Assumptions. All of them. Things that he had accepted, taken as a given. They were devious things indeed, he learned, for they fit into the rules of life like puzzle pieces that could go nowhere else, when indeed they did not actually belong there at all. The danger of them - that he would accept them without question, blindly, when the fact of the matter was that his mind had completely made them up. Jumps to conclusions, one might say, where he assessed a matter and came to the conclusion that he had a knowledgable understanding of it, when genuinely, the 'understanding' was an assumption.

Eragon had thought it would have been safe to claim he understood at least some things, not a particular 'blue' stone, not the pair of hissing strangers, nor the drives for their actions - he had been but a farm boy, and that he had known. And as a farm boy would it not have been safe to assume he understood the farm? The scythe and the cows? Now, he could see it was not safe to assume anything.

Before, he had assumed himself to be familiar with animals. Maybe not a bear, per say, but he'd grown up with livestock all his life. And there was an unmistakable change the moment they laid eyes on a knife on butchering day. The obvious things - the way a cow would rear and buck before her slaughter. And more subtle, the change in the taste of the air, the unknown force that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. However one read the signs, it all added up to one thing. A living being heading to death.

Any living thing would strive to any means necessary to preserve it's life, for obvious reasons. Life was the ultimate goal and without it - there was nothing. What else would one do in life than sustain it? It was real while it lasted. That was why there was a butchering day. Others' lives ended so Garrow's, Roran's and Eragon's could go on.

Eragon had witnessed many butcherings in fifteen years, and he was quite familiar with the self preservation, and had assumed he was somewhat of an expert on the subject, but only now did he learn differently, as he was thrust into the position of the soon-to-be-slaughtered, gaining first hand experience and realizing just how limited his perceptions had been before. Now, being the animal, the cornered wolf, the pinned rabbit he realized: Animals didn't just want to keep themselves alive, they needed to. Beyond all personal attachments, there was some point when pure instinct overruled all else.

For Eragon, that time was nigh. No thoughts of any kind existed, not even of the most primitive. It was not that the rustling of birds in the leaves seemed insignificant. It wasn't as if Eragon's only concern was to escape the hissing strangers and the burning house. Because, 'What are birds? What are leaves?'. And because Eragon had no concerns. He was not literate. He was not capable of doing anything. There was no desperate thought of escape, no run!, as expected as they were in the circumstance. No conscience. Nothing existed - not his ragged breathing nor his sizzling lungs. To say nothing was running through his head was genuinely wrong. Nothing - a noun, a thing, actively buzzing around within his skull - was not right. It wasn't that nothing was running through his head, it was that everything was not.

And while his mind was dead, his body was buzzing with energy. The force of all things that had occupied his head for fifteen years now surged through his limbs, merging together, flowing and convulsing and tempering into a solid palpable instinct. And amidst the vacuum and absence of all else, primal instinct, utterly wild like no other force of Alagësia, that ran through the blood of hunted deer in the moments before their deaths, existed. The passage of time, like everything else, was absent. But evidently, this state of hunted animal mode could only last… so long…? Several heartbeats? Several decades? The actual duration of time that elapsed was lost, but after, however long it was, something finally began to develop. Not considered a thought, but a colossal change from the vacuum of before, and something that did fill Eragon's head.

Forged by the monotonous beat of the soles of his feet hitting the earth, a rhythm was created, for which no words could perfectly describe. In the beginning, it was merely the sound of his footfalls, but as time progressed, it evolved into something more, swelling and throbbing in an unearthly beat, a melody with no pitch, that went on even as the patter of his feet faded to the very back of his mind and eventually completely abated.

The beat became a guide, a steady, continuous thing that seemed like it would never change. While outside forces were unpredictable and frightening, the unmatched comfort of the rhythm was that it remained steady. At least, for the moment, which was all Eragon lived in.

The stone seemed to enjoy the melody's presence as well, humming deep and soft and emanating with apparent contentment. This caused no puzzle to Eragon, while his thoughts had begun to gradually return, they were as of yet still raw and undeveloped, having yet to strive to the immediate attention-demanding topics, one of which was why he was running blindly through the forest in the middle of the night. Simple things he could accept, ignoring the gaps in reasoning behind them. If the stone was happy, who was he to stop it? Whether a stone could or could not feel happiness under the standard rules he usually lived by was something still too complex to contradict present 'thoughts'.

