Author's Note:This chapter has multiple POVs as well. Sub-chapters POV from Murtagh, Eragon, one-time unimportant character called Tristan and Ismira.
Warning! The sub-chapter titled Encountering Evil contains rather graphic violence. Feel free to skip. I don't think it's ultimately necessary a part to understand the whole plot. Hope you enjoy the chapter!
Chapter 4 - Nightmare
One week earlier
The ground grew black and brittle where we treaded and the air smelled of brimstone. It was a place where the land smelled of poison and the earth quaked with frightening force. I remember Umaroth's warning alarm in my head, but I could not help myself. I took a step into the dark chasm which light could not even seem to penetrate. Thorn growled in warning, but I was helpless against the compelling force that pushed me forward. As my feet touched the ground; a cold, slicing shudder ran through my entire body. The ground gave an ominous shake.
Suddenly, dark figures propelled into the air, smoke trailed behind them like blazing fire. The air turned to crisp around us – I could not breathe. Pain exploded behind my eyes as my senses overwhelmed me. The intensity of the brimstone invaded my nostrils and a numbing, deafening pin of a sound cut through me. I beheld a sight as great as it was terrifying. Shadows of a great terrible number screeched from the Earth. Cloaked in otherworldly veils, they rose from the abyss like swift tendrils of the darkest smoke. They billowed upwards, carried by the fierce winds that whipped around us. Thorn no longer growled, and he let out a distressed whine. I reached for him mentally and together we prepared ourselves for what the dark figures were about to unleash.
There were a great number of them, all floating in the air, a stark black and wisps of darker grey around them. The sky was darkening in return, as if the figures had spewed venom into the air. They were living poison. The air was not cold, but now freezing. My teeth chattered. I could not move. From stricken with fear or by a binding force, I did not know. Thorn spoke to me but the words were incoherent, even in my mind. The screeching continued combined with the whipping winds around us. The earth from the ground rose with the forming torrent. I should have been whisked into the air like a tossed leaf but an invisible force held me still.
I looked at the gaping chasm below my feet and it was a stare into nothingness. I could perceive nothing, nothing but total blackness. My throat was suddenly raw and aching. I realized that I had been screaming. I looked up, the dark figures not floating, but now seeming to move on their own accord. Although everything was loud around me, I could begin to hear faint whisperings. It was incoherent, seemingly another language. They invaded my mind and Thorn mentally roared in defiance. He attempted to purge the dark tendrils of smoke that enveloped us. Our resistance was weak and they were far stronger. In a few seconds, they were able to crush our defences.
The dark figures loomed ahead. They were like black clouds against the darkening sky. The whispers amplified.
Then they headed straight for us.
"…Murtagh!" Nasuada's voice broke through his dreams; or more fittingly, his nightmare. Murtagh felt himself jolt as he opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily and he could feel his skin filmed with seat. Seeking her comfort, her arms, Murtagh sat up and enveloped her in his arms. His hair was damp as he leaned against their bed's headboard. Nasuada whimpered softly as she said, "You were having nightmares again." It was a quiet statement, not a question.
Murtagh did not respond for a minute. He stroked her arm as she curled up next to him, her presence swiftly alleviating the alarm, the panic that had risen only a few minutes earlier. Nasuada laid her hand on his chest and he wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart. Murtagh spoke, his voice raspy, "It's okay." He comforted her although he knew that a part of him was also telling himself.
Thorn's mental voice drifted to him, Murtagh? A question etched with sympathy.
I'm fine, Thorn. Murtagh responded gently. His dragon's concern enveloped him intensely and he gave Thorn a mental equivalent of an embrace.
Murtagh dipped his head and brushed Nasuada's forehead, his words a mindless murmur. They remained in each other's arms for several minutes, revelling in the sound of each other's soft breathing. Nasuada's hand splayed on Murtagh's chest, her thumb continually stroking the tense muscles beneath. Then Murtagh spoke, his voice just above a whisper, "I dreamt of the shadows again. It was more vivid… I am beginning to remember."
Nasuada was silent, her body pressing close to his. Over the last few weeks, Murtagh had had nightmares. He could not rid of them. Occasionally, he had dreamless sleeps, but on some nights… the nightmares plagued him. It was always the same one – always about the shadows. It left him cold.
Only Nasuada anchored him to the present. Murtagh dreaded at what each night would bring. In every nightmare he recollected more details, more remembrance of his journey with Thorn in the northern edges of Alagaësia. He thought they had long been forgotten. But he was wrong. They were coming back; as swift as they were ferocious. It terrified him.
Thorn spoke mentally, I saw the nightmare… our memories are but jagged pieces of a bigger recollection. I do not know what we encountered in the north. Murtagh shared the same sentiment. They had long forgotten what had transpired.
The first night Murtagh had dreamt of the shadows, he had woken up shaking and shivering. Nasuada had held him, her body cocooned him and calmed him. This was the fifth night Murtagh had dreamt of the shadows. Despite not having remembrance of the whole thing, he feared what would unfold in the very last recollection. Did they unleash an ancient evil? The shadows were nothing that he and Thorn had ever before encountered. From his nightmare, Murtagh knew they were cold, foul and ruthless.
"Why do nightmares plague you, my love?" Nasuada whispered, her voice laced with anguish.
If not for the miserable situation, Murtagh would have let out a bitter laugh. He had been used to rejection, condemnation and disappointment. What was a nightmare to add to the collection? But Nasuada had provided him a sense of peace, a sense of profound tranquillity that he would not have been able to find by himself. Nasuada was the reason he could endure life, carry on living after his tormented servitude.
Murtagh breathed deeply, "I do not know." It had been more than four decades since he and Thorn had ventured into the north of Alagaësia. He did not know why memories long buried from the past were now surfacing. Before the nightmares, he had never before remembered of such shadows. All he knew when he and Thorn emerged from the north was that they lived life in solitude for five years. During that time, Murtagh had meditated extensively, practicing his mind, honing his defences. He refused ever to let someone pass his mental barriers, save for Thorn and Nasuada. He was free. No one would bind him. Murtagh had also practiced his combat skills and trained vigorously until his muscles had ached, until Za'roc had dropped from his heavy-leaden hands.
Murtagh took Nasuada's hand from his chest and brought it upon his lips. He spoke against her hand and repeated softly, "I do not know."
Nasuada looked up, her eyes meeting his, "I am here for you."
Returning her hand to his chest, Murtagh traced Nasuada's cheek, damp from her tears, with his fingertips. Gently, he brushed against her jaw, his fingers a fleeting touch. "I know," Murtagh whispered, choking back the lump in his throat. "You were there when no one else was."
