"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it."

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Chapter V: Revelations

As it turned out, training with Eragon was hell.

Ilia knew hell; she'd been through it. She also knew what paradise was, and to watch as it was stripped away. She knew what it was to have absolutely nothing and to wonder each day whether or not it would be her last. Upon finding Luan, or rather when he'd found her, Ilia had honestly believed that those days were over and she could finally get away from it all. Her intention had been to slack off in the training and have Eragon send her away or put her on rubbish duty or something. It's what her father had done when people annoyed him but he couldn't truly punish them because they were too important. But even since Eragon had announced that he personally was going to train her, everything had changed.

The riders in training had been put in a barracks of sorts. It was huge, and Ilia had quickly learned that training took a lot longer than just a few months. Some of the mentors were still being trained themselves, and it was soon evident that there was a clear hierarchy amongst the riders. Eragon had often preached that this was not the case, they were here for the same purpose, but they all knew better. Everyone else seemed to swallow the system and accept it for what it was; it only made Ilia angrier.

The length of a stick cracked across her back, and Ilia cried out in pain. Wheeling around she lunged at her teacher, her own staff raised and her emerald eyes blazing with fury as she sought to try and take his head off with the piece of wood. The young woman practically snarled as she came at him, though the blow was easily parried and she found herself flat on her back, winded and bleeding as she'd cracked her head on the ground.

"You're too impulsive. With your defenses, your attacks, and your magic. Your rage will blind you and your enemies will wipe you out with a single blow." It was the voice of Eragon, who was standing over her now, looking stern and disappointed as ever.

Once her breath was back she sat up, spitting on the ground to clear her mouth of the blood that had filled it. Emerald eyes locked with brown ones and she'd never hated him so much as in this moment.

A sigh escaped the man's lips, and he shook his head. "We're done. Go clean yourself up and I'll see you tomorrow," he told her, his voice straining as he tried to keep calm. He had been right about her; she was absolutely infuriating.

"Finally," she breathed, the defiance evident in her tone. It was all Eragon could do to keep his back turned as she walked away from him.

Once she had disappeared, the man sighed again, all but crumpling to the ground. Saphira, who had been curled around the training grounds and pretending to be asleep, lifted her head and watched him carefully.

'You expect too much from her too soon,' she said after a moment. Ilia had a bright future as a very strong rider ahead of her, if she chose to see it that way.

'Maybe I shouldn't expect anything of her at all.'

The rumble that came from the dragon told him that she disagreed with him. 'She is more damaged than you or I realised. Perhaps you need to think of her as you do your brother.'

Eragon snorted. 'And what's that supposed to mean? Leave her be? Let her wander the wastes and deserts while she calcifies even more?'

'I do not think she is as far gone as Murtagh, but even he would come to your rescue if you needed it. Be gentle, then ask her to face her pain. You know her magic will not improve if she does not.'

It was true, and it was a lesson that Eragon himself had learned the hard way. Letting go of one's pain and want of revenge was extremely important for growing more powerful, but also in keeping it all under control. Murtagh's pain had almost consumed him, and it was what kept the man away from the riders now.

'I'll try. She frustrates me to no end.'

The corners of Saphira's scaly lips turned upwards into a smile, but she said nothing. The dragon momentarily recalled how Arya had not been overly fond of Eragon at their first meetings, and it was a memory that she allowed him to share. A pointed glare from her rider caused the dragon to laugh, the guttural sound echoing through the night and scaring a few birds that were sleeping in a tree nearby.

Ilia did not bother going to dinner that night. She was starving, but she couldn't bring herself to face him. This wasn't the way it was supposed to work out. It was the first time in at least a week that he'd actually let her out of training before dinner started, which had resulted in her not getting much food anyways. Luan had not been required for this stage of training and he'd been given the time off, which he had been more than happy to take as there was a particular brown dragon that he had his mind set on impressing still. Tonight she could eat her fill, but she didn't want to.

Since training had started, Ilia had done her best to be as annoying as possible. She wanted Eragon to send her away, to tell her that she was too difficult to train and that he had been wrong. Her views were too jaded and she wasn't fit to be a rider. However each time she slacked off, took a short cut or just refused to do as he'd asked, he'd extended their training by an hour. As a result she was always up earlier and out later than all the other trainees, who had actually moved onto learning offensive magic. Ilia was still stuck playing with wooden swords.

'Why does that bother you? I thought that's what you wanted.' The gentle touch of Luan invaded her mind, and she grunted and rolled over in her bed. The shutters on her window were closed but she knew he was just outside.

'Everyone else is better than me.'

There was a snort outside her window. 'Only because you're being difficult.'

'Leave me alone.'

'No.'

'Why are you so stubborn?'

'Why are you?'

'Because I hate them, Luan! I hate them all. They're all horrible.'

The presence in her mind increased, and Ilia found herself gasping for air. 'Luan!' she cried out to him.

A growl erupted through her conscience, and she knew she'd upset him. Her whole body rumbled with the force of it, and tears started sliding down her cheeks. It wasn't painful but it was strong, and Ilia was certain she was the only rider with a dragon who attacked when he was feeling defied.

