I know! It's been months, and nary a word from me! I'm so sorry! Life has been busy, but I'll spare you the details and get right into the story!
Chapter 54 - Eternal Remnants of a Shattered Past
Doru Araeba, Eragon's home for decades, was no more.
The city was laid around a large lake, centered in the bowl-shaped valley. The rivers that flowed into the lake winded down from the mountains, snaking through the tall, dense forest. Clouds scrapped against the top of the voluminous mountains, emptying their contents to refill the riverbeds that emerged.
The huge buildings of Doru Araeba still stood, each as large as an entire village, but the gaping maw of their entrances were empty. The tall windows that framed the halls were cracked and dirtied, evidence of the century that had passed since any young Rider had been forced to clean them. The huge blocks of stone that made up the buildings were strangled with vines, appearing to the naked eye as though they had been grown from the very earth.
The elven influence in the architecture was plain to see, but the sturdiness that the stone made Eragon feel more at home. The unique blend of human and elvish styles had once proved to the whole of Alagaësia that the races could live in peace, but their crumbling state left a part of Eragon wondering if such a sight would ever exist again.
At first, Eragon saw no true evidence of war; Doru Araeba looked nothing more like an abandoned city, the large streets emptied and left to ruin in the weather. As Saphira dived closer, however, Eragon caught his first glimpse of the tragedy that befell his people.
A large, wide crater sank into the earth near the southern edge of the city, its destructive power radiated out and sweeping away anything that stood in its path.
Glaedr's voice flowed over him, more sorrowful that Eragon had ever heard his master before. Behold the ruins of our pride and joy. To Eragon and Arya, the dragon said, cast the spell.
Eragon and Arya did as the elder dragon commanded; the spell was designed to protect against an invisible poison that sufficed the air, released when Thuviel killed himself with magic. The elfling Rider had converted his very flesh into pure magic after his dragon had been slain and killed many of Galbatorix's allies, including Glaerun, one of his Foresworn. Unfortunately, Galbatorix and the rest of the Foresworn were able to shield themselves from the destruction.
As Saphira and Fírnen neared the city great white bones appeared, the sight of them filling him with fury and revulsion. None were so clear as Belgabad's monstrous skeleton, his giant skull as large as Fírnen's entire body. Saphira let out a mournful cry at the sight, and Arya's questioning mind sought him out.
Answering her wordless question, Eragon said, Belgabad, a wild dragon, was a distant ancestor of Ragumar the Black, wo was the great-great-great grandsire of Saphira's mother. We first met him when Saphira was invited to Du Fells Nángoröth.
I see, Arya said, her brow dipping. Her face rippled with sadness and fury, as well as a sense of longing.
Fírnen let out a soft keen, no doubt having heard Eragon's explanation.
Saphira swept around Belgabad's remains, and everywhere Eragon looked he could only see more devastation; scores of dragon bones were scattered across the land, and Eragon wondered how many of them he had once called friend. He fought back against the rising bile in his throat, though little could stop the stinging in his eyes.
They were meant to head straight towards the Rock of Kuthian, though when Saphira caught sight of a familiar building she veered off course. Fírnen lagged behind them, his wings dragging against the air with each movement.
Where are you headed? Glaedr asked, the weight of his grief still heavy in his voice.
Home.
A mixture of dread and longing overcame Eragon, and he tightened his hands against the saddle in front of him. To Saphira alone he said, Are you sure?
Yes, she replied. I must see what became of it.
Eragon said nothing more and merely nodded. Far to his left he could see the remains of the Great Library, which stood atop a hill near the outskirts of the city. The stone that made up the Library was a half mile long, though now it was little more than rubble. Galbatorix had no doubt plundered it after his victory, stealing for himself the knowledge that the Riders had gained over centuries. To the south of the library, Eragon knew, laid the Rock of Kuthian.
Saphira led them over a familiar part of the ruined city, and each beat of her wings drove home how different everything now was. His home was gone, taken by the Black King, and the grief was once more threatening to overtake him.
Glaedr was lost to his own grief, while Saphira and Fírnen were singularly focused on staying in the air, so it was of no surprise to him that Arya was the first to catch his declining mental state.
Eragon, she whispered into his mind, the familiar song of her mind breaking through the dense cloud of sadness that permeated it.
Instead of responding to her unasked question, Eragon said, You should have seen it. The city, I mean, before the Fall. It was beautiful.
I can only imagine.
A half smile tugged at his lips. I wonder if we would have met, if Galbatorix never had betrayed the Order.
There is little point in debating what might have been, Eragon.
Humor me.
He could not see her, as Fírnen was flying behind Saphira as she led them over the city and closer towards the living quarters, but Eragon imagined that she would have raised a thin eyebrow at him. She was silent for a while, and Eragon began to believe that she would not answer him.
Your name was already known to me; both my father's journals and Oromis himself spoke highly of you, Arya said. As Vrael's favored, you would have traveled to each of the races and spoken with all the Kings and Queens of the land. Since I am a Dröttningu, I have no doubt in my mind that we would have met.
For a brief moment, Eragon imagined the world as it would have been. Evandar would have still lived, and Eragon would have gladly spent more years amongst the elven forest if only to see his friend again. He would have met Arya as she said, and been similarly enamored with her. He imagined that he would have tried to convince her to travel with him to Vroengard and shown her the city of his people, watching with delight as her emerald eyes lit up at the sight of dragons streaking across the sky.
Saphira dipped down, dragging Eragon from his thoughts. Ahead of them, Eragon could see, was the western part of the city. The buildings here were not as large as the others, though they made up for that in sheer numbers. The Order, as far as Eragon remembered, had never exceeded a thousand members at any one time, but the designers of Doru Araeba had made sure that every one of them would have a place to call home. Many of his fellow Riders may have lived outside of Doru Araeba during their lives, but each of them had a place to return to no matter where life led them.
Now, the buildings stood empty, the people that once filled them gone.
The quarters stretched from the closest mountain down towards the city proper, each built with dragons in mind; large stone pads where dragons could gather and land were spread out evenly through the district, with each building supporting its own style of influence. Many of them were heartened back to their elven roots, but a surprising number of them were more simply adorned in the human style.
