For those who've already read this then, please, excuse me for the trouble. I've merely cut the first chapter in half. Twas just a tad too long. Sorry for any inconvenience.
Sweet Silent Thought
PART TWO
Echelon
"Blödhgram! By my feet, stay with me!" Her short, whispered murmurs are hushed within the growing enclosure of night, strained and tempered as she presses herself against the crevasse of a wall, alert and silent as the platoon of armed men advanced into the flurry of battle without noticing either her or Blödhgram in their pursuit. They remained silent, hidden in shadow, watching until the last of the guard vanished and withered into the night. She breathes a sigh of relief, collecting herself as she assessed their current surroundings within cities blockade, her hand held definite over the pommel of her sword. A hand over her shoulder suddenly brought her forth from her deliberation.
"Milady, Arya," he whispers, his eyes looking through a small, reflective stimulus before falling silently upon her own, questioning. "We cannot delay any longer. If these men see us we will surely falter under their numbers. We must find the gateway before they glimpse our whereabouts."
"I fear that our position has already been perceived, Blödhgram. Why they haven't acted, I haven't the faintest clue. But you are right, we must hurry." Amid the nights unwavering conflict, apprehension grasped her entirely. Fienster's siege was undeniably faltering upon the Varden's inability to get beyond the gates, and the reality of this fact wasn't something Nasuada had taken lightly. She seemed relentless in her pursuit, defiant until the unseeing notion of her eyes suddenly glazed upon the falling numbers of their rallying platoon's. Upon this realization, she'd asked for Arya's manor of infiltration and Blödhgram had refused to allow her to go alone. It was the only way, she deemed, to get within the walls.
And so, upon her acceptance, here they were. Although, despite their intentions, their attempts at getting at the wall had proven futile at best. They were trapped.
"Princess, we have to move!" He whispered fearfully, his voice laced with worry. "They're coming this way!"
She nodded once, quickly, sword at the ready and mind ill at ease by his tension. They needed to move, less they be driven into an ambush and time was surely against them. She looked to Blödhgram, her eyes searching and forestalled silently by his hesitance. He nodded, his animalistic features tainted by uncertainty, but it was soon diminished behind a barrier of impassiveness.
They moved quietly, attuned to the darkness. Blödhgram went before her, alert for anything abnormal, and like a lithe cat, he climbed onto a wooden panel embedded into the wall and held out his hand for her. She jumped, sprightly, catching his hand and using it to pull herself up effortlessly beside him. They pressed themselves quickly to the wall, falling into the shadows, and watched as the flurry of armored men tailing them beforehand ran toward the blockade below them. They were quiet, listening carefully, and when they passed, they moved.
"The gate is ahead," he whispered, his body posed before her in a protective gesture. The act was unnecessary, of course, but she wasn't about to argue. Not now and certainly not with him.
"The lever is our priority."
"Soldiers surround the enclosure, milady. We'll have to reveal ourselves."
She sighed dejectedly, looking. "Then so be it."
They ran together, silent as the night bid them, leaping to and from the panels levying the wall. Before the main entryway, however, they were soon met with a foreboding sight. Soldiers littered the square, five by five and at the ready. Some rallied the wall above them, shooting and bellowing out scathing remarks toward the Varden as they pressed forward. Smoke cascaded the night, creating an eerie feeling of death and destruction. She was unsure of the numbers exactly, but her eyes glimpsed enough to cause a great deal of panic within her. There were far too many.
"We cannot hope to survive this, Arya." Blödhgram spoke timidly from beside her, and she was shocked to hear her name spoken with such conviction.
"Nevertheless…" she says, her eyes upon the square, cautiously resilient. "We have our orders, and we cannot abandon them."
"Even if they meant your life?" he spoke harshly, willing for her to listen.
She ignored his hostility. "Leave if you will, but I'm staying. I do not wish for you to follow me, Blödhgram."
"You forget," he says, and she was again shocked, albeit oddly, to hear a faint smile through the strong inlet of his voice. "That I too have my orders, milady. You cannot think to toss me away so easily. It would be unwise."
She turns suddenly, looking now toward Blödhgram. She was silent for a moment, momentarily forgetting her surroundings, and then she too, despite her own sensibility, smiled. "And I wouldn't dare think of it."
He bowed, satisfied. "You're mother would greatly disapprove of this, you know. She'd surely have my head were it not so difficult to attain."
"Well then, if we were to survive…" she says quietly, unsheathing her sword and holding it defiantly before her, ready, "Then we best keep ourselves from revealing anything." She thinks for a moment, sighing to herself suddenly, straying. Her mind was elsewhere, feigning rationality through a place masked from reality… and she cannot help it. She feels alight suddenly, perched through hope, hanging within a balanced feeling of sudden anticipation. Again, she smiles, faintly and yet more to herself, remembering now… Grapple with the monsters of the dark…
"And I'm sure you will be fine," she whispers, content and completely ambient. Beside her, she hears Blödhgram unsheathe his sword.
"As you will."
She nods, keen and definite. You will be fine…
They wait for a moment, silently prolonged by their surroundings, watching. She can feel her heart thud within each rhythmic pulsation of life, feathering upon a stupor of both strange and immobile feelings welling within her. Her grip is fierce, eyes focused and ears perched upon every passing sound. And I'm sure, Arya… you will be fine. She breathes in and leaps, abruptly and swiftly, Blödhgram quickly following after, and they engage.
Yells bellowed throughout the compound, signalling their awareness and sudden trepidation. Swords were brought forth, silver and shadow veiling throughout the night accompanied by the foreboding glow of firelight. She lifted her arm, bringing the pommel down and bathing her sword into the flesh of an unfortunate soldier, twisting and turning through a montage of agile moves and techniques. The refinement of her grace was diminishing to the eyes of those daft enough to withstand it. She was like an illusion, an apparition conceived from a haunting dance, weaving and thronging through the veils of men standing before her. She could hear Blödhgram somewhere in the square, his recurring voice resounding throughout their flurry, moving and lingering in one place and then the other, quick and effortless.
