Disclaimer: A world of dreams and make-believe, thought up by someone before me; and so all I can offer is this small addendum.
A/N: *looks purposefully not at the date* Well … I'm sorry. I have no real excuse, other than that I preferred writing on my HP stories for a while. The only consolation I can offer is that in my opinion, the time I spent away from Eragon did the chapter good – I'm fairly satisfied with it; and otherwise the assertion that I am really, really sorry that it took that long.
At the end, I was stuck at the last part of the story for an entire month on top of all that (I had seven different documents of that scene, before I was satisfied), but rest assured that I have no intentions of abandoning Flawed Perfection even if it's becoming longer and longer.
On that topic, this is not the big chapter at Helgrind, but rather a transitory chapter, since I had to split it (again). The big one is the next one, now. I can't wait to get there … it has some awesome twists, and will (finally!) end the first story arch. After then 60k words. Oh well.
To compensate for the lack of plot advancement, action and all the flashy things, this one shows more of Arya's character and has some Eragon/Arya fluff, my personal favourite scene so far. Enjoy that while it lasts, folks. The next chapter will – but ah, that would telling (inset cue evil laugh here). Oh, you'll see. I so can't wait.
On the other hand, to all those of you who like to understand Arya a little bit better, I think you'll be happy here regardless :)
Thanks, as always, to SocialBunny for betaing.
Recap of the last chapters:
Eragon, Arya and Saphira left the Varden thirteen days ago; first accompanying the dwarfs to Farthen Dûr, to attend the funeral of the late King Hrothgar, and then on a journey across Alagaësia, to get to Helgrind and rescues Katrina. Despite Roran's angry protests, he remained behind; so all his hopes now rest on his cousin and his companions.
On the way to Helgrind, the three of them encountered imperial soldiers at the village of Rak, which led to a disagreement between Eragon and Arya; since she reminded him of their mission, yet he couldn't watch the soldiers killing the villagers and burning down the town, remembering Carvahall. However, his intervention had consequences when a magician accompanying the soldiers was able to escape, presumably bringing knowledge of the incident to King Galbatorix.
Despite the additional risk, Eragon and Arya continued, reaching Helgrind days later. Unnatural thick thunderclouds were already spreading from Helgrind upon their arrival, so thick that it was as dark as in the middle of the night, and preventing Saphira to fly them up to Helgrind as they had planned, since the rapidly changing currents were too strong for her.
So, Eragon and Arya left Saphira behind and started to climb on the mile-high mountain, aided and shielded by their magic. After a few close calls, they arrived safely on top after six hours of climbing, splitting up and searching for the entrance. Eragon found an eerie forest of stone that held a single flower in its centre, of which he took a petal with him. Arya, in turn, found and followed the trace of the last, green, dragon egg.
However, while they were separated, it became apparent that Helgrind had a strange reaction to all things magic, severely hampering their ability to reach one another with their minds; as well as feeling unnatural, cold and just all around wrong. The forest invoked an impalpable fear in Eragon; and he was glad to meet up with Arya again.
She led Eragon along the trail of the egg, through one peak of Helgrind and onto a narrow ledge, from where they could see the entrance of a cave – the place they had been searching for. However, in between was nothing – no handhold, no place to rest their feet – and so, Eragon jumped.
4. Insight
It was cold and she was utterly alone. And for the first time in the last half-hour, she admitted to herself what she'd known all along.
She was lost.
She swallowed and furiously fought against the sudden burning in her eyes, against the tears threatening to well up.
She would not cry.
Instead, she forced her eyes to look ahead. There was no path. She turned, beating down the stab of anxious worry, and looked behind her. She spotted a strangely shaped rock, but could not remember passing it. She turned again, searching for something, anything, that would tell her into which direction to go, but there was nothing. She didn't remember this part of Du Weldenvarden at all.
She'd gone further into the forest than usual, but hadn't been paying attention whereto she walked. And even for elves, that was fatal, for outside of Ellesméra, Du Weldenvarden was the same on no two moments; wild and full of magic, changing directions on a whim and distances in the blink of an eye. Where home had lain moments before, there now could be nothing but endless stretches of uninhabited land.
All around her, the black trees stood tall and silent, unconcerned with her insignificant plight, forbidding and dark, like a wall. The biting winter's gale whistled through the boughs, seizing the tops of the firs and pines with its icy grip and chilling her to the bone. She shivered with cold.
It was only the cold. Of course.
In the short spell of time where the wind ceased, to draw breath and return with renewed vigour, she listened. There was no sound, no one to ask; just herself, her own breathing and the beating of her heart.
Crack.
A twig snapped, seeming like thunder in the silence. She whirled around. Leaves rustled. She swallowed again and shrunk back, not daring to touch it with her mind. What could it be? Wasn't that a heavy huffing?
She wanted to reach out with her mind so badly then, call for Mother; call so loud that she would come. She would hear. She would take her home. Oh, how she suddenly longed to be in her mother's warm embrace.
But something else stirred deep inside her. It was her mistake. She would fix it. Mother had nothing to do with it. She could not bear seeing her disappointed gaze, would not stand for a scolding of her foolishness to wander this deep into the forest. This was her problem, hers, hers alone, and no one else's. She was going to get out of this situation the same way she'd gotten in: on her own. There was just one thing to do.
She gathered all her courage, pushing away her fear and the vivid images of foaming-mouthed beasts and the frightening thought of Du Weldenvarden's unpredictable, strange distances that were short on one day and miles upon miles the other and even closed circles on yet different days, and walked ahead just into the direction she'd heard the noise from, to prove herself that she felt no fear; never faltering, never looking back; walked until she would have reached home or could go on no longer, she thought.
The sun wasn't yet below the horizon or so she guessed; but it made no difference, because like a heavy blanket the trees swallowed the light and it was murky down here. For what seemed her like hours she trudged over roots and ducked below branches in the constant twilight, felt her legs getting tired and moved on anyway. Eventually, there was nothing left but emptiness in her mind, as she walked in a haze of exhaustion, only placing one foot in front of the other, in turns; long since apathetic to the howling wind and the biting frost, her fingers cold and unfeeling.
Minutes, hours, days; all was one, her feel for time completely gone, lost somewhere between the ancient trees that thought in years like days. Only the density of the forest steadily increased; like a wall around her now, the thick shrubs and close fir forest seemingly making an effort to move further together and detain her here forever. Thorny fingers clawed at her nice dress, tearing it apart; placing their leafy hands over her eyes and removing her sight. She stumbled over roots, twisting her ankle, crawled on all fours before she struggled to her feet again and continued her trek; restless and with a determination she didn't ever knew she possessed.
And still, after all the time, not longer than an hour but at least a day, something cut through her state of empty exhaustion and halted her advance. Like a devastating blow, the desperation hit her anew. Towering in front of her was an entire wall of smooth rock, with no spot to place a feet or grab a hold; reaching from where she stood, at its base, up high, so very high into the starless sky. And it stretched on and on, to either side of her for as long as her eyes could see in the dark of the night, quelling any hope there might have been to perhaps walk around it.
And the tears in her eyes still stemmed from the biting wind only. Of course.
But she pulled herself together once more, spotting vines on the very base of the rock face next to her, giving her an idea. She tore at them with all her might, cut them off, until a few strands lay to her feet; and she started to knot a rope from vines and magic, with a noose to catch the single hook-like protrusion she made out above.
