Disclaimer: Inheritance, the source material, does not belong to me.
Chapter 4: Tension and Challenges
Arya couldn't sleep. Despite having secured Gil'ead, she was sure that there was trouble lurking nearby, and that the elves still need them. Despite being a Rider, who must forsake affiliations to their own race and maintain neutrality, she still felt like they were her people. She found it odd – she never felt like she belonged among them until she became a Rider. She still resented their appearance of coldness, their vanity, though.
She left her room and a sleeping Firnen, climbing the spiral stairs that took her to the top of the tower that the Riders and the higher-ranking elves occupied. She wanted to clear her head and think, but unfortunately someone already beat her to it.
A tall elven lord sat against the battlements, idly strumming his lute. He turned as Arya approached, his senses alerting him to her presence. Blue-gray eyes peered at her behind a curtain of red hair. They exchanged the standard greetings, and Arya finally remembered who he is – Lord Fayille, head of House Svarthall.
"Fayille-elda, I did not expect you to be here," she admitted. "I knew you were no warrior."
"I am a bard," Fayille agreed. He set down his lute and peered at her. "I cannot bear to see my son, Randarion, fight while I stay with the noncombatants of our House. I fought in the Fall, though you may not be aware of it. Arya Drottningu, I think there are many things to see in this world that would be worthy of songs. It would be a shame not to hear of them because of a mad king and his followers."
Arya nodded. She heard many tales from Faolin of this particular lord having a fondness for songs that goes beyond the norm even for elves. "There is much that we cannot experience because of Galbatorix's madness," she agreed. She leaned against the battlements, watching the city rebuilding itself beneath her. "Do you believe that this is truly the final battle?"
Fayille nodded, picking up his harp and strummed gently once more, the tune of an unfamiliar song filling the air with its melancholic notes. "It is as the odd woman said years ago."
"Odd woman?" Arya asked.
"During the Fall, we met an odd woman with the gift for prophecy. We believed her not at first, but her words rang of power. There are some things we hid – memories we buried – that must only brought out once the circumstances are correct. It seems like everything she said are coming to pass, and I must escort an old friend to the Varden very soon for everything to be unveiled." Fayille eyed Arya. "Should your mother and your brother fall, you will be next in line for the throne. This war is full of uncertainty, Arya Drottningu. I must ask you to keep a secret for me."
The sound of clashing weapons greeted Murtagh as he headed to the training grounds which the elves now had control of. Most of their forces were still busy routing those who were attempting to resist their invasion, but a few of the younger elves were now allowed to practice and hone their skills in battle. He wanted to clear his mind by training with his sword, too.
He exchanged a few greetings with the elves, who are still in awe after the Riders managed to fend off Morzan and ruin Alfara's tail. He was about to seek a spot to train in when he heard someone call his name.
Tryndemiel was right behind him, sword in hand. He had an excited gleam in his eyes that made Murtagh think of Roran. "Ah, Shadeslayer," he called out with a smile. "I haven't seen you in these fields since we have taken the city. Would you like to spar?"
Murtagh could not say no to the man who protected his sister and her dragon on the ground while the battle with Morzan and Alfara went on. "Why of course. But I might not be as good as you are, Tryndemiel-elda, as it seems like you were born before the Fall."
"I fought in it," Tryndemiel agreed. "But I think you are a better swordsman. Oh, and please just call me Tryndemiel. I can't stand formalities."
Murtagh smiled and they did the standard blocking spells on their blades. He examined the turquoise blade as his new sparring partner regarded him. Aeryndight – if he remembered the name correctly – was slim and curved, made for quick drawing and swift attacks. Murtagh's Istalri felt heavier and slower, but then again it was made for both offense and defense.
Tryndemiel struck first, blade whipping toward Murtagh with unexpected speed. The Rider bent back just in time, or else the blunt blade would have clipped his chin. He struck back, and was stunned by the speed that the half-elf parried the blow. They exchanged blow after blow, and Murtagh realized just how much room there was for improvement, compared to someone who must have been honing his skills for over two centuries.
No wonder no one could last long against the Forsworn in a fair fight.
His muscles screamed as their sparring wore on, hoping that the older warrior would make a mistake. The two of them paused, as if waiting for the winds to direct them to their next strikes. Tryndemiel beamed. "I haven't found such a worthy sparring partner since my sisters moved to Osilon," he admitted. "How long have you been wielding a sword?"
