How about that, I updated in a day! This Chap is important, which is quite odd. It explains a lot of things. Just one thing there will probably be mature scenes later; there will a warning before the chapter and scene.
Fear is such a weak emotion, that's why I despise it- Lupe Fiasco, From Words I Never Said
Pain... an unending barrage of cold shoot through Eragon' setting each nerve tingling; a burning freeze racing to every extremity and hair length. A deep seated growl escaped his lips: not his. Deformed images of red swords, blue swords, shadowy faces, malicious intents, not human, not breathing; the icy grip of death rising from within enveloping all that was pure and untainted, leaving the doubt and misconception free reign.
Eyes white, with power and pain, unfurled like the petal of a dying lily. Blessed relief. This was not his cot.
Where am I?
Darkness clung to every facet of existence, tomes and scrolls, some charred, littered the friable floor, others the great desk ruling as the centre piece of the puzzle; said desk had a simple chair adjourned to the left of it, where a figure of dreams and nightmares reclined. Eragon approached warily, his beating heart producing the only melody of the void.
His link with Saphira was missing, the realization brought with it new fears, not a trace remained of it; all emotions were his own. Eragon ground to a halt, searching frantically for his dragon; panic soon sunk its claws deep into Eragon's resolve.
The figure spoke, "Why young man, come closer, we have but little time remaining," its voice was barely above a hiss, yet clear and strong, menacing and reassuring at the same time; no feeling.
Eragon's feet refused to obey. He stood perfectly still and watched, fascinated; he knew this... this entity.
The creature... the voice.
Saphira soon forgotten as wonder and revitalised fear ran rampant through his imagination. The power now registered, whatever it was it radiated a seemingly limitless amount of energy.
It looked up: no face, "Hurry yourself rider, Even my patience can be tested," and suddenly it was demanding, angry. It nodded slightly too where a chair, similar to the one it occupied, started to materialise.
How did it do that?
Curiosity snapped Eragon from the frigid clutch of fear. He moved. Each step a small shuffle to discovery. The distance waivered, and seemed to increase and decrease with every foot Eragon placed forward. With a lasting effort Eragon leaped forward and seized the chair by its arms, sudor from his labour dripped down his face. Eragon found himself to be panting, as if he had hiked since morn, not walked three steps. Collapsing into the hard back chair, he turned and stared at the creature it had not moved from its perch. Neither did it talk; Eragon took the opportunity to further scrutinize the being: it had no eyes and whilst, at first, Eragon had mistaken the darkness to be covering its face, closer inspection revealed the darkness to be its true face. The black cloak that had, from a distance, seemed to cover its body now looked alive, writhing and tearing at the air around it.
A chill tore its way up Eragon's spine, "What are you...?"
A dull throb resonated through the vicinity and Eragon realized it was laughing, "I have no name, ageless am I, I have existed since before time and will exist after," it stopped and read the disbelief in Eragon's eyes, "You do not believe me? I shall let you that I have never told a lie," it stopped again, as if to ponder its own words for hidden meanings, "However; it seems for the best that you are told some of my duties," a silence built up between the two, Eragon leaned in closer, "I believe you mortals once coined me as death? But then again it has been eons since I last talked to a mortal and you are the most fickle of beasts."
Its words struck Eragon like hammer blows, each firmer than the last, pushing him slowly backwards, in shock and awe.
It cannot be.
"Death?" it came out as a squeak, never had such emotion filled Eragon, leaving him reeling in all directions, "Death has taken root within me?" before it could respond, Eragon continued, a plethora of questions questing for answers, "Why? What do you want with me?"
"Do not bestow undue praise upon yourself: you hold little interest to me," the laugh once again throbbing, this time within the confines of Eragon's skull, a dull ache arose, "I merely require a puppet," it finished, as if simplicity was a vice only death could appreciate.
Then again perhaps it is.
Raising his eyes to continue through the torrent of confusion, Eragon asked, "But why? What do you hope to achieve?"
