Chapter Eight
Revelation
"Why, Murtagh?"
The voice was deep—a male's—but still contained a hint of boyish quality. The speaker, Murtagh could tell, had not completely matured yet. He was close, though.
"Why, Murtagh?" the voice said again. He opened his eyes only to immediately close them again. There had been light—pure, white, all-encompassing light; light so bright that it had hurt. But something made him want to open his eyes again, so he did—but more slowly this time.
There was the light again, nearly blinding him though his eyelids were barely open, and beyond it…A boy. No, he thought, a man. Or is it? He could not be sure. He opened his eyes the rest of the way—it hurt, but he was getting used to it—and saw none other than—
"Eragon?"
"Why, Murtagh?" Eragon repeated.
"Why what?" Murtagh was feeling stupid. There seemed to be some point, some crucial fact that he was missing. "Why what?"
And then someone else appeared. Dark hair, dark skin—Nasuada. His stomach flipped as she came into view.
"Why, Murtagh?" she asked, her voice low and solemn. There was sadness there, so deep and thick that Murtagh felt he was swimming in it.
"Why what?!" he screamed. "What do you want from me?!"
"You have a choice." Both people said it in unison. "You have a choice."
"No I don't!" He was sobbing now. "You don't understand! He knows my name! I don't have a choice!" Sobs wracked his body and he crumpled to the ground. The pure white ground, he thought absently. So bright…everything is white in here—hurts…
"You always have a choice." And now there was somebody else there. Murtagh squinted. The man was very short, but he had a stocky build and there was a fierceness about him that unnerved Murtagh. The man looked vaguely familiar.
And then Murtagh remembered the Burning Plains—remembered the red lightning as it shot out from his palm—remembered feeling it his its mark, annihilating the life there.
"Everyone has a choice," said the little man. And suddenly, inexplicably, Murtagh knew who it was; Hrothgar, the dwarf king.
But no, he thought. Not anymore. I killed him…
firepaindeath
Murtagh jumped. Something else had entered the dream…but it was a bad presence—full of blackness and oil and writhing snakes and dripping venom.
killhimkillhimkillhim
There it is again! he thought. "Somebody help me!" he cried, but the people in front of him simply stared, waiting for something.
blooddeathkillhimkillhim
"Everybody has a choice," the trio said, and Eragon began to walk toward Murtagh.
killkillkillkillkillkillkill
The voices were louder now, and the closer Eragon came to Murtagh the more Murtagh wanted to hurt him, to maim him—to kill him.
"You don't have to listen to it, Murtagh," Eragon said. "There is always another choice."
diediediediediediedie
And then he saw it—a great, shapeless cloud of darkness rising up, up, up from beneath the ground. It was behind the people and they couldn't see it, didn't know it was coming for them. Murtagh tried to tell them but found that he could not speak.
DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE
And it began to move subtly, closing in on the people—his friends—expanding its bulk until it was an enormous half-circle moving steadily toward them. The whiteness around it seemed to fade and lose its luster, and somehow Murtagh knew that where the cloud had passed there was nothing but darkness. As it drew nearer Murtagh could see, deep within the cloud, hundreds of thousands of mouths screaming and gnashing their wickedly sharp teeth. The screams reached his ears then—the death cries of countless soldiers in battle; wives screaming in agony as they learned that their husbands would never return home; children screaming for mothers and fathers and friends that they would never see again; and there, deep in the center, was Murtagh's face, crying out in agony as the world fell apart beneath him and he had to sprint to keep up with the solid pieces.
But the people did not hear the screams, did not see the terror coming for them, were blind to the horrors which would soon descend from above to engulf and consume them completely.
And Murtagh did the only thing he could think to do. He reached down to his hip and drew Zar'roc.
DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE
And he leaped. His jump carried him past the people, who turned their heads to follow him, (Maybe now they will see it, he thought) and across the small patch of glowing white that was all that remained between the people and the darkness.
IWILLKILLYOUALL
Murtagh would remember the dream—vividly—when he awoke. He would remember the people, the screaming mouths, the gnashing teeth—and he would remember the pain, the horrible pain, as he leaped into the blackness. But beyond the pain there was something which he would not feel, something sweet and glorious. Murtagh's eyes would open just as he reached the threshold, the end of the darkness—just as he would glimpse the light behind it—and it was then, in that instant of waking, that he would realize what had to be done.
