Chapter 47: A Long Night
Roran woke up thoroughly miserable and cranky. His chest felt like it was on fire, a line of searing agony across his chest that flared up with each breath. The mincing, shallow breaths he took were insufficient to fill his lungs, yet pushing any further was agony. Gertrude had a stock of herbal remedies, one of which was decent at relieving pain, but all of it had gone to men worse off than him.
After shuffling about his allotted bit of floor in search of a comfortable position, he gave up trying to fall back to sleep as a bad job, shuffling to his feet. His gait was a slouching, hunched one, his hair obscuring most of his vision beyond the ground before his feet. Labored breathing and intermittent groans punctuated the nocturnal sounds of crickets. The smell of blood, sweat, and agony hung heavily in the small building. Casting about, Roran located his hammer propped against a wall. After a moment of deliberation, he decided to take it and to hell with bearing the weight.
One battle and I'm no better than a cripple, Roran thought sardonically, glancing at his chest. It was bare except for the white bandages wrapped around his upper body like an unfinished mummification. One foot in the grave. He hoped the wound didn't get infected. It would be a pathetic way to die, and ill thanks for Carvahall throwing their lives behind his freedom if he were to fall to such a mundane sickness.
The door to the house opened with a soft creak. A man- boy, really, rolled over on the ground at the noise. As quietly as he could, Roran slipped through and shut it behind him. The cool summer air filled his nose, and he could not think of a time where it smelled better. Lanterns cast dim light up and down the main alleys, propped up on barrels or piles of wood, or sat in windowsills. The village somehow seemed to exude an even more sleepy atmosphere than normal, despite the abnormal number of lights and men still up.
Low murmuring came from the square, where Morn, Gedric, and Delwin the farmer. They sat at a table together, talking lowly. The skitter of dice punctuated a brief moment of silence before Morn gave a good-natured groan. The leathermaker chuckled quietly, raking his arms over the rough table. Roran slouched over and pulled out an empty seat.
"Roran!" Gedric exclaimed quietly, a fond smile on his face. "We were just discussing your prowess in battle. Roran Stronghammer, I thought." He produced an empty wooden mug and pushed it to Morn, who rolled his eyes and poured it full of frothing beer.
"The Clever, I say. He only killed one with the hammer, after all."
"I wouldn't claim a title for something I am not excellent at," Roran mumbled, bringing the tankard to his lips and bending his neck back with a grimace. The ache in his chest seemed to soothe minutely as the drink ran down his throat.
"Not The Clever, then?" Delwin ribbed with a grin.
"Stronghammer has a nice ring to it," he admitted reluctantly. "I suppose I shall need to keep a tighter grip on it in the future."
The farmer had a rag tied around his left wrist. Delwin caught Roran's glance. "My own fault. I scraped it viciously on the top of a barricade trying to yank my spear back. Gertrude refused to bandage 'the result of my own idiocy,' and hoarded the rest." He eyed Roran's bare chest. "For you, it seems."
The farmer swept up the dice, two hewn cubes of wood with inked yet worn faces. "Gambling?" Roran frowned. Garrow had always drilled it into his and Eragon's heads what foolishness it was to indulge in that vice.
"Something to keep the blood racing," Gedric admitted. "We're not strictly on watch, per se, but we needs must be ready in case of an attack." He gestured to his spear, propped against the table, a band of red painted around the shaft just below the head. On the point, the faintest sheen of translucent black covered the point. "How's the wound?" He eyed the bandages.
Roran shrugged, immediately wincing and regretting it. "I'll live, so long as it doesn't get infected. Gertrude said probably weeks until it's just a scar, so we ought to hope we gave those soldiers a good reason to be wary."
Gedric nodded sympathetically. "We can hope."
They chatted for a while longer, during which Roran drank enough that Garrow would certainly have scolded him for it. By the time everything began to blur, so too, did the faces of the men he'd killed earlier. By the time Morn began to look concerned, Roran was too drunk to care. Every skitter of the dice was like a punch to the gut, taking him back to the gruesome cracking of the soldier's skull beneath his hammer.
The fierce pain of his wound soon became a dull ache, which vanished in the face of the ache in his head. The urge to piss took him. "Need t-" he fumbled through the words. "To piss." Delwin nodded solemnly.
The chair beneath him swayed unsteadily. Roran already dreaded how it would feel to stand by himself. Valiantly, he forced himself up, stumbling drunkenly before steady hands balanced him.
"I'll go with you," Gedric announced, offering his arm. The other, he used to scoop up his spear, very carefully keeping the tip away from him.
Gratefully, Roran allowed himself to be led down the streets. Away from the square, light dimmed, and the night air seemed colder. The darkened alley seemed to lean in on itself, like it was threatening to swallow them. What faint shadows the light cast flickered menacingly. He kept his head down to avoid exacerbating his wound. He decided he was going to cut his hair short to extend his field of view a few degrees.
Gedric's spear tapped on the ground with each stride, a reassuring noise. Roran could tell he wanted to speak, but didn't know what to say. So they walked in silence. His thoughts were stuck, repeatedly replaying the deaths of the men he'd killed. By force of will, he could think of something else, but the moment he stopped focusing, his mind's eye inevitably returned to scenes of gore.
"Just like last time," Gedric said finally, the ghost of a grin on his lips.
Roran grunted. "I'm in no shape to fight off the creepy strangers."
Gedric made a throaty noise of assent. "Let us hope they are courteous enough to let a man take a leak in peace."
The jittery, wrong way they moved came to mind. "I don't think they are." Roran shivered slightly, cursing himself for not bringing a shirt.
The tanner fell silent. His eyes fixated on the darkened mouths of each alleyway a dozen steps before they reached it. Roran thought he heard a faint rattling noise, but dismissed it as imagination. He kept seeing sinister shapes in the shadows. A humanoid form loomed unnaturally large against the wall, forcing his heart rate up. His head grew foggier, like he'd drunk twice as much as he had. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Narrowing his eyes, he glared at the apparition. It melted into an odd formation of supplies.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, Roran's hand sought out the handle of his hammer. He surveyed his surroundings. Ahead, a suspiciously shaped silhouette loomed. Forcing himself to calm down, he deliberately relinquished his hammer, nerves stretched painfully taut. I'm jumping at shadows, he assured himself. Overhead, two birds circled eerily, indistinct black shapes in the night sky.
The figure did not shrink or change at his approach, instead growing clearer.
"Over a dozssen yearss, I have hunted for the King," it hissed, rattling and sibilant. "You are the firsst to sstow hiss weapon at my approach." Ann uncomfortable chittering noise emanatied from deep in the thing's chest. With a start, Roran realized it was laughing.
Beside him, Gedric had likewise stiffened, petrified by supernatural terror. His spear was leveled at the creature, yet the tip bobbed in unsteady circles like his grip was failing. Roran went to grab his hammer, clumsy fingers missing twice before he managed to arrange his hand on the haft.
"You have had your fun," the thing whispered. "It'sss over. Come with usss, and we sshall leave your friendss alone. Ressisst, and Carvahall sshall exisst only in memoriess."
His eyes flicked to Gedric. By sheer force of will, Roran managed to draw his hammer. "I would know the name of the- thing I shall kill. Name yourself!"
