Alright, I hope you guys didn't have to wait long for this update! I'm trying to return to my normal speed but it's been iffy. (Four days now!) But I am so sorry if the last one had any spelling errors, I'll try to fix them as soon as I can but I hope this one doesn't have as much. I hope you all like this chapter, I liked writing it. Moving on, the Brom POV shall be updated after this chapter and so will the bonus. My god, I am so proud of my story and how much you all like it. But any questions or thoughts please, review, I love to clear a point up. :) RR!
Back in his bedroom in the tree, Eragon fought to stay in control of his anger as he found a tray of food waiting for him. Carrying his tray back to the bed that had been remade with fresh linens, he felt grateful for the fact that there was something hot that could warm his cold stomach. He hadn't been expecting that revelation from Murtagh. Propping himself against his pillow, Eragon was about to start eating his soup when there came a gentle rapping at the opening of his chamber. "Enter," he said warily, afraid of who might come in.
But it was only Arya. Who else would come to visit him? It had been but moments since he had seen her after their training from Oromis. Eragon was a little sore having trained in the second Rigmar pose, while Arya had been rather fluid until she had to try the fourth pose. She wore the same soft green tunic from the morning with a girdle adorning her waist and her hair free from her usual headband. Her posture was relaxed; she seemed to be finally at ease.
"Is something amiss?" Eragon asked, his curiosity piqued by her appearance — not that he found her presence a burden; it was rather pleasant. She shook her head and moved to sit down at the edge of his bed.
Touching her first two fingers to her lips, she said, "Do you intend to stay indoors this evening?"
"Unless you have something different in mind," said Eragon, taking a sip of his soup. The hot liquid ran down his throat and settled comfortably in his stomach. He held an apple out to her and just like last time, she took hold of it, eating with him.
"I do," said Arya, glancing up briefly just to see Eridor glide in through the teardrop window. "You've been in Ellesméra for three days now and you have seen nothing of our city. After you eat, if it wouldn't be too much to ask, set aside your indifference to my people and accompany me." She took a bite of the apple.
"For a princess who doesn't speak of her position to others, you do give out a lot of orders," said Eragon with a smirk. She said nothing, the only reaction that showed that she had heard him was her lips twitching upwards. It didn't take long for him to finish eating, not with Saphira breathing down his back as she wanted to see Ellesméra with Eridor. When he was done, Arya had gotten to her feet and took hold of one of his swords from where it lay by his side. The other he strapped to his waist.
Following her down the stairs that was grown out of the tree, Eragon felt blinded when he walked out into the evening sunlight. Saphira and Eridor had launched themselves from the teardrop window and the rays of their shining scales bounced across his face like his own personal rainbow, the only color missing being red. But Eragon knew that Murtagh must want to be left alone at the moment.
They walked under the trees, the rays of the ever-setting sun penetrating through the thick branches in spots. Here and there, he would glimpse an elf working on projects, pursuing studies with magic. He couldn't imagine himself living in a forest, just studying magic and learning the ways of the plants and trees, of art and the beauty of nature and life within living things. "It seems that there is very little for elves to strive for that is not granted by your strength with magic," said Eragon.
Arya nodded. "We spend our days learning to master what is of interest to us, which isn't much, considering the fact that my race is a long and ancient race, in which questions are constantly answered and new knowledge continually gained."
They turned into a tunnel made of dogwood draped with creepers that eventually led to a closed atrium where a house was grown around a ring of trees. An open-walled hut occupied the center of the atrium where a forge was sheltered along with an assortment of instruments. An elf woman had a pair of small tongs in a nest of molten coals, working bellows with her right hand. With uncanny speed she pulled it out and looped the ring through an edge of an incomplete mail corselet that hung over an anvil, grabbing a hammer she welded it shut.
