Disclaimer:
All is C.P.'s but my fleeting thoughts' journey into a wonderful world faraway.
A/N:
Well, here it is, finally. And it is not edited as much as I normally do, so I may put up a revised version later on – I wanted to get it out, especially as I got PM's asking about the progress … never had that happen before. I apologise for the extreme delay, but I have to say, writing from Arya's POV is really hard. It was the point where I was stuck for a very long time. After that, I wrote the other 2/3 of the chapter in like four or five days. And yet again, it turned out twice as long as I anticipated.
Anyway, I think about the only thing that saved me from completely binning that first part was that I knew exactly how I pictured Arya for this story. It helped to decide between 'Yeah, that sounds about right' and 'No, that isn't Arya at all.'
The problem was, of course, that in 90 percent, it was the latter.
However, I think I now have found a style that works for me. I'm writing her mostly from the outside, so what defines her will be her actions and words, as opposed to her thoughts. That means not everything will be spelled out; you have to create your own view of her based on what I give you; but for me, that works better. Or maybe it is the only way that works at all. It seems like the ultimate character trait – Arya is unapproachable, even for the writer. The style of this chapter reflects that.
Then, number one of the list that shows you did something right: Another FF-author whose stories you enjoyed pops up at your Alert list. So if you're reading this, Brant, I'm honoured that I have your interest. Your story was the very first time I tried something that was labelled 'AU', and it made me interested in reading more; so much so, that now I'm writing my own, albeit in German. I'm a member of your Yahoo-Group, although not very active.
Really, though, I like all of you nice people who read my story and maybe even left a review or added me to a C2. I think I replied to everyone, even if it took me some time – the only exception was mightiest rider; somehow the mail address you gave me didn't work.
At any rate, I knew there was a reason I started writing in English. The response to the first chapter alone was greater than the one to my German story as a whole. Thanks, to all of you.
Finally, to this chapter.
After reading it, you might realise that each starts off with an episode of Arya's life. This one has a strange history. I had finished writing the scene, when it all suddenly felt familiar. Wasn't there something similar in the books? So I got my Eldest book, and, yes, there it was; the chapter titled 'Arrow to the heart'.
And here it became interesting: I wanted to show a very specific side of Arya, that I was sure was in her character, somewhere, although at that time I didn't find it in the books (read my scene, and you know what I mean). So when I later discovered that chapter in Eldest again, it was a very satisfying experience to be proven right.
But what was more, I remembered that when I first read Eldest, that chapter didn't make much sense to me – it seemed so random, I thought, and served no real purpose. But now, I had given myself the answer – it's an integral part of Arya's character, and C.P. wanted to show it in the same way I did here (Well, rather the other way round, but I swear I didn't remember any of the chapter as I wrote my scene). 'Arrow to the heart' is indeed a very important chapter, maybe even a key chapter if you want to understand Arya.
Two more things, before I shut up: One, Arya may seem to have a very anti-human stance here, but that isn't quite the case, it's just her reaction to the horrible things she's seen. Elves are superior to human in many ways, especially after Galbatorix began his tyranny; remember that scene where Nari and Lifaen tell Eragon how much of the human culture has been lost since then?
And two, every time Eragon and Arya are alone and it is not specifically stated otherwise, they speak in the Ancient Language.
Edited for spelling and grammar and reposted.
2. Flying
Happy laughter pealed through the sturdy old trees of the forest of Ellesméra. A young girl, maybe ten years old by human standards, broke through the green leafs of the birch-trees that lined the edge of the clearing, running fleet-footed over the lush grass of the sun filled glade, her black hair waving behind her.
She laughed again, a beautiful sound; like a mockingbird, full of happiness and joy, praising the pleasure of life; or like the gurgling of a fresh, clear stream, jumping over the pebbles in its bed of moss.
Her feet carried her across the meadow, on the playful chase of a butterfly in brilliant colours of dark blue and gold, her green eyes sparkling, wide with delight. She felt the warm grass under her bare feet, tickling it, smelled the flowers of the summer, and tasted the sunshine; she felt so full of life, so free, so gloriously summer-like.
So fast she ran that it almost seemed like she was flying, her soles never touching the ground, her eyes fixed on the butterfly; she watched it flying higher, as it shimmered in the sunlight, until she lost the small, bright dot against the equally blue sky. Only then she stopped, and looked around.
Her ears picked up a sound, something like a screech, but barely above the low rustle of the leaves in the summer-breeze. Curiously, she turned, bent twigs aside and entered the forest once more. She could see clearly in the dim rays of light that filtered through the treetops, as clearly as in the sun-bathed clearing, but there was nothing. No movement was visible between the shadows of the trees.
She extended her awareness, encompassing everything, every life, animal or plant, around her. The trees hummed their sleepy tunes, ancient and wise, a continuous ebb and flow, like the wind that gently rocked them, back and forth. Then there were small insects, buzzing here and there, seemingly without any sense or order, yet all part of greater entity, if one knew where to look.
And then, there was something that disturbed the quiet peace, like a shrill scream. She felt it like a stab with knife in her back. Hurt. So much hurt.
She recoiled from it, but soon pushed against her instinct. She had to help it, wherever it was. She gritted her teeth and focused solely on this being, until she saw it in her mind clearly, as bright a light as a lone candle in the dark, pointing out a direction in which to go. She tracked it, deeper into the forest, ducked under low-hanging branches, jumped over roots, never noticing that she was running almost as fast as she could, until the last bushes gave way to a small, nearly circular forest lake.
The dark green trees that surrounded it were reflected on the surface, and gave the water a blackish hue. Taking a step further towards the perfectly still lake, she bent over it; seeing only the pale reflection of her face and her green eyes staring back at her, like from within a dark mirror; everything deeper than the foremost surface hidden and shrouded in darkness.
Whatever secrets the inky depths of the lake held, it didn't part with them freely, would hold onto them and give anyone attempting to unveil the mysterious live beneath the surface as hard a struggle as it possibly could …
She shook her head to clear her thoughts, entranced by the vision of the lake between the trees. She continued searching … there was the feeling again. In its intensity, it almost brought her to her knees. She never knew there could be so much pain in the world.