It chittered, a shiny black beak loomed out from under its shadowed cowl, clicking together in a gruesome facsimile of laughter. "How bold of you, Sstronghammer." A slithering sound came from the monster. It produced a thin sword from its cloak. "We have no namess, for we do not need them. We are known as the Ra'zac, the monsterss in your nightmaress, the dripping, vissceral horrors that creep in the dark. Fear uss, boy."
Roran gripped Gedric's arm and shook it, trying to snap the man out of his trance. As the Ra'zac raised his blade, he realized something. "Us. You said us," he accused.
The thing laughed, gesturing. Like the flapping of leather, a black shape flapped as it leapt off the roof above, a gleaming steel knife in its hand.
Shouting in alarm, he yanked Gedric's spear arm, using it like a handle to force the tip of the poisoned spear to point at the falling shape.
With a gurgle, the ambusher fell all the way down the spear, impaling itself in the chest and forcing Gedric's limp fingers to drop the weapon as it slid all the way down the shaft.
The sudden movement made the ground lurch unsteadily beneath him, reminding Roran uncomfortably that he was deep in his cups, and hardly in any shape to fight, besides. An inhuman screech emanated from the remaining Ra'zac, like two rough steel bars scraping each other. The sound elicited a shudder from Roran, grating his very bones.
"Die!" It screamed, advancing with inhuman speed, its black cloak flapping like leathery wings. Wielding aught but a hammer, Roran cursed himself for his choice of weapon. Unarmored, the sword was the most effective weapon against him, and he was not even wearing a shirt for protection.
He ducked under a wild swing, trying to knock the thing off its feet, but the Ra'zac proved to wily and too quick, even when enraged, to fall for it. It stamped on the back of his heel, drawing a pained cry from him. Roran collapsed to the ground, swinging his hammer backwards over his shoulder in a desperate hope to injure the Ra'zac.
A slimy hand caught his wrist, some chitinous shell covered in a foul liquid, its grip was like a vice. The Ra'zac stepped on his waist, wrenching up his arm and splitting open his chest wound beneath its bandage. Roran cried out.
With its other hand, the Ra'zac squeezed his neck, claws digging into the soft tissue at the hollow of his throat. "I cannot kill you, but you sshall beg for death before you are in the King'ss clutchess. And when he hearss you have sslain one of hiss favored sservantss, he sshall do worsse!" The thing folded him up in an agonizing hold, dragging him over the rough surface of the road, scraping against his bare chest.
Every struggle was met with a tightened grip, his hammer was on the ground and out of reach, and each step brought Roran closer to a darkened alleyway where he knew if he entered, he would never come back out.
The shouts of the villagers who had heard the scream grew closer, a rumbling of footsteps. Perhaps three paces from the alley, The Ra'zac cursed, ducking under the thwock of an arrow, racing past its head. It tried to shield itself with his body, but the awkward hold slowed it down. Lanterns grew closer, the shadow of Gedric leading them wielding a black-slimed spear.
Cursing foully in some unnatural language, the Ra'zac screamed once more in fury before slashing its knife brutally against Roran's achilles tendons. "Run, Sstronghammer," it mocked, before vanishing into the night in a whirl of black.
Overhead, the birds let out a scream a dozen times louder than the Ra'zac. Roran clapped his hands over his ears and slackened his jaw, shuddering at the sound, the sensation of his clenched teeth vibrating. One dove, growing bigger and bigger until it was the size of a dragon, blotting out the dim crescent moon. Heart pounding, Roran threw his arm in front of himself, futilely warding the beast away from himself.
An instant before it might have snatched him up like an eagle with a fish, the thing shot down into the alleyway the Ra'zac had disappeared from, flapping its rotten batlike wings, before it disappeared, blending in with the night. Clutched in its talons was a humanoid shape, screeching its defiance once more.
Perhaps it was exhaustion or stress, but that night on the beach, Harry drifted into a deep enough slumber that his awareness was submerged entirely, and he was unable to feel Arya's warmth at his side. For the first time since his transformation, Harry found himself gripped by a dream.
It was not a pleasant one. It started with disjointed, unrelated images and sounds, a series of slides whirling past too fast to be caught. For the rest of the night, Harry's mind treated him to a reel of all the mortal danger, every battle he'd experienced, and every life he'd taken since he and Arya left the Spine.
While the sensations were dreamlike and intangible, the emotions which accompanied the memories were intensified tenfold. The sickly sweet stench of Seithr oil filled his nostrils, his body locked rigid with fear, Garrow's horrifically mutilated body at his feet. When dream-Harry lifted his wand to mercy-kill the farmer, it was not his own fingers which gripped his wand but long, pale, spidery ones.
"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort's voice issued from his mouth. Before his eyes, Garrow's tortured visage seemed to shift, flickering between Cedric's surprised face, Dumbledore's calm acceptance, his mother's tear-streaked desperation, before the green jet of light struck his own face, resolutely set, wearing the same clothes he had been in the Forbidden Forest.
The curse's acidic glare washed the farmhouse away, and when it dimmed, Harry stood in the center of Yazuac's square, empty of everyone but himself. A claymore hung limply from his hands, too white to be his own. Its blade dripped with blood, crimson as the hair that fell over his shoulders. Scattered around the square were bodies. The same pile as before, surrounded by betrayed looks etched onto the features of his friends; Brom, Eragon, and Arya. Saphira's headless body slumped against an alley, her head on the cobbles below, its jaw open and spilling a fluid that smelled like petrol. The speared bodies opened rotting eyes, glaring accusitorily at him. Harry noticed with a start, that he was laughing madly.
You did this, they said to him, the words clear despite none voicing them.
"No, I didn't," he denied frantically.
Murderer, they chanted. The mountain of corpses disassembled, encircling him and bearing down upon him. Rotting, slimy hands tugged at him everywhere. The last thing he saw was the infant's rotting face, the spear still protruding from its tiny chest. It brought the tip to his eye, outstretched its tiny limbs, and hugged his skull, sending his vision to blackness.
He found himself back beneath Farthen Dur, watching his own body slaughter Urgals by the hundreds, Urgals he had once called friends. His bow grew slick with dark blood beneath his fingers, the string stained. Amidst the roiling mass of fighters, a black robed figure stood undisturbed, hooded with its head bowed, cowl obscuring its identity. A chilling laugh came from the man, terrifyingly familiar.
"Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort said mirthfully, without deliberate volume. The clamor of battle fell away. "How far you've fallen." Crimson eyes bored into him, a faint smirk on his pale, thin lips, just as Harry pronounced a word of death. Several dozen Urgals collapsed instantly, their limbs sprawled unnaturally, yellow eyes glassy and devoid of intelligence.
The fighters were swept away in a rush of black smoke, and only Voldemort remained, cocking his head. A petrifying, freezing fear locked Harry in place, mere feet apart. "Why did you kill me? You are no better."
The words echoed off the cavernous stone room, silent but for the two of them. I don't torture people! Harry wanted to scream, but Durza's image swam up to meet him, writhing in agony beneath his wand. I don't murder people who annoy me! The bodies of Galbatorix's guards turned to mist under his wand. I don't kill children, Harry thought frantically. The girl he'd split in half trying to kill Durza glared at him accusatory, wearing a pink dress and pigtails, her eyes swimming with tears.
"You are remarkably similar," Dumbledore was saying, "Both brilliant young boys, orphans, parselmouths, murderers."
I didn't mean it! Harry wanted to shout.
