For the one reader that was surprised Gawain was a villain, you gotta remember in many of the legends he was. His notorious temper lead him slaughtering a young maiden (though he did repent). As well as having a temper, he was very easy to manipulate. As good a heart Gawain really has, his desire for revenge and Morded's influence can turn him into a traitor against all he once stood for. Which indeed happened in Once and Future King and many other works like it...
Warning: A very slow chapter ahead. Those interested in actual plot movement and action continue at own risk.
Disclaimer: The Arthurian legends and the Inheritance Cycle obviously do not belong to me. However, some interpretations of certain aspects of the legends are mine, as well as any other original material.
"To be someone like me,
This is the birth of all hope.
To have what I once had,
This life unforgiven,
It will end with a birth"
-End of All Hope, Nightwish
Thousands of miles from the country of England, across a vast ocean and some further distance inland, lay a forest near the northern border of Surda. It wasn't particularly large or ancient forest, but its fearsome reputation belied its ordinary appearance. For years the inhabitants of the surrounding villages had been plagued with mysterious happenings. Livestock would be found dead, entangled in fences in ways that suggest they committed suicide. Children were lured away from their parents by siren calls and snatched up by shadowy figures, never to be seen again. Those few foolish hunters that dared to venture into the forest turned up days later on their doorsteps, rambling senselessly and irreparably mad. For all of the paranormal circumstances with no natural explanation, the forest was aptly dubbed the Spiritwood by its terrified neighbors.
Was the Spiritwood haunted by vengeful spirits, or was some other phenomena behind the mysterious occurrences? All of King Orrin's forces were off battling against the Empire, and none could be spared to investigate some local superstitions. The same applied for the most powerful of magicians and sorcerers that had been drafted into the Surdan army. Those left did not have the strength to oppose the inhuman forces that resided in the Spiritwood. And so without even an explanation to the nightmare, the villagers lived in constant fear of the neighboring forest.
Unbeknownst to these unfortunate Surdans, an unlikely champion had indeed ventured into the Spiritwood to investigate the strange happenings. He was not the caption of a powerful legion of soldiers or a hero worthy of legendary merit. Blagden was a white raven. Capable of speech and possessing clairvoyant abilities, aye, but nothing more than an obnoxious oddly-colored bird with some interesting talents. Or, at least that was what those that knew of his existence chose to believe about him.
Had Blagden's binding oaths not prevented him from telling the truth to anyone, he promptly would have transformed into his true shape, pointed at the oblivious elves, and openly laughed at their arrogance about his true powers. Their stoic faces and unoriginal magics did little to intimidate him.
But, considering the magical vows his mentor had made him swore were still in tact years after the old man's death, Blagden was physically incapable of doing such a thing. Instead the bird bid his time until he could finally fulfill his oaths, satisfying his vengeance with taunting elves with annoying rhymes and vulgar exclamations in the mean time. Fortunately, though, the unusual predicaments in the so-called Spiritwood seemed an optimistic lead in the fulfillment of aforementioned promises.
Which was why the white raven perched upon a branch in the middle of the Spiritwood, patiently waiting for an encounter with the supernatural. Preening his snow-white plumage, Blagden tuned all else out, knowing he was bound to stumble upon what he was searching for eventually.
Indeed, he would. Several moments after Blagden had commenced cleaning his feathers for the third time in a row, a familiar chill ran down his spine. Jewel-bright dark eyes narrowing, the bird's head snapped up. Instinctively puffing up in a reflexive response to make himself look bigger to predators, he silently sat upon his perch and waited.
The forest had fallen unnaturally silent, the sounds of usual animal activity swiftly ceasing as beasts of all kind cowered in dens or else fled the area. The air in the small forest clearing Blagden was located near began to shimmer with the tell-tale presence of a familiar brand of magic.
Great. Of all the blasted creatures out there, it had to be faeries. Morgan le Fey's lot, no doubt. Only would they persuade animals into killing themselves and driving young man hopelessly insane for the fun of it. And kidnap human children as servants to use in their own realm.
Cursing as his misfortune, Blagden dug his talons deeper into the wood and waited for the blasted Fey to manifest themselves.
Suddenly, the small space in the clearing expanded, the openness stretching out while pushing the surrounding woods back. White liquid began to burble up from the ground, forming a small lake of cream. From this natural impossibility rose a castle made of delicious gingerbread frosted with sweet icing. A bridge of butter emerged from the lake, connecting the edible fortress to the forest. Guards made of gingerbread emerged from the two massive doors to stand vigil at the entrance, the pikes they held crafted of crystallize syrup.
