If I owned the Inheritance Cycle, then I would definitely not be one of the Eragon enthusiasts that must have the fourth book in hand(and hopefully finished) on November 8th, 2011.
Premise: The Varden has fallen, Saphira is dead, and the elves are eradicated. Eragon and Arya have lost everything they once held dear and both must rediscover what it truly means to live again.
Moments in Time
The door slightly ajar, Eragon peered down the dimly lit passage. Months of searching had led him to this side-passage connecting to the largest prison in Gil'ead. The effort would likely end in vain, he knew, but he had to quell his curiosity, no matter the result. Eragon had to know if he was still alive.
Breaking into the most secure prison in Alagaësia should have aroused some fear into his heart; but an insignificant thing such as death paled in comparison to the horrors already visited upon him. His mind was trained to emasculate fear, to defy pain. Eragon had a singular focus and he would see it through regardless of the consequences.
It had been exactly four-hundred and sixty-seven days since the Fall. Eragon knew this for each day was an eternity in itself. Without Saphira accompanying him in this mortal world, the shadows of despair gained a stronger foothold in his mind with each day. Counting the days had served as his link to days past, for the memories waited elusively behind a curtain of pain and sorrow.
The small flames furnishing cheerless walls flickered as Eragon hurried past them, producing taunting shadows on the opposing side. The feeble beacons served as his guide, provoking him towards destinations yet unknown.
The distinctive pattering of footsteps approached quickly, disturbing the ambient silence that permeated the dungeon. Eragon concealed himself behind a nearby pillar, untroubled by the impeding danger.
"You hear 'bout that man they brought in earlier?" One guard asked, woefully ignorant of the unwelcome intruder in their midst.
The other guard laughed derisively, "Yeah, heard he was some captain in the Varden. Lot o' good that'll do him now."
"He won't survive long; he was half-dead when he got here. He won't see the next sunrise, I guarantee it."
"Him and the rest o' the Varden," One of the guards laughed, "Been o'er a year since they fell. Another one and nobody will remember 'em."
Their transparent superiority only accentuated the contemptible state of the Empire following the Fall. During the war, the soldiers were merely misguided, acting as marionettes for Galbatorix. Now their pretentious confidence served only to expose their true darkness.
Eragon listened to the clanking of their metal armor fading into the darkness behind him. Gritting his teeth, he proceeded down the passage in prudent haste, knowing now that his time remaining was dwindling by the second.
Turning down an adjoining corridor, Eragon felt as if he was were a ghost, treading backwards through the footsteps of time. He could remember walking down this very hall when he rescued Arya Drӧttningu all those years ago. But dwelling on the past was futile; no matter how desperately he wanted to, Eragon could not change a thing. Whereas those long drowned in misery would see the past as a soothing spirit; Eragon believed it to be a seductive demon that would ensnare him in its tendrils. No man truly lived in the present by heeding the ghosts of the past.
The pained moans drew his attention and Eragon wished that he could relieve them of the death that surrounded them. But how could he help them when he was powerless to end his own torment? Harsh reality had crushed his naïve spirit and forced him to turn his back on the cries for salvation.
His time was running out, Eragon knew; soon enough there would be another patrol to abuse the half-dead souls that resided within the depths of the darkness. The opportunity was slipping through his fingers like sand.
The only feasible course of action was to open his mind, though the chance of an overseer discovering him amongst the shadows was great. But Eragon adamantly believed the risk to be necessary, else the chance would be lost and he would live on with his conscience whispering soft sighs of regret.
Carefully expanding his mind, Eragon allowed himself to connect with the life around him, a calming wave of security enveloping him. It had been so long since he last dared to become one with nature, and one with himself. He relished the sensation, knowing he might never again be able to silence the hounds that chased him day and night.
His heart skipped a beat as his mind felt a familiar aura, knowing that it may very well be too late. Eragon's inner demons hungrily devoured the fear that the darkness cultivated in his hardened heart.
His nails sharply bit his palm as Eragon peered into the cell. The blood trickling down his fingers supplemented the gore permanently etched into the stone as cruel reality answered his fears with its wicked humor; he had failed, Roran was dead.
For Arya, the green, leafy foliage of Du Weldenvarden came as a welcome respite from the cold stones of the city. The warm, gentle breezes that swayed immobile trees contrasted sharply to the rough streets that covered bustling cities. It had been a long time since she dared return to her birthplace, and even longer since she had felt secure within its borders.
But her return was not the soothing journey it once was to traverse the gap between the world of humans and the realm of elves. In the five-odd years it had been since the Fall, the forest had been violated by men; her maiden trails burnt, her inhabitants slaughtered. The nearer Arya came to Ellesméra, the more evident the intrusion was. The plants were trampled, the trees cut, and the wildlife dispersed.
In truth, none of this was unexpected, for humans were fickle creatures, fearful of the unknown. And Du Weldenvarden was undoubtedly unknown to the eyes of men, and so it was burned to veil their inadequate knowledge in smoke. However expected this defloration of nature was, the sight of it still stirred deep pangs of remorse within her.
Had fate not intervened with its cruel whims, Arya would have gladly accepted the opportunity to die fighting against the evils maiming her home. But such fortune would be a paradox to her very existence. One in which she had been forced to watch helplessly as everything dear to her passed into the annals of time.
