READ: Thus more, here I am, unscathed and ludicrously oblivious to anything other than my own moral fibers… and this lovely packet of rewarding Oreo's seated to my left, which I shall eat within the next five minutes of my tedious life. In the mean time, however, I have written this: A long, woeful, depressing, ominous, relatively fabulous in every detailed way, oh-so charming chinwags and chitchats written for your leisure's indulgence (staring two familiar protagonists), and in the end, when it all dramatically unravels and becomes typically obvious, SEX! -_-
Alas, tis' a very long read, and I will not be held accountable for jet-lag.
Story Playlist:
Graeme Revell – Elektra
Frederick Rousseau - La Fille De Pekin
James Horner – Prima Noctes
Hans Zimmer – Old Souls
Scrying For Arya
All of these beautiful compositions compelled me further in my writings. I highly recommend listening to either one of them while reading this. It'll pretty much… aid the mood, a lot.
SERIOUSLY, PLEASE NOTE: Some uncanny quantum physics theories suggest that when the reader is not directly observing this story, it may cease to exist or will only exist in a vague and undisclosed state of mind… like mine. Therefore, I hereby observe this story as my own, and in rightfully doing so, I've incidentally used characters and scenes not of my own creation which you may, perhaps, notice in this fabulous document. Failure to notice these ridiculous concepts is your own fault, and therefore not my own. Anyone here who disputes this disclaimer as either incredulous or completely dull-witted can respectfully kiss my ass. Cheers!
Oh, and another thing. Enjoy. You guys have earned it.
When to the session's of sweet silent thought,
I summer up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times waste.
William Shakespeare: When to the Session's of Sweet Silent Thought
PART ONE
Ambivalence
For Arya Dröttningu, a vague and distinct line between the realm of dreams and the orbit of reality simply held one ultimatum among life; a choice of belief amid a fickle hope, or an unexplained but desperate longing through elusive temptations and moral needs. And although this choice left many perplexed, for her it simply meant a life worth living. For her it was meaning, a search for integrity and adventure, a foregoing departure for independence and significance. Nothing more seemed apparent other than that. She knew what she wanted, and it even seemed simple enough to grasp amongst an obscured darkness riddled with calamity. The choices were there, but instead she defied them for her meaning in the world. First she would live, and then she would choose.
But perhaps defying what is simply meant to be is the choice of reality itself, her reality in which she was meant to live. But she would never know it until the life she once knew became the truth of her very existence. The need and temptations she would firsthand deny would be the meaning she was searching for, and she would finally succumb to those very desires she once thought irrational and trivial. She would never know it of course, not yet, but she would need them now, more than anything.
But she would never know it until, of course, it becomes her reality.
I would mind your manner if I were you, sir. Her voice is stern and riddled with venom. Although she speaks to herself, she speaks no more then what will soon come if this foolish brute and his followers continued in their daze to grasp her attention. They were wallowing in their futile attempts, and she knew it, and she rejoices in this knowledge.
"Come now, my pretty lady," he grunts quite embarrassingly, "Would you not give kindness and accept a drink on behalf of my gratitude? Or my fellow kinsmen here?" he smiles slyly, leaning closer on the floors of his hands, "They do not take such ill said refusals as I do, pretty lady." And at this, the other men laugh mirthlessly.
"There is no gratitude to be had here, sir, but merely foolishness to be tempered with," she remarks harshly, unamused by these uninvited brutes, keeping her face well hidden within the confinements of the hood that conceals her. She waits.
The men, two of which were standing on either side of her small table situated in this far corner of the inn, scowled angrily at her tease, the fever of alcohol making their leathery cheeks flushed with light headiness in their rejection once more. The one that was unkindly sitting at her table clenches his fists in resentment, glaring at her like a heated zealot without satisfaction. The one that continued his faze lifted a finger at her and shook it sternly as if to warn her, his own anger apparent even in his drunken state and waving posture of unsteadiness. "Not… very nice, eh? Even for a hooded missus." He made a quick gesture, and suddenly the man to her left hooked a finger underneath the edge of her hood, attempting to toss it over her head to reveal the lady from within the darkness, but she is quick to perceive this.
So quickly she was when she grasps his wrist tightly from any further access, so fast and so agile were her lithe movements that they were unaware of such eased acts, but astounded when she left the man whimpering. It wasn't human, it wasn't natural, and her uncanny motion became apparent to them even within their befuddled state.
She releases him and returns to her previous condition, unmoving and still in her seat as they scowl. Her hood collapses around her neck, revealing her face from amid its cascading shadow, falling to her shoulders as the four men gazed at her humanistic appearance in their angered relief and prevailment, although she is neither as she waits unexpectedly in her own resentment, simply waiting and unwavering.
"But no more, eh, pretty lady?" he sniggers, and the men around her laugh, but she is not listening.
She would have replied, eventually dealing with him and his brutes in their own deserving manor and contemptuous judgement, but Arya stiffens suddenly in her seat, cautious and optimistic. Someone had invaded her mind. Was invading! But again, she is quick to intercept this as everything else around her remains but a mere blur. Her mind is sealed in unfailing, impenetrable steel barricades outmatched by none, and someone would dare touch her conscious? Not in a foul, oppressive place such as this. She could feel them now, and they knew it. They were searching, for reasons unknown to her. But whom?
Unless…
And then her relief washes over her almost instantly, and she knew then.
Eragon!
A familiar voice. Arya?
And then she sees him, afar in the inn with a bewildered look upon his artistic-like features. Their eyes scarcely meet amongst the blur for a tentative moment before the crowd overlaps and thickens once more, hiding him in his reformed shock. He was searching, just as she was waiting, but no more at last.
The men around her, still hankering in their futile attempts to sway her, remained oppressively unaware of the following proceedings but a moment ago, even when Eragon finally emerges among the crowd to her table, they're oblivious. The man fighting pointlessly for her unyielding attention turns suddenly to meet him; his face tempered with rage and heated contempt. Eragon, however, remains emotionless and selflessly unfazed by these gestures, unmoving and still as he looks at the man challenging him, waiting.
