Chapter 35 – Nya
"The thought bothers me. Are monsters born or made? Are killers born or pushed off the edge? Is an evil man born or created? Is hatred there from the start, or is it cultivated? Is every dark shadow in this world slowly grown, or like in nature, is there always the one with defect, the one born with black fur?"
"Why do you wonder?"
"Sometimes… Many times, I wonder if I'm becoming a monster."
~Eragon Shadeslayer (first speaker) and Arya Dröttningu (second speaker)
Saphira looked up as the quick shadow slipped into her chamber, snorting softly as she held her wing open, her rider depositing himself in her warm shelter.
It has been a long time since you slept in my wing, little fool, she teased, nuzzling his chest tenderly.
He smiled, kissing her snout as he leaned against her warm scales, feeling the familiar comfort of his life's bond-partner.
I'm sorry, Saphira… I've just been so busy these past few months, I guess I haven't been able to spend enough time with you.
The dragoness sent her love to him through their bond, reassuring him of her understanding.
You should bring her here, she's woken up alone enough times. If I could count the number of times I found her asleep in my wings in the morning, I would have numbered half the stars in the skies.
She's that restless?
She is without you.
Calélas bowed, "Safe journey, Shur'tugal, I shall await your return and look over them in your absence."
Eragon nodded, putting a hand on the former blood-wolf's shoulder.
"Nya."
The new elf smiled broadly and confidently, inclining his head.
"Nya," he said softly.
The Dragon Rider hesitated.
I have a gift for you. Before Blödhgarm is completely gone.
Reaching up, Eragon gently tapped the elf's temple.
Náonin glanced at the fairth.
It took all her willpower not to break in a million pieces.
She picked up the letter, reading it for the millionth time over, the words burned into her memories. The gentle, elegant strokes of the quill, the way she knew his writing from all those years she had spent tutored by him.
Blödhgarm.
Just his name was like being pierced by a sword from heaven.
Blödhgarm. Blödhgarm. Blödhgarm…
One day she would leave her titles behind.
One day she would just be content with being his lover.
And the tears fell. One by one, one after the other, chasing each other to the ground. And as those three sacred words graced the air of the room, the stormy clouds slowly started to part, letting the sun through.
"I love you…"
Hazel eyes blinked. Eagle eyes. Blödhgarm's eyes. Then back to the hazel ones of Calélas.
A tiny smile. Not confident. No, it was the smile of a lost battle, the joy of finally being at peace. The smile of a dying man, the smile of someone who was at ease with his fate.
A smile of pained joy.
Calélas put a hand on Eragon's shoulder.
No words were needed.
They set up camp near the coast of the southern shore, on the "horn" of the lower Spines, jutting out as a small peninsula.
Eragon indicated he would take first watch, Aelwyn accepting the blanket Eragon threw to her, lying by the fire. Calayn curled her scaled body around her, her tail flicking slightly as the dreamwraith put a protective wing over the Hand.
The Rider set his weaponry down against the tree beside him, watching the dying flame crackle as sparks flew up and faded.
"You showed him something?"
He held out his hand, feeling Arya's velvet-skinned ones take his as she sat down next to him, sitting so she could face him.
"I just showed him a memory," he said, shrugging slightly as her thumb traced the lines of his palm, her fingers entwining with his.
"It's from her ring, is it not?"
He looked up at her in surprise, her reassuring smile illuminated by the fire. "It has the feel of a memory ring. Rare as they are, I know what they feel like. My mother wears one."
He nodded slowly, turning his gaze to the silvery-white ring on his right hand.
"It is the memory ring of her house, given to the eldest of the family."
"But…" she trailed off
He turned his right hand, showing her the scar from their promise, "We made a blood oath. It's the only reason I can wear this ring. Her blood runs in my veins now."
Silence.
Then she smirked.
"Well, you truly are an elf now, are you not?"
He chuckled dryly, shaking his head, "I suppose I am. And to think not too long ago I thought elves and dragons would never enter my life."
"And now?"
She yelped as he playfully tickled her side, smiling.
"And now I pray every day that the elf sitting beside me will never leave my life."
Aelwyn woke up when a gentle hand shook her, "Aelwyn."
She opened her eyes to find Eragon standing above her, his eyes glancing around warily.
She narrowed her eyes, slowly getting up as Eragon indicated the area around them, pulling his cloak's hood over his head as he slipped into the trees.
Aelwyn pulled a black cloak around her, hooding herself as she followed him into the darkness.
She found him a few feet away, silently watching the camp.
