I think I'm over the writers block. I think. Now it's just getting back into the habit of writing every day... sigh. Thanks for all the tips and offers for how to get over the monster- they did help. :)
This chapter is a little bit different. I've done one like it before, Chapter... 17. Yes. So, here's Nasuada, Arya, and Roran! Enjoy, and don't forget to review! Oh, and Saphira's in here too.
Chapter 36: Failure and Frustration
Nasuada leaned over her desk and put her head in her hands.
It was a disaster- everything. They had won Belatona, but that had been weeks ago, and the Varden had made no progress since. What could they do, without Eragon? She saw now how foolish it had been to put so much responsibility on him and Saphira; how she had taught the Varden to lean on them like an old man would a staff. The people were afraid to move on without their Rider; they were afraid to stray too far away from their Shadeslayer's sight.
Their food supplies were running low from their slow progress; the number of deserters had grown exponentially when it had never been a problem before. The Varden was even running out of money- again. Nasuada wanted another lace-like inspiration to strike her; she willed something, anything, from her weary mind, and slumped back in her chair when nothing happened.
She only hoped Angela would be more successful than the rest of the army.
The herbalist and Solembum had decided, quite of their own accord, that they were going to do some spying. Nasuada hadn't been told anything more, though she suspected Angela wanted to find Elva. She didn't know where any of them were anymore; they were as lost as Saphira. But there was the shred of hope that they could locate her, perhaps even save her- though that was a stretch- and even those magicians directing Helgrind would cower before her fury.
No one would survive that onslaught; Nasuada found morbid pleasure in the thought of Saphira ripping apart the Empire army surrounding Eragon. But wouldn't they have similar defenses around her? But where?
Nasuada tried to take a steady breath; she had to be strong, she had to revive the Varden- it would not fall under her watch! Never!
But her half-hearted energy faltered when she opened her eyes again and she saw the charts and maps and lists of things going wrong with the Varden. Everything was falling apart; everything that could go wrong had- she swiped at a tear that dared escape. She had to be strong. It was her duty- it was her responsibility, to keep the Varden alive.
It was too much.
It would be so much easier to just let it fall, to let the rebellion go its separate ways; perhaps it had been the wrong time to start the war. Perhaps they were always doomed; perhaps it had been insane to even begin such a task.
Easier, definitely; but that did not mean it was right.
With a tired sigh, she picked up her pen once more; it was her duty to remain hopeful through their misery, to be a light in the darkness, to be a rock amid the sand.
A rock. She wanted to laugh. A rock was defeating them.
Arya glared at the rock, at Eragon's prison, at the one place in Alagaesia that had more security than Du Wendelvarden. How many times had the Nasuada launched rescue parties, since they knew where Eragon was? Four? Five? Six? An impossible number of attempts, an unforgiving number of failures.
The magicians they suspected were Eragon's captors had protected Helgrind with traps, spells, and curses uncountable. The Empire's army was inside Dras Leona, and a sufficient clump had come to the rock, guarding it both around, on, and within. Checkpoints stopped anyone from coming and going without permission, but whose permission? Some were visible, but Arya suspected more were invisible- where were those?
They had devised every route imaginable; they had tried digging, but it spent too much energy to mine through the rock. They became invisible at one point, sneaking through the army's camp, but the checkpoints drove them away. They had disguised themselves, but halfway in, one of the magicians came running out screaming about an intruder. They could not fly in, obviously; the strength required would've killed them. They did not have the forces to launch a full-blown attack; the Varden was crawling towards Dras-Leona, trying to buy them some time.
But time was against them. It had always been- but with Eragon and Saphira incapacitated, hope slipped away like moonlight in someone's palm.
The Varden was crumbling- Arya saw it splitting at the seams. No one had the strength to persevere, and if Murtagh and Thorn were at the upcoming battle…
Arya shuddered. That would truly be disastrous; they would be free to demolish the entire army. The Traitors would perch on the highest tower of Dras-Leona and watch, waiting just like the Varden, and the armies would be at a stalemate…
Until the King decided Murtagh and Thorn needed something to do; or they became bored. That's when the homicide would begin, the Varden would crumble, Eragon would die in Helgrind, and the King would live.