She jumped up and ran along the shore, around the lake, until she reached a spot of reed. There, clearly visible in a sharp contrast to the glossy lake, was a bright, beautiful snow-white swan, lying partly in the water, among the reeds.
Never in her life had she seen anything more beautiful, and at the same time so heartbreakingly sad. Its left wing was completely torn, feathers floating on the water like little snowflakes, others dyed ruby red, for the swan laid there bleeding, from countless gashes all over its body.
Never again would the swan glide majestically over the water, like she had seen it so many times before. Never again would it rise up high into the sky, flying freely, fast as the wind. There was not enough life left; she felt its essence in her mind, slowly waning, fading into nothingness. It didn't even have the strength left to keep its neck up, the head simply rested on a patch of moss, exhausted and still. Only the small eyes seemed to beg her for help, and she so dearly wanted to, though she didn't know how.
What a cruel thing to do to such a pure animal, almost as if something had tried to rob it of its beauty by disfiguring and defiling it, and yet, even in death, the magical aura of peace and beauty was not gone, but more present than ever.
No! She pushed these thoughts away. She could not let it die, she had try - had to help …
She kneeled beside the swan and plucked a bit of the Bluemoss, pressing it onto the open wounds, as she knew it had minor healing abilities and stopped bleeding. She tried summoning her magical energy that she only just had started learning to use.
Waíse Heill!
In her mind, the essence flickered. The pain rushed through her, she gasped; but she needed to know where the swan was hurt to make it better, she couldn't let go.
A small wound on the breast started to heal itself, though it wasn't nearly enough, and she didn't know any other spell to heal, so she said the words again and again, each attempt more desperate than the one before.
Waíse Heill!
Waíse Heill!
The pain it brought to the swan was nearly unbearable to her, she felt the tears hot on her cheeks, and the magic rushing out of her to do her bidding, and yet it was no use. The time came, when the swan moved its head for the last time, and since she was still connected with it, she felt its dying in all clarity. The moment when it took its last breath. The moment its little heart fluttered and halted. The moment she stopped sensing it, the moment it stopped feeling pain.
She hadn't cried since Evandar's funeral, not when she fell from a tree and sprained her ankle, and not when her mother chided her so often for not behaving like a princess these days.
But now, fresh tears streamed down her face, and sobs racked her small frame, as she sat down by the edge of the lake. The feeling of loss, loss of a life, so privately witnessed, stood above all else. She had tried as hard as she could, tried all that she knew, and it still hadn't been enough. Even more, her desperate attempts to heal it with magic hadn't made it all better, but only added to the swan's pain. Instead of helping it, like it had begged her to do, she had only prolonged its suffering.
She felt the cold and uncaring touch of the hard, gnarled hand that was reality for the first time. It was a harsh lesson of life to learn, even if she barely began to realise it. Not every broken thing could be fixed, not everyone could be saved. Magic was not all-powerful.
At times, one had to push one's feelings aside, or even act against them. And there were situations in which death was more merciful.
Arya's hair was streaming behind her openly, like a banner in the air. She had her legs fastened on Saphira with the leg-straps, and her arms around Eragon's waist. Deep down below, Saphira's shadow jumped over rocks and bushes, as they were flying fast through a narrow green valley, with snow covered mountaintops around them, blinding white in the sun.
Farthen Dûr had been left two days ago, bright and early; even before the dawn had fully broken, and Arya was exceptionally glad to be away from the glum atmosphere that had reigned the dwarven city. She would have admitted it to no one, but all the crying and mourning dwarves made her uncomfortable. She didn't know how to handle it, it was too much emotion, too openly displayed. It made her feel strangely awkward, it was the reason she disliked funerals, be it human, dwarf, or even elfin. Everyone around her was so out of control.
But now, as she sat on Saphira's back, all that was gone, left behind in the City of Stone or maybe down on the earth beneath. Flying was an exhilarating experience; it made her feel more free and alive than she had for a long time.
Inadvertently, her thoughts turned to the source of her raised spirits, below her, and the person she held onto in front of her. Saphira and Eragon. They had come a long way. Not even ten moons had passed since Saphira had hatched, and yet the difference between now and then was every bit as great as the difference between human and elves, as they said.
An apt comparison, considering what happened, Arya thought, amused with herself.
From a somewhat weak human boy and an inexperienced dragon, they had grown to be a valuable asset in her folk's and the Varden's fight against Galbatorix; and she recognised them so.
She remembered well that this hadn't always been the case.
When she spoke to Eragon for the very first time, on their desperate journey to Farthen Dûr, his attempts to converse in the Ancient Language had been clumsy, and his mind had felt simple and rough.
Once she had recovered from the poison enough to think clearly, yet not enough to rise from her bed, she had spent long hours thinking about the both of them. It had helped her to stay calm, because lying in her bed, even if it was for just two days, slowly being nursed back to health by the healers, made her feel useless, helpless, and, above all other, weak.
The Rider and his dragon had occupied her thoughts then, helping her to keep clear of that all too familiar darkness that crept around the edges of her mind. She spoke with Ajihad a few times, and began asserting the new situation, as was her task as an ambassador.
She had had her doubts immediately once she learned of the race of the new Rider. It seemed such a waste to have a gift so great bestowed upon someone so … human. It seemed as if all their hopes would have to be laid to rest - how could this boy possibly be what they so despairingly needed? There simply wouldn't be enough time to turn him into a Rider strong enough to defy Galbatorix. Even more, it wasn't sure that he ever would be able to, even with all the time in the world.
She had almost begun questioning the choice of the dragon, and even said as much to Ajihad.
But he had shaken his head, and she remembered his words well.
"For seventy years now you have been a most valuable counselor for the Varden's cause, for my predecessor's cause and later mine. So maybe it is only the nature of things that there would come a time when the roles are reversed. In this one instance I believe you are wrong, Arya Svit-Kona. He can be exactly what we need, and maybe he already is - you owe him your life. Brom himself taught him. I spoke with him."
He had looked at her, earnestly, from upon the chair beside her bed.
"So my advice, if you want to have it, is thus: Speak to him as well, and look deeper. You'll see what I mean. Do not judge before that."