Instead, she had been on the run in the years ensuing the Fall from unseen foes and distrustful hearts. Galbatorix had hunted her race into near extinction, upsetting the balance between serenity and chaos. Alagaësia had become peaceful with the resolution of the war; but the darkness that influenced all men had strengthened its assertion, threatening to swallow the land in its spontaneous entropy.
Though she had neither great expectations nor unreasonable hopes, Arya allowed herself to entertain the slight notion that some elves would survive the natural desecration destined to occur after the Fall. Despite living in the supple forest, the elves' beliefs were as malleable as stone. Undoubtedly, many of them had perished quickly, unable to adapt to the fast-paced ways of humans. But surely some of her people were more pliable, cloaking themselves from the impending witch-hunt.
The destruction in Ellesméra was sickening and Arya almost closed her eyes in silent prayer, but her unflappable pride kept her grounded to reality. The devastation was almost unnatural, as if darkness itself had razed the city. The foundations of great trees were uprooted, their limbs burnt with hellfire. Everywhere she looked, Arya could only curse the humans who had defiled her home, for only the vilest of hearts could stain true purity.
The small flame of hope she had nurtured on her journey was diminishing with each step in the scorched land. It was unfathomable to think that any life could exist in a place so devastated.
Had Arya listened to her inner-self, she would not have ignored the desperate urge to run, to run until the desolation was leagues behind her. But this charred mess had become her reality and there was no escaping that undeniable truth. Wherever she ran, the flames of darkness would follow her, chasing her till she succumbed to the fear in her heart.
After an eternity walking through the abandoned city, the gates of Tialdarí Hall came into view; their magnificence marred by the same death that touched the rest of the city. The gardens were in ashes, forever tears staining the earth of Du Weldenvarden. The beautiful flowers that buoyed even the most despondent of days were eradicated, leaving the palace to wallow in its despair.
This final scene, testing the limits of mortal sanity, forced Arya to her knees under its pressure, bringing unbidden tears to her eyes. Her home had been burned, twisted beyond recognition. A shadow of the former grandeur stood in place of the secure confines of her past.
Arya held her tears at bay, willing them into the recesses of her mind, where she would guard them under lock and key. If they escaped she knew, she would have nothing left; the demons inside of her would have free reign, drawing her into their world where they would drain her of hope.
Deep inside her, Arya knew that her naïve hopes had been just that, fanciful wishes. She had known from the beginning that nothing could escape the darkness, commanded by Galbatorix himself.
Considering the singular track of despair her life had been on, it seemed almost inconceivable that fate could take anything else from her with its greedy paws. In the past, when misfortune had visited her, there was always another path to take. But with her home ravaged and her people slaughtered; for the first time, Arya was completely and utterly lost.
Pebbles scratched at the soles of his boots as Eragon ventured away from the thriving city of Dras-Leona. Though many smaller towns and cities had struggled mightily after the war, Dras-Leona had managed to prosper. The denizens claim it was their acute sense for business, but Eragon was more inclined to accredit their success to the Black King. It certainly would not be a stretch of the imagination, as Helgrind itself testified to Galbatorix's influence over the city.
It was intriguing to watch the city's inhabitants from a psychological standpoint at least. They wore bright, smiling masks in the day, but their true selves emerged at night when they did not need to hide in the shadows. Deep down, they were as dark as the king himself. Though not nearly as powerful, the citizens would certainly like to believe the factitious lie.
Eragon despised charlatans and after the Fall, the majority of Alagaësia appeared to consist of them. Once the Varden had fallen, everyone, including well-known allies to the rebels, claimed to support Galbatorix full-heartedly. But it was difficult to blame them, for they chose between life and death when declaring their support. The people were either supporters of Galbatorix or food for Shruikan.
Ever since the Fall, fifteen years in a fortnight, Eragon had been a wanderer, a kindred spirit searching for friends. He had been doomed from the start, from the very first step down this path. He had found few men and women he knew, and all of them deceased. It was likely he would find none alive, for Galbatorix had made a point to pursue every single known member of the Varden.
Eragon was fortunate that he had not yet been discovered, and probably never would be. He had the skill as a hunter to avoid detection, and the magic to enhance that ability. Of course, using magic was suicide, for Galbatorix had trained and commissioned overseers to every sector in Alagaësia. They were able to detect a person merely extending his mind, though Eragon could not say how. It was safer to avoid magic completely, for an overseer could be anywhere and everywhere.
Had he not cast a nearly permanent altercation spell before the overseers had appeared, Eragon would have been toted on a spear atop of Galbatorix's castle undoubtedly.
Giant sandstone hills appeared on the horizon; giant, graceful slopes of rock that dotted the desert-like region. It was a sight he had not visited in two decades; not since the day Brom had made the journey to the great unknown. The scene was exactly the same as Eragon last remembered it; even Galbatorix had not managed to taint this natural beauty.
Eager to visit his former mentor and later-known father, Eragon hurried up the rocky incline, small fragments of rock scrambling downwards in his haste. If the spirits were good, the tomb would be exactly as it had been twenty years ago. Though looters would yearn to rob the grave of its opulent encasement, Eragon doubted they could, for their avarice could not penetrate the pure diamond casing Saphira had once woven.