The thought was unbearable.
Arya glared at Helgrind for the thousandth time, trying to find a weak link in the armor around Eragon's prison, knowing she would not find one…
Roran sprang forward, letting loose a furious war cry, and with one swing of his hammar, smashed the dummy to pieces. The shock of the impact vibrated his fingers and ran up his arm like lightning, but he ignored it, swinging the weapon over his head, and sent it flying down once more. The crunch of the dummy folding beneath his blows was satisfying- wonderful, even- and he stepped back to observe the damage done.
The dummy laid in parts at his feet, with jagged edges and splinters breaking off of the wooden contraption. The watermelon- like sphere that had been the head had been cloven in two; the boxy torso was now a foursome.
But something stirred in Roran's heart; it wasn't enough.
Nothing could ever be enough for what they had done to Eragon; nothing! If he had to rip apart all of Alagaesia to free him and Saphira, he would!
With another cry, he smashed the pieces of the head again, imagining it was the magicians he had seen in Arya's memory; he imagined how their blood would flow and how their warm brains would spill all over the ground, how their faces would forever be contorted in expressions of horror and agony…
Roran shuddered.
After everything they had done to Eragon and Saphira, Roran was willing to say it would be enjoyable to see them die. To be the one to kill them, even! He would have no regrets whatsoever. Only joy, to see such monstrocities banished from the waking world.
He would free Eragon if it was the last thing he did.
Saphira gnashed her teeth and snarled at the darkness, forcing herself to ignore the pain, to think of the thrill of flying and the silent deadliness of hunting, of the blood of war and the feeling of a happy mind. Of the taste of fresh deer and the smell of the air, high above the rest of the two-legged world, and the feeling of sand and dirt beneath her claws, and the knowledge that she was more beautiful than anything else.
Had been. Hopelessness threatened to drown her as the pain flared- was it in her mind or body? She was so torn and scarred and bruised and ripped and battered that she felt like she had been through a thousand battles in one day. Exhaustion made her limbs shake, trembling from the constant cold or the pain she didn't know.
But there had been a day of warmth- not of the magician's searing magic, their flames that devoured- but of a soothing, pulsing heat that renewed her faltering spirit and, for a few moments, made the pain vanish. Something that smelled strongly of open skies and blue fire and curiosity and leather had awoken her from fitfull rest; she heard a faint… a faint…
Was a that a roar?
She tried picking it out of her memory; though she had been wounded and exhausted and starving she remembered how the rock shook, how the walls quaked, how the anquished roar seeped through her prison and ignited hope in her.
Part of her whispered that it was Glaedr, returning to avenge his hatchling student, but the other half trampled that idea, because he was dead.
So it had been a dream, but a wonderful dream, because it meant Eragon was coming for her, he was going to save her-
But how could it have been a dream? She did not know. Part of her did not care, because they had Eragon, and he was her only reason for existence.
She had to free him… but she couldn't…
And the roar and the rich smell and the blissful hope had all faded, replaced by pain and blood and agony…
She didn't know when she fell asleep and when she awoke. The blackness made it impossible to determine day from night and waking from sleeping- but what had aroused her?
Not the magicians- they were not there, with their sickening stench of greed, tainted by fear and fire.
But she knew the voice that echoed in her mind, that rang in her head, faint but audible…
Murtagh, Thorn- help us, and we will help you.
Murtagh. Thorn. Bah! They were puppets, they were slaves, they were…
Hope.
The last shred of anything, but all the same, if anyone could defeat those magicians, if anyone could defy Galbatorix, if anyone could heal her and save Eragon…
She hated admitting it, but the truth could not be avoided…
They were hope, and the strangely familiar voice had called to them with the same request.
Hope.