Back again! And I hope I didn't have you all waiting that long! I'll keep this note short and simple so you may all get reading as fast as you possibly can! :)
He did not return to his tree, nor did he leave for Oromis's lessons. The only thought in his head when he left the sparring field was to get as far away from Ellesméra and its inhabitants as possible. And he had no problem with that resolve.
Direction was lost on him, but he couldn't care less as his feet brought him away from the elven capital. He was sick of it all. Sick of the insidious politeness. Sick of the kind guise that the elves hid behind. And that was why, he thought a half an hour later by a small bank far from Ellesméra, why he somewhat liked Vanir. It was somewhat an oxymoron. He hated the elf but yet was somewhat happy at the fact that he was one of the few who didn't hide his contempt.
Reaching out to touch the surface of the clear water, the sight of his hands shaking made didn't escape his notice. Fear. He hated the feeling. But it was impossible to escape its icy grips. Back then on the field, he hadn't meant to snap like such. Eragon was not one to lose his composure in front of others.
But . . . .
Splashing his face with the cool water from the river, he sighed. His vision gazed back at him from the mirrored surface of the water. Thinking back on it, when those words escaped Vanir's mouth, he had wanted to break the elf's jaw. He disliked watching others look down on people. But it was something else, seeing Murtagh thrown off his feet and landing on his back in the dirt made him furious. He may not like his brother, but he didn't want to see him ridiculed by what he was nor his disability.
He had thought that he might have a word or two with Vanir, but it was different. The time he was standing on the field watching the scene unfold before his eyes, a deep anger was building up in him. And it snapped when Vanir had treated Murtagh so, but that wasn't what scared him. When Murtagh landed on the ground, it was as if someone had drawn him from his body and took control of his limbs, bending it to their will.
His time was running out. And all those restless hours he had spent searching through the ancient scrolls that belonged to the library of Ellesméra and Oromis's scrolls were going to be wasted. Saphira, who was curled in on herself, gently nudged him with her snout. Why don't you ask Oromis for help?
No. He wouldn't be able to understand Eragon's current situation. And he didn't want Islanzadí drawn into it either. Not to mention that if he went out with this secret, he would have to tell them everything else as well.
Stop being stubborn, Eragon. This is more than pride we're talking about now. Your life could be at risk. He could hear the worry underlining her voice and knew that if he didn't tell Oromis than she would.
But he didn't want ask for help. That would mean he was no different than the child who cried in that dark cell all of those years ago. But was it good to be strong? Was it wrong to be weak? Always the same questions, never any answers. He stared at his reflection once more, dripping with water, before leaving the river bank.
Leaning back against Saphira's side, he tiredly closed his eyes. He wasn't in the mood to leave for Oromis's lessons; he didn't want to apologize nor be reprimanded for what he had done at the practice field. But he couldn't just run away forever from the oncoming confrontation with Oromis and Islanzadí.
He forced the thought out of his head and tried to let the calming forest relax his stressed mind and body. Eventually the lull of sleep had consumed him.
It was as if he was looking down upon a bloodied scene in which he couldn't quite clearly make out the people. But their height and statures looked oddly familiar to him. The land was a clear field in which a horde of soldiers fought. One group was much smaller than the other. He could see beyond the fighting a river.
Despite the fact that the battle was raging furiously by the opposing soldiers, another battle was being fought not far off from the group in which shrill laughter was echoing through the air. It was a small battle, in which only a few people fought. A tall man was ferociously attacking his opponents. But no matter how much he battered them away, they rose to weather the onslaught.
He couldn't distinguish who the enemy was, but he watched as the man seemed to fight internally fight himself. On the battlefield, distractions cost one their life. A sword came flying from one of the fighter's ready hands, a female by the look of it, and plunged itself into his torso, the force of it causing him to fall.
The four of them had won and he watched as a tall figure went to kneel besides the fallen one, bending as if trying to whisper consoling words to him. But why would they want to comfort their dying enemy? As the vision began to fade away, he glimpsed the sight of an iridescent red sword, gleaming with blood as it stayed deep within the man's chest.
A knock interrupted startled him. Knock? Who would knock when he was out in the open? But as he blinked, he found himself lying face first on his bed. I brought you back; sleeping sitting up isn't a comfortable way to sleep.
He groaned. Thank you, Saphira.
You're welcome, but I think you should let Arya in.
Not moving from his position on his bed, he called for her to enter and she did. Her dragon, Eridor flew in through the teardrop opening. He watched her expression as she took in his messy chambers. Scrolls and ancient texts littered the table by the entrance and frustrated crumpled bits of paper were strewn on the floor. She looked concerned.
"Pardon my lack of organization," he mumbled, his face still burrowed within his pillow, muffling his voice. He felt a dip in the side of his bed signaling her sitting down beside him.
