Warnings: slight critique of the Inheritance Triology, slight crossover as result, very mild swearing
Other than that, enjoy.
Eragon was hesitant to talk to the man in black. He had been wary of the man ever since he had walked into the tavern. There was something that made him feel as if he should know the man. Something… Was he an agent of the Empire? Or, could this feeling of kinship mean that this man was another Dragon Rider? Eragon perished the thought. It was impossible. He was the last, now that his teacher was dead. He could not get his mind off of that last conversation. "You must confront your brother," Eragon had been told. How was he supposed to accomplish that? Turn himself in and chance being called traitor by his allies? What if, regardless, he should fail? Aside from that, Eragon was not sure he could actually kill his brother. Maybe he could convince Murtagh to come back. Eragon shook his head. He needed to concentrate on his assignment from the Varden: make contact with the representative from this mysterious "Alliance" that had responded to the plea they had sent out among all the rebellions the Varden had ever been in contact with. Not that Eragon believed in this group, even if Arya insisted that they existed.
"What are you thinking about?" the man in black asked Eragon. The man was sitting two seats away from him at the bar. Eragon was slightly irritated by the intrusion on his privacy, especially from the most likely upper-class man who had never had to work for anything in his life. Black dye of that quality was hard to come by and, as a result, incredibly expensive. As if sensing Eragon's discomfort, the man apologized for acting unnerving, "I'm sorry. You just looked like you needed someone to talk to."
"It's nothing," Eragon replied curtly, wishing the man would stop talking to him despite the fact they had barely began a conversation. If he failed in this mission, he would never hear the end of it from Arya. It was a simple rendez-vous, she would say, how could you fail at that? And if his suspicion was correct, and the man in black was a spy for the Empire, she would continue, how could you endanger the future of the continent and the existence of the Dragon Riders like that? It was of course a preposterous thought that the man could defeat him.
The other man smiled, as if he knew that Eragon was lying. "So you aren't with the Varden?" he asked in a nonchalant manner, as if he knew otherwise. He laughed, but the sound was empty. "Pity. I guess I'll have to get myself even more drunk," he continued dryly.
Eragon stared at the man. This man was the contact? Seriously? He looked over the other man once more. Why would someone, who looked to be a member of the upper-class and possibly related to some high-up politician in the Empire, join or be associated with any given rebellion in the Empire? Quite frankly, Eragon had the feeling the man could immediately command attention if he so chose. "You're the man from the Alliance?" Eragon asked, in shock.
"That I am, Dragon Rider," the man in black replied with a knowing look on his face. He was really starting to have a detrimental impression on Eragon. How did he know that Eragon was a Dragon Rider? It was not that obvious. After all, he could roam around most of the Empire without anyone recognizing him from a wanted poster. No one knew what the mark on his hand meant, save the elves and a blessedly small number of others. How could this stranger know?
"Have your superiors made a decision yet?" Eragon asked shakily, still trying to regain his mental balance. What was going on? Could this Alliance really have Dragon Riders? How did the man know? How? Was there a big sign above Eragon's head proclaiming what he was?
"Yes, we have. We cannot provide assistance at this time. I am sorry," the man replied, seemingly not sorry at all and somewhat preoccupied with other thoughts. Eragon wondered why this other rebel group did not have the time to help them fight this war. Were they not on the same side? "Our forces are spread too thinly to help," the man clarified, hiding something. "You know, I have known you have been judging me since I walked in," he said, switching topics, "and I do not really care, because you have no right to do so."
Eragon looked at him suspiciously. What did this man know? "What do you mean?" he asked, carefully choosing his words. "How did you know about what I am?" Eragon continued. The man smiled at this, almost as if he found Eragon's questions amusing. "Why are you so intent on confusing me? Why is your presence like that of a Dragon Rider?"
The man shook his head and turned back to the bar, causing Eragon to think that he had ended the conversation. "In another place and another time, there is a situation much like this one," he started, seemingly reminiscing. "There is a young man, somewhat like yourself. He has many of the same problems, but, in a way, they are much worse. You do not want to know of what I speak. Furthermore, you do not want to know why the Alliance cannot help the Varden. I may seem like a Dragon Rider, but the only ones I know of try to destroy the Thread. You cannot comprehend how many other places there are out there, like this one yet not. That realm is one. Another has elves and dwarves and humans fighting against the darkness to destroy a ring of power—their world, its landscape and some of its culture, shares many things with this one. Two others have ideals and moralities similar to yours, but they tend to fix their own problems before going on some 'damn fool idealistic crusade.' Mine—damn, that place is indescribable," the man in black said and laughed bitterly. He shook his head and went back to glowering at his drink.
Eragon had watched the man throughout the monologue. He was a little apprehensive about the content of the man's speech and his affect. "I was thinking about my brother," Eragon finally said, replying to the man's initial question. The phrase had spilled out of him so easily—it had been so difficult to tell the others. Yet another mystery. "He's with the Emperor," Eragon added sullenly, as if it would explain everything. To a degree, he hoped it would.