So she taken it upon herself to meet him on the sparring field, where his magic and swordsmanship would be put to the test. He deserved that much at least, she was in his debt for saving her life. It was the first time she truly saw him, as she watched him carry out the tasks assigned to him by the unnamed twins. He was a master by no means, neither of magic nor of the Ancient Language, but something in the way he used both reminded her of Brom of Kuasta.
It was this which made her pause and study him for a moment, and decide to claim the trial by arms for herself. And it was then, that he first managed to surprise her. He proved to be stronger and lasted far longer then she would have thought; he was no match for her as no human would be for any elf, and only few elves could match her, but he was much better than any human she had met before.
So she had been wrong, he had proved her so.
And therefore, she had apologised to Saphira for her earlier thoughts, that being nothing less than what the dragon deserved, and herself not too proud to admit it; and offered her her friendship.
Then she spoke with him, and saw what Ajihad meant; he showed a strange mix of an endearing naïveté in some ways, and an unusual inner strength in others.
He was not as jaded and bitter as the humans here with the Varden tended to be, or many of those she met on her journeys throughout Alagaësia; where the tyranny of Galbatorix had left its mark on those that lived in his country, for under his rule, many humans had become just as wrenched as he was. Seventy years she had spent traveling Alagaësia, outside of Du Weldenvarden, and she had seen a great many things; and even if she was barely more than a child by elfin measures, in regards to humans, she was convinced she'd seen it all.
She had seen humans commit atrocities she would have thought unthinkable, fathers turning on sons, brothers onto each other; even violent deaths brought to those that should have been cherished the most, children. No elf had or would ever turn onto one of their own kind in this way, and least of all onto those that were the most innocent of all.
No elf would ever try to force himself onto a female as she had seen it a many times, and experienced herself in Gil'ead. Humans did all that, and more.
During her time with the Varden, she had seen an entire generation of humans being born and die, watched as they grew up from babies to children to old men, watched their lives, their games of power, be it in the Council of Elders, where it was political power on a large scale, or just everyday power, rivalries over money, pride and women.
But in the end, she found that nothing remained; they all died sooner or later, and all their power did them nothing good where they went, and those that they had left behind eventually forgot them, and a new generation came and took their places, and the cycle started anew.
Eragon, though, was different. He had surprised her then, and continued in doing so, like no one she'd met, human or elf, had managed before. Both in good ways and bad; he had risen to the challenge of his training in a way she had not thought possible, far exceeding her expectations once more, and he had been infatuated with her and pursued her with a persistence she again had not thought possible.
Until finally, that one day in her rooms in Tialdarí Hall when he complimented her poem, she had come to realise why: she still saw him the way she did they met for the first time, a human boy, talented and special, but a human boy nonetheless.
But he had changed, again, as he seemed to be doing so often these days; the only constant being the change. And so, she had apologised, again, and from then on out judged him as she would any other elf, for that was what he was now, she had realised; and tried to shove away the implications that came with this realisation.
And haltingly, almost despite herself, she had put more and more hope onto his shoulders, that maybe, just maybe, with his help the war could be won and Galbatorix vanquished; a hope for times when further there would be no hope left, a gleaming beacon of light when the last candle had died, and the world had fallen into darkness.
Never had she felt that more clearly than when he had been missing after the Battle at Du Völlar Eldrvarya, and she wasn't able to find him; yet he returned later once the fog had lifted, beaten, outworn, yes, but alive.
So that was what was leading her up to what she thought of him now: an elf, a Rider, a capable fighter in his own regard, and, strangely enough considering the short time she'd known him, a friend; one of the few she had.
Saphira made a sudden dive, and she instinctively gripped Eragon tighter, before she angrily cursed herself for her reaction.
She touched Eragon's mind, only to find a solid wall preventing her from accessing it. Exasperated, she searched for the weakest point, before piercing through; she was a strong spellcaster, after all, but she realised, surprised, how much of a strain it put on her. Eragon was more adept than she expected.
Hurriedly, before he could throw her out again, she projected her thoughts into his mind.
Eragon! Don't fight me, it is I, Arya!
The squeezing sensation that had gripped her receded and she relaxed.
I am sorry, Arya; you startled me.
In that case, I apologise as well, Eragon. Only, it is much more reasonable to converse this way than yelling over the wind, don't you think? Your mental defences are stronger than I expected, though.
She felt his surprise and something else, before he succeeded in pushing it away.
Thank you, Arya. Oromis-elda trained me quite thoroughly, although it seems I am still no match for you.
A bit of amusement filtered through the link, and she smiled a little as well.
But then, I have yet to meet anyone that is.
His words struck her oddly, he still managed to surprise her, and she didn't know what to think about that. It was a moment before she responded, though once she answered, it was almost reflexively.
In all the time we were together, you saw me but in situations requiring the few fields I chose to excel in. I am woefully lacking many other skills others would deem to be essential and you would find quite naturally amongst my kind in exchange. I am not perfect, Eragon.
She felt his calm thoughts and feelings float around her presence in his mind, pictures of the past, pictures of her.
I never said you were.
You thought it, once.
It wasn't a question but a statement.
Yes, he said simply, and she wondered about his newfound candour.
You were an elf.
One sentence to sum up a hundred reasons, meanings, accusations even - even though she felt what he wanted to convey with his words. There was no accusation in it, it was just a statement, a truth describing the circumstances, nothing beautified, nothing emoted.
Just like her last sentence. Just like she did so often.
That realisation struck her, again; and she thought she detected the tiniest hint in it; an almost-but-not-quite-apology, because of what it made him think of her, but then, he couldn't have known any better, at that time; and no one should have to apologise for what they were.
And so, she didn't forgive him; simply because there was nothing to forgive, not for that. She understood, and what was more, she knew that he understood; and for the blink of an eye, there was a connection between them, far exceeding the one temporarily forged by magic.
An odd silence settled between them and time passed, with only the wind whipping across the elf, the rider and his dragon; the beating of muscular wings, up and down; the last snow-capped mountains, in whose frosty realm they had spent the last two days and nights, slowly falling behind them and leaving rolling hills in front of them and to their left, well on their way to summer - light green with scattered patches of darker green in the distance, woods.
