Eragon couldn't breath, but even the incapability of this vital and continuous process was lesser than fear. The fear of death. His death.
The clenched teeth that pressed themselves together at the sound of yet another deafening roar did little to protect his sensitive ears. Not only that, but it did even less in protecting his fragile body. The large bulk covered with glistening sapphires only preceded the flash of movement that sent Eragon off the ground.
Eragon released the little air remaining in his lungs at the brutal impact. He would have also released a scream, if he could. Pain exploded from inside, and it could not be contained. He had to scream. Or not. The wails of pain were to be saved for the impending landing
Eragon's consciousness faded briefly after the initial shock, offering him a temporary doorway to the realm where pain was not going to reach him. He wanted it to end... to die right here. But death was lasting and too peaceful for him. He had awoken a monster, and this was the reality for the time being.
A deep breath followed, then a weird gurgle. Air refused to enter without taking its payment, but Eragon breathed anyway. Such a bargain was easily accepted when every bone and muscle was torn by painful spasms.
Saphira, stop, Eragon forced himself to think when the thuds of her footsteps approached. I can't, I'm not at fault...
But like before, Eragon' words were not heard except in his own mind. He previously surpassed this disability by forcing his way into Saphira's mind. Doing that now was far beyond his control. It was ironic how taking control of Saphira's energy spurred her into an uncontrollable rage caused by the death of an enemy.
Saphira, Eragon thought desperately, trying to crawl away from the crazed predator whose eyes were fixed on him. Those cold, sapphire eyes that shimmered with terrifying beauty did not belong to Saphira. They couldn't.
Saphira was not like that. Not his Saphira.
Yet this was the truth, and Eragon realized it when he looked into those austere eyes. He felt helpless and limp now that he gazed at his impending demise.
Saphira parted her jaws, unleashing part of the torrent that was churning inside her.
Azure flames engulfed Eragon and his surroundings. The flames did not last long, dissipating shortly, but they burned with surreal efficiency.
Another roar reverberated from Saphira's throat, and somehow, Eragon heard it.
Stubbornly clinging to life, Eragon used the remnants of Saphira's energy in warding off her flames. By sheer chance, he survived the flames, but not the pain.
Claws sharp as blades cut open his legs, only to be crushed later by immense weight. The pain was so alive, so intense! Eragon forcefully opened his tear-drenched eyes. Once that happened, he saw her. The close proximity of her snout and the nostrils that caressed his wounds with warm vapors brought a sick reminiscence of the times they spent together.
"Saphira..." Eragon whispered. THen, with a shaky, bloodied hand, he touched her snout...maybe for the last time.
Saphira savagely shook off Eragon's hand and pulled her head up, growling ferociously Then, after a few tense moments of hesitation, she jolted off in another direction, where she again unleashed her fury. Claws tore the earth apart, tail smashed it and flames burned everything.
Eragon had a strange sense that time was thrown backwards and everything was repeating itself. The same terror he felt when Saphira first landed recaptured him in its grips as he feared of another attack. He waited for it like a prey on the verge of death, but it did not come.
It did not come.
Shaking from every joint, Eragon began to heal the most severe wounds, his screams dwarfed by Saphira's hissing and growling.
Once his energy was spent, Eragon collapsed on the ground. Through his half closed eyes he could see Saphira crouching, then jumping, coordonating these movemetns with the flapping of her wings. After numerious failed attempts, she crashed on the ground, breathing laboriously.
I killed them, Eragon thought with a hinge of regret as he realized what Saphira did. She showed mercy where he did not, and for that, Eragon could hold no spite towards her. Looking once more at the ravaged land before him, Eragon closed his eyes and welcomed the veiling darkness.
If Arya failed to find Eragon in the twilit forest, then at night, her chance lessened considerably. His mind wouldn't let hers in—the innate wall that came with training blocked Arya's attempts. Saphira was out of her reach, a fact that unnerved and puzzled her even more.
The nightly gusts chilled her meat; they manipulated it by calling forth tremors, until that time unknown to her elven body.
Eragon had warmed her in the saddle. He helped her forget about the precarious human clothes she wore. Now alone, she braved the forest with slow, uncertain strides. She was not a lithe spirit of the forest, but a frail, chilled being whose lurch lacked beauty and grace.
Barzul, she thought, stopping, letting the panting, together with that pain in her chest, subside. She ached all over, but more hurt the churning mass of thoughts. She couldn't find Eragon. The night was too dark, with no moon to guide her steps. The enemy crippled Eragon, and he would die because her powerlessness. She was lost. Useless. A failure.