Scenting the irresistible aroma that wafted from the castle, Blagden's mouth would have watered had it not been a beak incapable of producing saliva. Shaking his head to clear his head from the temptation of flying over and pecking at the gingerbread walls, the white raven squawked a curse.
Damned faeries. They know the children in the villages hunger for food since there is no available game to be hunted and little earth to be farmed. So they use this cursed fortress to lure the innocent youth to them. Once close enough, those Fey will capture them and spirit them away to the Faerie Domain.
Which was Morgan le Fey's preferred strategy for gathering new servants for her castle. Considering her strange whims and bloodthirsty subjects, the unfortunate humans that resided in her kingdom tended to have notoriously brief lifespans. Lord knows how many innocent children she had already stolen away from Surda as a labor force, how many had succumbed to the madness of their faerie overlords...
It's for the best know. The Pendragons have generations of bad blood against the faeries. First Uther goes and engages Morgana to an ugly old earl, only for her to go and turn herself into one of the Fay to avoid the marriage and to gain immortality. Then she returns to try and lure her half-brother to his doom, thankfully to be repulsed by an iron knife, courtesy of young Arthur. Knowing Amhar's family history, he will undoubtedly show up to engage his aunt in yet another round of combat. Ah, well. At least it will make locating him easier for me.
Sensing an unwelcome intruder, one of the gingerbread man's pupil-less eyes turned to focus directly on him. Returning the emotionless stare evenly, Blagden fluttered over to the tree closest to the bridge, his silent beckon too obvious to ignore. The gingerbread guard nodded curtly to his fellows, striding across the bridge of butter to converse with the white raven face to face. As the edible being neared solid ground, he underwent a peculiar transformation.
Gingerbread fell away as reddish crumbs, revealing golden armor and true flesh underneath. The harmless maple syrup pikes morphed into true deadly weapons, their tips bronze instead of the customary iron. (Iron was the Fey's only mortal weakness, as just be going near it made themselves extremely vulnerable.) Then the transition from harmless dessert item to true threat was complete, leaving one of Queen Morgan's loyal guards behind.
What did a faerie look like? They averaged out to about seven feet tall, all slender and with the grace of wild cats. With pointed ears and angular features they greatly resembled Alagaesia's elves, but the Fey were the perfected versions of those beings. Their skin seemed to glow with illumination of all its own, and the air about them seemed to shimmer with the magical aura they emanated. While elves had mainly dark air, the locks of every faerie were the color of starlight. All of their eyes were dark, so fathomless a human would go mad if they stared within them for too long. In comparison, elves were the mangy feral house cats while faeries were the large and majestic mountain lions.
Oh, and the Fey were about several dozen times more of a threat than the average elf was.
"Come down, magician!" the faerie-guard called in his melodious voice. Despite his mystical beauty, their was a disdainful sneer to his flawless face, an unnerving glitter to his dark eyes, a haughtiness to his lilt. While the ordinary human would have been blinded to these subtle warning signs, Blagden was far more alert and unwilling to trust such an unreliable being. "Introduce yourself to me properly."
I am under no obligation to do so, faerie, Blagden answered mildly. Despite his nervousness, he kept the tremor out of his voice. Your kind is as unpredictable as the oceans themselves. I would sooner trust a venomous snake more than you.
No trace of displeasure crossed the Fey's features, but the white raven knew the wondrous male was secretly irate at the caution of a wise individual. "Rumor has it that Merlin's apprentice was banished to this land long ago. If you are indeed that exiled apprentice, then the same truce that applied for your teacher covers you, as well. That would make you and I incapable of harming the other."
Hesitating only for a moment, the white raven abandoned his perch and fluttered down to the ground. There was a flash of brilliant light, and then the bird had been replaced by a young man with light blond hair and dark brown eyes. Garbed in white robes, he had a birdlike hooked nose and was smaller than average. The magician's arms were crossed, his lips turned into a sharp frown.
Recalling the ancient rules of propriety, Blagden inclined his head respectfully. His true voice was hoarse from spending so many years in his other form, but he could still form coherent sentences. "I am Blagden Hectorsson, former apprentice of the late Merlin. I seek a civil exchange of information with you."
