I know I shouldn't be writing something that isn't Damn Implications. Much less something that's multi-chapter, because who knows when I'll next have time?
But I called in sick to school, faked a terrible cough over the phone, curled up in front of the fire place with a bowl full of mint chocolate chip ice cream and spent my entire day reading the fourth installment of this series.
So. I feel like I owe it to myself.
Besides, this story was *begging* to be written.
...there is something in the tug of the ocean that souls desire...
He does not know which way is up.
The edges of the world blend together and tilt, the sky and water stretching away from him endlessly, indistinguishable from each other, for the reflections are as bright as the stars themselves.
If not for Sapphira, the solid reality of her smooth scales under his coarse hands, he would believe it all to be a dream.
She twists in the air, a graceful snakelike movement, and rush of blood to his head is reassuringly real. His dragon hums deep in her chest, an amused rumble at the idleness of his thoughts.
Of course we are real, Little One, she says, what else would we be?
Dead, he answers her heavily, isn't that a much more believable fate then ours? Then what we have been through?
Unbidden, Eragon is overwhelmed by memory.
Sitting atop the crumbling pillar of Vroengrad, cold wind whipping the air against his face, trying to find himself. The seconds ticking away as he examines his soul; the sudden lightening bolt that strikes.
I am not who I was.
The shimmering columns of light, Blödhgram and the others trapped inside like helpless insects caught in a glass cup. The elf's usually cold gold eyes are wide and surprised, staring at Eragon with primal fear, face frozen in a half snarl.
We're going to lose.
A roaring wave of pure unfiltered energy, thrust through him like the cold steel of a sword and as insubstantial as a sunbeam. A twisting web, hot and cold, driven by anger and hatred and the overwhelming need to-
Make him understand.
Eragon blinks and he is back in the present, the world painted in shades of black and silvery steel-blue. A peaceful color. It slows the pounding of his heart.
Sapphire croons comfortingly and begins a lazy downward spiral. Directly below them is their ship, a crisp white in the darkness.
He waits patiently; he can feel Sapphira choosing her words carefully.
They are only a few feet from the deck when she tells him simply, it is done.
Eragon bows his head and lets the tension slip from his knotted shoulders. They hover a moment longer over the ship, suspended in midair.
She is right of course, he acknowledges ruefully.
She hums again beneath him, this time the sound tinged with smugness.
A lone figure stands onboard, face turned longingly towards the bright shining moon.
Blödhgram, Eragon recognizes as his consciousness brushes alongside the elf. The spell castor's mind is familiar, as much so as Arya even, he realizes with a start.
There is the elven melody, intricate and elusive. But underneath, entwined, is another song that Eragon cannot describe. Something that echoes in his own mind even as he pulls away.
The wind from Sapphira's wings stirs Blödhgarm's long dark hair but otherwise the elf is still.
Landing softly, Sapphira immediately curls into herself, blue eyelids already sliding shut. He can't blame her, they'd flown for hours, in every direction in search of land. Still, nothing.
Eragon strokes her nose and she snorts warm air against his palm affectionately.
Tomorrow, we will find home, she says with such conviction that he cannot help but believe her. She snorts at his hand once more and slips away into a pleasant dream, a half memory of warm sand dunes dancing in the wind.
Eragon watches it from afar for a moment, catching an echo of heat before he turns away, meaning to go to bed himself.
But something makes him turn back to Blödhgarm. The elf hasn't moved.
Eragon hesitates, torn between wanting to offer the other something, comfort, maybe. An apology. It's been a long week, days and nights melting together, the endless water, smooth as glass and without end.
Secretly he has begun to despair.
What if they never discover this elusive place they're looking for? The eggs must hatch, and soon. He can feel their impatience from here, a pressing urge to be, weighing heavy on his chest.
Eragon fears for them, in terms of hunger. Sapphira is not a problem, having the wide ocean at her disposal and the elves have brought rations that will last them years.
Them, but not a dozen ravenous newborn dragons.
Shaking himself of these gloomy thoughts, he goes to Blödhgarm's side.
Eragon lifts his gaze, following the elf's unblinking stare. The full moon is huge, bigger than he's ever seen it before. A perfect silver orb, it hangs like a lantern guiding them home.
They stand there for a long time, saying nothing.
He glances sideways at the elf, studying him in the silver glow.
