Hello there :) This is the first time in a long, long time that I've really dug in and written something and I am a bit rusty, but I thought I'd give it a shot anyhow - this isn't the first draft but I might have missed some errors, please bear with me! I'm meaning to really finish this one, though, so some nice constructive criticism would be absolutely lovely!
*Disclaimer - Please also bear in mind that I am not as much of an expert in these books as I once was and I'm only recently really getting back into the series, but I think I've got a majority of the facts correct, but again pointing out my errors to help the story improve would be great!
I'm Bored, thought Miles miserably, as she flopped onto the grassy ground beneath a shady tree, her wooden practice sword tumbling out of her one good hand as she gazed up at the sky. It was as pure a blue as she'd seen around here, across in the East. It was usually painted in a blotchy, blank shade of cloudy pale blue that almost hurt to look at.
Patience young one growled the dragon bonded to her, Eværín.
She huffed and rolled over, catching a glimpse of the flashing, colorful scales of the dragons in the distance, and picking out the familiar brilliant purple amidst the various colors; each of the shades shining and vibrant in their own right.
Older than you, she reminded him, still grumbling – even though she knew it wasn't exactly true. She knew not how long he'd been in an egg, but she knew that it was almost definitely a longer time than she was old.
Pushing the thought away with indifference, she reached out with her mind to join her thoughts more completely with Eværín's and share his sight, to see the landscape as he swirled through the currents of air and soared above the ground; to see things she'd seen it many times before with the sight and sensation of flying. It would never be something that failed to excite her.
I've been patient all day, she informed him, huffing as he refused to allow her access to his vision, Patience is boring, and tiresome.
I am not your nanny, he growled, and she saw a sudden flash of a brilliant green dragon, some lengths bigger than Eværín, biting lightly at his hind leg, cutting through scales and drawing blood, though it was not really harmful; the kind of injury done amongst dragons during training as the humans, elves, urgals and dwarves bruised and bloodied each other in the name of learning combat. The difference was that the dragons could heal themselves more quickly if they truly wished or had the need to, though they were not likely to call on that ability for day-to-day injuries. On the other hand, a majority of Miles's peers were still not even yet aware of their ability to use magic. She, herself, had been forbidden to use magic until the others had been instructed in it. Though she'd hardly expect anyone to notice if she started showing up to the training fields each morning without bruises; no one paid much attention to her, anyways. She was nothing but another face in the crowd, if truth be told.
Much to Miles's jealousy, the dragons were practicing aviary battle tactics while their Riders were all in sparring practice. She would have thought that the dragons would need to learn such things with their Riders in accompaniment, as they would have to preform them with their Riders in battle – it would only make the dragons accustomed to the weightlessness on their backs, and they would then possibly then lament the fact that they would have to perform the techniques with their Rider on their backs. They would have to do another portion of learning with their weight, so it seemed counterproductive.
Not to mention it would have given her the much needed respite from sparring, more so than the incident that was currently keeping her out of the practice. She positively despised sparring; it had only served to make her muscles ache, coat her hands with sores, and make it painful to even sleep at night, much less get back up in the morning and practice some more. And it was all to no end – she never improved, or at least not significantly. Not in the entirety of the time she'd been training with the Riders. It was frustrating and painful, and she was more than sick of it.
The point of the matter was, she would much prefer flying.
So, she tucked her hands under her chin and pouted childishly as Eværín continued to deny her access to his senses and pretend she was elsewhere from where she was. She felt him distance his thoughts from hers to a thinner thread of awareness than she was used to, in hopes to motivate her back to more practicing through sheer boredom. Though, as she'd stated, she was already bored, and had no intensions of returning to the training fields with her blasted wooden sword to be humiliated while she could avoid it.
She had gotten her much needed escape from the training fields earlier that day in the form of a short tumble down the rock outcropping on which the training fields lay, earning her a broken arm – well, shattered, really. Dislocated her shoulder and broke her arm itself in three places. She was just a touch clumsy, you see, and she always had been, yet they had still expected to turn her into some sort of fencing master. Honestly.
The training masters had not wanted to waste the energy necessary to heal the injury, though she was sure they were capable, as she was bound to earn herself multiple injuries by the day's end. So, instead, she'd been sent back to the main complex of halls that comprised something of her own personal hell to have it splinted, and she was to fence and train with her left hand when she returned, and to be quick about it.
Of course, the elves back at the camp offered to heal her arm, though she was forced to decline. A few of them stayed amongst the few halls that had already been built in the area, making progress on the bigger and grander buildings that would surely take years to build; the foundations laid down were positively immense, and that was with a group of elves working every day for quite some time now.
They helped her to splint her arm and insisted on a few small spells to help hold the break in place, and one to abate the pain, to which she did not protest. The thing is splinted, that's close enough, she thought sullenly. It didn't hurt too much to begin with; she was so prone to accidents that she had long since developed a high threshold for pain.
She hardly believed that the training masters had really expected her to return dutifully to begin training again, as she clearly despised it and it clearly despised her. She was already prevailed by a sense of dread and phantom pain of the sure to be fruitless training in the hours to come, of restarting gods know how much training all over on her left arm; add that to the fact that she'd spent all of yet another morning in the hot sun, and in the stupid padding all the beginning swordsmen (and -women) were forced to wear. She wasn't exactly ecstatic or eager to get out on the fencing field and start trying again.
She was hungry, and she wanted to take a nap, and she would hardly be missed at the training fields, anyways – they'd probably hoped that she'd skip out; actually, she must be such a nuisance. She'd failed to move up with those who arrived with her, graduating from wooden swords to those of blunt steel and to lighter padding. She, of course, never improved, and they didn't want her clobbering someone to death on accident. She bet they wouldn't even come looking for her.
