The Rise: Eldunari

Chapter 31- The Joining of the Minds

Arya stood on a white, wintery sheet. The sky was grey with snow clouds, the wind howled unforgivingly in her ears. In a time like this, she was grateful for her fur coat and woolen gloves. Firen stood by her side, observing the landscape, embracing it. He breathed a jet of green flame, melting the ice and scorching the surface of the otherwise pristine ground.

Streaks of lightning hurled through the sky. The clouds darkened as visibility dropped to near zero. Before Arya, roughly a tenth of a league, sat Eragon and Ava. Two dots in the smooth snow. But there was something about their presence, which seemed...artificial. Their image flickered, as if they were two embers in a roaring flame. Arya could make out Ava's calmed expression. Uninterested in the raging snowstorm around her. Eragon's features too were still, but strained.

Let us take a closer look, Arya.

Closing her eyes once again, the landscape shifted. A barren mountain peak, surrounded by a stone forest. Ava and Eragon stood on the mountain's peak, unmoving, unwilling to give a step of ground in their mental battle. Their eyes had rolled to the back of their heads as Arya continued to observe their vicious dance. Cuts had begun to appear on Ava's wrists, neck and finger tips. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Eragon fingers jittered, working whatever kind of magic he was capable of.
A level deeper ought to reveal to us what is going on.

The landscape shifted once more. Carvahall. Ava had disappeared. Arya viewed the mildly busy town, as if it were just another ordinary day. She recognised Garrow's house- through Eragon's thorough descriptions which he recounted to her in the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning. Arya felt a familiar presence, hints of blue, dark and light, and sky and navy. She ventured further into the mirage, and found a young boy, no older than fifteen. His rucksack held an odd round object- an egg. Arya recognised it immediately. This was a memory. A deep memory in Eragon's mind.

The scene shifted again. Darkness had struck the town. Three heavily cloaked figures approached the Garrow's house, scythes and knives in hand. Arya sped forward, hurling a spell that should have obliterated the Ra'zac in mere seconds, but nothing happened. She followed the creatures into the house. Screams of torture and the sickening slick of a metal slicing through skin penetrated Arya's ears. Garrow fell.
It's just a memory.
But something was wrong. The blood kept flowing. The blood stained her boots. The blood started to rise. Garrow's blood. Behind her, Eragon stood, chained to a stone tablet. Forced to witness the scene of Garrow's death again. And again. The knife decapitating Garrow's head, the flames burning his home to the ground. Arya looked, Eragon was distressed. She rushed to his side, pulling and tugging at the chains, but to no avail.
Stop this. Stop this now.
But the scene continued.

The visual shifted to the Burning Plains. Thousands dead. Thousands more waiting to die, like sheep led to slaughter. Arya knew where this was going. Somehow, in the deep recesses of Eragon's mind, his fears had been excavated. Eragon had confessed his regret of the thousands that had died during Galbatorix's reign. For seven years, his dreams had been tormented with the faces of the men and women he had killed during battle. Feinster, Aroughs, Dras-Leona. And at the centre of the carnage, was Eragon. His face had been badly bruised. Cut into ribbons of skin beyond recognition.

The scene shifted once more. This time, Arya sat, chained to an endless wooden pole that reached towards the sky. Before her, stood Eragon, bloody dagger in hand.
You have two choices. A voice perfumed in the air.
You know what they are.

Eragon reluctantly strode forward, as if not in control of his arms or legs.
The knife rose into the air, falling into his stomach, blood and innards gushing out. The knife rose and fell into his body again and again, all the while Arya watched in horror. Finally, Eragon stopped. Pulling out the dagger for the last time he spoke: "Alright...end the mirage."
But the scene stayed as it was. Eragon began to shudder. His limbs forced him forward once more towards Arya.
"End the mirage, Ava. Now."
Ava, do as he says. The trial is over. Avarael spoke.
But Eragon kept moving forward against his will. His docile demeanor began to shift, into one of fear. The knife rose, and fell. Into Arya's neck, expounding an endless river of blood.
AVA. END IT NOW.
And the mirage ended.