Chapter 22

After finishing his training with Oromis, Eragon returned to his tree house along with Saphira. Having digested the news of Murtagh's incident, he fought hard to stay in control of his anger. His hatred wasn't directed at the fact that Murtagh, a Rider, had blessed a child. It was the fact that his blessing was a flat out curse, having unknowingly forced an innocent soul into a lifetime of pain out of his sheer ignorance and stupidity. Any progress he and his half-brother had made towards a better relationship, was lost out of his carelessness.

"You shouldn't be so callous with him little one. I understand how you feel about his actions and to an extent I share in your sentiments. However, it does no good to sit and let the anger fester. Murtagh will atone for his mistake once we have completed our training in Ellesméra." Eragon let out a resigned sigh before moving his hand to rub his dragon's snout. "I know... It's just... Murtagh's mistake strikes me on a deeper level. That is why I'm slightly enraged." Saphira comforted Eragon with a slight nudge of her snout. "He will learn his lesson. Especially after he saw the look on your face." She rumbled, in a dragon's approximation of a chuckle. Her humor slightly lightened his mood while he walked up to his study.

He was pleasantly surprised to find a tray laden with vegetable stew, an apple, and a slice of blueberry pie on top of his table. Having had little to eat before he trained, Eragon eagerly scarfed down the slice of pie and carried the soup and apple down to a stool near his bed, wishing to be close to Saphira while he ate. As he neared his bed, Eragon noticed that his bed was also neatly folded. "As much as I may distrust the elves. I cannot deny that they have been most generous in their hospitality." Eragon thought. He might just have to find a way to repay them for their support, however that was a thought for another time.

Sitting down, he began to eat his delectable stew until Eragon heard a knock on the front door. "Enter" he called out warily, wondering who would bother him at this hour.

His mind was put to rest when he saw Arya enter his tree. "Of course, who else could it have been?" Thought Eragon, slightly smiling to himself. She wasn't unwelcome in his home. He enjoyed the fact that Arya would visit him, her presence had a calming effect on him. However, he saw no reason why she would ever visit him at a time like this, especially when they had departed from their training under Oromis only a few hours ago. She was still wearing the attire he had last seen her in this morning, the same soft green tunic cinched by a girdle around her waist. She had also let her hair down this time, no longer bound in bun, her locks flowed down her shoulders. Her demeanor seemed softer, more at ease.

"Is something amiss?" Eragon asked, his curiosity piqued by her appearance. She shook her head and moved to sit down at the edge of his bed.

Touching her lips with her first two fingers, she said, "Do you intend to stay inside inside your tree for the duration of your stay?"

"Unless you have something different in mind" Eragon replied, taking a sip from his vegetable stew. He offered Arya his apple, while he worked away on his meal.

Arya regarded his offering before taking it from his hands, "I do." She responded, taking a bite out of the apple while looking out of the tear-drop shaped window. Eragon followed her gaze catching sight of Fírnen, gliding towards his tree. "You've resided in Ellesméra for three days now, yet you have seen nothing of our cities. I was hoping that after you finish your food, you might accompany me to see what my people have built. I understand what you may think of the elves and to an extent I share in your uncertainty, but if you can set aside your distrust... Will you come?" Taking another bite out of her apple, she waited for Eragon's answer.

"For someone who doesn't flaunt their position of royalty on others, you sure do give out a lot of orders," Eragon remarked with a smirk. Although Arya said nothing, he could see her lip twitch slightly upward before disappearing just as quickly. Suddenly Eragon could feel Saphira's hot breath down his spine, although he couldn't see it, he knew her eyes were boring into his skull telling him to hurry up with his stew. Knowing that she wanted to be with Fírnen as soon as possible, Eragon finished his food with gusto. Seeing that he had finished, Arya was already up on her feet carrying one of his swords. Eragon took hold of the other one, strapping the blade to his belt.

Following Arya out of his tree, he quickly became blinded by the sun's rays. As soon his eyes adjusted, he could see the that the skies had turned an orange hue, colors of brilliant violent hung on the horizon signalling the arrival of night. Saphira and Fírnen had already flown off ahead of them, likely wishing to have their little bit of privacy. "Murtagh and Thorn aren't present, but they must not be in the mood for this, given what transpired today." He thought.

They strolled under the tall imposing trees, streaks of god-rays from the sun flowed through the openings in the thick leafy tops peppering their path. Here and there, he would spot an elf working on projects of their own choosing. Had he not lived such a horrid life in the castles of Urû'baen, his naivety would've welcomed the thought of spending the majority of his life studying the intricacies of art, nature, and magic. "It seems that there is very little for elves to strive for that is not granted by your strength with magic," Eragon noted.