I'm just going to take a nap, she informed Eværín, though he was trying to feign deafness to her thoughts, she knew he'd be monitoring them most closely. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, resting her forehead on her folded hands, and allowing her mind to wander to thoughts of turbulent winds and wings, swirling colors and sparkling oceans as seen from high above, what she imagined the world would look like if she flew high enough….
She was jerked from her sleep by the feeling of claws scraping lightly on her back, grasping the vest-like pads she wore and lifting her up. You could have just tapped me you know, she said, grumbling, and refusing to wake up fully. Be careful with my broken arm, she added as, instead of waking up, she decided to utilize what seemed to be one of her true talents: the ability to fall asleep in almost any situation. It really came in handy during the lessons she was given on incredibly dull subjects, like anatomy; as much as she loved squirrels, she had found that she actually didn't care too much to name the various components of their spines.
And so, she simply fell back into a kind of stupor, for flying was exceedingly uncomfortable, even by her standards. She only really registered the unfocused and watery blur of passing colors. Well, I had wanted to fly, after all, she thought blearily, her eyelids fluttering shut once more.
She wasn't so asleep, however, when she was unceremoniously dropped in the middle of the training field, right amidst the various training masters who were, apparently – thankfully – taking a break. Gods only know what would have happened had she been dropped amidst a dozen or so sparing matches. Unfortunately, that meant that all attention was then focused on her; everyone had apparently gotten up when they'd seen Eværín carrying a sleeping girl up over the hill. The girl who had been sent to have a broken arm tended and had failed to return, not that anyone seriously cared.
She blinked away the remnants of sleep and found herself looking directly up into the eyes of Eragon Shadeslayer, the one who had essentially re-founded the entirety of the Riders, and winced slightly. He didn't look too terribly pleased with her as he stood over her where she'd fallen, clumsily as ever, into a sort of heap onto the down-trodden ground.
Looking around at the various training masters – several elves, a few urgals and a dwarf – they all had looks ranging from disgust to amusement to exasperation. While she was an honestly terrible fencer, and terrible about staying awake in the lessons to which she had no interest, she had hoped that her shortcomings learning-wise were not infamous, but rather lost amidst the several other students and their shortcomings.
Judging from the looks, she was very, very wrong.
Getting to her feet, Miles sent an exceedingly long string of choice swear words to her lovely bonded partner for life, to which he responded with the general hum of feelings that told her what they usually did; Eværín, in his 'moral high ground' as she'd taken to calling it, had thought as if he'd acted for the best. Which annoyed her.
She was sent back to the main dining hall where young Riders and those training them could dine if they wished, or to simply pick up some food and dine with their dragons or elsewhere on the surrounding grounds, and maybe fly a bit after supper or talk with their friends. While it was meant to be a city like that of the old Riders on Vroengard, it was still only barely constructed with the necessities needed to begin training the first generation of Riders after Eragon, and that left plenty of room to fly around the landscape and observe the surroundings.
She had to admit that, while the assorted halls and buildings were still in various stages of construction and decoration, they were still among some of the most beautiful buildings she'd seen, rivaling those of Ellesméra. They had the unearthly grace, fading up into the mid-afternoon sky in an almost fathomable pattern.
That didn't change the fact that she didn't like it here, at least not too much.
And so she scrubbed the dishes needed for supper and helped to stir the pots that were mainly manned by magic, half enjoying the solitude provided her by the task. As much as the place was beautiful, she had never shook the feeling that she didn't belong; she was something of an outcast among her peers. She was always last to be paired off, and always on the outskirts of the group, talking to no one, for no one wanted to talk to her. Whenever anyone had any choice, she was alone.
It was an odd feeling for such a lively girl, who had grown up on the streets of Dras Leona, albeit as a starving orphan; she was never even supposed to come in contact with a dragon's egg. Even if she had, she would have been the last person it would have been expected to hatch for. She had been passing the place where a series of children were lined up while in search of food one day, and had figured it another amusing street show, like those that she used to enjoy with her sister, before her sister had starved to death.
Nonetheless, she decided if she couldn't fill her belly that day as she'd hoped, she could at least do with a bit of a laugh. So, she joined the line, though it appeared to be for older children of about ten or eleven. Small as she was, she slipped between the ranks of children with no one noticing: she wanted to see performers as much as anyone else, why, they would hardly know she was there!
She was a bit disappointed at the time once she'd reached the front of the line after an hour or two of waiting, when what sat in the middle of the room was not an amusing performance, but a… a something. Something gem-like, sitting in some type of padded crate, and people ghosted fingers across its surface as they passed. Not the jolly singers and dancers or jugglers and tumblers she'd been hoping for. No bards or minstrels, just a dead silent square centered by the largest jewel she'd ever seen – an amethyst, was her first thought.
Well, if she'd wanted to look at colored crystals and gems she would have gone and looked at the jeweler's window, or gone by the stall in the market place that sells trinkets. Still, she decided, that she'd waited this long to see whatever it was, and she might as well get a look at it up close. She had nowhere to be, anyhow; there was no one to miss her anymore.
It was unlike any of the other gems she'd seen, though, mark you; that was not an overly large number. It was a brilliant shade of deep purple, and had inner webbing that looked to be some odd shade of blue; a shade she couldn't quite place, but she was sure she'd seen before. It was slightly warm to the touch, even as she ghosted her own fingertips across the thing's iridescent surface – like someone when they're sleeping. Funny, she thought, gems always looked so cold. She dimly remembered her mother crouching next to her when she was very small, whispering in her ear and pointing at some nobles as they rode past them on the street, riding in a jewel encrusted carriage. "They were too many jewels, you see. The cold from the gems freezes their hearts. That's why they don't help us, love."
One of the last thoughts she'd ever think to herself, and only herself, for as her curious fingers reached out and brushed the subtly warm surface of the object, it emitted a soft squeak.
