Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or Eldest. Nor do I own Christopher Paolini. Nor AM I Christopher Paolini. The plot of the fic is MOSTLY mine, though, of course, based on CPao's. :) Plot may, ahem, have major elements "inspired" by Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken and Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsugiri (FE7 and FE6). Those games (which are owned by Nintendo and Intelligent Systems) have freakin' awesome plots, and FE7 made me a sucker for human/dragon-in-human-form pairings, sooooo... --;; In particular, AU Rider-backstory will be the bastard child of canon Rider-backstory and the true account of the Scouring in FE6. So don't slam me for plagiarism… I know. XD
Warning: This fic is seriously AU. Rider backstory has changed, Eragon's background has changed somewhat, Saphira's first appearance is WAAAAAAAY different, plot has been changed in several places, Carvahall is somewhat friendly to the Empire (so far :D), etc. Canon-compliance? Vat ist das? :P XD
Also, I can swear this will almost certainly NOT be an Eragon/Arya or Eragon/Murtagh fic. In fact, I'm almost certain it will be Eragon/Saphira.
Still here? Thanks. Now, let's go!
Chapter 1: Spirits
What in blazes WAS that?! The shaman rolled onto his back and sat up, glancing around in the darkness. He'd woken up for… some reason. An… explosion? But it didn't look like – Ah, yes, the forest. It had occurred in the forest. He nodded to himself and got up off his cot, going to the shelves that contained the ritual items. From memory, he found the jar of ritual powder and began to daub it on his face and torso in the traditional patterns. As shaman, it was his duty to investigate any disturbances nearby Carvahall –
You have no need to bother with that!
His finger jerked, smearing a line across his chest; after a moment, he realized it was just a spirit. He frowned when he identified it, and began to speak to it. I thought you remained in the Spine, O warder of the cursed mountain's forests.
Some bloody – we – I – something. Elf, we think – or a Rider, but they're all gone – The shaman blinked. Not only was it unusual for the spirits – particularly this one – to be this disjointed, but it was talking about elves and Riders? What was going on? Someone violated the forests – threw something into the Spine, and the violation alone – but what was thrown in – get the thing out. GET IT OUT. Bastards – how did the elves manage all this distance, sent us all into disarray, and –
Where is it? The shaman asked, wiping off the smear and quickly drawing a few basic patterns on his torso. If the spirits were disturbed, they might attack without provocation. And everyone knew that the Spine spirits were irritable enough normally.
It's at the edge of the forest, the spirit said, regaining coherency. We were able to control the location to some extent. It will be a short walk, not dangerous – the animals fled the site. Bloody elves…
The shaman put on his hide jacket, tied his talismans to his belt, then cinched the belt around his waist. I will be there as soon as possible. He inserted the ritual bone knife into its sheath.
You had better, or – The spirit lapsed into a flurry of threats, some of them verging on the anatomically impossible. The shaman would have found the sheer absurdity of them amusing, except that the Warder was normally calm, if unpleasant. For the Warder to be disturbed… He nodded to himself, and dashed out of his room. The faster he resolved this, the better.
He could hear the chaos even as he scaled the path up towards the mountain; the spirits sounded like they were engaged in some hideous argument.
The Times Before – he imagined the words beginning with capital letters because the spirit now loudest placed such reverence into the words – may return – the Riders are gone, and now –
Old fool! Dragon cannot exist without Riders, not now – damned elves took that all away –
The shaman stopped, blinking; these voices sounded far older than any spirits he had heard before, and he had an urge to prostrate himself in superstitious awe. Never show them fear, his uncle had told him, but these… these seemed to deserve respect by dint of existing so long and not fading, if nothing else. He decided staying still and listening would be best for the moment.
We have no idea what you're talking about, another spirit cried – the shaman recognized it as a river spirit from the bubbling way it talked, though he didn't know its name –, But the Riders could return now, and then – Though he couldn't quite put what he sensed into words, a sense of terror and rage suffused the spirits' conversation, distinct from anything they said. Inasmuch as spirits said anything – he knew very well that he only understood their communications as words because he had been trained to understand them as such, because his mind comprehended them best as words; his uncle had said once that he, personally, understood them best as colors, swirling together and tinting to convey different shades of meaning. The shaman wondered for a moment what old Garrow would think of this clash. Probably go mad from the sights, the shaman concluded, wincing as the argument grew even louder.
