heeyyy *sheepish grin*
I know I've been absolutely awful and I haven't updated and I'm probably one of the most hypocritical people on Earth when I ask myself 'WHY THE HELL hasn't XYZ updated?' but although I have no real excuse about not updating like too much work or exams or whatever (I do actually have exams now, but they're barely starting) I have been having the most awful writer's block as always happens to me whenever I get more than a couple of chapters into writing any story.
I honestly want more than anything to be able to finish this, but I just run out of ideas and inspiration and then what I actually liked reading and writing becomes something that sounds forced and absolutely terrible, and I like what I've written so far I think, and I don't much want to ruin it by adding bad things to it.
Anyway, having said that, I am going to keep at this, and I am going to try and finish it. Because I want to :)
So, I've introduced a few OCs in this chapter, one of which I might end up falling in love with just a bit... I've NEVER done this before (OCs) so PLEASE tell me what you think :)
and finally, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THOSE AMAZING, BEAUTIFUL REVIEWS. honestly, they are what made me write this.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
BErin
Two weeks had passed since their last confrontation on the hill. Two weeks, and Eragon had not spoken a word to her, or even seen her for that matter. She was avoiding him, and the thought killed him inside.
Over and over again he would replay those two days in his mind. The euphoria he had felt when he held her, when her hot breath mingled with his, when she fell asleep next to him, her soft body pressed against him, was greater than any he had ever known. That night, he had been so happy, the next he'd been unbearably sad.
He had left her, standing alone on the hilltop, and taken refuge in the clouds with Saphira. She had been quiet, compassionate; letting him cry and rant and yell without trying to interfere or tell him what she thought he should have done. That night, Saphira had kept him company, sleeping with her wing curled protectively around him as he sat awake against her warm belly, staring into the darkness.
He thought about a lot of things that night, but mostly he reflected on what she had said to him, "You are just a child" echoed in his head. He stung, he had what seemed to be a permanent ache in his chest, and every time he tried to seek her out to talk to her, she would run away and the stinging would intensify.
What's she doing now? He had wondered as he traced one of the membranes in Saphira's wing; he imagined her sitting alone where he had left her, crying for him, begging him to come back. He imagined her curled up alone on her bed, sobbing softly, remembering what it was like to have his arms around her, and missing the feeling. But then, he shook himself, and told himself that this was all ridiculous. She wouldn't do that. She'd probably just gone off and done whatever it was she does.
He had taken to spending much of his time with Roran and the other men from Carvahall. His cousin managed to get him to stop moping, dragging him around with him, getting him to help carry armour and swords to and fro. Roran talked endlessly, and made Eragon talk to.
"Talking and Doing helps get your mind off things" he said, and to some extent, Eragon found it to be true.
He spent hours with Saphira among the Varden's cavernous library, slaving away to find out more about Eldunarí. She would lie with her head in the doorway of the tent, and they would think until their heads hurt about what Solembum had said. What were these weaknesses in the castle? For what seemed like lifetimes they thought, but never seemed to make any sense out of it.
They would go flying in the evenings – a welcome relief to get away from the hustle and bustle of the camp. They would glide for a while, enjoying each other's company and relaxing in the evening sun. Then Saphira would dive suddenly and they would begin practising their 'aerial acrobatics' as Angela called them, which would very often render them stiff and sore the next day.
She would fly very, very high very, very fast and then would drop suddenly, folding her wings to her sides and speeding towards the ground like a target missile. The air would rush by them, so strong that sometimes it almost tore Eragon off of her back. His eyes would sting and water and his lips would get pulled back over his teeth by the wind. Then, her wings would snap open with a loud CRACK at the very last moment, and they would soar up and away from the hard earth below.
After this, they would glide slowly, bending one way and the next so as to stretch out her muscles. Then, they would go through loops and rolls and more dives, and each time Eragon would find himself hanging upside down with his stomach in his mouth, and Saphira would be whistling in glee as they flew for hours and hours.
He threw himself off her back more times than he could count, and very soon they were able to execute the 'move' as they did on the Burning Plains without moving too low and without Eragon mashing his groin into a pulp on her back.