Fresh tears brimmed in Nasuada's eyes. "As you were for me…"
Murtagh knew that Galbatorix' torture had left an everlasting mark on her. He always felt guilt for he knew that he too had been involved in her torture. Although Nasuada had forgiven him for that, he never forgave himself. Out of all the tasks he had ever executed under Galbatorix' command, Nasuada's torture was the most horrific. So, he spent every day trying to make her forget. His love for her was fierce.
Murtagh placed his lips softly against hers. He tasted the salty liquid of her tears. He pulled back slightly, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers, "Go to sleep, my love."
Curled around him, Nasuada tightened her hand around his waist. She leant her head against his shoulder and her mere nearness brought a sense of completion within him. The pain caused from his nightmare had been alleviated. As he held her close, Murtagh closed his eyes and hoped that if he should dream in the next few hours, it would be about her. No more nightmares, Murtagh hoped softly.
Because with every memory relieved, Murtagh dreaded that the line between reality and nightmare would soon vanish.
Revelation
The rays of sunlight set the whole island ablaze- bathing it with its warm, fiery glow. Above the land- through the cluster of clouds- dragons of all colour adorned the skies. For a dragon, the sunrise ambience always felt the best for flying. There was little wind and the air was both warm and cool to their scales. It was a time- as Eragon simply discerned it to be- the dragons' playtime. For as the day would wear on, training and lessons will take place. Saphira was already flying high amongst the clouds, her joy fierce and apparent through their link. Eragon smiled at her happiness and he mentally separated from her as he prepared for his meditation.
As the new day rose on Alalea, another day past the five decades away from Alagaësia, Eragon felt slightly sentimental. Being an immortal, he felt that the fifty years had flown swiftly by. It was a strange, peculiar feeling. It felt as if the world had aged while he had escaped the monstrous ravages of time. Fifty years. Over five decades away from his home, from Arya.
Not a day passed without a thought of her crossing his mind. How was she faring? Eragon's concern for her wellbeing had always far exceeded than those of friendship. He was connected to her, a part of him always yearning for her. At this, Eragon's heart lurched. A single thought that always drove him to raw heartbreak… Does she miss me as much as I miss her? It was a painful and tormenting thought.
The last letter between them had been over a few years ago – when the new set of Riders arrived in Alalea for training. Eragon's responding letter subsequently followed several months later, when a couple of the senior Riders returned to Alagaësia. He did not know when the next letter from her would arrive. How cruel fate was that only a piece of parchment provided that connection with her. Even then, Eragon dared not pour his feelings for her in those letters. He did not want to drive the separation between them further. He loved her, but there was one thing he would never be able to do:
Let her go.
How could he even begin to? Stop his heart?
Eragon shook his head at the thought. Each passing day brought a sense of heartache and Eragon wondered if just a part, no matter how trivial it may be, was willing to let her go. The night with Aráthiel had opened a different path for him. A path he was free to take. It did not foretell of the future, whether it would end badly or happily – but he did know that it told him of the present. But one night could not change almost a lifetime of desire for the same woman. And unfortunately for him, immortality too was proving to be a maddening obstacle. Was it wrong for him then, to choose Aráthiel?
If the first lifetime did not give him what he wanted, was it so wrong to choose a different one on the next?
Although he had been deliberating between the two, Eragon always felt a tug, a profound, insistent tug that lured him back to Arya. He was irrevocably connected with her. Even if he came to love Aráthiel, he would never forget, or could never forget loving Arya.
Eragon gave a mental sigh as he moved across the clearing. Saphira had taken to flying. The weather was glorious and the sun washed upon the land like a still ocean. Vivid, tranquil and utterly beautiful. As Eragon reflected on his thoughts, there was a heavy feeling in his chest. He could not surmount the fact that he and Saphira had passed their fifty year mark away from Alagaësia. They had come a long, long way. It was not a path full of total hardship, but it was one that did not also contain complete happiness. Still, Eragon felt a swell of pride at their achievement. Saphira's mind brushed his at this and Eragon felt her delight and sense of fulfilment. They had become leaders.
For in the last fifty years, Eragon and Saphira – and with the help of the older Eldunarya, they had taught a great number of Dragon Riders- most of whom were as young as he when he had first found Saphira in the Spine. In these few moments of deliberation of their achievement, Eragon wondered if he had proven himself to be a leader. Had Oromis been right to appoint him so? It was a great task, its responsibility almost a palpable enormity.
As soon as the thought crossed him, Saphira instantly obliterated any doubts with the equivalent of a tail swipe of her mind. You have proven yourself time and time again, little one. And the past five decades we have spent here has transformed you into the Rider ones such as the likes of Oromis and Brom would be more than proud of.
Knowing Saphira had intended those words to heal the cuts of doubt of his mind, and also to comfort him; Eragon could not help but feel gratified by her words. He inclined his head, thank you Saphira.
She accepted it kindly in response.
Although many years have numbed Eragon's grief for his loved ones- Brom, Garrow and Oromis; whenever thoughts of them struck him, he could not help but still feel the anguish of their loss. All of them had been like fathers to him. Each had taught him about life; its intricacies and meaningful ways. He had learnt a great many invaluable teachings; most if not all he practiced to achieve properly throughout his years. If only they could see him now, Eragon thought with great sadness. He had accomplished many things, but what accomplishments were they if the very people he did them for were not there?
Eragon shook his trail of thought as he began to meditate. It was a new day and he wondered at what it would bring. As Eragon settled into his Rimgar stance, his mental defences were probed. Flinching mentally, he fortified his guard doubly and prepared to attack.
Eragon… a deep voice greeted. Surprised, Eragon restrained his attack and receded slightly. The voice belonged to the ancient dragon Umaroth.
Ebrithil, Eragon responded respectfully, as Umaroth's mind reached out to him. The dragon's mental consciousness was immensely vast. It pulsed with absolute authority and power. Upon mental touch, Eragon felt the experience of a hundred lifetimes and he felt miniscule compared to the mental enormity. Saphira's mind edged closer to the link and Eragon felt her greeting the older dragon through their bond. From the mental connection, Eragon was awed at the extraordinary mental defence that Umaroth displayed. In a human or an elf, the barrier would be like steel gates at best. But, a dragon's mental defence was far greater. Umaroth's mental defence was the equivalent of a grand castle stronghold. It was impenetrable.
