So sorry, had to work on this for longer than I thought. Also started another WIP. Like I have time to do another fic, yeah, I'm an idiot.
I have plans for later chapters, so wait for it! I wrote the first 3k of this in a rush of dredged up memory from the book, then researched some stuff, then got the idea for the rest of this. I can't look at it anymore. So, enjoy the rare pair that is Vanir x Eragon. My two disaster gays. I love them.
Also cross-posted on AO3 :DCHAPTER 11 – CHANGE OF PACE
RORAN
Roran would worry about his cousin leaving so soon again, but his training in the Varden military made it impossible to linger on those thoughts for long. He had no talent with a sword, to his own frustration. At least he was soon allowed to change to hammers. These were still different from his own hammer, which he'd taken from Horst's smithy. These were tools made for war. Those could kill a man with a single blow.
It was a gruelling routine he found himself in, waking up at the crack of dawn, answering to an elder soldier who held the rank of someone above a lowly recruit – Roran hadn't yet learned all ranks.
Bringing them to their limits in endurance, speed, and strength, the man was strict but not cruel. After a week of what the man called training, Roran felt the difference. He could run longer, could swing the enormous hammer with more control over it than before.
The second week continued much the same.
As he fell into his bed, Katrina was there to knead the tension out of his sore muscles. She was his much-needed support in this. They'd no time to themselves lately, and he felt bad for abandoning her to go to war. She deserved a better fiancé.
Time continued in this fashion; his spirit dampened with the lack of time for her.
A month after Eragon's departure, he was told to pack for he was to join captain Eldric and his men. They were headed for a convoy of supplies; their spies had spotted between Melian and Feinster. The order was to attack the envoy, kill the soldiers and get the payload. Straightforward and the kind of mission Roran had expected to be sent on. He had no idea what kind of commanding officer Eldric would be. The man had been walking around the camp, watching the recruits a few days ago. Maybe he had asked for Roran specifically?
Leaving Katrina behind would never be easier, he thought as he kissed her. She drew him in, her hands clinging to his tunic with a desperation she was trying not to show, but he knew her. She was afraid he wouldn't return.
Roran slowly opened his eyes again, his gaze lingering on her clean hair and sad eyes, the small tears cascading down her cheeks. He squeezed her hands, reassuring her that he would. He would be back, and he would promise her this. Every time, he would tell her, because she deserved better than him. Her eyes lingered on him, as he marched through the rows of tents.
Eldric was a tall man with an imposing statue, his thick blond moustache making him look grim. Beside him stood a man with a scar spanning his left cheek and crooking his lips into a perpetual grimace. Roran went over to the two and reported to Eldric. The captain's voice was deep and commanding as he told him to help their magician around for now. Roran bowed his head and followed the order.
Their group was about two dozen men, all experienced warriors. The small count of fresh recruits were talented and exceptional men who'd held the captain's interest over the last week for their skill. Carn was an older man with greying hair and a gentle aura. His gaze turned to Roran when the younger man neared him. He was saddling a grey mare, the horse patiently waiting for him to finish his task.
Carn had no discernible accent, his vowels a fluent quality, that Roran thought was probably a quality of using magic. You had to correctly say the spell for it to work.
The man was not the only one. Carn introduced him to the second magician in their group.
Leanan was still in his prime. His voice was heavy with a coastal accent, which came from him growing up in Kuasta. Leanan was an odd but easy person to listen to and along with Carn, Roran found himself spending the time preparing for their departure swapping stories. Leanan had lost family members to the empire, while Carn simply had no choice but to flee the small village he'd lived in after his magic had caused him to be noticed. Carn was reserved about his past, but Leanan spoke his mind freely and without hesitation.
The man would make a comment about everything, from the way one of their formation had been obviously snuck around at night to probably see their lover, to the scratchiness of his socks. A bit like Eragon, back in Carvahall. His cousin had been unstoppable once he'd gotten a question. More like a hundred, and mostly about the stories of their storyteller.
Roran grinned as Leanan made another comment on how his Ma would never allow today's watery soup to be consumed. He followed his display with a dramatical gagging noise. Roran laughed. Even Carn was snickering behind his hand. They stopped before they could be reprimanded by Eldric, when it seemed the group would move out.
