Chapter Ten

Conquer Your Fear

The kiss was soft—a gentle press of lips—but he felt the meaning, and the weight, behind it. It lasted for a long while, yet the ending came abruptly and far too quickly for Eragon. But as the kiss ended and Arya's face pulled away from his, she lifted the sheet covering him and slid beneath it, pressing her body against his and kissing him again. She laid her head on his chest and, closing her eyes, caressed him with gentle hands until he fell asleep once again.

He dreamt again. The darkness returned, full of screaming faces and gnashing teeth, and he was afraid. But this time the dream ended differently; a beam of light struck from the heavens, lancing through the darkness, and he could feel Arya's body pressed against his, her arms wrapped around him and her face buried in the hollow at the base of his neck. He looked up and saw, to his astonishment, that all the people who had given their lives to protect him were now battling the blackness; aside from countless soldiers he saw Garrow, Brom, Ajihad, Hrothgar, and several elves which he had never seen before but felt as though he knew from somewhere. The crowd grew steadily as more and more spirits from the past appeared to defend Eragon even in their deaths.

The ghosts pushed the darkness back relentlessly, and the light continued to burn through it until there was nothing left. When it was over Arya whispered for him to wake up and, for the first time since the battle at the Burning Plains, he did so without fear and without a heavy heart.

The first thing he noticed upon regaining consciousness was that Arya, still clad in her leather armor, was still pressed against him. Her head rose and fell slowly and gently with each breath Eragon took. The warmth from her body was both pleasing and comforting, and his mind seemed to clear when she entered his vision.

Arya raised her head. "Did you sleep well?" she murmured softly.

Eragon nodded. I must look terrible, he thought. But if this was true, Arya gave no sign that she had noticed. He pulled her closer, so that her head was beneath his chin, and closed his eyes. And smell terrible, too.

As he laid there, his hands moving slowly and softly up and down Arya's body, his mind strayed suddenly to Saphira. Smiling, he moved his mouth next to Arya's ear and whispered, "Come with me." Then he leaped from the bed and, still shirtless and shoeless, dashed out into the rain.

Eragon felt charged with energy as the rain pelted his body, opening his senses and clearing away the last remnants of fog which had still lingered on the borders of his mind. He stood for a moment, face turned upward and arms outstretched, before dashing off toward Saphira, who lay asleep a small distance from the camp. When he reached her he leaped into the air and whooped. Saphira's eyelids jerked open as Eragon's arms encircled her thick neck.

"I missed you," Eragon whispered, and hot tears leaked from his eyes to mingle with the falling rain. He pressed his face against her scales and was silent.

Little one… Saphira faltered, unable to say more, and swung her head around to fully encompass Eragon's torso. But for the pattering of the rain and the deep thrumming emanating from Saphira's chest, there was silence. After a moment Saphira sensed another presence and opened one eye; standing before her was Arya. Thank you, she said privately to the elf, and Arya bowed her head to the dragon.

No, said Arya. Thank you. And then, in a move that elicited a startled snort from the dragon, Arya embraced Saphira's neck next to Eragon. Eragon looked up and abashedly wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, but Arya only smiled and laid her head on his shoulder.

After a time Eragon turned to look Saphira in the eye. Let's go flying.

The familiar sensation of vertigo hit Eragon as Saphira spun in midair, making his heart skip a beat and sending a rush of adrenaline through his body. Arya's arms tightened around his waist as Saphira performed the maneuver a second time, yet Eragon could feel that the elf was unafraid.

Saphira brought her wings in close and shifted into a dive, roaring with pleasure. Rain flew upward into Eragon's eyes as they gathered speed. Saphira spread her wings wide at the last moment and gravity pressed her passengers tightly into her saddle until at last she leveled off mere feet above the tops of the forest trees.

Eragon nudged against Arya's mind and, when she allowed him to enter her thoughts, said, Relax for a moment; I want to show you something. He spoke briefly with Saphira and then settled down into the saddle and let his thoughts go blank. Moments later his mind joined with Saphira's and he could see through her eyes. The sensation brought back a multitude of memories from his past, most of which were unhappy ones. He pushed them away.

