After they had left the banquet hall with their Saphira and Vanilor following closely behind them, and had walked along for several minutes in companionable silence, Eragon suddenly stopped and turned to look at Ophelia.
"Would you and Vanilor like to see where Saphira and I stay while in Ellesmera? It was once the home of Vrael, the lead dragon rider."
"You don't have to if you don't want," Eragon said immediately, speaking again before Ophelia even had a chance to reply, suddenly incredibly nervous. What if she thought him too forward? His invitation could be easily misconstrued as a come on, regardless of whether or not he meant for it to sound that way. "I mean, I will understand if you don't—we have journeyed far and were hardly given any time at all to rest—"
"Eragon." She said, quietly but firmly, effectively shutting his mouth in a way in which one of Brom's barked orders never could. "I would love to see your apartments. If they are anything like my mother's I am sure they are splendid."
She glanced quickly back at Vanilor to see if he approved of the idea, and when the black dragon dipped his head in assent, the four of them set off in the direction of Eragon and Saphira's tree home. Ophelia and Eragon ascended the steep stairs that wound their way up inside the trunk of the ancient tree, while Saphira and Vanilor soared up into the air, agreeing to meet them at the top.
Eragon briefly wondered how both dragons would possibly be able to fit inside his chambers before he remembered that, because the apartment had been built for Vrael and his dragon, who had been much older than Saphira and consequently nearly three times her size, both Saphira and Vanilor would probably be able to squeeze into either his bedchamber or study with relative ease, so long as they did not move around too much. When he and Ophelia had reached the top landing, doubled over and puffing for breath after having taken so many steps at a run, trying to see who could ascend the stairs the fastest (it was a tie), Eragon slid the door back and stood aside so she could enter first.
Ophelia's labored breath caught in her throat when she saw how magnificently the ancient, living tree had been manipulated with the elves' magic to create a mid-air dwelling for the leader of the Riders and his dragon. She stepped into a small room with intricate designs coaxed from the walls of paneled tree branches, walls broken only by the placement of three more sliding doors, each leading respectively to a small dining room, a little wash room, and a relatively large bedchamber, out of which Saphira poked her shining blue head.
When Eragon and Ophelia crossed the threshold into the room, they could not help but laugh at the sight that met them: Saphira and Vanilor lay curled up next to one another on a cushioned depression in the floor, quite obviously made for a dragon much bigger than the two of them combined, looking more like overgrown kittens than dragons.
"It is a miracle that you have not stabbed one another with your spikes, lying like that," Ophelia said, laughing as she leaned against the mantle piece of the dense wooden fireplace to look at them. "You look more like pointy cats than fearsome dragons!"
Harrumph, grunted Vanilor, and before Ophelia could stop him, he had snaked his dished head forward and, taking her dress carefully between his lips so as not to ruin it, pulled her off her feet before dropping her in a heap onto the dragon bed with them.
You're in a good mood tonight, she remarked to him with a smile as she hoisted herself out of the depression and sat on the edge, rubbing Saphira's scaly sapphire nose with the palm of her hand.
Yes, well, never before have I been able to eat such a hearty meal and enjoy the company of such—er—interesting companions, he replied.
Ophelia just smiled at him at him, her powder blue eyes tinkling in the moonlight.
Eragon stood back, watching them. He had never seen Ophelia as unguarded as she did at that moment, and he quite reveled in the sight. He privately thought the man who could wake up every day to see Ophelia smiling at him in such a way could never want for anything else.
After a few moments, he cleared his throat before taking her hand in his own, a very recent habit that had become all but irresistible to him, saying, "Come, I shall show you my study; the view of the city pales from this room pales in comparison with that from the study."
He led her to the hidden opening along one of the walls that led up a narrow flight of stairs to the room which housed a desk, liberally strewn with half empty bottles of ink, tightly wound up rolls of blank parchment, and several immaculate reading scrolls that had managed to find their way off from where they had been haphazardly on the desk and unto the floor; on the far wall there was another tear drop shaped hole in the wall big enough for a dragon to fit through as well as a second cushioned depression in the floor for a dragon to sleep in whilst his Rider read or wrote.
On the way up, Ophelia paused when she noticed that there was something wrong with the walls that enclosed the narrow staircase; indeed, it looked as though someone had taken a knife to the walls of the narrow passageway and scraped away the decorations the elves had so painstakingly created.
"Whatever happened here?" she asked quietly as she ran her pale hand lightly over the ruined patterns, tracing the scrapes in the wall with her narrow fingers.
Turning to see what it was she spoke of Eragon could not help but chuckle and soon sank down onto one of the stairs, his laughter having robbed him of the ability to breathe, much less stand upright.
