Chapter 13: Red Tears

An irritating buzzing sound woke Eragon from his sleep. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he grumbled and looked over to the object that had disturbed his rest.

Ah. Through force of habit, he had wound Oromis' time piece the night before. With a sardonic smile, he turned it off and breathed in deeply, feeling the crisp morning air fill his lungs.

The sun had risen, and his bed was covered with a soft warm glow, light seeping like gold into his tent. A true moment of peace that he hadn't felt for many, many days.

Eragon.

He closed his eyes and grinned to himself. Yes, Saphira?

Why are you up so early, little one? Nasuada had said before that you could rest today.

With a small yawn, Eragon rose from his bed, wincing as the small unhealed injuries from yesterday night bit at his nerves. As carefully as he could, he pulled on his boots and walked out his tent with a very noticeable limp. Bandages were still all over his body.

I told you before that joining that battle was a very unwise idea. Chided his dragon. Now you can barely stand.

The rider shrugged. Because of my appearance, the city was taken much faster than it would have been without. These wounds mean nothing.

He heard Saphira sigh in his mind. Little one, the moment you were able to hold a sword you immediately made the hasty decision to join Roran's reckless plan. What if you died in yesterday's attempt?

I didn't.

And what if you did?

Do you remember Angela's prophecy? Asked Eragon as he walked between the tents, sneaking this way and that to avoid meeting any patrolling soldiers. She predicted that I would live a long life, much longer than is normal for humans. There is no death for me in the near future, else the prophecy would be made void.

Saphira was silent for a while. Eragon could not tell if her sudden quietness was due to frustration or her shock at overlooking such an important fact.

You could have been captured. She said quietly. There was a tinge of something in her voice, but Eragon could not tell what. Was it anger? Fear? Worry?

Unless Murtagh or Galbatorix combat me directly, I doubt that there is a chance for me to be captured by some nameless soldier. Moving swiftly and covering his face partially with his sleeve, he made his way past a company of men unnoticed. You cannot deny that.

And what if they had come?

Murtagh and Thorn are still in Uru'baen and seem to be still recuperating from their injuries. If Galbatorix wished to combat me himself, then it would not matter if I was injured or not.

There are many problems with that thinking of yours, little one. If—

"Oh ho ho, look who we have here!"

A huge arm clasped him around his shoulders and Eragon hid a grimace. He had been hoping to be able to walk past the man unnoticed once he had noticed his aura, but…

"That was quite the show you gave us last night, Shadeslayer!" Roared Fredric in delight. "Twirling, slashing, splitting apart bodies with more ease than breathing! It was as if I was looking at Death himself at work before those gates!"

Eragon smiled. "Just something that a rider should do."

"Oh, don't be so humble." The weapons master patted him on the back. "You and your cousin were like heroes in epics and legends, carving down soldiers faster and more ferociously than a Spine devil. Blood flows differently in Carvahall, I see."

"It… it was nothing. A Shur'tugal is expected to do so. My only regret is that we couldn't have taken the city in a more peaceful way." The rider scratched his head. "It bothers me on how some people serve the king with such loyalty. I don't think I ever will understand."

Fredric nodded furiously. "Mind-battered, the lot of them. All fools ready to be sent to their deaths by the high and mighty king. Weak minded bastards."

Then it came; a slight stir in the back of his mind, nearly too minute for him to feel. Like a hair trailing teasingly across his back. What followed, was undeniably the sound of laughter.

The chuckle lasted only for a moment, but would be forever frozen in the rider's memory. It was cold, cynical, and cruel beyond Eragon's imagination. A vicious tone that sent shivers down his spine.

"Oh? And are we all so different?" whispered the harsh, amused voice.

Eragon whirled around, seeking the source. But he saw, and felt, no one.

"Argetlam?" asked Fredric cautiously. His hand shifted to the hilt of his great sword.

"No matter. Must have been the wind." Eragon thinned his lips. He somehow knew the voice, but whose it was escaped him.

Fredric relaxed, his hand returning to his side. A broad grin appeared on his face.

"We live in troubled times. We're bound to get a little tense after so many kills." He laughed heartily. "Well, I won't be keeping you Argetlam. I'll be off!"

Eragon faked a chuckle. "May your future battles be filled with glory, Fredric."

