Afters
It had been twenty-five years; a decade and a half; a quarter of a century. It had been that long since the kingkiller, Eragon Shadeslayer, had ended the war with Galbatorix. Today, in fact, just so happened to be the anniversary of the death of the black tyrant. No doubt people throughout all of Alegaësia were enjoying extravagant feasts and attending ridiculous parties. Even in the new land of the riders there was celebration. But there was one man that was not in attendance.
Eragon, the kingkiller himself, sat alone next to a lake, one that he seemed to frequent more and more often as time passed. He looked much the same as he was during to war. At least he did to nearly everyone that had the rare chance to look upon him. He had taken to hiding away from the majority for multiple reasons. Among them was the lack of desire to associate with the general public. It was not as though he had any specific grudge against them, only that he was tired of all the admiration and fear that was directed at him, even, and especially, amongst his fellow riders. Another, and perhaps the most significant, reason for his seclusion was to prevent anyone more from finding out that as time progressed, he began to grow steadily more ill.
So far, only two, aside from himself, knew of his ailment: Saphira and Blödhgarm. Saphira because he could hide nothing from her, no matter how desperately he may try. Blödhgarm because Saphira insisted that Eragon consult the furry elf to see if there was perhaps a cure, or even just a name, for whatever it was that ailed the rider. Unfortunately, the elf was just as perplexed as the rider and dragon but refrained from asking more experienced help at the bequest of Eragon.
Since then, Eragon had continued to grow increasingly haggard-looking and lethargic. Though not enough for it to become noticeable to the random passerby, he had lost a sizable amount of weight because he lacked to appetite to eat and could not force anything down. He also began to lose the energy to go about many of the daily activities, not to mention anything more strenuous tasks such as taking an apprentice as he was expected to have done by now. There were even days where he lacked the will to even sit up in bed, so he would simply lay there and sleep the day away.
As time continued, Saphira became increasing worried and begged that he seek help, or that he at least allowed someone to take care of him while he was ill. Blödhgarm, too, had implored Eragon on several occasions to allow him to search for someone who might know anything about a way to help. Eragon had denied both each time, however, stating that he "would not have those around him know that he was weakening." Even now he felt the need to be strong in the face of others so that others may take strength from him.
His attention returned to the noises of the party. He could hear the music and the laughter and he could smell the foods and the drinks being served. He was glad that his fellow riders had this time to rejoice, especially considering how hard he was forced to work them due to how low their numbers were. As of now, there were only seven aside from him that lived on the island, and of those other six, only four were actual riders. And then there was Arya.
Arya. She never ceased to cause him trouble. First it was his race to the Varden, then his time in Ellesméra, then the time in the Empire after he slew the Ra'zac, then her refusal to accompany him to help create a new home for the riders. Even now, when he saw her but once a year for the meeting of the races, she made things difficult for him because, being queen of the elves; she was forced to shirk her duties as a rider. On top of that, even after all this time, she still caused him heartache. He still loved her more than life itself. He wasn't sure he could express his feelings for her, no matter how hard he might try. He supposed that he could have, and should have, averted many of the issues that she caused by simply superseding her authority with his own and ordering her to come live on the island, but he knew he would never be able to bring himself to do such a thing.
Now that he thought about it, the meeting of the races was only the day after next. Eragon groaned out loud as he thought about how tedious the meeting would be. True, it was nice to see Nasuada and Orik again, but he would always hear complaints about why, if everyone else was forced to leave their homes, then he should be as well instead of sitting in front of a mirror. The first few years, Eragon had simply been too busy to make the trip, so the attendees accepted his solution of using a mirror to communicate. Now, though, they believed he had no reason not to come other than sheer laziness. The truth of the matter was that he knew he would not be able to manage the trip in his condition.
Standing, Eragon decided that he would turn in to bed for the night. Tomorrow would be a busy day as he gathered everything he needed to make his report on the progress of the island. He had put it off for too long and now he had no choice but to spend all of the next day working. He quickly focused on his link with Saphira to check on her and found her surprisingly inebriated. He could not help but laugh softly to himself. It never ceased to amuse him how, even after so many mornings of waking up complaining about how much her head hurt and swearing that she would never drink again, she would consume more ale than possibly everyone else combined.
His trek back to the mansion was long, as he was forced to walk slowly so as to avoid overexerting himself. Getting stuck out in the wilderness, even on the island, was not the ideal way to spend a night. So, after nearly three-quarters of an hour, he finally reached the door to his home. As he slipped inside, he could not help but notice just how terribly empty it was. Not for the first time did he wonder why he built the place so large if it were to be only himself and Saphira. He supposed that it was in the hope that he would one day have a family of his own to fill it, but he realized that the odds of that were nearly nonexistent.
Sighing to himself yet again, Eragon walked across the sleek marble floor ─ it was amazing what elements you could find all around and shape with only a few words ─ to his bed chambers on the right. His chambers were far less than extraordinary than what was expected of one of his station. Aside from the rather large bed, there was a nightstand at the head, a small desk and chair and a single fairth hanging on the wall.
Though he had been living in the same mansion, in the same room, even, for nearly two decades, Eragon could not help but glance at the fairth every time he walked into his room. And every time that he looked at the fairth, he could not help but feel heartache as he thought of Arya, for the fairth was of Arya. He could not help but remember how much he loved her and how much he missed her and how much he wished she had agreed to accompany him rather than take up the mantle of queen. Though, now that he thought about it, she wouldn't be Arya if she had actually chosen to leave Alegaësia.
Deciding to cut off the train of thought where it was, Eragon collapsed onto his bed and promptly fell into his waking dreams, significantly more exhausted than before he had entered his home. It was as though his thoughts themselves were sapping away at his strength.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed the start of the story. Lemme know what you think. Tips and suggestions are always welcome.