They left the safety of camp on horseback, their moderate group heading towards Melian. Roran pondered over the nervous feeling that befell him suddenly. This wasn't his first battle, but he still couldn't help the slight shake in his hands. He gripped the reigns tight in his hands, head held just a degree higher as he looked ahead.
VANIR
The air was fresh, and it brought the scent of the frigid ice covering the mountain tops with it. Vanir shouldn't feel surprised, but he was. His long life had been spent seldomly exploring outside the forests. The clean-cut stone and rough shapes of cast shadows made him feel outcast in between the dwarves who seemed completely at home.
The city was inside the hollowed dome of the highest mountain, but it was like a separate world altogether. Lantern light instead of sun light, and hard unforgiving stone instead of soft grass. The high ceiling and the enormous gates to the city brought the illusion of space, although it only fuelled the claustrophobic feeling in him.
Vanir itched to return to the outside, no matter how beautiful the minerals inside the walls shone, no matter how curious he was to explore a culture completely different to his own. For maybe the first time since following Eragon from Ellesmèra, he felt a need to return to the elven city. It wasn't his birth place, for he belonged to a part of the forest long forgotten by the humans, so long tried to be erased from history that even their own people would need some time to recall who they were.
Vanir didn't ever forget though. The madness of a king who had brought destruction and the cries of the people who'd perished in the inferno. No, Vanir would never forget, and he'd once believed to never forgive.
Their procession was travelling through the mountain on horseback still, the paths inside the city of stone clear cut and leading to the centre of Tronjheim. The elf took in the symmetrical architecture, along the different clan symbols carved into the stone. He wondered if these people felt as connected to their stone as he felt to his trees.
A week was gone in a blink of an eye, and the council was in session to elect a new king. The elf tapped his foot, as he stood outside in the great hallway before the council chambers, like he had done every day. His thoughts were filled with the green of his home, missing the scent of grass and wildflowers. He'd never not been surrounded by nature. Tronjheim was all stone and glittering minerals, the glowing moss and algae along the deeper tunnels just as alien to him.
The doors groaned and the sound reverberated along the walls and ground.
His gaze flew to the towering double winged doors, spewing out the dwarven council. Their colourful robes were in rich deep colours, the gold and bronze stitching weighing heavy and depicting their clans. Beards were prominent on both genders, and he saw most clan heads wear intricate helmets, more of a show of rank than battle gear. The small procession of dwarfs vanished and split to march into different directions.
The elf though didn't care for the dwarfs. He was looking for the person standing out by being the tallest around them, his pointed ears and fine features in contrast to the sturdy-built mountain folk. His eyes caught the elf's gaze and he changed direction to embrace Vanir, sagging tiredly against him.
For a moment he held onto the former dragon rider, inhaling the scent of musty stone and smoke that clung to him from sitting inside a closed chamber inside a mountain for hours, the underlying scent that was purely Eragon making his heart sing. He may have missed the forest, the scent of rain and damp grass, but holding the other in his arms made the homesickness vanish and he could breathe again.
"If I must listen to the Dûrgrimst Ragni discuss trade routes along the Beor mountains one more time, I swear! Ûndin will be a very unlucky dwarf.", Eragon muttered into the elf's neck.
Vanir understood the indlvarn. He knew these decisions took time for good reasons, but that didn't mean Eragon was cut out to be a politician, or a patient listener to these talks. It could be Eragon's human origin speaking, but Vanir had an inkling this was more of a character trait than age.
"It's not just something that will affect them now. These decisions will be in place for the unforeseeable future, meaning over a hundred years at least. They would want to get advantages for their clans where they can."
Eragon sighed. "I know."
He let go of the elf. Vanir mourned the loss of contact, as he often did these days. He couldn't say when it had started to become favourable to hold the former rider in his arms, just that he could not imagine how he'd lived without. Eragon had become a central part in his life. The indlvarn was often brash and quick to act before thinking things through, but he was also curious about the world, asking questions. Eragon could act mature and scarily intelligent sometimes, and then there were moments where the elf was reminded, the other had only lived for less than two decades.
Vanir tried to differentiate, because in years it sounded alarmingly young to him. Elves matured later, after all. Humans aged so quickly.