His own quarters were closer to the mountainside, and it was there that Saphira began to descend. He had once lived with all the other new Riders closer to the city, though when he started working alongside Vrael he had insisted that Eragon be given a place further away from the others.
Saphira touched down on a broken stone platform, her weight causing pieces of it to crumble under her feet. Fírnen nearly collided with the ground as he followed her down, his sharp claws the only thing stopping his slide. The moment the green dragon folded his wings he collapsed down, a large, relieved sigh escaping his maw.
I think I will rest here, Fírnen grumbled. Arya darted off his back and rubbed the scales on his forehead, murmuring quiet words of appreciation to the dragon. Saphira's tail dragged against the floor as she walked towards the western most building. The sight of the aged stone made Eragon stop his trek behind her, a shock of lightning racing down his spine.
His home still stood.
Many of the buildings around them show signs of damage, but many more of them had simply been destroyed during the war. The outside of his home, styled ironically between elven and human architecture, only displayed minimal signs of damage; scorch marks appeared near the top of the stone building high above him, and a few pieces of debris had fallen away from what looked like a large gouge in the stone. The jagged edges of the hole had been clearly made by a dragon's talons, though they luckily did not pierce through the thick stone.
Saphira sniffed at the gouge and huffed distastefully, though she quickly moved towards the large double doors that allowed her entrance to their home. She nosed at them hard, and the stone grated against the ground as it moved. Whatever spell had been placed to allow the doors to swing open freely had long since exhausted itself, but it did little to hamper Saphira's progress.
Footsteps echoed behind him, and Eragon felt Arya's slight hand grasp his own. Her emerald eyes were watching as Saphira forced her way inside their home, though her words were meant for him. "What is this place?" she asked.
"The living quarters," Eragon swallowed. He gestured towards the doors in front of him, his voice lowering as he continued, "My home."
A spark of curiosity lit inside Arya's gaze, but she only squeezed his hand gently.
The grating sound ended with a boom, and Eragon glanced up to see that Saphira had already moved inside. He glanced behind him at Fírnen splayed across the courtyard, but the young dragon gave no signs of moving.
Arya echoed his observation. "He needs his rest, and I don't think he's willing to move."
Eragon nodded, and with a hesitant step he moved towards the opening to his home.
The first thing he caught sight of was Saphira as she sniffed about her stone dais, her large sleeping area covered in dust and cobwebs. The section devoted to her was as large as the one in his tree home in Ellesméra; however, instead of tree bark lining the interior, it featured stone walls and floors. The foundation, built in the style of humans, boasted strong, sturdy walls that were adorned with intricate elven engravings. The short staircase that led to the rest of his home held two railings that seemed more like twining vines than true stone, their once vibrant color lost to time.
As Saphira continued her inspection, Eragon's heavy footsteps echoed through the open room. Arya followed silently behind him as he led their way up the stone stairs, his hands lightly brushing the railings as he passed. The air was thick with dust and the scent of rusted metal, and each breath he drew in made him want to cough.
Sunlight streamed in faintly through dirt covered windows, illuminating enough of his abode that his enhanced eyes barely noticed how minuscule the light actually was. The two windows - a large one in Saphira's den, and a second smaller near his own bed- had surprisingly stood the test of time, the elven spun glass withholding against the storms that would occasionally plague Vroengard.
Eragon barely paid them any mind, not when his focus was singled onto a metal chest placed onto his bare bed. Arya paused behind him at the top of the stairs, no doubt taking in his modest home, though he paid her no mind as he walked heavily towards the beckoning chest. His fingers brushed over the rusted metal. Some of the rust flaked off at his touch, digging either into his fingers or falling softly to away. The chest was wider than it was tall, and was not what Eragon would call exquisitely crafted. It was crude in the most earnest of ways, designed simply to store its contents for the user and nothing else. There was no markings that could be seen on the metal, and Eragon knew that the chest itself had been worth more in scrap than as an actual storage container.
It was one of the few things remaining from his mother.
He took it from his old home after Selena passed away and kept the chest with him his entire life until Vrael's request to leave Alagaësia, forcing him to leave behind the one final reminder he had of his mother. Throughout the decades he kept the chest well-polished and the hinges oiled, storing only his most valued possessions inside. Most were small knick-knacks he had gained since first becoming a Rider, but most of the contents had been simple items his mother had kept.
A hand softly brushed his, and Eragon turned away from the chest to look at Arya beside him. Her green eyes peered at him intently, only flickering once towards the chest before him. Saphira, far taller than she had been the last time they graced their home, was watching him over the railing, her mind brushing against him in silent support.
"Is it yours?" Arya questioned, gesturing to the chest before them.
"Yes," Eragon said quietly, before clearing his throat. His hand reached out towards the chest as he continued, "I had forgotten about it. It was from my-"
His words dropped off suddenly. Subconsciously he had been reaching out with his magic towards the chest, probing it for the wards he knew he placed around it.
They were gone.
He had not noticed the first time he touched the metal, too caught up in his memories.
Something in his chest tightened at the thought of another taking his most prized possessions, and Arya must have sensed his worry. She reached out her hand, Gedwëy Ignasia glowing softly as she whispered spells of detection over the chest. Eragon sent her a grateful look,
After a minute she shook her head. "There are no signs of magic anywhere in the room. Nor is there any signs that anyone has been here in a long time."
Eragon murmured lightly, "Aye, I suppose the wards I placed would have been exhausted after all this time."
He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the lid and pried it open, the rusted hinges squealing in protest before giving under his strength. His breath left him in a rush as his gaze fell upon the chest's contents, relief rushing up and down his spine.
It was all still there.
Is it still there? Saphira asked, her tongue darting out to taste the air.
He knew what she was asking after, and Eragon replied, yes.
Everything inside the chest had been wrapped carefully in soft linen before he left, though the fabric was little more than tatters after a century spent untouched. He carefully extracted a few smaller wrapped items and placed them to the side, slowly revealing the larger contents he had stored at the bottom.
With shaking hands he extracted four large flat bundles, knowing instinctively which of the four Saphira sought. The other three were placed down besides the rest of the contents spilled across his bed frame, and Eragon began to strip away the battered fabric while he turned towards Saphira.
