Hellooooooo worlddddd! I'm back from my half-year sabbatical!
Feel free to spam reviews with 'It lives!'
Now, this is the penultimate chapter, so we're very nearly to the end!
I know this one's been a rollercoaster ride, so without further ado, I give you Chapter 10: The fords of Fate!
Enjoy!
The gryphon soared, following the air currents as he wound his way back to the waiting army.
Ranks and Ranks of fauns, dryads and centaurs, along with the animals, leopards and rhinos and the rest of the menagerie.
At the tip stood a man with black skin, glinting in the sunlight, which upon careful observation turned out to be black scales, overlapping his body like armour. At his hip was a sapphire sheath, and at his leg was a transparent sheath, with a silver handle and diamond pommel.
To his left a figure in shining armour was seated atop a unicorn, a lion emblazoned on his shirt, his right hand resting on the lion-shaped pommel of his sword at his belt.
To the mounted figure's left stood a centaur, three swords hanging at his torso, upper body armoured.
Eragon watched as the gryphon circled and landed on Oreius' left, and reported to Peter.
"They come, Your Highness, in numbers and weapons far greater than our own."
He just kept staring off into the distance, eyes focused on the horizon. They would come. And if he was a casualty before that demon entered the fight, so be it.
"Numbers do not win a battle."
Oreius retorted, grim confidence ringing in his tone.
"No," Peter replied slowly, "but I bet they help."
Peter's attention was drawn to the rocky outcrop, where Otmin, the White Witch's Minotaur general, had appeared and was roaring his challenge.
Slowly, the first line of the White Witch's army came into view: a mish-mash of creatures, broken and mal-formed. There was nothing of anger or its ilk in his mind. They had made their choice. And he had made his.
'Come, Arya. Let us settle this, as we should have far before.'
The White Witch herself rolled into view in her chariot, resplendent in a chainmail dress, a golden crown on her head, adorned by tatters of Aslan's mane, wand in her hand.
Reins in the other, she throbbed with arrogance and pride, the glinting malice and foul pleasure seen upon her visage in the teeth-baring smirk.
Beside her stood Arya, armoured by scales of steel, flashing silver under the scratched black paint, Támerlein hanging by her side, the emerald corrupt and dull, sucking hungrily at the beating light of the afternoon. By her leg, a small knife, that same knife of black glass, strapped as Albitr was, the reflection and antithesis of himself.
Their gazes locked, and forest green eyes flickered and spat with savage glee against his hazel, empty and void of emotions.
If he had been as he had been, the void inside would have been filled with anger and hatred, scorching white-hot, burning black and fierce on the world, growing ever stronger, unquenched.
But that was not him. No longer. Inside, he felt naught but pity. Pity for her plight. Pity for her mind, twisted by honeyed lies, and misled from the path.
"I have no use for prisoners. Kill them all." The White Witch stated simply, gazing upon the final collection of her enemies, disdain clear in her tone.
Otmin roared, eliciting a rousing cry from Ginarrbrik, before the front lines of the army rushed forward as a mob, disorganised but dangerous. From his position by Peter, Eragon's eyes were fixed still upon Arya, slowly comprehending her pain, her loss.
'I am sorry, Arya. I let you go too far into the dark. But even if my life is forfeit, I will have you see the light once more, before the day is done.'
Peter lowered his sword in signal, and the gryphons flew forward, carrying rocks between their paws. Eragon swiftly warded them, lacing enchantments to destroy all attempts of harm.
As the horde advanced, Otmin spotted the aerial threat and drew the attention of the black dwarven archers, who immediately took aim and fired at their airborne attackers, who had already begun dropping their cargo. Each missile shattered on the arcane forces, falling to earth useless.
'There is only one that must die today, Arya. I refuse for any more innocent blood to be spilt on my hands.'
This he projected into her mind, stare unwavering, as the flames behind the emeralds jumped ever higher, a gloating smile on her face, as she levelled Támerlein's point at him, speaking into his mind.
