Eragon stretched his back in the saddle, bones popping and ligaments stretching as he extended his numb arms to ease the blood flow. Three days of flight without much of a pause—save the extended sleeping breaks, had the habit of afflicting one's body, no matter Eragon's constitution or flying experience.
Saphira hadn't eaten since Arya explained to Eragon why his necklace suddenly began to burn and suffocate him. She appeared restless, despite the fatigue accumulated during her extended flights. Not even his pleas were enough to change her mind or determination to reach Farthen Dur by the end of this day.
"You're not actually a Rider," Angela remarked with indifference. "I've been thinking about this for some time, and you don't match my view of Riders."
"I apologize for not meeting your expectations," Eragon said sardonically. "But I'm glad you at least take your role seriously as an herbalist."
"Whatever," Angela said. "You don't like riding, so you're not a Rider."
"What makes you say that?" Eragon turned around, meeting Angela's playful eyes and annoying smile.
"You seem sore and groan with displeasure more times than I can count," she said, petting Solembum, who yawned and closed his eyes once again.
"You speak like you actually enjoy flying," Eragon teased. "Besides, you're probably in a worse state than I am."
Angela giggled. "My boy, you really don't know me. But I know you better than I wish I would."
Eragon turned around, sighing. A strange fear shot through him like an arrow and dissipated with the same speed. Angela was strange, that much was true, but most of the time, she knew things. Again, Eragon refused to ponder on this matter and basked in the cool afternoon air. They were already flying above the forest stretching at the bottom of the Beors, and the marveling sights were still awe inspiring for Eragon.
There were many mysteries regarding the expanse of the stone giants whose peaks seemed to pierce the sky itself. The dwarves – the native people of this region—said the Gods themselves created the mountains, while the elves removed the veil of this mystery by finding logical explanations. Humans were somewhere in between, with answers varying from region to region depending on the tales passed down by those who ventured into the wild, unexplored valleys.
Eragon was torn in between, having shared a bit of information about every race, including their beliefs. One would think that a person armed with this knowledge would be able to find an answer where many others failed, but he was not the one. He had more important thoughts that burdened his mind, more urgent questions that needed answers, and the creation of the stone behemoths was not one of them.
Still, ever since Saphira crossed the border that led into the heart of the Beor Moutains, Eragon couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy. The mountains gave the region its name, and it was also the mountains that seemed to shape everything according to their own size. Proud fir trees, taller than any others, covered the vast areas at the base of the mountains, providing shadow and concealment for the fearsome beasts which claimed these forests as their own long before the dwarves emerged from the depth of the earth.
Even the wind seemed to acknowledge the might of the stone kings, often being unpredictable and savage. It was also one of the pressing problems Eragon and his party had to endure, with Saphira being the most affected.
The erratic winds did not only drain the heat of anything they came in contact with, but also interfered with the flight of any being capable of doing so. Eragon was aware of Saphira's faltering strength and made an appropriate suggestion that would solve the predicament of Saphira and those she was carrying on her back. A proper shelter which could be found somewhere in the forest below offered protection from the winds and the promise of rest and recovery. Eragon almost felt his numb body getting warmer even at the thought of a few, burning pieces of wood piled on top of each other.
Eragon's thoughts of warmness and shelter were instantly obliterated as another gust of wind blew from the front, chilling his body almost instantly. The clothing he wore was improper for the changing and unpredictable climate in the mountainous regions. Simple, and without any proper means of keeping the warmth from dissipating from the body of the person who wore it, the plain clothing had many gaps in which the cold could sneak in, robbing any traces of warmth.
Eragon's body began to shiver. His body was quickly losing warmth, and without any proper protection it had to rely on primitive yet effective methods to prevent hypothermia from settling in.
Extending a shaky hand, Eragon gripped the neck spike in front of him as the need for extra support became undeniable. Saphira might have been the last one to worry about the cold, but the sheer force of the currents of air tested her strength and balance more than anything.
With the cold making him feel weak and powerless and Saphira's movements which threatened to throw him off the saddle, Eragon couldn't think of a more depressing situation such as this one. Until he looked at the clouds. He thought that the situation he was in was worse until his rebellious eyes turned from the mountain he mindlessly stared to the menacing cloud formations which quickly ate any remains of the clear blue sky. Pushed by those who created the mountains themselves, the grey gobblers expanded their dominance over the sun itself, obscuring any rogue rays of light that attempted to penetrate through the thin, vaporous layers of the less imposing clouds.
