"Those elves annoy me to no end."

Jarsha ground his teeth angrily as he stared at his friend Milda. "Before I know it, Mirofr's going to want me to call him Ebrithil or something of the sort. I'm a member of the Varden – how much training to I need?"

"I wouldn't say the same," the chatty Milda replied, seeming less talkative than she normally was. Brushing thick black bangs out of her eyes, she fell quiet, apparently thinking. "True, you're not the bravest person I've ever met, Jar, but you know the difference between right and wrong."

"Maybe…" Staring deep into Milda's swamp-like gray eyes, Jarsha bit his lip. Turning away from her, he heaved a sigh. "Maybe… But I really doubt it. You have to be lucky to be a Dragon Rider." This time, a glare. "And don't call me that."

"All right, all right." Milda rolled her eyes and went on in a more consoling tone as she placed one hand on her friend's shoulder. "I'll stop. But seriously, Jarsha, don't think so much of me. I'm a year older than you, and the only reason Iganì chose me as her Rider is pure luck."

"I don't get it."

Milda tossed her head to the side and grinned; Jarsha turned around, still confused. "Well, look at it this way. After Saphira and green dragon mated, they had about three hatchlings each year. Do you follow?"

Jarsha nodded, smiling in spite of himself. "Right now, ther're more than enough."

"Aye." Milda nodded and tossed a hand through her dark, bushy mop. "So, look at it logically – when Saphira first chose Eragon as her Rider, he was made the first good Dragon Rider since the days of old, before Galbatorix did… Well, you know what his did." Shuddering, Milda plunged on. "With more than enough other dragons besides Iganì born since Eragon did his thing with Murtagh, it wasn't too hard, I should think." Grinning ever more, Milda tipped her head to the side and gave him a large wink. "And besides, my personality fascinates everyone I meet."

Jarsha raised an eyebrow. "Yes," he said sarcastically, then cracked up. "By what standards set by mankind am I supposed to believe that?"

Milda shrugged and muttered something that sounded like distinctly like 'Ah well, but some people would.'

"Anyway, everyone in the Varden and in Surda gets free training anyway, so what's the difference?"

Ah, that Milda. She was so – er – Milda-ish. Her mindset indicated that she believed the Varden thought more highly of her than they did, bur Jarsha often wondered if it were true. This was Milda, after all. Always chatty, never normal, and through some estranged twist of luck or fate – one or the other, since he had seen his best friend as the heroic type – a Dragon Rider.

"There's more to it than that," he countered, "In a few months, when you and the others set off to Du Weldenvarden, your training will be more interesting than mine." He paused to make a face. "What am I saying? I don't even like the training." Being optimistic Jarsha that he was, however, he quickly brightened. "Besides, Dragon Riders get to fly."

By now, Milda had a quizzical expression on her face. "That's it? You just want to fly?" She grinned for the umpteenth time in her life. "All right, then, Jarsha, prepare yourself. You and I shall go on a little ride. Trust me, you poor former Varden messenger, we're going to fly."

-------------------------------------------

There they were, that beautiful afternoon, riding on Milda's dragon, Iganì. Iganì, whose glittering scales were a deep shade of powerful violet, was rather small for her five months, yet quick-witted and short-tempered. That's not to say she wasn't without the wisdom of most young dragons, though Milda could usually sense it through their mental link with feelings rather than words. Iganì would have made a strange fighter in war – her battling skills were horrible, which probably explained why she and Milda joined essences so often. Fifteen-year old Milda knew, of course, that even if the two of them ever were in a war, they would be somewhat trivial, sharing a mere bit of the limelight. There existed much cooler and more powerful Riders – namely, Eragon Shadeslayer and his reclusive brother, Murtagh. And, of course, the rider of the unnamed dragon, Roran Garrowsson.

Your friend likes this, does he? Iganì commented wryly, and Milda groaned playfully. I can tell, the purple dragon went on confidently, he thinks he's not very brave but he's trying to cast that aside as he tries to enjoy himself.

And why is that? Milda queried; like any Dragon Rider, she communicated with her dragon by thought. I mean, I know he's like that, but I find it offensive.

Iganì felt a mildly happy sensation in the depth of her mind at her friend's quick comeback (it showed her growing intelligence), but her conscious self didn't realize this. Rather, Iganì, being one of a short fuse, replied the way one would expect. Don't contradict me, she snapped, then felt suddenly guilty. Regaining herself, she continued: I know what we're talking about, Milda, and I can see that Jarsha has no confidence himself as a hero whatsoever. Just look at the way he's sitting on my back!