Far on the northern horizon, to their right, was the yellow-brown band that was the Hadarac Desert.
That wasn't what I was meant, though.
She was pulled from her thoughts, startled, and for a moment had no idea what he was talking about. Matches.
I was merely talking about your proficiency in magic and your swordsmanship, but I think it is true in more general terms nonetheless. Isn't the match of someone somebody that not only matches the strengths, but also the weaknesses? But you would know more than I about that, I suppose.
Arya didn't answer, and said abruptly: I noticed Saphira diving earlier, and now we're flying almost at tree height. What is the matter?
Saphira spotted some soldiers from the Empire, a league or so ahead. We dived, and put the forest between us and them, so that they would not spot us.
Soldiers!, exclaimed Arya, angry with herself for being so lost in thoughts that she didn't notice the hostile forces. We will have to be careful, then. It would be detrimental for us were we seen.
We may not have a choice, said Saphira, who had been silent until now. Short of stopping and waiting for them to pass, that is. The forest doesn't stretch on long enough for us to outdistance them to a point where they wouldn't see us in front of them. If we both keep our current paces, we meet on the same level once the forest ends.
Arya suppressed an oath. How many?
Two dozens, at least. But it could be up to as much as a hundred, there was no way to tell for sure.
What do you think, Arya? Eragon asked, and she contemplated the situation.
We should try to discern how many there are. We can't decide what to do without the necessary information.
Eragon nodded, and Saphira turned to the right, flying barely above the tree tops. They landed in a clearing, roughly in the centre of the forest, full of bright flowers. Eragon and Arya dismounted Saphira, who waited patiently for them to reach the ground.
"Saphira will stay," Eragon said, and Arya nodded.
They entered the cool forest silently. It was much lighter than Du Weldenvarden, mostly birch trees and alder that gave off an airy feel, rather than an oppressive one. It was nearly as bright here as outside of the trees, a soft, golden light that seemed to penetrate every nook and cranny, stemming from the rays of sunlight that glittered through the green leaves and painted a thousand shadowy patterns on the floor below.
Eragon and Arya walked side by side. No one besides them was underway in the forest. Arya detected only a few animals; a russet squirrel scurried lightsome over the dry leaves on the ground and up a nearby tree, and the hammering of a woodpecker far away to their right resounded throughout the forest.
Their path led them continually uphill, towards the other end of the forest, when Arya smelled the faintest trace of smoke. She noticed Eragon tensing on her left; he, too, had recognised the typical acrid, pungent smell of burning.
Soon after that, the trees gave way to a dry meadow; they had reached the border of the forest. They crouched in the cover of the last bushes, on top of a hill, from where they had an unhindered view over the land stretched out in front of them. The grassland sloped down and ended on a small village a few hundred feet below them.
And the village was burning.
Orange flames licked almost every building. Billows of inky smoke rose towards the sky, and amassed in a thick, black cloud that began to cover the village. Men, women and children were running frantically between the houses, trying to escape the deadly firestorm, only to get caught in the clutches of the soldiers.
Arya was able to spot those small details in the distance easily, and concentrated on counting the armed and uniformed men.
"There are more than fifty men of the Empire there", she said quietly. "It looks like they'll be occupied in the village for some time; it should be enough for us and Saphira to slip by unnoticed on the other side of the forest."
Eragon didn't answer. She turned to look at him, and found his face rigid.
"No."
Arya raised an eyebrow.
"What will happen, were we to leave them to their own devices?"
"You know that, so why ask?"
He shot her a look. "The village will burn down to the ground, some will get killed in the fire, others by the soldiers, and if there is a rest, we'll find them as slaves on the market in Dras-Leona. You are willing to accept that?"
Arya's voice never faltered, it was clear and precise. "In exchange to us being unharmed und still unspotted, yes."
He looked at incredulously.
"We can't let them die!"
She fixed him with a cold glare, her eyes like shimmering shards of green ice, boring into his.
"Yes, we can, if it means an unnecessary risk for our actual task and the future as a whole otherwise. Listen to me, Eragon. We have neither the strength to take them all, nor the time to do so. Trying it anyway would be foolish, and gain us nothing but a high risk of being severely injured in the fight and the very possible chance of at least one soldier escaping and word getting back to Galbatorix concerning our whereabouts.
"We're flying on a direct route to Helgrind, so if his spies were to tell him were we went after the battle, he only needs to follow our path from the Beor Mountains to here and ends up directly at Dras-Leona, awaiting us there. He can't know about our destination. You mustn't get caught. Without you to aid the Varden, all is lost."
More gently, she told him: "Let it go, Eragon. This it what Galbatorix does. Most likely one villager incurred his ire, and he decided to erase the whole town. It's been that way for as long as he has been king, and it will continue to be that way for as long as he remains. It is the reason why we fight, but we can't save everyone."
He looked at her, furious.
"Not everyone, no, but those that are here! You may be willing to condemn a whole village to death, but I'm not. I let it happen once. I'll be damned if I let it happen a second time, not when I'm there and able to make a difference!"
He jumped up from behind the shrubs, and started to run down the hillside.
"Eragon! No!"
But he didn't heed her words. She clenched her fist, angrily, as she watched him running quickly across the meadow, heading straight for first burning farms.
"Barzûl! Eragon, you fool, why can't you listen?"
Arya jumped up as well, and followed him downward towards the burning village. He would need all the help he could get, especially since she hoped he'd been wise enough to tell Saphira to stay out of sight in the clearing. Two elves were unusual enough, but there was only one blue dragon in the whole of Alagaësia.
She recognised the tactic used by the soldiers; she had seen it often enough during her travels throughout Alagaësia. They set the buildings on fire to drive the people out of their homes and cut off most of their ways out. Then they herded them along the only one or two paths still open, directly into the arms of their waiting comrades.
Arya crossed the meadow quickly, but Eragon was fast as well; he reached the first burning house when she was still only halfway there.
She saw the sheets of fire parting, the flames dancing in an unseen wind, making room for him to move through. Behind him, the flames rose anew, and she lost sight of him. She started to run faster.
