let the memories play; of receiving Glaedr's Eldunarí, of traveling to Feinster where he and Arya failed to stop the creation of the new Shade, Varaug, for the vision he received of their...of their...
He stopped, sobbing at the memory, and Saphira took over the stream of memories instead. As they played out, Glaedr moved closer still, and Oromis laid a hand on his massive head.
Everything after that was a blur for Eragon, as he let his thoughts and memories flow freely, Saphira left to filter and distribute them. Belatona, the Dauthdaert, Elain's baby Hope, the infiltration of Dras-Leona.
Eragon could not help leaning over on his stool to be sick while his memories replayed what Arya had done to herself as they were held prisoner together, and Saphira hummed comfortingly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
When it came to telling them of the Vault of Souls, Eragon and Saphira simply replayed their memory of the conversation that had taken place between them, Glaedr, Arya, and Solembum. When they tried to show their memories of Vroengard, Oromis stopped them saying, "I understand that the magic of dragons was involved in this secret, but I fear that our conversation will spiral out of control if you try to explain it. One day, we will go there ourselves and see. Please, continue."
It seems we can't question them on the involvement of the Eldunarí in this, Eragon thought, troubled. On his shoulder, Saphira shuffled her wings anxiously.
But still they continued, telling Oromis and Glaedr of the attack on Urû'baen, their meeting with Galbatorix, the fight that had been forced between Eragon and Murtagh, and Arya killing Shruikan with Niernen after Eragon cast the spell that had incapacitated the king.
As he reached the end, Eragon said, "And he simply said, 'Be not.' And now, all that we have told you, everything that has happened to us... isn't. I don't understand how this happened, ebrithilar. But when we woke up, we could think of no one else to turn to. We are..." he trailed off, still sniffling.
We are lost, outside of ourselves, Saphira finished.
Oromis and Glaedr remained silent, and Eragon finished the remains of his tea as he waited for them to speak. He went to pour himself another cup, but found the pot empty. Excusing himself, he took to pot to Oromis's hut and went about brewing another, Saphira still draped over his neck like a living, purring scarf.
He was mildly amused to find everything exactly where he remembered it being; that Oromis has brought him into his home as it was felt like a gift Eragon had not appreciated at the time. He stood, watching the water begin to simmer, and let his mind empty, for fear he would be dragged back down into his memories.
Eragon jumped when Oromis appeared at his shoulder, the elf saying, "You seem to know your way around my home already; another sign that the story you have shared is the truth."
"Of course it is," Eragon said, almost desperately. "I wouldn't even know how to begin coming up with a lie this...intricate." He was suddenly embarrassed, realizing that he was walked into the elf's home without asking for permission.
When he tried to apologize, Oromis smiled and set a hand on Eragon's shoulder, and said, "No harm has been done to me; if I have invited you in before, then let me invite you in again. You are my student, are you not, Eragon-finiarel?"
Eragon breathed out a laugh, so relieved that he had to lean forward and brace himself with his hands on his knees. Saphira took the opportunity to jump to the floor, winding herself between his and Oromis' legs like a cat. "Yes," he breathed. "Please. Thank you, ebrithil."
He stood when the water progressed from a simmer to a boil, and after glancing at Oromis for permission, began gathering the loose tea leaves he wanted; jasmine and sage.
Oromis nodded. "Yes, a good choice." After Eragon sifted the leaves into the water, Oromis continued, "You have both been through much in the past year, and we thank you for sharing your story with us. The memories you have shared show a concerning future for Alagaësia, one that we will help you prevent." He was silent for another long moment as Eragon shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other, watching the colour of the tea. "I imagine you both remember much of your training, yes, but there are other skills we can help you to refine. Saphira, you will have the opportunity to train your body from the very beginning. From what I saw, you are more suited than any other for the skies, and I'm sure Glaedr will enjoy the challenge."
If Saphira had been able to, Eragon was sure she'd be blushing at their master's words. Instead, she crouched low the the ground and said, meekly, Thank you, ebrithilar.
Do not thank me yet, hatchling, Glaedr's voice rumbled through them. I saw your memories, and I do not belive I pushed you hard enough in your past. It will be a challenge both to match your apparent skills, and the best my own, one year ago.
Eragon wanted to ask about his own training, but couldn't find the words. He listened as the conversation between Saphira and Glaedr picked up speed, eventually devolving into a constant stream of sense-impressions and feelings. He was more than familiar with interpreting conversations carried in that way; it was how the Eldunarí had usually communicated with both each other and himself.
He let himself be swept away in Saphira's side of their bond, observing as Glaedr imparted on her the lessons he planned to teach, the exercises she should be doing now to strengthen her wings and tail, methods of temporarily disabling her tail and then one wing at a time and then other parts of her body and her senses so that she would learn to control her flight without them, more complex and dangerous maneuvers she and Eragon could do mid-air, teaching her how to un-saddle herself should it become a hazard or her rider be indisposed; the old dragon seemed excited, invigorated, and Eragon lamented the resigned acceptance his master had taught them with one year prior. It was bittersweet, Eragon realized—now it seemed as though their teachers considered them equals. Was...dying for Alagaësia all that it took to no longer be seen as a foolhardy youngling?
"Eragon," Oromis' warm voice drew him back into his body. "Your thoughts are unguarded," he said gently. When Eragon blushed and tried to stutter out a response, Oromis simply reached around him for the pot of tea and gestured back out to the lawn. Eragon followed behind him, head hanging, with Saphira trailing behind. She made for Glaedr's side, the two still wrapped in their conversation.
Eragon sat slowly, hesitantly accepting the fresh cup of tea handed to him.
"Let us talk," Oromis said after easing into his own seat, a steaming cup cradled between his hands. His eyes were narrowed slightly, eyebrows drawn together, and Eragon averted his gaze to instead watch Glaedr stand and demonstrate a pose with his wings for Saphira. "Eragon," Oromis said, patiently attempting to draw Eragon's attention back to their imminent conversation.
Obstenantly, Eragon continued watching as Saphira began to sprint around the larger dragon, her tail streaming behind her. He could feel her strain through their bond; he had coddled her the last week or so, letting her ride with him on the horse so she didn't tire herself out. Still, he knew he had to say something.
"I apologize, ebrithil," he sighed. "My thoughts were unguarded, and I did not intend for you to hear them. I can't deny the way I feel, though. Saphira and I have dealt with more than our fair share of dismissal, and it feels as though, right when we proved ourselves to those who looked down on us, we've been put in an even worse-off position. Even..." he trailed off, finally meeting Oromis' eyes. "Even you, ebrithil. Before , you spoke to me like a master would with their student, and I did not expect anything less. Yet now, we have only just met and it seems as if we are on more even ground, so to speak."
Oromis nodded, drinking from his cup. "This is true, Eragon. And it is an important lesson for you to learn going forward; my first for you, perhaps. Glaedr and I will think on what has caused this change of yours—this Aptr-moi—whether it was the king's spell or something else. But for now, as you move through the world, you must acknowledge that it is, indeed, quite different from the Alagaësia you remember. You will know things about those you meet, things that you would have no way of knowing, and they will react with the appropriate amount of shock, offense, fear, and yes, even anger." He shook his head, looking at Eragon with disappointment, though Eragon could not sense any real anger from him. "Your meeting with the queen should serve as an example of this," he said. "Saphira's outburst was warranted, from your points of view, but to Islanzadí, it felt like a threat; one that she instructed me to deal with. Please," he smiled weakly, "consider this dealt , and do not make that mistake again."
Eragon considered his words, reaching out to Saphira for her opinion on the matter. I suppose we were acting rather selfishly, he said to her.
What choice did we have? Do we have? she replied during a break from her sprints. We have been given a great gift, or so Glaedr says, yet it feels as if we are cursed to be underestimated forever.
"What of..." Eragon started, turning his attention back to Oromis. "What of your reaction? You have also heard what we know about you, things we shouldn't know..? You knew before, but did you see our…coming?"
"We…did not,” Oromis said, and Eragon’s eyes widened at the confession before the elf continued, “but I find my curiosity more piqued than my concern or outrage." He smiled. "Glaedr is intrigued, in so much as the involvement of the dragons; what happened to you during the Agaetí Blödhren was unprecedented. But, above all else, you are a young Dragon Rider who has been through much in a very narrow span of time, without the aide we could have provided, until very late in your short life. Is it not enough that we wish to train you? Again, as it were?"
"It is, ebrithil," Eragon said, lowering his head. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me just yet!" Oromis said. "Now that I know I don't have to start from the beginning, your training will be much more intense this time." He smiled again at Eragon, and Eragon was quick to return it.
They both seem to be in higher spirits, he observed to Saphira. I don't understand why.
We are an oddity, she offered. Who could blame them for being amused by our plight?
I don't think it's amusement so much as it's...determination.
They have the opportunity to shape our destiny, Saphira pointed out, not just prepare us for an unavoidable war; now, they can prevent it. And we have given them that opportunity.
Eragon took a moment to ponder that; since waking up in the Spine, he'd held onto the unspoken hope that Oromis and Glaedr would be able to, somehow, unweave the spell that sent him and Saphira here, and send them back where they belonged. But the way Oromis and Saphira spoke...it implied that they would stay here, in this backward state of being. This Aptr-moi.
He would have to re-meet almost everyone he knew—he flinched, realizing, at last, just how disastrous their meeting with the queen had been in that regard. With the right training, he could win every fight he'd lost. He could avoid every mistake he'd ever made, never give Elva her curse. Though, Eragon frowned at that thought, would that really be the right thing to do, when Nasuada had relied on her abilities so heavily?
"Ebrithil," Eragon said suddenly, "what would you do in our place?"
Oromis nodded slowly. "I have been wondering this myself. If I were to wake up the moment I was presented with Glaedr's egg, both of us retaining our memories of all that we had done together... I do not think I would be able to resist using that to my advantage, to be honest."
Eragon was shocked; to his advantage? "In what regard?" he asked, reaching across the table to refill his cup.
Oromis laughed softly. "How can I explain? When you have lived as long as we have, it is hard to avoid the regret that makes its home in your heart. Debates I could resolve, fights I could win... injuries ...I could avoid..." he quieted, looking down. "Love," he said, shaking off the feeling that had momentarily overwhelmed him, "is not something I have ever had an interest in, but I would advise you to avoid using your knowledge for dishonorable purposes."
Eragon flushed. "I—I never even thought of—!"
"I know, I know," Oromis soothed him. "But I would be remiss as your master if I did not say it at least once." He sighed, then continued, "But, you and I are different beings. What I would do in your position should not affect how you approach this. What do you plan to do, then?"
"I...don't know... I had only planned so far as coming here...and meeting you."
"And having done so, I ask again, what now? If this had been a choice, would you have taken it, knowing that you could essentially undo all that you've done before and start again? You’ve spoken at length about your feelings of being underestimated. Now, you could prove yourself more than capable."
"I..." Eragon felt nervous trying to come up with an answer, like saying the wrong thing would doom him, somehow. And he felt somewhat uncomfortable with Oromis’ tone, though he knew his teacher meant no real harm. Would he have chosen this? If, before Galbatorix had cast the spell, he had been offered the chance to embrace it, to allow himself and Saphira to be sent back to the moment they first 'met,' would he have taken it?
He thought instantly of Arya, of the horrible mess he'd made of their friendship with his over-eagerness for her to see him as, well, an option. The fairth he'd made, the confession after the Agaetí Blödhren, all of it had nearly ruined the bond they shared. With the Aptr-moi, he could simply just...never do that. He could never again embarrass himself in front of her, lose to her in a fight, never say the wrong thing, and she would...
She would never know.
It sent a shiver up his spine to imagine it.
But...
No.
He couldn't do that to her; every moment they spent together, every piece of her she let him know, every battle they had won, side by side, he had earned that from her. She had seen him at his worst, in his lowest, most embarrassing moments, and still, she had stayed with him. Still, she had...
Damn , but still she had followed him to Helgrind, had shared her grief for Fäolin with him, had battled Durza and Varaug by his side. She had gone with him to Dras-Leona, had...had mutilated her own hand to save them, had come to his tent before Urû'baen and shared the flask of faelnirv with him, and those moments, before Murtagh had captured Nasuada, in those moments he could feel something between them, something he had earned.
He had shown her that he was worthy of her openness, and no matter what options the Aptr-moi presented him with, he would not take it. He had done it before, had nearly failed at something as easy as being a friend , and still Arya had been with him in the end, walking through dragonflame itself to kill Shruikan with the Dauthdaert. Any hardship between them had been and would be worth it, for the simple joy of just being beside her.
No, he would not have chosen this.
He thought of Roran, of the destruction of Carvahall. Everyone he knew had lost their home, had lost loved ones. But...the bonds those people now shared, the name Roran had made for himself, literally , the power he had in his love and determination...
Roran had become more than a hero to their people, more of a legend than even Eragon was, and Eragon could not fault them. His cousin had become someone. To take his cousin's accomplishments away like that, to condemn him once again to the life of a maybe-farmer, maybe-blacksmith, felt almost cruel. He and Roran had both lost Garrow, but what could Eragon have done, even with the knowledge he held today? He could have left, which he did, this time, but he had no proof that his choice would keep the Empire from coming anyway and conscripting the townspeople into Galbatorix's army, would keep the Ra'zac from razing his home and injuring his cousin, would even keep Katrina out of harm's way...
Oh, but it was tough to imagine it anyway; Carvahall remaining in peace.
But what actions could guarantee it, other than the ones he'd already taken, that had led Carvahall to the Varden? Were a few lives worth all the rest of his hometown? It hurt, but, seeing no other way to ensure Carvahall remained as whole and unbroken as possible despite the grisly tragedies it’d faced...
No, he would not have chosen this.
He thought of Brom, his father, who would have thrown himself in front of any blade to keep Eragon safe. He thought of Garrow, who would have refused to leave the farm where his wife was buried. He thought of Oromis and Glaedr, who had died outside of anyone's control, save Galbatorix's. He thought of Sloan, who had never attempted to redeem himself. He thought of Murtagh, who did escape from Galbatorix in the end. He thought of Orik, who honored his own uncle in the face of all of the Ingeitum and succeeded him as king. He thought of Nasuada, who had led the Varden in one victory after another, uniting all the free people of Alagaësia under her command. Over and over again, Eragon realized, no, no, no...
"I would not have chosen this! Already, I have been given more power than I deserve! What right have I to determine whose deeds are worth preserving and whose should be rewritten? What right have I to say whose death, already avenged and honored, should be prevented? No, ebrithil, no, I would never choose this!" Eragon was panting as he finished speaking, his chest seizing on itself. "I...I cannot... Why would you ask me this!? Have my mistakes been that many? That dire ? Did I—" he tried to swallow, but couldn't.
Eragon! Saphira cried, rushing from Glaedr's side to him. She nosed as his hands, which were clenched into tight fists atop the table. His fingernails cut into the skin of his palms, and he could feel warm blood filling the space beneath them.
He was vaguely aware the Oromis had stood, and heard him ask, cautiously, "...Eragon?"
But the word had no meaning for him.
I've ruined it; it's beyond repair; it will never be the same, he thought, panicked. It felt true and final. Absolute. The world has by ruined, and it was done by my hand.
Nothing would ever be the same.
He had made it so that nothing would ever be the same; somehow, but still true, the effect he had had on Galbatorix had caused this, or his spell had, or, or, or—
Saphira, he called for her, only to realize that she was already crouched half-over his chest. When had he fallen to the ground? Saphira, I'm so sorry. If I hadn't cast that spell, if I hadn't used any magic at all, if I hadn’t sent us somewhere new, none of this would have happened. My fault, my fault, it's all my fault.
She keened, low and mournful. No, Eragon! It is nobody's fault! Even if we never learn why this has happened, we are together! And that is all that matters!
" Go! " he shouted, both aloud and to her mind directly. "Just go," he cried, unable to see her through his tears. "I wish you had never chosen me. It's all gone, Saphira, everything is gone!! " He was filled with self-hatred, for his weakness, his thoughtlessness, how quick he was to fall to tears. "I cannot go on," he sobbed. "I cannot do it again, I can't !"
Move away from him, Glaedr growled, and Saphira scrambled away from him, clawing red marks into Eragon skin with her talons in her haste. Eragon could still sense her, hiding behind Oromis' legs.
As the golden dragon approached, Eragon covered his face with his hands, shame and revulsion making him cry harder.
Glaedr stopped before him, his massive head only a foot away from Eragon's face. He could feel hot gusts of air against the backs of his hands as Glaedr inhaled and exhaled.
Listen to me, hatchling, he said after a moment, and Eragon could feel the growl building inside the dragon's chest as it reverberated through the ground and into his body, making his teeth vibrate together. Eragon took a shuddering breath and lowered his hands. You understand, now. Don't you. It was not a question. You know the pain we feel, the reason we have chosen to hide ourselves away. An entire life, gone in what feels like an instant... The pain, it is...incapacitating. You cannot continue. You cannot go on, dragging it with you. And so, you stop trying to carry it anywhere, and let it drag you down instead. The growl built into a mournful, heart-aching howl, and Eragon pressed himself to the ground, unable to escape it. You know this now, and I wish you did not. You are so young, so small, to have been given this burden. If I could take it on myself, know that I would... Rise.
Eragon staggered to his feet, wiping his face quickly with the sleeves of his tunic.
Glaedr inched forward until his nose was pressed to Eragon's brow. Mourn, he said, and Eragon felt a wave of support and encouragement and understanding wash over him. There is no shame in it, and you need not despise yourself for doing so. Mourn, for you have lost everything. And when your grief does not feel so all-consuming—not gone completely, for this will never leave you—then you will pick yourself up and begin again.
"But—"
You will begin again, Glaedr said, not letting Eragon finish. You have no other choice. You did not choose this path, but it has chosen you to walk it. And you will do so, with us at your side.
As Glaedr pulled away, Eragon could see Oromis approaching him, Saphira perched on his shoulders. As Oromis got closer, Saphira jumped, wings spread, and Eragon opened his arms for her to glide into.
"It will not be easy," Oromis said solemnly. "But Glaedr is right." He reached out to put a hand on the golden dragon's jaw. "We will walk the path with you, if you will allow us."
"Yes," Eragon said, his throat choked with emotion. He laughed as Saphira's rough tongue scraped against his cheek, alongside his gedwëy ignasia. "I would like that, ebrithilar."
We are together, Saphira said, nipping as his fingers as he attempted to reposition her in his arms. And we will be okay.
"Now," Oromis smiled, "let me see your hands."
When the sky began to darken as the sun set, and after Eragon and Oromis had finished a late afternoon meal, Eragon went to call Saphira back from Glaedr's side so that they could ask how they were to return to Vrael's tree house. But before he could, Oromis stopped him with a wave of his hand.
"You are welcome to stay with us for the night, if you please," Oromis offered.
Saphira, having sensed what Eragon was planning before he spoke, pranced into view. Yes please, ebrithil! Another night not spent in that empty house will be another well-spent!
Saphira! Eragon blanched. "No! We can't; we won't," he said to all, as Glaedr, too, rounded the hut. "We wouldn't want to impose."
Speak for yourself, Saphira said, whipping the tip of her tail against the back of his knee so hard he nearly fell. You can return to that house on your own, if you wish. But I will gladly stay here.
Oromis laughed softly as he stood, too. "Allow me to rephrase; please, would you stay with us tonight? I feel as though we've all had a long day, and the company would not be a burden on anyone's hearts."
Do not fight my Rider on this, Glaedr sighed. He has already made up his mind.
Eragon tried to protest, but Saphira nosed and licked at his face until he relented, letting out his own laugh, and began to help Oromis gather the dishes from their meal.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon walked through Ellesméra with several lengths of cloth over one arm, Saphira weaving between his feet with each step he took. According to Glaedr, this was supposed to improve both of their coordination, though he thought the dragon might have been joking when he kept accidentally— "Accidentally, Saphira!"—kicking her every few meters. At his side, pretending not to laugh, was a very unlikely companion.
Oromis had sent him on a number of errands when he had woken up, with barely a moment to remember where he was, insisting that his and Saphira's training had started once the sun had appeared at the edge of the horizon. The elf had even prepared a written list for Eragon, with the names and locations of each place he was supposed to visit in the city, as well as the names of the elves he would be most likely to find there. Oromis had not given him a deadline, simply told him to complete each task as soon as possible, and that he and Saphira had the rest of the day to themselves. Unwilling to lounge about on the crags any longer—though he knew Oromis would not mind if he did go back to sleep on the floor of the elf's hut—Eragon had scooped Saphira under one arm and ducked out of the hut to summon a horse to ride back into the city; after an awkward question, Oromis had told Eragon he could simply go through the forest to return to Ellesméra.
His first stop had been to a hall of weavers, where Eragon was allowed to request any texture, pattern, or colour of cloth he preferred, as long as he was able to requisition a full wardrobe from them. The clothworkers he met had ooh ed and aw ed over Saphira, and she hopped from elf to elf, letting them run their hands over her neck and flanks and scratch the underside of her jaw. It made Eragon smile, too, watching her, though the moment his heart was seized with melancholy, she slyly made her way back to his side.
The weavers had made plenty of suggestions on what kinds of fabric Eragon should have, and while he did leave with some soft, plain brown fabrics, he also left with a bolt of emerald green lámarae pressed into his arms by Niduen, of all elves, and Eragon found it amusing to pretend as though he had never heard of her, or her relation to Arya. The lámarae was the same green as Arya's eyes, and though Niduen did not share them, her black hair fell over her shoulders in similar waves.
When she caught Eragon checking his list for Oromis' recommended tailor, Niduen had offered to show Eragon the way, so long as he walked with her to see Rhunön afterward. Seeing that she was on his list as well, Eragon happily agreed.
Niduen was surprisingly easy to talk to, and more than willing to walk at a more sedate pace so that Eragon and Saphira could ' train .' Eragon did ask her, casually, about her family, and did not press her for more information when all she chose to share was a vague relation to the monarchy which had affordered her an aristocratic position in Ellesméra. But what she was really passionate about was textiles; she taught Eragon a few lines from the songs she sung while weaving, explaining the types of spells she worked into the fabrics she produced, and Eragon looked at the lámarae in his arms with a keener, renewed appreciation.
"If you are staying in Ellesméra for long, you should come back and work with me; I would be more than happy to teach a Dragon Rider how to weave!" she laughed. When Eragon asked if she'd really meant it, she stopped him with a hand tight on his shoulder. "I do not joke about this, Shur'tugal. If you would like to learn, I will teach you." She was smiling, but there was a bit of a manic edge to it.
Intrigued, Eragon agreed to meet her at the hall the next time he was free.
As they approached Oromis' tailor, Niduen pushed in front of him to enter first, calling out a greeting which was followed up by several enthusiastic cheers from the elves inside, and then a bout of laughter. Before Eragon could enter, Saphira stopped in front of him.
I think I understand this lesson now, she said, blinking up at him. Do you?
This was meant to be a lesson? Eragon's eyebrows furrowed as he thought. I...don't think so. What is it?
Saphira snorted. That things can be different, and still be good. Look around you, Eragon. And he did, taking in the strange, new corner of Ellesméra he had never had a reason to come to before, at the elves that moved through the city whom he had never had a reason to meet. How many of these beings would you have spoken with, after Urû'baen, had we survived and remained in our time? How many lives would —could— we have touched? This is not the Ellesméra we remember, no, but it is still...good. She sent him the mental equivalent of a shrug. Or, at least, that is how I'm choosing to look at it.
Ah... Eragon said as Saphira stepped aside so that they could follow Niduen. He was starting to understand a little better, he realized. He could see the lesson Oromis was trying to teach him; before , he'd been gifted Vrael's tree house, had been gifted clothing and food, and he hadn't questioned it. Before , he hadn't been a person so much as he was a symbol for not just the elves, but all of Alagaësia. He had never had the chance to just...be. He remembered Saphira's words when they'd traveled with Fördea and Thân: You deserve so much praise...but not from those who refuse to know you.
Now, though—Eragon laughed, shocked, as Niduen repeated the bawdy joke one of the tailors had told her as she walked in.
Now , though—Eragon watched with fond embarrassment as Saphira convinced the elves to take her measurements as well, despite the fact that she couldn't wear anything they produced, claiming that Glaedr would want to know how much she'd grown in the last day.
Now, though —Eragon blushed as Niduen laced him into a set of beautifully-decorated formal clothing, tunic and robe and trousers, and as she pushed the fringe of his hair from one side of his face to the other as they stood before a tall set of mirrors, the tailors swarming around him, making adjustments to the garments he wore.
Now, though, he understood what Saphira and Oromis and Glaedr had meant when they'd called this a gift.
Oromis had been intrigued by Eragon's tale of the Menoa Tree, and the brightsteel he'd found beneath it. And while Linnëa wasn't on Eragon's list—thankfully, as he and Saphira were still a bit too nervous about speaking with her again—Rhunön was . Eragon had been rereading the note beside her name with no small amount of anxiety.
As promised, they walked with Niduen to Rhunön's house after being told his clothing would be delivered to the tree house later that evening. While they walked, Niduen began asking Eragon more about himself, and he spoke of his life growing up on a farm with his uncle and cousin and late aunt. That Niduen seemed to nod, knowingly, when he mentioned Marian's death made him wonder who she was missing, though he refused to ask. When he mentioned that he'd passed through Osilon on his was east from his hometown, Niduen asked him what he thought of their farming practices, and then she stopped, laughing at the expression on his face before he could even get a word out.
"There's a reason I stay in Ellesméra," Niduen said as they continued walking. "And it's not just for my station ." She said the word with enough venom that Eragon laughed, startled.
"Oh?" he asked, nearly tripping over Saphira as he looked up from the ground to meet the Niduen's amused gaze.
"Mmm," Niduen hummed, turning instead to look out at the forest. A light, surprisingly warm breeze blew past them, and Eragon heard the faint sound of windchimes in the air before Niduen continued. "A lot has changed for our people in the last hundred years, though from the outside, it seems as if we've stayed ever the same." She sighed. "I stay because Ellesméra might be the only place in Du Weldenvarden that feels capable of changing, of growing . Maybe it's because of our proximity to the Mourning Sage himself, but..." She shook her head, shooting Eragon a weak smile. "It is nice to see you here, walking among us. I can imagine how it would have been if you'd arrived under different circumstances. And I know you would not have approached any of us without your master's little list," she laughed.
Eragon's stomach twisted with guilt; he hadn't .
"It fills me with hope," Niduen continued, and her light attitude seemed to warm the air around them. "I know that another war must be coming, I can feel it ruffling the boughs above us, carried in on the winds from the south. But to see you here, Eragon—and you, too, Saphira—it feels as though..." She laughed again, with more ease. "Ah, forgive me, it seems I've lost hold of my thoughts! I'm not usually prone to these kinds of wistful wonderings. You are here, and that is all that matters. And I thank you for coming. I know I'm not the only one who feels a renewed sense of hope for the future, seeing you among us. Thank you for that."
The pleasure is ours, Niduen Svit-kona, Saphira hummed, twisting between Niduen's legs as they stopped in the middle of the dogwood-tree tunnel leading to Rhunön's forge. Thank you for keeping my rider from his own dark thoughts. We both look forward to spending more time with you. Don't we, Eragon?
"Aye, we do," he laughed. Together, they walked down the remainder of the tunnel and into the garden atrium that housed Rhunön's forge. The air inside was warm, just on the edge of stuffy, and Eragon could hear the roar of condensed flame and the glittering sound of metal shards being transferred from one container to another.
Eragon stood awkwardly off to the side, admiring an especially green vine twisting its way up one wall of the forge, as Niduen and Rhunön exchanged a greeting, ignoring the suspicious glances the elven smith kept sending him over Niduen's shoulder. When the two finally parted, clasping forearms in a surprisingly human way, Niduen retreated back into the garden, though Eragon did not hear her leave through the dogwood tunnel. Rhunön lifted her chin at him, eyebrows furrowed.
Her long hair was loosely braided and wrapped around itself on the back of her head. Her tunic was sleeveless, and Eragon could see the muscles in her forearms twisting as she crossed her arms. The toe of one of her boots tapped impatiently on the stone floor.
"And I suppose you'll be wanting a sword?" she asked bluntly. She shook a loose lock of hair from her face and said, "You're out of luck; I don't—"
"No, no, I know!" Eragon said, cutting her off. He held two fingers to his lips and began the traditional elven greeting, but Rhunön cut him off.
"Don't bother with that nonsense; just tell me what you want, then, if not an impossible sword."
Eragon glanced down at his list from Oromis. "My, uhm..." he started, caught off guard. "My master sent me here, not to request a sword, but to learn from you. Not too long ago, a werecat named Solembum told me where I could find more brightsteel. And I would like to learn from you how to best make use of it when the time comes that I collect it, if you are willing."
He stood, frozen, as Rhunön approached and then walked in a circle, examining him. "Who...are you?" she asked under her breath. "Who has Oromis sent me..? Don't answer that," she snapped when Eragon opened his mouth. "No. I won't teach you to forge your own sword—"
"But—!"
"— unless, " she continued, glaring at him with her arms crossed over her chest, "you are somehow able to prove yourself capable of doing so. It would take years of constant work to teach you even the basics of metalsmithing. And only then would you have the chance to prove yourself capable. Which you are not, and will not be." She scoffed when Saphira began to growl. "Oh, my apologies, do you think he is able?"
