"Eragon?"
He blinked. It wasn't the first time he had lost his train of thought since the night before, when he and Arya had publicly announced their engagement. It occupied his mind constantly – his very essence demanded his undivided attention on the matter. He wished – not for the first or last time, by a long chalk – that he could have kept it the way he and Arya had wanted it to be; with Nasuada's blessing, and a private ceremony on the mountainside with just the two of them, Roran, Katrina, Saphira and a few select villagers. But, as his liege had pointed out, there were many ways to win people's hearts, but only a few ways to make them happy. As it happened, apparently romance in the heart of a war-stricken land between an elf and a rider was one of them. Who would have known?
It didn't help, though, to remember that right at that moment, Arya was sat with Katrina and Angela in their tent, excitedly discussing what he was assured was going to be 'the wedding of the century'.
And it definitely didn't help that it was all anyone would talk about.
"Sorry," Eragon muttered, shaking his head like a wet dog might drain his fur of water. Horst, sat across from him, grinned knowingly.
"I said, when's the wedding?" Eragon winced – a movement that was, to Horst's growing amusement, fully visible to all around them and greeted by many chuckles and groans. The village of Carvahall took great glee in seeing Eragon so tortured, especially on a matter so romantic; never before had the young man expressed any interest in anyone in the village (to the disappointment, admittedly, of few) and had been watched by his elders with great interest. Now that he had finally made a step towards what they would call 'a respectable life', the news fell on intrigued ears. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know.
"I… I don't know…" Eragon admitted. His cheeks coloured, quickly. "I think Arya said something about… um…"
Next spring, Saphira assisted.
"Next spring," he finished, shooting Saphira a grateful look. Horst did not miss that, either, and rolled his eyes at Roran, who quickly coughed to disguise his sniggers. Eragon shot the two of them a dirty look, but to his horror the laughter only intensified.
If Horst had not chosen that moment to take pity on him, Eragon did not know what he would have done – only that it definitely involved jumping onto Saphira's back, kidnapping Arya and never going back to face them all again.
"Can I have a word with you, Eragon?" Horst asked. Eragon nodded instantly. He tried not to let his relief pass over his elf-like features.
"Of course."
They turned as one to glare at the surrounding villagers, who, with many a frustrated groan and irritated mutter, slowly disappeared, leaving Eragon and Horst alone in the blacksmith's makeshift forge. The young rider took a deep, relieved breath and slumped in his chair; it was a relief to be out of the public eye, at least for a short while.
"Doesn't seem real, does it?"
Eragon gave an agonized groan and shook his head. He buried his face in his hands, hoping that if he were to wait long enough, this day might suddenly vanish, never to be repeated. The blacksmith, who Eragon could hear striding around his temporary forge, working bellows and shoveling coals, chuckled.
"It won't go away, son. No matter how hard you wish."
"Are you sure?" Eragon replied desperately, peering up at the older man through a gap in-between his fingers. "Maybe I could test that. Give me a few more minutes of wishful thinking and I'm sure I could conjure something up."
This time, Saphira joined in with Horst's stifled laughter. The ground rumbled slightly beneath their feet as she laughed her dragon laugh. This only served to intensify Horst's mirth, and he doubled up over an anvil, gasping for breath; none of the villagers had ever heard a dragon laugh before, and it tickled them immensely. It had amused all to see Gertrude, such a practical, down to earth woman, doubled over laughing. Saphira was, in many respects, a brand new toy with which even the old and respected were fascinated with, and of course thrived on the attention.
Honestly, Eragon, shall you never learn? His sapphire dragon snickered.
"The drag- Saphira raises a good point," Horst rasped, wiping tears of mirth from his crinkled, dark eyes. "You cannot magic this away like a bruise or a cut; this is something you must meet, head on, until it comes to your terms." The blacksmith shook his head as he bent over a sword, the blade of which refused to lie flat. "Engaged to an elf. You know, Eragon, your family never ceases to amaze me."