There were cries, lasting and gauging to the ear, but she cannot think to notice. She's running toward the plinth, delving her blade upon metal and flesh as she ran quickly toward the base of the lever where it was encumbered by men, hedged and guarded by the towers looming by the gates. She sees an archer staged by the surbase of the platform taking aim, raising his arm, his eyes exact, watching carefully. She acts without approximation, still running and still calculating. And like the agile creature she was, she acted within a fickle blur, throwing her blade suddenly and leaving it to gouge into the chest of the archer, still running, still acting. It was a fleeting image, watching the poor man cry into the night, tumble upon the wood and fall, without anything further, to plummet on the ground. She's dispensed with it.
Hastily, leaping three by three over the stairs, dodging blows here and there, she unfastens her bow and swings it effectively into the head of a soldier before he notes her awareness, turning and swaying through the darkness like a chimera. She's forestalled suddenly, reprehensibly as she stumbles slightly, when she feels a blade scathe her arm suddenly, exclaiming heatedly and fusing her anger into her blow. She kicked the fool out from under his feet, ignoring his rendered pleas and bringing her bow down and hard over his head, silencing him.
She ignored the pain hindering her arm, muttering almost soundlessly into the dark as the Ancient Language hollered from her mouth and flashes of luminescence bathed in green scorched the night. Shouts were rendered within their silencing death, cries were mingled in the growing obliteration drudging from her lips as she muttered, shouted, and cried words of the binding language as she conjured magic from her hand, creating her path ahead and spying her target, the lever to the gateway.
Her energy was plummeting, but barely withered in its continuum. She swung her bow around, turning around with ease and walloping her opponent, kicking and hitting anyone that stood before her, be it her bow or fist, either one countered as she leapt onto the podium, reaching back and grasping an arrow from her quill. She knocked them one by one, shooting, striking, never missing, unremitting in all her targets. She yielded to her power, allowing the energy and adrenalin to pool and wash within her, expanding and bellowing through her relentless attacks. She jumped mid air and kicked a soldier as he cried hopelessly without a break of measure, twisting her bow and beating it into another as he rushed toward her, falling limply to the ground. She stood, tresses of ebony hair sinuous throughout the darkness, knocking an arrow and releasing it, again and again and again.
"Blast you and your wretched kind! Curse you!" She heard the obscured voice muffled within the dark, brute and feeble as she landed an arrow into his chest, silencing his hounding remarks. She'd heard the phrase far too many times in her life now. No more, at least, no longer from him.
Her eyes were passive as she scanned the compound. She saw Blödhgram from a distance, running toward her through a fixation of complicated maneuvers strutted from his blade, bearing his animalistic teeth to all who noted his brusqueness. His grave eyes found hers through the throng of surrounding soldiers bearing down on their position, nodding quickly before leaping onto the plinth before her, striking and swinging at all who opposed him. Arya's heart gave way, thudding and pulsing, beating within each strain of breath she took. They were two against many, and they were faltering beneath their numbers. More men were piling through the compound, shouting and signaling orders for their death, overwhelming them. She thought, abruptly, drudging through a sudden comprehension, that they would surely die here tonight. There were too many. They'd never make it… she brings her bow down again, turning, whirling around, acute to her attacks. She breathes in, exhaling.
An unknown voice shouts from afar, "Get them!" and men from below suddenly trudge onto the plinth, running directly toward her. She knows the chances are feeble, here and now, she cannot comprehend the circumstances surrounding her, but she is far from attuned now, forgetting, losing herself suddenly, her mind adrift within an unknown mania as something overtook her mind once more…
She turned, running, looking into the night as her eyes glazed over in a sudden recollection, falling astray within her thoughts once more … Keep thinking of the gardens of Tialdarí Hall… she breathes in, her eyes still to the night, forgetting… and I'm sure you will be fine… and now, she was surrounded.
She heard Blödhgram's shaken voice cry out, "No, Arya!" There were yells, distant and faded, tainting and yet strangely fickle through the blur of her trance. The lever was at arm's length now, and still she looks up, still she searches, feigning thought and reason.
"Arya!"
There was a noise, vivid yet tantalizing, stilling everything and everyone in their course. Smoke and ash littered the night's enclosure, diminishing her sight from straying into the open. She feels the heat molding her skin, the acrid air jarring her mentality. There's a wind, suddenly, that fumbles over her being and lulls the cries from draping her ears, prolonging the shadows and drawing the attention of unseeing eyes to view. She waits, impending, searching for something unknown to her stability, eyes afar, and wondering.
And then it's heard, clear as the night permits it, hounding and defiant into the lasting call emitting from within sky, a colossal roar plunging into the darkness.
Cheers from outside the walls brought her forth, staging her awareness to reality. The Varden's hopeful cries pierced the night from the gateway beneath them, hounding, open to elation. She feels it course within her, feeling the pull and leer of its progression into her being, declining into its ambience. The lasting roar prolonged, wreathing into the ears of the men around her. Some looked into the night, others covered their ears, and few even cowered and ran, but she doesn't, she's still looking. The wind picked up, hollowing within each pulsing thump and beat, and then a thundering war cry resounded through the smoke… and then she smiles.
"Eragon…"
Through smoke and ash, moonlight and shadow, as blue as the vivid night sky founded through clouds and stars, a massive silhouette plunged forward and out into the confrontation raging tirelessly below it, rapidly approaching through all haste and speed it omitted. The sound of beating wings within each strong, pulsing notion bestowed a calmness unlike anything she'd felt beforehand, compelling her and luring her into amenity… and she had never felt so relieved until now.
Vast torrents of fire suddenly bellowed within the skies, intertwining and undying as though conceived within a pictorial enactment of a realistic nightmare. The men surrounding her, ominous and oblivious to her existence beside them, looked utterly demoralized as the vast realization of their predicament suddenly caught afoot in their minds. They looked uncertain, unhinged and completely dismayed at the sight occurring before them… the dragon and rider currently spiraling toward them from within the fire-lit darkness.
"Arya!" she turned, bow upturned and ready to strike at the call of her name, but haltered. Blödhgram had made it onto the podium and was standing before her, his face contorted in a great deal of many feeble emotions, but were soon diminished before she could note them. One thing she saw, however, timid and apprehensive as they looked at the men standing near them, was his eyes. The soldiers were still looking into the night, terrified and unawares, but Blödhgram's apprehension solemnly remained. "The lever," he said, whispering quickly, "We must pull it, now!"