I—
" Don't answer that; I don't care to hear either of your answers. There are better uses of your time, and you and your masters both know this. Why Oromis would even bother..." She shook her head slowly, frowning. "Leave me; I no longer wish to have this conversation. You've already interrupted one appointment of mine, and yet I know you will not take no for an answer." Rhunön seemed to mull something over internally, her mouth twisted slightly to one side, making the fine lines on her face seem that much deeper. "Come ask me again in a week, and we shall see if I've changed my mind by then."
Then, without giving Eragon the opportunity to respond, she turned and returned to her forge, holding up a hammer with an absurdly thick handle in a way that he thought might be a threat. Eragon and Saphira exchanged a glance and, bidding Rhunön farewell, returned to the garden on the other side of the forge, heading toward the dogwoods. Niduen pointedly looked away, her eyebrows raised as they passed her, but she still waved goodbye as they exited Rhunön's home.
That went well, Eragon said sarcastically as they began making their way to the next stop on Oromis' list. Outside of the forge, the cool air stung his skin, and Eragon spared a moment to wish he'd worn a thicker tunic.
I think... Saphira said slowly, stopping in front of him and standing up on her hind legs. Let me up, will you? she said, flicking her tail impatiently. I'm still sore from yesterday. Once Eragon had bent down so she could drape herself across his shoulders, she continued. I think that went about as well as it could. I find it somewhat reassuring that Rhunön has not changed at all; she was willing to find a way around her own oath before to help you acquire a sword, and now it seems she is just as resigned to helping you.
Sure, Eragon rolled his eyes, but it seemed to be more for Oromis' sake than mine. Maybe when we go back, I'll just tell her I've changed my mind. Niduen already wants to teach me how to weave; where will I find the time to learn from Rhunön as well as Oromis and Glaedr?
Saphira butted her head against his jaw, humming. I'm proud of you, little one.
Huh? Why?
What, can't I be proud of my rider for whatever reasons I see fit? When Eragon snorted dismissively, she continued, saying, You're taking this all remarkably well. And even though I know you would much rather be curled up in bed in the tree house, or back on the crags with our teachers, here you are! Walking around Ellesméra, meeting new and old friends! I... Her talons caught on the fabric of his tunic as she kneaded his shoulder. I feel as though I've fallen behind, and it will be some time before I am able to catch up.
His stomach twisted. Saphira, no! Don't think like that! He reached up to run the tips of his fingers along the scales of her neck. You cannot help it; you're still young! Well, physically, but that will change soon! Don't you remember how fast you grew before?
She laughed in his mind. Yes, I do; it felt like every time you came to see me, you were a little shorter. Soon—yes, I know, I know—I will be the one carrying you around wherever we go!
And I will be very grateful for that! Eragon laughed, too. But until then, I am just glad I get to watch you grow up again. Getting to see you hatch, twice, has been such a gift; I'll cherish those memories forever, Saphira.
Just as I will cherish mine of you, she hummed.
Smiling, Eragon turned down the path that would lead to the training grounds he'd frequented before , his steps a little lighter and quicker. He wasn't necessarily trying to rush through Oromis' list, but the thought of an afternoon and evening to himself made him quicken his pace; it was already past midday. As he passed under a particularly low-hanging pine bough, a voice whispered from the branch above him:
"Greetings, Shadeslayer."
A shiver ran down his spine, and he felt the hairs on the back of his arms and neck rise. On his shoulders, Saphira began hissing, her tail whipping audibly through the air.
He glanced around himself first, making sure there was nobody nearby, then up toward the pine branch. Two wild, amber eyes glowed from within a mass of shaggy white hair. As the eyes moved closer, Eragon could make out a small, heavily lined face.
"... Maud ..?" he breathed.
A throaty, hacking laugh answered him, and the werecat leapt down to the ground next to him. Eragon backed away slightly.
"What are you..? You— How do you..?" He could barely form a question. Maud appeared human, which was how she was able to speak to him, but she'd landed on her hands and feet, and began to prowl toward him in the same unsettling manner. Eragon shook his head.
"That is your name, is it not? Though...I don't think you've killed the Shade just yet, now have you?"
It felt as though his body were numb; a chill rushed through him so fast he nearly fainted, and small spots of light began to float in the corners of his vision. He felt Saphira slither down his back, and she crouched protectively in front of him.
Where did you hear that name!? Saphira demanded. Who told you that?
The werecat laughed again, though it sounded more like a cough. "Why, I heard it from the elves, oh, perhaps nine months ago, when you killed Durza? I hear he's back now. Pity," she laughed. "When did you speak with Solembum? I heard you talking to that metal-elf. I don't think he knows you're back. Have you seen him yet?"
"I— You...know about the...the before? " Eragon asked, incredulous. His mouth was so dry, he wasn't sure how he had spoken.
"There is no before!" Maud cackled. "There is only now! "
"N-no..!" It just didn't make sense; they were ...displaced! His and Saphira's time had been undone, and there was a before! "What do you mean?" Eragon asked, dropping to his knees to pull Saphira back; she was growling so loud he thought she might attack the werecat. "What...what information can you give us? If you please."
"Well..." Maud stretched out the word and stood, wiping the dirt from her palms on the ragged dress she wore. "I suppose there is something of a 'before,' as you called it. It looks like they're living in it," she gestured out, toward all of Ellesméra. "But we don't. Though..." again, she drew out the word, and began slinking behind the truck of the pine she'd been sitting in. When Eragon moved to follow her, releasing his grip on Saphira, Maud reappeared on the other side, a massive, shaggy white cat. ...it's been a long time since this has happened, she finished.
"This has happened before!?" Eragon gasped. "How...how did it stop? How did it get fixed? Is there a spell I need to use, or...or something I need to do? Somewhere I need to go? How do I get back—"
Maud cut him off. There's nothing to do about it, except wait, she said, blinking slowly at him before heaving up on her hind legs to scratch at the bark of the pine. It’ll even itself out in time. At least, that's what I've always done. I'd hardly noticed anything had changed at all until I saw little Brightscales with you.
I won't be little for long! Saphira growled. And then I'll—!
"Saphira, don't!" Eragon said, pulling her back into his arms. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I just...we need to get back, if it's possible."
Maud blinked at him, sadly. I wish I could tell you more, she said. But there's nothing more to say. We’ll all just have to wait, but it seems as though you've made some peace with this. Perhaps that's for the best; it's what I'm doing, after all. She licked one paw, and after a moment she glanced back up at him. Goodbye, Maud said, then returned to cleaning herself.
Eragon slowly stood, still holding onto Saphira for fear she might try to start an ill-fated fight. "Thank you," he muttered, then began quickly walking away.
Put me down! Saphira said indignantly. She knows more; she has to!
She... Eragon couldn't finish the thought; he had too many questions, and none of them had been answered. If this had happened before, what had caused it? If everything had been undone to a certain point, then what had made it...go back? Would this keep happening? And, again, what had caused it? In either instance?
Again, Eragon tried to repeat the one honest sentence the ancient language wouldn't let him say.
' I lived for a year in the future. '
He couldn't even get the first word out before his throat closed in on itself.
Eragon, Saphira said lowly. I don't like this.
"Nor do I," he whispered. She had settled in his arms, even if it was an undignified position, too unsettled to move herself. "I...guess I'd never imagined this could have happened before. It both makes sense, and it doesn't. Saphira, I—" he frowned, still unwilling to accept his own words. "I don't think we can go back."
She was silent until they reached the training grounds, still set on following Oromis' instructions. The sounds of metal-on-metal and the thwump of arrows into targets filled Eragon with such nostalgia, he had to brace himself before continuing to walk.
No, little one, Saphira finally said. I don't think we can.
Chapter 5: Be Not: Part Four
Notes:
This one put up a fight for me, but I managed to wrestle it into submission.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
out the windows: minimal traffic, a small herd of goats eating excess underbrush
He'd only been letting it grow for two or three months since they had arrived in Ellesméra, but his hair had finally reached the point of annoyance; all his life, his hair had curled awkwardly around his ears and the back of his neck, and now that the front of it was finally long enough to curl into and catch in his eyelashes, Eragon had taken to wearing a leather headband most the time, much like the one Arya had worn before .
The wind whipped over his face, making his eyes sting and tear up, and he kept having to wipe them with the thick cuffs of the gloves he wore. The winter season had only just made its way into Ellesméra, and Eragon could see snow dusting the tops of the northernmost pines of Du Weldenvarden from his vantage point on Saphira's back as they flew together. They were circling the Crags of Tel'naeír at the height of the day—when it would be warmest—which was usually when Oromis and Glaedr would let them have a few free hours to eat, rest, and wander around Ellesméra, as Eragon ended up doing most often.
Niduen's lessons had started genuinely enough, but when Eragon showed no real talent for weaving, she allowed him to back out of their agreement. Still, she taught him the spells she sang, and he was invited to sing them with her as she worked. Some of the other weavers in the hall where Niduen practiced had commissioned his voice as well, and so once or twice a week, during his breaks, he would spend the hours learning all the bawdy jokes Niduen and her companions knew and singing with a myriad of elves, some of whom had come to the hall specifically to have his contribution to their work. After the first month, the elves had started bringing him food and water so that he could spend more time with them instead of leaving to eat in the tree house, and Eragon still laughed every time they did, feeling more like their pet human than a fellow spell-singer. The size of his wardrobe had increased a surprising amount with the gifts he received from his labor, and while he'd never really cared much for owning lots of clothing before, Eragon found he took a not-insubstantial amount of pride in seeing his work and effort and help made physical in the neat closet of the tree house he and Saphira stayed in.
On the other days during his breaks, he would spend time at the training grounds with Vanir working on all manor of exercises, from swordplay or archery to both general and targeted endurance training; when Eragon had told Oromis about his inadvertent rivalry with the other elf, his teacher had told him to approach his training once again with a more open mind. Eragon had already been disturbed by his chance encounter with Maud the werecat, and so had made an even worse impression on Vanir than he had before when he first approached the elf with Oromis' request. Still, with Oromis' name, Eragon had acquired yet another teacher.
Vanir was as ruthless as Eragon remembered him being, but with his foreknowledge of the elf's disposition, Eragon found it much easier to not take Vanir's jibes and aggressiveness to heart. Vanir was a far harsher instructor than Brom had been when Eragon had first started learning how to properly wield a sword, and Eragon's understanding of how to do so, despite the limitations of his body, had seemed to somewhat impress Vanir. Thus, much of Eragon's training had been focused primarily on improving his strength and endurance. He spent many mornings, evenings, and occasionally his entire break running around the perimeter of Ellesméra in the elven boots Vanir had requisitioned for him. The day Eragon had been presented with them had been the first time he'd seen Vanir share a genuine smile; it seemed that this time, the elf considered Eragon less of a...threat?—rival?—and more of a project through which Vanir could prove himself and his own abilities. Once again, Eragon found himself feeling like the elves' pet human.
And, to be fair, he had improved greatly since his first day waking up in Ellesméra. He and Oromis performed the Rimgar together every morning—his schedule compared to before was drastically different, which Eragon was privately quite thankful for—and they had recently began progressing into the third level.
When Eragon had first brought his more physical concerns about himself to his teacher’s attention, Oromis had told him in more words than necessary that it was ‘mind over matter,’ pleasing Saphira to no end. Eragon had been annoyed, but he was reluctant to admit that the elf’s advice had been more or less correct; he felt better both inside and outside of his body. But even after several months in Ellesméra, he still found himself longing for the augmented body he had before . They were still almost half a year away from the Agaetí Blödhren, and Eragon avoided thinking about it at all, for fear that the dragons would not bless him as they had if he did not have the same injury.
Are you going to see Rhunön-elda during our break today? Saphira asked as they circled the plateau where Oromis' hut was located, making a wide approach to land, gliding lazily on an updraft.
I don't think I have a choice, Eragon said back, grinning. He really didn't; the sword on his belt was a gift from the elven smith—not a riders' sword, but still, one fit for an elf. His payment for being allowed to wield such a gift was to assist Rhunön in her forge for at least an hour each day. Usually, that meant simply sorting out different metals by purity and density, which Rhunön had taught him to determine both with and without magic, or tending the fire of her forge while she worked, and occasionally, being taught how to work the metal himself. On days when he saw Niduen, he would visit Rhunön before dawn so that he could still start his training with Oromis and Glaedr in the early morning, whether that meant staying up absurdly late or waking up just as maddeningly early. He was, as ever, thankful for the timepiece Oromis had gifted him, same as before.
Mmm, Saphira hummed beneath him, the vibrations running through his whole body, I think I'll go find a nice, warm rock to lay on. Glaedr doesn't like to speak of it, but I know the cold makes his joints ache. Perhaps I'll invite him to join me.
You should bring Oromis with you, if you do, Eragon said, stretching up in the saddle to try to get a better view of the clearing; Oromis and Glaedr were standing close to the edge, and it looked like they were speaking with someone else, though Eragon couldn't tell who. Perhaps it was one of the elves who came to share their energy with him?
Just as Eragon opened his mouth to yell out a greeting to the newcomer, Oromis' voice resounded in both his and Saphira's heads, saying, Don't approach just yet—we will need to speak with you, but not now.
Is everything okay? Eragon quickly asked before the elf pulled away from his mind. Saphira flapped twice and pulled them higher into the air.
Oromis was silent for a long moment, long enough that Eragon almost told Saphira to land anyway, but then he spoke, his mental voice betraying his...stress? Apprehension? We will speak with you in a moment.
Circle twice, then make your approach—slowly, Glaedr instructed, then both he and Oromis pulled away.
What's going on? Eragon asked Saphira as she soared higher, the icy wind clawing at his face and hair. Do you think something's happened?
Under him, Saphira growled. That looked like the queen, she said lowly. Eragon swallowed, stomach twisting.
They has been in Ellesméra for two months, give or take a week, and in that time, they had still not spoken with the queen since their first, terrible encounter with her. Shame had kept Eragon away, as he knew Saphira's indignity had done the same. Even the temptation of any information on Arya's wellbeing had not been enough for Eragon to swallow his embarrassment and apologize to the queen.
It made him worry for the future, though any time he brought it up, Saphira was quick to dismiss his wandering thoughts, reminding him time and again that things had already been changed beyond recognition, and any attempt to re-make the world in the image they'd lived was futile; he could feel her gearing up for another speech on it now, as his anxiety again began to rise.
That new habit of his mind and body had become quite troublesome, his ability to take the smallest concern and ruminate over it in his mind until his hands were numb and each breath was hard-fought. Saphira could rationalize his worries away most of the time, but there had been...several times...where the only comfort she could offer was the warmth of her body next to his until his mind cleared. He had never experienced anxiety like that before, and now he had several new lessons on meditation under his belt, courtesy of both Oromis and Glaedr.
You know you cannot change everything, Saphira reminded him, not-unkindly. She rolled in the air, flying with one wing pointed to the ground and the other to the sky. Eragon tightened his grip on the hand straps of the saddle, but otherwise relaxed his body, closing his eyes. Almost immediately, his stomach churned as he lost his sense of balance and gravity.
And you know that doesn't help, he responded. It's the things I can't change that worry me the most.
Well, stop worrying then! Saphira said, and then she rolled onto her back so that they were flying upside down.
Eragon could not help laughing at the weightless sensation that sent a shiver tickling its way up his spine. He released his grip on the hand straps and let his arms hang limply overhead. Or would it be underhead? he asked, the pressure in his head making him giddy. He and Saphira rarely spent much time turned over in the air as Eragon was likely to pass out if too much blood rushed to his head, but it was still worth it to practice the maneuver. And, Eragon grinned, it was a good distraction when his thoughts started to get away from him.
As Saphira righted herself, Eragon felt as though he could think a little clearer, a little faster. Oromis had kept them from the queen as a favor, most likely, knowing how both he and Saphira felt about her. Which did feel a little odd; she had been a great help to them before, but looking back on her previous actions with the knowledge of how she’d treated them now had…recoloured the memories. If Islanzadí had business with their teachers that could not wait, that required her to speak with them face-to-face, then it was undoubtedly important, and thus something that might warrant a little concern and worry on Eragon's end. But, he reminded himself, not until they've actually spoken with us about it, which they said they would do in a moment.
Good job, little one, Saphira praised, and Eragon was torn between comfort and pleasure at her words, and the self-shame that came with all of his perceived shortcomings.
Saphira refused to comment on his ever-churning thoughts as she began to circle the clearing once again, sending Eragon a constant wave of comfort through their bond. Though his eyesight was not as keen as it had been before, he could now make out Islanzadí's form, a fair distance away from Oromis and Glaedr, standing near the edge of the outcropping. He could almost imagine the look on her face; a deep, impatient scowl to rival that of Arya's most exasperated. Saphira kept her wings tilted, spread wide to slow her decent as much as possible until a horse appeared over the ridge of the clearing. As Islanzadí mounted it, tossing one last probably-spiteful glance over her shoulder, Saphira pulled her wings in tight and together, she and Eragon streamed toward the ground with only Saphira's tail to guide them.
At the last moment, Saphira snapped her wings open and flapped twice, before touching down. Glaedr rumbled a greeting, but both he and Oromis remained where they had been standing, the elf's arms crossed over his chest. Eragon unstrapped his legs from the saddle and bounded down one of Saphira's forelegs to run toward them.
"What's going on?" he asked, wobbling slightly after several hours spent in the air. "Did something happen?" He couldn't help thinking of Arya—he had yet to hear anything about her even after several months—and unbidden, his mind began to imagine all manner of terrible things that could have happened to her. After the first two weeks in Ellesméra, when Eragon had asked him almost daily for any information, Oromis had had to gently but firmly instructed Eragon to stop asking; he had not heard anything, either. Now, he was certain his master could tell exactly what kinds of thoughts were driving him close to panic, and again, the same wave of self-shame threatened to bring him to his knees.
Eragon, Saphira warned him, her tone gentle and loving. He took a deep breath and held it, squeezing his eyes shut, then let it out slowly once a wave a dizziness began to press in on him. When he opened his eyes again, Oromis was looking away, his eyebrows drawn together. Glaedr lowered his head so that one golden eye was level with Eragon's line of sight.
Do not trouble yourself over him, or the elf-queen, the gold dragon said, huffing out a hot breath. He and I must simply face the fact that our student has grown ever-more difficult to deal with.
Eragon's eyes widened. "I'm sorry!" he said quickly, looking between Oromis and Glaedr. "What...what did I do!?" Even Saphira seemed offended, and she shuffled her wings indignantly, digging her talons into the ground and tearing up clumps of dirt and grass.
Glaedr stared at her, impassively and unimpressed. Stop that, he said, then snorted and pulled his head away. Not you, Glaedr growled.
"...your father," Oromis said, giving Eragon a tight smile.
The weather was of no concern as Eragon silently helped Oromis pull out the table and stools so that they could have a 'proper conversation,' as Eragon liked to refer to it. Above the crags, thin, sickly clouds blended in with the gray sky beyond so that the only indication there were clouds at all were the occasional white whisps which floated lazily from one edge of the horizon to the other, threatening to cover them in snow. Around the table, Oromis had had Eragon create a small bubble of warmth with a few simple spells, further fed by the steaming mugs of tea they each held tightly in their hands. Oromis seemed more pensive than usual, which Eragon and Saphira considered something of a feat, and Eragon was reticent to break the somewhat tense silence that had remained between them since Islanzadí's departure and the revelation that, somehow, Brom was involved in his teachers' current mood.
Eragon felt tremendously guilty when he realized that, for the last several months, he had rarely thought of his father—if he thought of Brom at all—which was another reason he hesitated to speak. He had assumed, with good reason, that Brom had stayed in Carvahall and remained a reclusive storyteller, watching over Eragon's hometown. With no Eragon to follow across Alagaësia, there was no reason to leave! Though, now , with Oromis' words, Eragon had to assume that wasn't the case.
What could he have done now? Where could he have gone? Eragon asked Saphira as he stared at the steaming cup in his hands. He and Saphira had shielded their minds as best they could, not wanting their teachers to be able to pick up on any of their thoughts and theories; across from them, Eragon could sense that Oromis and Glaedr had done the same.
Saphira had curled up on the ground behind him, her head resting on one foreleg beside his stool. She rolled one blue eye in a heaving, exasperated circle and blinked at him, her eyelid clicking audibly. I don't know, she said seriously, and that's what worries me. She hummed low and deep in her chest, and Eragon could feel the vibration through the ground with his feet. Eragon, she said, her voice quiet and ever-so-slightly afraid, I…have some thoughts, but they might…upset you. And I’ll tell you, but—
You can tell me anything, he said, nearly knocking his cup across the table in his haste to turn and face Saphira. Anything, whenever you want. Dont—I don't want to make you ...censor yourself with me! He leaned over, putting a hand on top of her head, rubbing the tips of his fingers along the ridges of her scales. I'm sorry, he said for good measure.
Don't be, she hummed, eyelid clicking as she blinked again. And I promise you, I have never, nor will I ever censor myself for you, she snorted. I merely wished to warn you that I have a theory which could upset you.
What doesn't upset me anymore? Eragon huffed, but he forced his words to be light and playful. How long had Saphira been feeling this way? What else had she withheld from him? Did she conceal her true feelings on matters from him often? Desperately, he tried to muffle his thoughts inside his own mind and keep them away from their bond, but he knew he had failed when Saphira's eye narrowed at him. Still, she thankfully refrained from mentioning it.
My concern is this, she said, and an impatient stream of smoke emerged from her nostrils—she couldn't breath fire yet, but she had been producing smoke over the few days, which Glaedr said was a good sign. What if Brom left Carvahall to find you... Eragon's heart pounded in his chest; he felt like an imbecile for having never considered that. He only stayed in Carvahall to watch over you, and you did essentially disappear into the Spine one day… I know how I would react to such a thing, after all.
He could have gone anywhere then! Eragon cried. And he'd never find me, because we're here!
Exactly, Saphira said. And he was —is— a powerful magician, who knows what he would do in his quest to find you?
Eragon's head hurt with the speed of his own thoughts; once, on the second or third day of their stay in Ellesméra, Oromis had offered to have Brom brought to the city, if Eragon thought it might help him... adjust. Eragon and Saphira had debated it for several days, until they ultimately decided not to; what good would it do any of them, even Brom himself, to disrupt the old man's life like that? No, it would be better if Brom stayed where he was, watching over Carvahall in Eragon's stead, instead of bringing him to Ellesméra where Eragon would be able to think of nothing else but his father.
Now, more guilt than Eragon thought possible for one person to feel coursed through him; Brom must be dead, that was the only explanation for Oromis and Glaedr's continued silence. And if he was dead, it would be Eragon's fault, without a doubt. He had killed his father before, so it only made sense that he had somehow, someway, killed him again.
Eragon groaned, pushing his cup across the table so that he could lay his face on it instead, his cheek pressed to the spot of warmth left over from the tea on the wood.
Stop it, Saphira chided. You're dwelling on what-ifs again, and it's doing you no good; you're making yourself sick. If Brom were dead, do you really think Islanzadí would be the one delivering the news? Do you really think Oromis and Glaedr are too inept to keep tabs on their own student?
...no, Eragon said, though through their bond, it was more of a whine.
You really are quite smart, little one, Saphira said, pushing warmth and understanding toward him. But you can be such a block-head sometimes. It's a wonder you haven't fallen from my back mid-air yet.
...I did jump from it, though, Eragon couldn't help reminding her, and beside him, she snorted.
That's exactly my point! she growled, though Eragon couldn't sense any real anger behind her words. You need to think things through!
Well, if it's not Brom dead, then it must be Arya! he said without thinking, once again proving what an imbecile block-head he was.
Saphira growled and stood beside him, baring her teeth. Stop saying these things! They aren’t true and you know that; you’re doing it on purpose just to anger me!
"I'm not!" he yelled, slamming his hands down on the table as he, too, stood. "So much has gone wrong for us, Saphira! Is it really so impossible to consider that maybe I will always assume the worst!?" He hated losing his temper, ever, and that it had been happening more and more often since they woke up in the Spine made Eragon almost frightened of himself. Still, it was impossible to reign in once he snapped. "I'm prepared; is that so damned bad?"
It is when you refuse to accept any other option but the worst! she roared. Look at how much has gone right for us, too! What if I hadn't been there when you woke up? What if you weren't there when I woke up? What if the elves had killed us as suspected traitors when we entered Du Weldenvarden, instead of welcoming us? What if, what if, Eragon, you have to stop this! You cannot keep thinking this way, or we will never defeat Galbatorix, lest you worry what will happen then, too! When we charged Urû'baen, you didn't let fear consume you! So why are you letting it do so now!?
He struggled to find the right words; how could he explain that he wasn't letting his fears consume him, it was just that...of all the terrible outcomes to any of his actions, he had never once considered something like this happening? He could feel his nebulous thoughts being picked apart by Saphira through their bond, desperate to understand him. How could he explain that, despite all his forethought before they made their move on Urû'baen and Galbatorix, what had happened was so far beyond his own comprehension and understanding of the world that he couldn't help the fact that his mind was trying to predict and prepare him for something just as bad if not worse ? So that he wouldn't be caught off-guard again? The sky was hollow and the world was round and at any moment, no matter what he did or said or thought or believed, he could lose absolutely everything and there was nothing he could do or say or think or believe that would undo it or right the world again.
But you haven't lost everything! Saphira roared so loud, it made Eragon's eyes and ears and teeth ache; she was right in front of him, her teeth snapping inches from his face. His body felt locked in place with instinctive fear, but he refused to back down.
"Haven't I!?" he screamed back, his frustration and rage leaving him uncaring of their audience.
You still have me, you idiot!! She butted him with her snout, hard enough that he fell backwards over his stool, the back of his head bouncing off the ground as he landed on his back. He was outside the bubble of warmth now, and the cold wind ripped at him, even through his layers of clothing, and a loose stone dug into one point of his spine. She moved over him, one of her feet stepping on and crushing the stool he'd been sitting on to splinters. Her side jostled the table, and Eragon could hear Oromis' exclamation as tea spilled over it. Above him, lights of pain flashing at the edges of his vision, he watched Saphira's jaws part slightly, and she hissed. You can worry about the future all you want, but you must have faith in me! In us! That is the only way we will survive!!
"But—!"
But nothing! You will have faith in us!
Eragon panted as Saphira continued to growl. Each time he tried to counter her, Saphira would rebuke him with her insistence that as long as they had faith in each other, in their abilities together, in their bond as dragon and rider, they would survive anything that came for them. He could hear Oromis cleaning up the mess they'd made in merciful silence. He tried to commit himself to the belief, but it kept slipping away from him like oil through clenching fingers; he couldn't seem to comprehend even the idea of her words, like his mind was keeping him from thinking them through. He made to get up, to help Oromis, but Saphira put one forefoot on his chest, her talons digging into the dirt on either side of his ribcage.
You will believe this, Eragon, she said, and he could feel her desperation through their bond, her need for him to believe as she did.
It doesn't work that way, he tried to tell her, but she cut him off before he could continue.
It does! she insisted. It will! What happened to us—to you— in the throne room, it was impossible, correct?
...yes, Eragon admitted. The pain in his head had mellowed into a dull, constant ache, but the chill of winter still ripped through him. He began to shiver, unwilling to warm himself with magic.
And yet here we are, together, correct? The two of us, with memories of a world that no longer exists?
Yes, he snapped, losing what little patience he'd managed to cultivate. But he was more frustrated with himself than he was with Saphira; she had made her point. What of it? he demanded. They had come out of something impossible, still wholly themselves. And still together, as she kept reminding him.
And still together, she said again, huffing at him. Don't think I won't do this to you again. I will keep you here until you admit that we will remain bonded forever.
Of course we will! Eragon scoffed. That had been clear when he’d woken up in the Spine with an unmarked palm but Saphira still in his mind. Obviously, the bond can't be broken, even by...by time itself, apparently!
…does that not give you any comfort? Saphira asked, and beneath her words, Eragon could finally feel, at the very edges of his mind, the core of what drove Saphira to so much anger and desperation:
If they didn't believe they would remain bonded, that they would remain together, then she feared that whatever had kept them connected in the in-between from the throne room to the moment she hatched again on the edge of Du Weldenvarden would snap, and they would be stranded, alone, in separate versions of Alagaësia.
Eragon shivered harder, and his stomach contracted like he was going to be sick. Had Saphira been worrying over that this whole time? He hadn’t even… It was worse, what Saphira thought might happen to them, than what Eragon had imagined for any of their companions of even themselves. To be alone like that… And, he couldn't help thinking, Saphira had been censoring herself. He was frustrated by that thought, but he couldn't decide whether it was frustration with her or himself for being so unwilling to listen to her properly.
Saphira, he said, unable to keep his sadness and regret from their bond, I do believe. I do.
She huffed and pulled her forefoot from his chest, pressing the tip of her snout against him instead. After a moment, she said, quietly, Good.
And we will always remain bonded. Of all the impossible things that have happened, that was... He couldn't speak, couldn't think; knowing Saphira had been there in the Spine, even if she hadn't hatched, had been the only thing that kept him from going mad. And in that moment when he had woken up, he had been very, very close to madness.There weren't words for it, and Eragon wondered, terrified, if Saphira felt the same way, the same...almost-madness that he still struggled with. Yes, forever, Saphira, I promise. Nothing will ever break our bond, he assured her, sitting up to scratch the underside of her jaw with both of his hands.
Eragon let his emotions flow freely, unable and unwilling to try to condense them into words, and Saphira did the same, so that they sat facing each other, the cold wind whipping around them, letting themselves feel all the shades of rage and grief and joy and sorrow and hope and fear they were capable of, until at last, Saphira's desperate plea had wormed its way deep enough into his mind that Eragon believed in her and their bond. And, just a bit in himself, too.