To say he was impressed was an understatement. She was very experienced, he could tell, as Arya approached her. The elven princess greeted the elf woman first, to Eragon's surprise, as Arya clearly respected whoever she was very much. When she turned to face them he saw the greatest display of age in an elf he had come across. He felt himself smile faintly when she didn't respond. A rude elf — that was a first.
"Rhunön-elda, I've brought to you one of the newest Riders of the Varden, Eragon Shadeslayer."
"I heard you were dead," said Rhunön to Arya. Unlike the smooth music and velvet of most elves, her voice guttered and rasped.
Instead of looking insulted, Arya merely smiled. She must have had experience in dealing with Rhunön. "When did you last leave your house, Rhunön?"
"You should know, it was the mid-summer festival you forced me to attend."
"That was three years ago." As they talked, Eragon went to study the mail corselet, every single ring was welded with precision. Armor like this was hard to come by in the Empire and the Varden. Blacksmiths never took the time to weld every single ring, but considering the fact that she was an elf, time must matter little to her. Reaching out, he lifted the end of one part of the corselet, letting his finger run over the smooth metal rings. But as soon as he touched them, a hammer came swinging down onto his finger and he grunted in pain. "Never touch another's work!" Rhunön snapped, lifting the hammer. He glanced down at his three bleeding and possibly broken fingers and then turned to glare at the elf woman.
"Couldn't you tell me that, instead breaking my fingers?" said Eragon hotly. She placed her hammer down in a brusque manner. Saphira, who was usually very defensive, simply stared at the scene, amused. "It doesn't take much to say a few words!"
"Actions are burned into the mind, words are forgotten," replied Rhunön. He glared.
"Violent elf woman," he muttered, having no doubt that she had heard it. But instead of taking offense, she laughed a crackling laugh.
"A rude one, you are. Just like your father, Brom," said Rhunön, "He had come in here one day demanding I replace his sword, and was so angered at my refusal — for I had taken oath that I shall not forge another such weapon — that Oromis had to sedate him before he would leave." She glanced at his broken fingers. "I apologize for them."
He snorted but went to fixing the bones and mending the skin. Rhunön on the meanwhile had walked past him to Saphira and Eridor, examining their scales. "A beautiful color, very beautiful indeed. Not the mucky brown. Yes, the swords would have been very beautiful—" she stopped and scowled before returning to her work. The thought of it must have taken a great deal of energy from her.
Despite the fact that she had smashed his fingers, Eragon didn't feel the need to leave on such a saddened note. "If Galbatorix were to die, you can have all of your swords back." Rhunön looked at him, surprised, her mouth slightly opened. "He kept most of them, in a treasury. As trophies, you see."
"Did he?"
"Yes, when the time comes that Galbatorix is killed — which I have no doubt shall be soon — the swords you have forged shall be returned to their master." She didn't say anything but nodded and with a new energy returned to work. He felt a small hand enclose his wrist, gently tugging him from the forge.
"Rhunön-elda, I shall return for you on the eve of the Agaetí-Blödhren." A grunt was her reply.
Is she always so brusque? asked Saphira.
Arya laughed. "Always. Nothing matters to her except for her craft. She is infamous with the habit of being impatient with anything or person that interferes with it. But she is tolerable because of her incredible skills and accomplishments."
"She doesn't like to leave her forge often, does she?" Eragon asked dryly, stretching his fingers to test the bones. Arya shook her head.
"Rarely. I am more surprised that she had even heard of my death than that she still considered me so," said Arya, as she led him deeper into the forest. He nodded, letting his mind drift back to the last words she said to the smith.
"What exactly is the Blood-oath celebration?" asked Eragon.
"A celebration held every hundred years to honor the pact that we've made with the dragons. Both of you are fortunate to be here now, for it is nigh upon us . . ." her eyebrows met as she frowned. "Though coincidence, I don't think it is."
"There is nothing called coincidence, there is only fate," said Eragon, recalling a wise quote that he had read in one of the many books at his castle.