Eragon felt the wind whip past Saphira's face and push against her wings, and he felt her exhilaration at both flying and Eragon's return to sanity. He felt the mental equivalent of Arya drawing a sharp breath of excitement, felt her happiness, her ecstasy…and her love. That emotion affected him the most; her love was what he had longed for ever since he had first met her, and now…now she had finally admitted that she, too, felt for him.

Eventually he receded from Saphira's mind and lapsed into deep, quiet thought, until he felt Saphira begin to slow and descend. He looked up and the image of a clearing met his gaze. Saphira made for it, expertly pivoting her wings this way or that way until she landed with a soft thud upon the soft grass. The rain had lessened to a drizzle and, by the time Eragon had leaped off of the saddle and helped Arya down, it had stopped completely.

I believe I shall go hunting, Saphira murmured to Eragon and—after playfully nudging her Rider with her head—leaped into the air, her talons leaving deep gouges in the wet earth.

Eragon turned to Arya, whose hand he still held and murmured, "Let's find some place dry." She nodded and they moved into the forest.

The trees were so thick that it did not take long to find what they were looking for. Eragon sat down on a dry patch of earth. Despite his recent recovery, he felt aged; every movement he made seemed a small yet not unfelt effort, and his mind seemed to move torpidly. He leaned back and stretched, his spine popping as it bent, and lay down with his hands behind his head. His current state, he knew, could be attributed to his recent detachment from reality; he just hoped that the sickness would not have a lasting effect on him.

The thought that he would be permanently damaged troubled him; he had just recovered from Durza's final gift. How would he be able to fulfill his legacy and restore peace to Alagaësia if he was to remain a shattered wreck? As the thoughts passed through his mind he felt the darkness begin to return, clouding his thoughts and shifting his mood to one of anxiety and fear.

Arya must have sensed his inner struggle for she suddenly drew close to him and laid a hand upon his chest. Eragon blinked and stared up at her and the darkness began to recede.

"Sit," Arya murmured softly, and he did, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on his knees. She knelt behind him and began to gently knead the muscles in his shoulders. Eragon's memory flashed back to the last time Arya had done this and his breathing quickened; but he cast away the anxiety and his breathing slowed. The feel of Arya's strong, slender fingers moving against his flesh calmed him until his respiration slowed to a normal level.

"There is a story we elves tell each new generation," Arya whispered, and her breath tickled the back of Eragon's neck. "It is the story of Rellen, an elf who lived a long, long time ago; so long ago that we had not yet made our peace with the dragons." Arya's hands moved deftly across his shoulders and up his neck.

"Rellen was a warrior of great renown; he had slain many of the terrible beasts and creatures which plagued Alagaësia in her early days, and he had saved a great many lives in his own lifetime. Whenever a threat arose, Rellen was sure to be at the forefront of the elven response. So famous did he become that it was not long into his life that nearly everyone sought after his help."

Her touch shifted down to the hollow between his shoulder blades, radiated outward, and moved back in again. "But a terrible thing happened; one day, while he was patrolling the borders of his village, there was an attack. His wife and children were killed by a wayward nightmare creature before the thing slipped away and disappeared.

"Rellen was heartbroken. So great was his mourning that his masters were forced to relieve him of his duties. The people of his village attempted everything they could think of to ease his pain but to no avail—Rellen was a broken man."

Eragon had lapsed into a trance-like state. He still heard and understood Arya's words, but he experienced everything else with a sense of detachment, his sole focus the woman behind him and her tale. Distantly, he sensed Arya move next to him and gently lower his head into her lap so that he was lying on his side. Her fingers softly and slowly caressed his hair and face.

"As time wore on Rellen grew worse; he believed that his family was still alive and would come to visit him in the night. He was confined to his bed for most of the day. He rarely ventured outside of his house. And worst of all, he constantly blamed himself for what had happened. Though Rellen did not know it, he was going insane.

"Then, one day, during what was, for him, an unnaturally peaceful slumber, he dreamed of his wife. She appeared next to his bed and assured him that neither she nor their children blamed Rellen for what had happen. Then she showed him where the creature that had killed them dwelled.

"When Rellen awoke a change had come over him, though he did not remember the dream. He put on his armor and picked up his sword and went outside without knowing why. As if in a trance, he saddled his horse and rode off into what we now call the Spine."