"You've got to mean it, Potter!" Bellatrix cackled, completely unhinged, her violet eyes gleaming with madness. The echoes bounced off the stone walls, morphing from Farthen Dur into the glossy black-blue bricks of the Department of Mysteries. Lestrange skipped towards him, grasping his chin, digging the point of her black, pointed nail under his chin. She bowed her head, her black hair obscuring her face. Then she lifted it with a scabby, blackened hand, revealing the dread face of a dementor, its face empty except for one horrible, blackened mouth, descending towards him. Its breath rattled, chilling him to the bone. The dark maw filled his vision, its hands wrenching his jaw ever closer.
He woke with a start, flinging himself off the beach towel, scrabbling for his wand. It flew from where his swimming trunks piled together by the edge of the grass, spell-less, unprompted except by his need. His heart raced, his body flushed with uncomfortable heat. He breathed heavily, taking in desperate lungfuls of air. Nothing. The beach was silent except for the endless thunder of crashing waves.
Arya came to a crouch moments later, glancing at Harry warily. "What happened?" she asked sleepily. "Are we under attack?"
"Bad dream," he said shortly. He summoned his swimming trunks with a flick, stepping into them and tugging them on.
"Where are you going?" She wondered softly, sympathetically.
"Just to the top of the hill," he gestured, pointing where he'd suggested building a house yesterday. "I've had enough sleep."
"Fine," she said, almost rasping. Arya sagged back onto the beach towel, closing her eyes wearily. "I'm going to get some more sleep. The dragons will keep watch." Harry conjured a blanket and tossed it over her silently before trudging off up the hillside.
The night air had cooled off since the sunset, so he produced and wrapped another blanket around himself. The sand changed to ratty grass and coarse dirt underfoot, before transitioning to loamy earth and thick grass. The hillside was steep enough that human thighs would have been burning by the time he crested. As it was, Harry still felt torpidity hang off him like a heavy cloak. Approaching the edge of the cliff, the image of a plastic lawn chair flowed from his mind through his wand, becoming realized in the physical world. Wrapping his blanket about himself, he took a seat and relaxed into it.
The tapestry of stars was magnificent, so much greater than even Scotland's sky. Harry felt a stab of guilt at the view. He hadn't called any of his family for months, hadn't visited since his arrival in Ellesmera. His birthday had come and gone unremarked. The people of Alagaesia lived harsh lives, tough enough that they couldn't afford to waste what little they had on frivolous parties.
Harry thought that he must have felt too guilty to face them, even if he did not consciously feel it. When had he become the sort of person who could kill hundreds without feeling? Intellectually, he could easily justify everyone he'd killed as self-defense, unavoidable in the course of a righteous cause, or someone else's fault. It just didn't affect how he felt. Concern gnawed at him as he propped up his feet on a conjured ottoman. He had grown up a lot since arriving in Alagaesia, in mind if not in body, and he understood his unhealthy habit of self-flagellation, deserved or not. He wondered if Arya ever felt something similar, a profound guilt gnawing at her conscience.
Faint moonlight glimmered off the waves like spots of quicksilver floating on the surface. It felt unfair, living on a continent so raw, wild, and beautiful, when its inhabitants behaved in such ugly ways. He supposed that was what wild meant, though. Uncivilized.
His thoughts meandered. Harry considered what he would do after Galbatorix's defeat. Building a University had been his instinct. He knew he would enjoy it, he loved teaching. And it was a great way of improving Alagaesia; introducing new technologies and magic to modernize their society. The idea of building a university out on the east coast was an attractive one. Perhaps he could even build a railroad across the salt flats. Merlin knew it would be easy to do. But something about it felt like he was washing his hands of humanity. He had not gotten the chance to do it back home for he had left before it began, but Harry knew reconstruction was just as important as the war itself. And he wanted to be involved.
A shooting star streaked by, some debris burning up as it fell through the atmosphere. Harry tracked it with his eyes until it faded on the horizon. The thought of returning to Ellesmera was somewhat unpleasant. It was idyllic, but unchanging. Out here where the waves crashed against the cliffs, every step they took was a first. He and Arya were the first to ever set foot anywhere they went. The land was untamed, unmarred by petty disputes and violent conflicts. The Time Chamber he wanted to build soured in his mind. The idea of cutting himself off from everyone for days if not weeks at a time suddenly felt uncomfortable. He would do it, but he would cherish the time he spent with Arya ever more, rare that it would be.
"Hey." Arya said softly from behind him. Wordlessly, Harry drew her a chair.
"Do you ever have nightmares?" he wondered. She dropped into the chair, drawing the egg out of a satchel and placing it in her lap. She left the bag behind the chair.
Arya kept silent for a lengthy stretch, gazing out at the night sea. Her hands were preoccupied by the large green dragon egg, rubbing at its facets like petting a child. "I have been a fool," she said finally. "You ask for answers I should have given back in Yazuac, perhaps even Carvahall. The truth is, elves rarely dream, except in times of the greatest fatigue." She rolled her head on the backrest, coming to gaze at him, a wry smile on her lips. "I suppose yesterday certainly qualified"
Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. "Did I ever tell you that Garrow was the first person I've ever killed?"
"You did not," Arya said softly.
"I feel like my morals are eroded here. Back home, I could never even consider killing anyone, except perhaps Voldemort. Why am I so ready to abandon that restraint?"
She rubbed the egg's green facets idly. "Perhaps it is different in your world, but here, you must fight for your cause. A missed harvest, a broken tool, a fractured bone, these things often mean death for humans. Life in Alagaesia is cheap under Galbatorix's reign. During the Riders' Era, it was better, but-" she spread her hands helplessly. "It seems humanity is destined to toil under harsh life. A farmer may become a killer to see his family fed instead of dead."
"I know the necessity of it," Harry snapped. "I'm scared of how easy it was for me to adapt."
"I cannot answer that," said Arya patiently. "Everyone deals with death differently. I remember my first kills. Urgals who attacked my companions and I while ferrying Saphira's egg. They wished to win honor and glory for themselves," she wrinkled her nose. "I agonized over my actions for weeks, avoiding sleep for the chance of reliving the event, obsessing over it for every waking hour. Had Faolin not given me counsel then, I might have driven myself mad. This is what he told me: 'It's you or them. They chose to attack, and you can never be at fault for defending yourself.'"
Harry slouched further down, hunching his shoulders minutely. "The Urgals didn't choose to attack Farthen Dur." He picked up a pebble, winging it over the cliff and into the crashing mist.
"Aye, they didn't," Arya agreed sadly. "But if you hadn't fought, the dwarves would be overrun, the Varden put to the sword, and a great opponent of the Mad King destroyed. You or them, Harry. You did the best anyone possibly could in that situation, saved countless lives and won a great ally to the Varden at once. We make the best choice we can, even if it's just the least terrible." Reaching into her bag, Arya drew out a flask of faelnirv. She unscrewed it and passed it to him. Reaching back in, she produced another for herself.
"I don't mean to suggest you forget it, merely make peace with it. Now, let us drink and make merry. Tomorrow, we shall head back to Ellesmera, and you may look forward to the many feasts that will be thrown in our favor." She grinned impishly, downing a deep gulp of the liquor. She shivered at the sensation of the strong drink, tingling on its way down her throat. Harry found his eyes drawn to her body at the motion. Arya had put her bikini back on, yet he found her perhaps more beautiful than clad in nothing at all.