At that moment, straying remotely toward diminutive feelings and fickle uncertainty, did the soldiers encumbering the podium finally, unfortunately, take note of their existence. A look in their eyes told her they were hopeless, damned, and then suddenly yells of rage resonated once again and Arya and Blödhgram were consumed in a flurry of warfare once more.
His voice cried out for her, "Move!" and when she did, resilient and lucid within the growing displacement around her, she turned suddenly and lifted the sole of her boot and kicked the lever with a resounding thwack! And it buckled under the weight. It fell, hard, the chains of the cylinder spinning and collapsing as the gates opened, slowly, but budged nevertheless due to the lost support. Somewhere, within the eve of her hearing, she could hear cheers bellow from the distance.
"Arya!"
And then they ran, away, away from the lever, away from the men, forward into the compound. There were too many, but Arya's fierce blows struck all and more, knocking arrows and swinging her bow until it battered a man back or down onto the ground. She was separated from Blödhgram, running, feeling suddenly overwhelmed despite the serene sentiment of feeling looming within her beforehand, but no more. Despite this, however, the loss of feeling, the compelling sentiment lurching away, she'd done her job. The gate was open.
She dropped, curling lithely over the ground and evading spears, bow in one hand and the other deliberately outstretched, and as fast as she plummeted, she quickly snatched up a sword littered over the ground and stood. She spun, arms outstretched and lively, and attacked. One by one, as though perched through a sudden agility unknown to others, she parried blows and swung her weapons into their chest, head or hips. She heard the cries, she heard the pleas, but nothing infiltrated her thoughts as she continued to gouge men here and there, kicking and deflecting anything that came within her range. She could feel the heat underlying her body, the sweat trickle over her forehead, but still she moved, still she fought.
She felt a blade over her thigh suddenly and she cried out into the night. She turned, sword ripping through the air, and struck a man through the waist. Her bow had been lost somewhere within the throng of bodies littering the area, but she could neither see it or care as she leapt quickly toward where she hoped Blödhgram would be, cutting her way through a foreboding mist of blood…
Blödhgram grabbed her arm, their backs pressed defensively together as they parried oncoming blows. "There are too many!" He rasped heatedly by her side, quickly slashing at anyone who hurried toward them. "We cannot defeat all of them!"
"Then we must try, lest we be killed!"
His voice murmured dejectedly, resigned to their fates. "I fear it already, milady…"
It was then, as though subdued and waiting beyond a waking vision, a massive burst of fire immersed the skies once again, stunning and completely abrupt, and then suddenly another tremendous roar resonated through the darkness. Arya looked only once, stupefied by the reality, and then looked to the present once again.
She was quick to take advantage of the soldier's diversion as they looked to the skies, asserting her weapon forward and into their flesh, spinning, grasping Blödhgram's forearm in her wake and pulling him, and they ran. Her mind had been gravely compelled into a hopelessness unfamiliar to anything felt beforehand, but now she feels alight, perched, and she found herself once more succumbing to relief.
As they ran, Blödhgram shouted behind her, "Look to the skies, Arya!" and she did. Tumbling through speeds unmatched, delving through both fire and shadow, a pinnacle of unrivaled magnitude and enormity plunging into the masses scattered below them, Eragon and Saphira suddenly materialized out from within the smoke. A peculiar sensation brimmed into the forefront of her being, surging forthwith and throughout every lyric pore restrained within her. Rendered within a blur, veiled under obscurity, she summoned every able will within her to move forward, forward into the compound, into the open where they'd least be killed.
An upsurge of wind suddenly hollered them from behind, strong, abrupt and extremely familiar. Arya's lucid eyes cast upward again, senses pervasive and rearing through emotion as she watched the silhouette of Saphira emerge into the firelight, and the notable, longed-for sound of wings beating from above greeted her conjecture like no other.
The dragon's enamored guise of armor glistened under the contorted semblance of both moonlight and shadow, her deep and profound color of cerulean blue shining resplendently within dappled silver cast over the scales. Subtly, and yet all the more perilously, Saphira landed over the cobbled-stone square with her dauntless wings still outstretched and reared defensively over the yard, crushing numerous soldiers in her wake and liberating another ominous roar into the night as both Blödhgram and Arya ran head-on to meet her. Men wept and fled, some were even bold enough to challenge the dragon as she reared herself on her hind legs and gouged men here and there, whipping her tail and shedding it dangerously over the dirt. A terrifying sight, to be sure, one too remitting and irrevocably threatening to any gaping opponent, but not her.
A deep and subdued sentiment of elation loped within her, her pace slowing gradually as five men rushed toward her with their swords upturned before her. She parried one blow, and then another, spinning adeptly on her heel and raising her fist. She felt the jaw and the disdain feeling of its collision over her knuckles as she struck a man over the face, lifting her sword quickly and lacerating another man's neck. Blödhgram was beside her, livid and just as diverse in his movements. She heard him snarl as he killed another, callous and inhumane, disposing of another with a cold swing of his blade. She stepped to the side, lifting her knee and knocking the fickle breath out the remaining soldier's abdomen, and he fell, hounding and walloping through his own demise, but he is quickly silenced by her own blade. She breathes in dolefully, purging her sympathy with remorse and strengthening her resolve as she quickly turned to Blödhgram, eyes veiled in some unknown torment as she wipes the blood from her face, her breaths shallow, wavering.
"Arya?" The concern dampened in his voice comforted her somewhat, but only so little by the measure of her distress. The few remaining men littered within the area scattered and fled, perhaps to further strengthen their platoons elsewhere, it was difficult to interpret, her mind could only speculate just as much. Movement caught the edge of her sight suddenly.
The shadow upon Saphira shifted slightly, not too much, but enough nevertheless to catch her eye. They moved slowly, as though feathered through uncertainty, balanced and resolute through their tentative actions, and then casually pulled loose from the saddle and leapt to the ground, sinking sturdily to the ground by the knee and then standing immediately. She stepped forward. "Eragon."
He gave a curt nod, eyes cast under shadow by the weight of his helm and asking sympathetically, "Are you hurt?"