She threw it up there, gathering her magic to aid her, but it ran like water through her hands. Hardly was she able to keep it together; the storm moved her noose around at its flighty will, rendering her best efforts void. The wind! The trice cursed wind … now her rope was directly above the hook, now she carefully lowered it, but then the storm picked up, with playful ease swatting away her noose; mocking her with perfect calm afterwards; again and again. She wanted to cry in frustration.
She gathered all her remaining strength, and as the fatigue tore through her in a burning pain, she uttered a single-worded cry and forced the noose against the wind into place. It raged against her focused will with boundless wrath, and could yet do nothing at all, as the rope was firmly in place. Her green eyes glittered in the dark.
She started to climb at once, and once again, she reached her by now well-known state of numbness. Reaching the end of her rope, searching for hold on the rock and then for a new crack to hook it into, climbing on … long since it had become a personal fight. All thoughts of getting help seemed ridiculously far away, it was her, only her, against the nature. The storm tore at her, trying to make her fall or give up or back down, and she gritted her teeth and climbed on. Another gust nearly ripped her from the rock, carrying small, hard icicles that started pelting her. She shouted her challenge into the night.
"I will not!"
The wind howled in answer, furious at her defiance and blew stronger and stronger, but she clawed her fingers into the stone, uncaring at the cuts it left on her hands, uncaring at the many more tears the sharp rock made in her formerly fine dress, uncaring about the throbbing ankle that was thick and swollen. Her eyes were solely fixed on the edge that lay above.
"I. Will. Not!"
Not back down, not give up. Her world drowned in a soughing fog of howling wind and razor sharp shards of ice, cutting her, deafening her, robbing the last of her sight as something warm and sticky trickled from her forehead and glued her eyes shut. Blindly, she felt her way up, no longer concerned with anything but the next pull, the next piece of rock to grab. Left hand and right foot, right hand and left foot … eternity split into singular movements.
And then, there was only empty air and she felt blades of grass beneath her fingers, so wonderfully soft and soothing to her ill-treated hands. She dug her fingers into the moist earth, pulling forwards, and the storm vanished and remained behind. She pried one eye open and found herself looking above the edge, at the end of the rock face.
Blinking confusedly, she stared directly at the silhouette of an old man, sitting there in utmost calm, as if it was the most common thing on earth that the head of a princess suddenly appeared above the edge. In fact, he looked as if he'd been expecting her.
"Good evening, Princess," he said.
He gazed at her with mild curiosity as she reached for an exposed root, and pulled herself up fully, clothes torn, hand littered with scratches and slick with blood, her ankle an angry red; but he made no move to help her, not as she crawled ahead, not as she tried to stand up, not even as her legs gave out under her, and she was lying there on the ground in a crumpled heap, unable to walk a single further step.
Instead, he tilted his silver-haired head.
"Why ever would you choose that particular way to come to me, child?" he inquired curiously. "It seems an overly inconvenient path. Why, I don't believe someone ever came to me from down there!"
"Because it was in the way!" she snapped.
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
"Of course."
She stared at him angrily – who was he to question her? – but suddenly, all that was unimportant. Sitting on the ground, she realised what she'd done – she'd found someone, all on her own; was not longer lost, had braved any and every adversity thrown her way, and now it felt like a dam burst; a wild, exhilarating feel of success pouring in every pore of her body. A beaming smile split her face, all anger forgotten.
"I did it!" she exclaimed.
"It seems that way," he answered, before he rose from the stump he was sitting on. She saw its outline grey in the dark.
"I have been expecting you for a while," he remarked, while he bent over her and started to heal her cuts and bruises. She wanted to sigh in relief as a wonderful cool feel swept through her ankle and the swelling receded.
"That was an impressive feat of magic down there for one so young. Crude, of course, but nevertheless effective. As you see, I know a little bit of the gramarye myself. I might be able to teach you more, if you are interested?"
Arya stared at him wide-eyed. He was clearly a master of the gramarye, if he could use it that easily and without the need to speak, too. And he wanted to teach her?
"Yes," she blurted out, before she hastily added: "Please."
He nodded again, as if he'd expected nothing else, and only then she remembered his earlier words.
"You've been expecting me?" She frowned. "But who are you?"
A faint smile appeared on his face. "I would be Osthato Chetowä, the Mourning Sage. And it was not as though I could not expect you." His tone turned mildly chiding. "You made noise enough for two rampaging bears. I was able to track you in forest at least two miles off."
She stared at this man, uttering those words in perfect calm. She remembered her pains, the misery, the fear, the uncertainty; how she struggled through the forest and up the crag – and he had watched it all and done nothing?
"So – so you knew all along I was there?" she burst out in ire. "Why didn't you come? You could – you could have –"
Words failed her in her indignation, and she stared at the old man with his serene grey eyes in outrage. He looked at her earnestly, and nodded.
"Yes, I could have." His tone was neither approving nor disapproving. It simply was. And suddenly, when she felt the weight of his gaze descending down on her, she thought that this man knew her better than anyone, perhaps even including herself; and she knew what he would ask, and at the same instant the answer she had to give.
"But would you have accepted my help?"
Standing on the narrow ledge, six thousand feet above the ground, Eragon jumped.
And missed the edge of the cave opening by a foot.
A sudden gust of wind from the ever-howling storm around Helgrind's top was enough to steer him off track, pushing him from the wall, and he started to fall into the deep.
"Eragon!"
He heard Arya's desperate cry above him, as well as in his mind; helpless, unable to do anything. The air rushed past him, tearing at him, shaking and buffeting him, and there was no rescue in sight, just the vertical wall in front of him and the thick fog of clouds around him, already hiding the form of Arya from sight: bent forward over the edge as much as she dared and helplessly staring down.
And he picked up more and more speed as the earth pulled him towards her; and soon, all too soon, he was too fast to catch a halt, even if there had been one.
It was an oddly interesting experience, he noted with a detached amusement; falling through the clouds like this … he was completely weightless. He spun on his back, pretending to lie on a mattress, and to his delight, it worked. A mattress of air, comfortably propping up his back … the ward had to still dampen most of the blasts of air.
Now he could think.
Of course, if he didn't decide on something fast, he would be dead.
That thought brought everything to a crashing halt. His eyes flew open. What had he been thinking?
"Lethr!" he screamed. The rush of energy that poured out of him like a river into the ocean left him gasping in its wake. He came to a jerky halt, thrown back and forth by the howling wind; feeling like he had just ran miles and miles without pause. And the magic still left him at an alarming rate. He cancelled the spell at once, starting to fall again.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered panting, trying to regenerate enough for another attempt. Never use absolutes! Oromis' voice echoed in his mind. He didn't have to wait for the impact of the ground to kill him, if he did it first. And it had been completely useless as well – what did he want staying still in the air? He had known that he was in no shape to make his way back up to Arya. So the only way was the way safely down, and for that, he needed the magic to slow his fall.
"Seinka hrap iet!"
Of course, he couldn't see how much slower he needed to be. H didn't feel weightless anymore, which meant he no longer fell freely, but that was all. All around him were the dark clouds, swirling and churning, offering no sense of orientation.
Eragon?
Arya's voice entered his mind, very softly, and atypically timid.
Are you – still there? Eragon? Answer me!
He took a deep breath.
Yes. I'm falling slowly.
There was a long pause. Then her tone was all businesslike. Good. I presume you are in no position to make it back up?