As the linen fabric fell to the ground he heard Arya's sharp intake of breath, and when Eragon glanced over at her in concern he saw that she had eyes only for the Fairth in his hands.
It was a beautiful piece, one of the best moments he had ever captured in his life. That the Fairth remained unmarred centuries later since he had made it made Eragon grateful he had protected the depiction well. The colors that alighted the surface were as brilliant as the day he crafted the Fairth, and he held the large slate up so that both Saphira and Arya could see it clearly.
The Fairth was one of the most difficult Eragon had ever created, a single moment in time from his past frozen before him. Hundreds of dragons filled the scene, some of them nothing more than mere specks of color in the distance, but each beautiful and awe inspiring in their own right. In the forefront stood Saphira and her Dam, Vervada, the pair of dragonesses peering down at a sky-blue stone. They were situated high in one of the nests in Du Fells Nángoröth, and it was the only time Eragon had been allowed entry to the wild dragon's home.
"An egg," Arya murmured, before glancing quickly over to Saphira. "You are a Dam?"
Saphira shifted, her head snaking forward and twisting so that she could peer closer to the Fairth. I do not know. The egg did not hatch before we left. There is no telling what would have happened to the hatchling.
Saphira trailed off, a low keening coming from her throat. Eragon reached out and brushed her snout. The heavy sounds of dragon steps alerted the three of them to Fírnen's approach, the green dragon's head hanging heavy in the air before him. The younger dragon keened along with Saphira, who turned away from them and curled up on her dais. The room was not big enough to support two dragons, which left Fírnen with little space but for his head and neck, but the dragon did not seem to mind. The two dragons separated their minds from Eragon and Arya, their conversation silent to them.
"I never knew," Arya breathed, her hand hovering softly over the image of the sky-blue egg. "She never said anything to me about it."
It heartened him that Arya and Saphira were so close, and Eragon gave her a small smile. "She never spoke again of the egg after we left it with the nest. It is not their way to dwell over such things."
She nodded softly, her gaze trailing up the Fairth to the imposing sight of dragons taking to the sky. "I've seen many other memories of dragons, including yours, but it never fails to send shivers down my spine."
"It was a remarkable sight. It is only when you see it yourself do you understand why a group of dragons is called a thunder of dragons." Eragon carefully placed the Fairth down, ensuring that he used the tattered remains of the linen to keep the slate from touching anything else. Arya moved to study the Fairth further, though she stopped when Eragon began to unravel another of the stone slates.
This one was older than the Fairth of Saphira and the dragons, and was not made by Eragon's hands. It was a simple Fairth of the inside of his home, though none of the furniture or small objects in the scene called out to him. He had been far too young when this Fairth was made, and Eragon could see the creators struggle with the scenery. Everything but the woman in the center of the home was fuzzy, some of the colors blurring together as though it was a moment taken from a fevered dream.
The woman was brown of hair and eyes, the same color that Eragon shared, and her face was beautiful even by Elven standards. Selena was by far the prettiest woman that Eragon had ever seen – aside from Arya, of course, but that was entirely different – and even the image in front of him failed to do her justice.
"My mother," Eragon whispered quietly, his fingers tracing her image softly.
"She was beautiful," Arya murmured. High praise from an elf, and one Eragon thought was not a platitude. "I can see why Morzan would have obsessed over her." Her gaze flicked to Eragon quickly before returning to the image of his long-passed mother. "You share many of her features."
"I used to look more like her," Eragon said softly. "Before my transformation. Now," he shrugged. "I am grateful for what the dragons did for me, but sometimes I wish I kept more of her features."
"Did you make it?" Arya asked, referring to the Fairth.
Eragon shook his head. "No, this one was my father. He was never particularly skilled at making them, and it was one of the few that remained after her death. I kept it for him."
He gently placed it to the side. He would take it with him back to the Varden to give to his father. I doubt he still has anything of hers, Eragon thought to himself. It might do him some good to see her again.
The remaining two Fairths were far simpler, showing moments from Eragon's past during his time training under Oromis. One depicted a younger Saphira, far smaller than Fírnen now, standing next to an older dragon that Eragon could not remember. The final Fairth was of a group of Riders, with Eragon standing to the far left. A friend of his that he made during his Rider years had created it for him, and all had received variations of the same imagery; it showed the newest Riders standing proud in one of the halls here in Doru Araeba, showing them moments after the ceremony that proclaimed them to be fully trained Riders.
As Eragon's gaze trailed over this one, he realized that it was the only Fairth he had ever seen depicting him before his transformation. Arya's brow furrowed as she peered at the younger him.
"What is it?" Eragon asked.
"You do look more like your mother than Brom," Arya said.
Eragon hummed lightly in answer, placing the Fairth aside. Arya raised a thin eyebrow at him, her eyes dancing with humor. "I have wondered what you looked like before your transformation. You were more… rugged than I assumed."
This time Eragon grunted.
He is still brutish and crude, Saphira commented from below, her voice regaining some of its measure. He just hides it well from you.
"Does he, now?"
He tried to ignore their banter, his gaze moving across the rest of the small items arranged carefully on his bed frame. Some of them were simple items that he had kept from his childhood; a necklace his mother had given to him as a gift after Saphira hatched for him, with a small sapphire stone hanging from its cord. The stone was too impure and too small to carry any significant energy, but Eragon had kept with him up until he left. His finger scratched some of the dirt covering the gem, the soft disappearing light of the day reflecting poorly off the rough surface.
The rest were few remaining things he had left of his mother's possessions: an old brush that she used, the bristles dilapidated and falling off; letters that she had written him during his time training under Oromis, the ink long since faded beyond recognition; a silver bracelet Brom had gifted her after he whisked her away from Morzan's clutches.
All of these things and more, and Eragon had forgotten about them.
Carefully he replaced the items in the chest, frowning slightly as the tattered linen frayed and disintegrated in his fingers. Arya's and Saphira's teasing had long since drawn to a close, and Eragon gratefully accepted Arya's help in arranging the items back into the chest.
All but the Fairth of his mother, which Eragon would return to Brom. He lifted the chest off the bed and placed it to the side, sitting down hard in the place it once rested. Arya joined him, her fingers hesitant before resting against his shoulder.
