'Delay is the deadliest form of denial.'

-C. Northcote Parkinson

Shruikan

Despair is all I can think as I wait impatiently for servants of his Majesty topiece together my armor. It is a dreadfully arduous task, requiring their skill as much as their endurance. Each onyx plate of metal clinks on perfectly, covering every black scale without break. My ivory-spiked tail soon disappears beneath the metallic sea of black, much to my chagrin. They are ignorant to the potency of a good blow from a tail, though I suppose I can sacrifice my spikes if it means the protection of my scales. Even my neck, broad and long, is encircled by the still heated armor. I stare down at my claws, flexing and retracting them experimentally.

The dozen or so servants began this long process several hours ago and now— finally—the last pieces are maneuvered onto my head. One brave servant clutches the heavy iron almost protectively, lowering it to my bowed head reverently. Secured with a clap of metal, the helm-like piece crests my thick jaws, twin slits hooded over my eyes to allow me to see the servants tending to me. I raise my head arrogantly, though the gesture appears a halfhearted thing to the trained eye. The servants, however, are unaffected, instead bowing out of the room guardedly.

There are few things I can justify being grateful for. I cannot for my life, since it is controlled by one who deserves nothing of gratitude.

Still, in that moment I am immensely grateful for solitude. Silver tears coalesce at the corners of my eyes, and a dry sob chokes its way from my throat despite my wishes. Of course, fate cannot satisfy itself to torment me in mundane ways—it must rob me of my dignity as well. I growl, jaw tightening as I shake my head to clear the traitorous tears.

Dragons do not cry.

Though, I muse dryly, I'm not a dragon.

At least, not anymore.

I juggle two personalities, split by image and nature. The Demon and the Coward. The first is the mindless, bloodthirsty monster that resides deep within my mind, reluctantly surfacing at times to assert control. As paralyzing as any true demon, it is a black poison that rots my heart and destroys my mind, never hurrying in its task. I may see weeks pass before the Demon strikes, and from thence am powerless until the nightmarish half of me departs.

And then there is the Coward, no better in mine or any's eyes. The Coward fears the demonic side, and seeks silence and solitude to hide any suspicion of its true nature. The Coward is fearful, and at many times driven to mimic the Demon out of worry for doing wrong.

Neither is a remarkably noble image to hold, and neither do I take satisfaction in bearing. The folk of my captor and King's empire view me as the first, and see only of me the first. I hear the wretched tales they spread, and I can only regret that I committed such vile acts.

But the Coward is the enabler, and thus the Demon is the mask which I cower beneath.

Sometimes I wish it were the other way—but I possess no Hero within me, no conscience to chastise and no partner to confide. I suppose it is in this absence of companionship that I have sought out ridiculous things to cling to, to cherish like no other.

A sudden shame overwhelms me, and I blush involuntarily. The reddish flush goes unnoticed as I am alone, though I still hasten to calm myself. No. I mustn't think like that.

But what else is there to fill the long, hard days which I endure? Certainly there is no merriment to brighten my spirits, no laughter to warm my voice. Only the memories of the Demon's doing to fill my thoughts, to cloud my mind in disgust and horror.

I remember it all too vividly, and for a time I simply stand there, in the empty chamber, and curse all Heavens and Hells out there, for that which they've never done. But who else am I to blame for slaughtering Riders by the dozens? Who to shoulder the burden of having torn dragons from the skies, as though they had no thought or feeling of their own? Who would dare take the blame for massacring the last of their kin?

Me.

My heart throbs in my chest and I groan low in anguish, shaking my wings as though to dispel the bad feelings. There is some bitter irony that it is the villain that prevails despite the odds—despite the logic that demands the hero succeed— and still manages to crumble to justice. Remorse and shame ride on my shoulders, forever burdens upon my soul. For even though we won, I lost everything I had.

We all lost that year.

Our casualties were varied—some more severe than others. Our battles were fierce, and we both tasted bitter victory and punishing defeat. Our lives were not unlike, and our deaths were not unlike either. Yet in the end, we were the ones to claim victory, yet defeat was a kindly thing to the others. For defeat granted death, and death, I know, must be better than this.

For there is no greater crime than destroying one's humanity.

Such a strange term—humanity. To immediately distinguish the civility, and vivacity, and spirit as human is rather unfair. For in near all cases, the true beasts are found in humans.

Yet it is so.

I lurch forward suddenly, as though compelled to escape the Demon clawing eagerly at my mind, supplying my thoughts with dark things. I sigh heavily, tempted to simply relinquish control to that thoughtless, careless beast within me and allow it to deal with this. The Demon seems to snicker, as though a separate being entirely, enjoying my torment.

With a venomous snap of my teeth, I press back the Demon, though immediately I feel hollow and almost sickened. The brief vigor that enthused the idea suddenly vanishes, and with it departs my will to fight the recovered Demon.

'Why do you torture yourself so? So easy it would be to simply stop worrying over it. What good does it do you? You still have to carry out such acts, and there is nothing that shall change that. Masochistic, you are, to enjoy such wallowing. Get up and walk, you fool. The King will be furious if you are late,' the voices says derisively.

I care not for the tyrant, I growl silently, though I continue forward despite such.

Perhaps if I do, I won't have to bear the guilt of what will come.

'Guilt will follow you so long as you tempt it,' the Demon remarks. 'You shame only yourself to worry over such things. You win, did you not? So why demean yourself so?'

I decidedly ignore the voice, subtly allowing it ground anyway.

For in this world, I have no say. I cannot dictate when those who differ will finally allow these things to bring them to savage beings that hold nothing in consideration for their own survival beside kill the enemy. I cannot bring myself to accept this to intervene, to end such a bloody massacre with a single, fatal blow to our enemy.

And I also cannot deny the lust that has finally overcome me in my eternal battle to suppress it. I may be a century her senior, but undeniably, I have fallen hopelessly and desperately in love with her.


Saphira

I am silent as I sit before a rustic tent, waiting, watching, listening to the heated running and working as men and women alike prepare themselves for battle.

Already, the dwarves have managed to outfit myself in a magnificent silver suit of armor. Somewhere, I know, Eragon is probably being outfitted as well, though I leave him to his own thoughts.

As it is, the solitude of mine are disturbing.

Everywhere, dwarves, humans, and even some elves, scurry about without the slightest of thought to what is to come. I, however, know better.

I cross my paws, staring out with an expression that looks calm, serene, even peaceful to the untrained eye. But within, I know, I have many silent tears left unshed.

When Iyro, the emerald dragon, declared that he would never assist any other and threw off his ties towards the riders, I was heartbroken.

Thorn had already perished the year before. A rare, draconic disease known as Sulph Arym that is the human equivalent of fatal pneumonia had taken his life. And of course, the bitterest death of all was Glaedr's when he perished.

I sigh heavily; the world is cruel. Consequentially, the world is also wonderful.

Ironic that more-often-than-not it is the world who must stage the battles, yet never hold true blame.

I wonder now what I will do in this battle-to-come. I know the outcomes; the destruction or salvation of the world. I know the possibilities; that Galbatorix shall die or we shall. I also know the consequences; obliteration or restoration.

But they are merely the end points; at what cost will it come to reach them?

I dread to think about it.

The dragon race, I know, is doomed; I am the last.

Well, there is one other; but I do not speak of him.

After all, he destroyed the dragon race in the first instance, and it would be he that would stand in our way to restore Alagaësia. Therefore, he must be killed.

I shift restlessly, buzzing with energy. I cannot fathom why I would possess any eagerness for such a terrible thing to come. Decades of perpetual war shall finally cease; one way or another.

There is a certain contentment at this; at least, there will be no more of this dreadful waiting. Saphira?

Ah, Eragon has returned, now staring up at me expectantly, waiting for a response. I dip my head down and stare at him, impassivity shielding the dread within me.

Yes, Eragon? I ask as pleasantly as I can muster. He frowns.

What's wrong?

The earnestness in his voice nearly makes me confess. He seems genuinely to care, which I know he does, and it very nearly shatters my heart's armor and allows the grief of Thorn's and Glaedr's death, Iyro's betrayal, and the possibility of killing Shruikan…

For some strange reason, this seems to be the most troubling of my thoughts. It lingers unpleasantly, taunting me with questions. The most prevalent of these is 'Why kill him?' He's evil, I snap unwittingly projecting this to Eragon. His brow furrows in confusion.

What?

I quickly hide the remainder of my thoughts. Nothing, I instead reply. I'm fine.

Are you sure?

The more he asks, the more I wish to tell him. 'Why kill him?' the question repeats. He's Galbatorix's dragon, I counter, silently this time. 'Why kill him?' my conscience persists. He works for the Empire!

And again: 'Why kill him?'

Saphira?

'Why kill him?'

I want to roar out my fury, my frustration, and my confusion.

'Why kill him?'

Yes, Eragon. Now come, we have a battle to win, I say confidently. He stares skeptically for a moment and for a childish second I fear he is not convinced. Then he nods in defeat.

Alright. He mounts and adjusts himself on my saddle, though I hardly notice him.

'Why kill him?' my conscience stubbornly asserts. He killed the dragons.

'Not willingly,' the voice persists. He still did, I rebut.

'Why kill him?' it continues. I unsuccessfully try and ignore it. He's heartless; he's cruel; he hates dragons.

'Lies,' the voice admonishes. For some reason, I believe it.

'So why kill him?'