Then at some revolutionary point the music abruptly stopped as awareness crashed down with full force upon Eragon. After this there were the questions. Where am I? What happened to Uncle Garrow? What should I do? Who were those strangers? What are their motives? Why did they want this stone? What is this stone? Why do I have the stone? The stone, the stone, the stone!Everything seemed to revolve around the one object. But why? A foot long gem, yes. Something that, had it found a buyer, could have fed his family for year, yes, and it would most certainly fetch a fine price in the Empire, yes. But, what it all boiled down to, was a stone! Even the strangers must have seen it was just a useless piece of jewelry, of no signif-. But there he stopped, because he realized this was not true, the stone that keened with a savage beat and could feel happy during it and disappointed when he put it down on his bed was anything but ordinary.

Eragon withdrew the gem from inside his singed tunic, running his fingers across it's all too familiar surface, regarding it with a newfound respect and caution that had not been demanded of him before, when he had seen it as only an object, where now it was a peer. His brow furrowed. This… thing was dangerous, that much he knew. He was tempted to hurl it away at that moment, but something stayed his hand. Too much had gone up in flames over the wretched thing, and he'd sacrificed to much to release it. For whatever reasons, those hissing creatures wanted it, and that meant it was important. As horrible as they were, Eragon didn't think they would waste their time on something useless.

Although it made for more convenient carrying, Eragon withheld from putting the stone back under his tunic, where it felt closest. The stone could not be trusted. He attempted to asses the situation. First and foremost were the strangers themselves. They would be looking for him now, surely? He was only dubious because he hadn't been caught. They'd burned down his home and gods only knew what happened to - Garrow! How could he have left his Uncle behind? He could only imagine what they did with him - and he preferred not to. Looking at the whole thing, the stone, the creatures, his Uncle, the farm, and where he was now, he realized he couldn't judge any of them for one reason: he had no idea of how much time had elapsed since the razing - how long he'd been running, where he'd been going, and maybe the most important, what to do next. Eragon didn't know where to start in the confused jumble. Should he go back to Carvahall? Was that even possible? He supposed he should start with the immediate situation first. Where was he now? The Spine, was the immediate answer his mind presented. That much was clear from the heavy scent of tree sap and the sinister tint of the air. In addition, there was no smell of coal from the hearths of Carvahall, and he could tell he must have been deep in the Spine - at least, deeper than he'd, or any sensible person, had ever been. If he were to go back, which direction should he take? The opposite way he was facing now? Had he been coming from that direct path since setting of from the farm? How long would it take him to get back to Carvahall? Were the strangers hunting him? Was it a good idea to go back at all? It would have all been so much easier to sort out if he had just been more aware when he'd been fleeing!

Eragon lashed out in frustration, hitting a nearby tree with the gem in his hand. His debates were momentarily forgotten at the sound of the dull thud of the stone hitting the tree. There was nothing remarkable about the noise, but something about it put him off a little, like he'd been expecting something else, although what he was not sure. Curious, despite himself, Eragon thrust the stone onto the hard, smooth bark of the tree once again, knowing well it wouldn't be harmed, and cocked his head, listening carefully. The sound seemed to be higher in pitch than he would have expected - pitch? The thud did not sound so dull and muffled any more. Eragon lifted the stone higher, examining it. One more unusual thing about it. It hummed too, so maybe this wasn't very strange.

Tucking the information away for later, Eragon's thoughts returned to his conundrum. He concluded he'd have to return, even if the strangers where hunting him there, nothing was in the Spine, aside from wild plants, animals, some of which were dangerous and… Eragon recalled the story of how King Galbatorix had lost half his army in the midst of the Spine. He wasn't sure if that was true, but suddenly he wished to be anywhere else.