Good, she said again, finally, sounding genuinely satisfied. Then she pulled away, and Eragon slowly got to his feet, embarrassed.
The stool Saphira had crushed still sat in an unrecognizable, disassembled heap, and there were deep scratches gouged into the edge of the table where Saphira had pushed against it. Oromis sat with the cups they'd brought out in his hands, both empty, the surface of the table covered in a pool of spilled tea; the tea pot itself had fallen into the grass, but as far as Eragon could tell, it was still undamaged. He refused to meet Oromis' gaze, so he turned to Glaedr instead. The golden dragon had taken up a similar position as Saphira when they'd first sat down; behind his rider, with his head resting at Oromis' side. Glaedr's eyes were closed, but his tail skimmed over the top of the grass as he whipped it from side to side.
Beside him, Saphira crouched low to the ground at Eragon's side, saying, Forgive me, ebrithilar; I have been...holding back from my Rider, and I did not mean to start such an argument when you have something to share with us.
Eragon glanced at her quickly, guilt over his own actions and surprise at her words almost making him stumble over himself in the grass. "Y-yes," he continued. "I should not have been so quick to anger, either. I apologize." He twisted his right hand over his chest and bowed.
He remained bowed for a long moment in embarrassed silence, and when he finally stood again, looking to Oromis, he saw the elf had a long-suffering, if amused, expression on his face.
"No," Oromis sighed, smiling slightly, "the fault does not lie solely with the two of you; we have delayed this conversation for long enough—it is no surprise that your worries were able to take advantage of the situation Glaedr and I created."
At his name, Glaedr thumped his thick tail against the ground so hard that Eragon could feel the vibration through the ground. It is not an excuse, though, he growled, opening his eyes and lifting his head to glare at both Eragon and Saphira. Your physical skills are impressive, despite your youth, but you no longer feel as though you have been bonded for decades; you speak with each other as though you have only met several months ago. Do not let this happen again!
"I think we can afford them a little grace," Oromis said, laying a hand on top of Glaedr's massive head as the dragon lowered himself back to the ground. He turned to Glaedr and said, quietly, "These circumstances do not leave much room for patient, thorough communication."
Glaedr huffed, closing his eyes again, and he lashed his tail once more. Oromis’ words had been uncharacteristically… pointed.
Eragon worried his bottom lip between his teeth. "What...did you want to speak with us about?" he asked carefully. The way Oromis and Glaedr spoke implied that they, too, were having communication problems . In their bond, he could feel Saphira's hesitant concern as well, and her abject fear that they had done or caused something... bad with their argument.
Before Saphira could comment, Oromis set the cups down, sliding them to the center of the table, and clapped his hands together. "This seems to have gotten out of control. Please, forgive our negligence; you have been waiting for the news Islanzadí brought as patiently as could be expected, and we have spent these hours wrapped in our own minds."
"There is nothing to forgive, ebrithil," Eragon said, bowing slightly again. "It..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "It seems like we've all had our own worries, and this just happened to be the moment they all tipped over the edge. Should we..." Eragon glanced up at the sky; it was growing darker, as it did in the winter afternoons. "We can go, if you'd like?" Eragon hoped he would agree; he had the immature, uncomfortable desire to get away from their teachers who were so focused on their own internal argument, they had hardly even registered his and Saphira's altercation and return to the tree house. But he still ached to know what Islanzadí had told them, if it could spark such an argument between beings like Oromis and Glaedr.
"No, please, stay," Oromis said, sighing. He looked as tired and pained as Eragon had know him to be before , and Eragon frowned. He and Saphira thinned out their bond until they could fully focus on the elf. "I have news about Arya," Oromis said, leaning down to pick up the teapot with a pained grunt. Eragon stepped forward to help him, unsure how exactly he'd be of any, but Oromis waved him off with a strained smile.
We have more news than that, Glaedr snorted, and Oromis sighed again as he lowered himself back in his stool, the teapot still clutched in his hands.
"Well, yes, that's true," he said, less than serenely. He glanced down at the now-empty teapot he held. "Why don't I go brew—"
No, Glaedr growled. I do not desire to debate with you on this any longer; let us speak with them now .
Eragon glanced at Saphira, feeling her apprehension warring with curiosity through their bond.
"What news do you have of Arya..?" Eragon asked, sitting as Oromis did, all thoughts of fresh tea banished from their minds.
"She's been successfully retrieved," he said, not meeting Eragon's eye.
"Has she?" Eragon asked, struggling to keep from smiling at the news. "Who—? When —? Is she...coming here?"
"Mmm," Oromis hummed, and Glaedr huffed at his side. "The who is your father," he said quickly, pained, and Eragon felt his heart lurch. Before he could interrupt, Oromis held up a hand and continued, "The ' when ' is, apparently, several months ago; shortly after you arrived here, actually. Word has only just reached here from the Varden, which is where they have both been since then."
" What!? " Eragon gasped. "But Isla—"
"And are they returning here, you ask?" At that, Oromis sighed heavily, leaning forward over the table, and his eyebrows drew together. Eragon's teeth clacked as he snapped his mouth shut. At the elf's side, Glaedr began to growl, low in his throat, and Eragon and Saphira shared a look.
They must not be returning, Saphira said. Perhaps that is why they've been fighting?
But why wouldn't they come back to Ellesméra? Eragon frowned. There's nowhere else safer, surely they know that?
At his side, Saphira flexed her shoulders in an imitation of a shrug, but she didn't offer anything else. Eragon waited patiently as Oromis and Glaedr seemed to return to their previous argument, his thoughts whirling. They were angry with Brom for not bringing Arya back, Eragon could easily guess. But why would they be so upset about it? What... Eragon grasped for words, even in his own mind, ...what stake do they have in this? Are they afraid Islanzadí will blame them for Brom's...misgivings?
I would not think them so vain, and yet... Saphira blinked up at him. We should wait for them to explain.
It was a hard task to keep from sticking his tongue out at her, and yet he resisted the urge. I don't like this, he said after a moment's meditative silence between them. It feels like there's something...wrong.
Saphira didn't respond, but Eragon could feel her reluctant agreement in their bond. He was still for a long time, waiting, but when Oromis closed his eyes tightly, and Glaedr's tail began whipping across the grass again, Eragon couldn't stop himself from moving. He crept forward and took the teapot from Oromis' hands. The elf did not stir, and Eragon was comforted by the even in-out of his breathing.
"I'll just..." he trailed off, catching Glaedr's eye. He blinked slowly at Eragon—giving permission—then returned to staring at his Rider with narrowed eyes. As Eragon returned to the hut, he was surprised to see Saphira, too, her head still just small enough to stick through the doorway. He went about making a fresh pot of tea, distracted while trying to keep an ear out for Oromis' voice calling him back to continue their discussion.
Saphira blew a smokey breath at him, saying, You tend to that. My ears are better than yours...and you are easily distracted.
Eragon tried to wave the smoke away. "Rude!" he said, giving her an aggrieved look.
She bared her teeth at him in a terrifying smile, and Eragon had to turn away before she could see his own grin. Still trying to wave away the lingering haze, he split his focus between watching the water slowly boil and expanding his mind outward, carefully avoiding the tangle of apprehensive optimism and disappointment and duty that he could feel rolling off of Oromis and Glaedr in thick, oily waves. A trio of muted-brown songbirds were flying hesitantly around the edge of the clearing where the hut sat, and Eragon focused on them, centering himself.
Yes, he allowed himself to acknowledge, yes, he was very anxious; about their reaction; about Arya and Brom, about Alagaësia in general. But—and here he focused on a shiny black beetle crawling in the grass so intensely that he knew he could go outside and find its exact location with his eyes closed—there was much more at play than just his and Saphira's own actions. And, if Maud's words were true, and this had happened before, then there really wasn't anything he could do until the world righted itself again. Preferably with him and Saphira still in it; trying to work out Galbatorix's spell had given Eragon much to think about.
We should find her, Saphira said, nearly startling him. The water was close to over-boiling, and Eragon swore softly to himself, sending Saphira a wordless apology as he began steeping the tea leaves.
We should? Eragon tried to agree, but the thought was shaped more like a question.
If the werecats have lived through this before, Saphira said, backing out of the way so that Eragon could carry the teapot outside, then perhaps Maud has some advice. She blinked at Eragon. I won't try to eat her this time, she said, embarrassed.
Eragon thought about what advice the werecat could give as he set the steaming pot on the table. If anything, Solembum would be the better werecat to speak with. Eragon poured two fresh cups, placing Oromis' on the table in front of him. The elf's eyes were still clenched shut, and now Glaedr's were, too. Perhaps Maud would have some trick or secret for making peace with an un-made world, at the least. Thoughts still spinning, Eragon turned to the remains of his stool. He flexed his fingers a few times and rotated his arms in a small circle, trying to judge the state of his muscle mass. I could probably fix that, he thought, throwing Saphira a curious glance. She curled herself around the heap and began nosing at it.
Eragon's skills in magic had improved as winter made its way to Ellesméra, but he found that his limits were more restrictive now. No longer could he cast a spell like the one he had in Yazuac, and in fact he seemed to struggle greatly with anything that would be beyond his physical limits, at least while drawing upon his own power. It made sense, Eragon had resigned himself, and that was the cost of doing magic without using an outside source for the power it would require. But Oromis had been training him to use his himself , to work his magic as he would a muscle in order for it to improve. So Eragon squatted down, trying to arrange the pieces into something resembling a stool, sweeping the smaller splinters in a tidy pile by one of his feet. Raising his hands over both piles, he said, "Lram, waíse heill," and braced himself for the resulting drain in his strength.
It certainly felt as though he'd repaired it by hand, his hands and shoulders sore, but it wasn't as debilitating as he'd expected. Satisfied, he dropped onto the stool, leaning from side to side to judge its integrity.
Did you help? he asked Saphira, but she shook her head, and he could feel her pleasure and pride in him. Smiling, he turned to his tea and began once again to wait for his teachers to finish their silent argument. As the sun began to fully set, and after several rounds of ' The Green Glass Door ' with Saphira, Eragon conjured up several small blue werelights set flickering above them. This time, Saphira did help, and Eragon thanked her for her shared strength. With a mental nudge of agreement from her, Eragon poured himself another cup of tea, eyeing the still-untouched glass before Oromis, and heated it with magic. He smiled into it, and leaned back to up look up at the sky.
He and Saphira had discussed, around their game, what exactly could have gotten Oromis and Glaedr so worked up that they would argue for so long, though Eragon could sense a slightly-more content aura around their tight shields. Saphira's best theory had been that they were angry with Brom for not returning with Arya, and thus they were arguing whether or not they should go and retrieve the two themselves. Eragon's best theory was that they were debating whether he and Saphira were ready to go fetch Brom and Arya themselves and, judging by Saphira's size, he guessed their teachers didn't think them capable.
He didn't have to wait much longer, as Oromis gasped quietly and reached at last for his tea, drinking it despite the cold. "I’m sorry," he croaked. "Again, I must...beg your forgiveness."
Eragon and Saphira shared a quick look. Think nothing of it, Saphira said hesitantly. She stood, crouching, and stepped across the grass to nestle down beside Glaedr, maintaining a polite foot or so of space between them. She looked up at the golden dragon, her eyes wide and concerned. Please, though...
"What is going on?" Eragon finished the thought for her.
Oromis took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. "We, the four of us, will be leaving. If you chose to follow, that is. Which we very much hope you do."
Eragon's eyes widened. "...for what reason?" he asked. How could they leave? When would they leave? Where would they go? He stopped himself from asking, worried that one more interruption might send his teachers into another hours-long discussion.
"You have...inspired us," Oromis said after another breath. "The lengths the two of you have gone to are commendable; worthy of the highest honors a dragon and rider could achieve, and..." he trailed off, sipping again at the cold glass. "And you have made us face our own shortcomings—something we have been avoiding for many, many years."
And we disagree greatly on what those shortcomings are. As well as how to rectify them, Glaedr said. His voice was low and intimidating, but Eragon could hear the pleading tone the dragon was desperately trying to cover up.
"Ebrithilar, no!" Eragon said, leaning forward to brace his forearms on the table. "No, if anyone here has shortcomings it's us!" He had to mentally brush away Saphira's indignant exclamation, but he pushed on, shaking his head. "You have done nothing but honor us with your presence alone, no matter when. We are lucky you have done so much for us, I—"
"Eragon," Oromis said with a slight smile, "no, this not up for debate—"
Again, Saphira snorted, just so that Eragon could hear her.
"—we simply wanted to explain the great... delay... " he finished, looking away. He took another breath. "We have also avoided discussing what, exactly, we should do with the knowledge you've given us. And at last, Glaedr and I have come to the agreement that Niernen needs to be retrieved if the king is so close to finding the Name."
"Saphira and I could do that!" Eragon said, glancing toward her as she nodded. "You don't...that is... Please. Please leave it to us, I don't want..." he trailed off when a cool, soft hand grasped his across the table. He looked up, shocked, to see the expression on Oromis' face.
"We know," he said gently. "And we appreciate you telling us about our death."
It is nothing we haven't faced before, Glaedr said. And now, we shall face it again.
"If we should die," Oromis said, "then we will know it was with honor."
Eragon frowned, turning his hand around to clutch the thin bend of Oromis' wrist. "...it was always honorable," he said softly. Across from him, Saphira finally inched close enough to press her side against Glaedr's, keening.
"Thank you," Oromis said, sounding so grateful for Eragon's words that Eragon had to look away. "But we cannot wait any longer," he continued, pulling his hand away. "Glaedr and I have made our plans, and after flying to Dras-Leona, we plan to leave you and continue on to Belatona. It is time for us to be a bigger part of this story; we would very much like to be."
Eragon was too stunned by the mention of Dras-Leona that he couldn't speak, his throat tightening around whatever words he might've wanted to say. Saphira spoke for both of them, Leave us, ebrithilar?
Yes, Glaedr said, we have discussed this at length; it is nearing mid-winter, and we know from your retelling of it that the son of Morzan will soon be arriving in the city.
Oromis gave Eragon a pitying look before he said gently, as though he were speaking to a frightened child, "Your brother was a powerful tool for the king to wield. It would be for the best if that...didn't happen again. For all of our sakes."
"...right," Eragon said. Without anything else to hold onto, and feeling the urge to keep his hands occupied, he grasped at the hem of his tunic, threading it through his fingers.
You can say 'no,' you know, Saphira said, her voice a whisper for only him to hear. He looked up, unaware that his head had fallen, to see her staring at him, unblinking. We don't have to do this.
His thoughts spun to a halt, unsure of where to go. What do you want to do? he asked her.
I don't know, she said plainly, and Eragon jerked in his seat. But what else would we do? Stay here and continue training? Continue hiding? No, I do not want that.
Eragon nodded. "Okay," he said aloud. "What would you have us do in Dras-Leona? Saphira can't enter the city, and I'm not sure how much I could do on my own."
You won't be alone, Glaedr said, and Eragon and Saphira shared a quick, wordless thought of ‘Eldunarí.’
"That was part of the message we received from Islanzadí," Oromis said. "Your...Brom will be there as well. After he came to Arya's aid, they both returned to the Varden, which is where they contacted Islanzadí."
"From outside the forest?" Eragon asked, surprised. "I didn't think—"
"There are ways," Oromis said simply, and left it at that. "And he reported to her, for us, that he will be arriving in Dras-Leona in a few week's time to seek out your brother."
"Why?" Eragon asked. He and Brom had only gone there to seek out the Ra'zac, Murtagh had never been part of their plans. He didn't even know if Brom knew who Murtagh was!
Because we told him to, Glaedr said, huffing at Saphira as she apparently got too close for his liking.
Again, Eragon asked, "Why?"
At that, Oromis and Glaedr shared a look that made Eragon worry he had set off another lengthy argument. Saphira nosed at Glaedr's side, and the golden dragon shook his head.
Because he could help. Right now, neither of you are ready— Eragon tried not to let that hurt, but the dragon's comment still stung —to face what is coming, and though we have tried to prepare you both as best we can, there is nothing more we can offer you. But we know that, with time, the skills and knowledge you already have will be enough. For now though…
Before Eragon could protest, Oromis continued, "We think it best if Brom were to assist you while we are occupied in Belatona. That's all, Eragon-finiarel. You are smart and strong, but neither of you are at the same level of strength you are most likely used to. That could prove to be dangerous if you were to fall back on old instincts, especially when it comes to magic."
Of course, Saphira said easily, also preventing Eragon from speaking. I think we could do with some more, well-informed help, don't you?
"...yes," Eragon admitted, trying not to sound so petulant. Much of their troubles before had come from them—well, him —refusing to seek out all the help they could possibly get, from trying to accomplish everything on his own. Many of their problems could have been solved simply by asking, and Eragon had a hard time admitting that to himself. He thought of Helgrind and the Battle under Farthen Dûr. He thought of Arya and himself trapped underground in Dras-Leona, and how he would have died without her. "When do we leave?"
"I had been thinking of dawn," Oromis said, glancing wryly at the sky, "but we'd better shoot for mid-day."
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Do you need a break? Eragon asked. He could feel Saphira panting beneath him, and when he turned around in the saddle, he could see her sides heaving as she tried to catch and maintain her breath.
No, she growled. Through their bond, Eragon could feel the strain on her wings, the soreness in the muscles of her thighs and tail as she steered above and around the clouds. When he pressed deeper, to the link between her and Glaedr which they were using to navigate, he could feel Glaedr's disappointment; not in her specifically, but in general at the speed they were flying.
We haven't stopped in more than a day, he said. I can tell Oromis that I'm the one who needs a break, if that would help?
No! Saphira said with more force, and Eragon let it go.
They had been flying northwest together for just over a week, him and Saphira, and Oromis and Glaedr, and they still had more than a week to go until Dras-Leona. The journey had been more tiring than he thought it would be, and he was able to distract himself from his anxieties only with anxiety over Saphira. Glaedr had been correct, in both times, that she was suited for the sky, but there was in fact a difference between a frantic, panic-induced fleeing and a journey such as this one. There was no hard-and-fast timeline to follow, and so Glaedr had set their pace far slower than Eragon and Saphira were used to traveling. Long days spent in the saddle left Eragon with a near-permanent ache in his thighs and back, and he hadn't been lying when he'd told Saphira he needed a break. Often, he found himself falling asleep on her back, only jerked awake when she took a particularly harsh turn around a cloud pillar and he awoke to the feeling of falling. He'd only yelped once, which had made Oromis give him a concerned look over his shoulder from Glaedr's back. Eragon had managed to stay silent after that.
When they finally did stop for the day, just before the early winter sunset, Eragon all-but slid from the saddle to the ground, and stayed there, waiting for the cramp in the back of his thigh to subside. Saphira collapsed much the same way, gingerly pulling her wings back in to rest at her sides. Oromis no longer rushed to them with worry, as this had been their usual routine, and instead pulled the multi-strapped bag from his shoulder and began digging through it as he made his way to the other side of the clearing Glaedr and Saphira had found from the air. The golden dragon did approach, briefly resting the tip of his snout on each of them, and Eragon groaned as the tight pain in his muscles immediately eased. Beside him, Saphira yawned, her jaw cracking, and let her head thump to the ground, already nearly asleep.
She rolled slightly to the side as Eragon finally stood so that he could un-strap the saddle, then curled herself into a tight ball. He slowly sat, leaning against her back as he pulled one of their several bags closer. He'd been so embarrassed while packing, looking at all the clothing and trinkets he'd acquired over the months; the clothes all gifts from Niduen and her companions, one of Vanir's short, dagger-like swords (he'd been trying to teach Eragon to fight with two weapons), and other small things Eragon couldn't begin to organize.
In truth, it had made the tree house feel more like a home, for which Eragon was thankful. But having to leave it in such a rush made it...difficult to pack. Saphira had encourage him to take as much as possible, assuring him that she'd be able to handle the weight, but Eragon had only brought what he thought was necessary—three of his favourite shirts, an extra pair of sturdy trousers, and Vanir's borrowed sword. He still wasn't confident fighting with it, but in case he lost Laufsbläd-kodthr —Leaf-catcher, the sword Rhunön had given him—it would be a familiar stand-in while he spent his remaining days pondering how exactly Rhunön would kill him for losing her gift.
He pulled out his bedroll and began shuffling around Saphira's wing so that he could climb beneath it, stopping to look over his shoulder at the other side of the clearing where Oromis knelt, looking down at the mirror in his lap, speaking so softly that Eragon couldn't make out any of his words. Eragon's stomach twisted, and Saphira grumbled as the anxious sensation reached her through their bond.
Leave it, she growled.
I know, Eragon tried not to whine. But...I have to speak with him eventually... Wouldn't it be better to get it over with now?
Beside him, Saphira huffed and twisted her head so that she could glare at him. Then by all means, go.
Eragon scuffed the toe of his boot against the ground. ...I can't. Saphira growled softly, rolling her visible eye, and tucked her head back near the tip of her tail. He could feel her impatience with him, as well as her own anticipation, and experiencing the two feelings at once made him feel even sicker.
Oromis had been speaking with Brom, of course. He'd been speaking with him each time they landed for a night or day (as they were doing now) of rest, and each time, Oromis would sit a polite distance away while he spoke with Eragon's father. Eragon and Oromis hadn't spoken about it—they hadn't spoke much at all during the journey—and privately, Eragon was quite thankful that he wasn’t being forced to confront his feelings about it.
But knowing that Brom was so close made Eragon want to be sick with nerves. He hadn't seen the man since he'd, well, died, and Eragon still hadn't forgiven himself for letting that happen; still blamed himself for the man's death. And he was angry, more frustrated than he thought he'd be when he tried to work out his emotions—he'd left Carvahall only because he was confident Brom would stay and watch over it. And he'd told Islanzadí where to find Arya because he was certain she'd send elves to rescue her.
How had Islanzadí even reached him? Eragon thought, not for the first time. The first day they'd started their journey, all four of them had been in high spirits, despite Eragon's own lack of sleep. Once in the air, he and Saphira had listed with rapt, enthusiastic attention as Oromis and Glaedr—in sense-memories—detailed their route northwest over Du Weldenvarden then south along the Spine until they reached Leona Lake, where they'd wait for Brom. It had seemed like a simple enough route, and Saphira had flown just as far, if not further, before...in the last Aptr-moi, if one wanted to call it that.
He and Saphira had debated referring to it that way, after Blagden had squawked the words at them, but it still felt strange to give what had happened a name; naming things, especially in the ancient language, gave them power, and Eragon didn't know if he wanted to give that incident any more power than it deserved.
Before Eragon had fully dragged himself beneath Saphira's wing, he saw Oromis nod and begin to rise, Glaedr rushing over to help him stand. Eragon frowned; perhaps they should’ve argued harder against their plan... When was the last time they had flown this far together? What if—?
Eragon, I said leave it! Saphira snapped at him, her belly vibrating with a low growl as he settled against it. She was more tired than she'd let on before, but he didn't push her about it; if Saphira wanted to use this as a test for herself, he would let her. He didn't think he could stop her, even if he wanted to.
I love you, he thought as he felt sleep begin to overtake him. Her growling shifted, stuttering, to a hum, and lulled by her heat and rumbling, he let go of consciousness.
The remainder of the journey was spent in contemplative silence as Glaedr wrapped Saphira in his mind to guide her as they flew, and Eragon and Oromis exchanged few words so as to avoid distracting them. Still, Eragon could feel the longing nostalgia from the elf as they looked down on Alagaësia from high above, using magic to hide themselves when the clouds became too thin to do so. Oromis had brought Naegling, strapped proudly to his waist and thigh, though Eragon still supplied much of the energy required for the spells. He tried to imagine what he'd do in Oromis' position, if he'd been away from the greater expanse of the land for so many, many years, and reluctantly, Eragon thought of Angela's prophecy.
The only conversation he and Saphira had shared at any considerable length was concerning Glaedr, after they'd angled south along the Spine and she no longer needed such intense guidance.
He didn't give us his Eldunarí, Saphira had said, shielding their words from their teachers. Eragon had blinked at that, in the middle of applying more nalgask to the wind and friction burns on his knuckles and cheeks, and he absently ran the tips of his fingers along his gedwëy ignasia.
No, he said at last. I...something felt different this time. I didn't even realize. Oromis didn't give me the Belt of Beloth the Wise, either.
Saphira hummed consideringly, loud enough that he could feel the sound beneath him. He's overconfident, she said, and Eragon felt the mental equivalent of a frown in their bond.
Who, Oromis?
No—well, yes, him, too—but I was speaking of Glaedr.
Eragon tucked the pot of nalgask back into the inner pocket of his thick, draped tunic and hunched forward over the saddle; the winter chill was always worse when flying. What makes you think that? he asked. He had noticed it, too, but he wanted to know what Saphira had seen in Glaedr's mind before making anything like a judgement of the other dragon.
She snorted, a puff of smoke blowing back around him, and Eragon was grateful he'd already hidden himself from the wind. He and Oromis have been keeping track of Alagaësia over the years, but not close enough. There's so much different in the way the peoples here interact with one another, and I think we spent too little time explaining that to them...that they may not receive the warm reception they subconsciously expect...that the elves are as mistrusted as they mistrust others themselves.
That's fair, Eragon allowed. Had he been too trusting with Arya, before? Had he simply wanted to trust her, as he'd seen her in his dreams?
And their strength... Saphira continued with a deepening worry in their bond that Eragon allayed with comfort and understanding. They are experienced, she conceded. But experience does not equal ability.
Eragon did not want to admit that truth to himself, despite how true it was for both dragons and their Riders. I suppose... he started, sighing aloud, I suppose you're right. Do we have the appropriate level of apprehension? Have we been cautious enough?
No, she said, but we don't have a choice. They do.
I see, Eragon said, and he understood where her worry came from. That Glaedr had not given them his Eldunarí meant that he and Oromis were absolutely certain they would all be meeting again, or that Eragon and Saphira were completely prepared to face a much-changed future. That they wouldn’t need the dragon’s power, though they’d certainly needed it before. And while Eragon didn't doubt that they would see the other dragon and Rider again, it still spoke of a level of confidence that was perhaps unearned, given how their teachers' last foray outside of Du Weldenvarden had gone. Was that what they had been arguing about? It still feels unfair to think about, though.
It does, Saphira had said sadly before narrowing her mind back to flying.
Eragon let his world shrink into a routine of silent flying and uneasy resting, where he'd stretch with Oromis before taking to the air again and distracted himself from his impending meeting with his father by playing round after round of 'The Green Glass Door' with Saphira until he could fall asleep when they landed. Saphira had gone so far as to teach Oromis and Glaedr the rules of the game, and Eragon spent their last day traveling listening to a three-way mental stream of, 'all but not one,' and, 'waterfall but not stream,' and, 'moon but not sun,' until he regretted having ever met a dwarf. No matter how or how many times he asked for the answer to the riddle, Saphira refused to tell him.
Still, Saphira's exhausted joy was enough to keep his spirits buoyed, and when Leona Lake came into view, he nearly wept with relief. It was just past midday, and Saphira chuffed with delight, biting back a roar. She pumped her wings harder, and Eragon had to bend forward against the force of the wind to stay upright, instead of sprawled backward along the saddle. As she passed Glaedr and Oromis, the elf shot them an odd grin, and Glaedr nipped at the tip of her tail.
Be careful! the dragon warned, though he didn't command them to return to his side as Eragon had expected he would.
Instead, satisfaction bloomed in his and Saphira's bond as she said, I will, ebrithil! before she flew faster, panting with the effort. Eragon rushed to word a complicated spell to hide her better as she dove out of the sky, toward the lake. The drain left his bones aching with icy fire, and he nearly passed out as the edges of his vision turned dark. In their bond, Eragon wordlessly urged Saphira to stay close to the mountains to better blend in with as they descended.
The closer they got to the ground, the slower she flew until, almost delicately, she alighted on the ground, tucked into a valley-like dip between two foothills of the Spine where the shore of Leona Lake curved toward them a dozen feet away. Around them, tall pines climbed up the inclines, giving them a bit of shelter, and Eragon and Saphira both sent Glaedr and Oromis their location. They received a faint acknowledgement and, satisfied, Saphira turned her gaze from the sky to Eragon, her eyes wide and pleading.
The saddle, she said, please!
Eragon chuckled, knowing she meant to make for a swim in the lake, then unstrapped his legs and slid down her side. His knees buckled immediately, and he sucked in a too-deep breath that left him barely aware of his surroundings around the tingling in his head, startled when Saphira nudged his shoulder with the tip of her snout.
'm okay, he assured her. I was...bending the light a...a different way. He didn't have the wherewithal to word it any better, so he sent her images from his own imagination of how tiny strands of light would weave around her belly before returning back up into the sky, hiding the faraway silhouettes of both her and Glaedr from anyone on the ground, versus how he had just done it, bending the shadows cast by the Spine around her and holding them in place on her left side to hide her from view.
She kneaded the ground, agitating the inches-thick bed of pine needles. ...is it that much different? she asked.
Eragon shrugged, leaning against her and scratching her jaw. You could take it off yourself, he said, and he was thankful for their bond so that she knew exactly what he was talking about.
I wouldn't want to break the saddle, she said, and his mind was filled with her equivalent of laughter. We still have much more flying to do.
Eragon shrugged again, then pulled himself off the ground, groaning. Saphira backed away, lifting one foreleg so he could reach the buckles of the saddle underneath her. The moment it was off, she shuffled her wings aggressively, humming. Then she butted her head against his back, almost knocking him over, and she loped away to disappear beneath the water. He could feel her pleasure in their bond, and he sat, leaning against the saddle with his eyes closed as she shared her sight with him.