And he was not to be disappointed, for neither the tomb nor the man inside had aged a day since his departure. It had weathered the rains, the wind, and the time perfectly. The slight curvature forever etched on Brom's face stirred a deep jealousy in Eragon; the last two decades had been harsh, a rugged test of his will. It had been so long since a true smile last graced his lips, and even longer since the alien sensation had been carefree.
He silently prayed, asking Brom what he would do in Eragon's situation. What would he do if all had been lost and life's unrelenting misfortune slowly battered down his walls?
It took Eragon a moment to realize that Brom had ventured down the same path. Brom had been on top of the world for a few short years as well, before life turned on him and took everything. And now Eragon wished Brom were here to tell him how he survived, why life was worth living.
Brom had continued living for others. He lived to give people hope for a better life, to care for the people whom he loved most. Whether he had succeeded in his goal was questionable, for his life's work was in shambles, through no fault of his own.
Though Eragon was not able to truly understand Brom's dying words of an unnaturally long, lonely life, he was now able to empathize with it on a far greater level. Eragon not only experienced the sentiment, he was living it.
It was a sensation of the utmost desperation, of hopelessness. If the expression 'like father like son' had ever been true, this was surely it. He fervently wished Brom could pass on his knowledge of life's hardships and tribulation, his knowledge of things greater than a single man.
The clear purity of the diamond tomb was an ethereal gateway into Brom's life, a reflection of the dignity the man incased within had lived with. As Eragon studiously examined the tomb and Brom's figure inside of it, he wondered how Brom could have smiled in his predicament. The ghostly smile stymied Eragon, igniting the curiosity inside him.
And it all came to him in an instant, a glorious moment of self-realization and awareness. Brom had left no lingering regrets in life. He had followed his heart to find his life's purpose. And he finally had: he had found Eragon and watched over him, fulfilling the purpose that he had dedicated his life to.
He silently thanked fate for bringing him to this moment, where one of life's mysteries revealed itself to him. Eragon knew that the truth had always been inside of him, waiting for the perfect moment to burst. Coming to this tomb in the middle of the Empire enabled him to see life through a new perspective; one that was crystal-clear and unscratched by everyday horrors, allowing him to see his very own thread in the fabric of life.
Throngs of people pushed and shoved their way past Arya as they attempted to get a better view of the prisoners. The primary sport in Dras-Leona was to watch criminals get publicly sentenced. It was a ghastly process and it only strengthened Arya's deep-rooted disdain for these people.
Her people were all but eradicated and those who weren't dead soon would be. Magic had been outlawed under penalty of death, disinheriting Arya from the gifts endowed to her at birth. She had struggled tremendously while adjusting to her compromising situation for the first few years, battling both hatred and hopelessness simultaneously. Now she was but a shell of her former self, jaded and bitter.
Arya watched the sentencing on petty criminals with a solemn interest. She was not seeking entertainment as everybody else; Arya was looking to vindicate the passionate rage that defined her very existence. But she was helpless to feed the malignant fire that consumed her each day, for it had been thirty long years since the Varden had fallen, along with the last hope of insurrection. So here she was, watching innocent men and women succumb to the tyranny of the Empire to keep her demons at bay.
One by one, the prisoners walked towards the center of the stage where a panel of 'virtuous' men would judge their lives. Theft and murder inspired no sympathy in Arya since stealing from the weak and poor was nearly as despicable as the crimes committed by Galbatorix himself.
As the sentencing dwindled down, one of the men caught Arya's eye. It wasn't his jet black hair that fell to his shoulders or rugged facial features that attracted her attention. It was his eyes she noticed. They were not full of fear or trepidation as many others were; they were hard and cold to the life around him. They were the type of eyes that only an unforgiving life could produce.
As the criminal was dragged to the center of the stage, a man read out his crime. "This man is accused of disturbing the peace. What say you?"
The crowd shouted their curses, accusations and judgments at the criminal; their uncontrolled piety unbecoming of the air with which they carried themselves. The judges seemed to take the crowd's belligerent cries into account and proclaimed their verdict, "We find this man guilty as charged and hereby sentence him to a lifetime of servitude. Deportation to Helgrind is immediate."
A cheer, betraying their animalistic nature, erupted from the crowd and Arya's head dipped in disgust. The sentence was twenty times too severe for the crime. Justice had apparently departed from Alagaësia the instant Galbatorix's rule was sealed.
The audacity of the crowd and the inequity of the judgment fed the darkness within Arya's soul and empowered her passionate convictions. The only absolute left in her life was the perpetual fire that drove her, continuously fed by the darkness that dwells in all men.
The sky was quietly giving way to the cover of darkness when Arya spotted the destitute man being loaded onto the cart headed toward Helgrind, the sanctuary where undisguised evils lay in wait. The guards supervising the operation were nearly as malicious as slavers. Their weapons were the cages keeping the prisoners in their place while their uncaring eyes transformed men into items to be traded.
Despite his circumstances, the man's back held tall with defiance, challenging the misfortune that befell him time and time again. But his defiance was not directed at the guards or his shackles, for they restrained only his mortal self. No, this man with empty eyes defied life itself; the supernatural force that crushed his soul time and time again.
Arya watched the other men packed into the cart, her eyes searching for the same pride that the other man so clearly possessed. But all she found were slumped shoulders and downcast eyes; their minds shackled to their physical manifestation. They were merely birds, trapped in an open cage.