The faerie dipped his head in the same gesture, though his was far shallower and brief. Blagden wisely chose not to remark upon this act of pointed disrespect. "And I am Elrohir Udrunesson, loyal guard of the esteemed Queen Morgan le Fey. I agree to your request."
Without preamble, Blagden nodded sharply at the edible castle and of the guards that patrolled it, just waiting to snatch unsuspecting children or other victims the moment they wandered too close. "I may have been cut off from the rest of the world for quite some time, but I thought your beloved monarch gave up such habits years ago," he said silkily. "Does Morgana truly feel confident enough to steal human children away from their homes after what almost happened to her the last time?"
Elrohir snarled at the address of his queen by her 'mortal name', but his oaths prevented from striking out. "King Arthur is unheard of this foreign land," he said simply. "Here we faeries select whom we wish, for they all all worthy of eternal servitude to their natural superiors." He sneered disdainfully. "What of you, former apprentice? Merlin was quite fond of his Pendragon pupil and did shelter his only surviving offspring away from the world. You wouldn't happen to be guarding over the young Prince Amhar, now would you?"
Unable to stop the small smirk that spread across his features, that smug expression only widened when Elrohir's scowl of annoyance. "In case you have forgotten, faerie, Merlin banished me here decades before King Arthur was even born. Besides, much of that time was spent in isolation from the outside world amongst the elves of Du Weldenvarden. You wouldn't happen to know of them, would you?"
Elrohir's handsome features contorted into a bestial thing of rage, something that belonged only in a child's nightmare. "Don't you mention those half-breeds in front of me," he hissed. "Abominations of mankind and Fey, banished from the Otherworld to forever reside in this world's forest as outcasts." His dark eyes flicked up to Blagden's white hair his fury was replaced by a mocking jeer. "But you would know about such shame, Hectorsson. The blood of such bastards courses through your very veins."
Blagden shrugged dismissively. "One sixteenth on my mother's side, actually. My great-great grandfather got seduced by one of your females one wild summer's night many years ago. The following year, a basket containing my great-grandmother was left upon his doorstep. Thankfully, I inherited neither your arrogance nor your pride."
When the faerie-guard's face turned a sufficient crimson, Blagden knew that he had gotten Elrohir off his earlier train of thought. And so the Fey had conveniently forgotten that Merlin had been able to see hundreds of years into the future during his glory years, and it was under such circumstances Blagden had been condemned to such a fate in the first place.
Thud thud. Thud thud.
Sharp ears detected a sound no mere human could hear, and two pairs of dark eyes simultaneously snapped their attention upward to the cerulean sky. Far off, but rapidly approaching, was the noise of flapping wings. But they belonged to no bird, for the sound was far stronger, not muffled by soft feathers.
Apprehensive, Elrohir's dark eyes narrowed into wary slits. Something akin to fear flashed across his face like lightning, the emotion enough to make him move a few cautious steps back. Smirking knowingly, Blagden chuckled in bemusement.
"Confused at the sound, faerie?" he asked silkily. "Your memory spans on for far longer than mine. What creatures used to roam this land? A certain kind of winged beast that didn't like to know that you were intruding upon its territory. One with a very good friend that won't be pleased at your capture and enslavement of human children."
"Dragon and Rider," the faerie breathed in fear. Face contorting in an amusing mixture of fear and rage, he snarled at his distant kindred once again. "Impossible! The native dragons were driven out of this land ages ago and the Shur'tugal and their foul magics exterminated for good! What I am hearing now is no doubt a pitiful attempt of deception created by you to intimidate me!"
Blagden mockingly scrunched his face up in a pensive expression. "Then what sound could we be hearing then? Creatures of all sorts are attracted to that tantalizing castle of yours. Perhaps the aroma is enough to lure the shades of the dead out into broad daylight for a taste."
Not giving Elrohir a chance to respond, the white-haired enchanter spread his arms and disappeared in a flash of bright light. While Elrohir snapped around and shouted orders at his fellow guards, a familiar clairvoyant raven observed the spectacle from in relative safety from the branches of a nearby tree. Should the pigheaded and immature Dragon Rider be the answer to his quest, then he would at last carry out Merlin's orders. If not, the entertainment that would come from the impending conflict would be enough to satisfy him for years.
Let's just hope Oromis's teachings stuck with the boy or else this could get really bloody...
