So this is the beginning of what I hope to be a 3 chapter series that will be done by the end of next week. I needed an excuse for Eragon to return so I used poor Roran. The plan is to include quotes from some of my favorite Eragon/Arya scenes in the book. A chapter on the inner workings of Emo-Eragon's mind. Of course, I had to throw in a little bit of reference to some of my favorite movies from last year: Lord of the Rings and Frozen.
Chapter 1: Wolves of the Mind
The leaves rustled in the winter breeze as the mournful gatherers bowed their heads and paid their respects upon the white tomb. The grove and the land surrounding it for miles was covered with inches of snow, but visitors from far beyond Palancar Valley had come to honor the great mortal hero of the War Against the Dark King. One by one, the individuals in the gathered crowd stepped forward before the grave. Flowers adorned the ground around the tomb, the bright colors a stark contrast to the white snow surrounding it.
Standing alone, a figure taller than the rest, his handsome features garbed in a long black cloak, his face covered by the hood around his head, leaned against a tree in the far back of the grove. His posture was casual, his breathing calm and even as he watched the ceremony from afar. He stood there with his arms crossed, a passive expression on his face, not showing even the slightest hint of recognition, let alone sorrow or pity for the deceased. His slanted eyes narrowed as he honed in on the words etched upon the stone.
Here lies Roran Stronghammer
Beloved Hushand, Father, Grandfather
Leader of the Palancar Pirates
Feared by his enemies
May he be remembered as loved by all else
"A fitting epitaph, wouldn't you say...oh Great Rider...", stated a sarcastic voice.
Startled, the tall, cloaked figure slowly turned toward the speaker. His eyebrows rose as he laid eyes upon an old acquaintance.
Have you not known her long enough to refer to her as friend? The inner turmoil he was suppressing within his mind eased upon hearing the voice of his lifelong partner.
No, he responded, she is far too...well, too much of an...
"Angela." He said the name matter-of-factly. "Why am I not surprised."
"Of course not," stated the witch as she smiled, "I would hate to think all those years of isolation have made you dim-witted and ignorant of those around you."
He took no offense to her statements. "I have missed you as well," he jested.
She moved to stand next to him as she scoffed.
"Oh, have you? 100 years have gone by and not a word. If that's truly how you display affection to someone, I have half a mind to dig up Roran's hammer and hit you over the head with it."
He did not move from the tree and waited. Waited for the lecture that was sure to come.
"I'm quite surprised to see you here," she continued, "At least today anyway. I would have thought you would come when all villagers have had their turn to grieve and the commotion has withered away. Or at least when the weather is a bit warmer." She shivered slightly and wrapped the brown coat she wore more snug across her shoulders as another icy breeze swept through the air.
Eragon raised an eyebrow at her statements. "You seem to be in a foul mood today. Is the weather truly bothering you this much?"
"How can it not be? Winter is ending soon, but it is easily the coldest day of the year. Apparently even mother nature is grieving over your cousin's death. The hobbits dare not even venture out to gather crops for second breakfasts. The poor things have had to survive on three meals on a day."
Curious, Eragon asked, "What are hobbits?"
She ignored him. "It is cold enough that even Elsa would approve."
"Elsa?"
She looked at him as if he was daft and mumbled, "Oh never mind...aren't Riders supposed to keep up with the latest news around here..."
What in the world is she talking about...the thought made Eragon smile for the first time since he landed again in Alagaesia a fortnight ago. At last, one thing that hasn't changed.
Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't realized Angela had resumed speaking once again.
"I apologize, my thoughts were elsewhere. What did you say?"
Angela rolled her eyes and prodded him forward with a stick of wood she found on the ground. "I asked if you were just going to stand there. Don't be such an Elf and pretend you have some emotions already. He deserves that much from you at least."
Guilt nawed at Eragon over those words. Eragon had communicated with Roran through the mirrors he binded with his own in his home far away from Alagaesia, but it was not enough to satisfy his desire to be closer to his only family. Or her...he thought. It never was. As he stared upon the trees in the grove, his thoughts began to wander from the conversation again. Distant memories of another realm began to form in his head... memories of an endless expanse of pine trees, spiraling butterflies, rosebushes in full bloom, gooseberry wine, reed pipes, angelic voices, beautiful, graceful elves. One beautiful, graceful, elf...
Enough little one, said the voice inside his head again. This was not the first time Saphira had to bring Eragon out of these reveries of his. She had a feeling it would not be the last.
Eragon forced himself back to the present and remembered why he was here. The funeral was fitting of Roran. If his memory served him correctly, his cousin would've been frustrated by the pomp and circumstance of Dwarven funeral rituals and no doubt would've scoffed at the customary beauty of Elven funerals.