"How are you feeling, Eragon?"
"Tired." He admitted, reluctantly turning his face to stare up at her. Maybe it was his lack of clarity or the fact that he had just woken but her beauty somewhat dazed him for a moment. Only for a moment. "Is the lesson over?"
She nodded and he sighed again. Rolling over onto his back, he sat up tiredly rubbing a hand over his face and through his messy brown hair. "If you don't mind, would you like to accompany me on a tour of my ancestral home?"
He stared at her, remembering the time when she had asked him a week ago but he had been so wound up with research and couldn't find the time to join her. Seeing as he wasn't going to get anything research done in his state, he nodded and threw his leg over the bed, rising to his feet. He grinned when he found his sword tossed recklessly upon the ground. How Saphira managed to remove them from his hip he would never know.
She huffed. It took a lot of work not to tear the flesh from your skin.
He chuckled as he and Arya made their way down the stairs and onto the ground. "Vanir spoke harshly this morning." She said, glancing at him from the side. He sighed.
"But my reaction was uncalled for, I -" he didn't know how to explain it to her. Or whether or not he should explain it to her. The stopped before a hall and despite her expression, she opened the way for them to enter Tialdari hall. It was a beautiful place.
As she presented to him the different rooms, he watched her expression and the longing on her face as she described the home of her family to Eragon. It must have its toll on her when she was unable to reside in her family home with Eridor now. "And this is my chamber."
He hesitantly stepped inside; two fairths decorated the wall of the spacious vine covered living room. One of a stern, proud elf with silver hair, whom he assumed to be her father and the other of a younger male elf whom he didn't recognize. But the small suspicion of that being Fäolin or Glenwing didn't escape his notice. For some unfathomable reason, he felt a tint of a strange rage in his heart. Turning from the wall, he made a quick tour of her apartment, glancing inside her small bedroom and study. "It's beautiful," he said sincerely as they made way back to the gardens.
She favored him a smile.
The garden, he thought, was a place in which every flower and plant resided. He listened as she explained them to him, nodding and storing some new knowledge in the back of his mind. "Which one is your favorite?" she asked him.
Without hesitation, he pointed to a patch of white roses, and for some unknown reason, her expression shone with shock. It was gone within a second. He fingered the white petals softly. "And yours?"
She pointed to a patch of Black Morning Glories and he nodded. "They're beautiful," he said for the second time that day. He glanced up as the light from the flameless lanterns began to grow brightly as night settled over the garden. It was getting late. He was about to voice it, when Arya spoke.
"You've yet to fully explain yourself about what had happened this morning, Eragon." He refused to meet her eyes as they stood there in silence, their dragons remaining silent as they watched the two of them and their odd relationship.
"I acted on impulse," he said eventually. That was all he could say, for the ancient language restricted any further speech.
She nodded. They stood there together before Arya spoke again. "What is it that you're searching for, Eragon? You've been busy of late searching through texts and scrolls. Are you in some sort of trouble?"
"It's getting late—" he made to turn but her hand shot out and gripped his wrist, tightly. He felt slightly startled when she pulled him to face her, their faces inches apart. Her eyes, he thought, were the only sign of age in her. Deep and knowing. He blinked uncomfortably, refusing to stare at her head on.
"What is it, Eragon?" Arya whispered.
"Answers." That was the least he could say. Her brows slanted dangerously, and her lips parted but before another word escaped her, an imperious voice broke through their mist. He watched as Arya slowly unwrapped her hand from his wrist, frustrated at their interruption.
The both of them turned to find Islanzadí make her way towards them, her cloak billowing about her slender frame. "Saphira, Eridor." Islanzadí acknowledges before turning to face them. "And what is it that you two are heatedly discussing with one another?"
"Nothing, Mother," said Arya and he could somewhat see that she was crossed.
Islanzadí raised a brow. "Oh?"
"Arya Svit-Kona speaks the truth." He watched as mother and daughter stared at one another. It would be a fine time to leave now. Voicing it, he watched as Islanzadí nodded.
"I shall see him off, Mother," said Arya, motioning for him to follow her. He did so, feeling piercing eyes on his back. When they were at the entrance, he turned to her.
"I thank you for showing me your home, I've enjoyed it," he said. Despite what had just transpired, she nodded. A faint smile on her face as the moon illuminated her appearance in a pale light.
"And I enjoyed showing it to you. Goodnight, Eragon." He nodded, watching as the doors began to close and the last thing he could glimpse before it closed all the way was her green eyes, glowing brightly in the dark. Oh, stop standing there and climb on.
He did and as Saphira took flight, couldn't help but turn to stare at the disappearing compound. The time he spent with Arya was very enjoyable but it was somewhat flawed with the appearance of her mother. She doesn't like the two of you together.