"You're awful rude; barging in on us uninvited-like," he says, his mouth bitter with the night's endless drink, "Best make yourself scarce, eh?"
"It seems to me, gentlemen, that the lady would rather be left alone," his use of formal pronunciations and words hid the disguised plague of insults he covered effortlessly in his diplomatic tone, but of course, neither one of them could muster the understanding of his formal and informal ways as she did. Beneath the politeness and casual formalities he provided spontaneously, was the rider who wanted none other than to put these men into their rightful place, but could neither do that or act upon it unless be seen or noticed as the Varden rider. Although he hid it well, his human-elf like face stood out above anything else, despite the headband concealing his ears. At least he knew to stay among the shadows created by his past race, and for this she was grateful.
He reasons with them, chooses his words carefully and remains perfectly eased despite the fools objections and ignorance, especially within the drunken state they were in. Humans and their peculiar need to constantly fuel their bellies with ale. It was such a foolish thing to lose yourself in, one of the few human interests Arya never understood.
She watches these men now, even as Eragon deals with them, and sees only ignorant dull-heads who willingly loose themselves in liquid that simply turns them into nothing but vile, corruptible men with no understanding. What pointless ways to spend living one's life.
"I'm not sure I believe you, friend," the man says, taking a step toward Eragon and breathing upon his face. The other men begin to slowly edge away from her respectfully, taking the heed Eragon had obviously given them, but the one looking at him now remained where he stood. "You're just trying to drive us away so you can be with her yourself."
Idiot… Although, regrettably, when she looks to Eragon for his response, there's a flinch upon his brow that only she could possibly see, and she sighs despondently.
He leans forward suddenly, speaking quietly so the others couldn't hear, but she picks up on it effortlessly.
"I assure you," he whispers, "She is my sister. Please, sir, I have no quarrel with you. Won't you go?"
"Not when I think you're a lying milksop!"
As of now she thinks how ridiculous the situation has become. Her reasons for altering her appearance had proven worthy for short a time, but it would be a matter of time itself until someone would notice her human looks, and still they would be mesmerized no matter her efforts to conceal the elf within her. Now she simply wishes Eragon could be done with this fool and lop off his head, but to do so would cause a large rift that would bring nothing but unwanted attention that neither could afford. They were wasting time.
She had left in search for him, and now she found him, but how much longer would they delay if this attention would constantly come about? Altering ones appearance would do nothing, as she had learned. But they needed to be on their way to avoid the alternative that could prove grave; Murtagh or even possible, Galbatorix.
"Sir, be reasonable," although his voice remained the soft, untainted use of casual politeness, beneath it were small remnants of his impatience beginning to unfold and hinder at this man's ignorance, "There's no need for this unpleasantness. The night is young, and there's drink and music aplenty. Let's not quarrel about such a petty misunderstanding. It's beneath us."
Beneath us indeed… Let us be done with this already! She was content to allow Eragon to reason with him in kind, but if this idiot continued to foolishly squander over her and matters pointless to meaning, then she would soon gladly take reasons into her own hands and begone with this fool. But to her relief and Eragons by the looks of it, the man relaxed after a few seconds and wallowed a scornful grunt uttered through his failure. At this, she allowed a hint of a smile to appear on her face. At last.
"I wouldn't want to fight a youngling like you anyway," he said, and walked away amongst the oblivious crowd, his kinsmen following in pursuit after a second glance toward Eragon, then leaving.
His eyes were still fixed amid the crowd when he finally slipped behind the table and took a seat next to her, for reasons she didn't know nor wanted to know. Perhaps he was still transfixed on the men, who could turn and report this little incident to the soldiers situated on the other side of the inn, making a mock of themselves, and then attention would find them. That she couldn't allow.
"What are you doing here?" He suddenly asked, his eyes weaving back and sitting upon her, waiting.
"Searching for you." She simply responded, and still he looked surprised, his eyes averting back toward the crowd as he smiled.
"Are you alone?"
"No longer… Did you rent a bed for the night?" She asked silently, but he shook his head.
Excellent… "Good. I already have a room. We can talk there."
They rose, and she walked ahead as he followed after. She stole a quick glance at the men who failed at their attempts to acquire her attention, rejoicing for Eragons quick timing…
For if he'd not come to interfere, she would have surely sent them home dismembered. What a pity…
"You didn't have to come looking for me, you know. I was fine." He had said, and his voice had never been more sincere to the predicament. She knew him well enough to know when he wasn't, but that was rarely on most parts. His eyes however, at the time, had looked profoundly resilient to any subtle emotion he may or may not have felt during the course of his assertion to her.
As she lies quietly upon the bed within the darkened room of the inn, the restless night is staged and sombre in the budding hours of darkness. All is quiet, all is adamantly still. Still and… stagnant. Although, given the reality of their plight, they were not. And it is with a curious thought of uncertainty that Arya's eyes remained passively fixed upon the open window, thinking little of it, but all the more cautious of the possibility of impending intruders. Agitated, she lays quietly and motionlessly, fixated upon the enclosure of night.
But she can hear him now. Upon the lulled awakening of darkness and anxiety, she can perceive his attention on her. The steady rise and fall of Eragons subdued breathing near the door is perhaps the only sound she could distinguish within the night. He's watching her, listening to her as much as she is him. Perhaps he himself is unaware of her slight perception to his stare upon her turned back. But nevertheless, she knew he was watching her. Watching her, listening to her, and resolved to sit there doing so until dawn. However, despite the sudden grasp of wakefulness to this truth, she remains still.
