2. Hot
Eragon ducked low behind Saphira's neck as she plummeted toward the water below, eager to escape the glare of the sun. He felt her fierce enjoyment as she crashed into the lake, creating a magnificent wave in her wake. The cool of the water washed over him, bringing sweet relief from the never-ending heat in his blood.
Eragon's consternation over his unexplained condition grew daily. Some time within the past many years since leaving Alagaёsia, he had noticed a constant prickle of heat burning under his skin. Knowing what fever felt like and that this was different, Eragon quickly ruled out illness, especially since the relentless heat never ended, but instead seemed to increase, day after day, week after week, year after year.
No matter what he was doing, Eragon was always overheated, which indeed became alarming when he was engaged in strenuous exercise that normally resulted in sweating, as was often the case on the Isle. In such instances, sweat poured off his body in such copious amounts as to leave him quickly exhausted and dehydrated.
On the other hand, even when he should be peacefully resting at a comfortable temperature, such as on a cool evening, he would feel flushed and sticky. It didn't help that the island's tropical climate often made the air heavy and moist, with mild weather year-round. As a result, Eragon quickly learned to sleep in only his pants—even in the cooler winter months—if he wished for the smallest chance of comfort. In the summer, he had no choice but to perform all his activities bare-chested for fear he would otherwise pass out from overheating and excessive thirst.
Eragon had consulted Blödhgarm, the Eldunarí, and Saphira countless times, but they had never reached a satisfactory explanation. No one seemed to have any idea why he always felt so wretchedly hot.
Saphira surfaced so he could breathe, and Eragon allowed himself to float away from her so she could dive deeper and remain submerged longer. She busied herself chasing fish and performing elaborate underwater acrobatics, generously giving him time to be alone with his thoughts. Swimming in the lake was the only place Eragon felt a shred of peace anymore, for it took the edge off his misery long enough for him to think straight.
Since he and the elves had discovered this island ten years before and determined with the help of the Eldunarí that it was the ideal location for the home of the Riders and dragons, Eragon had thrown himself into the work of building a city and training new Riders. He had characteristically struggled to come up with a suitable name, so he had simply settled on the Isle of the Eldunarí, as it was home to the hundreds of gem-like orbs that housed the deceased dragons' consciousnesses.
The two hundred and forty-three dragon eggs from the Vault of Souls had already hatched, the dragons inside eager to escape their confines after over a century of waiting. Only nineteen eggs from that stash remained unhatched, which were those left after seven of the original twenty-six found their Riders. Raising the hatchlings had been an intensive effort requiring the total dedication of every elf who had accompanied Eragon, since there had been so many younglings at first and so few to help oversee their growth.
Eragon had scryed Murtagh not long after finding the island and invited him and Thorn to join them, though he hadn't expected much to come of it. But Murtagh had come only a month later, immersing himself in the work just as devotedly as Eragon. Murtagh had shared that his whole desire in departing after Galbatorix's demise was to be alone and find healing. Since it was easier to avoid attention on a remote island far from Alagaёsia where he was actually welcome and Murtagh wanted further training anyway, joining Eragon seemed the logical course of action. Eragon was immeasurably grateful for the unassuming companionship and dry wit of his half-brother.
Each year since, a new Rider joined their ranks as soon as their dragon was strong enough to fly them to the Isle. Varhog, the first Urgal Rider in the history of the Dragon Rider pact, showed up nearly a year after Eragon discovered the island and had been heavily involved in all of their early construction efforts. Eragon was relieved that the first of the two dragon eggs he left in Alagaёsia had hatched for an Urgal.
Less than a year later, the second egg had hatched for the first dwarf Rider, Knilf, who was able to join them some months earlier than Varhog as he was so much smaller in stature.
Murtagh delivered the next egg to Alagaёsia for the first official Human Choosing Ceremony held in Ilirea. That dragon hatched for another human, a girl named Willow, who was initially timid and deferential around Eragon, a hero she remembered well from the Battle of Urû'baen.