The line stopped and Miles froze, her hand still outstretched in front of her, eyes wide as if caught in some wrongdoing. The elf standing next to the egg grabbed her arm in a gentle manner – for she had stuck it out through the line of children so as to remain unseen – and pulled her free of the other children so that she was revealed to all the room. She must've been the filthiest rag muffin of a child in the line, but as the object began to shake, Miles simply watched it and paid the crowd no mind as it watched her.
She was awfully curious, for she'd no idea what it was – had she won something, perhaps? She was excited; if so, she could go to the tavern down by the warehouses, the one that had cheap rooms and hot food and watered down wine that tasted like cherries and smelled like summertime. She could have a real meal for the first time in what felt like ages, and she could already feel her mouth beginning to water.
And a bed, she remembered thinking, I might sleep on a real bed. She remembered a dank and musty straw mattress from when she was very little, before the death of her parents and her decent into the streets, and she'd only really felt the sensation a few times on similar occasions. Whenever she was able to secure the money to eat, she would give whatever was left – if any – to the innkeeper, or if she hadn't enough, to the innkeeper's wife, and was sometimes given a room, if they had one. A special treat.
She continued to stare at the egg as, curiously, a crack appeared in its surface. The elf standing beside the crate crossed his arms, looking down at her intensely as Miles continued to look at the egg, her eyes glued. At some point while she stood in silence, the rest of the line had been assured out of the square, and she was one of five people who stood in it: not that she really cared who the other people were in it. Only that she got her meal that night, and she didn't even dare hope for enough for the inn's one feather bed. She'd never slept in one of those before.
After what was only moments, but passed in what felt like seconds to Miles, a small, webbed and slightly slimy wing broke free of the shell, the claw on its end no larger than one of her small fingers. It wasn't money, but a delighted smile stretched across her face all the same.
"Is it a magic trick?" She asked, smiling as only children smile; one part wonderment and three parts sheer delight. She turned to the elf that'd stopped her, though he held her eyes only for a moment as another crack snapped them back to the egg that was hatching. The dragon was almost completely free of its shell, and she took a tentative step forward to see if anyone would stop her. She made to help it out of the last bit of its shell – even what she had assumed to be a magic trick could use some help, the way she saw things. No one made a move to stop her first slow movements towards the small creature, so she proceeded with more confidence.
Harsh, in retrospect, that they knew what was about to happen once she touched the baby dragon and could have offered some warning, though it was necessary and bound to happen at some point. What could you say to a child on the subject that wouldn't absolutely terrify them, anyways?
And so, she reached out a small hand and touched the deep purple dragon, meaning to pull free the last of its deceptively gemlike shell – no less gemlike than its scales, she was pleased to note – and she could barely remember what happened next. She seemed to become immobile with white-hot pain. It shot up her arm, stemming from the finger which had come in contact with the dragon in a lightning-fast tendril that kept coming in waves, until the entire world around Miles had slowly been in a sea of a blinding blankness.
She guessed that someone had caught her, but she remembered nothing but what felt like years and years of blistering heat searing into her and being unable to move or even properly breathe under it; it grew and grew and sometimes dropped sharply, a spot of blue in a sea of white. However, it never plateaued into a bearable or determinable amount of time, but surged like the sea.
A number of hours later, she awoke to the kinds of smell only evening and the numerable cooking suppers could bring. She found herself, for the first time in her life, in a bed. A real bed – a feather one, with linens and blankets, though she'd only been laid atop them. They even smelled clean, like grass, fresh wind and sunshine.
Her eyes snapped open with wonderment, and she made a few tentative movements to see if the pain would come crashing down on her again. Relieved when it didn't, she ran her hands along the smooth, uniform surface of the pale cream blankets and breathed in their deliciously clean scent. What a sight I must be, she thought, before wondering how she'd even ended up in such a nice, comfortable place. She allowed her eyes to close after a brief confirmation that she was, in fact, on a bed, and wow now she understood why people liked them so much. She felt as if she'd never want to leave the comfortable mattress behind, though she knew she must, as it was obviously not hers.
She heard someone open the door, and walk through it, and cracked one eye. It was the elf that had stood by the crate, and he was walking towards the bed, taking from a leather pouch some strips of meat, and laying them down on the bed at her feet for reasons she couldn't fathom. She opened both her eyes and sat up, catching sight of the dragon from before gobbling up the meat at the foot of the bed.
Immediately forgetting everything about the elf, she made some delighted noise and dove down to the foot of the bed, petting the thing as she'd originally intended. She didn't quite make the connection between the pain that created Gedwëy Ignasia and the small, and rather adorable, thing. She had yet to even notice that she bore the silvery mark of the Riders on her palm.
Instead she watched, utterly fascinated as the dragon gulped down the entirety of the meat and coughed up a bit of smoke, stroking its head all the while and smiling her usual delighted smile. She looked back up at the elf, who was watching her closely, and asked "Does it have a name, sir?" in her politest, most grown up voice, and used the nice, proper-speak she'd overheard some of the ladies using in the markets.
He shook his head, but that did not crush her thrilled spirits. "Can I name him?" She asked, turning back to the dragon and picking it up as she'd seen other girls do ragdolls and examine it closely. "Is it a him?" She asked. Though being barely six years of age, and knowing nothing of sexes other than the fact that they existed, she wouldn't have known what to look for in the first place, but it had seemed like a good thing to do. The creature did not object, but let out a passive huff of smoke through its nostrils.
She gave it a renewed dazzling smile, as she was wont to do, and began to examine the small dragon more closely; she placed it gently in her lap, and stroked its back while she examined the scales. Each was the same shade of deep purple, as purple as her own eyes, which she found most curious. However, though scales were each a uniform color, they reflected the light as if each scale – being only the size of a fingernail – contained a hundred tinted mirrors in thousands of different designs, uniquely encased in glass to throw off the light. Even so, it was subtle; like the twinkling of stars in the night. Pretty, but not entirely distracting.