Thrown off balance by her sudden change in her tone, he responded briefly.
No.
Only then did he grasp the full meaning of that answer, coming to the same conclusion Arya most likely did moments earlier. He wouldn't return to the entrance. He had no hope of getting to Katrina and killing the Ra'zac. Eragon cursed under his breath. Unless he climbed up again, he had lost against the black mountain; and even then, it was a whole day lost.
Quickly like his strength, the presence of Arya in his mind seemed to somehow wane, and he hastened to ask her before it would be too late.
Will you try to reach the ledge, Arya, and look for Katrina?
She didn't answer, and for a moment he feared his plea to be already lost in whatever dampened the connection so. But then, the musical trill of her voice reached him for the last time, thin and faraway.
I will, Eragon Shadeslayer. As you promised your cousin, so I shall promise you now; I will find her. Take care of yourself. We will meet again on the ground.
And then he was alone, completely alone; with only the blinding white flashes of lightning and the howling storm to keep him company; somewhere, between heaven and earth.
– * –
When he woke again, the first thing he noticed was that it was warm and dark.
Frowning, he tried to piece together the last five minutes. The white-hot lightning licking at him with hungry forked tongues … he had been so tired … and he had been falling, always falling … he had been falling too fast … he had summoned his last strength, in a last, desperate effort, while his heart beat all too fast and his leaden limbs screamed at him their protest … purple stars in front of his eyes, in a dance of madness … and then nothing, blackness.
And now it was still black.
He turned his head, not seeing anything, and went on to stretch his limbs, which felt surprisingly well; encountering resistance – hard, scaly resistance, and it moved.
A faint memory drifted to the front of his mind. There was a dragon. It was his dragon? And it was a she, and she had a name … Saphira?
Slowly, the trickle of memories turned into a torrent that came rushing back, while he shook his head as to clear the last cobwebs.
The muttered word of fire in the ancient language, combined with the intent of shaping a floating ball, created a softly glowing light, which popped into existence. He was tucked under Saphira's wing, next to her warm belly, whose blue scales glittered and shimmered mysteriously in the dim gleam, distributing fleeting specks of blue light all over him and the ground; yesteryear's brittle, yellow grass and tufts of spicy smelling heather.
Her wing moved again, and her snout appeared to his right, in the make-shift cave.
How do you feel?
Eragon frowned, trying to assert his state. He was aching all over, in the unlikeliest of places, and generally felt sore, but it was a far cry from the state of pure exhaustion in the last minutes he remembered from his fall.
Better … I think. Did I crash?
No.
Oh. Good.
Saphira blinked at him disapprovingly with one large eye.
No, you did not crash, you only nearly died from expending too much energy – again! You've been lying here like a dead rabbit for over three days now.
"I've been what?"
– * –
The hours passed, or at least Eragon assumed they did, as the artificial darkness didn't differentiate between day and night.
Three days. He'd lost three days.
Three additional days that he spent away, doing nothing, while Nasuada and her Varden were unprotected against a serious attack, three additional days that Katrina was imprisoned and that she might not have. It had taken a few minutes for that to sink in; and then the worry descended upon him like a tidal wave, as he came to the last conclusion: Three days later, and Arya was still gone.
Now, he was sitting leant against Saphira, staring into the stormy darkness, which lay like a heavy blanket over the country and over the towns; the massive layer of clouds stretching the darkest hour of the night to cover every second of the day. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere ahead. Where the night was the darkest. that was where Helgrind was. Where Arya was. And so, his thoughts followed his eyes, fixed on the rock perhaps a mile away and only visible, because it was not visible.
At least the hail had stopped whipping over the empty plain.
He'd shown Saphira memories of what had transpired atop Helgrind, and she, in turn, had provided him with her view. After he had arrived on the ground, unconscious, she'd carefully moved him away from the gigantuous rock. She didn't like it at all, and even though she reacted scarcely and said little, he knew that she was worried, more so after she heard his story.
Where Eragon only felt the artificial cold upon touching it, she felt … something. She'd sent him the feeling, when he had shared his memories with her. He couldn't express it with words. Perhaps it was best described with a choir singing constantly in the background, always the same melody, and just the tiniest bit off-key, in a way that made you physically ill. It crept around the edges of the conscience, barely noticeably, worming its way into thoughts and feelings tentacle-like, rooting there.
It made her instinctively feel uneasy and restless. Perhaps it was a quality of the rock. Perhaps it was a foreboding inkling of something yet to come.
Eragon pushed that away; had more tangible concerns, and they were worrisome enough. In an effort to distract himself from Arya, he'd tried to gauge how far the darkness had spread and had come up with no result. He wondered how far it went south. As long as Galbatorix didn't invent an easy way for everyone in his army to see at night, he had no additional advantage over the Varden. But he wasn't the one wanting to attack at the moment, and it would have a devastating effect on the Varden's morale.
Including his trip to Farthen Dûr, he had been absent for over two weeks by now, and instead of the return of a victorious Dragonrider, the northerly wind carried an inky darkness. Instead of waking up to see blue scales glinting in the sun, they saw the sun being hidden away by eternal night.
It truly was an eternal night, Eragon thought shivering, unleashed from Helgrind, as if the Dark Gates had opened, spilling forth their un-light.
And what power it would take! Galbatorix was in his Citadel in Urû'baen, an entire day's journey on Saphira' back away, yet the clouds had never faltered in their advance. It was a frightening prospect to fight someone as powerful as this. He had learned so much, and grown so fast, yet was nowhere close to being able to create something like this, not even if he would be standing in its very centre, on the top of Helgrind, and not somewhere remote. He almost hoped it had something to do with Helgrind; anything to rationalise the level of power Galbatorix wielded and executed, even if it made the prospect of Arya moving inside –
Agitated, he jumped up. It was no use. Every other thought brought him back to Arya.
"And I can't even tell just how long it's been exactly!" he exclaimed agitatedly.
Behind him, Saphira moved, unfolding her wings.
You can't. But the storm abated a bit. Perhaps I can.
Eragon understood at once what she meant.
Let me fly with you?
He pushed his mind to hers and his world toppled; for a short time he felt a peculiar sensation of falling, even though he was standing firmly with his feet on the ground. Then he was with Saphira, seeing the world through her eyes and realising astonished that he could see even more clearly than with his elfin eyes. The vision was entirely blue and the edges of objects jittered, but he could see even the silhouettes of Dras-Leona, more than two miles away.
If Galbatorix's wrenched darkness keeps up, I will have to share your vision more regularly, he told her in her mind. It is superior to mine.
He felt her consent, and then her muscles straining as her wings beat furiously to lift her weight off the ground. Saphira flew in large circles up into the sky, spiralling closer and closer to the still lightning-lit clouds. And then they dipped into the black mass, and even Saphira's eyes were shrouded by the fog. He felt the clouds surrounding him – Saphira –, wet and cold, and the currents tearing at her wings, much stronger then he ever would have suspected. But he felt Saphira navigating expertly, feeling things he couldn't feel and searching for nuances in the winds no language he knew could express.
She moved from one supporting current to the next and he marvelled at her instincts. Saphira seemed to anticipate exactly how they would twist and turn … and then she spread her wings and stopped beating them altogether.
