Chapter 34 – Eka Van'r Ono
"I hate the feeling of missing someone. It… Feels like a cold spot in the center of your chest. Like a black, icy void. And slowly, it sucks the very life out of you, leaving you listless and tired and weary for no reason at all. It's like a dream where you are falling to your death, and then right before you hit the ground, the person you miss comes and you wake up. It's a different hell all itself."
~Eragon Shadeslayer, Bromsson, last Free Dragon Rider, Heir Lord of Vroengard, Lord Master of the Hands of Death, mate of the former Lady Mistress Sarissa
Murtagh watched the cloaked man warily.
"You speak as if you know much, Lord Dathrys."
The being chuckled.
"The world of demons has eyes and ears everywhere, as did the order. Your master and I have much in common, young rider. Strange, how we both betrayed our orders. I suppose someday I shall become more like him."
"Then I pity you."
Laughter.
"Aye, you have spirit. You shall be an interesting one to watch. Come, I wish to speak with you, Murtagh Morzanson, you intrigue me."
And so they walked. Lord of demons, and lord of the Imperial Army. Two crimson-red lords bound to fate.
Fire burned between them.
Fire melted.
And the bonds of fate grew but a little weaker.
Arya shot up as the horn blew, "Rider Eragon is back!" the lookout cried. "He returns by the Eastern Gate! Open the gates!"
Already she could hear the roar of a jubilant dragoness, a huge shadow draping the ground as Saphira flew overhead.
She swiftly drew a light cloak over her shoulders, slipping into the comfortable leather shoes she preferred while she wasn't traveling, flying down the flights of stairs of her tower.
The gates were open by the time she reached the bottom, Eragon handing the reins of his magnificent stallion to a stable boy, talking quietly to Roran in hushed tones, nodding and then gesturing wildly as the two cousins grew agitated about something, Roran looking worriedly at the lands beyond Belatona. Seeing their urgency, she slowed down her pace, somewhat disappointed, waiting patiently in the shadow of the wall.
Saphira landed with a huge thud, the dragoness nuzzling his chest lovingly, snorting smoke through her huge nostrils, the two companions talking through their bond. Eragon kissed her scaly forehead, scratching the soft leathery skin beneath her jaw, the mighty hunter thrumming with contentment. Roran smiled, until Saphira swept him up in her wing, a great sapphire eye glancing over to where Arya was waiting. She nudged Eragon before carefully licking up, launching herself into the sky, Roran scrambling atop her back.
Eragon's eyes snapped over to her with the speed of an arrow, his burning eyes calming down as the warmth she was so familiar with overcoming those usually-cold irises. She smiled, curtseying slightly.
He murmured something to a soldier, patting his shoulder before striding over to her, and in the next instant, she could feel his powerful, iron arms around her, his warm breath tickling her neck. Her arms circled around his neck as she couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her. Luckily the soldiers hadn't noticed their little hideaway, giving them a little privacy.
The feather-light kiss he graced upon her neck somehow sent more shivers than her memories of her last kiss with Fäolin.
"Eka van'r ono," he whispered against her skin, the warm breeze of his wonderful life-wind warming her whole body from head to toe despite the cool of the late winter breeze.
She kissed his jaw, letting the frightening feelings she had always fought course through her, consume her, burn her from the inside out.
"I missed you too, my lord," she smiled. "Come, you look exhausted, Eragon. You need rest."
"What was the journal you spoke of?" he asked as she brought him a cup of warm tea, handing it to him as she sat by his side.
"I thought you would ask for it," she sighed, picking up a small, hand-bound book of aging parchment pages. Handing it to him, she studied his face as he carefully flipping through the words.
He was handsome. Extremely handsome… He had changed a lot though. Most women would just see his beauty, ethereal, angelic, powerful, like a divine creature. But she could see the change in him. The growing pain and anguish. He was aging ten times too fast. The war had taken its toll. She could see the weariness in his eyes, the rippling muscles on his forearms, the strong curve of his jaw, his sharp, soul-piercing eyes. What scared her most was what she couldn't see.