Roran was a simple man, thought Eragon. This is as it should be.
The guilt brought on by Angela's words continued to bother him.
She is right. Am I not to feel more than this? I have yet to shed a tear. I stand here watching, but cannot join in their grievances. What has happened to me? How can I be so calm as I stand before the grave of my own flesh and blood.
A sharp wind once again blew across the land and the snow colored leaves below the tree he stood under fell from the tree. They landed upon his feet and formed a circle, similar to the petals of a flower. Eragon stood there, paralyzed and unable to turn his gaze away. Thoughts of a campfire and a single white lily formed under the stars...a beautiful lily from dirt...to white...to gold...thoughts again of her...
She touched the petals again and kept glancing at the
lily as she said, "Thank you. Giving flowers is a
custom both our races share, but we elves attach
greater importance to the practice than do humans. It
signifies all that is good: life, beauty, rebirth,
friendship, and more. I explain so you understand
how much this means to me..."
In the midst of his thoughts, he had not realized Angela had been staring intently at him for the past few minutes, analyzing him during his internal struggle to approach Roran's tomb. Understanding seemed to dawn on her and a look of sympathy crossed her face as they both stared at the shape of the white flower formed by the leaves upon the ground.
"Eragon...it does not have to be like this. Closing your heart to one does not mean you must close your heart to all." But still, he thought of her. Of the night blessed with spirits, of her, as she said so assuredly...
"It is always thus. The
monsters of the mind are far worse than those that
actually exist. Fear, doubt, and hate have hamstrung
more people than beasts ever have."
"And love," he pointed out.
"And love," she admitted.
Love. There it was...He was young when he left. He thought he was love. 10 years into his stay on Aendir, the name he gave to the island he eventually settled, he still held hope that she would come and join him. 20 years later, they worked well together to rebuild the Order of the Riders, and still he held hope. 30 years and he had heard from the new young Elven riders that she was serving as a great ruler, her name already being held in high regard. 40 years and poems were already being written about her strength and leadership. 50 years and poems were written about her cunning and charms. 70 years and stories reached him about those charms combined with beauty. 90 years and he agonized as those poems began turning to rumors and those rumors became stories of romance. But not with him... He did not blame her. He was not a child anymore.
It began at the 30 year mark. He was a few years short of 50, nearly half a century old, though he bore the resemblance of a handsome young prince by human standards. He was still growing, but his mind had matured much faster than his physical attributes. His hopes of her joining him on Aendir began to fade and he became more realistic. As he trained more riders, he finally understood her sense of responsibility...her sense of duty. After all, what had she said when he was still a youth?
"To us, a king or queen's highest responsibility is to serve
their people however and wherever possible. If that means
forfeiting our lives in the process, we welcome the opportunity to
prove our devotion to—as the dwarves say—hearth, hall, and honor."
He understood. But it still pained him when the realization that she would not ever join him came to him. So he did the only thing he knew how, he distanced himself from her. Only discussing matters of the Order with her. They discussed official Alagaesian business, but when she attempted to speak to him about Aendir, he quickly changed the subject. She attempted to bring up Ellesmera and Firnen at times, but he changed the subject. Topics of Roran, Katrina, Nasuada, his hobbies, his pastimes, personal, personal, personal...divert, divert, divert. He isolated himself from his heart and devoted himself to his mind. Their conversations grew shorter and shorter. If she was offended by his actions, she did not know it. In fact, she seemed to embrace it. She became more curt with her responses and the colder she grew, the less he hurt.
Or at least that's what you tell yourself, Saphira stated as she felt obligated once again to take him away from his misery. Little one...pay attention, something is amiss.
A sudden change in the atmosphere around Eragon snapped him once again out of his reverie. An chill blew threw the grove again and Eragon turned his head toward the crowd as they began whispering to themselves. Many of the gathered were now sneaking glances in the direction of where he was standing. He lowered his head in an attempt to conceal his face as he did before. Had his secret come out? Did they finally realize the leader of the Dragon Riders, Eragon Shadeslayer and Kingkiller had arrived to pay his respects to his one and only cousin?
Eragon attempted to concentrate his astute hearing upon the crowd and discern what had caused the excitement, but his ears led his direction to the surprising sounds behind him. The light stamping of hooves on the ground were the only warning he had before he turned his body, and his eyes fell upon a group of twenty tall and slender figures, their heads held high, as they approached on noble horses.
It was Angela who answered his thoughts, "Well, well, well...it appears the Elves have arrived."