"We'll rest here tonight," Eragon softly informed her, knowing that Arya would not mind. "In the morning we will see if the Vault exists."
Her eyes clouded briefly over from the spell, though she seemed able to grasp his intent. She gave him a soft nod, her fingers pulling him back until the two of them laid upon the firm surface of his bed frame. "If that is what you wish," Arya whispered, her lithe fingers running gently through his hair. Her gaze moved towards the open window situated closest to his bed, the sun's glow nearly gone now in the late hour of the day. They still had a few things to do before they could rest, namely eating dinner, but Eragon was loathed from moving from his spot next to her. Arya must have sensed his reluctance, softly asking, "Will you tell me about her?"
Eragon nodded, stories of his childhood and mother filling the air between them.
The trek was short to the Rock of Kuthian, the familiar path carved into Eragon's memory. Though most of the trail leading away from the city was overgrown, his feet knew the way, leading Arya and the dragon's quickly in the morning daylight. When they finally made it to the large clearing, Eragon's feet stopped, his gaze locked onto the monument before him.
The garden that the Rider's took great pains to cultivate and keep neat was overgrown, wild vines and flowers spreading out like wildfire from their previous home. The three benches that were carefully placed in the clearing were half-hidden beneath the overgrowth, and the bower formed from the willow tree he had once used to enjoy the view was too thick for any being to slip into.
Memories stirred inside his mind, overlapping the old with the new. Eragon took a shuddering breath and strode forward towards the Rock of Kuthian, the jagged spar of stone spanning nearly two hundred feet tall. Arya stopped next to him; her gaze locked onto the Rock of Kuthian.
"Is this what we are here for?" she asked. Her gaze flickered over the Rock of Kuthian easily, and Eragon watched her carefully to ensure that the spell did not affect her.
When he sawno sign that she had any trouble perceiving the monument, Eragon nodded. "Aye."
Glaedr's mind, which had been carefully watching their approach through Eragon's eyes, grew fuzzy around the edges. I know this place… I… The dragon shook himself, withdrawing from Eragon's mind slightly. What must we do now?
"Speak our name to open the Vault of Souls," Eragon recounted.
Which of our Names, I wonder, Glaedr pondered.
The thought had crossed Eragon's mind before. "No harm in trying our names first, before offering our true names to a stone."
Indeed, Glaedr replied.
"We should inspect the area first," Arya stated, her gaze still roaming over the clearing measuredly. "It has been a century since you've last been here. Any number of spells could remain. Galbatorix himself could have placed a few upon the earth, intending to capture any Riders who remained hidden."
Do what you must, Glaedr commented, and let us be done with it. Oromis, Murtagh and I near Thorn soon. We will keep a distance between us, but should the Spirits inside him discover our location we cannot hope to hold him off for long.
The thought of the up coming struggle with Thorn weighed heavy on Eragon's mind, but he shook it off quickly. Together, he and Arya roamed the clearing, speaking all manner of spells in order to assure themselves that no magic had been placed that intended to harm or restrain them.
The sun was at its zenith when they were satisfied, and Eragon stood in front of the Rock of Kuthian, palm raised inches from the stone. Arya was next to him, far enough that any magic should not reach her, but close enough that she could help him incase anything happened. Saphira and Fírnen stood on either side of the two Riders, their massive forms taking up most of the space in the clearing.
Be careful, Little-one, Saphira whispered to him.
Eragon nodded, before placing his hands on the stone. When nothing happened, Eragon said loudly, "My name is Eragon Shadeslayer, son of Brom, Leader of the Riders."
Nothing happened. Only the sounds of the forest around them reached his senses; the soft whisper of the wind on the leaves of the trees, the chittering of squirrels perched on high.
After nodding at Arya, she stepped forward and mirrored his position. "I am Arya Dröttningu, Daughter of Evandar and Islanzadí, Rider of Fírnen."
Fírnen, Glaedr and Saphira all offered their own introductions, their minds pushed towards the Rock of Kuthian in front of them. When still nothing changed, Eragon slowly let his hand fall away from the cold stone.
We must speak our names in the Ancient Language? Fírnen hazarded.
Hmm. Nothing so simple, I imagine, Glaedr responded, his voice rumbling with thought. It is more likely that whoever devised this magic wishes us to surrender our true names.
"If that is the case," Arya said as she took a careful step away from the Rock of Kuthian, "Then we must decide if we are to place our trust in Solembum's words. We risk more than our own lives if we decide to pursue this avenue."
Eragon's hand swept upward, tangling with his course hair. A frown marred his face as he descended into thought, his words flowing out of him. "I highly doubt Solembum would lie to us willingly. If that is the case, then either this is the most devious trap Galbatorix has laid-"
Or it is exactly what we are looking for, Saphira concluded. Her tail swished across the tall grass; her agitation clear for all to see. From what we know of the Mad King, this seems too far remote and hidden for it to simply be a ploy to gain our Names.
It does seem unlikely, Glaedr replied, but we cannot forgo the possibility entirely.
"Bewitching an entire race, let alone the werecats, would be a huge undertaking," Arya stated. "I would not think them a willing participant in such a deception, especially when it would be at the hands of Galbatorix." She glanced over at Eragon and inclined her head, a silent declaration for him to choose their course of action.
Eragon drew in a sharp breath, his decision clear in his mind. "Then we must speak our names. If this is a trap, then we will face it together. Either way, we already know that we do not have the power to face Galbatorix as we are now."
Glaedr's voice rolled over Eragon, without a single trace of judgement or hesitation. Then I must ask a difficult question, one that would be considered rude and impolite even amongst the closest of friends; who here knows there true name?
"I do," Eragon whispered softly, "Or I once did. Recent events may have… changed me more than I have suspected."
As they often do, Glaedr commented.
Arya was silent for a moment, before shaking her head. "My true name is no longer fully mine. If we must rediscover ourselves, we would need to do so quickly. It can take even the wisest of elves' years to find their name's, and I fear we might not have the time."
Agreed, Saphira stated. My name has shifted since coming home to Alagaësia. Before I was once one of many; now I am the only living female dragon. I have already spent some time pondering this, so I am certain I can devise my name quickly.