Come to the Hall of the Eldunarya, said Umaroth, his voice resounding in their minds. The ancient dragon allowed some emotions to seep through his words and Eragon jolted at the evident thread of alarm lacerating his tone. He desperately wanted to ask if there was trouble, but fifty years of practice had honed Eragon's questions to be restrained until the appropriate time is presented to ask them. But as if sensing his question, Umaroth provided an indication of an answer. His mind seemed to say yes.
Acknowledging, Eragon immediately replied, we will come swiftly, Master.
Umaroth gave the mental equivalent of a verbal nod and his mind receded from Eragon's. The action was like a tidal wave withdrawing from a silent shore. As Eragon deliberated Umaroth's words, his instinct warned that it would not be something good. At least, the dragon divulged as much. Saphira felt the alarm in Eragon. What do you think it is? She asked, anxious herself. Through their bond, Eragon felt Saphira's wings slice through the air as she approached his location with sharp speed. As Eragon tidied his belongings and strapped his sword's sheath into his belt, he responded with the same evident concern, I do not know.
Eragon saw the streak of sapphire across the sky and Saphira landed in the clearing infront of him. She was magnificent, her scales dazzling in the morning light. Eragon took three bounding strides and leapt on the saddle with ease. In the same second, Saphira's wings unfolded and she shot to the sky. The air around them whistled. From high in the sky, Eragon saw several dragons flying through the clouds. His enhanced eyesight also allowed him to see the Elves and the Riders' figures below. Normally, he would survey the land with Saphira – she would be a sapphire jewel soaring across the sky. But duty called them to Du Skulblaka Breaol. The Home of the Dragons. The grand white hall where all the Eldunarya were kept.
From half a league away, Eragon could already distinguish the great white pillars that rose resplendently towards the sky. The marble pillars reached over fifty feet high and expanded fifty feet across. From above, it was breath-taking to behold. Although the hall was immense, its core was their destination – the place where hundreds of alcoves had been carved in order to accommodate the numerous dragons' hearts of hearts. Saphira approached the massive marble building and in the centre – where the Eldunarya were situated – an immense open rooftop welcomed them. The gap spanned the hall's length.
When this had been in its early construction, some of the Elves had deliberated whether the main hall should have a ceiling or not. Eventually, all – including Eragon – came to a decision that it should not. Already living within a gem, Eragon thought it would be more pleasing for the Eldunarya to be able to gaze at the wonder of the skies – their true home. When it rained, millions of droplets would fall into the main hall like glinting silver. It was an astonishing, wondrous sight.
As they flew high above the grand hall, Eragon could already perceive the brilliant gems gleaming in their alcoves. There were just over a hundred of them and they all ranged in sizes and colours. Each one was magnificent in its own way. But amongst one of the biggest gems was a stark, luminous white eldunarí. It belonged to Vrael's dragon, Umaroth. Its shiny facets glinted against the sun and it looked like a glowing diamond.
Saphira began her spiralling descent into the hall. There was no problem with space as the open rooftop spanned the length of the hall. Over fifty feet high, Eragon was still continually amazed at the sight of the robust pillars stemming from the ground. As they passed the invisible line of the ceiling, Eragon's breath caught in his throat as he beheld more Eldunarya. They were absolutely glorious and they all sparkled with vivid radiance. As Saphira approached the largest alcove – where Umaroth's eldunarí was situated, Eragon felt as if a pair of obscured hundred eyes observed him. He felt slightly conscious under the heavy scrutiny, but he did not let the notion slip into his expression.
Finally, Saphira reached the alcove, landing on the raised platform opposite Umaroth's eldunarí. Eragon leapt from his saddle and walked towards the white eldunarí. Greeting the ancient dragon first in the Ancient Language, Eragon and Saphira's voice combined as one, "Atra esterní ono thelduin, Umaroth Ebrithil."
The enormity of the ancient dragon's mental presence encompassed dragon and rider, Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr, Eragon Shur'tugal, Saphira Bjartskular.
"Un du evarínya ono varda,"they replied and Eragon gave a slight bow. Umaroth's eldunarí gleamed brighter in the sun. He wasted no time for other formalities.
You are eager to know why I have called for you, Umaroth said, his voice mildly impassive but it reverberated loudly in their minds.
"Yes, Ebrithil."
There was a brief silence before Umaroth spoke again. His voice was low and if Eragon was correct, concern tinted it.
A great malice stirs in Alagaësia, the ancient dragon rumbled.
Surprise, alarm and trepidation blossomed simultaneously from Eragon and Saphira's link. Questions quickly formed in Eragon's mind but he refrained from asking just yet. Umaroth continued, As you well know, Alalea and Alagaësia are sister lands. Alagaësia earth pulses within the veins of Alalea. Although the connection is incredibly weakened by the vast distance of the seas – it is still there. Pulsing, live – a heartbeat. As we have been long been acquainted in merging ourselves with the land, we – referring to the other Eldunarya – perceive the subtle changes, the shifts in nature. Eragon remembered the knowledge from one of his discussions with the dragon a long time ago, back in his early years in Alalea. He knew that Alagaësia could somehow be felt by the Eldunarya – their sense of awareness went to a level more profound and inexorable than Eragon could ever imagine. It was an ability that continued to awe him. Over the last few weeks, we discerned several alterations of balance in nature. If the connection had already been weak, it has become even weaker. Umaroth paused before uttering faintly, Alagaësia is unsettled.
Eragon and Saphira froze. Umaroth continued, we observed the land for several days, diligent and acutely aware to distinguish any signs or indications of further changes. It was an intricate and testing task – one that pushed all of our ability to connect with the land. But we succeeded.
At this point of the narration, Eragon was greatly anxious. Umaroth's words left a cold feeling within him. The ancient dragon was silent for a few transitory moments and then he uttered sonorously; The Unnamed Shadow roams the land.
Immobilised, Eragon could not restrain the concerned emotions that spread like wildfire. Likewise, he felt Saphira's mind also jerk in response. Over the last fifty years, Eragon had devoted some of his time in reading scrolls. Thrice he had come across the tales of The Unnamed Shadow. The scrolls were rare and Eragon doubted that even the minds of the greatest scholars in Alagaësia – perhaps save for the few oldest – knew of The Unnamed Shadow. The information was difficult to find. But if what Eragon read was true, then it did not bode well for Alagaësia.
The Unnamed Shadow.
It was an evil entity - a great cloak of smoke that sought to obliterate the living. The Unnamed Shadow was often mistaken for several shadows because of its multiple tendrils. These tendrils appeared like separate forms of shadow. But it was just one single entity - and an extremely dangerous one.