He had fallen into a light doze by the time Oromis and Glaedr joined them, the golden dragon awkwardly perched on one of the foothill ridges. Eragon rose and watched Oromis gracefully descend from his own saddle, Glaedr already taking deep breaths as he surveyed the mountains, likely looking for a meal. Saphira, still swimming loops under the water, shared that she, too, would need to eat soon, and she began making her way back toward them to join the dragon in his hunt.
"This is a nice place to camp," Oromis said as he slid the last few feet down the incline. He nodded toward the lake, one eyebrow raised, and Eragon nodded.
"She's on her way back," Eragon said, feeling the need to excuse Saphira's absence. She had always preferred swimming whenever given the chance, but Eragon wasn't sure how... common that was among dragons. The Eldunarí had never said, and he was too embarrassed to ask.
Oromis nodded, though, and didn't question it further. He looked out across the lake, where he could likely see Dras-Leona on the distant shore, given his elven sight. Eragon tried not to let the longing and jealousy he felt for his own lost abilities linger too much, and, without anything else to speak of, he sat again, stretching out his legs and massaging the sides of his thighs where they ached the worst.
He jumped when Oromis knelt beside him; was he not going to speak with Brom this time? Eragon bit his lip, feeling anxiety clawing at his stomach, making his heart rate pick up considerably. He took a deep breath, held for several rabbit-like heartbeats, then let it out and returned to his stretching.
"How are you feeling?" Oromis asked quietly. "Do you feel ready?"
"I could ask you the same thing, ebrithil," Eragon said, shooting him a quizzical smile, which Oromis returned with more grace and patience than Eragon ever thought he'd possess himself.
"Glaedr and I have spent a long time thinking about this day," Oromis said, somewhat wistfully. "About the future of the riders and," he sighed, "what it would be like to train the next rider." He looked at Eragon, a strange emotion playing on his face that Eragon couldn't read. "And it seems as though we missed our chance to do so. In this time, at least."
"Oh," Eragon frowned, not knowing what to say. He almost felt like...apologizing.
"But still, I cannot help feeling no small amount of pride, looking at the two of you and seeing, through your eyes, all you have done. Knowing that we helped in that..." Oromis trailed off again, looking down. "It makes us want to do more. When we discussed how we would approach training another rider, we...we still planned on staying in Du Weldenvarden afterward. It is...frightening...to leave," Oromis confessed, and, feeling bold, Eragon placed a hand on the elf's shoulders.
"It is," Eragon said, leaning forward so that he could look Oromis in the eye as he spoke. Oromis smiled then, gratefully, and Eragon sat back, taking his hand away.
They sat in companionable silence as Eragon continued to stretch, and Eragon relished in the time spent with his teacher at his side. When Saphira breached the surface of the lake near them, she shook herself like a dog, then began sprinting between the pine trees to Glaedr's side, tearing up clawfulls of green and brown needles. The two dragons took off for the higher peaks of the mountains with a distracted, Be right back! from Saphira. Eragon and Oromis shared an amused look before returning to themselves.
He could feel Saphira's joy in the hunt through their bond, and Eragon let the feeling invigorate him. When he felt a burst of surprise from her, he poked at her mentally. Is something wrong? he asked.
No, she said. Well, most likely not. It's just...Brom is coming around the bend near the shore. And it appears he has a companion.
A what? Eragon asked, making to stand. Beside him, Oromis looked up, concerned, and Eragon shook his head. "Is Brom traveling with company?" he asked the elf.
A companion, I don't know how else to describe it, Saphira said, pulling away to continue hunting just as Oromis said, guiltily, "...yes."
Eragon very narrowly avoided glaring at the elf, and instead turned to the shore. Oromis stood, too, and clasped his hands together in front of him. When Brom came into view, Eragon felt like he was going to be sick with nerves. A chill ran up his spine and his scalp tingled. He could feel himself flushing, though he wasn't embarrassed.
I should have spoken with him before, he thought, regret making his palms burn. Saphira didn't respond, but he appreciated the comfort she sent his way.
"...ebrithil," Brom said, looking only at Oromis, and Eragon felt his heart jump at the man's voice. It sounded exactly as it had a year ago. Why had he expected it to be...different now? Because he knew Brom's secret?
"Brom, it's so good to see you," Oromis said, stepping forward to the man. Awkwardly, Eragon remained standing in the same place, unable to force his body to move.
That's my father, he thought, almost manically. I get to meet my father again. Over Oromis' shoulder, Brom's gaze shifted slightly, and now they were looking right at each other. Eragon's heart stopped, and ice spread through him. He felt the absurd desire to hide.
Brom did not look happy to see him. Though, Brom had always had a gruff, unforgiving demeanor.
It did not help.
Just as quickly, Brom looked away and smiled as he and Oromis began speaking. There was a sense of relief to the man that made very complicated feelings stir within Eragon. Had he ever made Brom feel something so close to peace?
He had truly forgotten Saphira's warning in his tangled thoughts and feelings, and when another hooded figure appeared around the bend, Eragon reached for Laufsbläd-kodthr. The figure was tall, wearing a thick, dark cloak. Their hood produced a deep shadow that made Eragon very afraid. Who would Brom have joining him with such an intimidating silhouette? Surely it couldn't be Jeod, the only person who Eragon knew Brom was on somewhat-friendly terms with?
The figure seemed to notice Eragon's hand on his weapon, halfway out of its sheath, and they, too, reached for the sword on their belt. Quickly, Brom and Oromis both gestured placatingly at the figure, and they dropped their hand, frustrated. When Oromis shot Eragon a look over his shoulder, Eragon released his grip on Laufsbläd-kodthr as well, still unable to walk forward. After a few more words, too soft for Eragon to hear, the figure shook their head and reached for their hood.
Eragon felt the burn of tears in his eyes and a fierce, sharp shock like an arrow through his chest. In the distance, Saphira turned back to their hiding spot, her hunt abandoned to be at his side, and Eragon couldn't even turn her away.
The hood fell around the figure's shoulders and Eragon held his breath as the figure glared at him, contempt and mistrust and disgust on her face.
Arya had never looked at him like that before.
Notes:
As an avid conlanger myself, I tried my best. Please enjoy seeing my own additions to the ancient language. Translations here:
lram | wood, from hand + tree
Laufsbläd-kodthr | literally ’leaf-catcher’
Chapter 6: Be Not: Part Five
Notes:
Everyone give it up for my spouse for finally, after months of pushing, rereading the series and beta-reading this! He also helped with the pacing for a big chunk at the end of this chapter, so thank you!! I wasn’t expecting it to be so long, but I can’t say I’m mad, eheheh ☆
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
inside the room: ghosts retrieved from an endless place of waiting—
Eragon could scarcely recall the details of what happened after Arya had pulled down her hood. After she had measured him with so sharp a gaze. After she had judged him as less. After that look of disgust. His head swam and he barely registered that Oromis was beckoning him over; his feet took him there, but it was of their own volition, not his. The elf had a pained and pleading look on his face, but all Eragon could muster was a shake of his head. Thinking, just thinking , certainly not panicking.
I am almost there, Saphira said, and the time seemed to pass like a dream as she flashed overhead and dropped to the ground beside him with such force that the dirt and pine needles trembled beneath their feet. The scales along her neck and shoulders rippled with agitation. Eragon nearly fell to his knees at the impact, but Saphira was there, pressing her snout against his chest to hold him up. She stared at him with wide blue eyes that spoke of a similar pain; in their hearts, she and Eragon were like the same being, and she could not help but take any judgement against him as one against herself as well. I am sorry, she said, and Eragon was sorry, too. Once again, they were both forced to acknowledge that nothing, no person, was the same anymore. The urge to rebel against it even stronger now that they had had such a break from the incongruity of it all in Ellesméra.
But still, Eragon simply could not fathom an Arya who looked at him like that.
They let Oromis make their introductions for them because, really, there was nothing else they could do. Saphira kept Eragon wrapped up, shielding him with her body and her mind as he, eventually, allowed himself to exist in a world where both Brom and Arya could look at him with those expressions.
It seemed so dramatic, looking back on it with a fews days of actually interacting with the two of them. But in the moment, Eragon had almost felt it was not worth it to continue on with their quest, wordlessly willing Saphira to spirit him away on her back as she had done when the Ra'zac had attacked Carvahall. But she, ever their voice of reason, made him stay.
When Glaedr returned from his hunt, licking blood from his mouth, he lowered his head to look Brom and Arya in the eye. Eragon wasn't privy to what words passed between them, but they seemed to relax minutely, and finally Brom looked Eragon in the eye and held his gaze for a long, tense moment. Eragon couldn't help noticing Brom's eyes flitting to the side of his face and, embarrassed, Eragon slapped a hand over his gedwëy ignasia, leaning more heavily on Saphira. He didn't know what Saphira could feel or sense from the man, but she began to growl softly, low in her throat, and Brom returned to speaking with Oromis, eyebrows furrowed.
Arya approached them then, bowing before Saphira and introducing herself in the ancient language. Saphira uncurled her neck from around Eragon long enough to give Arya a contemptuous sniff before nestling her head back at Eragon's side. It was warm in Saphira's embrace and distractedly, Eragon asked her about her abandoned hunt.
I will be fine, little one. Once you are gone, I shall hunt again. Glaedr shared with me the hiding places of several deer-herds in the mountains. I will not struggle to feed myself.
He wanted to ask how she was feeling, but in his mind she swept the thought away, instead pressing warm reassurance toward him.
He was pulled from his whirling thoughts when Oromis approached, grasping Eragon by the shoulders with a firm grasp. "Good luck," he said, determined, though in their minds the elf said, It is a gift. You will survive this, Eragon-finiarel. Then he backed away, ascending to the saddle on Glaedr's back, and they were gone. At least, later, that was all Eragon could remember of their departure.
Eragon couldn't bare to watch their teachers’ depart, knowing he’d been left alone with Brom and Arya, and without Glaedr’s Eldunarí. After several tense heartbeats, Saphira uncurled herself once again to face their new companions, letting out a deep rumble and a breath of smoke. Beneath his hands, her flanks were trembling. Greetings, Brom Holcombsson and Arya Dröttningu, she said, glaring at each of them in turn. Please assure me that my Rider will be safe in your care. She had not said it as a question, and Eragon was filled with both self-shame and immense gratitude for her words.
"He'll be fine," Brom said, after clearing his throat, looking quite shaken at Saphira's formal address. He nodded first to Saphira and then Eragon himself. "He will be."
Arya remained silent.
Before they left for Dras-Leona, Eragon begged a few moments to re-saddle Saphira; given their experience, she reasoned that they'd likely need to make a hasty escape, and riding without a saddle—or having to leave it behind —would not be in their best interest. Brom made an aborted protest, just a soft sound from the back of his throat, and Eragon gave him a questioning look over his shoulder as he worked the many buckles and straps under Saphira's forelegs.
"Are you… Should you be..?" Brom asked, and both Saphira and Eragon snorted.
"She can take it off herself just fine if there's an emergency," Eragon said with a little more venom than he'd have liked, and Saphira hissed, her tail sweeping back and forth in great arcs behind her.
Do not think so low of me, Holcombsson, she said. Brom refused to speak again until they had trecked halfway around the lake and made camp for the night, and even then he simply complimented Eragon on Saphira's strength and beauty which, amused, Eragon passed on to her, much to her delight.
Several days of tense traveling and sharing a room had shown Eragon that the man was simply too unwilling to display any emotion aside from a long-suffering weariness. Arya had been...another issue, one that Eragon had no idea how to broach, but he would take her indifference over her blatant revulsion. Still, it made working together exceedingly awkward and tedious. Eragon spent most of his time talking to Saphira about anything and everything that came to mind, and she did the same; she descrbed to him the mountains where she was hidden and the deer and other animal trails she discovered while slinking between the tall pines, or even the fish that would dart around her beneath the lake. Eragon was particularly amused when she shared her sight with him during her swims, though the twisting un-gravity of it made his stomach turn enough times that she stopped, instead sharing it with him in as much detail as she could with her words.
I...I think I'm seventeen now, Eragon thought to Saphira as he laid out his bedroll on the floor between the two beds; it was his turn to switch with Brom, as they had been doing every night for the last few nights. They'd silently agreed to let Arya keep her own bed when they'd unlocked the door to their room at the Golden Globe, the same inn he and Brom had stayed at before, to find only two beds. The old man had shared a look with him as Arya brushed between them to claim one of the two that made Eragon think, naively, that they had a chance at a better relationship this time. But then, of course, the man had grunted as he pushed past Eragon, all-but throwing himself on the other bed, eyes already closed.
Hm, Saphira replied, her voice as strong as ever in his mind, though she had remained behind in the dip of the foothills that they had stopped at, on the other side of Leona Lake. I suppose that would make me...two? Eragon could feel her snort with laughter in his head. That sounds so silly, though.
Aye, I — He trailed off, momentarily distracted by Arya’s return to their room. For the last several hours she had been seated in the corner of the bar downstairs, gathering what scraps of information she could. Brom had claimed to be doing the same when he left, but he had yet to return. Eragon glanced at the candle, now half-gone, on one of the bedside tables. — I know what you mean .
Their work so far had consisted of visiting various inns and taverns in Dras-Leona and sort of...waiting around...until information either presented itself or it didn't. And the fact that it hadn't only served to worsen their moods. As such, he, Brom, and Arya tended not to speak unless one of them found it necessary, and Saphira's conversational distractions helped Eragon to feel more grounded.
As expected, Arya gave Eragon a tense nod as she shut the door behind her, eyes flashing in the flickering candlelight, and made her way to the other side of her bed with her head down. He was torn between his desire to speak with her and his desire to lash out, but either way, it wouldn't be the same— she wasn't the same. Instead, he pulled off the leather band holding back his over-long bangs and combed his fingers through his hair.
Do you think I should at least try talking to her? Eragon asked Saphira as he lowered himself to the floor, snagging the spare blanket from the foot of Brom's (for the night) bed.
I do not, Saphira said, and through their bond, he could feel that she was also bedding down for the night. You have a way of... she trailed off, and Eragon frowned despite his amusement.
Yes, yes, I'm a blockhead, that's well-established at this point, he said with a put-upon tone. He couldn't help sighing out loud, trying to sell his act, even though he knew Saphira could tell it was only a joke. His head jerked up when Arya's bed creaked and, over the edge, he could see her staring at him with narrowed eyes. He opened his mouth to explain that he and Saphira were just having some fun at his own expense, then closed it, shaking his head. Why bother? When Arya turned away, he didn't know if he felt better or worse.
He could feel Saphira's trepidation. It'll be okay, she said, not for the first time. This is a strange situation; you cannot blame either of them for their feelings about it.
I know... Eragon tried not to pout as he laid down. He didn’t particularly want to blame himself, either.
He was nearly asleep when the door to their room banged open and Eragon wrestled himself out from under the blanket and into a crouch, Vanir's dagger-sword drawn in his off-hand. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arya sit up in bed, though she appeared more annoyed than frightened. Eragon lowered the sword as Brom's silhouette came into focus, hunched over in the doorway. He was wet, his cloak audibly dripping onto the uneven wooden floor and Eragon belatedly realized it must have started raining shortly after he'd nodded off. It's better than snow, he thought, and he could feel Saphira stir without waking at the end of their bond.
"You," Brom grunted, and Eragon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Y-yes..?" he choked, slipping Vanir's sword back into its sheath. He turned his head toward Arya and found her looking at him, too. He imagined he must look as confused as she did.
Brom remained silent as he entered the room, letting the door slam shut behind him before he locked it. As he removed his cloak and hung it on one of several mismatched hooks on the wall, he jerked his head at Arya. "Set some wards, would you?"
Immediately, Arya began whispering in the ancient language, too soft for Eragon to hear the shape of, but the sound of her voice still brought him some strange comfort. He looked back to Brom. The man waved a hand about the room, muttering to himself, and the candle on the low bedside table flared back to life. In the half-light, Brom's scowl was deeper than ever.
"I've been following several boys matching the description you gave me all day, and none of them were Morzan's son," Brom growled, still standing, and Eragon awkwardly rose to his feet as well.
"I'm...sorry..?" Eragon said, still sending Arya sidelong glances.
"I'm exhausted, and this is getting us nowhere," Brom said, not meeting Eragon's eyes. "What you've given me isn't enough."
"I..." Eragon trailed off, stifling a yawn; he really had been mostly asleep.
Be calm, little one, Saphira said then, and he nearly flinced in surprise; he hadn’t realized she’d woken up. Eragon ducked his head, not knowing where to look to afford himself some privacy; Brom stood in front of him and Arya sat to the side. He supposed he could look out the window, but turning his back on them would feel...rude. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes, Saphira offered, You could share with them your memories of Murtagh? Eragon considered it for a moment, ignoring Brom as the man began pacing across the room.
There's...things I don't want them to see, though... Eragon said, and the thought of Arya or Brom being privy to any of Murtagh's terrible deeds made his heart race. What was the point of saving Murtagh now if they would want him to pay for crimes he had yet to commit?
I will shield them, Saphira said as she shared with him her own, similar concerns.
...Okay, Eragon relented after a moment, thanking Saphira for her help. He could feel her pressing into his mind, and he let the paltry shields he'd constructed during his stay in Ellesméra fall enough to let her isolate all of Murtagh's worst; the Battle of the Burning Plains, what he'd been made to do to Oromis and Glaedr... When he felt ready, holding a memory of his brother's tense-but-open smile at the front of his mind, Eragon said, "I could... I have memories of him I could show you? If that would help?"
Brom and Arya shared a look before they both slowly nodded at him. "Yes, that...thank you," Brom said with only a bit of hesitation. He moved to sit on the other bed as Arya shifted herself closer. A bit awkwardly, Eragon looked from side to side, again lost for where to place himself between them.
"So, I'll just..." he trailed off, sighing softly and closing his eyes. Together, he and Saphira expanded themselves until they could feel the jagged edges and enchanting music of Brom’s and Arya’s minds, until they felt them latch on to the memory Eragon was offering up, until their minds, hungry for information, tore into it with a subconscious hunger. Eragon winced at the force with which they devoured the memory, turning it around in their minds, affecting the angle, trying to gather as much as they could about the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn. He tried in vain to maintain his grasp, and even as he could feel the tide breaking to summon up the memory of Murtagh being arrested upon their entry to the Varden, Saphira was there to hide the faces of all but his brother.
It's okay, it's okay, she repeated to him, trying to soothe the pain in his head.
"What was that?" Brom barked, distracting Eragon enough that a memory from the Burning Plains sprang forth, Murtagh with Zar'roc raised above his head. All Saphira could do was hide the shape and colour of the sword.
"...misunderstanding," Eragon said through clenched teeth. "Is that enough? I—" he choked, unable to finish speaking. Hrothgar's death had appeared in his mind, and his head ached with pressure as Saphira worked to hide both Thorn and the the dwarves in the memory. All that was left was Murtagh from the torso up, a look of disaffected rage on his face. It felt as though Eragon's entire self was being pressed through a sieve, and he collapsed onto one knee.
"If there's more, you should—"
"No," Arya said, pulling her mind away. Brom's followed after a too-long moment, and Eragon panted, trying to breathe through the pain. "Look at him," she said shortly over his head, "he's bleeding."
"I am..?" Eragon gasped, and he could feel a trickle of something warm and wet leave his nose. "Oh," he said dumbly. He looked up at Brom. The man sniffed, Eragon guessed, reflexively, and Eragon hurried to wipe away the blood with the sleeve of his tunic; the blood that had already reached his lips tasted of wrong.
Are you alright? Saphira asked carefully, her voice hardly a whisper, though it still made Eragon flinch.
I will be, he frowned. "Was that enough?" he asked again, unable to keep the anger and exhaustion out of his voice. Brom stared down at him, his gaze softer now.
"Yes," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "...thank you," he added, nodding toward Arya. "You?"
"It was plenty, Eragon, thank you," she said quietly, and when Eragon turned to face her, her expression was unreadable. She and Brom shared another look before, silently, she laid back on the bed. Eragon turned his head to see Brom reaching to put out the candle, and then heard him settle onto his bed in the darkness. Squeezing his eyes shut, Eragon pawed at the floor until he located the spare blanket, and then he, too, allowed himself to rest.
Are you sure you're okay? Saphira asked, only the faintest hint of her worry colouring their bond.
Eragon pulled the blanket up over his head. I'm fine, he said, though they both knew that was only a wish. Unable to calm himself, Saphira shared her view of the night sky with him, and she and Eragon watched the stars arc above them until he could no longer stay awake.
In the morning, he woke to the sound of Brom and Arya's quiet conversation in the far corner of the room, next to the ancient dresser they'd been told they could store their things in during their extended stay in Dras-Leona. Eragon almost let himself go back to sleep, too embarrassed to face them, but Saphira nudged him in his mind, saying, I will be with you. Then Eragon sighed heavily and dragged himself to his feet; sleeping on the floor did nothing pleasant for his neck and back. As he grabbed his own cloak from the row of hooks by the door, fastening it tightly around his shoulders, Brom and Arya moved to join him. He watched them approach from the corner of his eye, trying not to let himself be intimidated.
"So, the..." Eragon started, clearing his throat. "...The same as yesterday..?"
Arya looked away, seemingly annoyed, and Brom nodded. "You've given us enough, I think, to better find him." Brom turned a scowl toward the door. "If he's here, that is..."
Then the three of them set off, locking the door behind them as they made their way to the stairs that led down to the small tavern. Before they reached the door to Dras-Leona, Brom held Eragon back with a hand on his shoulder. Eragon felt his heart race as he turned to meet Brom's pained gaze. "What is it?" Eragon asked; Brom was looking more through him than at.
Brom opened his mouth, took a breath as if to speak, then closed it again. He looked briefly toward Eragon's face then sighed, gesturing to his own.
"Oh," Eragon said slowly. It felt as though his bones were charring themselves, he was so hot from embarrassment. He could feel himself flushing, made worse by the fact that Brom was still staring vaguely in his direction. He felt like an idiot, or worse than, for having forgotten about the twisting mark taking up the lower left half of his face. Had his mind been that badly affected by the night before? He could feel his mouth twitching as he thought, viciously and vainly, Nobody even knows what it is! Why does he care!? Is it that much of an embarrassment to have a son with...with... And what if it was just a scar? Is it so bad my face is no longer unmarked? Have I shamed him that much!?
Saphira was listening, but she didn't comment, only sent him comfort and openness and acceptance.
I shouldn't have to hide it, he thought pointedly. Oromis had never commented the accidental placement of his gedwëy ignasia, not even once. None of his friends in Ellesméra had, not even... Not even Islanzadí!
No, Saphira said, sadness in her tone, she did not.
Eragon remained silent, still unsure of what to say to Brom. I think...I think I want to hit him for that, Eragon thought. In his mind, Saphira laughed, surprised, and Eragon continued, I don't think I've ever felt something like this before! He let her amusement slough away the worst of his shame and anger, and when he felt a little calmer, he said, I could be very mean to him right now, I think.
Oh, don't do it, Eragon, Saphira sighed, pleased with his bettering temperament. You'd only regret it later.
It was true; no matter how weary and unsettled Brom seemed now, Eragon still longed for a relationship with him.
Damn, Eragon cursed, quietly, even in his mind. He took a deep breath and whispered several sentences in the ancient language, casting a spell that would cause any onlooker's eye to slide from the mark on his face, assuming it to be a scar too tragic and awkward to ask about, thus leading them away from Eragon. It was less taxing than completely hiding it and, privately, Eragon wanted to maintain some semblance of his gedwëy ignasia, even if it happened to make Brom uncomfortable.
"Is that better?" he asked, feeling a cold sweat break out across his forehead from the drain the spell had had on him. It wasn't so drastic that he'd be completely useless on their search for Murtagh, but enough that he thought he might need to sit down on the stoop of the Golden Globe for a few moments after Brom and Arya left. He watched as Brom's eyes narrowed, finally giving him a proper look, before his eyebrows raised slightly and he began to turn away, his gaze unfocused. A heartbeat later, Brom whipped his head back around.
"Oh, that's..." he tilted his head, considering. "That's clever," he conceded. "Nicely done, Er..."
Well isn't that just great? Eragon frowned as Brom abandoned his praise and slid carefully past him and out the door, Arya right behind him.
Yes, I think I might need to have a talk with him once we're done here, Saphira said harshly, and Eragon agreed.
He took a fortifying breath then stepped outside, the morning light harsh and stinging as he squinted up at it. He raised one hand to shield his eyes and continued breathing, stepping back to lean against the doorframe of the Golden Globe. Saphira tried telling him to go inside and sit down at a table, but Eragon shook his head; the cool breeze blowing by was surprisingly refreshing. After a moment, he let his head hang down, bent over at the waist to stretch the backs of his thighs. When the door to the Golden Globe opened, a surprised patron of the inn-and-tavern stopped, checking if Eragon was alright, but when Eragon stood and they were able to see his face, Eragon's spell took effect and they slowly meandered away without another word. Eragon grinned.
It worked! he told Saphira, and she hummed in response. I didn't think it'd be so...efficient!
And it is quite clever, she said. Warmed from her praise, Eragon began walking, tying his hair back in a short tail at the nape of his neck with a bit of leather. He let his feet shuffle through the hard-packed dirt of the city streets and walkways, absently stretching out his mind in an imitation of one of Oromis' original lessons; of observing all. Though, there was much, much more to observe in a city as compared to a simple forest clearing. Still, Eragon let himself be pulled along by the feelings he encountered and kept his eyes open for anyone who looked like his brother.
It was an exciting prospect, getting to see Murtagh again. Perhaps more than they'd wanted to see Oromis and Glaedr, Eragon was eager to see his brother again, especially a version of him that hadn't been through so much, a version that would still be able to consider Eragon an easy friend to have.
What do you think they're doing? Saphira asked as he lingered on a busy, shop-lined street in front of a bakery.
Who? Eragon asked, licking a bit of honey from his fingers; he'd gone inside looking a warm reprieve from the winter air and to purchase a late breakfast with some of the crowns he still had left from Garrow. The shopkeep had taken one sideways look at his face, presumed him some sort of disfigured orphan, and simply given him the honey-laden bun. Eragon hadn't had the willpower to rebuke their generosity.
Our teachers, Saphira said. Eragon sent her a question of what she was doing, and she responded with the feeling of cool lakewater rushing past her scales. Eragon grimaced when he remembered that she was still wearing the saddle, but trusted Saphira enough to not damage it beyond repair. If anything, she might learn her lesson when the leather of it dried and hardened.
...I suppose they're not doing anything too bold, Eragon thought; he and Brom and Arya had been in Dras-Leona for nearly a week, but none of them had heard anything about a dragon suddenly appearing in the skies above Belatona. Are you able to speak with Glaedr at all? Eragon asked.
No, Saphira said, and Eragon could feel her distress. The only connection we had was a simple one, used only for navigating. Dragons do not... form bonds with each other the same way we do with our Riders...
Hm, Eragon replied, not knowing what he could say to comfort her. The fact that we haven't heard anything of them is good, though. It means they're being smart and staying safe.
Yes, they're bound to be more thoughtful than we are, Saphira reluctantly conceded. Though not for lack of trying on my part.
Well...fair, Eragon smiled as he agreed, and he continued his wandering around Dras-Leona. Occasionally, his mind would brush up against the faint music of Arya's and he would take that as the warning she meant it to be, turning his feet in another direction. As he walked, he let his mind continue expanding, absently monitoring his surroundings—the people he passed gave him a wide berth, thanks to the spell he'd cast—as he sank into Saphira's side of their bond, letting his eyes unfocus a bit while she shared her observations with him. Supposedly, there was some large fish at the bottom of the lake she'd only caught passing glimpses of as it darted away and below her; silvery-blue scales and a long, frilled tail. She was feeling restless today, eager to hunt for something new and she had no qualm letting Eragon watch. If anything, as he felt in her mind, she was eager to show off for him, performing spinning dives since he was not looking through her eyes and thus would not make himself sick.
Eragon could feel her wonder at him, how he could be perfectly comfortable with dives and flips in the air while they shared the same point of view, but when she was alone, under the water..? It's a balance thing, he said, having closed his eyes as he walked, uncaring if a passerby happened to give him a disapproving look he could only perceive from briefly touching their mind before they moved on, his spell hard at work. My mind might be wrapped up in yours, but my body still thinks it can feel the movement.
Well, that's dumb, Saphira said, sounding absurdly offended. Eragon laughed out loud at her tone, then gasped as Saphira's anticipation and instincts flooded his mind; she'd caught sight of the fish.
Oh! You have to show me! I've never heard of any fi—
He yelped, stumbling, and rapidly blinked open his eyes. He only narrowly caught himself before falling, arms windmilling as he stared down at the first of several white stone steps. Eragon, what is it? Are you okay?
Aye, I'm fine, I just... he trailed off, looking up.
He took one step back, then another, looking up and up. He wheezed out a breath, unable to draw another in around the tightness in his chest. All of his senses had abandoned him aside from sight—and what a sight it was. Horror clawed at his insides like a beast trying to escape from a cage, and Eragon would have bolted away as fast as his feet would carry him, if only they would obey his command to do so. He had no control over his own mind, which twisted and spasmed inside him, terrible memories of what had happened in the building in front of him looping in on themselves, only contained by Saphira's gentle, experienced touch.