Eragon tried to judge what time it was. Inhaling, he opened his senses in what he hoped was a vigilant manner. Information flooded in, bringing news of tree sap, pine needles, nothing of much help, although the balmy air led him to believe it wasn't morning yet. Pursing his lips, Eragon felt that no matter what time of the day it really was he'd need rest before traversing the journey back to Carvahall. Looking to find a more suitable place, Eragon took a step forward, and immediately various parts of his body protested. The soles of his bear feet must have been without the outer three layers of skin, and covered in a combination of sap, dust, and blood. He was aware of the sand-paper-like feel of the skin of his throat, as well as a searing pain puncturing his chest. Rest sounded good.

Knowing he was deep in the Spine, with a mysterious 'blue' stone and a pair of gruesome creatures hunting for him, he felt especially vulnerable, and almost set about heading for Carvahall right then, but he new his chances of persevering if he did so would't be too high. Resigned, Eragon ignored his body's protests and, wincing, tried to find somewhere to bunker down. He'd most likely only find a tree, but as long as he had something to put his back against and somewhere that felt, although realistically probably wasn't, more defendable, he'd be content enough.

Pressing up against a rotted log, Eragon let his mind wander. How would he get out of the Spine? He had no idea what direction Carvahall was in. No, that wasn't right - he had some, as he could assume it was most likely in the general direction he had come from. Still, he didn't truly think his path hadn't vary'd on the way here. For all he knew, he could have run in a complete circle and Carvahall was the same way he'd been going. Eragon racked his brain, searching for some shred of information he had somehow missed earlier that might provide an answer, although he knew it was useless. Everything seemed to happen days ago. The only thing that came to mind was the memory of a savage beat, although he couldn't recall any of the song's content, the remembrance of it was clear. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he thought of a deer, and the phrase "egg-breakers" came to mind.

It was pointless. Eragon 'saw' only clouded mockeries of what had really transpired, his mind unable to conjure accurate scents and sounds. Knowing it was hopeless, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

-x-

The first thing Eragon was aware of was a dry, patchy throat and a swollen tongue. Right then Eragon didn't care if he never found his way out of the Spine, water was his top priority. He attempted to get to his feet but ended up sprawled on the ground, the stone poking uncomfortably into his side. His muscles seemed especially stiff, which wasn't surprising, but they still held more tension than he would have expected. This, coupled with the fact that his tunic was crusted to his back with dried sweat and dirt, made hime realize he must have been 'resting' longer than he'd intended. After attempting to stand a second time, he succeeded, barely, and with the stone clutched under his left arm and his right clearing an aimless path, he searched for water.

Still, the effectiveness of this was drastically downplayed as he had no clue where he was. For all Eragon knew, the nearest water source might be miles away, or even from a well in Carvahall. He doubted it though, there had to be at least one measly brook breaking the forest floor. It wasn't a surprise when minutes later he was met with no success. Eragon needed a plan. He knew that. But it was just too difficult. He did not now how to proceed. Trying to stall any actual decision making, Eragon found a tree and thumped 'Blue' against it. He didn't notice anything odd about the sound this time, although he realized the bark of this particular tree was uneven, and had a vague memory the tree that had elicited the supposedly odd sound from the gem had been somewhat smoother. Eragon's parched throat made it hard to think, but he knew thinking about what to do next would be harder, so Eragon thumbed around, maybe searching for water, who knew? Scoring his hands over the forest floor of springy needles, vegetation, and pebbles, Eragon chanced on a rock a bit less rough than the rest, although feeling hopelessly gnarled compared to Blue. Although still avoiding the subject of decision, he now felt genuinely curious and lightly rapped Blue with the other stone.

A pure note suffused the air, puzzling Eragon to no end. This wasn't like the humming, a noise that a living thing consciously made, but a natural occurrence. Lifting it up, the thought ran through his head, it couldn't be… and it couldn't! The stone had always seemed heavy for its size, but that hadn't seemed horribly strange assuming the stone was a solid object.

"You're heavy, you hum, you act as magnet for inhumane things, and now you're hollow? You've been keeping secrets, haven't you, Blue?" Eragon was surprised at how rusty his voice sounded. He continued to look for water.