I don't know, I finally admit. And then, quietly, 'You love him.'

For a moment, a snappish remark is thick on my tongue, dying to be released, but the comment dies away. For some reason, I could neither accept nor deny it.

'Perhaps,' I concede. 'Perhaps.'

2

'See where your own energy wants to go, not where you think it should go. Do something because it feels right, not because it makes sense. Follow the spiritual impulse.'

-Mary Hayes-Grieco

-Shruikan

Building beneath my obsidian scales there is a power; an energy of epic proportions. Not that which dictates the simple motion of a leg or a wing; rather the untamed energy that determines the precise speed of each blink, the suaveness of a sly grin, the tightness of my wings, the throb of each heartbeat. It is not mere energy that propels these natural movements that we so chose; it is magic.

But within me, there is no magic.

Rather, there is darkness.

I cannot smile; only grin. I cannot laugh; only cackle. I cannot hum; only moan. And I cannot blink; only stare.

Dark magic. It is the replica energy that keeps myself alive; brutally forces my heart to beat, my legs to move, my wings to flap. Without energy, there is no life.

In the case of riders and dragons, the energy that is obtained for us to live is gained from the life force of our riders. When they perish, our magical ties are rejected, unable to force our heart to beat.

Dragons do not live without their riders.

So why have I, a traitor in all aspects, survived?

Simply because Galbatorix utilizes that dark material, that sole darkness continues to keep myself alive. I hate it passionately, wishing to destroy it if only to end my own life, but I cannot force it to stop; I cannot force my heart to stop beating, or my breath to stop coming.

In this sense, I am powerless.

I head the army; Galbatorix already perched regally on my back, seated as comfortably as one can be, grinning madly. I wish to wipe that arrogant grin from his lips; it drives me insane at how much he relishes this.

He thrives on my pain; he savors my suffering. I know because the more I am suffering, the greater my strength. Dark magic feeds off the passionate, deadly emotions of all living beings: hate, rage, sorrow, torment, rebellion, and lust. By torturing me, he strengthens me as well.

And my strength is his.

I am the source of this war; I am the cause of the suffering of hundreds. I do not bother to deny it; does one deny that they breathe?

Neither shall I deny this horrible part of my existence.

I am nothing else in their eyes; the eyes of all who see me. I am a monster, my onyx wings the devilish cape of a demon, waiting to sweep into the night and steal away all who I hate. My claws are written with blood, my lips are tainted with the screams of all whom have been tormented under my reign.

But the world shuns my torture; ignores my pain.

The inevitable battle approaches. To my back is the castle, a fortress of stone brimming with soldiers and weaponry unheard of. To my sides are thousands of soldiers, perfectly willing to die in this battle. To my front, there is the open plain of the Hadarac Desert, and far off in the distance, a gray sweep of dust that shows our enemy's frontline.

Shadows still play upon the world; even the sun has not risen from its rest. I wait in the silence that lingers before a fight, the tenseness that pervades before doom. But despite this lackluster world that most see, I see differently.

For I see in red; I hear in blue; I weep in silver; I hum in gold; I laugh in green; I stride in purple; I soar in white; and I live in black.

Forever I am a rainbow. A euphoric combination of wonderful sensations I possess; all of which I never truly feel. For the world is a simple thing: black, and white.

The sun shines with the white brilliance of the moon, yet the dark cloak of night is just as perceptive and powerful. And while most creatures bleed crimson, and die in a gray pallor, I am not like them.

For I bleed blue, and will forever die black.

-Saphira

I feel that at any moment my scales will run off my hide in anticipation of the battle to come. I am thrilled with energy, fidgeting restlessly, breath swelling in my chest and offering my strength. My heart pounds heavily, infusing myself with power and allowing me to connect with my flow of magic. Ah yes, that wonderful magic, usually unattainable, flourished in this rush of energy, at my disposal if the need arises.

Calm down, I reprimand myself. Battle will come; just relax.

My muscles are tense; I allow them to relax with a shiver. I sigh breathlessly. Excited, or nervous? Eragon asks.

Excited mostly, I respond. It's strange, the amount of power I feel. Nervous, maybe.

Battle awaits; the Hadarac looms before our army like a waiting enemy, taunting us in its proximity yet challenging us to dare make the first step. I know that in that dark land of Uru'baen, there waits an army of thousands.

And Shruikan.

Stop thinking about him! I growl. 'Ah, but why not? You are going to kill him; why not think about him?' A pity that conscience wasn't a real thing; I'd have squashed it by now.

'I see. You're afraid to speak of him.'

I am not! I snarl. Why would I fear speaking of him? I don't fear speaking of him.

I quickly review my reasons for disliking him in my mind; he's evil, he's heartless, he's a murderer, a traitor, and a monster. I had to kill him.

'Of course you do. So you are just going to kill him and doom your race?'

Yes. No. Gah, go away, I growl.

'Doom the dragons; destroy your kind? Would you do that?'

I don't have a choice! I snap.

'Oh, but you do.'

My gosh, I'm talking to myself.

Eragon? I ask, mostly to distract myself. My wings itch with a buzzing energy, legs tingling in excitement. Yes?

Oh great, I remember. What to say…

How are you?

A shame that dragons have claws instead of hands; I surely would slap my head at the moment otherwise. Eragon raises an eyebrow.

Fine… he replies, somewhat dazed by the unexpected casualness. Are you okay? There's a sneaking suspicion in his voice that irritates me.

Yes, I answer, almost angrily. He withdraws; I let him. Obviously, our conversation wasn't going anywhere anyway. I feel his consciousness buzzing in the back of my mind, eternally alerting me to his presence.

I glance out at the horizon; still dark, not even the slightest shadow of light to graze its edge. The Varden's army is clad in gray and silver armor, some mounted on horses while others wield bows and arrows. Most, however, handle traditional weapons: daggers, swords, axes, hammers, rapiers, and more. Humans, elves, and dwarves mix silently, each bearing respective insignias; the Varden's clear upon their shields and chest plates as well.

I look down at my forelegs, seeing the dimmed silver armor on them, watching as they move perfectly in synch with each movement. I sigh; I wish the armor wasn't necessary. I prefer my own scales to these artificial ones.

I am centered in the front lines, ready to take flight at the instant we begin. I gently knead the dry soil beneath my claws; shifting slightly.

I again stare up at the gray sky, tinged lightly with the first shadows of dawn. It is not gray and black to me, however.

My sapphire eyes illuminate the world in a cerulean haze, etching deep black shadows and lines in the hidden night. Black and blue; a cool combination.

A war horn sounds, low and droning in its sad notes. I listen keenly, my mind elsewhere as I thrust out my wings. Energy hums in my veins, dying to be released. It prickles at my conscious, pestering me with the urge to fly. But I must content myself to march forward, not fly, for if I fly, I become a target for him.

'And is that so bad?' my conscious teases. Oh shut up, I growl.

3

'Don't pray for lighter burdens, but stronger backs.'

-Anonymous

-Shruikan

Wind is usually calming; wind is usually welcome on a dry day; wind is usually something I take pleasure in.

But wind, today, is torturing.

For it sneaks under my scales and fills my nostrils with that lovely, intoxicating scent that I can only just detect. It hovers before me, so sensitive am I to the smell that I am powerless to it, barely able to stand as cloudy lust fogs my senses.

Dragoness.

With each gentle gust it further torments me, enticing me forward and forcing my claws to dig deep into the soil to prevent myself from doing such. I cannot simply waltz forward and follow that trail, for I know where it leads. And if I follow that path, death will come for certain. Another soft breeze drifts over me and I rumble pleasantly, undetected to the remaining army yet perfectly clear to a dragon. I sniff the air, searching for it, unable to capture it forever and remember it, heart demanding more. But the wind has drifted away, past my senses and stealing with it the temptation.

I first feel dismay at the wonderful aroma's absence, then foolishness for being so keen and interested in it. I am not a love-struck hatchling; I should better control myself.

Never mind. I am.

Even war cannot truly separate the truth from me, despite my attempts to hide it. I don't even know her name, but I do know one thing: I've fallen for her.

Initially, this had been a grave weakness, for Galbatorix would twist my thoughts and make me believe that if I loved her it would be to her demise. So I locked my heart away, forcing impassivity to overcome desire and a blank stare to mask the fierce glare in my gaze. But I never stopped thinking of her.

It was the twelfth eve of the tenth month when I received the news: the sapphire egg, containing the sole female dragon, had been reclaimed by the Varden.

Oh my ecstasy at such news that she had escaped the torments that I endured. I can bear the whip, tolerate the brand, and drink the poison if it means that at least she has the opportunity to live away from it. For the next six months, Galbatorix was absolutely livid, taking every opportunity to vent his outrage upon me. I cannot even begin to tell you the number of times he branded, whipped, broke, starved, and beat me. My front paws had been broken seven times before I lost count; I'm blind in my right eye from the number of poisonings that affect my sight. My wings have been repaired so much that they are nothing but flimsy scar tissue connected by magic. My teeth are jagged from the raged outbursts I would go into; tearing at the impenetrable metal of my cage and ruining them.

But I would endure all and more if it meant that she had the opportunity to live freely.

And so began my fantasies. Those of sitting in a damp, cold dungeon late at night, wistfully dreaming of her somehow returning and accepting a monster like me. Those of the dragons returning to the world and for once overthrowing the blasted king, freeing me from his brutality. And those of the dragoness finding happiness, at least if not with me, then with the other males that still rested in those eggs.

