I wasn't originally going to post this today, but then I thought fuck it. Sorry but the poetic feel of the last two chaps is coming down by quite a bit: Eragon has come back to reality and really if we are honest with ourselves life is struggle; no such thing as fairy tale endings in real life, if your story ever ends it's with your death. If someone told me I was going to be writing (or reading for that matter) stories last year I would have called them a crack head, but writing and self education really turned my life around from ending up as just another face selling crack to kids on the corner. Eragon begins his, sort of, fresh start in this chapter as well, some of the emotions and events in later chapters may draw from my own experiences, may.
Hope You Enjoy.
The world is volatile and the street is my education – Immortal Technique; this line really speaks for my life and motives. I have mad respect for kids trying to escape from harsh upbringings.
It was some days later that Eragon found himself sitting, impatient and filled with fickle anxiety, at the impressive, smooth edged table that occupied the elves command tent; the ostentatious aura hinting at beginnings denied to its peers. Its light reflected that of the elven aristocracy who graced the simple yet handsome chairs, emerging at precise intervals from the monarch table, with their haughty presence, some still decorating Eragon with the occasional glower of scorn. Eragon ignored them, his new found respect for purity overshadowing others rejection.
No news is good news, thus I can be pleasantly surprised.
They were awaiting the information Eragon had craved with zealous vigour for many a nights: the state of the Varden. Understandably the mood in the immediate vicinity was tense, focused, with little trickle of emotion escaping the universal mask the elves shared; the mask Eragon had come to loathe as night did the rising sun; insecurity had forced Eragon to bare his pains and the shameless disregard of other people with theirs served to inflame Eragon and fuse his heat with his neighbours bitter licks. Exhaling heavily through his right nostril, as to expel any shrouded anger, Eragon centred his attention on the woman who had commandeered his worry for every liberated second of freedom. Arya. Her residence had endured opposing his since their last solemn conversation, since her breach of etiquettes, her inner secrets and her care.
She met his gaze with curious eyes, eyes that drew Eragon into her soul and enigmatic person; Brown and green, melding and rupturing, like the leaf that fell from its haven, in an adventure born of guileless age, seeking the brown of the ground with a naive haste. They held. Sailing himself across her entire pupil, desperate longing erupting along the chaotic edge of Eragon's thoughts, spreading with incandescent warmth along the river of nerves.
She turned. The moment bursting at the seams. In breathing acknowledgement, Eragon craned his neck over her features and resumed his fast, joining with Saphira in the process; the 'exalted' dragoness had forsaken the meeting for the thrill of the hunt, relying on Eragon to feed her information.
If asked later Eragon would have only the ability to recount a handful of events from the congregation. Whether it was the snowy white softness of Islanzadi's cape, as it mimicked the flutters of a live bird with each minute movement; or the dangerous glint of the ceremonious dagger, placed on the table by a richly enrobed elf lord, that harshly reminded him of the painful beauty of Zar'roc; or even the slight ridges of Arya's chin, that devoured his eyes in their complexity.
Memory refused to accept more than one event into its embrace: the ripple of scrying pools, resembling rushing waves of destruction; as the darkness ebbed away. Eragon straightened his back with small crack as the stressed, worn likeness of Nausuada painted the slowly stilling pools. Elves around the table mumbled quietly amongst themselves at Nausuada's shocking appearance: sweat and grime coloured her naked arms whilst lone strands of her hair hid her eyes from those gathered, what may have been blood stained her slightly torn tunic. She looked up and Eragon recoiled: her eyes were dead, trembling with exhaustion; straining, she surveyed the circumference of the room, her eyes lingering on Eragon, who in turn gave her a small - almost imperceptible – nod. She seemed to draw strength from his resolve; new life entered her gaze and her posture relaxed into easy confidence.
"Islanzadi," a small curtsey springing from her, she sounded brittle, yet the quick intelligence behind her words could not be ignored.
Eragon restrained his own aching questions; Roran's fate violently pushed down from whence it came, he did not fool himself: his cousin was expendable where any other was concerned.
Islanzadi proudly inclined her head, a tiny amount, before responding in a carefully constructed voice, "Nausuada, word of your defeat is quite a blow in these dark days; would you care to explain your position?"
The old antagonism for Islanzadi welled up inside Eragon; his admiration for Nausuada grew at the amount of control she managed to portray; warding the small shuffle of her shoulders she remained emotionless.
"Certainly, as you know Galbatorix attacked us but a few days past," here she paused, her expression frozen, as if reliving some sinister nightmare, "he... he annihilated us... on his whims... never have I experienced so much death," her resolve tipped on the edge of a knife, then balanced again, her expression hardening like crystallising ice, "He is a strange man: Galbatorix, not what I expected, he seemed almost... almost saddened by the death, I may have seen regret... perhaps."
Islanzadi waved her hand dismissively at her recount of their foe, assured of her own opinions; to Eragon they held little water, "The false king is an apt deceiver," the queen's tone imperious, surely aloft, "Kindly continue your tale."
Nausuada's bearing acquired a harsh portrait and Eragon silently hoped for a swift and brutal retaliation; it never came, "As you wish; the aftermath of the attack left a little less half of our original force. Fearing another attack we retreated to Feinster, where at the very least there would be a wall between us and the enemy," she sighed, as defeat crept into her body, "We still number in the thousands, yet nowhere near enough, nowhere," Her jaw went slack as the deprivation of recent worries sunk in.
The inhabitants of the command tent pondered her words, renewing their chances cataloguing the new discoveries. For the first time Eragon questioned Galbatorix's character.
What kind of man is he really?
And then, dreading the answer, Eragon unburdened his heart of the hefty weight of Roran and Katrina's fate. A sweat riveting his tense jaw.
Understanding and compassion warmed Nausuada's eyes, "I don't know Eragon," she admitted, "Warriors continue to arrive from the surrounding countryside, as of yet Roran has not been amongst them... I am truly sorry; any news and I will inform you immediately," she promised him, her words still struck Eragon numb.
Hidden hope once again pushed viciously to the corner of his mind, as sorrow spread through his bones and equal amount of callous disregard from the other locked in bitter conflict over dominance of feelings.
Eragon raised his eyes. Arya was staring at him, her face softening at his examination; she gave a small, mournful, smile, reassurance passing between them.
The rest of the meeting passed into unidentifiable noise for Eragon, each spoken word a rain drop amongst countless others, immersed in each other's whisper, faint, for the ear of their brethren.
Pushing his neck backwards, Eragon sighed, closed his eyes and neglected the living.
Hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review. This chap was extremely difficult to write, I had to really stretch it out and it is still barely above a thousand words. I took some liberties with Galby's character; I hate the black and white enemy that Galby is normally seen as. My Galby is a torn person; you shall see. I also put a small little metaphorish reference to Murtagh in here: a sentence with double meaning, it refers to the brother's relationship, it is one of my favourite sentences, tell me if you find it. Thanks for reading. Point out any errors.