"Since shortly after Thorn hatched for me," Murtagh admitted. "Two years, give or take a few months."
Tryndemiel nodded. "I have been training with a sword since I was thirteen. I truly took up my father's sword when I was nineteen."
Murtagh braced himself as the half-elf struck again. He raised his sword and twisted. Tryndemiel lost balance and whipped his sword sideways, and this time, he hit the Rider across the chest. Murtagh was flung away and landed on his back. Neither of them moved for a while.
Then Tryndemiel beamed and helped the Rider stand once more. "That was good. Very good." He regarded Murtagh with what seemed like renewed awe and admiration. "Give it a few more years, Shadeslayer, and I think you would be among the most fearsome warriors in the land. I could lend you a hand if you want to."
Murtagh looked down. "I am not the strongest. Roran is."
"Strength can only bring you so far. I am offering to teach you. From what I have heard from your fellow Riders, your sister is learning sorcery, and your brother's prowess with his mind is most remarkable. I am neither a proficient mage, nor a mindbreaker. I can barely protect my thoughts. But I am a swordsman and a jouster." Tryndemiel frowned. "I remember not most of my past – something happened, and Fayille is still unwilling to tell me more. But I have never had a pupil, I'm sure of that. I am still willing to teach everything I know."
Learning new techniques might just be the key. Their masters all learned from the same teacher – Oromis himself – and had similar fighting techniques thanks to that. He might finally learn something new – something that could help them gain an advantage against the Forsworn or even Galbatorix himself.
"I am most honored, ebrithil," he finally said.
"Please, none of that." Tryndemiel grinned and tried to lean against a nearby fence. He missed and fell flat on his backside. He shot to his feet, face red. "Ah, forgive me. It seems like I am still a lumbering fool outside of battle."
It is the night before the Varden was to lay siege to Belatona, and the camp was anything but silent. Eragon felt a great stirring in the air as he walked through the ranks of men finalizing their formations. He felt a great storm brewing in the minds of the men who were about to throw their lives on the line for the sake of freedom – a cause that they were all starting to believe with all their might.
He felt Saphira's excitement and bloodlust through their bond, despite the fact that the mighty dragon was flying a few leagues to the south, scouting for any ambushes, or a sign of the dwarves who would be on their way from the Beor Mountains.
It is something that we cannot avoid or set aside anymore, little one, she whispered softly. We must fight, lest we live in fear forevermore.
I know. It's just that I'm not looking forward to taking more lives, Eragon mused, feeling weary all of a sudden. He felt much older than seventeen years old. Much, much older. We are anything but children now. Not even the elves treat us the way they did when we first arrived in Ellesmera.
You are children bearing the burden of people much older than you. You have seen more than people twice your age. Why must you wonder, little one, when it is but proper for them to treat you as anything but children?
I regret not the life I have led since you hatched for me. Eragon approached Melikir's tent, where bright light emanated from despite the late hour. But sometimes, I long for a quiet life. Just you, me, and our friends, somewhere isolated, maybe rebuilding the Riders from the ground up.
Someday, little one. Saphira veered to the west as she spotted a formidable prey. Someday.
Inside, Ash and the leader of the elven contingent, Jotnar, are in the middle of a heated discussion.
"It is my past, brother, and I very well should have the right to know what I have lost!" Ash slammed her fist on the table. Never before had Eragon seen her in such a rage – not even in battle. "I want to know what my connection to this Juvel is, and the identity of my lover!"
Jotnar seemed close to tears. "I know, sister, and forgive me. But we must wait for the right time – when everyone involved is here. We have all sworn our oaths, and not even you could way me."
Ash slumped forward and burst into tears. "I know, brother – you have said as much so many times before. But I want to know who he is. My heart yearns for him who I cannot even remember except for small glimpses. I want to know my child's fate."
Eragon moved forward, ending their conversation. His teacher turned to him, eyes bloodshot and sad. "Ah, Eragon. I'm glad that you received my message."
The younger Rider smiled in spite of himself. "How could I not, Master, when you asked Roran of all people to tell me? He will never rest until I agree to meet with you."
