Once Upon A Time …
It was raining the next day. Not that Saphira and Fírnen cared all that much since their hard scales kept them dry and the fire in their bellies kept them warm; in all actually Eragon suspected they were rather enjoying the added shine and sparkle the rain brought to their scales. He was pacing towards the far end of a barren exercise hall at the very top of the citadel where the Riders of Old used to train and spar away from the cruel elements of winter. A fire burned in the grate between two full-length windows that were spattered with rain.
Three chairs had been placed before it and a low table with a fruit bowl and two mugs. One of the chairs was a large comfortable looking leather chair with arms and a high back. Oromis was sitting in that one; his long thin fingers wrapped around a third mug that was steaming with a hot drink. The old Rider was staring absently into the flames of the fire. The other two chairs looked to Eragon as though they'd been grabbed from the library and dragged unceremoniously into the hall for the purpose of Oromis's summons that morning.
Arya sat perched on the window ledge, her gaze fixed upon what Eragon did not know for the windows were misted up with rain and condensation. Even as he looked at her – his boots echoing loudly as he strode to the opposite end of the hall – he had the urge to rub his left cheek gingerly; he had not been expecting her to put so much force behind her blows yesterday. But then, in her defence, he did deserve those slaps … sort of. After all, there was, as she had pointed out, a fair amount of things he had not divulged to her in terms of secrets that belonged only and solely to the Dragon Riders.
The echoing of his boots on the stone floor had alerted them both to his presence – or maybe they had sensed his approach out in the corridor? – and Oromis stirred and looked up as Eragon drew level with the three chairs around the fire while Arya shot him the briefest of glances. "Ah. Finally … take a seat;" Oromis nodded towards the two highly uncomfortable looking chairs and Eragon studied them for a full minute before taking a leaf out of Arya's book and choosing instead to sit on the floor before the fire. "Suit yourself."
Oromis's voice echoed high to the rafters of the vaulted ceiling and sent a shiver down Eragon's spine.
"What was it you wanted to discuss?" Eragon asked as he poked a twig into the flames and watched it catch alight. He held onto it until the last possible moment before having to let go and drop the twig into the fire lest he burn the tips of his fingers.
"I was going to impart unto you both the true tale of Du Wydra Nángorörh … unless of course, you have something better to be doing on such a dreary afternoon." Both Eragon and Arya shook their heads and settled themselves to a more comfortable position in preparation for their master to begin his lesson.
"Shouldn't we wait for Fírnen and Saphira?" Arya asked then, her voice soft and gentle and it was only due to his heightened hearing that Eragon even heard her over the crackling of the fire and the pounding of the rain.
"I am sure you can share with them what is happening now; as Glaedr and I had Eragon and Saphira do with their lessons back in Ellesméra."
Eragon shared a glance with Arya, though her gaze was still somewhat remote and he gathered she still hadn't entirely forgiven him for, as she'd put it yesterday, 'leaving in the first place'. Eragon coughed, "They're … um … a little – er … busy at the moment ebrithil … what with – well they haven't … I mean …"
Oromis arched an eyebrow at him. "I should imagine they'd be some time … and this cannot wait; you will have to share this information with them both later – or Glaedr will impart it to them when he teaches them more of what only the dragons know." Their master sighed and put his mug down on the small table. "Can I now begin?"
Eragon threw a glance at Arya. She had already resumed her study of the misted windows. "You can begin when you are ready, ebrithil." He watched as Oromis settled back in his seat and placed the palms of his hands together as he pondered what and where to begin. It almost looked as if the elf was in prayer – but Eragon knew for a fact that that was preposterous for elves did not pray nor worship any form of god or deity.
"You know," Oromis began absently, "we elves once did used to pray … once we even had a god, though we weren't privy to his name for that information was known only to the Grey Folk …" he trailed off thoughtfully.
Arya was giving Oromis her best 'you have got to be joking' look and even Eragon had adopted a similar look of scepticism on his own.
"I suppose," he continued, ignoring or not seeing the disbelief upon the faces of his two pupils, "that is where this history begins; for the truth of Du Wydra Nángorörh very much involves the existence of such a being."
Arya got to her feet; "If you're going to sprout all kinds of nonsense about gods and their existence then I shall leave. I get enough lectures about faith and religion and the state of my soul from the dwarves; I don't need a lecture from you!"
"Sit down and be quite!" Oromis said. He didn't shout – but he didn't need to. His voice carried all the authority it needed and Arya sat, though she didn't look too happy about it. "What I tell you is the truth; the absolute truth. Believe it or not but you must accept that, part of it at least, is true and did happen." Eragon held back his own doubts and scepticism as he watched Oromis reprimanding Arya. He was not foolish enough to test the old elf's patience.