Fírnen shook his head, his feet digging into the dirt below him. I do not know my name; it has only been months since I hatched, and too many things have happened in the interim.
Then Saphira, Arya and Eragon will depart, while I work alongside you, Glaedr said to Fírnen. The green dragon sent his silent agreement, his head raising towards the sky. Oromis and I have spent some time recently dealing with names, and I believe our recent success with Murtagh may prove useful here.
Eragon nodded. "Then we will return when we have discovered who we truly are."
Saphira hummed, her gaze shifting towards Eragon. Her mind split apart from the group, and, sensing her intentions, Eragon did the same. I will depart for some time, little-one. Unless…
Go, Eragon stated, a gentle smile filling his face. He ventured over to Saphira and removed the pack containing Glaedr's Eldunarí, placing it before Fírnen. I know what I must do.
Saphira stepped back, her blue wings unfurling from her back. With a large push she jumped into the air and winged herself away, angling towards the nearest mountain. Eragon watched her depart for a moment before stepping back towards Doru Araeba, his feet following the familiar path back to his old home.
He was surprised when footsteps followed him, and Eragon paused at the edge of the clearing to peer back at Arya. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Do you not wish to be alone? Rediscovering oneself can be harrowing."
Arya stopped beside him, her emerald gaze burning their way into his mind. "It can be," Arya replied, flicking her head to dislodge a stubborn lock of hair from in front of her face. "However, I find that I am my truest self when I am with you."
Eragon smiled at her, his heart tripping in his chest at her words. He held out his hand, his pulse doubling when she firmly grasped it with her own. "I am glad to hear it."
He pulled her along with him down the path, their shoulders brushing lightly as they walked.
"I feel the same," Eragon replied after a moment.
Arya's hand squeezed his lightly, her cold fingers laced between his.
Eragon did not know where he wished to lead Arya, only that his feet had a mind of their own. His mind mostly wandered inwardly as they walked side-by-side, his thoughts delving inwardly to the memories he had gained since his return to Alagaësia. Every so often Eragon would become aware of their surroundings, mostly when he inadvertently led them towards a dead end that had not existed the last time he was here; many buildings had collapsed since the Fall, their rubble blocking overgrown roadways.
Together they walked through Doru Araeba, his gaze seeing all yet not taking in a single sight. He resurfaced from his thoughts when his arm dragged backwards suddenly. He turned to see Arya halted behind him, her gaze fixed upward towards the tall building to their left. Instinctually he knew what had captured her attention; before them stood one of the largest halls in all of Doru Araeba, its stature dwarfing all other structures on the island. They had seen it when they had first approached the city, though his thoughts had quickly turned to his own home when Saphira banked away from the city proper.
The hall was ornate, or at least it once was. Depictions of dragon riders had once been carved into the surface of the many stones that made up the hall, intertwined with the smooth elven architecture and the more practical design of humans. Now the weather had worn down most of the carvings of their people, the crumbled doors and fire scorched walls leaving little to the imagination as to what happened here.
"This was were the Council would meet," Eragon stated softly, watching as Arya gazed at the structure before her. "Far in the back was a private room reserved only for their use, but the remainder of the hall was used whenever the Elder's wished to speak to everyone gathered together. Here we would perform our ceremonies and greet any guests that came to the island."
Arya's gaze was filled with sorrow as she took in the once magnificent hall. Eragon tugged her hand and led her towards the large steps meant for humans and elves, trying desperately to ignore the suspicious dark stains on the once brilliant stone. They stopped before the ruined door, the massive pieces of stone blocking their way into the hall. Instead, Eragon tugged her around to the left side of the building, his hands trailing over familiar stone.
He stopped them before another smaller door, this one, unlike the larger pair at the entrance, meant only for humans and elves to enter. The door was a rotted corpse of its previous visage; the wood had all but fallen away, leaving a brittle remembrance that nearly crumbled at his touch. Together they pushed inward, the door revealing a small hallway that led to another opening.
The opening revealed the contents of the main hall; the floor was large enough to hold several large dragons, and Eragon knew that even ones as big as Glaedr could fit comfortably inside. The dais at the back end of the hall remained whole and untouched, but the rest of the hall was a mess; the rows of stone and wooden chairs had long since been broken -by whose hand Eragon could not discern- leaving behind only rubble and splinters of wood. Remnants of a battle fought here could be seen in the deep grooves left behind by steel and claw, though the area was thankfully devoid of any corpses.
Arya dropped his hand as she ventured inward, her fingers tracing softly against the stone walls. She meandered around the hall, her gaze moving swiftly over the carnage and alighting on the various broken stain-glass windows that had once filled the hall with brilliant color. Eragon stood still near the side entrance, memories of his previous life overlapping with the destitute sight before him.
It was only when Arya moved towards the dais that Eragon followed in her wake, his feet moving him unconsciously to stand just a hand's breath away from the center of the platform.
"It must have been a sight," Arya commented, her words, though soft, echoing loudly in the empty hall. "To see all of the Order standing before you."
"Aye," Eragon replied. He swallowed heavily, his feet carrying him towards the edge of the platform. He sat down on its edge, his legs brushing the floor beneath the dais lightly. "I've only stood up here a handful of times, always with Vrael at the center."
Arya wandered around the platform, though there was little to see; anything of value must have already been stripped away by Galbatorix, and what survived was already centuries old. Eventually she joined him at the edge, settling down quietly beside him. Her shoulder brushed his comfortingly, and Eragon reached out to take her hand.
"It would have been possible that we met here," Arya stated suddenly, drawing Eragon out of his thoughts. "If you did not venture to Ellesméra after I was born, then I believe my father would have taken me here to see the home of the Order."
Eragon let out a breath, his head moving slowly in a nod. He was surprised that Arya was humoring him still with this thought experiment, though he should not have been.
She always finds a way to surprise me, Eragon thought.
"And I would have been enraptured by you then as I am now," Eragon commented.
A single eyebrow shooting upwards expressed her amusement. "Is that so? You certainly did not seem that way when we first met."
"That's because I've had years of practice school my expressions," Eragon deadpanned, earning him a light chuckle from Arya. Turning to face her slightly, he shifted his tone to one more serious. "I was taken aback at your beauty, but I am not so foolish anymore to simply chase after a pretty face."