His mouth too dry to form speech, Eragon could only let their immense surprise filter through their mental link.
Umaroth acknowledged it and he seemed to nod disdainfully in response. The Unnamed Shadow: a terrible malevolence that had roamed Alagaësia a thousand years ago.
The words came unbidden to his mind and Eragon continued, Alagaësia birthed it as the very first Order of the Dragon Riders arose. The pact between dragon and man unbalanced the power of nature. And thus, Shadow emerged. Its purpose was to cause pain, to induce pain. It fed from it. It acquired power from people's fear and sorrow.
One of the greatest feats that Eragon I and the rising Riders accomplished – they defeated it. Eragon spoke what he remembered reading and quoted exactly, "It was the greatest evil Alagaësia had known. Many perished during The Time of the Shadow."
The quote was ominous and even Eragon felt an apprehensive shudder run through his entire body. It filled him with dread. Saphira shared his concern and Umaroth responded, yes, the very first Dragon Riders united to defend the land. The battle between the Riders and the Shadow was long and arduous. But, good always overcomes evil. Together, the Riders drove the malice into the deepest of the underground of Alagaësia, forever to be sealed within.
The question burgeoned in his mind before Eragon had the chance to voice it. Even his mental voice seemed to shake with distress …It has escaped?
Umaroth rumbled and his voice combined with the hundreds of Eldunarya in the hall. The voices were deep and whisper-like, but there were many of them. The words sounded like the howling wind, portentous and fierce.
No… it has been unleashed.
Encountering Evil
It was late. The rain poured down heavily from the dark skies. The water was cold as it hit Tristan's flesh. He was supposed to be home an hour ago. His mother would be livid. Tristan turned another corner; into a shortcut alleyway he had discovered when he was five. The rain now pelted down and he grimaced as the puddles seeped into his boots. These were also only a few months old. He could always dry them when he got home. Although the sound of the rain was loud, Tristan heard the clatter of something heavy hit the ground. Swivelling towards the sound, Tristan perceived the chipped walls of the buildings on either side of him. Around him, boxes, trays and other miscellaneous items from merchants and neighbours clattered the isolated alley. There was no one here but him. There was a balding cat on top of one of the trays and it seemed to stare at him with knowing eyes.
Tristan shrugged and resumed his stride. He needed to hurry home. A couple of minutes more and his mother would not only be livid, but would refuse to let him in the house. Half jogging down the long alleyway, Tristan stopped abruptly as his eyes caught movement against the walls. It was dark, fleeting, but he was certain that something moved. He looked around. Tristan shrugged off his edginess as he continued to walk again.
Suddenly, there was a loud yowl and a rattle. Tristan swung around and his breath caught in his throat. Farther down where he had just come from, the balding cat hung in mid-air. Its tail was raised, as if it had been plucked upwards. Surrounding it, a black smoke floated in the air. There were tendrils forming from the smoke and it reached towards the suspended animal. The cat hissed and yowled, its paws swiping at nothing but smoke. Tristan could not move, could not even begin to react at the terrifying oddity in front of him. Abruptly, the cat's body twisted as if it was being wrung like a cloth. The cat ceased its moving almost immediately. Tristan was disgusted by the sight and revulsion rose in him like bile. The cat dropped to the floor, hitting the ground with an audible thud.
That was like a jolt to Tristan and he turned and ran. The rain continued to pelt him, as if shooting him down to the ground. The alleyway was long and he was only halfway through it. The pattering of the raindrops against the ground echoed the increasing pounding of his heart. He did not know what he just saw, but he was terrified. Tristan's legs burned but he was close to the edge. He could even see the faint light splayed across the street ahead. A sense of triumph began to form within him, but brusquely, a force as strong as the wind sucked him backwards. He yelped.
Tristan's elbows grazed the ground and he knew that he had hit the floor hard enough for them to bleed. He shouted as pain exploded behind his eyes. The impact took the breath out of him. His head hit the ground and dizziness shook him. Aware of the black smoke, the shadow surrounding him, Tristan forced himself to stand. But, another gust of wind assaulted him and his head hit the ground a second time, harder. The world spun around him, lines and shapes a vague haze infront of him. The rain did not help. The droplets appeared double in number and he felt as if he was underwater. But as his eyesight cleared somewhat, he perceived the shadow. It was enveloping, enshrouding him like a heavy blanket.
Through the din of the rain, Tristan thought he heard whisperings. It was foreign, the words mindless and incoherent. But it swarmed his head, filling him with a nauseating feeling. Tristan clutched his head and began to yell. His head felt like it was being sliced and cut. Cold tendrils drove into his mind like daggers and the whispers urged him to do something. Tristan shouted, but the sound was lost in the hammering rain. He ignored the whisperings, but his head resounded with constant ringing. It was as high and sharp as the mental tendrils enclosing his mind.
The pain reached its peak and Tristan complied, agreeing with the whispers. He implored for the pain to stop. The shadow commanded a word for him to utter and he responded fervently, only wishing for the torment to cease. As soon as the word formed in his lips, the pain stopped. Tristan breathed heavily and he could feel that the water had soaked his clothes. But, he did not care. He had hit his head earlier, but now his vision had cleared to normal. He looked down and saw red running down his arms. It was blood. He paid it no heed.
The whispers in his head had receded but they were there, silent and watching his movements. No, not watching. Dictating. Tristan emerged from the alleyway and headed home. It took him a minute to reach the front door of his home. The light from the windows was dim and he knew that his mother had waited for him. Tristan rapped loudly on the door three times. The rain had not stopped and he knew that most of the blood had been washed off. But it had also stained his clothes. A part of him knew his mother would be furious.
The door opened and revealed a short, plump woman. Her hair was tied haphazardly in a bun on top of her head and a few grey tresses fell on her face. "Tristan!" She reprimanded, her voice a high, almost shrilly sound, "What did I tell you about staying out too late?"
Tristan mumbled an apology, but his mother would not hear any of it. She ushered him into the house and once she saw the blood, her reproach turned into concern. "What have you been doing, Tristan? Why do you have blood all over you?" Her concern returned to admonishment. "I told you not to side yourself with those scruffy boys from the edge of town, they are no good!"
His mother sat him down on the kitchen seat while she rambled on about the no-good boys from outside of town. "I cooked you dinner as well! It's gone cold now." She bustled into the other room to get her stitching kit. "Well, you just have to stomach it."