It was true, too. There was Jarsha, slumped upon Iganì's saddle behind her, eyes shut tight, seizing the tough brown leather so hard that his knuckles were white. He looked so… so scared, so forlorn. But, still, you could tell that he was trying to enjoy it – his mouth was opening and closing wordlessly.

"Jarsha!" Milda called, ignoring her dragon's mental admonishments. "Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jarsha said through gritted teeth, though without any hint of sarcasm. "I mean, right now I'm scared, but I figure it must be worse for you."

"Why?" asked Milda, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure, this is one time you have to live through it. So, if you can survive, how bad can it be?" She paused, then grinned evilly and winked. "Don't worry; Iganì's not going to drop you."

Jarsha opened his eyes, moving them ever so slightly – along with his body -- so that fudge-brown flew into mire-gray. "Aye…" he whispered softly, shaking his head, "but I'm not going to become a Rider like you are." Now, it was clear that he had abandoned trying to enjoy himself.

"And why do you think that?" Milda demanded, raising herself up imperiously upon her dragon's back and crossing her arms defiantly. Gripping the saddle's many riggings with her legs, she faced him flat in the face. "Why do you think that?"

"Because… Because I'm not very brave?" Jarsha replied tentatively.

At that, Milda exploded.

"What do you mean, you're not very brave? Izzat the best y'can give me, eh, Jarsha? Y'think you're not very brave? Y'know how bad tha' makes ma feel?"

"What?" Jarsha meekly averted her gaze.

"Look at it this way. You've been ma best friend f'r like, forever, and then all of a sudden y'tell me y'can' be a Rider because you're not very brave? Come on, you…y'person, all this time you've been doin' stuff y'don't wanna do but do anyway? You're telling me that's not bravery?" A pause. "An' since when d'you wanna be a Rider, an'way?"

Milda, as you have probably noticed by now, used a lot of slang when she was angry. Jarsha hung his head and turned away from his best friend, whose gray eyes were glowing pewter stones.

Of course he's brave. Milda gnashed her teeth together angrily as she declared this to Iganì; Jarsha, ahead of her, seemed to be engulfed in fear yet, and she couldn't blame him after that little, er, explosion. You don't understand, Iganì. This is Jarsha, after all. He's just so…so honest, so childish, but he's a teenager at the same time. He's growing up – now it's hard for him to feel happy and excited about things. My point? Of course he's got courage; he just refuses to believe it.

I still think he's. Iganì huffily gave a barely-suppressed snort, as the said former messenger boy went on looking straight ahead. Then, apparently plagued with a great sense of guilt, she added more gently, I don't mean to insult your friend, and I'm sorry if you think I did.

Aye, that's what you say, but some dragons never learn, Milda grumped, but Iganì could tell she didn't mean it. Say, say, say, and never learn. Talking about it doesn't teach them anything. So much for all that wisdom.

"I'm still think I'm not very brave," Jarsha whispered out of the blue. His eyes were down, focusing on Iganì's brilliantly violet scales. "Right now, I'm scared."

"Of course you are!" Milda nearly slapped her head in exasperation. "You've done loads of courageous things in your life! You've survived several dangers and lived what's not the luckiest of lives!" She paused, a weird thought having just occurred to her. "You know, I've got to stop talking like this. They say Eragon gained his gift of – er – talking archaically before his dragon could even communicate with him."

Not knowing what to say, Jarsha lifted his head up and kept his eyes focused forward, toward where the rest of Alagaësia was like a picturesque, multicoloured map laid down beneath the dragon's underside. He knew he shouldn't have grabbed Iganì's scales the way he was, but he was easily impulsive, his mind given to wandering past the normal boundaries of thought. Now, though, he didn't reflect or even try and think up a new tale, as he normally did. Instead, Jarsha kept silent, and noted just how strange his friend had been acting – still grasping the violet scales below him in a tight grip. Usually Milda was a much more chatty and fascinating person – 'a chip off my block, though she needs to observe the world around her more,' as Angela the herbalist had once referred to her. 'Alagaësia is a marvellous place, after all.'

"Sometimes Iganì a makes no sense," Jarsha grunted as he mulled on these matters.

Adolescents, Iganì commented to no one in particular. Sometimes they make no sense.