I am a writing machine.
Enjoy.
…there is nothing more beautiful and terrifying than a storm…
Eragon dreams of shore.
His bare feet touch the warm sand and curl in delight. A feeling of peace rushes through him.
Finally, at long last, he has found the-
"Storm approaching!"
Mirimâ, whom he has never heard speak before, jolts him awake with her frantic warning. Irrational anger overwhelms him. He fights the urge to strike out at her and, for a terrifying moment, thinks he will lose.
He had been so close.
Then, in the next second, he was in control again.
"Make sure the eggs are secure!"
She obeys him without question and Eragon pauses, wondering when the feeling had become so natural. Had he really once been that poor, naive farmer's boy? Little more than a year ago?
I am not who I was.
A force hits the ship from the starboard, rocking it dangerously. Eragon is thrown off his feet and crashes into the wall.
No time for dreaming now, he thinks determined, picking himself off the floor.
Keeping his balance low, Eragon makes his way up to the deck without incident, though the boat is battered from side to side, nonstop. Almost drown out by the thundering rush of water, Sapphira roars in defiance.
Eragon is drenched within half a second, and blinded.
With a growl, he casts a spell over himself so that the water slide away from his face and body. Magical lights float above wooden floor, illuminating the elves as they stand in a circle around the deck.
He pauses, captivated by the scene playing out in front of him.
The blue light casts an otherworldly glow to their skin, bleaching the color from their cheeks and hair. Eyes closed and lips moving together in a whispered chant, they seem fragile.
Almost like statues, facing outward.
The ship groans under the strain, magic barely holding it together.
Another monstrous wave tears across the deck, taking with it all that is not secured down, and much of what is anyway. An elf is knocked flat, flung across the deck. Red blood mixes with water, seeping across the deck, lapping at Eragon's bare toes.
Another elf kneels by the side of the fallen, who stirs weakly.
Eragon barely has time to feel relief when another wave rises. It seems to hover, suspended over the circle of spellcastors. He watches with horror as the wave falls, seeming too slow to be real, surely, a great unavoidable shadow that falls over the circle.
A hammer ready to fall, to crush.
He opens his mouth to-
"Huildr!"
The water rolls over them, harmless, the figures rooted to the deck by magic. Overhead, Sapphira, circling in agitation, crows with victory.
Eragon turns.
Blödhgram is at the wheel, his fur rippling in the powerful wind. His dark hair streams behind him and his upper arms strain with the effort of keeping them on course. Soaked with sea water and magic crackling in the air, the elf starts to laugh.
Throws his head back in defiance and laughs.
The sound reaches Eragon over the groaning wood and wind's angry howling, shaking him to his core. It's low and dark and melodic.
Thick lines and jagged edges.
Something hard slams into Eragon's side, sapping strength from his shields with alarming speed. He lets them go and the cold water rushes at him thirstily, soaking his clothes and dragging him down to his knees.
Sapphira screams a warning in his mind.
Eragon!
He meets Blödhgarm's eyes, wide and golden. He's not laughing, he shouting a warning but Eragon's ears are blocked with water and his head is spinning.
Water runs off of him in streams.
Eragon looks up.
Above him is a towering wall of water. His own stunned reflection stares back at him.
"Adurna Letta!"
His voice, and Blödhgarm's, inwoven, so that he can't quite tell where one ends and the other begins. For a moment, everything is still.
And then it falls.
There is nothing else. Nothing else exists.
Eragon closes his eyes and opens them once more. He cannot tell which is which. He is surrounded by a dull roar, tossed and turned. It is not like riding Sapphira; there is nothing to remind him he is alive.
Nothing but the burning urge to breathe.
He concentrates, focusing his energy into a single silent demand.
Taka iet vindr.
His spell dissolves like sugar on his tongue. It's over.
Fire, that's all he can feel. Smothered by water, his lungs are burning, he needs air, needs to breathe. He needs, he needsto-
He reaches out in the blackness to say goodbye to Sapphira.
There is nothing.
Huildr: Hold
Adurna letta: Stop, water
Taka iet vindr: Give me air