I can see that.
Jumping from Saphira's back, he passed by his table without chancing a glance at it. Arya must have stayed behind to speak to her Mother. Unlacing his boots and laying his swords on his bedside table, he sighed. If his time did actually run out, what was going to happen to him and the people he cared for? He could only grudgingly admit it but he had started to grow a feeling for Arya, a tender care.
Not willing to deal with Saphira's knowing thoughts and his own forming migraine he crawled into bed without hesitation and thankfully fell asleep. The following morning, he found himself standing resolutely by the base of his tree waiting pondering whether or not to continue sparring with Arya. He was in the middle of deciding when she walked up to him. Eridor must have been at the practice field training with Thorn in the air.
"Good morning," she said, after they performed the usual greeting.
He nodded. "And to you as well."
"Are you not coming to the field today?"
He frowned. "I didn't think it would be such a brilliant idea." He admitted.
"Nonsense." And like that, he ended up following her to the field. As they came into view with the sparring elves, he ignored how they seemed to have stopped to look at him before turning to face Arya. He didn't like the feeling of this.
To the side he glimpsed Murtagh and Vanir sparring. Trying not to pay attention to them, he unsheathed one of his swords and brought it before him, the tip pointing to the sky as he angled it before his torso. Like how they would usually start their duels, one would blink and the other would follow, signaling the spar's beginning.
Arya was getting better, Eragon thought, as he sidestepped a rather dangerous blow to his head. It took almost a full hour to batter her into defeat. A sharp nip on his head startled him; he was getting distracted. He tried not to throw himself fully into the fight, afraid of triggering another episode like yesterday. Blocking a blow from her, he pulled back ready to turn the tables before his mind flashed once more.
This white void again.
The weight of the chains held him bound to the same spot, struggling to get free. And he watched as the crypt before him burst open, a strong violet aura bursting forth, followed by a cold laughter.
His body wasn't responding to him anymore. "Damn it!" What was happening? Was he going out of control? Pulling against his chains, he grunted when they ended up squeezing him tighter. "Let me go!"
But the more he tugged, the more constricted the binds became. Trying to control his panic, he took a deep breath before letting it out. Think, Eragon, think. They were in trouble, Murtagh and Arya and everyone else on the field.
He gave another painful tug.
Everything came rolling back into sight. The field, his sword, everything. But the only difference was that the silver blade was dyed red. He glanced at it in horror and turned to see who he had injured. Immediately, his heart plummeted to the ground when he caught sight of long hair and pained emerald eyes.
He had nicked her on the side of her head and had injured her along her shoulder quiet roughly, her leg looked oddly supported. The sight of her blood shocked him. Eragon was too stunned to dodge a fist flying for his face. Stumbling slightly he turned to find an enraged Murtagh. "WERE YOU TRYING TO KILL ARYA?"
"No—I—" The words for explanation had escaped him. This was the end for him in Ellesméra.
"THEN WHAT WERE YOU TRYING TO DO?"
His hands shook slightly and he felt a pale sheen of sweat cover his body and face. Everything was wrong. And he was wrong as well. Nothing was going to be able to fix it. How could he apologize to the one person who had been all but a friend to him?
The elves were slowly closing in on him, their swords raised. Panic, that was all he felt. Ignoring Saphira's thoughts in his mind, he swung his sword towards one of the elves causing them to break formation and that break was enough. Rushing forward, he bounded off from the field. He wasn't going to turn back anymore. Refusing to look behind him, he veered west, taking the shortest path out of Du Weldenvarden.
He didn't care anymore; he had to leave this place once and for all. There was nothing left for him to do within Ellesméra. They wouldn't understand if he explained it to them. Knowing that Saphira was following him from above, he kept running through the forest. Weaving in and out of the trees. Eventually when the branches began to become more spaced out, Saphira dove forward, gripping his tunic with her teeth, and threw him against a tree. That's enough running, Eragon!
I don't—I don't know what's becoming of me, Saphira, he thought with fear and panic that was uncharacteristic of him.
We have to go back; we have to speak to Oromis.
No! He glared at her. After what I've done to Arya, how can we go back now? They wouldn't accept us!
I'm not going to let you die out here without seeking aid!
And I'm not returning to Ellesméra! Would you rather I die by blade there instead? Gripping his hair, he glared at his sword that was painted with red blood and furiously kicked it to the side. He was dangerous. And he had just attacked the only person to act kindly to him outside the borders of the Empire.
What did you all think? Good, bad? Please review, I love reading your thoughts. And I know that the story is going at a somewhat slow pace but I'm working up to the climax. Any questions or suggestions, review or for those who like to message me, you can. I'll see you at the next chapter in which I hope I'm not too slow on updating.