Eragon was grateful her awestruck reverence hadn't evolved into adoration, for the next Rider to join them was an elf—Hanin—whose arrival had been preceded by Eragon's last conversation with Arya. One of only a handful in all his time on the Isle, the scrying session had been a painful reminder that Eragon would never have feelings for any woman besides Arya. He wouldn't have liked to cause Willow pain by slighting her, for he would have been unable to return her affection had it developed. Fortunately, their relationship relaxed into the same comfortable rapport Willow enjoyed with Murtagh, one often found between amiable siblings.
Arya.
She was the only missing piece of this puzzle, the only Dragon Rider not here with them. Arya had helped Varhog, Knilf, and Hanin raise their dragons until they could carry them to the Isle. When Vera was strong enough to bring Hanin, Arya had scryed Eragon to inform him of Hanin's imminent arrival. Eragon had tried to remain formal and reserved to hide his desperate longing for Arya, which had only intensified over the years. He was determined to never again bring his suit before her unless, by some improbable miracle, she ended up on the island in person.
Eragon did his best not to think about Arya, and Saphira encouraged him in this effort, knowing it would do him no good to pine over what they had intentionally left behind in Alagaёsia. But Eragon knew that Saphira often thought about Fírnen, and for this reason, she understood why his thoughts seemed ever to stray back to Arya. Though Saphira had heatedly informed Eragon that dragons did not mate for life when she first met Fírnen, she had never taken a liking to any of the other dragons she'd had the opportunity to meet and live with during the last decade. Saphira still held Fírnen in higher regard than any of them and wished for his company on the Isle.
Most of the time it wasn't hard not to think of Arya. Eragon was so busy organizing the delivery of eggs to Alagaёsia, training new Riders who arrived, and continuing his own education under the direction of the Eldunarí that he rarely had a spare moment to sit still. But when he could bear his responsibilities no longer, as exhausting as they became with his odd heat condition, he retreated to the lake for respite and peace.
Thus it was often here that Eragon thought about Arya. He let his mind wander back to their last moments together face-to-face. He had asked her to stay with him until the first curve of the river, but she had interrupted him before he could express his full request by insisting that she could not stay with him. Had she wanted to? Eragon had always wondered when Arya jumped to the conclusion that he was again asking her to come with him and responded so abruptly.
Eragon remembered the feel of her arm linked with his. Actually, he remembered every time they had ever touched, accidentally or intentionally. One of his favorite memories was when Arya had almost mistakenly fallen into his arms after hearing that Oromis and Glaedr had been killed, just after she had killed the Shade Varaug. Another was when they had practiced swordsmanship under Glaedr's intensive instruction. That had been like an intricate dance ending with them collapsed side-by-side on the ground, panting for breath. Eragon had been so exhausted at the time that the thought hadn't even occurred to him, but many times since he had imagined another activity that would end with them lying next to one another, gasping for breath. Heat filled his cheeks. Or more heat, rather.
Eragon remembered placing his hand over hers after hearing Arya's anguished confession of how Fäolin's death and her imprisonment in Gil'ead had affected her. He remembered when she held his face in her hands before he went to Vroengard and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips were soft, warm, and moist. She had wished him luck. But the last time Arya had touched Eragon was burned into his memory more indelibly than any other.
They had been on the Talíta, standing still while they waited for the first curve in the river. Her hood was up, so when the boat reached the bend, Eragon had pushed it off her head so he could see her eyes. He had spoken her true name to her, and Arya had repeated his to him.
Arya had once told him that choosing to share their true name with another was the most personal, precious thing a person could do and a sign of deepest trust, which is why Eragon had never understood what happened next. He had stared into her eyes a moment longer before opening his mouth to speak again. But she had stopped him. Stopped him by placing three fingers on his lips. He felt the weight of her fingers, so light and soft but like the weight of a hundred bricks, for they forbade him from saying what he feared he would never again have the chance to express: "Arya, I love you."
Tears came to Eragon's eyes, and he angrily blinked them away, frustrated by the potency of his feelings after all these years. Not only had he never been able to confess the true depth of his love for Arya, he had also never been able to give her an affectionate embrace or loving kiss.
But the anger dissipated as abruptly as the tears had appeared when a sudden revelation enlightened Eragon. After placing her fingers over his mouth to prevent him from voicing his love, Arya had stepped back and said, "Farewell, Eragon Shadeslayer." Then Fírnen had swooped down to snatch her up and she was gone. Eragon never knew if she heard his whispered "Farewell."
