Chapter Text
The splintered wooden railing isn’t what keeps Nuanorúm away from her subjects, but she leans heavily against it just the same. Her eyes, faintly luminescent, hunt across the horizon, where gently lapping waves lick the sand. A golden ship with billowing white sails soars towards the port and Nuanorúm inhales, a sharp, desperate hiss. Her tail flicks angrily and she settles into a crouch at the edge of the balcony, waiting for the moment she can finally speak.
“He’s grieving,” the crimson man grimaces, amber eyes fixed on the approaching vessel. A snarl forms behind his pointed teeth but he swallows it.
“That’s clear, Lausvit,” the man beside him replies, a subtle sarcasm curling his words. His gaze flicks almost involuntarily towards the dilapidated tower where he can almost imagine their emerald queen standing proudly to greet their guests. “Even a fool could see that.”
Arcing one perfect ebony eyebrow, Lausvit allows the first of his snarl to change his expression. “And so a fool did if you noticed, too,” he replies in a low voice. “You are documenting this, Domifethr? Scribe?”
Adjusting his jerkin and his pride, Domifethr clears his throat. “Yes, sir,” he replies dipping his head. With one hand flat against a blank page, he hums quietly to himself and the paper glows as inky black lines pull themselves into letters and words.
Lausvit sighs but somehow it doesn’t seem like he relaxes at all. “Don’t worry yourself, scribe,” he remarks shallowly, turning his eyes to examine his subjects. Nuanorum’s subjects. “Someone’s doing enough of that already,” he grumbles.
Domifethr’s copper eyes return to the tower and he traces the lines carved in the stone by twisting vines. The massive piles of wreckage compete with the rest of the castle for height but the tower stands alone, rising far above the rest. Even with the sun flooding the shore and a salty air dancing in a light breeze, the ruins are ominous.
“She is very quiet, though,” he observes, concern creeping into his voice.
Scoffing harshly, Lausvit seems to yank his eyes away from the looming ship to fix Domifethr in a mocking stare. “She must be, scribe. The vow doesn’t break until the Shining Palm arrives. When he accepts our hospitality, maga will release her. She will be beautiful.”
Domifethr doesn’t respond, preferring to focus instead on his work. He glances down with a disgruntled frown when he realizes his perfect letters and words have become misshapen. Waving his hand to clear the sheet, he starts again. Regardless, the things he doesn’t dare say come to mind unbidden, and he wonders if the queen could really be beautiful after twenty years in isolation with maga.
The looming ship begins to glow as it gets closer, the thoughts of the dozen or so elfin on the shore focusing sharply on it. The helm seems positively radiant, and of course it is. The work of fine artisans, this vessel is meant as much for beauty as for practicality.
Glowing headstones litter the beach, proof that the ship isn’t the only thing on the minds of the gathered crowd. The thoughts of each individual strengthen the display and Domifethr can’t help sending a silent whisper to whatever force of maga might be listening, begging that this be the end of it all. When he looks up again, the sky seems to glitter and he realizes that he’s caught a glimpse of the massive wingspan of a dragon, certainly a good sign. He smiles softly.
The others notice as well and a tremor of nervous excitement ripples through the elfins, gathered in small groups. No amount of fear could stoop these shoulders, and they stand proudly, a rainbow display on a sandy brown beach. Their tails flick nervously and their fur bristles, evidence of the ferocity they possess. After so many grief-filled years, it’s hard to accept that they’ll have any real cause for celebration, and of course they can’t ignore the possibility that it’s all coming too late.
Although most of the men keep their eyes fixed firmly on the ship, a few allow themselves a brief glance at a particular headstone, as if afraid it will be damaged by the ships arrival and the splashing waves. More often, it’s the women who do so, although their stances make it clear that they’re ready to act should the need arise.
Every color is represented among the men and women on the shore, and the rumbling basses and chiming sopranos dance across the breeze with the low conversations that escape their lips. There is no laughter, and there are no children.
We’re here, Little One. Saphira pushes her head into the ship’s main cabin and nudges her resting Rider, amused that he can remain still for so long. Knowing that this rest is spurred by the deepest grief he has known colors her emotions with bleak melancholy.
Eragon rolls over with a groan, his stiff muscles protesting sudden movement after laying down for so long. His face feels tight and dry, the result of too many wasted tears. Saphira’s soft concern rolls over him and he allows his eyes to drift sadly toward her great blue face. Am I weak? he asks meekly.
No, she responds quickly and firmly. She observes him for a moment before adding: but you cannot go on like this. Neither of us can. Let us leave our grief in the ocean and let it sink like a ton of stones. A puff of smoke escapes her nostrils and Eragon sees a memory of a certain green dragon drift across her mind.
It certainly feels like a ton of stones, he remarks with false humor. He grimaces and rolls to a seated position, reaching a hand out to scratch the corner of her jaw.