Arya nodded, "We spend the days learning to master what it is of interest to us, which isn't much, considering the fact that my brethren are a long-lived and ancient race, our questions have been constantly answered, new knowledge continually gained."

They turned into a tunnel made of dogwood draped with creepers that eventually led to a closed atrium where a house was grown around a ring of trees. An open-walled hut occupied the center of the atrium where a forge was sheltered inside along with an assortment of instruments. An elf woman inside the forge, held onto a strip of metal with tongs over a nest of molten coals, while working the bellows with her right with uncanny speed she pulled it out and looped the metal through an edge of an incomplete set of chain mail corselet that hung over an anvil, grabbing a hammer she struck the hot metal to weld it shut.

To say he was impressed with her handiwork, was an understatement. No doubt she spent many decades honing her skill in the art of forging. As Arya approached the blacksmith, he was surprised to see that Arya initiated the traditional elven greeting first. It was clear that she held much respect for the elf.

"Rhunön-elda, it is good to see that you are still working the forges even after decades of my absence." Arya spoke kindly.

"I heard you were dead" Was all that the Blacksmith responded with. A small smile worked its way into Eragon's lips, "An elf that doesn't speak in a roundabout manner? That's a first" He thought.

He looked at Arya, seeing what her reaction would be. She appeared unfazed by her remark, "Well my presence here disproves that thought. Furthermore I have also brought with me the newest rider of the Varden, Eragon Shadeslayer." She smiled as she spoke, obviously having had dealt with Rhunön's brutish nature before.

The blacksmith grunted in response but said no more after that. A moment of silence followed before he heard Arya speak again, this time continuing the conversation from a different angle. "When was the last time you have been outside of your forge, Rhunön?"

"You of all people should know... It was the mid-summer festival you forced me to attend." Arya's soft smile grew a little. "And that was three years ago..."

As they talked, Eragon went to study the armor that the master blacksmith was forging. Every individual piece making up the chain mail was welded with incredible precision, there was not a single irregularity that Eragon's eyes could pick up as he scanned the armor. Such intricate pieces would have fetched a hefty price in the marketplaces of the Varden and Empire. Blacksmiths in those areas did not have time, like the elves did, to weld every single ring into the chain mail. Nor could they, for their dexterity and elegance were outstripped by the likes of Rhunön's caliber. Reaching out, he lifted one end of the unfinished corselet, letting his hand run over the surprisingly smooth armor piece. But as soon as he made contact with the corselet, a hammer came swinging down on his hand, crushing his fingers with a slightly gruesome crack. Eragon sucked air through his teeth, trying to prevent a yelp of pain from escaping his mouth and quickly pulled his hand back, nursing it. "Never touch another's work, without their permission!" Rhunön snapped, holstering her hammer at her hip. He glanced down at his broken hand, the digits mangled beyond belief and then turned to glare at the elf woman, seeing Arya slightly containing an amused look on her face.

"Could've saved the trouble of hammering my fingers by warning me first!" Eragon contested, his pride slightly wounded. "Words are forgotten easily. Actions however are not so easy to erase." she replied, her expression stern. He maintained his glare.

"Violent elf woman," Eragon muttered under his breath, making sure the blacksmith heard it. However to his surprise, Rhunön laughed, the sound much harsher and worn in comparison to her brethren.

"A rude one, indeed; just like your father, Brom." said the elven blacksmith. "You know, he once came here, angrily demanding that I replace his rider sword. Of course, he was angered by my refusal for I had long since sworn my oath to never forge another such weapon. So angered in fact, that it took Oromis coming here and knocking him out with the pommel of Naegling in order to restrain his temper tantrum." She glanced at his fingers. "However, I do apologize for destroying your hand."

Eragon rolled his eyes and snorted but went about to repair the damage done to his fingers, mending the broken bones and torn flesh.

When he was finished, Eragon heard two thuds outside the forge. Turning around, he saw that Rhunön was now outside, admiring the recently arrived Saphira and Fírnen. She moved in closer to examine their scales. "Such a beautiful color, so vibrant and alive unlike the dull brown dragons I used to see. Yes... the swords would have been beautiful..." She stopped, her faraway look in her eyes quickly turned into a perturbed scowl before briskly returning to her work. "The thought of it must've drained a great deal of energy from her." Eragon thought.

Despite the turn of events, Eragon didn't feel the need to leave this meeting on a sad note, even if she smashed his fingers. "If Galbatorix were to be slain, you will be able to get your swords back" The elven blacksmith turned to him, a surprised look on her face. "He keep them in a treasury like trophies, you see."

"Does he?" Rhunön asked with renewed hope in her eyes.

"Yes, when the time comes that Galbatorix is killed — which I have no doubt shall be soon — all the swords that you have forged will be returned to their rightful owner."