Tears began rolling down her dust caked cheeks. Arya—the fierce warrior, the elven princess—slept during danger. It was the enemy's doing, but she always fell prey to these tricks. While Eragon fought, she relished ignorance. When the battle was lost, she came to her senses, only to get lost in the same forest with him. Together, but apart. Because of her inaptitude.
Arya shuffled towards a tree, leaning her worn out form against it. Why had she relinquished hopelessness, the despair that she grew accustomed to? She betrayed them. Abandoned them to the fleeting trickster—hope.
The childish, curious part of her being felt like grabbing a new toy called love, despite the numerous warnings hopelessness and despair whispered in her head. But she did it anyway. Swayed by Eragon and his soothing words, Arya wanted to try something new.
How ignorant she had been. Like a child, her once lost companions reprimanded her. Arya tried to ward them off. Eragon wanted her to do that. She promised him.
Don't forget your old self, hopelessness whispered threateningly. You were powerful. Secure. A branch of life that never bent.
Accept the reality, despair added. You did that with Faolin, your mother, Oromis. The more you wait, the more you crumble.
Arya shook her head in denial, embedding her fingers in the tattered, soiled tunic. She wanted to hear what hope said, but it was so faint compared to the other two. They were the tumultuous sea, and hope was the log. The anchor which Arya used to keep herself floating. Why shouldn't she abandon it? Returning meant safety, no doubts. No torment, no tears, no instability. No pain.
Arya broke into a cry. A wild, pathetic display of weakness with uncontrollable hiccups and sobs. For her race, it was the epitome of disgrace among warriors. In order to fight their enemies effectively, elves had to accept death. They had to be familiar with the eternal, yet ephemeral life they lived.
Arya was never good at lessons. She had always chosen her own path with meandering, tempting trails. What a fool. How had she—the unyielding princess—dared to hope? Roads had to end somewhere, and she finally encountered the bottom. But for some wicked reason, she refused to accept it.
Arya wiped her tears, sobbing quietly. Her hands shivered, but they felt less stiff. She wanted to stay, cry and wither alone. Yet she found that repulsing. Strangely, she felt more secure. Her poise, a gnarled branch. Not broken, but gnarled.
Wasn't she the one to save Eragon? Without her promptness, he would have died there. Somehow, she managed to save him. She brought hope to Saphira and the Varden. The war did not end because of her. She wasn't completely useless.
Because, at that moment, she dared to hope.
Arya slowly regained steadiness. Wobbling slightly, she ventured into the forest. Before venturing into the ocean, before relinquishing that log, she wanted to feel hope again. Unlike her former self, she was determined.
Eragon wasn't in their makeshift camp. Nor was he laying in a gully she just passed, or leaned against the numerous, tall trees.
She scouted most of the forest. She scoured thick bushes, checked riverbanks, climbed hills for useless vantage points. Nature veiled its secrets, refusing to surrender them to her. Engulfed by weakness, demoralized by failure, Arya was vulnerable to despair and hopelessness. Now, however, she refused to let them take over.
The wind carried many scents, but a particular one roused Arya's senses. It was the smell of singed wood.
A fire's doing, she thought, straining her limbs into a dash. A fire implied warmth. If Eragon was near, then the faint trace of smell might lead her to him. Trickling excitement welled inside Arya. While the forest could trick her again, a path was always better than the untainted wilds.
Arya gasped at the sight that presented in front of her. No human had the power to ravage the trees, least unearth a few. Deep gashes tore the earth apart, each deeper than the other.
Arya looked up, her heart thumping with alacrity. The gashes were strangely familiar, and her troubled mind ruffled new thoughts to the surface.
She shuddered. If that was the result of a dragon's fury, then its unfortunate target had to lie nearby.
And what was that strange mass, huddled against a distant tree?
"Don't want to leave," Eragon mumbled gruffly. "She not with you. I won't leave."
The Force tugged at his clothes. It pulled his hands, grabbed his fingers, demanded attention. Its persistence was daunting. Eragon battled The Force for a good while already, and yet, it was still here. Why was it bothering him? Eragon wanted it to stop.
He did not know how long the Force had been here, what attracted it to him in the first place. At times, Eragon wanted to open his eyes, but darkness only he saw. A strange, permeating darkness. Different from his own, in which he felt safe.
"You can't stay here," the Force warned softly.
Of all the things it did to him, words were the worst. The Force sounded like someone he knew. It allured him gently, caressed his ears with melodic pleas. Eragon almost relinquished his darkness.
"Let me take you," the Force said.
"No," he moaned.
The Force did nothing. Eragon knew it would not stop. It wanted something from him. It wanted to take him. Eragon had to shrug it off for a while longer. Until she returned, Eragon would resist it.
