I'm on a roll, folks. This story was calling to me, and I had to listen. Me and my one-shots.
The elf couldn't remember when he had last been this excited.
Unless it had been last week, when he had started swordsmanship lessons with Vöndr-Ebrithil.
Or when he had gotten his first dagger from his father.
Or when he had seen her for the first time.
But this was different, he told himself. This was wyrda-changing. He could be the hero of his people, if only it happened.
If the egg hatched for him.
He joined the queue of hopeful elves. His friend Ethgrí shot him a gap-toothed smile.
"Atra gülai tauthr ono," Ethgrí called.
"Un ono," he replied with his lips. But inside, he hoped, no, prayed- to gods that he had been told were nonexistent-that he would be the lucky, wyrda-blessed elf who was chosen.
He must be chosen.
Make his mother proud.
To please his mother, his aloof, longed-for mother who was as distant as the Beor Mountains and many times as cold.
She had told him that morning, in no uncertain terms, that she expected him to become the next Chosen. "To bring honor to our breoal," she had said, "I believe you will be chosen, boy."
But he knew what she had meant.
Bring honor to me, your mother. Make our family the most respected in Du Weldenvarden. For you will disgrace us all if you don't.
He was sure that she loved him, somewhere, deep, deep down inside the cold, hard shell she had donned when his father had died.
He had known that beyond doubt before his father had left the forest. He had known that beyond doubt when his father had spoken to them in a draumr kópa and his mother had told him of the wonderful, simply amazing bird his son had carved. He had known that beyond doubt the day his father had been brought in, mangled beyond recognition by a dragon of the Wyrdfell.
He had known that until the day of the funeral, when, after a linden had taken root over his father's body and he had buried his face in his mother's tunic. She pushed him away, saying, "You must be like a warrior, sönr."
That was the last time she had ever called him 'son'.
But he would earn her love. What flowers and hugs and small crawly things held in the grubby hands of a child couldn't get, he would earn by becoming mighty and revered.
For he would be a dragon Rider, and that would solve everything.
It must.
He realized that during his musings, the majority of candidates had been eliminated. Crowds of young elflings shuffled past, normally graceful stride weighed down by disappointment.
Then he saw her.
She ran past him, tears streaking her face.
"Wait!" he called, reaching out his hand to stay her.
She half-screamed, half-sobbed at him, "Let me go! The egg didn't hatch!"
He was quiet. He did not know what to say to this.
"You're glad!"
"No! No, I'm not. I'm…sorry," he finished gently.
"I always wanted to be a Rider. To have a friend who would never desert me…"
"I'll be your friend. I'll never desert you." How he had wanted to say these words, as long as he had ever known her.
She raised a tear-stained face to his. "You-you will?"
"Yes, forever. Here," he said, fishing around in his pocket. He found what he was looking for. The elf handed her a squirming little toad. "His name is Stenr."
"Stone?"
"Yeah, 'cause he looks like one. He'll be your dragon."
She giggled through her tears. "Thank you."
The elf boy nodded. "Hey, I have to go. Meet me by the spring."
"Okay," she said, totally absorbed in the toad.
His mouth went dry when he realized that there was only one person remaining before him. Sudenly, everything seemed much sharper and clearer around him. The piney scent of the trees wafted toward him much more strongly than usual.
Sniffles.
The elf ahead of him hadn't been chosen.
His turn.
Could everyone around him hear his heart pounding, as loud as a drum at a saturnalia?
Knees shaking, he stepped forwards.
The green-eyed ambassador nodded his direction.
He bowed. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."
She seemed as if she had heard the greeting too many times today. Which, he reflected, she probably had.
"Atra du evarínya ono varda," she replied.
"Un atra mor'anr lífa unin hjarta onr."
The ambassador gave him a look of mild surprise. "Very good." She gestured toward the egg.
He swallowed dryly. The egg glistened in the mid-afternoon light, beckoning.
Reaching a sweaty-palmed hand forward, he brushed the egg with his fingertips.
It wobbled.
The ambassador, who had been speaking with her companions, gave him a startled glance.
The egg shook again.
The elf waited breathlessly for the coming crack!
Nothing.
He touched the egg again.
Nothing.
His breath caught in his throat.
The ambassador sent him a look of pity. "I am sorry," she whispered.
He couldn't move.
He had been so close, so very close.
He had failed.
One of the ambassador's guards gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "I am so sorry, but you must leave."
Eyes burning from disappointment and the sting of rejection, Vanir walked away.
There you have it, guys. Vanir was rejected. This should explain his bitterness toward Eragon. I'm leaving, but one last thing. I got a lot of hits for my previous one-shot, from places like Italy, Poland, Ireland, Germany, and even India, but I (last time I checked) got only three reviews. And nobody voted on my poll! Please, guys, review and vote. It makes a freshie feel so happy. I don't care if English isn't your first language. That's what Google Translate is for. Just review, and vote! Oh, and thanks to:
RUADHR BLODHGARM
AND THE-ERINACEOUS-NIHILARIANS FOR REVIEWING AND VOTING.
And my little sister, who has no account but voted all the same.