"What?" Ophelia demanded her interest piqued at what memory could possibly cause such a reaction in its possessor. "Tell me!"
Saphira and Vanilor, having heard the commotion coming from the staircase, stretched their heads closer to see what was going on. Vanilor merely looked confused while Saphira, when she realized what it was that had caused Eragon to erupt into a fit of childish giggles, seemed to grow embarrassed and almost panicked.
It is nothing, Saphira said quickly, shooting Eragon a glance that clearly warned him to hold his peace or suffer the consequences.
"Oh, Saphira," Eragon said, trying to regain control of himself. "Don't look at me like that; it is hardly anything to be embarrassed about!"
"You see," he began, turning to his rapt audience, "the last time Saphira and I were in Ellesmera, I was having some, er, medical problems, and one particular night, when I was up late reading in my study and Saphira was asleep in the bedchamber, I became…ill. The night was too windy for her to fly up to the study to get to me so she attempted to climb up through the staircase. She did pretty well, too; she got her head, neck and almost her shoulders through before she was stuck fast in place!"
At this Eragon was overcome with the giggles once more and could not go on. Ophelia, try though she may, could not get the image of majestic, poised Saphira stuck in a stairway out of her mind and collapsed in a heap against Eragon who wrapped his arms around her to keep her from sliding down the stairs, laughing as well.
Even Vanilor, the most composed out of the four, could not stop a deep, rumbling chuckle from escaping his throat. Saphira, however, found nothing about being humiliated in front of another dragon and his Rider funny, and turning away she jumped out through the tear drop shaped opening in the far wall and flew off into the night.
Saphira, Eragon called after her, feeling instantly awful at having embarrassed her before their friends, hurting her feelings in the process.
Just leave me alone! Her angry voice echoed loudly through his mind.
I will go after her, Rider, Vanilor said, touching Eragon on the shoulder with his nose in a gesture that was probably something akin to reassurance or comfort. I have a feeling she would not have taken it quite so hard had I not laughed as well.
As Vanilor left the tree home to find Saphira, Eragon could not help but agree with the truth of his words. Saphira would have been indignant no matter whom he had told that particular anecdote to, but she probably not have flown away in an embarrassed huff had Vanilor not been among his audience. It was one thing to be laughed at by everybody else; it was quite another to be laughed at by one you loved unrequitedly.
Ophelia's placing her thin hand on his shoulder in a mimic of Vanilor's gesture of comfort brought him back to reality.
"It will be all right," she assured him. "Vanilor will find her and apologize and she will forget the whole thing ever happened. Now come, show me this study. I have quite an urge to see it."
-------
Vanilor landed quietly on the edge of a large thicket of trees a few miles outside of Ellesmera.
Saphira, he called gently. Saphira, I know you are in there.
When he received no answer, he heaved a large sigh, making as if to move. If you do not come out, Saphira, I will just have to come in.
There isn't enough room! she protested, answering almost in spite of herself.
Than you had better come out then, hadn't you? he replied as though the solution were obvious.
Saphira huffed indignantly as she shuffled slowly out of her thicket, the little place she always went to when she needed—or wanted—to be alone, averting her gem-like blue eyes so she would not be forced to meet his steady black gaze. Vanilor reached over and nuzzled Saphira's forehead gently with his nose, her surprise at this small action of affection robbing her somewhat begrudgingly of her anger.
I owe you an apology, Saphira Bright Scales, he said quietly when he pulled his head away. This time she allowed him to catch her gaze. I should not have made light of your ordeal. You were only trying to help your rider in his time of need. I of all others should have understood your desperation and stopped myself from laughing at the predicament such feeling left you in.
I overreacted, Saphira said, sounding as though the memory of her conduct embarrassed her more than Eragon's story had. She cast a furtive glance in his direction before continuing. The others I suppose I could have dealt with, but you…well I was afraid you would think me silly or not right in the head.
Saphira, I have never met another dragon in my life, but even still I know that there is none who outshines you, in either beauty or abilities. You are truly exquisite.
Saphira had to fight the urge to preen like a proud swan at his tender words. They were the greatest of compliments coming from the taciturn but deeply discerning dragon who had bestowed them upon her.
Do you think we should head back? Saphira asked as she looked up at the sky in order that she might calculate the time. It is getting late and they have a tendency to go at one another's throats when left alone for any lengthy period of time.
Hmm, Vanilor grunted softly before Cheshire Cat-like grin spread across his black and silver. You know what? I say we should give our Riders some alone time together. Something tells me they would like that a great deal.