She arrived soon after him, and didn't bother much with getting the right words together. She simply reached out for her magic and forced it into shape, felt it flowing through her and commanded: "Vindr!"
A wind picked up and did as was her bidding; it twirled in a vortex around her, parting the flames on both sides as she stepped through the fire unharmed. The streets in front of her were filled with the same thick, black, smoke that lingered over the city. Even she couldn't see in this place farther than two paces ahead. So instead, she closed her eyes, and the world around her vanished; now purely relying on what she could detect with her mind.
The narrow street held six humans, three were together to her right, one to her left, each seemingly in burning houses. She felt their pain, but concentrated on the other two. Everything else shifted into the background, as she walked straight ahead through the street, with her eyes shut and her mind connected with those of the two soldiers.
They were waiting further ahead, about three paces apart from each other. She guessed that they would be standing on either side of the street, which told her where the street ended, and houses began.
Arya drew her sword, and ran the last part, making almost no sound at all. She reached the soldier to her right, and felt in his mind that he had discovered her. The blow to her hip he planned to strike she blocked before he had even begun to execute it.
She sensed the second soldier running towards her, his sword pointed at her back. She trusted her instincts to warn her about any threat, so she spun around, with a light smile, as she felt her hair whipping around her and the steel of her sword pressed coolly against her palm; remembering her earlier thoughts about flying. Times like these, right here and now, in the midst of a fight, were the other times she truly felt alive.
Her breathing, in and out, light footfalls, and the clanging of their swords meeting, as she blocked the attack … She twisted her blade and felt a deep gash appear on his front, sending him stumbling backwards.
She turned and ducked under an approaching blade, the next blow of the first soldier. She thrusted her own sword upwards, straight to his heart. In a flowing movement, Arya pulled the sword back out, and placed most of her weight on her left foot. She spun back, using her momentum to behead the second one. The whole fight had barely lasted a minute. Then, her eyes snapped open.
Both soldiers lay dead in front of her. The smoke was absent; she turned back and frowned. A few feet from where she stood, the smoke ended abruptly as if it were hold at bay by some sort of barrier.
She reached out with her mind once more, trying to cover the entire village. She brushed against a guarded mind, so Eragon - but, no, she realised, that wasn't him. She smiled grimly. Someone indeed did manipulate the smoke. There was another person proficient in the use of magic here, other than Eragon and her. The dynamics of the fight had just changed completely.
With a few words in the Ancient Language, she layered a couple of wards around her, and was torn about her further course of action. On one hand, the magician was the greatest threat, and consequently the most important target, on the other hand she had to find Eragon, who was quite some ways ahead of her.
She hesitated before she finally went to look for Eragon.
The wooden village houses she quickly passed now were already reduced to a pile of ashes. No ordinary fire burnt that fast; she could feel the lingering traces of magic. And no one was alive in there. A gust of wind travelled down the street and blew up the dust and ashes. It rustled softly in her cloth, but otherwise, there was an eerie silence.
She started to run. The villagers were at the other end of the town, Eragon was there as well.
She never saw the next five soldiers coming, out of a side street. She had no warning, until they had surrounded her, she hadn't felt them. She tried to access their minds and found that she couldn't, something blocked her. With a start, she realised that she couldn't feel Eragon anymore, either.
The first attack from behind impacted in her ward. She felt the loss of energy as it absorbed the blow. She countered it, but never managed to reach them. She raised her left hand, releasing a sparkling green fireball in the size of her fist. It raced towards a soldier, but shortly before it should have exploded on him and blown him out of the way, a purplish shield flared into existence around him and disintegrated the fireball. Apparently, the unknown magician her reacted to the new thread.
Arya cursed angrily. She didn't have the time to play with them, she had to find Eragon, and they had obviously been sent to detain her from doing just that. She slashed her sword a few times across their wards, and sent them stumbling. Thank the stars that they are all but incompetent, she thought and jumped through the created opening. They followed her, but could never keep up with her as she continued to run down the road.
At its end, she reached what seemed like the village square. It was full of people. On the far side, a few of the soldiers kept the villagers huddled together, interrogating them. Those that didn't answer to their satisfaction were pulled aside and executed. A growing pile of bodies was attesting to that.
Arya forced herself to look away. In the middle of the square, next to a destroyed well, was Eragon. He was surrounded by at least ten soldiers all the time, and even though there were many lying dead on the ground, there were still at least thirty more. Those that fought him now, however, had the same wards she had detected earlier, and it was obvious that he would lose the fight sometime soon.
Eragon fought with his swords as well with magic, she saw him hurling stone pieces of the broken well-curb at the soldiers. He was trying to bring the magician to drop the wards by overextending them. And it seemed to work. More often than not, a ward fell, and he made short work of the soldier. Yet each time he did, a new man stepped up to take the place of the fallen, and Eragon had to be tiring at some point in the future.
She jumped straight into his battle in an attempt to attract the attention to herself. Her sword sang as it twirled though the air, and soon she was fighting at least ten soldiers herself as well. They pressed onwards, and she had to fall back.
She lost sight of Eragon once more, as she was pushed to the other side of the square and into another road, and fought in what seemed like a stalemate for a long time, as neither side could land any fatal blows; but slowly, more and more men were left without the magical shields, and they were no match for her with their swords alone. Her blade moved in a blur; slashing, twisting; she jumped lightly from place to place with the grace that was common to all elves and made any movement seem so effortless.
Finally, she felt all wards fail completely. She decimated the soldier's ranks fast. Only two men were left, when she felt one of them coming up behind her. She was about to turn around, when he already pulled her towards him. She felt his hot breath on her neck, when he seemed to stop short. His left hand moved upwards, coming to rest on her breasts.
"Eh, Yanneck, ye'll not be believing this. This one's a woman," he called to the other one, who snorted.
"Dream on, Derril. Ye'nly wish it were. Happens te me all the time."
The first groped her harshly, through her breast harness.
"I know what I's feeling. A elf-woman, no question. Must be together with tha' other elf."
The one named Yanneck came closer.
