The unnamed sword, Arya had called it. Orik had refused to even speak of it once Eragon took it into his hands. It was as if, to the little dwarf, the weapon was just like any other 20" broadsword.
But it was not, and Eragon himself could tell simply by holding the blade. The ancient thing was larger than even Zar'roc had been, but felt much lighter and more malleable when swung. The silver blade was double-edged with a single dwarf rune upon it. Barzul, he had been told by Orik in a hushed whisper. Ill-fate. The hilt was a mixture of color and design, though, making up for the blade's plainness; a looping band of gold ran about the base of the silver hilt, three sapphires the size of bird eggs around it. Onyx inlays gave the hilt a look of elegance. Eragon was delighted to find that he could use the sapphires to store mall amounts of energy.
His delight was aborted, though, when Arya announced her decision to journey with Roran and him. Eragon knew better that to tell her it was too dangerous, but he refused to simply agree to her terms. "Arya," he began softly, "this is a personal vendetta. It is my family's problem, not one of the Varden. I do not think Roran would appreciate you coming…"
Arya's emerald eyes flashed dangerously and Eragon knew that he should have kept his mouth shut. "Eragon, it seems you still fail to grasp the situations at hand. Everything you do is of the Varden's concern. If you die on this 'personal vendetta' of yours, where does that leave us? I will tell you where –at Galbatorix's mercy. And where would that leave your liege? Or me?"
The last was uttered quietly, yet it was certainly the most painful for Eragon to hear. How could she speak this way, tugging at every one of his heartstrings, when her feelings were not mutual?
"Seeing the result of your fight against Murtagh pains me," she continued softly. Detached. Cold. "I will help you as best as I know how in magic and melee combat. Maybe your cousin may learn a few things." Without another word, she left Orik's tent –much as Orik had, in fact, after handing over Barzul.
The snoring dwarf in the corner remained oblivious.
…
It had taken three days to return to Farthen Dur for the funerary service. His cousin had accompanied Eragon, as well as the delegate sent on Nasuada and Islanzadi's behalf – Arya. Arya rode at the front of the procession, never speaking, not even at meals. Roran had been silent, as well, more for the reason of feeling out of place with the elven warrior. The barren peaks of Farthen Dur did not make themselves apparent soon enough in Eragon's mind.
Horthgar's funeral had been taxing on all present; save for one. Arya had stood through the entire procession, clear eyed and silent. She did not weeping nor show remorse. Her proud body stood erect as if unaffected.
Even Roran, standing directly beside Eragon, seemed crestfallen. Although he had not known the dwarf - of his kindly, proud demeanor - Roran had the grace to look saddened.
Orik made a soft speech, his words slightly clipped and hurried, eyes burning in unshed tears. Eragon could not even remember what words the dwarf had used, but he remembered the haunting, saddened tone. And then, his words began to register. "I would like to request the Rider and one of Horthgar's chosen brethren, Eragon, to speak."
Eragon moved as if he were in a daze. He had not been forewarned of this, although he had a feeling he should have known. After all, he was the only human to be taken in as one of the dwarf race. He was a brother to them, just as he was a vital link to all of the elves due to his gift from the fire dragon. He took his place in front of the vast amounts of warriors, all stony-faced and saddened. He opened his mouth, unsure what would come out, but intent on speaking from his heart.
"None can say enough in order to give Horthgar the praise he deserved. He did not care what race you were, what color of skin, or what language you spoke… He was noble and proud, one that would accept help from friend yet never go out of his way to burden others. He joins his ancestors now, encased in stone and eternal. His name will not be forgotten, so long as I live. I swear it." The last part he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Eragon felt a tear slip from his left eye, followed by one on his right. To his left, Saphira let out a haunting trumpet, her long neck arching gracefully toward the blazing sun. You did well, little one, she rumbled gently in his mind. He could hear the sadness tingeing her voice. He slowly began to turn, to retreat to his cousin's side, when Orik placed a gentle hand on his elbow. "Help us lower our King into the stone, Rider. He would have wanted that."
Eragon felt slightly unsteady and lightheaded when he hefted the heavy stone slab, bearing the fallen king. Horthgar's face had the combined fierceness of a warrior and the gentle pride of a ruler etched on his face. He looked peaceful, as if he were only dreaming. Eragon closed his eyes, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He and the other dwarves, of whom rested the slab on their thick shoulders, marched through the winding corridors of Farthen Dur until they came to a large, cavernous room filled with slabs of different rock –onyx, hematite, basalt, granite… And to Eragon's left was an open tomb of layered sandstone inlayed with milky quartz.
He helped the other dwarves lower the great Ruler into the tomb, watching in sorrow as three of them turned and grasped the lid. Slowly it was slid over the tomb, locking Horthgar forever more in stone.
…
Eragon watched as Saphira snuffed a large piece of meat before placing her back to it. She turned large, jewel-like eyes onto Eragon, asking softly, Are you all right, little one?
No, he sighed mentally, lying back on his small cot. I feel so empty… we have lost so much, Saphira. And I know dwelling on it will never change things, but what else do I have to do? I am asked to stay here for an extra day so that they may hold a celebration for my adoption… and all I can think to do is sulk. How can we celebrate when a wonderful man just died?
They need to be reminded that there is happiness in the small things, Saphira cooed gently, nuzzling Eragon with her massive head. They cannot overburden themselves in sorrow, Eragon, just as you cannot. You see how Arya is… her sorrow is kept locked away from others and it eats her alive. Speak with your cousin of your sorrows, or even Orik. When you speak to them, they will listen. But tonight, when you are given feast due to your brotherhood with the dwarves, you must put that sorrow behind you. Be humble, be kind, but do not be cheerless. You must be festive tonight; you will drink and you will dance. Promise me this?