She puffs a second burst of smoke, this time with a cheerful grumble in her chest, and withdraws her head slowly, allowing Eragon the privacy to get dressed. We are here, Little One. Be ready.
“Where is here?” he wonders aloud to himself as he pulls on one of the outfits the elves gifted him. The association hurts but he can’t deny the beauty of the garments and something about their landing seems to justify a courtly bearing. Donning an ornate jerkin and sword belt, he clasps Brisingr at his hip and steps towards the cabin door.
Blödhgarm approaches, Saphira murmurs as Eragon takes a steadying breath and emerges onto the deck. The bright sun tickles his skin and he squints against its light. He remembers the first time he saw the sun after spending time in Tronjheim and wonders whether that stone labyrinth ever felt so oppressive as his own grief does now. The salty air tingles his raw face and he breathes another desperate mouthful of it.
Approaching with the same stoic expression as usual, Blödhgarm manages a stiff nod, no doubt a remnant of his time serving under Eragon with the Varden. “Astra esterní ono thelduin, Eragon Shur’tugal,” he announces, twisting one hand over his chest.
Eragon pauses, considering the words, and his friend. With careful eyes and deliberate slowness, Eragon responds in like: “Mor’anr lifa unin hjarta onr, Blödhgarm-vor. If it’s all the same to you, I think it’s best that we leave these traditions behind.”
If the blue elf is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Acknowledging Eragon’s suggestion with a curt nod, he continues in the Ancient Language, “You look unwell, Shur’tugal.” He searches Eragon’s face for a moment, although the movement is discreet and Eragon wonders whether he’s trying to keep from looking too concerned, or keep from making Eragon feel like a specimen.
“Our grief is heavy,” Eragon responds, switching naturally to the plural pronoun. “It weighs on us like stones, but we must let it sink.” He turns to face the looming shore and the promise of a new life, whatever that means. An array of men and women seem to be awaiting their arrival and he can’t help noticing their resemblance to his companion. “Have you seen these people, Blödhgarm?” he asks, peering sideways at the elf.
“Indeed, Shur’tugal,” he responds sharply, fur bristling. He doesn’t elaborate and Eragon doesn’t push.
They look like dragons, Saphira comments, surprising Eragon. He reconsiders and realizes she’s right. Although the people on shore have the lengthy, slender builds of the elves in Alagaësia, their flat noses and wide eyes seem more like a dragon than anything else.
Muscled tails flick anxiously around their feet and Eragon wonders if they’re scaled. His sight is vastly improved since the Agaetí Blödhren but he can’t quite see that small a detail from so far away. Nerves build tightly in his stomach and he clenches his muscles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Blödhgarm do the same, and realizes Saphira must have projected to them both. Considering that it is only the three of them moving on from here, he supposes he must get used to that sort of closeness.
Saphira silently confirms this assessment and Eragon places a gentle hand against her neck, looking forward like the bold statue adorning the hull of every ship. His attention pulls toward Blödhgarm and he stifles the awkwardness in his chest, reaching an arm out to clap his hand across the elf’s shoulders. He’s not sure how much comfort or solidarity it provides but he seems to relax at the touch and Eragon allows himself a small smile.
As they pull into the port and the ship knocks gently against the dock, Eragon swallows hard. He begins to raise his hand in greeting but drops it quickly, wary of cultural differences. Waiting until they meet face to face seems to be a safer option, although he’s also afraid their languages will be too different for that to go smoothly either. With one last swell, the ocean delivers the ship finally against the shore and the vessel stops.
Do we fly? Eragon asks, already climbing onto Saphira’s back. The question is hardly necessary as he knows what her answer will be, and indeed nearly always is.
Not always, she corrects with another puff of smoke. But I am the sky.
Eragon laughs uneasily, not sure what he is detecting in her thoughts. He glances at Blödhgarm who has already moved to the front of the ship and begun disembarking. As Saphira thrusts her wings into the air and plummets them downward with a strong precision, Eragon notices what feels like the slightest shift in their energy, as if his mind is suddenly clearer.
Something inside them, ancient and powerful, seems to have come to the surface and stirs there, ready to be released but not quite pushing itself out. Eragon shakes his head and closes off his mind to all but Saphira. The rush of wind against his face enlivens him and he cautions a glance back at the spot where he knew the Eldunarí are hidden.
We are well, Rider, they confirm together, overpowering even the strongest of his mental barriers.
Eragon settles easily into the saddle and breathes once, steadying himself as he and Saphira embrace the sky.
No, he corrects, the air. Saphira is the sky. He can feel the joy in her thoughts and allows it to pour into himself as well. And so am I.
Cracking violently, as if under the weight of a massive stone, Nuanorúm bellows a silent scream. The force of the maga, contained in her chest for so long, threatens to rip her apart as the Shining Palm arrives. Burning and devoted, she keeps her thoughts focused on her subjects and waits while her own powers return to her. She flexes her fingers against the pain, grinning wildly, and fixes her eyes on the brilliant blue dragon as it takes off.