"Stenr rïsa."
Roran was staring at the pebble nestled in his palm determinedly, gazing at it with so much intensity it was a surprise that it hadn't caught aflame. His fingers tensed in preparation as Roran Stronghammer tried to reach into the dark crevices of his mind, the desolate shadows that contained within their oppressing bonds the ability of magic. He searched and searched, eyes narrowed in concentration as veins began to bulge from his temple. He found nothing in his mind but his own frustrated thoughts.
"Stenr rïsa," he said, willing the pebble –such an annoying little stone- to rise into the air at his command. The pebble stubbornly remained nestled in his palm, happy to remain there without so much as a twitch of movement.
Carn was watching him with a sly grin, obviously enjoying the show. "Having fun there, captain?" He asked jovially as he drank from his mug. Katrina sat beside Carn, drinking from her own mug of nettle tea and watching her husband try to perform magic with a barely suppressed smile.
Roran felt his face redden, though whether from the mental strain of trying to make a stone rise from his palm or Carn's annoying comments at his lack of magical prowess he did not know. "Having a ball," he said dryly as he returned his attention to the small rounded stone in his hand.
"Stenr rïsa."
The stone stayed still, not even moving so much as a hairs width. Roran's eye was twitching dangerously as his temper flared when he heard the sniggers that Carn was trying –and failing- to hide by drinking the nettle tea Katrina had prepared for the magician.
"Perhaps you're pronouncing it wrong," Carn offered as he sipped his tea with a chuckle.
Roran's eye twitched dangerously, thick fingers clenching into a tight fist that hid the stone from view. "Oh, am I?" He asked darkly, brown eyes alight in indignation. "Well let me try again, I promise you this, the stone will move." Roran turned away from the magician with a indignant snort, before he said clearly, "Stenr rïsa."
The pebble flew through the air and hit Carn right in the middle of his forehead before bouncing off and landing into his tea with a gentle plop.
Carn blinked, bright green eyes flicking upwards towards the reddening mark on his forehead before numbly looking down at the pebble in his tea. Suddenly he reddened greatly as his brows narrowed dangerously when he realized what had truly happened. "You threw that!" He declared with a scowl as his slender fingers dipped into his tea to retrieve the little stone.
"I said the spell," Roran said smugly as he leaned back in his chair, winking slyly at Katrina who merely rolled her eyes at her husband's childish ways.
"T-That was no magic," Carn spluttered out, looking rather odd with the small reddened mark on his pale forehead. "You threw it, that doesn't mean you did it." He sniffed, "There was no magic in that, just you."
Roran refused to be swayed by the magician's words. "It does not matter, I said the words and the stone flew from my hand and hit you, just as I predicted!" He declared proudly, grinning from ear to ear.
Carn's eye twitched dangerously, a weary exhale of breath came from his nostrils. The normally introverted magician couldn't help but say again, "You threw it and you know it!" He fumed, before he grinned as he plucked the pebble from his tea with his fingers. He held it up for Katrina and Roran to see, "This is magic. Stenr rïsa." The pebble rose as though plucked from Carn's fingers by an invisible hand. The stone hovered in the air, floating.
Roran grumbled under his breath, a little resentful at Carn's knack for the magical arts. "A pebble will do you no good if I attacked you with my hammer."
"What if I make the pebble shot towards you so fast it goes through that thick head of yours?"
"My thick head is my best armor, nothing can pierce through it."
"And nothing can come from it either."
"Why you-!"
"Boys." Katrina cut in, making both warrior and magician glance at her, before returning to glaring at one another with contempt and scorn. Katrina had left her seat to stir a pot of soup, the amazing smell tickling at their nostrils, and in her hand was a ladle. "If you two will kindly put aside your petty differences, I will not be forced to hit you with my ladle." She swung it experimentally, looking like a warrior wielding a sword.
The two warriors were cowed under her piercing glare that demanded respect, and both men couldn't help but agree that even with their prowess over weaponry or magic, an angered woman was the deadliest of them all. Especially when said angry woman was very pregnant. And so the two proficient warriors bowed their heads, mumbled apologies to one another and gratefully took their soup as Katrina smiled sweetly at them.
Roran's wife is something else, I have to admit. Carn thought to himself, with a musing grin, glancing at his friend who was whispering something in Katrina's ear, whatever he was saying was making her smile at him, a smile that seemed to light up the whole room. He was holding her in his arms, hands gently placed at the swell of her stomach that held a growing life.