As far as he could tell, the spirits were split into roughly four camps; one argued that this was an excellent thing that would put the world back in its natural order, another shouted that it meant nothing and it would be best if – whatever it was – got taken away and never bothered them
again, a third shrieked ELVESRIDERSTHEMAGAINNEVERAGAIN, and a fourth regarded the event with both fear and reverence. As with any stranger stumbling into an argument out of context, he was uncertain what event they were referring to, but he decided that it was best to go and see. After all, the last shaman who had displeased the spirits by not fulfilling a request – his grandfather, in fact – had been found… well, his uncle had muttered that the townspeople only assumed it was him because the remains seemed to have human skin on them and he was the only man known to have gone missing. And then his uncle had gone outside to throw up. It wasn't exactly a fate the current shaman desired.
He ran his fingers along the three talismans tied to his belt, and summoned the spirits bound to them. "Bound" was not quite the right word. They were not forced to come when summoned, but the talismans ensured they were always hear the call, and… for them to refuse to come to his call, they would have to truly loathe him. He hoped such a day never came.
My, my, Tarith giggled. What's all this, then – The wind spirit paused, swirling around him for a moment and observing the chaos. She settled around his shoulders like a mantle. This is… very much unlike them.
Agreed. Even those without much of the gift could hear them, the shaman said. Whether or not it would drive their untrained minds mad, he didn't want to contemplate.
Germaman, a quiet earth spirit, settled around the shaman's feet and solidified the ground beneath him; Nizuthal, the water spirit, kept near her talisman. She would not be needed to protect him unless his blood was shed, in which case she would become invaluable. Reassured by their presence, the shaman continued upwards, towards the commotion.
Shaman, the Warder growled when he arrived. You have tarried.
I simply didn't want to provoke the wrath of the noble spirits by appearing too suddenly, he said, nodding. And I hardly tarried, he added, so much as stepped carefully in case some irritated spirit decided to lash out at me.
A good policy this night, the Warder admitted.
So, great and wise spirits, the shaman shouted for all the spirits to notice, What concerns you so?
In the moonlight, he could see a roiling mass of spirits peel away from the base of a tree to reveal–
He blinked. Surely he was seeing incorrectly? He had expected… well, perhaps some great sword of legend. Or a stone. Yes, a large, shiny stone would have made more sense than what he saw.
A young maiden – well, he corrected as he got closer, a maiden who appeared a few years older than him – lay at the base of the tree, her face pale and her eyes shut. As he knelt down to examine her more closely, he saw that her eyes jerked back and forth beneath the lids, and her breathing was shallow and pained. "Who is this?" he said aloud. The spirits understood him nonetheless.
That is not for a mortal to know, one sneered, taking him by surprise. Get rid of her.
The shaman swallowed, feeling cold despite his fur-lined hide jacket. In the sense of murder or simply taking her away?
The spirits burst into another argument around him; the majority seemed to favor her survival, though they disagreed as to whether his letting her live would have any point or if she would die anyway. More than anything, the spirits seemed to fear her; hence, he supposed, why they hadn't disposed of her themselves. He wondered exactly how powerful she was for the Spine spirits to fear her. Surely not as powerful as a Rider?
Was she a Rider? He began to gnaw on his lip, trying to remember what that callous wretch of a storyteller and sorcerer, Brom, had said about Riders. Fair of face, strong of arm – the wretch idolized the Riders, an opinion that the shaman failed to share. The spirits tended to regard the concept and word Rider as the strongest obscenity they had, and shamans tended to listen to the spirits.
…Well, he honestly couldn't tell if she was a Rider or not. Then again, if she were, the spirits would want her unequivocally dead, so she wasn't. He nodded and picked her up, laying her across both arms and grunting at her weight.