Eragon couldn't put it off any longer. There was no nearby water, and he needed to do something. Eragon thought back, like he had before. It was slightly easier to reach past the song now and into memories of the house's burning, but it would have been easier were his thirst quenched. Eragon thought on everything he knew about Carvahall, in some hope to realize some hidden information, and tried to ignore his thirst, but only partially succeeded. He started with the simple facts first, so as not to skimp over anything.

Carvahall is a small village. It is my home, as well as Horst's and Garrow's and Roran's. Eragon avoided the fact that Garrow probably wasn't going to be living there any more, and that Roran had left. Carvahall is part of the Empire. It…? What? That seemed to sum up most of what he knew from living there his whole life. There has to be something else! Desperate, he ignored Carvahall and examined every detail of the fire he could call to mind, without success. Eragon panicked. There had to be something he'd forgotten. But then he contemplated that one statement, alone, and knew it wasn't true. Why did there have to be something else? For his sake, yes, but who said fate had interest to keep him alive? Maybe it was just another assumption, and there was nothing else. Maybe he'd die of thirst, or the strangers would find him, put him to death and finally have their precious rock. Or, worst of all, maybe he'd find water soon. Maybe he'd find a way to survive in the forest and live the rest of his life there, always ignorant of what had really transpired, with only Blue for company.

Eragon shuddered and tried to calm himself. He was unwilling to believe there was nothing of use to him now. Surely, one couldn't sum up fifteen years in several minutes. He just had to go slower, to look more carefully. And so, Eragon proceeded to go agonizingly slow through every memory he could recall, starting from the few of infant hood, and going. There were gaps at seemingly random intervals, where his memories faltered, as he hadn't been too sharp as a five year old, and over fifteen years, he could not remember day to day.

"No, over," Garrow stressed. Eragon's fingers felt slow and clumsy, still not understanding over and under, right and left. Lacing up his boots hadn't sounded this hard, but then Eragon realized all the strings that had to be strung for the overlarge shoes to stay on his feet. He heard his Farther sigh, and wondered if it had been hard for him to learn to lace his boots. It didn't seemed like it. Farther was big and strong and new everything about feeding cows and pulling carrots and lacing boots. It had probably been quite easy for him, like everything else was, for all grown-ups.

"Let me do it, Eragon," father offered.

"No! I'm big, I don't need help," a five-year old Eragon answered, appalled at the thought of having help from a grown-up, of not being able to do something in front of -

"You're not big! You can't even tie your own boots!" Roran scoffed.

As Eragon was about to argue, Mother said, "Hush, Roran. If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't speak." Eragon scowled, getting defended by a grown-up again.

"I can tie them!" and proceeded to convert his laces into a confused, gnarled 'knot'. Holding his chin up proudly, Eragon continued, "You see?"

Eragon moved on to another memory of when Garrow, and later, Roran, had caught the ague, and he had, for a short period of time, done all three of their chores. It had been something of a turning point in his life, when he'd learned to do a lot of things he'd never done before because they could see and he couldn't. However, the trail of thought seemed unfruitful, which he wouldn't have noticed normally, as most of his memories proved such, but the memory of the boot lacing had struck a chord in him, and he realized why. Over and under, right and left. Directions. Exactly what he needed now. Encouraged, he went on.

Eragon, now eight, groaned. They were out late in the field, while they would usually have been enjoying dinner, since one of the two horses pulling the plow had twisted his leg; the work had taken twice as long with only the remaining horse, who was by now exhausted from the labor. Beads of sweat rolled down the back of Eragon's neck. Although they always sweat during their exertions, now even more than usual as the sun was setting over them when in the morning it was on the opposite side of the house. Eragon pondered this. Of course, the sun set, which was the difference between night and day. He'd never thought about the consistency of the sun only rising in the morning and setting in the eve. After their labors were over, and they sat to a late, cold dinner, Eragon asked something to this effect, mildly curious.

Garrow grumbled, tired and fed up, but answered his nephew's question. "The sun rises over there, in the front, which is to the East, and sets in the West, over by the fields. Then North, on the right side of the house, and South on the left, behind me.."

