I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.
Edited 1/30/22 -
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Enjoy,
The Wanderings
Part 2
He did not see strange creatures walking in the green lands around them, nor was it that he saw the woman from his dreams in the daylight's hours, but sometimes when he looked out of the corner of his eye he could a shifting the air, or he would hear his name or some weird unclear snatches of noise. It was a shadow of neither light nor dark, form nor shape. What he thought he saw was an endless twisting of obsolete dim beings in ceaseless motion, stepping out of the silence like a young fowl following after its mother in the winter snow. Whatever it was, it followed quietly behind him, sending him haunting visions and wan echoing cries from things that could not quite be seen. Everywhere there seemed to be shifting grey veils of light and shadow, moving and changing so that the eye could fix on nothing. At these times the earth no longer seemed solid, that mists that mingled in the air, and shapes and sounds seemed not as they should be, and an urgent calling blazing inside him like a burning hunger. And then there were thin moments when everything seemed tangible, real and clear, and the veils stilled and what was truly there could be seen. Sometimes he found that this reality to be difficult because Eragon found that it was hard to adjust to the sudden clarity. Everything seemed, in those rare moments, too real and too detailed. Often this left him wondering which was worse; seeing horrors that he knew were not truly there or witnessing ones that were.
Eragon awoke with a start, feeling cold sweat sliding down his back and forehead. He turned his head, and groaned as his stomach protested. He choose, without much remorse, to keep his eyes closed. He would be forced to get up soon enough.
After a moment, when he was on the edge of sleep, he felt the cool fingers ran though his hair to his forehead, and then a hand rest against his skin as if to feel for a tempter. He jumped slightly and his eyes opened on their own accord, the light blinded him momentarily. "You shouldn't drink so much," a voice said. He blinked and his vision cleared. He saw Selena seated on the edge of his bed, a mug of steaming liquid in her hand. "You'll make yourself ill. Here, now, sit up and drink this." She waited until he sat until she placed the heated mug in his hands.
He looked at the liquid inside, it was yellow and steaming. Its warmth seeped through the mug and into his skin. "What is it?" he asked, closing his eyes. If he kept staring at it, would it shift into something more and show him an image that was not there? He didn't want to know.
"A tonic. It'll help clear your head." She stood up, he could hear the bed groan as she moved. "When it's emptied come out and join us."
Eragon hunched over and tightened his grip of the mug, the after cautiously sipping from it he reached out his mind to Saphira. She didn't miss a moment to her mind touched his. Eragon felt her emotions flood into his being, utterly confusing his senses.
How did you sleep? she asked.
Well enough, he said, taking a sip from the mug. What about you? What did you do?
I waited, she said sending him a tendril of impatience. You need to tell someone, Eragon. It's getting worse.
With a scoff, he took another sip of the tea. It tasted poorly; extremely bitter, leaving his mouth dry and tingling, but it calm the twisting in his stomach. I know it is. He groaned, and leaned forward. But who can help me? Let alone believe me? They'll all probably believe that I've mad, and I'm not completely sure that I'm not.
Someone might be able to help, little one, she purred. You do not know unless you seek the help.
There are some things that cannot be said and this is one of them. He drained the last of the yellow liquid from the mug and stood up. I'm going to see what Selena wants, he said.
He stretched, savoring the moment to himself, the walked to the door and out into the hall. Pulling his jerkin closer to him, he listened to the voices talking. What words were being said, however, Eragon did not know. He let the words wash over him, instead focusing on the curling puffs of white vapor that formed each time he breathed.
That night before, he found that the thin walls brought very little shelter, and the wind blew through the gaps in the walls in thin, high whistles. Noises of the night echoed in the hallway, whether it be people's throaty snores or scratches and calls of the nightlife. It seemed as if neither his mind nor nature wished for him to sleep.
Eragon pinched himself to chase away his thoughts. If he thought of her, the woman in his dreams, he was certain the tonic would revisit him. As he walked into the main room of the inn, he thought instead of what he would be doing if he were still at his uncle's farm. If nothing had changed. He would with no doubt be ploughing through the fields. Uncle Garrow had been complaining for the last few years that his back could no longer handle the task, and since then Roran and Eragon had taken it over. Now that Roran was gone, the task would fall on Eragon's shoulders' alone. While he labored in the fields, Garrow would be mucking the pigs' pen, setting aside what he collected for fertilizer. Later they would lunch on the thin fare they had left over from the winter's stock, to hold them over until that evening. He could almost taste the soil on his lips, collected there from the overturned earth, and the salt of sweat.