Carn tried to ignore the bags under Roran's eyes, the look of haunting that plagued him throughout the days. Carn tried to ignore the scars that lingered on Katrina's soft, pale skin. Marks left by the work of the most monstrous of monsters, the Ra'zac. He did not know why Angela or any of the other healers hadn't removed the scars with magic, though he had reason to suspect that Katrina herself did not want them removed, as though to have them serve as reminders.
Roran was the strongest man he knew, a greater friend and a loving husband, but Carn knew that he, like many, was haunted by demons. And he wasn't alone either. Katrina might smile and laugh in the safety of their room, alone with her husband and his friend, but when she left that safety Carn saw those warm smiles become forced, those light green eyes darkening and turning cold at a moment's notice, and a look of haunting would dwell beneath her eyes, hidden but still very much there. There was a similar look of haunting hidden in Roran's eyes as well.
The Empire has taken too much from them, Carn thought to himself mournfully. They lost their fathers, though one was a traitor, and their home to the Mad King and his men. But yet, they survived and will continue to survive. They know the dangers that are waiting for them outside of Aroughs, hell even in Aroughs. If they wish to survive this bloody war, they must be prepared for the worst.
He knew now why Roran had approached him all those weeks ago asking for lessons of magic. He had thought it odd that the skilled warrior would even care about the magical arts, but Roran had surprised him when he had stubbornly stated that he needed to be prepared for the worst.
And so Carn gave him a pebble, that pebble from before, and had told him the words to raise the stone without touching it, hoping that the frustration of failure would spark that same magical energy that dwelled within everyone, a dormant power waiting to be unleashed. But yet, despite Roran's swears and curses directed towards that little rounded pebble, the stone never rose. No dormant powers awakened. No magic burst from his palm, no energy flooded his body. There was nothing.
Roran could never become a magician, he could never utter a spell and expect it to work, he could never make that little stone rise, and Carn knew that Roran knew it as well.
Roran knew this, he knew it the moment he first searched for that pool of energy dwelling within his subconscious, hidden but there. He could never summon fire to his fingertips, he could never enter a man's mind and crush them from the inside, he could never break things without touching them, he could never make that pebble –that stupid pebble- rise from his palm.
A part of him was disappointed.
The other part was relieved.
Roran had never trusted magic or those who used them when he had been a farmer in Carvahall, the thought of fire being summoned with a wave of the hand and a few words whispered seemed impossible, the thought of stones rising without anyone touching it scared him. Magic was an unknown back then. Magic was terrifying and those who wielded it must have surely dabbled in human sacrifices to gain such terrifying, godlike power.
He knew differently now. Magic was still terrifying, but it was no longer unknown to him. He had seen his fair share of spells, of fire being summoned and power gained, he had seen it on the battlefields. He had seen it as he killed the Twins, smashing their bald heads in with his hammer, how they had killed so many with spells and castings. He had seen it from the Laughing Men, those who refused to die or feel pain. Magic wasn't some foreign idea spoken by Brom when he had been a child, a legend of power that wasn't real. Magic was real, he had seen it from his brother, Eragon, when he fought men at the Battle of the Burning Plains and again at Helgrind, he had seen it from Carn, his best friend, who had stayed by his side through thick and thin. Magic was real.
Magic was dangerous.
He had seen Carn during their many shared battles, how he always looked as though he had been slowly drained from the inside, as though his life was slowly being taken before his very eyes. The exhaustion that followed, the weakness that remained, the ever looming threat of a painful death always apparent.
A piece of him yearned for that power, to engulf his enemies in flames, to crush their minds with his own, to break their bones without touching them, to heal those he loved that were injured, to raise stones. Some part of him that didn't fear magic yearned for it and it's godly power.
Roran didn't want magic to control others, he didn't want it to force his leadership over those who feared magic and its users, he only wanted it to protect those he loved.
Not to mention how many of the soldiers view magic, and those who wield it, in a weary view, Roran thought to himself.
Most of the soldiers that made up the Varden were farmers' sons looking for glory, or just commonborn who had no education. Their views on the arcane art of magic were full of fear, mistrust and riddled with silly superstitions. They did not trust magicians, be they human or one of the elves. If anything, the human soldiers mistrusted all of the races but the dwarves, who had proven their loyalty to them countless of times by having sheltered them for years in the capitol, Farthen Dûr, and for fighting and dying in battles alongside the humans.
