Disclaimer: I do not own The Inheritance Cycle. It belongs to Christopher Paolini.
Guilt.
You sit by the window of your old room, the room you once used as a maiden. For the last few months you have been spending the better part of your days in here, reminiscing about your past dreams and hopes, as if they are still around you, waiting in vain to be put into practice.
Your brother's little boy is sitting on your lap and you're carefully trying to comb his dirty, knotted, brown hair. Your hand moves mechanically up and down but your thoughts are running to another boy, about the same age as your nephew. A boy you've left behind. Shouldn't he be the one sitting on your knees? Shouldn't it be his silken hair you are combing now? How come that you do for another child what you rarely could do for your own?
'Oh Murtagh, my angel, how could I …?' you whisper and your eyes fill with tears. You blink trying to imprison them inside your eyelids but they are already shed onto your cheeks.
A couple of hours earlier, when you were outside to pump water from the well, you had failed to resist the temptation and you had poured a little quantity of the liquid in the marble trough. 'Draumr copa' you had enchanted and instantly the smooth surface waved and the beloved young face appeared, framed by the window of his chamber. You saw his brown eyes, your dark brown eyes watching the road with anticipation and hope.
'Where are you, mommy? Come back, mommy!'
And you, not standing to see more, hurriedly ended the spell, causing the beloved face to dissolve instantly in the water.
And now the tears are streaming from your eyes and your heart hurts, as if pierced by the sword of misery. Even the foetus in your womb stirs disturbed, aware of your discomfort.
The little boy on your knees turns around and with rising curiosity looks you in the eye.
'What is 'mutak' aunty?'
Oh, you crazy fool! Did you just mention a name? But they mustn't know. None should ever know!
'Nothing my angel! I've just … blessed you' you utter giving a thin smile and you lay a hasty kiss onto his shaggy hair, which is definitely not the hair you would like to kiss.
'Don't cry aunty' says the little boy and with his plump hand he touches your wet cheek.
And you, swallowing your tears, continue the monotonous passing of the comb over the knotted hair. The somber child's face never abandons your mind. Neither do the eyes, which full of expectation seek you out. And inside your core you know very well that in a few weeks you'll be able to depart, to go back to him. But before you leave, you'll have to abandon somebody else once again.
The pain tears your heart apart, because you know that – the fortune teller in Teirm has foretold this – your death is approaching with long strides. But you know very well too, that you will be with him, your son again, before your end.
You sigh as you sniff your tears but your upcoming death is not the worst of all that this herbalist had divined. The worst is that she has prophesied something about your children using words like: sorrow, pain, anger, rage, wrath. And phrases as: blood separates those who should be together. Grief and loneliness in the end. And you had felt that you could have died that same instant. And you wept and wept and wished you had never entered her shop. And she had gone on unstoppable as if all the sorrow she had spread was not enough. Mother of two exiles. Feared and envied for their powers, by all races.
But now in your despair you're trying to hold yourself to the slightest thing and you remember that strange little creature that accompanied the woman. That curious cat, the werecat, which had jumped on your lap, had sniffed your palms and had talked in your mind. Mother of the upcoming hope, the werecat had called you. And once he had caught your attention, he had said something you never managed to understand till now. The separated will be united in eternity. Nothing can be accomplished with the individual, only together can they extinguish the Evil. And he had jumped from your feet and vanished.
You go on combing the little boy's hair as you start crooning some old half-forgotten tune. And despite all the mistakes you have made and will make, in your desolation you want to believe that there is a slight bit of hope.
A/N: Are you Selena's fan? Soon I will post a new story with the title : 'The Warrior and The Dragon'. The second chapter will be about her. See you then!