"And yours as well, Argetlam."

As the two parted ways, Eragon could not shake a feeling of unease in his gut. He knew the voice somehow, recognized it, he knew it was familiar. But he still couldn't think of whom it belonged to.

Eragon? Saphira's voice was questioning.

It was nothing. The rider mumbled, mostly to himself. Regaining his pace with halting steps, he continued to wander.

It wasn't the words that he heard that bothered him; he had heard plenty of such things from the mouths of people loyal to the Empire. It was the certainty in it, and the pain that was imbedded into its core. A sarcastic remark gave by a person going to be hanged, or a dying croak from a person with a blade to the heart. That was what it felt like.

Without warning, his feet crumpled beneath him. To say that he was surprised was an understatement. He had not known that his limbs were so weak that a little stroll would drain all the remaining strength from them.

"Guh!" He barely managed to keep his face from hitting the dusty ground.

Eragon!

I'm alright, Saphira. I simply—

--misjudged your strength. Saphira finished for him with a growl. You always were careless with your own body when it came to things like this. Don't you remember? Master… master Oromis noted from the state of your hands that you fought and acted like a berserker. And that—

I don't fight like a berserker. Objected Eragon as he managed to pull himself against a tent and leaned himself against it. You know that.

It doesn't matter if you don't. What matters is that you have wounds and scars akin to one. You disregard your own safety, and use excuses to make them seem justified. That is the undeniable truth, and you know that.

I value my life! Who does not?

"Eragon?"

Do you value your life when you get into that fury of yours? You would jump into hordes of Urgals, duel hopeless duels, and just a few days ago you took a blow for Arya!

Would you rather she died? The rider shouted.

"Eragon."

What if one day, you fail in your attempts? The entire Varden will fall, without any question. People will be killed in great numbers. And it wouldn't be because of Galbatorix or Murtagh. The fault would be yours.

I don't—

"Eragon!"

Startled out of his trance-like state, the rider gave a small cry of alarm, hurriedly refocused his eyes and gazed at the figure leaning over him in concern.

It was Arya.

Trying to even his breaths, Eragon put a hand over his chest and looked warily away from the elf's worried glance.

"Uh… yes, Arya Svit-Kona?" asked Eragon.

Brushing away a few stray strands of hair from her face, Arya kneeled down and placed her hand to his forehead. Her touch was cool against his skin, and he resisted the urge to shirk away.

"You were sitting against my tent, staring out into space. What happened to you?"

Eragon blinked. "Your… tent?"

The elf raised her eyebrow a fraction. It was nearly unnoticeable, but Eragon barely caught the movement.

"Yes. You did not know?"

"Well… I…"

So his wandering, listless steps had taken him, of all places. Something in him sighed, and he smiled wearily to himself. So that was how his heart was.

No matter how he wished otherwise, the truth was there; he knew nigh nothing about the elven princess. Everything he knew about her seemed only the cover of a book; a tome exotic, beautiful, alluring beyond compare. What little more he knew of her was simply snatches of sentences between the pages, a pitiful patchwork that was her image in his mind.

She was cold. She was cruelly analytical.

And no matter how he tried to resist it, how he tried to despise her, how he tried to discard his feelings…

The elf frowned and touched his legs with slim fingers, testing them.

"You cannot walk now, can you?" came her quiet question.

The rider hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly. "I seem to have been overconfident with my extent of recovery. I should have stayed in my tent."

"That you should have."

Arya looked up slightly and furrowed her brows, as if contemplating an important decision. Then she held out her hand, motioning for Eragon to grasp it.

"You could rest in my tent, if you wished. After all, you had come this far." She remarked dryly. "It would be discourteous not to invite such an esteemed guest indoors when he is in such a pinch."

"Arya Svit-Kona, I wouldn't like to intrude—"

"And you wouldn't. I have nothing to occupy myself with at the moment, nothing to pass the time on this dreary day. As you might know, Nasuada had given me orders to rest as well."

"She has?" Eragon asked as Arya pulled him upright. "I thought that she would be in need of your wisdom."

Arya glanced at him. "She is not a child any longer, and can handle her own affairs. And if you were attempting to mock me…"

"I wasn't." replied Eragon with a nervous laugh. "The truth is what I speak."

