...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 our destiny?
Didn't Oromis teach you anything? said Saphira. Fate is just fate. Things happen because they happen. Our parents made the decision to procreate without any advice from us, and the mightiest dragons are susceptible to the magic that binds our world.
But what brings order to the madness of life? How does a dragon hatch for a simple farm boy, and how does a farm boy go on to slay a king?
Well, I couldn't imagine how, said the dragon. But it would certainly make sense that there's something behind it all. Perhaps it's a divine author, a master storyteller, or a god who writes the pages of history with us in his loving care. Or maybe we aren't so fortunate. Perhaps we're nothing but pawns in a story, written by a plot-borrowing, character-stealing, cliché-spewing writer of fan fiction...
That was rather specific, said Eragon dryly. But I'd rather believe that, because I can't imagine a world where everything happens without intent. Everything happens in cycles that seem to grand to be a coincidence, so perhaps we're all fumbling our way along them toward some great inheritance.
The dragon gave a curious murmur. Well, that sounds like a book one would write...
Eragon didn't reply. He let out a pensive sigh and leaned back in the saddle, watching the clouds drift past him.
What is a 'cliché'? he said uneasily. And what is this...'fan fiction'?
Never you mind, Kevin—er, I mean, Christopher Paolini—er, I mean, Eragon.