His childish playfulness.
It was all but gone now. Replaced by a machine of war, powerful, nearly infallible, a beacon of hope to the Varden, but beneath the calm, charismatic façade, she saw cold ice. It worried her. Gave her nightmares.
She missed his playfulness. She missed the Eragon she had fallen in love with. She loved him no less as he was now. She knew it was necessary. But perhaps after the war was over… He could come back to her as he first had, a young child with a stupid infatuation with her.
Without knowing, she had gazed too long, for his eyes were now looking up at her, their eyes locked, hers unable to look away. There was a strange familiarity to his eyes… One that was not Eragon.
"Your eyes have changed yet again, Eragon," she said softly.
His eyebrows furrowed.
"They have?"
Now that was unplanned for.
"They have a strange tone to it now," she said, trying to explain what had changed. It was hard. "Sharper. Clearer. More piercing and powerful."
He blinked, his fingers reaching up to a necklace she had not seen before.
A shining blue pendant of a soaring eagle hung from his neck, gently pulsing with a soft light, reassuring, enrapturing.
"Bladesinger," he breathed.
Arya gently took his hand, "Eragon… What's wrong?"
He shook his head, getting off the bed as he walked to the window, throwing open the two glass panels, taking a deep breath. The winter air swept in, blowing a few papers askew, but no goose bumps rose on his skin.
"She died."
She drifted over to him, putting her fur cloak around his powerful shoulders.
"Bladesinger?"
He nodded tiredly.
"I… No… Never mind… Strange too… How she died. By a lord of demons."
"A demon lord?" she asked in surprise.
He sighed, pulling the window shut as he turned around, shedding the cloak as he cloaked her in his embrace.
"Aye. Dathrys, she called him. Brother. Lord. Friend. I know not."
The name somehow seemed familiar, like the reason was on the tip of her tongue, but then his lips stole the word from her mouth, his warm kiss sending her mind reeling over the edge of sanity.
"I've waited so long to do that," he rasped against her lips.
"Shut up," she muttered, kissing him again.
"Milord!"
Eragon came crashing to the floor as Aelwyn tackled him in a beautifully aimed dive, his breath leaving him with a solid oomph as she landed on top of him, straddling him playfully, a huge smile on her full lips.
"A good evening to you too, Aelwyn," he chuckled, shaking his head, now used to his friend's greetings.
Arya smiled, watching Eragon trying to get off the ground, Aelwyn casually pinning him to the ground. A slight pang of jealousy, but that was all she felt. She knew Aelwyn by now, and also that her affections lied somewhere other than her lord, master, and friend.
"Are you ever going to greet me with a simple hug?" the Rider asked, trying to break her hold on him.
"Unless it would put you in danger, no," she grinned.
The door opened, a familiar figure walking into the council room, "Aelwyn, we need Eragon to be able to talk without you atop him or without him struggling to get up," Nasuada smirked.
Eragon shrugged helplessly as Aelwyn spun around, crossing her legs as she refused to get off of him.
"Aelwyn, please have a heart, you're hurting more areas than just my pride."
Roran walked in, his eyes widening when he saw the scene, Aelwyn sitting atop of a very red Eragon, Arya and Nasuada trying not to laugh.
"Eragon, this is not a really wonderful place to be bedding women," the hammer-wielding commander grumbled.
That was enough to send the five warriors into a good, long laughter.
"Bladesinger left me her ring and these two pendants. And Blödhgarm, she asked me to give you this."
Eragon held out her blade.
The elven spellweaver looked up in surprise.
"She wielded this sword?"
"The only sword she used."
He gently took the weapon from his liege's hands, his eyes shimmering with an emotion Eragon didn't know Blödhgarm could ever show.
Uncertainty. Weakness.
The elf quickly wiped all emotion off his face, bowing.
"I thank you with all my heart, Shur'tugal, you do not know how much this means to me."
"'Tis an honor, friend."
He looked at the present members of the Varden war council.