I suppose that in some cruel, twisted sense, I've earned this. I have wrought the greatest crime this world has ever known. And so, I am not allowed to love her. It is not my right anymore. Nothing is.

Even when I shivered in that lonely dungeon, I had never forgotten about her. I suppose that I lived simply with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I could one day meet her. To see her face just once and then I would be content.

But soon my liking escalated, until I had decided that I wouldn't be content to just watch her from afar. I had to meet her. For what reason exactly, I knew naught, and still do not know, but I knew that I refused to die without at least seeing her.

And then the red egg hatched, and my heart dropped.

He was a strong little hatchling, and he had great potential, but then Galbatorix took it as his right to force him to grow. It is an awful process, overpowering the pure magic within a dragon with dark magic and then forcing one's body to develop unnaturally. I secretly visited the hatchling when I could, offering his despairing spirit the hope that if he endured long enough, he would be freed of this king and then he could meet the sapphire dragoness and be her mate.

So alone in my dungeon I waited, appeasing to the young dragon's interest by telling him all I knew of the dragons before the Fall. He had a chance with her, even if I didn't, and that brought both satisfaction and sorrow.

And then I received a terrible blow one day: Thorn had died.

Galbatorix had informed me himself, without the slightest hint of regret or sadness in his expression or voice. 'Thorn's dead,' he had said.

I had shamelessly cried, sitting in my dungeon, curled up slightly, burying my head in my paws and shaking slightly with sobs. Not him, I had thought. Anyone but him… I had grown fond of the hatchling; he had grown up quite handsome as well. But now he was gone, and I already knew what had become of the green egg.

So I was alone.

A sudden, gentle flush of wind lingered on my face, reminding me in a most pleasant manner that I was not alone. It smelled pure and sweet, dragon-like and natural.

And if nothing else were to have happened, if the world were to have stopped at that day, I would've been satisfied.

-Saphira

The earth purrs gently beneath my feet, long and slow rumbles that reflect off my claws and portray a simple message: happiness.

I hum quietly in response, forgetting for a blissful moment of what could make such a sound. My own soothing vibrations combine with the soft ones in the ground perfectly, melding together and relaxing the tenseness in my scales. A slow shiver works down my spine and I sigh softly. Nothing but a dragon purr to soothe you. Wait a second… oh no…

'Cute,' my conscience comments. My cheeks redden slightly and I immediately stop humming, stiffening. Not the time, I growl.

'And why not? A moment ago you seemed quite happy.'

Yeah, well, go away.

'Why do you deny that you enjoyed that?'

Because I didn't, I lie.

'Lying to your own conscience,' it says melodramatically. I roll my eyes, glad that Eragon is still blocked from my conscious.

I am not, I finally snap.

'Suit yourself; but I know that you enjoyed that.' Finally, I felt that annoying sense retreat, leaving me alone. I gaze out at the distant army once more, thoughtful in my silence.

I had enjoyed it. Which somewhat disturbed me. He was my enemy; I couldn't just allow my guard to be let down.

'He's just a dragon,' my conscience counters readily. I sigh. Well, 'just a dragon' doesn't matter.

'Oh doesn't it?'

Bloody conscience.

Yes, it doesn't.

'We'll see,' the voice comments before fading.

I snort. But when I breathe in, my argument is lost.

The masculine scent of dragon wafts towards me, a sense of warmth and security enveloping me in that simple breath. So simple, so natural, so good. My senses are instantly alert, frozen stiff with surprise. The smell is hardly detectable, but it's still there, and still I can feel it. And even though it is faint, I still feel as though he's standing right before me.

I remember, several years back, battling with Thorn. And despite the ferocity with which we seemed to fight, curiosity and even joy had mingled in when sighting each other. Secretly, I knew Thorn suffered as he dealt me a blow, as I hurt whenever I retaliated. Being in such close proximity was fascinating and alluring, torturing us both in our separation. I could clearly remember how surprising, then comforting, it was to actually be so close to him, to hear his powerful roars and breathe in his musky scent. It was a bitter sweetness, so close yet impossibly far.

I sometimes mused that there was a dragon like he, brave and strong, waiting for me when I waited outside of the cities as Eragon and I traveled with Brom. It was a comforting idea, that I was not alone and that there were others, but it was also saddening that I could not meet them. Yet.

All I knew of the dragons at the time was that there were two remaining eggs and a single adult: Shruikan. Of course, Shruikan was out of the question; he was Galbatorix's pet dragon. But equally untouchable were those two eggs.

For months I silently pondered what would become of my brethren, when finally the world came crashing down upon us.

Thorn had hatched. And was, like Shruikan, Galbatorix's slave.

Accepting that simple reality was like trying to accept the doom of eternal loneliness; impossible. So I continued to hope, to wishfully think that the other egg would hatch and that he and I could perhaps mate.

But Iyro was a traitor, for he cast off his magic and instead adopted the ways of the dark arts. How he did such, I still do not know, but he disappeared less than a day after his hatching.

My options were now set; Shruikan or Thorn. Granted, I did have the option to refuse both. But that might as well not have been an option at all.

But Thorn… strangely, I grew attached to that rebellious red dragon. He and Murtagh had escaped from Galbatorix and hidden out in the Spine, protecting themselves with the natural wards instilled in the mountains that repelled the king's magic. Occasionally, Thorn would make lone journeys to visit myself in Surda, risking capture and death, if only for a simple hello. I would greet him pleasantly enough, and, despite my lack of affection, he took every word seriously and his smile broadened at the slightest sign of satisfaction that I gave him. Whenever he left, his eyes glistened with bittersweet departure, promising to return soon.

For six years, he returned once every couple of months, though one year his flights grew less frequent and he seemed wearied and tired every time. The smile was always broad on his face whenever I met him, despite the threats the Varden placed if he did anything to harm them. Thorn never broke any of their rules and was quite civil and good-natured. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn he had never served Galbatorix.

But that particular winter, when he returned to me, he was so weak that his wings quivered and his legs shook as he landed, head resting on the ground but not bothering to rise. I, at first, allowed him to rest there alone, but after the third night, I visited him, concerned, and realized that he didn't even have the strength to lift his head. When he informed me that he was indeed ill, I grew worried, yet I let it slip by, thinking he would be well in a few days.

He died that night.

Guilt nearly destroyed me.

It was that day that I realized that I truly had loved him; that I mourned his death as freely as I would a lover's; that I would forever feel the ache of his absence. Though it was never beyond tentative acceptance, I knew that I would miss his smile and his casual discussions of anything and everything.

And now, my heart aching in my chest, I sniff, looking up to the horizon.

I smell dragon. Shruikan. I allow a brief smile to touch my lips; perhaps, I say to none in particular.

'Perhaps,' my conscience echoes.

And for once, I agree.

4

'There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.'

-Buddha

- Shruikan

A silver drop slips off one of my front fangs, landing placidly on my jaw line. Instinctively, my forked tongue darts out and laps up the liquid. I wince as it burns the smooth surface of my tongue.

Akmrad Azyr.

Venom Burn.

Though harmless to me, the substance is potent for dragons if it gets in the bloodstream. Simple drops will not harm me, aside from the momentary discomfort, but even one bite from several dozen teeth would be fatal.

I am unpleasantly reminded of why I have poison dripping off my fangs.

And more importantly, who will be the recipient of it.

Now that hurts far more than any toxic drop this substance leaks on my tongue.

'She is no longer of use to us,' Galbatorix snaps, glaring at myself. 'And therefore she must die.'

But Galbatorix… I try to interrupt. He waves it off.

'You have no choice in the matter, Shruikan. None at all.'

I won't kill her! I say vehemently. He chuckles darkly.

'Oh, won't you?'

And I can do nothing but hang my head and glance to the side, defeated. I'll try, I concede.

'And you'd best succeed,' he growls. I cowardly assume silence, not daring utter rebut.

I really am a coward; not even fighting when the poison was coated on my fangs, still numb from the thought of killing her.

The poison slowly ebbs at my teeth, begging me to plunge them into flesh.

A desire I most certainly refused to fulfill.

I truly must be some hellish creature for my fangs to bleed poison.

A mirthless laugh escapes me.

I suppose, I muse, watching the glowering embers of the sun's rays ebb at the horizon, that the world has a twisted sense of humor.

Another drop escapes my fangs, this time landing on the dry, weathered earth. Glancing down, I see that it is not silver, but a deathly gray, leeching the life out of even the soil. I shiver.

I would sooner inject myself with it then let one speck get on her.

"My King," a soldier suddenly comments from my right side. I growl low, lip curling back in a snarl. I hate it when they do that. It is one thing if I can see them; but my sight is ruined in my right eye, beyond any repair, magical or not. And so it is frustrating to be startled by even a mere soldier. I am certain they have no idea of my disability, and I know Galbatorix doesn't care. "When do we begin?" he asks.

I stare, unblinking at him, my gaze rather bored. Humans all look the same. A younger man, perhaps late twenties, with dark russet hair stands before me, seeming unsettled before my gaze. I resist the urge to smirk. Fear is simply another form of respect.

I am king in this aspect.

"Soon," Galbatorix replies tonelessly. That complete impassivity that seems to make up his entirety is plain in his voice; the cooled venom hidden.

The soldier stands dumbly before us, staring up at me like an idiot. For a moment, I am completely still. Tired of his expectant gaze, I bare my dripping fangs with a hiss. Understanding that message, the soldier skitters away nervously, my irritated growls following.