He'd never seen a human older than thirty before. Older humans had clear signs of their age marring their skin, which had fascinated him at first arriving at the Varden.
In a way, he was glad now about Saphira's choice. Had she chosen differently, he wouldn't have met Eragon and the man would have lived his life as a farm boy, until he married a woman and continued the family line like it was expected. He would have gotten old and grey, until one day his body gave out and he died surrounded by grandchildren.
Human lives were short, and unlike elves, they could die of old age.
Eragon's words brought him out of his reverie. "Should I find it disturbing that you're imagining me all old and wrinkly?" Vanir saw his amusement, and knew it was meant lightly. The rider was tired from today.
"I find myself glad to have you by my side.", he admitted. Eragon turned away. His face took on a rose-coloured blush, that did nothing to make him less handsome in Vanir's eyes.
"Strange, right? How we can be friends, after everything…"
"Just friends?" he asked, wishing to be right in what their bond told him, but not trying to assume…
It was at once easy to admit affection for each other and difficult to talk about it. Vanir was fine with it always staying like this, moments of nearness, of affection shared between them. They had been unwillingly tied together, by something out of their control. They'd blamed each other, until they'd finally come to their senses and tried to make it work.
It was so many things that had changed their fate, made it take an unexpected turn, but Vanir felt no regret following it to this point.
"I don't know. This confuses me, the way I feel around you… it's like I can't stop myself sometimes." Eragon said. His voice spoke of uncertainty, but also a fragile hope that he wasn't alone in feeling this way.
Vanir swept his gaze around the hall. They were alone, and he dared to brush the other's lips in a stolen kiss. There hadn't been anything happening between them that went further than that, kissing and sharing comfort by innocent touching the other.
Orik had surprised the former dragon rider by giving them one single room in Tronjheim. The bed was big enough and clearly meant for two. The dwarf was smart, he'd clearly figured something out, but not deemed it important to mention the topic. He probably waited for Eragon to tell him, as his clan brother.
Eragon returned the kiss now, his lips ghosting over Vanir's, dancing in a by now already familiar rhythm. They parted too soon, knowing this wasn't the ideal place for this.
"More than friends?" he asked cheekily. Eragon swatted him over the head, which made Vanir laugh. It was probably deserved, but it was still fun to tease the other a bit. Their bond betrayed Eragon, shining bright with mirth.
"You're unbelievable. I don't know why I even like you." He said, but his hand entwined with Vanir's a second later. The warmth of his skin was reaching directly into his heart and Vanir felt it speed up. He hid his smile by looking to the opposite side.
They slowly started wandering back to the main city, where the dwarfs held their kitchens and served food for everyone to come to the main hall. Vanir and Eragon both got a plate with grilled mushrooms, steamed carrots and kale, and the grainy bread the dwarves from Tronjheim served to every meal. The vegetables were all grown here, since they were very resistant to the cold climate that reigned here in the mountain. The water had a strong mineral tang to it, but it was clear and refreshing.
Vanir watched the other patrons, their beards making up half their face and styled with obvious effort. Some had shiny pearls of stone in them, mostly seen in those from the Ingeitum clan who wanted to display their ability in mining rich minerals. A quartet of what he assumed to be female dwarves had their beards and long hair in difficult braided patterns with pieces of dyed string in it. They wore their style proudly, and Vanir admired the obvious signs of clan affiliation.
His own braids held feathers of barn owls, a bird of prey – the sign of a warrior among his people.
Orik came around during their meal, wanting to speak to Eragon about the proceedings. He couldn't offer them much information, besides, it already going swiftly with the war in mind. Eragon wasn't happy to hear this, muttering expletives under his breath about Grimstborith Ûndin that Vanir was glad to realize were in the old language, thus flying over the dwarf's head. It wouldn't do to anger a clan head, not if they were already on a strained relationship with the dwarves. Orik and his clan were the only ones who'd taken them in with open arms. The rest was polite and partly meeting them with reverence. Eragon's actions as a rider had opened him certain doors, but also made him an enemy to the clans who'd suffered from the previous dragon riders' downfall.