He's taking her, then? one of the spirits hostile to her survival snapped, and unease washed over the shaman. It was a bad sign when they didn't address him directly. Fools! What if he takes her for himself! What if –
I hardly intend to "take her for myself"! the shaman exclaimed, feeling his face burn. What sort of brute do you – do you take me for?! I'm just trying to –
Don't put ideas into the shaman's mind, fool, a neutral spirit said, cold as any harsh winter. We will observe. And should he attempt to seize power, he shall be wiped from this earth, and she will be weakened enough for her to finish her as well.
They quieted, and he strained to hear them. Why take the risk? another hostile spirit demanded. Do you want those times to begin again? The misery, the bullying, the – we can kill him and –
And then what do we do with her, fool? Do we risk one who is not of the shamanic line finding her?
Well, Rizerak has a valid point. If we kill all who come to find her, then she could survive on her own, and –
Unlikely. She's in… she'll protect herself, but is probably not in a state to find food.
We could herd them to her, yes?
Not in a state, do you understand!
While they were distracted arguing amongst themselves, the shaman began to back towards the path. And where do you think you're going, little shaman? a hostile spirit asked.
I think the observation plan is the best, really, he said, smiling widely. Or perhaps it was a grimace. His more forced smiles looked like grimaces, the townspeople had told him. I swear that I will not try to seize power over you – I swear by – He fumbled for an appropriate phrase. By my mother.
Selena fled us when we tore apart her incompetent of a father, a neutral spirit – or a spirit that had been neutral – it sounded rather more hostile now – said in contempt. It was a pity, but hers is hardly an honorable name.
It is to me! the shaman insisted, beginning to chew on the inside of his cheeks. I swear on my family.
More descendants of the incompetent… If spirits could drawl, he would swear that one did.
I swear on Carvahall!
We tolerate them. Due to the shamans. Think faster, little shaman.
So they wanted something they considered great and good. What did the spirits consider great and good? An ignorant human would have sworn on the Riders and died on the spot – it was amazing that wretch Brom hadn't died already – and – I swear by the great Galbatorix, who ended the reign of the Riders and has had the good sense and courtesy to leave the honored spirits of the Spine well enough alone, he said.
There was silence. He remained absolutely still, feeling cold all over. If they were still unsatisfied…
At length, one said, He is a Rider himself… but you show that your heart is in the right place. Fine. Seal it with blood to the elements.
The spirits resumed arguing, but in a more sedate manner. He swallowed. Well, this would make the oath truly binding, but he couldn't see why he would ever want to do so, or even how he could do so. And with the spirits being as irritable as they were, he didn't want to think too hard about how, lest they somehow read his mind or he let slip what he was thinking.
He laid the girl down and shoved the right sleeve of his jacket up to the elbow, and unsheathed the ritual knife. "I swear by the great Galbatorix, who ended the reign of the Riders and has had the good sense and courtesy to leave the honored spirits of the Spine well enough alone, that I will not try to seize power over you, and I seal this pact with my blood for the elements," he said, placing the knife against his wrist. Nizuthal flowed to the site, so that after he opened his vein and enough blood was shed, she could stop the bleeding before he died of blood loss.
The blade cut into his wrist, and he made a mental note to sharpen the infernal edge. The blood dripped down through the air and spattered on the earth. He winced at the sizzling noise that signified that the fire spirits were also taking their share.
After about a minute, he asked Exactly how much blood do you want?
As much as we can get, one of the hostile spirits said.
Now is enough, a stream spirit said.
The shaman, relieved, prodded Nizuthal with his mind, and she stopped the flow of blood. Are the spirits satisfied?
No, a hostile spirit grumbled.
Verily, we are, the majority of the other spirits chorused.
Good, he muttered, and sheathed the knife. Once again, he picked up the girl, wincing when her body shifted against the cut. With a sigh, he turned around and began to walk towards the path down.
Must you over-complicate things?
The shaman sighed and replied to the Warder. I am the son of a runaway and the grandson of an incompetent, am I not? He heard what passed for a snort, and continued on.
It was early morning when he arrived back at his house, and his cousin was waiting for him when he opened the door. Blast. He was rather hoping no one would see him.
His cousin's eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his head at the sight of the girl in the shaman's arms. After a moment, he shook his head in astonishment. "Eragon bring a woman home, I never thought I'd see the day," he muttered, still shaking his head.