In the bitterness of his grief, Eragon had wept for all he was leaving behind in Alagaёsia, foremost of which was any chance to have a life with Arya, so he had failed to take note of what seemed so insignificant at the time. But as he replayed this memory now, that same irrelevant detail jumped out at him with striking force. Eragon remembered how his lips had burned under her touch, making him feel like a naughty child about to utter a bad word. He had interpreted her action to mean that Arya had no desire to hear of his feelings for her and that he must forever keep them stifled within a body and heart too small to contain them.
Whether Arya really meant that or not, Eragon realized that he believed she did, and that understanding had been boiling within him ever since. He could now trace his abnormal condition of being overly hot all the time back to this instance, back to the moment he felt that he must forever bury his burning passion within his body so it would never again surface in such an inappropriate way.
Suddenly the anger was back and Eragon couldn't keep still. He began swimming, his heart rate increasing disproportionately with the activity as it pounded with emotion. The uncomfortable—no, debilitating—heat was a physical manifestation of the emotional struggle to keep his feelings for Arya in check. If that really was the case, of which Eragon felt certain, then there was nothing he could do. Nothing. It seemed to him that the only way to cure the intense suffering was to be with Arya, to be able to express his love for her, not only verbally but physically, emotionally, and in any other way there was to express love. But that was impossible.
Eragon had vowed never to bring his suit before Arya again, and it would do him no service to anyway. How would he look if he appeared in a scrying mirror, confessing his desire to be with her and begging her to come to him? Ridiculous, that was how. Eragon had known when he left that he would never return to Alagaёsia. But that was before he knew he would be burdened with an unbearable feeling of heat and burning every day for the rest of his life.
He screamed into the water in frustration, and Saphira's concern reached him as the power of his emotions intruded into her blissful play. Eragon?
Not now, Eragon growled. I'll tell you about it later.
Nor would Arya come here. She had made it clear to him that her place was with her people as their queen, no matter that she was a Rider with a dragon. Her selfless sense of duty would never allow her to abandon that responsibility, and Eragon admired her for it as he always had but hated that it would ever be a wedge between them.
Eragon suddenly felt defeated. He was glad when his hands bumped the shore. He dragged himself out of the water and crawled towards a patch of shade on the beach, flopping down on his stomach in the sand. The heat of the sun immediately began to combine with the burning in his blood to make him miserable, but he barely felt it this time.
Eragon let the tears flow. He always had to be a model of stoicism and wisdom on the island. He, the most senior Rider though still so young, had to always seem in control. But here at the lake he let himself feel.
His thought about being young made Eragon once again think of Arya. Everything made him think of her, if he was honest with himself, no matter how hard he tried to avoid the thoughts. When they had parted, he was only eighteen—nearly nineteen—and quite literally, a mere child in her eyes by his age. So many times he had felt she would not overlook that. She had specifically told him that their age difference would never change.
Yet right at the end, Arya had acknowledged that Eragon had grown and she no longer saw him as a child. She had hinted that maybe given time and if his feelings remained the same, something might be able to take place between them. Since he had already known he was getting ready to leave, the hope that had given him was more painful than anything.
Now just over ten years later, Eragon was twenty-nine and fully a man by human standards. He had grown in stature and was now as tall as many of the tallest male elves and much broader, thanks to his human inheritance. But he had also increased in maturity and wisdom. In this regard, it felt more as if a lifetime had passed, for Eragon had gained immeasurable insight and experience under the constant instruction of the Eldunarí who, between them all, had thousands of lifetimes of experience. He felt sure that if Arya could see him, she would view him as a man.
But the despairing feeling of wishing for something that would never be continued to fill him, for what did it matter that he had grown and matured if he would never see Arya again? Eragon didn't think he could live with the burning heat inside for the rest of his unnaturally long life, and he knew it would never be satisfied by any other woman. He curled onto his side, drawing his knees toward his chest. The tears turned to sobs that racked his body as anguish and hopelessness and longing overwhelmed him. He was barely aware that Saphira had made her way to the shore and laid her head alongside his back.
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