Somewhere in the northern part of Surda, a female dragon flew. She was perhaps only one year of age, her scales a deep sapphire. For faster travel and to avoid being spotted by unwelcome witnesses. The she-dragon soared upon the winds like a hawk, preserving her energy for the long flight ahead. Low-lying clouds floated beneath her, partially obscuring her figure from view. Even if a sharp-eyed Surdan glimpsed her, at such a high altitude she would merely be mistaken for a bird.
On Saphira's back was a single passenger, seated on the saddle strapped to her belly. He was a young man that had barely surpassed boyhood, no more than sixteen years of age. From a distance people would think him to be merely a scrawny adolescent, but closer examination revealed a lithe form and angular features that were inhuman. Wind playfully nipped at his dark brown hair, blowing it right into his face. Uncaring, the young man kept his eyes shut, meditating upon some inner matter.
Surreptitiously glancing backwards at her Rider, Saphira rumbled in frustration. Usually Eragon would be enjoying the flight, reveling in the liberating sensation of the wind against his face. Since that.... incident, at the Battle of the Burning Plains, her beloved human had changed. Change she feared was for the worse.
Little one? she ventured tentatively. Care to voice what's on your mind? I can feel something troubles you.
Slowly, Eragon opened his eyes. They were a deep blue-gray and had a peculiar habit of betraying all of his emotions. Right now, they portrayed all the information Saphira needed, the secrets her Rider attempted to conceal from here.
"Nothing is wrong, Saphira. I'm just tired out from all of the recent fighting." Pure lies. Both of them knew it, but neither had the desire to kindle the old argument up again.
Exactly two weeks had passed since the Battle of the Burning Plains against Galbatorix's forces. When the conflict first began, it seemed as if the rebellion would perish upon the battlefield that day. But by some stroke of fortune the tides of war had changed in their favor, and it had been Lady Nasuada and King Orrin that had celebrated in their triumph. It seemed a sign that the rebellion was capable of holding its own against Imperial forces in such battles, and that the time was right to begin planning offensive attacks larger than the customary raids against the Empire.
Encouraging as this news was, Eragon had not shared in his comrades' hope. Something deeply negative tainted the miraculous victory, a deep matter that simply couldn't be ignored. He carried it within him, after all, and would do so forever.
Murtagh had survived the earlier assault, though he could not be scryed and was presumed dead by even the most hopeful of people. He had been captured by Galbatorix and imprisoned for months. During that time one of the world's last dragon eggs hatched for him, and the young man was forced to become a virtual slave to the Mad King. Months after his disappearance, he had returned for the Battle of the Burning Plains upon a red dragon named Thorn and with enough magic to force Eragon and Saphira into submission.
He had been ordered by his master to bring the rebel she-dragon and her Rider back to Urubaen in chains, but had slipped around his magical oaths and was able to release his captives. Enslaved as he was, some of the old Murtagh lingered beneath this new monster, as he had the mercy to spare Eragon from his fate. He had promised he would show no such softness at their next confrontation, and so departed upon Thorn, with his rivals incapacitated so they couldn't pursue him. But before doing so, he had confided a dark secret to Eragon. A truth so dark it would never have been believed had he not sworn it in the ancient language.
Eragon Shadeslayer, Saphira's Rider and the embodiment of the rebellion's hope, was the spawn of Morzan. The same Morzan that helped Galbatorix rise to power and exterminate Shur'tugal and dragons alike. The same Morzan that happened to be Murtagh's father, the same cruel parent that had severely scarred his young son during a drunken rage. Which made Eragon kin to two twisted Riders that served the Empire's mad tyrant, willingly or not.
When he had revealed his nightmare to his trusted companions, they had not rejected him for being the son of the second most-hated man in Alagaesia's history. Everyone, from Nasuada to his cousin Roran, had accepted the undeniable truth. But that didn't stop their pity for his situation, nor did it alter the reality that Eragon was fighting against his own brother and betraying everything his father had fought for.
Eragon did his best to recover from the devastating blow to his morale and self-consciousness. He vehemently denied the revelation had affected him. After all, so what if he shared blood with monsters? He'd known Murtagh only for several months, and Morzan had perished shortly after his birth. Roran had grown up alongside him, and the cousins considered themselves brothers in all but name. Uncle Garrow had raised and instilled his values into him. Didn't that make him more of a father than the man that had simply sired him?
