A/N:
Well, I'm completely exhausted and only want to sleep, but as I promised, here it is. The final part of this ridiculously long chapter. That means that it's the last quick update – don't expect another update any time soon. Next month, perhaps. No promises, though.
Also, I finally bumped the story up to M. There's a pretty creepy scene coming up, so if you really really don't like crawling things, you might want to skip the third scene with Talec – I dunno, as I said, I'm not good at assessing these things.
That aside, thanks to JWH again, I apologise (?) in advance to all E/A-fans, I'm going to bed, and goodnight.
5. Choices: Eclipsed
"Choices! Do you see now? Do you –! And what are you now – nothing –"
Murtagh's frantic, incoherent voice echoed inside the cavern – inside his mind. And Eragon was frozen, staring at – staring into her eyes – in her head, lying in a puddle of red on the ground – her empty, accusing eyes – lifeless – staring at him – and Murtagh, so wild the look in his eyes – he felt himself shaking, then, and when there was another voice in his thoughts, wearied but sweet, he clung to this sound like a lifeline –
Flee! – Eragon, you must. Galbatorix has clearly driven him out of his mind. Seize the opportunity now, I will be alright on my own.
When he showed no reaction, she lifted her slender hand and struck him in the face. He blinked.
"Eragon! Pull yourself together! You cannot fall apart, not now!"
How can I – I – He shook his head, finally concentrating back onto Arya, for the first time since he had healed her. "I cannot leave you here, Arya."
Arya made a frustrated sound.
Hear me, we have failed in our task, now all that is left is to save our own lives. For that you need to escape, and wait not for me, for I am weakened and will hinder you and slow you down. Nasuada needs you, more than she needs me.
Recalcitrance and fear rushed through him at her words. Had he saved her but to lose her still? The thoughts from earlier lingered. He would not lose her.
You too are important, Arya –
But not as much as you. Her voice was unyielding. Eragon! You picked my life over hers, having weighed the advantages, and by the very same logic, you ought to judge now. I am more important than the girl, and you are more important than I.
Eragon flinched as his own argument was thrown back into his face.
Leave!
He swallowed, his mind blank, incapable of forming any coherent thought, and so he simply did as he was told, turning around slowly, facing the tunnel on the far side, his way out. Dimly, he thought he already heard the wind howling around Helgrind from ahead.
"Stop!"
Yet that short moment of arguing with Arya had cost him, and now Murtagh was looking at him, suddenly completely calm, his voice strangely flat and emotionless.
"Away from her."
"Murtagh?"
As a response Zar'roc flashed through the air, glinting in a fiery red by the pale magical light. Reflexively Eragon parried the sweeping attack, which otherwise would have beheaded him, but the sword came at him again, from the left and the right, in a hail of blows raining down on him. Eragon stumbled backwards, still surprised, doing nothing more than parrying Murtagh's blows, when the face of the other rider twisted into a sneer.
"Months of hiding in a forest to learn, and you can do no better than this? Come now, Eragon. This is laughable."
Eragon regained courage. This was Murtagh again. He tended to be overconfident, perhaps he could use that to his advantage. It was the only chance he had. The moment Murtagh decided to use magic, their fight was over.
Now actively fighting and not as tired as he'd been on the plateau above the Burning Plains, he realised how easily he could defend against Murtagh's attacks. Murtagh was good, great even, but if Eragon concentrated on the fight, he saw Zar'roc move through the air at an almost leisurely pace, allowing him enough time to plan and execute a parry.
This was how it was for every elf, Eragon realised. It was no wonder even an average elfin swordmaster would be unbeatable by any human – they were just too fast.
He brought his sword up yet again, trying to spot a weakness in Murtagh's fighting. There was only one chance to strike, he thought as he sidestepped Zar'roc. If Murtagh realised that he was outclassed, he would surely strike with magic and kill him. Again, Murtagh thrust his sword at him, and again Eragon had already evaded. He noticed Murtagh bending his knees a little more than usual during the execution of the attack, to allow himself greater flexibility.
Eragon was now holding his ground; careful not to attack too vigorously, waiting for the opening. All he permitted himself to do was tearing Murtagh's clothes and nicking his skin with the outmost tip of the blade. He moved his sword from the inside outwards, clashing it against Zar'roc with a resonant metallic clang. For a short spell, they remained in that position, blades locked. Eragon stared into Murtagh's blue eyes. Something flickered through them, a shadow of red, perhaps, but it was gone before he could truly discern it.
Everything was silent.
Then, Eragon yielded on purpose, and Murtagh pushed away his blade. And again, he went into a fractionally deeper crouch.
Eragon smiled grimly and was already leaping sideways, when Murtagh executed his lunge, just like he had anticipated; in an attempt to exploit Eragon's blade pointing away from his body, unable to protect him. Simultaneously, Eragon brought his sword back inside in a short arc. Murtagh's eyes widened, but was unable to stop his thrust. It passed Eragon on his right and then Murtagh was pierced by the elfin blade in the chest.
Confusion and disbelief filled Murtagh's eyes. Eragon yanked his sword back out, stained deep crimson, and Murtagh's mouth opened. Eragon swished his sword in a final sweep –
"Letta!"
Eragon felt his body freeze in mid-movement. Murtagh was on his knees, coughing up blood, but then, through the torn fabric of his vest, Eragon spotted the wound starting to close. Now it was his turn to stare. And suddenly, he felt fear. The fatal wound disappeared as though it had never been, Murtagh spat out a last gob of red, and then a smile stretched over his face.
He rose again, nodding to Eragon.
"Congratulations brother. You won."
He lifted his left hand and Eragon rose, floating through the air.
"Pity that the outcome of our struggle was never going to be decided by a trial of arms, eh?"
Eragon could still not move, but through his field of vision, he saw Arya floating towards him.
He struggled against the magic that bound him, even though he knew it was futile. He used all he had left to unfreeze his jaw, and it was all he could do not to gasp at the amount of power that rushed out of him, leaving him feeling cold and aching.
"Rot – rot in hell, Murtagh."
Murtagh laughed.
"Maybe. We will see. But I fear you will be waiting there for a while without me. After all, I have to see after Saphira, don't I?"
Panic began to settle in Eragon's chest again, and this time it was not magic constricting it, but pure terror. He struggled in another vain attempt to free himself, despairing when it would change naught about his state, thoughts only circling around the ominous words.
"Saphira! What do you plan on doing to her?"
"Ah, Eragon. Did you never make the connection? Remember, Galbatorix stole his second dragon when it was already bonded. He needed to know of a way to kill a rider while the dragon survived and forge a new bond by himself, didn't he? Saphira will live, you will die, and in a few years hence we will have a new generation of Riders. That was Galbatorix's plan."
"No!"