Tomorrow would be a new day, if ever different. Though untimely, they must depart early within the morning's lucidity before the dawn. It was a tenuous fortitude of refuge, but one they must accomplish nevertheless away from here, away from the Empire. Only upon the endurance of his safety would she feel somewhat at ease. Correspondingly, if they could flee and diverge to the Varden without any fatalities on their part, then she could presumably find comfort within the waking reality of their safety, and that Eragon would be safe and she would no longer have to harbor any delicate concerns for his security.
And although she is rather bitter for his unpredictable nature, it has always abundantly intrigued her just how much he and Brom are alike in so many uncanny ways… and yet, alas, he regrettably yields under the staggering knowledge that he is Morzans youngest.
And that has always aggrieved her. It has saddened her, irritated her, but not for the reasons others perceive.
She is distressed because he resents himself. He proclaims himself incurably as the progeny of evil. Born into a name of malice, he is despised by not others, but by himself. She is by no means irritated or saddened because he names himself inferior. She is, by any means, not aggrieved because he's the prodigal son of Morzan and the brother of a traitor. No, never. She is saddened because he is intolerable of the reality of himself and his very continuation in life, and it lingers dejectedly over his independence.
"Of course I did." She had said, and in what other way could she possibly be more sincere?
Because he will never know the actuality of his importance to others, and this agonizes her. His subsistence in the eyes of many, his vitality, his strength. He is ignorant of his own capacity and his aptitude of life, and this burdens her. He will live on, for eternity, without normality, without the possibility to aspire into something larger than what is already expected of him, and this, by far, hurts her.
Because… unlike others, she holds him in esteem for his faults, for his ability to feel beyond them and to accept them, to perfect them. Admiration and consolation for someone can be, in itself, reassuring, perhaps even for her. She knew that he admired her. She knew that his consolation for her extended far beyond that of a friend… she knew this, he knew this, but it was his capacity to move beyond its disenchantment that made her feel somewhat… calm, with him. He could move beyond Morzan, beyond Murtagh, beyond her…
In spite of this… he will still be, unfortunately, encumbered by feelings needless to him. It was only human, of course.
And that is why she must keep silent, even as his lingering stare upon her turned back consoles her. As he watched her, listened to her, Arya too perceived him in the darkness as he did to her.
She sighs.
"That's it, then, isn't it? We're done." His voice utters quietly like a hushed whispered call through the bloodstained air, as if greatly in need for such tending comfort of which she can neither give nor create. Although he does not show it, she can easily decipher it through his lingering cascade of guilt.
And as her eyes glazed upon the dead they unwillingly slaughtered through a massacre depicted by no more than petty misunderstandings, she beings to wonder through the realization of what they've unintentionally created.
"You're a monster!" he had cried, the only words Arya had perceived before his death. The last surviving soldier, before Eragon had lapped his arm around the poor man's neck and snapped it without hesitation, leaving him to plunder soundlessly in his arms as he laid him to rest on the earth among his kinsmen, who died far worse a death then his own. "Why are you doing this? You're a monster!" No more he was, after Eragon laid him to rest, now and forever.
It had bothered her, how Eragon could kill a man with his bare hands, and yet leave that inexcusable folly of man he called Sloan unwounded and pardoned of all deeds. What difference proved greater? It didn't make sense. And when she had asked this of him she felt none other the shamed to be instructed by him, because he was right. No matter the casualties, he would kill if any proved to be a threat, and leave those who weren't. In any sense, it was genuine, yet unexpectedly profound and intriguing that he would willingly kill if instructed by, yet would never take it upon himself to kill if the choice was given. And in most sense, such acts of mercy are known rarely. Not even Brom held that kind of decency.
She watched him survey the dead, counting the bodies through the plains, staring at him with a strange sense of understanding as he then collects his armour discarded throughout the massacre. He was troubled, that she knew, although was hesitant to understand why. She had guessed first more or less, but it was undeniably taking one's life that disturbed him more. He was still so young, yet experienced beyond all his years by far, but still too young to take a life. This she knew well. She had only been twenty three before taking her first, and it nearly destroyed her. Eragon however, was only sixteen…
Before she could contemplate further in the matter, he was there suddenly, standing beside her upon the hillock overlooking the ground below. At this she turned to him slightly, looking at him as he starred at the corpses they created. "We had best avoid the roads from now on," she said quietly. She had been going over the matter countless times, and after this little tirade, the roads would no longer be safe for them to travel, "We cannot risk another encounter with Galbatorix's men."
When he had only nodded in response, her eyes unintentionally gazed upon his deformed and disjointed hand he held throbbing against his bloodstained tunic, its mangled and useless form cradled unmoving against him. Upon realizing her thoughts, she indicated to his hand, saying, "You should tend to that before we leave." She left him no time to respond to her gesture. Already decided, she grasped his hand before he could register her actions, gently placed it in her own and uttered quietly, "Waíse heill." He groaned, his fingers involuntary popping back into their sockets, the cartilage once crushed began regaining its fullness upon his hand, the skin seeping together to cover the torn and raw flesh below, and slowly his hand became whole again and redefined like it were never disfigured and mauled by the struck of his powerful blow.
As the spell ended, Arya dropped his hand carefully as he flexed it, opening and closing it to confirm it was indeed healed from any previous injuries. "Thank you," he whispered softly, his eyes suddenly upon her with a strange sense of longing kindness he wished to share, but could never say. She looked away suddenly to stare upon the plains once more. Embarrassment lapped her upon the realization of her actions. It was neither a crime nor a mere act of judgment that she had willingly taken it upon herself to heal him, but rather knowing that he was highly capable of performing it himself left her wondering why she had healed him in the first place.
She knew he was capable, yet she found herself somewhat entitled to take it upon herself to do it. She knew this, and so did he when she had turned away from him, but that left her wondering even further. Her actions were pointless, yet she did them anyway because she simply could. She could do it, but she had… simply wanted to do it. Nothing more was understandable other than that, and she knew it.
And so did he.