Eragon chuckled, but still he could not keep the sigh from escaping his lips; with this new revelation – marriage – came a new outlook on his life. He had known that this day would come - when he would have to face his coming of age and do what every respectable villager did; settle down. The words left an odd taste in his mouth and an uncomfortable knot in his gut.
He hadn't expected it to happen this quickly.
It seemed only yesterday that he had met Arya; rescued her from Durza and spirited her away across the Hadarac Desert to the safety of the Varden. They had conversed only once in that time – during which she was deeply unconscious. It seemed an even shorter time still that he had realised that he loved her. No time at all had passed since Arya had told him how she felt, too.
And now he sat with friends and family, calmly discussing their wedding!
Horst left Eragon to collect his thoughts for several minutes. Finally he asked, "Do you miss him?"
Although Eragon thought he knew who the blacksmith was talking about, he replied; "who?"
"Brom." Those dark eyes, so deep all of a sudden, watched Eragon carefully. The young rider avoided the older man's gaze – although he feared his evasion had not gone unnoticed. "Roran told me about him being your father. I hope you don't mind."
"No." For once, it was true; Horst, Eragon realised, was as much a part of his family as Saphira or Roran – and twice as much as Murtagh. He did not mind at all that the blacksmith knew of his lineage, a fact which he had concealed from most of the other people in his life.
Horst nodded. "Well, Eragon Bromsson" – the dub pleased Eragon, warmed his heart in a way that he had thought impossible, and in a way that 'Shadeslayer' had decidedly not – "Call me insane – and don't lie, I know you have done on many occasions – but I think he would have been proud of you – today, and on all other days as well."
Tears sprung freely from Eragons eyes; never before did he feel he had truly appreciated how beautiful Surda was. Behind him, a low sniffling noise told him that he, too, was admiring the scenery, and he smiled.
Men, Saphira grumbled.
Women, Eragon shot back with a grin.
To that, the dragon had no answer.
-x-
Nasuada fitted an arrow expertly to her bow, achieving in her focused state of mind a speed that even some of her greatest warriors would admire. Just as quick, she lifted her loaded bow to eye level and aimed. The tendons in Nasuada's strong arm grew more and more prominent as she hauled the string, a strand of woven horse-hair that had served her well on many occasions, towards her ear.
Thwang!
All around her, men gasped, staring at their leader with new wonder as she, frustrated, brushed splinters and pieces of wood from the skirts of her lime green hunting dress.
Barzul!
The leader of the Varden looked, dismayed, at the fragments of the bow that had saved her life so many times which now littered the earth beneath her feet. That bow had been a gift from her father when she was just sixteen. The dwarves had showed her the best ways to preserve it, using beeswax to shine the frame and to prevent the rain from seeping into the wood. And now here it lay at her feet, destroyed by her own hand.
Even the things we prize most are far too easy to destroy, She thought bitterly as she stepped from the wreckage. Farica, her handmaid, hastened to follow her, along with the Nighthawks that had insisted upon following her on her trip to the training field. Lips barely concealing the unpleasant snarl that lurked behind them, Lady Nasuada moved at a pace that few could hope to rival.
One who did, though, was Farica.
"My lady," she gasped. "If I may be so bold… what happened? You seemed so at ease, but now I sense your mind is riddled with tensions and pain."
"Do not be fanciful, Farica," Nasuada snapped. She had never had cause to raise her voice on any matter they discussed, but today she felt she was – well, as tightly drawn as a bow, strung and ready to snap. She knew she would have to apologise later, but for now Nasuada was far too annoyed. It was, she reflected, not her day. "I was merely… shocked."
The handmaid withdrew into a respectful silence, leaving her lady to her thoughts. At once, Nasuada regretted her words. They were the truth, of course, but she shou;d have kept in mind what her father had once said; "it is not what one says that matters, but rather how they say it." But still, would it not have been shocking to all if the target at which they aimed suddenly took on the guise of their enemies' face?
Especially if that face was not of Galbatorix… but of one they had claimed to have forged a bond of friendship with? More than that – an alliance?