"But why?" Roran asked, the information news t -

Could that be it? Eragon vaguely remembered something else, years later, a random tidbit that might have concerned 'North', but quickly discarded it as he already had enough information."Over by the fields". The same fields Eragon had toiled over his whole life. The same fields they had run from the back door into, into the Spine. West into the Spine.

Eragon wanted to whoop. He knew a direction. He could go home! It was so simple. He'd run west into the Spine, he just had to head in the opposite direction - Eragon thought for a moment "The sun rises over there in front which is to the East…" - the East, that had to be it! Eragon was feeling pleased with himself, before his heart sunk to his feet. East, which was… where? Eragon searched frantically, not willing to despair. That's easy! East is in the front of the house!… The front of the house. Like that was going to help him now. He slumped, defeated. The feeling was horrible, his hopes being crushed before him. And worse, he knew it was his fault - his own stupidity that made him suppose in the first place that he knew how to leave the Spine. All the despair and hopelessness of before came shrouded his mind again. Because it didn't matter where East was if he didn't know. Because Eragon was lost.

With a heavy heart, he once again opened his ear for the gurgle of a stream that he knew he wouldn't hear.

-x-

Blue was being awfully annoying. It seemed to radiate amusement at Eragon's plight, although he could not fathom what in Alagaësia was so funny. Stones didn't get thirsty though - so what would he expect? It could sit there and relax without the presence of a raw throat and bleeding feet and the rankling of its accomplice ailing it ever-presently, but he unfortunately could not say the same. And Blue hummed. That was the worst. Humming in a carefree way as if it weren't lost in the middle of no where. And as if it wasn't in danger of being banged repeatedly on its surroundings until its flawless surface was diseased with potholes and abandoned in the same middle of no where. And Eragon was perfectly willing to do it, too. Why hadn't he done it yet? Did he really need this aggravation? Eragon thought Blue had better be careful.

He still searched for a water that would sate his thirst, but he was skeptical one existed. And that was why Blue wasn't already lying scratched and forgotten somewhere. Constant aggravation was what he needed, to keep his thoughts away from the despair, from the dark place in his head where there was no water, and no Garrow, either. Eragon hoped that world was but a fantasy.

The search eventually seemed to become familiar, and Eragon was unsure as to why - until he listened. To his footsteps, that had begun to sound a bit hauntingly like the rhythm. But he refused to go to that world, where he had dawdled in before, when he'd fled, because that's how he was here now, because he hadn't payed attention to where he'd been going. He simply could't afford to descend into complete unawareness again, to end up somewhere and be clueless as to how he got there. It would have been so blissful, though. To let the beat comfort him in an oblivion where nothing existed, thirst included. Eragon couldn't though. It took all his strength to resist, and he bore the thirst, so that maybe he'd see home again. He didn't believe it though.

The search was familiar to the Fleeing, but not identical. More prominent was Blue's presence and activity, as well as Eragon's own - and everything still existed. Eragon knew what birds and leaves were, although he certainly wasn't too concerned with them. But he could still faintly hear the beat in the recesses of his mind, imploring to take over. He refused it, but only for so long.

Time passed, as it tended to do. Eragon's thirst was stronger than ever, and he noted an emptiness in his stomach as well, but somehow, his mind wandered, and these problems somehow seemed… less substantial. Less overpowering, like things weren't so bad. Eragon hadn't noticed he had stopped until he realized he was crouched against a tree, Blue in his hands, as always.

"You wouldn't know a shortcut to Carvahall, would you Blue?" Eragon smirked. Blue remained impassive, although he still felt as if it was amused. Time continued, whether Eragon and Blue were ready or not, all though frankly it made no difference to Blue. There may have been sleep, there may not have been. Despite his earlier efforts, Eragon was beginning to care less. Awareness was slipping. Things still existed, surely, but not brightly, for if they had, Eragon would not have been sitting and babbling with Blue. He would have been doing something, anything. The beat and the vacuum had not completely taken over yet. But Eragon was losing the battle. And, more importantly, he didn't care. That fact in itself fought against him.