What –
But before he could say another word they were ripped upwards. Violently, upheaved by a roaring inferno of wind. He felt the brutal strain on his wings, small tears inside his muscles, yet there was the exhilarating joy of playing with the winds, playing with the clouds … like a nestling with strands of straw. And still, he was accelerating, flying faster than a diving falcon, faster than one of the human sticks-that-poked-in-his-wings-if-Eragon-forgot-to-ward-them.
Higher, and higher, surrounded by the white-flashes-that-tickled-his-scales, with no end in sight … with difficulty, Eragon retreated a bit, to not distract Saphira in case she had to act at a moment's notice, but there was no need. It went simply up, travelling miles in mere minutes; far higher than Helgrind they were catapulted, higher than they'd ever flown, nearing the height of the peaks in the Beor Mountains almost ten miles above the ground. Suddenly, there was light from above, racing towards them. And like an arrow let loose from a string, they shot out of the flat top of a giant cumulonimbus cloud and into the open sky.
The dark clouds retreated below them at an amazing speed, while the current lost its force. Saphira folded her wings and let the momentum carry her towards the sun, for it was there, bright and clear. Gracefully they described a wide arch, the peak another thousand feet above the highest clouds, seemingly close enough to touch the sun and then they were falling, weightless and free.
He felt the bitter, bitter cold, with a strange rustle instantly coating her cloud-wet scales in a layer of wonderful shimmering pure blue ice, smelled the clean air, saw the breathtaking beauty beneath them. The churning sea of the clouds, drifting, changing constantly; flickering from the lightning inside like an otherworldly fire; the raw force of updraughts, like the one on whose back they'd ridden; ripping frazzles of cloud with them, creating rotating towers and anvils and pillars. And over everything was the golden glow of the setting sun, setting the sky ablaze in colours from bright yellow to deep indigo.
Four days.
Eragon was soon distracted from the spectacle. This was the only real thought the sinking sun inspired in him. They had arrived at Helgrind four days ago; and that was how long Arya was inside of it now.
Saphira spread her wings, still not beating; only soaring above the dark clouds, slowly circling deeper and deeper with as little movement as possible. Eragon realised that she was saving her breath, for she could not have satisfied her need of air up here had she been actively flying. Perhaps it wasn't even possible to fly here at all. He would have blackened out already, had his body been here.
The sun dipped into the clouds on the eastern horizon. The clouds were unbroken, as far as Saphira could see. The sky got darker; the first stars blinked from above. Soon, the sole remaining source of light was the pale flickering of lightning in the clouds shining up to him, steadily getting closer.
Let's fly back, Saphira, he said finally.
She said nothing, simply dipping her nose and angling her wings, plunging down. But he felt that she was ill at ease. And he was not surprised that her worry for Arya wasn't any less than his own.
– * –
Eventually he fell into the trance-like state of rest that was common to all elves, sheltered from the strong rain that has set in back on the ground by Saphira. She was next to him, watching out, yet he was constantly alert as well; the smallest sign of any life was enough to wake him at once, but the scraggy heath directly around Helgrind was deserted. Hours later, he was awake again. The rain had stopped, the next day broke; he fancied that the pitch-black day lost the tiniest bit of its darkness, although it probably was just his imagination.
Of Arya, however, there was no sign.
You need to eat, Eragon, Saphira said.
And so, he listlessly chewed on piece of bread, knowing she was right. He'd long since given up on trying to think about anything other than Arya missing in Helgrind, and wasn't really feeling hungry, although he knew it to be not accurate. The last time he'd eaten a real meal was before the climb; it was just his worry spoiling his appetite, thoroughly.
And suddenly, between two bites, there was the disturbance in his thoughts he'd been waiting for. Faint, barely noticeable, but definitely Arya. He knew how she felt so well – the precise clarity of her mind, sharply marked off against the backdrop, sounding bright silver-burning, far deeper and encompassing than anything a simple human mind could grasp at one time. A mistake wasn't possible. He'd have found in a room full of other elves, blind. Eragon felt like screaming in relief.
He jumped up.
"She's there, Saphira. She's coming!"
But something was wrong. The usual brilliant presence felt dulled, smudgy; a loud note of discord within the landscape of his mind. Her body came into view, a mere shadow, but enough to assert her state as lightning plunged everything into glaring light for a moment.
She was staggering, missing steps, stumbling, almost falling down. And she was alone.
Eragon rushed towards her, reaching her in a matter of moments. Her breathing came in short gasps; she was clearly at the end of her strength. He ducked under her right arm, supporting her, and instead of protesting, she leant on him heavily, a testament of the state she was in. She was surprisingly heavy for her lithe form, he carried almost all her weight; and halfway back to Saphira's and his little camp, she collapsed completely.
"Arya!" Eragon shouted. A fine layer of sweat covered her forehead, and she was shivering violently; she didn't respond. He lifted her off the ground completely, balanced her weight over his shoulder and ran to Saphira as fast as he could.
At her side, Eragon gently lowered Arya to the ground, onto his sleeping mat. She was breathing erratically and coughing. So pale, Eragon thought worriedly. She's so pale. He carefully wiped the sweat off her face and righted her, propping her up against Saphira, who had turned her head, staring at him.
You have to do something, Eragon!
"I know that!" he snapped. He filled a quantum of water from the water skin into a bowl and added a few drops of the Faelnirv.
Gently brushing the raven hair out of her face, he brought the bowl to her lips and started to pour the drink in her mouth. She coughed again, but started to swallow. Ever so slowly, a bit of life returned into her cheeks and her breathing levelled. Eragon breathed in relief, even though she was still silent and staring vacantly ahead.
But nothing was further from his mind at the moment than getting answers. She would start speaking when she felt ready.
Arya continued to shiver on his side. Her clothes were soaked. The rainstorm in the night had drenched her. He put his hands on her shoulders and muttered: "Kledr tornar," drying her clothes. But she was still cold, so he gave her the warmest place, against Saphira's belly; where she was nestled between Saphira's wing and himself. After hesitating shortly, he also put her arm around her, pulling her close. She said nothing, but he felt her leaning into him, and even resting her head on his shoulder.
And like that, they sat there, in the cocoon of warmth under Saphira's wing; together, side on side. He felt her breathing slow to a normal pace, becoming regular, the shivering ceasing; felt her comforting weight on his shoulder, strands of hair brushing over his neck, and her proximity; so close.
Over the land, outside, the storm had calmed for the time being; and for a precious moment Eragon knew he would always remember the day turned from dreadful to wonderful. Wonderful, like simply sitting there in the dark in silence, with seconds stretched to hours and hours to eternity. Wonderful, like sitting not alone, but with Arya's head leant against his; the air smelling of leather and heath and pines. And who ever knew something as simple as that could evoke this flurry of feelings, and do all sorts of funny things to one's stomach; including an indecision of whether to flop or to flip and so constantly alternating between either state.
– * –
Finally, she moved, putting her hand atop his for a while and giving it a soft squeeze, before removing it from her shoulder; gently but firmly. She wasn't annoyed, Eragon could tell; but the moment was over. She muttered: "Orna kledr iet", and within the blink of eye, her clothes eradiated a warmth as though they'd been hanging in front of a blazing fire; warming her quickly and thoroughly. Eragon felt it even through his own clothes.
Saphira large blue eye loomed over him in the dark, fixating him sternly.
What? he said defensively. My way worked too.
Saphira chose to not comment on that.
Arya stared ahead silently.