"Really, now? Can 'ave a bit o' fun with her, can't we? Always wanted te try a elf."
"Remove your hand from my body", Arya ordered coldly, and despised herself for the tiniest shiver that went down her spine, as her mind inadvertently had flashed back to blackness and despair in a deep hole in Gil'ead, rendering her mute until now.
"Or I'll do it for you."
Yennick laughed. "Eh, a feisty one. I like 'em that way. More fun, if ye know what I mean."
Derril laughed as well. "Ye will, will ye? An' how's ye wanting te do that, hmm?"
She's not very … cooperative. Durza, a few man of the prison guard. Amuse yourself. Her lips twisted into a hateful smile, as steel flashed through the air in an arch, from her right side to her left, towards her own body.
Something fell to the ground with a soft thump, and the soldier behind her let out a terrified scream, as he stared at his arm, that no longer ended on his left hand, but instead was gushing red blood.
"Thusly."
Arya was breathing heavier than normal. Her blade had neatly cut off the hand, with just enough élan to accomplish the task but not penetrate any further. Only the smallest imprint was visible on her light leather amour.
The other man bellowed in rage. "Ye cut of Derril's hand!"
He charged, and then everything went dark red, her blade cutting through the air, criss-crossing, stabbing. No one touched her and lived to tell, she wasn't weak, she -
"Arya!"
She felt a hand on her shoulder and whirled around, her sword raised before it met another one that wouldn't yield, with a resounding clang -
It was as if her eyes suddenly snapped open. She stared at Eragon in front of her. He was looking at her.
"He is dead."
Before her feet lay the mutilated body of the one called Yanneck, over and over covered in stab wounds and long gashes; bleeding and almost gutted. Derril was off to her left, whimpering on the ground and cradling his arm stump. It had been decades since she had lost control like that. How much had Eragon seen?
"I …" She straightened herself and lowered her blade stiffly, pushing the dark feelings back into the corner of her mind where they had come from. "Yes."
Eragon continued looking at her intensely but he said nothing, just nodded, before turning towards Derril. He picked him up and carried him back to the village square.
Arya followed him. There were no men from the Empire left. She passed the villagers, who were still cowering fearfully in one corner.
"What's it you want now?" called one of the braver men. "Come to finish what they have started?"
Arya frowned. "I do not seek you any harm, human," she answered. "Why would I want to?"
A woman broke free and threw herself before her feet.
"O fair one, please, I'm begging you! My child is missing; can you tell where it is? Have you seen it?"
The woman looked up at her with hope and a strange faith in her eyes. Arya shook her head, she had checked earlier.
"Rise. There is no more life in this village than what is here. The houses burnt down, and all that was within as well."
She stood up.
"But - but you're an elf. You -" her round face brightened. "You can use magic." She said it almost reverently. "I've seen you use it, green fire, yes, powerful green flames. Can't you bring him back?"
"No magic can bring back the dead. I'm sorry."
The woman collapsed onto Arya as soon as she had said it, crying and sobbing. Arya awkwardly put her hand on the woman's shoulder. What did she expect her to do?
"I'm sorry."
"My - my only son!"
She tried to pry the woman's arms off of her, wishing the woman would calm down. She and Eragon had to go back to Saphira. They had wasted too much time already.
The woman sagged on the ground, where she clutched Arya's legs.
"Please … is there nothing you can do? How will I be able to live? My husband's been dead long since, my son was tilling the farm …"
Arya looked around helplessly.
"I - no, there is nothing … I can do for you. I'm sorry. I really am."
"More likely nothing you want to do, elf," called the man from before, furious. "You can't trust no one of 'em," he declared. "They say one thing and mean the other."
He came over to the woman. "I'll look for Gert myself, Annila," he said. "The mighty elf can't be bothered."
He darted an irate and somewhat fearful glance at Arya, and started consoling the distraught woman.
Arya was thankful that the woman's attention was diverted from herself, she turned and walked hurriedly over to Eragon, who was talking with the soldier that had attacked her earlier, Derril.
"What was your order? Speak, or I make you."
The man grimaced in pain, noticeably growing weaker from the blood loss by the minute.
"Got a tip from summ'on in the village that 'twas a few men plannin' te join the Varden, aye? King's orders te destroy the village, then."
Eragon whirled around. "A villager, you said?"
"'S what I's sayin', isn't it? How else could we 'ave known?"
Arya had already jumped on top of a six feet high pile of rubble that once was the town's inn, and looked down the road leading out of the town. In the distance a lone person was running, a black dot, clearly visible against the sinking sun. She stretched her awareness, covering the entire village once more. Sure enough, the one guarded mind she had felt earlier was missing.
She stared at Eragon, who had turned up next to her and pointed to the figure that just went out of sight behind the next hill.
"Yes, you got all the Empire's men. But you missed the traitor."
– * –
The walk back to Saphira was spent in tense silence. Arya was still enraged about his rash behaviour, and he seemed equally angry. Whether with her or himself, she couldn't tell. She noticed that Saphira didn't seem very agreeable, either, as they flew a few more miles northwards, to find a safe place to spent the night, away from the village. Her wing movements were jerky and fierce, which made for a rough ride, compared to what Arya had experienced so far.
When they reached the first sand dunes that told of the nearby desert, it was already dark. The dunes were only illuminated by star light, as the moon had not yet risen, and in the dark, they looked like massive black hills.
Saphira landed between two, where a patch of dry, hard grass made for a more comfortable bed than bare sand. Eragon dismounted without a word, and proceeded to unstrap his sleeping mat. Arya watched him, before fetching her own mat.
There was no need to ask why he has chosen to stay the night at the fringe of the Hadarac Desert; the intention was clear. If there was someone searching for them, they could arrive from only one direction. Also, the barrenness with only sparse life made any foreign presence approaching them stand out clearly in their minds.
Neither felt like eating, they just shared some water, before they laid down, the tension still palpable.
– * –
Dawn broke early the next day, when the sun rose blood red above the dunes into the morning's sky, the air clear and cold. Nothing and no one extraneous had troubled their trance-like rest, only yesterday's happenings were still on both their minds, which became evident, when Arya announced over the breakfast in clipped tones: "After what happened yesterday, we can't take the direct way to Helgrind. We could be intercepted there, especially as it would lead us in the vicinity of Urû'baen. We will have to take a more southern route, over Lake Tüdosten, maybe even as far west as Melian, before heading north."