Arya woke up next to Eragon. In his delirious state, he refused to come with her.
By slowly unwrapping her arms, Arya avoided waking him up. Offering him peace was the least she could do after a night spent in cold and darkness. Her fault, of course. But failure was quickly becoming part of who she was.
As soon as Arya pulled away from Eragon, she felt the chilling touch of the wind that raked at her bare torso. Powerful shivers shook her slender frame, urging her to pick the tunic and equip it. That was not possible.
Her head began to throb. A gnawing, vicious pain that urged her to go back to sleep and regain her strength. Arya settled with this mild discomfort and shambled around, gathering wood for a fire.
Igniting one was a postponed priority. Faced with a terrible sight last night, Arya gave in to her fear and drained every ounce of her energy to heal Eragon's wounds. That included the necessary energy to build a fire.
Arya bent down, picking a few twigs torn from the nearby trees by Saphira's awe-inspiring rage. Her body ached all over. Even something simple as walking felt alien to her. She lacked balance, strength, coordination. Forcing her trembling limbs to move felt like straining an empty husk.
Unfortunately, she had to do it. She had to stomach the pain, ignore the dried crust of blood on her cheek, press on. Above all, she had to make amends for last night. Not only for Eragon, but for herself. She couldn't possibly be a failure. Arya refused to admit it.
With the help of the faint morning light that crept through the canopies, Arya's task felt less disheartening. During the numerous patrols she had to take, Arya berated herself. Who but she would heal a dear one before building a fire? Among humans, cold was known to kill the wounded. It was a miracle that Eragon did not succumb to it. And she played a part in it too.
After piling enough wood to fuel a hearty blaze, Arya ignited it with magic and settled next to Eragon. In the absence of a fire during the night, she clutched Eragon tightly, using every part of her body to keep him warm. In that moment of fear and despair, she had forsaken her tunic, along with etiquette.
She pressed her bare torso against his back, enduring the biting cold, shielding her loved one from it. Where she couldn't reach him—his now healed chest— the leather tunic added an extra layer of clothing. Even her raven locks acted as some sort of cover across his face. With a hearty blaze crackling in front of her, Arya felt happy and relieved. So relieved, that she shortly fell asleep.
"I ended our enemies. It was my duty to the Varden, to Alagaesia."
Eragon sat with his back at Arya, as if he wished to hide the mystifying turmoil that his low voice betrayed.
"You saw what she did," Eragon said. "I overestimated my power."
Arya shifted uncomfortably, resting her head on her arm. Eragon woke up after her. He did not ask questions, nor did he blushed, or feel inappropriate. He carefully placed the tunic over her exposed torso, probably thinking that she was still asleep. Since then, he stood in front of her, like a weathered sentinel.
"She wanted to kill me." His voice broke into a whisper. "I killed our enemies. It makes no sense."
For a Rider that has faced such predicament, Eragon seemed unnaturally strong. The steadiness of his words came not from a masterful control over emotions. Arya first assumed it was grief, but his unyielding voice held no trace of it. No, it wasn't misery. It was nothing. A void, encased by confusion.
Arya pushed herself up. With the corner of her eyes, she saw the smoldering remnants of their fire, the ash and dirt carried by the wind. The air retained its frigid touch, but it was less intense, close to bearable.
As she moved in front of Eragon, Arya noticed the desolation that claimed his features. Those once powerful eyes lost their spark. His dirty hair had been hastily pushed to a side, like it was an unneeded burden.
Arya cringed. That pale, lifeless figure. Those eyes, devoid of warmth. The torn, bloodied leggings, with leather patches hanging uselessly to the sides. That punctured tunic, stained with grime. Who was this man?
"She had a mate," Eragon said, staring emptily at her. "The green egg. When it hatches, she has a mate."
Arya was lost. She did not know what to say, what to do. Her once prominent grip on logic faded. Her wisdom was made up of starkness, a memento of her previous life. She had nothing but vague promises and ephemeral thoughts.
"She really wanted a mate," Eragon said, looking at the sky, "and I killed him."
Arya followed his gaze. There was nothing in the sky. No clouds. Only a barren, blue surface.
Part of her wanted to get involved. To help, she had to know more, but the nagging feeling that she would make it worse kept her lips shut. She failed to comfort him, for it was something unknown to her. She was a burden. She could not restore Eragon's happiness, nor bring Saphira back. This new Arya—Eragon's creation—was useless, doubtful and afraid. She couldn't—
Eragon suddenly got up.
"She will return," he said, this time with conviction. "Until she does, we move towards the Rock of Kuthian."