These thoughts entertained him until he entered the den and saw Rose, furiously combing through her hair as if it had insulted her. In front of her was a small fire, looking fragile and weak in the depths of the fireplace. The reality of Garrow's death hit him anew, and with a strangled gasp he collapsed onto the cushioned seat near him. Better the cushions than the floor, he thought as he listened to the straggle that Rose's hair put up.
"Wouldn't it be easier to cut it off?" he suggested after a time, when his breathing returned to normal.
She startled slightly and turned, pinning him with a look that made him wonder if he had implied her chopping her head off instead of her hair. "I beg your pardon?" she said, her voice hard.
Eragon knew she had heard him so he shrugged. He suddenly didn't want to talk with her. "Are Brom and Selena outside?"
She nodded and told him they were in the barn. "They've been out there for an age," she said as she yanked on her hair.
"I'm going to see if they need help." Eragon stood up and pulled his cloak around him. The floorboards creaked underneath him as he walked to outside. It didn't surprise him much when he was greeted by a cold slap of wind. The strength of wind nearly knocked him over. It reminded him a little of the storm in Palancar Valley. As wind cut through his cloak again, he understood why Rose remained in the roadhouse. It was a deathly cold outside, like ice being driven through his body.
He sighed with disappointment. He had hoped the last of the cold weather was over.
Brom and Selena did not want help, or at least that's all that Eragon could guess since he couldn't find them anywhere. Not being able to find them, or having something to do, he wondered into the barn and took a seat on an old stool. He unwrapped a brush and set to work. His horse stood patiently chewing on chaw as he brushed the dust out of its coat. The brush scraped rhythmically through Cadoc's rough fur.
Eragon leaned his forehead against Cadoc's warm flanks, as the horse came to greet him. Nearing the brink of sleep, his mind drifting and unclear. The sounds and smells of the barn mingled with the ones he grew up to.
He felt the desire for sleep swarming through his body, like the murmur of hives in summer, and his mind unfocused. As his eyelids grew heavy he found that he was able to lie to himself; he was still in the barn near Carvahall. It was easy to pretend such a thing was possible. Too easy. He could lose himself in this dream-state as easily as he did in the shifting veils of reality.
A cock cawed in the distance, and the dust from the straw made his nose itch, but a deep unsettling feeling within him lifted just lightly. It was as if someone had pulled away a stiff board bound to his back, and he was again able to move.
A breeze blew through the boards of the barn.
There was a thin whistling.
He sat abruptly still in the agony of listening, and as he did he felt an overwhelming sensation of suffocation, as if he were being enclosed in a small tomb. His sight went dark. An unreasonable terror possessed him, as if his life were directly being threatened. That the threat was a mere arm's length away.
Cadoc nickered, and Eragon drew his head away from his flanks.
He opened his eyes, and rubbed them, before looking around blinkingly. The air about seemed to crackle with something, a silhouette of what he guessed to be a woman, and Eragon knew he was seeing something that was not completely there. He called out once, just to be sure, but there was no answer. For a moment he felt as if a wave of cold pass through him. It shook him to the core, leaving him shivering from the phantom cold. He backed away, and blinked again, and found with a mixture of dismay and pleasure that barn was empty apart from him and the horses.
Saphira, what are we going to do?
Do? I already told you what I think you should do.
That won't help any, he said. We have to find out if there's a way to help her. I think she might be hurt.
You no longer believe that you're going mad? Saphira asked her tone grave. Or that perhaps Galbatorix is tricking you? Making you see and hear what is not there so you will be drawn into a trap.
No. I don't think so. Eragon shuttered as he remembered the last weeks. He couldn't coherently tell Saphira why he had to find that woman, only that he knew, with an iron certainty, that he must.
It'd be easier to decide if you talked to someone. Ask about this, Eragon, or I will. I will not take you into a risk, Saphira said. I'll have you tied you to my saddle if I must.
Then you'll have to carry me all the way to the Varden fighting you all the way, he said, squatting on the ground, spinning a piece of straw between his fingers. I have to go. I can feel it. It's the only thing I'm certain of right now.
Saphira was silent for a time, likely considering her next words. I love you, little one, she said. It goes against my counsel, but if this is something you're certain must be done, I'll do what I can to help. But before that you need to talk to Brom. He might be able to give you some answers that I cannot.