But no matter howsoever much he screamed and fought, his struggle against Murtagh's magic was useless. He dimly heard Arya asking something, and Murtagh answering, but it was all far away, only Saphira occupied his thoughts, and he could not reach her, through Helgrind's stone, and Murtagh was going to take her away, and –
Being roughly dumped onto the hard ground shook him momentarily out of his state of sheer panic. Murtagh had floated both of them along the corridor and into a cave that was perfectly circular. Inside, there was a small chest made out of dark wood.
For a moment he was lucid enough to hear Arya asking a final question.
"And the egg? Was it ever here?"
Murtagh picked up the chest.
"Oh, you mean this? Yes, I had it here. Galbatorix thought he would need it to convince you to come, but as it turned out, it was unnecessary. Now it will return to his treasury, back in Urû'baen. He likes to look at it."
He gave the cave a final sweeping glance, then turned around to leave.
"Well, goodbye, Eragon. It was nice knowing you."
And then he was gone, and Eragon suddenly felt the hold of Murtagh's magic over him slip, but before he could even do so much as move a finger, a gigantic blast shook the cave. A gust of superheated air hit him from the opening, burning his face; he was thrown backwards by the force of it, and then rocks started to fall as the ceiling near the entry caved in, the bits of stone glowing bright white like molten lava.
In the span of moments, the exit was shut, a solid barrier of rocks that fused with the surrounding walls as the stone solidified. A searing pain ripped through his mind, and the laughter echoed from the walls, over the thundering rumble of falling stone further away, for a few seconds longer, then there was only silence.
And in the cave, now completely cut off from the outside and enclosed in Helgrind's black stone, Eragon pressed his hands over his ears and started to scream.
# # #
Violet eyes stared unblinkingly north, at the dusty, yellow-brown horizon shimmering under the heat of the hot Surdanian sun. Nothing was there; or at least nothing for the average eye, so whatever it was that rooted her to the spot here on the small crest had to be something that was for her senses alone.
A tall cat with shaggy hair and strange, golden eyes swept around her, rubbing against her legs, purring. Absent-mindedly, she bent over and stroke its back, then lifted it up; even though it was almost half as big as her.
"It's coming, Solembum," she said. "Can you feel it? The storm. It's coming, to wash away the last remnants of the old age and carry in the fresh smell of a new … and it's upon all of us to decide if it will perpetuate the coming darkness in an eternal night, or bring forth a new dawn. Whichever way we choose though, when it is gone, the war will be over."
And then the child continued to stare into the distance, looking pleased. The cat – Solembum – squirmed in her arms.
"Don't do that," she admonished him, then cocked her head.
"Indeed? I might tell Nasuada …"
She trailed off, petting his back, again lost in thoughts; a surprisingly calculating expression on her face, which mocked the image of a sweet child and looked frightfully out of place.
"I think I will," she decided.
Then she giggled suddenly.
"And he is stuck in the heart of darkness, is he not? Oh, she will not be pleased. Not at all."
She paused, as though listening to a response for her ears only, then spoke again.
"Oh, I know that, of course. But since I no longer am bound by his curse I can decide what to say, whom to help and when. We all have our roles in this little play, do we not? But additionally, we all are guilty, we all have sinned, each of us; and so, she too will fall before the end, just like we all. As each of us finds the one stone that makes us stumble, so shall that be hers. That part is set, is it not? The only question is who will rise again."
She spun around, placing the cat on the ground and started to skip down the slope.
"We best hurry, if the Dark Tide is nigh upon us, as you said, Solembum."
– * –
Captain Demetrius was enjoying the quiet evening with warm ale – the good one, from Teirm, not the stuff they made in Surda – when the door to the command post burst open. Entering was a red-faced soldier, breathing heavily as he saluted. Just about to reprimand him, Demetrius was beaten to the punch.
"Scout Talec, sir. I wish to report: a strange … uh, thing, northerly ahead!"
Demetrius rose slowly, staring at the soldier. A heavy scowl settled on his face.
"Strange, Scout?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded eagerly. The silence stretched between them. Demetrius' face reddened. Finally, his fist slammed down onto the table, causing the tankard to jump.
"By Hosportius! Would you, by any chance, mind telling me what exactly is strange? Am I supposed to read your mind, man?"
The scout startled and stumbled over his words in an attempt to explain himself as quickly as possible. Demetrius sighed loudly.
"One of the draftees?"
He beheld the scout more closely. His face was still round, boyish, with only the barest beginning of adulthood visible.
Demetrius snorted.
"Bah, look at you. You're barely grown up. What am I supposed to do with boys like yourself? Back in my days, you would have been helping out on the fields."
He shook his head. "All because of the cursed King and his war." To the stuttering scout, he added: "Slowly, man. Calm yourself, and then try again."
Talec took a deep breath. Demetrius nodded encouragingly.
"Yes, that's better. Now … you were saying?"
"Yes, I am new – no, that is, I mean, of course, sir, I will tell you now – the strange thing – it is … a … wall?"
Demetrius stared at him. For a few seconds everything was utterly silent. Then, he exploded. His voiced boomed through the small room, rattling the windows.
"Scout Talec! Are you having me on? A wall! Bah! Was it a brick wall or perhaps a palisade, eh? I'll have you flogged, and then we will see if you still think pulling your captain's leg is funny –"
The young scout was shaking like a leaf, but he was no coward. He straightened and interrupted the thundering captain.
"But I swear! By the grave of my mother, sir, it looks just like a black wall, up north!"
Demetrius grunted and stopped his rant, pushing his chair back.
"Bah, bah! A black wall, I should confiscate the beer and wine rations. Now pull yourself together, stop babbling nonsense, and tell me exactly what you saw and when and where. Don't they teach anyone anything anymore these days during the drills?"
Talec stared at him blankly.
"What drills, sir?"
"My point exactly," growled Demetrius. He tore his uniform jacket from a hook at the wall. The scout stared at him, confused; but slightly bolstered by the fact that he was no longer shouting, he spoke up again.
"Captain, sir, if I might make a suggestion – I saw it approximately an hour ago. I was assigned to the new border patrol, the furthest north of the camp, where we can watch the edge of the Forest of Melian. It took me as long to get back. I think you might be able to see it for yourself by now if you climb up the tower, since I could have sworn it was moving, towards us."
Demetrius took that new important bit of information presented in a by-the-way fashion with another sigh.
"Well, what are you waiting for, then? Show me what you think you've seen."
They left the hut and crossed the mostly empty parade ground in the middle of the camp. The tower Talec had meant was a wooden construct, a watchtower in the exact centre of the encampment, perhaps fifty feet high. He started to climb up the ladder after the captain. Demetrius pushed up the trapdoor, startling the man on watch at the tower platform.
He recovered quickly, saluting his superior.
"Captain Demetrius, sir. No happenings of importance."