Idiot.

I see a lone hawk cry out from above, circling around and glaring down with onyx eyes. I snort, craning my neck back to stare at the man upon my back. Begin now or begin never, I say coolly. This waiting is intolerable.

It is true. The longer I wait, the more time I have to think, and the more time I have to think, the more time I have to regret. Regret leads to hesitation and hesitation leads to failure. Which, in truth, I would most happily except considering what it would mean to succeed.

I agree, Galbatorix actually says. I stare at him with the same, cold gaze, yet curious inside. He agrees? Now that's a first… But we for us to be successful, we must let them react first.

I fight a scowl. Strategy is the last thing I need. It means success in most cases. And success means Saphira's death. I nearly shiver.

Why wait, though? If we strike first, we gain the advantage, I lie. Hopefully, I sound more convincing than desperate. For a moment, there's a contemplating gleam in his eye, a spark of hope for myself, before it is banished and replaced by stony indifference.

We wait, he says sternly, redirecting his focus to the horizon, clearly not having any rebut I might have said.

I nod once, very slightly, and turn to face forward again. The sun shimmers on the horizon, dying the sky in a hazy orange. The sun exists without worry; lives on the fiery passion of the world. It doesn't have fears or loves. It just rises and falls. How simplicity is tempting to me.

A drop of poison drips off my fangs.

But even it cannot compare with the dreadful, awful toxin that is doom that continues to swell inside me, suffocating hope and smothering my will.

Poison of the body cannot compare to poison of the mind.

- Saphira

Tell me, Eragon asks suddenly, why Thorn died.

I tense involuntarily, cursing my carelessness that allowed that particular thought to escape. I already told you, I reply, almost snappishly. He cocks his head.

No you didn't, he counters. Darn boy.

'What? Can you not even tell your rider of such matters?' my conscience teases. I growl, claws tightening on the earth. Stay out of it, I snarl.

'Why?' that annoying voice counters. Because it is none of your business! I roar.

Eragon visibly recoils from the sudden wave of aggression that I momentarily let flush over him before quickly suppressing it. S—Saphira? he asks, actually stuttering after such rage.

I… sorry, I say meekly.

'So will you tell him now?' my conscience asks. I consider arguing with it before giving up. I stare out at the horizon, still grayish, though now tinged with orange. With a heavy, calming sigh, I slowly force myself to speak.

It's complicated, I begin hesitantly. He opens his mouth to rebut when I cut him off. And easier to show you than try and explain, I finish. For a moment, he is silent. Then, he nods.

Show me.

With a reluctant sigh, I delve back into the past, of one cold, winter morning in Surda…

A rumbling series of grinding coughs draw my attention as I patrol the Varden's ground, walking amongst the tents with regal calmness. I slowly approach the noise, rounding a corner and surprised to find a crimson mass sprawled on the dry, cracked surface. It is bitterly cold for most, though for I it is merely cool, brushing over my scales with a wisp of snow.

'Why, hello Saphira,' a calm, light voice asks. I glance up and look at the half-open ruby eyes of Thorn. He smiles weakly. 'How are you?' he says politely.

'Fine,' I say cautiously, taking a tentative step forward. He smiles broadly, a flash of ivory teeth peaking out beneath his lip.

'Glad to hear it,' he replies cheerily. 'I've wondered-'

He abruptly starts coughing again, racking his frame for several long moments. I stare at him, a hint of worry in my eyes, and wait for it to subside. Eventually, the fit dies down and he gazes up at me with that same happy look, as though nothing happened. 'How you've been,' he finishes, as though never interrupted.

'Thorn, are you well?' I ask, concerned. He shrugs a shoulder.

'Well enough,' he answers cryptically. For a moment, I gaze at him, unconvinced, before nodding slightly.

'Really, I'm fine,' he insists at my silence.

'Alright,' I concede.

'How is Eragon?' he asks pleasantly, changing the topic.

'Worried,' I reply truthfully. 'And rather anxious. But well enough.' Thorn nods slightly.

'That's good. Murtagh's been the same.'

'Where is he?'

He shrugs a shoulder wearily.

'Southern parts of the Spine, if I'm not mistaken.' I nod.

'How have you been?'

'Fine,' he replies. 'It was a bit rough getting down here – the winds were rather difficult – but I found a way.'

I nod again. The winds had been strong over the past couple of days.

'Care to join me for a quick meal?' I ask, surprising myself. He smiles sincerely yet makes no move to rise.

'I'm good,' he replies. 'But thanks for the offer.'

'You're welcome.'

For several moments, we are silent, watching as members of the Varden scuttle about, occasionally regarding Thorn with gazes of contempt and distaste.

Thorn coughs again, this time harsher. He spits out a globule of blood and eventually stops. I frown and ask him again, 'Are you sure you are fine?'

'Absolutely,' he replies confidently, though I can sense the slightest hint of weakness in it. Deciding it best not to argue, I dismiss myself and leave.

'Thorn, what's wrong?' I ask seriously upon our next meeting, disconcerted that he hadn't moved nor eaten since the previous day. He coughs for several moments before responding.

'I'm fine,' he says, voice betraying him, rasping unnaturally.

'No you're not,' I counter. 'Thorn, what is wrong?' I ask firmly. He shrugs a shoulder wearily.

'A cold, nothing more,' he replies coolly.

'Dragons don't get colds,' I counter.

'Perhaps not,' he concedes calmly. 'But I assure you, I am fine.'

"Saphira, Thorn wants you," Eragon informs me, returning from whatever task he had been doing. I nod and make my way to his spot, shocked to see him quivering and his mouth partially open, chest weakly heaving and eyes half-closed.

'Thorn,' I say softly, cautiously approaching.

'Stop,' he gasps. I obey hesitantly. He raises his head slowly, shakily. 'Don't come closer,' he says quietly.

'Thorn, what has happened?' I demand.

'I…' he pauses. His head drops to the ground and he mutters, 'I'm sick.' I make a move to approach. 'Stay back!' he snaps fiercely. Halted by his ferocity, I listen, frozen, as he continues. 'I don't—' he coughs once '—want you to get sick, Saphira. Stay back and I'll explain.' I oblige, my worry increasing with each moment. With a shaky breath, he continues, 'Have you ever heard of Sulph Arym?' he asks.

My heart plummets. Glaedr had indeed informed me of the draconic disease. It was always fatal, and no cure was available. Magic was useless and the disease was highly contagious. 'I have,' I answer, voice shaking with dread. It can't be…

'I've fallen ill with it,' he continues quietly.

'Does Murtagh know?' I ask softly. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, eyes glistening with tears.

'No,' he responds quietly. 'But I did tell him not to worry if I don't return.' My own eyes glisten with tears.

'Thorn, there has to be something,' I begin, but he cuts me off.

'There is nothing you can do. And don't attempt to; I would never forgive myself if you were to die as well.' My heart throbbed with despair. He'd accepted that he would die. I barely suppress a choked sob. 'There has to be something…' I again plead. He shakes his head slowly.

'Saphira, I don't want you to try and save me; you will only harm yourself and Eragon. Stay away from me, and don't return until morning.'

'Thorn—'

'Go!' he bellows, a sob escaping him.

I turn around and stagger off, tears trailing down my cheeks.

The next morning, I return to find him…

Dead.

"No!" Eragon cries aloud, tears dampening both our cheeks. I sniff and shake my head to clear the memory.

It has come to be, Eragon, I calm, reassuring myself as well. And neither you nor I can change that.

I'm so sorry, he replies shakily. I nod slightly.

I am too.

Poison had destroyed Thorn. A poison even worse eats away at my heart.

Despair.

5

'Deep in my heart I'm concealing things that I'm longing to say. Scared to confess what I'm feeling - frightened you'll slip away.'

-Madonna

-Shruikan

This is the march across the desert; the march to begin the war; the march to end all wars.

One way, or another.

It began with a bellow of a war horn, issued solely on Galbatorix's command, and then with the shuffling and finally moving of thousands of soldiers.

My heart and my brain have forever warred on the control of my body, both locked in fierce combat that renders any decision I make split with indecision. In this instance, my heart screams that I stand my ground, while my brain powerlessly obeys the dark magic's orders and forces my feet to move. Slowly at first, still stiffly resistant by my own desire, the weakness is pressed back and my claws pad forward in eerie unison to the throb of marching feet. Coward, monster, demon, my heart accuses in disapproval.

I know, I agree, defeated. I know.

Knowledge is powerful and painful. Ignorance is blinding and blissful. The fine line dividing the two is hard to determine exactly, yet ever-present in determining one's success and happiness. In many issues, I am wealthy, holding vast caverns of hidden memories that secure a broad intelligence. In several issues, I am lost, trapped in a black wave of confusion that smothers my thoughts with blank mystification.

My obsidian head is raised with regality that is admirable, black armor shadowed by the hints of light brimming on the rising sun. My glowering orange eyes bespeak a challenge of their own, daring any and all to defy my authority that is silently ruling. My claws soundlessly hit the dry sand as dirt shifts to dunes and the ground becomes noticeably softer and hotter. My chest is an immense plane of onyx, swelling powerfully with each of my solemn breaths, sinking to reveal its snake-like sleekness.