Her voice was loud and it rebounded across the walls of their tiny house. Tristan found her voice annoying. "It's your fault anyway. You have those tatty boys as company and you end up with cuts on your arms." His mother had returned to the kitchen. She held her stitching kit in her hand and a few bandages. She placed them heavily on the table so her metallic stitching kit made a high clanging sound. "If your father was still here, I have no doubt that he would've seen you flogged for your misbehaviour. Staying late at night outside," she sighed impatiently as she grabbed a bowl and filled it with warm water. Tristan watched her with silent eyes. His arms burned from the impact against the floor and he was sure that a pebble had managed to lodge itself in his left arm. Still, the pain could be ignored.
His mother brought the warm bowl and sat next to him, scraping her chair against their concrete floor. She was still reproaching him, "Your clothes are wet too. I brought you those brand new shoes just last month and look what you've done to them! What a slap to my face – absolutely no respect for the hard work I do." Tristan's head began to throb, the whispers amplifying. He winced as he tried to shake his head at the shadow's order. It gave a deep growl and Tristan mentally cowered.
His mother unrolled the bandage until it was long enough and then she snipped it with the scissors. She placed it on the side and the scissors gleamed wickedly under the wick of light. Tristan eyed it cautiously. His mother reached for her needle and thread. "Now I have to stitch you up! What a waste of my thread. This is fine thread as well, so you better count yourself lucky." She began to stitch. Tristan merely twitched at the prick of pain. It was nothing compared to what the shadow threatened. "You're carrying the sack of grains to the market tomorrow. Don't expect that just because you have these little cuts on your arms that you'll be excused…" An itch began to form and Tristan felt his left hand – the one not being stitched move. His mother seemed to jostle him. Tristan could not help his hand as it reached the silver scissors. It was razor sharp at its tips.
His mother's voice rang in his hears, "Do you hear me Tristan?" Tristan's left hand enclosed the scissors. The whispers became louder; it was now a high fever pitch in his head. He should have collapsed on the floor from its intensity, but a force held him up. Tristan gripped the scissors tightly like a knife until his knuckles became white. "Do you hear what I'm saying to you? You have-" The shadow growled insistently in his head.
Tristan's left arm twitched and he swung. There was a choked, gurgling sound and hot liquid splattered across his face. A red haze settled around him and as he slumped in his seat, Tristan realized that his mother had never finished her sentence.
One week later
Council of Alagaësia
"Ismira Shur'tugal, Daughter of Lord Roran Stronghammer and Lady Katrina," the messenger declared as Ismira entered Ilirea Hall. Back rigid, head held high, the young Rider had the posture of a noble, but the manner and gait of a warrior. Ismira wore her Rider's outfit, appropriate for formal gatherings – an intricately woven tunic and dark chaps with dark red lining on the sides, the colour of her dragon, Latheria Bjartskular. Ismira surveyed the Hall.
Eight cream-coloured marble pillars held the vast ceiling of the Hall. Lining the sides were great every-burning lanterns. There were twenty on each side of the Hall and they emanated a soft waft of light that washed across the entire Hall. High above the lanterns were narrow windows with thick and enchanted glass. The Hall held such important people and great precautions had been placed in order to secure those inside. Without the enchantments in the Hall, Ismira thought them to be safe anyway – she had no doubt that each noble and Rider in the room has several safety wards already in place.
The Hall was impressive in its splendid simplicity. There were no useless clutter and the floor was marble and pristine. It was a particularly bright day and the light that penetrated the several windows of the Hall provided additional luminosity. The eight pillars in the Hall were about five men in a small circle in width and an imposing thirty metres in height. Four lined each side of the Hall and between the pillars was a long grand table.
Ismira discerned that eight other Riders had already filled half. Far at the other end, opposite the seated Riders, two throne-like seats were placed. Ismira knew them to be the seats of Queen Nasuada and Murtagh Shur'tugal. Also, Ismira perceived a large cushion placed near the seats – and around the Hall, several more. It was has been long established that the Werecats had a place in Ilirea Hall. If her knowledge was correct, it was an agreement come to fruition by Queen Nasuada assenting to the Werecats' terms for their aid in the Great War.
There were several Werecats in the room, they were all in their cat form and they appeared bored coiled in their cushions. Ismira spotted one asleep already. But no one paid them too much heed as they themselves did not bother to acknowledge anyone. Ismira found a valuable aspect in that – for they were free to do completely as they wish. They were not bound to anyone, no ties, and no allegiances. They were a free race. But, Ismira recognized the Werecat seated on the most prominent of cushions – King Grimmr Halfpaw of the Werecats. Despite their freedom, not even obliged to intercede in any disputes if they so desired, Ismira knew that such gathering would call even to the attention of the Werecats' leader. As such, he was seated at least with an amount of concentration surveying the Hall– unlike the others of his kin who just genuinely seemed uninterested.
Spanning the Hall's length, the wooden table was designed by a collaboration of Elves and Dwarves. It was very sturdy and intricate lines and glyphs snaked its entire surface. Ismira had only ever been in a few formal gatherings and when discussions lengthened in monotony, she always resorted to tracing the carved lines with her fingertips. She also thought them fascinating to look at.
Near the eight other Riders, Prince Audric, son of King Orrin of Surda and Nar Gazhvog, Leader of the Urgals sat silently. Although, Prince Audric appeared slightly restless in his proximity of the large Urgal. Only a few years past adolescence, Prince Audric appeared as handsome, dignified and proud as his father. Ismira briefly wondered if the Surdan King's ill health had progressed to its utmost severity that he could not even attend such an imperative gathering. On the other hand, Nar Gazhvog appeared fairly at ease. He did not seem uncomfortable being near humans and creatures not of his race. If at all, he looked ready for battle. He wore large armour and even from his bulky movements, Ismira knew that with a twitch, he could send Prince Audric with only a swat of his hand. Although Urgals were now acknowledged as allies, Ismira was still cautious of them. She knew that their race were particularly fond of bloodthirsty violence. Nar Gazhvog took a large amount of space. He had a specially crafted seat, suited for his enormous size. In a fleeting moment of amusement, Ismira thought that he looked hilarious seated motionlessly.
As Ismira sat on a seat next to her fellow Riders, she acknowledged each of them with a nod. As standard proceedings of such a paramount council, each entrance had to be announced by the messenger. As Ismira perceived only the Riders and Prince Audric in the Hall, she knew that Riders of higher rank than her would begin to enter. As far as she knew, there were five other Riders of higher rank than her in Ilirea – the rest of the senior Riders were away in Alalea.
