Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

“I don’t know. I think … I think that, perhaps, they just can’t bring themselves to look a man in the face and kill him, although it seems easy enough for them to cut down soldiers whose backs are turned. So they wait for others to do what they cannot. They wait for people like me.”

“Do you think Galbatorix’s men are equally reluctant?”

Roran shrugged. “They might be. But then, they have no choice but to obey Galbatorix. If he orders them to fight, they fight.”

“Nasuada could do the same. She could have her magicians cast spells to ensure that no one shirks their duty.”

“What difference would there be between her and Galbatorix, then? In any case, the Varden wouldn’t stand for it.”

Katrina left her washing to come and kiss him on the forehead. “I’m glad you can do what you do,” she whispered. She returned to the tub and began scrubbing another strip of soiled linen over the washboard. “I felt something earlier, from my ring.… I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

“I was in the middle of a battle. It wouldn’t be surprising if you had felt a twinge every few minutes.”

She paused with her arms in the water. “I never have before.”

He drained the mug of ale, seeking to delay the inevitable. He had hoped to spare her the details of his misadventure in the castle, but it was plain that she would not rest until she knew the truth. Attempting to convince her otherwise would only lead her to imagine calamities far worse than what had actually occurred. Besides, it would be pointless for him to hold back when news of the event would soon be common throughout the Varden.

So he told her. He gave her a brief account and tried to make the collapse of the wall seem more like a minor inconvenience rather than something that had almost killed him. Still, he found it difficult to describe the experience, and he spoke haltingly, searching for the right words. When he finished, he fell silent, troubled by the remembrance.

“At least you weren’t hurt,” said Katrina.

He picked at a crack in the lip of the mug. “No.”

The sound of sloshing water ceased, and he could feel her eyes heavy upon him.

“You’ve faced far greater danger before.”

“Yes … I suppose.”

Her voice softened. “What’s wrong, then?” When he did not answer, she said, “There’s nothing so terrible you can’t tell me, Roran. You know that.”

The edge of his right thumbnail tore as he picked at the mug again. He rubbed the sharp flap against his forefinger several times. “I thought I was going to die when the wall fell.”

“Anyone might have.”

“Yes, but the thing is, I didn’t mind .” Anguished, he looked at her. “Don’t you understand? I gave up . When I realized I couldn’t escape, I accepted it as meekly as a lamb led to slaughter, and I-” Unable to continue, he dropped the mug and hid his face in his hands. The swelling in his throat made it hard to breathe. Then he felt Katrina’s fingers light upon his shoulders. “I gave up,” he growled, furious and disgusted with himself. “I just stopped fighting.… For you … For our child.” He choked on the words.

“Shh, shh,” she murmured.

“I’ve never given up before. Not once.… Not even when the Ra’zac took you.”

“I know you haven’t.”

“This fighting has to end. It can’t go on like this.… I can’t … I-” He raised his head and was horrified to see that she too was on the verge of tears. Standing, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.… It won’t happen again. Never again. I promise.”

“I don’t care about that ,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Her reply stung him. “I know I was weak, but my word still ought to be worth something to you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she exclaimed, and drew back to look at him accusingly. “You’re a fool sometimes, Roran.”

He smiled slightly. “I know.”

She clasped her hands behind his neck. “I wouldn’t think any less of you, regardless of what you felt when the wall came down. All that matters is that you’re still alive.… There wasn’t anything you could do when the wall fell, was there?”

He shook his head.

“Then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you could have stopped it, or if you could have escaped but you didn’t, then you would have lost my respect. But you did everything you could, and when you could do no more, you made peace with your fate, and you didn’t rail needlessly against it. That is wisdom, not weakness.”

He bowed and kissed her on the brow. “Thank you.”

“And as far as I am concerned, you are the bravest, strongest, kindest man in all of Alagaesia.”

This time he kissed her on the mouth. Afterward, she laughed, a short, quick release of pent-up tension, and they stood swaying together, as if dancing to a melody only they could hear.

Then Katrina gave him a playful push and went to finish the washing, and he settled back on the stump, content for the first time since the battle, despite his numerous aches and pains.

Roran watched the men, horses, and the occasional dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent, noting their wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general mood of the Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals needed a good sleep and a decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals-especially the Urgals-needed to be scoured from head to foot with a hog’s-hair brush and buckets of soapy water.

He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually faded and she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little success. A scowl darkened her face, and she began to make small noises of frustration.

At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy water several feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran pushed himself off the stump and made his way to her side.

“Here, let me,” he said.

“It wouldn’t be fitting,” she muttered.

“Nonsense. Go sit down, and I’ll finish.… Go on.”

She shook her head. “No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn’t man’s work.”

He snorted with derision. “By whose decree? A man’s work, or a woman’s, is whatever needs to be done. Now go sit down; you’ll feel better once you’re off your feet.”

“Roran, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly.” He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.

“It’s not right,” she protested. “What would people think?” She gestured at the men hurrying along the muddy lane next to their tent.

“They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I’m any less of a man for helping you, then they’re fools.”

“But-”

“But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here.”

“But-”

“I’m not going to argue. If you don’t go sit, I’m going to carry you over there and tie you to that stump.”

A bemused expression replaced her scowl. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Now go!” As she reluctantly ceded her position at the tub, he made a noise of exasperation. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Speak for yourself. You could teach a mule a thing or two.”

“Not me. I’m not stubborn.” Undoing his belt, he removed his mail shirt and hung it on the front pole of the tent, then peeled off his gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The air was cool against his skin, and the bandages were colder still-they had grown chill while lying exposed on the washboard-but he did not mind, for the water was warm, and soon the cloth was as well. Frothy mounds of iridescent bubbles built up around his wrists as he pushed and pulled the material across the full length of the knobby board.