I am seen in my own cowardly follower's eyes as a treacherous devil that will kill them the instant I suspect insubordination, or perhaps out of pure, unadulterated bloodlust that I seemingly possess. I am seen as a demon that has risen from the underworld to deal fire and rage upon the earth, leaving trails of crimson in my path. I am seen as an honorary assassin, head and chief of all the most murderous crimes and severest of punishments. I am seen as nothing more than the black scales on my back and the orange fire in my eyes.

Nothing more, never anything more, my brain and heart hum in self-pitying harmony. My foot lands with a dull thud of resignation to the task before myself, a sigh escaping me.

Evil corrupts the strongest, the bravest, and the most determined of souls with a cloak of darkness, attached upon oneself like an unbreakable chain, locked on a future of self-destruct and the destruction of others. Galbatorix is evil; I have seen it, I have experienced it, I have heard of it. I, on the other hand, am not. I do not savor the death and pain of others; I do not prolong their suffering for my own pleasure. I follow his orders obediently, committing vile, unenviable tasks in the process. I listen to his complaints and rants, tolerate his cruelty, and solemnly accept his authority.

Perhaps it is in the act of nothing that we create greater harm than if we commit evil itself.

For acting is only part of the crime; witnessing is another, and tolerating is the final piece.

I am guilty of all three.

Smoldering in my chest there is a glowing fire, pressing forth and encouraging me that today is a day of renewal; today is a day of opportunity. I know the very real possibility of my own death; this is fine. Life has not been pleasurable and certainly death seems a reprieve from this despicable war.

Perhaps, I muse on some twisted level, I will live forever, suffer this forever…

For some strange reason, this terrifies me.

If the Varden do not succeed, I know, then certain obliteration of their group will be enacted. Galbatorix may be clever in his plots, but, like any egotistical tyrant, insists upon relating his plans to someone.

Lucky me.

Well, his plan consisted of several, simple factors. Tempt the Varden into an outright war – simple – and kill Saphira. Killing her was the key to the success. Dragons, he had said, were no longer necessary.

I still pondered this statement. 'No longer necessary'? Shockingly, I had my doubts about such.

Doubt all you want, Galbatorix suddenly says, surprising myself, but it has come to be.

What? I ask, curious. How can he know something I do not?

Dragons are a dying race, Shruikan, he continues ominously, their time has, undoubtedly, come.

Lies, I retort vehemently. Dragons will never die out. Never. Sooner will the sun cease to rise and the earth crumble to dust before dragons vanish.

Oh no, not lies. Never lies. When my dragon was killed, Shruikan, I realized the inevitable truth of dragons; they would go extinct. Do you even know what that means? He torments me with his reprimands.

Yes, I snap. I know. But you are just going to destroy any hope?

Oh come on. What hope? That dragoness would rather die than be your mate, anyway. That blasted dragon Glaedr died long back and Thorn died months ago.

I know, I growl, weaker this time.

And it was child's play to cast a spell upon Iyro that would kill him in a week's time.

No, I breathe in horror. Iyro had been murdered…

Oh yes. It was simplicity, really, to send him away with a little dark magic and then watch as his heart slowly stopped beating…

Monster! I roar accusingly. He chuckles darkly. Every fiber of my being is burning, seething, crying out in outrage and demanding that I do something.

I struggle with the internal darkness that prevents me from such, barely suppressing it. I mustn't lose my control now; not now. He doesn't reply, deeming it unnecessary.

I glare forward, feet landing harshly on the ground. I would kill him sooner than bear him if at all possible, but dark magic is powerful and even fighting it is exhausting. With an outraged snarl, crossed between a whimper and a roar, I throw my head to the side and snap my teeth.

You'll kill the dragon, I snarl, over my dead body.

That can be arranged, he replies ominously.

Threats are lost on the fearless.

-Saphira

They're marching.

Inevitably, the time has come to challenge destiny for the true path of fate and see to it that we do not fail.

I stare out at their army with impassivity. It seems that doom and hope vie to torment us as they agonizingly slowly approach, cautiously inching forward across the great plain. Armor shuffles, swords slid with the tell-tale hiss as they exit their sheathes, grunts and growls present as the army readies itself. Perhaps a league away, there stands Shruikan, in all his black armor and dark glory.

I admire the way his claws flex and tense as they hit the earth, perfect harmony with each movement of his large, surprisingly thin form. His broad muscles stand out on his shoulders, back, and legs, even from such a distance, and his eyes glower forward with keen determination. Though, past the iron hard ferocity on the surface, I can see the profound sadness penetrate their gaze.

'Ah, dragon love,' my conscience purrs delightedly. I immediately realize what I had been doing and blush slightly.

I really hate you, I mutter silently.

"Saphira, Eragon," a voice calls, and I turn my head slightly to see Nasuada approach. Despite the twenty years that had passed, she still looks as young and strong as ever. Her skin is just as dark and her posture just as regal. Eragon says something of a greeting, though I concentrate on the woman's face as she frowns and slowly speaks. "It seems that Galbatorix plans on attacking directly. Avoid direct contact for as long as possible and keep your spell-casters close."

I steal a quick glance at the elves scattered throughout the army, noting the ones bearing a small indigo flame upon their shields or armor. The spell-casters.

"Also," Nasuada continues, "don't use magic unless absolutely necessary. Conserve your strength."

"We shall," Eragon responds for us, though I can sense his unease as my own. A direct attack shall prove fatal for us both if we do not somehow distract Galbatorix and Shruikan so that we might kill them. We had, over the past month, contemplated the necessary tactics for killing them and had come to the conclusion that ideally he would immediately take flight and we could attack him from below. Unfortunately, Galbatorix has, obviously, anticipated such and chosen to instead strike us in the most powerful way possible: directly.

I resist a shiver of apprehension as I gaze back at the black dragon steadily approaching. In a match of strength, there is no contest between us.

I gaze back at Eragon, who seems equally unnerved by such.

Rumor had spread across the Empire that Galbatorix had formally declared that he would not hesitate to kill myself and Eragon. At first, I had dismissed such an idea; after all, had it not been Galbatorix's only intention these past hundred years to rebuild the dragons? And yet, now, he had openly chosen the path that clearly showed his true intentions.

'Strange,' my conscience comments nonchalantly. I glare ahead.

Go away.

'You know,' the voice persists, 'I think this has way more to do with you liking Shruikan than possibly being killed by him.'

I am—

"Thank you, milady," Eragon acknowledges politely, interrupting my counterstatement. I growl slightly.

'And of course, that would mean that you couldn't kill Galbatorix, which would create even more problems…'

Shut up, I snap.

Pardon? Eragon asks me silently.

'Nice.'

Nothing, I answer, snarling slightly.

'Very convincing.'

Did you catch any of that? Eragon inquires.

What? I ask foolishly before considering.

Eragon sighs and notes, Nasuada thinks that we shouldn't fly until Shruikan does.

And if he doesn't?

It's Shruikan; he'll fly… Eragon says. I admit silently that I agree.

All right, I concede. Eragon retreats slightly from my mind. I glance forward and notice that the army still approaches, growing closer with each moment.

Oh Shruikan, I sigh in the silent corners of my mind, refusing to let my conscience hear, why must you be our enemy?

For some reason, I almost don't want to find out. Rather, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I won't have to kill him is comforting.

I raise my head to the heavens, seeking some consolation, some hope, some tendril of light to provide the slimmest chance of success. I see none and, despairingly, glance back down at my claws, shuffling tensely. Must it be this way? I ask none in particular.

Must it be where I must choose my kind's fate?

A soft breeze brushes my shoulder, almost sympathetically. I swing my head to my left and notice the archers readying their arrows, hands clasping shields and swords, and hammers rising. Before me, I see the army less than a league away, getting closer and closer. This is the fate that I have inevitably accepted. This is the fate that I must bear despite all hardships it comes with.

Eragon draws Naegling, Oromis's former sword, from its sheath. The golden blade catches the sluggish light magnificently, glinting and reflecting regally. I nod slightly in approval and return my gaze forward.

A single drum throbs low and the Varden's army tentatively marches forward, cautiously rising to meet our opponents as they near at a confident, steady pace. My feet pad beneath me as I march; the sole hope of the Varden, the last chance of the dragons.

But even this, I realize, will not matter unless Shruikan survives as well. For if he dies, there is no hope.

Amazing how your enemy becomes your ally so simply.

But even so, I cannot stop the inevitable; the confrontation that must take place. For he bears the king that we must kill, or that we must fall to. But something, a strange pull on my heart, prevents me from convincing myself that to do such, Shruikan must die as well. I cannot accept it, I realize in something between horror and amusement, because I cannot begin to think of killing him.

I think I just might like that black dragon.

And it is this that terrifies me.

6

'Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.'

-Mark Twain

Shruikan

There is nothing more irritating than temptation.

Correction - there is something. It is when that temptation is held - barely a breath's wisp away - so close, yet so utterly unattainable. If I simply gave into my temptation and leapt into the air at this very moment, I would be struck down within seconds.

There is no denying it when I glance at his accursed mind. He would not protect me. He would not even attempt to protect me. I am merely a distraction, a valuable yet vexing piece in his dark, intricate puzzle. Like a master glancing indecisively between two pawns, judging which is better to sacrifice, he considers me and her nothing but disposable, worthless elements of this war. Things that he can commandeer with the utmost arrogance.