She felt as though the scarlet image of Arya's perfect elven face would never fade from its devastating burn across her heart and mind.
"My lady! Halt!"
Lady Nightstalker skidded to a halt in the soft mud of autumn, her thoughts sent hurtling wildly into disarray. One by one, the Nighthawks thundered past her and into her crimson tent, only meters away; each of them wore a somber expression, but Nasuada knew them well enough to see the exasperation in the eyes of each man.
"Elva." Came the irritated voice of Captain Garven, emerging from his lady's tent and sheathing his sword. "She must have sneaked in whilst we were gone, my lady. Shall I remove her?"
Nasuada saw the eagerness in the eyes of her men, and shivered at the thought; sometimes she, too, had to remind herself that while Elva looked to be several years old, she must have been no older than two. It disturbed her too what the girl could do with her violet glare, but she knew that she, of all people, must rise above her discomfort.
"No," she called out, striding towards the tent opening. "I shall handle this. Thank you, captain… you may wait outside."
"My lady." The man inclined his head. With a nod to his men, they took their places with perfect unison, their heads held high. Not for the first time, Nasuada was struck by how lucky she was to be defended by such fine and honourable men.
Pushing aside the crimson fabric door that was her tents' only protection from the elements, Nasuada shuddered as she came face to face with Elva; the shocking knowledge hidden, just out of reach, within her eyes always both frightened and disgusted the leader of the Varden.
"Elva." She took a measured step backwards. "What can I help you-"
"You're tired." Elva pointed a pale finger at the bags beneath Nasuada's eyes. "You're tired because you're up all night, and you're up all night because of the pain. Unguarded, obliterating pain. You feel as if your heart will burst if you hide it any more." The girl paused, as if to allow Nasuada to deny the statements; when she did not, rather continuing to stare, dumbfounded, at the small girl, she continued with a bitter smile. "You've always considered heartbreak to be a fanciful term – most people do. They underestimate the power of true love. You did not expect to feel as though a part of you were actually, physically breaking… How much pain it can bring… so much pain…" The girl leant closer, as though about to divulge a great secret; "I can help you, Nasuada."
Nasuada fell backwards into a chair. Her tears shone like diamonds in her wide eyes, waiting for their cue to embed themselves in the undergrowth. Never before, she thought, had someone encapsulated so well what she felt. She had read a thousand love poems, heard a hundred songs performed that described this emotion, but never before had they
"The 'clinical' – healers, who do not understand the term - will advise you to dive into a deep period of self-evaluation and improvement. That will not work, for they do not understand you… your pain. The 'bitter' – the jilted lovers, the pain-filled rejected - will try and fire you up with general hatred for the opposite sex. That will not work, for they, too are oblivious. Finally, the 'optimists' – the stupid - will always tell you, 'don't worry – there are plenty more fish in the sea.' However, when the pain of a broken heart is ravaging your body any words of wisdom will seem like dangling a fish hook before a dragon's mouth. Useless."
A single tear dropped.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
A nod.
"Then listen to me, Nasuada, for your pain is my pain – it is so great, I cannot block it out." The girl's mouth twisted in silent agony before she managed to clamp it shut. When she spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "I can help you."
AN: AHAHAAAA!!! I told you it wouldn't last long ;) REVIEWS, please!
Oh – I was asked why Arya would agree to marry – after all, it's not an elven custom. My answer is that it may not be an ELVEN custom, but it's a human one, and it's not all about Arya in this relationship, people ;)
Time for the naming; thank you to BookLovinWorm, who is AWESOME and the winner of my 'weirdest phrase' competition. I LOVE YOU! You win… um… what do you want? :P
Big hugs (and Saphira shaped cookies) to Elvendiath, Felixlee14, elvin blade, Alot Like Gregor, Musings of A Shaken Mind, xLilypadsx (I MISSED YOU!), for being my amazing reviewers on the first ever chapter of Burthr!!! EEP! THANK YOU!!
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