Vanir was regarded with the same mixed feelings. He was an elf and even if nobody knew where he hailed from, the fact was dwarves and elves held no love for each other. The dwarves held onto their deities and beliefs, like ivy clinging to a wall. If it were open knowledge that even elves thought him cursed for his past, the dwarves would boot him from their mountain no questions asked.
For now, he listened to Orik, who told them to go with one of his guards, Kvîstor, to visit the great library of Tronjheim. At that he felt his eyebrows rise to his hairline. He'd heard of the library, of course.
Eragon was obviously in the dark before Orik had mentioned it because he excitedly stood up, his wings scraping along the ceiling, and demanding to know where this library was. How big was it? Why hadn't he heard of it the last time he'd been here?
Orik stopped the half dragon from spewing out more questions.
"I offer you to visit it now, Eragon, since it's a place not many get the privilege to visit anymore. Not since…ah, our people had to retreat into the mountains. Kvîstor will bring you there. Tell the librarian that I sent you and he will let you enter."
Eragon nodded, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Some scrolls spoke of a place filled with knowledge, the library was like a treasure of old and near forgotten books, tomes as old as the ages. It was a great privilege indeed that Orik gave them. Maybe there were even some written records of dragon riders. Galbatorix had burned every written record in Ilirea from the golden age.
Kvîstor led them to the library, an unassuming building at first. The stone was carved with different patterns and faded scripture, the entrance a high reaching double winged door, like every other building around here. Vanir tried not to be disappointed at the sight.
They entered, Kvîstor stopping outside and promising them to wait until they were ready to return to their assigned guest quarters.
Vanir's breath was taken away by the sight that was before him. What the outside had hidden was obvious now. Rows upon rows of books, from small journals to heavy tomes, with scrolls neatly stashed in between, the pure reverence to the written word was astounding. Next to him, Eragon seemed just as speechless.
"Can I help you...?" a timid voice breached the silence. Vanir looked slightly down to see a dwarf in brown robes, the lack of any clan affiliation what got his attention. It was the first dwarf who didn't proudly state who their clan was.
His mind didn't even entertain the notion that he could be from no clan at all.
He also wore metal framed magnifying glasses, the thin circular pieces making his eyes seem bigger than they were. He was slightly bowed walking, as he approached them.
"Grimstborith Orik sent us. You're the librarian?" Eragon, despite his lack of finesse for the political spiel, could be excellent in remembering titles. His use of the dwarven tongue was better than Vanir's, the vowels like crushing stones between your teeth giving the elf problems because of the difference to his own native tongue which was a flowing river in comparison.
"Yes, yes. That would be me - you say, Orik sent you? Of course. He did mention something about visitors…"
The dwarf who was revealed to be the librarian turned on his heel with a follow me gesture, leading them between the stacks of books, deeper into the library.
"The library was founded long ago, by a dwarf named Kwela. Kwela saw knowledge as the key to power, which isn't exactly wrong…well, he did die from malnourishment - he wouldn't abandon his post reading the legends of- "
Vanir listened to the mutterings of the dwarf, his thoughts drifting as he took in the sights. He could understand how you could lose yourself in this place.
"You can stay for however long you want - not however long, of course. Take your time - though I have to close sometime around eight…"
Eragon thanked the dwarf, his grasp on the language pleasing the librarian and he trotted away leaving them alone.
Eragon turned to the elf, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. "Where do you want to look first?"
ERAGON
The talks were long and arduous, and Eragon wanted to strangle Vermûnd, clan leader of the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. The bastard was not only thinly veiling his insults in his arguments, he was also outright xenophobic, his quips about Orik's friendship with elves getting more provocative every time. If it hadn't threatened Orik's chances at the throne, Eragon would have told the dwarf his opinion then and there.
Instead, he had to make do with staring a hole into Grimstborith Vermûnd's head.
Whatever the Grimstborith tried, his methods to get the others on his side were without much success. At the end of the week, he had only two of the Grimstborith siding with him, having stepped on the toes of the other ones just as much with his aggressive negotiations.
Eragon hid his smile as the final election took place and Orik won. They had been worried about some clan heads, but they hadn't needed to after Vermûnd had lost his most devoted follower by insulting them for speaking up in their opinion.
