Chapter 9 A Taste of Blood
Where are you, Eragon? I must speak with you.
Saphira, it is good to hear your voice. I am in the courtyard.
Come to the dragonhold, Firnen and Arya are here.
He set off, his legs enjoying the feeling of the run up the stairs. Walking in, he saw his beloved dragon curled up quietly against the wall, her thoughts somber and her mood melancholy. Firnen stood, bending his long neck beside her, His face dangerously close to hers.
Eragon greeted Arya first, a chaste kiss on her lips, and an arm slipped around her waist before kneeling in front of Saphira.
What is it, Saphira?
I never realized how happy a life without war was. And now to come back to it. I almost wish...
...that you never came back at all.
Yes.
Firnen looked around in despair, his Rider immediately coming to lay a gentle hand.
It is not that I do not love you, Firnen. You do not know the horrors of war, of what we lost, you do not know the fear of nearly losing one another. And you are lucky for it.
War is a dismal part of life. But we must remember that war is only a part of life. To dwell on the few years we had, we cannot forget the good moments as well. And we will fight again, fight again for our people, not against our people as we once had.
Am I being childish, Eragon?
Had you not been dismal about returning to battle, I would have been quite distressed that my dragon is a bloodlusting monster.
Indeed, and you? Should I feel worried that you feel no worry about returning to war?
Had it been foremost in my mind, I would be worried. He glanced at Arya, the soft smile on her features giving his heart peace. But it is not. And perhaps that is my fault, my mistake, but it is one I would happily make again and again.
The Queen of Elves looked up, locking eyes with her new beau, and sent him a small smile. She looked back to Firnen, only a smile as her display of affection. But that small smile was enough to send his heart soaring, enough to let him live for the next centuries, until he required another smile.
But I have fought, Saphira, we have fought, and I am content with it. The happiness of seeing you does not compare.
Nay, Firnen, my dear emerald, you have not. Arya answered him quickly. And I suppose that is my fault. Those memories I blocked from you, those memories I locked away.
Tonight, Saphira replied, you will see what war is. And how dishonorable one must act for the sake of survival.
"Night is falling, Eragon, we have to move quickly. Armor, you need your armor."
He chuckled, "I left my armor and weapons here, save Brisingr."
She furrowed her eyebrows, "You are able to say your sword's name."
He laughed even harder, "Two hundred years of meditation and I am finally able to silence the flow of magic towards it."
Laying a gentle hand on his cheek, she whispered, "It is a much bigger feat than you realize."
She pulled her hand away, and looked away contemplatively, "I have your armor with me. You left it in the castle armory for someone else to use. I confess, I took it with me to our forest, hoping no one would ask. No one did."
"And you have it with you now?"
"I sent for it when I received your first letter."
He kissed her quickly. "Thank you, I must say, I dreaded looking for it in the armory."
Her eyes filled with amusement, "One of the few reasons you love me?" she started.
"Nay," her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "one of the many reasons I love you, iet nuanen."
She played with the curls around his ear, folding them over, savoring the soft feel of the chocolate brown locks as she ran her hands through. Ponderingly, she glanced away for a moment, stepping back to gaze more intently at him.
Furrowing her eyebrows in thought, she mused out loud, "Perhaps I should have armor made for you."
"Why? It may not have been the grandest of the sorts, not nearly as grand as the golden armor of the Queen of the Elves," he smiled a little, a little crooked twitch to his left, sufficiently melting her heart, "but it did the job. And it was quite comfortable."
"You may not find it so comfortable now, dear Rider." She came back into his arms, glided more like, or maybe even slid up to him, and ran her hands suggestively down his chest, "You are no longer a man in a boy's body as you once were. You no longer carry the delicate features of innocence around you, graceful solely because of your age."
Arya looked back into his eyes, the deep hue of blue faintly emitting from their depths, but for the life of her, she could not tell if it was his eyes she was seeing, or his soul he was baring to her, plainly to see.
I am bare to you, iet Arya, utterly and completely stripped of defense. If it is my soul you wish to see, take it.
A faint blush colored her cheeks, "And I need not even ask?"
Her attempt to diffuse the weight of his words with humor was short lived, if it ever had life in it at all. She knew the conviction he had given his declaration, and the underlying promise of eternity beneath it. There were men who would do anything for her, and grumble about it later, complain about it later. Such a man had been her first lover, Faolin. Not a bad man, just a man who would give everything he had, and hate every second of it. And then there was this man she fell for, this man who, it seemed, would gladly travel the world and find every bit of soul he left behind, every bit of soul that resided in every place he traveled to, every kind deed, and every life changed, collect it, and place it in her hands just to see her smile. Just for her to know that every part of him was hers, utterly and completely. And neither would he grumble, resent her, or even think ill of her for even a second.
What madness was this?