His startling eyes looked up at her, his finger against her lip as he motioned for her to watch the camp carefully.
She squinted her eyes, watching the shadows.
Movement.
She looked over at him in shock, finding him crouched, ready to leap out at whatever had made the bushes rustle.
Another rustle.
With a predator-like accuracy and strength, he sprung at the bush, crashing through as he solidly tackled the thing, pinning the startled being as he pinned the intruder's arms above his head.
"Who are you?" Eragon hissed
The thing cackled, "A messenger, Dragon Rider. From the great king who you owe your allegiance to."
"I owe that bastard nothing," he growled, hauling the painless soldier up by his collar.
"As you say, Rider," the soldier chuckled maniacally. "He knows your every move, Shadeslayer. He only stops you not out of amusement. You are all just toys in his hand, you are fighting a lost battle. When you realize what I say is true, you-."
Eragon tossed the headless man away, cleaning his long knife on the grass.
Then he heard the laughter of hundreds of unearthly voices.
Aelwyn stepped up beside him, cracking her neck as she stretched, her gauntlets clicking with ominous finality.
Eragon urgently shook Arya and Kalyn, waking Saphira with his mind, "Laughing dead," he snapped, roughly shaking Calayn as the dreamwraith snapped up, her scales clacking and scraping as she stood, shaking her head drowsily.
Arya stumbled dizzily, conjuring water and splashing her face in it, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes as she drew her sword, the small group of travelers waiting atop the hill as the laughter came closer, the dark forms of dozens of soldiers charged up the sloping ground.
Eragon smiled grimly, pulling his black-gold gauntlets on as he drew his katana, the razor-keen blade spinning through the air with a whir of metal.
"Dwyn laéfa luthêr köra," Aelwyn muttered, her long knives leaving their sheaths. "Tual laéf möra al'drafyn."
He starting to walk down the hill, the battle chant echoing through his head.
With a blood-curdling cry, he cut down the first painless soldier, relishing in the silence of one less voice, the blood spraying around him, painting his face with death. Lashing out with his foot, he caught another in the chin, cracking the man's neck back as he threw the thing down on the charging soldiers. Aelwyn was suddenly beside him, her twin long knives cutting one's throat open, ducking to avoid the crossbow bolt that grazed her cheek, leaping off the head of one to crash into the archer, slashing through his neck, swinging the crossbow around into another's face. She laughed, and Eragon grinned with dark satisfaction as he swathed through the small army of painless soldiers, hacking them apart with frightening ease.
Then he found someone else fighting across from him, the being grabbing one of the soldiers by his neck, a sickening series of cracks coming as the painless man convulsed in the newcomer's grip. The man chuckled maliciously, casually tossing the dead man on the ground.
"Who are you?" Eragon demanded as he did a midair kick in his spin, breaking bone and teeth as he threw another one backwards.
Ignoring his question, the being held out his hand, muttering a word as a spear materialized in his palm, an eerily forbidding aura of crimson-orange surrounding the whole weapon. Without another word, he slammed the tip of the spear through another soldier's chest, using inhuman strength to lift the armored man off the ground, throwing him at a group of soldiers, running at them, the staff whirling as he beheaded one of them, breaking another's neck into an awkward angle with the staff part, kicking one to the ground before bringing the sunset-colored blade crashing down into the thing's face, ending another horrible laugh.
"Do not ask questions, Shadeslayer," the being snapped.
Raising a finger, he summoned lightning, turning a man behind him into ash, throwing Eragon back into action. He and the newcomer battled through the laughing dead, leaving a trail of dead behind them as Aelwyn and the others easily held their own, leaving the two warriors side-by-side.
Left, right, duck, weave, roll, jump, twist, slash, jab, parry, kick, he danced through the groups of the men without pain, the stranger behind him, protecting his blindside as they cut through the three-hundred or so soldiers.
Eragon stopped his strange ally from killing the last man, kicking the soldier up by the collar.
"Go tell Galbatorix to try harder."
He threw the man away, turning to the spear-wielding stranger.
Demonic-red eyes.
He strode forward, his fist crashing against Dathrys' face, throwing the demon lord to the blood-drenched ground.
"You," he snarled furiously. "Why are you here! Why did you help me?"
Dathrys calmly wiped the blood from his cheek away, wincing slightly as he felt the gashes left by Eragon's gauntlet.
"Those soldiers anger Death. They only delay what is coming for them. Death does not like that. I was sent to help you slaughter them. And give you a gift from my master."
Spinning his spear once, he held it out to him, staff-first.