'That's not fair,' she told him. He'd been doing some training with Saphira, even if she hadn't been able to just yet.

'You're not being fair. They've been nothing but kind to you, and you're acting like a spoiled brat.'

'Everything they stand for is-'

The presence invaded her again, and she growled at it in response. Ilia tried to throw herself at the window but he had her pinned.

'Not their fault. Not your fault. Let them train you. Become strong, and then make your decision.'

Again he withdrew, and Ilia wiped angry tears from her eyes. The problem was that she couldn't hate Luan, even if he insisted on pushing every single one of her buttons.

Nothing more was said between them that night, and Ilia stayed in her bed despite the protest of her stomach. Luan did gently try to coax her to eat by reminding her of the smell of cooking food she'd encountered on her way back to her room, but she was defiant and insistent. If this turned into a hunger strike he would take action, but for now he just let her be.

As morning dawned Ilia was disinclined to get out of bed. As the sunlight streamed through the cracks in the shutters she squinted and rolled away to avoid it, and it was this action that woke her and had her sitting. Normally by this point in her day, Eragon himself had come to pull her out of bed. It was their morning routine; she would defiantly sleep in and he would assault her with either the strength of his mind or some sort of weapon as a punishment for not being on time, and then she would be forced to remain later. Keeping away in the beginning was easier than escaping; his dragon was much bigger than hers, and Luan seemed to be on Eragon's side anyways. It wasn't fair. This morning, however, was different.

At first Ilia decided that she was going to remain in bed. If he didn't want her, maybe she should just sleep it off. Her body ached from the long days of training, but she could already see the difference. The repeated work outs combined with good food were having an effect on her body, and she was filling out and toning up at the same time. For the first part of her life she had been well-fed but not necessarily very active, and then on the streets she'd been active but not well-fed. The combination of both was changing her in ways she'd not anticipated.

Eventually, however, Ilia decided that it was boring to stay where she was. Luan was gone again, and she wasn't sure she wanted to try and find him just yet. While she had forgiven him for his assault on her the night before she wanted to pretend she hadn't, and wasn't really in the mood to start the conversation up again. Perhaps she could do some training on her own.

Since she'd slept through breakfast, Ilia was starving but she ignored that too. Slipping passed everyone quietly she made her way to the training grounds where she had been with Eragon the night before. He wasn't here, so she could train by herself in peace. Maybe that's just what she needed.

For a little while she was there on her own, practising what he had shown her with both the sword and the staff. Her skill really was with the dagger, but she knew she needed to be a well-rounded fighter in order to succeed anywhere. Magic would be her best weapon, but she wasn't allowed to wield that just yet. Ilia had tried to, two weeks back, and the consequences of trying it had been self-inflicted and incredibly painful. It was the one thing she would not try again.

"Your form is very good," came a voice.

It startled Ilia, and she turned to point her weapon in Eragon's direction.

His hands were in the pockets of his trousers, though he lifted his palms to her and shrugged his shoulders as a display of defense. "Relax, we won't be training this way today."

Somewhat warily, Ilia lowered the wooden sword that she was wielding. In truth she knew that she wouldn't have gotten very far with it, but it felt better having a weapon between them.

For a few moments they watched each other, she with suspicion and him with interest. Eventually, with his hands in his pockets again, he motioned for her to follow him. "Come on, I bet you're starving."

There were a few moments of deliberation, but eventually Ilia followed. "Why would you think that I'm starving?" she asked, her tone clipped.

"Because you did not have dinner last night and you slept through breakfast. Which, you'd do that every day but you've been spoiled and pulled out of bed like a child," he told her, his tone matching.

"Babysitting," she spat.

Despite her mood, a sly but charming smile spread across his lips. "Exactly."

There was a sound of defiance from her, which only made his smile grow which in turn made her even angrier. Well, they were off to a good start.

Eragon led her to a building towards the back. It was small compared to the rest, and quite isolated. Upon entering Ilia realised that this was Eragon's place. For some reason she hadn't ever considered that he might reside close to the training grounds. There was a small city that had cropped up over the years, and there were some impressive buildings. She'd always thought that he'd live in one of the castle-looking ones, simply because he was undoubtedly the strongest person that resided out here. She hadn't expected him to dwell in a shack. Behind it there was a small forest and beyond that the beach, a trail woven through the trees that told her he walked it often.

"I like the sea. It reminds me that we are much smaller than we think we are," he told her, as if reading her thoughts. It was a distinct possibility that he was.

"How poetic," she retorted, but her tone wasn't as biting as she'd intended. Perhaps he was softening her.

"Sit," he instructed. Ilia had half a mind not to, but this time she did as she was asked.

She took a seat on the cushion that was there for her, and she noticed the platter of fruit and cheese and bread that was there for her to take. At first she resisted, but the empty feeling in her stomach got the better of her and she was soon all but inhaling it. Eragon picked at some grapes, but otherwise simply watched.

"I thought we could start looking at some magic," he told her after a while, once her eating had slowed down.

Ilia paused her chewing; that was the last thing that she had been expecting. "What?" she asked.