"Why doubt such a trivial matter?"
She bit her lip, afraid to answer, "Sometimes, Eragon, I wish you could see how great your love is, I wish you could see that you, and only you would be enough for me. I wish you would stop these declarations and promises, so that I may feel as if our love is equal."
"I do not understand."
"I fear one day you will realize that I cannot love as you do, and then understand that I am not the one for you."
He laughed at her insecurity, her words foreign to his ears, "Silly Arya," she scoffed at him, "I do not need grand declarations from you. And to your claim of incapability of love is baseless. Arya," he gently held her face in his hands, framing it, cherishing her, "you waited two hundred years for me, in a silent depression, with the only hope that one day I might return. You sent for my armor without my asking. How can I ever need anything grander when you have already let me in your waking thought?"
Seeing her insecurity, he kissed her softly, wanting her to feel just as cherished as he truly did.
Suddenly, she pulled away, "Your armor! I nearly forgot. Eragon, you are not nearly as thin as were before, you have...for a lack of a better term, filled out. I doubt it will be large enough to cover your entire frame. It will not, at least, be as comfortable."
He shrugged, "I shall take my chances."
"Stubborn man!"
The sound of footsteps caused them to draw apart.
The two Riders came swiftly in, their footsteps falling silent as they approached the dragonhold. Arhel and Ladrimme landed quickly after. They were wearing some armor, just a leather cover to protect their soft underbelly, and a thicker one around their chest. Their wings were left bare, neck and tail as well for maximum speed and flexibility.
They bowed deeply, "Ebirthil, Drottning."
A curious thought popped into his head, "Neither of you used to bow at every turn of the hat before, and now you do. Why?"
A wry smile appeared on Ishmael's face, "We were actually bowing to our Queen."
The soft melodious laugh filled the chamber, startling all three others around the source.
"Will you not reprimand him?" she asked with a laughter filling her face.
For gracing me with your laughter, never.
She stilled for a moment, the understanding on her face, but she smiled again when he stated more publicly, "There is no reprimand for the truth."
Arya let the brief smile stay for a little longer, knowing their arrival meant the inevitable. She turned more fully to the Riders.
"You should know, the horrors of the old world are not lost on us, but these enemies are more vicious than those we have encountered, and while I know Riders are sworn to protect, I implore you not to hesitate to take a life. They will not hesitate to take yours."
They nodded their understanding, but Arya, Saphira, and Eragon all knew true understanding would come after the battle, if they survived. The first battles were the most worrisome, inexperience was more fatal than one could realize.
Arya excused herself after that, placing his old armor in his hands, before giving herself the privacy to change into her armor. Ishmael and Amatria were ready, weapons equipped, and their slim fitting armor already made. Riders had armor, a different sort of them, according to the eldunari, and with the help of former children of blacksmiths and the knowledge from the elder dragons, they were able to forge the correct armor and the correct fit. Eragon never thought to make some for himself, there was no need for it when there was no war. But when the time came, he had not a second to waste on himself, and so he decided to wear his usual garb.
The Queen came back, the Rider's blade at her side, and her black leather shaping her body. At once, images of the last he saw her in those clothes came to him, and she was just as stunning, if not more. He smiled inconspicuously, so that only she would notice.
"I was under the impression that the Queen of the Elves wore golden armor."
"My mother did, and the Queen before that. But I prefer this." And she offered no more explanation.
Ishmael fixed his bow on his back, making sure he would run into no trouble when the time came to shoot. He carried plenty of extra arrows, some on a quiver around his back, and others with easier access on his saddle.
Fixing the place of her knife, and her face emotionless as ever, Amatria mounted Ladrimme and took to the skies, flying around and getting used to the feel of the cold night air of winter in Alagaesia against her body.
Mounting their dragons, the rest of the Riders took to the skies, their battle just begun.
Where is the camp, Amatria?
We are nearly there, ebirthil. They are strategically placed just below the line of the visibility because of the hill. They would have taken us by surprise had we not scouted for them.
There! Eragon, just underneath the ridge!
Saphira's eyes picked up the flicker of a fire, a bold move to leave it unattended and out in the open during a war, especially when they relied on stealth to attack and defeat.
Good. Ladrimme, Amatria, Saphira, and I will attack nearer to the ground. Amatria, when I tell you to, we will jump off, and leave Ladrimme and Saphira to attack with their fire. We will target the leaders from the ground, and attack. This way, we can gain a better understanding of their fighting style.
To take on the entire army is suicide, Eragon!
Arya's protest was well heard.
We will not be alone, you and Firnen will attack from the top and join us when you can. The four of us will stay together. Arhel and Ishmael, you two will stay in the skies, watching for any unusual movement and firing arrows when you can. Arhel, do not come near the encampment, even to set fire, unless you deem it necessary to save us. We must have a lookout to make a quick escape if necessary and if you are not in the skies, our retreat will have failed.