"It's not what you think!" the shaman, Eragon, snapped. What was it with spirits and people thinking he had ill intent today?
"I'm sure, I'm sure," his cousin muttered, waving Eragon into the house. "Getting married? Or just having a brief dawn tryst? You should really wake her up before you go at it, though."
"Roran, just –" Eragon burst into a flurry of obscenities to equal the Warder's rant the previous night. He finished by saying, "I'm tired, really bloody tired, and I'm not in the mood for this! Now, let me get to my room. I've been carrying this girl for bloody hours."
Roran shrugged and stood to the side. "I'm not complaining, I just never thought you –"
With a final shouted obscenity, Eragon stomped by his cousin and carried the girl into his room, finally putting her down on the cot. He sat down next to her and looked at her in the morning light.
She was still pale and seemed to be in poor condition. When he placed his hand on her forehead, it felt cold; he supposed that made sense, though, seeing as how it was only the beginning of spring and the air was still rather cold. At least she didn't have a fever. He picked up her arm and felt her pulse; it was irregular, but strong. That was comforting. He hoped.
Germaman?
Yes, the earth spirit replied.
Could you keep watch and wake me up if anything happens to her? the shaman asked. I feel… rather sleepy. He felt the earth spirit's consent, and settled down to sleep.
Eragon?
Yes, Tarith, he muttered, his head already resting against the dirt floor of his room. Previous shamans had made it quite clear to the earth spirits residing in and nearby the house that insects were not to be tolerated, so he had no fear of a beetle crawling up his nose.
May I go harass dear Roran? She giggled, a sound like the whistle of the wind rising and falling again and again.
Just don't make him angry enough to retaliate. She whirled out of the room, and Eragon closed his eyes. He tried to review the events of the night. Some spirits doubtless agreed with his decisions, but others still did not, and it would likely be unsafe for him to return to the Spine for a while… and he needed to find out the… the girl… what's the word… who she was… her identity… yes… dreamy nice thoughts…
Author's Note: Annnnnnnnnnnnnd whaddya know? A perfect imitation of CPao himself! I had a chapter end with Eragon falling asleep! 8D
Uh, yeah. XD I've sort of had insomnia, so I was self-inserting into Eragon near the end, so the falling asleep was a bit of wish-fulfillment. XD :P As you may have noticed, this fic is REALLY AU. I might go back to edit this chapter if I decide to change the specifics of exactly how the backstory of the three surviving young dragons played out. And Eragon said he'd been carrying her for "hours" because it seems to take hours to get from the forests down to Carvahall in canon... I could be wrong, though. :P
And reviewers? I'd like you to help me decide something. I can either have the attack on Arya be due to Durza (and thus an action by Galbatorix) or have an OC Shade who (to summarize without spoilers) knew Galbatorix very well and is NOT on good terms with him at the moment. This obviously affects the plot, as the OC will have her (yes, she's female) own faction if she exists, and this faction will be neither allied with the Varden and elves nor with the Empire. That's kind of important. Basically, what I'm asking is if you want her in the story or not. Either she's in the story, or Durza is. Don't worry, she's not going to ride in on a unicorn and have long, flowing multicolored hair and color-changing eyes and heal everyone with her pure heart and bed Murtagh. XD She's rather bitter due to a falling-out with Galbatorix and general misery due to the Riders, as a matter of fact.
Durza works. So does the OC. :P
…Um, and read and review? I am well aware my writing is the embodiment of clunkiness and conversations that I write tend to go on for an unnaturally long time. XD (I swear, I just want to reach into the paper sometimes, slap the characters, and scream "STOP BABBLING! WE HAVE PLOT!" XD) So, concrit appreciated. …Err, ignore the whimpering noises… I may have a thin skin, but I promise not to flame concritters. If I do so, feel free to counterattack. P
Next chapter will go up when I write it, regardless of the amount of reviews I get, and if I don't get any reviews or the votes for Durza and the OC are tied, I'll flip a coin to decide between them. XD
(If there's any funky line spacing, BLAME . I hopefully caught the five or so random line breaks, but...)