Arrogance. No single object or phrase can truly define it. Its meaning is shrouded by other dark emotions, yet perfectly clear to those who look for it. That sly smile, that cocky grin, that rude dismissal, that utter lack of fear, that smugness; it's all right there. I both despise and embrace that natural feeling of total supremacy; casting it off like an unwanted title yet also giving in to that...

Temptation.

I hiss at the word, glaring up at the sky with anguished eyes. Why can't I ever just die? Why must I have to think and breathe and know of these decisions? Can not I be granted the slightest of mercies?

Another strange term. Mercy. I am no stranger to it; I have been the one to whom the dying man begs of "mercy" before the inevitable darkness claims them. I am the one who must sit through lectures that Galbatorix tells his generals; I am quite familiar with the phrase "show no mercy."

But what does it actually mean? When I feel a slight dip in my step I shake my head once, sweeping my gaze across the landscape and berating myself for losing concentration. This is the last place where I would want to lose my focus.

My control.

For as long as I do not think of her and them, as long as I do not dare to think of killing her, then I can, for a terrifying moment, believe that inner demon that is clawing at my heart, purring in my ear hideous fantasies.

Oh, they'll die anyway, it casually dismisses my concerns. None live forever. I shut the voice out, yet it persists.

Oh, give up, dragon. Nothing, nothing I say, can ever possibly free you. Death alone, and even then you shall rot. So, why not actually live?

Temptation. The idea flits through my mind, taunting me, daring me to accept. A challenge. A temptation.

Blast it! Curse the devil who created stupid emotions such as these! Curse my heart for every beating; curse everything! Without thinking, I thrust my obsidian wings out.

Yes, yes, my dark conscience purrs, let them feel your pain.

No, I counter suddenly, though my voice lacks any sort of conviction. I try to steady my quivering wings as the army behind me tenses in anticipation. If even possible, I know I would've morphed into a phoenix from the fire that sears through me. My feelings sway in favor of that evil little voice; my resolve weakens. Why cannot I just be given a break?

Kill them and all your problems will be solved, the conscience reassures, steadily gaining ground in my wavering decision.

With a hissing breath, I shake my head and close my wings, startling both armies at the abruptness of my decision.

My own eyes widen in surprise, though I narrow them accordingly to keep up with my hating façade. We are close. Terribly close. I can clearly see every feature of her sinuous form, groaning inaudibly in despair. All it would take would be to fly…

I review hastily my options at this moment; both probable and improbable. I might just give in to my instincts and, despite the lethal consequences; attempt to kill the horrid man I bear. It is impossibly tempting; every step I take seems beyond forced - planned. If it weren't for my own cowardice of dark magic's potency, then certainly there would be no hesitation.

But there is. There's that blasted indecision, where I am the one who must chose which piece to advance, which route to take in the darkness, fully capable of ruining all hope.

There is also the fact that I might just obey him like a sick dog and go forth with this, actually fulfilling his final plan.

No.

I stare at their army, face blank. I cannot seem to even find the energy to move forward considering that horrible possibility. I cannot even fathom that now. Not with her so dreadfully, wonderfully close.

I growl in a rumbling snarl as I try and force myself forward before any such considerations are noticed by him. If he noticed, then I would have no chance to possibly resist; he would make certain of that.

With his blind trust in dark magic, he places a great deal of faith that I will - unquestioningly - follow this route. Had I not already slain dozens of my brethren? How could this one female possibly be driving me absolutely insane with desire?I'd rather kill myself than her. I know that I would sooner drive poison through my very heart, crush my own throat, and break my own skull before I would even touch her.

But there is a fine reality. One that steps in to reclaim control in a crushing instant.

"Attack." My time is up. He's noticed, and now he is determined to make me commit the greatest crime possible. I crane my neck around slightly to gaze at our army, eager on the outside yet terrible resignation beaming from the inside. If they knew what I was suffering, then perhaps they'd realize that I'm not as horrible as I appear…

And then I slowly, hesitantly, let my head swing back to look at her.

My heart gives an agonized throb as my chest swells, hissing in air for a preparatory roar. Customary that I declare the true war, that I am responsible for beginning the end of the world. Attack! I bellow, my voice strong and fierce with what appears to be bloodlust. Both armies cringe slightly from the pure hate, pure agony in my cry. I hold the roar, allowing every edge of the world to feel the extent of my fury, my despair, my self.

The ground shakes for several long, long moments before I close my maw, eyes blazing as I glance solemnly at her, who stares back impassively at me, unshaken.

The world seems to stop as suddenly as my roar ends. Arrows merge overhead in a gray, ominous plane. Cries of challenge ring out as the armies race to confront each other, so close suddenly that I can feel them approaching. And she just waits there, waiting for us to attack first.

The world snaps back into action after less than a second.

Before I am thinking, before I am daring to consider the consequences, I leap into the sky, my obsidian wings exultant.

I will best my master in this game; for this is the one game that I refuse to fail.

7

'We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.'

-Francois Rabelais

Shruikan

Forget death; this is heaven.

For this freedom is beyond any expectations I could have possibly set forth; beyond any I could possibly have imagined. I release my hold on reality and drift in these grayed clouds, feeling for all the world a king returned home; my own dark kingdom.

There is no man upon my back; there is no war below me; there is no earthly temptation strong enough to chain me down. I am soaring with ease, not needing to be seasoned to be graceful. This is a dragon's domain. Even if we forgot all else, our very lives and souls, we would remember our home – the skies.

For it is here that we entrust our spirits, and it is only here that we can truly be reunited with them.

I glide effortlessly around a pillar of gray, recognizing the ecstatic feeling instantly. It is not a hundred years that has separated my wings from true flight; it is not a century of misery and dull aching that has numbed them so I could hardly bear to lift them. It was merely a dark age, left in shadow and blow away like a wisp of smoke in the thrill of my return. It was merely a forgotten time, lost to this wonderful reunion.

Murderer!

The thought is flung at me freely as I round another bend, a gap in the clouds allowing reality to slip into my heaven. This is a war; my task is simple. Kill the dragoness. There is no joyous bonding time that I might share with the skies, no leisure time to reacquaint my wings with the wind or my head with the vertigo.

There is only a moment to look out, a moment to glimpse the center of my hardship, the center of my turmoil, aching, despair, and catastrophic thoughts.

The very heart of my hope, yet the epitome of my dread.

Murderer! the same, beautiful voice roars, fierce and magnificent at once. It is the call of a huntress, ready to seize her prey.

Though I am none's prize to be sought; I am the price to be paid for it.

I echo her voice with a deep call of my own, hiding it from my devilish controller. What is your name? I ask decisively. She swoops up through the gray clouds fluidly, impressing even myself as she hovers dangerously near.

Murderer! Oath breaker! she accuses, ignoring my inquiry. I raise an eyebrow infinitesimally before roaring at her; I cannot simply wait for an answer, after all. Otherwise he will finish this job himself, and I know that, above all else, that mustn't happen.

I tilt my wings slightly to the right, immediately swooping through an ashen cloud before emerging, refreshed. I wait patiently as I strategically re-orientate myself with the battle below, careful to fly over my army from this spectacular height and wait for her to initiate the chase.

She doesn't disappoint.

As soon as I feel her presence draw nearer, striking forth like a hawk diving for its prey, I surge powerfully upwards, my massive wings driving me up to a far higher altitude than she could ever wish to obtain in a single thrust. I admire how small and insignificant the armies appear below me from such tantalizing heights; it is far easier to ignore them and the horrible massacre in the making. I glare appraisingly at the muted sun, cast in slight shadow by the thick clouds. Lunging upwards, I roar exuberantly, though I fill it with challenge.

Come and fight me! I call down to her, surprised when she unflinchingly soars to my height, bellowing her own defiance.

I ready myself for the inevitable and she breaks forth the invisible spell that kept us from attacking; her jaw is open threateningly and her claws are outstretched in marvelous ferocity. I duck my head down to her strike and instinctively allow my own jaw to fall open before hastily closing it, barely missing her armored flesh. You are lethal, I remind myself, absolutely lethal. No biting whatsoever. I wince sympathetically as I am forced to press her back, making it appear to cause great damage while also doing my best not to break any bones. Despite my efforts, I feel the armor protecting her forelegs nearly crumble under the force that I carefully apply, caving inward dangerously. It appears uncomfortable, though I am left with no moment as the reality of the fight suddenly dives into full acceleration, as though the momentary lull was merely the sluggish countdown before this startling race.

My mind is fogged with the orders I am bidden to oblige; my thoughts are muddled with chaotic ideas. I soar higher, pressing up towards incredible altitudes, unafraid of the thinning air. She hesitates for a split-second below me before daringly meeting my challenge, surging up despite the strain I can feel radiating from her wings as she must force them to hover on the weakened air. Harder to fight in, isn't it? a part of me sneers devilishly at her, while another frets that if I keep up this dare-devil tactic I will throw her over the limit and perhaps myself as well.

Crimson blood rips across one of my wings as she darts across, unhindered, apparently, by my larger form. I am unfamiliar with the blood on my claws, the blood leaking calmly from my wings; the blood now retreating back into them. I am lost as to why she appears so defeated already before noticing a sickening gash upon her belly.

I am baffled as to where I am, and where the armies are, so very far below.

So I flee higher yet, disappearing in my thoughts to reappear with my claws sunk deep into her flesh, tearing ragged lines on her side as she holds my own neck in a piercing grip. We snarl at each other, baring our fangs menacingly as magic assails us both mercilessly. And yet higher I climb.