"Cathali, the Night's Beauty Spear. The Spear of the Death Flower. Death has kept it hidden all these years, protecting the power of the Death Spear in fear that someone like Galbatorix would use its might for naught. He gives it to you, now, Shadeslayer."
Eragon stared.
"Why."
Dathrys smiled tiredly, "Dragon Rider, when Death gifts someone with something aside from the bliss of oblivion, it is a gift not to take lightly. If he wanted you dead, he would have told me to kill you alongside those abominations, but he wants you alive. He knows your time has not come yet."
The young Rider indicated for his companions to wait.
"Cathali, you called it."
"Aye."
Eragon accepted the spear, feeling the familiar bloodlust rage through him as he touched the handle, the deathly whispers telling him to murder dragons.
"Tell Lord Death I thank him."
Dathrys inclined his head, starting to walk away.
"I still have not forgiven you, Dathrys."
The former Bladelord slightly turned back, his eyes distant.
"Neither have I, Eragon. But look at your own face, Dragon Rider. And see if you have the strength to forgive yourself."
Arya watched as the stranger vanished in a cloud of shadows, Eragon standing where he was, unmoving as he stilled, as if waiting for something.
The beautiful spear in his hand fell to the ground as he fell to his knees, looking down at the ground.
"Eragon?..."
He looked up as she walked over to him, his eyes bright with tears, horror fluttering through his mix-matched irises.
"What do you see in my face, Arya," he whispered.
She knelt in front of him, gently taking his face in her hands.
"Why do you ask?" she murmured.
He shook his head, taking her hand and gently placing it a bit higher than his jaw.
Blood. And from the way she felt no wounds, it wasn't his blood.
"Bloodlust," he said hoarsely. "Bloodlust. I loved it. I killed, and I enjoyed it. What am I becoming, Arya…"
She tilted his face up with her slender fingers, swiping her thumb across his cheeks, creating twin crescents of blood. Wiping some of the blood off of his face, she drew identical arcs of blood on her face, feeling his bloodied hands gently take hers.
"You are becoming a warrior."
He looked down at the ground, the earth drunk with death and blood.
"I'm becoming a murderer."
He stood up shakily, handing her the spear, "Return to camp. I… will be back."
Without another word, he ran off into the forest towards the sound of crashing waves.
He took a deep breath of the salty, moist air, the fresh scent instantly beginning to relax the turmoil inside of him.
Let it go, brother. Let the rage go. Let the lust go.
Another deep breath.
Eyes closed, he gently summoned the spirits of the ring, mists flowing around him as the souls of the past bearers appeared by him.
Your worry is obvious, brother, Náonin said softly, a cold hand gently brushing his cheek. Why do you worry about your bloodlust? All warriors need a tiny bit of it.
"I cannot," he said softly. "I am not just a warrior. I am a Dragon Rider. I must be able to keep the peace. Not just massacre those who oppose it."
A spirit Eragon had not met before walked up, bowing respectfully.
I may be able to help with this, blood-brother.
Eragon inclined his head politely.
The elven man stretched out his arms, crouching slightly.
'Tis a dance, brother. A battle dance. Whenever you thirst to spill blood, let it all out in the fury of a battle dance.
The man quickly began to move his legs in a circular motion, doing a flip before landing on one foot, leaping up again in a double, full-circle spin before landing again.
Eragon easily recognized a few forms of sword-fighting in his predecessor's movements, the flowing style of adurna in his kicks and his light-footed acrobatics, the more jerkish, less fluid, more forceful and powerful form of sin'an, the more high-flying trick based sa'fura. He watched the elf spin and whirl like a storm, his robes swirling with the wind and his movements. The elf indicated for him to follow his steps, Eragon vaulting over the elf's sliding kick, responding with a lash of his own. His partner dodged it with ease, his voice entering his mind.
We attack to add to the dance, not to strike.
The Dragon Rider nodded, flipping over the elf's head, their cloaks brushing before they tore apart, flying towards each other again, legs and arms blurring between each other as they created a dance of war, using each other as platforms at times, Eragon rolling over the back of his opponent and partner, letting the elf push off his hand, using the boost to launch himself into the air.
Hours passed.
Neither warrior acknowledged the time, simply letting out pent-up rage and anger into the vengeful man-on-man war of movement and art.
When Eragon finally hit the ground for the last time, the elf nodded, offering him a hand up.
Use the dance. It can do more than let out the lust for blood and killing. It can also kill and be your most dangerous weapon.
Eragon took the half-solid hand.
"Thank you."
With a slight tilt of the head, the spirit began to vanish.
"Wait!"