He belonged in the air, he realised, it was so tranquil and peaceful, and they didn't have to share it with anyone. It was just them, just the two of them, alone to say and do what they pleased, and they would fly for hours and hours just sharing their thoughts and worries without fear of being interrupted by anyone from the ground that swam so far below them.
In the mornings, Roran had made it a point to drag Eragon out of bed at an unholy hour and bring him to the training grounds to spar with him. They would fight furiously, Roran with his hammer and Eragon with Brisingr, rolling around on the floor and jumping away from what could have been fatal blows.
His brother would always be yelling at him to make his blows harder, to fight faster and to not treat him any less than he would a soldier of the Empire. But Eragon knew, and so did Roran, to some extent, that if he did fight as he would in battle, Roran would be on the floor, headless, in a matter of seconds.
However, their sessions were fast and ferocious, both of them moving at incredible speeds, shields clanging and cracking as they blocked blow after blow from either sword or hammer. They would finish once Eragon had 'killed' Roran, then Eragon would start stage two of the Rimgar, and very soon was taking Roran through each of the complex, flowing poses as a cool down exercise once they had sparred.
They fought with the other men there as well, and many of them came to him to ask for help. "Shadeslayer, I need help with my sword," to "Shadeslayer, my wife is suffering from terrible pains, please could you come and heal her?" were thrown at him on a regular basis, and although he could only help them in a way that they hadn't really wanted by talking them through things or just giving them advice, he built up relationships with the men of the Varden that he wouldn't have managed any other way.
He taught them all the Rimgar, for he thought it to be a fantastic way to stay fit and healthy, no matter where you were. He believed it helped calm the mind too, and he might have been imagining it, but after he had had them going through the exercise for a few weeks, he noticed that the men seemed more relaxed and less jumpy, and no one's nerves were as on edge as they had been before.
As he sparred with them, and as they gathered every morning for an hour to go through the exercises together, he noticed that the children and some of the women would come out and watch them as they did. The boys especially would always be drifting near the training grounds, staring wistfully at the men as Eragon taught them, the flashing swords, the scuffle of feet in the dust as the men side-stepped and parried. Many a time he would try to approach them, but they would always bow their heads and say "Sorry for disturbing, Mr. Shadeslayer" and scurry away, their small feet pitter-pattering on the dusty ground as they went.
As the weeks ran by, the Varden continued to live in relative peace; the Empire was quiet, and the routine that Eragon had set up for himself flowed on comfortably without any interruptions.
Weekly meetings were held at Nasuada's, and although they all spent what seemed like lifetimes trying to figure out just what in the name of all things living were the wards and spells cast to guard the Eldunarí, they never seemed to make any guess that sounded even plausible. They would sit for hours, shackled to a conversation that would constantly be going around in circles, all of them thinking till their heads ached. And then, when they all thought that they couldn't bear it any longer, they would be released, and he'd leave feeling helpless and hopeless, the throbbing in his head not subsiding till he managed to find something else to think about other than the Eldunarí.
However, however much he dreaded the feeling after the meetings, he couldn't help but look forward to them, for that would be the one time in the week he got to see Arya without the risk of her running away from him. His heart still ached when he saw her, her voice would still cut through him when she spoke, and yet it still was the loveliest sound he had ever heard. When her emerald eyes met his over the table, he would feel his jaw clench and his chest tighten when she looked away again; long, thick lashes lowered over the eyes that haunted his dreams.
She had started talking to him again, and their conversations were short, awkward, and every time he even brushed the topic of 'them', she would become cold and distant, and within seconds would have made an excuse and disappeared into the mass of tents and bodies that was the Varden.
Sometimes, during the meetings, when he found he couldn't possibly think anymore about Eldunarí or he'd explode, he would dwell silently on Arya. His eyes would follow her every movement, drinking in the way she would flick her hair out of her eyes, or the way she would smile as she talked and he would find himself lost in the tiniest features of her face, the beautiful little 'bits' that were just so Arya.
He was usually broken out of his musings by a question thrown this way, or her eyes meeting his, and he would snap out of it and unwillingly re-join in the discussions going on around him.
They would talk and talk and talk, and sometimes Angela would come in, and they would look up hopefully, thinking she knew something to do with Solembum that they didn't; but, it appeared that she was as baffled as they were.