...okay, it's okay, Eragon please, they're just memories, you're not there, it's not happening..! He was aware of Saphira speaking, though the words meant nothing. Only after the edges of his vision began to wobble did he realize that he needed to breath, and a great gasp of air managed to snap him out of the fear that had seized him. He spun around and ducked his head, taking another breath before he began to walk away from the cathedral where...where...
He pushed it from his mind; he did not need to involve himself in the Ra'zac. He did not need to involve Arya or, stars-forbid Brom with them in any capacity. That he had let himself be led there made terrible theories spin up in his mind, and he focused on Saphira's urgent voice in order to block them out.
I...I don't know what happened, he said to her. Why would I go there?
I cannot say, she said, concerned. He could feel her desire to fly to him, and he did his best to assure her that he was fine. He'd only reached the edge of the open square where the cathedral was located when a person limped past him, using a crutch in place of their missing leg.
They looked to Eragon, questioning, but his spell took effect again, and they glanced away quick enough that Eragon hardly paid them any mind. But when they looked back, a small, sick smile on their face that said, 'Come back, child, you've found the right place,' Eragon felt a shiver crawl up his spine, and he could not stop himself from running back toward the Golden Globe.
He slowed to a walk, mind numb, as the streets became more populated. Sorry, he said, staring at his boots has walked. He clenched and stretched his hands as he walked, longing to grasp Brisingr's hilt on his belt for comfort and assurance but, of course, it was not there—might not ever be there. I knew it was here, but I didn't think... Eragon sighed and shook his head. He was disappointed in himself for some unnameable reason; why would he go to the cathedral? Or, what had led him there? An answer to either question was too frightening to contemplate; it was easier to keep his mind as empty as possible, to put those thoughts in the chest in his mind until he could digest them later. Right now, he...he was deeply unsettled.
I am sorry, too, little one, Saphira said. I hate that we have to be apart right now.
Eragon agreed wholeheartedly, but the risk would not outweigh the benefit of having her near... It would be enough to carry her in his mind.
He let himself wander, more centered and aware this time. He'd reached a smaller market and Eragon let himself stop and look over several stalls, relaxing into the comfort Saphira sent to him. There was one stand with several thick books on display, and he couldn't help his curiosity, moving closer to run his fingers over the spine of one book. He was surprised to find that they were stories, rather than the informational or academic tomes he'd assumed them to be given their size. He shifted from one foot to the other, considering the pouch of coins tied to his belt. It wasn't the most appropriate use, but Garrow had given him the crowns with no instructions on how to use them and, besides...he needed the distraction.
"I have a lead," Brom said a few mornings later, rushing to make himself presentable and combing his fingers through his beard. He looked pointedly from Arya to Eragon and back again, not saying anything more.
Eragon glanced at Arya as well to find her raising one eyebrow at him; it seemed she didn't know what the man meant either. "...and?" Eragon prompted after several silent heartbeats, patience thin. His back ached worse from sleeping on the floor than it had from two weeks of riding on Saphira's back.
Brom scoffed, no more pleased with their arrangements and the various aches they provided, and said, " And you will be staying here. Both of you. I don't need any distractions."
Eragon didn't have the strength to protest, simply rolled his eyes as he grabbed the spare blanket from the floor and let himself fall into Brom's still-warm bed. He heard the man make another impatient noise while Arya presumably remained standing.
"Unless I'm caught, I'll be back this evening," Brom continued. "Hopefully with him in tow."
He speaks to me as though it pains him to do so, Eragon complained to Saphira, burying his head in the pillow. As though he can't stand to be around me.
"Caught?" Arya asked, her voice soft and serious.
Brom grumbled to himself for a moment, then said, "Poor phrasing." He puttered around the room, snapping wrinkles out of his cloak. "I saw several boys yesterday who, from a distance, looked like him, and one whose mind was well-shielded. I'd like to get a closer look this time, maybe speak to a few, and I'd rather not be worrying over you lot while I do."
Eragon pulled the pillow over his head. You have to stop pouting, little one. It's...unbecoming, Saphira chided him, no real heat to her voice. Eragon groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried not to let her words hurt. He knew he should be listening to Brom's plan, but he could only take so many awkward, painful conversations with the man. It made him feel terribly juvenile; he'd never acted this way with Garrow, but then...Garrow had never paced about pretending like he wasn't there while being so affronted by his presence.
There was the squeak of the floorboards, an awkward throat-clearing, and then the sound of the door opening and shutting. Eragon let himself pout for a few moments longer, than sat up, tossing the pillow to the floor. Arya stood at the foot of her bed, her fingers tapping rhythmically at the sides of her thighs. Her eyebrows were drawn together, mouth twisted at one corner as she stared at the door. She seemed on edge, more so than Eragon would have thought her to be. He watched her for several long moments, drawing up his legs and resting his chin on his knees. Her hair was wildly unkempt, fluffed up around her shoulders which made her silhouette more severe, and the morning light streaming through the window made her curls look like the same swirling ink he'd used to pen his poem for the Agaetí Blödhren.
I'm alone with Arya, he thought, and the realization made him flush. She still had not turned to face him, had not said more to him than necessary in all their time together, but still he felt his heart race. I have to say something! Saphira was silent, but he could feel her pressing against the back of his mind, a strong, warm comfort.
"Are..." he started, stopping to clear his throat. "Are you hungry..?" He tried to keep his tone casual, though it was anything but. Her head tilted toward him, considering, and he continued. "I was going to go downstairs and...eat," he flinched, embarrassed. "And you could come with me if you're...hungry," he finished. I sound like an idiot!
You sound perfectly reasonable, Saphira said, amused. He gave her a mental swat, and waited for Arya to reply.
After a moment, she did, saying, "...no. I'm fine, but thank you for the offer." Then she resumed staring at the door, tapping away with her fingers. It seemed an obvious dismissal and Eragon, fighting off annoyance at it, hurried to gather his things to leave as soon as possible.
He gave her a tense nod, new book tucked under his arm and a few crowns in hand, and left the room. He stood on the other side of the door after he'd closed it for a long time, taking deep breaths that were supposed to help calm him, and instead only served to make him light-headed. Saphira prodded at him when his stomach growled, and finally he set off down the stairs.
He managed to snag a small table tucked into a corner and, after trading a few coins for a serviceable if bland breakfast, he leaned back in the chair and continued reading. After more than one patron had passed by and stopped to give him an odd look, Eragon had set the same ward on himself that he had before, and nobody paused to stare at him again. Perhaps Brom had been right before, he reluctantly considered. The gedwëy ignasia wasn't recognizable as a symbol, but the shape of it was odd for what was supposed to be a scar.
The book he'd picked up was more engaging than he'd meant it to be, only looking for something to keep his mind occupied for a bit. It was long, and though the text wasn't overly advanced, Eragon still occasionally found himself stumbling over some words, so he'd taken to using a charcoal pen to scribble his thoughts and assumed definitions of words in the margins of the pages. The book was a made-up story about an elf, looking for a mythical island, though it had started to branch out into several other quests along the way. He'd been surprised by that, what with the reputation elves had among men; he'd been hoping to ask Arya about the story over breakfast, but...
Saphira had been politely interested in the book at first, too, but she listened and shared her own increasingly-frequent commentary with Eragon as he read. This had been the longest stretch he'd had to himself to read, and he found himself so engrossed in the story that he almost missed the influx of patrons that signaled the lunch hour. Eragon shut the book around his pen to hold his place—only a hundred or so pages in, his discussions with Saphira slowing him down—and hurried to purchase himself something to eat as well, returning the cup and plate he'd received his breakfast on at the same time. When he returned to the table after waiting his turn in line at the bar, ducking around the corner, he froze, nearly dropping the steaming bowl of vegetable stew he'd gotten for lunch.
Arya was sitting in his chair, the cover of the book lifted so that she could lean forward to skim over the first page. Her head was tilted to the side, letting her hair fall so that the length of her neck was exposed, though the fabric strip she wore to hold it back while in Dras-Leona still covered her pointed ears. Eragon swallowed. Carefully, he set the bowl on the table and pulled out the chair to her right. Arya did not look up, turning a page rather than acknowledge him…if she had even noticed him there.
He watched her read for a moment. What do I do? he asked Saphira, somewhat desperately.
I think you eat your lunch, she laughed. Eragon frowned, but did as she said. The stew was warm, which was a comfort, though a bit watered down and filled with sparingly seasoned root vegetables. After he managed a few bites, Arya pushed the book away and leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. Eragon gave her a look, one she didn't return and, shrugging, he pulled the book closer, opening to where he'd marked his place and continuing to read. At that point in the story, the elf Réol had just arrived in the port city, tasked with finding his mother's boat to journey across the sea with, and Eragon and Saphira continued their discussion on whether or not Réol's mother was even still alive—a point of contention in the story so far. He could feel Arya watching him, could feel her eyes on the mark on his face through his ward, but he managed to ignore her. But then, as he leaned forward to underline a particular sentence—he quite liked the description of the ships—Arya did something rather strange.
She hooked one finger over the rim of his forgotten bowl and slid it toward herself, peering into it consideringly. Then she grabbed the carved wooden spoon and, after wiping it with the hem of her tunic, took a bite. Eragon stared wide-eyed and unblinking at the page of the book, watching her from the corner of his eye. She paused for a moment, then swallowed and took another bite.
Oh. Oh, okay, Eragon thought. Sure. In his mind, Saphira was cackling so hard he thought he could feel the rumble of it from the other side of the lake. He tried to continue reading, but he felt captivated by Arya. She took two more quick, delicate bites, then pushed the bowl back to where it had been sitting beside the book. He thought she might be looking at him, but when Eragon tried to meet her eye, he found she was instead staring at his gedwëy ignasia again. He sighed, and looked back to the book. Réol had found a ship with sails woven in the pattern of mountains and—Arya made a small sound in the back of her throat. Eragon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment; of course she'd had to interrupt him there. He marked his place with his pen and closed the book, turning slowly to face her.
"Eragon," Arya said after a moment. He waited for her to continue, keeping his face calm. She sounded cautious and curious. "I was wondering if you could tell me about your dreams."
"My...dreams..?" As in, 'my hopes and dreams?' he wondered, confused.
"Of the future." She sounded embarrassed, like she didn't want to ask him but couldn't help doing so.
Oh. Eragon frowned. It was not a pleasant feeling, having lied to her. Or, well, having had Oromis and Glaedr lie to her. "What do you want to know? We fight the—" he dropped his voice to a whisper "— the Empire, a lot of people die, some people live, the end?" He didn't want to speak to her that way, but he couldn't help his frustration nor the vagueness with which he had to speak. "Sorry," he added, for good measure.
"You had dreams of me," she said. It wasn't a question.
He snorted. "I dreamt of you the most. It was...important that you were saved. Honestly, I..." he trailed off, sighing. "I would have died without you."
"In your visions."
"...yes, right," he said awkwardly, and Arya leaned back in her chair again, looking away. I don't like this, Saphira, it’s still lying to her. It feels wrong.
And you want to tell her the truth? Saphira asked.
I don't know, he confessed. That's what I'm struggling with here, I... Does she deserve to know the truth? I can't even say it in the ancient language, which I'm sure will go over great with her, and she's already so on-edge around me.
Saphira considered his words. I don't know either, little one. This Arya is hard to read.
Eragon snorted again. I think that might be an understatement.
What's the worst that would happen if you did tell her? Saphira asked, and Eragon thought for a moment.
She could kill me, he suggested, and he felt Saphira dismiss the thought from both of their minds with annoyance.
Please take this seriously, she said, chastising. She could think you unwell, and dismiss everything you say, though she wouldn't be able to deny the faith that Oromis and Glaedr have in us. So even if she has her doubts, they do not. She paused, then said, I think it would be worth the risk of her questioning us.
Eragon couldn't deny her reasoning. His relationship with Arya would never be the same, and he'd been struggling to accept that since seeing her again. This Arya would not meet him halfway from Helgrind just to make sure he made it safe back to the Varden, would not sit with him in front of a fire and cry as she bared her past to him and, oh, it was hard to accept that. Oromis had claimed this was a gift, that he could start again, but to Eragon it was not. He sighed, biting his bottom lip as he worked through his thoughts. It could...it could be a start, though.
"It's not...that I have visions," he said, not daring to look at Arya as he spoke. He kept his voice soft, as they weren't speaking in the ancient language; he doubted she even know he could speak it. "And I do dream sometimes, but not... Well, no, I did dream of you, I..." Eragon frowned. He glanced at Arya to see her staring at him, her green eyes wide and blazing. He quickly looked away to the wall opposite their table again. "It's not so much that I dream of the future as it is that I'm... from ...the...the future."
He continued looking forward, watching patrons coming and going from the bar as he waited, braced for Arya's response. When several minutes had passed with no words from her, Eragon reached for his bowl, taking a lukewarm bite. What do I do now? he asked Saphira, who'd been watching his confession from his mind.
I don't know, she said, sounding a bit offended at Arya's silence. I suppose we have no choice but to wait. What's she doing?
Eragon glanced at Arya. She was staring intently at her hands which we clasped together over her lap, fingertips tapping at her knuckles. Thinking, I guess?
Then waiting it is.
Eragon opened the book again and resumed reading, the bowl cool enough to hold in his right hand to drink from as he turned pages with his left. Réol hadn't found the ship his mother described in the letter she'd left him, too drawn to the ship with the mountain-patterned sails. Saphira thought that that ship might be the real ship left to him, but Eragon wasn't sure. Réol had just boarded it when a thin hand slid across the table and grasped his left wrist so tight he nearly tore out the next page.
"Eragon," Arya said, her tone forcibly light. "If you wouldn't mind, do you think you could...explain it to me?"
He blinked in surprise. "Explain what?"
Arya looked him in the eye then, a feral edge to her gaze. Her grip tightened on his wrist, so hard he could feel his bones shifting. "Everything."
"Yes, I— Okay, aye. I can do that," he said. There was something about her demeanor that frightened him, reminding him of her approach by the lake. Something that make him realize, not for the first time, that this Arya was very, very different. How was it she could be so familiar and yet so strange?
Well...she doesn't seem to doubt us, Saphira said wearily.
Arya did not release her grip on his wrist so, one-handed, he set his mostly-empty bowl on the table beside the book and once again marked his place in it with his pen. "I have to...take this back," he said carefully, motioning toward the bowl. Arya nodded and let him go.
She stood when he did and waited by the stairs while he tucked the book under his arm and carried the bowl and spoon back to the bar, leaving an extra crown beside them after the bartender gave him a friendly-enough nod. Then, she followed him up the stairs. The music of her mind was almost overwhelmingly loud; he hadn't even reached for her, but still it pressed in on the edges of his mind. When they reached their room, Arya stood in the center of it, watching him as he locked the door then set a few wards so they would not be overheard or interrupted. Again, he had to fight off an embarrassed flush at the implication of such a thing. When he'd calmed himself, in spite of a half-hearted attempt by Saphira at teasing him, he turned around.
Arya was frowning at him. She gave him a skeptical look then began whispering in the ancient language. When she finished, she looked up at him, surprised. "Oh," she breathed, nodding. "Good job."
Eragon didn't know whether he should be pleased or offended that she'd doubted his abilities, so he ignored it, instead sitting on the bed he and Brom shared as she sat on the edge of her own. Other than the creaking of the bed beneath him as he settled, tucking the book by his leg, the room was oppressively silent. Eragon could hear the chatter of people beneath the window, but through his wards, it sounded warped and muffled, as if they were under water. Even Arya's breathing was quiet, though he could see her chest rapidly rising and falling. Her body was as tense as if she were expecting a blow. It made something in his chest twinge; had her confinement been much different this time? He leaned back, braced on his hands, observing her.
She peered up at him through the curtain of her hair, her head bowed low. Her eyes were still fierce, though they shone in the midday light—was she close to crying? Eragon shifted awkwardly, waiting for her to speak. She had been of few words before, when they hadn't known each other as well, though perhaps not to this extent. Was she afraid of him? She seemed on good enough terms with Brom, insofar as she chose to travel with him to Dras-Leona instead of staying back to the Varden or going to Ellesméra. And she had to have known Eragon would be here, if his teachers had told Brom he would be. So why was she so weary around him? Comparatively, she was a fair bit taller than him, and his skills with magic were limited by his strength which was dwarfed by her own. Is she just afraid of what I know? he wondered. She still hadn't looked away from him, and he hadn't either, fully enraptured by the look in her eyes.
"Well?" she demanded at last, shaking her head and pulling her legs up to cross them on the bed. Her movement stirred up a small cloud of dust that fluttered in the light pouring in from the window.
"I...it's hard," Eragon said. Saphira was sending him encouragement, but otherwise left it up to him to share their tale. He bit his lip. No matter what had gone differently, it was still Arya, and his heart trusted her more than any other. "I don't know where to start, with you."
"You dreamed of me," she prompted.
"Yes, I did. You..." he sighed, deciding that there was no better way to start than with objective facts, rather than the story he'd told Oromis and Glaedr. "You traveled with Glenwing and Fäolin, carrying Saphira's egg." At the names of her companions, she flinched. "You were attacked by Durza, and taken prisoner. The spell you used to send Saphira's egg to Brom was...intercepted. And sent to me."
"By whom?" Arya asked, frightened. Her hands gripped at the fabric of her leggings over her knees. Eragon winced.
"That is...hard to explain. There is...so much more magic at play, and...I can show you another memory, if you'd like?"
She looked at him dubiously, but nodded. He closed his eyes and heard her let out a soft breath. With his mind, he reached out toward hers, the music of it playing at a frantic pace. He could feel his heart beat faster for it, and he kept his breathing deep and even. He felt her mind reach out to him and she held him in a tight, painful grasp. Shuddering, he drew up the same memory he'd shared with Oromis and Glaedr; the conversation he'd had with Glaedr, Solembum, and herself. He could feel Arya examining the memory, more gentle this time than she'd been with his memories of Murtagh.
"I see," she said, confused but intrigued, still holding him in her mind, just under the surface of the music that guided others away from it. There was a not-unpleasant tingle in his spine at the feeling. "I can feel it slipping away, but having the memory here, in my own mind, knowing that I was a part of it, it's...easier to hold on to."
"Yes, it was..." he shivered as she combed through the memory again. "It was a difficult conversation. But not unamusing." He heard her huff out a soft laugh, almost inaudible. The passersby beneath the window had thinned, and the sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears. "You'll forget once you let go of it, though."
"And I suppose I must," she sighed, though she didn't. "What else can you share?"
Eragon swallowed. He was glad Saphira hadn't elected to be a part of it this time, it felt...terribly intimate to share with Arya this way. He let his memories flow as he spoke. Like he'd done with their teachers, he told her about bringing Saphira's egg home without knowing what it was, her finally hatching. When he spoke of the gedwëy ignasia appearing on his hand, Arya stopped him.
"But— Your face..?"
Eragon flushed. "That was an accident, when she hatched again. We still had a bond, but neither of us thought to question why it was gone from my hand when I woke up."
"Strange," Arya murmured. He wasn't deep enough in her mind to know what exactly she was thinking, only that she was. "Please continue," she urged him.
He told her of the Ra'zac's attack on Carvahall, his and Saphira's escape, and their meeting with Brom. And he told her of the dreams he had of her, how he thought he'd imagined her and was shocked to find that he could scry her.
"I dreamt of you, too, of your presence near me," she said softly. Eragon's stomach tightened; he'd known that, she'd told him about it before. But he let her speak. "I thought it must have been a new deception to torment me, I...I couldn't tell what was real or not." He was glad his eyes were still closed, he didn't want to see the look on her face while she spoke of it. He could still remember the state of her when he and Murtagh had rescued her in Gil'ead, the wounds that had covered her back. He could feel her reaction to the memory from inside her mind, and under his breath, he swore for having showed her.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"No, don't," she said shortly. "Brom...wouldn't tell me how bad it was. I'm glad to know."
"That was...after longer, though."
"It still feels the same." He heard her shift on the bed. "Continue."
And so he did, wincing when he reached the part where they'd all nearly drowned trying to enter the Varden—willing to let her know the real truth of his experiences—and how Murtagh had been immediately sequestered into a cell.
"Why didn't I stop them?" she asked, and Eragon was immensely grateful she didn’t bring up the things Saphira had omitted the night before. "He'd just saved me, and he couldn't do any magic, could he?"
"Well, no," Eragon said. "But we had no way of really knowing that, and you hadn't had Tunivor's Nectar yet; you were still unconscious."
"But I could speak to you."
"...yes," Eragon said, and a thought flashed through Arya's mind, clearer than she'd perhaps meant it to be; Then there was no excuse... He frowned, but continued, describing the Battle under Farthen Dûr, and how he'd only managed to kill Durza after her and Saphira's intervention.
"...I was on her back..?" she whispered, and Eragon played the memory for her again, pushing away his own perception of the pain he'd been in so that she could watch it over and over, turning the memory around in her mind before letting it play out once more. He tried not to let his own feelings colour the memory too brightly; she'd looked as beautiful as she was terrifying while she and Saphira crashed through Isidar Mithrim, the pieces of the sapphire floating around them. To Eragon, the memory was more than precious; he carried it close to his heart as proof that someone—aside from Saphira—would go to such lengths for his benefit. He held the memory of Arya, disguised as a human in order to find him after Helgrind, in the same regard. And the other memory they shared in Dras-Leona, the one he couldn't stand remembering but still clung on to like a child would a particularly special bit of cloth.
"Do you want me to keep going?" he asked after another moment. Her pointed focus on the singular memory was starting to make his head and teeth ache.
"Please," she said softly, and he did. He got as far as his training with Oromis and Glaedr before he himself called for them to stop. He could feel Arya withdrawing from his mind slightly though not completely, and neither did she force him from her own. "What is it?" she asked.
Eragon refused to open his eyes. "It's embarrassing."
"Did you struggle badly?"
"Well..no more than you'd expect. It's only..." He could feel heat rising to his cheeks.
"It's about me," Arya guessed.
"Yes," he croaked.
"Hm. Tell me?" she said with force, though it came out sounding like a question.
It was harder to feel Saphira's presence while wrapped up in Arya's mind, though not impossible, especially when she nudged him so, and he could feel her impatient encouragement. "I...made a fairth. Please don't make me show you, it was awful," Eragon confessed in a rush.
It wasn't awful so much as it was...inaccurate, Saphira said to both of them, and then Arya did force him from her mind, leaving a burning pain in his eyes as she did. He collapsed back on the bed, the heels of his palms pressed over them, scrubbing at the pain.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice full of panic. "I didn't...I didn't expect that." She took two deep breaths, holding them for several seconds each, and said again, measured, "I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."
Eragon blinked his eyes open and saw her sprawled out as well, her eyes wide but her face otherwise expressionless. "It's okay," he said, slow and soft, as though he were speaking to a frightened animal instead of, well, Arya. "We can be done, if you want. I...I know it's a lot."
Apologize for me as well, please... Saphira said to him, and through their bond he got the impression of her kneading anxiously at the ground with her claws.
"Saphira is sorry, too," he said, watching as Arya struggled and eventually succeeded in regaining her composure. She sat up slowly, her head turned away.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You can keep going, but I think I'll not..."
"Of course," he said quickly. He'd really only been sharing the memories with her because she had let him stay in that small, calm space of her mind. Outside of it, he found he could think a little clearer, and he focused again on giving her the facts of what had happened to him, even pushing through when she demanded he explain himself for their falling out after the Agaetí Blödhren.
"Why would you do that?" she asked him, confusion warring with frustration on her face.
"...confess?" he asked, and she only rolled her eyes, forcing him to continue.
At the least, she seemed to appreciate his more objective approach to describing the events of the past year of his life, refusing to make any further comments when he described their journey back from Helgrind together, and Eragon tried not to let her indifference hurt. Her eyes hardened as he described Galbatorix's laughing, un-feeling soldiers, but seemed to ease when he told her about Roran and Katrina's wedding. She became uneasy when he told her how he and Saphira had gotten the brightsteel from the Menoa Tree, and she actually stood, staring open-mouthed at him when he told her how Rhunön had forged his sword through him. Though, she immediately sat back down, her head hanging low when he told her of Oromis and Glaedr's death, and how she'd slayed Varaug while he was incapacitated. She kept her head bowed as he finished with what had happened in the throne room; the spell Galbatorix had cast.
"I see," she said after a moment. When he opened his mouth to speak again, not knowing what to say, Arya held up a hand for him to wait.
Eragon watched her hunch in on herself, bringing her arms close to wrap around herself, her nails digging into the skin of her arms. He was too nervous to say anything, even to ask if she was okay.
She will be alright, Saphira said, though she didn't sound very confident. The sun had begun setting, and Eragon watched its descent through the window for a time. With nothing else to do but stare at Arya, he slid his book into his lap and resumed reading, though the words seemed to slip out of his head before he could fully process them.
When the last of the light had faded from the sky, Arya spoke, her voice harsh and dry. "What can I do?" she asked.
Eragon jerked his head up, the book nearly sliding to the floor. "What?"
What? Saphira asked, just as surprised.
"I...want to help you," Arya said slowly, carefully. Eragon could feel Saphira's apprehension in his mind as Arya continued, "I want..." She let her voice fade with a sigh.
"You can tell me," Eragon said, confused. "It's not like I've said anything worse to you..." he muttered, hoping she would at least smile at the joke. She didn't.
Arya took a deep breath, then said, "I was just curious, I...didn't know what to expect from you." She had turned the rest of her body away from him so that all he could see of her in the dim light was her profile, mostly hidden by her hair. But she shifted again, looking at him intensely with one visible, gleaming eye. "And I was afraid; afraid of the human Rider of unknown origins who demanded to speak with my mother, knowing exactly where I was because of dreams. It was...concerning...and..." She looked away, a pained expression on her face. "If I could trust you so much in another life, I suppose I don't have much of a choice to do so again."
"Arya, no—" Eragon tried to protest, but she continued on.
"Knowing that I could be saved so easily by some human child—or, children , in that life—it makes me feel as though my capture...has no meaning. What purpose did it serve, being tortured for information I never gave nor will give up if I could be taken away from it— again —so easily? And by you of all people? Why did any of that... happen to me?" She was looking at him again, the whites of her eyes so bright in the growing darkness. "I am afraid of you, Eragon Bromsson. You are an omen of terrible things to come." In his mind, she reached out to him with a confession of her own, nearly incomprehensible over the dreadful crescendo of the music:
I wish you had not saved me at all, and that I had died there, knowing that it would mean something.
Eragon, she is not well, Saphira said, frightened, but he pushed her away.
"I know," he said to both of them, swallowing the panic that rose up from his stomach at Arya's words. "I'm afraid, too. I want it to mean something, Arya, what happened to me—what happened to all of us. It's...horrible. All of it, just..." he choked over his words. Why would she have said that? "You don't have to do anything to help me," he said. "Just...heal. I'm here with you, and for the time being, we are both okay." He had stood as he spoke, and slowly, he edged his way to her side, holding her gaze all the while. He put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry for what happened to you, just so you know. You told me a little of it, before, of how bad it was. I knew it had affected you, but...when Murtagh and I rescued you, there wasn't time to think about it; to process it. I feel the same way, now, having...come back. Like there wasn’t time to dwell on those terrible things before, and now that there is… It’s difficult to even begin. And I know what happened to us isn’t the same, I know, I just...wanted to comfort you." He blushed as he finished. Arya glanced at his hand and he pulled it away, clenching it into a fist at his side.
"Thank you," she said, looking up at him oddly. "I still wish to help you, though. And I don't believe us sitting here wallowing in our own misfortune is doing much to stop Galbatorix. You said he'll find the Name of Names?" Eragon nodded, sitting back down on his and Brom's bed. Arya swore under her breath. "Then we need to be doing more."
You shouldn't do anything until Brom returns. Eragon, I know you don't wish to speak with him, but in this case, you must. She is...unbalanced. And I am afraid for her, Saphira said, her urgency making his skin itch.
Does she really seem so bad? he asked. I think maybe she just...never talked about it before. I mean, she talked about what happened, but not how it...made her feel?
He could feel Saphira reluctantly consider his words. I don't know, she said after a moment.
And I've certainly felt the same way at times, he added, feeling something close to shame for it. Sometimes one just...feels that way.
I still think you should talk to Brom, Saphira said. About more than just her.
Eragon bit his lip, thinking. "Do you think I should tell Brom the truth as well? About Murtagh…or Saphira and me..?"
Arya looked at him sceptically, her gaze lingering on the mark on his face before turning away. "...no," she said slowly. "You told Oromis and Glaedr everything, correct?" He nodded. "And they chose not to tell him."
That doesn’t matter, you should still talk to him! Saphira said, and her impatience stung at his mind. This is— You are being ridiculous! You cannot possibly be this infatuated with her that you would disregard logic so blatantly! What are you doing!?
I'm trying to help her! Eragon snapped. He was exhausted from speaking so long, from remembering so many painful things. And, c'mon, it's Arya we're talking about, she's always been...severe...
Saphira's end of their bond turned cold and Eragon shivered when he felt something like ice sliding down his spine. I think you are making a mistake. We shouldn't have left our teachers' sides, we should have stayed with them.
Eragon tried to reply, but Arya was speaking again, saying, "...and I understand how it is with a...difficult parent."
"Right," he huffed out a laugh. "We...did not make a good impression on Islanzadí."
Arya glanced at him, a smile, however small, finally easing some of the stress evident on her face. "So I heard."