Bound by morbid curiosity, Arya found herself watching the defiant man, wondering where he derived his will to live. They were alike in a way, for hardships assailed them from all directions, and yet they still lived. But he seemed to have something that she lacked; a reason to continue down the devious circle of life that fate had prepared for them.
Ominous thoughts leading to disaster plagued her mind, wreaking havoc on the small amount of sanity that she retained. She knew that freeing the men trapped within the doomed cart would be the wrong course of action, leading only to more misery and despair. The Empire was too strong to resist alone and her actions would seal all their fates. But her inaction would beget regret, if Arya could bear anymore than that which was already contained within her. It would be best to leave each man to his own fate no matter how grim, than to assign each of them a certain death.
The man in question raised his eyes from his shackled seat and met her own, the link carrying empathy for their respective plights. Arya was certain he knew what occupied her thoughts, for he had undoubtedly been burdened by them long ago.
His hard, cold eyes stirred something deep inside her; a kindling flame which she knew not for what it hungered. But the contact soon broke and she shivered, despite the fact that it was still muggy and warm.
Arya could see his body tense as the cart moved forward, encumbered by the burdens placed upon him. But pride held him tall and firm, and it seemed almost as if he were in battle, fighting courageously against life itself, whose enormous shadow dwarfed his own.
Somewhere deep inside her, Arya knew that life would never hurt the man again, for he was already far above life and its petty troubles.
The noise in the tavern was lively and boisterous, though Eragon derived no joy from the drunken cheer. He existed only to search for his comrades of old, should they still survive. Salvaging the remnants of his life prior to the Fall was of paramount importance.
As he discovered years ago, taverns turned out to be excellent albeit shady sources of all kinds of information. While the main occupants would be more likely to sing about women and fairy tales, they might occasionally voice a tale more attuned to Eragon's interests.
Eragon casually flipped a silver to the bartender standing guard. While he never drank anymore, that silver quite often, would buy him information worth more than a pound of gold.
Eragon accepted the mug from the grizzled man in a nod of silent appreciation. Men could understand one another in a tavern, for they were all there for a single reason: to wash away the sorrows of the day.
He scanned the room for a prospective fountain of information. As it turned out, the more intoxicated the unknowing informants were, the more likely they were to divulge the secrets carried by the wind. One particular group of men stood out in Eragon's eye; they were sailors who were already quite inebriated. The information found on the high seas was as loose as their corrupt teeth and as fresh as the sea air. They were as perfect a source of information as he could find.
Preparation was key to unlocking the secrets that sailor's held. They would be rude to a fault and more condescending than he preferred, but normally too drunk to care about his intrusion. Past experience held true as Eragon seated himself next to them conspicuously, gathering their undivided attention. A few curses he didn't mind; words were wind when the stakes were high.
The unfortunate sailor he situated himself next to happened to be the boldest of the entourage, the alcohol amplifying his brusque attitude. "What's yer name?" He asked, slurring his way into a drunken burp.
"The name's Bron," Eragon said, pretending to take a gulp of beer. He had learned in the decade after the Fall the negative impacts of alcohol on memory retention. It was best if he did not lapse into old habits, especially while gathering information.
"What kind've name's Bron?" The man snorted, beer flying from his mouth. "I'm Ted. What're you here for?"
"Can't a fellow join a conversation?" Eragon inquired patiently. His singular desire to uncover old comrades had endowed him with a strong sense of patience. Information was scarce and valid information even more so. It would take much more than a sailor's belligerent tone to dissuade Eragon.
Ted shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "Don't matter to me," He said and took another gulp of beer. Ted turned to the burly sailor on his left, "Say Nathan, you hear about that celebration they're doin' here in Teirm? 'Sposed to be in a few days, right?"
"Yeah, I hear that they celebrating some fiftieth anniversary o' something. Can't remember what though," Nathan laughed, eyeing the nearby waitress with a particularly intense eye. While Eragon could deal with hostility towards his own person, the malicious thoughts that crossed the sailor's eye did nothing to raise Eragon's lowly opinion of his kind. He would divert Nathan's attention if a situation arose, with violence if need be.
"Isn't it to celebrate the fall of the Varden or something o' the sort?" Another sailor said, inadvertently diffusing the possible conflict. Though the sailor's knew nothing of the situation just passed, Eragon knew full well that sailors often acted on their whims, however misled they might be.
Ted chortled, his stained yellow teeth showing, "That time o' the year already? Say, Bron right? What do y'think of that? Been fifty years since that sorry lot fell."
It was a story well told, the Fall of the Varden. Eragon knew that these sailors were mere thoughts on the minds of love-struck couples during the tragedy. He need not waste precious anger on fools ignorant of the truth, he recalled from a life far ago. These sailors certainly were of the foolish generation born in the aftermath of the war; the generation who reconstructed the timeline, coining the phrase 'Fifty Years After the Fall,' or 'Fifty AF' in written documents. It was a meaningless gesture, serving only to remember the years passed since entropy engulfed the land.
But Eragon's purpose here on the eve of the anniversary was to gather information; so he answered in kind, "Fifty years since they chipped the walls of Urû'baen you mean. Whatever happened to the rest of them?"
Nathan waved his hand dismissively, "Who knows. Heard they all got killed years ago. Them and that Dragon Rider. What was his name 'gain?"