Satisfied with her study of the creature's appearance, though unsatisfied by her lack of knowledge concerning its name, she decided she wanted the elven man to speak. For he was certainly an elf, his pointed ears were prominently displayed by his tied back silver hair, and she had never spoken to an elf before. She wondered if he would treat her as other grown men had when she wondered around the streets during suppertime, once the streets emptied a bit, trying to guess what each inn was making for its patrons as she passed the mouthwatering smells.
So, she made up her mind to ask questions now and leave the discoveries about the dragon later.
"What happened?" She asked him, meeting his icy blue gaze with her own, and not flinching. "Where am I? Did you bring me here? You did, didn't you?" She said, and getting up off the bed, the dragon falling off her lap with an indignant squall as she hugged the man around the middle. "Oh, thank you." She said her voice muffled as her face was half buried in the man's stomach, though she peaked out her eyes near the dragon to whisper, "Oh, hush."
The thing snapped at her, but remained silent. Smiling, she pulled back, but didn't wait for the man to speak. Always one to jump from idea to idea, especially as a child, she then decided that the man must have a frightful voice – for if he hadn't he'd've spoken already – and resolved that she didn't want to hear it.
Pleased and emboldened, by the dragon hopping onto her shoulder from the bed, though it was really no more than half a foot in distance, she spoke again, "Did I faint? Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir. But you must want your bed back, and here I've gone and mussed it up. I'll go now, my ma will be wond'ring where I am – "
With that, she set off towards the door. Usually anyone who wanted to hold her anywhere would let her go if she mentioned a mother looking for her, for only those who knew her knew she was an orphan. And, well, no one knew her.
But, again, as he'd done in the square when the egg had begun to hatch, the elf stuck his and out to stop her. "You're an orphan," He said, as if informing her of the news. She looked up at him with innocent eyes.
"I'm sorry sir, you must be mistaken," she said, "My Ma – she'll be wond'rin – "
"You're an orphan," He repeated, picking her up as parents do children four years her junior, and placing her back on the bed. "You're to stay here now, understand?" His voice was not unkind, and softened as he seemed to become surer of himself with the small child. He introduced himself as Vanir, and explained the differences between what she'd grown up hearing about the Riders on the street, and what was fact – well, the essential parts that a six year old would need to know. He told her that she was now a Rider.
He showed her the Gedwëy Ignasia that lay shining and silver upon the surface of her palm, and when the first tentative pokes of Eværín's – as his name was eventually revealed to be – mind began to connect with hers, he told her not to worry or put up a fight, though it frightened her terribly at first. And so, she gained her best friend and been saved from a life of squalor, instead traded it for this one. Lucky, she was. Incredibly lucky.
She was not even supposed to have been in the line: she was much too little to be trained up anytime soon, and so she presented quite a bit of a problem. For roughly five years – though like the blink of an eye for elves – would need to pass before she could travel east and join the newly founded "City" of the Riders to learn their ways. So, she was sent to the elves of Ellesméra to be watched over in safety and solitude until just such a time came.
She was placed in the charge of an older elf by the name of Lúthein, who taught her the Ancient Language, something she'd picked up right away and excelled at. Though she didn't begin to use magic until it was nearly time for her to leave Du Weldenvarden, she found she'd excelled at that as well.
They didn't use magic in training, not yet. Most of the Riders were fumbling magicians at best as of yet, for those who had been deemed advanced enough for it, which most hadn't. Those who were still working at their other skills didn't even know of their ability to use magic, but simply practiced techniques to fight against it. It was more than a little bit frustrating for Miles to be denied the ability practice one of the few things she was good at, and even deny that she was capable of it.
For her terrible admonitions at the things that were practiced, she was out casted. For that reason she did wonder on occasion if Eværín had made some kind of terrible mistake, but he was always quick to soothe the thought and set her mind at ease on the matter.
She couldn't really ever be consoled for too long, though. As much as she loved Eværín and was glad to be linked with him, she ached for the companionship she read about in the scrolls at Ellesméra and to make the kinds of strives for Alagaësia like those made by Eragon, the very first Rider, and by the Eragon whom she was currently dreading to be confronted by in punishment.
Well that's a bit awkward, she thought, grinning a bit.
Still, she wasn't a fool: there were few problems that needed that kind of fixing in the world that Miles lived in, and those that did need fixing were nowhere near the scope of those she'd read about, for the heroes of the past had done their jobs well. She doubted she would ever be as great as the Riders whom she had read about and idolized after during her idle afternoons in the woods of Du Weldenvarden, but she could imagine, and she could pretend.
So, she felt this whole thing was just a short of pointless. Why should she fence when all she'll be in the pages of history was another nameless Dragon Rider, and others were so far better than she? She'd nothing special to offer. "The Whore's girl" some had gone so far as to call her when there was no one to punish them, no more mature for being bonded to some of the most dignified and wise beings in history. Never mind not speaking ill of the dead.
In truth, she'd no idea if her mother was a whore or not – she liked to think not, but if she was, Miles felt that might be okay, too. Whatever she had been, her mother was a human, and that commanded respect to some degree; she'd raised two children best she could while she was alive, even if one later starved to death. So, she chose to believe otherwise; a seamstress, maybe, or perhaps a maid of some sort. She didn't think about it much, but it seemed to be a subject of great curiosity for those who liked to torment her.
Or, to speak more plainly, it was their main source of taunts and insults. Though she'd long since gotten over the bullying, she'd grown tired of fixing the usual smile upon her face for them, but she knew she must. And so she did, though it tired and bored her so. Her tormentors never tired of it, and she did not ever really feel like finding a more permanent solution to the problem. She'd rather spend the time sleeping, and preparing for whatever torturous physical lesson she would have to endure with humiliation the next day.