She doesn't look at her arm, or her leg for that matter, but says nothing. Instead, she merely shakes her head in a silent, deliberate 'no,' and discourages the dull ache emanating over her body. All was, be it now or soon, all was in fact… well. Her eyes quickly fled to Saphira's, listlessly noting already that the dragon had been watching her. Yes, now, all was well.
And I'm sure you'll be fine…
There was a grievance held within the Lady's voice as she muttered inconspicuously into the dark, "What is wrong with him?"
Arya kneeled over Eragon as he lay unconscious over the cold floor of Fienster's keep, face distorted painfully and brow inclined in the most unusual manor. "I haven't any idea." Concern etched her angular features. Not long ago they'd infiltrated the main vestibule of Lady Lorena's keep without delay. To her far right, near the northern wall by the balcony, Saphira lay hindered also by the unexplained occurrence rummaging their mentality, and she hadn't the faintest idea what to do. She looked ahead of her, stricken with apprehension and hesitancy, as she watched the three hooded figures mutter incoherent words of the ancient language in a versed semblance. The man scrambling helplessly at their feet, clutching his chest and pulling at his knees to no avail, only wallowed in wordless whispers too discreet for the ear.
She looked down once more, averting her attention. "Eragon…" she muttered quickly, strained and inapt through the inlet of her soft voice. The nameless man writhing continuously over the ground snarled abnormally. Arya looked up tersely, her hand tensing cautiously over the pommel of her sword. She grasped Eragon's arm, shaking him stiffly in her fruitless attempts to wake him, but he simply fell and wavered limply under her stern touch. "Get up. Get up now…"
Lady Lorena spoke again, "We have little time, elf. I fear for my subjects. If we were to leave now then…"
"We're not leaving." She interjected severely, looking again toward Saphira as her trepidation became more apparent by the waking minute of her anxiety. Eragon laid motionless, still and unbridled by reality, stooped within some unknown mania delved by whatever link he and Oromis shared. She knew only so much, so little, so few facts. Eragon hadn't been the most informative of this strange predicament, but persistence for the situation would've been foremost unwise given their whereabouts, and so she left it. But he lays now, still, harbored by something unfamiliar to her knowledge, and she could do nothing.
And as though waiting, forestalled by her unease and subdued under clarity, his eyelids carefully slipped open. Aided by disorientation, he was distraught and completely fatigued. Strange. She sighed willfully nevertheless, relief subtly coursing within her. To her right, she heard Saphira stir upon her riders wake.
There was another growl, menacing and all the more wretched as the hooded figures swayed and withered under their lingering expulsion. She grasped Eragon's forearm, still close to his body and moving to pull him up. He wavered somewhat as she moved to steady him, but the foreboding pool of strange air simmering around them feathered their thoughts continuously, and the darkness around them suddenly grew thick with gloom and despair.
The spellcasters muttered, resolves regained and intuitions flaunted, the need to act became quickly evident as Eragon straightened and stood purposefully at length toward the figures. He looked at her, once, a fleeting glance hammered into the darkness, and then moved to strike, and she followed after him.
She lies on the floor now, still, straying dangerously between the vast remnants of her plummeting consciousness and gasping helplessly. Eragon lay beside her, unconscious once more, barbed within the mania of his strange link, contorted and labored through each lasting moment. He wouldn't wake, he never answered her, and he was shaking. She reached for him, desperate to try and revive him, breathing heavily, frantic in her desolation, but was soon pulled back.
A sick twang of shock resounded throughout her as she felt a hideous grip form over her neck, constricting and completely disorientating. Before her mind could comprehend the sudden realization, she felt the little air within her quickly disperse from her feeble lungs as the hand hauled her into the air, and held her there. Pain, agony, misery, that's all there ever was. Deep, piercing, relayed jolts of unbearable pain igniting every able limb and small wound over her body.
She clawed at the hand, struggling helplessly against the strangulation, but the voice, already blurred through her stupefaction, immersed her ears like poison. "We see everything!" She kicked, cried out, but the hand closed in over her neck. Her eyes watered repressively. "We hear everything! The light, the darkness, the rotting, stale beings of this devoided world! What light we see, what life we see! It will be ours! All of it! And you will fall by the pitiless depths of our calamity!"
Breathing became difficult. Jarred and strained under the unremitting hand of its processor, she tried to breathe, tried to think, feel and see, but all ends seemed futile. The tight hold over her, abnormal and merciless, tightening within each desperate intake of air she seized. Everything stilled, everything weakened, and she suddenly felt hollow and incapable of anything.
"Such light we see!" It rasped pointedly, "You hold so much! Restrained, oh yes, restrained, hidden it is, but we see it clearly, and it will be ours! You will be ours! Our name is Varaug. Fear us!" With an able submission of energy already splintered through her exertion, Arya struck the shades elbow with the palm of her hand, hearing a break somewhere through the fog of tainted haziness, feeling the restraint falter slightly, momentarily, but not long enough. Fingers pummeled into her neck, her head throbbing and rupturing under the hold, resigned now, accepting. She knew the fight had ceased. Useless, pitiable, and hopeless, she succumbed to her fate. Her mouth opened slightly for the faintest of air, but it was never given. Her body ruptured violently.
"You shall die…" she heard feebly, dim now, distant. "You shall all die…" everything else, she thought, was simply lost.
And then she grabbed his wrist at one last attempt, closing her fist and breaking whatever her hand sought to wreck. She heard the lunacy within the rage, heard the tiring breaths of… someone… aimlessly fighting within the Shades mental capacity. She heard the sound of her own voice as she fell limply to the ground. She didn't linger. No sooner than she hit the floor the Shade was upon her, bellowing ceaseless remarks within a language she couldn't fathom beyond her coherence. She coughed, breathed hard, long and rough intakes, strengthening her vitality before commencing her sight to adjust. She crawled over the floor, evading the Shades attacks as he came to and forthwith, drawing nearer and nearer before crying out again suddenly. She looked up.
It was clutching its head, as though it was in pain. Her weary eyes sought sanctuary, reason perhaps, until they ultimately landed on the wavering form of Eragon. He was on the ground, kneeling over his hands, drawing breath and looking distraughtly at the Shade, fighting, attacking its mind… for her. She moved to get her sword, crawling feebly toward the pommel.