"I have somewhere to travel to. If the council will allow it, I wish for Arya to accompany me, and if they will, Calayn and her brother, along with Aelwyn. Of course, this time I will wish for Saphira to be alongside me. I apologize that I have not been present amongst the Varden very much for many of the past days and weeks, but my fate seems to call me off in multiple directions at once."
General Anwar looked over at Nasuada and Orrin.
"Eragon, your absence is acceptable, but would it be alright what the purpose of your last trip was? And if possible, the purpose of this trip?"
The Dragon Rider hesitated.
"The last trip was for no real reason, to be honest. I have learned that my heart draws me to the places I need to be, and during my trip, I was accompanied by Bladesinger, if any of you remember her, and we traveled the eastern border of the Hadarac. I have talked to Captain Damítha of the Sílthrim guard, and I have gained her favor along with the nobles of the city, along with a few other, smaller elven cities along the borderline. They have offered their services in the coming battle."
Nasuada nodded approvingly, "And what of Bladesinger? Her advice would be highly valuable, as would her presence on the battlefield."
Eragon looked up, his gaze steely, betraying none of the weakness Arya had seen yesterday.
"She has fallen, and bestowed upon me another title and another duty and task I must carry out. That is the purpose of this trip. I travel to Beirland."
That also felt extremely familiar to Arya.
His eyes caught hers, his mind surrounding hers in a protective manner, softly slipping through her barriers.
The journal.
Her eyes snapped wide open.
Dathrys. Lord Dathrys. Army of demons. Doorstep. Bladelord. Bladesinger.
He nodded almost invisibly.
Saphira stuck her snout in, filling the whole tent with a puff of smoke, everyone coughing.
Finally, the fool decides to take his dragon along with him, she teased.
He smiled.
Of course.
The darkness of dusk found a lone Dragon Rider sitting atop a tower, watching the stars twinkling as the night birds sang and flew about. Some birds were returning early from the south, and already some were at Belatona's gardens.
"The nights are cold these days, Shur'tugal, yet you venture from the warmth of the princess' embrace to be alone. Why?"
He turned, Blödhgarm's silent tread giving nothing away as the wolf-elf walked along the rampart, easily leaping atop the tower's roof.
Bladesinger—no, Náonin's blade hung at his hip.
"And you venture from the warmth of your thoughts to come seek me out?" he smiled wearily, moving to the side so his friend and protector could join him.
"Aye."
The elf hesitated, sighing deeply.
"It seems that the war will leave no time for stories after."
Blödhgarm reached out, his fingers stopping a little away from Eragon's temple.
"May I, Shur'tugal?"
Eragon nodded.
It was a few years later. Blödhgarm knew not anymore. Few years, a few decades, they passed listlessly as he toiled through his exercises, growing in strength and ferocity, in focus and intelligence, power and skill. He practiced his swordsmanship and spellweaving daily, along with reading through an endless pile of books. The hermit, they called him, the lone sage, the sage warrior, the one who toils, he had too many names to count. He cared not.
Listless.
Funny, how he could now find another meaning for that word.
List-less. His tasks had no reason, nor did he plan them, he did them not for anyone, not for himself. He did them so the grief and lack of life wouldn't consume him. So he could continue on.
For her sake.
He had accepted Lord Evandar's request to train a group of promising warriors, and they lived with him in separate homesteads in his everglade of sorrows. They had grown used to his random calls to train, his silent watching, his silent reprimands, the way he never spoke to them, the way he never spoke at all. He never sang, never laughed, never talked, never hummed or made sound except for the occasional sigh or grunt in approval or disapproval. His rare smiles, the way his forehead crinkled when he thought, the way he moved in utter silence save the gentle swish of his robes. Dragon Riders visited very frequently, his plains being an easy place to rest before moving on to wherever they needed to be. They also helped train the young ones and some even came by request of Vrael to stay for a few years and watch the students and help them when Blödhgarm could not. Vrael himself had come and given the students many lessons during his stay. But they never stayed too long. In the end, it would always just be Blödhgarm and the five. The late nights they would stay out, he taught them everything he knew, learning as he watched them train, and then forging swords for them, each fit to match their style perfectly. Those he kept in his wardrobe, waiting for the day he knew would come when they would go off to war, probably never to return.
