A/N: As I said at the end of Part One, this picks up without any intro or summary. If you have stumbled upon this story without first reading The Cycle Continues Part One: Reunited, it won't make any sense. I encourage you to go look that up before reading any further.
I have made significant revisions to Part Two, reducing the number of chapters with detailed love scenes from eight to one. That particular chapter is marked with a note at the beginning, which you can use to either find the original full scene, if desired, or to alert you that you might want to skip it if you don't care to read love scenes (but remember, this story posting contains no mature adult content). I have also added a note to the end of any chapter preceding one with even a brief reference to intimacy so you will have the same option.
1. Varhog
As it turned out, Varhog felt gratified indeed by his good fortune of having Willow ride with him and that she seemed just as excited by the arrangement. After the dragons' enthusiastic dance when they first took off, she settled comfortably against his chest, apparently enjoying the inevitable intimacy of their position. Varhog guessed that she hoped it would provide the foundation for him to finally express the way he felt about her.
Varhog didn't know what to do with his hands, so he rested them lightly on his own legs. He had no desire to embarrass Willow by presuming to put them around or on her in any way, though he knew she wouldn't be embarrassed.
She proved him right when, not long after, she grabbed each of his hands and folded his arms in front of her abdomen. She snuggled into his chest and rested her head against his shoulder. He obviously made no objection but smiled faintly, remaining that way for some time as his mind wandered back over all the time he had spent on the Isle since Black Thunder had first hatched for him and he had flown there from Ellesméra.
Being the first Urgralgra Dragon Rider in the history of Alagaёsia was an honor not lost on Varhog. He felt the heavy weight of responsibility to bear the title nobly and was willing to prove himself deserving of it in whatever way necessary. He had been a most devoted student under the supervision of Arya, Fírnen, and the Eldunarí, though language had been a huge barrier at the time.
Consequently, the first thing Varhog had dedicated himself to once Black Thunder could carry him to the island was becoming proficient in the various languages of all the races he might be expected to communicate with as a Dragon Rider. He started first with the ancient language, since it was also the language of the elves and magic. Then he had mastered the common tongue used most often by humans. He had excelled in his studies under the direction of the Eldunarí and was able to speak the ancient language and the common tongue fluently by the time Willow arrived.
Those early days had been almost pleasant, if you could call back-breaking physical, mental, and emotional work pleasant. He had been most fortunate to be the sole mentee of Firesword, Murtagh, and the Eldunarí, and since the other two Riders were still so new to their education, they had all largely learned together. Varhog's constant interaction with the two humans, the elves, and the Eldunarí had softened away in him the roughest nuances of his race, and he had come to admire and appreciate the way the humans both reasoned and behaved. He therefore sought to pattern himself after their worthy examples, knowing the Riders must be judicious, disciplined, and wise.
But everything had changed with the arrival of Knilf. The enmity and past grievances between their two races had proved insurmountable. Knilf hated Varhog passionately, and Varhog had hated the hornless mountain rat equally as much. Both had lost kin in the Battle under Farthen Dûr, but Knilf couldn't seem to accept that the Urgals had acted under coercion. Varhog's own sire had been killed in the battle—he had been a fierce Kull warrior—but Varhog had been slightly more willing, thanks to Firesword's influence, to acquit Knilf for the deeds of his race than Knilf had been to forgive the Urgralgra. Varhog realized that Knilf wasn't personally responsible for the death of his father, but Knilf couldn't see it that way. No matter how Firesword had tried to reason with them—or even threatened—that they must learn to get along, they had persisted in their vengeful abhorrence.
Varhog still remembered when Firesword shared the news after scrying with Murtagh that the next Rider to join their ranks was a human girl no older than sixteen. By that time, Varhog was already twenty-five, and he was disappointed in the choice of the dragon to hatch for such a young female. It didn't fit the image in his mind of what a Dragon Rider ought to be like.
Yet when Willow arrived, a ray of sunshine fell on Varhog's gloomy world, which was darkened by the constant black feelings between him and Knilf. He remembered that his first impression of her had been warmth—her warm smile and eyes, which reminded him of vibrant earth ready for something to grow in it.
