Some bad news: I got a place at college so the updates may come once a week from now on. Anyway Eragon thinks out his reasons for fighting in this war and if he is right; he comes across some roadblocks you see. This story is only going to get darker for the immediate future, just to let you know. I do have a bit of problem: I have a beginning, middle and an ending, but the glue between is giving some trouble. Lol. Anyway point out any mistakes. Please let me know what you think. I made a very small remark to Arya and Murtagh in this during Eragon's thoughts
What kind of man is he? He must have some redeeming virtue. For he is still a man.
The days following his encounter with Arya gave Eragon ample time to ponder over his role in the conflicts gone and ones yet to come; the originally black and white mentality now stood distorted: crippled like a veteran of war; for now another questioned his motives, the devil of his past and the deathly veil of his future collided as each tried to make sense of position and responsibility, of what was right and what was wrong. A pillar of light shone through the darkest recesses of Eragon's mind, bringing clarity to shrouded subjects and discussions. Until now Galbatorix had been whatever Oromis, the elves and the Varden had claimed he was: a ruthless dictator, who understood only evil and unjust spectacles. But what made the Varden better still escaped his grasp; for they would still collect tax and to the average citizen this made them no different to Galbatorix; the change in sovereignty would not restore the dragons or riders; nothing would change but a minor detail written for the scribes and historians to pore over in the times to come and for the bards to sing of when this age came to an end: but that was no reason for war.
Was it?
The needling thoughts sent Eragon spiralling in unease; his legs developed a deep seated ache and his jointed clicked with unresolved tension; each worry a adventurous taunt. Shifting, he braced the lower portion of his legs against the repellent bark of the oak tree he was leaning against; as he stood, a vertigo of green and red assaulted his vision, their sapping wonder and colourful curiosity strengthening with each beat of his heart; he was left swaying ungracefully in the thin winter breeze, which, with its modest summons, soon dissolved his intangible shields and cures. It fought at its torturous bonds, eager to mingle with stray thoughts and emotions, willing to manipulate.
I... don't know... not anymore.
Another, arrogant and irrational voice pierced his confusion, like the tip of razor blades through grinning chainmail. Smooth and controlled producing a sweet melody of the trickster, each left to linger far longer than it should.
What of Roran? Has not Galbatorix proved his sinful ways?
It asked, a tint of mocking espionage converging upon its core; it was not to be ignored: Eragon stumbled across the stem of roots it positioned for his fall; stinging strikes of Alder leaves, each with keen sharpness to their features, attacked his person, each a pinprick across the primal sea of pain; he pushed forward, away from the oak and towards to ever growing darkness of the campsite, wise fires and whispering songs soon fading as the elves made to repose. The voice held merit.
Roran was murdered. I do have a reason... yet what can a king do to rebellious enemies? He had no choice but to retaliate; and the Varden had ushered in this bloody war.
Reason and desire and never been the closest of friends and now they only existed to trouble Eragon with their supposed logic. Pulsating nightmares and fears gripped Eragon as each death, of his hands, played itself though his drooping eyes, the anxious faces and afflicted grimaces as blade and arrow bit into their flash and absorbed their life force through bitter steel; the aromatic scent of clogging blood tickled his nostrils, like an unwelcome draft of chills, as he reminisced on sword dances and falling corpses; the familiar taste of adrenaline as it shot through his body, prepared for imminent death and injury; magic tinged his vision as unnatural flames and lights of forest green reaped souls. He snapped.
Fast moving images and controlled snarls pierced Eragon's confusion...
The red of blood saturated its way through the upper levels of heaven, as a crimson blade, quenched of misery, collapsed from a weak grip, its owner stumbled into the hard call of the dirt and lay panting as another blade hued with the flavour of summer skies entered the scene; flames caressed its ice thin edge, each a small pilgrim across its length. The sneer coating the fallen mans lips intensified as he looked on his grave admission, awaiting his judgement. A fine mist of inanimate wisps slowly surrounded the two, it held for a strange moment, momentarily shielding the men from onlookers and intruders, before ebbing to the corners like ocean waves. Both now possessed rigid postures and unhealthy tension.
"What now?" the unarmed man asked, his voice deathly quiet and utterly reserved, "Are you going to kill me like this? Hah, you do not possess the will; you always were a child, too soft to survive in a world such as this," he spat feebly at the other mans feet, individual sprays diverging from the rest over the course of their hopeless flight.
The standing man replied with defiant silence, his protruding blade settling into an uncharacteristic calm; the soothing fire dying with times sails. He looked on with grim acceptance lacing his eyes, a hint of remorse and pity flashing across his features with the quickness of thieves. Yet no response was forthcoming. It only served to anger his unarmed foe.
"Answer me!" he roared, the heavy pull of his chest displaying raging emotions and mimicked thoughts; he was quick to slow his racing breathing, "I can see it in your eyes you know," he narrowed his own into suspicious slits, representing the vipers wit, "How much you hate me; I can see the fire of hatred, you do not fool me."
He lapsed into confident quiet, yet the only riposte he received was the descending blade. A shatter ran across the frame of time as the standing man wrenched his blade free and stood taller, proud sadness clinging with lovers embrace.
"No you are wrong: I feel nothing for you."
SOOO. What did you think. Let me know. Thanks. Yeah I know this was probably one of my shortest chaps.