Demetrius snorted and walked to the northern side, looking out into the Empire, over the slightly hilly countryside, glowing red and gold in the light of the setting evening sun. Talec joined him, pointing into the distance. They were on enemy territory almost ten leagues off the Surdanian border; Eclesius, the Lord of Cithrí, had occupied this small stretch of land, between his city and the Burning Plains. It held a few tactically advantageous hills, upon one of which this camp had been erected. The Forest of Melian, stretching to the south of the city whose name it bore, wasn't quite visible from here.
"There, on the horizon. It looks like clouds from here, but I tell you, it is a black wall!"
The captain squinted to see more clearly. If it was only clouds, it was a massive bank.
"Well, at the very least, you warned us about a thunderstorm, Scout Talec. That's something."
Talec flushed as the other man on the tower sniggered.
Demetrius head jerked around at once.
"Is something funny here, Garzus? Last time I looked into the site directives, extraordinary weather phenomena were still included in the lists of mandatory reports. Didn't see you on the way down to my rooms."
Now Garzus flushed and looked away.
Captain Demetrius grunted satisfied, and turned back to the tower opening.
"Now let's see what in the three devils' name this is."
– * –
She walked over the dry, cracked land, deeply furrowed and hard-baked from the blazing heat of the summer sun; the northern horizon now at her back. In front of her, maybe a mile away, were the heat-shimmering walls of a city, heavily fortified and seemingly invulnerable; with a huge expanse of earth-coloured dabs on its right side, a sea of tents: Cithrí was a garrison town and now home to the main body of Surda's troops, as well as the Varden. It was the nearest city in Surda to the Burning Plains, a comfortable three-day's ride away, but the slow-moving trek with the ponderous wagons and even livestock had needed more than a week to get there.
Jumping over a rock, she turned into a rutted lane that lead towards the city. Above, an iridescent bee-eater filled the air with its clear trill, swerving sharply across the steel-blue sky in hunt of a little beetle. She kicked away a small stone lying by the wayside, full of high spirits; laughing merrily when it knocked into one of the thick-leafed, dark green-waxern shrubs and ignited a round of indignant chattering from inside. Solembum hissed.
"Don't be such a cat," she told him.
– * –
"Hold the gate!" Demetrius roared over the howling storm. He was standing with his legs apart in the centre of the camp, on a small platform. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed almost simultaneously, cleaving the sky asunder and almost swallowing his words.
"If that gate is breached, the magic of the wards will dissipate and we're all doomed. And what the hell is that white stuff?"
"Snow, sir! I grew up north; in winter, instead of raining, it snows," called a zealous soldier, who had heard the question as he came running to join the group at the gate.
Demetrius' head jerked around, fixating the man.
"I know what snow is, Haqod! We are not up north. Rephrase: what the hell is it doing here?"
Any answer that might have been given was drowned by yet another sonic boom, as the lightning-heated air expanded. The air grew colder by the second. The air Demetrius exhaled condensed, and settled as pale white icicles in his grey beard.
Aspholus, his second in command, joined him at his side.
"Is that the new tactic of that cowardly whelp?" he asked. "He got his backside whipped by our army, so he now sends cold and darkness?"
Demetrius made to answer, but before he could utter a word, the shield flared to life. Small objects seemed to pelt it. Shouts started to emerge from the group that secured the gate, as the transom buckled.
"We can't keep the gate shut any longer –"
In a flash, Demetrius' attention was back at the men pushing against the straining wooden construction.
"You will, or by the gods, I'll have your –"
The gate exploded inwards. The shield flashed deep crimson once more, and then died. The next moment, the storm swept through the breach like a raging beast. It tore at the tents, and knocked them away effortlessly. The lightning touched everything with its glaring shine, making the world transparent for the shortest of moments, and impossibly dark afterwards.
When the light flared again, the tower was struck. For the blink of an eye, the image was burned into the sky; the tower, slanted at an hazardous angle, suspended in time and space, until everything was plunged back into darkness and time snapped back into reality with a vengeance. Screams cut through the air, as the tower came crashing down.
Demetrius jumped from his platform.
"You aaaah –"
A strange whizzing descended down on the camp, sounding eerily in the thick darkness, a bodiless sound, everywhere at once.
By the next flash of lightning, everything was still. A deep, frightening silence hung over the devastated camp, where nothing moved anymore.
– * –
She finally spotted the source of the chattering noise; a desert squirrel had stuck its yellow head out of the bush the stone had hit, still scolding vigorously, looking for the perpetrator; but it ducked back down in the blink of an eye as fleet-footed steps started to cause the ground to vibrate, barely noticeable. Soon, twelve tall forms approached on the same path she had taken, in a light, steady run, their garments simple but of high quality: tunics, dusty from a long travel.
Six of them were male, while the other six were female; however, with the exception of one, lean they all were, with long hair from midnight or starlight, their faces regular and void of any signs of age: they were elves. Unsurprised, she turned around, intently looking at each of the twelve who had halted, a few feet away.
"I will be going to Nasuada," she stated. "You may follow me."
The elves stayed in place, unmoving, simply looking at her, until they spotted Solembum prowling around her legs. The group bowed as one and the one smaller woman stepped forth; with fair hair and deep blue eyes. She looked delicate, almost fragile; beautiful like the soft touch of the first rays from a morning's sun in a breath of dawn.
"Greetings, child and Wise One."
Solembum meowed, and it sounded suspiciously like a yawn; however his human companion was silent and kept on staring at the newly arrived. Eventually, she said quietly: "You would not wish to tarry. Time is precious these days; the Dark Tide is nigh on your heels."
And with that, she resumed her path, even as the woman bowed again and answered in her melodious voice.
"You speak true and your counsel is wise. We accept your offer, Star Child. Lead us to she who is the leader of the Varden."
But she was already walking away, and it wasn't even certain she had heard the words. If the elves were offended, though, they showed none of it; simply following her on the dusty lane towards the city ahead.
– * –
The timid looks, fearful when they met her violet eyes, awed when they stole glances at the silver star on her forehead shining in the sunlight, they were nothing new. People always glanced at her with either feeling, but both reactions always lead to the same result: people were not comfortable in her presence. They did as if they were, trying to act normal and thus failing to do so by default; sneaking those looks at her when they thought she wasn't watching, whispering, behind her back.
It wasn't like that now.
Elves were something different altogether, and now people stared openly, agape with astonishment. Elves were creatures of myths and legends, subjects of the tales from the oldest people, told to them by their fathers, and to them by their fathers. Not even the oldest doter had ever seen elves, and in their annoying small-mindedness that held as true only that which they could see, many even believed them to be mere figments, products of the fanciful minds of story tellers.
And there was nothing so misleading and unreliable as your eyes, she thought derisively.
Whispers jumped from one onlooker to the next as daily work, in smithies and bakeries, was abandoned without a second thought to gawk at the strange procession of the blessed child – or the witch's child (it depended on whether the miller's apprentice or the maid from the castle was talking, she decided, and whether it was a Thursday or a Friday), the werecat and a dozen stoic elves all walking through the streets, up to the fastness built on a large rocky rise, in the centre.
