Inspiration hit me and I wanted to have a second take at a more unusual ExA story. This one is a bit darker than When Everything seems lost, but also more rewarding in terms of ExA development when it gets there. As with the first story, I develop the plot as I go, so I can't answer every question right now. Just follow the story and enjoy :)
He awoke to the clang of metal against metal. Meal time already? Eragon cracked an eye open. A dark silhouette stood by the iron bars of his cell, banging a short metal spoon between them. Eragon groaned. His bruised back ached worse and worse, and the torches outside his cell already consumed themselves to smolders. How long did he sleep?
The clatter stopped. "Food, my lord Shadeslayer," Spoons said. He pushed the bowl through the tiny rectangle carved at the bottom of the grates, spat on its contents, and left.
Spoons always did that. At least his presence answered one of Eragon's questions. It was midday, and he slept more than necessary.
"Haven't lost your wits yet?" Jarl one-eye whispered from the cell opposite to his. The gloom hid his features, but his body probably became as frail as his voice. Eragon shook his head, more to himself than to the poor blind wretch.
"Won't be long until you do. Empire cells do this to every man, elf and Rider."
"Spoons too," Eragon rasped. He wet his parched throat with whatever moisture dwelled in his mouth. "I can't do it anymore Jarl."
"You have to! Put aside body pain, put aside mind pain, and starve for a couple of days so you can feast for a lifetime." Eragon imagined him clutching the bars to his cells as if his life depended on it. He always did that, poor blind Jarl. Always hoped today will be the day.
"Not today," Eragon said. Fever still corrupted his body, and his guts twisted whenever Spoons brought him his meal of spit and porridge. He tried skipping a meal or two at Jarl's request, but that night was dark and full of terrors. The potion the mages slipped in his food did more than suppress his connection to magic. It tore at his insides, again and again, until he ate the tainted food. Never again, Eragon had vowed.
And today, he kept his word.
He slid out of his stone carved cot. Cold sludge embraced his feet as he shuffled towards the bowl, his teeth gritted to prevent a whimper from escaping.
"You fool. Craven, pitiful fool," Jarl whined. Eragon ignored him. The bowl and its contents. That's what mattered. While he stuffed the tasteless porridge into his mouth and gnawed on the stringy meat, he listened to Jarl's mantra.
"You wait to be saved. Nobody will saved you. Nobody, nobody, nobody. The New Empire has everything. Grand Mage Trianna of a thousand hearts. King Murtagh, who knows the One Word, and Queen Nasuada, conqueror of Alagaesia. What do you have, dear boy? What, what what?"
Love, Eragon wanted to say, but food tasted better than words. Once he finished the cold meal, Eragon tossed the bowl in the rat corner and picked the pointy stick he found under the cot. Its owner must have been a rat hunter, for the wood was slim and long enough to act as a spear.
"Shush," Eragon said, and Jarl spoke no more.
They waited in utter silence, Jarl probably twiddling his thumbs and Eragon staring at the food bowl intently. A squeak. Several squeaks. Then a rock of the bowl. Eragon thrust his spear forward. The squeaking stopped.
"Caught it?" Jarl asked.
"Aye."
"Throw it here boy. Don't let them drop it into that vile porridge. It's the only clean food we have. The only way to escape."
Tears wet the corner of Eragon's eyes as he removed the rat from its skewer. No meat meant a less consistent meal, and a less consistent meal lead to a sleepless night of pain.
He threw it across the narrow corridor into Jarl's cell.
"Good boy, brave boy," Jarl said.
Eragon sighed. He lay down on his hard cot to ponder, but all he could think of was pain. The potion clouded his mind, made his very meat seethe, and gave him no moment of respite. Yet, amidst turmoil, there was always peace.
Arya. She was his solace. Thinking about her meant leaving that world of pain behind. He tried to do so now by muttering his prayer.
"Where is she now? Still with Orrin and his rebels? How long until she's here? How much does she want to be here?" The last question hurt more than the occasional spasm of a muscle. Time eroded everything, just like the potion eroded his bond with his dragon.
Eragon turned on his side, an arm placed under his cheek. He had a dragon once, didn't he? Called…how was it called? He closed his eyes and focused on the void—the same void that suppressed his magic— but no answer came to surface.
Muffled footsteps interrupted his musings. Eragon brought his knees to his chest, his usual sleeping position. Nobody bothered him if they thought he slept.
Two set of foosteps. No. Three. Two jarring, metallic ones and one soft. Leather, most likely. They grew in intensity until they rang in front of Eragon's cell.
"Meal time?" Jarl asked.
"Thought this cell was empty," one man replied in a gruff voice.
"It is now."
The door screeched and clang when it hit the wall.
"What's this, wha—" Eragon bit his lip so hard he drew blood when he heard a gurgle as metal pierced flesh. A thump followed.
"Your new home, Lord Jormundur." Another thump, followed by a groan and a yelp of pain. "I trust you'll enjoy the comfort of your new quarters."
Eragon didn't notice when they left. He didn't know if the man spoke or not. For him, hope died with Jarl one-eyed.
