"Stop daydreaming!"
She was angry. She was furious, even. It didn't take a lot to know something like that; her chest was heaving, her brown hair was matted with sweat, and there was a dangerous look in her wide, furious eyes. It didn't take a lot to know something like that – and Jarsha was one of the people who knew her best.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he said guiltily, instantly relenting. He hadn't meant to drift off, but there was something about that battle – that battle that had taken place four years ago, that final battle between Murtagh and Eragon that he had witnessed at the mere age of ten – that always intrigued him, whether he was daydreaming about it or not. At that point, it was had been an awesome sight to behold, with each Rider stronger than ever before, and the young Jarsha had been incredibly shell-shocked at its end.
But now it was time for a history lesson.
"Sorry?" Myrna shook her head, avoiding her son's eye. "Sorry? That's what you always say, Jarsha – and yet somehow, you always end up drifting away during your lessons."
"I…" Averting her gaze, he etched a circle into the Surdan grass beneath their feet, turning toward the local teacher – a traveller from the forest city Osilon named Mirofr – who his mother had paid good money to instruct him in the ways of the land's history. "I'm sorry, Master Mirofr."
"Aye, and you expect me to believe it." The elf's mild chuckle was thinly veiled as he surveyed his young charge through amber eyes partly hidden by a hunk of strangely short yet shaggy silver hair. "Go on, young one. Tell kind Myrna here –" predictably enough, he tossed her a wink – "that it won't happen again during your history lesson."
"I can't," Jarsha said, still not looking at them. "I– I don't think about it. It happens… I'm too…whatever I am." And he hung his head in shame.
"Perhaps you could at least try?"
Jarsha looked up at Myrna's hand, that warm touch that was now perched upon his shoulder. He smiled at her, nodded with a determined smile, and turned back to Mirofr.
"All right. I can see that merely teaching you about this beautiful land's past will not work. Am I right, Jarsha?"
He nodded. "I drift off when you do that… I remember a lot from when I was ten, and that's not something I'd forget easily." He grinned. "It's so exciting, I forget about my lessons."
Mirofr nodded understandingly. "In that case, allow me to offer you some advice." He paused. "Some counsel, more like."
"How?" Jarsha queried eagerly, almost childishly. He had a habit of quickly regaining his optimism, that young one did. "What do I have to do?"
"Well, start by telling me everything you remember about Alagaësia's past." Mirofr shrewdly observed the brown-haired teenager not-so-quietly sitting before him. "Long before the this Eragon was born. Perhaps even before the first Eragon, if you can remember enough."
"Well – a long time ago, three hundred years after the formation of the peacekeeping group that was known as the Dragon Riders, humans came to Alagaësia," he recited, almost exactly as Mirofr had taught him a few days ago.
The elf began to speak, but a wave from Myrna interrupted him. "Excuse me, Master, but Jarsha has already learned this."
The elf nodded sagely. "Yes, Myrna, but look at it this way." He cleared his throat and looked up, deep into her pudding-coloured eyes. (I know, weird comparison for an Inheritance story…) "Perhaps, by reviewing things he knows already, it will help him concentrate."
Myrna nodded, fell silent, and remained intent on the elf as he continued with Jarsha.
"Do you know what happened afterward?" Mirofr inquired.
"Er… Er… Aye, now I remember." The foggy expression on Jarsha's face brightened. "There were twenty human warriors, and they settled here, in Surda. They traded with the dwarves."
Mirofr nodded again. "And then?" he asked softly.
"Erm… Then I forget what happened." Jarsha frowned, his elbows on his knees. "Something about King Palencar."
"In that case, tell me about the Riders," a gleam sprang into Mirofr's eye, "tell me what you remember about the Dragon Riders, Jarsha."
At this, the young one brightened once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Myrna leaving – probably returning to their peaceful little hut nearby to cook the midday meal. Focusing his attention back on his mentor, he delved into another recital excitedly.
"Well, the elves arrived on Alagaësia from some place named Alalëa."
"The home of the elves," Mirofr whispered, the gleam brighter than ever in his eye. "Alalëa… The land I shall someday see with my own eyes."
Jarsha, a quizzical expression on his face, merely waited. When the silver-haired being gestured for him to go on, he proceeded quickly. "The elves and the dragons didn't get along in the very beginning; there was a war between the two races. It's called… Er…" He paused, trying to remember what it was Mirofr had confided in him a few days ago. He hated those words of the Ancient Language –they were so long and hard to pronounce.
"I remember now!" exclaimed Jarsha, and his mentor nodded.
"It's called 'Du Fyrn Skulblaka' – The Dragon War." He stopped his small, informative speech to fidget and ponder. "Eventually, to end the war, they worked together to create the Dragon Riders. The dragons became more intelligent and less wild. They're able to think and communicate freely with their Riders. The elves gained an infinite lifespan – the elves are immortal unless they are killed from battle wounds or are poisoned. They can also combine their strengths together and work stronger gramarye – their magic. They became stronger, faster, and more agile. In fact, the elves are much stronger than us." He paused, and furiously shook his brown locks. "I don't like them all, though, for some reason or other."
"A person is entitled to their own opinions, Jarsha." Mirofr's voice was barely a whisper on the air – probably because he was annoyed with his young charge. Jarsha had just insulted the elves and, weirdly enough, he hadn't even realized it. "Perhaps, then, what they say about your lack of talent in the battlefield is true." He raised an eyebrow. "Is it not?"
"Aye, I know… I know that magic and weaponry is important, but I prefer thinking up stories, writing poems, brining joy to my friends. I always fancied being a bard when I'm older. I think it would suit me well." Jarsha didn't look guilty, and thus Mirofr could only feel anger for him at the moment. "But that's just me," the boy finished meekly, looking down, trying to avert the gaze of his master.
Mirofr sighed and buried his face in his hands. True, he was usually good-natured, but Jarsha had that streak of…something…something that he could not name…which, simply put, annoyed him to no end every so often.
"We'll go back to studying the Ancient Language," he said, shoving his unhappy thoughts back into his subconscious. "I trust you have studied, as I asked you to."
Jarsha nodded. "Yes, Master."