– * –
Inside the castle, behind the thick walls of yellow sandstone, the air was cooler. A few minutes later, she bounded down the corridor, followed by the group of elves and with Solembum by her side. Woven tapestries lined the inner wall, while the outer one held small, glassless openings to let inside the last rays of the sinking western sun, dyeing the depicted battle scenes or celebrations on the other side blood red. After the corridor took a turn for the left, even the small openings vanished, and the only remaining light was the uncertain glow of coal pans and dim candles.
She paused in front of a tapestry showing a filigreed dragon flying over the land, and pulled at a certain stone in the wall behind it. A soft rustle sounded throughout the corridor, and then she slipped past the dragon tapestry on its right side, where it edged the next, vanishing into the wall.
Curious, one elf of the group trailing her lifted the tapestry, revealing a hole in the wall. He started to examine the mechanism and laughed softly in delight as the secret door slid back and forth before a sharp look from the petite elf finally prompted him to enter as well.
The narrow tunnel behind the wall led down for a while and then sharply to the left; the darkness was complete but she needed no light, and neither did the elves. A little draught and a dim gleam told of a nearing end. Another turn, and the secret passage opened to a small chamber, holding a bed, a table and a chair. One side was veiled by a thick purple curtain.
She burst through it, into a spacious wood-panelled study, bouncing up and down.
"Nasuada, Nasuada! Look who's here!"
The study was not empty, though. Apart from Nasuada, sitting in a straight-backed chair behind an imposing, light-yellow cedar desk where papers were stacked, the broad form of Roran stood there, looking not entirely comfortable; and through a door on the far side framed by two hulking Urgals, King Orrin entered just then, muttering to himself. She disregarded them all, focused solely on Nasuada.
The dark-skinned woman frowned, looking up.
"Is it important, Elva? I was discussing a few things with Roran, and – oh, Orrin –"
"Nasuada, wonderful! I was wondering, regarding this petition of my vicegerent, in Aberon –"
Nasuada sighed.
"Well, that is that, I suppose. Orrin, in a second. I apologise, Roran, it seems like we have to finish the discussion in regards to your status amongst the Varden later tonight. Now, what is it, Elva?"
Elva stopped bouncing for a moment, peering now intently at her.
"The Dark Tide is coming. You needed to know, so I decided to tell you."
"The – what? Elva, you are confusing me. Stop bouncing, please. What, exactly, is this Dark Tide?"
If Elva expected Nasuada to immediately grasp whatever meaning there was in her words, she did not give any indication on it; she sat down on a chair, looking decidedly uninterested, as the face of the Varden's leader only showed confusion and a little exasperation.
"The Dark Gates have been opened. I was walking with Solembum. He told me, but then we encountered them."
Elva yawned, and stretched her arms.
"I'm tired. They can tell you."
She pointed to the curtain that parted again, and revealed the twelve elves. Nasuada started to rub her temples, but stood up at once, almost knocking over a stack of papers. Orrin was thunderstruck and Roran watched in silence.
Again, the petite elf walked ahead, and the rest followed behind her.
"Greetings, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, and leader of the Varden."
She bowed, touching two of her fingers to her lips.
"Atra esterní onto thleduin."
Nasuada replied: "Atra du evarínya ono varda."
The other woman smiled.
"Your little ambassador here was kind enough to lead us to you. I am Deïa the Fair from the House of Aiedail. Let me introduce my companions."
She went and told the names of the other elves, and just as she was finished, Orrin had regained his bearings an exclaimed: "The spellcasters! Truly, this is good and welcome news! I welcome you to the Kingdom of Surda and to the humble confines of the citadel of Cithrí. Had I known of your arrival beforehand, why, I would have arranged a banquet. An event such as this is a time to rejoice, when what little happiness these dark times offer are like a ray of sunshine –"
"Orrin!" Nasuada interrupted impatiently. "We have no time for digressing speeches. Something is happening in the Empire and –"
"Nonsense, Nasuada! For once, we have all the time in the world. You have read the reports of Eclesius' scouts just like I did, Galbatorix is still busily doing nothing after that grand victory of ours. The border is peaceful and safe. Had that changed, you would know it already. Now, as I was saying, I shall send for the preparations of a banquet, to which all of you are –"
"You would do well to listen, King of the Darkened Realm." Elva's violet eyes fixated him, with an odd, twisted smile on her lips, and after a short while, he looked down, uneasy. "The weather is changing, heralding the storm that is about to descend upon you. As we speak, it has already breached your borders."
Orrin looked at her unkindly.
"Now listen here, child. As I said, the scouts would have reported –"
"Only a fool would spent his time waiting for them," Elva said. "Will you be one, King Orrin?"
"What do you mean? Speak up! You are hiding behind fancy words, yet where is the meaning, I ask?"
"The meaning, King Orrin, is such: no one will come. Oh, they tried to warn you, I'm sure; they fled the storm, but the Dark Tide swallowed them all, a fate which might yet befall you as well. Only the elves, fleet of foot as only they are, were able to outrun it, and even so, just barely."
Orrin gaped at her.
"Your scouts are, at this time, dead." Elva offered him a smile that lacked any warmth whatsoever. "Or, if they are truly unlucky, they wish they were."
He almost staggered backwards, then pulled himself a chair, sitting down heavily. But it wasn't only Orrin. Her words seemed to affect everyone in the room. Only the elves showed no reaction at all. Deïa seemed to regard her with curiosity completely unaffected by the heavy, uncomfortable silence that now filled the room.
"What – what is this?" Orrin croaked finally. "More of Galbatorix's madness?"
Nasuada turned to Deïa.
"Is it true?"
The elf didn't answer right away.
"You have an unusual child here," she said.
Over Nasuada's face darted a fleeting, distracted smile.
"Yes, she can predict the outcome of some things yet to come on the occasion, as well as know things that happened without her present; a by-product of an otherwise unfortunate blessing Eragon bestowed on her."
Deïa smiled as well. "For sure, that would count as peculiar. But I was talking about her unusually sharp mind."
All of a sudden, as quickly as the weather on a day in April, her mood shifted, and with it, the light in the room seemed suddenly dimmer. She stared at Nasuada in dark seriousness.
"I bring dark tidings, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad. From what little the child knew, everything it concluded is true."
– * –
He knew he wouldn't make it.
The wind came in strong gusts, seemingly from all directions at once, almost knocking him to the ground. Somehow, he stayed on his feet and struggled on. The ice-cold blasts had made him lose the feel in his fingers and his feet long since. He never had felt that kind of cold before. If his fingers would have fallen off, he thought, he wouldn't have noticed. Sure, there had been pain, at first, agonising pain on his unprotected limbs – burning cold drills piercing through his flesh, but that had been hours ago.
And then he could think no more, because he had to run and was stumbling again.