And then the Shade launched itself toward her. Unstable, compromised by Eragons relentless attacks over it, it fell on her as she moved to get up. She cried out, kicking and gouging blows at the Shade, competing for the sword as it struck her over the head. And then it drove back suddenly, reluctantly, kneeling contemptuously as it went limp, clutching its head once more as its maroon eyes glazed over dangerously. And then she heard Eragon, his voice bickered and weak, reeling her into reality as she took hold of the sword and stood audaciously.
"Get him!" Surging forthwith, a billowing cascade of ebony hair feathering through the darkness, she reared herself forward and pierced the Shade through its damned heart.
She fell, weak and tired, she fell hard and warily, sword wailing over the ground as her grip loosened. There was a light, a luminescent shade of red and white, hot and lucid under the skin of the nameless man, the dying Shade. Crying out, a fissure of distilled cadence pooled over the Shade and erupted, coursing and drilled through the night, and then the ignition of fire bellowed under the hollowed pressure. He split; he tore, until nothing remained. It was gone, the Shade was dead. Varaug was nowhere, nothing, anymore.
Slow now; her breaths are slow, stalled somewhat, but easing. She feels at peace suddenly, a warm sentiment, different and strange under the waking awareness of her thoughts. Arya blinks vapidly several times, swallowing, her throat raw with brisk air, swaying suddenly, her body limp, taut. She cannot move, she cannot speak. Her eyes are feathered weakly within a hazy blur before she feels the floor beneath her compress to the steady movements of someone slowly walking toward her. She leans frailly against a chair, stooped, her hand massaging her neck, when she sees him.
They don't speak at first, for she cannot. But he heals her. His hand gently encompasses her own as he murmurs the words carefully, weakly. The peculiar sensation brimmed beneath her skin, enveloping her, becoming her. It seemed awful discourteous not to accept it, wrong even, and completely stark. For the opportunity, however, given her state, she welcomes it. He asks her if it feels 'better,' and she is too elated to comply differently. She tells him yes, it is 'better,' and then she smiles. She allows a smile, a small, restricting smile through the panels of her hindered mindset, willing to favor it… for him.
But then he regrettably, dejectedly, tells her why he kept falling unconscious. And she cannot help it; she cannot help it at all.
What is it, perhaps? Alone. To be alone. The word itself, simple and yet all the more convoluted in depth, seemed to beggar beyond description. What did it insinuate?
At the horizon, beyond the colorless nadir of the mountains, the blood-dewdrop sun of the late afternoon pressed onwards over the serrated foothills, swelled, translucent, and cascading red and orange across the northern heavens. It was beautiful, a true tribute to the forlorn land, but ultimately flawed through every individual aspect of its envious enactment. There was no wind, no waking aura of fresh air to be had, no splendor to be met upon the knoll. It was simply… adrift, discarded perhaps, only moving unto the night, a natural delicacy of nature's refinement. But still, there was nothing to do, nothing to cherish, nothing to keep and adore through every lingering outlook of its progression.
And so she does nothing but look, listening for every feeble sound and reared by a fickle notion… until Arya bows her head, bit by bit, and allows the tears of her grief to somberly fall without heeding caution to its consequence. And that is where she stays.
The persisting silence of her anxiety crept over her like a wordless encumber of regret. Regret for her inability to control herself, her anger, her grief, her mounting weakness for this uncanny, new adoration she shouldn't feel. Regret for the times spent and mislaid in solitude, unable to recall them in both person and memory. Regret for everything and anything leading astray into the unknown, herself and others, falling somewhere inapt and too surreal to possibly distinguish… and the regret… the regret for the ones lost, for the fallen of today, and for the ones held dear to her inert heart. They were gone… perished and fallen, lifeless as the budding winds of yesterday. Consumed in death, passed through a listless void, Oromis now resides. And Glaedr… a reclusive whimper under the consternation of her tears… Glaedr was alone.
And she cannot help it; she cannot help it all. Sitting now, leaning despondently against a fallen willow over the secluded knoll, her head is bowed and her hands are knitted tightly through her hair, she allows her emotions, unkept and poignant under the heat of sorrow, she allows them to consume her, finally and succumbingly. They fall without trepidation, they fall without a will. Dominating, unmatched, and unbearably disheartening, they fall without conjecture. And she cannot… cannot help it.
Alone. To be completely alone. There were no words.
"We stay, for now." Nasuada's pronounced stance relayed the image of defined headship and capability as she stood before the peers of the council seated before her, but beyond the layers of obedience, tolerance, and precision, Arya knew she was weary. "The Empire is fully aware of our motives now," she continued sternly, eyes afoot toward the small, nestled audience of the main vestibule of Fienster's keep, "And I fully intend for them to perceive our instigation. The reduction of Fienster will be our warning to the Empire. The Varden is afoot, here and now. And in the mean time, as we replenish our strengths, we shall remain here. Lady Lorena has expressed her concern for her subjects, and I have taken into consideration her tie to the Empire. As a ploy, we shall feign her capture. Her oath to Galbatorix is indeed intricate to our cause, but to avoid unnecessary conflicts, Lady Lorena will simply remain in our stead, and in return, she will offer us resources and provisions, anything that the Varden can procure. Here, we remain, afoot and a pinnacle of reprisal… for now."
Subtly behind Nasuada, to her left, Arya stood passively, taut and silent as the hour prolonged, watching without an able measure of endurance to levy her will. To her right, Eragon stood, still and subdued upon the indecisive murmurs of the people around them, and there, like the poised disposition of his temperament, he waited silently.
As the ruling body conversed ever more deliberately, Arya's eyes timidly fell upon him, somber and yet completely resilient to the adamant voices relaying through the keep, watching him, considering him from afar. They hadn't spoken much since the siege, little or more then fickle whispers over the days of its passing, but it was to be expected, more or less. She knew he'd been dealt a vast misfortune upon his stability, but then, of course, so had she.
The death of Oromis and the segregation of Glaedr's Eldunari had, perhaps, become no more than an unspeakable notion relayed between those who knew the calamity, and to those who simply had no suspicion whatsoever, no inkling or familiarity of their existence. To define the causality of these events was, in itself, unspeakable. She herself could do no more than endure. She could only assume Eragon was enduring in his own manor of grief, lest he be sane enough to show it. Looking at him now, however, he showed little sign of his anguish, but then again, so did she.