Eragon's eyes moved spasmodically beneath their lids as he slept, darting to and fro as his mind was dragged deeper into the clutches of a nightmare.
Saphira opened her eyes slowly. Something is wrong. She turned her head to stare at Eragon, and in that instant the boy sat up, opened his eyes, looked directly at her, and whispered—
"I will kill you all."
And then he collapsed back onto the bed, his body shaking uncontrollably.
Somebody was pressing something cool and wet against his head. There were voices, too, but they spoke in a language he had never heard before.
"Owzee?" That voice was rough and growly. He didn't like it very much.
"Eez wing etter." He liked that voice. It was soft with a slight trill to it, as though it were on the verge of singing.
Then there was a growl and a whining noise off to his left. A dog, he thought. I like dogs…
The next time he awoke he felt wind rushing past his face. He didn't open his eyes but he could feel that he was securely bound to whatever he was sitting on. He went back to sleep.
His eyes felt sore, as though he had been crying, and his lids were crusty and tender. He wiped a hand across them slowly and winced. His face was hot—very hot. Then he heard a noise to his right and he opened his eyes slightly and turned his head toward it.
He saw a thin bar of light, and then it was blocked by something. But the something soon passed and the bar of light was back. Eragon ran another hand across his eyes and opened them further. The light hurt, but at least he could see now. Arya was kneeling beside Eragon's sleeping mat, her back to him. He could hear sloshing water and then Arya turned toward him, a wet rag clasped in one hand. Her eyes widened when she saw that he was awake.
"Eragon!" she gasped. Eragon cringed at the loud noise—his head throbbed painfully.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I did not mean to yell—here." She pressed the rag against his forehead. It was cool and soothing, and the dull ache in his skull receded slightly.
"M' head," Eragon croaked, his voice slurring. He squinted his eyes and tried again. "My head—hurts."
"Shhh. Don't speak." Arya's voice was soft—pleasing.
"Your voice's pretty," he mumbled. "You're pretty." From beneath the edge of the rag he could see Arya's skin turn a delicate shade of crimson. Lovely, he thought dully. Lovely and pink. And he giggled.
He saw Arya's expression change instantly. Undisguised worry flitted across her face, a slight frown marring her perfect features. "Eragon," he heard her murmur softly, and the beautiful sound of her voice made him smile slightly, "do you know who I am?"
"Yes," he whispered, and suddenly he was consumed by an overwhelming desire to tell her something. What was it? Then he remembered. "I—"
But he choked. The words caught in his throat and he found that he could not say them. And then he remembered. I made a promise. He felt sadness well up inside of him yet again. He was beginning to remember things now—he remembered running as fast and as far as he could, screaming at the top of his lungs, remembered the anger and pain and hatred—
"Eragon!" Arya's voice was barely more than a whisper but it caught his attention. He looked up at her and realized that his breath was coming heavy and fast. He could feel hot blood suffuse his face as the emotions began to resurface. "Eragon, calm yourself!"
Something in the way she said it made him stop. His breathing slowed and he looked back up at her. But something was wrong with her face…
He tried to focus, found he could, and looked at her. His eyes widened in shock. Why is she here?! he thought. She isn't supposed to be here!
Trianna looked down at him, her lips turned up into a seductive smile.
"No," Eragon mumbled, his words slurring again. Trianna rested her hand delicately upon his cheek. "No," Eragon said louder and more forcefully. "Not…you…" Trianna leaned in closer to him. "NO!" he shouted, and suddenly it was not Trianna but Arya once again, backing away from him. Eragon blinked. He felt confusion cloud his thinking, and his head began to throb again.
Arya's face was twisted into a mask of confusion and…Eragon stared disbelievingly. Hurt.
"No, Arya, wait…" he began as she started to leave. He could feel the black rage beginning to consume him again. Arya turned hesitantly back to him and the rage subsided. Eragon's head began to clear again. I need help, he thought desperately. I'm going insane.
"Help me," he said softly.