Eragon smiled, unable to keep the small tears brought on by her speech. He ran a hand over her mighty jaw, murmuring, "I promise you this."
…
Eragon, surprisingly, found that many of the dwarves were merry, pouring mead and ale, talking jubilantly, and patting Saphira warmly as she passed them. There were still some who sulked, and others still who glared venomously at Eragon before leaving. He had been prepared for it, though. After his last trip to Farthen Dur, he hadn't expected everyone to be in agreement with his sudden brotherhood. A few human, who had not followed the Varden out to Surda, remained with the dwarves, talking and laughing as if one of them.
And for all Eragon knew, they might be.
The music was spirited and, after signing at least fifteen papers to legalize his adoption into the dwarvan family, he was allowed to mingle. An older dwarf woman led him off for a dance, only letting him go after he was out of breath and in need of water. He had never thought such a tiny woman could be so spirited in her dancing. Eragon, smiling, headed over to the bowls of numerous drinks, bypassing the kegs of mead. He had learned the hard way that a long night of drinking left one's head spinning. He feared if he drank tonight, tomorrow on his trip back to Surda he might fall off of Saphira.
He caught sight of Arya and Roran, who looked as if they were deep in conversation. Something inside of Eragon welled up in irrational anger. Saphira, on the other side of the room, seemed to sense it, for she asked, What is it?
Nothing, Eragon replied shortly, ending contact. He poured himself a small glass of water, taking a draft, and stared stonily at the back of him cousin's head. What is it you two are talking about? Eragon thought to himself. He and Arya had never spoken like that.
Just as the thought made Eragon's anger bubble up again, Arya glanced up, casually, her green eyes hooded. Eragon held her gaze for a long moment, letting her see the hurt in his eyes. It was a bold and brazen move, something he would never have done if not under such pressures. What else could she do to him now? She had rejected him twice, and now she opened up to his cousin.
Stop it, Eragon, he heard Saphira sigh through their mental link. His first thought was to shut her off, but her next words made him stop. Don't you remember anything? Your cousin is already in love –engaged, even.
That means nothing, Eragon spat, although he knew he was being foolish. Saphira was right. Roran had loved Katrina for so long…
Arya, in the mean time, had stood and was slowly making her way through the throng of people, steadily progressing toward Eragon. Eragon didn't like the expression she wore; there was something suspiciously like irritation there, half-hidden in her eyes. As she drew beside him, she took the cup from his hands, putting it down. "Dance with me," she said, tone cold.
"No," Eragon murmured, although it took quite an expanse of his energy. He was still annoyed with her, no matter how silly and juvenile. "I don't dance."
"You seemed to be dancing well enough with that dwarvan woman, and the human maid before her," she hissed in the ancient language.
Eragon looked away from her angry green eyes, catching sight of Saphira. She was watching their precarious show of blatant unease with one another, a small smile on her jowls.
"Eragon, dance with me. We need to talk," Arya alleged, a bit softer this time.
Eragon gave into her, just like he had promised himself he wouldn't. Reluctantly he took her hand in his, feeling the usual jolt somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He led her onto the dance floor, pulling her close. The tune had become much softer; a lilting tune of lost love, no doubt. The flute and mandolin created the soft, sweet quality to the song, while the hammered Dulcimer added a sorrowful note. The song reminded him so much of Arya that it was painful.
"Roran was speaking to me of Katrina." Her arms went around his neck, the coarse woolen material of her tunic brushing his cheek. "He is upset and does not feel he can talk to you anymore. All love you; you have seen so many races… and you have known much that he has been ignorant to until a week ago. He feels inferior."
"But-" Eragon sputtered, eyes widening.
"Shhh," Arya whispered, lowering her voice and murmuring in the ancient language. "I could tell by the way he was always silent around you. Even when I was not around, he was uncomfortable. You must speak to him tonight, Eragon. Reassure him. I believe she is still alive... Yet I fear what she may have been put through."
This was probably one of the only times Arya had ever been open about her thoughts… was she simply opening up because he had been upset? "While you were imprisoned…" Eragon began before faltering. Hadn't she said that the men had tried raping her? Of course she hadn't allowed it, of course she had protected herself; but Katrina was nothing like Arya. "Do you think they have… forced themselves on Katrina?"
"It is possible… probable, in fact," she murmured. "I did not mention the fact to Roran, for I fear he would have broken under the inclination. It is a miracle she is still alive," Arya began somberly, "yet there are things much worse that death."
Eragon pulled Arya a bit tighter to him unintentionally, wanting to offer comfort, wanting to let her know that he was there. He felt her stiffen before slowly relaxing. "I'm glad I saved you." Arya's only response was a faint nod.
The remainder of the song, they danced in silence. As the final strains of the song ended, Arya pulled away gently. "Talk to him tonight, but do not stay up too late. We leave early tomorrow morning."
Eragon nodded, offering her a smile. "Arya… I'm sorry. For so much. For everything I've done, and everything that was done to you by my kind. I'm sorry."
Her wise eyes bore into his for a long moment before she said, "There is no need for you to apologise, Rider. We are friends." With that, she turned and marched out of the dining hall and into the dark tunnels.
…
Author's Note:
Ah, another chapter, done and gone. Fare thee well! But on a serious note (I'm sorry, I got no sleep last night and then was dragged to Tampa today…) the story will pick up in the next two chapters for –dun dun da dun!- they will be off to save dear Katrina. Speaking of, I gave 10 dollars to the Katrina relief fund. It was a good feeling. My heart goes out to all those affected!
Love love,
Eternity.