The spirit looked at him curiously, Yes?
"I know not your name. May I ask who you are?"
The being smiled warmly, bowing as he began to fade again.
My name is Ely'than.
Arya watched as Eragon soundlessly slipped back into the camp, his dark cloak masking his presence. He glanced over at her, smiling slightly before sitting in front of the nearly-dead fire, closing his eyes.
His shoulders moved rhythmically as he took deep breaths, no doubt meditating.
Quietly getting up, she walked over to his side, taking her usual spot beside him, gently taking one of his hands. His fingers curled around hers protectively, otherwise unmoving as he took another deep breath.
They suit you.
Eragon kept his eyes closed, letting Náonin's spirit into his mind.
What does?
The bloodstains on your face.
They suit a killer.
Then you are the first righteous killer.
The Dragon Rider shook his head.
There's no such thing.
Eragon, do you know how the painless soldiers feel no pain?
Magic. I don't know how it works though.
She chuckled mirthlessly.
Nay, brother, it's far more dark than that.
She waved her hand, conjuring mist, shaping it into a figure he didn't recognize.
'Tis not a spell. It does involve magic, but it is no spell. No, they summon something.
She indicated the figure.
Him. They call upon Lord Naûth'ra, one of the Lord of… something I am not permitted to speak of. But they give him their souls to become the Laughing Dead. They are soulless, Eragon. That is why the Lord Death hates them. It's hard to collect the souls of the dead when their souls are no longer theirs to give.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
They give their souls away?
It is hard to kill something that has nothing behind its earthly form.
He took a deep breath.
It all came together.
The unearthly laughter.
The long time it took for them to die.
It was no magic.
Lord Death had to find their souls and only then could they die.
Who is Lord Naûth'ra?
She bit her lip.
I am not allowed to speak of him or of the Twelve. There is but one way to learn of them and that is to become a spirit like me.
To die.
She nodded.
Eragon sighed heavily, shuddering as he thought of the new revelation.
Soulless warriors.
Soulless.
And he thought hard-to-kill was bad enough.
It was as good as fighting the living dead.
Her gentle touch brought his eyes to hers.
There may be no such thing as a righteous killer. But there's no evil in killing something that's already dead.
The trip over the couple dozen leagues across to Beirland was uneventful. The Boar's Eye was a little more to the east during the winter seasons, following the swifter winds flowing eastwards. The titanic maelstrom was still an awe-inspiring sight, the whirling mass of the ocean's eye spanning at least five leagues across in all. Saphira looped around, staring at the water with amazement.
To think nature could be this powerful, she said softly to Eragon, Calayn and Kalyn barrel-rolling so they could swoop lower, their riders just as stunned by the huge whirlpool.
There is no force greater than nature, not even magic, he murmured, patting her neck. And there never will be.
She looked back at him with a wise, sapphire eye.
Perchance love?
He gave a dry laugh.
No, Saphira. Love is also a part of nature. Just one of the harsher bits of it.
She nudged him with her nose, snorting, Even mine, foolish one?
He laughed, kissing her neck, Nay, you're the rare blossom of love that does not hurt me, my sky queen.
Translation: Nya (title) – Old Elvish, roughly translates to "to be born again" or "to return to the beginning", "to be in the womb once more"
Cathali – Variation of the Old Elvish word "cathia'vali", meaning "Night's Beauty" (a flower that opens only during the nighttimes of summer and spring and early harvest)
TN: Mine~ all mine ^^
AN: I kind of find it strange that Paolini doesn't have those "hard to translate" words in the Ancient Tongue ._.;; everyone who speaks a different language knows what I'm talking about, there will always be a word or phrase that's hard to translate into English because the meaning is not always literal or some reason like that. In Korean, the word "mahlyeok" is one of those, meaning like characteristic charisma, but in a darker way, and it's hard to explain. o.o so I added one of those words to the Ancient Language xD along with kibriakun
And for those who have noticed, I'm sorry for my increasingly dark and depressing-like chapters lately :/ first with Náonin's death, then Blödhgarm's story… it's just the beginning of a long fall towards the sad end of a story so you guys might want to brace yourself. Yes, my chapters will be pretty sad and angry and depressing from now on, but it'll end happy, and I'll make sure to add in some Aelwyn and ExA happy bits to lighten the mood lol and I'll add some humor between Eragon and Saphira more often, I'll try not to make you guys cry
Guess what Eragon has to do. ;)
Seeing this chapter is slightly shorter than usual, I'll upload it with the next chapter, so I'll respond to your reviews in the next chapter ^^