Eragon nodded. "I still think you are impulsive and arrogant, but I believe that comes from a place of pain rather than anything else. In order to move forward, you've got to deal with these things, and that requires magic."

Instantly she grew angry; so he thought he knew her? "So you bring me here to tell me of my faults? To tell me you've read my mind and that my pain is not valid?"

Slowly, Eragon shook his head. "No, I have read nothing. Your defenses are too strong for idle reading. Pain has a way of seeping through the cracks, however, and manifesting in ways such as anger and defiance. It may be locked away in your mind, but it is written all over your actions."

Her anger only grew; she was absolutely seething. "You have no idea what I've been through," she snarled.

To his credit, Eragon was unfazed. Instead he held her gaze, his own steady and even. Without breaking it he held out his hand for her to take. "You are correct, which is why I would like you to show me."

It was not the answer she had been expecting, and Ilia was absolutely flabbergasted. It shocked her momentarily out of her anger, her mouth falling open in surprise. After a moment she got her wits, and initially was angry again but then recalled what Luan had said and done the night before. Closing her eyes she drew in a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself.

"Why should I trust you?" she asked him.

"Because you have no choice. Whatever secrets you think you're hiding, you're wrong. Your hatred for the Empire and everything in it is no secret to anyone. I've spoken to your comrades and they've told me of your behaviour and your actions. They speak of a person who has been scorned by people and systems. It's not perfect, I understand that. But you have to take my word for it when I say that it's better than it was." His hand had dropped momentarily; he had a feeling he knew where this was going to go.

Ilia did not like that he'd been able to read her so easily, despite the fact that he'd claimed not to have read her mind. "You don't know anything! You don't know what it's like to watch your family and everyone you've ever loved burn, to have everything taken from you. To have the soldiers from the Empire treat you like a whore and then toss you out on the streets to die in the gutter. You didn't have to watch as they were acquitted by the king himself for any wrong-doing, and then blame it on the Urgals. Almost an entire tribe of them were wiped out too." Hot, angry tears were streaming down her face now. It seemed he didn't have to read her mind to find out what had happened, and for a moment he did feel for her. Still, Eragon was prepared.

"No, but I watched my father die before I even knew he was my father. The man I thought was my father the first time, who raised me, was slaughtered after I found Saphira's egg. Then I thought I was the son of Morzan, dragon rider of the Forsworn. I have lost three fathers. I have lost everything and everyone that I love. They are gone now, as I have outlived them all. Do not tell me that I know nothing of the pain you are feeling, because I have experienced it for myself," he told her. This time he did not let her choose and reached forward to grab her hand, forcing his mind on hers in the process.

At first Ilia threw her defenses up, but she realised that he was not attacking. Instead he was pulling her into his own mind, showing her the memories of the things he had just spoken about. Ilia found herself being dragged through memory after memory; of villages burned down, of soldiers struck down in battle. Men he'd looked up to and loved slain before him. The pain at his own failures and brash decisions, and the pain caused by his lack of understanding as a dragon rider and what it truly meant. She watched as he experienced the pain of losing his teacher, of the battles that ensued, and the eventual pain of leaving everything he knew behind.

The onslaught left her breathing heavily, her mind spinning. There was silence as Eragon let her go, her mind finally stopping the spinning that it had started.

"You are not the only one who has experienced pain and loss," he told her, though his voice was gentle as he spoke to her this time.

"What happened to you was an injustice. Those men should have been held accountable, and your family should still be alive. But you cannot live in the past, because it is affecting your future. You have potential to be one of the strongest riders I have ever seen, but your pain is holding you back. When you are ready to accept the fact that you cannot move forward until you let the past go, I cannot train you. Come back when you are ready, and we will begin."

For a few more moments Ilia sat in silence, her head bowed and her jaw clenched. Everything in her wanted to yell and scream at him, but she knew it wouldn't serve any purpose. He was right; she'd just felt his pain. She could no longer say that her injustice was bigger, because he'd had the fate of an entire empire on his shoulders and he had sacrificed much for it. Even as it ended, she could feel the grief in him that it was not the thing he had intended it to be, and she felt his genuine remorse for what had happened to her. It almost made it worse, because Ilia couldn't be angry at him for that. For some reason he'd made himself vulnerable instead of forcing that out of her, and she couldn't fault him for it.

Without saying anything Ilia rose and left, leaving only silence in her wake. She marched back to the barracks and onto the bed, completely spent from the experience.

Eragon himself flopped backwards onto the cushions he was seated on, his jaw clenching. A short, bitter laugh escaped him at the irony of it all; the very thing he was telling her not to do was the very thing that he had spent so long getting control over. While he did not let his past define him, he also had chosen to feel very little at all. It had been a last resort, opening himself up to her like that, though he had kept enough of himself reserved to keep himself safe. It had almost been too much, however, but he'd stopped in time. He'd stopped before he let her experience everything that he'd been feeling –all the things that he'd spent so long trying to keep at bay.

Calmer of the Storm: Yeah so it's literally been years. Not sure where this burst of inspiration came from, but there you have it. I have a few chapters written for way later in the story, so hopefully we get there.