Deluding himself and others into thinking he was untouched by Murtagh's confessions, Eragon had concentrated on more important matters. Together he and Saphira had freed Roran's captive fiance, Katrina, from her imprisonment in Helgrind. (His cousin had been forced to remain behind during the rescue mission for his own safety, though only one Lethrblaka had been guarding the fortress at that time. Eragon still hungered for vengeance against his uncle's murderers, but Katrina had been in bad condition and time couldn't be wasted hanging around for a petty fight.)
With Roran and his bride-to-be safe and sound at the Varden's camp, Eragon and Saphira where now on their way back to Du Weldenvarden. Both had vowed to their mentors, Oromis and Glaedr, they would return as soon as possible to finish up their tutelage. Their promises had been made in the ancient language, and it would be wise to fulfill them before something bad happened.
Though he firmly believed otherwise, the revulsion and shame of being Morzan's son kept sneaking upon him during times of idleness. With nothing to occupy his thoughts, they always strayed to the worst subject imaginable. In this case, his demonic parentage. Seething with doubt and self-loathing he did his best to conceal from his she-dragon, Eragon snapped himself out of his trance and focused upon a topic that didn't involve fathers.
"Saphira?" he asked. "Do you know where we are right now?"
I have glimpsed into the minds of the animals and have gathered enough memories to safely assume our current location. According to the livestock, we are above what their masters call the Spiritwood. She snorted. Foolish villagers and their rural superstitions. Why is your kind so terrified by simple matters of nature, little one? When something remotely out of the ordinary occurs their minds always jump to mythical creatures and the paranormal. Such behavior is so-
"Enough. I get the point." Not to mention Eragon was tired of these unintended insults that could be applied to him. He had been one of those superstitious villagers with nothing better to believe in, thank you very much. "Still, I have to wonder why they call this innocent forest the Spirit-"
Scenting something on the wind, Saphira's head shot up as her nostrils flared. Instinctively her mind and Eragon's merged back to their usual closeness, transmitting her finds across their link. Unsure of what he receiving was real, the Dragon Rider frowned in confusion.
"Is that... gingerbread I'm smelling?"
His sapphire-scaled she-dragon nodded grimly. Aye. I scent it too. But how can it be possible? Strong as our senses our, they wouldn't be able to detect this scent unless the gingerbread was present in an absurdly large quantity.
"Has anything like this happened before?" Eragon questioned. "Is there a memory we can rely on for information?"
Consulting Saphira's ancestral memories together, there was indeed a large recollection of such encounters. They were ancient ones, the most recent several centuries old, but all told the same basic story:
The original owner of the memory had scented the gingerbread, and had flown over to investigate. What they discovered at the sweet aroma's source was a castle comprised entirely of delicious sweets. Innocent and starving human children were lured in by the irresistible temptation, like flies to a spider's web. There strange creatures were waiting to snatch them up and drag them into the edible fortress, to do spirits knew what. For dragons that had stumbled upon this kidnap-in-progress would be quick to retaliate against the monsters, lashing out with claws and flames until the threat had vanished into thin air. Back to whatever gods forsaken realm it had crawled from.
That must have been what was holding those kidnappers back, Saphira remarked after reviewing the ancestral memories. Dragons were protective of all younglings, especially after the pact with the elves was sealed and the first Riders created. Together they must have banded to drive those monsters from Alagaesia forever and succeeded in their mission centuries ago. What drove them to return?
"Some brave scout must have ventured forth to check upon the old hunting grounds," Eragon answered grimly. "When he realized the dragons and Riders long dead. he must have reported it to his leader. So they have returned to steal away children once again."
What should we do? Strong as we are, little one, dragons attacked these mysterious creatures in groups or with Riders on their side. Can just the two of us defeat a group of beings with untold power?
None needed words to voice their decision. Pure acceptance untainted by fear or doubt flowed freely through the connection, unanimously shared by dragon and Rider alike. Unbidden Saphira swooped out of the clouds and altered her pace from a serene soar to flapping her wings with furious speed. Honed onto the scent like a hound after the quarry, she was now on a direct path to the monsters that dared to think they could capture innocent children and torture them in unspeakable ways. Eragon loosened the straps that bound him to the saddle. Mustering up his concentration in preparation for spell-casting, his hand also strayed down to the hilt of the blade strapped to his belt.
