The next day, Milda was as bright and perky as she always was, clearly sorry for the way she had acted the day before. Jarsha was pleased of this and he too apologized.

"Yes, it's funny." Milda grinned and tossed her head to the side. "I was angry with you for a really stupid reason, and now look where we are. I mean, life doesn't always make much sense… You know what I mean, Jarsha? I never thought it did."

Aye, Jarsha thought with a smile, she's back to normal, all right. "I'm just happy we made up," he said honestly. "That's the way I see things."

"Can't disagree with you there," replied Milda as she ran a hand equipped with a cloth down the sleeping Iganí's violet scales; she was busy in the act of rubbing her down with the scrap of fabric after their long flight the day before. "So this is the way life is. One day we're mad at each other – for what reason, though, mind you? – and the next day it's as if nothing happened between us. See, that's why life in Alagaësia is so… strange."

"I wonder what Alalëa was like?" Jarsha mused thoughtfully; to the outsider, it would appear that he hadn't really heard her. He had, but he had just habituated himself to Milda through the ages. She talked too much, and this time – as always – his mind had wandered to a more interesting subject. Running a hand through his hair, he went on. "When I mentioned it yesterday when I was with Mirofr, I could tell he wanted to really go there."

"Well, it was the elves' home," said Milda reasonably. "Look at it this way – don't you want to see the place where humans lived before they came to Alagaësia? I know I would, for sure."

"Well, it would be interesting." Jarsha nodded and, unexpectedly, gave a step backward. Milda was surprised, stunned even, but left him to his thing. Jarsha had a reputation of doing strange things occasionally when he was caught up with his thoughts. "I'd actually like it a lot, but I really doubt it would happen." Cocking his head to the side, he gave her a sly grin, then came forward as abruptly as he had backed up.

Milda shrugged, turning back to her dragon. Iganì was still sleeping peacefully, her thick tale moving up and down slightly; she was lost in her happy dream. Just the sort of thing you'd expect a five-month old dragon with more wisdom than she let on to do. "You never know," Milda said, giving the purple scales one last, thoughtful, tactful swipe. Stepping back to admire her handiwork, she continued with the speech. "I'm a Dragon Rider, remember? We're entitled to more privileges than the average Varden member, you know." Her grin now stretching from ear to ear, she pushed him teasingly. "Huh? What do you have t'say about that, eh, Jarsha? What's so great about you, huh?"

Jarsha grinned back and pushed her away. "Yeah, but how many people have actually met the great Eragon himself, eh? How many people have actually delivered messages to him?"

"Aw, you only delivered two of 'em," Milda said roguishly, applying the force in her body to push him away. "You said he wasn't as awesome as you thought he would be."

"Well, that was more thanfive years ago," Jarsha pointed out.

Regardless Milda plighed onward, giving him another friendly push. "So, my dear friend/former messenger boy, it would be a lot better to be a Rider yourself than know one and have met another, don't you think?"

Jarsha sprinted away lightly so that her onslaught of pushing would (hopefully) halt. "Ah. Yes. I think Eragon's decent enough, though." He paused, the grin vanishing from his face. "I think he was just probably hurried and…er…not expecting a messenger boy to randomly appear and deliver messages."

"I heard Myrna talking to Mirofr yesterday. They were discussing if they should make you a messenger boy again."

Jarsha turned back to Milda again. She wasn't smiling; instead, she looked serious. That explains why she isn't as chatty as before. "How, though?" he asked with a shrug, a drifting look in his eye. "If they wanted to be the Varden's messenger again, they would have to ask Lady Nasuada."

Milda raised one eyebrow, pondering. "Well… Well, you know, Jarsha, maybe they have. It could be like this… Suppose they've been considering this for ages, and now they're having second thoughts about it. Suppose they don't think you'll want to do it all over again. Maybe they'll ask you for your opinion." Her eyes squinched shut, she swivelled toward him.

How does she do that? Jarsha wondered, suddenly aware of his heart, which was racing like a charging dragon in his chest – though he didn't know why. "Or maybe I'm mistaken. It's possible, you know – as long as you're still young, Myrna can choose to if she wants."

"That'd make a great story," Jarsha mulled, pulling up the seemingly-oblivious-to-her-yet-listening-to-every-word act again. "A messenger who travels to foreign lands and meets a Dragon Rider along the way. Hm."

"Just like you might be, if luck shines upon us." Milda winked. "Though, I must say, it's not necessary. You could just ask me if you wanted to travel with a Rider."

Jarsha shot another grin at his friend. He knew it wasn't possible, but Milda had just given him an idea for a great story.

Little did he know just how wrong he was.

The next afternoon…

"Is that all you've got ta tell us, Sir?" Merrick asked.

The tall storyteller patted the five year-old's wavy honey-coloured locks. "What makes you think that, Merrick?"

"I wanna hear more about your story!" he replied excitedly, jumping up and down.

"Aye! So do we!" chimed in several other young ones, happily leaping around and succeeding in trampling the sun-drenched grass.

This youthful population of Surda had, at that moment, one desire: to listen to the great storyteller Jarsha's new tale. Every day, the 'big kid' would ascend the stool that had been stationed on the sun-drenched Surdan plains to tell his young friends a story. To them, he was a powerful king, his stool a sacred throne. It was a different one each time, usually, and a few hours ago Jarsha had been quite excited before he'd spun this one.

"Yesterday," he had begun, when all the little ones were assembled quietly before him, "my friend Milda gave me an idea for a new story. Do any of you know her?"

There had been some nodding in assent. Milda loved the young ones – 'Someday I'd love to adopt a whole lot, but Dragon Riders don't have much time to take care of them, y'know?' – and frequently took them on adventures. These little 'quests' were usually short, a mere half hour, as the children tended to become bored after a short while. Usually they travelled about a kilometre west of the boundaries of Surda. So, naturally enough, Jarsha hadn't been surprised when he had heard some suppressed yells of recognition.

"Well, the idea she gave me – and by accident, mind you – is one of the best ones I've ever decided to use for a story." Jarsha had closed his eyes, talking without looking at the eager listeners. "It's about a messenger, this story. A messenger who, to deliver mail, is sent away with a group of Dragon Riders to the elven city of Ellesméra and eventually becomes a Rider herself." Still not looking at them, he had swung his legs from his lofty wooden perch. "And the story I'm about to tell you today is about her and her adventures."

Then he had looked up once more, pudding-coloured eyes open, large, and glowing. He had a slight, evil smile curling the tip of his lip, and had he not been Jarsha – a boy of few faces, though not one of the children assembled before him that day could say as much – this would never have come to be. "And that is the story you shall hear today."

True to his word, it was three hours later and, according to Jarsha, the first chapter of the story had been told. "But only the first chapter," he had said, eyes deep and pulsing, when the question had been popped on him. "There are many more chapters to come – I'd say at least fifteen."

Now, Merrick knew that this was his favourite story to date, as he so told his friends when the group broke up.