...But what is fate? said Eragon as he and Saphira soared betwixt the snowcapped Beors. Is it random chance and creaturely might combining into coincidence? Or is there a sovereign hand, guiding us all to a preordained destiny?
Didn't Oromis teach you anything? said Saphira. Fate is the way of our world. Things happen because they happen. Our parents made the decision to procreate without any protest from us, and the mightiest dragons are susceptible to the magic that binds our world.
So what is beyond fate? he said with a troubled face. What brings order to the randomness of life? How does a farm boy grow up to slay Galbatorix? And how does a dragon hatch for him? There must be an explanation for it all!
Well, I couldn't imagine what, said the dragon after a pause. But there certainly seems to be something behind it. Perhaps it's a divine author, a master storyteller, or a god who writes the pages of the story without knowing what he's doing. Perhaps someone is writing our stories—even a plot-borrowing, character-stealing, cliché-spewing writer of fan fiction...
That was rather specific, said Eragon dryly. But I can't imagine a world where everything happens without intent. Our world is too predictable to be a mere accident. Everything seems to move in cycles, and we follow them and fumble our way toward some great inheritance.
The dragon gave a curious murmur. Now that sounds like a book one would write...
Eragon didn't reply. He let out pensive sigh and leaned back in the saddle, watching the clouds drift beside him.
What is a 'cliché'? he said uneasily. And what is...'fan fiction'?
Never mind, Kevin...er, I mean, Christopher Paolini...er, I mean, Eragon.