Epilogue: Ismira
Roran stood up, the sun burning the tanned skin of his back. He ran a hand through his brown hair, and plucked at a silver strand that fell in front of his eyes. He sighed wearily, allowing the hair to drift to the ground.
So it seemed nobody could escape the ravages of time. Already his face was creased, his back ached with the hours of ploughing. And now he had grey hair. Another sigh escaped his lips, and his son, Armand, looked over.
"Father?" he asked, concerned. "Are you alright?"
The eldest, Garrow, stopped leading the horse, Plod. He frowned, worried about his Father's slow and depressed attitude he'd recently been displaying.
"Dad?" he said, his voice low. "What's wrong?"
Roran took a deep breath, and managed to stretch his face into a smile. He laugh was strained, and the two boys noticed the lie immediately.
"Father..." they said, in unison.
Roran waved his hands, dropping the plough. "It's nothing, really. Let's just get this done before the day is out."
Both boys knew better than to challenge their Father, or to keep pestering him, so they obeyed, though both felt more tense than before. Roran watched from the corner of his eye. Garrow's tall, slim frame lope across the field, pulling the horse along gently. He was all Katrina, his hair was the same gingery-brown colour, like shining copper. However, the younger, Armand, was the spitting image of Roran. Stocky and muscular, the boy wanted to be a blacksmith, and had the strong arms to prove it.
Roran smiled, he'd always thought the best way to become immortal was to leave behind a legacy, and he had five. He almost laughed to himself, all of his children were talented, and in his eyes, beautiful. His youngest, Yara, a bouncing baby of two, gurgled at flowers and laughed at the sky, constantly happy. Her blue eyes could stare at you for hours, she observed patiently, always smiling. Then there was Cole, a rambunctious lad of twelve, constantly in the woods, with his bow. He never caught anything, and when he was disheartened, Roran would tell him how his Uncle had found a dragon egg when he was hunting in those very woods.
Then came the twins, Armand and Garrow. Garrow was the elder, by a total of eleven minutes. Roran remembered his surprise when he entered the birthing room, and found Birgit holding two babies instead of one.
And his first, his beautiful Ismira. Her hair was the colour of the leaves in autumn, a healthy glow of oranges and reds. She was quiet, and sensible, but would become fierce and stubborn when it came to what she believed in. Roran chuckled; she was the ideal mix of himself and Katrina.
He began his ploughing, and was just getting into his rhythm when Armand straightened his back and looked towards the gate into their land. Roran turned, curious and, thanks to his years of fighting, wary. A group of dazzling white horses entered, carrying men and women dressed in glittering silver armour. Roran's shoulders relaxed. They were elves.
"Go find your Mother," he told the boys. "Tell her we have guests."
The elves readily accepted their invitation to stay, as was their duty they were travelling with a dragon egg around Alagaesia, before its return to Ellesmera or Iliria. Roran knew two of the elves personally. Vyran and Rhía were both friends of his, from his visit to the elven capital. Both had long white hair, and were good, honest people.
Katrina served the vegetable soup, conscious of the guests' diets. They thanked her readily, and the children eyed them curiously over the table, eating slowly, and occasionally dropping food down themselves.
"For the love of-," Katrina sighed. "Armand, you're almost sixteen! The food goes in your mouth, not on your tunic!"
Armand blushed scarlet as his Mother tried to clean him up. He pushed her away, and his siblings began to chuckle. Roran scanned the faces around the oak table, and sighed, putting down his spoon.
"Where is your sister?" he asked.
The boys all looked to Yara, who was gurgling in her own chair. The baby blew some bubbles out of her mouth.
Cole snapped his fingers. "I know! She went to pick flowers!"
"That was over an hour ago," Katrina frowned, looking at the setting sun out of the window. "Roran, go and get her."
Grumbling, Roran left the table, snatching a cloak from a hook before exiting the house. He heard the door shut behind him, and snuggled down inside the woollen material. Where was that girl? She had a mind of her own, and went wandering about wherever she pleased. Roran paused in mid-step, he'd forgotten to bring a lantern, the sun was setting rapidly and soon he'd be too far from the house to see where he was.
"Ismira?" he called out, hearing his voice bounce off the mountains that stood so close to his home.
A low, sad melody reached his ears as he carried on, tramping over the newly ploughed fields.
Of course, Roran thought, she'll be in the meadow.