"A statement that can be called true and sometimes be a farce," said Arya, leading him to a clearing where a lone pine tree stood. It was no taller than the rest but much wider in comparison. A blanket of roots covered the ground like veins, making the forest look like an extension of the tree, as if it were the heart of Du Weldenvarden. The energy flowing from it was enough proof to tell him that it was a powerful entity within the forest and that it was not just a tree.
"Behold the Menoa tree," whispered Arya. "We observe the Agaetí Blödhren in her shade."
Menoa. . .Solembum's advice. If he were ever in need of a weapon, he would find it underneath the tree. But how? And if possible, would the elves let him dig underneath the roots? Would the tree even allow such an act? Walking forward, he reached out to touch the roots. They were thick enough to hold even Saphira in place, no doubt.
Do you see anything? he asked Saphira.
No, but I don't doubt the fact that something of use to us could be hidden beneath all of this wood, said Saphira. But we aren't in need of a weapon yet. Not until your swords are smashed to the point of no repair, if that time does in fact come.
"You seem very interested with the Menoa tree," observed Arya, coming to his side when he squatted on the ground, studying the heavy roots.
Not feeling the need to hide it from her, he told her about the werecat's advice. She listened intently, her hand also reaching out to stroke the roots, a gentle caress much akin to a lover or a close friend. "A werecat's counsel should never be ignored for they rarely offer any. So far as I know, there is no weapon beneath the roots of the Menoa tree, whether in myth or legends. As for the Rock of Kuthian, the name is familiar to me, but I cannot remember where it is that I've heard it."
That wasn't any help at all, Eragon thought. But what had he expected? Arya didn't know everything. She wasn't the strongest nor the wisest elf. But asking for help from her didn't seem wrong. "Weapon," said Eragon. "Doesn't necessarily mean weapon. It could be anything. A sword, a lance, a piece of hard rock that could pierce anything. Or something that could have the potential of a weapon, the potential to make a weapon. A certain type of ore that fell from the heavens or steel that came from the center of the earth." He sighed standing. "But I guess we'll never be able to find out until the time comes to search for it."
"Though I doubt you will find the need to," said Arya, studying the sword she had carried. "Rhunön had said that it would take much more than Urgal and human weapons to break the metal."
"I'm glad." He turned his attention back to the tree, walking gracefully from root to root until he reached the tall pine tree. Arya moved swiftly by his side between light and shadow. Sometimes her appearance would be cast in glows from lanterns far off or swallowed by darkness, though in both she looked beautiful. "It's an intelligent tree."
"That she is." She. So the tree was a woman. "Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?"
"If it wouldn't be too tiring for you," said Eragon, taking a seat on a root that crested the tree, lifting them twelve feet off the ground. She shot him a strange look before sitting beside him.
A flash of white caught his eyes and Blagden, the white raven, appeared beside Saphira, uttering his usual cry of "Wyrda!" The raven picked a good time to come by and eavesdrop, Eragon thought warily.
"The story began with a woman by the name of Linnea, in the years of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became immortal. Linnea had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, devoting herself to the art of singing to plants, in which she was a master. But with your life's greatest passion before you, what need do you have to take on a mate and foster children? But that was before she met a young man who beguiled her with words of love. His affections woke a part of Linnea that she had never suspected could exist, a craving for what she had given up, a desire to experience what she unknowingly sacrificed. It was a second chance. A chance too great to ignore. She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a time, they were happy."
But. . . Eragon thought, having an inkling of how the story was going to turn out.
"But the young man was young, and he began to long for someone closer to his age. His eyes fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won her. And for a time, they too were happy."
And it doesn't end there, Eragon thought warily.
"When Linnea discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst thing possible; he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, and then torn it away with not much of a mere thought. She found him with the woman and in her grief and fury, stabbed him to death."