Yes, ebirthil.
Eragon waited for a few minutes, watching the flame come closer and closer.
Split, NOW!
The jolt of air around him told him Saphira had dove down, to his left, so had Ladrimme. Glancing up, Firnen and Arhel grew tinier and tinier as they went closer and closer. Barely skimming the flat ground, the two dragons went up the hill, inches away from the grass, and set the air ablaze.
Screams around them and Saphira's eyes allowed Eragon to see the destruction around him. They were yelling in some foreign language, not nearly like anything he had heard before. But even with the language barrier, he could sense their distress. Ladrimme artistically somersaulted in the air, avoiding some arrows, and shot her black fire through. Her weapon was in stark contrast to the blue flames lighting up the world of Saphira's. Ladrimme's fire could barely be seen, not that it mattered. It was the last thing to char her enemies anyway.
Amatria, now!
The two Riders jumped off the backs of their dragons, and paved their way to each other. Eragon hacked at his enemies, surprised at their swiftness and strength. With no one to spar with proficiently, he had become utterly rusty. A blade came crashing down on him, and red exploded above his vision, a small cut above his eye.
Dammit. Injuries to the head looked worse than they really were, but the blood was everywhere, masking his sight. He flipped in the air, giving him time to wipe his eye away, and continued his onslaught. Brisingr glowed dangerously around him, the blue flames burning holes through the foreigner's skin.
A small break allowed him to see how his charge was faring. She had her knife poised around her enemy's throat, but she made no move to kill him. Instead, her sword blocked another, and she merely turned to another enemy, only to serve the same purpose.
Barzul!
Amatria, the coldest one, somehow had not found the ability to kill another. And soon, she was surrounded by very alive enemies, all of which who should have died a thousand times, and this time, she was trapped.
Ladrimme's despair raced through him as she tried to reach her Rider, but to no avail. She was too far away.
A gust of wind came, and in it, six perfectly aimed arrows, fired within milliseconds of one another, ran straight through the head of each pale skinned, painted enemy. Amatria looked up at Ishmael, knowing he had sent them as soon as she was in trouble. His amber eyes locked with hers, and then quickly moved to another target as he fired another in perfect aim.
Eragon was pleased with Ishmael, but Amatria needed to get out of there before she got herself killed.
Arhel, get Amatria out of here! Ladrimme stay here, Ishmael, fight from the ground.
His commands were followed instantaneously and Ladrimme seemed even more determined to finish the job knowing her Rider was out of danger. Arhel and Ishmael headed straight for them, her golden flames burning tens of tents and men around her. Ishmael jumped off, drawing his sword and running it through his next enemy, seeing the life leave the body, but his eyes remained determined. He raced to Amatria, covering for her, creating the space for Arhel to extract the black eyed elf while he rid himself of her threats. Amatria watched, using magic to send her enemies away, but her sword remained unstained with blood, and she could not, would not bring herself to run her sword through another person.
And Ishmael seemed to understand her hesitance, for he never let another within attacking distance of her. Arhel picked her up with her talons, and went to the skies, leaving her golden eyed Rider in the midst of the enemy camp, with the sword in his hand, and glow of his palm as his comfort. Arya and Firnen immediately saw the separation, and closed in the middle, drawing both Eragon and Ishmael to them as they fought in the center, their backs protected by the blue fire of Saphira.
Swiftly jumping down, the three Riders locked eyes with each other, and continued their onslaught.
Ebirthil, Amatria's voice became solemn, the leader of the encampment is coming towards you. I am going towards him.
No! Do not! Arhel must stay in the skies!
Ladrimme's voice was swift, I shall take care of him.
And so the small black dragon maneuvered around the large beasts of burden, her talons ripping through their flesh, and her wings tucked in to give her superior strength and speed. And soon the horse carrying the target came into view, a burst of speed supernatural to even dragons erupted, and her mouth opened wide as she picked the man and horse clean off into her teeth. The bodies ripped apart, pieces falling around the encampment. She came around in the same direction, and set fire to them, letting them burn will his soldiers howled in despair.
The camp was in chaos now, and within seconds, soldiers knew their leader was dead, and began to turn their animals around. Saphira chased down a few, ripping some beasts to shreds, and others with their heads in her mouth, and more still, burned to the ground.
The war was far from over, but they had more time to prepare.
More time to prepare Amatria for killing.
Firnen grabbed both Eragon and Ishmael by his talons, letting one last breath of fire stop his enemies hot in their tracks. He seemed to flinch at the site of the destruction, but took off with Arya on his saddle anyway. He let Eragon go, midair, and he landed on Saphira.