She looked away again, and Eragon felt a little lighter; perhaps Arya had only needed to speak of it, to let her feelings on the matter out? Already, she seemed better for it, more like the Arya he'd known before. Could it really be so easy to slide back into her high regard? He felt absurdly proud of himself; he'd only needed to be a friend to her, and what was he doing now if not that? He held no hope that it would mean anything more, but still...it was her. And why Saphira refused to accept that he cared for her no matter what version of Alagaësia they were in frustrated him to no end. Hadn't they both cared about her, before? What he could feel from Saphira was a bitter, simmering anger and, inexplicably, it made him feel embarrassed. The longer he sat in the feeling, looking at Arya in the darkness, the more it gave way to annoyance until he finally stood, picking up his book which had fallen to the floor at some point he couldn't recall.
"I'm going downstairs to wait for Brom," he said, making for the door. He was stopped when Arya jumped from the bed, grabbing his wrist again.
"Wait, I..." She wouldn't meet his eyes, instead looking past their nearly-joined hands to the floor. "Do you think that, together, we could..." Arya growled to herself, shaking her head before staring down at him, eyes narrowed. "The Ra'zac," she said, "they're here, correct? And you fought with them?"
"Yes, I did. That was when Brom..." he trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Arya grimaced. "Then, together, do you think that you and I could do it? Without him?"
A chill ran down his spine. "Do...what?" he asked, afraid that he already knew what she was implying.
"Kill them. Now."
In his mind, Saphira roared her protest, and he winced, pressing his free hand to his head. "M-maybe..?" he offered.
No! You cannot!! Eragon, this is madness! Saphira cried.
He felt hurt that Saphira would doubt him. His thoughts whirled; he'd had such a hard time finding himself capable of much of anything, and now that he felt confident about something, even if it was only with the benefit of Arya's help, then... And how many times had she saved his life? How could Saphira... Arya was the reason they were bonded at all! If Arya thought them capable enough to bring down the Ra'zac now, how could Saphira doubt her? Him? Both of them? Eragon pushed his feelings at her, trying to make her understand. Doing this now would...would save Brom's life. And Eragon needed to prove himself capable of saving the man, as much as Arya needed to prove herself capable of doing anything meaningful, at least in her own eyes. Eragon couldn't fault her for that, and it pained him that Saphira did.
But I will not be with you, Saphira pleaded with him. I would not be able to keep you safe, to help you get away if your fight proves too difficult.
Why are you so sure we can't do it? he asked, scoffing aloud. Arya gave him a curious look, but remained silent, releasing her grip on his wrist.
I don't think you incapable, little one.
Then why!?
Saphira didn't have an answer for him but the feeling of her own profound loneliness. He was on the other side of the lake, in a too-crowded city when they were meant to be keeping themselves hidden. He was with Brom, who had treated Eragon with such disdain that she had begun to doubt whether the man was really his father or not. He was with Arya, too restless to allow herself a moment to heal from the torments that still plagued her. And he was thinking of attempting something even more block-headed than when he'd jumped from her back mid-combat; seeing him fall had been the most afraid she'd ever been in her life, even in the throne room when that monstrous excuse for a king had cast that spell. Eragon was capable, sure, but he would not escape this hare-brained, idiotic, unnecessary fight unscathed. And he would come out of it worse for not having her near to protect him, to help him fight. Did he not think she wanted to kill them as well? Saphira was hurt, too, that Eragon thought her a coward in this.
He staggered a bit, taken aback by her feelings. She would let him do this, as much as she could give permission from miles away. But she would not forgive him if he did. He looked to Arya who, in the silence, had shrunken in on herself again, arms wrapped around her body.
"I think we could do it," he said lowly. "But I have to know… Why? Why do this now?"
Arya gave him a pained look. "Because we can," she said. "And because we should."
He thought of Saphira's concerns. "We might end up giving ourselves away, and we still haven't found Murtagh."
"Do we really need to?" Arya asked, and Eragon tried not to let her question sting.
"Yes," he said, with more force than he'd intended. They did. "We do."
Arya nodded slowly, accepting. "We'll wait for Brom, then. If he hasn't found him yet, then tomorrow, while there is still light outside..." she trailed off, a look on her face that made Eragon think she had meant to continue speaking, but couldn't.
"Arya," he said softly, trying to give Saphira any assurance that Arya was still herself. "Why would you suggest this?"
She had a faraway look in her eyes as she said, "The version of myself you described seems so...impossible, and I know I cannot live up to it. Still, I feel as though I have no choice but to try. I did...many things in your future that I'd dreamed of doing in my youth. Knowing that I did them once makes me feel as though I can again. Starting here, with this, feels like the least I can do to prevent the war you fought from coming to pass." Arya looked to him then. "The world you described feels endlessly bleak. And I want to feel...hope."
Eragon nodded at her. "As do I," he said. And after a moment spent just looking at her, he gestured to the door. "So we wait."
He was dreaming; he knew it from the same hazy, unfocused glow and strange colours like those in the memories shared with him by the Eldunarí. He was flying on Saphira's back over a wild, untamed land he'd never seen before, though the proportions of his body felt wrong and the colour of Saphira scales was so different; a colour close to white he didn't have a name for. His mouth twisted strangely when he tried to speak her name, and he couldn't hear what he'd even said, though she did look back at him.
Eragon, she said. Her eyes were different, too, but he could still recognize her—he would recognize that look anywhere.
And he spoke her name again, smiling. There was no saddle beneath him when he reached for something to hold on to while she spun in the air, and the spike on the back of her neck he reached instead for was several inches higher than he'd expected, his hand stretched out uselessly as he gripped her with his legs.
Odd, he thought, looking at the colour of the skin on the back of his hand.
But she said his name again, Eragon, and his misperception was forgotten. And again, he spoke her name. It felt like such a simple thing to do, but he could feel it resonating inside him, a word he couldn't place in his mind, though he knew he should be able to. It felt like the ancient language, but rough and unfinished.
It distracted him enough that when he shifted, rolling over on the floor where he'd fallen asleep, he blinked a few times. A noise sounded from the other side of the room, but his wards didn't alert him to any threat. He'd waited downstairs with Arya for Brom to return, so late that the tavern was empty, and he'd nodded off while reading enough times that Arya had sent him away to rest, keeping the book to read herself. The footsteps that approached him sounded slow and stretched out as he teetered between sleep and awareness, and when they finally stopped close by, he allowed himself to fall back into the dream; it must be Brom.
He attempted to say Saphira's name again, to really listen this time, but when she said in a strange, too-deep voice, "Oh, my boy..." he stopped trying, succumbing fully to the nonsense world his mind had created as a hand brushed a length of hair from his face.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon longed for the feeling of Arya's hand clenched around his wrist as he stared up, up again at the twisting spires of the cathedral in Dras-Leona. He could feel his palms sweating with nerves despite how numb his hands were. He wiped them on the thighs of his leggings, glancing at Arya as he did. Her eyebrows were drawn together, but she seemed serene in comparison with her behaviour the previous night. He felt more confident in their decision; she needed this. And he needed to give it to her. Before, she'd had the chance to prove herself in Farthen Dûr, but this time...this time she'd been swept away into an undemanding rest after Brom had rescued her. And Arya did not do rest. If Saphira refused to understand that, then... Eragon didn't know what, but she had at least stopped trying to talk him out of it.
We'll be fine, he said to the silence in his mind. He could hardly feel Saphira's acknowledgement with how far she'd pulled away from him. Her distance stung, but he would not be convinced otherwise; this was the right thing to do.
There had been no Murtagh waiting for them when they woke up that morning. He and Arya had sat side by side on the edge of her bed like perfectly-cowed children and only half-listened to Brom's frustrated explanation, something about Murtagh catching on that he'd been tailed, and Brom describing his plan to catch him again today. When he'd finished speaking, Eragon and Arya had nodded, promising to wait for him at the Golden Globe. As Brom shut and locked the door behind him with a final dubious glance in their direction, they'd turned to face each other on the bed, their knees pressed together. Arya, thankfully, hadn't been cruel enough to mention how badly he'd flushed at that, too busy whispering in the ancient language, setting a ward on the two of them.
When she finished the first one, Eragon took over, setting another, and they traded back and forth, covering what the other had missed, until Eragon could hardly feel his fingers with the strain of it. Arya kept going, though, and when she was satisfied, she pulled Vanir's dagger-sword from where Eragon had laid it on the bed into her lap and began warding it, too, though it didn't need very many. If Arya recognized whose sword it was, she didn't say, just handed it to him hilt-first once she was done so that he could resheath it on his belt.
Neither of them wanted to tamper with any of the wards Rhunön had put on Laufsbläd-kodthr.
Arya offered no words of encouragement as they stepped up to the doors of the cathedral, so close their shoulders brushed. May thee who enter here understand thine impermanence and forget thine attachments to that which is beloved, Eragon read, unwilling to let the words hold any meaning. The iron-bound doors swung open soundlessly and Arya entered first, Eragon right behind her, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed.
Inside, the air was dry and still. He tried not to look too closely at the grotesque stained-glass windows as he and Arya each took one side of the cathedral—Arya to the right, Eragon to the left. They edged around the granite pews, and though Eragon tried to catch her eye, Arya was too focused on the stone statues positioned between each window. After several, tense minutes, they met in front of the altar. They were alone, and it set Eragon on edge.
"What now?" he whispered, unable to raise his voice any louder.
Arya nodded to the door, tucked behind the altar in a corner next to the wind organ. "We go in."
Eragon's chest tightened with panic, remembering. "No, we can't," he said urgently. "We...we can draw them out; they came to me last time."
Arya sighed, then looked around the raised platform they were on. Unceremoniously, she kicked over an unlit brazier, and the crash of it made Eragon jump, pulling Laufsbläd-kodthr half out of its sheath.
"What are you doing?" he hissed.
"Drawing them out," she said, one eyebrow raised. Then, loudly, she said, "Well, I suppose we'll have to head back to the Varden soon to deliver that dragon to Ajihad. Then on to Du Weldenvarden." Her voice echoed around the cathedral, bouncing in and out of his ears in hypnotic reverberations. It made his head hurt.
"Stop!" Eragon said, wheeling around to watch the door; he wanted to be prepared when the Ra'zac emerged. "Don’t—don't say that!" Her words made him feel uncomfortably exposed.
"Why not?" she asked pleasantly, bracing a shoulder under the wide, flat stone that made up the top surface of the altar, attempting to dislodge it. "It's the truth!" she grunted before giving up. "Damn."
Groaning with annoyance, he gave up his watch of the door and strode toward her, forcibly turning her around to face him with a hand on her shoulder. "We could have just waited!"
She looked at him sharply before easing her face into a smile, stepping back out of his reach. "Or..." she said, smirking at him before she rushed the door he'd been watching, the wood splintering around her shoulder. She stepped back, rolling her arm in its socket, and kicked viciously at what remained of the door, leaving a gap wide enough for her to climb through. She barked out a soft laugh and made to do so, before springing backward, nearly falling, her sword drawn.
A terrible tap-tap-tap of an oversized beak sounded from the other side of the hole, and Eragon felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Dread, sickly and cold, flooded him, and his mouth went dry as he tried to catch his breath around the tightness in his throat.
He did not let himself think this a poor idea.
Arya rose to her full height, her sword drawn out in front of her as two figures shrouded in black emerged from the hole. "Eragon!" she snapped. "Get your weapon out!"
But he was not there. He was in a cell, bound at the wrists, his mind too clouded to use magic. He was— Arya was afraid there, and he was—
He was—
"Eragon!! Get your damned sword out!" Arya shouted, and the sound of metal on metal brought him back to himself. He fumbled, nearly dropping Vanir's gift, but he swept alongside her, low to the ground to avoid and divert a blow meant for her exposed ribs. He grunted with effort, pushing away with both of his blades, and as he backed up, he nearly tripped over Arya‘s leg, stretched out to maintain her balance.
"Sorry," he breathed, but she didn't respond.
They fought, pushed apart by the Ra'zac, until they were each facing one on their own, and Eragon lamented that she'd gotten the smaller one. He stepped back again, trying to remember Vanir's training, but all he could see in his mind was her hand her handherhandherhand—
I'm sorry, he thought, praying to any god that was listening, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please let us live through this! Saphira!! he cried.
The taller Ra'zac swung its leaf-bladed sword, skittering off his dagger and toward his arm with a blow that would have incapacitated him if not for the wards he and Arya had set. He saw her stagger briefly from the corner of his eye as the magic of it drew on her, and in that moment, the Ra'zac she was fighting hissed in her face, its beak splitting its face in two, and sliced its sword across her thigh, drawing up a fast-flooding line of blood.
"No!" Eragon yelled, lunging for her and taking a stunning blow in the back with the sword hilt of the Ra'zac he'd been facing. He stumbled, nearling falling on his face before he came up beside Arya. "This was a mistake," he panted. They'd only traded a few blows, why was he so tired?
Eragon, you idiot!! Saphira shouted in his mind, distracting him enough that Arya had to push him down with one of her hands on his shoulder, her other parrying the oncoming blade.
"What are you doing?" she hissed in his ear, but he could hardly hear her over Saphira's roaring.
I'm getting Brom, Saphira said, and you two need to get away—
"No!" Eragon shouted, both in his mind and aloud. "No, Brom can't come here! You just...get him away!" He blocked another blow with Laufsbläd-kodthr; had he even had an opening to attack? Cursing, he shouted in the ancient language and a burst of light appeared around himself and Arya from his outstretched hands. The Ra'zac hissed and screeched and backed away, and Eragon continued holding the spell even when his arms began to shake. "Leave," he said to Arya, too afraid to look away from the Ra'zac and face her. "Go! Get out of here!"
"What?" she snapped, but Eragon couldn't allow it; couldn't allow it to happen to her again.
I'm almost there, Eragon, Saphira said, and he could feel the strain on her wings in their bond as she flew. I'm almost there, just hold on a little longer.
"Eragon," Arya said, and she was—she was laughing. Why was she laughing!? "Be at peace; you and I both knew we'd die here."
"What!?" he cried. "No! You're not thinking straight, let me..." The light from his spell had started to fade. "Let me heal you!" He would find the strength; he had to.
"No," she said, pushing him away and raising her sword again. There was another cut on her arm that bled just as heavily as the one on her leg. She tried to stand a little taller, but her leg wouldn't hold, so Eragon moved behind her as the light around them evaporated, letting her lean on him as the Ra'zac approached again and began to pace around them.
Arya's weight on his back, miraculously, seemed to help, and he felt more grounded in the fight than he had before. Together, they ducked and twisted, parried and slashed, and for a moment, Eragon felt a little lighter, like they might stand a chance, as long as they didn't part again. Blood from the wound on Arya's arm had dripped and splashed onto his sleeve, and Eragon again tried to summon enough strength to try to heal her—why wasn't she healing herself? But before he could open his mouth to speak the words in the ancient language, the doors to the cathedral burst open, throwing light onto their skirmish. The Ra'zac hissed, but only the smaller of the two turned away from the fight. The larger one slashed at Eragon while he tried to make out the backlight figure in the doorway, and the blow caught him across the left shoulder. He gasped, dropping Vanir's blade.
The pain was terrible, and he bit back a scream as he fought to remain standing, Laufsbläd-kodthr raised protectively if ineffectively in front of himself. It felt as though his entire arm had been bathed in dragonfire, and when he tried to curl his hand into a fist, it refused to respond. "Dammit!" he spat.
"Can you still fight?" Arya barked over her shoulder, leaning on him so that he would turn to the side so she could take over. The burn on his shoulder had started crawling up his neck, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Maybe," he said; was he slurring? He tried again to see who had entered the cathedral; it was...it was too much.
Eragon! Go to Brom! Saphira cried in his mind, and he stumbled forward on instinct at her command.
"Wait!" Arya shouted. "Don't leave me!"
He froze, torn. The pain had made his eye sting and water, and the fire was crawling down and around his ribs now, making it harder and harder to breathe. Eragon; Brom! Saphira shouted again as Arya cried out in pain behind him. Was that the sound of her falling? He just... couldn't focus. If he left Arya, she wouldn't last much longer. But Saphira had said to...to go to Brom. He should listen to Saphira; why hadn't he listened to her before and waited?
The smaller Ra'zac was circling the man now, and though he held Zar'roc in front of himself with clear confidence, Eragon's own fears made him doubt how capable he'd be. He felt as though he were suffocating, the sounds in his left ear were muffled, and he could feel himself losing his sense of balance, the floor warping and bubbling below him when he looked at it. Saphira was speaking in his mind, but he couldn't parse anything but her paralyzing fear; she was close, but not close enough. He spun around, feeling, of all things, lost, and slipped on the floor—was he...was he bleeding that much..?—landing with one knee cracking against the stone floor.
If he turned his head, he could see Arya, her mouth wide with inaudible laughter; she looked more free in that moment than she'd ever been in all the time he'd known her.
If he looked up, he could sense more than see Saphira above him, no doubt ready to burn all of Dras-Leona to the ground, and for some reason, the thought of that made him laugh.
If he turned his head the other way, he could see Brom, reaching for him, his gaze, as it ever was, looking straight through him. Eragon opened his mouth to ask his father 'Why!? but before he could speak, a terrible feeling ripped through him from the back of his shoulder to his neck, knocking him forward. The ground rushed up to meet him and even as he braced himself for the impact of the stone against his face, his vision whited out and, in that moment, Eragon died.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon gasped, dirt and leaf litter filling his mouth. He struggled to his hands and knees, coughing so hard he was left light-headed. Once the tight, itching sensation in his throat had subsided, he sat back on his knees. With dirt-stained hands, he reached up instinctively to brush the hair out of his face. But—
His hands touched nothing, no hair hanging in his face, no leather band holding it back. He ran his fingers through it, feeling curls that hung only around his ears and no further. He let his hands fall into his lap, confused, even when he didn't know why he would be. He'd— Hadn't it always been this short? Had he...dreamed of it being longer.
"Some dream then," he muttered to himself, sighing. He looked around, not knowing exactly how he'd ended up...wherever he was, exactly.
He was in a forest, one that looked maddeningly familiar. As he tried to place it, a warm, late summer breeze blew past and he couldn't help smiling at it. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, stretching out his neck as he listened to the rustling of the leaves above him. He only let himself rest for a moment longer before he stood, brushing dirt off the damp-darkened knees of his leggings.
Eragon looked around with a better view now that he was standing. Ahead of him was a clearing—
"No!" he shouted, defiant, desperate as his memories resurfaced. He spun around, looking for Brom or Arya or Saphira and found no one. He was alone, again, in the Spine. "No! No, dammit!!" He hunched forward, trying to catch his breath, and looked to his left shoulder—unblemished—down to his hand. He clenched it into a fist, stood, and slammed it against the bark of the closest tree, uncaring of the pain. "No!" he yelled again.
What was it for!? he shouted into the emptiness of his mind as he began backing away from the clearing. His foot caught on a tree root, causing him to stumble and fall backwards, nearly biting his tongue as he hit the ground. He growled in frustration and threw himself fully into the dirt. As he flung his arms out his hand struck something, something familiar. And there next to him, half buried in leaves, laid his bow. Intact; whole and undamaged, as if it had never snapped on the archery range in Ellesméra. He snatched it as he jumped to his feet and, screaming, threw it as hard and as far as he could into the forest. He growled again as he forced his feet to move, letting them drag on the ground as he rubbed at his temples, trying to hold himself together.
He could only guess that he'd died. Again. And for what? He knew Arya had been... distressed ...but how could he have ever thought she'd let herself get hit like that? Why hadn't she bothered healing herself!? And Brom! Gods, he didn't know if the man had lived or died, he’d been so out of his mind with pain. Seithr oil? Eragon wondered, cracking a rotting branch with his heel for the simple crime of being in his way. Then how had Arya managed to fight through it? And Saphira—
Eragon swallowed, frozen.
Saphira would never forgive him. He lifted his gaze, looking straight ahead; he was nearly at the edge of the clearing. A flash from the center caught his eye and he had to look away. The flash had come from a stone, glinting with the sunlight as it passed uninhibited through the gap in the trees. It looked as though it were a cut of sapphire, perfectly polished and veined with faint white lines. He stood there at the edge, his arms hanging limply at his sides, waiting.
She never reached out to him.
"You were right," he called to her, hearing his voice bounce back to him from the other side.
There was nothing.
Eragon shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, glancing at his left hand. His knuckles were split, blood slowly welling up from between small splinters of wood and bark. He tucked it against his stomach.
"Saphira, you were right. I'm sorry!" he yelled. He waited another heartbeat then, impatiently, he stomped his way through the underbrush and up to the egg. "I said I'm sorry!"
He held onto his anger for a moment longer, then collapsed onto his knees, hunched over her.
Please say something, he thought to her, fighting back panicked tears at her silence. Please, please, please, Saphira. I need to know you're there. Nothing. "Dammit," he breathed, biting his lip. I believe, he thought desperately. She's there, I know it, please, I believe!
Slowly, he became aware of another presence in his mind, as faint as it was. He gasped, latching onto it, and was rewarded with a soft yet very angry, I told you so.
Notes:
You weren’t expecting this to be a one-and-done thing, were you? >:)
Chapter Text
like a doctor's office, only worse & there is no diagnosis
"Nasuada, Daughter of Ajihad, the Council of Elders wishes to formally extend its deepest condolences for the loss you, more than anyone else, have suffered..." Jörmundur said, then lowered his voice before continuing. "You have our personal sympathies as well. We all know what it is like to have a family member killed by the Empire."
"Thank you," Nasuada murmured, though even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow and trite. She knew what she had been summoned here for, but the knowing did not make it any easier to bear. She was in the same chamber she'd been in countless times before, but...those times had been at her father's side. And now, he was...gone.
She'd imagined this day before, knew that one day the Varden would be hers to lead, but never before had she thought it would be at the cost of her father's life. She imagined a simple ceremony, a grand speech from her father congratulating and honoring the many merits she'd imagined she'd have achieved at that point, flanked by the elf Arya and the next Dragon Rider of Alagaësia.
But now there was no father with knowing, confident eyes to help guide her. There was no Arya or Brom, and there hadn't been for far too many months. And there was no Rider because the king had either taken back his egg at last, or the rumors she'd heard of a dragon appearing briefly in Dras-Leona before vanishing were true. Both lines of thinking were…terrible to consider.
Nasuada sighed, leaning back slightly in her chair. Arya had been a friend to her for many years, Brom had been instrumental in the formation of the Varden… And her father had been, well, her father. They had lost a terrible number of men in the battle, but they had, somehow, prevailed. She tried to think of their victory being worth her father's death, already trying to be as objective as possible—though it wasn't much of a struggle, truly. Still, there was a hardness in her heart and she knew that nothing would be worth the pain she felt. Nobody—she looked at the ring of pompous, decrepit air-heads around her—had believed in her like Ajihad had. If there was one thing she wanted to live up to, it was his idea of her.
But they had no dragon. They had no Rider. They had no...no hope. And if there was one thing she doubted herself capable of in the moment, it was her ability to inspire that.
She sighed again through her nose, keeping her face as somber as possible. She would, though. She would be the most inspiring, hopeful bastard in all of Farthen Dûr if it meant they could end the war for good.
She just wished it didn't have to hurt so much.
A chill was worming its way up Nasuada's spine as she listened to the Council speak and as hard as she tried to fight it, she couldn't help shivering as it reached her shoulders and neck.
"A-are you alright, my dear..?" Sabrae asked, but Nasuada ignored her, instead turning slowly to her right, turning to look over her shoulder. Her mouth felt dry as she looked, and from the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of blue. Steeling herself, she turned swiftly to the left instead, trying to catch what had darted by.
There was nothing, and she turned to face the council again, the hairs on the back of her neck still standing on end. Behind her, she could feel the presence of something massive. She examined the faces of the Council of Elders, looking for any sign of fear or even recognition for what she felt, but their expressions remained impassive if a bit curious and worried for her wellbeing. She tried to smile, but the feeling did not go away.
She could feel something behind her even if neither she nor anyone could see it.
Worse, it felt as though someone was sitting alongside her as well. And worse, still, was that she wanted someone to be there, to not have to face this alone.
The council continued speaking to her, outlining her duties and restrictions in fulfilling them, and Nasuada listened, knowing what they'd say before their mouths even opened; Ajihad, though his departure had been swift and unexpected, had not left her unprepared. To entertain herself, she tried to think of who the person beside her should be.
It would be someone kind, she thought. Above all else, that's the sort of person she'd want at her side. Perhaps someone around her own age, so that they could commiserate over the youth-induced phenomenon of being underestimated. She had a private laugh at that—the Council was already doing such, what with their long-winded, unnecessary speech. They paused at regular intervals, anticipating questions her father had already answered for her years ago. Someone curious, perhaps?
She spared a thought for Arya.
At her side, she'd want someone with the power to find her.
I could do that, Nasuada thought, suddenly. I could do that, too. It would be difficult, probably impossible after the losses they'd taken, but... I need the elves' army if I'm going to win this war. And I can not do that without Brom or Arya.
She nearly nodded, feeling more enthusiastic and directed than she'd felt since her father had died. Hope, that's what she'd want from whoever was beside her. She'd want them to inspire hope. But—
I can do that, she assured herself. And she felt like she could. She thought of all the tasks laid out before her; stopping Galbatorix and ending the war, re-taking the eggs, brokering goodwill with both Surda and Du Weldenvarden... It would be so, so difficult.
But not impossible.
Nasuada bowed her head, the weight of what stood before her drawing up so much grief that she felt compelled to hide her eyes for fear she'd start crying. She could do that later, after facing all that was left and who would follow her. "I never thought I would be called upon to take my father's place so young," she said, feeling fate's invisible head lifting her chin up to face the Council of Elders. "Yet...if you insist that it is my duty...I will embrace the office."
Notes:
For any future readers going through this all in one go, this is your author-suggested rest point! Go to the bathroom, get a drink and/or snack, or just go to bed!
Chapter 8: Only Now: Part One
Notes:
Welcome back! ☆
Chapter Text
& in the listening room there is so much patience, too
It seemed like every other step he took was impeded in some way by either especially-tangled thickets of underbrush or over-protruding tree roots, and he'd stumbled enough times that he considered actually storing Saphira's egg in his pack rather than carrying it in his hands. But he knew how strong the shell of it was—in case he did drop it—and more than that...he couldn't bare the thought of not having her right in front of him as he walked. Even the idea of not being able to see her made his heart wither inside his chest, made his throat dry and tight and his vision twist. No, he couldn't bare to part with her again.
Before he left the clearing, he'd ran his hands over his face. Like before, the gedwëy ignasia was gone, but he and Saphira were still able speak with each other in their minds. Still, he could feel the threads of their bond, the weave of it thicker than ever. And again, she'd assured him that she would choose him this and all other times as she had before, and she would hatch when she was ready.
But even so, why wasn't she hatching now? Eragon didn't dare voice the thought to her for fear she'd change her mind, or that it might make her question her own decision. And, he'd lamented, he was too frustrated to sound anything other than petulant; it was embarrassing how short his temper was at what he assumed was seventeen years old.
"I just don't get it!" he spat as the toe of his boot caught on yet another gnarled root; it seemed the forest covering the section of the Spine leading down to Carvahall was doing everything in its power to make the journey back as maddening as possible. Every sliver of peace he managed to reign in kept slipping away the more his thoughts wandered to whatever had just happened. Even the filtered light and warm breeze couldn't help. "I— I can't have died, right!?"
...just...calm down, Saphira kept trying to urge him, but her voice was far too weak to break through the storm in his mind.
"First, Arya says she didn't want to be saved! And then she asks me about the Ra'zac, and then—" Eragon scoffed and shook his head. "...didn't want to be saved," he muttered, stomping harder on a partially uncurled bit of fern at the thought. "Why wouldn't she want to be saved? Did she want to die!?"
He could feel Saphira nudging and poking at him through their bond as he shouted, but he couldn't bring himself to care about how loud he spoke—there wasn’t anyone around for miles. ...Eragon... she called to him, louder. It distracted him enough that he stumbled again, cursing, and he had to hold out his right hand to catch himself before his face would have scraped against the rough bark of a pine tree. Instead, it tore up several lines of skin from the palm of his hand.
"Dammit!" he snapped, and he pounded the side of his fist against the trunk of the tree, the new cuts stinging as his fingernails dug into them. He leaned against the tree then, taking deep breaths that did nothing for the horrible, stomach-turning anger he felt. Saphira's egg was clutched in his left hand which he'd wrapped with a bit of fabric torn from the bottom hem of his tunic to stop his knuckles from bleeding.
Why? He couldn't stop thinking it, the word chasing his memories around in circles, tainting everything from the last few months with sick, disquieting anger. It was unfair and pointless and stupid and evil and pathetic. What what what had it been for!? Why? he thought again, his throat too tight to speak. And even if he'd been able to, what would he say? He couldn't get his thoughts in order enough to form words or sentences; why had they bothered spending all that time with Oromis and Glaedr if he still wasn't strong enough? Why had they left? Why had he told them about Murtagh at all; maybe his brother would have been fine on his own and—
Oh gods, he hadn't even remembered that Galbatorix himself was meant to travel to Dras-Leona; he could have gotten them all captured or killed or worse because he'd forgotten something! Why hadn't he remembered that? His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt as though he couldn't catch his breath. What had stopped him from remembering? What was... Were his memories being changed? What—
Eragon, Saphira said, sharper this time. Stop it; you simply forgot, that's all. I did not remember, either...
"You weren't there," Eragon spat, standing again. "And I wouldn't expect you to remember it, anyway." But I should have... He'd been walking for more than a day without stopping, and his knees shook as he tilted his head back to gaze at the sky. He'd be home early this time, he guessed.