Had Eragon been any other person, he might have reconsidered his rash decisions. Acting upon impulses in the past had almost lead to his end on several nasty occasions, and by now he ought to have learned such reckless behavior would one day mean the death of him. But, since his childhood, Eragon Shadeslayer had always been a man that thought his heart and not with a common person's reason.
Children's lives were at risk, and it was all it took for him to throw caution to the wind. Putting no thought into how he would defeat unknown enemies or how he would retaliate, his only desire was to rid the world of these heartless abominations.
Despite the unlikeliness of his success, he was determined to make it so.
From his hidden perch upon a nearby by, Blagden witnessed the ensuing fight with a mixture of scrutiny and fascination. He had unrealistically high expectations for the boy that was one of the few to be dubbed 'Shadeslayer' and God helped the clueless fool if he failed to exceed them. With this encouragement in mind, the white raven observed everything with jewel-bright eyes.
Eragon was bound to show up to duel with the Fey. The boy seemed to be attracted to danger like Sir Lancelot was to fair maidens in desperate need of a champion. Should he prove himself against such formidable foes, it would only set to confirm his true identity to Blagden. After all, the fates of all Pendragons were entwined with the faeries since Uther had made an enemy out of their most influential Queen. The outcome of this battle would show if Eragon Shadeslayer was truly the missing Prince Amhar or not.
After all, it was because of one certain young Pendragon that Blagden was stranded in Alagaesia against his will. When Merlin had come to him that day to innocently request his favor, he had eagerly agreed to help in anyway possible. Being the trusting and oblivious apprentice he had been, Blagden had foolishly sworn his vow in the ancient language, making the promise unbreakable.
Had Blagden known before hand that Merlin's 'request' was more of a direct command to live with arrogant elves in their enchanted forest for decades on end, he would have never agreed in the first place. But he had already dug too deep, and he was stranded in the hole of his own creation. What task was he supposed to accomplish while among a bunch of hardheaded and immortal beings? Thanks to the darling vagueness of his mentor, he hadn't the foggiest idea at the time. In fact, Merlin's own words after the order had been delivered was something like:
"Sorry about this, Blagden. I really have no choice in the matter. Know that you'll be in Du Weldenvarden for quite a while before your mission turns up. Got to get yourself established among the people of Alagaesia, and so on and so forth. With your longevity, it shouldn't bother you too much. Don't worry about being accepted either, King Evandar is a close friend of mine. He'll make sure the elves don't probe too deep into your past or the reason for your presence amongst them."
Merlin had then got off on quite a detailed tangent, explaining how he sure how he could successfully infiltrate the elves until the target of his mission came up. "Oh, chin up, dear boy. Glaring at me won't do much considering that your oaths prevent you from so much as raising a hand against your mentor. Besides, you won't even have to go searching for your objective. It'll bump right into you. Believe me, Blagden, you'll know it when you see it."
Bitter over his all-but banishment from his life and England, Blagden had brooded amongst the elves well over a century. Confined to his raven form as per terms of his mentor's orders, he had resigned himself to exploring the mysterious depths of Du Weldenvarden and exasperating the short-tempered elves with senseless chatter until they snapped.
Thankfully, the clairvoyance he possessed allowed up to stay up to speed with present matters in England in addition to glimpses into the future. Blagden knew of King Arthur's troubles when it came to keeping his offspring alive past infancy, and of how Merlin sent the final royal heir, Prince Amhar, away for his own safety. Then the young prince had fallen under powerful protection spells to shield him from prying eyes, and Blagden had lost sight of him.
But the white raven had no doubt that Amhar Pendragon had been sent to Alagaesia to be raised in peace until the time was ripe to return his true family and kingdom. And he was the one responsible to make sure the future king got home in one piece without being captured by Galbatorix or meeting some other unfortunate demise.
Then Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira had arrived in Du Weldenvarden to be tutored by the world's last true dragon and his Rider. Instantly Blagden's mind had jumped to the conclusion that the young man was England's missing Crown Prince, for he was about the same age Prince Amhar would have been.
But the white raven was incapable of proving that. By the time he had first spotted Eragon, the boy's facial features had already been severely altered by the magical bond that linked him to his she-dragon. He didn't have Arthur's signature red hair, or any other trademark Pendragon features. True, his eyes strongly resembled those of Queen Guinevere's. But identification based on iris color alone was unreliable. After all, Eragon Shadeslayer looked more like a human's bastard child with a faerie than the future King of England.