For all the time she'd spent in Ellesméra, she'd failed to pick up any of their innate grace, much to her displeasure. She wasn't complaining, really, because of the advantage in the Ancient Language she knew she'd been given, and the fact that she'd've probably been dead on the streets of the city by now had none of it happened. It still would have been nice, and would have made her life now eons easier.
And so Miles thought, and though and thought, until the sheer number of her thoughts could have compressed and melted the large, iron pot holding the stew right to the ground even as the fire below it could not. There was no other way to pass the time, as she'd nothing to read or do; she often found herself looking back on these things and reflecting, in any case; looking for irregularities, and finding where she was different from others. She found differences in many places; many more, she felt, than possibly was normal, save Eragon Shadeslayer and the like, and she wasn't sure she much liked it, or that it was the same kind of situation – actually, she was sure that it wasn't the same situation. In her case, it wasn't a good thing.
She had always felt the presence of Eværín in the back of her mind, as if he sat audience to her thoughts in these times when she preferred to simply sit and allow the disjointed memories flow into a river and try to figure them into some kind of recognizable reflection. Now and again she would ask him for an opinion, even though she probably already knew it; thus was the strength of their bond.
You are fretful, young one, he observed, as if he'd just awoken from a nap. She blinked her eyes, suddenly very aware of the fact that the sun had gone down, and soon she'd be faced with punishment. She didn't think it'd be too harsh, but it was still not fun to be caught in such a humiliating act, and before she was allowed to eat – that'd been a part of the instructions. Go back to the mess hall and help with dinner, await punishment, don't eat – she'd know the extent of the damage she'd done on her reputation. Fantastic.
At least she wasn't sparring – not yet anyways.
Suddenly she had a rather amusing vision of being made to do fencing drills amidst dinner, people slurping up bites of stew while she fumbled on the handle of the clumsy wooden sword and sweated in her padding. It would be funny, she had to admit, even if she was the butt of the joke. She probably was, already.
It was only a few more moments for the sun to dip down below the horizon, leaving only a small wisp of red light to guide home everyone from the training fields. It was a short distance to cover, and it wouldn't be long before the others began to return, so Miles got up off the stool she'd been sitting on in the corner of the room, and stood. Her joints ached from staying seated in such a cramped manner for so long, but she hadn't bothered to move. Her eyes, too, felt worn and sore, as if she'd gazed upon a thousand different scrolls during the course of the afternoon and attempted memorized their contents.
As a stream of people slowly began to trickle in, each looking tired and sweaty but pleased, and she felt jealous of the progress that showed on their faces. She stood off to the side, waiting to be addressed, dimly hoping that she might be able to keep the unassuming position and escape notice for the course of the meal, though she knew that would have been too lucky a break for her. It was as if she'd used all her luck in her early childhood, saving none for the rest of her days – which, now, as a Rider, would be quite lengthy.
She passed the time that everyone in the hall spent eating by examining each trainee and making her best guess on what they would spend their free time on, or who, and did her best not to envy them any more than she already did in their freedom and acceptance. She would have spent the time on her usual knoll of half-dried grass under shady apple tree, usually joined by Eværín. She'd read some scrolls if she was lucky enough to get her hands on them, maybe practice a bit of magic while no one was looking, or meditate. More often than not, she found herself simply sitting. It was the only part of the day she had really come to enjoy, and she was about to lose it – used up luck indeed.
However, it seemed she had just enough luck to hold off the confrontation until only the assorted elves, urgals, dwarves and humans who were assigned to train the first complete generation of Riders were in the hall. For that she was intensely grateful. Though she'd only humiliated herself, she knew her punishment would bypass that – she hadn't been the greatest student, but she could hardly apologize for her clumsiness that had crawled into every task she was assigned, and made it that much more difficult. Though association with dragons generally produced the side effect of a more able body and a sharper mind, she'd yet to experience such a help.
She stood in the corner, trying her best not to tense up – or at least, visibly so – as she was approached by a stream of training masters, with Eragon Shadeslayer at the head, presumably to speak with her. They reached her in what should have been at least a minute, but felt instantaneous, though as painful as if it'd lasted for years. She didn't bite her lip – a rather unfortunate habit she'd had ever since she could remember – and forced her chin up into a somewhat defiant stance, clasping her hands behind her back.
"Eragon-elda," she said, not waiting for him to address her, but bowing her head slightly in respect and choosing to use the respectful title that she'd been taught by the elves; it was something ingrained in her since the small age at which she had arrived in Du Weldenvarden, and the phrase felt natural as it fell past her lips. In turn, she then greeted the assorted training masters that had accompanied him to deliver punishment, though a few had chosen to stay behind and observe.
It seemed she was the big 'problem child' of the camp. How delightful.
Deciding to add the customary greeting of the elves, she spoke to the crowd of masters in general, but first touched two fingers to her lips to symbolize her respect and a pledge to unblemish the future conversation with lies, "Atra esterní ono Thelduin,"
Eragon, who stood at the peak of the group, though only just, raised his eyebrows delicately. He was still relatively young, especially by the elves' measure – a man of forty years, she guessed, though he'd the look of an elf. He was lean, with slightly rustled hair of brown and calloused hands revealed by rolled-up sleeves – something that distinguished him from the elves, they didn't easily scar or gain such imperfections; they were called the fair folk for a reason. He had a weathered look about him, someone who'd seen and known great sorrow, but he looked unbroken by it, and she'd never known him to speak unkindly; not that she'd really known him at all. For all she knew her thoughts could be widely off the mark and she would never be the wiser.
"Atra du evarínya ono varda, Miles-finiarel*," he responded in kind.
"Un atra mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr," she knew she was probably pushing her luck by adding the extra formality of the ritual greeting, but she was procrastinating the coming conversation, though no amount of greetings could stay what was coming – didn't mean she wasn't going to try.