There was some manner to rejoice, however, for Eragon was the son of Brom, not Morzan.
"How are we to be sure that Lady Lorena will deal in kind?" A voice rose amongst the others, a haughty looking man with a brown mane and shoulder-length tresses. His voice was grave and inert, pulling her back from her deliberation. He continued sternly, "How are we to be sure she'll resign her measures to us and not to Galbatorix? She has sworn allegiance to him, and therefore cannot be trusted! It would be daft to think otherwise, Milady. A prosecution must be detained, for her and her followers!"
"Lady Lorena is no more a threat then the arbitrating voices of this council," Eragon's own voice, a slight pervasive tone within the inlet of his words, formidable and unyielding. The room, alight and afoul with voices but a moment ago, suddenly ceased all diversion. Silence followed in his wake. "And for you doubt that…" he continued, "would be most certainly unwise. Would you presume to know the capacity of her virtue above your own, sir?"
"No…"
"Well then you have no say!" Arya watched, a sudden perplexity rising within her, as Eragons eyes glazed over decisively within a conduct uncanny to anything she'd noted beforehand. Still, as the budding voices of the room yielded under his authority, as did her own as she looked at him severely from the corner of her eye. "Tell me, sir," he said suddenly, "What is your name?"
The man, ever wistful under Eragon's scrutiny, paused hesitantly before answering reclusively, "Vicente Del'qu."
"Vicente…" it seemed as though the name held a bitter taste over his tongue, "Answer me this: Would you presume to know the trepidation of individuals even if they hid it beneath their guises? Answer me."
"No."
A smile, mirthless and somewhat keen. Arya was horrified by the act. "No, of course you wouldn't. Not even I can accomplish such a feat. But here you sit, unchallenged and pretentious under your own folly, and you presume to know a guilty mind when you see fit to guild one."
"If I may speak…" She waited for another indicative critique from Eragon, stooped upon his sudden flare of belligerence, but he merely stood there, unwavering and irritated under his own visionary semblance. He was waiting.
The man, Vicente, cleared his throat timidly, speaking almost faintly, "I've only ever insinuated my priorities and… assumptions through the Varden's best interest. If we consort with individuals sworn to the superiority of another, then we must act precise and ever vigilant. Lady Lorena, if somehow subdued by Galbatorix, will be forced under oath to reveal all and perhaps more. Surely you must see reason under this justification!"
Before Eragon spoke, Nasuada quickly intervened, "Lady Lorena is unaware of our intentions, and therefore cannot possibly reveal anything of significance. I am aware of the incidents, and so is she. If she is somehow apprehended, then yes… she will be forced to reveal all she knows, but she will be surely killed in the event. Her only request is to remain in the keep unharmed, as well as her subjects, and to know as little as possible. Nothing more. Surely, sir, you must see reason."
"She is a threat!" he suddenly bellowed, scowling, "We cannot afford to be forestalled by this atrocity! She must be dealt with!"
"And will you deal with it suitably perhaps?" Eragon, once more, seemingly subjected to some unknown stability of his aggression, harbored and diminishing under his vague façade. Again, under the eve of his voice, the room was silent. Arya was silent. "Will you impose it?" he continued, eyes afar in resentment, "Rightfully condemn her to something she may never inflict. Fittingly, appropriately, aptly under your own deeming assumption?"
And now Nasuada, once more, "Eragon…"
He ignored her. "Will you sit there and presume to know the distinction between right and wrong? How can you conduct yourself so indifferently from everyone else here? Perhaps if you were subdued, or I was subdued," his voice rose, "Perhaps if any one of us here were captured, what then? Will you have them dealt with accordingly under your own ruling? Perhaps you should be dealt with!" Arya slid into a state of mind that was not characteristic of her, especially with Eragon. He was absolutely serious. "You know more," he said, "you assume more, and you impose more of a threat than the Lady herself! Will that be suitable to your rightful insinuations?"
"Eragon!"
The perplexity that overcame her previously suddenly thickened to such an extent that she was no longer confused by Eragons aggression, but inexplicably confounded by him. He seemed relentless, unyielding and completely engulfed within his mania. Her mental comprehension, her capacity to understand was suddenly overwhelmed by what she was witnessing.
Breathing in suddenly, her hand guarded unknowably over the pommel of her sword, silent and pensive through the inlet of her stance, she strays carefully toward Eragon, ever mindful of the eyes watching her as she did so, and stops directly beside him. His petulant eyes, violent and wary in their wake, fell on her as she stood beside him, her back curtly turned to the council and head inclined to his as she watched him carefully.
It seemed as though her very presence sapped his anger and secluded its temperament. He watched, bewildered, eyes suddenly roaming to the gaping individuals seated before them, passively falling to Nasuada's and then reclusively back to Arya's. A quiet resignation seemed to build within him, looking down suddenly, closing his eyes, and then sighing. Any form of degree, any feigning rationality of his mentality, everything passed hesitantly over his face once, only once, but it was gone soon after. She didn't say anything, she didn't have to. He knew, and that was all that needed to be understood.
Doubtful now, hesitant still, he spoke timorously under his semblance, "I have… nothing further to say. Please, excuse me." And with another look toward Arya, distant and all the more resigned; he strode forth away from the table seating the council, eyes to the ground and distracted by some unknown ill constancy, and walked out of the vestibule.
Sufficiently composed despite the disputing tension harboring her being, Arya's eyes searched out Nasuada's, and when she did, Nasuada nodded once, only once in her direction, and that was all Arya needed to subside her reservations. Ever grateful for her assurance, Arya turned subtly, poised as though uncertain of every little action her mind delved, and followed after Eragon.
With the omnipresent moon tethered and adrift within the northern horizon, straining higher through the ashen clouds, occluding, and the residing stars wavering eternally within the night, Arya ultimately found herself sauntering inaudibly along the stone parapet of the keep, eyes abroad in silent wonder as they glazed conspicuously over the walls in search of Eragon.