Eragon's heart constricted at the menacing shapes that began to dominate the landscape. Mountains appeared to get shortened as their peaks disappeared in the grey, ethereal mist while trees seemed to become as insignificant as mere under bush under the ever-dimming light.
Opening his mind to Saphira, Eragon was about to share his worries with his partner-of-mind-and-soul, but his train of thoughts was cut short.
Saphira's body lurched heavily, the biting wind manipulating her like a leaf caught in a storm. Eragon felt Arya's tight grip around his waist. Her silky raven hair covered his left cheek, almost obscuring his vision due to the intensity of the wind which acquired an even greater intensity. Arya's apprehension worried Eragon, especially when the forest seemed so small below.
That's a storm we cannot brave, Arya said, applying even more pressure on Eragon's already aching waist. Now is not the time to be stubborn, Saphira.
A fierce roar escaped Saphira's maw, her wings beating furiously. My kin conquered such winds, elf. Speak not like a hatchling.
Saphira,Eragon intervened, gripping the saddle with strong fingers when another strong gust hit from the side, almost blowing him away. Saphira's body leaned right, the winds too powerful to keep her flight path steady. Eragon's heart skipped a heart beat when Arya yelped in his ear, her body sliding sideways. Moments before something terrible happened, Saphira ascended, resuming her normal position.
Bring us down, Eragon almost yelled with conviction. Not even he, a Rider, felt secure on her back anymore. Alone, you may prevail, but you carry four.
Are you afraid, Eragon? Saphira said with a condemning tone, growling defiantly. Her emotions were shielded from his mind, and Eragon felt a strange chill, more potent and sinister welling inside his body. Has your faith in my abilities decreased so much?
There is no flier that is more skilled than you, but there are fights which—
You speak like a land dweller tainted by doubts and fear. Do not underestimate me Eragon, Saphira interrupted.
Lightning forked the sky, the sudden blaze of light reflecting off Saphira's scales. Eragon felt small and insignificant in the presence of such dark, gloomy clouds. The wind lessened in intensity, but instead of approaching the ground, Saphira maintained her current flight path, wings stretched as she glided erratically.
"I was wrong about you," Angela screamed, her shrilling voice alleviating part of Eragon's worries. She handled the storm better than he thought she would. "You are a good Rider, but—"
Eragon heard a roar and a yell, felt winded due to Arya's grip and knew not what almighty force pushed Saphira so hard that she began spinning uncontrollably. Everything was happening too fast, too sudden for his senses to get a grip on what his body perceived. He felt the force of the air pressing against him as an all too familiar rush of air whistled past his body. With his eyes closed due to the frightening speed of the descent, Eragon felt powerless, weak, and afraid. For the first time in a year, he felt afraid for his life, for Arya and Angela's lives.
Even if his body was used to such terrifying speeds, Eragon dared not open his eyes. He knew that Saphira folded her wings and plummeted towards the ground. He trusted her fast judgment, although fear constantly gnawed at his instincts.
Eragon hoped that Saphira would unfurl her wings, soar and glide through their predicament, but that did not happen. She was spinning helplessly, trapped in an unsteadiness from which she could not break free.
Tempted to get a grip on their altitude, Eragon reached with is mind towards the vegetation below. Concentration came slowly to his hazy, confused mind, but Oromis' teachings proved to be quite reliable. What he felt made Eragon scream in terror. The sound was muffled by the wind, but the vivid terror he felt urged him to erect physical wards. They were closer to the ground than he assumed.
Giving in to the impending fear that took control of most of his mind, Eragon began to cast various spells meant to slow their descent. The words were few and the effect was immediate, but as soon as the spells began to take effect, an almighty sensation of dizziness washed over Eragon. Due to his quick, albeit flawed thinking, the spells he used drew all the necessary energy from him rather than other sources, like the forest below. There was plenty of energy at his disposal, yet that single thought did not cross his mind amidst the desperation that took control of him.
Reduced to the state of an empty husk devoid of energy, Eragon instinctively reached for the neck spike in front of him. The leg buckles of the saddle were about to give in due to the force exerted on them, but his hand moved so slow.
His balance was so frail.
The time was so little.
And he ultimately failed.
Losing the battle against the forces of gravity, Eragon's body fell from the saddle like an unsteady sack would from a caravan filled with contents beyond its normal capacity.
The whole situation seemed so surreal, and for a moment Eragon thought that he would be caught by Saphira, just like the many times he fell from her saddle, willingly or unwillingly.
Weak and powerless, Eragon closed his eyes and awaited the rescue that was about to come.
But it didn't come. No one would be there to save him this time, and the pain he felt when his body made contact with the first frail branches that made up the trees' canopy was too vivid and too real, until the darkness took him.