The boy's mannerisms? Those were a different story. Eragon had Arthur's strong sense of justice and unwavering valiance in the face of certain death (The same courage that could easily be dubbed foolish recklessness.) He also possessed the King's accepting and kind nature. However, his impulsiveness and temper were undoubtedly inherited from Guinevere. The perfect blend of the brave and thoughtful ruler with his fiery and passionate wife.
Of course, Blagden wasn't positive on anything. Which was why he had flown to the Spiritwood in the first place, to see if faeries were indeed behind the recent series of peculiar events. Eragon would be drawn to them, of that he had no doubt, but would a sole Rider and his young dragon be able to defeat an entire part of Fey guardsman? Regular ones of their kind depended on numbers for victory, they didn't have such an advantage.
Then again, neither had a twelve-year-old Arthur Pendragon when he had first faced the faeries. Armed with only an iron knife and with only another child for aid, the young boy had stormed the own Queen Morgan's castle in a wild attempt to rescue several of his captive friends. Despite the enormous odds stacked against him, Arthur had succeeded in his mission and returned home alive, the other young rescuer and the hostages his much older half-sister (though he was unaware of it at the time) had captured safely with him.
Pendragon magic was nothing overt or powerful, like the abilities that ran in Igraine's family. No, the magic Arthur had inherited from his father's side was more subtle, more practical than that. It had strengthened his child's body, giving him the power to fight his way past faerie guards in a bid to free the prisoners.
And it would be the presence or absence of that certain magic that would decide whether Eragon would win this battle on his own or not. While he had Saphira and his impressive knowledge of Alagaesian magic on his side, the faeries had far superior talents and sheer numbers. Noble Pendragon or merely the youngest son of Morzan? Such factors of his lineage would determine if Blagden would be forced to intervene on the boy's behalf.
Saphira descended from the sky at that very moment like a monstrous hawk, unleashing a merciless torrent of blue flames from her maw. This initial attack scattered the Fey as they rushed to avoid the burning fire, while some merely raised their hands to form a protective shield. Nevertheless, the she-dragon's distraction provided Eragon sufficient time to make his entrance. Springing from her saddle, the boy unsheathed his sword and lunged at the closest faerie.
Elrohir was prepared for Eragon's attack, and parried his blows with his own spear. Ordinarily the confrontation would have been quick, for it was the faerie that possessed the superior agility and power behind his strikes. Indeed, for while Eragon's sword most likely contained at least traces of iron, the effects on Elrohir were weakened by the overwhelming presence of Fey magic.
But, easy victory was not the case. There was something more to Eragon than met the eye, for the boy managed to slip past Elrohir's defenses and land an incapacitating blow to his side. The first obnoxious faerie guard down for the count, the Dragon Rider charged onto the bridge across the cream lake that lead to the fortress. The candied vigils shed their false appearances and charged, but Eragon was managing to hold his own against them.
While her Rider grappled on the ground, Saphira remained in the air. Bellowing fearsomely, the sapphire beast charged head-on at one of the castle's turrets, another inferno streaming from her mouth. The sheer force of impact must have been unbelievable, for the moment Saphira collided the enchantment that enshrouded the glen crumbled into oblivion. The lake evaporated instantly, the clearing shrinking back down to its proper proportions. While the fortress remained, it was now a common one, its whimsical appearance haven disintegrated into ash.
Staggering to his feet, a very winded and furious but unfortunately living Elrohir clutched at his bleeding side. Gasping for breath, the faerie surveyed the scene of chaos with black eyes that glittered with indescribable malice. Raising the weapon he still clutched, he hurled it with the remainder of his strength directly at Eragon's prone back. The boy reflexively whirled around to deflect the projectile, giving the disgraced Fey all the time they needed to sound their heroic retreat.
"FALL BACK!" Elrohir screamed at his fellow guardsman. "RETURN TO THE OTHERWORLD!"
With unnatural speed that surpassed that of even the fleet-footed elves, the faeries dashed into their fortress, their injured commander bringing up the rear. When all were securely inside, the castle began to shimmer as the magic began to take effect. Startled by the sudden surge of energy, Saphira and Eragon reeled away just as the fortress vanished into thin air, narrowly avoiding being sucked into the Otherworld themselves. The two gaped at the now vacant spot in absolute shock, unsure of how to react to such an unexpected disappearance.