-------
Eragon had never before realized exactly how easy Ophelia was to talk to, though he did grudgingly admit that this was most likely due in part to the fact that he had never really given her much of a chance, at least not in the beginning.
Despite their harrowing journey, despite their exhaustion upon their arrival at Ellesmera and despite their having been forced to sit through an entire feast at which the entire elfin court was in attendance, their weariness was all but forgotten once they had ascended the long, winding staircase up to his tree home.
After Eragon had reiterated for all present to see that whenever he opened his mouth, he always seemed to land himself in some kind of trouble, this time resulting Saphira flying off in a huff followed closely by Vanilor, he and Ophelia had taken the time to explore his study together, looking through the old piles mislaid scrolls and discussing various members of the elfin court that had struck them as funny or interesting.
They eventually wound up in his bedchamber once more, Eragon lying on his back with his hands behind his head in the Saphira's dragon bed as he watched Ophelia putter about the room, tinkling with forgotten knickknacks and odd trinkets he had picked up his travels which had been placed on every flat surface in the room.
An offhanded question on her part about a tiny little music box that had once belonged to his mother, Salina, which lay in all its dusty glory on the mantelpiece above the fire, got him talking about his mother's family and his childhood back in Carvahall. He was not entirely certain how the subject segued from the sleepy little community he had once called home to his entire life story, but he supposed the progression was natural enough.
He told her everything, from his happiest memories of growing up a simple farm boy in the foothills of the Spine to the adventures he and Saphira had undergone since the hatching of her egg, sparing no little detail, no tiny tidbit, no matter how small or insignificant it may have seemed.
He found himself telling her, without ever really meaning to do so, the more troubling bits of information that had been revealed to him during the course of his and Saphira's adventures thus far. He even told her, without little more than a second thought, about whom his mother was and what his father had been, information he had had trouble telling his closest of friends and advisors.
Part of him, though, knew it was because Ophelia, the person he had originally thought so bigoted and hateful, would never judge him based solely on his heritage without her ever having to tell him so. He marveled at her open-mindedness, an all too uncommon quality, something most likely borne of having grown up unaware of the identity of her parents as well.
Ophelia, for her part, listened to him relate the tale of his life with rapt attention and little interruption, laughing at all the right places and looking at him with a deep, knowing sadness as he spoke of the hardships and loss he and Saphira had faced.
After his tales were utterly spent, she cautiously began to speak as well, talking mostly of her heritage, dwelling less on her newfound status as the daughter of an elfin princess and focusing instead on her parents' relationship.
"I suppose it was for the best they both died when they did," she opined softly, lying back against the pillows arranged at the head of his bed so she could view the night stars through the opening in the ceiling above.
"How do you figure?" Eragon asked incredulously, sitting down on the other side, trying in vain to look at her face which was hidden in shadows.
"What would have happened had they lived, Eragon?" Ophelia demanded quietly, not looking up. "How happy do you think the three of us would have been; my mother and I staying eternally young as the flame that was my father's life slowly extinguished before our very eyes? No—that would not have been a life worth surviving for."
"I…I have never thought of it that way…." Eragon replied slowly, letting the reality of her words sink in.
"No; I did not think you would. Most don't, you know," she said, though not unkindly.
"My mother was a fool for loving my father," she continued on, her tone one of bitterness and tragedy. "Anyone who allows themselves to love is a fool."
"Do not say that—don't ever say that," Eragon responded sharply.
"Why?" she demanded still refusing to meet his gaze. "What good did love do for my parents? What good did it do for your mother? Not all stories are meant for happily ever after, Eragon."
"And so you would allow the fear of an unhappy conclusion to keep you from the arms of the one you love?"
"Can you blame me?" she demanded incredulously, bolting upright and turning to face him, her back as straight and stiff as a poker. He could see the wild desperation on her face, its likeness to a caged animal increased manifold by her glowing cat-eyes, even through the inky darkness of the night, and it all but broke his heart. "Can you blame me for wishing to shield myself from the sadness and pain that comes with loss? I know it well, I have felt it all too acutely and I never wish to have a new wound opened up beside all the others, and shall do everything—everything—in my power to prevent such a thing from happening!"
"I understand those sentiments more than words could ever express," he said gently. "Truly I do. My entire existence thus far has seemingly been nothing but a series of people coming into my life just long enough for me to start care for them before they are snatched away, leaving nothing but emptiness and guilt in their wake. Sometimes I start to think that maybe it is my fault, that maybe I could do better by the people I have come to love by pushing them away, holding them at arms length just to keep them safe."