With some effort, Harry cleared his melancholy away, boxing it up for another evening, and upended the bottle over his mouth. The faelnirv tasted powerful and fruity. He lamented that he had never gotten much experience with Earth's alcohol, so he had little to compare it to. What other drinks he had tried from Alagaesia, the elvish drink surpassed by miles. Dwarves favored bitter beers and meads, and the Urgals' Grog was a dual-purpose drink and paint stripper.
"Dance with me." Arya's eyes sparkled with eagerness, tugging him out of his chair and back from the cliff, onto the soft grass. Harry felt awkward, dancing without music, until Arya began to sing. Despite the flat sound of a single singer without instruments, her melodic voice managed to fill the hilltop, a fast-paced folk song, though its lyrics were in English instead of the nordic common tongue. Harry was no great dancer, but Arya had enough enthusiasm for both of them, and soon he was enjoying himself. It was certainly different than rocking to the Weird Sisters at the Yule Ball, but he found that he did not care. The exertion banished any remaining melancholy. Harry thought that even if he was making a fool of himself, it would be worth it to see Arya in his arms, emerald eyes alight with joy.
Whenever he paused to catch his breath, they would drink more faelnirv, their movements growing erratic and their balance waning. Arya became more free with her laughter, more forward and affectionate. She gripped his hands tightly, spinning them around faster and faster, her hair fanning out behind her, lit by starlight. They grew dizzier and dizzier, collapsing laughing, sprawled in the grass.
They rested there for a minute, chests heaving, laughing between gasps of air.
"I am glad to be alive." Arya admitted, reaching out and ruffling Harry's hair.
"Me too," he agreed.
Eragon gazed upon the form of a bleached white raven so large it blotted out the sky. He stood on top of Oromis's table, which was covered in seed cakes. He saw the food squelch between his bare toes, yet did not feel it. He glanced up at Blagden, and when he looked back down, he was miles from the ground. Looking back up, the raven had shrunk to its normal size, carrying him through the sky by its tiny claws. It twisted its beak to look at him, opened its mouth and let loose a ferocious knocking sound.
Eragon felt vaguely aware of another set of limbs moving restlessly, tangled in bedsheets. He consciously relaxed them, trying to keep his eyes on Blagden's gaping beak, which continued to blast at him the sound of someone rapping sharply on wood. Inexorably, reality slipped away from the rider, and he was returned to darkness and the sensation of being tangled in Vrael's sheets, on top of Vrael's bed, next to Saphira.
The infernal knocking sound came from the root of Vrael's home again, louder than it had any right to be. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Eragon prodded at Saphira's mind through their connection. He caught snippets of her dreams, soaring through a cloudless sky pursuing a rabbit the size of a horse, all the colors cast with a blue tint.
Extending his mind down to the base of the treehouse, Eragon found the familiar shields that marked Niduen. He knocked more politely than he was inclined to on her shields. A moment later, Niduen allowed his presence to the surface of her mind. "I'm coming. Saphira is asleep. Do you need her, too?"
Eragon was unashamed to admit he enjoyed a bit of schadenfreude at the twinge of nervousness he felt from the elf woman. "There was a great disturbance in Uru'baen, and Shruikan has reportedly been slain. Islanzadi wishes your presence, and Saphira's if she wills it. Would you ask her if she is interested?"
Grumbling under his breath, he tugged on his pants and pulled a tunic over himself, fastening it only enough to stay on loosely. Glancing through the doorway of the washroom at the mirror, he decided that he looked entirely unkempt and rather shaggy. Nodding crankily to himself, Eragon decided to be very unsubtle about how little he appreciated being woken during the rare time he slept.
"Saphira," he prodded gently. "Shruikan was slain hours ago. Islanzadi wants to see us, but worded her request so you may decline. Do you want to come?"
The great dragon's baleful mental eye turned on Eragon. "No." She slipped back into unconsciousness.
"It's a no," Eragon reported, trudging out from the stairs. Niduen, as always, looked unfairly immaculate for all that it was- "Tempus-" five in the morning. He stuffed his wand into his breeches, determined to stay grumpy in the face of the most radiant woman he'd ever seen.
"We are headed to Tialdari Hall." Niduen hadn't batted an eye at his appearance. Eragon rolled his eyes. It was a gesture from Harry that he'd become fond of.
The elvish center of government was dimmer than normal, else Eragon might have mistaken it for daytime. Time in Ellesmera was odd, slipping through his fingers like fine sand, yet with few indications of its passing. The lighting and coloring of the forest made it feel like an eternal summer sunset, golden light and verdant green leaves. Despite having arrived months ago, Eragon thought he could have been here for weeks or centuries.
Niduen strode with haste through the leafy halls, taking turns with confidence that belied her familiarity with the capitol. Approaching a generic door, she raised her hand and knocked firmly. The portal swung open almost immediately. "Enter," The queen's voice called.
Eragon was surprised at the mundanity of the office. The architecture was beautiful, but no more so than any other part of Tialdari Hall. A trio of fairths were propped up on a desk over a scrying pool to one side, depicting elves he guessed to be Evandar and Arya, along with a pair of unfamiliar elves he supposed were Islanzadi's parents. What an odd notion, he reflected. Islanzadi gave off the timeless impression that she had always existed, and would endure for the rest of eternity, unchanging.
Sitting at her desk, the queen was without her royal raiment, sat forwards on a simple chair, leaning over a report. Opposite her, Oromis and Lord Dathedr were in discussion over a blank mirror.
"-will be unable to make contact for a while now. Suspicions must be high, and Galbatorix is certainly looking to retaliate. We shall have to make do with what we know now, until- additional sources fill us in," Dathedr was saying.
"We may have another opinion now," Oromis agreed. "Eragon-vodhr." He twisted his fingers over his lips in greeting.
"Oromis-elda."
"Is Saphira present?"
"No, Ebrithil." Eragon felt like he had disappointed his teacher somehow. "I roused her and mentioned Shruikan's demise to her, but she was not interested, and wishes to be filled in later."
The wizened rider nodded sagely. "Glaedr expressed similar sentiments. Dragons tend to care little for the minutiae of human affairs. To the heart of the issue: Some time before noon yesterday, There was a great disturbance in Uru'baen. First was a series of earthquakes, proceeded by Shruikan rather publicly blasting through the roof of the citadel, bearing the Mad King into the sky in pursuit of two unidentified small flying masses. Sound familiar?" He remarked dryly.
Fear gripped Eragon's heart in a cold vice. They were Harry and Arya, without doubt. "What happened?" he pressed. Dathedr smiled coldly.
"It seems fortune smiled upon them greatly, for the next thing the spy reports is an inhuman scream of rage that shattered windows and shook the very walls of Uru'baen. A flash of lightning that turned the sky black, and then Shruikan's corpse crashed into the ground, further damaging the citadel. We are unsure if they succumbed to the King's attack, but it seems unlikely given another scream was heard hours later. We only received news of this twenty minutes past, so we may be assured it is fairly accurate and up to date."
"What do you think happened?"
"That is what we called you here for," Islanzadi spoke up. She swept the papers into a file and slid it across the desk to him. She made a sort of inward raking gesture, and a third chair slid across the floor for him. Oromis shot her an exasperated look which she ignored. "Aside from my daughter, you have seen more of Harry than anyone alive, and have the best idea of his abilities, his behavior. Besides this, Shruikan's death is of great personal relevance to Saphira and yourself. I would like to know; what do you suppose was their reason for visiting the citadel, and do you think they escaped?"
