Eth sat quietly at Freoh's side, her eyes buried in her lap. She didn't look up at the boys who were laughing and talking around her, because people didn't like it when she met their eyes with her own. It even made Leon squirm uncomfortably, and he had lived with it for fifteen years.
Besides, she had nothing to say to them.
Freoh touched her leg comfortingly under the table, his fingers soft on her dress. He squeezed reassuringly. Eth felt a little better – she was not entirely alone here. Freoh's brotherly touch always had that affect on her – he always knew exactly what to do.
"What do you think, Eth?"
Leon's voice startled her, causing her to jump. She tilted her face towards him, but kept her burning eyes downward. She hadn't been paying attention to what was being discussed.
"I…" she began, softly. "…think a great many things, Leon. But I'm afraid I wasn't listening." She blinked, and braved glancing into his eyes. He clenched his teeth, swallowing. She could almost see his thoughts, telling her to look away. She did. "I'm very sorry," she said.
The display made the boys around chuckle, half with nervousness, and half at the idea that the delicate, pathetic little creature could make Leon – who was somewhat clumsy, but brave as the lion he was named for and quite strong – so awkward and jumpy.
Elleran of Surda chuckled. "It's for the best," he laughed, somewhat viciously. "I don't see why you even asked her, Leon. Who cares what girls think, in any case? She's hardly ten."
Freoh's eyes – which were so like Eth's, except in their color – flicked dangerously to Elleran's face. "Lady Eth is thirteen," he said. There was venom in his voice, and for a moment he reminded all the boys of the statue in the courtyard of his elder brother – dangerous, strong, wise, and vengeful. "And you'd best address her as you would an equal. Eragon doesn't take kindly to disrespecting authority."
The name worked to subdue Elleran. He glanced at his lap. "Well, it's true," he mumbled, somewhat sheepishly. "Girls aren't good for much, other than –"
Eth stopped listening, feeling tears prick at her eyes. Suppose I'm a warrior, she told herself. Just suppose. Suppose I'm sitting at the table of my enemy. I cannot cry. I mustn't. But she was only a child. The tears stung, made her throat ache. They threatened to streak her cheeks. She could feel her nose turning red, and knew her eyes were puffy.
Freoh cleared his throat, and Elleran fell entirely silent.
The boy touched Eth's leg again, squeezing harder than ever. It hurt, it was so hard, but Eth was glad. The touch was comforting, and the hurt reminded her of where she was.
She fixed the image of herself as a warrior in her mind. Freoh always loved to hear about the things she pretended, and she knew later that night he would ask. She drew a bit of strength from the memory of the subtle ritual, added with the pretending about the warrior, enough to look up into Elleran's eyes.
The boy jerked, as her eyes – her father's eyes – glared into his own. He shivered involuntarily, seeing the queer, deep, strange knowledge that flickered in them. Eth blinked slowly, not taking her eyes from his.
"I'm afraid I have to be going to bed," she said, still looking at him. "I am only thirteen."
She bent and kissed Freoh's cheek, like a child kissing a father goodnight, and he turned to kiss her back.
"Sleep sweet," he told her, for she was not a little girl to be embarrassed by such things.
If they had lived in their parent's time, the traditional good-night wish would be to "dream of freedom". But neither would have had any idea what this would mean.
Eth curtsied slightly, and left. Only when they could not see her did she let herself run.
oooooooooooooo
Tears, for a little girl who views the world through serious little eyes, can often be considered a failure. So did Eth view them, as she sat with her head in her hands. Above her, Súndavar sat tall on Slate the dragon. But none of her father's power and fame seemed to help her now.
Eth was not in the habit of feeling sorry for herself. She had everything she wanted – a home and family, books, plus dolls and frilly things and a warm soft bed. It was more than enough for her.
But she hated the feeling of being disliked. She really had not done anything to anyone – she tried to be pleasant and act like a lady. It wasn't her fault that most people didn't bother with her.
Sometimes she supposed it was because of her father. If he had been alive, things would be so very different. He would hug her and hold her and talk to her, like Eragon used to when Luné woke from a particularly frightening magic-induced nightmare. He would teach her things, things like riding horses with one leg on either side, shooting an arrow. Persephone would still be his, rather than Rider David's.
Perhaps she wouldn't be so frail, if she had a father to help her along. She wouldn't get sick as much, or dislike crowds and people and being jostled.
Perhaps she would be stronger.
There would be someone to listen to the curious little things she said, someone who was just like her. There would be someone who would look into her eyes and see her, rather than just seeing how awful they were.
She looked up through her tears, at the statue above. When she was little, she used to climb up next to him, curl against his chest. When she needed to pretend particularly hard, she would still sometimes crawl up there, sit in the saddle, and close her eyes. Sometimes she swore to Freoh she could feel the wind in her face, feel the great dragon's body moving underneath her.
"Dry your tears."