Ash inclined her head, and Jotnar turned to face Eragon, too. "How fares the preparations? Shall those you sent to Gil'ead arrive in time to aid us?"
Eragon shook his head. "Forgive me, Master. They have sent word earlier today – they are still needed in Gil'ead. It seems like minor rebellions break out by the hour. It might be a bit longer before they begin their march to Uru'baen."
"Humans will not be happy that elves have invaded their home." Jotnar turned to his sister, all former animosity forgotten. "It happened once before, in the same city. It cost them their king."
"It seems like we will not be in our full power when we take Belatona tomorrow, then," Ash concluded. "The Forsworn may also be kept divided though."
Jotnar rubbed his forehead. "I think… I think Galbatorix will want us to take Belatona freely. He will keep his Riders close to him for the final battle. That was what he did last time."
"Forgive me, Jotnar-elda, but this is not 'last time' anymore," murmured Eragon. "A storm is coming, and we either leap into it to follow its current, or dig our heels in and resist."
"He's right. The new Elder is right," Ash said. She stood up to her full height, all exhaustion gone from her face. "Come, both of you. We must discuss our strategy with Serylda."
Eragon nodded and followed the siblings out of the pavilion. Saphira, are we strong enough to resist the storm?
We are one, Eragon, the dragon replied ambiguously.
Astrid secured his armor as his twin, Claus, examined himself in the mirror. "Are you sure no one would suspect if I march with you, Brother?" he asked.
Claus shook his head, casually brushing off some dust from his pauldrons. "They will not even recognize you if you march with us." He secured his sword – the Blade of Lithgow – in his belt, and put on his helm. "So why did Melikir ask you to join the Surdan forces? I am sure there's a reason behind this, aside from being born in Lithgow. You owe no affiliation to Surda, nor Lithgow."
Astrid just shrugged. He did not wish to tell his brother that he was asked to act as a double if needed, as the recognized heir to Lithgow must be protected at all cost. "Someone has to keep Lord Herion's growing madness in check," he said, echoing Melikir's words the previous night. "Should you fall in battle, it will be difficult for the rest of us."
"Is that all? Truly?" Despite his usual air of nonchalance, the young lord-in-training was quite intelligent.
"Melikir finally noticed that I am expendable," Astrid told him, heading out of the tent.
Well, it was true. He had no family, so to speak. Despite being acquainted, his brother was but a stranger, and their father despised and feared him for some insane reason. He jested to deflect it all, but he was starting to realize it the longer he stayed in the Varden's camp. No one would mourn him, should he die – but his brother was needed to keep Herion at bay and protect Lithgow.
Savoring the last moments before the warriors were to march into formation, he strode through the frantic camp. The siege engines are being moved into place already, voices of the siege experts wafting in the pre-dawn air. At their head was Bjorne, his oldest and closest friend. He doubted that even she would mourn his passing. She still had her cousin, Hilde, and a bright future as an engineer in the kingdom. She was brilliant – lovely, and intelligent.
He turned away, not wishing to see her before the battle. He had a task to do, and it was best not to be distracted. He wove through the crowd, but took no more than ten paces when someone grabbed his armored hand.
"You have been avoiding me." Bjorne's sharp voice cut through his thoughts. He could feel her blue eyes staring at him sharply, her fiery hair dancing with the breeze. "Don't think I have not heard of your task."
Astrid kept his eyes away from hers. He was afraid of what he would see. "I do what Lord Melikir bids me to."
"You will do it wonderfully, and survive it." Bjorne turned away. "Come home to me."
Maybe there was still something worth fighting and living for.
As promised, so I shall deliver.
Writing the characters of AtA as their older and wiser selves is a little challenging to me, as I haven't even finished that fic yet. xD For those who haven't, you should check it out. You won't regret it, as some parts of that story will be important here.
Yes! Juvel! Ash! Yes! And I'm sure everyone has figured out who the dad is by now! XD
We'll be having a Serylda POV next chapter. She needs more love. LOVE!
Tryndemiel teaching Murtagh kind of made sense in my head, as the former honed his skills to protect the people who promised to be his family when he had no one else, while Murtagh is mainly driven to protect his family, both in blood and in bonds.
Anyway, I'll be signing off for now. Read and review! Next chapter will be up later this week, and it is AtA again.