Most days, the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin had held back, but not now that Orik had fairly won. Grimstborith Vermûnd seethed with barely veiled disgust, glaring at Eragon.
"We will not stand for this. Our clan has no allegiance to a traitor to our people." He practically spat and left. His dramatic departure was followed by silence, before Orik spoke to shatter the uncomfortable feeling that had settled over the assembled clan leaders.
After Orik held a small speech to thank the other leaders for their allegiance and how he would lead them all to a new era of continued prosperity and hopefully to a future without Galbatorix a shadow over them all he took the half dragon aside.
"We may have won the battle today, Eragon, but from Vermûnd's reaction I would say we may have made ourselves some enemies."
"I didn't notice, what tipped you off?" Eragon snarked, tiredly rubbing his temples to stave off a headache.
"Let's not lower our guards now. A ceremony is planned for tomorrow. The decision is not changeable now, and nobody would dare an assassination attempt in fear of angering Gûntera himself. The wrath of the gods is not something you risk having on you. So, if they want to act, they'll do it differently."
"Orik, with less riddles please."
"I'm less of a target because of my position, than you or someone else right now. What I'm trying to say is, you shouldn't walk around without a guard."
"Wouldn't that tip them off that we know?"
"They're going to assume we know anyway." Orik grimly stated.
Eragon couldn't stop Orik from ordering a security detail to follow Eragon around. The dwarven guards were at least inconspicuous, to make would be assassins slightly less careful in their attempts.
Orik had also tasked Kvîstor again with the duty of showing them around the still unexplored parts of Tronjheim who were mostly inhabited by the Ingeitum. So, it wasn't all bad.
Vanir had wanted to return to the library, his own interest in the books shining through.
Eragon roamed the halls and long hallways on his own, needing some alone time after another long session of political talk. He'd sent Kvîstor with the elf, assuring him he was as safe as could be with the guards looming around. They'd parted at a crossing intersection in the hallways, Eragon going deeper into the mountain to explore, his guards following his every step.
Cold air drifted through the tunnel systems, refreshing after being in a stuffy chamber with the dwarven clan heads. His shoulders lost the remaining tension from before, as he walked along even paths. The texture of the stone under his shoes became rough the farther he went.
Before, he'd passed dwarves in the Ingeitum colours and signs. They'd gotten less as he'd unconsciously chosen a more secluded path.
The dwarves passing him now were clad in non-descript robes. Their eyes quickly avoided his own and he got a feeling of dread as they continued their way. The hallway came to an end, the dim light of the flameless lanterns casting shadows on the stone.
It was in the shadows that he saw the blade going for his throat. Eragon ducked and was only saved by his fast reflexes. The blade of a small sword hit the wall, nearly decapacitating him.
His wings were flat against his back to move in the closed space. His nails extended to claws without his conscious thought. Turning around, he saw his attacker swing the sword again. He evaded the weapon aimed at his middle by stepping left and back. More dwarves had drawn their weapons and were backing him in against the dead end. Their formation told him; this was a planned attack.
Orik had been right about them going after him.
Eragon let his wings rise into a threatening pose. It worked in a way, some of the dwarves seeming to hesitate. He used the moment to act, his claws digging into the throat of the dwarf with the blade. His own sword would be useless in the small space, the one-handed blade more a hindrance than help. Blood splashed onto his clothes and face. The dwarf fell to the ground with a gurgle, blood welling up from his mouth as he twitched before he went still.
A dwarf with a curved blade tried to stab at his wings, Eragon seeing it and quickly taking the dead dwarf's blade to intercept the swing at his vulnerable membrane. The dwarves were now all crowding in, trying to overwhelm him with their greater numbers. He clenched his teeth and snarled – the sound animalistic, inhuman. Stabbing another dwarf through the stomach and another one through the chest, he saw his guards were engaged in close combat with the assassins. They were making quick work of them, but he saw one sack to the ground after a shoulder stab from the curved blades.
Poison, he thought with panic as he saw the guard twitch with white foam forming around his mouth. He hadn't been hit yet, so he took care not to change that now. Another attacker met his end at the stolen blade.
In all the commotion, the blast surprised everyone.
His hearing picked up the change in the air, before it happened, and he instinctively closed his wings around himself when just a moment later, a large blast shook the hallway.