Ishmael, on the other hand, jumped down and landed on Arhel's back, Amatria grabbed him in order to steady him in his saddle. Once he had his bearings about, Ladrimme joined them, and they made their way off with one last look towards the hell they created just minutes ago.
"Are you alright, Amatria?" He whispered into her ears, knowing she would hear. She shook her head no. It was incredibly difficult for her to admit that, but she did, and her hands, it seemed, shook under the cold. But Ishmael knew it was more than that. He took off his cloak, and wrapped it around her, an excuse, perhaps, to hold her tighter, but she did not protest, instead, it seemed, huddled closer to him, the pictures of a lost child and ex lover filling her broken mind.
Eragon watched them. He would talk to Amatria, but not tonight. Later, when the horrors in her mind were at ease.
Ladrimme seemed to be solemn, far too solemn, and almost dejected. But not from her Rider's failure to carry out her duty, but from a weight that lay heavily on her shoulders.
Little one, she will get herself killed if she does not kill her enemies.
I know.
What will you do?
Amatria is my pupil as well as yours. She has succeeded far too much to fail now, there is something bothering her, and Ishmael will take care of her tonight. We will talk to her in the morning.
Saphira nodded her agreement, How is Arya?
He glanced over to them, Firnen seemed to hang his head, his wings slow and methodical. Something in him broke today, and whatever that something was made sure Arya and he were deep in conversation until they arrived home.
They landed in the dragonhold, late at night. King Larkin and King Narhak stood waiting for their news, along with Nari and Blodhgarm. They stood, equipped for battle, but the return of the Riders made them more relaxed, and Nari even started to take his off.
"It was a success, they have dispersed, and they are scattered around. Tomorrow, we shall discuss the next steps."
Nari and Blodhgarm turned their gazes to Amatria, eyes questioning and worried. They had never seen such despair from her before, and they did not like it. They were both fond of this particular student, but never showed it.
Carefully peeling the cloak off, Amatria left the room, Ladrimme stared after her, knowing the horrors of her mind. Ishmael turned to the black dragon, "May I go after her?"
Her onyx eyes fixed on his, Do what you wish. Hurt her, and I will kill you.
Arhel bared her teeth, I will overlook your threat this once, only for your distress, but think twice before you utter such words again.
Ladrimme had no answer, and her onyx eyes no conviction. Ishmael laid a gentle hand on Arhel, They are in pain, Arhel. Please do your best to ease hers.
The golden dragon backed down, her demeanor changing with the mild words of her Rider. The rest dispersed, knowing what had happened tonight was more traumatic than anyone wanted to admit.
Is it always like this, Saphira?
I wish I could have protected your from the truth, Firnen. I wish, but alas, I cannot. And so I shall not. It is far, far worse than what we did today.
And he let a roar of despair before settling down, a soothing lick from his mate his only comfort.
Watching her dragon in despair left Arya strangely vulnerable. So vulnerable that Eragon could not tell if it was her despair at the war, or her dragon's that caused her to turn in his arms, her head burrowed deeply underneath his chin.
"How can you be so calm? Two hundred years and you return to this! How can you be so calm?"
A tear leaked down her cheek, she was weak, she could no longer fight her enemies. No longer be the warrior she needed to be.
"Hush, Arya. Silence your mind. There is nothing good for you coming from thinking like this. You are a warrior, just not a heartless one. We fight to survive, we are our own strength. I have not known Alagaesia in peace, and perhaps, that is why I am fine. But you have, and it will take some getting used to again. These sneak attacks, and fire, and horrendous battles will take some getting used to. But never forget that I am always here, you know this. I will never leave again."
"How could I have become so weak?"
"You cannot possibly think you are weak for hating war, Arya. We fought and lost in our times, now to do this again. I hate it, every second of it. We know peace, we have felt it, experienced it, and the majority of the population has been born in the past two hundred years. They have no idea how it was, they do not know the gift of peace as we do. And to have that taken away from us, ripped away like bark from a tree, of course it breaks us."
"You are not breaking."
"I cannot, Arya. My pupils are here for the first time, I cannot let them know my hatred for war. They must understand that I am here for them, in every waking moment."
She buried her head back underneath his chin, content to simply let herself be held. Too long had she kept a broken dragon and a broken heart as her only companions, too long since she felt cared for by someone other than themselves. Far too long.
Go, Little one, and I shall look after Firnen.
The Lord Rider gently led his Queen away, into the familiarity of her room. She undressed, forcing his eyes away from her. It was too much of a temptation. And now was not the time. A flowing dress greeted him, and so he kissed her, softly, holding her in his arms one last time, muttering his words of love and strength, and swiftly left the premises.
He heard two voices, soft mutterings, and he knew it was Ishmael and Amatria. The cold of the night forced them into a room, which one Eragon knew not. He would ask in the morning, ask after the welfare of his student.
