Strangely, the sensation of cold seemed only a distant memory, replaced by a bizarre, radiating warmness. After the permeating chill retracted its grip, the whole chamber began to undergo significant changes which Eragon couldn't comprehend. It all began with the darkness that suddenly came to life in the form of black smoke which steadily rose upwards, towards a source of light which wasn't previously there. How light got through the pitch black ceiling was a mystery, but Eragon gave no thought about it. The intense source was so mesmerizing, so alluring. Feeling an unnatural urge to reach it, Eragon extended his hand upwards as if he wanted to grab a part of it in his own palm.
The light suddenly exploded into a blinding, incandescent sphere. The hand which Eragon extended was now acting as a shield, protecting his darkness accustomed vision from the all-too-bright sphere. But it wasn't enough. The light penetrated through his arm like arrows made of burning light, pitting its pure strength against the arm which stubbornly refused to let it pass.
It got so warm in such a short period of time, and Eragon was forced to shut his eyes. The light was too intense, and the heat matched that intensity. A scream was released—a wail of both pain and terror. He was not certain of it because his vision was obscured by the protective eyelids before he could catch a better glimpse of it, but that short moment was enough for him to see. His arm suddenly lost its shape and opacity, acquiring a smoke-like texture that allowed the light to freely pass through. The feeling was even weirder, and, if it wasn't for the smoke that made the air un-breathable, Eragon would have screamed as hard as his lungs would have allowed.
With a loud cough, Eragon freed himself from the shackles that were binding him to the strange dream world he spent so much time into. Blinking instinctively a few times, he wasn't sure if he was truly free from the peculiar dimension he was beginning to get accustomed to.
There was still darkness in the direction he was facing, albeit colored darkness. Amidst the branches loaded with pine needles that conglomerated into a unitary whole, a few specks of grey could be spotted through the tiny holes that weren't obscured by the vegetation.
Was this enough of a proof that his mind and body alike were truly unfettered? No… it couldn't be. The smoke—the same smoke he inhaled earlier—was still present, trailing its ethereal tails above his head before the wind opened another path which it would travel.
Eragon coughed again, a loud, drawn out cough that threatened to expel even the last breath from his lungs. So deceiving this smoke was. One wouldn't need to see it and avoid it to feel its effects.
Feeling a desperate need for fresh air, Eragon turned his head to the side. When that happened, two things were instantly revealed to him: why the sensation of cold ceased bothering him for a while, and, more precisely, the reason why that happened.
It was because of the fire. A small heap of crushed branches and other materials that were piled up not even an arm's length away from his body. Eragon gasped due to the proximity of the fire and extended a hand to extinguish it. It was an instinctual action and, although foolish, it wouldn't have any grave repercussions. The fire was small and pathetic—and it was a miracle that it was even burning—and could easily be put off by anything wider than its diameter.
"I wouldn't suggest turning against your allies," said the voice that preceded the hand which gripped Eragon's wrist, immobilizing his hand in the process.
"Allies?" Eragon asked in utter confusion.
"They're around you, caressing you with their warmth," the voice replied back. "And…" the voice slowly drifted off. The voices of the nature replaced the woman's calm tone: the burning twigs burned with a few quiet cracks while the wind carried its messages between the branches of the trees, which moved and rustled in a steady rhythm.
Eragon remained silent. He was not sure what to think about the peculiar treatments this woman—Angela—was practicing on him after such a tiring mental journey, but he had to admit that he felt much better than the last time he opened his eyes. It was hard to believe, but maybe the treatments were working.
A strange hissing sound reached Eragon's ears. Curious about this strange occurrence, Eragon lifted his head, only to be brought down by Angela's insistent grip.
"It's almost ready," Angela said excitedly.
"What's ready?" Eragon asked on a low voice.
"Patience," Angela said.
"I think you've said that before, but… I feel much better now, and-"
"A healer's decisions are not to be questioned, my boy," Angela said, her eyebrows frowning slightly. "A whole basket of herbs, my favorite mushrooms, and a lot of time spent. That is the cost of your recovery," she added sternly.
"I—I remember I fell, and…" Eragon said with uncertainty, still unsure of what exactly happened after he was parted from Saphira.
Angela sighed. "That's probably not enough."
Eragon wanted to question her yet again, but the force of the grip she applied on his forehead spoke for itself. Turning her attention away from him, Angela grabbed something in her hand.
"You may not like this kind of tea," she said, lifting a small, milling vase on the level of her shoulder.
Eragon looked at it with apprehension, but didn't do anything—not even voice his opinions—because he knew that Angela was right, and more than that, she knew what she was doing.