It was loud enough to be heard from here to Bregan and stone fell from the ceiling. The unprepared assassins were caught in the explosion, their magical shields too weak to protect them against the heat. His own magical shields strained under the onslaught.
Then it was over. Eragon looked up from behind his wings. His ears rang in the silence, the lack of sound after it just seemed unreal. Twelve charred dwarves laid in the blackened hallway. None moved. He checked for a sign of life to make sure but found none. His guards had been met by the same fate their forms barely distinguishable from the attackers. He looked down in regret for the loss of life.
To the side, he saw the glass splinters of a lamp. It must have been what led to the explosion. One of the corpses lay beside it. His shock was forever frozen on his charred flesh. Maybe he'd recognized his mistake the moment he'd shattered the lamp, knowing it was already too late.
"Barzul!", Orik said. "Barzul!"
And he started ranting in the dwarven togue while pacing back and forth in front of his desk. Eragon watched him, waiting for his friend and clan brother to calm down. It was difficult not to react in the same way. The assassination had been an hour ago. So much else had happened since then.
After finding and telling Orik about it, the dwarf had acted immediately. He'd ordered the corpses to be searched for any sign of who had been behind the attack, but they found nothing. Their only lead were the poisoned blades, but the blacksmith who made them was widely known for his talent in weapon crafting, so his clientele was spanning a broad percentage of the dwarven population.
It got worse, then. Eragon had been feeling unsteady after his battle in the tunnels against the assassins, but he hadn't known why, not until Kvîstor entered the study, blood streaming down his face from a head wound.
Vanir had been taken.
Eragon felt the air leave his lungs at the words, the dwarf sinking to the ground like he had no strength left in his body after bringing them the news. Meanwhile Eragon searched for that link in his mind, that connection that was nowadays always there-
It was silent, and as he tried to find out where Vanir was, he seemed to reach into nothing. Nausea rose in him, his knees like jelly. Eragon knew his wings were spread out and scratching the walls, his agitation manifesting physically in the way he'd bared his fangs and his eyes were a fiery blue.
Orik let out a string of words that sounded like cursing. "They planned ahead. It would have made no sense to kidnap him if you were dead. Whoever is responsible for this knew that an assassination was probably going to fail.", he said.
His expression was dark, his eyebrows drawn and eyes staring at the stone plate of the table. Eragon willed his wings to fold against his back, the dried blood beneath his nails less visible now than when he'd showed up with red dripping claws. His eyes were still bright with unnatural glow and his wings shifted restlessly, the helplessness of not being able to do anything making him wish to burn something. Preferably Vermûnd, that bastard. It had to be him. He'd outright threatened Eragon, his clan provoking a blood feud with the ex-rider when he'd crossed through their city.
Orik sighed. He kicked the table in frustration. "Planning this far ahead... they are smart and that makes them dangerous. It must be the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, but we can't prove it, nor do we know. Who attacked you, Kvîstor? Could you see them?"
The dwarf shook his head, his expression one of shame. "They were dressed in dark robes, attacking us the moment we stepped outside the library. I was knocked out and thought dead. They had taken elf Vanir by the time I woke up.", he told them.
"That's unfortunate. Thank you for notifying us Kvîstor, you can go now. Let someone see to your head wound."
The dwarf bowed and left. Orik went to the papers littering his desk. He kicked it once, letting out his frustrations on the old wood. An expensive material, the imported piece of furniture shuddering beneath the onslaught as Orik kicked it again for good measure.
"Isn't there a way to find them faster?" Eragon asked, his mind trying to come up with a plan, but failing. He couldn't go to the clan head of the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin and threaten him to tell them where the elf was. Orik had to think about the peace between the Varden and the dwarves. They were bound in their actions by the responsibilities they had. Despite Eragon wishing it were different.
"Many dwarves aren't happy about the elves, our long history with them complicated and filled with conflict. You're equally as much feared as you're revered by my people, Eragon. We're working as fast as we can."
Eragon knew the dwarf was right, but he wasn't happy about it. Again he tried to find Vanir with his mind, this time not just searching their bond, but seeing every life inside Tronjheim. He stretched his consciousness to the borders of the enormous city, into every tunnel above and under it. Nothing.