"I was unaware that the Ancient Language had already been taught to you," he said lightly, studying her. Unlike the gazes of the other training masters, Miles didn't feel horribly degraded and insignificant when Eragon regarded her with the same kind of steady eye. It was a judging stare, but not an unkind one. She held his gaze with equal measure and responded in a steady tone.
"I lived with the elves for many years before this," She said, though quietly and calmly, as if she'd been commenting on the weather. It was most likely the first time that Miles had mentioned her stay in Ellesméra since arriving beyond the borders of Alagaësia; she did not wish to appear as if she sought special treatment because of it. However, it seemed she had received some from her peers regardless of the knowledge, as they'd taken to outright ignoring her existence when they could, and tormenting and insulting her when they couldn't.
"I see," He said, "I presume they taught you the Ancient Language, and some magic as well?"
Though she'd found it hard to believe that he had no knowledge of her journey and past, as there were, in truth, not many Riders as of yet, and she knew her circumstances a rarity; it was out of her own ignorance and she felt as if she'd caused those in charge of resurrecting the Riders much pain in deciding what to do with her until she was old enough to train.
"I'm proficient to some degree," She said, and inclined her head again.
"I see," He said, "I also presume you are expecting a punishment for your…" he paused shortly, seemingly looking for the right words to describe the incident of the early afternoon to fit the rather formal conversation, "earlier actions?" She nodded, this time less slow and reverent, and more like her normal self. Looking past Eragon, she saw one or two of the dwarves crack a smile. I knew I always liked dwarves, she thought fondly, trying hard not to smile herself.
Continuing with not much pause for her response, for he could've hardly seen the dwarves behind him unless he'd somehow acquired an extra pair of eyes, and then chosen to place them on the back of his head – which, she decided, would be foolish, as they'd've been obscured by his hair anyhow.
She felt Eværín nudge the back of her mind before she would let herself be too amused by the thought of where she'd place an extra set of eyes if she got the chance, with a quiet, slightly entertained Pay attention!
Blinking away the thoughts, and returning her full attention to the punishment being given, she hardly let herself hope that she would get to keep some of her treasured free time. She'd re-tuned into the conversation just in time to get the gist of the punishment, though what she heard made her heart sink in her chest.
"… you will accompany me during free time in the evenings for extra fencing practice," He said, though she hadn't a clue of what he might have said before that, or even what would have fit properly in front of such a phrase. Really all thought of it was clouded by the fact that she was right handed, and she'd just fractured her right arm, in no less than three gods be damned places. And now, not only would she have to fence every day and learn with her left when she'd been no great shakes with her right – or even normal shakes – she had an extra few hours to add to the torture. The sheer amount of things that were undesirable about the situation caused a slight roaring noise to start in her ears, the way it always did when starting to feel overwhelmed.
Fencing, she thought, never more full of loathing for the action than she was in that moment. She did not allow the loathing to display on her face or to be revealed in her voice, something she felt she was becoming rather skilled at.
"For how long?" She inquired, regripping her hands behind her back with renewed strength; sure that the knuckles would have shown white had she bothered to check, Miles released all her emotions on her own hands to stay them from her words.
"Until I say they might be discontinued," he said.
She nodded, "Is that all?" She asked, unlocking herself from her stance as if preparing to leave the hall. He nodded, but beckoned her to follow him. She felt her heart start to pound slightly faster than it was only a few moments before. Not even one more evening of peace before what was sure to be a long, enduring anguish. Better to just get it over with, I suppose, she told herself, stiffening her resolve before beginning to follow. It looked as if she was going to become competent with a sword whether or not she liked it by the time this place was through with her. The group of training masters scattered throughout the hall, then; some back to their suppers, which had long since grown cold, and some to collect their things and leave the hall in their stead.
Swallowing an apprehensive nervousness that tasted somewhat like bile, Miles followed behind Eragon, overtaken by a feeling of dread. Though she felt Eværín in the back of her mind, sending her soothing images and attempting to calm her nerves, she did her best to shut him out; his comfort wasn't something she was sure she could really handle at the moment, but the attempt was appreciated, and she told him so before retreating from their connection. She felt this was something best confronted with as minimal thought as possible, and whenever Eværín shared her thoughts she did just that; think. So, it was better their connection remained untouched, at least for a little while.
Acknowledging her, he also retreated, sending her an image of the open sky and then the usual knoll of dried grass and an apple tree; if she had the time when she was finished, he would meet her there, she interpreted. But first he was going to fly, probably with some of the other dragons whose Riders had chosen to dedicate their free time, most likely, to studying or something of the kind. She felt an intense envy for them all – flying without care, or boredly pouring over some dusty, ancient scroll assigned to them about some subject they most likely cared nothing for. Nice, pleasant things that did not end with her on her arse, coated in bruises, forced to swallow her pride.
She followed the tall man for nearly ten minutes in a thick silence as the sun went down. It was getting increasingly dark, and she wondered if he meant to have them fence in the darkness. Surely, with someone of her clumsiness, that was not a wise idea? She was bad enough in daylight. She'd barely opened her mouth to ask him before promptly closing it when he turned to face her; they'd arrived in a sort of irregularly shaped clearing surrounded by pine trees.
He held out his palm, and with a spell spoken at a speed in which Miles was only able to register that it was, in fact, the Ancient Language, he summoned an orb of light and placed it on the edge of the clearing. She recognized the unblinking werelight, and understood; she, herself, was familiar with the spell and began to summon small orbs herself, placing them around the clearing in the opposite direction of Eragon, so as to light the place that was to be her own personal humiliation and nightmare – even more so than this damned camp, or city, or whatever it was, was already – and hovering them all just above her waist to provide sufficient light to illuminate any strokes that slashed down from above shoulders. She didn't suspect any such blows would be occurring at her beyond mediocre level, but it couldn't hurt to be prepared.