"I am glad you were by my side today, Eragon," she says, and she means it more than he can possibly understand. When she looks to him again, he is staring at her. staring without kindness or recognition, but staring. Was that because he could? Or was it because he simply wanted to? She could care neither less because she is staring back when he responds gently in his own meaning of truth.
"As you by mine."
"Was it Faolin?" he had asked, his voice quiet amid the nights gentle easements, waiting through the lasting silence she creates unwillingly despite the gentleness to his harmless question. It was undeniably inapt to leave his question unanswered, and yet she had found herself succumbing to it. She had been none other than relieved when she had answered him, telling him the one truth he seemed utterly in need of hearing despite the mask he used to conceal it, but still she confided in him, and was grateful for it. Although, he doesn't see this.
"Yes," she had said, answering him in no more than a silent gasp amongst her hushed response, leaving him to ponder the matter further before he asked the ultimate question she had been fearing beforehand.
He had asked if she loved him, and she had expected no more. At first she found herself pondering, figuring within her mind exactly how to respond to him without hurt or dismay, but instead found herself criticizing him. She had asked him herself if he wanted know based on moral concern, or if he had wanted know out of his own self-interest. She had regretted asking him instantly of course, but he neither flinched nor moved at her harshness, but simply starred.
"No matter," he had said, his voice gentle and quiet despite her daft inquiry, but she couldn't accept his formality, despite wishing to move on from the subject. She felt, once again, that she needed him to understand, although she couldn't say why, it was a simple longing that needed to be had. So she told him, simply as it was, that her profanity had been inexcusable and intolerable, but still he remained quiet, as if waiting for some unknown mental instability to give permission for him move, watching.
Love would always been undefined, still and agile despite what corners it may face. This is what she had told him, but differently to the thoughts and feelings within her now, masked and concealed beyond recognition. Of course, she had loved Faolin, but how would Eragon see that?
He was her companion, just as much as she was for him, but still, how would Eragon see that? When you are left wandering an immortal path through a land of humanistic appearances and lives, who was there to confide in? She would live forever until taken by blade, but others would eventually die of age and live to the void, and she would not. Faolin had been her one to confide in. He had been her companion and kinsmen, a close friend, and dearest brother. Of course she had loved him, but not for the reasons Eragon had thought.
He remains unmoving when she tells him this, and still he remains emotionless, although it is clear he is worried. For her? She could not know, but when she sees him now she sees only kindness in his eyes, the only small figment of emotion she is able to decipher, and it is for her. She forgets often, that Eragon can be most wise, yet strangely unpredictable, just as she was. He will live on forever, moved upon a walking path of immortality where he will see the death of those he loves most, where he will bear witness and peril of sights that ignite the sense of longing that is seen so often in the immortal life, searching and waiting, watching from afar.
He knows her pain, yet does not speak of it, and this moves her because he cares for her, yet does not show it, and she knows why.
And when she tells him this, yet differently once more, she is unable to help it. She finds herself crying, but allows it to continue in front of him because she needs to, and he watches. Such memories torment her, yet she confides in them just as much as she had done with Faolin, but no longer.
He moves then, permitting himself to finally allow his emotions to come forth. Silently, almost intuitively, he reaches for her gently and places his hand over hers.
"The stories about the heroes of old never mention that this is the price you pay when you grapple with the monsters of the dark and the monsters of the mind," he says quietly, his hand tightening softly upon her own as his eyes find hers through the flicker of firelight cast amid the darkness. "Keep thinking about the gardens of Tialdarí Hall, and I'm sure you will be fine." His insinuation is so simple, so gentle and filled with such sympathy, yet it means so much more to her then anything he has ever spoken of previously. His understanding and efficiency allows her to feel hope, and perhaps even somewhat sways her into thinking that his empathy compares to that of Faolins.
Moments more the touch lasted, his hand never leaving nor persisting further, but simply remaining the comfort to her sorrows she needed to sooth her being. His stare upon her never moved or halted through the night of confiding. So much she had said to him, and yet she felt relieved for his understanding, so much that she could talk to him without letting the difficulties of the past ignite her in an emotionless cascade of unfeeling tirades that Eragon once thought her to be, but no more.
She looked down at his hand, wondering what had changed, but found nothing. Perhaps it had simply altered from one aspect to another, but she no longer felt him to be the boy she once knew on glades of Farthen Dûr, but the friend she had once lost to the passing void, her companion, just as she was to him, and always.
But she could no longer permit his comfort. So when she nudged her arm ever so slightly, he knew as well as she did that moment was over, and he removed his hand from her own without question. She had not known at first, but she had never considered him her brother, and it wasn't because Faolin had already been the sibling she once needed, but somehow different. She felt he had always been something more, something much more profound and reeling then that of a brother, but she is left in the dark just as much as he is, left unknowing and in need of answers just as he is. But he will never know.
And that is why she no longer permits his touch.
Amid the night she sits, through the longing comfort of her waking silence of the darkness, quiet as a lullaby in the tune of a soft, mellowed melody designed for only peace and deep amity. She sits alone tonight, as always, leaning against a small willow just outside the outskirts of the pavilions situated throughout plains among the Jiet River, content and soundless as she looks into the night and beyond its wondrous captivity. The time of night is unknown to her, but many of the Varden sleep apart from the lingering patrols scouring the land, and it is then she leaves for the comfort of her thoughts.
It had been long ago, but still she could remember the first night of her journeys beyond Ellesméra and the Du Weldenvardens border, where she would simply gaze through the everlasting night like nothing else mattered, as if no one else existed but her. So long ago, yet she remembers it clearly as if it were a memory to be forever preserved like the lasting night, a lingering figment of reality to hold and treasure like no other.
It had been merely days since their awaiting return to the Varden, and finally upon their arrival, excitement had ensured for the safe return of their lost rider. Of course, she could be no more grateful. Eragon had returned unscathed and unharmed, albeit more physically then mentally, but it left her without apprehension for his own wellbeing. However, that didn't ease the fact that there were still inevitable misfortunes to be had once the fear disintegrated, as it were these days.