Rhunön didn't say anything. However, she gave Eragon a grateful look before returning to her forging. This time, her movements refilled with fresh vigor and strength.

Eragon felt a small hand enclose his wrist, gently tugging him away from the forge.

"Rhunön-elda, I shall return for you on the eve of the Agaetí-Blödhren!" Arya called out. The blacksmith's grunt was her only reply.

"Is she always so brusque?" asked Saphira.

Arya chuckled, the song-bird voice made the dense forest feel more alive somehow. "Always. Nothing matters to her except for her craft and she is infamous for her impatience and terseness. Anyone who she sees is a barrier to her work, she will knock them down without hesitation. However, for all of her shortness, she is tolerated because of her mastery in the forge."

"She certainly doesn't like to leave her workplace, does she?" Eragon asked dryly, rubbing and wiggling his fingers to test for any unseen injury. Arya affirmed his question with a shake of her head.

"Frankly. I am more surprised she even acknowledged my supposed death and to even consider me so." She led him deeper into the forested heartland of Ellesméra, the silence allowed him to recount what Arya had said to the smith.

"Can you tell me more about this Blood Oath Celebration?" Eragon asked.

"It is a celebration we hold every one hundred years, to honor the pact that we had made with the dragons all those centuries ago. You and Saphira are fortunate to be here as that time is nigh upon us..." Her eyebrows met into a concentrated frown, "Though it being a coincidence... I do not think so."

"There are no coincidences, there is only fate." Eragon said, recounting a quote spoken by a renowned philosopher from a time long forgotten."

"A statement that can be true but can also be sometimes a farce." said Arya, leading him to a clearing where a lone pine tree stood. It was no taller than the ones around it, but this one was much wider in comparison to them. A huge network of roots snaked all across the ground, all returning to its source, like veins pumping life into the heart of Du Weldenvarden itself. He didn't even need to extend his mind out to confirm his speculation. The tree's energy was so immense, his hairs stood on end at the sheer amount he could feel physically.

"Behold, the Menoa Tree," Arya whispered. "We observe the Agaetí Blödhren under her shade."

The name echoed in his mind, "The Menoa Tree... Solembum's advice!" His interest rose greatly at the sight of the massive tree. The Werecat's advice reverberated throughout his being, "If I were to be in need of a weapon. I would find it here, under this tree."

"But how?" He thought. If it was even possible, would the elves allow him to dig underneath the roots? Would the tree itself even allow such an act? Walking forward, he reached out to touch the roots. They were certainly thick enough to restrain Saphira if they had to, no doubt.

"Do you sense anything?" he asked Saphira.

"No, but I do not doubt the fact that something substantial may be hiding beneath all of this wood," said Saphira. "Patience little one, we aren't in need of a weapon yet. Not until your tooth-picks are smashed beyond recognition. If that time does in fact come."

"You seem very interested in the Menoa Tree," observed Arya, coming to his side where he was kneeled at the base of the tree.

Not feeling the need to hide it from her, he told her about the werecat's advice. She listened intently, her hand also reaching out to rest on the roots, a gentle caressing the rough bark as if it were a close friend. "A werecat's counsel, should never be ignored for they rarely offer any. But as far as I know, there is no weapon beneath the roots of the Menoa tree, whether in myth or legends. As for the Rock of Kuthian, the name is strikingly familiar to me, but I cannot remember where it is that I've heard it."

"That wasn't any help at all," Eragon thought. But what should he have expected? Arya didn't know everything. She was neither the strongest nor the wisest elf. But asking for help from her didn't seem wrong. "Weapon..." said Eragon. "It doesn't necessarily have to mean an actual weapon. Maybe something that could have the potential of a weapon... the potential to make a weapon. Possibly an ore, some sort of material — "That may possess adamantine durability and incredible strength." He sighed standing. "But I guess we'll never be able to find out until the time comes to search for it."

"Though I doubt you will find the need to," Arya said, studying his one of swords that she was carrying. "Rhunön had said that it would take more than an Urgal or human weapon to break the blades you carry."

"And I'm glad for it." He turned his attention back to the tree, walking gracefully from root to root until he reached the tall pine tree. Arya moved just as swiftly by his side flitting between light and shadow. Sometimes her appearance would be cast in glows from lanterns far off or swallowed by darkness, though in both she looked beautiful. "This tree feels sentient... almost intelligent."

"That she is."

"She... So the tree was a woman." Eragon thought, wondering how this tree had come into being. His thought was interrupted when Arya spoke up, "Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?"

"I certainly wouldn't mind if you do," said Eragon, taking a seat on a root that crested the tree that lifted them twelve feet off the ground. She shot him an amused look before sitting beside him.

A flash of white caught his attention and then Blagden, the white raven, appeared beside Saphira, uttering his usual cry of "Wyrda!" The raven picked a good time to come by and eavesdrop, Eragon thought warily.