"Now then … the deity – or god if you prefer – Arven, was worshipped by the Grey Folk as the 'Creator' of all things and this belief was shared by the elves." He threw Arya a very nasty look that promised he'd hang her by her toes from the roof of the citadel in the rain if she dared to interrupt him. "This was long, long ago mind you; back when we had only just reached the shores of Alagaësia and when our lives were fleeting and as short as a human's. Together with the Grey Folk they believed that one god – not dozens or so – had created the world into being and then created the races to walk and roam and share in the peace of it all.
"It was said that Arven believed in letting his children make their own paths and their own destinies. He rarely intervened and sought to lead his worshippers to the paths that would lead them to the answers they would beseech him for, rather than give them freely. For, as you both well know, the path to understanding often times brings more enlightenment than the final answer."
Eragon listened, not really attempting to examine and pick at what Oromis was saying just yet; he decided there was wisdom in hearing the old elf out entirely first before making up his own mind as to the soundness of his master's. "I think," he was saying, "that will be enough to be getting on with." Whatever Arya was thinking, Eragon hadn't the faintest idea, though he could – by the way she was holding herself – guess that she'd already decided their master had lost his grip on sanity a bit during his time in the void.
Oromis picked up a bright green apple and looked at it for a moment before tossing it through the air towards Arya. She caught it without blinking but did not utter a word of thanks. Eragon received a sharp rap on the head as his own apple bounced off his skull and rolled under the table. At least that had gotten a smirk out of Arya.
"You both know – I am sure – of how magic was bound to the language we are now speaking and that it took all the strength of the race of the Grey Folk for such a feat to be completed? And that in doing so the Grey Folk faded out to become nothing more than legend?" they both nodded dutifully, and Eragon decided he was hungry enough to go looking for the apple that had bruised him. "And I suppose you both remember how I told you we do not know what the catastrophe was that provoked them into doing such a thing?"
Again, as Eragon straightened up with his apple, they both nodded.
"What you did not know – because I did not tell you – was that we Riders know exactly what occurred for a Grey Man, the last of his race, sought out the Peacebringer and divulged to him all that he knew." Oromis paused and re organised his thoughts as Eragon took a large bite out of his apple. Glancing over at Arya, perched as she was on the low sill of the window, he saw she was peeling the skin off with a small dagger he guess she kept hidden beneath her clothing. "You're mother never used to eat the skin off an apple," Oromis said wryly then to Arya.
"I know. That's why I don't like it; because when I was small she would always take the skin off before giving me one to eat … but carry on with your story."
"Story? This is history."
"Same difference."
Eragon smiled and laughed slightly.
"Very well … back when magic required little more than a thought or a whim, the Grey Folk were tall and mighty; they walked this land in its splendid youth. The dwarves had yet to emerge from their caverns under the mountains and the elves and humans had only just dared to cross the seas. Dragons were young and fearsome and all was well. The Grey Folk worshipped a deity by the name of Arven and it was believed that when a Folk died, his soul would depart this world to join Arven in his heavenly kingdom above the stars." His worlds had a memorised quality about them – as if Oromis had learnt the words and lore back when he was only a lowly apprentice himself. It was as if he'd been forced to learn and accept these words despite, perhaps, not fully accepting it to be truth. What did elves need gods for?
"Now then," Oromis continued, "according to the Grey Man – a certain, Marriys, I believe his name was said to be – there once lived a powerful King whose wife suddenly died of an illness he did not have the power or the wisdom to cure. In his grief he offered Arven the lives of his three sons in exchange for the return of his wife, but was denied such a request."
Eragon was glad for the fire; he laid back and stared up at the intricately vaulted ceiling a good three hundred feet above him and listened to the history, refusing to – as Arya no doubt was – judge the tale until it was complete.
"In his anger, the King decided to make war upon Arven and take back his wife by force. His intention was to besiege the wards of this world and break into his palace. With all the raw and untamed power of Magic – that's magic with a capital 'm' by the way – the King let loose his desire to break apart Arven's Walls and reclaim his departed wife. The King succeeded, much as Murtagh did, and in ripping apart reality the King soon found that there was no way for his beloved wife to cross over to him; there was no path for her to tread through the breach." Oromis sighed and shifted in his chair, the legs scraping against the flagstone floor. "I am sure you both can see the similarities between what is happening in this tale and what Murtagh achieved.
"While the King was inventing the bridge I walked across, a task that included a way to bend and break all Magic to his will, Arven grew angry and cast the King's wife – and indeed all those souls who dwelt in his kingdom – into the void where the King could not reach her. Not without her True Name … and in those times True Names had not yet come into light.
"Hurt and betrayed by his god, Arven bent the Magic to heel and cast the bridge into being; with his army behind him, all of whom wielded Grey Blades, the King marched into Arven's Palace and slayed the god he had once worshipped so unwaveringly."
