Yeah here's another chapter. Sorry for how short it is. PLEASE let me know if Arya seems OOC, but do take into account the previous chapters. Leave a review telling me what you think. Bad or Good. Hope you enjoy. Did not proof read. Point out any mistakes.
"Wake child, you have slept long enough."
The voice burst through the fretful images pooling through Eragon's memories, each word a decibel to remembrance; it was strangely intimate as it reverberated through the confine of his secrets, spreading like a virulent poison, bringing warmth, but one with tamed fierceness: like the roar of a caged bear. Eragon recognized the melancholic cords of the other, supported as he was by the voice of boulders meeting and the pride of an illustrious warrior, with armour of shivering gold.
Glaedr.
Again he sounded his demand, growing stronger, only to fade, slowly, with his last words; before he was, once again, rendered silent: a buckled blade.
Eragon's own troubled thoughts replenished the emptiness; foreboding shadows and wisps of intelligence gleamed through his conscious with paranormal clarity, they refused his summons and instead continued their manic circuits, each bringing a goblet of drowsiness. Their hold on him was treacherous, surreal chains bound him from the light, suppressing emotions till feeling receded as a factor. With unconquerable haste they showered him in corrosive dark, dissolving his features, his being, precisely destroying his stain, replacing him. It rose as he sank, clawing its way through years of humanity, severing ties of blood and brother. Inching towards the stronghold, with its impeccable walls and precipitous frame; even its empowering presence quailed beneath the rising tide of change, its heated stone chilling with pained mumbles, incoherent of their own choice.
Eragon felt himself slipping, his birth being erased, his existence tampered, foiled, as coils upon coils of the snakes grasp tightened in unison, in an effort to vanquish Eragon. He wanted to scream, but neither tongue nor throat adhered to his calls, silent misery racked his brain: he had failed, he was nothing.
I am not worthy.
Silence of movement followed his words; the assault halted, then fled, as if to escape an enemy of boundless power; their rapidly declining images bombarded Eragon with the blistering heat of red, the waves calming with the exit of the last. Wary of mental attack, Eragon drew into himself, searching for identity, before allowing his curious thoughts free roam, he unfurled the petals of his person and suffused into his cavern of mind, brushing past the stench of death, he enveloped his old haunts with a burning embrace. Content surged through him; he sighed.
...
...
...
His eyes opened.
A white softness cushioned his form, moulding around his space like molten iron: white hot. The surroundings divulged their trade with each flutter of his eyelids: the royal red of an elfish tent greeted him, their planes free of an wrinkles; beside his cot lay a humble desk, carved from willing oak, its surface calm with masterful workmanship, the bracing scent of pine petered from the air. A lone petal, its skin full and blooming, lay upon the desk, tenderly kissing the rejuvenating wood. A morning glory. Confusion seeped into Eragon as he beheld the dark purple jewel. Eyes narrowing of their own accord, he wondered at its presence, an air of importance graced the edges of the flower.
Why is it important?
He urged to remember the reason, yet his mind was dulled and it was slow in joining clues. A shallow inkling of an answer began to form. Dotted letter and honeyed hands filled his visions, a name started to materialise. The dawn of understanding.
He sensed her. She was close.
Arya!
Eyes darted around the little tent, perceiving each change in lighting, a fanatic need to see gripped Eragon; she was here. The blurring room passed under his scrutiny with the speed of lightning, detail forgotten. He cared only for one vista.
And, suddenly, he froze. There she was: leaning lightly against the opening of his tent, as if uncertain of approaching, clad in a detailed and majestic tunic of red that, for once, displayed her famed wealth as a princess; he could faintly descry the tiny diamonds studding her neckline and the threads of pure gold that wove the fabric together. It was utterly magnificent, so was she. She refused to hint movement; standing as a statue free of emotion and life
Neither spoke. Groaning quietly, Eragon lifted his head in an effort to meet her eyes, only for the rays of morn to blind his sight in an enthralling display of power, lighting Arya's outline in an awing glow of gold, transforming her into a goddess; mysterious and wise. Squinting Eragon traced his way upwards, towards her face; desperate... he skidded to a halt, shocked: her eyes were cold to behold, each emerald orb glinting impassively, death hung from her pupils. Her, characteristic, knowing gaze crowned her stare and the hated mask of concealment shrouded her thoughts from view. Eragon grit his teeth in frustration, both from their last encounter and from the current predicament. He refused to begin their conversation. She mirrored his thoughts. Instead choosing to grace the tent pole with her slight weight and glower at Eragon with a heavy reluctance. She seemed torn, her posture rigid and her mouth upturned in a strained grimace. Her eyes fell to her entwined hands; where she cradled a blossom of a morning glory, Eragon followed her contemplation, again wondering at the flower at his bedside.
A gift? Something else?
The wait soon became traitorous and Eragon felt his patience start to slip. Eragon wanted to curse this woman, yet his heart cried at the crime: refusing to lower her to his eyes. Even she seemed uncomfortable now, her long, slender, fingers had begun a dazing dance across the ridges of the flower she was holding and her demeanour began to shrink under his heavy glare. Conclusion came with the razor deliverance of an icy knife that penetrated Eragon's heart with the bite of Durza's rage. Death stirred at his pain. Arya methodically turned away from him, her movements seeming choreographed, effortless, conserving energy; and, without a backwards glance, removed herself from his tent. No word was spoken; no explanation, no worry.
Eragon watched her leave, he jaw tense and his eyes unforgiving.
He hated this woman...
...Yet he loved her.
So let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading. Again sorry for the tiny chapter, but I'm not used to writing a lot.