She knew just as well, nothing was ever permanent.
For a time people would rejoice, provoke themselves ignorantly into thinking that the terror had vanquished, but like a billowing crack of thunder, it would return just as menacing, and they would cower away just as they had previously. Her thoughts had often drifted instantaneously to these riddled outcomes. Were it always so in the silence of her haven, but that meant nothing until the time of its approach.
"Our lives are but the reflections of the thoughts we think, Arya…" her mother once said, so long ago upon a perch amongst the gardens of Ellesméra. Perhaps it was simply dull, or perhaps it was her own elusive ignorance, but at the time she'd never thought much about her mother's cunning words until now, waving it off as just another petty lesson to be learned in the house of Dröttningu, but now she understood the meaning to what her mother had once advised her on when she was but a child to tamper with.
As you think, you act, and when you act it forms the very persona you were meant to live. But how you live is the very choice you act upon, whether you think it or do it, the outcome is always the same no matter the thoughts that guide you. Perhaps her mother had been right…
Islanzadí chimed amidst her thoughts once more.
"They identify what we not only do in life, but what we may need to survive it. They define us; mold us into the very being we were meant to perceive. Lose your thoughts, Arya, and you may just lose yourself…"
It was, just as she'd thought, undeniably unnerving. Alas, she could no longer bring herself to permit the distant yet faded bit of belief that allowed her the small fragment of hope to course through her, but only to find herself delving into a pool of acrid hostility and ignorance instead of ambient relief and harmony. It was futile and pointless to meaning as she found herself stepping a thin line between hope and despair, mirroring the very reflection she saw herself walking. But of course, that was to be expected. Were it so unbelievably incoherent?
A single horn reverberated amid the distance, reeling and somewhat tantalizing and yet bringing among it a path of chaos and anxiety. The mass hoard known only as the undermining arrival of Galbatorix's troops slowly began to unfold beyond the eye.
He had sent so few! So few and yet still strained upon a fickle hope that these so few men could possibly bring about their impending doom? It was so strange, but something else lingered within her that made her thoughts rapture abnormally, something profound and disturbing. She could not understand this foul impractical trickery Galbatorix perceived so easily, but later she would see, and later she would soon regret it. Something was out of place, and it would come to pass no matter the efforts to restrain it. Their blindness would be their downfall, and there stood the trick in Galbatorix's unveiling scheme.
They were blind.
"Eragon!" The voice filled the air like acrid smoke, weaving and tangling within the lyric strains of their minds like an infectious and incurable disease, prolonging the silent hush of apprehension. Arya felt the bitterness rise within her, her hand held unmoving upon her blade suddenly tensed firmly over its pommel. It had only been a matter of time, of course. Prediction was only ever a tool as long as it proved sufficient.
"Eragon!" he called again as if the first warning had simply faded into a figment of their imagination, his crimson beast circling above their ranks and angling closer toward them. "I see you there! Come fight me, Eragon!"
Her eyes fell to the ground slowly, a shadow lingering over the glades she stood upon. So, they had come for them, just as she'd thought. Amity could only last for so long, and this was simply irrefutable. Nothing, as it were, could possibly last forever. This was just a simple, unalterable fact that Arya knew all too well. Nothing was ever apparent, just imagery delved into a meaningless tirade. But would it ever hold purpose instead of tyranny? Her eyes delved toward Eragon suddenly, where he sat in silence unwavering upon Saphira, his expression unreadable as he himself looked toward the skies.
Were it so indeed…
Upon the embankment she stood, awaiting what only the Varden could perchance upon a faint, misguided hope that this ploy set by the King could be dispatched easily enough to render Murtagh and Thorn useless, but within her a sinking feeling stood unmasked and untainted and she knew something was indeed amiss. Apart from the obvious, that is of Murtagh's unmatched scheme to capture Eragon, and these few men that accompanied him were nothing but a small device to keep the Varden at bay while he attempted this ludicrous plan, something was wrong. But what? What cunning stability did Galbatorix and Murtagh perceive to make this plot so masked, so strange and so grotesque that no one could possibly intercept it? It didn't make any sense! She herself was beginning to feel none other than useless.
Stop…
Obvious reasons yet again. Murtagh had bested Eragon beforehand and captured him in enchantments far greater than his own, but freed him. Perhaps he had simply outwitted himself and felt pity, or maybe it was because of their past. Either way, nothing held for truth today. Them simply being here held proof of that, but would they show Eragon the same mercy today if such a fate stumbled upon him yet again? No, and he knew that. But this time it would be different, and this time they would be prepared, even for the abnormal.
This time, she and her kinsmen were here and they would help him. She would help him.
Her thoughts are decided before she knows her actions, and begins to make her way toward him suddenly as he readies himself for what may come, his stance upon Saphira composed and silent as she approaches him, and she is rendering herself as much as the others of the slow impending doom creeping upon them from amid the outskirts and onwards. She wouldn't allow such a petty thing to corrupt her thoughts like some. She would be composed.
Stop…
He halts his movements suddenly; sensing her arrival almost instantly. His hand upon the buckle at his thigh halts as he slowly raises himself from his current position, watching her curiously as she stops before Saphira. Her eyes are firm when she looks into his own, looking up and standing just below his leg. It was only ever his eyes, she thought quietly to herself, that could betray his distant, yet vast stream of emotion, his masquerade of impassiveness, always somewhat hidden amid a darkness he creates willingly, but she sees clearly. She moved beyond it. She sees everything despite his extensive portrayal of another aspect of feeling, and she sees what she herself simply cannot deny to be another. He was afraid.