"This story begins with a woman by the name of Linnëa, in the years of spice and wine, long before our war with the dragons and before we gained our immortality. Linnëa had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children. However, she saw no need to for she devoted herself to the art of singing to plants, their leaves filling that empty space for companionship. What need do you have to take on a mate and foster children if your passion for the plants were enough? But that was before she met a young elf who beguiled her with words of love. His affections woke a part of Linnëa that she had never suspected could exist, a craving for what she had given up, a desire to experience what she had unknowingly sacrificed. It was in other words, a second chance. An opportunity too great to ignore. She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a time, they were happy."

"But". . . Eragon thought wryly, having an inkling of how the story was going to turn out.

"But still the man was young, and he had begun to long for someone closer to his age. His eyes fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won her. And for a time, they too were happy."

"And it doesn't end there," Eragon thought warily.

"When Linnëa discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst thing possible; he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, and then torn it away with not much of a mere thought. She found him with the woman and in her grief and fury, stabbed him to death."

"She knew what she done was evil. She also knew that even if she was exonerated of murder she could not return to what was her previous life before the young man. No, for life had lost all joy for her. And so instead, she went to the oldest tree in Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it and sang herself into the tree, abandoning every string that attached her to her own race. For three days and three nights, she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her beloved plants. And through all of millenniums since, she has kept watch over the forest. Thus was the story of The Menoa Tree."

Eragon bounced his heels against the root of the tree, deep in thought. More evidence that becoming close to others was only a curse, a burden. It would be so easy, Eragon thought, to live alone away from such temptations. Away from the pain and hurt that came with love. But when it is found it is almost impossible to let go.

"Once happiness is lost," said Eragon quietly, "it might never return."

Arya nodded. Then she turned to him. "Do you think the young man was to blame for the tragedy?"

"They were both at fault," Eragon said. There was nothing to it.

Arya stared at him with her piercing green eyes, and he met her stare, not backing down. "They weren't suited for each other." She said, breaking the silence between them.

"There are many conclusions you could come up with," said Eragon. "But the only one that would ever make sense is that love can blind even the strongest person. The desire to be loved . . . can make anyone go to such lengths."

She raised a brow at him inquiringly. "Love." He said the word with distaste. "It's safer to live life alone, away from its grips. But then again, there are people who have loved and lived till the end of time in love." Even though he didn't like love, the thought of Angela's prophecy loomed in his mind. His eyes darted to Arya's form next to him. He sighed. "Being home seems to agree with you." Eragon didn't feel the need to particularly linger on such a subject for long.

"It does." She fingered the pommel of his sword. The silver gleaming in the moonlight.

"Where did you use to live before a rider's tree was given to you? A castle or a hall?"

"Tialdarí Hall will always be my home; I often visit it in the western part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our ancestral home to you."

"Home". Another sore subject, everyone had a home but he didn't particularly have one to return to anymore. Murtagh had Carvahall and Arya had Ellesméra. Urû'baen wasn't exactly what he would call his home. Not really.

Speaking of family, Eragon asked Arya, "Do you have any siblings?" she shook her head. "Then you're the sole heir to the elven throne?"

"Of course, why do you ask?" She sounded bemused by his curiosity.

Eragon shrugged. "I was just wondering." If Arya were to die in battle, in her line of duty, he was sure that another successor or a different house would be chosen to become the next successor of the elven throne. He studied Arya for a moment. He had no doubt in his mind that if forced to lead, she would be a capable leader of her people. But would she be willing to? For a reason, he couldn't see her devoting herself to her people. But then that tattoo on her back he remembered seeing when he healed her . . . it must have meant something. But he didn't feel the need to ask her.

"Will you answer a question of mine?"

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for whatever it was that she wanted to ask him. It was long in coming, but he was patient. Finally, she said quietly, "Back then in Gil'ead, why did you save Murtagh and I?"

He stared at her and knew immediately that she was frustrated by his lack of answer to some of her questions. And this one was a question that she had frequently asked him, when he met her in Gil'ead and then in turn, at Farthen Dûr. It must have bothered her greatly that he couldn't give her a straight answer. But did he even have an answer for her? "Maybe..." said Eragon finally. "Maybe, I just didn't want to see another person forced to live the way I did." He smiled solemnly at her, somewhat apologetic. "It's not an answer you're wishing for, but when the time comes that I can think of it more, then I shall tell you. But for now, I hope this is enough for the time being."

"It is," came Arya's whisper.

High above them, Blagden, who had sat quiet throughout the entire conversation let out a shriek that pierced the night. "Wyrda!"

Holy jeez I finally finished another chapter. I am so sorry for keeping y'all waiting. Busy life it is. I hope you enjoyed this newest chapter!