Eragon was aware of, however, the constant babbling. He sat mindlessly and rattled on to Blue, talking about what, he knew not. It was all in good fun, truly, but somewhere Blue stopped thinking so, apparently. As gone as he was, Eragon noted the difference. The annoying presence that had before been teasing and taunting, had been replaced with a sterner and almost desperate entity, and Eragon pouted.

"What happened Blue, I thought you were in for a joke?"

"There's no time, no time! We can't stay here!"

"What are you talking about? We're fine, what's to worry about?"

"We're dying! They're hunting us! I thought it was almost time, but now…"

"Snap out of it, Blue! What ever ails you can't be so horrible as you say -"

"You're the one who needs to snap out of it! I'm telling you the time is coming, I'm growing cramped here! You're the one, but your mind is clouded. We're being hunted! I need out, it's not safe here!"

Eragon couldn't fathom what had gotten in to Blue, it was ruining the fun.

"Blue, stop! You're crazy! I -"

"Stop! We need to leave, we need to find water, we need to find home immediately -"

"Don not -"

"ERAGON! Cease bickering! Find the water, NOW."

He was shocked. His name hit him like a slap to the face, a bucket of ice water sliding over him, bringing everything rushing back. What was he doing her babbling like a madman? He was being hunted. He was lost in the Spine! He was dying of dehydration! Stumbling to his feet, he took of running, although Eragon wasn't in the best condition for it now. His searches before had been calm and collected, strolls through the forest, pauses at regular intervals to listen for a gurgling. That was before, and this now, when he was desperate. The farm boy careened through the forest, if the strangers were near, they couldn't not hear him. Maybe they'd capture him, take Blue, but Eragon's thoughts were not along these lines at the moment. He felt like a hunted deer again, but this time, he was not hunted by the living predators, but by the ways of nature. He almost preferred the former.

"It's just a little further! It's here somewhere!" Eragon whispered barreling around trees through the underbrush. He knew he'd be hopelessly lost be the end of this, East forgotten. "I know it's here!" - and he almost did. His senses could almost pick up the scent of the water, the rushing as it cascaded down it's path, but it wasn't there. Frantic, he ripped apart the forest, but his senses, which had before encouraged him, now taunted him. There probably was no water here, maybe Eragon was going insane. He knew it. The senses, the smells and sounds, jeered and laughed, much like Blue had earlier. Maybe it was Blue, laughing at his misfortune again.

Eragon still told himself it was there, but he had no hope. It has to be here, does it? a little voice in his head sneered. And why? You may try to convince yourself of this, but you're fooling no one. The voice brought back all Eragon's earlier worries, rubbing them in his face as evidence he was insane and there was no point. Fate didn't care about keeping him alive, so there did not have to be water. And there wasn't. He still stampeded in hopeless circles, and ran full out. And eventually he stopped telling himself that it had to be there, because it wasn't, and both he and that little voice new it. It continued to mock him. You keep running yet, you really believe it's there don't you? Waste yourself away, let the ground corrode your feet until you're but a skeleton - I don't care.

"Eragon, stop! Don't listen to it, to… you…"

A new voice joined the skirmish, one surprisingly encouraging, but it wasn't nearly as effective as the negative one had been. It told him to keep going, yet he was already despairing. It was probably goading him as well, telling him it was near only for him to get his hopes up and call him a fool. Eragon wouldn't let himself believe again. He thought. But one small part of him was willing to. Because the encourage voice used his name, and seemed as desperate as he was. It told him to keep going, and part of him tried.

"You can find it! It's near, don't let them find you!"

Stop kidding yourself. You and I are both aware that you've slipped. That you're as gone as the water.

"NO. You convince yourself it isn't here, you lie to yourself, please, please find it! It's almost time…"

And Eragon had reasons for not trusting the voice. It was so confusing, and vague, but the other was clear, the other read his thoughts. He knew he had slipped, and so did the voice. It was after all, his own senses kidding him. But he didn't know the other, how it knew him. He didn't know where Blue was, or what voice was which, or if he cared. The melody was taking over, the voices beginning to dim under it's growing beat, but even as Eragon was finished, as a stray root found his toe and he hit the ground and was floating into oblivion he was aware of one thing: "Egg-breakers! Thieves! Murderers!"