Ted banged his mug on the table, foamy liquid splashing onto the tabletop. "What was it? Ernie? Ernest? Erik?" He swayed in his seat, " Doesn't matter, he's dead too; his dragon died I hear."
"Yeah good riddance!" Another sailor slurred ignorantly. "Who needs 'em? We got beer, women and money." He laughed, "We don't need no Erwin the Dragon Rider."
He was not surprised in the least by their reaction; they had never lived in a free era. They had never experienced true freedom. The liberty they enjoyed now was shackled to ignorance. Had they tasted but the slightest freedom, the sailors would have hungered for more. Everybody would have hungered for more.
"Did y'hear 'bout the fellow they brought to Urû'baen the other week?" A sailor at the far end of the table exclaimed, nearly heaving his body out of his seat. When everyone shook their head, he flashed a crooked smile and continued, "Heard they brought some guy to the city and killed 'em. Just like that. Was a dwarf to boot!"
"A dwarf? That's the biggest shrimp they can catch?" Ted roared, laughing until he fell out of his seat.
The spirited atmosphere had started to envelop Eragon within its grasp, and he no longer wanted part of the artificially produced cheerfulness. Seeing as the conversation seemed to be heading nowhere useful, abdicating his seat to another unfortunate soul seemed a promising proposition. He feigned gratitude for the sailor's generous hospitality before extracting himself from these rowdy companions.
Bereft of the intoxicating aromas of the tavern, Eragon could see the silhouette of a ship in the far distance and wondered whether any of his comrades remained anchored to life, waiting for death to claim them.
The sloped sides and long masts of the ships along the Teirm waterfront filled Arya with a strange longing, one that embodied both love and hate. Before the dark days of the Fall, she used to love the sea for its endless, graceful beauty. Now, she hungered for land, a foundation on which she could achieve something with what the remainder of her life. Though she sometimes wished she could sail away on one of those elegant vessels and escape to Alalea on the far side of the sea.
In her dreams, Arya used to be able to hear elves singing across the ocean, willing her to join them. They would sing slow, melodic songs that spoke of love and nature. Their gentle voices calming the raging storm contained within Arya, temporarily shielding her from life's hardships. But she always returned to reality in dense buildings made of unyielding stone.
The passage of time had forced her out of her previous life. The longer Arya remained in a city, the increasingly apparent her immortality became. Though she could change her appearance at will, she preferred to wield a single mask. So every decade or so, she would move to a different city and start anew. Arya was never disconcerted by this cycle as she never became attached to life, always remaining aloof from society.
As she made her way through the stalls docked on the pier, Arya looked at the various trinkets on display. From what her brief glances allowed her, she perceived that there were two types of jewelry on the market: cheap figurines produced by unskilled workers, and cheap figurines imitating works far greater than their own. The fraudulent art served only to diminish the value of the truly great masterpieces.
Everywhere she looked, she saw only poorly crafted merchandise. There were works of average quality sprinkled throughout, but even those paled next to the beauty of elven jewelry. Comparing the two was as ridiculous as comparing opals and diamonds.
Arya sighed wistfully, longing for the elven culture that had raised her. She had been separated from her native culture for far too long. The desires running amok in her heart propelled her towards to ocean, towards Alalea. But this burning desire was a mere fantasy; the prospect of a ship sailing into the unknown preposterous.
But striking the fancy from her heart was as dangerous as fully believing its inevitability; the absurdity of existing without a dream was equivalent to pinning too much hope on impossibilities. Living so close to her beckoning dreams was foolish in a way, for their provocative songs would invariably drag her towards the waiting waters should her guard falter. But the decisions had been made and the changes permanent; and Arya was not about to let her fear overcome her.
There had been accounts over the past sixty years of sudden, unexplained drowning across the waterfront cities. This surge in suicidal tendencies had Arya on edge, for it was possible some of the victims may well have been elves. Her inner fears blamed her, blamed her for not discovering her fellow kin who were as lost as she. But her rational mind knew better, knew that it was impossible to determine friend from foe, elf from overseer. Arya couldn't reveal to anyone her true identity. Foes hid behind every corner undoubtedly, and distinguishing between enemies was nigh impossible.
She was sure that the sea had called to its victims if they were indeed of elven lineage. The intoxication of potential kin across the water held great fascination before the Fall. Now, with loneliness abound, their fascination had turned into a deadly attraction.
Arya felt the pull herself, much as the waves are pulled by the moon. But she couldn't allow herself the luxury of suicide, not when her pride held her accountable for such actions of rashness.
Ever since that ethereal connection she'd felt with the innocent criminal, Arya felt compelled to search for the missing piece of her life. Not the friends who died or the hopes for freedom, for those were irrevocably lost to her forever. No, she searched for a purpose to live for, something that would match the call of the ocean in strength and tenacity.
The result of her poignant drive had culminated to her being in Teirm, drawn by the inexorable mystique of the sea. Arya fervently hoped that her sole motivation was not the wish for elven companions. She might as well live the rest of her life in the ravaged Ellesméra, naively believing that an ally would happen upon her, fulfilling her fanciful desires.
She looked around the port, the iridescent sun sinking below the horizon. Most of the traders were packing their goods, some celebrating the good fortune of the day while others wished for a better tomorrow. Their soliciting expressions had vanished, replaced by the weariness only long days can conceive. For this, Arya was grateful; the docks seemed much cleaner and welcoming when the false artworks were set aside, no longer marring the beauty of the sea.