"She knew what she done was evil. She also knew that even if she was exonerated of murder she could not return to what was her previous life before the young man. No, for life had lost all joy for her. Instead, she went to the oldest tree in Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it and sang herself into the tree, abandoning every string attached to her own race. For three days and three nights, she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her beloved plants. And through all the millennia since has kept watch over the forest. Thus was the Menoa tree created."
Eragon bounced his heels against the root of the tree, deep in thought. More evidence that becoming close to others was only a curse, a burden. It would be so easy, Eragon thought, to live alone away from such temptations. Away from the pain and hurt that came with love. But when founded it was hard to let go.
"Once happiness is lost," said Eragon quietly, "it might never return."
Arya nodded. Then she turned to him. "Do you think the young man was to blame for the tragedy?"
"They were both at fault," Eragon said. There was nothing to it.
Arya stared at him with her piercing green eyes, and he met her stare, not backing down. "They weren't suited for each other."
"There are many conclusions you could come up with," said Eragon. "But the only one that would ever make sense is that love can blind even the strongest person. The desire to be loved . . . can make anyone go to such lengths."
She raised a brow at him inquiringly. "Love." He said the word with distaste. "It's safer to live life alone, away from its grips. But then again, there are people who have loved and lived till the end of time in love." Even though he didn't like love, the thought of Angela's prophecy loomed in his mind. His eyes darted to Arya's form next to him. He sighed. "Being home seems to agree with you." Eragon didn't feel the need to particularly linger on such a subject for long.
"It does." She fingered the pommel of his sword. The silver gleaming in the moonlight.
"Where did you use to live before the tree was given to you? A castle or a hall?"
"Tialdari Hall will always be my home; I often visit it in the western part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you." Home. Another sore subject, everyone had a home but he didn't particularly have one to return to anymore. Murtagh had Carvahall and Arya had Ellesméra. Urû'baen wasn't what he would call his home. Not really.
Speaking of family, Eragon asked Arya, "Do you have any siblings?" she shook her head. "Then you're the sole heir to the elven throne?"
"Of course, why do you ask?" She sounded bemused by his curiosity.
Eragon shrugged. "I was just wondering." If Arya were to die in battle, in her line of duty, he was sure that another successor or a different house would be chosen to become the next successor of the elven throne. He studied Arya for a moment. He had no doubt in his mind that if forced to lead, she would be a capable leader of her people. But would she be willing to? For a reason, he couldn't see her devoting herself to her people. But then that tattoo on her back he remembered seeing when he healed her . . . it must have meant something. But he didn't feel the need to ask her.
"Will you answer a question of mine?"
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for whatever it was that she wanted to ask him. It was long in coming, but he was patient. Finally, she said quietly, "Back then in Gil'ead, why do you save Murtagh and I?"
He stared at her and knew immediately that she was frustrated by his lack of answer to some of her questions. And this one was a question that she had frequently asked him, when he met her in Gil'ead and then in turn, the Varden. It must have bothered her greatly that he couldn't give her an answer. But did he have an answer for her? "Maybe," said Eragon finally. "Maybe, I just didn't want to see another person forced to live the way I did." He smiled at her, somewhat apologetic. "It's not an answer you're wishing for, but when the time comes that I can think of it more, then I shall tell you. But for now, I hope this is enough."
"It is," came Arya's whisper.
High above them, Blagden, who had sat quiet throughout the entire conversation let out a shriek that pierced the night. "Wyrda!"
Now, I am really sorry for the Linnea part, I tried to rephrase it so it doesn't look like I'm taking it from the book but I was just too hard! But that would be one of the only times I ever refer to the book now on. I hope you all enjoyed it, this chapter was mainly on Eragon and Arya, and their ever blossoming relationship. Moving on, I wasn't thinking on writing a Murtagh POV anytime soon, but there are some readers who find me making him an unimportant character and now that I think about it, I probably did. So, besides the Brom POV up next and the bonus chapter, do you guys all think a Murtagh POV would be good? Maybe when he meets Vanir? Please review or message me, either way is fine and tell me what you all think!