Talec knew the reason of it all; it was that black wall he was fleeing from. The captain had sent him and two other scouts south, as soon as he had seen it. They had become separated a long time ago, but Talec thought he'd come the furthest. He knew the land, since he had grown up here; which was the reason he had been picked, even though he was still tired from the earlier patrol.
The next camp was only another mile away, but that didn't matter.
Finally, it would be over for him as well. He looked over his shoulder without stopping his run and screamed in horror. On the last few hundred yards, it had at least halved the distance between them. It devoured the land step after step; he was now able to see it move over the brittle grass, saw it wilt where the blackness touched it and then vanish.
He couldn't run any faster. He was exhausted, from the first exertion and now from his long flight from the closing darkness
No, the mile felt endless. He imagined the constantly advancing darkness licking on his heels, dark and rotten, felt almost certain that every breath he took sucked in foul air, fumes, which instead of supplying him with the much needed oxygen, poisoned his lungs. Did it not hang veil-like over the evening? The red glowing sun dipped below the horizon, dirty and pale, not as clear as he remembered it from so many other evenings.
Behind him, he heard a soft rustle, where the grass was swallowed by the black curtain reaching from there up to the thick bank of clouds that preceded it, an enormous rotating roller, threatening flashes streaking over the front. A hut-like building shimmered in the fading light through the trees.
The barn.
Perhaps that was his rescue.
Talec was already inside the orange grove that surrounded it, but likewise the storm had picked up, robbing his breath; and the lightning had jumped to its aid and begun to tear apart the air as well. It thundered and howled in his ears, and suddenly, it started to rain ice; hard, sharp shards of ice; pushed into his face by the wind, pelting him mercilessly. It cut his face and blood ran down his cheek, but he paid it no mind. He pushed himself onwards, in a last, desperate attempt to flee.
Behind him, on the trees, the leaves wilted and the ripe oranges rotted, then burst open, spilling out hundreds of worms as long and thick as a grown man's finger. They hit the ground with a wet plop and were immediately afterwards swallowed by the rapidly advancing darkness.
The building was right ahead. He had to reach it – just a few more steps –
– and the night caught up with him. All of a sudden, it was perfectly dark. If he had thought he could feel nothing anymore, he was disabused of that notion now. It was ice-cold, burning his bare legs like a fire, and he screamed in pain. He stumbled around, felt his legs disobey him, reached for the door, but couldn't find it. His legs finally gave out, frozen off and he fell. In the darkness, he couldn't see a thing, but he heard noises. Then the lightning flashed again, showing him an army of whirring insects. Afterwards, everything was dark once more.
By the next flash of lightning, Talec saw bugs the size of his palm and bigger, and locusts as big as a child's foot, gathered in a dark cloud. Instead of whirring softly, it now buzzed angrily. On the ground, a revolting mass of obscenely enlarged worms, crawling on top of each other and around each other covered the earth.
The flashes burned dancing images into his eyes, he felt blinded, yet was able to spot the army of giant locusts descend on the fields bordering on the grove, devouring the corn in seconds.
Alike, things happened all around him. Terrified, he crawled onwards, found the door, ripped it open, trying to hide –
The door crumbled under his touch, consumed by pale white woodworms longer than his finger. They crawled over his hand and he screamed again as their mandibles started to bite, shaking his hand wildly, trying to get them off –
And then, they all came for him.
He had just enough time to plunge himself into his own sword, which luckily killed him at once and spared him the feeling of being eaten alive and from the inside, as bugs and worms descended down on him and entered mouth and nose and drilled themselves in ear and eyes.
– * –
Orrin looked ill. He had blanched in his seat, frozen, his mouth open, but no sound coming out. Nasuada appeared to be less affected, but with her dark skin, it was hard to tell.
"That is what we felt, and what you are to expect. The land, the plants and animals cry in pain as they are subjected to a chaos against all natural order, forced to be what they were never meant to. The source is the darkness, no mere night, but a powerful spell instead, emitting an evil and malevolent feel; bringing with it a weather that is of the utmost north, where there is nothing but ice and snow and coldness."
"How can that be?" whispered Nasuada finally. Orrin was still staring blankly out of the small window. "What kind of might does Galbatorix possess, to unleash that hell on earth onto an entire country, miles and miles away from Urû'baen? Is his accursed power boundless?"
Deïa was silent.
"He may be the cause of the Dark Tide, however, the source he is not," Elva stated suddenly.
"How can he be one and not the other, Elva?" Nasuada exclaimed. "That makes no sense."
The girl in the chair crossed her arms in front of her.
"It does too. I do not doubt that he causes it, but as you said, he currently is in Urû'baen, while Solembum told me it originates from Helgrind, of course."
Her expression changed at her last words, while she once more stared intently at Nasuada. For the shortest instant, the woman's hand clenched the backrest of her chair, so strongly that the wood creaked, before she abruptly turned away, under the weight of Elva's gaze. A strange, fleeting smile appeared on lips of the child, though no one except Deïa noticed.
When Nasuada turned back around, her face told nothing.
"Eragon is there," she offered. Only the barest inflection was audible when she said his name.
Elva seemed to feel no need to answer what hadn't been a question. Deïa, however, stiffened.
"The Shur'tugal?" she inquired, her voice still as polite as before, but with an underlying sharpness. "I am not certain I understand. I assumed his absence here was due to very urgent errands he and Saphira Bjartskular had to run. Yet what would he be doing in the heart of the darkness? I was not aware that my Queen would withhold such vital information from me, considering she sent us to find him."
"I do not presume to know the mind and the motives of your Queen," Nasuada countered. "I could hardly say what she would and would not do and why. Eragon, however, is there to make good on a promise he made; in rescue of his cousin's fiancée and to kill the remaining Ra'zac. He set out three weeks ago."
"Her meaning was such, Nasuada, leader of the Varden, that our Queen would, indeed, not withhold this particular information, for there is no sense in it. It stands to reason, then, that she was not informed."
One of the other elves, who as an entirety until that point had neither moved nor spoken, had suddenly uttered this. It was one of the male elves, dark haired, with sharp aquiline features and a deprecating look.
Deïa darted him a quick look, and his mouth snapped shut.
"Kálin is correct. This situation is most unfortunate; doubly so as you allowed him to leave without our counsel. We would regret having to inform the Queen that his life was put at risk due to your actions. You must see that this is a trap laid by Galbatorix."
"We agreed that together with Saphira, he would be able to overcome any possible opponents, save for Galbatorix himself, which made the risk calculable. We also assumed Arya told you." Nasuada frowned. "After all, she was adamant about accompanying him."
Deïa's eyes widened, and with a few, quick strides, she was at her desk.
"How could you!" she hissed. "Sending her into the heart of the enemy territory. You know of her status! How could you –"
"What is this with Arya and Eragon, now?"
Orrin had come out of his stupor, looking displeased.