"Hang on," Arya interrupted, despite the warning not to, "you're telling me that some man broke apart reality and then marched through heaven and killed a god. Just like that? Some mighty god that was; surely a god is immortal and invincible?"
Oromis's look told Arya quite plainly that if she interrupted one more time, he would dangle her by her toes from the roof. Eragon suppressed his smirk otherwise Oromis would have him hanging there with her. "A god is not meant to be killed and when the King's axe removed the god's head, Magic itself rebelled against him and threw him from the kingdom back to earth – or tried to. The bridge that had carried them across to Arven's Palace was protected by a force of life and as Magic crashed against that force, the land of the living began to wither and crumble and die as all turned to dust. It was at that point that Marriys comes into the tale; he pushed the King off the bridge of light and into the collapsing and dying heaven. Then he and the army turned and fled back to this land as the tear in the Walls collapsed and shut – trapping the King in the dying heaven with the dead god he had slain."
"Like the breach closed when I uttered those spells, moments after you slipped through?" Eragon questioned, trying to visualise what Oromis was describing.
"Very much so I should imagine … the rest of the tale is simply how Arven – for his soul survived though his body didn't – bound Magic to the ancient language and limited it to the limits of the language, making it simple magic without the uppercase 'm'. However the loss of magic existing separate in the air made the Grey Folk wither and weaken as their Women became barren and their Men infertile … which is how they died out."
Eragon threw his apple core into the flames as his master rounded off the history lesson. "And the words and incantations that could reproduce the feat that King did were forbidden and hidden and given to the Riders for safe keeping in case – on the off chance – that they would be needed so that we could find a way to safely close the breach. Although, personally, I think the revelation that such a feat was possible should've died with Marriys … It was called The Blasted Fate and the Peacebringer entrusted the knowledge only to the most senior of Riders."
"And naturally, you elves abandoned Arven when you learnt that he'd been killed?" Eragon guessed, still staring at the ceiling. "Because, as Arya said, what use is a god when he can be slain by a mortal?"
"Quite right; Marriys was cursed to live until the Peacebringer arrived … and I believe he had to wait a good few centuries before that occurred. No doubt that was Arven's punishment to Marriys for turning against his King – even if it did save the world." Oromis carried on talking; explain and analysing as he was wont to do; Eragon would've listened and probably participated but at that point Arya brushed against his mind.
Do you seriously believe all this?
He's speaking truths, Arya. He cannot lie.
I don't believe it.
You're just prejudiced.
With an audible sigh she said; Maybe I am. But what help has any god given us?
If, what Oromis says is true, direct help and intervention is not exactly Arven's style.
Was. That supposed god died remember?
Eragon rolled his eyes and sat up. Yes … but his soul lived on – weren't you listening?
After a moment's silence, Arya asked, You don't believe it do you? The existence of a god?
He thought about it for a long while, I want to, he admitted softly to her, but can I give myself over completely to an idea or way of life as such? Part of me wants to believe yet there is too much doubt inside me; I cannot help but think –
What if he's wrong? Arya finished. Without proof … why commit yourself to believing in something when you have no evidence to suggest that something even exists?
He was pleased that she was at least, giving thought to the idea that a god could exist and not dismissing it entirely. That many people can't be wrong.
You'd be surprised. A person is intelligent; people are stupid.
Eragon had to agree she was right. As they were talking, Eragon made up his mind – in that small part he kept hidden from hers – and softly, his lips barely moving, he whispered in a voice lost in the crackling of the flames and the pounding of the rain, Arya's True Name. He had to know – had to be certain – that she was the same person he'd left behind. He watched as she shivered; like someone trailing a light finger down her spine, and she looked him in the eye.
He watched her lips moving slightly, though he did not hear her actually say it, and he felt his entire being writhe and shiver as he respond to his True Name.
You have not changed … she whispered in his mind, her voice marvelling over that fact.
Nor have you. And how could I? When you were the one changing me so? Saphira – Saphira and I are a part of each other – just as you and Fírnen are. When we are so the same and are the same, then how can we change someone? It takes someone different from you to change you.
Have you been talking to Glaedr by any chance? Arya asked suspiciously – though he could feel her joy echoing his as it leaked through their temporary connection; time had not destroyed the other … they were the same people who'd been forced to part on a windswept river bank sixteen years ago now.
Umaroth.
Ah. I was close though.
Not really; they're two completely different dragons.
But both eldunarí …
That doesn't make them –
"Have you two finished?" Oromis demanded impatiently. "I am trying to complete this history lesson here; and it's rather difficult when you two are sitting there grinning like fools and not paying me the slightest bit of attention!"
Eragon turned and looked at his master, purposely giving him the blankest look he could and blinking stupidly a couple of times; "I'm sorry … what? You were saying something about elves once worshipping a god … Arven was it?"
He got another apple to the head for that.
A/N : I'll try not to over complicate this further but this is by no means a promise.