However, their most senior, the first Rider of their generation to have succeeded through the dragon training – Berathor Shur'tugal would be present in this council. Berathor was the fourth Rider of Alagaësia after the Original Trio – the Riders who lived through and survived the terrible reign of the dark King, Galbatorix. Amongst the three Riders, there was Eragon KingKiller – whom Ismira was proud to call Uncle, Murtagh Shur'tugal – now husband of Queen Nasuada and Queen Arya of the Elves.
As two more Riders entered, Ismira momentarily reflected back on her great surprise the day she found that Queen Arya – their Head Rider in Alagaësia was the woman her uncle loved. She recalled upon the first day her uncle showed her around his home in Alalea and seeing the fairth of the beautiful female elf amongst her uncle's most valued portraits. It was only after a moment's deliberation that she realized that the fairth was of Arya Shur'tugal. Upon her return to Alagaësia a few decades ago, she could not help but feel familiar every time she saw the Rider Queen. Ismira had wondered who had left who, or if both had chosen to go their separate ways. But she could not forget, could not deny the deep sadness that flashed across her uncle's eyes when she had questioned him about her. That alone confirmed for Ismira that her uncle had never stopped loving her.
Ismira snapped out of her reverie as the grey-haired messenger – whom she knew was called Jarsha – announced the entrance for their most senior Rider, Berathor.
With a confident gait, Berathor was one of the most admired Riders. Served as one of Queen Nasuada's youngest commanders- then at twenty six- during the Great War, Berathor had already been high up the human rank ladder. When he became a Rider, it boosted his peers' admiration for him.
Berathor had a wide face with short dark hair. Sometimes, he let it grow past his ears, but Ismira remembered her uncle advising the male Riders in her group not to sport such long hair for it may affect their sight during intense combat. Although he was human, Berathor's ears were slightly tapered – the subtle curve the only hint of elven features. Ismira had the chance to converse with him on a few occasions and had found him to be of a good and polite manner. His leadership skills were unquestionably extensive and Ismira knew that he had the commitment and charisma to lead. As Berathor sat down, he greeted all of the Riders in the room by their names, followed by a swift nod of acknowledgement.
Normally, Ismira would be striking up a conversation with one of the Riders, but the formal council dictated that respect was to be shown as each rider and leader entered the Hall. So the room was silent, the only sound was the messenger declaring the names and the barely audible footsteps as they entered the Hall. As Ismira surveyed the room, she acknowledged that there were no guards lining the Hall's width and she smiled inwardly. More than half the people in the room were some of the strongest and deadliest warriors amongst Alagaësia. If anyone should come in intending to harm any of the people in the room, they would be executed in a blink.
After Berathor had entered, King Orik of the Dwarves followed, his mighty hammer, Volund strapped dangerously in its pocket. Ismira smiled. The Dwarven king was stocky and short – as his kind was known for and his beard was long and course but braided. His crown sat comfortably on top of his head. Dwarves did not possess elegance in their movements, Ismira thought as Orik took the seat on the left-hand side of the two thrones. But, gruff as he appeared at times, Ismira was fond of the Dwarven King. He was like an uncle of some sort to her - her father and her uncle Eragon were close to him. She remembered on her birthdays – before she had even become a Rider – she always received a present from the Dwarven King. As Orik settled in his seat, he caught Ismira's glance and smiled faintly.
Ismira tore her gaze away from Orik as Jarsha announced the next entrant. "Arya Shur'tugal, Queen of the Elves, Ruler of Du WeldenVarden."
Ismira acknowledged that the Rider title superseded her identification as an Elven monarch. It was rightly so, Ismira supposed. Ultimately, Riders were more powerful than Kings and Queens. Despite entering the Hall first, Riders were not entirely bound to the monarchs of Alagaësia. But they did look to their Leader, the Head of all Dragon Riders – Eragon Shur'tugal. Long ago before he had left Alagaësia, Eragon had made a treaty with the rulers of the land that did bind the Riders to carry out duty over the land. Although Riders were ultimately free to do as they wish. However in order to maintain harmonious peace, Eragon's established allegiance with all the leaders meant that Riders were obligated to follow their duty. As such, they were seated in Ilirea Hall to discuss matters regarding the land.
As Queen Arya entered the Hall, all eyes followed. Ismira admired her but there was a feminine part that was envious of how she always stunned her audience. A tall and beautiful woman with bright and always seemingly burning emerald eyes – the Elven Queen made a striking appearance. Her emerald sword Támerlein hung from her belt on her left side. Dressed in royal tunic lined with gold threads – fit for a Queen – and dark, leather chaps, Arya Shur'tugal was known to abandon royal dresses for a warrior's outfit.
As well as the elegance and grace in her movements from being a Queen, Arya Shur'tugal was also a warrior. There was a danger to her gait; a coiled viper that always seemed ready to attack. From tales Ismira had heard of her, she knew that Arya Shur'tugal was one of the deadliest warriors in Alagaësia. As the Elven Queen gracefully walked the length of the Hall, Ismira briefly recounted some of her feats. Like her uncle, she was a Shadeslayer – a difficult feat and she had not even been a Rider then, she learnt under the tutelage from one of the most renowned and powerfully ancient Dragon Riders, Oromis Shur'tugal. She accepted the yawë, an Elven symbol and obligation of duty and became the Elven Queen on her 103th year – extremely young for a Ruler of an entire nation. But she had managed and she had prevailed. As Ismira recounted her feats, even she felt the gravity and significance of her actions. Like her Uncle, she had exceeded expectations and had given more than what was required. Although females both admired and were envious of her, Ismira also felt sadness. To follow duty was noble, but what was to life without its basic joys?
Queen Arya was known to rarely smile, her demeanour always impassive, her voice almost perceptibly devoid of life. She was beautiful, striking, the best of warriors – but there was emptiness about her. As the Elven Queen took her seat on the right side of the two thrones, Ismira and all the Riders gave a subtle nod in her direction. It was a silent show of respect. Normally, each would have greeted her first in the Ancient Language, but the formalities would have taken far too long. The Elven Queen acknowledged their nods and responded accordingly in return.