Return.
When would she return…
Múona walked over to him, her flaxen hair of moonlight flowing about her.
"Ebrithil, is it ok if I speak with you?" she asked, bowing slightly to him.
He nodded, sweeping his arm out to the seats around him, his hermit's robes swaying gracefully as always. Grace. A strange word that was… One he wished would come into his life once more. Undeserving kindness… He needed that… Badly.
"Ebrithil, why do you seem so passionless?"
He looked up at her, his eyes holding shock and confusion.
His pupil gazed at him, and the frightening thing he saw was the fact that he saw nothing but adoration and care.
Loyalty.
They said loyalty hurt unless you were a god.
And he knew it did.
But for some reason, he smiled that wonderfully weary, caring smile his trainees had come to love so much.
He shook his head, gently taking her hands in his, pressing a quiet kiss to her knuckles in his fatherly way, gliding away, without a word as always. She stared after him, wondering what hidden words lay beneath his veneer of absolute silent strength and power.
What lay beneath the emotionless face he always wore.
It was nearly time. Masters of everything he had taught, his five students stood before him, dressed in their finest clothes, the first of the Hands of the Elves. Lord, soon-to-be King, Evandar stood beside Blödhgarm, robes, stood at the top of the podium, all of Ellesmera watching with pride.
"Today, we stand here as a testimony to these five young elves, trained for two centuries, hardened our greatest teachers, taught by the greatest mentors, and now ready to become leaders of the elven nation. I thank you, Blödhgarm-elda, for your dedication, your silent teachings, I have talked with all of them and I find them wise in spirit and mind. You have taught them well."
Blödhgarm simply bowed to the cheering of a hundred thousand elves.
"El'tauthr, step forward."
His best student in war walked up the ten steps to bow to them, Blödhgarm first, who nodded his final approval, before kneeling in front of Evandar.
"Your sword, my son. May it serve you well, and may you wield it with honor. Forged by the hands of your master and mentor and teacher, there is none like it. Your name is no longer El'tauthr to us, warrior. Your name shall be Fyrn'gala. Bear the name with pride. I name you captain and commander of Osilon, protector of the western forests."
The new captain of the western forest stood up, accepting the marvelous blade, bowing one last time before walking to the side, standing as he watched his closest friends become captains and commanders of the elven kingdoms.
Sundavar, now named Mikil'trea, guardian of Ellesméra.
Takalr, renamed Heíl'ring, protector of Nädindel
Váena, now Damítha, captain of Sílthrim.
And Múona. Kind, wonderful Múona, now called Náonin, the guardian abroad and Captain of Ilirea.
Proud was an understatement.
And that feeling was the first emotion Blödhgarm felt in countless years other than grief and nothingness.
Pride.
Pride for his students.
Pride for his friends.
The celebration was loud, something Blödhgarm found disconcerting after all those years of seclusion. Wordlessly excusing himself, he slipped outside of the city boundaries, listening to the now-distant sounds of the singing and laughter of the thousands of elves of Ellesméra. He loved the peace of his everglades. He knew that the utter silence would be hard to get used to though. He would truly miss his students. Strangely enough, he considered them his friends, and even they, though hundreds of years younger, loved to tease him and call him brother and friend. It was nice. To have company.
"Ebrithil, this is a celebration not just for us," a familiar voice said, a beautiful smile behind the soft words.
He held out his arm, letting Múona, now Náonin hold onto it like she loved to do, the two, master and pupil walking together through the forests.
The night was beautiful. The full moon gleamed, giving Náonin's hair a wondrous halo of light around her. The night birds sang and sang away, reminding him of memories he wished to burn in his endless toiling, but the flames only vanished under his silent tears.
He indicated her sword, his eyes asking the question his lips would not.
She smiled, "Ebrithil, the sword is more than anything I could have ever asked for. It is beautiful, and I nearly forgot to thank you in my excitement. Elrun eka, ebrithil. Wiol h'vanla."