Calm, dismissive, "I have seen the future and it burns, untold death, hopeless. One would think death is my joy, but no: reaping souls is but a job that I am forced to carry through, I take no pleasure in it; truth be told, I do not understand pleasure. But I do know the amount of work soon to face me; and it is unacceptable, my time is better spent than shepherding mortals," it paused, as to allow Eragon to soak the information in, "Do you now understand my motives? I wish to help you, but I cannot physically intervene: I need a vessel, I cannot be the instrument of the end; it breaks the laws of fate."
It stopped.
Hope and with it wariness began to erode the other emotions into submission. Eragon had to restrain himself from striking a fist into the air in joy.
We have a chance.
His light headed happiness burst as something trickled through a lapse in his concentration, a new thought struck Eragon dumb, "You... you are death, you could bring the dead back, could you not?"
Thoughts of Brom, Garrow, Oromis, and Roran and others he had lost brought tears to Eragon's eyes.
He could bring them all bac-
"No," death replied, cutting through Eragon's dreams, his voice filled with a firm steadiness, "I cannot and even if I could I would not."
"Why?" Eragon demanded; his throat sticky with renewed loss.
"Because I am not some pet of yours to fulfil your desires, I hold no love for you, I never shall. Love is such weak emotion, befitting only you and your pathetic mortals," it roared, contempt dripping from each spoken word."
Eragon reverted to silence, unwilling to tempt it; waiting for it to resume speaking.
"Let us forget this conversation... What of your sibling?"
"Sibling?" Eragon queried, "You are speaking of Murtagh?"
"Ah yes Murtagh," amusement oozed from it.
"What interest do you have in Murtagh?" Eragon asked, instantly wary. Despite everything a slight brotherly protectiveness took hold of Eragon.
It was quick to respond, as if to assure Eragon of its innocence, "I have no interest in him, but you do," it let the words sink in, "I only wish to understand your motives concerning the red rider, will you kill him? Branded a traitor?"
Eragon did not answer its question and instead asked his own, "I would have thought you to know what would occur in the future?"
"The future is written in sand, but a small wind can alter it; you know this."
Eragon shook his head, fighting to conceal his grin, "I write my future in stone."
Laughter, "An invigorating maxim; you hold wit human. So what will you do?"
Sighing, Eragon placed his head in his hands, many a conclusion battling for victory, "I know not."
Death watched him, carefully, Eragon thought it may have narrowed its eyes at him, if it had any, "If I may be so bold as to offer some advice: let not others push you to some rash decision; your brother and his dragon hold an important place in the future, the one not tainted by the king, spare him unless you have no other choice."
Eragon remained silent for a time: mulling over the discovery, deaths advice, the future, reality.
So many paths stretch out before me. I fear I can do little but lose myself amongst them.
"Is that all?" Eragon finally asked, weary of conversation and envisioning his soft, comfortable cot.
"Not quite..." the creature whispered, its voice adopting a deleterious tone.
Sharp alertness brought Eragon careering back to conscience.
"This elf... woman in your life; you hold her close to your heart?"
Eragon went onto the defensive, trying to understand the beings sudden notice of Arya, "Yes," he replied, cautious, yet frank, "I love her very much."
"Yet she pushes you away," it pressed, eager, "Why do you keep hold of her? She brings nothing but pain; pain and distraction."
His shoulder dropping, as the familiar sadness filled Eragon, "Because I love her... Is there a nobler endeavour than unrequited love? Is there a purer emotion?"
Death ignored his sentiments and fought for a new line of thought, "What if I was to whisk her away from you? To the other side; never to meet her again. How does that sound? What do you feel at the thought? Nothing? Everything?"
Eragon did feel: he felt an utter desire to destroy this monster. Jumping forward, arms outstretched a savage snap of his teeth marking the outlet of rage. He scrambled his arms to the front, searching for a throat to wring, or arm to break. Reaching his target and... passing through it. Eragon found himself sprawled on the cold hard floor, his breathing harsh, his emotions tumultuous; a murderous glint in his eyes.
The creature was standing, incorporeal arms outstretched, "Maybe I shall at that, it might provide the motivation you require."
Darkness started to fringe Eragon's sight.
Please not Arya!
Then nothing.
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