One of the several merchants caught her eye. The man was tanned, as if he had lived in the desert for several years. But it was not the salesman that interested her; it was a necklace that the merchant was depositing into a storage box. It was a simple thing; a flexible tree, bending to an unknown force. Before the necklace was out of sight, Arya inquired about the price of the necklace.
Upon finding the stated fee to be one of reasonable proportions, Arya handed him the coins and claimed her prize. With closer inspection of her newly acquired property, she saw that entwining strips of silver composed the tree, giving it a rough exterior. It resembled a tree buffeted by a strong gale, bending but not breaking to its natural power.
The necklace reminded Arya of elves, for they were as stout and obstinate as a great pine. And of dwarves, for they were never swayed by the winds of change. It was a nostalgic sensation, and reminded her of the past they all once enjoyed.
The sun rained down on his brow, causing small beads of sweat to glisten on his forehead. It was hot in Bullridge, for the town was situated a few leagues from the Hadarac Desert. Though thankfully, the Ramr River flowing freely alongside it acted like a coolant, marginally lowering the temperature of the air. But the nights were frigid, as Eragon had learned quickly. While the town was increasingly hot during the day, the warm air dissipated by sundown, leaving chilly winds to sweep through unmolested.
Bullridge was a simply ordinary town with nothing spectacular to note. It was a quiet, robust town on the outskirts of the Empire with ordinary people residing in it. Its remote location limited Galbatorix's influence over the town and as a result, the inhabitants tended to be more subdued. They were not haughty as citizens in major cities often were. Of course, Eragon had seen his fair share of angry individuals, for they existed everywhere; but for the most part, they were less judgmental and more accepting.
Eragon found himself visiting Bullridge as an intrepid wanderer. He traveled to various places in Alagaësia, watching for interesting news and desperate people. His self-designated role was similar to that of Brom's while he still lived. Though Brom had fought valiantly against a nearly insurmountable enemy whereas Eragon dealt with issues on a pettier scale.
It was a comforting notion knowing that he was making a positive impact on other's lives again, no matter how insignificant. Long ago had he abandoned searching for his comrades of old, for there was no hope of finding them alive now. Seventy-five years since the Fall would place any human far past their natural lifespan while the elves would be nigh impossible to locate, assuming they still survived. The prospect of finding them was discontinued, but not forgotten, as Eragon still toyed with the fantasy every once in awhile.
But though Eragon was content with his current life, his heart occasionally murmured dissatisfied whispers. The notion that he was still unsatisfied disquieted him; for he was doing what he set out for, to help these in great need. Eragon dismissed these feelings of self-pity as he was positive his heart longed for the days of old, where he was surrounded by friends and allies. Those days were far removed his mind knew; but his heart was still trapped within the sands of time.
The town was unusually quiet and peaceful compared to the great cities in the Empire. Its people came and went uneventfully; provoking no arguments or fights, engaging in little conversation. They seemed to be going through the motions of life it seemed to Eragon, for that monotony was all too familiar to him. The people seemed to have no purpose other than to live till the next day; a rather boring outlook on life. But Eragon could not express his intuitive sentiment as the quaint town had its own culture; one that he was not yet familiar with it.
The afternoon turned to evening and the blistering sun low in the ceiling above; its burning rays blocked by various rooftops, much to Eragon's relief. The long shadows of sunset protecting the already moisture-deprived dirt contrasted sharply to the bright patches of earth left defenseless. A few more hours and the now-boiling road would be freezing to the touch.
Eragon walked down the road, heading in no particular direction. Men and women passed him, paying no heed to the foreigner in their midst. They were scurrying to their homes, havens from the temperamental climate in which Bullridge was situated. Long ago, Eragon would have envied them; their waiting families a luxury fate never allowed him. But sanity demanded he abandon his longing else happiness be unattainable.
A slight woman walking towards him drew Eragon's attention. She, unlike her oblivious neighbors, had taken a keen interest in his person. As their mortal bodies moved towards each other, her eyes remained fixed upon him; though what she searched for eluded him.
Moments before they entered the same plane, the women stumbled suddenly, her footing lost beneath her. A small loaf of bread once held in her hand tumbled to the ground; its disappearance lost upon the woman.
Bending down slowly, Eragon picked up the stale edible, intending to return the lost item. He could feel the woman's eyes boring two holes in the back of his neck, their invisible rays felt as soundly as a dagger's point. The loaf secured in his hand, he stood upright, his arm outstretched with the bread in hand.
He was taken by surprise when the woman grabbed not the proffered food, but his wrist, ushering him towards the deep shadows. Their destination was unclear to Eragon, but he allowed her to lead him blindly through the dark, believing no bodily harm would come to him.
Numerous turns had Eragon confounded as to their location, the twisting alleys in the small town of Bullridge serving as a maze. After what seemed several minutes to him, the pair came to a halt, standing in front of an inauspicious door. The woman opened the door, ushering him into the dark room, her impatience expediting the process.