Eragon sat in the offered chair, deep in thought. Dathedr looked slightly disgruntled at his barely-decent state of dress against the fine red velvet cushions. "Harry is very impulsive. If he thinks he has a good idea, he'll just do it. If we're lucky, he runs it by Arya, who catches most of his idiocy before it can spill into the world. Since there were two brooms, he probably brought Arya, who must have agreed, so she had to have thought the risk worth whatever they were doing."
"Unless he rescued someone," Oromis suggested. "The brooms may also fit two." Dathedr studied Eragon's face calculatingly.
"Who would he want to take, and who would go with him willingly?"
"Not necessarily willingly," Oromis cut in. "The Imperius curse." He drummed his fingers on Naegling's hilt, the citrine gem flashing.
"Ah," Dathedr hummed, smiling craftily. "Does this sound right, Eragon-vodhr? Harry impulsively suggests robbing Galbatorix's citadel on a whim, and produces some credible method that actually could work. Arya, whose poorly-hidden deepest desire is to be a rider, actually agrees. Perhaps Harry is drawn by the promise of endless gold, but Arya is sure to keep him focused on the eggs-"
"He wouldn't be." Eragon interjected. "After gold. He can turn lead into gold, and make his own jewels."
"My daughter is more sensible than that."
Lord Dathedr hummed. "Perhaps the motivations were more petty. Spite." Eragon snorted. Despite his irritation at Dathedr's poor impression of the wizard, he had to admit the elf was probably right. The elf continued. "They steal into the world's most secure building, sneak into its innermost sanctum, and take the eggs. But something else catches their eye, else they likely would have made a clean getaway. What was it?"
Dathedr counted off on his fingers. "Gold and riches: unlikely. Rider swords, lost artifacts, rare books: perhaps. Valuable intelligence on the Empire: perhaps. I think it is most likely though, taken with the second broom, that they decided to rescue someone. Who could be so important as to interrupt a dragon-egg stealing mission? Who else, but a human one of the eggs hatched for."
The queen drew a sharp breath. "Truly?"
"I would summon Saervie and Irnstead to be sure, but what else could it be?"
"What else, indeed," Oromis remarked cryptically. He kept silent while Islanzadi closed her eyes briefly to send a runner for the elves in question. When she looked back up, he steepled his fingers. "I think perhaps there is one more explanation for our culprits' near apprehension. It is a subject Arya knows of, that I have been dancing around with regards to him and Eragon." He nodded at him.
The queen went rigid. "Surely she would not be so foolish."
"I believe her compassion could override her common sense, in this particular case," Oromis disagreed.
"They would be guarded so stringently as to be impossible to steal." Dathedr disagreed. "If Galbatorix ever let them off his person. Laminae's spatial warping spell eliminates the need to store them anywhere else."
"Perhaps," Oromis mused, "they were after the unbound ones."
"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer," Islanzadi countered.
"I think that within arm's reach at all times is stretching the saying."
"What are you all trying to avoid telling me?" Eragon demanded frustratedly.
Islanzadi's gaze seemed to bore into him, and he realized with a burst of embarrassment, that he had just demanded answers from a queen. "I will defer to you Oromis. It is not our secret to tell."
Oromis drummed his fingers against the dark wood of Islanzadi's desk. "It is not so urgent that it could not wait for Glaedr to tell you. But in vague terms, I believe giving Eragon the general idea would be acceptable, especially since if they were successful, the secret will last no longer than the time it takes for Harry and Arya to return with their rescues." He turned to face him.
"Broadly speaking, we are wondering if Arya spurred Harry to steal the source of Galbatorix's power."
Eragon was stunned. The idea was almost too big to comprehend. Galbatorix had always hung over his neck like an immovable sword of Damocles, the knowledge that he would have to confront a man who had slain so many riders far more experienced and powerful than himself, who wielded power beyond anything he could hope to command, the task that laid ahead had seemed daunting."
"You can see why we have doubts that they managed it," Dathedr interjected wryly.
Oromis sighed. "Galbatorix blew up his own citadel in pursuit of this. What else could it be but eggs, riders, or Eldunari?"
Eldunari. Eragon now had a name to put to the mysterious source of Galbatorix's power, so terrible and so secret that the elves would keep it secret above their mortal enemy, above their tool to remove the Mad King from his throne.
"Let us see what Saervie and Irnstead reveal," Dathedr counseled. "Open." The door to Islanzadi's office swung silently ajar, admitting a pair of elves, as different as two members of a species could be. Irnstead was cast from the same mold as Lord Dathedr, wearing neat, tailored, dignified clothing, his white hair cut short, walking as stiffly as any nobleman might. Beside him, Saervie's features were like none Eragon had beheld before. Her skin was translucent, revealing networks of red and green veins and arteries snaking across her form. She had no hair, her head covered instead with vertical ridges that ran from where her hairline might have been to below her neck, disappearing into a simple gown. Her irises were a luminous purple, and her cheeks were sunken and hollow. To Eragon, she had a haunting, aquatic sort of beauty.
"You called for us, your Majesty?" Saervie rasped.
"Aye. I thank you for your haste," Islanzadi said gratefully. She rose from behind her desk and led them to the scrying bowl. "Recent events have given me reason to believe the eggs have moved. If you would?" She extended a slim arm to the placid pool of water.
"Of course," Irnstead said smoothly. After a bare moment of hesitation, he spoke. "Dream stare." The reflection of the leafy ceiling warped, becoming a fathomless black. After a moment, the image faded. "Apologies, it is still blocked from my sight."
"No matter," Islanzadi dismissed with a fleeting look of disappointment. "Saervie?"
The inhuman elf-woman approached with an awkward, almost waddling gait. "Dream stare," she commanded harshly, staring intensely at the pool. Immediately, the surface resolved into the image of a green dragon egg, resting on a white, featureless surface between two shrouded humanoid forms.
The ridges of Saervie's brows shifted inwards in focus, the elf manipulating the image. The sprawled figures shrank rapidly, as if the scrying bowl was falling into the sky.
The first thing to enter the frame of the bowl was a cliff over a raging ocean spray. Further out, the ground fell away to a beachfront, which appeared eerily, formless white. Peculiarly, the waves were visible, though colored oddly for reflecting the flat white sand even beneath the water. On the shore, a pair of striped beach towels, laid side-by-side, depressed into the sand in the shape of two bodies. They were rumpled and sandy, as if their occupants had been squirming restlessly atop them. Eragon blushed when he made the connection that Harry and Arya probably had been.
When Saervie peered further out, Eragon caught sight of seventeen queerly-arranged glowing gems, the lighting in their center brightening and dimming like a heartbeat. He glanced up at Oromis curiously, only to see that he wore an enraptured smile, as if someone had announced the continued existence of the rider order with their own healthy, happy dragons. Colored light flashed off the facets of each gemstone in time, winking off each other and painting the beach towels with their verdant hues.
"Akiongr, and Iorovirvas," Saervie declared, pointing at two vibrantly colored gems in turn. "I am sure. No other that I have seen were such hues." She indicated a deep purple one, tapping the surface of the scrying pool, sending a circular ripple out from it. The ripple glanced off the curved edge of the bowl before dissipating. "That one may be Heigaelni or Ede."
