A Winter Tradition
Suggested Listening: Tracks in the Snow By: The Civil Wars
Every year, Roran makes a special trip. No one else knew about this trip, as it was special, a secret he'd shared with no one; not even Eragon.
Around him, the air was still; filled with a looming silence. The trees bent around and over him like the large castle in Ilirea. Far behind him, where the Anora River bends toward Carvahall, everyone was waiting for him at Horst's house for a dinner party. But that wasn't where he was going. Fore in his hands, there was a long package wrapped in exquisite scarlet and gold paper and ribbon. The box was someone special. Very, very, special.
A gust of wind blew around him. The wind sang and hummed as it passed, and he could almost hear the familiar hymns of his childhood. He could almost hear her voice. He sighed, and quickened his pace; eager to reach his destination. He knew he was close, as he could see the river disappear into the underbrush of the forest.
He walked farther into the woods, his feet making track in the snow behind him. The river was in sight again, bending ever so slightly away from the path. He followed it.
Roran entered a clearing where the Anora River bent again; heading away from Palancar Valley. The road had ended half a mile back. He had arrived.
The clearing was small, only big enough for three of four people. It had a slight circular shape to it, and in the middle was a medium-sized headstone with a few lines of text carved into it.
Although Roran couldn't read, he knew exactly what the words read:
Here Lies Marian,
A Loving wife and Mother.
May her soul Rest In Peace.
Choking back a sob, Roran fell to his knees. Hands shaking, he placed the package in front of the stone. Inside the box was a dried red rose. He left the box open, revealing the rose, and stood. With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the stone and box, heading back to the village. He'd make the trip again next year, just as he had for ten years.