-:-:-
Though the wind wasn't as strong as it would have been had Varhog not cast the usual spell all of the Riders used when flying long distances at high speeds, which was to split the stream of whooshing air to flow around them, a strand of Willow's hair had worked its way free of her braid. It tickled Varhog's skin, bringing him back to the present for a moment. The loose hair entwined itself around one of his horns. Willow seemed completely unaware, so Varhog said nothing and enjoyed its sweet smell, remembering his and Willow's first meeting with a small smile.
She and Murtagh had just landed on the island. She was weary from the long journey—her first on dragon back—and her face was pale and haggard as if she had endured great hardship. But despite the hollow, haunted look in her eyes, they also displayed wonder and curiosity.
Firesword had welcomed her to the island, congratulated her on becoming one of the legendary Dragon Riders, and introduced her to everyone present. Varhog came last, but before Firesword was able to introduce him, Willow had spoken first. When the others began to lose interest and wander off, she had remained standing in front of him, calmly staring up and examining his face with unrestrained interest and, Varhog thought, recognition. At the time, he had been well over a foot taller than she, but she had reached up and carefully fingered one of his horns, completely unafraid and with no inhibitions or sense of doing something improper.
"Can you feel that?" Willow wondered.
"No," Varhog replied, unable to hide his disbelief at her open interest. "It's like hair. It continues to grow slowly but has no sensation."
"Amazing," she said, and Varhog had not missed that the look of deep sadness in her eyes gave way to wondering joy the moment he first spoke. She then moved her hand to his jaw. "I've never met an Urgal, though I've seen your kind before. Why are your eyes yellow and your skin gray?"
Varhog had been shocked by her gentle touch, but he hadn't been able to keep a slight grin from his face. Her openness and boldness, especially in a female, were completely unfamiliar to him. He had immediately admired it, having never met someone so totally honest and fearless.
"They simply are," he said. "That's the way we were made. Why are your eyes brown and your skin ivory?"
She understood his point and with a warm laugh—everything about her was warm—said, "I see what you mean. I don't know why. They just are."
The moment she smiled, recognition flared in his mind. "It was you!" Varhog exclaimed in astonishment.
"Yes, it was," she confirmed. "I knew I had seen you before."
"In Feinster?" Feinster was the last city the Urgals had been allowed to enter during the war. Lady Nightstalker was painfully aware that her alliance with the Urgralgra was costing her new allies. In the cities captured by the Varden, those humans who hadn't sworn fealty to Galbatorix refused to take up arms against him when they learned it would mean fighting alongside their ancient enemies.
"That's right," Willow said. "After the Varden captured the city. I had heard there were Urgals fighting with the Varden, and I was so curious because all I'd ever heard about your race was negative. I went to the gate of my father's estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of an Urgal. Lucky for me, a whole group of you marched by not long after I took up watch. No one paid me any mind. No one but you. I'm sure it was you. You looked straight at me. Your horns weren't as long then, nor were you as tall."
Varhog recalled the moment perfectly. He had looked straight at her because she was staring so intently at them as they marched past that he could feel her scrutiny. As soon as he had glanced over, she had smiled brightly, gazing directly into his eyes. It was so unexpected that the moment was permanently emblazoned in his mind.
Nothing had seemed extraordinary about her. She was a small human girl with large, wide, brown eyes, just like so many of the other humans he had met. Brown eyes, brown hair, and a look of fear, whether deep or faint. Always a look of fear and hatred whenever any of them had come across the Urgals, even among the Varden. They had all looked the same to him. All except her, for in her eyes there had been no fear, only curiosity. And she had smiled. It was such a beautiful, warm expression that it had never left his mind. Varhog had thought often about the small human girl who seemed curious, open, and unafraid when it came to Urgals, even huge fighting rams.
"And you smiled straight back," Varhog said in amazement. "You weren't afraid."
"No, I wasn't. I was curious. I wished I could meet an Urgal. I was sure you couldn't be as bad as everyone always said, since you were fighting with the Varden to overthrow Galbatorix. I guessed the wrongs went both ways."
"But didn't we all look the same to you, as all humans did to me?"