Apparently Eragon had not noticed her actions, and raised his eyebrows once more when they came into his sights, but he commented not and instead he walked briefly into the forest beyond the clearing. Miles waited patiently amidst the light, not following and glad to prolong the period of time which would not involve sparing.
She'd grown up hearing stories of Eragon's slaying of the maddened Rider turned usurper, who had single-handedly whipped out almost the entirety of his own order, and drove what small slivers remained of it deeply into hiding. She briefly wondered why the man standing before her was still, then, known as a Shadeslayer instead of a Kingkiller. Surly the latter held more prestige?
She supposed it must be some kind of personal preference, or perhaps people had just found that 'Shadeslayer' flowed more easily off the tongue than 'Kingkiller'. She had to agree with that statement, as 'Kingkiller', while it sounded deadly, also rang of condemnation on its owner and tasted something like poison as it clung to her teeth.
She felt intensely relieved that he wasn't having them spar with actual swords, as he did with the more advanced Riders and Masters during daily training; her blade and meager skills were no match for that of a real Rider by any means. Even if her skills were, she doubted if her blade would hold up against the blade of an accomplished Rider, as most blades were not.
Hers was a plain silver blade and wire-wrapped hilt, and a small crystal pommel; it was thin and lithe to suit her smaller size, and made of plain steel rather than the brightsteel which comprised the Rider's blades, though most were lost to the ages. Though her blade, too, was of elfish make, and she'd no doubts that it would serve her more than sufficiently should she ever really learn to use it. It was as yet unmarked, though out of inexperience as opposed to any magical properties.
She had found it rather ironic that she'd been so excited to acquire the blade when she was younger, living in Du Weldenvarden, though her and her caretakers both knew full well of her utter lack of coordination. Sometimes she snuck out to practice various techniques she'd spied the elves practicing on their training fields; she would almost always drop it and be discovered, though she had never been scolded too harshly for her childish excitement. She had never much understood why the elves had been so intent to keep her from weapons due to her age, but they had done so most arduously; however, she had suspicions that they'd let her try small bits of it to test her potential. She was sure that whatever they observed told them enough to know that she was absolutely hopeless, and probably amused them to some degree.
Perhaps that was why she had spent so much of her time becoming proficient in other fields that would become important to her education; namely the Ancient Language and meditation. She was sure it would come in handy, eventually, and spent most of her time at the present weathering the terrible physical aspects of her training, failing miserably at almost everything save those involving flying and sometimes archery, and looking forward to the day when she wouldn't seem like such a terrible waste of time.
Though, as her luck was yet again fantastic, they didn't practice archery but once or twice to learn the basics, and she'd managed to get her hands on one for practice at other times. It was considered cowardly to kill an opponent with an arrow, and Gods know that the lovely, self-righteous and ever-honorable Riders would never dare use such a mundane way of combat and hunting!
Needless to say, she found the contempt shown by some for the weapon rather trying; they'd been told it would do in a pinch, though they'd likely not find themselves in a situation where they would need one and have it within reach. While some of the Masters had seemed to share her opinion of the weapon, her peers were still too caught up in themselves to pay much attention once the practicing of any one weapon was under way.
As Eragon returned to the clearing with two sticks taken from the ground some distance away, carved roughly by his own hands into rather poor imitations of the practice swords – poor imitations only due to the excellent ones at camp, to clarify – she felt the trepidation return to her stomach. He tossed her one, and she had to resist the urge to fall down upon her knees and thank her lucky stars when she actually caught it; any assertions of her clumsiness, I can assure you, are in no way understated.
Despite futile attempts to quell her nervousness, Miles said nothing to the man, but merely took the stance that she had assumed on a near daily basis over the past two years that was just about the only thing she had been able to learn to complete satisfaction. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at her 'opponent' – or master, or whatever.
He was studying her with a close eye once more, and Miles got the impression he was thinking something over – he must have been expecting to light the whole clearing, though he could've done with one large werelight; the fact that he'd chosen instead to use smaller ones told her that he was no more looking forward to her inelegance with the blade than she.
After a long moment, he took his stance with much more comfort than she had, and they both stood sideface with their blades pointing downwards at the ground, ready and able to be whipped about in any direction at a moment's notice. Or at least that was what she was told. She doubted she should be whipping anything anywhere that had a harmful edge, even one as seemingly innocent as her 'sword'.
Neither of them moved for several long moments, neither wishing to make the first move. Miles refrained from striking because she knew it would be nothing but a clumsy and embarrassingly obvious and most likely poorly executed move, and would earn her another bruise to add to the day's collection. She could have healed them, of course, she knew how – but that felt like cheating, somehow. If she was going to be so poor at learning, she felt that paying the price in pain was at least an acceptable form of comeuppance.
Before she realized what she was doing, she was biting her lip to stay the anxiety she felt gnawing in her stomach. She knew that the person who had killed someone – or many someones, in fact, including a someone capable of overthrowing the entirety of the Riders – would be striking to start the 'duel' in a matter of moments, or maybe even seconds, and the thought was off-putting. She wasn't about to bring the moment of that any closer by initiating it herself.
When it came, it came without warning. She knew well to look for the signs of when someone was going to strike with a sword, observation being one of the things she was good at; extending past even her stay with the elves, she'd grown up on the streets and had to know what to look for when someone larger than her was intending to strike. She had long since learned where arms would tense and where the beginnings of a twist in either direction were usually apparent, and she could usually at least step out of the way. She was unable to use this for a majority of the time, as it was generally seen as cowardly among her peers, and gods help anyone who doesn't have the kind of sizable honor that can barely fit through doors.
The seeing, though she doubted she'd be able to catch so much as a glimpse of elf-like speed, was no good to her; the she did not see so much as a flash of the stick as it cut through the sky of navy edged in darkness. Not, that is, before it appeared in her left field of vision. She stepped back, but the step was ill-timed and only served to put her off-balance, and did not free her from the path of the stick. Her cheeks burned lightly with shame as it landed on her shoulder with a sharp thwap! She didn't wince at the blow, though it bruised instantly – the worst kind.