He inclined his head, smiling proudly, speaking with the happiness that graced his fair features.
They kept walking, soon reaching a small waterfall, Náonin drawing the sword he had forged. It was not the work of Rhunön-elda, but it was beautiful beyond words. It was quite similar to his own sword, which Rhunön had forged. Their styles were around the same, depending on momentum, speed, precision, and constant movement. It was a tiring way to fight, but when fighting against a single opponent, it was extremely effective. He switched to a more graceful form when against multiple enemies, something he had taught her, and he had let her use his own sword when training like that, showing her everything he had taught himself.
"I know not what to name such a wonderful blade such as this," she murmured.
Wordlessly waving his fingers, a glowing red word burned down the side of the katana-like sword.
Evarí'datia.
She smiled, the engraving cooling in the clear, fresh air of the night.
"Evarí'datia," she breathed. "Misty stars… Yes…"
He shed his cloak as he tossed it along the banks, taking off his tunic as he walked into the water, his simple tunic and pants a familiar sight to Náonin. It was the same kind of clothes he wore at his home while he taught them history and philosophies of all sorts, of the elves, humans, even of the dwarves and urgals. He always told them as leaders of the elves, they would need to know of all races of Alagaësia, not just the elves. She quickly slipped out of her dress, Blödhgarm tossing her his tunic wordlessly and courteously, respecting her modesty. She took his hand as they walked through the shallow water, something they and the others had always done, sometimes for lessons, mostly for fun, or for Blödhgarm's amusement in a war of water weaving. She stopped near the center of the small pond, quietly hugging him, enjoying the embrace of her mentor. He somewhat smiled, holding her as the birds around them sang and fluttered about despite the darkness of night.
Then she did something completely unplanned for.
She kissed him.
It was a chaste, gentle kiss, not wanting, not lustful, not demanding and passionate, but sweet and slow, wordless and silent. Just like him.
Just like her.
He had refused the love of any woman for centuries. Ever since she had left, he had chosen to stay alone. For three centuries, he had lived alone, thought alone, been alone. Now, here he was, his lips tasting the nectar-tasting mouth of someone he had spent two-hundred years training and teaching and helping.
And nothing seemed wrong.
No… on the contrary. Everything seemed wonderfully, beautifully, stupidly right.
She reluctantly pulled away, her piercing, soulful sea-blue eyes gazing into his hazel ones.
"Blödhgarm…"
For some reason, the way his name rolled off the tongue he had just tasted sent shivers down his back.
"Náonin…"
His first word in three-hundred years. The first word that had left his mouth in more than three centuries, and strangely enough, it was the name of a woman, just like the last word he had said so long ago.
She laughed, laughed and cried, burying her face in his neck, hugging him tightly, her tears dampening his cloak, but he didn't mind.
It felt right.
It felt beautiful.
It felt… no. He felt. He felt emotion.
She leaned back, shaking her head with awe, her tears diminishing none of her beauty as she looked at him, her fingers delicately tracing his perfect face.
"Blödhgarm… Your voice is beautiful… Say my name again, please," she whispered.
"Náonin," he smiled, letting the thrill of feeling once again rush through his body. Life. So this was life. So this was living.
So this was actually living…
Then she kissed him again.
Fire. Fire he had ignored for so long, fire she rekindled and the burning couldn't stop. His sorrows weren't enough to hide this hidden want he didn't even know existed deep within his chained soul that had been begging for release.
Now she had freed his soul.
Fire.
Fire, fire, fire. Burn, burn, burn. Passion, fire, burn. It all came crashing down in the cool water of the stream in a dance of love and dominance.
Burn. She burned him. She gave him fire. And he returned it with more fervor than ever. Her quiet moans, his gentle kisses, the butterfly touches that turned her aflame.
Fire. Fire burn, fire dance, fire spread and dominate, fire burn brighter than the stars and the sun. Fire glow with the beauty of the moon, fire kill like the flames of the spellweaver, fire burn for a lifetime, fire burn for eternity, fire burn this night.
It had been two decades since that night.