Jeod would visit from time to time too, his eyes always down-cast, his face drawn and pinched. The long, long hours he spent pouring over maps and the risks he ran by sending numerous messengers and sometimes travelling to Urû'baen himself had proved fruitless.
"We just need some luck, milady," he had said to Nasuada before rolling up the scrolls he had presented to the group, "If we could just find some, or conjure some up, it would do us a bucket-load of good." He had looked dryly at Eragon then, his eyes twinkling dimly, as if asking whether or not it were possible. He smiled, "We can all dream can't we?" Eragon said, clasping the other man's hand. A slow smile creased the wrinkles in his weather worn face, "Aye, Shadeslayer, and I do a lot of dreaming."
It had been after a meeting like this that Eragon had been walking around, aimlessly weaving through the tents when he came across a small group of young boys play fighting in the dust. They were each holding a long, straight stick, and were thrusting and parrying with the kind of clumsy intensity that comes from trying to copy something that you have been watching a for a long time.
He stayed in the shadow cast by the tent, not wanting to spoil their fun, for he was sure that they would scamper away once they laid eyes on him. There were two of them, so alike you couldn't tell one from the other, that weaved and bobbed in and out, laughing gaily as they did so. Their sticks flew, sharp thwacks and cracks sounded 'round their make shift 'arena' as these two boys danced around each other, jabbing and lunging with a precision that the others lacked.
His gaze drifted around to the others, none of them as fast or as experienced as the other two seemed, but they were all as occupied, all of them were completely transfixed on the other's 'sword'. As they fought, Eragon picked out Jarsha, the messenger boy, whacking away at a big, red head who was twice his size. There was a slender brunette who moved gracefully and was constantly flicking his floppy, too-long hair out of his eyes. He was fighting in a three with a big, blue-eyed sandy haired youth and another small, sharp young one who's spiky black hair stuck up in every direction.
He watched them for a while, and without realising it started to mentally correct their stances, the way they held the sticks. He saw them in his mind's eye, dancing around an imaginary enemy just like he did, the sticks in their hands becoming swords and the clatter around them the clash and clamour of battle. He had started to drift forwards, lost in his thoughts, and suddenly found himself looming over the red head's shoulder. The boy started and looked up, blue eyes wide in surprise, "Shadeslayer?" he said uncertainly.
Eragon looked around him self-consciously; they were all staring at him in a rather unnerving way.
"Um… You're holding it wrong," he mumbled, motioning awkwardly to the stick in the boy's hand. He cleared his throat and reached out to adjust his grip, his hands moving the small fingers down the handle, arranging them in the way that Brom had taught him, what seemed like lifetimes ago. He finished with the grip, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The boys were still looking at him with an unbearable intensity, their mouths slightly agape as they watched him.
"There." He said, feeling the embarrassment flair up within him. He looked around him, plunging his hands into his pockets. "Bye," he muttered, and turned around to leave, scuffing the toe of his boot in the ground as he left.
He was aware, as he stalked away, of the fact that once his back was turned, all the boys huddled together, their excited whispering just reaching his ears. He slowed, curious, wondering what they were saying.
"You go!" came a furious whisper from behind, "No, YOU!" he heard a scuffling noise, and an "OOMPF!" it sounded as if one of them had been pushed.
"Ben, it was your bloody idea, GO!" more scuffling, and another muffled yell. There were grunts and a couple of dull thuds, and Eragon was considering going back to break up what had, he thought, become a fight, when another, younger voice said, "Hey! Calm down! He's a bloody elf, he can hear you if he's still there." Eragon stiffened at the boy's tone, his brow furrowing as he hunched his shoulders and started to walk away.
He heard the thud-thud of feet behind him and whirled around as someone grabbed his arm. He turned to see the slender brunette one looking him determinedly in the eye.
"Shadeslayer." The boy said, bending low in a quick bow. His voice was the one who had said "He's a bloody elf" and Eragon tensed when he heard him.
"Yes?" he said. His voice sounded cold and sneering, and he winced internally as he watched the boy flinch.
"Um, we were wondering," he had looked up again to meet his eye, his hands clenched into small fists at his sides, "We were wondering if you could stay and teach us?" Eragon started, eyeing the boy up. He wasn't as small as he'd first appeared; his head came above Eragon's shoulder. The floppy dark hair fell into big, expressive dark eyes that drooped slightly at the corners. He had the lanky look of a boy going through a growth spurt, his arms and legs seemed too long to belong to his body.