Stop…
Hesitation thwarted and forgotten, her eyes upon his own unmoving, she raises her hand and places it gently over his left leg and murmurs quietly, "Accept this from me, Shur'tugal." Allowing the energy to pool and surge through her contact, she passed it to him as she felt the uncomfortable stir wash into his own as he absorbed her energy easily into his leg and throughout his ligaments, becoming his own as soon as it left her body.
Looking down at her, he spoke softly in the ancient language, "Eka elrun ono."
Deciding already as she left her hand upon his leg, she joined him in the native tongue, speaking faintly as the uneasy feeling passed almost instantly, "Be careful, Eragon. I would not want to see you broken by Murtagh. I…"
You will stop…
As the words fumbled into oblivion within her lips, she paused without recognition; the ancient language pulled and lured her to speak what merely was, but instead halted into a faded blur upon her hushed voice. You will stop now…
Silently, she removes her hand from his leg and steps back without a word, and then retreats toward Blödhgram. His eyes were upon her back when she turned, she could feel them now as the question clearly loomed upon his brow, but she could do nothing, and she wouldn't. There was a battle afoot and he needed to stay focused upon the fight at hand, the one that had gradually circled closer toward them within their small exchange. The ground shook with Orrin's cavalry and their march toward the enemy, but she is not listening.
The elves sang almost poetically as Saphira suddenly launches herself into the air like a thundering catapult, hurdling toward skies as she beats her wings furiously, her anger and hostility apparent amid the putrid air, a viscous snarl barreling throughout her barbed teeth.
She watches quietly amid her own silence, feeling the uselessness of her being squander soundlessly within her compressed heart as she simply stood there amongst her kinsmen, always watching, waiting from afar…
Were it so unbelievably… futile…
She intertwines her mind like a vine through wood, engaging it easily with Eragons as she begins to feel the numerous elves perform the same enclosure within each and every strain of their thoughts as they became one and prepared for the oncoming barge known only as the insufferable Murtagh and Thorn, waiting upon the first blow that would soon commence.
In the distance, upon the faded orbit of the air, the gurgling laughter emanated throughout the land.
"Arya! What happened?" He had asked, his voice but a perplexed strain of the knot waiting to be unmeshed. Finding herself alone amid the encumber of silence once again, she strays apart within the cloud cast night, hushed and silent upon the tone of the breeze mellowing throughout the darkness. Its quiet tonight, uniquely lapsed under a once longed comfort of lulled stillness, and yet comfortable yielded under a scarce misconception. Despite the masquerade set by the night, its gentle easements and nourishing calmness, she could feel nothing of its consolation.
Her eyes are impassive, hollow, as she walks quietly amongst the pavilions of tents, retreating to her own as the night grows late with weariness. She is like a spirit rendered within a blur, an enfeebled soul wandering upon a shadow, a silhouette amongst its most feeble darkness. Her lulled thoughts mimicked the lingering ploys of her weakened state; she could feel them as if they were a blade sheathed deeply within her flesh. The night had slowly crept further into abandonment by the time she enters her pavilion and seals it, disclosing her deliberation as well as her being.
But awhile ago the people of the Varden had been alight, perched and favored upon the unity of Roran and his beloved. Katrina. Their marriage had indeed relayed the joy she had hoped for, especially through the tyranny that had almost stalled it permanently. Indeed, had the Varden not successfully dismembered the inhuman and rather abnormal soldiers beforehand, they would not be wedded, and neither joy nor happiness could have been sought today. At least, for their happiness, she could find some peace.
She's silent though, forestalled upon the balled of death, and hindered by its everlasting cries. She remembered Eragon. She remembered his voice, his eyes, and how easy both gave away the smallest subtle emotion beyond the silhouette of his barriers. The price you pay when you grapple with the monsters of the dark… The words he'd said leave a mark that cannot be remedied, and she feels them condemn her despite their harmfulness. They leave a mark. …and the monsters of the mind… and then they leave their burden.
And when she kneels in front of the basin, so slowly and yet so uncertainly, she feels tired, useless, and hopeless. She sighs into the water as she slowly releases her hair from its braid, her hand delicately pulling at the grime embedded into the strands, her muscles aching, her head throbbing. …and I'm sure you will be fine…
The water is cool over her skin, bitter, but she doesn't wince. She dips her head down, arches it, her hand running carefully over the curve of her neck as she stares into the basin, seeing herself through the subdued reflections in the water. She forgets that it's only herself, if only for a short moment. The eyes she sees are weary, old, and unrecognizable. It was hard to believe that they were her own.
Her face is quickly blotted by the blood that lapse off her hands as she slips them into the water, her eyes closed.
She cannot bear to look at them further.
"Arya…" The Varden lady looked at her with a prolonged sense of tender kindness that seemingly excelled beyond her young years, her careful eyes dependent, searching. "Is it abrupt of me to ask…?"
"Milady." However Nasuada's intentions were noble in her own way, she did not wish for her to continue, despite her assurance. "I can assure you that I am well." When her eyes fell upon her own, she cannot help but notice through her inquiring accusations that she knew, without a second doubt, she knew that she was lying. She herself could not deny it, even as she stood alone in the quarters of Nausadas pavilion.
"Forgive me," she says quietly, smiling. Arya knew it was forced. "I do not want you to assume that I would think you enfeeble. It's just… lately you seem… distracted, to say the least."
She doesn't speak, her body motionless, still. She knows that if she upholds the silence any longer, Nausada would assume just that, but she cannot answer. She doesn't know how to. It had been only a day since the incident of the bizarre soldiers who felt no pain, and she deliberated whether or not she could remember if she had been able to walk out of her own pavilion since then. She fails however, more so afraid to recall it then to remember it, but she doesn't show it.
"Listen, Arya," She is quickly pulled from her trance by Nausadas gentle voice, her face an unwavering mask once again. "I know that these times can be troubling, and I cannot presume to know what is best, but I implore you not only as your liege, but as your friend…" She looked at her, willing for her to listen, her tone persisting. "Are you well, Arya?"