"It was a maze," she whispered suddenly. Her voice was rough and tired, and he was barely able to make out her words, even though she was speaking directly next to his ear.
"But however long the tunnels wound, and much as I searched, all of them led me back to the beginning, only running through the peak in endless circles, never going deeper down inside the mountain. I don't know how long it took me to follow every gallery to its end. I searched them all. But it was of no use, there was nothing there, just the unnatural, cold black stone …"
Arya shivered, and Eragon frowned. The eerie forest of stone and the clearing sprang to his mind again, the blackness and the coldness. His lack of knowledge about the gigantic rock started to truly worry him. There was something there he should have known, he was certain of it. His fingers involuntarily wandered to the breast pocket he'd placed the strange flower in.
"Yet, did I miss a fork? Or perhaps overlooked a shaft, cleverly hidden in a nook where the shadows blended together, confusing my mind? I didn't know. And so I searched them all over again, and afterwards another time. The strange reaction of the rock with all things magic made it … complicated. After the third time, though, I … I – gave up."
Her voice almost broke. Eragon said nothing.
He was angry and disappointed, but neither at and nor with Arya. She'd done more than he ever could have demanded of her. She didn't need to say it out loud for him to see that she had searched the tunnels tirelessly, for almost four days, without a single break or rest. Nothing but pure exhaustion had stopped her. And then she still had to climb back down.
He muttered the word in the Ancient Language, and a floating ball of light cast its glow over them, painting Arya's face in deep shadows.
He began to realise just how far beyond her limits she had gone; and she was rapidly reaching it once more. Even the Faelnirv could only do so much. She needed a rest desperately, but there was last thing he wanted to know. Everything else could and would wait for another day.
"What of the trace of the egg?" he asked softly.
Arya shook her head shortly.
"It vanished exactly at the entrance to the first cave. In midair, yet there was nothing special there, at least nothing I could find."
Her voice lost even more strength, but she raised her head, looking at him in the light.
"I'm sorry I failed you, Eragon."
Eragon sighed.
"It's alright, Arya. No one could have done more than you did. No one could have done as much as you did."
But then her eyes flared.
"It is not alright! You counted on me. The entrance was there. It was there! Merely my mind was not sharp enough to locate it, my wit not great enough to see through whatever fogged its presence, I not strong enough to search longer – perhaps … perhaps, if you had been there … you might have seen what I could not."
Her voice became even more agitated, and he started at the sudden fierceness.
"You trusted me to finish the task we were given when you could no longer, and I failed to do so. My honour is diminished, and I will not stand for it!"
By the end she was almost shouting. Her green eyes bored into him, long and hard.
"Will you offer me a second chance, Eragon Shadeslayer? To redeem myself? I will find a way to your cousin's fiancée, this I swear."
"But you don't –"
"I will."
Her tone broke no argument. It was a promise to him as much as to herself, and he relented. He noticed the feverish glint in her eyes, and her quivering hands, shaking in barely suppressed exhaustion. She was reaching the end even more rapidly than he'd expected. She needed to rest. But she wouldn't, not before he gave in; and perhaps not even then.
So he relented, and thought of a way to make her without offending her.
"Very well."
She moved to stand up.
"Good. The first thing –"
He pulled her back down.
"We will take a day to rest, though," he interrupted. "I'm still not quite what I should be, after that fall."
Her head jerked around. She looked at him sharply, and he guessed that she had discerned his real intentions at once, but then the ghost of a smile showed on her face. Even that looked tired.
"You are a kind friend, Eragon," she murmured. "Even when you know to be right, you still try to make it look like I am. But I'm not. I'm not."
Arya uttered a short, choked laugh.
"I'm not right and I'm not fine, tried to hide it and you saw it," she said and he wondered at the sudden biting bitterness in her voice, almost loathing.
"Call me on my foolish pride, Eragon, for it is but an inkling of what I deserve. That, a thousandfold that, for everything I did and it did to me. So why the need to hide what you spotted so well?"
She gave up all pretences. All masks were off. Eragon sat shocked, at her sudden outburst as much as at the many emotions flittering over her face, pure exhaustion, uncertainty, old hurt and new, and still, an arduously, steely determination underneath it all, keeping her together, the only reason she did not fall apart. For the shortest of moments, she looked vulnerable, and indeed, hurt, before she bowed her head, and hid her face behind a curtain of black hair.
"There should be no need to hide, and yet … bear with me, Eragon, for it has been long indeed since I … anyone … Pride should not keep anyone from admitting the truth, at the very least. Especially not me, and so you are right and I was wrong."
Eragon shook his head, digesting all this new information. "For everything, there will be a time. At this moment, though, whatever you did matters not."
He smiled softly, somehow certain that she would detect it, even if she wasn't looking at him; and gently pushed her onto his mat.
"For now, rest, Arya. Saphira and I will keep watch so that nothing might disturb you. You will be safe."
A tired smile.
"I know," she said simply. And with no further words, she fell into a deep sleep, while Eragon and Saphira watched over her, as they said they would.
– * –
It was quiet. The morn had passed away slowly, turning into noon and afternoon while Arya was sleeping, and eventually, he'd become lost in thoughts, staring into the day that was night; undisturbed in his musings which like so often centred on Arya, and even if he would beware of telling her that, her earlier words – perhaps intentionally, perhaps not – had given him much to think about.
Had she wanted him to see all that? He wondered. Or had it just been a reaction to her state then?
Both, he decided finally; he doubted she would have been that open had she been in her right state of mind, but on the other hand, she would never have risked any random person seeing her like this. She had shown him more of herself in that one instance than during the rest of the trip as a whole, he thought; perhaps more than she'd shown anyone in years. But while he treasured her trust to show him herself, for one moment, like a gift worth more than any riches of Alagaësia, he was shaken at seeing her like this.
So open, so hurt … he marvelled that she was still walking, getting up each day, doing what she thought needed to be done. An almost brutal strength that kept her going; she forced herself on track, with pure will, like he'd never seen before. The way she returned from Helgrind now seemed him like a parable of her life. He could believe that this woman had held out under months of torture, without giving away a single secret. He doubted he could have done the same.
A bitter irony it was, he thought; it was the cursed war that did all that to her, and it was the war that provided her with the means to continue; the one goal she subordinated anything and everything else to, family, love, friendship: To see Galbatorix dead. And for that, she would give all that she had, fight to the very last breath, up to the last drop of life in her. Her determination made him proud to fight on her side and a little bit humbled as well. He had the fast resolve to see Galbatorix fall as well, but not like this.
Her life was the war.
What would she be without it, he wondered; and, daring to think at what today seemed only a faraway dawn of a better tomorrow, could not suppress the sense of foreboding that for her there was no happy ending waiting in any possible outcome, no fairytale ending to the story, no well deserved happily ever after epilogue after all the chapters on the sacrifices she'd made.
For if the war did not devour her long before the end, the end itself would.
– * –
It was early morning again when Arya stirred, but naturally as dark as always. The constant night had begun to wear on him, leading him towards increasingly darker musings, but seeing Arya awaken banished the gloomy thoughts. Eragon floated the ball of light higher and looked over to her.
"How do you feel, Arya?"
She offered him a grateful smile.
"Quite a bit better, thank you." She hesitated. "Eragon – I feel I owe you an apology. The state I was in yesterday … it is no excuse, but I apologise for my undue behaviour. Also, I owe you a thank-you, for … taking care of me. Again."
And he knew what it would have cost her to admit that.