As his eyes adjusted to the lighting of the room, Eragon observed his surroundings. He was standing in a small, one-room house that lacked a human touch. There was hardly any furniture in the establishment, the bare walls missing a certain component of homeliness he presumed all houses shared. Eragon was acutely aware of the woman standing mere feet behind him, his body stiffening as he felt a dagger touching his cloak. The action was so quick it caught him by surprise, his superior reflexes outmatched.
Fear clawed inside him, struggling to break free. But he restrained it, knowing he could easily overpower the woman should the situation demand it. "What do you want?"
"Who are you?" Came the muffled reply, his previous question remaining unanswered.
Unperturbed by the nonsensical answer, Eragon used the name he had unofficially adopted years ago, "Bron. And yours?"
The assailant didn't answer, leaving his question to evaporate into the heavy air. "How many years do you have?" The following query leaving Eragon perplexed as to the line of questioning.
Eragon toyed with the possibility of an overseer holding him hostage, a precarious situation undoubtedly. The impending possibility of fighting the overseer would prove easy, but an unfavorable option. "Twenty-five years."
"You lie!" The voice behind him cried, and Eragon could hear fabric rip as the strange woman thrust the tip of the dagger deeper, piercing the soft veil of his cloak.
His muscles tightened in an instant, coiling like a spring ready to release their latent energy. In a whirlwind of movement, Eragon twisted his body, grabbing the wrist of his antagonist in one explosive movement; the force of impact enough to dislodge the knife onto the ground.
The decisive second that passed was enough to reverse the roles of the captor and the captured. His patience had worn thin and all evasiveness dissipated into the air, "Tell me, do you work for Galbatorix? Are you an overseer?"
The woman entangled in Eragon's limbs had remained calm and collected despite the obvious danger. "I could ask you the same question."
Though assured that his captive was no agent of the dark king; Eragon kept her bounded, lest she act on whim again. "I have given you no reason to accuse me of allegiance to the king."
"I saw your spitting image not thirty years ago, in the gallows of Dras-Leona; yet you have not aged a day since I laid eyes upon you," The woman said, her sophisticated linguistics striking a familiar chord within Eragon's soul.
"Who are you?" He asked, his own suspicions arising, "You don't look to have more than twenty-five years yourself."
The tendrils of doubt crept their way into the confines of Eragon's mind. The only possible explanation of this peculiar situation was that his captive was magically-gifted. Eragon realized the situation could become increasingly dangerous should magic become a factor.
"It is obvious both of our appearances are deceitful," The woman said, unperturbed by his accusation. Then her facial features started to change, her skin transforming in both texture and hue.
Even in the dampened light of the gloomy house, Eragon's elven eyesight granted him perfect vision in the darkest of places. What he saw struck him in a singular emotion of pure incredulity. The figure he held at arm's length was one of familiar origins; one he thought to never see alive again.
In his bewildered stupor, his grasp on the woman's wrists slipped, their bodies falling apart in mutual harmony. All the ambiguity of the situation, all Eragon's conflicting emotions, were released in a single word that bordered the confines of substantial existence and illusory surrealism; "Arya…"
Time stood still as the strange man's outburst lead her to the truth of his identity. It was a sharp blow to Arya's psyche as she had spent over half a century believing everyone dead. As the man she now knew as Eragon lost his grip on her wrists, Arya recoiled from his presence, tumbling to the ground unceremoniously.
Lying on the ground, Arya fought off a multitude of emotions threatening to overcome her: the fear she suppressed for so long, the disbelief of her discovery. Her deliberations were lost on the opposing stranger, she knew, as he too battled inner turmoil.
There they were, Eragon and Arya, two kindred souls that were entangled in the most unlikely of events; one that not even the most creative of storytellers could have contrived.
For Arya, it had taken several decades to reconcile with her new life; and with the reemergence of Eragon, her sanity would demand another several to recover. Their last union seemed distant; diluted by the years that had passed. They had been naively innocent of the impending disaster that would scatter them across space and time; their coincidental meetings throughout the ages as rare as flashes of lightning.
Her eyes were still fastened on Eragon's figure as he collapsed to his knees, obviously greatly stricken by this latest turn of events. She thought he saw him convulse once with emotion, but the cloak he wore concealed such subtle movements. Arya opened her mouth to speak, to break the deafening silence that had captured the small room; but words failed her and Arya was rendered mute.
The revived character from her buried past managed to overcome what she could not and broke the long hiatus. "I thought you were dead…" His simple yet profound statement fading into the void.
There were so many things Arya wanted to say, to ask; but the gravity of the situation made them seem insignificant. So she allowed another silence to cover them, stifling anything that might have been said or done.
It felt like an eternity had passed before Eragon succumbed to his native curiosity and asked, "Where have you been all these years?"
Arya looked at him slowly, allowing herself time to compose herself, to ensure that neither regret nor excitement was inflected in her voice. "I was in the port cities, recovering from the aftermath of the Fall," She said simply; the details of her desperation could be revealed in small quantities. There was no reason to dampen the fortuitous turn of events. "What have you done since the Battle of Urû'baen?"
Eragon looked away with a pained look; was it possible he still harbored guilt about the outcome of that ill-advised conflict? "I was looking for our friends for a long time." Arya could see he wanted to explain more; so she remained quiet, waiting patiently. "But I never found any, so I eventually started doing small things, like helping strangers."