And suddenly Eragon could see Rellen as the elf rode atop a massive black warhorse. Rellen rode on until he came to the mouth of a pit in the middle of a clearing. He dismounted and walked to the edge of the pit. Emotions slammed into Eragon and he felt himself jerk slightly under Arya's touch, but the sensation was distant and he paid little attention to it.

At the forefront of the mental assault was fear—unbridled fear as Rellen gazed into the blackness, the odor of rotting flesh bombarding his nostrils. The fear was so powerful that soon the elf—and Eragon—were consumed by it. Rellen curled into a ball and covered his face with his hands, his breath puffing from his lungs in short gasps. Eragon was distantly aware that Arya had stopped talking, and yet the vision carried on where she had left off.

As the fear—a roiling black mass which Eragon knew too well—threatened to overwhelm both him and Rellen, something happened. Rellen was visited by an apparition of his wife, glowing white and radiating warmth and love. At the same time Eragon felt Arya lift his head to her chest and cradle him in her arms, her cheek pressed against his forehead.

The fear was banished almost instantly and Rellen stood. He turned to his warhorse and unsaddled it. After giving the steed a final stroke across its forehead, he slapped its rump and the animal ran away through the trees. Left alone with nothing but the creature for companionship, Rellen stepped into the blackness and fell.

He landed with a splash in a pool of cold, oily water. Though the monster's dwelling was pitch black, Rellen could make out certain details; stalactites and bones chief among them. He drew his sword and followed the stench.

His path was a long and twisted one, full of turns and dead-ends, and many times the fear threatened to take hold of him again. Each time it did, though, Rellen's wife appeared, and Eragon felt Arya's comforting touch.

Eventually Rellen came to an enormous cavern. No light penetrated from the outside, but his elven eyes did not fail him. He looked around, attempting to locate the creature—for he was sure it was there—until his gaze fell once again on the center of the cavern, and he saw it.

Eragon screamed. He was not sure if it was a physical scream or one simply locked away in his mind, but he screamed all the same. In the center of the room sat…blackness. That was the only way to describe it. The thing was devoid of any light at all, and it made the dank gloom of the cave seem almost bright. Then, as Eragon watched, it shifted; it's mass began to writhe and pulse until, where only moments before the creature had been, Durza now sat. Eragon's heart beat against his chest like a blacksmith's hammer. Then the creature changed again, and this time it was Galbatorix.

The mad king raised a hand and pointed behind Rellen. Eragon turned to look, his mind begging him to stop even though he could not. Behind him lay Saphira's mutilated body…as well as the bodies of everyone he loved. He gasped for breath, his mind reeling, and ran toward them, tears flowing like a river from his eyes.

He stooped next to a body clad in black leather and turned it over. Arya stared up at him, but it was not the Arya he knew; her green, green eyes had glazed over and trickles of blood ran from her nose and one corner of her mouth. Her body hung limply in Eragon's grasp as he cried out in agony, holding Arya close to him—

Fight it.

He barely heard the voice, but it registered in some distant part of his mind.

It's not real.

He regained some control over himself and, gasping for air, looked around to locate the source of the voice.

Fight the fear.

The whisper came from his shoulder, right next to his ear, but when he turned his head to find the speaker he saw no one.

You do not have to live this way.

His mind began to clear and he found that he was able to fight the fear. He looked down at the body he held in his arms, at the bodies strewn all around him, but he no longer felt afraid.

You do not need to live with the fear.

He placed Arya's body gently on the ground…and it disappeared. He turned toward the laughing figure of Galbatorix.

Everyone has a choice.

Eragon felt the familiar weight of a sword at his hip and drew it.

Make the right one.

He stared at Galbatorix and suddenly saw him for what he truly was—an old man who had lost much in his life. But that man had, somewhere along the line, made the wrong choice. Eragon would not make that mistake.

Eragon charged.

He opened his eyes. Arya's face was inches above his, and he placed a trembling hand on the side of her face. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her, full on, their lips moving and opening and closing against each others as though there would never be another chance for the moment again.

Somewhere off in the distance, a dragon roared.