In The Light of the Stars
Eragon jerked awake, unsure what had roused him. Light from the fires keeping the squad on watch warm out in the cold night diffused through the canvas walls, causing a pale orange glow for his eyes to adjust to. Dark shadows fell from the contours of the ostentatious armour on the manikins, made the low chairs into leering ghouls, and sent a shiver up his spine.
A sharp spiking strike seared behind his eyes and he yelped.
"What? What is it?" He glanced to her as she propped herself up on one arm, holding the blankets to her chest against the chill with the other. "Eragon?"
He flopped back down on the bed and clutched his head between his hands. A low pounding in his skull, like a hammering fist on an iron door. Insistent and unrelenting. Testing, probing, challenging at the walls and shields that surrounded his mind many, many stratums deep. Someone was trying to get in.
"Eragon!" Arya lent over him, blankets forgotten, with wide eyes and a warm hand on his face. "Eragon!" She looked one instant from calling for help. He could see Blödhgarm's name hovering on her lips. But he didn't want Blödhgarm here; Eragon managed to ground out between the attacks a stunted explanation.
"I – I … someone is trying to break my mind and I can't … damnit I can't fight back!"
It was his inner most defences that were under attack, which meant whoever was trying to get in was someone he knew – someone he trusted even. They would not have gotten past his other layers of defence otherwise. He yelped again and shut his eyes. He couldn't think! Couldn't concentrate. Couldn't get himself together to rally the focus needed to strike back.
"Then let me help!"
He gave her a backdoor, a small sliver for her to slip within his circle of protection. The enchanting atmosphere of her mind, though now familiar to him, was still alien. Still a place he would not dare to wonder uninvited. Vast and a tangled, woven complexity of melody and mirth and feral abandon. Once connected, Arya focused upon the incoming attack. She seized it, examined it, and turned it round upon the perpetrator. She tore through the culprit's defences and captured their mind in a hold so vice-like that Eragon winced.
The onslaught faded and Eragon felt his shoulders drop, his fists unclench and his muscles relax. He opened his eyes and gazed up at Arya; she was draped over him, one arm locked at the elbow to keep her propped up, the other hand resting on his chest, and a blank far-away look in her eyes and she battled mind to mind with the one who'd tried to break him. Her long dark hair tickled his neck and shoulders, and would've his chest were it not still wrapped in bandages he no longer needed.
Without warning she sank onto him, her shoulders shaking as she buried her head between his chin and his neck. Before alarm and terror consumed him (and the deathly claws of his attacker could render his mind broke) Arya laughed. A weak laugh of fondness and mirth. "Oh you idiot!" she gasped. "It's Saphira!"
Oh.
Oh indeed.
Sorry?
Hmpfh.
He'd been wound so tight the past weeks dealing with the army, and then earlier that evening with Arya's … well … her meltdown had been a result of stress and pressure and the wrong person saying the right thing to tip her over the edge. But his mind had been firmly locked and blocked and barred to any and all; he must have been deep in the land of slumber to not automatically recognise Saphira's presence.
Well, we have been completely separate for the past month. She seemed to smirk knowingly then, a teasing delight filled her presence. But I see you've finally found your way into the princess's bed … only took nearly two decades.
Your disapproving tone is marred by the very fact that I know you love her too.
Saphira chucked. Who couldn't?
Arya was still laughing in his arms.
"Alright," he grumbled, sliding her off him and bending to retrieve the balnkets. The bed shifted as Arya made herself comfortable. "I would have thought checking that Fírnen is alright would outweigh any need to poke fun at me."
"I am a woman, iet taji, and –"
"Are you now?" he grinned, rolling over her, blankets once again forgotten. "Really? I had not noticed."
Eragon!
What? The exasperation radiating from Saphira was enough to tell him just what. Arya chuckled again as he dropped his head to her shoulder and kissed the skin there; she was littered with shiver-bumps from the chill. She ran her gentle fingers through his hair and fiddled with the bandages around his back.
"Eragon."
He groaned. "What now?"
"I'm cold."
It was Saphira who laughed at him this time. Wondering what he'd done to deserve such merciless teasing, Eragon retrieved the blankets from the floor and draped them over himself and Arya. It would be more prudent for you both to get dressed, Saphira remarked.
Why? Arya asked, settling in Eragon's arms. I'm comfortable here.