Their relationship was strained and strange. Friends, lovers, companions, master and mentor, there were so much complication and confusion.
Yet here she was, standing before him, with a task he could not do.
"Blödhgarm, the Bladelords asked me to convey their wishes to you. They want you to join their ranks."
He shook his head, "Náonin, I would give my life to be alongside you… But I cannot do this. Islanzadí needs my advice and my counsel, and Arya needs someone to care for her. Evandar is gone. Our king is gone, my love, I cannot leave the elven kingdom when the queen herself asked me to stay… My life is mine to give, my duty is not mine to push away… I am sorry…"
She bit her lip.
"Blödhgarm…"
He shook his head, gently kissing her.
"Náonin, do not… please… this decision is hard as it is, do not make it harder for me…"
"Blödhgarm, it's not that… The Bladelords are not allowed to associate so much with personal lives outside of the order… They wish for me to stop seeing you so frequently… I don't know if I can see you anymore…"
It took a few moments for him to comprehend her words.
"I…"
She hugged him.
"Blödhgarm… Do you love me?..."
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I love you, Náonin…"
She looked up at him, her glistening eyes pleading him.
"Then find another. Let me go. Your life is too beautiful to waste on me when we cannot be together. Promise me. No matter how long it takes. Find another woman you can call your own… Give her the love you gave me… Make her feel as wonderful as you made me feel…"
"Náonin…"
"No!" she snapped. "No… Please… For me… I cannot bear to see you alone again…"
"I… I promise… Eka hêitha…"
That was their last night together. Duty. Damn that cursed word from the land of the living. Send it to the depths of the underworld so the dead could toil to their duty, let the living enjoy the short lives they had.
A few years later, he sent her a letter.
Dear Náonin,
I wish I could say I had held true to my promise for your sake, but I have not… Not yet at least. I apologize. For everything. That my duty tore me away from you. Even to this day I wish I could have left with you, and it toys with my mind for days and weeks and years. I am… Sorry. I love you. Forgive me.
~Blödhgarm
He wanted to write so much more. He wanted to beg her to leave the order. He wanted to beg her to come to him. He wanted to see her, kiss her, hold her, tell her how much he needed her and missed her and loved her.
But he couldn't.
Why…
And that question echoed through his head for the next century.
Why.
Why did she die?
Why did fate have to tear us apart?
Why did I not follow her?
Why is duty so cruel…
I miss you, Náonin…
And so slowly, he changed. Emotionally. Physically. Until he was unrecognizable. He ran with the wild to forget his pain. He hunted with the wolves to vent out his anger of the harsh paths of destiny that took him away from her. He served to bury his past under a mountain of duty. That damned duty. That star-damned, fate-damned, destiny-damned duty.
Duty.
Eragon looked up to see Blödhgarm's eyes on his.
The old Blödhgarm.
His eagle eyes were gone, his blue fur was gone, the fangs gone. A lithe, powerfully built elf, handsome, regal, long, shining gold hair falling to his chest, a cloak of silver and gold wrapped around him.
He bowed.
"And now you know some of my story, Shur'tugal. And some of Náonin's."
"Blödhgarm…"
He shook his head, "Shur'tugal, your pity is not for me. Save it for those who need it. I live to serve you. Nothing more. And please… I wish to be rid of the name Blödhgarm. The past haunts me. And no longer does the life of the blood-wolf suit me."
Eragon inclined his head.
The unnamed elf hesitated for a moment, pondering his new name.
"Calélas."
Calélas smiled sadly, as if knowing he had bound himself to a fated name.
"Aye. Call me Calélas."
Translation: Eka Van'r Ono (title) – I Miss You
Ebrithil - master
El'tauthr (name) – variation of eld tauthr, meaning Follower
Fyrn'gala (name) – combination of fyrn and gala, meaning War Cry
Sundavar (name) – Shadow
Mikil'trea (name) – combination of mikila and treavam, meaning Great Tree
Takalr (name) – combination of taka and allr, meaning Give All
Heíl'ring (name) – combination of heíll and thringa, meaning Healing Rain
Váena (name) – Fair, beautiful
Damítha (name) – variation of dauthrima, meaning Dream Mask
Múona (name) – Passionate love
Náonin (name) – combination of náoa and nîn, meaning Innocent Child
Elrun eka, ebrithil. Wiol h'vanla – Thank you, master. For everything.