Eragon growled at the mention of yesterday, but said nothing.
Such was the atmosphere in which they spent the fourth day of their journey, flying now westwards, instead of north-west. Arya became increasingly irritated with Eragon, and noticed that he seemed to have long discussions with Saphira as well, as she released puffs of smoke in an equally annoyed way.
Neither had eyes for the beauty that stretched beneath them, the scenery with the light summer's green of the Silverwood Forest, ending on the clear blue expanse of Lake Tüdosten, visible on the horizon, where the golden sun slowly plunged into the water, as dusk settled over the land.
It was here where they stopped for the night when the first stars started to blink in the cloudless sky. They found a place at the westernmost tip of the lake, and while Eragon build a fire, Saphira darted an annoyed look at him, and went to the nearby water, to drink and bath.
As he stalked through their small encampment afterwards, glaring at her, Arya had enough. She drew her sword with her right hand and picked up his, which he had left next to the fire and threw it at him. He caught it deftly with his left hand and stared at her, as she went into a fighting stance, the fine elfin steel of her blade gleaming in the firelight.
"Defend yourself!"
"What?"
"You want to attack me, I'm offering you the chance. It will be no good if there are unresolved issues between the two of us. It can endanger our task."
"I -"
Her sword moved downwards, cutting off his words. Just in time, he managed to upheave his weapon, blocking her blow with the sword still sheathed. A clear metallic clang resounded throughout the encampment as it quivered a little under the strain of her thrust.
The moment Arya released the pressure, Eragon whipped his sword, Nasuada's gift, out of the sheath, and had to immediately spin to his right to ward of the next attack, coming from the outside, as Arya had switched her blade to her left hand. Again, steel met steel. Eragon threw away the sheath, and pressed her sword downwards.
He ducked below her next swing, and used this as an opening to prepare his first attack, still with his left hand. His sword moved like a blur towards her right hip, where it met Arya's in shower of sparks.
"I cannot believe that you truly would have left the villagers to be slaughtered by the Empire," he ground out between gritted teeth.
Arya nimbly sidestepped his next attack, and twirled her blade, for now only blocking him.
"Secrecy was and is more important. We are moving through the heart of Galbatorix's land."
Eragon thrusted forwards furiously in a series of wild blows, seemingly finally releasing all the rage that had built up in him since yesterday, but never reaching her body.
"More important than what?" he challenged. "A village eradicated? Two? A whole city? How many lives equal the importance of our task, of keeping it secret?"
Arya countered with an attack of her own.
"As many lives as there are in the whole of Alagaësia. You know that, Eragon. The scale hangs in a delicate balance - were we to be caught, it would tip in Galbatorix's favour, and all would be lost."
Her blade moved towards his head in a sudden burst of speed.
"This one village would be nothing compared to what the King could do to the rest of the land then, unhindered and unchallenged."
Only a reflex saved him this time, as he parried her blow.
"But we weren't caught and neither truly harmed, we defeated the soldiers easily."
Now Arya started to attack in earnest, glaring at him, and he had to make every effort to counter it.
"Do not insult my intelligence, Eragon, with this ill-conceived statement. I know you have a mind sharper than that."
A blow from the left.
"Oromis-elda would be ashamed, could he hear you speaking. "
A blow from the right.
"No planning or thinking from you helped us win, but luck alone, for those men were ill trained recruits. And the spy is on his way to bring news before Galbatorix, news about two elves that suddenly showed up and fought his men. You defeated the soldiers, and saved a town, but risked Alagaësia."
He hastily scrambled backwards, but the razor-sharp edge still cut a long tear into the clothes over his chest.
"And had you for one moment paused to think and employed what I am sure Oromis-elda taught you, you would have come to the same conclusion: for winning one battle, you risked losing the war."
Eragon countered her hail of blows and attacked her once more. Arya noticed that in his ire, he was using much too much force, although his technique never went sloppy. He was fast, as fast as her. It been years and years since she had been challenged this hard, and she relished it. A deadly dance, where nothing and nobody mattered but the two of them, their speed, their graceful movements.
Her eyes shone in wild felicity, as they sidestepped and twisted, now close to each other, soon further away. Around and around the fire, that provided the light for this beautiful creation of flowing forms and flashing blades. Time seemed to move in peculiar way: at one moment, it was as if it almost stood still, when their blades moved in an arch prior to meeting, the next it flew by, making in impossible to tell how much time really had passed.
Drops of sweat glistened in the flickering firelight on their skin. Eragon moved towards her with reckless abandon, his sword in front of him. The last one to beat her in a sword duel had been Telear, her Master. Eragon had the potential to do so as well; however, that time was not now, as he was too rash and by putting that much power into his blows, he began to tire.
She sidestepped once more, and for a moment, their blades locked in front of them.
"But then, maybe it is one of those things you have to learn the hard way. For all our sakes, I hope you are still alive once the lesson is over."
Eragon gave up all pretence of a defence, and jumped to his left, aiming a blow at her neck, that would've beheaded her. She barely managed to parry it, by spinning inwards at the last moment, muscles straining to hold off the force of the impact on her sword, but in doing so, she now had an opening. She twisted her own blade below his and the cold steel touched his throat.
"Dead."
Eragon stood there, panting, his sword still raised, before he nodded, accepting defeat, and lowered himself onto the ground, next to the fire, where he sheathed his sword. Arya took a seat next to him and studied it.
"You have an elfin blade", she remarked, while sheathing her own. "Ajihad must have gotten it as a gift at one time."
Eragon only sat there and for a long while was silent.
"It was Carvahall and Garrow all over again", he said all of a sudden.
"That village. Did I ever tell you how Saphira and I came to leave Carvahall?"
Arya watched him from the side, his distinct profile, formed as any elf, yet more precise, defined. He was staring into the dancing flames. Shadows flittered over his face as he talked.
"I believe not."
He took a stick and poked absent-mindedly in the embers.