You cannot go home like this! Saphira said, and she pressed as much of herself against his mind as she could. Please...just stop... Her voice was weaker now, but she pressed on, saying, ...you're injured...
He knew she could feel his pain as well, and he released his clenched fist; it was unfair of him to do that to her. "What do I do, then?" he whispered. "I— We can't go back to Ellesméra." He'd thought they were doing the right thing before, in the Aptr-moi, but then it had all gone horribly wrong—just another example of his own hubris coming back around to bite him in the ass. He flinched as he thought the word; despite how angry he was, he didn't particularly like to swear.
He could feel Saphira considering the thought through their bond. He appreciated that she also couldn't bring herself to suggest Ellesméra again either, though he would have liked to at least return to the easy friendship Niduen offered him.
Eragon's chest tightened again, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. That was gone now, too.
Go to Brom, Saphira said at last, and any fond nostalgia he'd been lingering on instantly evaporated.
"Go to Brom!?" he shouted. He started walking again, Saphira's egg tucked under his left arm, grunting as he kicked up orange and brown leaves with his boots. "Aye, that's an idea. I'll just walk right up to him and tell him I know he's my father, I'm sure that'll go over just as well as we just! Saw! Go to Brom..." he shook his head. "Why would you suggest such a thing? The man couldn't possibly care less about me."
Eragon! Saphira gasped in his mind. Don't...don't you ever say that!
"And why not?" he demanded. It had stung so terribly that Brom had...had avoided him at all costs, had barely been able to speak more than a few sentences to him. He could understand it to a degree, the awkwardness of it, but even the thought of putting himself through that kind of pain and rejection once more made him clench his right hand into a fist again. The cuts on his palm burned.
Because that man would do anything —anything, Eragon—to keep you out of harm's way. And you should...you should know that by now... Her voice grew softer as she spoke; they could feel each other fully in their minds, but words only seemed to come to her in short bursts.
...he would, Eragon admitted to himself. He did want to know Brom again, to have a chance at a real bond with the man, if only Eragon could get over the bitter feeling of betrayal he felt at the man's lies...and if Brom could get over the simple fact that Eragon knew. And he understood it; he, if anything, appreciated that Brom had followed his mother back to Carvahall to watch over him, but...
But, for how many years had Brom let them be on friendly enough terms with each other while hiding his true identity? It wasn't even about the Riders; if not for Arya and the Eldunarí, Eragon would never have needed to know anything more. It was about family. It was about the directionless grief he felt about his mother and the fact that Brom had known and loved her and never spoken about it with him. And for what—what was it all for!?
Eragon could feel despair and rage clashing inside himself; he'd died— again! After uselessly wasting his time with training that hadn't helped him one bit when it came down to it! And how was he supposed to prepare himself for Seithr oil? He didn't particularly fancy testing his ability to think and fight through it, no matter how impressive it was that Arya had, apparently, been able to. He scoffed again as he walked. It felt like some terribly unfunny joke had been played at his expense.
Of course he'd let himself get swept up by her and the sad desperation she had projected. He felt embarrassed thinking about it; he'd told her how he felt, and she'd just... manipulated him into letting her get herself killed—or, well, probably. Had it even taken that much effort for her to do so..? He felt that hollowing betrayal again. Did he...did he ever really know her? He'd really thought he did, and though he knew he would hold her in his heart forever, it made him ask himself again, Why?
He wished he could be more angry with Arya, and he was, but the heartache he felt was worse. He wouldn't have ever thought badly of Arya or her intentions, wouldn't have ever thought she'd do something like—
Eragon felt a sharp spike of indignancy from Saphira that interrupted his thoughts. "What?" he asked, sighing.
I knew, she said lowly.
He nearly tripped, but managed to catch himself. "What?" he asked again, more harshly than he meant to sound.
I said I knew! I knew she wasn't well, and I told you to speak with Brom about it! Saphira snapped. But no, you went ahead and followed her anyway! Eragon could feel his palms sweating with nervousness and shame; he hadn't forgotten that Saphira had said she wouldn't forgive him. The cuts on his palm stung with the salt of it. And no, you don't know her, Eragon! Not if you really believed she was thinking straight! Not if you were able to look at her claim she was fine! That she needed to pursue such a foolish idea! I told you so! And then you died!
He continued walking, too ashamed to even attempt defending himself. He knew Saphira was right, but he was too afraid to admit it in case she decided he was too stupid to continue being her Rider and abandoned him.
Do you understand that, Eragon? she asked, patronizing. The egg under his arm trembled slightly, and if she'd been her full size Eragon knew she'd have pinned him to the ground to make him stop and listen. Instead, he kept walking. Eragon! she snapped again. I said you died! You died and I wasn't there! What is a dragon without their Rider? How...how much shame have I brought my kind, I—
"Stop!" he cried, finally halting. "Don't say that—"
No, you stop!!
Eragon felt his stomach drop; she had never sounded so angry with him.
You need to listen to me, Eragon, and make sure you listen close. We are partners, and that means we do things together. You will never —never!— make a decision like that without me again! You will never leave me behind in such a way again, and when I tell you to stop, you damn well better stop! Do you hear me?
He nodded and hoped she could tell he was doing so, unable to get any words out of his throat. His mind was overwhelmed with Saphira's burning indignance and caustic sense of betrayal.
You're the partner-of-my-mind-and-heart... she said, more faint now. I...I cannot follow you everywhere you go, I know that, but... When you go off on your own without heeding my advice, it hurts... She was quiet for a moment, pulling away from him. I am hurt by what you've done, Eragon. I love you, little one, truly, I do. But just because you can move through the world without being such a spectacle as I am does not mean that you should... Please...do not make me have to watch you throw your life away again. I beg you to spare me from that.
Eragon wanted to continue arguing with her, he wanted to defend himself and his actions—how would she have wanted him to deal with her appearing in Dras-Leona at his side?—but he knew it was a fruitless, petty idea. On some level, of course he'd realized that Saphira had had to watch him die twice now, but he hadn't really wanted to consider how he'd feel if he were in her position. To be unable to stop Saphira from dying? It was the worst pain he could conceive of, but to do it twice?
"I'm sorry," he said, and he felt guilty for avoiding the thought of it all this time. It had just been...too painful to imagine.
I know, she said, but nothing more.
I deserve that, he thought bitterly, not her forgiveness. He could feel her continuing to pull away, and though it hurt, he knew he wasn't the one who had been wronged.
Still, he couldn't hold back his desire to argue, to defend himself; in that moment at the Golden Globe he'd known that Saphira was right, but he couldn't stop himself from following Arya. Her plan had been spontaneous and impractical, but it had given him the opportunity to feel useful again, to feel like a hero. And, almost desperately, he wanted that feeling back.
It felt as though freeing Alagaësia was something he was destined to do, not simply something he could do. And after having nearly accomplished it before, he wanted so badly to do it again. He knew he was being rash, but that drive inside himself was pushing him faster and faster to accomplish it, like it came from somewhere else, urging him down some specific path. And it felt like he had no other choice but to follow it.
I know, Saphira said, gentler this time, and Eragon felt a small amount of comfort at her words.
He sighed. "Okay," he said, steeling himself. He could resist it, his own impulse to rush ahead if it meant sparing Saphira any more heartache. "We'll go to Brom."
And so they did.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
He had reached the same ridge overlooking Carvahall that he'd stopped at before, but even just the sight of it was enough to reignite the same rage in his belly that he'd been trying to repress. Disgusted, he turned away and continued stomping down the mountain.
Like before—or, well, in the Aptr-moi, Eragon conceded—it was unseasonably warm for a northern mid-autumn, and though dark clouds rolled by overhead throughout the day, they thankfully never broke. Instead, they seemed to pulse and warp, sending down errant shafts of light that illuminated the most mundane things and made them appear more magical than they really had the right to be; a bare bit of rock poking up from the pine needles and leaf litter, a pine tree that had nearly fallen and continued growing parallel to the ground over a trickling stream, an especially green patch of moss near the tiny opening of a low anthill. All of it seemed to call out to him, and Eragon desperately wished he were more centered and sure of himself... He would have loved to sit and expand his mind as much as he was able to so that he could take it all in, but since waking up again, he hadn't bothered with any sort of magic or mental exercise at all.
Saphira hadn't spoken to him since he'd finally resigned himself to going to Brom first, and it felt like both a blessing and a curse; he didn't want to argue with her, and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself from doing so. But she'd also pulled her mind away from his completely, leaving behind a hollowness in his mind that he could feel deep in his chest. Still, he didn't push her or try to draw her out again; if she didn't want to speak with him, he wouldn't force her. It was bad enough that she was stuck with him as a Rider.
Only when he reached what most would consider to be the 'edge' of Carvahall did Eragon realize he'd spent the whole trip back brooding instead of coming up with any sort of plan. He'd already stored Saphira's egg in his pack, swapping it out for his bow which, after much guilty contemplation, he'd searched around the underbrush to find again. It helped to keep himself focused if he had something in his hands, and he ran the pads of his fingers over the wood as he walked into town, trying not to appear as though he was hiding something.
How did I do this the first time? he thought, nodding awkwardly to Birgit as she glanced at him, her sister Lenna at her side. I really thought I'd found some great treasure then, and I couldn't wait to be rid of it. He hated to think about how badly he'd tried to sell Saphira's egg, but now that he'd started, he couldn't stop. There were just too many things happening inside him, too many emotions and memories, and he clutched the bow tight enough that he would have snapped it if he was, well, himself.
He didn't regret very often what had happened to him during the Agaetí Blödhren, but he'd grown fond of the change. Even before, in the Aptr-moi, he'd gotten used to wearing his hair long, had grown more comfortable with his body as the work he put into it changed it into something he found more pleasing to look at. He wasn't overself self-conscious about it, but looking down at his too-thin forearms, it was yet another thing taken from him and made different. He scoffed, drawing a confused greeting from Katrina as he passed Sloan's shop.
"Hello there, Eragon," she said, pleasantly enough. The small smile on her face faded when she noticed his hands. "You're hurt!"
"I-it's nothing," he said, forcing out a laugh. "I just...took a—a stumble." He caught himself before he said fall, blanching at the thought. "Are...are you on your way to see Roran?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
She gave him an odd look. "No," she said slowly. "Are you alright? You were gone from some time, and…it doesn't look like you caught anything."
He swore under his breath. Why hadn't he thought of that? No, I know why, he admitted to himself. The anger he'd felt had been enough to keep pushing on down the mountain without stopping to eat or rest, and more than that, he hadn't trusted himself to take the life of anything with how angry he was.
"I'm fine," Eragon said once he realized that Katrina was looking at him with genuine concern. "Just a...a bad day."
"Okay then," she said, though it didn't sound like she believed him. "Say hello to Roran for me, would you?"
"Sure," he said, and then he turned away from her and began making his way to Brom's house as soon as it was polite enough to do so. He had to resist the urge to look back at her over is shoulder; it felt like he was forgetting something.
Once he was clear of her—and anyone else out and about as he resorted to ducking between houses to avoid any more awkward conversations—Eragon felt a wave of mournful nostalgia from Saphira. It made him want to pull out her egg to cradle her in his hands at the strength of the feeling, but he withheld. What is it? he asked, wanting to comfort her more than he wanted to avoid another argument.
...they had such a beautiful wedding, she said after a moment. And she showed it to him as Brom's house finally came into view. It made him pause and close his eyes so that he could see it better. He remembered the hill, they way they'd look at each other, the crown of flowers Arya had placed on Katrina's brow…
Aye, they did.
When Saphira remained silent, he sighed and approached. Again, he regretted not coming up with a plan, not testing what the ancient language determined to be true or not and working out what exactly he wanted to tell Brom about the Aptr-moi and before . He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning over to try peering into one of Brom's windows; it was useless, heavy curtains hung in front of them. He didn't even know if the man was home.
He is, Saphira said quietly. I can feel him inside. Perhaps if you open your mind, you—
No, Eragon said. I'm...it's fine. Thank you. He bit his lower lip. ...what do I do?
You should tell him the truth. Her words were serious, and though he could feel faint, uncomfortable apprehension from her through their bond, she continued, You did not do so before, and it cost you your life.
Right, he frowned. The truth. Sure, he could do that. He could feel the anger again, the indignant betrayal. The truth was more than Brom had offered him, but sure, he could give that to the man.
Eragon bounced on his toes a few times, then sucked in a deep breath. He reached for the handle to the front door and pushed it open far harder than necessary; it bounced off the wall—or something —behind it.
Inside, Brom sat in a plush chair with a thick book in his lap. His pipe was set on a low side table, unlit. At Eragon's entrance, Brom looked up, shock and offense deepening the lines on his face. He slammed the book shut, but didn't stand.
"Eragon! What is the meaning of this?" he barked.
Eragon flinched at the sound of his own name coming from the man's mouth, but he otherwise ignored him, shutting the door behind him as he stepped inside. He released the breath he'd been holding.
"C'mon now, boy, answer me. You can't just go barging into a man's house without an explanation." He sounded as though he were getting angry himself and, immaturely, it made Eragon want to laugh.
Still, Eragon ignored him. There was another chair in the room across from Brom, piled with books and scrolls and other assorted trinkets, and Eragon swept the whole pile to the floor with as much care and grace as he could muster. He could feel Saphira's annoyance with him, but he didn't care. He glanced at Brom, the old man sputtering, and shrugged off his pack, setting it on the seat of the now-cleared chair. He opened it enough that he could reach in and run his fingers over the shell of Saphira's egg, which he did with no small amount of reverence.
Only then did he speak to his father.
"I am here because I have some things to say to you," he said, struggling to keep his tone even as he met the man's glare. "And you are going to listen to me." Brom leaned back, a look of patronizing amusement on his face. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Eragon pulled out the egg.
Brom closed then opened his mouth a few more times, unable to form a response. His eyes widened minutely, but he did not comment.
"Are you going to listen to me?" Eragon asked. The corner of Brom's mouth twitched, and his eyes flicked from Eragon's to the egg and back again several times. He tilted his head forward.
"...alright then," Brom said after a moment. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth pulled down to a frown, but Eragon couldn't discern anything more than offence and disdain from his expression. Eragon took another deep breath, and began to speak, holding Saphira's egg tightly in his hands as he did.
It was difficult, at first, to explain what exactly he and Saphira had been through together. Again, Eragon wished he'd taken the chance to assemble his words. With Oromis and Glaedr, he'd told it like a story, which had felt appropriate at the time. But here, he couldn't bring himself to go about with such whimsy. So he instead spoke if it much the same way he had with Arya—as a series of brief, dispassionately narrated events. And it helped to approach it without much emotion; Eragon feared he wouldn't be able to get the words out otherwise.
With quick sentences, he repeated to Brom all that had happened the first time, holding the man's even gaze all the while. He paused at several intervals, watching for Brom to react to things like the massacre in Yazuac or Arya's whereabouts or even Brom's own death, but Brom's expression never changed. Eragon could feel himself getting frustrated; he'd demanded Brom listen to him, yes, but he hadn't expected to receive nothing else from the man while he did. With viciousness, he continued, unable to stop himself from lingering on the worst parts of his story—the cursed wound he received from Durza, Ajihad's death and Murtagh's capture, Katrina being taken by the Ra'zac, Oromis' death, Saphira almost falling to Niernen, his and Arya's capture under Dras-Leona—and still the man refused to react. He hadn't moved at all, not even to reach for his pipe. Eragon could scarcely recall if the man had even blinked the whole time he'd been speaking.
Eragon began to pace and, snarling, continued on, telling Brom about the throne room, and what had happened after; waking up in the Spine, traveling to Ellesméra, his training. He spoke of Islanzadí's disdain, starting to yell while he spoke, the shame and confusion he felt at the elves' reactions to him finally growing from a stomach-turning simmer to a fierce boil. He had not felt comfortable speaking of it before, but now he found he didn't care whether Brom thought less of him or not. Once, Brom had been something more than just a man to him. In another life, Eragon thought he might've liked to learn from him, to be a storyteller himself. Brom had...intrigued and inspired him.
Now he felt quite the opposite. "And then they decided to leave us," Eragon spat, referring to Oromis and Glaedr. "They decided that we'd trained enough and dumped me with you. You, who could hardly look at me just because I know you're my father, and you refused to acknowledge that. You and Arya—who you'd gone off to save for whatever reason, even though I told Islanzadí and the elves where she was! And then she decided to get us all killed!" He was breathing heavily, gripping Saphira's egg so tight that the knuckles on his left hand had started bleeding again. He pulled his pack from the chair, uncaring where it landed, and dropped onto the seat, letting his head fall back.
Eragon watched, eyes half-lidded, as Brom finally reached for his pipe and lit it. He examined Eragon for a long moment, smoke beginning to swirl around them in the cluttered room.
"Well now," Brom said, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. His eyes crinkled with a smile, but the tone of his voice was sharp and cutting. "That was some story, boy. You have either the greatest imagination of anyone in this town, or in all of Alagaësia...or you're the most wild dreamer I've ever met. But it could still use some work."
A small sound escaped from the back of Eragon's throat in lieu of any words. What? he thought blankly. He fought to breathe; it felt as though Saphira was standing on his chest at the height of her power. He blinked at the self-satisfied smirk Brom offered him. Still? Was the man still denying him the truth? Still trying to maintain the illusion of some great distance between them? "What?" he finally managed to breath.
Brom shifted in his chair, resettling himself more comfortably. He nodded at the bit of cloth tied around Eragon's left hand. "It seems as though you've taken a fall, are you sure you're well? Perhaps you've hit your head, eh?"
Eragon continued to stare at him. He didn't...understand.
"You've got the bones of a good tale in there, but your retelling could use more... passion," Brom said, and now he was smiling broadly, almost pleadingly.
"P-passion?" Eragon asked. "It could use more...more passion!?" He stood again, setting Saphira's egg on the chair as he did so that he could scrub his hands over his face. "Passion? Did I hear that right?" he laughed. "You...you died! I died—we all died and you say I need more passion!?"
Eragon, Saphira said in warning, but he was too furious to listen further. He bent over and picked up one of the leather-bound books he'd shoved to the floor and threw it over Brom's head, and only because the man had ducked below its arc. Eragon heard the shattering of some glass object as he bent to pick up another book to throw.
Brom stood too then, grasping Eragon's wrist with one deceptively strong hand. "Stop this, Eragon! What are you doing?" he grunted as Eragon wrestled himself away. He glared up at the man.
"Passion," Eragon spat. "I'll show you passion." Words came to him in the ancient language, and he spoke them with all the rage and resentment he had in him: "Atra thornessa reisa wiol ono, iet breoal!"
Around them, the piles of books and other objects began to rise in the air, hovering no more than a few inches from the floor or whatever surface they’d been on. He felt so far away from himself, and the sight before him did nothing to keep it from feeling like a dream. On his fingertips, he could almost feel the soft shuffle of book pages or the smooth surface of metal trinkets and instruments as his spell lifted and spun them in the air. The drain of it was instantaneous and immense. Spots of light danced in his vision, and Eragon could see Brom's face, afraid at last. He smiled as he released the spell as he dropped to his hands and knees. His elbows trembled and, unable to continue holding himself up, braced himself as his head cracked against the wooden floor of Brom's home.
"What...what have you done to yourself?" Brom gasped, lowering himself to Eragon's side. He placed his hand on the center of Eragon's back, and he could feel the man feeding him some of his own energy. He pushed Brom away and rolled over, letting his eyes fall closed.
"I curse you, Brom Holcombsson," Eragon said, feeling Saphira's cool energy wash over him, coloured with exasperation, to keep him from dying pointlessly yet again. He knew he was losing consciousness, and before he did, he managed to spit out, "Curse you and your lies and your passion."
Chapter 9: Only Now: Part Two
Chapter Text
so much wanting to know, but not asking
He woke slowly, unhurried.
Winter hadn't fully made its way to Carvahall yet, though it was certainly making itself known. Several nights ago, the same storm he’d remembered from before had blown in, and with a few carefully placed words, he'd managed to get Roran and Garrow properly prepared for it before it was too late. And though the snow had stopped falling, Eragon could still hear the shutters of the window in his room rattling as a harsh wall of wind buffeted against the side of the house. He rolled over, pulling his blanket over his head. Laying on his side, he brought his knees up to his chest, curling into a tight ball. He let himself worry after Saphira for just a moment before releasing the thought; even if they couldn't properly talk with her being so far away and as yet inside her egg, she'd still be able to feel his distress.
He groaned and sat up as a foggy sense of comfort came from her anyway.
It'd been long enough that he no longer spent the first moments of each morning looking around his room in wonder at simply being there—only a month, give or take a week, had passed—or with paralyzing horror for having actually stayed in Carvahall. At first, he'd been so on edge once he'd woken up in Brom's house before sprinting home that he could hardly finish his chores in the following week, and Garrow had threatened to take him into town to be seen by Gertrude in case there was something wrong with him. But Eragon had, somehow, been able to convince his uncle that he was fine. In truth, though, he hadn't wanted to see the woman; with Garrow so close and, well, alive, Eragon didn't want to be reminded of his uncle's death. So he’d pulled himself together.
Eragon pulled on his boots as he finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started making his way toward the smell of breakfast. As he passed the door to Roran's room, slightly ajar, he peeked inside to find the bed unmade and his cousin missing. I wonder where he's gone, Eragon thought as he continued on to the kitchen.
Roran had noticed the difference in his demeanor more than Garrow had. Or, perhaps, Roran simply didn’t have the same patience as Garrow to wait Eragon out. After a week had passed since his return home, Roran had come into his room after dark, sat on the edge of his bed, and demanded to know what happened in the Spine. The thought of lying to him had felt so dishonest that Eragon had simply denied anything at all had happened, but Roran was too keen to let it go like that. So Eragon had floundered for a moment before admitting, somewhat ashamedly, that he had had a dream that was so... terrible… that he was having difficulties recovering from it. Roran had given him a hard look, then nodded, accepting the lie for what it was.
He hadn't brought it up since, but Eragon had still noticed Roran looking at him oddly every now and again as they tended to the fields or the horses.
Only Garrow sat at the table. When Eragon finally descended the stairs and pulled out a chair of his own to sit, Garrow greeted him with a gruff, "Mornin'."
Eragon returned the greeting, and began eating in big, quick bites, looking out the window as he did. "Where's Roran?" he asked.
Garrow scoffed. "Off to see Katrina, I'd bet. He left not too long ago, said he was going into town."
"Oh, I'll probably be seeing him then," Eragon said. With the barley and squash already harvested before the storm, there wasn't much left to do at home other than sit in front of the woodstove and wait. And besides, he'd already made plans.
Garrow must have noticed the pleased smile he couldn't keep off his face when thinking about Saphira because he leaned forward then, his eyebrows drawn together. "You're seeing him again?"
"Wh— Brom?" Eragon asked, coughing as his throat constricted mid-swallow. It wasn't exactly a secret where Eragon spent his time in town lately, but the looks Garrow and Roran gave him—not to mention the tone they used when speaking of the man—led Eragon to believe that, at the least, they disapproved.
His uncle leaned back in his chair, and it creaked as he did so. He shook his head slowly from side to side, frowning. "I won't tell you to stay away from him now," he said, not meeting Eragon's eye. "But just be careful he doesn't fill your head with nonsense. You've got a good head on your shoulders."
Eragon sighed and pushed his mostly-empty plate away; he'd heard that before from his uncle and cousin both over the last month. It made him uncomfortable, the way they spoke about his father, even if they didn't know who he was to Eragon.
"I told you before, he's helping me with a project," Eragon said, fighting to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
"I know, I know," Garrow said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. "I just worry about you—you and Roran both."
"I know," Eragon said, leaning back in his own chair. He let his head drop back and stared up at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest, trying not to pout.
He didn't regret staying in Carvahall, but some days he wondered if he should have just bullied his way into staying with Brom until the traders arrived instead of returning home to Garrow and Roran and their... concern. Some days it was too much, knowing he'd be leaving them again, and that no matter what justifications he provided they would probably never forgive him. Forgiveness, he thought, snorting. Yes, he'd been questing after that for quite some time now; it was part of the reason why Saphira's egg was still in Brom's possession and and not his.
She had not forgiven him for agreeing to go with Arya to the cathedral in Dras-Leona, and after spending the better part of a month without her, thinking it over without her emotions colouring his own, he no longer had any desire to defend himself; it had been a terrible thing to do to Saphira, especially after she'd all-but begged him to reconsider. Yet, he'd gone ahead anyway, hoping to play the hero once again.
Eragon knew that Galbatorix was still waiting for him, somewhere over the horizon in Urû'baen, but…that was a long while off. For now, he and Brom couldn't even agree where they'd go after Carvahall, and Eragon privately hoped that they wouldn't decide so that they wouldn't have to leave. After all, if the Ra'zac came to Carvahall looking for Saphira's egg, she was bound to have hatched by then and they could take them on together; him and Saphira and Brom. He was trying to face this Aptr-moi with more determination than he had with the last one, had vowed to keep everyone—himself included—alive. And reluctantly, Eragon could admit that meant leaving again.
Across the table, Garrow sighed and stood, collecting their plates. "I'm not telling you no, you know. Go if you want," he said and for a moment, Eragon's heart seized in his chest, wondering if somehow his uncle had read his thoughts. "Just make sure you're home in time to rest up; we have work to do before dinner at Horst's house tomorrow night."
Is that tomorrow? Eragon thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the momentary bout of paranoia. I must have lost track of the days... If we're having dinner with Horst tomorrow, then that means the traders will be here soon, and if they are, that means— "I've got to go!" he nearly shouted, standing and running up the stairs two at a time to grab his pack.
Garrow stood by the front door, waiting, as Eragon dashed back down again. "What d'you need all that for?" he grunted, gesturing at his pack.
Eragon remained silent, letting his uncle hand him his thick winter cloak; he didn't want his uncle to get so curious that he'd go looking himself, but he needed to say something. Why had he been so terrible at explaining things this Aptr-Moi? "It's for that project I've been talking about. But don't look!" he said, hoping he didn't sound too worried.
Garrow snorted, then smiled, clapping a hand on Eragon's shoulder. "Alright, I was just asking. Be good while you're out," he said, then he held open the door as Eragon tried to hold himself back from actually running out of it.
"I will!" he called over his shoulder, nearly stumbling as the cold air hit him head-on. Almost immediately, his teeth began chattering, but he refused to slow down—he needed to see Brom. Once he was out of sight of the house, he murmured a simple spell to keep him slightly warmer without exhausting himself before he made it into town.
Despite the snow, the expanse of waist-high grasses still stood tall along the path, and the dry stalks rattled in the harsh winter wind around him as Eragon trotted toward the road leading into town. Above him, the sky was a pale, muted blue-grey, like one massive cloud hovered over all of Palancar Valley. In the distance, he heard the harsh cry of a crow, but when he looked for it as he walked, it couldn't be found.
The closer he got to the road, he further he reached with his mind out toward Saphira. Like the first Aptr-moi—this being the second, they'd decided to make things clearer—her voice was faint and strained from inside her egg. Eragon had asked Brom why that would be, and the man had grumbled around his house without answering the question, flipping through various books. Eragon just assumed he didn't know and was too embarrassed to admit it, so he hadn't asked again. Still, something kept him and Saphira connected and he wondered, once she hatched again, if they'd be able to hear each other's voices from anywhere in Alagaësia; Brom had been especially curious of the fact that they'd been able to speak with each other from opposite sides of Leona Lake in the last Aptr-moi.
Eragon was so caught up in his thoughts, his mind already spread thin with reaching out to Saphira, that he missed it the first few times his name was being called from further along the path. When Roran ran up, grabbing Eragon by the shoulders, he snapped back into himself, disoriented for more than just moment.
"Roran! What's wrong?" he asked, looking over Roran's shoulder and behind him for whatever danger he hadn't been able to sense.
"I should ask you the same thing!" Roran frowned, looking intently from one of Eragon's eyes to the other. "Where'd you go off to in that head of yours?"
"I was just...thinking," Eragon said, still looking down the path. "What's wrong?" he asked again, stepping back and out of Roran's grasp. His cousin’s hands grasped at the air for a moment before falling to his sides.
"Nothing! I—" Roran cut himself off, taking a deep breath before smiling wide. "I saw the tracks in the snow! The traders are here! I was running back to tell you!"
Eragon stomach dropped, even as he watched Roran bouncing excitedly on his toes. That means I'll be leaving even sooner than I realized, he thought, though he let himself smile at Roran in return. "That's good news," he said weakly before his mouth finally relaxed into a real smile. But that also means Saphira will be hatching soon! "No, that's great news, thank you!" Eragon said, dancing around his cousin to start off toward the road again.
"Wait!" Roran called. Eragon turned around, walking backward, and saw concern on his cousin's face. "Aren't you going to go back with me to tell—?"
"Sorry!" Eragon said, waving guiltily, "but I've really got to go!" Then he turned back around and started running, hoping that Roran wouldn't follow.
Everything’s happening so fast, he thought to himself, his stomach clenching. Was it like this before? I…I thought we’d have more time to prepare.
He slowed down after a mile or so when he realized he wasn't being followed, though he still kept up a brisk enough pace that when he finally reached Carvahall, he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath among the traders' tents and wagons on the outskirts of town. A few traders offered him pleasant waves, which he returned with one hand still braced on his knee. None of them approached, too busy setting up their makeshift camps, for which Eragon was thankful. Saphira greeted him with a soft brush of her mind against his, and he returned it, telling her he'd be there shortly. As she pulled away, he wondered if she would tell Brom.