Coldness, emptiness and blackness was the realm Eragon treaded in after his dilapidated body fell from the sky. Through branches of all sizes, pine needles and cones he fell, experiencing a pain unlike any other as the forces of gravity and the creations of nature worked together in bringing about that pain. That pain.
This pain.
The pain he felt in this exact moment when a torrent of fiery spikes blazed through the darkness with the speed and the strength of an avalanche. It appeared out of nowhere and it moved fast… too fast for the confused human who had yet to comprehend the strange realm conjured by his mind he was located in. There was blackness, and coldness, and emptiness, and any attempt of escaping from the confinement proved to be not only futile, but tiring as well.
Mental tiredness. Having walked, ran and crawled for more than he could think of in a desperate attempt in finding his way out, the human simply collapsed, crushed by the weight of his mental haziness. It seemed like days since he first stepped into this strange dimension, yet time lost its relevance in a place where everything looked the same. Felt the same. Was the same. Could time be any different in such a place? If it was, would it be measured by the colors of the blackened abyss, the toughness of the smooth floor or the temperature of the chilling wind that cried with its silent whistles?
He did not care, not anymore, at least. After so much time spent in such a simple and depressing environment, the human borrowed so much from the simplicity he was surrounded with that he did not care about anything. Not about the wind, not about the smooth floor and not even about himself. And in no way he cared about the strange, spiky shape that expanded and expanded and engulfed everything in its path until its numerous spikes reached the human and impaled him faster than he could twitch an eyelid.
And then the pain returned.
Releasing a guttural growl of pain, Eragon roused himself from the lethargy that nearly consumed him. The coldness was still there, as well as the voices of the wind that sang in their own, strident language. Such similarities were too real to be processed by Eragon's addled mind, a part of which was still trapped in that twisted realm, feeding him false information about what was real and what was not.
Blinking as if his eyes were under the attack of irritating particles, Eragon looked around incredulously while his hands reacted by themselves, gripping the mass of pine needles and debris that blanketed the soil.
"Stop moving!" an angry voice scolded him. "My herbs are on you, and I expect you to respect them!'
Startled by the voice that came from his exact vicinity, Eragon instinctively turned his head towards of the source of the voice. Long, curly hair, brown eyes and a smile as large and weird as a gnarled bough. That face was something that was impossible for him to forget.
"I'm not…not like…," his fingers twitched, trying to point towards what he thought it was a silhouette, "not like this…that…" Eragon stuttered incomprehensively, unable to coordinate his tongue and the movements of his mouth to form more than a ramble.
"You are not a tree, I know, although I wish you were one. They're less demented and easier to heal."
A pair of slim, yet powerful arms gripped his shoulder and chest, forcing him down in an instant. Eragon coughed at the sudden impact that caused him to choke on his own breath. Looking into Angela's eyes, he gripped her hand and opened his mouth to speak before another unexpected arrival interrupted his actions.
A cat leaped out of nowhere, landing right on his chest. Flexing his other hand, Eragon was about to remove the intruder through the use of a primitive, yet effective method, but the cat reacted before he could. With those glimmering amber eyes staring into his, that loud, terrible hiss he just released and those tiny, yet pointed fangs being so close to his throat, Eragon felt scared and insignificant. His eyes glimmered like the sun, and Eragon felt his mind burning.
"Don't do that!" Angela screamed, gently picking up Solembum from Eragon's body. "That salve is precious and Eragon's mind is distant."
Eragon looked at the woman, then at the cat, then at the woman who began to affectionately stroke the cat's dense fur while pointing and gesturing with her hand towards his body. It didn't make any sense.
As if she was aware that she owed him an explanation, Angela placed Solembum on her lap and rummaged through her basket until she pulled out a bit of linen drenched in greenish colored juices.
"You poor demented thing," she said, then slapped the canvas onto Eragon's face. Taken by surprise and robbed of his ability to breathe properly, Eragon tried to remove her arms in a fit of panic. His faltering strength and weak muscles were hardly his allies, however, and without brute force he couldn't remove the cloth that obscured his vision and forced him to inhale whatever substances that were absorbed in its fabric. After a couple more failed attempts, the sense of lethargy began to settle in until his mind was wrapped in darkness yet again.
I usually add something meaningful about the chapter here, but this time, I'm just going to say that more explanations are going to follow. Yes, Eragon is not in his best mental shape, but before you ask me why the description and everything seems weird, think about how much energy Eragon used for wards and other magic and the way he dropped from Saphira's saddle.