The elf suddenly tensed beside him. But then she relaxed, and an unreadable look came across her face.

I say unreadable now… and yet one year before, that was the only word that I could use to describe any of her expressions. Eragon bit back a wry smile. Saphira must be speaking to her.

After a few moments, she nodded slightly to herself and glanced over to Eragon with a stern face.

"So that is the reason you were quarreling?"

"Quarreling is too strong a term." Objected the rider. "We were merely discussing some things that we disagreed about."

Arya ran a hand through her raven black hair, pursing her lips. "You are unbelievably stubborn. But perhaps that is a trait that will be helpful in the future."

Eragon blinked, surprised. He had been preparing himself for a long lecture, but to think that the elf had let the matter drop so soon. Or had she?

"Come in. I have been brewing tea."

Leading the rider inside her tent, Arya walked over to the teapot sitting on her table and poured out two mugs of the steaming liquid. Handing one to Eragon as he sat down, she sipped from her own and sat on the chair opposite.

"I am grateful for your hospitality, Arya Svit-Kona." murmured Eragon, bowing his head slightly in gratitude.

"It is simply what a friend should do to help another. Nothing more."

"But still…" The rider tasted the tea and his eyes widened. "Incredible. I don't think that I have ever drunk anything that was made to this perfection."

"You flatter me."

"Only the truth passed my lips, Arya Svit-Kona."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the elf's face, and she set her cup down on the table.

"You were very impressive last night." She said, calmly locking her gaze with his. "You have clearly grown much since we first met. So much it would seem impossible."

Yes… last night was different from all his previous battles. It was like living in a waking dream; his sword had grown itself onto him like an extension of his limb, moving with such fluidity that shocked even himself. Every step he took was a dance, leaves swaying in the wind.

"I have had good masters teaching me. And in my position, it would be sin in itself not to progress as fast as I can manage." Eragon replied with a small grin.

Arya shook her head slowly.

"No, Eragon. It is obvious that you have extraordinary talent. In the span of less than three years you have reached a level that many elves had taken decades to achieve. I can say without doubt that you are among the finest swordsmen in Ellesmera, judging from what I have seen yesterday."

Eragon fought hard not to let the surprise show on his face. "But most elves have had centuries to hone their skills! Surely I cannot have climbed to their rank."

"Dragons choose their riders according to the needs of their entire race, and that of the Shur'tugal." Arya wrapped her slender fingers around the mug to warm them from the winter chill. "And you most possibly are one of the best choices for them in all of Alagaesia. That is why you are so proficient in the areas where you are needed the most. Before long, you could surpass anyone."

"Even you?"

Arya laughed, a twinkle of silver bells. "You still think of me as your final goal to cross?"

"I have not yet seen anyone that surpasses you." Answered Eragon. "And I have already defeated Vanir, after all."

Arya looked at him in astonishment. "You did? When?"

"Before we left for the Burning Plains, Vanir and I sparred one last time. The first time that I had ever bested him in swordsplay, but I am confident that I can do so again."

"Vanir uses a sword?" Arya leaned back into her chair, deep in thought. "That is different from what I know… but though unlikely, we might be talking about different people. You say that you have sparred with him in the past?"

"As part of Ebrithil's lessons, yes." A pang of grief emerged in his heart, and he tried to ignore it. But a trace of the sadness must of shown on his face, for Arya's features softened.

"Many people have died for this war." She said quietly. "I can understand your urge to fight for their cause, the eagerness to push yourself to the limit for the sake of others. But it simply isn't the right thing to do."

"Saphira—"

"Saphira is right." Said Arya firmly. "And you know that, but are too stubborn to try to understand."

"I am a soldier of the Varden, and an enemy of the Empire. It is—"

Arya shook her head. "No. First and foremost, you are a rider. You are hope itself for every person that wishes to free himself from Galbatorix's rule. And therefore, you must not treat your life so lightly."

Eragon sighed. "I don't see my life as something worthless. I value it, as you do yours and as everyone does."

"Nevertheless, I wish for you to promise on it. As a request from a friend, nothing more." Arya leaned forward and looked hard into his eyes. "But it is something that I would like you to do."

The rider said nothing. But not because he wished to refuse.

A trickle of liquid was sliding down the right side of his face, nearly unnoticeable. At first, he thought they were tears. But when he brought them before his eyes, he was shocked.