"No," she said. "I know all Urgals have yellow eyes, but I remember your yellow eyes. Before they filled with surprise, they seemed wise and kind, which surprised me, though it proved me right. You had just helped take the city and no doubt killed many of my compatriots, yet your eyes didn't seem murderous or evil, as rumors would have had me believe."
Varhog had been astounded by her insight and intelligence, though she was so young. And her complete lack of prejudice had struck him again. "Well, I remember your brown ones. The only way they were different from the dozens of other brown human eyes I had seen was the complete lack of fear. They remind me of warm earth with sun shining on it." She had such an open nature that Varhog had felt he could say anything to her without offending her.
She had thoughtfully raised her eyebrows as she contemplated the metaphor. "Hmm. I never thought about that before. Perhaps you should call me 'Eartheyes.'" Then she had smiled teasingly, something Varhog had never before seen, not even among his own race. He had been captivated and wished to see the expression again.
Varhog had immediately liked her idea, though Willow suggested it in jest. It was the way of the Urgralgra to refer to something just as it was, like with Firesword or Black Thunder, and her eyes had captured him above all else. He responded, "If you let me call you Eartheyes, I will let you call me 'Yelloweyes.' Does that seem fair?"
Willow laughed again. "I suppose so. Very well. Yelloweyes it is. It doesn't offend you?" she worried.
"No, it doesn't. It's the mildest nickname I will have received on the Isle. Knilf has come up with some fine insults for me."
"You thought it up quite quickly," she commented. "Have you been called Yelloweyes before?"
"No," Varhog answered. "You just noticed my different eye color right away. And Yelloweyes was the name of my favorite werecat during the war. He was a great, fat thing and liked to curl up in my lap at night around the campfire so I could stroke him. Being called by his name would be both an honor and an irony since the werecats are very fierce, though they are also so much smaller than we Urgralgra."
"I see. But what is your actual name?"
"I am Varhog. And you are Willow."
"Yes!" Willow said in surprise. "Oh, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Murtagh just told everyone." And then she laughed at herself.
Varhog smiled. "That's true. But I remember something else about that moment in Feinster. Right after you smiled at me, I remember hearing a man call for you. Everything about that moment is permanently imprinted in my mind. He said, 'Willow.' In his voice was the fear I had come to expect from humans. Was it your father?"
"It must have been," she said with a look of deep sadness and fondness in her eyes. "He died right before I came here. But he was at peace thinking I would be taken care of by the Riders. He missed my mother and little brother, who have also passed away, and wished to join them. He was searching for me, and when he found me out by the gate, he was worried for my safety, especially since the city had just been taken. He had nothing to fear though, did he?"
"No," Varhog said. "You would have come to no harm. Is your whole family gone then?"
"Yes," Willow whispered, tears filling her eyes.
"I'm very sorry, Willow. My sire has also passed away. It was the hardest time of my life. But I haven't lost my mother and siblings too."
"Thank you, Varhog," she breathed.
"I'm glad I finally got to meet you, Willow."
"Likewise," she agreed, and she had sniffed and scrubbed the tears from her eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Yelloweyes." She had smiled bravely and extended her small hand, which he had very carefully taken to gently shake. He could tell she was gripping his enormous hand with all her strength, but she had seemed like a child to him. Because she was. She had only been a child then, just barely sixteen.
They had been carrying on in such a comfortable manner that Varhog had all but forgotten about Firesword, who remained watching them after the others had departed. His face was stern and indifferent, as it always was in those days, though his eyes never were.
Varhog had assumed early on, though Firesword never spoke of it, that he deeply loved some woman somewhere and was trying not to let it affect him. Varhog couldn't understand why Firesword wouldn't get the mate of his choice, since he had more than proven his valor in battle with all of his triumphs in Alagaёsia. Now that Firesword and Arya were together and married, Varhog better understood. There had been many obstacles to overcome, their different races only one of them.
Varhog had long felt it presumptuous to think that Willow would ever have him or that a match between their races would even be a good idea. When his feelings had first begun to deepen, he was surprised he even desired it, since most Urgralgra viewed humans with hatred and disgust. But he had learned to overcome that tendency in his time on the Isle, and he now saw that being of a different race didn't make the prospect as impossible as he had once thought. But he knew a union between an Urgal and a human was far less likely than one between an elf and a human. Willow's confession at Lake Arya some weeks earlier—that she felt they could be more than friends and even wanted to be—had stunned Varhog and taught him to hope like never before.