Following the vase in quiet contemplation, Eragon had a sudden revelation about its contents. He couldn't see, but he knew that there was some kind of liquid in it when Angela began to slowly turn it to the left, allowing the contents to fall from its semi-circular support.
Then, before the first bit had the opportunity to leave the vase, Angela quickly rotated it so it wouldn't spill a drop. Then, she removed her hand from Eragon's forehead.
"Beggar's cape… how could I forget that?" She said hastily, passing the vase to her other hand while she lunged to grab something.
"I thought you were—" Eragon said. He tried to get up, but a low and familiar hiss made him change his mind.
"You may not think so, but beggars have their own role in our world. From the time they are abandoned as small children, they crawl into damp, dirty places until they receive the necessary nutrients from what nature has to offer. Then, they sprout tall and wide, covering everything with their embrace!"
Eragon remained dumbfounded. He saw many beggars, but none of them had any capes. More than that, they were the bane of any society and they certainly did not exert any kind of influence over anything—save for the dirty alleys they chose to settle in.
Busying himself with Angela's riddle, Eragon did not even have the time to react when a round, giant shape was brought above his head, obscuring his vision with its imposing stature. Opening his mouth to either talk – or gasp, as no word came out—Eragon didn't realize that he became the victim of his own stupidity, for in the next moment, a torrent of liquid fell on his face with the force and density of a river. It fell everywhere: on his face, in his eyes, in his nose, and most importantly, straight into his mouth.
"It's called Beggar's cape because it gathers water like no other mushrooms, but releases it without much of an effort when you put pressure on it," Angela said between Eragon's coughing. Then, she stuck part of the mushroom into Eragon's mouth.
"Eat. It will do you good."
Releasing another faint cough, Eragon removed the mushroom from his mouth with a lightning-quick move and breathed deeply. His face was cherry red due to the lack of oxygen, and, if the mushroom would have denied his right to breathe for a bit longer, it could have killed him. It was a mushroom, but one which Eragon has rarely seen. Not only that it had a very elastic and hard-to-munch texture, but it was gigantic, and its purpose was definitely not to act like a normal vegetable, but as an instrument used for killing.
Taking a second breath, Eragon started to recover. Or so he thought, as something hot and liquid fell on his belly, spreading quickly across his body and up to his neck.
Groaning in pain, Eragon attempted to get up, roll over, do anything to allow the ichors to fall from his body.
"Give it a bit of time!" Angela screamed, pinning Eragon's body with both of her arms.
"Gmmmm," Eragon grunted as he trashed his body. Whatever Angela has poured onto him, it burned with a strange, icy sensation that was almost impossible to endure.
"It will pass, you moaning kitten—"
"Ghaah! It won't!" Eragon screamed, still trying to break free. "Circular wind blast!"
Weaving the words together with a bit of his strength, Eragon resorted to one last choice that would allow him to get rid of the pain.
A fraction of a moment after he uttered the last word, a sudden force blasted the debris around Eragon's body into the air while the fires were instantly put out. Both the woman and her cat were pushed in opposite directions, leaving only a cascade of fallen pine needles, cinder, and well swept soil around Eragon.
"Don't deny my ways of healing!" Angela began to rant. "I have wasted half a basket of herbs, a handful of my favorite mushrooms…" she continued, naming a whole list of plants which were easily going past Eragon's ears.
Eragon did not get up right away. The spell he used weakened his already damaged body considerably by draining the few bits of energy it disposed of. To make things worse, the painful, burning substance Eragon was so keen in getting rid of diminished its effect considerably—just like Angela said it would.
Scolding himself in his mind for yet another unwise decision he took, Eragon attempted to get up. Using both his hands as support, he halfway managed to do it until the slight tremors that annoyed him grew in intensity.
Falling back on the ground, Eragon clutched his chest with his arms. His bare chest. There was a layer of plants and other fluids covering it, but he could feel his skin through them.
The forest floor was also very uncomfortable, pine needles and small branches poking his back like blunt tipped daggers. These sensitive factors combined with a few words of Angela's angry ramblings – something about wearing what nature has gifted him with—worked together to reveal the predicament Eragon was in: he was completely naked.
Through the use of a well-placed apology and a couple of words to get on Angela's good side, Eragon obtained all what he wanted—his clothes and guidance in finding the place Arya and Saphira were. Whether they were injured or not after they fell from the sky was a mystery even Angela couldn't solve— an assumption made by Eragon when peculiar thoughts ceased to be produced by her mind and voiced out by her mouth.
