Christopher Paolini - Brisingr [en]

A plume of dark gray smoke erupted from Saphira’s nostrils as she made a choking-like noise.

Eragon ignored her suppressed merriment and said, “Arya is an elf.”

“And very beautiful. Pointed ears and slanted eyes are small flaws when compared with her charms. You look like a cat yourself now.”

“Arya is over a hundred years old.”

That particular piece of information caught Roran by surprise; his eyebrows went up, and he said, “I find that hard to believe! She’s in the prime of her youth.”

“It’s true.”

“Well, be that as it may, these are reasons you give me, Eragon, and the heart rarely listens to reason. Do you fancy her or not?”

If he fancied her any more, Saphira said to both Eragon and Roran, I’d be trying to kiss Arya myself .

Saphira! Mortified, Eragon swatted her on the leg.

Roran was prudent enough not to rib Eragon further. “Then answer my original question and tell me how things stand between you and Arya. Have you spoken to her or her family about this? I have found it’s unwise to let such matters fester.”

“Aye,” said Eragon, and stared at the length of polished hawthorn. “I spoke with her.”

“To what end?” When Eragon did not immediately reply, Roran uttered a frustrated exclamation. “Getting answers out of you is harder than dragging Birka through the mud.” Eragon chuckled at the mention of Birka, one of their draft horses. “Saphira, will you solve this puzzle for me? Otherwise, I fear I’ll never get a full explanation.”

“To no end. No end at all. She’ll not have me.” Eragon spoke dispassionately, as if commenting on a stranger’s misfortune, but within him raged a torrent of hurt so deep and wild, he felt Saphira withdraw somewhat from him.

“I’m sorry,” said Roran.

Eragon forced a swallow past the lump in his throat, past the bruise that was his heart, and down to the knotted skein of his stomach. “It happens.”

“I know it may seem unlikely at the moment,” said Roran, “but I’m sure you will meet another woman who will make you forget this Arya. There are countless maids — and more than a few married women, I’d wager — who would be delighted to catch the eye of a Rider. You’ll have no trouble finding a wife among all the lovelies in Alagaësia.”

“And what would you have done if Katrina rejected your suit?”

The question struck Roran dumb; it was obvious he could not imagine how he might have reacted.

Eragon continued. “Contrary to what you, Arya, and everyone else seem to believe, I am aware that other eligible women exist in Alagaësia and that people have been known to fall in love more than once. No doubt, if I spent my days in the company of ladies from King Orrin’s court, I might indeed decide that I fancy one. However, my path is not so easy as that. Regardless of whether I can shift my affections to another — and the heart, as you observed, is a notoriously fickle beast — the question remains: should I?”

“Your tongue has grown as twisted as the roots of a fir tree,” said Roran. “Speak not in riddles.”

“Very well: what human woman can begin to understand who and what I am, or the extent of my powers? Who could share in my life? Few enough, and all of them magicians. And of that select group, or even of women in general, how many are immortal?”

Roran laughed, a rough, hearty bellow that rang loud in the gulch. “You might as well ask for the sun in your pocket or—” He stopped and tensed as if he were about to spring forward and then became unnaturally still. “You cannot be.”

“I am.”

Roran struggled to find words. “Is it a result of your change in Ellesméra, or is it part of being a Rider?”

“Part of being a Rider.”

“That explains why Galbatorix hasn’t died.”

“Aye.”

The branch Roran had added to the fire burst asunder with a muted pop as the coals underneath heated the gnarled length of wood to the point where a small cache of water or sap that had somehow evaded the rays of the sun for untold decades exploded into steam.

“The idea is so... vast, it’s almost inconceivable,” said Roran. “Death is part of who we are. It guides us. It shapes us. It drives us to madness. Can you still be human if you have no mortal end?”

“I’m not invincible,” Eragon pointed out. “I can still be killed with a sword or an arrow. And I can still catch some incurable disease.”

“But if you avoid those dangers, you will live forever.”

“If I do, then yes. Saphira and I will endure.”

“It seems both a blessing and a curse.”

“Aye. I cannot in good conscience marry a woman who will age and die while I remain untouched by time; such an experience would be equally cruel for both of us. On top of that, I find the thought of taking one wife after another throughout the long centuries rather depressing.”

“Can you make someone immortal with magic?” asked Roran.

“You can darken white hair, you can smooth wrinkles and remove cataracts, and if you are willing to go to extraordinary lengths, you can give a sixty-year-old man the body he had at nineteen. However, the elves have never discovered a way to restore a person’s mind without destroying his or her memories. And who wants to erase their identity every so many decades in exchange for immortality? It would be a stranger, then, who lived on. An old brain in a young body isn’t the answer either, for even with the best of health, that which we humans are made of can only last for a century, perhaps a bit more. Nor can you just stop someone from aging. That causes a whole host of other problems... Oh, elves and men have tried a thousand and one different ways to foil death, but none have proved successful.”

“In other words,” said Roran, “it’s safer for you to love Arya than to leave your heart free for the taking by a human woman.”

“Who else can I marry but an elf? Especially considering how I look now.” Eragon quelled the desire to reach up and finger the curved tips of his ears, a habit he had fallen into. “When I lived in Ellesméra, it was easy for me to accept how the dragons had changed my appearance. After all, they gave me many gifts besides. Also, the elves were friendlier toward me after the Agaetí Blödhren. It was only when I rejoined the Varden that I realized how different I’ve become... It bothers me too. I’m no longer just human, and I’m not quite an elf. I’m something else in between: a mix, a halfbreed.”

“Cheer up!” said Roran. “You may not have to worry about living forever. Galbatorix, Murtagh, the Ra’zac, or even one of the Empire’s soldiers could put steel through us at any moment. A wise man would ignore the future and drink and carouse while he still has an opportunity to enjoy this world.”

“I know what Father would say to that.”

“And he’d give us a good hiding to boot.”

They shared a laugh, and then the silence that so often intruded on their discussion asserted itself once again, a gap born of equal parts weariness, familiarity, and — conversely — the many differences that fate had created between those who had once gone about lives that were but variations on a single melody.

You should sleep, said Saphira to Eragon and Roran. It’s late, and we must rise early tomorrow .

Eragon looked at the black vault of the sky, judging the hour by how far the stars had rotated. The night was older than he expected. “Sound advice,” he said. “I just wish we had a few more days to rest before we storm Helgrind. The battle on the Burning Plains drained all of Saphira’s strength and my own, and we have not fully recovered, what with flying here and the energy I transferred into the belt of Beloth the Wise these past two evenings. My limbs still ache, and I have more bruises than I can count. Look... ” Loosening the ties on the cuff of his left shirtsleeve, he pushed back the soft lámarae — a fabric the elves made by cross-weaving wool and nettle threads — revealing a rancid yellow streak where his shield had mashed against his forearm.