She would have thought, or perhaps even envisioned somewhere along the line, that his sudden resignation over something as uncanny as his conscious was harbored within some form of resilience, a degree of fortitude. It was amiss. She could never think to presume his motives, or his act of reason for that matter, his sorrows, and his adversities… his regrets even. But lately however, upon some scarce concept of obligation anchoring her rationality, it seemed as though she simply wanted to… share them, with him…
And there he was, alone, on the cobbled ground and leaning against the parapet wall, staring without an able measure to her precluded awareness, or perhaps to his own. He could not see her.
Distinguishing his line of sight from here, noting how far away he seemed in thought, oblivious, without conjecture… it seemed his contemplation harbored some unknown diversity of intuition, something hindering his state of mind. Standing here now, watching him from within the darkness and in silence, she observed his bearings, the way he leaned forward disdainfully, head inclined; arms perched limply over his knees… she pitied him. He looked… lost.
Sighing faintly into the dark, dolefully closing her eyes and hand falling listlessly off the pommel of her sword, she concluded silently to herself that no matter, despite her own qualms, her unclear sentiments and vague understandings, no matter. Her regrets were her own, something akin to a lifeless reality, and she'd never resolve the subject of her distress by mere aloofness. No longer, nothing further, emotions lost and gained, felt and achieved, guarding them with indifference, no longer.
Seventy years… seventy years of tentative instances, variations of feelings too long kept hidden, sensations withdrawn and amiss. Too long now… and she'd never allow it to become of him. Her mistakes were her own, not his, never his.
Eventually, straying timidly through ambiguity and remoteness, she stepped quietly around the bend, stepping out from within the shadow and treading carefully toward him, her intentions vague, distinct, uncertain, but all the more apparent as she makes herself discernible under the night. Somewhere, upon the obscurity of darkness, thunder rolls upon the endless horizon.
A wind blew over her face, a numinous encircle of whispers without words or malady. And in the wind, within its course, was a light, something familiar as she drew closer to him. A luminosity of unspoken guidance carrying her weakly under the overshadowed moon. It was strange, surreal, and undeniably comforting. She couldn't explain it.
A hushed murmur upon the darkened hush, she speaks only faintly when she approaches him, "Eragon."
He looks up only once, weakly, a surpassing instant of hesitation bearing cruelly over his face for one moment, but discarded within another. She cannot see his eyes, the gentle iris', the kindhearted spirit lidded within his waving semblance, it wasn't there. He turns away from her suddenly, but the manner eludes her before she fathoms it. Without another word, without a feeble, non-impulsed objection or act of defiance to her presence… quietly, elusively, she seats herself beside him and waits. Simply… waits.
Rendered within quietness, yielded under the easing balm of the moonlight, she waits, content to simply sit there forever until he decided to speak. She doesn't recall the time, how long she sits there, the moments, the instances lasting onto the next, forestalled, perhaps even deferred under their silence. But as it passes subtly without an appraisement, she feels an easement, a slow simplicity flouting poignancy over his state of mind, and still she waits, still she's patient, only ever… still.
No apparent recollection of the seconds, no mounting assurance of the minutes, climbing further, further, onward, and numbing through the moments subduing her state of being, Arya says nothing, motions nothing, and imposes nothing.
And then, a succumbing sigh to her left, stalled, distorted, and she feels him shift suddenly as he lifts his head slowly. "I cannot…" he starts, the words seeming strained over his tongue, "I cannot… account for my actions," he breathes in, slowly shaking his head as he keeps his eyes to the ground. He laughs suddenly, a brief shock to Arya, but she remains quite. "Even now," he says, "Even now I cannot find the words to explain my belligerence. I feel like a fool."
"No," she says quietly, faintly, willing for him to hear the precision within her interjection. "Not a fool…" There was no accusation in her next words. "But certainly unfounded."
Pausing vaguely, nervously flicking his thumb over the pore of his finger, he said, "You'd see her judged then… Lady Lorena?"
"No, but will you ensure it?"
"My objections were my own, and without fault. That man has no sympathy, or conscious for that matter."
"And you have no command. Not with those people, not with Nasuada." Although she meant to be humane for his sake, the grievance held within her voice was easily discernible even if she acted to secrete it from him. It couldn't be helped no more then she'd permit it anyway. The melancholy fused within her astuteness, however, was only ever an intentional supplication for his own benefit, a subtle trepidation for his sake, but would he ever discern it?
Without feigning hindrance, frowning unexpectedly as she looks at him questionably from the side, and noting sadly, despite her assurance, that he was still looking away, still adrift, still… somewhere, other than here. She sighs faintly at his side. "It is not your place," she murmurs kindly.
He nods once, only once, slow and deliberate, seeming to understanding her words. "Perhaps… perhaps I am simply too forthcoming."
She smiles weakly, saddened by his allegation. "What is honest is never immoral or forthcoming, Eragon." She sighs, "It is merely a more… becoming approach, more or less."
"And my anger?" he asked, sounding doleful, "What of that? My resentment, the reckless antagonism?"
"Understandable."
"More?" he said suddenly, nearly inaudibly, a questionable doubt lingering under the inlet of his voice, "Or less?"
By his words, and under the tethered eve of darkness, she is silent. It took her strangely aback. For her imagination, as far veiled in hundreds, if not thousands, of different kinds of aspects of realism, had worked on the belief that Eragon was merely irritable, something she was familiar with, an emotion she could easily distinguish beyond his barriers. She had witnessed such a sentiment beforehand with Eragon, perhaps even beyond his own comprehension, but she noticed, even if he didn't. Perhaps, given the circumstances, he was merely being inconsiderate of this. She looked at him, still, and then, for the repeated time tonight, she sighs dejectedly into the night. No, she thought, not inconsiderate. No, something else harbored his thoughts.
As doubtfully concerned as ever, and without harboring any indication of an ill temper toward him, she lifts her hand, unsure at first, but then places it delicately over his forearm without another acknowledgment to her actions. "Eragon," she murmurs kindly, voice soft, considering, and undoubtedly worried. "What is amiss?" She remembers, reminiscing on past instances, she remembers asking him this once before, long ago in Ellesméra.
