Sorry about the wait, am trying to get a place at a college. Last chap was a bit iffy; but Im going to leave it as it is. I don't like this chap it's a bit too fluffy and soft hearted for my taste but I guess I need it and perhaps it is a bit OOC. M&T POV every 3-4 chaps. Eragon and M&T POV are probably the only POVS Im going to use (Maybe Nausuada a few times) No Arya because any POV from her ruins the mystery of her character and feels OOC. So yeah I was watching Rise Of The Foot Soldier just before this and man that film is fucking raw. Go and check it out: covers crime really realistically, just so you know it is very heavy on gore, violence, sex and language with some wicked torture scenes so you kiddies be careful. Just so you guys know this chap is a couple of weeks after Eragon vs Murtagh. Hope you Enjoy. Did not proof read.
A veil of bewilderment transcended upon the elven army following Murtagh's disappearance: their fate was unknown and the tense mood demonstrated it. The low note of muttering gripped society as each wondered at this new and mysterious power of Galbatorix. The forests became sombrely calm and the once mischievous happiness of the flitting elves dampened as each trudge through the sludge of winter carried them closer and closer to Uru'baen; the black city and heart of misery, its intangible arms almost resembling dark magic as they played on weak minds and weaker doubts. Heightened prowess allowed the elves to cover more ground than the humans had ever achieved, but it was forced: far from their enemy they could forgo their fears, whilst at the same time filtering the taste of victory through their bodies, they could fool themselves, like the trickster at cards, and hope freely for heavenly light, some divine miracle; for the light always vanquished the dark, was it not true? What tale allowed those of evil fortitude to succeed? Every story ended with, those of righteous ideals, celebrating and making merry.
Yet this was no tale... No light prevailed the shroud of darkness and Eragon inched closer to the end with no easy solution, even the hard bitten determination had loosened its vice and now worry planted its seeds through his dreams, each taking root and blossoming with times aid. Saphira drew further from him with each passing day as she trawled through her own unruly emotions and Arya... Arya had all but forsaken Eragon's company; she spoke little and deemed any interaction between the two a waste of effort, she had stopped seeking Eragon for conversation and friendship leaving him floundering as he thought a remedy for her behaviours. He had ventured to asking of her location for peace of mind, however each encounter left Eragon in mute helplessness at Arya's grim silence and acute annoyance at his presence. Their uncomfortable charade developed into an intolerable wall as each waded through the murky depths of their characters; it became hindering to both the war and coexistence. And it was thus that Eragon found himself standing upon a petrified and jagged cliff, overlooking a vast section of forest, each treetop resembling fallen clouds, with their dreamy swaying and inconsistent exterior and their rough barks, lined with the burden of time and neglect, echoing their fabled endurance.
Arya sat, cross-legged, with her hands folded inconspicuously in front of her, her back rigid and tense with tempered emotion as she gazed over the ocean of bark and leaf with a detached semblance. She had denied Eragon's being for the last few minutes, content with the icy breeze and smooth stones as her only companions: clearly Eragon was not welcome. But that had never stopped him before. Sighing, Eragon placed himself carefully to her immediate right, forgoing the traditional greeting in favour of prolonging the familiar quiet. He followed her transfixed glare and closely graced the unmoving environment with yet another admirer: the calloused bark of the trees now seemed to murmur reassurance to each other as Eragon's eyes followed each detailed scripture distinguishing the worn wood; it was a fantastic mirage one that welled inspiration within Eragon: this world was worth fighting for, when there were creatures and sights so easy on the eyes then it was a place worth the blood of sacrifice and the fire of revolution. His indiscernible waft of thoughts soon turned from the beauty and grandeur of nature to the beauty of the elven princess who sat excruciatingly close to him yet at the same time created mountains between them. She had yet to look at him, her eyes had remained fixed on some insignificant aspect of natures ever resilient splendour; his breathing increasing and heart thumping Eragon felt his devotion and care surfacing as he beheld the jewel presented before him, he had never believed in perfection, but she would convert him. Arya appeared to sense his praise: for she shuffled further away from him and turned her troubled face away from his gaze, in an effort of concealment; Eragon felt the slight beginning of pain at her actions accompanied as it was by the anger at her subtle rejection.
"What is it that you require of me Shadeslayer?"
Her, masked and foreign, voice only served to increase Eragon's anguish and rage: he refused a response and continued his intense inquiry of her soul and hidden facets of emotion. She baffled him with her withdrawal; their bond had been closer than ever... only for it to vanish with Murtagh's entrance.
What has gone wrong? Wherein settles the fault?
His mental musings allowed Arya time to turn one, shaded, emerald towards his face, before quickly flickering it back; her countenance soon adopting an impatient outlook as she awaited Eragon's answer. The entrancing curve of her hip slowly rotating as she fixed him with the sight of her back. Eragon did not miss the almost hostile glaze covering her features.
Or perhaps regret? I do not understand this woman. Damned mystery she is.
In a flash of activity Eragon regained his feet, the unforgiving hardness of the ground catapulting him upwards as if relieving themselves of a punishing weight.
"Perhaps... once... I thought me may have been friends," he halted, stumbling over quickly forgotten words, as Arya turned to face him, her features inscrutable save for the fickle show of disappointment and loss, before it to faded into oblivion; Eragon fought to regain his ability of speech, "I see now the flaw in my assumptions."
She remained still as a dwarven statue, her face set in lifeless lines. With a sad shake of his head, Eragon forced his feet to carry through the thick bramble covering the beginning of the cliff face; rampant sense of loss and misery coursing through his cold blood.
She quietly called after him, "Eragon," he stopped, but did not turn to face her, "There be no friendships in war, nor in a cold world as this; look around you: life is no sunshine and rainbows, reality poses no sunshine and rainbows; life is struggle. Do not ask for what you cannot have for there is no fire to light it."
Eragon snorted deliriously her words, "Then perhaps you haven't looked hard enough princess."
He continued walking. Above his head the twilight mated with the pockmarked sky.
So what did you think? Let me know.