Because we have much to tell you, and places to be, Fírnen responded. Allowing Fírnen into his thoughts had become as second-place as allowing Arya to be there, just as Arya let Saphira in as readily as she did him.
Where have you been all this time? Arya asked as she traced absent patterns down Eragon's side. And where's Oromis? How did it go at the breach? Jörmundur –
One question at a time!
It's the lack of stimulating conversation, Saphira snorted. She's been stuck with Eragon since we left. Look what she's had to resort to.
"Hey!"
"It's true," Arya smirked.
Eragon pulled back the covers, "In that case, you can leave." Arya laughed and yanked the blankets back from his grip, burrowing beneath them. He shivered and pulled on his breeches, looking for a shirt in the dinge.
Please just get dressed, Saphira sighed. If nothing else the sky is clear and bright and perfect for a midnight flight.
But cold, Arya countered.
I believe there is such a thing that your race calls magic, Princess.
Get up Arya, Fírnen commanded. Eragon turned his gaze to the bed as Arya's eyes peeked from somewhere in her bundle of blankets, searching for him. He shrugged and a low sigh wafted from the pile.
Alright, you big mother hen. Where are you both?
There's an empty space trampled with snow that has an ugly looking tree at one end of it.
Eragon grunted as he located a shirt and pulled it over his head. I know the one.
Leaving Arya to emerge from her cocoon, Eragon ducked under the partition and strode to the closed flaps of the pavilion. There he poked his head out and asked the squad captain standing outside to let Roran know that he and Arya were needed elsewhere on urgent Rider business. Until he got back, his cousin was in charge. The captain saluted and promised to relay the message himself.
Back inside the inner tent, he dressed swiftly, pulling on extra layers and cursing the latest fashion trends for their lack of proper sleeves on jackets. Arya yanked on her clothes beside him in silence, probably sharing with Fírnen all that had happened since they had last spoken. As he sat on one of the low chairs to pull on his boots, Eragon opened himself to Saphira to do the same.
Memories and thoughts flashed wildly around as Saphira absorbed them, becoming a part of them. They didn't need words to express what it felt to be together again. Her reactions to the various happenings ranged from pride to joy to amusement to anger to sadness, feeling with him what he had felt when everything had happened fresh.
You were right to hang that man. I know you wished you could have come up with another way, but not everyone deserves a second chance Eragon. Had you the wisdom and experience you have now, back then, would you have still spared Sloan's life?
I don't know, Eragon responded.
And that bothers you?
I feel like a monster.
You could never be that. She assured him. Saphira drifted into quiet as she examined the last few memories, lingering over long he felt on the argument he and Arya had had earlier. As much as she had angered him for being so stubborn and quick to accuse him of things, he knew that Arya had needed to vent before she'd done or said something she truly regretted.
Lëyri … I should have snapped her in two that very first day.
Perhaps. Would have saved us all some trouble.
What bothered him though was that Arya could so readily believe what others were whispering. Strapping on his sword while Arya finished tying back her hair, Eragon looked for his cloak as Saphira said; you know how badly her time in Gil'ead affected her.
What's that got to do with anything? She's got through all that now; faced it in the Spine when she fought with the Shade.
Has she? Maybe not. Maybe not entirely. Fírnen told me that what scares her now is the unknown – and not necessarily the unknown of her ordeal. We know Lëyri, we spent sixteen years living with her. Arya doesn't know her. Weeks of blaming herself for what is going on in the courts, and of stressing and worrying over it all … people like Lëyri would have noticed that. And used it.
I didn't –
Arya came to you for a distraction. Because she loves you and missed you and because being with you was a welcome distraction from the turmoil of Ilirea. Just as you sought distraction in her from the difficulties in managing the races. There was nothing wrong with what you did; Arya would still have kept it from you out of habit where you in Ilirea.
Eragon told the captain he and his squad could seek their beds for the remainder of the night; told them to get out the cold and have a tankard of ale on him. They thanked him with smiles and grins as Eragon led Arya once more through his army's camp to a training-field.
She did say that ordinarily she'd have just told Lëyri to go to hell.
But she didn't because she wasn't thinking clearly. As such, Lëyri planted thoughts in her head that, because of the anxiety that sometimes riddles her, she overthought and couldn't ignore.
What can I do? He asked, helpless.
Love her, Saphira emerged through the frozen mist, a great hulking beast rising from the gloom. Scales glinting in the dim light of the moon and the dying fires; she looked almost black. Behind her Fírnen flared his wings, inky in the darkness, and searched for Arya. But of course you already do. You always have.
