I lost track of time somewhere in the maze of sleepless nights and excruciating hunger. Days, weeks, months – everything merged into a shapeless mass consisting of pain, weakness and despair. The stone walls of your temporary burial chamber were shrinking around you, as if they wanted to completely engulf you. The plague, this all-devouring monster, has trapped you here, cutting you off from the world, from life. You were lying on a cold, damp floor, your body exhausted, your spirit broken. His mind flickered like a single candle in the wind, about to go out.

Then, when hope seemed like a ghost, a figure appeared in the opening of the stone door. Eragon. A name that flashed through the veil of oblivion, evoking in your memory a glimmer of the past – friendship, light, hope.

His face, illuminated by the dim torch, was serious, but there was compassion in his eyes. You felt him gently, gently, lifting you up. Your body reacted to the slightest movement with a sharp, piercing pain, but you couldn't even protest. Your strength has left you.

And so, you felt the coolness of metal on your lips. The cold, life-giving moisture of the flask. Water. The first sip after a seemingly endless drought. It flowed down his throat, bringing not only physical relief, but also hope, a symbol of returning to life. Every drop was more precious than gold.

— «Drink, you're completely weak,» — his voice sounded, quiet, calm, like a soothing whisper. There was concern in those words, a willingness to help, and support, which was more valuable than anything in the world in your circumstances.