"Have you enough energy for this?" he asked, his tone not exactly concerned or inquisitive, but remained light. Her actions were slow, as oft moves were when one had grown fatigued, but, embarrassingly, that was just the extent of her lack of skill, as much as she wished she could blame it on low energy stores. She shook her head, pulling out a small purple stone hanging on a plain leather thong around her neck; though small in size, she'd been storing energy in it since the elves had taught her how, and it would be enough to use in a pinch, at least.
He nodded, but Miles thought she could see a small glimmer of amusement gleam in his eyes as he took up the beginning stance once again.
"You're over-anticipating the blow, stop thinking about it so much," He said, instructing her, but did not elaborate. Choosing to think through his words for a small moment before shifting sideface once more opposite him, Miles nodded. She knew she'd really have no choice other than attempting such observation, due to having no experience with her left hand – in short, since she couldn't preserve some dignity with simple avoidance – as it appeared she couldn't – she was doomed.
Slowly they set into a sort of rhythm as the evening wore on. They would usually only get a move or two into the 'duel' before he would land a blow on her, marking the spot with a bruise, and then they'd stop and restart. Occasionally he offered advice, but nothing really improved her skill much. Well, she had hardly expected to become some sort of a master swordsman in one evening, no matter who was teaching her.
It was only when the sky, which had grown from soft and golden-edged to navy and now to black, gave away how late the time was that she was told to stop. Gratefully, she undid her spells, keeping but one light to light her way back to the bunks that she shared with all the training Riders. She looked forward to just lying still for a few hours, even though she knew she would be unable to sleep, before being forced to do preform the same actions all over again tomorrow. She would cross that bridge when she came to it, for now it would be a luxury to just lie still and allow her abused muscles to recover for a while.
The two walked in the same mutual silence back to the hall before departing in equal silence. Miles didn't take too well to the quietness that seeped into her skin during their walk through the forest, leaving her feeling more sticky and uncomfortable than training ever could, but she couldn't for the life of her think of something to say that wouldn't sound completely doltish. She was sure he already thought her an idiot; skipping out on lessons and her lack-luster swordsmanship, if it could even be called that, and the list went on. Looking back on her move to use the Ancient Language in the mess hall earlier, she felt as if the move was pretentious and probably looked specially designed to showcase the years she'd spent among the elves.
Doing her best to let her delayed embarrassment go, she found herself, upon reaching the makeshift bunks located next to the mess hall, locked out. She might've felt angry or even disappointed had she had the energy, but her stomach's growling and the drained feeling that magic still gave her let only exhaustion flow through her mind. She didn't even feel like using some of the stored energy in her sword's pommel to unlock and then relock the door; it was probably guarded against magic of the kind by far more gifted people than she, anyways.
So, instead, she awoke Eværín, and shared with him her predicament. Agreeing to her purposed plan, he met her where, had she been given her way; she would have spent her free time earlier that evening. And, after a quick supper that consisted only of a rather small, early-season apple and a few sips of cool water from a nearby stream, she settled down on the dry grass, and leaned up against Eværín's warm side, for he had arrived only moments before.
She fell asleep surprisingly quickly, succumbing to a dark and restful sleep the kind of which she hadn't had in ages. The heat from Eværín soothed her aching muscles so greatly that even the awkward arrangement of her splinted arm could not keep her from fading into her dreams. Perhaps it was the simple absence of the snores of her fellow Riders, or the lack of walls around her and a cot beneath her. A number of differences between the two spots and sheer abnormality of the day, she decided; the last thought before sleep really overtook her.
She was, in the dream, identical to the way she found herself now, only awake and approaching the tree, as she might have earlier, had the day been like any other. She could make out the same dull tunic and leggings, but her arm was splinted and her hair was bound up – though that something that she never did, as her curly hair weighed too much for most ties. Pausing only slightly on this detail, she refocused on the scene, looking for more abnormalities. She was conscious of being within a dream, though her vantage point of the scene moved from that of some third party into that of her dream-form at a dizzying rate, and she was having a hard time keeping track of even small details; for all she knew, the sky could have been green and the grass blue!
The fact that she must have made this same walk hundreds of times kept her on course, but it wasn't until she reached the tree that the twisting lines of vision stilled and separated. Regaining a sort of bearing for her surroundings, Miles noticed a small, slim figure in her usual spot; in the small nook formed by at the apex of two roots, winding from the base of the tree and curling downwards before disappearing beneath the ground. Seated there was a small child, a girl, with long and glossy golden curls woven with a small purple flower. Her eyes were slanted and amber-colored, the clothing she wore nothing more than a glorified nightgown, worn, tattered and torn in several places. She knew not what it was, but got the distinct feeling that it wasn't human.
"You're in my spot," she heard her dream-self inform the thing. The child gave her a small, cat-like smile. She turned from the dream-self and looked straight into Miles's eyes, from where the girl felt herself newly settled on the wispy edges of the dream.
"Seek to free a foolish spirit were disasters become connected," she said, "For only there can solace be found and true aid given. Then proceed to the place where it all began, and there you will find the things which you seek."
Before she could really comprehend the words spoken by the small child, she felt herself thrown back and begin fall amongst a sea of wispy, cloud-like dreams, all dipping, waving and drifting through her unconscious mind, and each more fail and insubstantial than the last. Falling into one filled with a familiar stretch of forest and the smell of summertime air, she quickly forgot about all that had just transpired, unnerving as it was. Just a dream, she dismissed it, promptly forgetting all about it.
*finiarel – a suffix for a young man of potential as stated in the series, however, there was no female counterpart to the word, so I just decided to use it in the same context (correct me if I'm wrong there?).