'Any more, you little coward? Your hands are stained with the blood of thousands, and yet you place importance on a bunch of talking animals, not even of your homeland.
Hypocrite. Have you forgotten? My mother's blood is on your hands. She fought for you, and she died fighting. Fírnen too. He died to save you, and you would remember him only as a part of the faceless horde that perished so that you may live? Disgraceful. '
As the gryphons wheeled around, retreating to safety, Peter turned to both Eragon and Oreius in turn, and asked: "Are you with me?"
"To the death."
'To the death, and forever after.'
Came the replies, one from his left, the other echoing inside his mind.
Knowing the inevitable, Eragon unsheathed Brisingr, watching the millennia-old blade glitter as on the day of its forging, under the needled pines of the guarding forest.
'Thank you, dear friend. You have weathered aeons with me, and your rest is well earned. May this be the last day you must draw blood in the name of peace.'
The sunlight flickered on the brightsteel, almost smiling in agreement and blessing.
In the warm air, a single cry cracked the silence and tension, as Rhindon did so similarly, thrust high as the beacon for freedom and hope to all.
The armies surged, the thundering of hooves and the drum beat of footsteps, pounding relentlessly on the grassy plains.
At Peter's side, Eragon kept time with the unicorn's rhythm, charging fearlessly into the horde, focused only on those jewelled orbs.
His mind was void of fear for death; he knew it was here he would fall. But beyond that, there was a wall of determination, all for the one that had betrayed him. He harboured no anger nor resent.
Merely a wish. That she should see the light once more, once more, free from the machinations of her gaoler.
'I am sorry, dear one.' he thought to himself, her sapphire gaze vivid in his mind's eye, as the mass of bodies and wall of sound enveloped him.
/
The rhythmic clash of steel against steel echoed among the fords, keen edges opening weeping wounds, pounding again and again on its kin, the screech of metal against metal cutting its own injuries into the muddled air.
Lance on sword, shield on mace, arrows on armour, again and again the tools struggled for dominance, while one glittering dark shape danced amongst the fighting.
No anger, no hatred, no pity. Only regret. Regret for those he had no chance to save from the dark, as each flame was snuffed by the arcs of flashing light.
Upon the outcrop, where Jadis herself had stood mere minutes before, Eragon watched silently, observing the seething mass of warriors and beasts, waiting patiently for her.
A dull scimitar hissed back his cheek, prompting a brief flash of blue, and spurting crimson.
They were being driven back. There, on the plains below, a clear line was drawn, with the line of crimson-clad soldiers fighting valiantly, but retreating steadily to the ridge.
Reaching deep within, he saw the divide, saw the line, and drew it in fire, trapping their forces beyond the wall of flames.
And then, with her eyes flashing in the sapphire flames, he saw her, glaring with malevolent joy behind the inferno.
'Tsk, tsk, Eragon. Have you learned nothing, little drakeling? Fire cannot defeat ice.'
He said nothing in return, gazing still sorrowfully down on the wasted blood staining the golden fields.
'Fire may indeed be extinguished, Arya, but the ice itself does not survive the encounter, either.'
The barrier fled, roiling chills of cold air washing up against him, a pillar in the sea of battle, his starlight tresses blinding as the lamp of a lighthouse, bright and shining in the noonday sun.
"Fall back! Draw them to the rocks!"
Peter's voice reached his ears, but he paid him no heed. He knew, in the eaves of his minds, that Arya would want it to be her blade that ended his existence.
As the tide withdrew from the plains, soldiers fleeing and chasing, he waited, ever-patient, for that golden chariot to reach him.
"Eragon!"
Peter's voice came again, addressing him. His only reply was the flash of blue against his opponent, and a message.
'I will be well, Könungr. Take your troops, and fall back. My past waits for me.'
He could sense Peter's conflict, before the king wheeled around, the hoofbeats fading to the crags, along with the shouts and cries and pain.
The many battlefields he had seen, from Farthen Dûr to Borg'ran Aiedails, came back to him, each opponent amalgamated into one being.