He doesn't say anything at first, but merely, he sits withered under his own silence. She watched him carefully, noting the subtle aspects of his being that would otherwise go without conjecture beforehand. His slight, disjointed pose whenever something ailed his thoughts. The simple, yet complex hint of oppression within his eyes whenever he felt miserable. And how something, as uncanny and reformed it may be, how that something, whatever that was, ultimately made her feel just as miserable when he could say all but nothing in its wake. It couldn't be helped. Could it ever be helped?
Thunder rolled within the distance, lingering and oppressive, and reeling closer. She could smell the humidity under the night, the faint, dappled moisture veiling through the air as it mingled in the growing hours of darkness. It would rain soon, she thought torpidly, looking now toward the sky and closing her eyes unexpectedly, breathing in now, and exhaling languidly as a soft caress of the wind brought her to normality.
And beside her, there was suddenly movement. She opened her eyes.
He was looking at her, strangely, leaning now against the wall as he studied her carefully under the dark, watching her, and searching. There was something different, something profound and undeniably strong hooded beneath his gaze, so much that she felt bare within the sudden glint of his careful scrutiny. At first, she doesn't know what to think, or how to act for that matter. It seemed distinctive, comforting somehow, and she couldn't understand why. What had changed, she wondered deliberately, what had happened to make her feel so… different? Yes, strange she thought, but all the more logical as she returned his gaze watchfully, purposefully, and saying nothing.
Despite the night, despite the change of aptitude to distinguish one able feeling from another, she knew now… more than anything. She knew, and she had no idea what to do.
There was something in his eyes now, something in the way his temperament and ail of feeling melded together. But there was something else too, something that made her soul fracture and wither as he looked at her still. She watched, fearful suddenly, concerned and utterly speechless, as he began to tremble slightly. His mouth parted silently as his head bowed passively, looking away from her now in what appeared to be an obvious shame. He was… crying. Words, as fickle as they may be, ultimately escaped her as she watched him with the utmost shock and resignation.
"I am alone." he said suddenly, voice timid, defeated by his grief. He shook his head. "We're alone and… I have no idea," he paused, looking away again and staring into the night. Clouds hid the moon, thunder echoed within the darkness. "I have no idea what to do," he whispered sadly, and she was nearly winded by his surety in the assumption. "Saphira and I, we have no one. We…" and now, as he pulled at his hair hopelessly, the all too familiar sentiment. Anger. "We have no idea what to do anymore." A pause, a small moment held within quietude, and then a sigh. "I'm lost."
And she cannot help it; she cannot help it at all. Unable to comprehend the sudden despondency encumbering her sensibility, she reaches out upon impulse, perched upon his grief and shifting toward him, moving closer… until her arms are around him and she's holding him against her, one arm over his shoulder, the other around his waist. No words were said between them as he bowed his head into the nook of her neck, only tender whispers uttered through wordless murmurs of comfort, and she leans her forehead over his own as she looks into the ashen night, wondering upon so many feeble things, looking onto the next, and sighing sadly as she holds him against her without conjecture.
She breathes in, a whisper, "Oromis," a slight pause, "You tread upon a fickle belief of abandonment and trepidation… because of Oromis and Glaedr? Because of their deaths?" Glaedr, she thought, was better off dead…
"I am the last," he said faintly, succumbed to his demise, forlorn. "I am the last free rider of Alagaësia… and I am without virtue or advantage to the ones who are not, and I have no idea what to do."
"You are afraid?"
He laughs passively, empty of merriment. "I've been afraid all my life, Arya." he said timidly, rigid and aloof against her touch, "The simplest things, be it trivial or immense… I merely tend to keep the larger ones at bay while the smaller fight to control me. And even then, I fear that one day… be it tomorrow or another day, one day I fear it'll consume me until I know nothing but hate and oppression. And it will happen, Arya, one day, sooner or later, one day we'll fall, and one day we'll have nothing. There's no hostility in this… only truth."
"And you speak as though it's already tampered with you."
Another pause. "And perhaps… it has."
Silence, subdued by their proximity, and anchored by their willingness to keep it. She thought, perhaps even assumed, that he'd remain stooped over his ill manor of discomfort, but as the time grew and as the night drifted and the humidity dropped to a more heated degree, she began to feel him relax against her, and through time, she did too. Head inclined against the camber of her neck now, as though a sibling to another, two to one, framed and together in a silent, prolonged amity of comfort.. There were simply… logically… no words to define them.
He needed solace, a comfort beyond anything else, and even if he didn't ask for it, she'd give it, again and again. She'd give it.
It disturbed her somewhat, that he could speak so openly about the uncanny demise of hope and faith, however. She had always perceived him to be accepting, unhindered by reality and willing to condone the calamities that fought to distress him, but now, however… she honestly had no idea what to think anymore. He was a puzzle, in every way deemed perplexing, an enigma. And it disturbed, albeit, maybe even confounded her, how alike they truly were when all else seemed utterly vague in comparison.
Thunder once again, resounding, absolute and untimely loud. She sighs.
And when he looks up suddenly, reviving whatever mentality he had beyond the realms of his anguish, he moves away, only slightly, but enough nevertheless. A subtle shift of posture, a forestalled awakening to the sudden awareness harboring each and every individual strain of her being, she suddenly feels his hand take hold of her own, delicately as though feeble, and rests them both timidly between them as they linger profoundly through silence once more, her watching him from the emerald inlet of her eyes, and he her, through the auburn band of his idle gaze. No words, soundless whispers, able thoughts and subtle murmurs of quite recognition… just silence.
He breathes in, looking down once more and then again to her. "Thank you," he said faintly, a smile now, just beneath the surface of his voice, small, but there nevertheless. His smile.
Softly, under the haze of the ashen clouds and starless night, the rain began to fall.
One more smile, an elusive shift of ardency and faith taking hold and rearing into fulfillment, she weakly, if not deliberately, tightens her grip over his hand and languidly, fondly, leans her head over the taut blade of his shoulder and closes her eyes contently as the rain fell delicately over their bodies. And she can feel his head lean over hers in the escalade of familiarity, the perception and the attentiveness, she could feel everything. Enrapt and subsisting within the solitary ease of one another, together, hand in hand, they are still. Not a care in the world, no figment of irritation to the rain or things to come. No, only them.
And for now, that's all they truly needed.
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