Now, even I'm having difficulty maintaining this outstanding altitude; breath coming in more ragged heaves. Hers are even more labored; her rider does not appear well at all, struggling as he obviously is. Even Galbatorix, from some far point in my mind, cautions me against going any higher, subtly implying that he, too, is taking this new level poorly as well.

My thoughts rage as I try to control them; the oxygen-deprivation is starting to affect my judgment as I whirl around, vision taking several seconds too long to clear and still before revealing that, thousands of feet below, the war continues on, though it is but a black mass of destruction from up here.

With a devastating whip of my tail, I lock my wings and plunge into a freefall.

She pursues relentlessly, her sapphire wings curled to her sides and her own plummet matching mine.

We separate after a time, maybe a thousand feet above, having dove several times over that. Her rider is limp and for several long moments even Galbatorix is utterly silent before I realize belatedly the spell he focuses on.

In a surge of invisible energy, I watch as she reels back in agony, and as her rider suffers alongside her, a howl breaking his lips.

Taking in an expansive gust of air, I breathe outward, unleashing a burst of scarlet fire. She dodges, though I can see the exertion is taking its toll. I feel completely rejuvenated; nothing strong enough to defy me. I swoop off to the right, letting out a strange choked roar as something venomously tears down my neck. I stare, yet I see nothing; no wound, no sword, no blood. I soundlessly endure the agony of having your throat split, feeling the raw knives tearing through it. My breath hitches, coming in slight pants before I dash to the right and recuperate at a higher altitude.

I wonder what drives my sudden obsession with having to be the highest, though I ignore that as the sensation loses a knife, becoming noticeably less painful as I soar up again, distancing myself from her.

Of course. Magic. The retaliation had caught me off guard. Confident with the invisible pain known, I plunge through the cloud and roar angrily at them, appearing fearsome for certain. She pauses for maybe a hundredth of a second before returning my anger in earnest.

Amusing; at least we share the same opinion on some things. Well, in a sense.

She again initiates the first strike, though I counter it by swatting her head away with my claws, completely expecting her to reel back from the painful looking claw marks etched on her left cheek. I am met with a strong barbed tail, ripping several wounds in my own face.

Outrage floods me and, before common sense or reason or logic or any thought can catch up with me, I make the mistake, and bite her.

And then we are falling once more.

8

'The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision.'

- Maimonides

Saphira

It is strange how, up until the very moment it occurs, life alternates between surreal and unreal.

Every occurrence seems, at the moment, so normal, so mundane that there is no doubt that it is happening. Yet, once you pause to actually think, a stranger world is unveiled, where things are either strange or impossible. The oddity of my presence before such an army, nigh the last of my kind; the impossibility of it all actually happening. How riders and dragons fell to that man who sits so unbearably close; and then the dragon beneath him. Even stranger – the subtle desire to launch myself at him and demand answers. Why he would surrender so easily, why he would allow himself to be so owned, why he wouldn't fight back?

And yet, deeper down, I am perfectly fine not knowing. I don't want to know why he's on their side and not ours – I don't want to even think about how it all came to be.

I just want to speak with him – because I know he has answers. He would know what true fear was – and he could relate to the panic steadily creeping up inside me at the very thought of fighting him. He would know why I was so drawn to his every breath – why I watched to see if he was preparing to unleash fire upon me. He would know what it meant to be facing an army – to be so close to the end you could practically see death beckoning you at the edges. He would know – I'm certain he would.

And yet, no answers await me. No opportunities to ask how he survived, how he possibly endured the fear. Oh wait – he never experienced this. He never knew what it was like to confront such an army as the underdog, and to have something more valuable than life at stake. To have the unadulterated terror at the mere thought of it happening overwhelm you – to have the torturous possibility so precariously near.

Losing Eragon.

A twinge of guilt courses through me for perhaps a heartbeat as I realize why this is such a likely possibility. If I had never chosen him as my rider, he would live the life of simplicity he'd always imagined. He would have grown up, perhaps found a mate for himself, and lived happily – probably without ever being truly involved in the war. He wouldn't have received that scar on his back, nor would he have lost his loved ones.

But without him, I know, there wouldn't be a rebellion – there wouldn't be hope for those suffocating under Galbatorix's oppressive rule. And, unsurprisingly, I know that I would rather have him suffer what he must and be here than all else.

Still, the horrifying prospect of losing him so soon nearly forces me to flee. Nearly.

Detachedly, I stare out at the army before us - paused in the final throes of preparation, the last moments of silence - and wonder.

Wonder what would be of them if it had not been for the black dragon and rider at their head – of the thousands of lives to be ruined in mere moments. Wonder if there was ever a hope for them to live better lives – and those who they are close to. Wonder if maybe they wouldn't even be there if he didn't exist.

A low, aching numbness fills me – I know that, even though I wish it weren't true, I am not thinking of Galbatorix. I know I should hate Galbatorix more, yet I cannot find myself to believe it. For while he holds the answers – while he would know these terrors and fears better than any other – he's still my worst enemy. Saphira, Eragon alerts, drawing me back to the sluggish present. Be ready.

I am, I lie perfectly, my tone confident and firm. Though wary and restless, he takes the subtle reassurance and shifts slightly upon my back. I stare out at the army, noticing Shruikan's breath hitch briefly before swallowing an expansive gust of air. Tensing cautiously, I watch his gaze as he raises his eyes to the heavens, almost imagining the sorrow and pain in them. Opening his black maw he unleashes a penetrating roar – an incoherent cry to a casual observer, yet a thousand messages in one.

My claws instinctively clench upon the hardened ground, my heart lurking with sudden pity. Why? Why? Why? His wordless voice echoes. From a near screech of outrage to a lowly buzz of sorrow, he subconsciously repeats the message through his roar. Overriding this hurt is the urgent call to challenge – the desperate need to attack.

I resist a wince and shuffle forward a step unconsciously before stiffening as his massive obsidian wings flare outward. A thousand scars crisscross and intersect on those vast black planes, bespeaking the continuous torture he must've endured. The webbed material is thick and obviously durable, yet I can almost see the pain resounding through them.

Before I can further assess his position, he shoots upwards, a volley of arrows firing on both sides. Both armies charge; for a fraction of a second, I am left stock still in surprise before I crouch and follow.

Despite all pretenses, I cannot help but admire how surprisingly graceful he is – how fast. His wings ripple from the wind that glides over them, practically quivering. Though, I know it is no fear that causes such shaking – but euphoria.

Taking his brief distraction with flight to my advantage, I swoop beneath one of the building clouds, hidden partially in the thick fog. I stare – through a blue, dream-like haze – at him as he swoops around a corner, decidedly making my move and soaring forward to meet him.

Murderer! I accuse, trying to convince myself as well. Murderer! I repeat, slightly more confidently. I round the clouds' bend and watch him pause, great wings flapping naturally. He stares at me, colds eyes oddly pensive, before roaring back in defiance.

What is your name? I almost hear him ask, dismissing it as my imagination. I surge up to his height, facing before him and continuing my accusations.

Murderer! Oath breaker!

He roars back, his own deep and infuriated, though it sounds… unnatural. Forced.

He takes off to the right. A sly, draconic grin fights at the corners of my jaw as I pursue, watching his expression change. A hint of excitement gleams there, surprising myself yet not unduly. He soars upward, a powerful thrust that launches him higher.

You think you'll win that easy? I muse silently, though a curious thought reminds me that he hasn't truly made any move to attack. Why won't you attack? I question deaf ears, unflinchingly rising up to meet his height. Instead of meeting my gaze – or even glancing in my direction – he stares out at the dimmed sun, eyes glinting with its low light. Before I can make any move to attack, he shoots up once more, ignoring any danger that it might pose. Following – albeit slightly unwillingly – I launch myself at him, determined to get this over with.

I snap at him, my teeth only grazing his impossibly strong scales – toughened and smooth like iron. Finding a weak spot I drive my teeth downward, surprised when he opens his jaw but closes it quickly. Pressing me back – with unsteady haste – he soars upward once more. I stare at him for a moment – wary. Is this his plan? I wonder. Drive me too high?

With a contemptuous snort, I rise up to meet his height; if he thinks to best me that easily, he's in for a surprise.

Saphira, Eragon warns, voice slightly strained as he keeps Galbatorix at bay – my own strength holding up the barrier. No higher.

I'll try not to, I concede. Darting forward, I graze his battered wings, my claws tearing through the thin material. I'm surprised as he doesn't bother to deflect – or even acknowledge – the blow, despite the blood freely pouring from them. In an instant, the blood begins retreating, the skin sewing itself back together flawlessly. I growl low in irritation – Galbatorix.

Horrible pain suddenly explodes from my belly and I roar and snarl as he drives a set of razor-sharp claws into the vulnerable flesh. Eragon doubles over on my back as I slam my tail into his side, drawing a deep, ragged scar.

He withdraws almost immediately, more blood leaking from my belly as I suppress the urge to roar in agony. I won't give him the benefit to know the agony it causes.

He climbs higher and I hesitate for a moment before surging upward. I pant heavily – the air unbearably thin. Saphira, Eragon pants, too high.

I can't go down unless he does, I respond, voice tight. I sense him nod reluctantly before drifting back into his own battle with Galbatorix. A flash of white-hot pain rips through my left side and I turn to see Shruikan's menacing claws sunk into the flesh, drawing rivulets of blood. Snarling, I seize his neck, applying bone-crushing pressure to the unarmored flesh. We simultaneously withdraw as he lurches upward, his own breath in large, frosty pants. I gaze at the red holes on his neck, knowing that if I he had bitten my own neck with the same pressure it would surely have snapped.