Arya hummed quietly, her gaze moving back towards the open hall in front of them.
"But what a pretty face it is," Eragon whispered.
She did not acknowledge his remark, though it was clear she heard him by the slight squeeze of her hand.
As they sat together for some time, the morning sunlight shifted to that of its evening brilliance. His mind wandered away from him, delving into the familiar thoughts of self-reflection.
Who was he now? Leader of the Order, certainly, and one of the few Riders to remain after the Fall. He felt proud of his station and his ability to fill it, but there always lingered a hint of guilt that he hadn't been here when his brothers and sisters had fallen. Saphira and his return to Alagaësia had been done when they were convinced that his past deeds would have faded from thought, only they had stumbled into a worse truth than either of them could ever imagine. They had grieved together when they learned of the Fall and all that they had lost, and had commiserated together in their shared anger at the false Rider who dared to call himself King.
I am not my anger, Eragon thought to himself. I do this not out of revenge, but out of duty. Alagaësia must be set right, but the ways of the past did nothing to stop Galbatorix's rise to power. The old Order cannot be the new one.
Was that who he was? The bringer of change? He tried altering his name with this new knowledge, but it did not strike any chord within him.
He knew his own faults, or at least he thought he did. He was selfish on occasion, as everyone else was, and was prone to fits of arrogance that befit one of his age and experience. Tempering his flaws was something that he worked on every day, and he displayed externally that he was the picture of what it meant to be a Rider; calm, collected, and powerful.
Saphira was a large part of who he was, and her influence over him had certainly been displayed in his true name before.
Arya shifted slightly next to him, her shoulder pressing firmly against his own.
Arya.
Certainly, his feelings for Arya played a role in his name. Never had he felt like this before; his love for Arya grew steadily each day, unfurling in the space between them whenever they had a moment to spare. The trip together to Vroengard had certainly seen them draw closer, as every day they awoke huddled together for warmth, with nary a thought save for the days of travel ahead.
He tried every alteration to his true name he could think of, but none of them felt right.
What was he missing?
Distantly he heard a roar, and Eragon recognized it at once as Fírnen's. He glanced at Arya, who had a grand smile on her face. "He discovered his name," Arya proudly exclaimed, her hand withdrawing from his own to clap in the air in front of her. "Oh! It is truly marvelous!"
Eragon felt his own smile draw upwards, unbidden by Arya's exuberance. He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Do you wish to see him? I will be fine here alone."
Arya was quiet, her gaze far away. After a moment she shook her head, her raven locks tickling Eragon's hand. "No," she said softly. "He knows my depth of feelings, and has asked that I remain so that I can discover my own name."
Eragon hummed, and let his hand drop from her shoulder. Arya grasped his hand with her own, intertwining and drawing them into her lap. Her other hand gently stroked the many scars prominently displayed on his knuckles, years of labor and fighting leaving long white bumps that were rough and uneven.
Very much like me, Eragon thought, rough and worn on the surface.
The guilt and anger he felt over his actions in Belatona still weighed on him, though not as heavily as it once did. He always knew that the death of the hatchling was not his fault, yet for decades after the image of Brisingr cleaving through purple scales remained behind, haunting his dreams. Saphira and Vrael had long ago tried to assuage him of his pain, but only he could truly forgive himself.
Do I? Forgive myself? For something that is not even my sin.
That Thorn would be made a Shade had only exasperated the wound. Never did he imagine that others would try to recreate that fateful night, nor that Galbatorix would indeed sacrifice one of his treasured pawns.
Eragon was not who he once was; the young Rider had given way to one steeped in guilt, and that Rider had lived on the fringes of society for so many decades.
In hindsight, Eragon thought, our century away did not cure me of my guilt as Vrael thought it might.
But is that who I am? A Rider of old, forced to be a Leader, swallowed by guilt and duty bound to kill a King?
Eragon glanced over at Arya; the sun had shifted further, the bright light shining through one of the broken windows and alighting on her features. Her forehead was creased in heavy thought, though she turned at his gaze and gave him a smile that set his heart a thunder.
No.
I am Eragon, son of Brom, Leader of the New Order of Riders. I will not succumb to my past guilt, or allow the flaws of the old ways to ever allow one such as Galbatorix to rise again. I am Rider to Saphira, mate to Arya, and the sword that will strike down the Betrayer.
A name came to him then, one more complete than all the others he tried. When he whispered it in his mind it felt as if a bell had tolled inside him, sending shivers down his spine and making the hair on the back of his neck stand.
The name, for it was his true name, was similar to the one he knew before, only this one much longer, molded by the three centuries of his life. His strengths that had been evident in his old name were still there, but so were the weaknesses, fewer now than before. His name highlighted his love for Saphira and his devotion to his ideals, as well as the experiences that had defined who he was; sadness at all he had lost, as well as some guilt, but from the ashes his will rose, laying down the foundations to who he was.
Arya was a larger part of his name that he had thought; his love for her was intense enough that it merited nearly a full sentence unto itself. She had not noticed his self-revelation, having turned her gaze back out towards the empty hall. Whatever her thoughts they consumed her, as her eyes where affixed to nothing in particular.
A smile broke out on Eragon's face, and he leaned over until his mouth brushed the tips of her ears. Quietly as he could, he whispered his true name, a cold shiver running down his spine again as the words were spoken aloud for the first time. His name was several sentences, as was only right by the amount of time he had lived and all the things he had seen and done. Only the oldest amongst the elves, Glaedr included, would bear such names, though he suspected that his old masters' names were much longer than that.
Arya gasped quietly next to him, her body freezing in the small space between them. When he was done speaking his name she drew back slowly, her emerald eyes wide as they took him in.
Part of Eragon was nervous; was he too forward in giving her his name unprompted? Would she judge him fair or foul? It was impossible not to judge someone after learning all they were, and his feelings for Arya were as evident in his name as was his flaws.
Then she smiled at him, a beautiful smile that washed away all his fears in a single movement. "It is a good name," Arya stated, "I am proud that my mate bears such a name."
Eragon met her gaze and returned her smile. She drew him into her embrace, her arms encircling his body tightly. In the back of his mind he could feel Saphira, her delight at his discovery palpable even at the distance between them.