Eth looked up quickly. Her breath caught.
It was always a surprise to see Elva. The girl seemed so very old to Eth, although she couldn't have been more than eighteen, certainly. She had an agelessness about her, a pretty flowing sort of thing that made everyone listen to whatever she had to say.
The girl was tall, and slender, with fair skin that shone like silver. Eth loved the way she looked, so eternal and elegant. Like a rainfall.
Elva came to sit next to her. She met Eth's eyes gently.
Eth didn't understand Elva's eyes. People didn't shrink away from them, or flinch when they saw the bright violet color. They seemed so to suit Elva's pretty elven features, people scarcely seemed to think twice about them. If only Eth's own eyes were that way.
"Do not be upset at yourself for them not understanding," Elva told her quietly. Her eyes still stared into Eth's. This was the longest gaze of hers anyone had ever held. Eth felt compelled to pull away from it first.
The child stared at the ground once more. "I am not," she said. "I only wish –"
"Only wishing never got anyone anywhere," Elva said. "Only wishing is only wishing."
Eth glanced at her. The words made a strange sort of sense in the child's mind. She chewed on her lip thoughtfully.
Elva stood up. With a grace and elegance that surpassed Eth's mind, she walked to one of the rose bushes.
The rose bushes were old, so very old that Eth couldn't remember a time when they had not been there. She had always liked them – though not loved them, because they were her mother's and she really had no right to love them – even though they had thorns and some of them grew black rather than rosy red.
Elva picked one of the blossoms delicately. It was black. She returned to Eth's side.
"They are in the roses," she said, handing her the little thorny thing. Eth's eyes flew to her father's face, above her. "Their ashes were scattered among them. He is the black ones. Slate is the red ones."
Eth held the little blossom in her hand. The petals were soft, like Luné's silk sheets.
"Eth?"
Freoh's voice met Eth's ears, and she started. The rose fell to the floor. Elva looked in the direction the voice came from, and got up.
When Freoh came into sight, the elder girl was gone, whisking away like the rainfall she was. But her aura still hung in the air, and the light perfume she wore made Freoh blink.
"Did she say comforting things, or confusing ones?" he asked. To him, Elva was too baffling to trifle with. Freoh was content to let Eth deal with the spectral girl, and never bothered trying to decipher what her sayings meant.
"Perhaps a bit of both," Eth admitted quietly. Her tears had long since stilled, and she was glad.
Freoh nodded. He picked up the rose at her feet. "You know something?"
"Several things. Which thing might you be talking about?" Eth asked.
"I was just thinking. Roses are to be pitied."
"How so?"
"In the prime of their lives, they are murdered, and then their corpses are displayed as signs of affection. It seems a bit cruel, doesn't it?"
"I have never thought of it that way," Eth confessed. "But now I shall. I think if anyone ever gave me a rose – which isn't likely as no one likes me very much besides you and Ieran – I should see him in quite a different light than he intended."
Freoh laughed, and kissed her forehead. "You are such a strange little creature," he told her. "I love you very much."
Eth smiled, and hugged him.
It was at this time that she became aware of a certain thing. What it was, she could not tell. It seemed almost as though a pair of eyes – two, at that – were upon her, but she could not see them.
"Freoh," she said. "I do believe we are being watched. Suppose it's one of Leon's friends, playing tricks?"
"It isn't one of Leon's friends."
The voice was a new one, and Eth jumped. It came from behind her. She turned, but the statue of Shadow and Slate barred her vision.
A hand clasped hers, and she nearly screamed, but for the fact that another hand covered her mouth. She heard Freoh grunt, and felt his warmth be torn away from her.
Now she knew what the feeling had meant, the feeling when she had first entered. There were too many people – people had come who had not supposed to.
This assumption was assumed in but a fraction of a second, for in the next, Eth found herself eye-to-eye with a grizzled face. The eyes in it were blue, and animalish, and stupid.
Something quite unexpected happened.
Rather than whatever was supposed to have happened, the man cried out. Eth felt a strange tingling, in her eyes, and in her fingers, and perhaps in her chest as well. The man's grip loosened, and she jerked away. His eyes remained on hers.
There was a sort of power, in the locking of their gazes. Her eyes burned into his own, so terribly, and neither he nor she was able to look away.
Eth wanted to scream, because now the gaze hurt her, but she found herself quite unable to do so. Her heart was beating, very fast beneath her dress. There was power, so much power, all in her eyes, and she found that she hated it. She wanted to be rid of it, wanted it to leave and stop the burning.
It was a strange type of magic, and it hurt. It was angry, because she was angry. How dare he touch her? How dare he? What did he want? Why?
In her mind, a new, wild sort of rage and hate blossomed. It frightened Eth, made her want to push it away. For it wasn't her. She, she herself, could not hate so much. Could she?
She hated him. The hate burned, and her eyes burned, and the man screamed.
And then the man was dead.