I always will.
Good. I have said this many times, so I'll say it only once more. The only one I'll share you with is her.
Eragon thought back on the words Arya had declared against his lips; you are mine. He smiled as a warm glow filled him.
Stepping onto the field, Eragon hurried over to Saphira as she reached out her long neck to meet him halfway. He'd not worn his gloves, being unable to find them, and so he felt the cool scales of her snout with the pads of his fingertips. Smooth like water made solid, like silk, like Arya's skin. He pressed his brow to her snout and let his eyes drift shut for a moment.
Contentment and fulfilment. That was what Saphira was.
She wrapped him with her mind, embracing him and holding him close.
I have missed you, little one.
Eragon grinned. You've not called me that in a long time.
No, Saphira agreed, I haven't have I? I suppose I stopped because you'd out grown it. Hardly a young boy lost in a world of adventure anymore, are you?
No … no I'm not.
A glance over at Fírnen told Eragon that Arya was already in his saddle. Inclining his head to the great green lizard, Eragon watched as he sprung into the clear sky.
It snowed earlier, he mused, where have all the clouds gone?
Where do they ever go? Elsewhere. Now come on! Saphira nudged him hard to get him moving and Eragon scrambled up her leg to reach his spot between her shoulders and her neck. She waited until he'd strapped himself in and cast his wards to keep the wind and the winter from freezing him to death on her back, then sprang into the sky.
Rising on an updraft, Saphira danced through the stars in lazy manoeuvers, toying with Fírnen as he flew around her. They rose steadily higher, the sky black and dark, and the ground a faint wash of white snow below them. Saphira wanted to dive, to fly to the highest reaches and then dive and dive and dive, pushing the limits of when she had to fling out her wings before they hit the ground. Her favourite past time since discovering Fírnen was the swifter flyer.
It's darker than pitch. You won't see the ground coming!
It's that white blanket you noticed below us. Stop being a prissy and enjoy yourself.
Across the stillness of the night he heard Arya laugh. Whether at something Fírnen said, or from Saphira's comment to him, he did not know. The dragons rose higher still, circling one another, challenging one another to dare to dive, Fírnen wanted to race instead, but Saphira was having none of it. She wanted to dive and wanted Fírnen to race to the ground beside her.
It's too dangerous at night!
You should be Eragon's dragon. Then you two could go quiver on the ground like chicken and watch as Arya and I chase the stars.
If you were going to pick Arya you had fifteen years to do so and yet you didn't.
True. Now are you going to live a little or not?
Fírnen snorted, a lick of flame flaring in the darkness. Alright. If it'll stop you from harping on all night long.
I do not harp!
Eragon tuned them out. He was happy Saphira was back for he'd missed her terribly and had worried about her absence; it'd been over a month since she and Fírnen had departed with Oromis and Jörmundur. Anything could have happened to them and without any means of communicating, Eragon and Arya would have been left not knowing. Last night he had decided that if the dragons hadn't turned up by the end of the week, that he'd take Toby the horse and go search for them.
You named your horse?
I was lonely.
Did you talk to it too? Hold conversations with it? Did Toby the horse help out with the disputes amongst the soldiers by imparting valuable wisdom and insight?
Are you jealous of a horse? Eragon questioned with amusement.
Saphira huffed as she settled on an updraft, waiting for Fírnen to ascend to level with her. You were jealous of a dead man.
That's different.
Is it though?
Shaking his head Eragon glanced over Saphira's shoulder at the faint blush of white far, far below them. A hazy wash of faint colour amidst the blackness of the night. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and found his hands were shaking slightly; it was a long, long way down. Eragon, we've done this plenty of times before.
But never at night!
I won't let you fall.
It's not the falling I'm afraid of.
Trust me.
Your words fill me with confidence, he remarked dryly even as Saphira smothered him with confidence and surety of her own. They merged together until his eyes were hers; the ground became brighter, clearer, the distance below them took on a clarity his own vision couldn't process. He could feel Saphira's muscles burning and bursting with energy and strength. Feel the wind and the breeze and the air around them of the night. Ergon returned back into himself. His nerves settled and his shoulders relaxed. He trusted Saphira and Saphira knew what she was doing; her eyes could see far better than his own after all.