"You're welcome," he simply said, while preparing a hearty breakfast from the last provisions in Saphira's saddlebags.
"And think nothing of it." His smile turned mischievous. "Neither Saphira nor I will breath a word to a living soul how you threw yourself at me."
Her eyes stared at him expressionlessly; green pools, unfathomable and deep.
Then the corner of her mouth twitched. "You have learned the concept of irony, Eragon. I congratulate you heartily."
Saphira snorted loudly.
If you two jokesters are quite done, we could think about what to do next.
"First, we will have breakfast," declared Eragon. He felt ravenous, and Arya seemed to be hungry as well. Saphira looked at them languidly, since she had been hunting and eating earlier. Her tail was swishing restlessly over the ground.
Finally, she seemingly couldn't hold back anymore and interrupted Eragon and Arya's idle conversation between bites of fruit and bread, projecting her thoughts to both of them.
So what will we do? Another attempt to climb that mountain? She made no attempt to hide her rejection of that idea.
Arya shook her head. "No. We have to know more about Helgrind first."
Eragon nodded, remembering his thoughts from the other night; but then frowned.
"Where, though? Surely you are not suggesting to return to Surda or even to Ellesméra? Do you have a particular place in mind?"
Arya looked satisfied.
"Yes, I have. You told me about the order that has worshipped Helgrind for centuries. They are bound to have knowledge about the object of their belief. So, we will go to Dras-Leona and ask. We need to get supplies anyway."
She pointed to the mostly empty saddle-bag.
"We will … ask," Eragon repeated slowly, which did not impress her.
"Yes. Ask. Do you see a problem with that?"
"Well, you don't think that two elves and a dragon walking into Dras-Leona and demanding to know everything about Helgrind might be … conspicuous?"
Arya glanced at him in a way that clearly showed what she thought of that statement.
"Obviously, Saphira will have to remain here, hidden. And we will simply have to change our forms a bit. Did not Oromis show you how to do that?"
"Aye, he did."
Saphira started to growl in the back of her throat.
You know what happens every time I'm not there. You know what happened last time. I don't like it.
"Is there an alternative, though?" Eragon mused. "If there is one, I cannot see it."
Arya nodded. "This seems the only chance to find out what we need to know. And furthermore, neither is Eragon as inexperienced as he used to be, nor will he be alone."
Eventually, Saphira grudgingly agreed to remain behind on the Grey Heath; but while Eragon and Arya packed up what little luggage they had, her tail swished moodily back and forth.
I have a bad feeling, she grumbled.
Eragon looked at her, securing the bags with the straps on her saddle.
"Perhaps it is Helgrind?"
Perhaps.
But she didn't seem convinced.
– * –
It was not far to Dras-Leona; however, upon reaching the city they encountered a problem Eragon hadn't thought of.
They had walked through the outer reaches unchecked. On the crooked streets they met few; and if they did saw men, they always walked briskly with their heads bowed, and, upon spotting them, hastened on. The ramshackle buildings that lined the dirt roads were boarded-up, with only narrow streaks of light leaking out and showing they still held life. It looked to Eragon that the darkness, which had been covering the land for more than five days now, was putting everyone on edge.
But now they were standing at the high wall surrounding the heart of the city, in front of the gate where the road permeated the wall, and the gate was closed. Heavy crossed oaken beams, reinforced with iron, barred the way. On the other side was a small gatehouse, but no one was in sight.
"So what now?" Eragon asked.
His eyes moved from the gate to the wall, above which the towers of the cathedral loomed in the distance.
"Over the wall?"
It was certainly thirty feet high; he remembered its dirty yellow colour from when he'd arrived here with Brom for the first time. Now, in the darkness, it was simply grey. The night was kind to the city.
"What would be the point of appearing inconspicuous, if we were to climb over it, perhaps even aided by magic for everyone to see, Eragon?" Arya sounded slightly impatient. "Do you usually climb through the window if you visit your friend's house and find the door not opened wide?"
He suppressed a grin. "No."
"I thought not."
She entered the gateway, the short tunnel under the wall, with brisk strides, and thumped against the wood.
"Hello?
Her voice echoed clear through the night, but there was no answer. Nothing stirred. The cobbled street lay deserted in the dim glow of the lantern mounted above the hut's door. Eragon did not spot any imperial soldiers or even guards, which he thought strange. The only plausible explanation was that they arrived just on the change of guards. That would be fortunate indeed, if they couldn't get in by usual means. He conveyed that thought to Arya, and she returned her agreement of his assertion.
They had already started to turn around, when the door on the other side of the portcullis burst open, and a scruffy-looking man exited. He wore a uniform that made him belong to the city's guard. It was not particularly clean, and the man was badly shaved. The discipline among the civil guard seemed to be rather underwhelming.
He snatched the lantern from the hut, and ran over to the gates.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
A bright light cast sharp shadows onto the tunnel walls as he lifted a lantern, shining into their faces. The glare bit into Eragon eyes, but seconds later he had adapted. From his face, the light moved on to Arya, where it lingered substantially longer, until the man finally dimmed it with a blind.
"Mighty early in the morning to come trapsing to the gate, eh?"
He eyed them suspiciously, then spit on the ground.
"Bah. Early morning, highest noon. It's all one now, eh? Dark, dark, eh? And the King's having fun with who knows what, while we are stuck where sun don't shine. Get it? Eh?"
He wheezed out a laugh, then looked at them malignantly. "Well, whatcha waiting for? Shoo, shoo."
He made a banishing motion with his free hand.
"Are you not going to let us pass?" Eragon asked, only just remembering to switch to the common tongue. He had spoken with Arya and Saphira in the Ancient Language the entire time, and somewhere along the way, it had started to feel more natural to him than the language he'd grown up with.
The suspicion was back at once.
"You're not from here, eh? Of course you're not. Can see it on your misbegotten noble noses, ain't nothing like that in this hole, eh? Would have shown me that permit of yours already, otherwise, too. No one's allowed to enter the city without one, and you only get 'em from his Tábor himself, eh? So you will wait here for the new shift of guards to arrive. Have order to detain any strangers, right from Tábor himself, eh? Don't envy you. No one's pleasant in this thrice-cursed darkness. Shoulda simply gone when I told you."
He laughed again, this time decisively gleeful, as he placed his lantern on the ground in a position where the shine illumed the entire gateway and uncovered any movements. He pulled a lever on the wall next to the hut, and a second portcullis suddenly rattled down behind them, with an enormous noise and far to fast for even them to react. They were trapped.
Arya glanced at Eragon quickly in warning, advancing directly to the anterior gate. Stay back. I will handle this. He remained where he was, looking at her in disbelief, having discerned her intention from a few thought snippets he gathered before the connection faded away.
"Arya! You cannot possibly want – I mean, you are a princess – how – that is, will that even work?"
Her presence in his mind returned, blasting through his defences forcibly.
Eragon! she snapped, irritated. It will work, so let me do my work and cease your mindless spluttering; it ill suits you. If you truly cannot think of a better topic, I will gladly point out to you in great detail just where our views of what is and what is not proper for me differ – later!
He felt her concentrate on the mind of the gatekeeper before he receded. Eragon was torn between feeling incredulous and expectant, still doubting her plan and unsure of what to expect exactly. In any case, though, he felt no need to discuss morals again; he'd done that already earlier in the week, when he met Arya bathing.
