Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Christopher Paolini or the places. I respect his work and who he his, when I met him he was sincere and kind. I am writing this out of a deep respect for Christopher Paolini's work and to create an ending I felt will give the reader the closure each character should have, in my opinion. With this, if it becomes sought after and reviewed well I will touch on what happens after the fourth book; delve deeper into Eragon and Arya's relationship, explain Angela to some extent, and other details. Let's see how it turns out…. Shall we?
…"Farewell," Eragon whispered as he watched Arya and Fírnen fly back toward where Roran still stood upon the distant shore.
Then Eragon finally allowed tears to spill from his eyes, and he clutched the railing of the ship and wept as he left behind all that he had ever known. Above, Saphira keened, and her grief mingled with his, as they mourned what could never be.
In time, however, Eragon's heart slowed, and his tears dried, and a measure of peace stole over him as he gazed out at the empty plain. He wondered what strange things they might encounter within its wild reaches, and he pondered the life he and Saphira were to have-a life with the dragons and Riders.
We are not alone, little one, said Saphira.
A smile crept across his face.
And the ship saild onward, gliding serenely down the moonlit river to the dark lands beyond.
End of Book Four: Inheritance
Book Five: Rebirth (Tentative)
Chapter 1: Old Memories
Eragon gasped as he sat up in his bed, his tunic damp from his sweat. His brow glistened as he calmed, breathing heavily as if a blow had struck him in the stomach. Exhaustion clung to his already tired body, making his body cry for rest, as he remained upright. He felt his head began to ache as a result from the sudden change in position.
It had been a quarter of a century since Eragon had sailed from Alagaësia to train the Riders and renew the race of the dragons. He had left all that he had ever known: Orik, Nasuada, Roran, Arya... He turned in his bed, resting his feet on the cold wooden floor, as he thought back to his home.
Little news of Alagaësia had reached Eragon. The occasional uprising that was shattered by Nasuada's forces or even the empty threats thrown by Orrin, all was of little importance to him.
The small hill in Carvahall that Roran and him had planned to build a castle on; the crystal tomb of Brom, his father; even Illirea, what had once been the center of Galbatorix's rule and Ûru'Baen, and its towers of green stone built by the Älfakyn in the past. Now in the absence of all this Eragon felt he had lost part of himself.
Eragon knew this to be of little truth as he retold himself his true name within his mind, his body resonated and vibrated as he repeated it: a habit he often followed to keep himself honest to his being.
He casually made his way to a full-length mirror on the wall nearby. Looking into it he saw the man in the glass, a man he was proud of. He adjusted his hair, trying several styles of parting it, moving it, and staring. He eventually accepted it and pulled over his head a clean tunic.
He glanced out the window and noticed the amber wave growing with intensity on the horizon, the sun peaked; letting loose streams of light towards him. As he extended his arms and stretched he felt the sudden presence of Saphira's mind and glanced over to her reflecting mass in the corner of the room.
Good morning little one, said Saphira, acknowledging him with a quick glance.
And you, Saphira, responded Eragon, smiling at the exchange of thoughts.
Saphira hummed with contentment as she extended her right wing, nearly knocking over a side table that was decorated with a copy of Domia abr Wyrda, small vials with various liquids inside, and a small candle that flickered and was emanating a soft glow.
Little one, said Saphira
Yes? Said Eragon as he looked towards his companion once again.
You mustn't worry about the past, look to the future for hope, Saphira gently said.
Eragon could feel the truth that extended from her words and pondered on them shortly.
"Naina hvitr un böllr," said Eragon as several werelights came into existence. The soft blue radiance hung in the air as Eragons eyes adjusted to sudden change in color. He felt a sense of calm at the balance it provided against the warm sunlight cascading in.
As Eragon stood up, he looked into the eaves of the hall he called him home. The lofted ceiling arced high above his head. The wooden beams that were once the ship Talíta held the roof with a peculiar manner. The large beams wrapped across the top of the roof in an almost liquid motion that one could relate to the movement of a dragons neck and, what had been the mast, now marked the centerfold of the hall that presented a defined sense of strength and held the inscriptions with much of the history he had known.
The glyphs spiraled along the pole, sharing the past from the genesis of the Golden Age to the rebirth of the Riders, and everything in between from the battle of Dras Leona to the íllgrathr on Vroengard. The pole was alit with an orange glow from outside, the windows along the sides extended up a majority of the wall and arced to a subtle point, ending the continuity of the pattern on the glass.
Eragon paced down the hall, which extended nearly fifty yards, meticulously placing each of his feet in front of the other, padding softly like that of a Werecat, lost within his thoughts, occasionally interrupted by a soft creek of the floor below him, until he felt himself end up at his doorway.
The door was riddled with gold reliefs of the races he had once known and a map of Alagaësia, stricken with a white stars to mark the resting place of his father; and the current locations of Arya, Roran, and Orik. He felt it was an account of his life, his memories. Above all of this laid a dragon with its wings at full breath allowing for the intensity of its stance and stature to be known. Eragon placed his palm against the door, feeling the cold metal that pushed back and resisted him.
"Ládrin," he muttered, as a fine line appeared in the center and extended down towards the floor, and with a subtle boom, the doors swung open, and there, before Eragon, laid the home of the dragons and the Riders. Aëlden.
A weak crunch sounded as Eragon stepped out of his door, compressing the grey and white gravel beneath his foot, leaving the defined imprint of his boot.
Eragon glanced around as he slowed to a stop. He felt the trees above and around him, how they moved and the energy that flowed from their roots, as Oromis had once taught him while he had been in Du Weldenvarden. Fell Grass lined the edges of the hall, framing the vines that had, over the decades, worked their way up to the precarious edge of his home, intertwining themselves around the statues of dragons that marked the peak of the roof, thirty or more feet from the ground below. Small pink flowers extruded from the stem, offering a contrast against the dark background it was bedded on.
Eragon stood with his hands on his hips, glancing into the early morning sky. The last of the stars were disappearing as the sun hid their existence and the purple hue to the West fell beyond the edge of the world.
Saphira sauntered her sapphire figure out of the massive doorway, rustling the leaves above her with her wings, and looked up towards the sky.
Beautiful isn't it? Saphira inquired to Eragon.
Reminds you how small we are, he responded.
Well I doubt a star could defeat a dragon… Saphira pointed out, snorting in a triumphant manner, no matter how spectacular they are or may seem to others…
You know, for a dragon of your age and wisdom you shouldn't be so excessively proud of yourself and your vanity, Eragon stated in a jokingly manner.
Saphira reared up and spread her wings, allowing her body to glisten and shine from the newborn light.
When you're as remarkable as me, it's a right… she said very resolutely, falling back town onto her forelimbs with a resounding thud.
Eragon chuckled to himself, sensing the sarcasm that, lately, flowed from her with ease in their conversations.
Small leaves from the trees began gliding down, falling end over end, onto her head and scales as a small breeze wound through the forest.
The bark of the trees was rough to the touch; it was speckled with light brown and extended several feet above the top of the hall. The branches rocked back in forth in a rhythmic motion.
The paths leading from Eragon's hall were silent, except for the occasional clink that emanated from Brisingr colliding with the metal links on his pants or the rustle of leaves above.
Saphira's steps vibrated the pebbles below his feet; the vibrations worked their way up his legs and into his core, allowing his body to buzz with motion.
Despite her size, she moved in a very fluid and serene way, carrying herself the way one of royalty would. As she traversed the pathway surroundings, the bright blue scales reflected the ground below her, pulling past her as she moved on, giving the lower portion of her body a broken and blurred gray hue.
Buildings appeared every so often, casting long shadows onto the pathway before them amidst the rising sun. Eragon's feet were soaked from truanting through the dew-covered grass.
Saphira's head would occasionally make short, tight, movements; a movement Eragon had come to notice that meant she had heard a peculiar noise or disturbance in the forest beyond.
Each of the halls Eragon and Saphira passed were large in comparison to the buildings of Carvahall or Illirea. The roofs arced high above them, leaving the sides almost vertical until they curved together to a joint at the peak. A dragons full body rested along the spine of the roof, carved with magic. It's tail wound down along the back in a unique pattern ending in a curl, each spine mimicked and trite. The head looked down off the edge at the doorway, it's mouth wide with ferocity.
As Eragon passed one hall after another, he made notice of the detail each of the different halls had. The history of its rider was adorned on the outside walls in relief. Some marked a life of trial, difficulty, and often despair, while others showed the brighter side of life and the experience of a rider.
Eragon slowed to a halt at the topmost point of a wooden bridge. The railings were smooth from the many hands that had run along them. He looked over the edge, peering into the slow moving water below; smooth rocks lined the bottom in an arbitrary pattern. The lax ripples distorted both the rocks and his image, making him appear as a stranger in his own eyes.
The stream extended beyond an embankment hundreds of feet ahead and disappeared from sight and in doing so he noticed a small sapling had collapsed and now interrupted the current with its insignificant mass.
As Eragon continued on with Saphira, he found himself in an almost trance-like state, one that he often reached through meditation, and as he left the canopy built from the trees overhead he started to notice life beginning to stir.
The occasional werelight was seen extruding from one of the many the great windows that made its home alongside a great hall, displaying the stained glass and the image it revealed.
A small flock of birds, beating their wings in an alternating pattern, soared overhead making their way out over the ocean toward the other islands that made up Aëlden, and a faint continent in the distance.
What gave the dragons' home it's serenity, beauty, and inclination of their hearth was not the complexity of its surroundings, it was what it was, alone.
As Eragon walked past a guardian statue of the dragon Yûtharom, he stopped at the edge of Aëlden, because there, hundreds of feet below the cracked edges of Aëlden and the home of the riders, was the ocean.
Eragon looked to the other islands of the Aëlden and the wonder they beheld. These were not the cliffside cities that Alagaësia had presented, each of these islands hung hundreds of feet in the air, as if they had once been mountains, later reversed in midair.
Vines clung to the sides of each entity, hanging in a rather limp and depressed manner, occasionally disturbed by the cool pushing breeze wafting over the ocean. Grass had grown over the edges, extending downwards, untouched. Numerous flowers and plants had made their home within the cracks and old age of the islands, giving them an odd sort of beauty that he had come to respect.
What intrigued Eragon about these natural phenomena were the waterfalls they each produced. Through either magic or some extent of sorcery each island managed to produce water that had no origin. Large waterfalls cascaded from the sides, collapsing into a fine mist partway down to the sea below.
The island Eragon and Saphira resided on was the largest of the chain, and was almost the lowest, forever casting an ominous black shadow on the water beneath.
Eragon took in a deep breath, allowing himself to hold, and slowly release it.
Imagine if Garrow had seen where I was today, said Eragon, a quick smile adorning his lips.
He would have been proud of the man he saw, and the boy he once knew, responded Saphira.
His eyes glistened and sparkled with sadness as he thought back to his life in Carvahall and the simplicity it had held.
As Eragon turned to the watch the trickling water pouring from a dragons mouth on top of a fountain, the sounds of metal clashing rang out in the air, echoing in the trees beyond, followed by shouts and the intensity of battle.
I believe you are needed, Saphira melodiously stated, turning her head towards the commotion...
End of chapter one
Authors Note:
This marks the end of chapter one. If you see errors or have suggestions for story ideas, let me know. I have the second chapter mostly written and partially typed. If you liked what I have written above, please say so, and I will continue to write until I feel I have met the conclusion desired. If others find that this is a delightful/satisfying read and this remains to be true I will potentially write 20-40 chapters, all depends. For those looking for a direct journey into a romance of Eragon and Arya, this isn't the place. While it may happen, this IS, essentially, the fifth book. Relationships take time, and above all else, so does a story. I respect you, my readers, more than you know and realize your interest is why I'm here. Things will be starting off a tad bit slow so the surroundings and characters sink in. But FEAR NOT! The intensity of battle and the love of Eragon will not fade. I have many ideas of how to write this and will follow on that path until the end goal is met. Please review the chapters and story as you see fit. Message me if you have ideas, inspiration hits when you least expect it, so if you really have ideas, throw them my way. Who knows, they might just end up in what I'm writing. To you my readers, I extend my thanks.
Sé onr sverdar sitja hvass
-Jyro
1-7-12 EDIT: Compressed one and two into one chapter. Made corrections, changed phrasing and changed authors note to some extent