The Natives: The Prequel(An Eragon FanFiction)

2| The Frost

"The sands of time cannot be stopped. Years pass whether we will them or not... but we can remember. What has been lost may yet live on in memories."
- Brom

Continent: Alalëa

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Jaron
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Two days before Nuoli:

My shoulder blades screeched in agony as my grueling work continued. The blade of the hoe collided with the earth.

Perspiration condensed on my skin, my blond hair clinging to my forehead. The sweat cascaded down my secretion soaked hair, stinging my eyes. I blinked rapidly, my tears washing away the lingering sting as I raised the hoe again for another blow to the soil.

I ground my teeth together forcefully, pain erupting at the base of my jaw, more immense than in my shoulders. This kept my mind further from the agony in my joints. My leather gloves were starting the irritate my palms as the farm tool writhed beneath my grip. My fingers were also beginning to cramp from clutching the tool.

I heaved one last blow to the earth, leaving behind a deep black-brown fissure in the soil. I propped the wooden end of the tool vertically towards me as I leaned against it, panting for air. My lungs received their relief shortly thereafter, although the steadying of my racing heart was a bit more prolonged.

I wiped the sweat from my eyes and brow as I squinted against the sun's painful rays. The heat did not help me with quickening my task completion, my task being to churn all the dirt in our paddock for the vegetable garden as well as set the rows for my wife, Fyrn, to plant her vegetation.

I unclasped the iron button on both of my gloves, throwing the leather onto the side of the grass bordering my churned dirt. I let gravity take the hoe, watching as it collapsed almost soundlessly onto a cushion of dirt. I turned on my heel in pursuit of my gloves, collapsing almost as the hoe did against the grass. I sighed in my lethargy and turned over to fetch my flask next to my gloves. I drank from the water supply until the flask was empty, regretting the fact I would have to refill it if I wished for another drink.

I rubbed my palms over my face, causing my skin to become slightly pink. I sighed as I began to steady my breathing, my muscles basking in their relief.

Without warning, an urgent voice coaxed me back from my relaxation, "Father! Mother, h-help!" I jolted forward, off of the ground. My daughter, Asrai, stood in the door frame to our cottage. Her face was drenched in tears and her face was contorted with worry.

I rushed to her side, cupping her shoulders as I led her inside, urgency in my steps. I unclasped my hands from her shoulders as we entered into our home, closing the door behind me.

"Wait here," I told her. Still shaking, the young girl of eight understood my pleas and returned my request with a weak nod. I abandoned her by the door frame as I jogged through our mud room and into our kitchen. My teenage son, Arrin, was kneeling on the floor, his mother in his arms. The kitchen had almost been completely cleared, the table being pushed against the wall. My beloved Fyrn was submersed in secretion. Her violet eyes were twitching, flying side to side madly in their sockets. Her body was convulsing under my son's grip as he struggled to contain her. Her face was gaunt, and it was pale.

"Let her go son," I said. Slowly, the boy released his grip on his mother. Fyrn convulsed off of his lap and began having spasms on the floor. I watched in horror as my wife became still, convulsing periodically. "What happened?" I asked my son, his brow slanted in confusion and fright.

"She was cooking our supper, our meat. Suddenly she collapsed, I caught her, but she just started having spasms like that!" his voice was thick and hoarse.

"Did she taste the meat?" I asked him. He shrugged, he didn't know. I collapsed next to her, listening for her breath. Finally, after hearing an exhale, I heaved her in my arms. "Get your sister," I said. "Tell her to dampen the towelettes. Hurry out to retrieve Gäthim." My son nodded, he turned swiftly in pursuit of his sister and the healer.

With my wife in mind, I rushed out of our kitchen and into our common room. A small sofa positioned next to a miniature table was where I finally lowered her. Gently, I stroked her black hair, it was laden with secretion. Her beautiful eyes were shielded by her eyelids, and I longed to again see their earnest depths. I placed the back of my hand against her forehead, she was burning a fever beneath her skin. Although in the climax of a fever, her sweats were cold. Accompanied by her chilled perspiration was a gaunt and pale complexion, it was so unlike my wife who was usually rosy and full of color.

I frowned in a state of pity and worry, I had seen this disease before, I had also seen it take life away. I hoped it would not be this way for my beloved, but there was nothing my family or myself could do. If her fever broke in the first 48 hours of sickness my wife would live, or at least that was how this disease worked. If not, it would be wise of my family and I to prepare for her burial.

"Father," a timid voice called to me. I turned, my beautiful little girl stalked into our common room, a silver platter with a washing bowl and pitcher in her forearms. I beckoned her to me, faking a weak smile for her as she approached. I gestured for her to set the platter on the miniature table. I heard the clatter of platter against porcelain as I continued to stroke Fyrn's hair. This was followed by the trickling of water as Asrai ringed out a towelette. "Father..," she repeated. I turned, relieving her of the damp towel. I folded it and proceeded to lay it across Fyrn's forehead.

I sat with my back up against the side of the sofa, facing Asrai as she leaned against the table. I smiled faintly, again, and then it was gone. "What's happened to mother?" she asked. I looked at the girl. Her golden ringlets and rosy cheeks deemed her innocent. Where she had received her golden locks was a mystery to my whole family, for none of us possessed such beautiful hair. But the pigment in her cheeks, I knew without a single doubt this was a trait of her mother's. I smiled again, but for real. Even if I did lose my wife, I would lose her knowing I still had a part of her.

"I don't know, little love. But I do know she loves you very much. I also know your mother is a fighter, and she won't give up so long as we're here to tend to her." My daughter looked away then, she was distant behind her eyes.

"She's ridden with the Frost, isn't she Father?" I saw a pool of tears gather, producing a film to flood over her sapphire eyes. For one so young, for one who had not yet had a loved one pass, she was fully submersed in misery.

I choked on my words as I tried to reply, the disease I had seen so many of our race fall to had finally kicked down our doors. "Yes, little love, she is. But Mommy won't pass like the others, Mommy is strong." I saw doubt in her body language, but nonetheless I attempted to console the broken girl. The whole while a seed of doubt kept repeating, Don't make promises you cannot keep.

I sighed heavily, all we could do now was wait for Arrin to return. I closed my eyes, running my fingers through my hair, I continued the motion, as if it would solve something. When my scalp was sore I ceased, propping my elbow up against the cusion of the sofa. I turned to gaze at Fyrn, a burning agony in my chest. Her whole body was soaked in secretion, her breathing was heavy and forced, and her eyes continued to dart back and forth under her eyelids.

"Father!" a voice called from the kitchen, "I've gotten Gäthim!"

"More like I came on my own accord!" came a husky voice from the same room. "Where is she? I came as soon as I heard she was ill."

"In here Gäthim," I called. "She just started ceasing moments ago."

A stout and plump elderly man with greasy brown hair waddled in, concern apparent on his brow. He knelt down next to me, using my shoulder as support for the way down to his knees. He brushed aside the cool towelette we had placed on Fyrn's forehead and laid the back of his hand against her boiling skin.

Moments passed before anyone dares blink or even breathe. Gäthim turned to me, slowly, pity and sadness filling the depths of his emerald eyes. "Jaron," he began, his voice shaking and pitchy, "it would be wise to prepare for a funeral."

Immediately, my heart dropped below my stomach, and out of my body. Hot, white, rage inflamed my veins, and my throat swelled tight. Tears pulsed out of my eyes.

I had just been told I would lose my soul mate.