Evarí'datia (sword name) – combination of evarínya and datia, meaning Misty Stars (Stars Misty)
Eka hêitha – I promise
Calélas (name) – Old Elvish, roughly translating to "one of a sad story" or "one whose fate holds sorrow"
TN: Holy God in heaven like everything is mine xD just ebrithil, Sundavar, eka, and ono are completely Paolini's, I changed the others to fit ^^ I hope the names sound elvish… I swear some of them sound Dwarvish o.o;;
OK QUICK QUESTION I WOULD HONESTLY LIKE ANSWERS IF YOU GUYS HAVE A MOMENT TO LIKE REVIEW AND ANSWERI was thinking that after i finish this story, before i dive into a huge sequel that will take me probably twice as long to finish, how about i tell the story of Blödhgarm and the five? and maybe little tales of their problems and how they met, the blood-wolf's past, why he was so passionless and listless? would this interest you in any way shape or form? please just add a small note in your reviews if you would~
AN: This chapter… was strangely poetic o.o I don't know, I guess when I get tired and I'm thinking about other… more personal things, I write like this Dx I'm sorry if it bothers you… maybe I should make the fire bits into a poem… LOL oh well, now I explain Blödhgarm/Calélas' background story more :) I hope you enjoyed it… well, if you cried or was sad or wanted to hug the furry dude, that means you enjoyed it, but whatever xD all of the five will reappear, Fyrn'gala of Osilon, Mikil'trea of Ellesméra, Heíl'ring of Nädindel, Damítha of Sílthrim, and Náonin the Wandering Bladelord and former Captain of Ilirea, and they will all play a big part later, promise, so keep an eye out for them~
Dessert Maniac – LOL actually, I'm the Jack Sparrow of writing, I plan half the things I do, and then go along with how things go the other half xD but thank you :D
Darth Feanor – she'll do much more work from the spirit world~ xD thank youuu and for your continual support too :)
Wondrous-Serendipity – did I ever mention your name is quite interesting? Lol I like it
Anyways, the order will be explained more in the next chapter, as will the meaning of the ring and pendants :D thank you for reading~
Restrained Freedom – o.o;; this one is pretty despair-ful too.. I'm sorry I didn't get to add in Murtagh too much D: I would have but I couldn't figure out a good way to fit him into the chapter Dx I'll try as much as I can~ and thank you so much for everything :) you've been there in this story since the prologue and I find that very helpful xD
Phoenix1592 – I find your reviews interesting and amusing to read, I have no idea why LOL but yes :) I hope you find this story interesting~
Mogget0607 – thank you!~ I hope this chapter was a surprise too xD I try to keep things up my sleeve to throw at you guys sooo.. ;) hope you enjoy how this story goes though~ thanks :D
Thepalehorseman234 – I saved your review for the last so I could explain xD no I don't really know what that chi stuff is o.o;; but the vein is like the strand of life and existence that the being has, it doesn't have to be alive to have this vein, if it exists, it has a vein. It has energy that, by itself, it replenishes, by eating, by sunlight, some way or form, it replenishes the energy it has, but it has a limit. By taking that strand, that vein of existence, it completely and utterly wipes the thing off the face of existence, and absorbs the energy, and thus the being who took the vein has its vein, and then the vein it took, so the person essentially has more energy to draw upon now. The grass vein is weak, so it won't make much of a difference to Eragon, but say he took the vein of… like a powerful shade or spellweaver, he would have so much more energy, but in the underworld, the being would no longer exist, but the soul lives on because souls are… no time to explain that, I'll need to come up with something for that xD but the soul technically can't exist so it's harder for them to find the afterlife, so that's why it's so harmful to take the vein of a living creature, even more so for sentient creatures. Does that make a little more sense? o.o;;