"I demand to know –"
"Orrin –"
"Queen Islanzadí has –"
"Ah, why are we talking about this, anyway?" Orrin banged his fist onto the desk, interrupting the elf and Nasuada. "Wherever they are, there is nothing we can do for them. They might even be lucky. I doubt that Galbatorix would lay waste his own kingdom, as mad as he is. So inside the Empire, it just might be more bearable, or even completely absent. We have to worry about ourselves. What can we do to stop this monstrosity?"
He jumped up, pacing on the deep burgundy rug that covered the floor in front of the desk.
"You called it the Dark Tide. If it behaves like a tide, we stop it like one. We shall erect some kind of – a boulder, to keep it at bay …"
Deïa, who had turned to speak to Nasuada, glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.
"You seem to forget that it has already passed your border. If ever there even was a time for actually impeding it, it has long past. Stopping it now means, in truth, stopping Galbatorix. And as it is no mere fluke of ill weather, but magical of nature, it demands magical defences. Would you have your magicians try to cover the entirety of Surda with spells, mayhap?"
Orrin reddened.
"Well, if that is so foolish an idea, then what would you suggest? And what about you? Certainly, you are much stronger than any one of my magicians. We are near the border. From Cithrí, we could create a spell similar to the one that guards the borders of Du Weldenvarden. With your help, it just might be possible!"
"It took the combined effort of all of our kind and thousands of years to strengthen our borders to the point they are now, and they might yet yield against Galbatorix. You are vastly underestimating the energy a spell of that size would require. We lack both people and time. It is impossible."
He bristled at her continuously dismissive tone.
"You are quick to reject any of my ideas, yet mean with yours, elf. So I ask again: what would you have me do? Lend me your expertise in saving my kingdom, I am all ears."
Deïa's eyes rested on him, pensive, examining him for a long while, until he began to get uncomfortable under her gaze and started fidgeting. Finally she said: "Hear me, then, King Orrin. Do not try to shield your entire kingdom, like I know you are about to do. It cannot be done. Attempting the impossible will result in losing it all, and awarding Galbatorix an easy victory. The strength and numbers of your magicians are unknown to me; but you should be fine in covering this city and the immediate principality, including the camps of your army. Restricting the wards to an area the size such as this, you should be able to weave a spell strong enough to weather the coming storm."
Orrin looked at her, shock clearly written in his face.
"This … city? And what about the rest of my kingdom?"
Deïa was silent.
"No. This – you can't be serious!"
He sat down onto the chair heavily.
"You would tell me … you – give up for lost my kingdom?"
"You asked for my advice," Deïa said softly. "I gave it, as best I could. The decision is yours, but I urge you to listen."
Orrin jumped up again, exploding into anger.
"Listen? Of course I will not! I would be a fool, and a poor regent withal, would I listen to this nonsense you call advice! Telling me to stand by and watch idly as Galbatorix devours my land? That is unacceptable!" he shouted out furiously. "Perhaps that is how you and your kind act in your forest, resigning yourself to do nothing and only watching while the rest of the world descends into madness, but I tell you now, we here –"
"Orrin!" Nasuada hissed. "What are you saying! You –"
"Nothing but the truth, Nasuada! I will not simply surrender what my great-grandfather and his father fought bitterly to wrest from Galbatorix, and any word suggesting so is an insult …" he trailed off when he noticed Deïa's eyes resting on him, again, in quiet graveness, weighing him, in a stark contrast to himself, whose face was flushed in anger and agitation. Her penetrating gaze bore through him, or at least it felt that way. When she spoke, her voice was decidedly cool.
"Yes, King Orrin. The darkness will fall, whether you deem it acceptable or not, and there is nothing you, or anyone, can do to stop it now. I merely told you of the circumstances and warned you against attempting to do what cannot be done. For your own sake as much as ours, I would you came to see the truth in my words."
She paused and considered something.
"You should have faith in your people, they might yet surprise you. There is nothing to say they will be eradicated to the last. Humans have shown a curious ability to escape the most improbable of odds; even I recognise this."
She turned around to face Nasuada, apparently having said all she intended, but Orrin was far from finished.
"So you suggest I leave them to chance, to live or die as fate will have it? That I accept it as some sort of price I have to pay to save the rest? You would not speak the same, were it your kind we are talking about! It is easy to say such, when you are not the one affected."
Deïa's look turned even colder at his words, and her posture now exuded a certain air of impatience.
"Yes. Be assured that I would. This is war, and such is the nature of it, and the decision any leader has to make: weighing lives against other lives. The only viable measure can be to save as many lives as possible in the long run, which may mean that sacrifices have to be made in the short term. You have to have known that. Did you expect to come out of this unscathed?"
Orrin was struck speechless for the moment, while Deïa stated with an air of finality: "And also, it seems to me, King Orrin, that your actual quarrel is not with me but with reality. And that is a fight which you cannot win."
She turned back to Nasuada, and left Orrin to sputter in outrage.
"I apologise for my earlier behaviour. Wartime gets to us all, but that is not an excuse I shall allow, it was out of place. However, you will understand that since we were sent for Eragon Shadeslayer, to aid and protect him at all costs, we cannot help you here. Our aid to ward your Varden we will give, but there is nothing more I can do. We will leave within the hour, to be gone before the storm reaches the city and traps us inside." She glanced at Orrin. "We already have tarried here for far too long."
"What?" exclaimed Orrin. Nasuada seemed surprised by the sudden declaration, but Orrin was staring at her with sheer disbelief.
"Now wait just a moment! You come here before us, tell us some kind of horrible magical storm is coming and that we lack spellcasters like yourself to protect ourselves sufficiently, and then you just … leave?"
He reddened by the minute.
"That is – my word! That won't do, that won't do at all! Yes, our magicians are neither ready nor prepared for this, so you are by far the best chance of creating a solid bulwark against Galbatorix's magic we have. We are very thankful to your Queen for sending you to aid us. It truly could not have happened at a more fitting time."
He waved his arms wildly through the air.
"I say we should coordinate out efforts. Let us not make hasty decisions! Time is of the essence, aye, but we need a sound plan. Let us call the magicians that are in the city and convene a council. For example, we need you to try and reach other parts of the realm, to warn them before the storm gets there, and then we need to determine how far we can extend the wards over the city here, and then what we can do for the rest of the land, and – and –"
He ran out of steam and took a deep breath. Deïa, who had listened politely, now spoke up.
"Make no mistake, King Orrin. We were ordered to seek the Shur'tugal and obey his command, and only his. We are not free to act at anyone's convenience, not even our own. As I said already, we are to find and protect Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjartskular, and that is what we will do."
Her tone was polite as always, but her dark blue eyes fixated Orrin unyieldingly.
"This is not open for debate."
She picked up her bow again.
"Will you be as kind as to spare a guard to show us the way out?"
Nasuada, into whose direction the question had been posed, gathered herself and shook her head.
"Oh no, I shall lead you myself."
She crossed the room to lead them out, however, Orrin placed himself in the way of the door; drawn up high and flushed with anger.