After a moment they withdrew from one another, and Eragon leaned backwards on the edge of the dais until he was laying completely on the cold stone floor. Arya remained upright next to him, though she moved slightly back to press her hip into his side. With his arm snaking around her waist, Eragon used his other arm to pillow his head, staring up at the tall ceilings above him and taking in the words in the ancient language that fully described him.
The sun had long since passed from its evening height when Arya's gentle hand awoke Eragon from his nap, her fingers dancing lightly in his hair. Blinking away the sleep from his eyes, Eragon peered up at her, one of his hands unconsciously reaching up to cradle her face gently.
"What is it?" Eragon whispered lightly, his thumb brushing softly under the green eyes that stared intently back at him.
"I've done it," Arya returned just as quietly. "In what has taken me years before I have done in hours now, and if you are willing, I would like to tell you my name."
Eragon nodded his assent, and Arya leaned over him until her lips were nearly touching his pointed ears. Her nearness sent a shockwave down him that stirred Eragon to life, and his hands moved to bracket her arms tightly above him.
Then, Arya whispered her name into his ear, and Eragon felt the truthfulness of her words ring out inside his mind. As she spoke, a rush of understanding filled Eragon; some of her name he had already guessed, but much of who she was surprised him. Her duty and devotion to her people did not surprise him, but the tension she felt between her people and her new duty as a Rider did. He had an inkling that she had felt this way when Fírnen hatched for her, but he did not think it would be strong enough to be evident in her name.
The words she whispered also highlighted parts of Arya that he knew were difficult to share, but what surprised him most was not her love for Fírnen -that much had been obvious to any who knew Arya- but her love for him.
He knew Arya loved him, but hearing clearly in her name that he was a part of who she was left Eragon stunned. When Arya drew slightly back from him and gazed down at him expectantly, Eragon felt himself lacking any words in which to express himself. He knew he had to respond carefully, as any wrong word could easily shatter their relationship and leave both of them destroyed.
When the seconds marched on and Eragon still was unable to form any words, Arya's brow began to dip. "If you-" She began, but was silenced when Eragon tugged her down to him until their lips alighted.
The kiss he drew them into started soft, as Arya seemed at first hesitant to respond, but when Eragon harshly bit her bottom lip she was quick to match his rising passion. They remained locked for what seemed an eternity before Eragon pushed Arya away, his breathing heavy and his lips swollen from their dance.
"Sorry," Eragon whispered, unsure whether it was for breaking the kiss or his lack of words. Her red lips and dark gaze shot a fire straight through Eragon's heart, and he forced himself not to get lost in her until he said his piece. "You have a good name, and you should be proud of it."
Arya did not smile at him, the darkening of her eyes hinting at her true desires. As her lips drew near again to his own, Eragon could not help but whisper, "And I am proud to be your mate."
When they finally roused themselves from their embrace, Arya remarked that they should return to the others. Eragon agreed and together the two of them left the broken remains of the hall behind, retracing their steps back through the side entrance and out into the thinning light of day.
As they made their way back towards the glade that housed the Rock of Kuthian, Eragon was quick to grab Arya's hand and draw her to a halt.
"I am sorry that I didn't speak my thoughts right away," Eragon swallowed, bowing his head slightly to her. "I was only…taken aback about my place in your name."
A gentle smile rose on her lips, and Eragon suddenly realized that he had seen Arya smile in the past few days more than he had ever seen her do before. "You need not apologize, Eragon. I am not offended in any way by your response."
"Good," Eragon nodded, gesturing for them to continue down the overgrown roadways.
"I am merely pleased that I stunned you into silence for once," Arya stated beside him, her trilling voice washing over Eragon as they walked side-by-side.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Eragon grunted.
Arya just gave him a smile and continued on her way, leaving Eragon bewildered.
When they reached the glade they found Fírnen eagerly awaiting their arrival, the young green dragon shaking his body side-to-side in an attempt to not rush them. Arya quickly peeled off towards her partner-of-the-mind, placing her head against his snout and conversing silently with him.
Eragon stretched his mind out towards the heart of hearts hidden under Fírnen's bulk inside the soft supple bag. Glaedr greeted him after a moment, the older dragons' words filled with pride.
His mind has depths to it unusual to one so young, Glaedr commented.
Eragon frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding Fírnen silently. Is that a problem?
No, Glaedr said after a moment. He was merely born into interesting times. The fast pace of his youth forced him to grow significantly, and as such he was more than adept at learning who he is. Luckily, he is young, so his name was not so difficult to discern.
Good.
Glaedr's mind pulsed with a mix of emotions before quelling slightly. And what of you and Arya? Have you made any progress?
We have, Eragon stated. He let out a soft sigh, which was not missed by the presence of the Eldunarí. It is always hard to have all of your faults shoved into your face like that, but some of my name surprised me.
Indeed. Silence reigned between them, and Eragon got the sense that Glaedr was carefully considering his words. Learning the truth of ourselves can sometimes lead to ruin, and it requires that an individual be able to accept all of themselves, even the worst parts of our character.
Hmm.
Glaedr's mind pulsed again, and an image of the golden dragon snorting heavily in the air pressed into Eragon's thoughts. Ah, Skörungr, do not fret. The question of your character has long since been known to those of us here, and there is little cause for concern over our judgement of you.
Thank you, Glaedr-elda, Eragon said, touched by the dragon's compassion.
A familiar mind reached out through their bond, and Eragon could feel Saphira's presence growing steadily in the distance.
Saphira! He cried out, joining their minds and melding their thoughts. Through her memories he could feel all that she had done; Saphira had chosen a mountain top as her place of self-reflection, and had spent the afternoon watching the clouds below as they battled against the side of the mountains.
Eventually her thoughts led her to her name, one that filled Eragon with such pride and love for her that he could not wait a moment longer to see her. She viewed his own memories in turn, even the more passionate embrace he and Arya shared. Dragons lacked the decorum that other races had, and as such she merely overlooked them with nary a critical eye.
Little-one…
Saphira had barely landed in the glade when Eragon rushed towards her, leaping the large distance up towards her neck and wrapping his arms as much as he could around her neck.