Eragon did not complain, however, even if worries stabbed at his mind like newly formed icicles: they would only last until they would melt away. He could not do anything until he will be reunited with them anyway, and, for the moment, Eragon focused on what he could do, something which did not lack certain limitations. By relaying on Solembum's sense of smell to reveal the way, Eragon's pace could only be as fast as the one imposed by Angela, and the herbalist was anything but agile.
A small detail such as this one was more hurtful and annoying than the cold or the pain he experienced earlier, but Eragon could not do anything about it except silently complaining inside the confines of his mind. Complain, because he was at fault as well. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get into Saphira's mind.
"How many of the Riders were sages or librarians?" Angela suddenly asked.
Eragon became so used to the chanting of the wind that he almost lost his balance when Angela's strident voice disturbed the tranquility.
"I-I don't know," Eragon replied uncertainly, trying to remember one of the many lessons he had learned from Oromis about the history of the Riders. "Not many, I would say."
"I tend not to agree with many of the statements, suggestions, or anything that involves thinking when it comes from you," Angela replied dryly, "but there could be a tiny seed of truth in the words you spoke with such unfaltering conviction."
"But such position wouldn't suit you, no," Angela continued. "I would see you as an apprentice more than anything else, a deserving position for one such as you."
"An apprentice?" Eragon sneered. "No Rider who went through such rigorous training would fall so low to carry boxes of scrolls, light candles or rummage through piles of paper to ease the work who study them in the first place."
Angela suddenly started to laugh. "You speak like that because you do not know how many of these wizened, movement-crippled sages need that kind of aid.
"You speak nonsense," Eragon cut in.
"And you have plenty of that in your foggy mind. Wisdom is for the intellect like dry soil is for a mushroom; it contains nutrients, but absorbing them is not enough as long as water is absent."
Eragon heard Angela's witty comeback, but refused to speak. Ever since they departed from the shady place where he had been treated by the herbalist, Eragon was the constant victim of her random rambling, and there was not much he could do about it. If he remained silent, he was accused of being in a foul mood, ungrateful, or a bad traveling companion. If he spoke, on the other hand, he would be frowned upon as being too agile of tongue and too loud and annoying. Whatever action Eragon chose to take, Angela was there to lay siege on Eragon's mind with her arsenal of witty comments of hers.
As the time passed and fatigue slowly started to settle in, the trio of travelers became more and more silent until not a single word was uttered between them. There were factors that could be blamed for draining even the high spirits Angela was in, but the darkness and the gloomy atmosphere affected Eragon the most.
Every once in a while, Eragon would cast a look at the sky. There was little to be seen among the branches of the trees which appeared to intertwine with each other, forming a living blanket of wood and pine needles that protected the land below with its shadow. But, as any old, tattered blanket, this one was not missing different-sized punctures.
From between the tiny lookout holes, parts of the darkened sky could be seen. The clouds lost the shapes that made them look different, merging into an even mix that bore the same color, a gray latched with scarce nuances of a faint, almost grey violet.
Any traces of the sun he saw before he fell from Saphira's back vanished, and Eragon knew that it wouldn't be long before the night would settle upon the land. A cold, damp, rainy night he did not look forward to.
The cracking of the small twigs and the foliage that littered the hardened soil came to an abrupt end when a gust of wind brought the distinctive scent of fresh blood. The pungent smell was strong enough to be felt even by Eragon, a sign that whatever happened, the creature whose blood was spilled was not far.
A numbing chill washed over his body when his mind drifted to Saphira for a short moment. What if the scent he smelled earlier belonged to the blood that was spilled when she fell from the sky? She could be there, somewhere in the forest, bearing great wounds.
"S—Saphira?" Eragon coughed violently, placing a hand over his mouth and nose. He was almost on the verge of releasing the few contents his stomach carried.
"I cannot say, dear," said Angela, walking over to Solembum. "Only he can."
Coughing one more time, Eragon turned his tear filled eyes to the herbalist that kneeled beside Solembum, watching him with a worried expression. Looking back into her eyes, the werecat brushed his head against hers affectionately, releasing a soft growl shortly after.
A wide smile appeared on Angela's face. "It's not dragon blood the thing we're smelling, dear boy, but that does not mean Saphira isn't a bit ruffled after she exchanged the ethereal currents for the stability of the earth."
"Can you tell me where she is?" Eragon asked faintly.
"Somewhere near that mountain," Angela replied, gesticulating towards the base of a nearby mountain. "Follow your instincts, like Solembum does."
A bit too heavy on description, but I decided to follow what I started in the last chapter and not do an awkward transition. For good, or for the worse, I can't decide. This chapter hasn't contributed a lot to the story, but Eragon's healing is an important matter, especially when Angela is the one to take care of it.