Blödhgarm is unlike any other elf he's ever met. He is more… Eragon struggles to find the word that he is looking for.
Animal, he decides finally. He is more animal.
Perhaps it's the parts of him that are wolf, the wolf's primal instincts and fire, clashing with the elven cold restraint and composure but Eragon feels drawn to the spellcaster, feels a strange connection that he has not had with any elf, not even Arya.
He can sense a wildness in Blödhgarm that intrigues him. Eragon wants to ask questions but dares not, for elf he still is. And he knows all too well how they cherish their secrets.
Blödhgarm turns and catches his gaze.
Eragon, realizing he's been staring, flushes. He feels like a small child caught stealing the last slice of cake.
"Yes, Shadeslayer?"
The voice is even but Eragon can feel the amusement behind the words and flushes deeper. The elf's eyes, illuminated by moonlight, are a rich gold.
He catches himself again, and turns back toward the sky, his heart beating faster. The elf is nothing like Arya but Eragon is reminded of her and something inside his chest aches.
"Do you regret coming?" Eragon asks before he can stop himself.
Another long silence, the only sound of gentle lapping waves and Sapphira's deep even breathing. Eragon is completely still, praying that he hasn't overstepped his boundaries with the wolf-elf, whom he considered a friend.
He owes his life to Blödhgarm more times than he is willing to admit.
The spell castor had proved himself invaluable in the war, not only for fighting skills and his magic, but also for his unfailing loyalty. All of the elves, of course, had sworn to protect him with their lives but will him it felt different.
Eragon remembers the unexpected sharp relief of seeing Blödhgarm alive after the battle was over.
He closes his eyes and recalls the soft texture of blue fur against his skin when he'd embraced the elf. Overstepping his boundaries again, no doubt, he thinks wryly.
But the elf had smiled at him.
"No."
If he was still human, Eragon would've jumped. But he's not. Like Blödhgram himself, they're something in-between. Something other.
Eragon turns to look at him and finds the elf looking at him curiously, as if trying to figure out an interesting puzzle. Fighting the urge to look away from their strange dead lock, he shifts uncomfortably.
Blödhgarm matches his movements exactly, keeping the distance between them the same.
Eragon wonders if he is doing it on purpose. He shifts backward experimentally and the elf echoes the motion as fluidly as a reflection. Again, his heart is beating faster. A reaction left over from the war, surely.
He forces himself to pause.
What strange new game are they playing now? And, how can he win?
The pause between them lingers, not unpleasantly, but with something that causes Eragon's skin to prickle. The air is taut with the stirrings of magic; he can taste the challenge. But for what, and why?
Still, Eragon feels like something important is happening, some sort of test that he cannot fail. Motionless, he considers.
Blödhgarm's golden eyes flicker with light and amusement, at what Eragon cannot tell. But he gives nothing away. He seems playful and young, a side that he has never shown before. Not that there was a time and place for it during the war.
Eragon shifts forward, so that their faces are inches apart.
His heart is pounding, pounding, pounding away in his chest. He knows that Blödhgarm can hear it and the knowledge brings a blush to his face.
He tries to calm himself but finds it difficult to concentrate, his heightened senses assaulted, saturated by the elf.
Eragon hasn't been this close, close like this, to anyone since Tamara had attempted to seduce him, what feels like eons ago, when he was still an untested boy, feelings and emotions spiraling everywhere.
The elf regards him with bright eyes, his own shallow breathes mingling with Eragon's.
It tastes like wild berries, bitter and sweet at the same time. The air is buzzing now, magic throbbing in Eragon's blood, calling out for something.
Just when Eragon thinks the tension will snap and his veins will pull themselves from his skin, Blödhgarm does something unexpected.
He smiles.
A wide, genuine smile full of sharp wolf teeth that glint dangerously. It's breathtaking, the sight, for reasons that he can't put into words. A strange hybrid of delicately curved red lips and primal strength. Straight lines and jagged edges.
The smile is full of satisfaction.
"I do not regret leaving, Eragon."
The elf turns to leave, blue fur rippling with silver and is gone.
Eragon slumps against the railing, heartbeat finally slowing. Magic pulses under his skin and he feels electrified, as if something in the world just shifted fundamentally.
He turns toward the horizon and wonders:
Did I win or lose?
TBD (possibly)