Eragon hesitated, looking up to see the rest of the group peering around the edge of a tent, their faces sickeningly hopeful. He sighed. What would Nasuada say if she found out about him training younglings to fight? He glanced back at them again, wondering. The first boy looked at him, and seemed to realise that he was unsure, "Argetlam, please?" the boy's big eyes stared straight into his, beseeching him to listen.
He looked around him, running his fingers through his hair, flustered. All the hopeful faces weighed down on him, he met every one of their eyes, which was probably a mistake he realised, as each pair of liquid round orbs stabbed pathetically at his conscience.
He nodded resignedly, a smile growing across his face as they whooped in delight and moved forward to crowd around him.
"You're lucky I'm such a pushover." He laughed as they faltered, suddenly remembering that he was a Dragon Rider. They smiled though, and came forward, crowding around, fighting for his attention.
"Argetlam, can we start now?"
"Where's your dragon, Shadeslayer?"
"Can we see your sword?"
All of them were speaking at once, he couldn't think, and to his horror he found that he was beginning to panic.
"SHUT UP!" His voice cut over theirs, laughing yet exasperated, their faces painted in shock, their mouths all open in little, round 'Os'.
"I will teach you, but this is a commitment, I expect all of you at the training fields every day two hours before sundown. We will train with sticks first, and when I deem you good enough we might get hold of some swords." He paused, looking around at their eager faces.
"I'm not sure what my superiors will think of me training children," he chuckled inwardly as he saw most of them look furious at the word, "so don't go telling everyone you see about this alright?"
They nodded furiously, their big eyes shining with enthusiasm.
"Shadeslayer, can we start now?" asked the big blonde one. Eragon grinned, "Of course. But I need to know your names."
The boys smirked, the twins glanced sideways at each other, their eyes shining with glee.
"And no swapping or making things up, or you'll be out of this before it starts." He fixed each of them with a stern stare, trying to suppress the grin that was threatening to break out on his face again.
"Jarsha, I know you, so let's go from there."
There was Jarsha, or Jay as he was called by the others, and his cousin, Eadfridh. They were so different Eragon could scarcely believe that they were related – the former small, dark and brown haired, the latter huge and fair with a flaming head of thick red hair. They were both, he soon learnt, loud and clumsy and were as close as two people could be. They rather reminded Eragon of him and Roran, when they were back in Carvahall. The age difference was there too, with Jarsha at eleven and Eadfridh just having turned thirteen.
Bengar and Bertrhad were the twins, Bennie and Bertie or whatever abbreviations came from that. They were inseparable, and so alike it was impossible to tell the difference between the two. When asked which was which, they replied "I'm Bengar!" and "I'm Bertrhad!" so quickly and with such wide, sparkling smiles that Eragon immediately felt uneasy.
He sighed sceptically... he would have to manage. He cast another glance at the twosome and turned to the next boy, Mardelic. The big, sandy-blonde one; he was calm, laid back and the oldest of the group, being just a few months away from his fifteenth birthday. He was their 'leader', and seemed in charge of making sure they were all safe and where they should be.
The spiky black-haired small one was Cadeyrn, or Caddy, because he made it very clear that he hated his name. Athletic, agile, and very, very clever, he had an almost bi-polar way of going about things; one minute he was happy and care-free, the next he had blown his top and was in a massive fight with the others over the smallest thing. They never lasted though, and he was popular and well-liked, the others said his little 'outbursts' spiced life up a bit.
Then there was Anselm, the slender dark kid who had first spoken to Eragon. He was much quieter than his companions, although, in comparison, they were extremely rowdy. He had big, intense, soulful eyes that seemed to tell you everything about him and had an aura of calm seriousness, although he could be almost as bad as the twins sometimes.
He regarded Eragon silently through long dark lashes, and made him feel rather unnerved as he walked with them back to their space between the tents so that they could collect their sticks. He felt trapped by the boy's stare, and couldn't help the feeling of relief wash through him when he looked away.