Durza, a shadow of a shade, grinning with bloody hair, his sword at his side, standing arrogantly on the marble floor.
Next, Murtagh, Zar'roc, glinting bloody under the smoky light on the Burning Plains, eyes set in conflict.
Then, him, greying hair and golden helm of the Broddring flickering in the torchlight, the bone-white metal glinting also.
And Varzílar. The youth of violet eyes and raven hair, haggard atop the dragonhold, coated in dirt and grime, golden dragon hide blowing in the smoke-laden wind.
And finally, the last. As it was. As it is. As it was always meant to be.
Her.
"Reminiscing?" She drawled, flanked by a guard of Minotaurs, axes ground to a fine edge.
"Only on what would have always happened." He balanced Brisingr's tip on the rock, hands set on the pommel, still and unwavering, the figure of a watchman. "We both knew this was to be."
"Yea." She snarled, shooing aside her guard, levelling Támerlein at him. "You, dead at my feet, in recompense for the ocean of life that has perished in your name, for your cause."
He said nothing still, silent against her words, seeing her anger pour out into the air.
No reply.
"So, how much does it hurt, coward?" She advanced, the tip of her needle-green sword pressed to his throat. No fear. No emotion. Not even a flinch.
"To have what you hold so dear ripped from you so and held from you by the perpetrator? Does it hurt, Eragon?" She hissed the last in his ear, eyes inches from his own. And at last, he chose his words.
"Once, perhaps, it did, Arya. But my death and the pain are no longer so bitter. It saddens me so that you have done this, but I know in my heart my death is for far more than simply the justice of the horde. It is for justice of me. It is for your freedom."
Her face split in a mocking smile, false laughter in her eyes.
"In such that your death frees me of your putrid existence. Do not mislead yourself by false hope. This is my own choice, my own thoughts, my own hatred." Támerlein's point pushed harder, sending a trickle of blood down into the crevasses between Eragon's scaly armour.
"You dare imply I am controlled? That I have taken leave of my senses?" Something dangerous cracked behind her eyes, and the fine edge was brought to bear on his throat. "You have gall, for one so unwilling to face his own actions."
Sighing, Eragon stepped away from the blade, lifting Brisingr from the rock, letting it balance in his hand one last time.
"The feelings are yours, certainly. Of that, I have little doubt. But as to who holds the reins of them, I question your faith in your mind's strength."
Arya's face, with that, schooled into a vicious mask, Támerlein's edge whistling for his neck, stopped short by Brisingr's own.
Internally, Eragon had hoped Arya would see past Jadis' control, her true mind pushing the witch from her consciousness, but he was resigned to accept that fighting her was inevitable.
"How much of you wishes to swing that blade upon my neck, Arya? What part of you hates me so, that it wishes to skewer me upon your own sword?"
"Words shall serve you no victory, traitor. Now fight! Let me see you beg for mercy at my feet, for this entire pathetic world to see!"
Far from the fords, a lion wove and ducked among grass and sparse trees, his destination the tall, lone spire in the Northern Wastes.
In his mind, Aslan could see the conversation between his brother and Arya, listening through their bond.
In truth…it saddened him. It saddened him so to see his brother so far resigned to his passing, standing in the deadly heat of battle with no real fear of pain or death.
He hardly noticed when he, and his two passengers, arrived at the gates of Jadis' fortress, and his eyes fixed on the lapis statue of his brother's love.
His mind focused on heavier things, he watched silently as Lucy and Susan cried before the statues of Saphira and the fawn, before tearing open the cocoon of magic woven around each, moving into the inner courtyard of the castle.
He felt unready to speak with Saphira, knowing full well just how much her ire would burn at the knowledge of Eragon's state of mind.
Stopping himself, he shook his head, his mane rustling quietly in the cold air, as he tried to dispel the doubts in his mind.
But to no avail. The doubt remained in his mind. Doubt of Eragon's will to live, and in this, he found something he had not felt for millennia.
Fear.
Fear for his brother's life, and for the mind of his mate.
'Aslan?'