He laughed to himself, hoping she wouldn’t.
When he caught his breath, he set off toward Brom's house, nodding politely to the villagers as he passed. He wondered sometimes what they thought of him; nobody else from Carvahall really ventured into the Spine, his mother Selena had shown up one day to have him before leaving again, and he was, as far as he could tell, the only 'friend' Brom seemed to have in town. He tried to glean their thoughts from just their faces as the walked past, unwilling to actually look with his mind in case he found something he didn't want to know.
He paused again in front of Brom's house and smiled. The curtains were drawn and while Eragon was sure the man could sense him…he couldn't see him, which was what Eragon had been hoping for. He reached forward and turned the doorknob just enough that the door was unlatched, then took a step back and a quick breath in.
As he let his breath out, steaming in the cold air, he kicked the door inward with his boot as hard as he could in one smooth motion, and grinned as it cracked against whatever was behind it.
"What the—!?" Eragon heard Brom shout as he stepped inside, casually pulling off his cloak and shaking it out. He took his time hanging it on the hook by the door, next to Brom's many cloaks and scarves, uncaring of the cold air billowing into the man's house. "Every time!" Brom yelled, and Eragon shut the door behind him as he turned around, letting the man see his smirk. He was ready with a quip for whatever Brom decided to berate him about this time—he’d been practicing.
The corners of Eragon's mouth twitched downward as he looked at Brom, seated comfortably in the same stuffed leather chair he was always in when Eragon came for his lessons. Brom held Saphira half-in his lap and half-in his arms, cradling her egg like a mother would her newborn, and the sight of it stirred up such a profound and surprising jealousy that Eragon stumbled back a step, as though he'd taken a blow to his stomach. "...just...can't help it," he choked out around the feeling.
"Surely you should have learned some manners by now," Brom grunted. He returned his pipe to his mouth from where he'd held it in his hand to shout at Eragon. He looked down at the egg. "Hmph. You've got that right," he said, presumably, to Saphira. Eragon's stomach twisted; he hadn't heard what she'd said.
A familiar swell of rage bubbled up in his chest, and Eragon took another step backward to lean against the door. His temper lately had been almost unmanageable, so much so that he found it easier to stay away from Roran and Garrow both so he didn't snap at them. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, recalling how even just that morning he'd dismissed Roran so easily. He cousin didn't deserve that.
Still, it hadn't stopped him from harassing Brom; at least he could take it with some amount of resigned grace. And privately, Eragon thought Brom deserved it, at least a little bit. If he'd had any issues with Eragon's worsening demeanor, he at least had the wherewithal to keep it to himself, which Eragon was thankful for.
"Well?" Brom barked after a moment, and Eragon finally stepped away from the door and into the room.
"Well what?" Eragon sighed, sinking into the chair angled toward Brom's, the same one he'd cleared so he could present Saphira's egg. He nudged the stack of books with the toe of his boot; even after a month, Brom had only tidied the pile instead of moving it elsewhere. Eragon was tempted to kick it over, but narrowly managed to resist the urge. He leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin propped up in the palm of his hand, not meeting the man's eye. He felt terribly immature.
Across from him, he heard Brom take a long drag from his pipe, the smell of smoke swelling around him. Maybe I should get a pipe, too, he thought absently.
Please don't, Saphira said, and Eragon's breath caught in his throat. He glanced over at her egg then away again. You would look...far too silly.
Eragon smiled to himself. Aye, I would. His tension eased as he felt himself warming slightly, both inside and out, and he gasped when he remembered what had brought him running to Brom's house before his own turmoil had muted all his thoughts. "Oh! The traders!" he said, lifting his head. "The traders are here! That means—"
Brom scoffed, combing the fingers of his free hand through his beard. "I am aware, thank you. I do live in town, unless you've forgotten?"
Eragon had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut again and held his breath for a moment until his pounding heart began to slow. In his mind, he could feel Saphira brushing against him, offering up some patient comfort. How have you dealt with him for so long? he asked her, only half-joking.
He's not so bad, she said, her voice an amused hum behind his eyes. And really, he's only this awful to you because you've made it so. Stop being such a blockhead around him, he...he is happy to have you here.
And yet, he keeps trying to chase me away, Eragon said, and Saphira couldn't deny it though she did send him a fair bit of comfort for the thought. Out loud, he slowly said, "I only meant that before this is when Saphira's egg hatched. So perhaps we should...prepare for that?"
Brom grumbled, "...perhaps," then remained silent. Huffing as he stood, Eragon took two steps forward and plucked Saphira's egg from the man's arms before returning to his own chair. He sat sideways, his knees hooked over one arm of it, and leaned the egg against his thighs.
"You could hatch now, you know," he said, running his fingers over the smooth curve of her shell. He traced one of the veins of white with the pad of his finger, and below the surface of it, he could feel it tremble slightly before stilling again.
Mmm, Saphira hummed, it would be nice to stretch my wings again. Perhaps I could beat you over the head with them enough times that you'd forget how to be so foolish.
He leaned his head back over the opposite arm of the chair and groaned. Brom allowed him a few more moments of rest before he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Eragon glanced over to see his pipe on the side table in place of the scroll they'd been working on during the last two weeks. Since neither of them wanted to be caught outside in the dead of night using wooden practice swords—and Brom didn't want them wrecking up his home with their …movements —Eragon's lessons with the man mainly consisted of expanding his knowledge of the ancient language as much as possible, though he was more advanced than Brom had expected him to be. And while there wasn’t much they could do indoors, he still practiced the actual casting of spells and storing his energy in a white-and-orange speckled gemstone Brom had dug up from some chest in his home.
They only met two or three times a week, but still Eragon regretted having to keep any of it a secret from Roran or Garrow. As far as they knew, Eragon was just…being kind to an aging old man. Eragon snorted to himself; in a way, he was.
"Today, you'll be translating this," Brom said, tossing the scroll over without making sure Eragon was ready, and he had to scramble to grab it from the air while keeping Saphira balanced in his lap, only fumbling it once before pulling it open slightly.
"Again?" Eragon whined as he read over the words, and Brom laughed as he stretched out his legs. Brom had been pleased that Eragon could read and write in both the common and ancient languages, but not surprised, and Eragon had never told him from whom exactly he'd learned.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
To make up for his rudeness, Eragon invited Roran to walk around the gathered traders' booths and tents together, which his cousin had eagerly agreed to when Eragon had arrived home from his lessons with Brom. Eragon had been too excited about what was to come to feel guilty for, well, any number of reasons; being so short and dismissive with his family over the last month, spending so much time away from home and with Brom and then lying about the reason why, knowing that he would be leaving in a week's time... The list went on, but when Roran threw his arm around Eragon's shoulder like he'd done all their lives, it filled Eragon with warmth.
He's a good man, Eragon thought with a smile as he settled into bed. He and Roran and Garrow would go into town tomorrow on their wagon, and for now, Eragon just wanted to rest.
He is, Saphira said, and Eragon rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over both himself and her egg. He and Brom didn't know exactly when she'd be hatching, and Eragon wanted to keep her as close as possible until she did. He pulled her to his face, pressing his cheek against the cool, smooth surface of the egg. Are you ready for tomorrow? she asked eagerly.
As much as I can be, he said, already feeling sleep pulling at his mind. He's made me translate it so many times, I could probably recite it in the dwarves' language at this point.
He's a good teacher, Saphira hummed.
In the morning, he helped Roran and Garrow load the wagon. His uncle gave him a strange look, an eyebrow raised critically, when Eragon brought his pack along. "What d'you need all that for?" he asked again, and once more Eragon silently begged him not to open it; he had brought Saphira's egg with him.
"Is it enough if I simply tell you it's a surprise?" Eragon asked hopefully.
Garrow gave him a fond—if exasperated—look, and shrugged. "We'll see, now won't we?" Then he climbed up onto the wagon. Eragon watched him nervously and was startled out of his thoughts by Roran yet again when he stepped up to Eragon's side, knocking their shoulders together.
"What kind of surprise?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
"You'll see," Eragon grinned. Then he, too, climbed aboard.
Eragon distracted himself from his nerves by teasing Roran about his relationship with Katrina on the trip into town, which Garrow bore with the same resigned silence any father would. It made Eragon wish he could tell them anything about Arya, but anything he could say about her would just sound too unbelievable. When they finally arrived just past noon, Eragon was eager to stretch his legs. He and Roran jumped from the wagon and waited beside it as Garrow lowered himself to the ground and gave each of them a stern look.
"Don't forget about dinner tonight," he said, reaching to the pouch on his belt and pulling out several coins. "This is all you're getting, so don't spend it all in one place." He dropped a few in each of their hands. Eragon and Roran were practically bouncing on their toes, but still they waited to be dismissed, and once they were they all-but ran into town, giggling like they were many years younger.
Roran dragged him toward a booth displaying a number of intricately decorated knives, and Eragon watched him from the corner of his eye as his cousin browsed. Am I older than him now? he wondered. It was an odd feeling; he certainly wasn't taller than Roran, and even after the Agaetí Blödhren he'd only had maybe an inch on him.
I don't know if it's been that long, Saphira said, deep in her own thoughts. Eragon could feel the edges of them, the sorts of thoughts they'd been avoiding having until they left; there was something about Carvahall that made them both reluctant to spend their time considering darker things, something…innocent. Eragon comforted her, eyeing a tabled stacked with jars of various sizes, all filled with a menagerie of spices.
What does Brom season his food with? Eragon asked, edging his way over; having a surplus of spice might make their travels more comfortable, at the least.
He was almost finished with his transaction, three jars tucked carefully into his pack alongside Saphira's egg, when Roran joined him, a guilty look on his cousin's face. Amused, Eragon let him squirm for a moment longer, then turned to face him. Over his shoulder, Eragon could see Katrina standing nearby, tucking a curl of copper behind her ear. He looked back at Roran and couldn't help smirking.
"Leaving me already?" Eragon asked, though he didn't really mind; he still had Saphira.
"Aye," Roran said, smiling guiltily. "I know you asked if we could go around together, but—"
"Go," Eragon said, putting a hand on Roran's shoulder to turn him away. "I'll see you at Horst's for dinner."
Roran hesitated for only a moment before grinning. "Thanks," he said, relieved, then practically ran to Katrina's side to join her. Eragon smiled as he watched them go, disappearing into the crowd.
Will you marry them again? Saphira asked.
I hope so, Eragon said, and he did, though this time he hoped it wouldn't be surrounding such hardships. He wasn't quite sure how he imagined it happening yet; if Eragon had his way, Carvahall would stay completely separated from the war until he had killed Galbatorix, in which, he imagined, he'd return to Carvahall to live out the rest of his days. Perhaps he'd marry them then.
He was grateful to have Saphira so close; she offered him some comfort and commiseration, for neither of them had thought much about what they'd do after the war.
Her own senses of perception were weakened in her egg, but Eragon still shared as much of his sight as he could with her as they walked through town. While she couldn't discern what exactly roasted hazelnuts smelled like, she could still appreciate what it felt like to Eragon—warm and nostalgiac and comforting. He couldn't help smiling as they walked between the brightly coloured tents and booths, describing to Saphira the importance of each trinket and tool being sold, even though she could see it for herself in his mind. They walked that way for more than an hour, until Eragon was finally too hungry to resist buying himself a cherry pie which he sat on a stoop to eat, his pack safely placed between his feet.
Saphira... he said as he ate, watching two traders—men, with swords on their belts—walk by, patrolling around Carvahall, ...why haven't you hatched yet?
He could feel, against his legs, the egg tremble inside his pack. ...I don't know, she admitted. It just...doesn't feel right yet.
He frowned as a cold wind blew through town, shivering despite his thick cloak. It's odd that you've hatched so...randomly. I suppose I would have expected you to hatch around the same time as before in the last Aptr-moi, but it was later, I think. Wasn't it?
I couldn't tell if it was, she said. My sense of time in here is...trivial. I have no need for it. In our eggs, we simply hatch when we know it is right.
Eragon's chest tightened. And right now...is it not right?
In his mind, she snorted with laughter. What, right here in the middle of town? Brom would have both our heads for that.
So you can control it? he asked, hopeful despite himself.
Did you not hear me when I said it has to be right?
Eragon shifted uncomfortably on the wooden planks of the stoop. I know, he said. I just...wish I understood it better, I guess.
Saphira's egg trembled again. As do I. It's not something I've ever had to think about...I doubt any dragon has ever had to hatch more than once before.
As Eragon licked the leftover syrup from his fingers, he thought about her words. I suppose it must have something to do with whomever your Rider is, he mused. And whether or not they're ready for you to hatch... He could feel Saphira considering it for a moment before, somewhat-reluctantly, she accepted his theory. Then no matter how much I wish for you to hatch, it won't happen until I'm ready, either. But what would make him ready? Before, it seemed like she'd hatched quite randomly. Was the plan they had made with Brom to leave with the traders for naught if neither he nor Saphira could predict when she'd hatch?
It's a good plan, Saphira assured him. And believe me—there's nothing I'd like more than to be able to walk by your side.
Eragon smiled at the thought; if there was one thing he missed from his time in Ellesméra in the last Aptr-moi, it was seeing Saphira as a hatchling; he thought the sight of it would never get old.
She huffed in his mind, and Eragon got the distinct impression that she was shuffling her wings, embarrassed, inside her egg. Let's not dwell on it for today, Saphira offered. What else does this little celebration have to offer?
He glanced up, trying to guess where the sun was behind the clouds as he stood. They would still have several hours until he was to meet Roran and Garrow at Horst's house for dinner and he let himself be swept through town by Saphira's curiosity as they waited for the time to pass. After making a full circuit around Carvahall, Eragon returned to one stall that had caught his attention more than the jewelry and tools and cooking ware.
There was a richly-decorated tent with a long table in front of it covered in heaps of cloth arranged by weave and colour, and Eragon couldn't resist looking through them with a new sort of appreciation, running his fingers over each piece that caught his eye. He found himself buying a bolt of thin green fabric—obviously not the same quality as the elven clothing he'd grown used to—that was similar enough to the green lámarae Niduen had gifted him that he couldn't let it go. He wasn't sure yet what to do with it, but it was a comfort to hold in his hands; he hadn't expected Niduen to be such a good companion, and it reminded him of her more than it did the colour of Arya's eyes.
He froze at the realization—was his opinion of Arya so drastically changed by what had happened?—only distracted from his surprise when Saphira directed him to a coarsely-woven stack of blue fabric. Which one matches my scales best? she prodded him.
His hands twitched, then moved to drape the green cloth over one arm. Why do you want to know? he asked, smiling to himself as he leaned forward for a better look; it was late in the afternoon and, by his best guess, this would be their last stop before meeting up with Garrow and Roran.
Perhaps I'd like to decorate myself as well, she said, and Eragon could feel both curiosity and embarrassment from her words.
He didn't want to embarrass her further, though the idea of a dragon in clothing made him want to laugh. Dutifully, he combed through the stack, torn between two options; one was woven with alternating thick and thin threads, and the other seemed to shimmer in the afternoon light. When he asked the trader for the price of each, she offered both to him at such a discount that he couldn't turn her down. As carefully as he could, he stuffed all three bundles in his pack, grateful it wasn't exactly full when he'd left for the day; just the journals Brom had suggested he keep, a spare scarf, Saphira's egg, and now the three new jars of spices. It was an awkward process, having to use his body to shield her egg from view, and when he was satisfied, he re-shouldered it and thanked the trader profusely for her generosity.
Garrow gave him a questioning look when he arrived for dinner—early, thankfully—at Horst's house, but he didn't say anything about his overstuffed pack. The meal itself was hearty and more satisfying than Eragon had remembered it being. Once Horst and Garrow were several mugs deep in the heavy ale passed around during dinner, Albriech and Baldor pulled Roran and Eragon into the kitchen, and they passed their own bottle around in a circle, laughing even harder when all Elain offered them was a knowing smile and wink before she rejoined the table with dessert.
"This is the most I've seen of you all month!" Roran laughed, throwing an arm around Eragon's shoulder and wrestling him nearly to his back.
"Oh?" Baldor asked, passing the bottle to his brother. "And where've you been, Eragon?"
"Got a girl?" Albriech asked with such genuine curiosity that Roran laughed so hard his knees buckled beneath him, collapsing onto Eragon's back and dragging them both to the floor.
"Has he got a— No!" Roran snorted. "He's been hanging around that old storyteller! A girl? Hah!"
The drink had loosened Eragon's tongue enough that he almost spoke of Arya, but he managed to swallow his words. He rolled over, shoving Roran away and dodged—unsteadily—to the side as Roran feigned a lunge toward. him. "As a matter of fact," Eragon said slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, "Brom and I have been working on a—a story. Together. And maybe, if you're nice enough, you'll get to hear it tonight."
Roran, Baldor, and Albriech stared at him, wide-eyed, and Eragon took the opportunity to snatch the bottle from Albriech's lax grip. Mind yourself, Saphira said, but he found, much like before, that it helped to ease his nerves. Still...
He passed the bottle to Roran who clutched it in both hands. "Is that it?" Roran asked, sounding, of all things, disappointed.
"What do you mean?" Eragon frowned.
Roran shared a look with Albriech and Baldor. "I...thought you did have a girl, and the old man was just covering for you..." he admitted softly. "I didn't know you were actually doing something with him."
Albriech and Baldor snickered at his wording, and Eragon could feel himself flushing from more than just the pilfered ale. Unable to stop himself, he slugged Roran on the arm. "...I could have a girl," he said, sniffing indignantly.
"Of course you could," Baldor said, patting Eragon's shoulder, the fraternal gesture warming something in Eragon's chest.
"Sure!" Albriech nodded, taking the bottle again. "You're not all that bad-looking," he said after taking a swig and passing it to his brother. "And you're...funny. That's always good."
Eragon's stomach tightened. "I'm...funny."
"Aye," Baldor said, "everyone likes a funny guy."
Eragon turned a pleading look on Roran, who'd remained suspiciously silent. "What do you think of me?" he asked, almost desperately.
Roran took a step back, his hands on his hips, and looked Eragon up and down. "You've got the bones of a good man in there somewhere," he nodded. "But you're more clever than you are funny. Though I'm not sure what girls think of cleverness."
"Clever isn't bad, either!" Albriech said, and Eragon let out a weak noise from the back of his throat.
Saphira, he said, looking around the circle they'd formed again in the middle of the kitchen. I could get a girl, right? Her wordless reply was full of love and warmth, but it didn't help, and Eragon couldn't stop from thinking there was a reason she wasn't saying anything. When the bottle was passed to him again, he shook his head. "I won't participate if you're all going to be like that," he said, only half-meaning it as a joke.
Roran and Albriech laughed, and Baldor nudged Eragon with his elbow, saying, "See? Funny!"
When it was well into the night, Eragon all-but rushed everyone out the door and toward the traders' camp. After making sure his uncle and cousin were seated toward the center of the ring around the bonfire, Eragon bid them farewell and reached out with his mind to find Brom. He darted between tents, nearly tripping several times in his haste. When he finally found the man, Brom took one look at him and frowned.
"You've been drinking," he said shortly, and Eragon snorted. "You're too young for that."
"I'm seventeen," he said. "That's plenty old."
Brom gave him a long-suffering look, but didn't speak on it any further. "Are you ready? You've got it memorized?" he asked instead.
"I've had it memorized for years," Eragon said, and Brom scoffed.
"I don't need you slipping into the ancient language in the middle of it, though," he said seriously. Then he sighed and put his hands on Eragon's shoulders and leaned down enough that they were eye-to-eye. "Eragon," he said, then paused, looking at the ground. "I don't expect everyone to understand it, but...it's beautiful. To know that the queen once had a copy of it for herself..." Brom trailed off, shaking his head. He took a deep breath then returned his gaze to Eragon. "I'm proud of you."
Eragon swayed on his feet, blinking back tears; perhaps he had had too much to drink, if he was so affected by the man's words. Still, he swallowed and said, "Th-thank you."
They waited in the tent of a troubadour Brom was familiar enough with for their turn in front of the crowd, and Eragon only half-listened to the conversations flowing in and out of the tent. He was, for some reason, almost surprised that none of the plays or stories had changed—why did he keep expecting things to be different? Occasionally, he caught Brom's eye whenever the man noticed him sighing too morosely. He didn't approach though, and Eragon guessed that Brom had already expended his daily ration of fatherly behaviour.
But more than morose, Eragon was nervous; rehearsing his story in front of Brom had been one thing, but to do it in front of the majority of Carvahall? He wished he'd taken the bottle of ale from Baldor before they left, lamenting how confident he'd been while reciting his story at the Agaetí Blödhren. But for all his worrying, he knew he was prepared; he had to be.
For whatever reason, Brom had insisted Eragon go last, and Eragon watched half-hidden in the darkness as Brom swept around the crowd with his tale of the Riders' fall and Galbatorix's rise to power. He hadn't heard it since before, and hearing it again with the knowledge he had now made him want to fall to the ground and weep.
Umaroth is still waiting, Saphira assured him as he leaned against the wooden pole of the tent they'd waited in. And I know he'll be glad to meet you again.
Thank you, Eragon thought. I can’t wait for him to meet you, too. If there was one being that would be glad to hear his tale, he thought it would be the Eldunarí, isolated as they were. He basked in his bond with Saphira as Brom's tale came to a close. The man swept an arm out, his black cloak fluttering in the firelight, and looked over his shoulder at Eragon.
You can do this, Saphira said, and Eragon sucked in a quick breath, stepping forward and into the light before his nerves could fail him. He kept his head down as he walked and Brom spun around at his side as he approached, retreating into darkness. Eragon let out his breath slowly as he looked up, meeting Roran's excited gaze. He felt something in his chest ease, and fighting back a smile at the whoop Roran let out, Eragon began to speak.
When he'd woken up on the floor in Brom's house a month ago, after casting a uselessly ineffective spell in his anger, he'd immediately ran home, unable to speak another word to his father.
When he'd gotten home, he'd realized he'd left Saphira's egg behind and, ashamed, he'd ran all the way back to Brom's.
And then they'd spoken, man-to-man, as Eragon had always wished they could. And after that, he couldn't stay away.
Brom had listened to his tale again, eagerly, and had questioned everything, trying to understand what Eragon and Saphira had gone through. They'd made a plan then, to leave with the traders after they came through Carvahall, so that Eragon and Saphira could recover from yet another terrible trip to Dras-Leona. Brom had never exactly apologized for his behaviour in the last Aptr-moi, but Eragon couldn't fault him; he wasn't the same man. And while this Brom wasn't overly-paternal with him, Eragon had the feeling he'd taken to heart some of the crueler things he'd said to the man.
When Brom had asked Eragon to recite his story from the Agaetí Blödhren, Eragon had been happy to do so, unaware of what Brom had planned for him until he found himself being coached on even his movements while he told it.
He was thankful for Brom's help, for the care and dedication he'd put into this, as he performed it for Carvahall. He could feel Brom's eyes on his back as he spoke, chanting each line with a rhythm that had been drilled into his mind over several weeks, and when Eragon turned, casting off his cloak at a particular line before picking it back up at another, he could see his father beaming at him.
It was only due to how many times they'd rehearsed his performance that Eragon didn't falter. He met Brom's gaze and grinned, his anxieties over speaking to a crowd forgotten as he threw himself whole-heartedly into his words and movements. As he finished, flourishing his cloak in front of himself with a practiced gesture, Eragon nearly collapsed as the adrenaline and alcohol finally caught up with him. He heard a ripple of cheers and applause that only grew louder with Roran and Garrow's shouting. Eragon stood and found Brom sweeping to his side to clap a warm hand on his shoulder.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time. He was tired, but every sound he heard—the creaking of the house settling in the cold, brittle branches brushing against each other outside his window, the calling of some distant crow—made him sit up, heart pounding, and reach for Saphira's egg, thinking she was about to hatch.
Inside her egg, she was quiet, and Eragon guessed she must be resting, too. He didn't want to disturb her, so he reached for his pack, fishing out one of his journals. This one, Brom had advised he fill with things that were different in this Aptr-moi that were better than before. Eragon lit a candle and, using a charcoal pen, began to write; he left the one for things he remembered about the past at the bottom of his pack.
When he was mostly through the events of the evening—unable to leave out anything that had happened—Saphira brushed against his mind, questioning. I'm fine, he assured her, reaching over to run his fingertips over her shell.
She prodded a little deeper into his mind, and he left her to it, continuing to write. ...you don't want to wait? she asked.
His hand paused. I don't think I can, he admitted, closing his journal, the entry abandoned.
But today was a good day, she said, confused. You were just writing about it.
And it had been. Eragon pushed his feelings at her, not sure how to word how he felt; there was only so much he could do if they stayed behind any longer; things were good, but he could feel himself growing complacent—even this night; dinner at Horst's, telling his story—was enough that he had started wanting to stay. He couldn't let that happen when there was so much for they should be doing instead.
After a moment, Saphira said, I understand. He could feel her restlessness in their bond; Carvahall had never really been her home, her home was with him.
Eragon glanced at his pack, biting his lower lip as he thought. Then he opened his journal, turning to an unmarked page toward the back and began to write again. When he finished, he re-read the letter for Roran and Garrow and nodded to himself. It would have to do.
Then, setting Saphira's egg on his pillow, he started to pack, shuffling his feet across the floorboards to keep as silent as possible. He slid his pack over his shoulders, as full as he could get it with the folds of cloth he'd purchased from the trader, Saphira safely wrapped among them, and tied his boots. Then he put out the candle and stood, trembling.
I take it back, I don't think I can do this, he said, wishing he'd left her egg out so that he could hold it in his hands for something to do with them.
You can, she promised. I doubt Brom will be upset with you for wanting to spend more time with him.
He brushed off the thought, embarrassed, but it did strengthen his resolve. He left the letter on his bed and edged his way to the door of his bedroom and shut it behind him as he exited.
He took several long moments to stand in the doorway of Roran's bedroom, watching the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he slept. I should have spent more time with him, he thought.
That would have made it harder, Saphira said, comfort and encouragement flooding through him; she was right. Finally, Eragon tore himself away, promising that when he was finished with ending Galbatorix, he would come back and explain everything.
As silently as he could, Eragon left.
He reached Carvahall before dawn, shivering despite the spell he'd used to warm the air around him. He skirted around the edge of town to avoid the traders' camp and the chance of being sighted. When he started to squeeze between two houses, he was surprised to see Brom emerging from the dark alley, a hefty pack over his own shoulder and his twisted staff in hand.
"What..?" Eragon started, but Brom shushed him.
What took you so long? Brom asked in their minds. Eragon flinched at the contact; he wasn't unused to it, but it still startled him with how tired he was.
I was waiting for Saphira to hatch, he frowned. How had he guessed Eragon wanted to leave early? They were meant to leave with the traders...
Brom looked around, his movements condescendingly exaggerated. I see no dragon.
Because she hasn't, Eragon growled.
Brom raised one eyebrow comically high, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, before he dropped the act and sighed. He ran a hand down his beard, looking east to where the sun would soon be rising. Then he threw an arm around Eragon's shoulder, jostlinging their packs together.
Alright then, Brom said, offering Eragon a tight smile. And together, they began to walk.
Notes:
Heads up that I may not have chapter ten ready in time for next Friday; they’ve had us working hella overtime at work this last month, and I have been very tired lately. I will still try tho!!
Pages Navigation
Shadows987 on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Mar 2025 04:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Mar 2025 03:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
UE__16 on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Mar 2025 10:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Mar 2025 10:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
YoungTaoist640 on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Mar 2025 11:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Thu 27 Mar 2025 12:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hakima99 on Chapter 1 Fri 28 Mar 2025 12:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Fri 28 Mar 2025 12:42PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 28 Mar 2025 06:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
GaaraSandNin on Chapter 1 Thu 03 Apr 2025 05:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Thu 03 Apr 2025 01:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
PistachioMacaron on Chapter 1 Sat 19 Apr 2025 04:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Sat 19 Apr 2025 01:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
spodeli on Chapter 1 Thu 01 May 2025 03:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Thu 01 May 2025 08:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
ArlynGremlin on Chapter 1 Sun 18 May 2025 12:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 1 Fri 23 May 2025 04:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
CarrotsOrSomething on Chapter 1 Thu 22 May 2025 10:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
TheDragonBornFromBlood on Chapter 1 Sat 31 May 2025 06:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hakima99 on Chapter 2 Fri 04 Apr 2025 06:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 2 Fri 04 Apr 2025 01:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
dragon_loverinf on Chapter 2 Mon 07 Apr 2025 12:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 2 Mon 07 Apr 2025 02:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
Thunder999999 on Chapter 2 Thu 24 Apr 2025 02:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 2 Thu 24 Apr 2025 05:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
TheDragonBornFromBlood on Chapter 2 Sat 31 May 2025 06:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
Astrum_Bartimaeus on Chapter 2 Fri 11 Jul 2025 11:47PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 11 Jul 2025 11:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
livinglaughinglove on Chapter 3 Fri 18 Apr 2025 08:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 02:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
Theblackbird123 on Chapter 3 Fri 18 Apr 2025 03:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 02:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Evonna on Chapter 3 Fri 18 Apr 2025 09:01PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 02:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
PistachioMacaron on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 03:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 3 Sat 19 Apr 2025 04:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hakima99 on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Apr 2025 11:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 3 Thu 24 Apr 2025 05:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ansy on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Apr 2025 07:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
fuskinari on Chapter 3 Thu 24 Apr 2025 05:18AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation