Zi'Nawne leaned heavily on the broken railing of her ruined home. As Guardian, she had been faithful to her duties and remained in the wreckage and un oath of silence for nearly 20 years. The pain of living this way had damaged her body and the results were dark green scars down an otherwise perfect neck and chest. The other manifestations of maga's strength inside her were faintly luminescent eyes and hair, and icy pale skin.

As a golden ship with billowing white sails approached the port, Zi'Nawne took a sharp breath, desperate to join her subjects on the docks. Her tail flicked angrily. But her oath was still binding and so she settled into a crouch at the edge of the balcony, watching with ears flat against her striped black hair.

"He's grieving."

"Clearly, Ya. A fool could see that."

"And so a fool did, if you noticed, too."

The servant bowed, recognizing he had overstepped his place. "Yes, Ya'Mino."

"Don't fret," the proud man said, squinting through the sun at the ship that fixated the attention of his subjects. Nawne's subjects. "Someone's doing enough of that already."

Lanr glanced up at the ruined castle, its twisted vines and towering wreckage piles ominous even on a sunny day like this one, and nodded, understanding. "But she is very quiet."

"Well she must be. The oath doesn't break until the Rider announces his intention. Both parties must recognize what will occur. But she will come. And she will be beautiful. She is beautiful."

Lanr was quiet, not daring to comment. No one had seen Zi'Nawne for nearly 20 years, including herself, and she wasn't bound to be beautiful at all after so much time with maga.

The ship rose on a swell and fell gently into the water, sending waves across the shore and the tiny graves marked there.

So many graves. Let this mark the end of it all. The headstones shimmered faintly, in response to his thoughts. The same sort of phenomenon might have been what made the ship glow, or it might have been the Sky riding upon it, but certainly the ship did glow, and the men and women on the shore noticed it as well.

With obvious trepidation, those gathered stood in small groups, huddled together but still full of pride, standing tall. Tails flicked nervously and fur bristled and the ferocity of the people present was plain to see. A few faces seemed to be on the verge between fear and jubilation, clearly hesitant to embrace the hope that was so many years later than they had expected and possibly even many years too late. Although most of the men kept their gaze firm on the ship, a few of them allowed themselves a quick glance at a particular headstone, as if afraid it would be damaged when the waves splashed it. Even more of the women did so, although their commitment to act was not lessened by their divided focus.

There were no children.

We're here, Little One. Saphira pushed her head into the ship's main cabin and nudged her resting Rider, gently, mildly amused that he could rest so long.

Eragon rolled over with a groan, his muscles stiff from laying down so long and his face dry from crying so much. Am I weak? He asked, in response to Saphira's concern.

No, she said, after a pause, but you cannot go on like this. Let us leave our grief in the ocean. A puff of smoke escaped her nostrils and Eragon knew she was thinking of a certain green dragon. He put a hand on her neck, understanding, and stood to get dressed.

"Where is here?" He pondered out loud, not expecting an answer.

Blödgharm approaches, Saphira said, withdrawing her neck and head. Eragon belted on Brisingr and inhaled and a steadying breath, surprised at the salty flavor of the ocean air.

And of my grief. He decided, borrowing Saphira's words.

Eragon exited the cabin after Saphira as Blödgharm approached, each already knowing what the other would do.

"Astra esterní ono thelduin, Eragon Shur'tugal."

Eragon paused, considering the words.

"Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr, Blödgharm. Let us leave these traditions."

If Blödgharm was surprised he didn't show it, but acknowledged with a quick nod and continued in the Ancient Language. "You look unwell, Shur'tugal."

"My grief is in the ocean." Eragon responded simply, turning to face the looming shore. An array of men and women stood, seemingly awaiting their arrival, and he couldn't help noticing how much they resembled his companion. "Blödgharm, have you seen these people?"

"Indeed, Shur'tugal." He said no more but his fur bristled.

They look like dragons, Saphira commented, surprising Eragon. He looked again and realized she was right. The people on the shore had features like the elves in Alagaesia but most of them wore colours, whether in their clothes, skin, or fur, like Blödgharm, and they all had Tails! Eragon felt Saphira's silent confirmation.

Wary of cultural differences, Eragon began to raise a hand in greeting and then put it back down. He decided waiting until they met would be better, and certainly he wouldn't have to wait long. The ship rose and fell on a wave and came to a gentle stop against the docks.

Do we fly? He was already climbing onto Saphira's back, knowing what her answer would be, and indeed nearly always was.

Not always. But I am Sky.

Eragon laughed uneasily, not sure what he was detecting in her thoughts. Both of them, he realized, and even the elves whose minds he brushed on the ship, felt very awake. Something inside of them, ancient and powerful, had come to the surface and seemed to stir there, very ready to be released but not quite pushing its way out. He shook and closed off his mind to all but Saphira.

He glanced back at the spot where he knew the Eldunarí were hidden.

We are well, Rider.

Eragon settled onto Saphira's back and breathed once, steadying himself as she took to the sky.

The air, he corrected. She is the Sky. And he was sure, too.