None of this mattered to Blagden, of course. The white raven was puffed up in pure excitement, dark eyes shining brightly. Were he one hundred and fifty years younger and not possessed an ounce of self-dignity, he would have been bouncing up an down in sheer joy.
I found him! I found him! By God, I actually found him!
Giddily flapping down from his tree, the white raven landed in the clearing once occupied by an edible fortress and its gingerbread guardsman. He promptly resumed his human form, his true form without feathers or a beak or talons. Dimly, Blagden was aware that he was grinning like an absolute lunatic, but such petty matters didn't bother him at the moment. Soon he would be FREE!
Eragon and Saphira glanced up in surprise, at last noticing the odd white-robed man standing at the edge of the clearing. Perhaps it was his unfortunate resemblance to the Fey, or the manic grin that belonged only on a raving madman, that alarmed them. Either way the she-dragon began to growl warningly while her human gripped his sword in preparation for another fight.
Concentrating upon his spell, Blagden paid no mind to the rather intimidating pair that rested only yards from where he was. His eyes were closed, his mind focusing upon magics he had not called upon in decades. Summoning such power came remarkably easy, as if his magic had missed him over the long years. Strange words flowed subconsciously from his mouth, forming into a potent spell that had he'd been taught by Merlin himself.
The air crackled with energy, almost humming at the power that build up within it. Blagden opened his eyes, giving the stunned Rider and dragon a cheerful wave of farewell. Then the pair vanished, just as the Fey had. With their transportation to the land that needed them above all else, came the deafening sound of an ancient vow breaking. Promise fulfilled, the magical shackles that had bound Blagden to his oaths for so long disintegrated.
At last, after years of servitude to Merlin and many more years indebted to him because of one foolish oath, he was FREE.
No more thickheaded Dragon Riders! No more annoying elf queens and having to dodge their spells! No more pretending to be a mere bird in some enchanted forest!
Then the Spiritwood, once a source of terror and supernatural phenomena to the surrounding villages but no longer, was filled with the sounds of a gleeful magician celebrating his new-found liberation. A gleeful magician that was now inadvertently one of the world's most powerful magicians after the death of his mentor, Merlin.
Next chapter: In Camelot, many years have passed since their son's disappearance, but both parents have Amhar upon the mind. King Arthur is musing over the prophecy Merlin gave him long ago, while Guinevere finds reminders of her missing child everywhere. And Sir Lancelot has a whole new enemy to defeat. Faeries were one thing, dragons a whole different a story. A... faerie riding upon a dragon mount heading straight for Camelot? Another story entirely.
1. Blagden is Merlin's apprentice, the one that got tricked into over a century of waiting just to send one wayward prince and his dragon home. The secret of his longevity? As he said, one sixteenth Fey on his mother's side. Genes like that are strong. Will he have more importance later on? Hell yes. Arthur had his magician. Now Eragon will have one, albeit a thousand times more irritating. Why was he with the elves so long? Merlin wanted to give him time to be trusted and accepted by the elves.
2. In this story, elves are the hybrids of humans and elves. They have the powers of the Fey, but on a weaker scale. Yes, their grace and beauty and appearances are watered down versions of the faeries, and only some of them have the characteristic faerie white hair. Before their pact with the dragons, they were merely long-lived instead of immortal. Why do they not acknowledge their lineage? The first 'true' elves (those formed when the pact was created) were proud a-holes that now considered themselves above their mixed ancestry. When those guys died off centuries later, their descendants had no idea of their genetic past and merely assumed there have always been 'pure-blooded' elves.
3. Consider faeries in this story to be the super-charged versions of elves, all with white hair and telltale dark eyes. They reside in the realm they call the 'Otherworld' and are extremely powerful creature. Dragons and Riders stood a chance of conquering them only if they were in groups. Powerful as they are, iron is their mortal weakness, though its potency is dulled if many faeries are together, or if the presence of Fey magic is strong. (Or you if you inherited the good ol' Pendragon strength.)
4. The candy fortress? What faeries use to lure in unsuspecting children when they're running short of a labor force back home. I'm unsure of this is included in early legends, but is plays a large part in Once and Future King when several of a young Arthur's friends are kidnapped by Morgan le Fey and held captive in such a place. Yes, he did indeed break into the fortress and make his half-sister release the prisoners when he was 12 with only an iron knife.