Tears sprung into his eyes, and Eragon pressed the side of his head hard against her smooth scales. Your name, Saphira, is beautiful. I am forever proud to be your Rider.
She hummed underneath him; indeed, Saphira's name captured nearly all that Eragon already knew of her, but the newly added sorrow over her kins fate had left its mark. Determination and a desire to see her race established bloomed alongside it, as well as a deep sense of loneliness that not even Eragon could spare her from. She was, after all, the only living female dragon.
And yours, little-one. Recent events have changed you, but I am heartened to see that your guilt has lessened. She lowered her neck to the ground, allowing his feet to once more be perched onto the dirt below. He did not disentangle himself from her yet, and Saphira seemed likewise unwilling to part.
Only for another to be added, Eragon remarked.
There is little for us to do about it now, Saphira commented, shaking her neck slightly. Eragon took the hint and dislodged himself from her, stepping back to see her in her full glory. Are we ready? She asked, her mind spreading out to touch their little assembled group.
We are, Fírnen and Arya responded.
I am as well, Glaedr intoned. Oromis, Murtagh and I are resting now, and stand ready to assist if the need arises. His mind swept over Eragon, examining him critically before reseeding once more. I will go first; if there is a trap, I might be able to spring it before it catches any of you.
Eragon started to pull his mind away, but the older dragon grumbled, No. As a consequence of this decision, all of you will speak your names. As such, it is only right that you hear mine as well.
Thank you, Ebrithil, Saphira stated, echoed by the others and Eragon.
Then Glaedr spoke his name, and it boomed forth in Eragon's mind; his name was longer than either Eragon's or Saphira's and contained multitudes of the dragon's personality that Eragon had not even glimpsed before. So much of his name contained grief over his wounds and the Fall of the Riders, but it was also a record of a life that stretched over centuries and contained both joy and wisdom too enumerable to count.
When it was over, Eragon peered intently at the Rock of Kuthian.
A proud of the mind from Glaedr stirred Eragon, and he stepped forward towards the Rock once more. When he whispered his name into the wind he felt a similar cold press of fate on his nerves, suddenly more aware of the fact that he was giving over the entirety of his person to a presence he did not fully understand.
Nothing happened.
Saphira followed next, her voice tolling a bell somewhere deep inside their bond. Her scales sparkled in the daylight, and again Eragon starred intently at the monument before them.
Arya and Fírnen shared a passing glance. She was the first to step forward, her hand brushing the surface of the Rock lightly. A sudden fear pounded in Eragon's heart when he heard her name spoken aloud; what if this presence meant to control them? He could willingly submit to his own actions -namely that if this were an act of unprecedented stupidity- but he had dragged Arya along side him on this quest.
Had he doomed them all?
Eragon shared a glance with Arya as she stepped back, and finally it was Fírnen's turn. The young dragon snorted at the rock, eyeing it as though he intended to uproot the massive stone from the ground. After a moment Fírnen huffed and stretched out his mind, the words of the ancient language flowing forth.
Fírnen's name was shorter than the others, befitting his youthful age, but as Glaedr stated, it contained a multitude onto its own. His fierce pride in himself and Arya shined forth, as well as a sense of righteousness that dwarfed any Eragon had seen before. There were still hints of his young age; namely his affections towards Saphira, which had not faded ever since she rebuked him back in Ellesméra.
Eragon did not linger on the rest of Fírnen's true name, for the moment the green dragon finished a thin dark line formed on the base of the spire. It ran fifty feet upwards and then split in two and arched down to either side, tracing the form of two broad doors. Glyphs appeared on the face of the door, each lined in gold; powerful wards had been cast over the Rock, protecting it both from magical and physical harm.
When the outline was completed the doors swung open of their own accord, pushing aside grass and dirt with little effort. A huge, vaulted tunnel was revealed in its depths, stretching out at a steep angle into the earth. The moment the doors fell silent, Eragon felt his hand reflexively grasp at Brisingr on his side.
The tunnel before them was pitch black, and not a single sound stirred from the shadows.
So the cat was telling the truth, Fírnen stated, his tongue flicking out to taste the stale air.
Yes, Saphira said, her tail swishing back and forth as she readied herself. But what is waiting for us inside?
"Only one way for us to find out," Eragon remarked, turning his head to share a nod with Arya.
Let us dig the rats out from their nest, Glaedr growled.
Okay...
Again, Apologies for the wait! I recently graduated from college and found myself desperately searching for job, and feeling a little wrung out from the past four years. (Dealing with actual college age kids is hard, y'know. Ha). This chapter was written in mostly three large chunks and then smashed together with a hammer (namely my face) until from the ashes rose something that was up to my (merger) standards. Now that I've secured a job I don't know when I will be able to next update this story, but as always it is something that I'm aware of in the back of my mind.
Hopefully that will mean sooner rather than later.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter after that long of a pause! Some ExA moments as well, which are always fun (sometimes) to write. Nailing Eragon is rather easy, as he is a product of CP's that I've mainly aged and beaten with a dull rusty stick of angst, but Arya's temperament is harder. It's not necessarily that I think Arya incapable of expressing herself in such a romantic way, but we've merely never seen her do it. As such, I hope that at least she is somewhat believable and remaining (sort of) in character.
Let me know what you think! I read every review and they always mean a lot to me! (If I get enough of them at once, sometimes it spurs me on to write, only for me to immediately brain dump my thoughts)
Ancient Language translations (Old Norse):
Italics represents the Old Norse translation; Bold represents Ancient Language.
Fyrir Neðan – Below Something. Fallen One
Du vættr Bani – The Bane of Spirits: Name of the Brotherhood
Vættr - being, creature; supernatural being, spirit.
Bani - death; bane, cause of death, slayer
Skörungr – leader, notable or outstanding person, paragon. Title for Leader of the Riders; given as an honor.
Guliä waíse medh ono, Skörungr - Luck be with you, Leader.
Grœnn – green. Verdant. More accurately, the color of the forest.
Grœnnskular – Verdant-scales.
Lengr – For a longer time
Ginnung – space, void
Lengr-Ginnug – Spacetime Tenga's definition of Space and Time as one concept
Istalrí - Flames
Freohr – Death
Blöthr – Stop, halt.