I will be chasing the starlight
Until the end of my life
I don't know if it's worth it anymore …

- Muse - Starlight

~Chapter Three~

~Struggling~

To be moneyed… I would give anything in the world,Fabiola thought absently as she winced, the leather strap of a pack seeming to weigh at least half of her body weight digging a red ridge into her shoulder.

Why, think of it! If I was rich, I could have afforded a horse that didn't cop it after five miles.

Fabiola tumbled over a stray rock in her path sliding onto the dusty ground. Swearing inelegantly, as she picked herself up, but couldn't help thanking the gods that she had managed to scavenge some suitable clothing. It might not be pretty or fashionable, which much offended her sensitive tastes, but it as thanks to them that her knees were not currently two large and bloody holes.

She had tried to find a nice elegant travelling outfit as befitting her (somewhat dubious) status. But since even that was in danger, she didn't think it wise to go for the pretty travelling gowns, as much as she craved them. They were made for rich girls; long, sedately coloured gowns suitable for riding horses, perhaps in the most barbaric cases over short distances, then be pulled off by maids, exclaiming, 'Oh, my lady! How terrible that you had to wear such rags!' before she would toss them in the fire, and the noble lady would sit smiling prettily as she was laced and braided by a devoted force of servants.

Not that she was bitter, or anything. Hardly.

Fabiola sighed.

She had handled beautiful clothes for many years, remembering the expensive fabrics, their worth measured in how difficult the materials were to gain, and how long they took to take shape. She remembered gossamer-fine sheets of pearly white of gowns and laces, dripping through her fingers like liquid. She remembered fiery red fabrics and emerald green ones. She remembered sewing until her fingers ran blood to finish the beautiful creations. She had loved them. But bitterness had remained, constant and sour in her heart as she had grown up around these beautiful things, and rich ladies, having everything that could have been hers. She remembered another little girl, back home … no doubt simply drippingin expense and embellishments, while Fabiola slaved in hemp petticoats, and her inheritance mouldered in the dusty cabinets of her home.

It wasn't fair. But then, neither was life. Fabiola had learned that long ago, and accepted it.

She had had a horse … for a while. Not in the beginning, which had been a foolish idea, she thought, climbing over a hillock in the land still limping, but then again she hadn't expected the distance to be so … vast.

The leg-power express was serving her well, apart from the fact that her legs were on fire, and death would be welcome, if she gave into her melodramatic tendancies. Well. It wasn't that bad, she had to admit. She was used to running about Teirm, and she had always been capable of stamina. It was in the blood.

A stab of guilt assailed her when she thought of the horse. It hadn't been her fault, she reasoned fruitlessly with herself. The damned thing had been on its way out of the world long before she had the misfortune of knowing it. However, its dying wheezes still sounded in her head … she shuddered. She had been too chicken to kill it herself, but too guilt-stricken to walk away, and so had dallied and scuffed about and watched it die for a few hours. Then she tried to dig it a grave, which didn't work very well, possessing neither spades nor a good deal of strength. She managed to make a dent in the surface of the soil, but unfortunately, even after she plucked up to courage to touch it, the horse refused to be shoved onto the "grave". So, instead, its corpse was probably still rotting alongside it. Fabiola quickly tried to block the mental images by thinking of something else.

She tripped over again, and this time the explosion of cursing was much more tearful and violent. Fabiola was beginning to doubt that she would actually make it … wherever she was going, alive. She sighed, as she purposefully sprinted to the top of the hill to look out over a beautiful, open, desolate land.

She stifled her sigh, and began walking again. She just had to get to Dras Leona. That was it. Once she was there, she'd be able to find them, or some trace of them, or, if in the highly unlikely but even more highly coveted instance that they'd disappeared without a trace, then she could find a way to the Varden on her own. And that was it. She would have done all she could.

But privately, her resolutely thumping boots spelled out a familiar rhythm, and she longed more than anything for her Hessian petticoats and the mindless chatter of the girls working all around her.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

oOo

The rabbit scurried away unharmed a good six feet left of where the arrow had embedded itself in the earth. Fabiola sighed, and hung her head hopelessly.

Thanks the gods above and below that was alone, and almost at bloody Dras Leona. Fabiola shivered, and her stomach grumbled. She had not eaten in a day and a half, and all she had left was a half slice of the same loaf she had left Teirm with all those god-awful weeks ago, and, considering that she valued her life, she was just going to let it lie.

But she was being presented with a slight problem. Suppose she did find Brom and Eragon? They would no doubt notice soon enough that the girl sent to be their Varden guardian angel was a sham, a seam-sewer with no better aim than a drunken pastry chef, and about as much experience with the bow that banged off her back at every step.

Packing her bag the night before her journey had been sobering.