Varhog's mind once again drifted back to that first meeting with Willow. Firesword had seen that they seemed to be comfortable with one another so he asked, "Varhog, would you be willing to show Willow around these first few weeks? Bring her to every training session and show her the Great Hall and the living quarters? Explain how life works on the Isle? What say you?"
Varhog had immediately accepted, relieved to have an excuse to avoid Knilf. And avoid Knilf he had, at least initially. He had given Willow an extensive tour, both on foot and by dragon. He had shown her the nesting grounds, the Cave of the Eldunarí, the stronghold and city, and all of the beauties of the island. He had shown her the lakes for swimming and had warned her and Sunset to avoid the sea, where Nïdhwalar were known to lurk. The fearsome sea monsters had taken up residence there not long after the dragons. Only one dragon—a young, wild hatchling—had been lost to the beasts, which was enough to teach all the others great caution around the ocean.
Willow had viewed Firesword with such deference, the elves were so distant, and Knilf was so volatile that she had naturally gravitated toward Varhog. She seemed to have some secret mission to get him to laugh as often as possible, which was new to him. He couldn't understand why she looked as she always did when he spoke or laughed. Her eyes lit up and filled with a distant, loving expression.
Firesword's request simply threw them together all the more. In spite of their vast differences in appearance and age and how intimidating he was, she held no preconceived notions about him being an Urgal. He was just another person to her, someone she knew nothing about and wished to know better.
Willow had been curious and sincere about everything, asking question after question without a prejudice in the world. She was always open-minded and insightful, and Varhog had quickly seen that he had been mistaken to think she didn't belong with the Riders. However, her insatiable curiosity had, after some months, inevitably led her to seek out Knilf, much to Varhog's dismay. He had done his best to keep her occupied so she wouldn't think of Knilf.
Varhog perfectly remembered that day as well because two equally unlikely things had occurred. The first had taken place during a fighting lesson. Since her arrival, he had been teaching Willow hand-to-hand combat, which was the preferred fighting style of his race. His instruction had stretched over the course of many weeks and months. She had often laughed at herself during their sessions as he tackled her again and again. Varhog had never hurt her, but she never stood a chance against his massive brute force.
Willow joked that her small size and puny strength next to Varhog made it the most ridiculous thing she had ever done. But Varhog helped her see how she could view those things as strengths rather than weaknesses. With the help of the increased mental awareness she was learning under Firesword and the Eldunarí's tutelage, which helped her anticipate his movements as he made them, he taught her to use her small size to be quick and evasive. For if he ever got close enough, she had no hope of escaping his grip.
It was the beginning of the end. Willow had learned so rapidly. After months of dogged practice and gaining a wiry strength as she exercised, which was heightened by her bond with a dragon, she had mastered his lessons, her courage and determination more than compensating for any deficiencies.
That day had marked her first victory against him, and Varhog had been so shocked that he had hardly known what to think. Rare was the man who could hope to match the physical prowess of a healthy Urgal ram, let alone a small and wiry human girl! And Varhog's strength more closely matched that of a Kull, magnified as it was by Black Thunder's might. Not even Grintuk had ever bested Varhog in single combat, and Grintuk was a Kull Dragon Rider, though at the time Grintuk hadn't been on the Isle.
Varhog only knew of one man who had bested an Urgal ram, and that was Firesword's cousin, Roran Stronghammer. He was renowned for his incredible strength, which was greater than most humans, and his sheer determination and creativity. The ram in that contest had been Varhog's own older brother, Yarbog, and the story was famous in their clan.
But in the same moment, Varhog had thought of his uncle Nar Garzhvog, who had killed a cave bear in the year he first got his horns by choking him to death with his bare hands. The bear had been far taller and more powerful than his uncle, and yet he had triumphed. That was all Varhog could think of when Willow defeated him as she did.