"After I found Saphira's egg in the clearing, I raised her away from our home, in the Spine. More than two months had passed when two of the Ra'zac came to Carvahall, and started asking questions about the egg. When they arrived at our farm, Saphira and I were away. Roran was gone as well, so Garrow was alone. I never had the chance to warn him. He didn't even know about Saphira, he wasn't able to tell them what they wished to hear. So when I returned, he - he … they had blown our home apart, and burned what was left, with Garrow inside. He died three days later."
He said paused for a moment.
"I left the next day, together with Brom, to track down the Ra'zac and get revenge for Garrow's death. Galbatorix, obviously, wasn't pleased that his Ra'zac failed to retrieve the egg or any useful information at all, for that matter. I wasn't there, but from what Roran told me, he sent soldiers together with the Ra'zac to return to Carvahall, some months after I had left. They were there for Roran, to take him, and when the others refused to hand him over, they attacked.
"In the end, would Roran and those that were still alive after the fight not have left the village, the Ra'zac and the soldiers would have killed them all. As it was, they could only destroy everything that was left behind. Now, nothing remains of Carvahall but ashes and dust. I scryed it."
He turned his head and looked at her.
"They erased the whole village and killed as many people as they possibly could, because one of them had incurred Galbatorix's ire. Me."
Arya looked back at him. It made sense in a way, she supposed. She sighed and said nothing. She doubted he'd want to hear her saying she was sorry. Pity was useless. Instead, her fingers twirled a few strands of her black hair in an uncharacteristic display of distractedness, while she watched the small yellow flames darting between the logs.
"I was born one year before the Fall, as you may know," she then said, just as suddenly as Eragon before, without looking up.
"We place the beginning of it on that cursed when day Galbatorix came to Ilirea and stole his dragon, and it ends with the defeat of Vrael, almost five years later. In between lies only death and madness, countless battles, where we fought bravely on the side of our allies and lost countless of our kind. Before the Fall, there were more than twice as many elves in Alagaësia. I believe Oromis told you about that, or mayhap you read about it."
Eragon inclined his head. She felt it more than she saw it.
"Then you know about the battle on the plains of Ilirea. I was five at the time. It is the first and only memory I have of our former capital …. Urû'baen is but a pale shadow of former Ilirea's beauty. So much has been lost during the years … Even if it had not been our capital for hundreds of years already by the time of the Fall, it was still our city. Urû'baen no longer is."
Lost in thoughts, she became silent, but then shook her head and continued.
"But regardless, at that time, it was a stronghold against Galbatorix's craze, and once more, for a final time, many elves populated in the city, including King Evandar, my father; and my mother and I. We were under siege, and the situation was dire. The only chance we saw was in making a sally. I stood on the turrets of the citadel and watched as Evandar died on the battlefield at the gates of Ilirea, by the hands of Galbatorix himself. I lost my father when I was five."
She glanced at him, and found his eyes studying her face. Green met brown. Once more, Arya felt he understood, and knew that he knew that she did as well; there was no need to explain any further.
"Do not presume that I do not care, Eragon. My own Ra'zac is Galbatorix himself. So you see, I do understand. But so must you. No one can fight everyone at the same time, not even you and I."
Arya went silent. She had no intention to say more. She rarely told as much to anyone. The silence stretched, but no longer tense, but companionable, as both stared into the glow, lost in thoughts, memories of the past.
The fire blazed up, as a light breeze swept over the encampment, already carrying along the warmth and smells of summer, which had begun, this far south.
"Both were good men," Eragon said finally quietly. Then he sighed.
"I feel I have to apologise, and thank you. I made a mistake in running headfirst into the battle in the village. You are quite right, Oromis taught me better. Always think before acting. Now there is spy underway to carry word to Galbatorix about what happened, and I'm the one to blame. Saphira wasn't too happy with me, either."
The blue dragon came stomping across the encampment, scales still glistering with pearls of water that shone like little diamonds.
She released a puff of smoke.
I must have told him that for ten times at least by now. What happened that he suddenly agrees?
Nothing, Saphira, said Eragon, before Arya could answer.
Saphira snorted amusedly. If you say so. If I was a lesser creature, I just might get offended that you realise what I've been saying all the time as soon as I am not there to tell you. Luckily for you, I'm a dragon.
Arya smiled at her words, as Saphira nudged Eragon with her nose. But either way, I'm glad you're alright now, Little one.
Saphira curled up a few feet away, and Eragon became serious.
"I would understand if you'd deem it too dangerous for us to continue now."
Arya thought about it for a moment, before she answered.
"As yet, we are free. We have to reckon with an ambush at Helgrind, but that was always a possibility, albeit the chances were much smaller. Still, if we expect there to be an attack, we can prepare ourselves, which leaves the odds still bad, worse than I would have wished, but not overly much so. I do not believe Galbatorix himself will be there. As for Murtagh … you said you could best him. Maybe the time has come to try."
Eragon nodded slowly.
"Maybe it has. So we will continue on our journey."
He took a breath.
"And then I have to thank you, for coming after me, when I left you behind on the hill. You came, even when I went there against your express wishes, when you didn't have to come. You fixed the mistake I made. Without you, I would have lost the fight, eventually."
"Me going after you was never in question, Eragon," she said, almost sternly.
"Still, if there is anything I can do to make amends …"
Arya watched him closely for some time and wondered what he would be thinking at this moment.
"Promise me you won't take any more unnecessary risks," she said finally.
He looked back at her, questioningly, and she hesitated for what seemed like a small eternity, before she quietly added: "Wiol eka." For my sake.
The glowing logs next to them crackled and sprayed smouldering sparks into the night, and she saw his eyes widen a bit, almost imperceptible.
His voice was strangely rough as he answered.
"Wiol ono."
Gah … Writing characters is my forte (or at least I'd like to think so), but battles and action … not so much. And I don't know the first thing about sword fights, so I apologise if you have to suspend your disbelieve there … Ah well, I'm trying to improve. Tell me what you think, about the fights and the rest?
I'd love you to pieces if you leave me a review.
Next chapter: Helgrind. Check my profile for updates on the progress, if you like.