Saphira cast across the sky to Fírnen, asking without words if he was ready. Eragon glanced at Arya perched and secured in the green dragon's saddle. She looked calm in the night, and turned her attention to meet his gaze over the great distance below them. She grinned in the darkness and leant forwards over Fírnen's neck. Eragon grinned in return and gripped tightly to the neck spike in front of the saddle.
From the pocket of space behind Eragon, Umaroth stirred in time to pay heed to the dragons' game; in the back of Eragon's mind the majestic eldunarí snorted with amusement before surging forth and merging with Saphira; he wanted to feel the ground rushing forth to meet him. Saphira let the old dragon in without hesitation, allowing Umaroth to take charge and to take wing; a tinge of fear ignited in Eragon – because he trusted Saphira not to fly them into the ground but it had been years since Umaroth had had a body take wing.
I have done this a hundred times with my eyes closed Son of Brom. Do not fear. The speedy green runt won't win this game.
The dragons seem to tilt forwards, suspended in an instant, waiting for the other to make the first move, to signal preparation to dive. Eragon sat hunched in the saddle waiting, only a passenger in this game. Saphira too was waiting and watching, willing to be carried along as Umaroth used her body to take to the skies once more. Eragon wondered how long it'd been since the dragon had stretched his metaphorical wings, and wondered if he'd flown through Saphira as Glaedr had sometimes done back on the island. Judging from how readily she let the great dragon in, often enough for her to trust him with a game such as this.
Eragon was part way through remembering the silver lake on the island, and the jagged cliff wherein lay a hidden cavern that housed the eldunarí and the eggs when he felt Saphira – or rather Umaroth – lurch forwards and tilt headfirst towards the ground, surrendering to gravity.
They were off.
Wings tucked in tight to body, Saphira and Eragon hurtled ever faster towards the faint ground below, trusting in Umaroth's wisdom and experience. The sheer joy radiated from the eldunarí was infectious and liberating. Umaroth roared in fierce and wild joy and beside them, a hundred feet away, Fírnen roared in answer. He was hurtling beside them, wings tucked in tightly and head angled straight down to the ground while Arya clung to the saddle and hunched forwards over his neck. This was not a game of speed, this was a game to see who would be first to pull away from the rising earth below them; a game to test mettle and nerve and see who was the most daring. The loser was the first to pull up, the winner the last.
Saphira always won.
Eragon could feel Saphira now, egging Umaroth on, urging him to dive lower, lower, to wait and wait because yes the ground was getting alarming close, but any instant now Fírnen was going to snap open his wings and spiral up and away …
Peering over Saphira's scaly shoulder Eragon could see the trees and the tents and the high walls of Ilirea getting clearer in the pale light of the stars. Light that was reflecting from the snow and casting the earth in a pale glow that shone with a ghostly quality and sent shivers up Eragon's spine. He shot a glance to his left. Fírnen showed no signs of pulling up, showed no signs of fear. Upon his back Arya seemed to feel the weight of Eragon's gaze. She turned her head to turn her piercing eyes upon him; he could just about make out a small smirk gracing her lips in the dinge.
We have to win, he told Saphira and Umaroth. They didn't seem pleased with is interruption of their concentration; besides, they already knew they had to win. Eragon pulled back and away from the two beasts as they continued their dive; judging by the way the ground was getting steadily clearer and closer, they were perhaps minutes from becoming two large craters in the snowy fields. Well at least there would be no need for a war if that was the case; Murtagh would have no one to oppose him.
When they were perhaps a thousand feet from the white blanket that was the ground, a recklessness came over Eragon; he felt a childish sense of invincibility. Letting go of Saphira's neck spike, he flung his arms out wide, tilted his head back and laughed loud and clear into the night, his voice carrying over the stillness as he looked at the ground and dared it to rush forwards and meet claim.
With a sound akin to a thunder clap, Saphira flung out her wings when they were mere seconds from a bloody and painful death. They soared up, up, up and away. Spiralling lazily in the updrafts as they once more climbed to reach the stars. Eragon laid back against the saddle, staring wide-eyed at the inky dark and the stars dotted about it; he reached up a hand as if to touch them. His heart was racing in his chest, an exhilarated grin upon his face. Umaroth was thrumming with joy and Saphira thrived off the pounding of her blood and the aching of her wings.
Did we win? He thought to ask a moment later.
Of course we won!
Eragon laughed loud and free again. It was the little moments, after all, that made the heart soar.
A / N : apologies for not uploading in a while; university got me busy as a bee. Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and have a brilliant New Year.