Crimson.

Without another word, he collapsed and fell from his chair. He didn't even feel his impact with the ground.

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Yearning. There was a yearning for something, but he did not know what. How it maddened him could not be described by mere letters and words. Like a constant itch he could not scratch, a dim whisper at the back of his mind he could feel but not hear clearly. He was always on the constant brim of realization, and yet it always eluded him.

Breathing was hard, so extremely hard. Every rise and fall of his chest felt like trying to lift a mountain. His eyes burned in their sockets.

He knew what it was he longed for. He knew he did. But it was like trying to grab a blossom's reflection out of a mirror, or fishing for the moon in a dark lake. The answer always drifted away as he neared it, taunting him. Forever hanging out of his reach.

Thirst. He was a dying man on a parched plain, searching for something that could wet his throat. Crawling along the ground, fumbling as he clumsily moved forward. There was something that could save him from this torture in an instant, but he did not know what. It was in many ways, worse than the hunger itself.

He ran a tongue over his lips, drawing some comfort from the familiar texture. But another wave of his urge swept over him, and he whimpered as if being whipped.

"I…" he breathed, a desperate whisper.

Sweat was beading on his brow. His palms were wet as he placed them against the wall to steady himself. His body felt so hot.

It was like a sexual desire. Frustration and irritation was in every part of his being, and he scratched and clawed at his body to rid himself of them. Bloody furrows appeared everywhere as he slashed at his skin mercilessly, seeking to drive out the craving.

It did not work. It only excited him, aroused him further.

"I…!" He gasped to himself.

He clawed at the wall, his fingers dyeing the stone red with the blood seeping from his nails. This had never happened before. He had had plenty of nightmares before, but it had been almost completely cured many days past. What was wrong with him?

He knew what he wanted to do. He knew he did. He just needed that final push in the right direction, to find himself and what he wanted.

Opening the door of his room, he wandered aimlessly down the magnificent hallways, stumbling several times as he did. Everything seemed like a distorted image to him, so unreal and fabricated. He encountered no guards, but he pushed the queer fact out of his mind. The only thing that mattered was finding what he wanted.

The floor under his feet was throbbing in unison with his heartbeat. In a daze, he steadied himself against the wall. With slightly firmer steps, he continued on.

I have to do something. Something important. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but it did not bother him much. It was a small thing compared to what he had in mind.

Breathing hard, he found that he had somehow walked out of the side gates of the palace. Why was that? He wondered to himself. With a lopsided shrug, he dismissed the thought and looked around. Something clicked in his mind, and he decided to choose one of the dark alleys at his right to enter.

His paces were becoming strangely smoother, settling into a cat like grace, footsteps silent to human ears. His hand settled on the hilt of his sword, and he looked around. He could smell something pungent.

There. A drunkard, slumped against the wall, barely conscious. He was muttering something under his breath, but Murtagh could care less about what he said.

It was a pity. Such scum…

However, a near maniacal grin spread cruelly across his face even as his vision steadily faded.

He saw a woman laughing.

What about, he didn't know. But he did know that it meant that the woman was happy. And if she was happy, he was. He had rarely seen her like this.

The smile on her face looked… strained, for the lack of a better word. But not because it was fake; rather, it seemed to be because the woman was still not used to laughing so openly.

A man about forty years of age was laughing with her, with huge booming chuckles so loud that in the back of his mind he idly wondered if the entire castle would come down upon them if he continued. But before he knew it, he had joined in, his childish little giggles filling the room with even more joy.

This, he decided, was where he belonged. Nowhere else gave him such a sense of safety and warmth. Most of the people he met outside of here were either falsely nice, or scorned him silently with their gazes.

He never knew why. He hadn't done anything wrong. Neither had father, as far as he knew. Why did they treat his father so?

The door opened behind him, with the familiar smell of leather, steel and burnt wood. He could feel large arms wrapping themselves around his body.

Why did they treat his father so?

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Sorry for the extremely late update. Been away recently on some trips... the more knowledgable of you may know why. And a writer's block that stumped me for more than a week.

So... please tell me what you think. It didn't come out nearly as good as I wanted it to be, but I thought that I had gone to long without updating. And I don't think I would be able to change much, anyway.