After dodging an aggressive lunge, she had instantaneously lighted on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind. He couldn't reach her nor pry her arms loose, though it should have been effortless. She stacked them on top of each other, and they filled the space between his collarbone and chin, giving him no room to work his thick fingers between. She wrapped her hands all the way around and tucked them into her armpits where he couldn't reach them due to the bulk of his powerful shoulder, bicep, and forearm muscles. She also always wore thick leather gauntlets to protect her arms and hands from his rough hide as they contended, and these served to protect her skin from his clawing fingernails as he attempted to remove her. She tucked her head down as low as she could to avoid his horns as he swung his head from side to side.
And though his neck was thick, knotted with muscles, and much too strong for any human to snap, Willow used the strength of her entire body to squeeze against it by tucking her knees up under her and pushing against his back to counter the force of her stranglehold, which strengthened it at the same time. He guessed that her small, thin frame—condensed as it was in her curled up position—was precisely the reason he couldn't remove her. She fit neatly in the middle of his vast back where he had no hope of reaching her. She held on with such fierce willpower that the lack of blood flow and oxygen had swiftly weakened Varhog, forcing him to his knees. If she had held on much longer, she would have rendered him unconscious.
Willow worried she had gone too far and really hurt him. She hadn't of course, but Varhog had been speechless. He had just been bested by a small human girl! What would the other Urgralgra think? They would mock him, he knew. There would be no end to his humiliation. But it would vault her to a most desirable prize in their estimation.
The Urgralgra females, though more slender than the rams, were also tall, strong, and powerful, and fighting between the two sexes was often an integral part of courtship. In the rare instances that a female defeated a ram, she was instantly considered a most worthy companion and brood-mate. Thus it had been the beginning of the end in another way. Varhog began to realize that he would no longer be able to think of Willow as only a student or friend, but a girl whose unabashed honesty, unwavering courage, and dogged determination demanded his attention and regard. He couldn't help but admire a woman with the ability to bring him to his knees as she had.
On the same day as his first defeat, she had sought out Knilf. The second unlikely incident occurred as Varhog again witnessed Willow's gift to overcome any prejudice and bridge any gap, just as she had in her friendship with him. She had been as forthright with Knilf as she had with Varhog.
"Hail, Knilf!" she cried, approaching the solitary dwarf as he practiced axe throwing in one of the training fields.
Knilf had merely scowled, since Varhog was reluctantly trailing behind.
"You are a most mysterious creature, Master Dwarf," Willow said. "I have rarely had the chance to see a dwarf, let alone meet one in person. I'm curious to know you better as a fellow Rider."
Knilf had grunted.
Willow had smiled. "Do you not speak then?" she teased.
"Of course I speak, lass," Knilf spat, and Varhog had been tempted to pound him for his disrespectful manner, a tendency he must have learned from Firesword and Murtagh, who always acted the perfect gentlemen around any female.
"Well, that's a relief!" Willow exclaimed. "I was beginning to worry that the reputation of the legendary Dragon Riders had been sorely exaggerated if one of them wouldn't be expected to have use of the common tongue." It was a pure and innocent jest not lost on Knilf. Varhog had seen the merriment of his race sometimes surface in the dwarf when he himself was not near at hand. But whenever Varhog was close by, Knilf was sour and mean. At her joke, an uninvited smile began to play around the corners of Knilf's mouth, something he sought desperately to subdue given Varhog's proximity.
"I don't speak with him around," the dwarf reluctantly clarified.
"You mean Varhog?" Willow wondered. She had remained quiet and thoughtful a moment as she considered this insight.
The dwarf had again said nothing. Then Willow continued undaunted, "Well, what do you think about being the first dwarf Rider?"
"It is a great honor, lass," Knilf replied. "A responsibility I do not shoulder lightly. I strive every day to be deserving of the mantle." Varhog had involuntarily creased his brow at the response, amazed it so closely reflected his own feelings.
"Hmm," Willow replied. "That sounds familiar." And she had cast a furtive glance in Varhog's direction. "And how do you like flying?" she then pressed.
"It's magnificent," Knilf honestly said, unable to resist the pull of Willow's sincere curiosity. "I never thought I would say it as a knurla, but there is nothing to compare to the vast expanse of the open sky. I suppose that feeling is hard to deny when one is linked with a king of the wind," he finished, referring to his noble dragon, Blaze, who was the most blindingly yellow color Varhog had ever seen.