"So that is what Queen Islanzadí considers an alliance? What she considers help?" Orrin shouted. "Leaving their ally in the hour of need? Disappearing, while we risk out lives –! First no help at all, and then, better yet, when eventually she deems it not beneath her to send aid, it turns out to be a hoax? If those are the actions of an ally, it is a most wavering one indeed!"
The group moved for the first time. Not by much; it was as if a small ripple had moved through them. The tension in the room rose to a palpable level. With a quick wave from Deïa, the other elves stilled again. Inhuman blue eyes bored into him like chips of freezing ice.
"You would do well to guard your tongue, human. Twice, I let your misplaced comments about our kind pass, as I attributed it to your ignorance. However, my patience has limits, and you should certainly know better than saying such. Our Queen sacrifices much to help you in your war, and we follow her, even if not all of us agree. The blood of my kin will be spilled for the first time since the Fall in a stand against Galbatorix, and shall be lamented in a thousand years and another thousand years still. It is nothing to speak lightly of."
She was looking up to him, barely reaching his chest, and yet it felt as though he were at her feet. If Orrin was intimidated, however, he hid it behind anger.
His voiced boomed throughout the study.
"Why, so now it's – I shall tell you what this is; an affront bordering on impudence, to –"
"Orrin!" Nasuada bellowed over his voice. "Calm yourself, man, or leave before you finally say something we all will regret!"
Orrin whitened at the rebuke.
"So you agree with them?" he shouted in rage. "Nasuada! Am I the only sane individual left in this room? They leave when we need help, when we are about to fall prey to the darkness! And for what? For what! Ten of the best spellcasters within the next thousand miles, only to find Eragon? It seems the life in a forest has addled their brains! It's preposterous –"
"Orrin! If Eragon is in danger –"
"Yes, yes! Of course you would find that a most troubling concern –"
Elva's gaze had long since moved from Nasuada to Roran, who seemed forgotten by all. Leaning on he far wall, he'd been following the discussion and the argument in silence. He never moved a muscle, but his fingers were clenched and his eyes held a haunted look.
A small smile appeared on her face, knowing and perhaps even a little sinister. But she said nothing, simply slipped away from the quarrelling people in the room, back behind the curtain and into the small bedchamber that had been set up there fore her.
– * –
It was hours later that a shadow silently crept past the rows of tents. Fear was in the air, fear of the unknown, fear of that which they could not understand. Everyone feared what was beyond their comprehension, and oh, for them, how much was!
The wind had turned north after evenfall, presaging disaster, and everyone had been packing and securing things, while soldiers watched over magicians that drew lines in the sandy ground, preventing them from being disturbed in their work. The elves had come and gone, the magicians had finished their task, and now a ward stretched over the city, the troops, and the Varden's encampment, shimmering like a pale purple dome in the starless sky above them.
And against it in the storm outside crashed things, pelting the shield and creating a constant buzzing noise, allowing the form to slip unnoticed past the guards, vanishing in the dark gap between two tents that glowed faintly in the light of the magic; with no other sound than a soft rustle of the fabric against the clothes, droned out by the sound of the shield.
The small form re-emerged a few rows further down the field, ducking underneath a canvas flap into one of the tents. A single candle burned with a dancing yellow flame, painting deep shadows onto the face of the sole person inside. The man was sitting at the small table, staring at the flickering light. In it, his face seemed gaunt and haunted.
"You worry for you love, Roran Stronghammer."
He started, but then sunk back into his chair, continuing to watch the candle.
"Yes," he whispered.
After a while, he turned back towards the new arrival.
"Three weeks it's been, three entire weeks since Eragon set forth. He should have returned with her long since … and now this … A perpetual night sprung from the very place he is at. I know a bad omen if I see one." His voice turned bitter. "Elva. Why have you come, child? To taunt me with my worries that already haunt my dreams at night and thoughts at day?"
Elva stepped closer, into the light. Her face, as well, was shrouded with lines and fleeting shadows as the flame moved in the draught. Her eyes seemed to glow in the dark, as her hand reached out, touching his cheek.
"Let me lay to rest your worries to rest, then, and offer you the sanctuary of certainty," she breathed. "You need not doubt any longer. She shan't return to you in this life."
The backside of her hand stroked his cheek once, then receded.
"Poor Roran …"
Roran jumped up, knocking his chair backwards in sudden surprise. Elva slowly sat down on the desk with the candle between them, staring at him unblinkingly over the flame, her violet eyes wide but calm, untroubled by the agitation her words invoked.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "She will, Eragon promised! How would you know any different?"
"I know. That part of the curse Eragon gifted me with remained. Fate, Stronghammer … can you not taste it? Twosome, they set out for their journey, and twosome, they shall return. Never was Eragon intended to return with more than one … and for that, your promise was broken the moment he left with the elf as his companion. Because, hence, he will reach a crossroad in Helgrind's belly, forced to make the ultimate choice. And what do you think he will do? Do you believe he would give up his happiness for yours? Don't delude yourself. In that regard, he is still as much human as you are."
She sat still, like a statue in the dark tent, watching the man, it seemed, in curious detachment: sunken to his knees, struggling for breath.
"Eragon, what have you done?"
– * –
The cry tore itself from his lips, despair and anguish filling Roran at her dark prophecy. Yet only moments later, he felt only scorn for the girl in front of him, trying to plant the seed of doubt in his heart, and anger at himself for wavering in his steadfast trust for even the shortest of moments, and in rising, he spoke: "What are your words but the scare stories of crones who have seen too many winters. Eragon is my brother. If it is at all possible to save Katrina, he will do it. He promised, so you are mistaken. I doubted him once, but I do no longer; and all your words of gloom and doom will not make me. I do not even see the problem; a strange elf can hardly be more important than my Katrina."
Elva only smiled mockingly.
"Oh dear. You weren't aware? Yes, there are more people in the world with a Katrina … that elf happens to be Shadeslayer's. He seeks to win her, and while he will lose that which he won, the moment he understands what he seeks, that time is not now. And so, your promise is already broken, one way or the other; fate runs its course while we sit back and watch. Only, you are not content to do so, are you, Bloodhammer?"
He felt her unnatural violet eyes on him, her knowing gaze, looking through him effortlessly, piercing him to depths hidden to even himself afore, and felt tears spring to his eyes for reasons unknown to him, a dark inkling of terrible things yet to come. But Katrina was not dead, that he thought he felt for certain. And he clung to that thought when Elva's voice drifted over him, soft and enwrapping him like a blanket.
"Hush! don't cry. It had to happen eventually; now was the time: 'twas simply one too many promise made, one too many promise to keep. The bond unravelled, the table broken; the events are set in motion, the last act in this play begins, and still, the outcome is shrouded in darkness. Victory? Or downfall?"
Elva laughed happily, and jumped off the table.
"I can't wait to see."
She skipped over to him, and hugged him.
"All this talk made me hungry. I'm so hungry. See you, Roran."