He vividly remembered that day, after their first sparring match at the shores of Lake Tüdosten. He'd woken up, to find the camp empty; Arya was gone, her cot, next to his, empty while Saphira was hunting. He'd frowned, then; having gotten accustomed to waking up with her and starting the day together. Her trail had led him down to the lake, where a couple of swans had been floating on the calm blue surface near the shore.
He had spotted her further out, with her back to him; and she had apparently sensed someone on the shore as well the same instant, because her head jerked around, alarmed, having thought herself alone, but calming just as quickly once she'd seen it was him. He had settled on the banks, where the warm water rolled in small waves over the fine-grained sand, and watched her in quiet contemplation. She had been rinsing her long hair before she'd dived and resurfaced; swimming back to the shore with strong strokes, enjoying it, seemingly.
Before he'd had the chance to turn around to give her privacy, she'd already emerged from the water, completely naked, her lightly tanned skin glistening in the sun, covered with a film of water. His eyes had roamed over her form, taking in all that was her with his heart beating wildly; before he'd abruptly averted his looks and turned away, blushing, as he'd caught himself staring at her wet body. She'd been standing there and frowned, then asking what was wrong.
He had told her she was unclothed.
She had told him to stop being silly.
– * –
She was looking at him, quizzically, before a small smile crept over her face.
"Ah. I understand. I keep forgetting how humans insist to stay clothed at all times … to 'preserve their dignity', yes?"
Eragon flushed harder at the unmistakable laughter in her voice.
Stop it! He snapped at himself, trying to force down his blush. This was ridiculous. He was no longer a naive human boy, and he'd known about Elves, of course … and he gulped as he watched her saunter from the shore over to where she had left her clothes, with an extra swerve to pass him by, a vision of perfect elegance and aesthetic beauty that no cloth obscured.
Was she … teasing him now?
Desperately searching for something to say, he asked: "So you are indeed not uncomfortable?"
Arya's look told him all about the sense of the question.
"If I would be, I'd have changed my body to a different form, Eragon."
A different form. She was looking different now; earlier, before they had set out to the city, they both had altered their bodies, but mostly their faces. Neither would have passed for a human, so he had rounded his ears, employing what Oromis had taught about spells for moulding living things and made a few superficial alterations; Arya, however, had changed her face on a greater, deeper scale; it was less refined now, more human-like.
Her cheekbones were a tiny bit wider, her eyebrows less slanted. Her wonderful eyes had remained, though; shining from under her cape in the light of the lantern mysteriously; slightly angled like a cat's, different enough to gave her an appealing exotic look. And even though she was wearing her usual clothes underneath, consisting of trousers and a shirt, her decidedly feminine curves were showing clearly. She had no need for a dress to get the man's attention if that was her plan, he wasn't even sure he could imagine her in one. It just didn't seem like her.
Really, he guessed she would look breathtaking for humans, and indeed, the eyes of the gatekeeper were glued to her after she'd lowered the cape of her cloak. She turned her head back around once, making sure he stayed behind as he said he would; and, gazing at her altered features, it felt strange to him to see her looking like this. For while the changes did nothing to diminish his regard for her, he suddenly realised quite clearly that for him, this, in many ways, was not her. He preferred her usual looks.
Still, as she slowly approached the closed gate, she somehow seemed to turn more beautiful with each passing step, blossoming like a flower would, bit by bit opening its chalice to display the full bloom. His thoughts were with her, only revolving around her now – how could he have missed her graceful walk, expressing this alluring sensuality, or her melodious voice, flattering his ears, yes, but the sweet note within, like a beckoning call?
He watched her when she moved; her dark indigo Yawë showing clearly on her skin and moving with her shoulder blade when she twisted to reach a birch leaf, which had gotten stuck at the small of her back. She had turned slightly; her strong, muscular back arched, pushing out her chest, where water drops still sparkled in the sun. He followed in utter fascination a trail of one; it moved across her cheek, down to her chin, pausing for a moment before falling onto her chest, running until the tip of her breast, where it had teetered and plunged into nothingness a blink of an eye later.
She smiled at him, inviting; beckoning him closer, calling him to run his hands over a world of perfect forms and curves, from her slender but muscular legs, to her waist that was a bit slimmer than her pelvis, all smooth lines that seamlessly blended together, continuing up to the swell of her breasts, to her neck, to her face; just asking to be worshipped extensively.
He suddenly was painfully aware that she was a very beautiful woman, and he very alone, and that he had natural urges, and that really there was nothing stopping him from giving in to her calling, stepping towards –
Enough! Eragon blasted the mental equivalent of an icy gale through his thoughts to clear his mind, while flushing deep red in embarrassment at his thoughts and almost-reaction. Somewhere in the distance he heard Saphira snorting in his thoughts. He got the faint image of a blue dragon rolling on the ground in laughter.
Eragon gritted his teeth.
Not one word.
I didn't say anything.
She sounded completely innocent.
You thought it. And I mean it. Especially not to Arya. Are we agreed?
He nervously eyed Arya. In the few seconds that had past, she'd reached the gate, thankfully without turning around and watching him almost succumb to the magic that was meant for the man on the other side of the gate. How very embarrassing.
Oh, I am not sure, Eragon – 'A world of perfect curves …'? Why, that does sound most poetic, enough to rival your finest writers. I should think Arya would appreciate –
Eragon breathed deeply, and was successful in preventing to blush anew at his imagination. Well, almost.
Saphira?
Yes?
Shut up.
He felt her puffing out more smoke, scorching a few tips of heath. On that nice note, I shall recede, I think.
But it went in an unspoken agreement that Saphira wouldn't tell a soul. Sadly, that didn't mean she wouldn't tease him. Eragon sighed. She would still bring that up in years.
He hadn't really thought about it before, but there were many tales of old, which spoke about the allure of the elves, the fair folk; about poor, unsuspecting mortal men who fell prey to the mind-ensnaring magic of beautiful but treacherous elf women luring them to her, to never be heard of again. It was fabricated, of course; old wives' tales, flourishing as well as any superstition, and most likely used as a way to keep all too eager young men at home; but it did contain a core of truth, since elves could appear irresistibly attracting to humans. He remembered very well his first contact with Arya, having almost lost himself in her mind then.
Eragon grudgingly agreed that it most likely would work and that it was probably the easiest way. The man on the other side of the gate would be affected incomparably more than him; and then he had most likely been alone there for a while anyway, and would jump at the chance to get some sort of female distraction, ignoring orders and opening the gate to allow her to entertain him.
That didn't mean that he liked it. Especially not as the looks from the filthy man at Arya now evoked very different feelings in him, the majority of them revolving around surprisingly painful ways to die. Especially not as Arya decided to take a more active role. A sharp frown appeared on his face, as he watched the scene play out in front of him.
"What is your name, friend?" she asked pleasantly.
The man behind the gate blinked, visibly flustered.
"Tenner," he managed finally.
Arya's hand sneaked through the gate, slowly closing around his hand, while she watched him from below her lashes.
"Tenner. What an interesting name. I like it."
He swallowed, eyes on their linked hands.
"So tell me … Tenner. Would you not rather be sitting in your warm hut than standing outside?"
Tenner started to rub his temples, as if he started to get a headache. "Y-yes."
A small, secretive smile appeared on Arya's lips. "So would I. With you."
"You – you would."
"Of course, Tenner."
