Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle belongs only to Christopher Paolini, and it is an honor to be able to play in the sandbox of Alagaesia that Paolini created.
There was not, nor was there ever, a word in the Ancient Language for time. This word's disappearance was not like the name of the language itself. That particular word simply was forgotten. The Grey Folk, the creators of the language, knew it, but their successors never heard of it.
The word time was different from all of the rest. In a language where all words held the existential summary of their translations, untold power was contained in each syllable; the strength of the force of comprehension enabled magicians to use those words to great effect. Light and fire deferred to their commands, and the earth and sky themselves bowed.
Time, however, refused to be contained. The intense complexity of its being simply could not be touched by living or by dead, by mortal or by immortal. No, the language of existence never had a word for time. Month and day and second could not be translated. Instead, Common was used in any instance when time needed to be referenced. Small bursts of short, simple syllables decorated the flowing speech of the Ancient Language.
Even the Earth herself did not understand time. She began, and she would end. Time was the only force in the universe that could touch eternity and the only force that could never be named or controlled by those that spoke the language of creation. Time was a liquid compared the solidity of concrete items and the gaseous state of abstract ideas. It did not flow as chaotically as trains of thought, and it did not sit and simply exist like rocks and trees did.
The past was a drenching downpour of a temporal waterfall filled with debris of memory while the future was a bending, churning, indistinct whirl of dazzling whitewater and terrifying sharp obstacles. The present simply sidled along lazily, a river ignoring all the rocks underneath and flowing ever onwards in an inexplicably slow fashion.
Time ignored the rocks in its path and pretended that they weren't impeding it in the slightest, but the very laws of physics contradicted it. The rocks did, in fact, impede the inexhaustible pressure of the golden temporal river, for no two objects could exist in the same space at the same time. It was physically, and temporally, impossible for that particular event to occur.
In this way, the rocks directed the flow of the river in near-unnoticeable ways. Differing amounts of obstacles meant that the river eroded away at different points of the bank. These were miniscule differences compared to the immense enormity of time, but they were still differences. Different placements of rocks or sand changed how the river flowed. The consistency of the dirt dropped by the riverbank colored the liquid in different ways. Eddies and currents shifted with the changing heights of obstacles and water temperatures.
Riverbed rocks didn't stop their rivers from flowing, but they did change how the rivers flowed. Nothing could stop time from flowing, but sentient beings could change how it flowed, for thought, in its airy way, flitted back and forth in a very changeable fashion. Rocks fell into rivers and forced the waters to part around them. Sentient beings changed their minds and forced sequences of events to turn themselves inside out.
Everyone knew the timeline of events that led to the defeat of the Rider King Galbatorix and his dragon Shruikan by a hunter called Eragon and his dragon Saphira. Everybody knew that the First Forsworn, Morzan, earned his title by procuring a hatchling dragon for the not-then-king. All those who heard these tales knew that the hatchling's proper Rider was killed.
Few, however, remembered the dragon attack on Ilirea by Halhul Stormscales after rampaging Urgals slaughtered his kin. Few understood that, in his grieved rage, one civilization of two-legs seemed a lot like another; few knew what events would be kindled from the ashes of the houses burnt and families torn. Few knew that it was a close decision when he chose to fly to Ilirea to inflict flames upon the people there…
The wind cared little for temporal continuity, so, in another time, a different past, it shifted the slightest bit, and a flight to Ilirea became a little less desirable. The scales tipped, and Halhul twisted on a wing and veered off towards Brodding City, reveling in a temporary updraft before diving as a blur toward the ground. His wings flapped at the last moment, pulling him out of the dive to avoid impact.
With a turn of the wind, a dragon headed in a different direction.
With one altered choice, a small stone fell into the river, impeding its flow and leading it astray.
With the flap of a dragon's wings, something much greater than a hurricane was born, and the story changed.
Author's Note: This is my first published story on Fanfic, so, if I am ever to become better at writing, criticism is necessary. Please give me feedback in a review.
Origin of Names: Halhul means "grief" or "looking for grief," and grey seems like it would be a fitting color for a dragon that becomes consumed by grief. Since Saphira is referred to as "Saphira Brightscales," it seemed sensible that some other dragons might have similarly formatted titles.