Fabiola gazed despairingly at the bundle spread across the mysteriously burned bed spread that covered her straw pallet.Well, it wasn't that mysterious, really. She had knocked over a candle, and spent a good deal of time swearing and panicking before sluicing water over the flames.She had leggings now, at least, thanks to another sleepless and painful night in the shop. Her fingers were stiff with bandages at this stage, but unbroken, as yet …

Fabiola's hands shook as she picked up her bow from where she had stowed in her closet all those years before, and a feeling of guilt swept through her. Despite her neglect of it, the polished wood still gleamed faithfully, and the bow-string was still relatively taut. The smooth lines were familiar and comfortable as she ran her hands over them. She remembered the man who had made it for her.

He had worked in the armoury of the Varden, a crass, crotchety man. She remembered sitting in the armoury and gazing about the place with a longing look about her, and being chivvied away by him impatiently for getting underfoot. She remembered being told that she should go to Teirm and work for the Varden there, special and different than everyone else. She was only eleven years old. She remembered feeling terribly responsible and grown-up, somehow graver than eleven years. She remembered Ambry, the old woman who had accompanied her on the journey to Teirm. She had been kind, and motherly. Fabiola had relished her affection, and the old woman had enjoyed the little girl's company. Her own little girl had died many years before, and she doted on Fabiola as her substitute until she died four months after their arrival in Teirm. Fabiola had been alone ever since.

She remembered lugging her bags to the hall alone, her older brother on patrol, and her younger brother asleep, and the crotchety old man coming forward with that same bow in his hands, much finer than the old practice bows Fabiola had learned her craft on, and putting it in her hands. She remembered the scent of the freshly polished wood, and the tobacco smell that clung to the old man as he patted her shoulder, and walked wordlessly away. She remembered it all so clearly …

Fabiola grimly walked to her bed, placed the bow on it, next to the note addressed to the twelve year old son of her kind land-lady, and turned her back on the memory laden thing. She then strapped her new, adult-sized bow to her back, along with her faithful and disused old quiver, picked up her bags and left her home of four years, never to return.

The large bow on her back weighed her down, but it wasn't really that heavy. Something infinitely heavier clung to it. Time.

oOo

Dras Leona was big. And frightening, especially to a girl alone. The people walked swiftly, stiffly, avoiding eye-contact, and beggars lined the streets, missing limbs and eyes. Their keening cry was the town's lullaby. Fabiola repressed a shudder, as she flinched away from them, pacing the streets. She had little enough money when she entered the town, but had been forced by her conscience to give to those neediest of the beggars. She just knew how very close she had come to being one of them.

But, for all the secrets the town possessed, she could find Eragon and Brom nowhere. Though it was no great hardship to her, having no desire whatsoever to accompany them on a suicide mission through the land, she did feel just a mite nervous. The Varden was not known for its benevolence regarding misdemeanors.

If she had just let the new Rider escape the Varden, then her head would roll. She would be tossed out of the Varden, if she wasn't executed.

But then again … What was she now, if not 'tossed out of the Varden'? Was she not alone, unaccompanied, without any financial support of companionship? Had the Varden not abandoned her, an unescorted girl alone in the Empire without her family or a single friend?

Fabiola felt guilty. Of course not. The Varden cared; of course they did. It was an honour, what she was doing; an honour. However, mistakes like this would not be dealt with lightly, and she had better find that young Rider and encourage him forcefully to go to the Varden. Well, when she said encourage … Parrying words was all very well, but sobbing pitifully might be the best encouragement she was capable of, when and if she finally found them.

And so, Fabiola began making enquiries. No stone was left unturned in her search for the truth. She employed every skill and subtlety she had studied under her intensive training as a spy …

Fabiola sidled up to a young guard and winked.

'Seen any dragon Riders recently?'

It was the most that could be expected from a girl armed at eleven with a dagger and told to "make a go of it".

And it worked.

oOo

In absolute honestly, Zachary couldn't have cared less about the whole fiasco.

Captain Zachary, Son of Arphenion, Heir of Vrael. CaptainZachary. Captain.

He didn't care. He didn't care about what Ajihad had to say. He certainly didn't care about what Nasuada had to say, souped up little goat-girl. Bloody Hrothgar could go take a hike. The whole council could jump collectively off a cliff, as much as he cared.

All he could see in his mind's eye when he was finally free of the congratulatory crowd, and could sink down the wall of his room in lone despair was the lined face of the nurse. She was old. She was a matronly, kind woman. She was skilled too. Knew what she was talking about. She had tried. He knew it.

All he could see was her head, being shook sadly from side to side. No. Negative.

His hope – all hope – was gone. He had failed.

He wished he didn't care.

xXx

A/N: Well, first off, happy new year, everyone! Hope you all had a good 'un.

Secondly, this is dedicated to my lovely betaDrowned Hopeswho seemed to enjoy this one. Thanks hun! Here's looking at you kid, ya big Zach fangirl. ;)

And, please, my lovely readers whom I love, REVIEW THE FREAKING STORY.Seriously,people! Not that hard! And I know a load of you have it on your alerts, or favourites ... please! Give me a nod either way! It'll take you five seconds ... three if you misspell things!

So please! Pity a poor Irish girl!

-Wraithlike

Updated: 4-6-11