As the Hall waited for its last two entrances, everyone glanced at the grand doors. Jarsha announced with a booming voice, "Murtagh Shur'tugal and Queen Nasuada, Rulers of Ilirea." The doors slowly swung open and revealed two figures. Side by side and formally linking arms, Queen Nasuada and Murtagh Shur'tugal entered the Hall. Queen Nasuada wore a deep-red dress, the thread and stitch work perceptibly fine and impressive. It was a beautiful dress, Ismira thought. The colour of the dress reminded her of Latheria's scales – her scarlet coloured dragon. Queen Nasuada looked in her prime. Her dark olive skin was smooth, her face displaying no sign of old age. As a human, she would have been in her 68th year, but her union with Murtagh Shur'tugal had considerably slowed her ageing. Ismira knew that the likely method used was the power of an Eldunarí – a Dragon's Heart of Heart. Ismira wondered how many the Red Rider possessed. She had only learnt of the Eldunarya on the final years of her Rider's training. It was a vital and highly secreted knowledge. Ismira knew that only a small handful outside of the Riders knew of the Eldunarya. They were dangerous if such knowledge fell on the wrong ears. Like Queen Arya, Nasuada had assumed the role as the Varden Leader – the group that had opposed the Empire Galbatorix created – at a very young age. She too had her own outstanding list of achievements. One Ismira particularly admired was her feat of the Trial of the Longknives.
Murtagh Shur'tugal on the other hand was dressed in his royal tunic and dark leggings. The threading on his tunic was lined with red, but brighter – ruby coloured; the same as Thorn, his dragon's colour. Murtagh Shur'tugal was quite a handsome man. His dark hair was a glossy mane under the light that swathed across the Hall. He had the gait of a predator and a demeanour of a proud man.
But Ismira did not know his story. She only knew that he had once been forced to serve Galbatorix – had once been his right-hand Rider. That was why Ismira recalled the temporary uprising when Murtagh became a joint ruler of Ilirea. Not many trusted him, but Ismira knew he had fought hard to earn it from those who had.
As the Hall finally welcomed its last two entrances, everyone shifted in their seats. Ismira surveyed the Hall. Everyone was finally here. The Riders were in one end of the long table and along the left hand side of the table were some of the Riders then Nar Gazhvog, Prince Audric and King Orik- he was on the left of Queen Nasuada. On Murtagh's right, was Queen Arya and seated next to her was Berathor. From Berathor's side, there were more Riders. This was Alagaësia's leaders and Riders, save for the Riders away in Alalea and her father, Lord Roran Stronghammer. Content to stay and manage Carvahall and the Spine, her father was not ultimately interested in discussions of politics and other matters. He rarely had. Although a great and renowned warrior, Ismira knew that her father was content in peace with her mother, farming and in the countryside rather than living in a bustling city. So upon her last visit to Carvahall, her father had instructed her to speak on behalf of him on today's council.
Acknowledging the whole room with a surveying gaze, Queen Nasuada began, "I welcome you all to Ilirea – Werecats – King Grimmr, Prince Audric, Nar Gazhvog, King Orik, Riders and Queen Arya," she addressed the groups accordingly, "We have convened here today as the Council of Alagaësia to discuss matters of the land - significant matters…" she paused briefly, "…requiring the utmost attention."
"The Council rarely demands the imperative presence of such a high amount, but alarming news have emerged from all over the land. But before we discuss such the crucial matters, each leader is required to impart news of their land," said Nasuada, her authority seeping through her words. Normally news of the land would be discussed regarding other countries beforehand; Ismira knew that none probably had the chance to hear of it since all leaders were swiftly called to Alalea. Therefore ambassadors would not have had the chance to travel to each country delivering and receiving news. So, ultimately the Council of Alagaësia was the perfect place to discuss each and every news concerning every nation.
And so, each leader took turns disclosing their news.
On behalf of her father's position, Ismira imparted what her father had told her. Carvahall was undisturbed and life was as usual. However, her father told her that there had been recent reports of animals emerging from the deep corners of the Spine. This was startling news. Although the Spine was recognized as a dangerous place, it was also almost unheard of that animals came out of it. When her father told her of this news, Ismira had been surprised, and her surprise escalated when her father said that the animals came out not only because of disturbance, but also to prey on humans. As she repeated this news to the council, shock seemed to reverberate throughout the Hall. Ismira noticed Queen Arya's slight shift and her subtle, but discernible frown as if the news jolted her. But discussions about the news would follow after each leader disclosed their reports. The Urgal Leader was next to speak.
Nar Gazhvog briefly explained of his kind's need for conflict – although it was already well established that Urgals were nefarious for violence – and that their numbers had been on a steep decline recently. Their need for violence ran deeper than desire, Ismira thought. It was ingrained to them – a seemingly natural instinct for each Urgal and Kull. Nar Gazhvog continued, explaining that his race - especially the men - were growing restless without violence. Fighting each other was not enough. Each of the leaders shifted discernibly in their seats as this was uttered. If the Urgals did not fight each other, they would soon turn to other nations to fight.
Next was Prince Audric. Ismira knew he was inexperienced in such gatherings, but he was taught well. Relatively composed, Prince Audric spoke of his father's grievous health. The best human spellcasters and healers had been sent to aid the Surdan King and even Ismira was surprised when Queen Arya quickly interceded that she had even sent a few Elven healers to Surda to aid. The steep decline in the Surdan King's health meant that Surda was currently devoid of their leader. Although taught and guided, Prince Audric seemed as if he could not handle an entire nation. At the moment, Surda was managed by Prince Audric and King Orrin's closest advisors. Prince Audric himself was uncertain if his father would heal. In his old age, Ismira would not be surprised if the Surdan King should decline further in health.
As Prince Audric imparted his news, Ismira fleetingly perceived a bitter glance thrown at Queen Nasuada's direction. She knew the root of that bitterness. While Queen Nasuada could remain in her youthful years, his father was dying. Ismira remembered that this also had been the first of disputes among the leaders. If Nasuada should be allowed to live longer; why are not other humans allowed the same? Ismira could understand, for her parents were human. But, she knew that her parents too were in the same position as Nasuada. Her uncle had placed enchantments around them that allowed them to live significantly longer. But, her uncle's morality and reasons could only go so far. He had only granted them a few decades, as opposed to Nasuada's immortality. In a few more decades, Ismira knew that her parents would feel the strains of old age. She felt guilt, but gratitude as well that they had several more years ahead of them. So, she could understand and empathise with the Surdan Prince's situation.
As well as his father's ill health, Prince Audric had also imparted alarming news. Recently, there had been an uprising in their country. News of deaths by murder had risen considerably over the last few months. Prince Audric could give no explanation as to why. All nations had been prosperous ever since the pact of peace between leaders. Resources, food and trade were efficient. No country suffered in debt or in economy. Everyone worked for their money, for their own trade. Corruption however, although endeavoured to be evaded, could not entirely be erased. So the murderers had no true cause for their killings apart from the fact that they simply wanted to. The murders had in turn, disrupted the peace of the country and there was a palpable restlessness for Surdan citizens.