Her voice dropped to a low purr, promising tantalising hints of wicked pleasure just beyond his reach, in a way that made Eragon blush. He wanted to turn away and cover his ears, but a wayward part of him betrayed his will, staring transfixed at her show at the gate: As if by accident, the brooch holding together her cloak unclasped, opening the front of the garment, attracting his attention at once. Her slender index finger started to idly roam over the back of his hand, drawing small circles. The man made a small sound of pleasure, and swallowed heavily as she suddenly pressed herself against the gate, a bar nestled in the valley of her breasts, which tightened the fabric of her shirt and created a most lovely vision of her well-proportioned curves.
Eragon was watching from behind and the side, unable to see details, but just the mental image was enough to make his throat dry, and he quickly banished those thoughts out of his mind. It was easier said then done, since this time, they had nothing whatsoever to do with any sort of spell.
The man unconsciously licked his lips and Arya smiled – coldly, it seemed to him, but it was very much obvious that the man was in no position to react in any way, had he even noticed it.
"However, I'm on the wrong side of the gate for that. Can you not do something, Tenner?"
His eyes were fixed quite a bit below Arya's face; and Eragon's fingers closed around the pommel of his sword on their own accord, as the man's hand now moved quickly towards the bars to grope what he only saw, just as Arya raised her own arm and seemingly unintentionally diverted his path, taking a step away from the gate.
"The gate first, hmm?"
"Of course, of course." He stared at her lecherously. "We'll be together for some fun in a moment, eh?"
Arya nodded, satisfied, as he moved from the gate towards the wall. In less than a minute she'd convinced him to betray his orders. She turned as Eragon walked up to her, her clothes still arranged in a manner that left little to the imagination. He joined her in front of the gate, red-faced and more than a little unsettled at that blatant display; torn as whether to feel admiration or embarrassment.
The look she darted to him was amused, almost mischievous, and a little too knowing for his tastes. She hadn't seen his reactions earlier … or had she?
"Is something the matter, Eragon?"
He groaned internally. She had. He was certain of it.
"You look a bit flustered."
He looked at her, frowning. He wouldn't have thought her capable of anything like that; a foolish notion, as he realised belatedly, since all elves had this skill, of course. But it showed him that despite how well he thought he knew her, there were always new sides he hadn't seen before. It had almost been with relieve that he noticed the fleeting icy glare at the man when he turned away; promising a painful rebuke should he actually attempt anything once she was inside. That was the Arya he knew.
"I wouldn't have guessed … this," he finally admitted. "Somehow, it just didn't seem like you. You are not like that. Not usually."
It came out more sharply then he intended. He was surprised at himself, noting that his tone carried a faint accusation, and wanted to bite his tongue at once, as he saw her face going blank and the smile vanish.
"Only your ignorance allows you to say such."
She turned away from him, abruptly; staring at the gate. In the silence between them drifted faraway yells from down the road. The dim lanterns on the wall flickered in the dark, as a soft breeze blew through the gateway.
"Though it being no fault of your own, for you never saw me in better times," she amended quietly.
He made to apologise, but again, she spoke before he could.
"What does it matter."
He saw her eyes focused up the road afar, into the distance; staring on the grey and dirty cobblestones and yet seeming to not notice them at all, with a strange expression around her mouth, half twisted in a bitter line, half showing a regretful smile. Softly whispered words, barely audible, left her tongue, impended in the air.
"Mother would be so proud."
The yells sounded nearer, and the thumping of heavy boots echoed between the houses; its source still out of sight. At once, all introspectiveness fled Arya, her mood shifting again; all of a sudden, like he'd come to expect from all elves, but especially her.
"What is the fool doing there," she hissed. "We need to get passed that gate before the soldiers arrives!"
The man had reached the wall where the mechanism was situated, raising his arm, but then he'd faltered.
With a few, quick steps she was back at the gate, assuming her role again.
"Please, Tenner? For me?"
He nodded and smiled, but then his face crunched up in pain as he took an additional step towards the mechanism that moved the gate. With a moan, he pressed his hands to his head. Arya winced and uttered a quiet hiss, before her face hardened. In an instant, her entire posture changed. Eragon saw the tension in her body. She was now staring at the man to her right intently, concentrating. Then the muscles of her hand twitched, in an attempt to clench her fist; she stood completely rigid, as though she was fighting off an invisible force.
"You will open the gate. Now."
Her voice was hard and unyielding. With visible effort, her hand closed in midair. A horrible, warbling scream left the man's mouth, as his body convulsed and he staggered. A fountain of blood rushed out of his nose.
"You will open the gate," Arya repeated, almost pleasantly, but Eragon saw that she felt anything but.
A witless smile spread over face of the man.
"I will open the gate," he repeated mechanically as he started to turn a wheel and the gate started to pull itself up, slowly. So very slowly. The boots sounded louder, nearer. Eragon fancied he already heard them from just one corner away – thump – thump – thump
If the gate was still open when they arrived, any attempt at stealthily entering the city was doomed.
Hurry up! he wanted to scream, but he knew it was very much futile. The mechanism worked as it always did, leisurely pulling the gate up into the wall, completely uncaring about their need for haste. Arya, however, seemed to be perfectly calm. She ducked under the gate, once it was pulled up halfway, and beckoned him to follow her.
"Thank you," she said to the gatekeeper, standing now inside the city, with no one hindering their entrance.
"And now, you will pull up the other gate as well, close the front gate again, clean yourself up and behave as you usually do when the guards arrive."
"I will pull up the other gate as well, close the front gate again, clean myself up and behave as I usually do when the guards arrive."
Eragon watched silently as the gate rattled down again and the man returned in his hut, still a bloody mess and giggling quietly. Not a second later, a squad of guards turned the corner, marching in step.
They captain raised his hand in a snappy salute as they passed the two of them, and Arya acknowledged him with a mildly condescending nod, which he was quite obviously used to. Eragon wondered how she knew just how to behave, but then again, he figured she had spent a longer time amongst humans than he had even been alive.
"Why?" he finally asked softly as the boots had died away and no longer resounded from the houses lining the cobbled street. He didn't need to explain what he meant.
"He was under a powerful spell which allowed him to open the gate solely on a captain's order or Tábor personally. Otherwise, he would have done it for me."
She flicked off a small speck of dust from her cloak.
"I didn't notice it at first; it was done by a competent spellcaster. We have to be careful, they are most likely still here. In any case, I had to break the spell's hold on him, and there was no time to do it gently."
He recognised the tone; the precise and short words … it was the hill, above the burning town. It was when she'd spoken about her time in Gil'ead. It was every single battle, every time she distanced herself from the happenings, in order to not go mad from what she'd experienced.
"So what happened?"
He thought he already knew, but he wanted to hear it.
"I tore apart his mind."
Merciless blunt, a direct answer to a direct question, and he had expected and wanted nothing less. He felt no desire to hide in ignorance. His conscience and the heavy burden of the knowledge of what he did to achieve what he wanted was a part of what kept him from becoming like Galbatorix. And so, he said nothing at that, only darting Arya a silent look, which she returned with nod.
She understood.
He stroke up a brisk pace. "We will have to hurry. Sooner or later someone will notice." And wondered whether or not it was a good thing that he sounded just like her.
I thank you all for your many, many reviews. They sure helped me in this last month where I was stuck at the gate-scene. I think I responded to everyone I could. Thanks!
Next chapter (again): Choices.