"It is Ede," Oromis cut in. "Heigaelni's Eldunari was known to have been shattered on Vroengard." A fleeting expression of grief flitted over the elf's fish-like features.
"I did not know."
The old rider pushed forwards. "May I? I have seen more, perhaps there are some you cannot see?"
Saervie made a cutting gesture in the air and backed away miserably. "Draumr kopa," Oromis whispered. The beach burst into vibrant color, several long rows of Eldunari each shining in their own glorious color.
"So many," Islanzadi whispered in awe.
"Would that they were hiding after committing the single largest transgression upon the Mad King since Brom," Dathedr commented idly.
"They are far, far from here," Saervie rasped. "I have been up and down the entirety of Alagaesia's coastline, from the southernmost point of Surda to the shore opposite Vroengard. If I could not see the sand, they would be far beyond the King's reach."
Oromis hummed, muttering the modification to the scrying spell which enabled sound. The beach was silent but for the crashing surf. "I would bet quite a lot that the obscured figures are Harry and Arya. They warded against themselves being scried, but neglected to extend the protection to the egg."
"Is that a mistake?" Eragon wondered.
The old rider smiled savagely. "They are beyond his reach. If Galbatorix does scry the egg–and I can't imagine he won't–then all he can do is rage in impotence."
Arya stroked the cool facets of the egg longingly. Glancing surreptitiously at Harry, she confirmed he was stargazing, rather than watching her entertain her impossible fantasy. Drunkenness brought out her baser instincts, her simple longings, and chiseled away at her rigid inhibitions.
She wrapped her arms around the egg, embracing it, feeling the smooth surface against her bare clavicle, rubbing her cheek against the top. Even if you never hatch for me, I will still love and care for you, she thought. No harm will come to you. I swear it, she swore. Though the oath was in her mind, she would hold herself to it no less strictly than had she spoken it in the Ancient Language.
She stared through the gemlike surface, imagining what it might be like if it hatched, how it might crack under the infant dragon's sharp teeth and claws. It would start with a crack. Arya could imagine it so vividly she could hear it, the egg would move within her arms…
Tap. Tap.
Arya's eyes widened in desperate hope. She relinquished the egg, shoving Harry's shoulder. "Look!"
Tap. Tap tap.
White lines spiderwebbed from a spot on the upper half of the egg, spreading with each quiet crack. Harry's lips stretched into a wide smile. "No. Way."
Tap. Crack.
A little section of the egg fell inward, revealing a little green snout, poking at the edges of the hole, widening it with its tiny teeth and foreleg talons. Tiny little puffs of air came from its nostrils, its first breaths of air. Arya held her breath, watching the dragonling push through the eggshell, its delicate light green wings like membranes, dragging a trail of yolk with it. It began to clean itself off, squirming on the grass to rub off the slime, licking itself clean.
She dared not touch it. The little beast paid the two of them no mind, grooming itself as best it could, curling its tiny neck to reach every slimed part of itself. It was adorable. The size of a cat, the baby dragon had lanky limbs and big, innocent green eyes. A row of tiny spikes ran from the base of its skull down to the tip of its long tail, swishing in the grass, the same color as the terrain. So enraptured was Arya, she was completely oblivious to the gradual brightening of the horizon.
Several minutes passed, unbearably tense. Arya would not reach out to the dragonling, not unless it indicated it had hatched for her. Though she was loath to entertain the notion, it was possible the dragon hatched for Harry. She would never forgive herself if she stole a dragon from him, would not take the chance. It was selfish, but Arya desperately hoped it had chosen her.
The dragon finally lifted its head, staring at each of them in turn, raising its nose, sniffing. She held her breath. It stared at her as if weighing her soul. Then it dragged itself through the grass towards her. Shakily, she offered her palm to the baby, letting it come to her. She closed her eyes.
A surge of icy power raced through her body, overwhelming her senses. It tingled and snapped, filling her with power, rewriting her very race. Blood roared in her ears, the taste of iron lingered on her tongue.
When it ended, Arya found herself sprawled on her back, the green dragon–her green dragon staring down at her, perched atop her chest, staring into her eyes. Breathlessly, she searched her mind, instantly locating the mental link she shared. The dragon was curious, thumping its tail on her belly. Dawn broke over the ocean, golden rays of sun shining off the dragon's snout, casting little spots of emerald light over her body. Bringing up her right hand, Arya examined her own palm in disbelief. An oval of silvery skin sat right in the middle, the Gedwey Ignasia undeniable proof that she, Arya Drottningu, was a dragon rider.
A grin crept across her face.
"Congratulations," Harry laughed. "Do you think it wants to meet the red one?"
As it turns out, the red dragon did. It was curious, poking and sniffing at the green one, but there was an undeniable air of melancholy about it. Harry had found it standing vigil at Murtagh's side, where he was laying in stasis. He wondered if the red dragon could tell its rider was alive, despite being frozen in time.
"I think I might have to run an errand today." said Harry.
"What for?" The grin on Arya's face seemed etched in place, unwavering. She had scarcely taken her eyes off the emerald dragon once since its hatching, except to place a bowl of meat in front of it.
"It's probably bad for us to leave Murtagh half dead in stasis because we want to finish our vacation. I thought I would take Islanzadi's scroll, the copy of Galbatorix's office, and any Eldunari who want to go to Ellesmera."
Arya paused. "You do not think I should come?"
Harry considered. "I guess if you want to. Someone has to go to Ellesmera today, and we can all go, but I thought maybe we could stay out here for a while. You could raise your dragon away from the conflict in Alagaesia. It can hunt in the ocean or the forest, learn to fly over the beach, away from politics and agendas."
He could tell Arya found the idea attractive. "What about our training?"
"I've got plenty to teach you still," Harry assured. "And if any of the Eldunari want to stay, they can teach us. I think Eragon could also use Oromis's undivided attention. It's disheartening to learn next to students much further ahead than you." Arya gazed at her baby dragon for a long minute before coming to a decision. She looked up.
"Until the Blood-Oath Celebration." Harry broke out into a smile.
"Perfect."
Angela was furious. Of all the stupid idiocy she had witnessed in her long, long life, she could not recall anything more blockheaded than what Eragon had done. In her hand, she held the tiny fingers of a girl who appeared no older than three, peering up at her with haunted violet eyes beneath a dark curtain of bangs.
"I just don't know what to do," the matron blubbered helplessly. "The kitchens won't hand out enough food for her, they can't imagine we eat even half as much as Elva does-"
"I shall sort it out," Angela interrupted. Hysteria was not a good look on the woman. Starvation had sunken her cheeks and eyes, giving her a manic look that Angela thought might be rather accurate. Her arms and face were covered in countless scratches and bite marks. It was surprising enough that there were women on the campaign at all, given humans' rather uncompromising opinions on gender roles. She supposed she had Nasuada's pragmatism to thank for that. Camp was smelly enough with people who knew how to wash clothes.
"Oh thank you! Gods bless-" Angela tuned the woman out again. Within her grasp, Elva's tiny fingers tightened into a clenched fist. The girl groaned, tugging violently against Angela's grip. Surprised, she released Elva's hand. The child shot off like a rocket, ducking beneath the tent flaps and racing into the night. Alarmed, Angela pursued her.