She looked at the ground; they had taken such different routes to this particular moment in time. Arya wondered if it was luck or fate that had led them to this intersection. But now was not the time to ponder such esoteric speculation. If she had learned anything from the past, it was that time was precious and wasting any second of it, no matter the length of her life, was a great heresy.
Opening the door, Arya stepped outside, the fresh air rejuvenating the thick atmosphere of the small room. Darkness had fallen and the only light remaining was that of the full moon. "Where are you going?" Eragon asked, walking quietly in her shadows.
Arya looked at him, wondering what his reaction would be to her latest revelation. "Away from here. I want to start a new life, and I can't do it here, not where the ashes of my old one lay." She had decided this fairly recently; though her destination was unbeknownst to her.
"Where will you go?" Eragon asked. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion; but Arya knew there was an underlying curiosity underneath his façade.
The elves in Alalea were not an option, for there were no ships heading towards the foreign land; and never would be, she imagined. "Across the desert. There are rumors of independent nations on the far side," Arya said.
He nodded; his agreement strangely comforting to Arya. Comfort had been in scarce supply lately and this sensation was alien to her. "I don't know where I will go now." He stopped, hesitating. "I've spent my life looking for friends, but all are dead by now," Arya understood this sentiment all too well; she had reached the same conclusion many years ago. "Then I tried helping others; but something is still missing," He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
After listening to Eragon, Arya felt as if they had lived similar existences, but in separate universes. She thought she might know what ailed Eragon, for she had experienced his troubles. "Are you happy, Eragon?" A simple question, but one with much deeper implications.
Eragon looked at his feet; in discomfort she noticed. He had asked himself this question before, she knew, but the answer was harder to find than the question was to ask. "I'm content, but not fully happy," Eragon admitted.
Arya had expected this answer, and craved it at the same time. "Come with me Eragon," Arya started slowly; requests such as these were not to be made lightly. "We can leave Alagaësia forever; create a new life where we aren't shackled by the past." In truth, now that Arya was aware of Eragon's existence, she was not sure if she could leave the land alone. Not when her old flame of a fantasy had been reignited. Now that she had found one old friend, her desire to find other kindred spirits was not just her dream, it was her reality.
He gripped the open doorframe tightly, with strength granted to him in an era long ago. Eragon's knuckles whitened and his expression tightened; the decision to leave everything, she knew, would not be easy. It never was.
A fierce wind blew; his heavy cloak billowing with the sandy gale. The sun was just rising and the citizens in Bullridge would be anxious to view the new wares he had brought with him. Alfred knew this might well be his last trek to the isolated town, for age had caught up to him and the journey was long and arduous. But for now, he lived and the small town was behind the next ridge; his traveling would soon be at its end.
Amidst the still infant sun, Alfred looked towards the desert. It had always captured his interest, for reasons unknown to him. The desert was a calming destination for him; and as a result, he always remained the longest amongst its burnt inhabitants. The plain beauty of the sand was a sight to behold, and he treasured it each time he traveled along its dry border, as each might be his last.
Right before he entered the waking community, something peculiar caught Alfred's eye. It was so faint, he could not be sure it was real for the desert often fooled its visitors with illusions of all sorts. In the flat sand of the desert, he spotted tracks. There were two separate pairs of footsteps, both headed towards the distant horizon.
Foolishness, the tanned man thought; if the heat didn't kill them, slavers would. For a minute, Alfred considered going after them, to convince them to return to the safe confines of Bullridge. But the tracks were hours old and he was nearing the end of his life; the desert would kill him if he ventured into it now.
Turning away from the tracks and towards the town, Alfred still wished he could have saved the two souls who foolishly braved the Hadarac. They were most likely still young, believing themselves invincible.
Sometime later, he looked for the tracks again, only to be denied. The wind must have covered them by now, Alfred assumed. Or perhaps they had never existed in the first place; after all, they were barely visible before. Maybe the Hadarac Desert had fooled him; he wouldn't be its first victim, nor would he be its last.
That must have been it he decided, the tracks were never real. The young adults he envisioned disappearing into the sandy horizon never existed; they were merely phantoms plaguing his chaotic imagination.
Despite his doubts of their substantiality, Alfred could not keep his mind off the ephemeral tracks and their creators. Dwelling upon the ghosts of his imagination did him a grievous disservice; for the fortuitous opportunity laid before him was fleeting in nature and he was loathe to squander any moment of it.
Author's Note:
First things first, massive thanks to my mom and girlfriend for reading over this story to correct faulty grammar and plot related nuances.
Secondly, thanks to everyone who finished reading this! I know it was very long, but hopefully you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :). I do so enjoy making plays on words, and there are many of those in the text.
And eighteen more days till Inheritance releases(I think)! After like, eight years or something of being hooked onto this series, I'm finally getting closure on what will definitely be an Arya/Eragon romance. Sorry other pairing fans :p. Since this is my last fanfiction until after the last book arrives, I suppose this story will be my tribute to the awesomeness that is the Inheritance Cycle, not including the possible fifth novel.
Lastly, but equally as important; if you liked the story, enjoyed the story, read the story, or disliked the story; then please review! :). Many of you, excluding fellow authors, don't know how happy it makes me when I see people commenting on my stories(It makes me very happy). So I hope everyone leaves a tidbit of feedback on the work I've put into this over the last two-and-a-half weeks.
Cheers and may the fourth book be as great as you are expecting it to be.