"My father works for the Emperor," the man in black half-echoed. Unlike when he had spoken only a minute before, now he looked like Eragon felt. "Hence why I volunteered to meet some representative from the Varden in a bar—tavern, sorry—and did not stay with my friends."
"They don't know?" Eragon asked. How high up was this man's father in the government? Maybe his father had known Eragon's father. The thought chilled Eragon. Would he really want to know what Morzan of all people had been like? Maybe it was a blessing that Brom had killed his father. Otherwise, he might have been told to confront Morzan. Murtagh may have still been with the Resistance in that scenario. How different would his life have been?
"No," the man in black answered, "they do not know, and I will not be telling them for a long time. Well, I am going to tell my sister, and she'll probably tell her boyfriend, who will tell his best friend. My best friend has known for about a year, though, but that was more due to my inability to stay quiet when having a nightmare than anything." He stopped and considered what he had said. Eragon wondered if that friend was the only person the man had discussed this with. He was suddenly glad he had told Arya and the leaders of the Resistance his secret. If bottling up emotions caused you to end up like the man in black… Eragon shuddered to even think about it.
"You will have someone to talk to about all that, then," Eragon pointed out. "It's not like you have the same deep, dark secret that I have—" he cut himself off. That had been more than he was willing to admit to some random man from this Alliance. Thank the gods he had not continued and accidentally mentioned Morzan. That would have been a disaster.
"Do not presume, Eragon," the man replied darkly. He had turned to stare intently at the Last of the Dragon Riders. Eragon saw cold fury in the man's ice-blue eyes. "For all you know, I could be in almost the exact same position as you," he growled. "You have no right to say that and neither do I." Eragon knew he looked confused, so when the man continued, he was not surprised. "I take it you were not listening too closely to what I said, were you?" he accused. Eragon had been listening; he just did not understand what all that talk had to do with him. Wait.
"We were talking about different emperors, weren't we?" Eragon realized. "You mean the one from where you hail, and I was talking about Galbatorix," he thought out-loud. Yes, that made sense. It also explained why Eragon had mistaken him for a Dragon Rider. Wherever this man was from, there was some sort of analogous group.
"Yes, I was not referring to Galbatorix," the man in black admitted grudgingly. He calmed himself down and continued afterward, sincerely but with the intent of making some sort of peace between them, "I hope you can convince your brother Murtagh to come back to your side of the war." Eragon wondered yet again how this man knew what he was thinking. And how he knew Murtagh was his brother. The man in black smiled wanly, saying, "I really do apologize, but we cannot give help: we have our own war, our own battles to fight." As he said that, a serious-looking blond man walked over and tapped the man in black on the shoulder.
"The patrols have detected the abnormality," the blond man informed the first stranger. The two seemed to know each other. Eragon wondered if this was the friend the man in black had referred to but quickly decided that he was not. The blond spoke casually, but conducted himself formally. Maybe that was because Eragon was present, but he sincerely doubted it. The two actually seemed as if they could be from different worlds, even. However, it was not like Eragon really believed that there were other worlds out there. The idea was preposterous. Sure, another continent, maybe, but entirely different worlds?
"We better get out of here," the man in black agreed, now just as serious as his acquaintance. He nodded to himself then turned back to Eragon. The man said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Dragon Rider. You are not alone. I guess I shouldn't have dragged you into this conversation. You are best off forgetting it. The Alliance sends its condolences." He stood up and smiled. A real smile this time, not those half-smiles he had been giving throughout the conversation. "Goodbye, and may … the gods be with you," the man in black finished. The blond impatiently gestured at the door. The man in black nodded and said something in a foreign language. The blond replied, saying something that sounded like, "Nine hells! Look, we have to go now." And the two left as abruptly as the second had arrived.
Eragon was left completely confused, just as when he had started talking to the Alliance representative. That was a strange conversation. How had the man known that he … No, Eragon assured himself, the man did not know he was a Dragon Rider. But there was some gnawing feeling in the back of his mind, screaming, Yes he did yes he did yes he did! His memory, however, said otherwise. The man had apologized for the Alliance's inability to help. Forces stretched too thin, he had said. Eragon's thoughts drifted back to his brother. How was he going to do this? He was the last! Eragon was alone. But was he? No, no he was not.
Wait a moment, Eragon thought, his head clearing. The man did know he was a Dragon Rider and about his relation to Murtagh. How did he forget? The answer hit him abruptly. Eragon remembered reading about a group of beings from somewhere far, far away that could manipulate the mind, defy gravity, see the future and past and present. Prescience, telekinesis, telepathy. Abnormally fast reaction times and incredible skill with the sword. 'Guardians of a more civilized age.' Upholding peace and justice. Maybe the man in black was one. What were they called again? Ah, yes.
Jedi.