She had become conscious to her stare, her quiet observations and her sensible reasoning, but Arya would not show her gratitude by any change of position, and so she shifts her eyes to the ground, unable to look at her further. Truly, she had been grateful, but it simply faded until a tinge of it was left to feel only slightly taken aback. As inhuman as it was, she could feel nothing but spoken words of friendship, and nothing but cautious amends that didn't need to be heard. She felt inclined to leave suddenly, to return to her pavilion or some other means of sanctuary, but she didn't feel the leisure to disappoint Nasuada so off-handily. No, she didn't deserve such cruelty, and so she stays, waiting, listening. She wasn't aware, however, that Nasuada had continued to speak…
"… and to assure these negotiations will resume without disruption," she continued, "I have sent Eragon to Farthen Dûr as an emissary to the Varden…"
Arya's head snapped up suddenly. Her thoughts decided well before her actions. She quickly interrupts her without heeding caution. "Pardon?"
Despite her lack of manner and decision, Nasuada held nothing against her as she resumed talking, her voice gentle, hesitant. "As I said… In a matter of urgent events, Eragon left for Farthen Dûr at dawn…"
"For what purpose?" she interrupted again, shock lidded upon her features.
Nasuada looked at her, her eyes questioning, silence lapping the lady's pavilion for an impending moment before she continued once again. "It is no hidden reality, Arya, that the dwarves are somewhat reluctant to side with our cause, and perhaps it is now safe to assume that without their full support, the Varden is at a loss." She sighed, her brow narrowing slightly. "And as I'm sure you are fully aware of, King Hrothgar adopted Eragon into the Dûgrimst Ingeitum, yes? With that in mind, his close friendship with Orik and his rightful kinship to the Dwarves enables him the opportunity to impose his status as leverage. The Dwarves are amidst deliberating the position of their new monarch and are taking into consideration all possible candidates. The process is moving accordingly, but in order to fulfill our motives against the Empire, we need their support. So, giving his legal representation to participate in these negotiations, I have sent Eragon in my stead to ensure that the dwarves elect a monarch willing enough to support the Varden."
She considered her words carefully, deliberating. Nasuada was not known to fall stead fast into such rash decisions, so why this sudden convoy of judgment? It didn't make sense. "Why was I not informed of this sooner, milady?"
"On the contrary," she said, "you've just been informed now, hence the reason why I asked for you in the first place. You must understand that I cannot abandon my duties here, and Eragon will be surely safe once he's arrived. I would not be so daft as to send him alone, I can assure you. And with Saphira here…"
"Saphira is not with him?" she asked suddenly, although it was more a statement then a question, her voice skeptic. "And Eragon agreed to this?"
"He was not easily swayed into complying, if that's what you mean, but yes… he did, albeit a little disheartened and somewhat angered though." Nasuada paused for a moment, her eyes dependent and subdued by her youth. She seemed weighed by her thoughts, hindered, but she did little or nothing to show it. "The Varden needs to be perched upon Eragon's fortitude, Arya," she said quietly, "It is his valiancy that gives them hope. He's a beacon, Arya, for those who pity themselves against all impossibilities. If word of his departure somehow reached their ears then they'll falter. Not only that, if Galbotorix's spies discovered this, then Galbatorix himself will waste no time in rendering us useless. That is why so few, including yourself, know of this assignment. It is also why I asked for Saphira to stay, so that no one will assume his absence. And that is why I ask you, Arya, to act for him in his stead if the worst is to come during his absence. Will you accept this?"
Eragon had departed, Saphira had stayed, and she was left ill-informed until now. Certainly, she had no say in what Eragon and Saphira decided and therefore had no obligation to say otherwise, but did her action count for nothing? Of course, Nasuada spoke of his reluctance and his contempt for the situation. From what she gathered, he seemed all most unforgiving toward Nasuada, his liege. Had he wanted to oppose her rule and disobey her? It seemed obvious, but even she could not tell for sure, but given his apparent defiance, and if she were in his position, she would have done exactly that… oppose her. She was furious at Nasuada, but of course, once more… she had no say.
"Arya?"
If she declined, what of her then? Saphira would never vouch for some unknown stranger to act as Eragon. Her trust in others didn't come lightly, and Arya was sure that these drastic turn of events wavered Nasuadas fealty. Saphira would not be pleased, that she knew well.
"Arya… I know this may seem…"
"Yes." She said suddenly, interrupting once more.
"Excuse me?"
She sighed, her eyes meeting Nasuadas, her voice definite. "Yes…" she said again. "I will act in Eragon's stead."
For a long moment, the Varden lady looked at her, searching for some unknown conveyance of objection, anything that gave away even the slightest refuge of emotion regarding her sudden agreement, but instead found nothing. "Right then…" she said, "Then we have nothing more to discuss. Thank you, Arya… you are dismissed."
She bowed, her solemn eyes to the ground, and then turned to leave without another thought.
"Oh… and Arya?"
She stopped, silent. She feels burdened by the days growing commotion, but still she stops, waiting, forestalled upon her duty to simply listen, although uneager. Turning her head, she looks back, watching Nasuada within a manor almost considered cautious. "Yes, milady?"
"You never answered my question beforehand," she says quietly, her voice wisely lidded, hesitant once more before asking, "Are you… well?"
She doesn't answer at first, unable to process the sudden change of character. She cannot fathom why she is so reluctant to answer, her own sense of judgment wavering under Nasuadas quiet inquiry. But then, despite her own subtle refusal to express herself, did it really matter? Did it ever matter?
"Yes… milady," she says, her voice tainted with a false politeness that even she cannot stand to ignore. "I am well." She smiles suddenly, her face alight for a scarce second, but it's gone within another, and then she leaves.