She caught glimpses of the child racing towards a wagon. A figure crouched near one of the wheels, hands on its hub. Angela was glad of her sharp eyes, else she would certainly have lost Elva in the night. The girl dove underneath the wagon and a moment later, the figure collapsed backwards with a shout of alarm that mingled with the aborted scream of a tiny girl. Horrified, Angela threw herself down on the dirt beneath the cart. "Garzhla!" she cried, illuminating the nightmarish scene.
Elva had forced her hand through the spokes of the wooden wheel. When the cart slipped forwards, the spokes had mangled her arm against the underside of the cart bed. The weight of the vehicle continued to force the spoke upwards, pinning Elva's shattered forearm against the floor. Her violet eyes were filled with anguish, yet she had bitten down on her lip so hard that blood was dripping down her chin.
On the opposite side of the cart, the man who had been fiddling with the wheel cursed. "Push it backwards!" Angela cried angrily. The man stood still in shock. "Idiot!" she cursed. Spurred into action the guy stammered out an apology and braced his back against the rear of the cart, heaving against it. Elva stared with deadened eyes, bracing her mangled arm with the other, carefully extracting it from the wheel.
An inch down from the elbow, Elva's tiny forearm hung at a skewed angle, tendons and bone protruding from a gaping wound covered in blood. Angela cursed. The injury was beyond her ability to heal with magic. She scooped the girl up and moved as swiftly as she could without jostling her, headed back to the tent.
"What happened?" The matron accused, staring at Elva's arm in horror. "You didn't stop her!"
"I didn't realize she was compelled to help," Angela snapped. "How did you figure it out," she accused.
The matron looked away. "I was boiling water for washing clothes and I was about to spill some on myself. Elva forced me away, and got most of her forearm burned. Du Vrangr Gata was able to heal her."
"Many thanks," a cynical, adultlike voice came from behind them spitefully. Angela produced an orange glowing poniard from somewhere and spun in alarm. Why was an unfamiliar woman in the tent?
Except there wasn't. Elva stared up at her with a cruel smirk. Her bangs were swept aside, revealing the mark of a rider on her forehead. "You speak?" She cast her mind back briefly. "You're no older than six months!" Angela narrowed her eyes, taking in the incongruous mature body Elva possessed, comparing it to her age. The child noticed, clasping her arm with her intact hand unbothered.
"Eragon's curse forces me to feel all the pain of those around me, and compels me to stop them, even if I must take their place." The manner of her discourse was chilling in its affability, as though Elva were merely commenting on the weather, instead of divulging the particulars of one of the cruelest curses Angela had ever seen. "I could not stop them as a baby, so I grew larger."
"Suppose you were in a place with no suffering. Would you be at peace?"
Elva laughed hauntingly. "There is no such place."
Angela scowled. "There are two such places. And if one does not take you, the other surely will, even if I have to beat it into those capricious ninnies." Digging through her bag, she pulled out a vial of liquid, a potion brewed directly from the wizard's books. "Drink. It will dull the pain in your arm."
The child sneered. "What good is a bandage to a man cleft in twain?" But she accepted the vial nonetheless, upending it greedily over her tiny mouth. A moment later, some tension leaked out of her shoulders.
"Ferula," Angela muttered, holding the arm in alignment and tapping her wound. Bandages wrapped around her bleeding arm. "I would splint this, but I suspect it is pointless when Harry will doubtlessly fix it the moment he lays eyes on you." She glanced at Elva. "I shall return in a moment. Sit tight." and twisted on the heel of her foot.
Angela cast her eyes about the salt flats where she had participated in a rather groundbreaking magical experiment. The surface was torn up as if churned and boiled, and no sign of anything remained behind. She wondered briefly why they might have left in such a hurry. Frowning, she twisted into the void, her destination, Nasuada's tent.
Upon dithering with the guards for an unbearable length of time (she was keenly aware of the danger Elva was in for every second she dallied), Angela simply shouted past them. "Nasuada! I need to use the scroll!"
Scuffling sounds came from inside the tent, punctuated by a yelp, and the sound of crashing glass. A disheveled handmaiden poked her head out of the tent. Angela beamed at her, looking past the glowering, burly guards barring her way. Farica, wasn't she?
"Lady Nasuada will see you," Farica said sourly.
"Excellent. It is a matter of some urgency."
"She will see you," the handmaiden repeated. "You do not need to convince me."
"Of course," she beamed cheerily, "I just thought I ought to impress upon you how important it is that you do not impede me," and swept past Farica, ducking under the halfhearted grabbing attempt the right-hand human guard made.
"How do you know about the scroll," Nasuada challenged, twirling the pair of slim jade rods between her long fingers. She stood just inside the tent's opening, rather obviously gripping some manner of knife behind her back.
"I was there when Harry enchanted it," Angela huffed. "Now, I really do need to contact him, and his little base of operations has been cleared out. I don't know where to find him, so I intend to ask him to pick me up."
"Cleared out?" Nasuada asked in alarm. She gave up any pretense of hiding the knife and placed the scroll on her bedside table, unrolling it and scanning its contents under the light of a lantern. In the opposite corner of the tent, Farica busied herself making a pot of tea.
Curious, Angela peered over the woman's shoulder. Something pinched her arm before she could get a good look. She glanced over her shoulder at Farica, who was staring at her with crossed arms and an unimpressed look. "I'm curious," Angela defended. "I want to know if a secret-keeper must defend their secret in the case of unintentional revelation."
"It's fine, Farica." Nasuada tilted the scroll towards the herbalist. It was a blank sheet of fine vellum. "Well?" Angela paused for a beat.
"I suppose I shall simply ask Harry for my own."
A small smile played about the Lady of the Varden's lips. "I'll let you make your case." Bending down, she whispered the secret into Angela's ear. She straightened up and dumped the knife on the table.
The contents of the secretive document were unimpressive, to say the least. A couple of lines exchanged by Hrothgar and Orrin, and an introduction Nasuada had wrote. Angela felt a pang of disappointment at the odious formality. The first messages would set the tone for the scrolls' use, and she had no desire to affix lengthy and dull titles to each message she might write. Especially pointless when each message was prefaced by a little circle with the sender's name in it.
Nasuada's was labeled Nasuada Ipogokaru. "I did not know you came from the line of Ishmallah the Spice King," Angela said in surprise.
"Indeed," the woman in question said dryly. "Ajihad carefully distanced us from the Wandering Tribes in an effort to stymy any efforts Galbatorix might have made in learning of his origin. Somehow, I am not surprised you are familiar with the legends."
"He was a bit of a lout," Angela confided. "No imagination at all. He was only successful because his father warred his entire time as chief, leaving the scepter to his son, and a much cowed slew of tribes. Of course, you don't get quite as great a legend for being a nasty warmonger. Also, he smelled."
Nasuada paused for a moment before rallying. "Have at it." She stuck a quill into her hand and sat back in her creaky bed.
Grumbling, Angela scribbled out a hasty note.
Found the victim of Eragon's 'blessing.' We're headed to the salt flats. Pick us up as soon as possible. -Angela
"Right." Angela rolled to her feet and swanned across the tent, swiping her cup of tea from Farica and swigging the whole thing in one go, her face perfectly straight as she swallowed the scalding liquid. "I might be gone for a few days, depending on how busy Harry is. Toodles!"