Pushing aside the foreign feelings, he turned his attention to the sapphire dragon, the voice he had not heard for a century.
'Yea, Saphira. I am here. I trust you are unharmed?'
He received her affirmation and was about to speak of Eragon, before withholding his tongue.
'Perhaps it would be better if you stayed here, for now, Saphira. This castle is void of shadow dwellers. Jadis abandoned it for a war footing not too long ago. You should be safe here.'
The lie was bitter in his mouth, burning his tongue like vitriol, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth of the matter.
'Hmph. I suppose I can concede on this matter, Aslan. However, I expect you to lead me to Eragon once I have finished laying. The eggs were near a century ago, and I must still have them see light.'
He sent silent confirmation, fixing his mind on the task at hand, freeing as many soldiers as he could from their entrapment. Even so, that seed of doubt kept in the cranny of his mind, waiting patiently.
Upon the outcropping, arcing blades of blue and green flashed and clashed, sparking and struggling against one another in their test of dominance.
Around them, the ring of guards waited impatiently, readjusting their grips on their weapons; they dared not interfere with the duel before them, lest their princess have their heads.
Within the hurricane of woven steel, two elves, one with tresses of raven black, the other starlight silver, whirling in dervishes of sword strikes against their opponent.
Under this, a more subtle battle, that of words spoken in the mind, raged just as fiercely, if not more so, emotions their swords.
As Eragon swung around, Brisingr held to his face, parrying a vertical slice, he was reminded of the many times he had sparred with Arya, throughout the war and after.
'Give up, Eragon. One of us will falter eventually. Spare yourself the anguish and let me end it for you painlessly.'
A face of focus was frozen on Arya's face, but her mind still held traces of that hatred and arrogance against him, her emotions pounding against the rock of his mind.
'Prove to me that this hatred is of your own volition, and I will let you end me. For you, my death wrought from Jadis' honeyed lies would be a false victory.'
Despite her concentration, a small smirk appeared on her face, as she deflected a thrust aimed for her collarbone.
'Still convinced my mind is not my own, Eragon? You are delusional. But, I suppose being without that which you care for most will drive most to insanity. Would you not agree?'
If Arya was trying to bait a surge of emotion, she did not succeed. Eragon's mind remained blank of such fire, but the ever-present wall of pity and regret was unwavering.
'You think me mad? Very well. Judge my actions, and see if they are truly that of a madman.'
And with that statement, as he pushed aside the strike to his chest, drove Brisingr's point into the cold granite, cleaving the stone with a pure ringing note.
"I fight you no longer, Arya. The object of your hatred stands before you, as you have wished for these many years. So go on. Take your revenge, and rid me from the world. I will not fight."
Momentarily, Arya's eyes showed her surprise, though it was swiftly suppressed by a bout of cruel laughter.
"Are you really so eager to die, Eragon? That you rid yourself of your sword and invite me to release your head from your shoulders? Very well, coward. I shall grant your wish."
Stepping forward, she cut the knife from his thigh, staring at it in curious disdain, before discarding it to the fields.
Instantly, Eragon retracted his scaled armour, leaving no protection against the piercing needle of steel.
That same sword flicked to his chest, resting on the blue scale above his heart, its wielder's face split is victorious glee, her eyes dancing in the realisation that her vengeance and the flames of her hatred would then be quenched in his blood.
And yet, deep in her eyes, in her mind, Eragon could see a conflict. A struggle. Doubt. Briefly, a happy smile graced his lips, before flitting away to more gentle lands.
"Something you wish to say?"
Closing his eyes, cloaking his sight in night, he spoke, his gladness clear in his voice.
"Your hesitation tells me everything I need know. Before me stands not the Arya I knew, but the puppet. And that puppet has no strength against the elf-maiden I saved all those millennia ago."
Though his sight was obscured, Eragon could still feel Arya's anger, not conveyed by the spoken word, but untamed roiling waves of scorching liquid metal washing up against his mind.
And yet, in those blinding depths, he could see her doubt, a chill, quenching her anger to dust.