Darkness once again, the night staged upon its parade, reared into fulfillment. Her thoughts are calm, eased, but the feeling of apprehension remains. She cannot help but notice just how vivid the mind can be, even when all seems clear and coherent. She feels safe, however, suspended by the radiance foreshadowing the thicket as her eyes dance upon the sky in an unkept admiration. Lingering far too long in silence, leaning against a dead willow as she sat and pondered through stillness, there is nothing but the small, melodic breeze that passes her unmoving body, and that alone stalls her within refuge… for once.
Not even in silence… spoke a voice as vibrant as the bearer, bringing her from quietness, does the soul remain unhindered.
Arya's eyes fell upon the dragon as soon as she came into view, her mighty silhouette veiling the night as she landed with a resounding thump. I am not disturbing you? She asks quietly, enfolding her wings within her crest and nestling herself carefully next to Arya, the steady rise and fall or her breathing resounding softly within the night, the gentle lyric strains of her consciousness intertwining with her own.
She smiles faintly, staring. No… not at all. She lifted her hand, and placed it tenderly upon her sapphire adorned leg and kneaded the scales softy. A tuned humming filling her ears. How does the night greet you, Saphira?
Well, actually, despite these recent events… There was a blatant tone lidded within her voice, her head inclining down to meet Arya's as she studied her for a moment, although I cannot say the same for you, can I?
She met her eyes, emerald and sapphire melding together. Something shifted within her, a depicted fragment falling limply to her words. There was no fooling in the eyes of a dragon. No, she replied kindly, murmuring. She knew no more needed to be said.
Of course, it is to be expected. Curious as well as confused, Arya waited for her to continue. Nasuada's enactment of judgment is not at all what I had wished for.
Agreeing in a silent understanding, she removes her hand and places it over the pommel of her dagger. You miss him then… Eragon. It seemed pointless to ask, to even think of asking or bothering to consider it. She knew Saphira had not obliged with benevolence toward Nasuada's newfound assignment. It had been two days, almost, since his departure, and still she held herself together with such ease. She couldn't possibly begin to wonder what it felt like, to be split within the middle and having one stay whilst the other left. Such is the life of a rider and dragon, an unspeakable bond.
She snorts fondly, smoke kindling within her nostrils, a slight keen sense of love and humor mixed within the ink blue pools of her orbs. Don't I always?
Arya smiled again, wider and more pronounced. No matter, she says suddenly, Nasuada is doing what she deems necessary. If she believes her emote gush of judgment is effective, then so be it.
There was silence, the rhythm of Saphira's steady breathing attuned with her strong heart. Do you really think that, Arya? She asks suddenly, her voice mellowed within the night.
Varying between beliefs and knowing was something Arya was all too familiar with. There was no denying that Nasuada's decision had angered Saphira, but was she truly doing what she deemed necessary? Of course, Eragon believed her plan would be just. Why else would he have agreed? Eragon trusts her…she said softly, her eyes to the ground, and so should we.
Indeed. Silence once more, rendered merely in their refusal to speak more. Arya's eyes leveled up towards the night again, searching for some unknown sanction, although she couldn't think why. Moments like these made her forget what really laid ahead, what lurked within realities unforgettable nature. This world seemed lidded with indifference's, so much that even in quietness it seemed oppressed. Not even in utter silence, when all seemed so still and so quiet, did the land feel protected.
You care for him…
Arya's eyes suddenly fell upon Saphira once more, looking up, her mouth parted slightly in a silent, unknowing gesture that held a definite questioning within it. She doesn't say anything at first, unable to, and withered in her own silence until she eventually asks skeptically, "What?"
Don't you? The dragon asked, her voice gentle and unwavering and still within the night. There was something behind her words, something else that didn't need to be said, a hushed enclosure of unspoken words, but were there nevertheless. They were only hidden. She felt a complicated edge settle over her suddenly through the braid of emotions lurching within her, like a simmering wellspring beneath her entombed heart, rupturing, beckoning her from within the darkness of her own enclosure. She felt powerless then, as though the darkness overlapping her through each individual feeling had an atmosphere and the air within it dampened and seethed to indicate the change of climate, her sudden change of feeling…
She was silent for moment, subdued on her own hesitance, before whispering a reclusive and a submissive, "Yes…"
And you're frightened for him, are you not?
She sighed, eyes slipping closed and nodding only once, quickly, almost reflectively. "Yes."
The dragon, forestalled silently on her last word, doesn't say anything. She simply watches her, looking through the night as she ably stares without diversion. Arya could feel her measuring stare as it remained perfectly fixated upon her soundless gaping, a surpassing moment lasting instances. She could feel her deep, gesturing gaze pierce the very fores of her perplexed mind, seeing her, watching her as if she were on a pedestal. She could feel every fracture of her being fall to the realization of her words, compelling her, compressing her into the very depths of their meaning.
Quietly she breathes in, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and completely alone, so much that it angered her. Everything seemed so depleted suddenly, compressed and impassively hollow, although, she hadn't the faintest idea why.
Arya, she heard, looking now toward Saphira once more, finding herself, much to her dismay, her eyes beginning to brim silently with tears. There was a smile within the dragon's voice, comforting and extending to the depths of Arya's soul, enveloping her. Her body shifted carefully as the dragon laid her head upon the ground where Arya sat in the silence of her own apprehension, her eyes still and unmoving as she murmurs quietly, you don't have to be afraid.
She could feel a tremor of reanimation suddenly converse within her, a disorienting feeling joining the crevasses of her withered soul together and stabilizing them as if the two separate unities were ready to combust into nothingness. Breathing in again, rallying herself, she asks, How so?
Her serene voice chimed like a whisper within her mind, hushed upon the tone of her quietness. Because, she says softly, Apprehension for our feelings is not the fulfillment of what we've failed to notice, but the realization of how much we already have. There was a glimmer within her eyes, a silent murmur of unspoken words, and then she continued, Know that your feelings are mutual, Arya, but understand now that you are not alone. In time, you will see, and so will he… and then you will be astute enough to realize just how fortunate you are…