He sprinted up a hill, and over the other side was a wide field, full of colourful, wild flowers. In the middle sat the girl, humming to herself and caressing the blossoms around her. He couldn't help but smile. She was always humming to herself, her thoughts amongst the stars.
"Ismira!" his voice was deep and threatening. "Get over here, now!"
The girl jumped, and her brown eyes met his with shock. She paled slightly, now noticing the rapidly darkening sky. Biting her lip, she rushed to him, her hands empty.
"I thought you were picking flowers?" Roran frowned, his eyebrows high.
"Oh, Papa!" she exclaimed. "No! How could you pick flowers?"
Her accusing tone made him check himself. He shook the thoughts from his head, he wasn't the one being scolded, she was.
"Get back home," he pushed her forwards. "Your Mother's worried sick!"
Ismira's expression turned to that of dismay, and she rushed towards the house, its windows alight with the flickering flames of candles. Roran watched her knock hesitantly at the door, and Katrina's wagging finger came outside of the frame. The two silhouettes disappeared inside, leaving the door open for him.
Upon reaching the house, Roran saw the two elves in the living room, sitting on the floor by the fire, in a circle with the children. In the middle sat the dragon egg, a beautiful silver-white colour, glowing in the warmth of the fire.
The elves were explaining about dragons, and Cole peppered them with questions.
"If you keep interrupting," Armand said, his brow creased into a frown. "Then you won't know the answers."
Cole stuck out his tongue at his brother, who made a grab for him. The elves watched, amused, as the two boys rushed around the room, Armand trying to catch Cole, and Cole continuously evading his brother's strong arms. Garrow also got to his feet, trying to calm the situation.
"Guys! We have guests!" he said, his voice quiet compared to the racket coming from his brothers.
Yara gurgled happily from Rhía's lap, and waved her pudgy hands at the ruckus.
"Dadada!" she laughed, squeezing her fingers into fists at Roran's arrival.
Roran leant against the doorframe, hoping his face looked angry. Ismira looked up at him, hearing Yara's warning. She opened her mouth to warn the boys, but Roran shook his head ever so slightly. She obeyed, and continued to ask Vyran about the dragons.
Deciding that play-time was over, Roran cleared his throat loudly.
The boys came to halt, and all fell over each other, blushing scarlet. A torrent of excuses flooded Roran's ears, and he held up his hands to silence them.
"That's enough," he said sternly, and was pleased to see his sons look at the floor in shame. "Go to bed, all of you. If you behave like children, you'll go to bed the same time as Yara!"
The baby cooed at the sound of her name, and Rhía laughed at her; a happy, tinkling sound.
The boys traipsed out of the room, and Roran turned his attention back tot he inhabitants of the room. Ismira was examining the egg, Vyran didn't see any problem with her holding it.
Roran felt his gut twist as Ismira became entranced with the white egg, he was reminded painfully of Eragon, who hadn't returned to see him in almost two decades. He felt sad that his children should not know their Uncle, and he rubbed his brow with the weight of his thoughts.
"It's so warm," Ismira observed, before handing the egg back to the elf. "And beautiful."
Vyran nodded. "It is our duty to make sure it finds its rider. It can take years, but Rhía and I have years to spare."
Ismira smiled, her eyes lingering of the diamond-hard shell. Roran felt a strange protectiveness grow over him, and decided to conquer it by seeking the arms of his wife.
Katrina welcomed Roran to her, but sensed his weariness and worry. Her husband had grown old so quickly, he was still an influencial member of Queen Nasuada's court, no matter how many times he'd begged her just to let him be the simple farmer he'd always wanted to be.
"You can not ever be a simple farmer, Roran," she'd said. "You have too much to live up to, your legacy pushes you forward."
Katrina smiled as Roran's hands ran up and down her back. "What worries you?" she asked.
"Nothing," Roran answered, his voice muffled by her shoulder. "I'm fine."
"Liar," Katrina whispered softly, but left the matter be.
She watched as one by one, the house slowly went to bed, climbing the wooden stairs to the second floor of her home. It was the largest and most impressive house in all of Carvahall, and she was a proud wife and Mother.
"Goodnight, Mother," Ismira whispered, she was the last to seek the refuge of sleep.
Katrina kissed her forehead, and watched the young woman climb the stairs. She would most likely be married soon. And what with the family being so prominent at court, it might not be a farm-boy either. Sighing, Katrina understood Roran's troubles, but pushed them from her mind. She had too much to do to worry about that now.