"A knurla?" Willow questioned.
"One of stone, a dwarf," Knilf explained. "It's how we dwarves refer to ourselves. My kind prefers the deep confinement of the earth, and I still like the familiarity myself, but I now feel an affinity for the wide openness above the earth that many of my race don't share."
"I see. Where are you from?"
"Tronjheim," Knilf answered. "I'm a kinsman of King Orik, Eragon's adopted half-brother. His wife is my aunt."
"How old are you?" she then asked, curious as ever.
"I am but twenty and five. A mere lad in the eyes of most dwarves."
Willow had regarded Varhog with greater insistence at that, something Knilf finally noticed.
"Did you know Varhog is also twenty-five and kin to a great Urgralgra war chief?" Willow casually ventured. Then with a little giggle she added, "And that he also has seven toes on each foot?" She had heard of the silly similarity when Firesword once mentioned it to Varhog in her presence.
"I don't know anything about him and never will care to!" Knilf vehemently declared. "He is a killer and a beast and that's all he will ever be."
"Nonsense!" Willow lightly disagreed. "Did you know that I bested him in combat today? How could one be a killer and a beast when a slight girl of but sixteen can bring him to his knees?"
Knilf had attempted to hide his amusement at Varhog's defeat, and Varhog had felt slightly deflated, but his more powerful emotion was his astonishment at what Willow was expertly and almost unintentionally accomplishing. She was forcing him and Knilf to recognize and acknowledge that they weren't so very different as they were wont to believe.
But Knilf had not relented so easily. "His kind were responsible for my father's death in the Battle under Farthen Dûr!" he raged with hatred in his eyes.
Varhog's shock had only increased. Knilf had never shared that commonality.
Willow had appeared truly pensive then. With wisdom belying her years she replied, "War brings death and sorrow to all involved. Varhog also lost his father in that awful clash. And to think that he marched to his death against his will, constrained by magic, and believing false promises of glory. Would you blame Varhog for the vicious tactics of Durza and Galbatorix when he himself was also such an innocent victim, suffering as great a loss as you, if not greater?"
Knilf had been speechless. Firesword had often attempted such lines of reasoning, but never with the same effect as Willow's gentle inquiry. Her frankness demanded consideration of an equal honesty.
"The way I see it," Willow continued, "you two are as brothers. Born the same year to face the same loss of your sires in the same battle, both innocent and enraged victims of Galbatorix's cruelty, now brought together by the same calling of Dragon Rider. Why do you insist on nursing old grievances for which neither of you is personally responsible? Do you not see how it weakens you and us, the Riders? I have now had the chance to come to know you both for myself, though you not so well as Varhog, and I find you some of the best men I know, with good hearts, great courage, and deep humility. Can you both be the best Dragon Riders you are capable of becoming or be deserving of the heavy mantle with this hatred festering in your hearts? We are supposed to engender peace in the land! Lay aside your differences, I implore you! You have far more in common than not!"
She had stood beseechingly between them, her eyes shifting from one to the other. They had stared silently at the ground, her words piercing them to the core with their simple truth and gentle candor. They had shuffled their feet and otherwise appeared awkward, neither knowing how to break the silence or atone for past wrongs.
Sensing their mutual confusion yet also knowing it was a start toward reconciliation, Willow easily suggested, "Knilf, why don't you show us how to properly throw an axe? Varhog has attempted to demonstrate for me, but I suspect I will never fully grasp the art unless instructed by a true master."
Knilf had swelled with pride and eagerly delved into every minute detail of axe throwing—from choosing the proper weapon for your hand size, arm length, and height, to understanding the balance between blade and handle, and every other imaginable factor. Varhog and Willow had both listened in genuine fascination, and no matter how much taller and longer-limbed Varhog was, he never had been able to out throw the dwarf.
That had been the beginning of his and Knilf's friendship and brotherhood. Willow had accomplished the impossible, proving more essential to the Riders than any had ever first imagined. Varhog didn't find it hard to believe that either he or Knilf would eventually have abandoned the island and the Riders with hatred and rage in their hearts if not for Willow's ability to help them overcome their differences.