And before he could utter another word, she was gone, leaving him confused and restless; and only the swinging flap bore witness that she had been there at all.
# # #
"It looks like we finally reached the end."
He had no recollection of how many days had past. It was cold, cold in the marrow, and black, always black, no way out, no way to escape. Ever since Murtagh had left, the rocks falling and burying the way out behind him, ever since they moved and grew the exit shut, forming a smooth surface, he had waited for someone to come – called for her, in his rare moments of clarity. The rest was only confused and jumbled, nothing more than an endless recollection of pain: the cursed black stone of Helgrind, enveloping him completely, severing his connection to her – not like it was usually, when they were too far apart, she was still there, then, only not reachable, no – it had ripped him from her, cut through him like a knife, cleaving his existence in two.
But not longer. It was enough.
Arya whipped her head around. He saw her dimly in the dark of the cave, her eyes flashing in rage. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Not anymore.
"Don't say that! Never give up. Never give in. Not to Galbatorix, not to anyone. You are a Shur'tugal. Act like one!"
Eragon laughed wildly, somewhere between madness and despair. The sound echoed and re-echoed from the rough, stony walls.
"I'm not! I'm not! Not anymore – it's empty … everything's empty, so empty …"
He pressed the hands to his head and moaned, as the words ignited the by now familiar ache, all over again; the terrible feel of the void, gnawing at his mind, the hole in his head and heart, his entire being torn asunder.
He staggered to his feet and wandered through the cave.
"Gone … all gone …what is there? What? I can't … It tears, nagging, gnawing … tears apart – all that is there …"
It was unbearable. He stared hatefully at the black walls, that robbed him of his existence, of his – his soul – a new wave of pain sent him into spasms and he stumbled, falling to the ground and knocking his head against the wall. Oddly enough, that felt … good? It felt different. A slow smile spread over his face. Perhaps if he tried even harder … would it feel even better?
A dull thud sounded through the cave. Something sticky ran down his forehead. And … wasn't there something that wanted out? Yes, there was. Oh, this felt good indeed …
Arya jumped to her feet, picking him by the collar of his tunic and pulling him away from the wall that now held a large patch of crimson, which was slowly vanishing, soaked up by the stone, sponge-like. They tumbled, and roughly, she pushed his back onto the ground, pinning him down with her weight and her hands, making it impossible to move.
Her eyes looked down to him, wide, agitated. Fearful.
"Eragon, hear me! Fight it! You have to separate yourself from the bond, else you are going to lose yourself. It cannot happen!"
He moaned.
"It hurts … oh god, it hurts … make it stop. Make it stop!"
"You have to, Eragon!"
Her voice held a note of despair. "If … if there ever was something I meant for you, then do it for me. Fight, Eragon …"
His world shrank to a black tunnel, dulling his senses until nothing was left but a faint whisper and the movements of her lips, so full, red, barely an arm's length away; green eyes, alive in the dark with an unseen fire; black hair, after days in the cave long since having come loose, framing her face … red and green and black, what a wonderful world, a dream world, painted by an artist using blood and hope and darkness. A mesmerizing picture …
He felt himself slip away.
Too little … too late …no more fight in me.
"There is but one thing left I wish to know …"
And he felt his arm pull her towards himself, as if on its own accord, felt his lips on hers, felt her stiffen, but not pull away … And in a final explosion of colours, sounds and tastes, he savoured the kiss that was bound to be the first and the last, the beginning and the end; tried unabashedly to steal what was not his, memorising every nuance – the taste like water from the clearest spring, sweet and ripe elderberries and pine needles, freshly plugged and crushed, lingering even after all this time in captivity – it mixed up to something so very unique and Arya-like, wild and untamed, strong, intoxicating and overwhelming, drowning him; and he surrendered.
He felt his heartbeat sped up, listening to the sound and taste of the fire. The silver flame was calling … and the fire raced through him, burning him, burning away all pain and sorrows in a blaze of beauty.
– * –
Arya was frozen, not really able to comprehend what was happening. She couldn't think, her brain seemed stuck … this … how could he do something like this?
Silently, she begged for him to stop.
His fingers touched her bare back trough the torn fabric of her tunic; her skin burned under his touch … hot, so hot … like trails of fire that burned her skin, through it and deep inside of her. So long since she felt it the last time, and she swore she'd never let herself feel this way ever again and yet here she was … and for one precious moment the heat even managed to drive away the cold she always felt, ever since he died.
She begged for him to never stop.
But then he pulled back and the coldness balled itself anew into an icy knot inside of her, much worse than before. Her eyes flared, and she came out of her stupor and grabbed him, almost throwing him against the rough wall a foot away. Nothing mattered but to feel the warmth again, to feel alive again … a cell, somewhere in Gil'ead, bars made of ice-cold sorrow, and walls of blackest despair …
– * –
Eragon knew this wasn't real. He was drifting, above the pain. She grabbed him with a surprising strength he was barely able to match. He looked into her eyes and almost recoiled from the intensity of her feelings. It was so unlike her normal self, the raw need he saw there, in the glowing green. No holding back, no control, like a caged beast of prey that finally had broken free of its chains.
"Please … keep … keep the cold at bay."
In contrast to that, her voice, sounding so weak, frail almost; and she kissed him back, desperately, hand entangled in his hair. Wandering hands tugged at his robes, pulled them off, roaming over his bare chest; eager hands, on his back, pulling him flush to her; her lips against his, again and again. He felt her breasts against his chest, only separated from his skin by what remained of her flimsy shirt, and his fingers slowly pushed that away as well, leaving behind nothing but his version of heaven, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.
– * –
Her clothes discarded and she didn't even remember taking them off, not that she minded, feeling him against her made the fire surge, spreading the warmth past all and any walls within with only one stray thought disrupting her feelings of contentedness, did she not use him to make herself feel better, to soothe her tortured soul and escape the icy claws, even if it was for but one, short moment?
But any further thought fled her when she felt his lips, on the tips of her breasts, sending tiny shocks all throughout her body, when his hands moved down her back, caressing her skin, and she gave in, felt him next to her, inside her, felt the heat, warming her, Eragon was so very different from him, where he was gentle and still Eragon was passionate, where he sought to slow things down, Eragon sought to sped them up, but it appealed to another side of her, spurring her on, to respond, reaching an almost frantic pace, and yet …
She closed her eyes, and yes, it drifted away, the cave, the cell, the prison, all away; it all vanished and she could pretend, she felt him move steadily, pulled him closer, and suddenly, it was no longer he, brown turned blue, she looked into eyes full of love, framed by long blonde hair. A blissful smile floated over her face, she, her mind, miles away, and a single thought left …
Fäolin.
And now comment away :P
Anyway, thanks for all the wonderful reviews on the last part, I was really happy reading them all.
Saladin: Thanks for the nice review!
Next chapter: Consequences. Progress, as always, in my profile.