Interlude: A Bird's Life
Hedwig perched upon one of the many oversized tree branches overlooking the steep rocky crags where her human trained. It had been a week since the big human-feeding-frenzy when he had arrived, and Harry had not called on her once. That was okay, she thought. After all, there were often weeks at Hogwarts where her servant had been unable to tend to her for a week. He was busy often then, and she could see that he was even busier now.
Her fiery plumage wilted a little, the white flames smoldering down to embers. She could wait. The hunting was good in the forest, the vermin too stupid to bother running when she dove at them.
The third week, Hedwig began to grow lonely. She knew that if her human needed something delivered, he would call upon her. A tenuous bond linked the two of them, and she could always hear him call, no matter how far he was.
Hunting became boring. There was no challenge to catching a rat that just watched dumbly as she snatched it up. Hedwig decided to take advantage of her stronger phoenix strength and hunt larger animals. Squirrels were no match for her; she could snatch them off the side of tree trunks without mussing a feather. Once, she had slain a bobcat by gripping its scruff with her talons, carrying it high into the sky, and dropping it to death. But afterwards, she was unable to fit it in her beak, and felt guilty.
Each night, she would return to her perch in the strange tent, soaring through the halls of the tree-palace and navigating those stupid, obstructive planks of wood by flaming past them. No longer did Harry fill her water bowl personally. It refilled on its own, cleaning itself the instant she used it. The same for her food. It was nice to never have to wait on her servant, but Hedwig began to resent the bowl and what it represented: Harry was too busy to care for her himself.
He did not sleep in the tent as often, opting instead to rest in the bedroom outside. Harry would arrive late in the night and scarcely did he have time for her. Either he would toil away on some project, copulate with the pointy-ear woman, or sleep.
One night, Hedwig perched over the bedside table, waiting apprehensively for her human to return. Surely, he would have time for some scritches before he tried to impregnate the woman. Why did he keep trying, anyways? By now, it had to be apparent that she was infertile.
He and the pointy-ear woman arrived at the same time, morose looks on their faces.
"I can't believe Eragon would curse a child like that," Arya was saying in disbelief.
"I can. Learning languages is hard, and conjugating words is harder. The Ancient Language at least doesn't have gendered nouns, but it's completely different from Common, and Brom taught Eragon more nouns than grammar because he was focused on combat. No one ever bothered to impress the importance of proper sentences on him, and to be honest, if I wasn't fluent, that's exactly the kind of mistake I would have made, since I didn't know until today how important the exact technical definition was to the magic. It's even more tragic because he tried to make a full sentence, since 'may you be shield from harm' probably would have worked as he intended. He made a mistake, and he obviously regrets it. If the child ever turns up and asks for his aid, he'll do whatever he can to make it right."
Arya stripped out of her clothes and sagged on the bed opposite Hedwig. "He'd better. If he doesn't, I will."
"Me too, love." Harry kissed her hair. Arya rolled to face him, kissing his lips. "Not tonight, Arya. I'm not in the mood. The wording of the curse is vague and horrifying enough that my mind is conjuring up all sorts of nightmares for how it might affect the child."
He closed his eyes, falling asleep only minutes later, without ever remarking on his oldest and most faithful friend's presence. A pearly white tear fell off her face feathers and dripped onto the ground. Angrily, Hedwig pooped on the table and flew out.
Harry never called her.
The next week, Hedwig met Blagden. He reminded her of herself, though he was more full of himself than she was. He also spoke in the human language, though with a strange cadence unfamiliar to her.
"There once was a phoenix from Earth,
Who was grounded because of her girth.
Ur mom gay."
Screeching in outrage, Hedwig gave chase with an explosion of feathers and flapping. Cackling like a hyena, the white raven led her on a daring chase under boughs of oak, skimming over streams and tucking his wings to shoot through the smallest openings. A few pointy-ear humans watched them go by. The fire on her wings grew higher and brighter, trailing behind her like a majestic cape.
Blagden glided through a narrow opening in a thicket of branches, disappearing from her view. The entryway was narrow, but Hedwig was the best flier there ever was or ever will be, and she would consider nothing less than a solid wall an acceptable obstacle to flame through. Crashing through the stupid ground-tree, Hedwig flared her wings and stopped in the middle of the little oasis.
Little golden lights winked like fireflies on all sides of the leafy enclosure. A tiny stream of water ran down a strangely shaped rock and into a shallow reservoir slightly larger than her wingspan. The ground was shaggy grass, a handful of knotted roots snaking across the carpet. Overhead, the omnipresent leafy canvas was parted to reveal the navy night sky. Floating in the pool, Blagden was splashing around like a wet dog in the water, hastily grooming himself.
Catching sight of her, he scrambled out of the water, dragging his wings like a wet tailcoat behind him. Reaching the shore, he shook the water off of them, extending his wings out proudly like a peacock and making an awkward running jump.
Hedwig decided there were worse ways to spend time than raising hatchlings.
Hedwig found Blagden's efforts at making a nest amusing. Maternal instincts told her her eggs needed to be incubated in ash, and the foolish white raven kept bringing more twigs. Each time, he would assemble a fine nest. She felt a bit guilty lighting them all on fire. Her burning day was a ways out still, anyways. If she wanted ash, she'd have to make it.
The day she laid three pearly white eggs was a bittersweet one. She was proud of them and proud of her nest, but she wanted to share the moment with her companion. Alas, the day after laying them, she joined her chicks as a baby. They were white like her and their father, but with little black spots around their eyes. Like trash pandas, she remembered. That was the name of the dog-like scavengers that ate garbage outside the house with the Loud Angry Humans.
Blagden was run ragged fetching enough food for four hatchlings alone. Luckily, it took only a week for Hedwig to grow to an appreciable size enough to contribute.
"Big mama?" Blagden croaked curiously.
Hedwig pecked at him. She could hardly say phoenixes grew slowly in their first life. She didn't even know that. It just felt right that they were still babies.
Under the glowing golden light of the forest oasis, Hedwig and Blagden watched over their children. She had something to do, something besides waiting hopefully for Harry to have mail to deliver.
So when Blagden composed a dirty limerick about how Harry went off by himself to deliver mail by hand, WITHOUT HER, she decided she would teach him a lesson or two about paying attention to his pets.
And what do you know? He just came back to Ellesmera.
AN: I have the soul of a poet.
I'll be honest, the main reason I wanted to split the party is because I have some fluffy bits in mind, slice of life teenage-parenthood Harry and Arya style. Also, I can stop rehashing canon training with Eragon and Oromis, cuz that shit's boring. Right now, I'm really feeling the drag of the story. When I read the books, it doesn't feel like the multi-million word behemoth the Inheritance Cycle really is until you try to trim down nonessential events and scenes and realize that virtually EVERYTHING is crucial to the story. Sorry Roran, your storyline is about to get seriously cut down.
It's also come to my attention that my story is well and truly on its way to becoming one of those stories where the protagonists always win and nothing bad ever happens and they have every power ever. Someone commented recently asking when my Harry was going to grow a spine. To you, I say, never. The power-trip invincible, obnoxious Harry who does whatever he wants and never considers others' opinions is an arrogant, insolent asshole stupid enough to think he knows more than the rest of the world combined. Respect and humility are important. Canon Harry never called Dumbledore an idiot or flatly ignored his orders, even when he was trashing the guy's office.