The intensity, the screaming wash of metal bore down upon him, and took him in its grasp, as the cold steel pierced his breast, the pain ignored, no more than a tickle in his mind.
For a while, he was pulled along in the tide, but slowly, the torrent was losing strength, losing heat, until it froze over. Around him, the faint sounds of pain and screaming, and the shock of betrayal, before he opened his eyes once more.
Implanted there, in his chest, lay Támerlein's hilt, slid between the slats of bone, its keen point piercing his lung. Before him, panting in exertion stood the one he had once met, the knife slipping loosely from her grasp, the corpses of her guards littering the fields in a ring.
From the grassy fields below, their eyes met. In those tumultuous emeralds, Eragon saw once more anger and hatred. But he saw also sorrow and pain and anguish and self-loathing.
The obsidian blade fell from her grasp, her chest rising and falling in snatched breaths, her eyes distraught, tears pouring down her blood-flecked cheeks, leaving unsullied river beds of pure skin, so much like the warrior he had known.
Descending from the jagged rock, unbothered by Támerlein's steel scraping his ribs as he walked, he embraced her shaking form, letting her pour her regret and sadness out on his shoulder.
For a full minute, the two were frozen thus, all thoughts of fate and battle forgotten, and all that mattered was there, the two displaced warriors, standing amidst the fields of emerald and gold, stalks of grass fluttering in the Narnian wind.
And there, on the golden fields, their hands met, the silver marks sparking against the other, as the spells woven upon the night before took hold.
"Forgive me."
Pain.
If he had felt any before, any at all, so numb as he was to it, it had faded into the wind.
He felt many things in that instant. The cool grass on his skin, tickling his ears and feet. The soft breeze caressing his chest, ruffling his hair, blowing strands of silver into his vision.
The warming trail of his blood flowing down his side, leaking from the slit in his chest.
Touch was all he felt. No sight. No sound. No taste. No white clouds upon the sapphire sky...
Deep down, he felt a twinge of sadness. No fear, only sadness.
No pounding of feet, no voices crying in the midst of battle. Only the silent whistle of the breeze.
Something burns in his chest, down his throat, stemming the tide, and opening his eyes to the light.
There it is...the idle clouds, so transient, a brief flash against the eternity of the sky.
He feels something. The soft touch of fur, wrapped around his body, holding him close.
'Brother, please...touch me not.'
The hold on his chest just tightened all the more, and faint sobbing finds his ears.
'I don't...I don't want to lose you...'
It was not the voice of the great leader, the figurehead, but the scared little cub, the one he had met once, so very long ago.
'Shh...dry your eyes, little one. I will live still, in your memory. You will still see me in Saphira, in Arya, in Foríngandi, in your kings and queens. I will not be gone.'
Hot tears fell on his shoulder, and finally, his eyes saw what they were looking at.
'I don't... I don't want to see you through... through someone else. I want...to see...you. I need you, Eragon.'
One by one, the faint clouds were disappearing under the sun's gentle gaze, and the warmth of the afternoon permeated him.
'You do not, Aslan. You were always a better person than I ever could be. Never forget that.'
And finally, the last cloud dissipated, leaving him staring at the eternal expanse of the clear sky, that pervading warmth lulling him into gentle slumber.
...
...
Okay...
Sorry, all jokes aside, that chapter was particularly emotionally draining for me.
There is a confession of sorts from me here; some of Eragon's sentiments throughout the story, I adapted from my own beliefs and opinions. It's somewhat hard to express them in speech, and using writing like this gives me the perfect outlet.
On a slightly brighter note, I have decided that we are getting a sequel! 'The Chronicles of the Dragon Riders: Prince Caspian' is coming!
And since this is my first (almost) completed story, I'm asking all those invested in this story to give me plot ideas.
And that is all from me. If you want more like this, I have an Inheritance cycle X hobbit crossover going at the moment. Use it to tide you over until the sequel arrives (shameless story placement is shameless ;) )
Anyway, I will see you all for the epilogue. Farewell, all!