Next was King Orik. Dwarves lived underground as was their kind, but over the last few years; some had chosen to venture out into the open. Although, they were still rarely seen in human and elven cities – Dwarves liked their mines and deep undergrounds. King Orik then began to explain Dwarven politics, how the other clan leaders were growing restive of the nearby Urgal lands killing their animals. At this Nar Gazhvog bridled and claimed that his people needed animals as foods as well as they do. Further invoking the Dwarven King's temper, Nar Gazhvog stated that if they required food, they should have better hunters. Responding to his assertion, King Orik banged on the table and stood. Before the situation could get out of hand, and before Prince Audric could be pulped by the two heavy-handed creatures on either side of him, Nasuada called the Hall to order.
The Riders shifted in their seats, ready to spring into action if physical conflict arose.
But eventually the Hall calmed and King Orik continued on his account. He disclosed that their banished clan, the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin were causing trouble for the other clans. Banished for attempting to assassinate her Uncle - a Dragon Rider during an amicable visit to Tronjheim a long time ago - Az Sweldn rak Anhûin had still refused to replace their Grimstborith, a dwarf called Vermûnd. Therefore they were still spurned by the other Dwarf clans. But as of late, Az Sweldn rak Anhûin fought them. The Dwarves, infamous for their temperaments responded "accordingly" in turn. As King Orik finished his report, Ismira could not fail to acknowledge that so far, restlessness and violence throughout each nation was evident.
However, her trail of thought was proved wrong when Queen Arya imparted that no news of significance to the Council concerning the Elves were relevant. But she said that nature seemed to be disturbed, especially on the northern fringes of the Du WeldenVarden forest. Birds and animals of all sorts were restless, and the Elves, despite their closeness to nature could not identify the source of their agitation. Although Prince Audric, Nar Gazhvog and King Orik did not seem to regard the news with the greatest concern involving the Elves, the other Riders seemed alarmed. Ismira knew that from their Rider studies that animals were great indicators of nature's disruption.
Berathor announced no new information, save for the piece that Queen Arya had already imparted. Ismira too had noticed a change in the environment, the nature around her. If the whole world had previously been a lit room, it was now dimmed. It was as if a thin veil had enclosed the land. It was an ominous thought and Ismira could not help shudder when she thought of the world being a confined space. As each leader acknowledged each other's news, Queen Nasuada finally took charge of the discussion.
She too imparted of reported restlessness within the land. Ilirea had seen a rise in murders over the past few months and her spies have informed her that the Black Hand – a previously nefarious group of dangerous warriors serving Galbatorix – had seen a rise in activity. Although Galbatorix had been overthrown, news of his loyal followers and servants still plagued the land. They opposed the Council of Alagaësia and have been silently and cunningly reforming in the background, in the shadow of the prospering peace. Queen Nasuada said that the Black Hand had been causing trouble, causing rebellion.
The other news that followed was intriguing as it was disturbing. Queen Nasuada told of common people – normal working families killing each other. Ismira was repulsed by the news. Who could turn on their mother, their father or their children? There had been numerous killings within families and each of them quite brutal. Ismira shuddered inwardly when Queen Nasuada spoke of a young boy killing her mother with scissors by driving it into her throat. There was no explanation for the killings and there was no correlation between the murderers.
As news from each leader settled over everyone like a veil, the Hall came to an unsettling silence. Anxiety and trouble was almost palpable in the air. All news which had been imparted sounded grim.
Then, Queen Nasuada shifted in her seat and gave her husband, Murtagh Shur'tugal a sideways glance. The Red Rider had been silent throughout the whole meeting so far and now, he finally readied himself to speak. As Ismira looked at him more closely, she noticed the dark circles under the Rider's eyes, the tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation. There was an edge to his seemingly impassive façade as well, an edge that made him look slightly mad. Ismira could only conclude that trouble had been plaguing him. After hearing all the unfortunate and displeasing news from each leader, Ismira knew that the Red Rider's manner indicated of even graver news.
Although Riders and to some extent, the Elves as well, were attuned to the land, the news of nature's disruption was a surprise to all. The only indication that it was had only occurred in the last few weeks. The change was very subtle, but now all of the news was laid bare, Ismira knew that each Rider was admonishing themselves for not looking into it further. How could they miss such a momentous event? Overlook such shocking occurrences? As the Red Rider meaningfully surveyed the hall, she readied herself for the worse.
"The present seems bleak," said Murtagh. It was a true statement. The Red Rider looked at no one in particular. "As you are all well aware, the Council of Alagaësia has convened to discuss a matter of utmost importance. Each nation's ambassadors would have been briefly told of the message." Ismira saw the leaders nod. Everyone waited expectantly for the Red Rider to continue. He did.
Like a chant, Murtagh spoke his words with an almost poetic cadence, "The ground grew black and brittle where we treaded and the air smelled of brimstone. It was a place where the land smelled of poison and the earth quake with frightening force. I remember Umaroth's warning ringing in alarm in my head, yet I could not help but take a step forward, a step into the dark chasm from which no light seemed to penetrate. As my feet touched the ground; shadows of a great terrible number screeched from the Earth; cloaked in otherworldly veils, they rose from the abyss like swift tendrils of the darkest smoke. After their arrival into the air, the abyss below us closed with a great tumult and an eerie silence pervaded the land."
Although Ismira had heard of his account, she felt an ominous shudder run through her entire body. It made her anxious. The Red Rider's voice dropped into almost a whisper, "I ventured with Thorn to the northern parts of Alagaësia after the Great War." The piece of information was not new, but Ismira perceived the sadness belying the impassive façade. "I know not how it came to existence before me, but Thorn and I encountered something." The hall was silent; the audience enrapt. As the Red Rider uttered his next words, Ismira noticed that he used the present tense, as if what he spoke of existed.
"They had no physical form - they were pure darkness. They are terrible, foul and hostile," Ismira saw the perceptible shudder run through the Red Rider, "It has plagued me for weeks. I re-lived each piece of memory as if it had just happened." A pause. The Red Rider's voice was almost a rasp, "And I remember. I remember everything."
Author's Note: Just for clarification - Murtagh believes that he and Thorn encountered shadow[s]. But as I explained in the Revelation sub-chapter, it is not plural, but singular. It is a shadow. One entity. More will be explained in the upcoming chapter about it. For the meanwhile...
Leave a review? :3 And if you have any questions, feel free to ask.
ExA muse song for this chapter:
A lonely road crossed another cold state line
Miles away from those I love
Hope is hard to find
-Dear God, Avenged Sevenfold
~Rocket