But time and experience has taught me that that is no solution at all, for it only causes more pain, to everyone involved. I know it is scary, and I know it is quite like leaping from the peak of a mountain without being certain that there is someone waiting to catch you at the bottom, but the only thing that can be done is to close your eyes, take the jump and enjoy the currents on the way down, for if you do not, you will regret it for all your days."
"That is a long time," she said softly, refusing to break his gaze.
"Aye," he replied softly. "It is."
-------
Eragon knew he should have sent Ophelia back to her own apartments the moment she began to nod off into slumber. But then again, knowing one should do something and actually bringing oneself to do it are two entirely separate things. So in the end, he had wound up allowing her to fall asleep in his bed, using her peaceful repose after their long journey as an excuse to not awaken her.
He was well aware that it was highly improper for her to even be there with him, lying barely a foot away from him in his large, comfortable bed, and the cautionary tale of her parent's forbidden relationship should have warned him away from any semblance of impropriety where Ophelia, the daughter of an elfin princess, and he, a mere human who was by chance a Dragon Rider, were concerned, but he was either too stupid or too defiant to let it.
What made it all the worse was the fact the even he had to admit that his reasons for not waking her were purely selfish: he wasn't entirely sure that he even could fall asleep without the sound of her soft, even breathing to lull him into unconsciousness, contented by her very presence, something he had grown accustomed to on their journey to Ellesmera. So he simply did nothing but cover her with blankets and slip into bed a little ways away from her, propriety be damned.
Despite her comforting proximity, however, Eragon found himself unable to fall asleep, so he settled for regarding her slumbering countenance instead.
As he watched her sleep, thoughts of Angela's prediction that he would love a woman of uncommonly noble birth floated unbidden through his mind.
He had always thought that woman to be Arya, for she was an elfin princess and there were few nobler than that. It had broken his heart when she had rejected him, and he had despaired at having been fated to love one who would never return his ardor.
But what—what if Angela had not been referring to Arya, but rather Ophelia instead? Ophelia's heritage was just as noble—on her mother's side, at least. Evaria had been a princess of the elves as well, after all.
As for her father, Eragon had not been able to gather much in the way of factual information about him from the elfin court as the circumstances surrounding the man and the way in which he had wooed Ophelia's mother seemed a subject that was strictly taboo. From what he had overheard, however, he was able to surmise that he was a handsome human warrior, greatly admired for his courage and valor by both men and elves and had had the covetable title of 'elf friend' bestowed upon him by the late king, Ophelia's uncle. It would seem that his only mistake, and a fatal one at that, had been to fall madly in love with the king's sister and embark on an illicit love affair with her.
Even so, the fact remained that Ophelia was in possession of a rather illustrious bloodline, being the child of a great warrior and the fairest princess that had ever walked amongst the Fair Folk, if the stories of Evaria's great beauty, which she had, by all accounts, passed on to her daughter, were any indication.
Could Ophelia be his great romance? he wondered.
He looked at the way the light of the sickle moon illuminated her smooth, unblemished alabaster skin as she slept. He couldn't remember a time when he had ever seen her look as peaceful or as beautiful as she did at that moment. But did he love her?
He certainly did not feel the same sensations around Ophelia as he had felt with Arya. It was at that moment, however, that Eragon realized for the first time that the thoughts and feelings he had had for Arya were those of blind admiration and the foolish infatuation of youth. To Eragon, Arya had seemed perfect; he had set her up in his mind as a goddess worthy of unconditional worship, his superior in every way. But however much it may have seemed like the real thing to his juvenile mind that was not true love. It was the ideal love that he had heard about in the fairy tales of his youth and read of in storybooks, the kind of love that does not truly exist.
Suddenly it all seemed so clear to him.
He was attracted to Ophelia because of the very fact that she was so real. She was wildly beautiful and strong and willful and infuriatingly contrary. She constantly challenged him and demanded explanations from him and frustrated him in more ways than one. But no matter what she had always treated him as her equal in every way, never making him feel inferior or like he was beneath her notice. She was truly the most remarkable being he had ever come across, and despite his lack of years that was saying quite a lot. And yet…
Eragon was not even entirely sure if he liked Ophelia half the time. If this were the case, then how on Earth could he possibly love her?
The last thought that passed through his mind before he fell asleep, however, was: I do not know how or why, but I do. I love her.
Thank the stars! came Saphira's deep growling voice in his mind, He finally admits it! Now if we could just get the other one to do the same!
Huh, Vanilor grunted, broadcasting his thoughts so Eragon could hear as well, Like dominos, the two-leggers fall into place, right where they belong. One strong gust of wind is all it will take for the other one to follow, my dear Saphira.