"Right, I think we can stay here for today, it's certainly big enough." He said as he appraised his surroundings. The tents made a large, circular area that was sheltered from the winds that constantly tore through the training fields, "I think we might even come back here tomorrow – good job finding it." The boys looked pleased.
"Okay, now, line up, I want three of you in front and the other four at the back. Good. Now, hold your sticks like this," He drew Brisingr and held it in front of him with both hands on the hilt, bending into a small crouch as he did so.
They immediately started to copy him, bending their legs and clasping their sticks before them, their gazes fixed on him. Alright so far, he thought to himself. The twins were near perfect in their stances, the rest of them, especially Eadfridh could use some work though, he thought. He'd deal with that later.
"Now, I just want you to copy me, and when I stop, hold the pose." He brought the sword back and under one of his arms, still with both hands on the hilt. His feet moved, so that one was in front of the other, all his weight resting on his back leg.
He paused as they copied, and when he was satisfied, started to move again.
"It is important to keep your movements slow and controlled, I want no flurrying around yet. This will teach you to control the blade, and will allow you to properly use it when the time comes." He moved forwards in a lunge, his body leaning forwards, eager to continue the exercise which it knew so well. The sword stabbed at an imaginary foe, his weight shifted to the front, his muscles straining as he held the pose and watched the boys do the same.
He brought them through the rest of the exercise, always moving in slow, fluid motions, bringing Brisingr up to block or parry or swipe or behead the air in front of him. He did it with them again and again, telling them, "This has to be memorised, it has the basics of every single move you could possibly use in battle. This exercise might save your life someday."
He let them continue after that, admiring the fact that none of them were complaining that it wasn't 'exciting' enough, as he knew he would have done. They went through each of the poses with such concentration it was rather amusing.
He walked up and down the line, correcting a grip here, guiding them so that they moved in the right way. Eadfridh needed to have almost every single pose spelt out for him, the stick in his hand always held awkwardly, his face one of comical exasperation as he tried again and again and never seemed to get it right.
The twins, surprisingly, had their balance completely off centre, Jarsha seemed dwarfed by his stick, Caddy's tongue was sticking out in concentration as he tried to fence with his non-dominant hand – Eragon had him change – he hadn't expected a left hander. Mardelic and Anselm ploughed through the exercises, their faces screwed up in concentration, occasionally fumbling and stumbling as they lost their balance half way through a pose.
They absorbed every drop of information and instruction he gave them like parched sponges, their eyes following him attentively as he moved among them, fixing the things that they did wrong, occasionally re-demonstrating a manoeuvre as the boys watched, silent adoration in all their eyes.
"Okay," he said after they'd gone through the exercise multiple times, "Stop." They did, dropping their sticks with a clatter to the ground and when he motioned for them to sit, they collapsed onto the dirt, panting. He could see they were tired, he had made repeat again and again, and made them hold some of the more difficult poses for minutes as he walked around and corrected them, and they'd been at it for the good part of an hour, with no rests in between.
The only one who didn't seem exhausted was Anselm, sitting straight up, big round eyes fixed eagerly on Eragon, the stick laid across his lap, with one of his hands on its 'hilt'. They were all dusty and tired, but they looked happy, he thought, they looked as if they were incredibly pleased with themselves and gazed admiringly up at him as he started to talk again.
"I expect all of you to have memorised that, it will be your mantra, you will repeat it every day at least once before we start."
Eadfridh groaned. Eragon smiled at him and winked, chuckling at the expression of horror on the boy's face. The others were nodding at him, glancing around to see what the others' reactions were.
"Shadeslayer, will we come here again tomorrow?"
"Yes," he nodded, "Same time." He smiled down at them, "You're doing very, very well. All of you,"
"Well, off to your mothers; I'm sure they're wondering where you've gotten to." He slapped his hands on his thighs, swaying back and forth as he felt the awkwardness from before come over him again.
"Go on, I'm sure you're all starving."
The boys got off the floor, dusting themselves off and immediately erupting in noisy chatter. They rushed by him, brandishing their sticks and laughing at the thought of the hot food that was waiting for them.
"THANK YOU SHADESLAYER!" they yelled as they disappeared among the tents and left him standing smiling to himself as he watched them leave.
SOoo, please review, I love them so much and they make me smile... And thanks to elvenlord who's review gave me a kick up the arse to get this done ;)