The majority of the Varden mistrusted the Urgals and Kull, bitter memories of battles and feuds with one another tended to keep tensions high, but even the elves had been viewed a bit distastefully as well.
Where were the elves when the Urgals invaded Farthen Dûr? One soldier would asked another.
Where were the elves during the Battle of the Burning Plains? Another would ask bitterly.
Where are they now? Up in the north where they aren't of use to the Varden. Another would say angrily.
Tensions were high in the Varden. There was an instinctive wariness directed towards the other races and magicians from the common soldiers that caused distrust, and it was steadily gaining ground.
Roran was so caught up in his thoughts; he did not notice Carn staring at him with concern.
"Perhaps you are not meant for magic, Roran." Carn said softly, watching from afar as Roran's jaw clenched tightly and his fingers curled into fists that pressed against his thighs.
"Perhaps," Roran said through gritted teeth. He wasn't angry at Carn, he never could be, but he was angry at himself. He was angry because of how useless he was when it came to making that stupid stone –that annoying little pebble- rise through the air.
Eragon was capable of amazing feats. He had seen the havoc his brother had wrought on their enemies, both Ra'zac and human alike. He was capable of creating fire from nothing, casting light where darkness prevailed, amazing feats that should not be possible but yet were.
Eragon is a Rider, Roran reminded himself. He's different. He is no normal man, but a Rider. His fingers unconsciously trailed towards the simple gold wedding band on his left ring finger, the index lightly running over the small imprinted runes. But, Rider or not, no single man can take down the Empire and the Mad King. He needs help, and I am more than willing to join him on his crusade. Roran would do anything for Eragon, his brother, and he knew that there were others in the Varden, including those from Carvahall, that would rather follow Eragon Shadeslayer than King Orrin or even Nasuada.
If Eragon truly does what I think he's planning… what Eragon himself confided to me on the way to the Varden after Helgrind… I must get stronger, magic or no magic it does not matter. I must be stronger to protect Katrina and Eragon, and by my hammer and shield I will become stronger than before. Roran thought to himself with determination.
Roran Stronghammer was perhaps the greatest human warrior to live since Gerand, a reluctant warrior who had taken up a hammer instead of a sword and became a legend amongst humankind, but magic was something Roran could not do.
He wanted it desperately, but wishing for something does not mean it will be granted. He did not yearn for power, he only yearned for the safety of his loved ones. He yearned for Katrina and their unborn child to be safe from the dangers of the world. He yearned for Eragon to return without fear of losing his head or banishment. He yearned for the ability to make the situation better, if only by a little bit.
But the power of magic seemed to be blocked to him, hidden away in some tiny corner of his mind where it would dwell forgotten like fading memories.
It does not matter, Roran decided as he looked at the stubborn stone that refused to budge. A man's fate should be in his skills with a sword and shield, where one earns the right to live. A magician might have magic on their side, but what are they without it? No, perhaps its best to remain with my hammer and shield, for I have always relied on them and they have never failed me like spells and wards could at any given second.
Magic was useful. There was no denying that.
But Roran Garrowson didn't need to wield magic to protect the ones he loved; he had his hammer and shield and was glad for it.
"I need no magic, Carn." He told his brother in arms, who nodded his head at that in silent agreement.
"You're already the greatest warrior I've ever seen Roran, you don't need magic to make you strong." Carn said.
Roran fiddled with the pebble, fingers rolling it over his palm. He stared at it, the stupid round pebble that looked like every other pebble Roran had ever seen but held a piece of him that was full of loathing. He stared and stared, unable to break his gaze at the innocent stone resting in his palm.
For one last time, Roran tried to feel that supernatural energy that dwelled within all living beings, the energy to cast spells and wards, the energy to create magic. He felt nothing, he sensed in his mind but his own disappointed –relieved- thoughts
"Stenr rïsa." He said again, so softly it was but a whisper.
The stone never moved.
Roran didn't expect it to.
Whew! I'm back guys! Yes, I'm making a Roran arc because I wanted to flesh out his character more and I know that Carn died in the Assault of Aroughs in the books, but this is fanfiction and I really loved Carn's character and thus I kept him alive. Remember that little bit about the Varden soldiers concerning magic and the other races, that'll be explored later on!