I deliberate for perhaps a second before surging upward, the strain on my wings enormous. The world fogs and swirls before me as I resolutely force my vision to steady. Grasping at the impossibly thin air, I watch him as he whirls around, appearing equally disoriented at such a pressing altitude. Eragon clutches the neck spike on my back, panting raggedly and begging, Go down.

I can't, I say as I watch him, waiting for him to move. Whipping his tail around, he locks his wings and plunges downward.

Hang on! I warn quickly before pursuing his dive, the world flashing and spinning before me at the sudden change in altitude. We plunge through the clouds, my dive only feet behind his. I feel Eragon's presence slip, unconscious claiming him for several frightening moments before we steady at a far more reasonable altitude. Gulping down air while focusing on Shruikan, I snarl before roaring in agony, pain rippling through the link to Eragon.

Galbatorix! I realize silently, scorching pain burning me from the inside out. My vision flashes red and black, yet I somehow manage to distinguish the flare of fire he breathes at me and swoop to the left. Exhaustion, pain, and shock fight to drag me down, though I forcibly stay flying and snarl back at him defiantly. Eragon, I say, knowing he understands.

Right, he answers shakily. I watch smugly as Shruikan reels back, his breath hitching before coming in unsteady pants. He soars higher, escaping the safe range of magic use. A gleam of understanding, and outrage, enters his eyes as he stares down at us. With a fearsome bellow, he dives and rushes up to meet us.

I pause and then return the call, my own voice outraged. He swats at my face, knives driven into the flesh there as the armor willingly gives way. Returning the favor, I swing my tail around, drawing a matching set of scars on his own face.

With a ferocious call, caught between a roar and a snarl, he lunges forward, teeth bared and dripping with an unknown toxin. I feel them graze the armor protecting my neck harmlessly, a horrified look entering his eyes as he quickly withdraws. Instead of allowing him to retreat, I latch around his neck and lock my wings.

He mimics the gesture, not bothering sink his own teeth into my flesh. We plummet rapidly, yet neither of our gazes are fearful of the deadly fall below. A strange acceptance comes to his gaze and I suddenly notice that now is the chance – I could kill him there and now.

Roaring, I release him, at the last possible moment before we would've crashed, and soar upward.

You'll have to kill him, a part of me chastises gravely.

Not yet, I avoid, though I know that I'm running out of time.

I stare back at him, surprised to see him on the ground, staring up at me as he folds his wings, waiting, waiting for me to confront the inevitable.

I growl low – though whether from pain, irritation, or fear, I don't know – and swoop back down.

9

'There are victories of the soul and spirit. Sometimes, even if you lose, you win.'

-Elie Wiesel

-Shruikan

It seems that, from the moment I drop my wings, time slows. The arrows that preen in their own dark way above us, the swords that dance with wicked bloodlust, and the shields that crumple seem frozen, paused mid-strike with cutting precision. Every inch of cold steel seems sharper; every blow seems thousands of times more crippling. The howls of agony seem to last longer, and the fall to the blood-soaked earth seems horribly slow, as though they must endure the pain for as long as can be drawn out. And each face, each face seems more distorted, no longer a person – but an animal, feral and deadly.

Arrows penetrate the armored flesh with unnatural ease; swords slide between ribs, sheathing perfectly. I wince – it's terribly familiar. The throbbing pain in my face is all too dreadfully similar – as though even fate mocks me. The tortured cries, the hideous clashes, the abhorred defeats… And even with these horrible things, it's not mere human soldiers that I see – not insignificant people.

I can almost see them – their dragons, their swords, themselves. Like a nightmare reborn, I stare at them, petrified of the long-lost nightmares. Why won't they just leave? Why can't they just end?

Vaguely, I sense Galbatorix, though he is only just at the edges of my perception – no longer important. Instead, my eyes stray and wander the battlefield, the echoing dragons' roars resounding through my head as I unwillingly remember. Remember the blood shed – the sight of dragons lying in their own blood, battered and bleeding, torn apart by their own brethren. I shiver involuntarily.

Staring up at her though – the past shatters. The nightmare vanishes – time reasserts itself at its fast, almost supernatural pace. Watching her hesitate before she dares land nearby adds a strange comfort – an unknown solace that I'm not the only way that fears what's next. The screams, curses, begs, pleads, cries, and howls of a war so long ago mercifully fade, allowing only the far more tamed war before me. None of them are left to haunt me.

Even as I watch her move, I hesitate as well, allowing her to land with no counterstrike – no move to approach or attack. Ruby blood slips from her glorious white fangs, dripping to the ground like red rain. My gaze runs over her form, blue scales stained crimson and crushed armor surrounding her from where my claws struck. The low throb of my heart seems painful as I look at her, eyes pleading her to understand. To understand that I don't want to hurt her – and I can't possibly bear to kill her. That I want her to win, but I just don't know how.

And, though it was undoubtedly my imagination – for it could never have been true – I almost smile when I see her barely noticed nod. I know, it secretly conveys.

My claws lurch out, lengthening as my wings extend in a threatening stance. I rumble low, hopefully sounding convincing, and roar, beckoning her forward. She waits stoically, unresponsive to my call. Ah. So she's smart enough to know. Know that initiating the fight would be suicide – and that I would have no choice but to kill her.

Steeling myself – and mildly surprised that neither of us had been struck by the opposing armies warring around us – I cautiously march forward, angling to the left slightly and growling all the while. She angles right, returning the snarl. Don't make this harder, I moan silently, wanting desperately to stop now and surrender. But if she continues to believe – and why wouldn't she? – that I'm going to kill her… I wince. The harder she works, the more likely…

I shake my head furiously – suddenly – startling both her and her rider. Why? I roar aloud, feeling Galbatorix's outrage wash over me. Why? I repeat, heedless of the sharp pain in my skull. My claws drive deep into the hard soil, an angry snarl tearing at my lips. I stalk forward, my gaze wicked and my jaw open, displaying its full, impressive array. A scorching flare of white-hot fire erupts from my maw, so fast and unexpected that she has no time to react – no time to dodge before I am plowing into her side and shoving her towards the masses of soldiers. No! a part of me cries in anguish. Stop!

A wave of emotion overwhelms me – betrayal, hatred, hurt, pain, anguish, despair, sorrow… Stop it! I howl at them – the torments of my mind. Stop!

I savagely pin her down, her rider fortunately sprawled somewhere off. My keen peripheral sight acknowledges how he staggers to his feet, though I am far more focused on the dragoness now snapping and roaring and writhing beneath me. I pin her tail with my own, my front claws restraining her forelegs. I snap my teeth once and watch her, both of us panting as we stare each other down. I am only faintly aware of the warm blood dying my claws, though she also ignores it.

It seems hours pass – though I know it is only a second – before my claws retract quickly and I force myself away, shaking my head desperately. No, I groan. She continues to stare at me – everything else blurred like a dream.

So beautiful – so naïve of the harsh world. Always believing the heroes win; the cruel truth of knowingbetter. And my gaze sweeps over the battle, not registering anything but the pulsing gray haze over my sight, the fogged masses writhing before me.

I linger on my true nightmare – drawn up straight from death itself. Galbatorix beating her rider back, forcing him to his knees.

No… a small part of me whispers, horrified. Sickening pain rushes through me as a vicious set of teeth latches onto my head, unable to crush hard enough to break it. Darkness crashes over my vision, though I can feel the light grin tug at my lips as I watch her rider seize control, stabbing Galbatorix through the heart. I willingly collapse to my knees, panting with the staggering pain, yet relieved beyond measure.

Incredible, I say before feeling the teeth withdraw slowly.

A loud thud follows and the last thing I see is blue – wonderful blue – as I lay my head over her neck, protectively.

-Saphira

Landing is painful – in more ways than one.

The aggravated gashes on my sides and belly seethe in protest to the light jostling as I keep the distance between us close enough to strike yet far enough to make it so that one has to initiate it. My gaze lingers on the deep red holes on his neck, as well as the scarlet smears on his wings. Meeting his gaze finally – reluctantly – I stare at his curiously fearful expression. What would he possibly fear? What could he fear? Though, the desperation in his eyes is painful to look at – so vulnerable to something. A deep sincerity – undoubtedly true – enters his gaze, and I can only nod – so slightly – to it, wondering myself what it is I have agreed to.

A hint of satisfaction enters his gaze, and then despair clouds over again. I warily shift to the right as he shuffles left, watching him carefully. He tenses, every step seemingly despised, claws tightening whenever they met earth. Why haven't they attacked? I wonder, curious and suspicious. Or do they expect us to attack first? Lurching forward suddenly, the black dragon before me interrupts my thoughts.

Why?

The thought is flung freely – brokenly – into our midst, no precautions taken or considered. Eragon's grip on my saddle tightens – suspicious as well. What was…? But before he can finish, Shruikan speaks again, voice low and dredged with sadness.

Why?

A certain empathy overcomes me; the growing desire to launch myself at him and demand what he wants. Why he's so afraid – what terrifies him so. His face darkens noticeably, a snarl rippling in his throat. Stepping forward, he growls, pausing only a moment for his claws to dig into the ground. Closer he comes yet I remain still, unwilling to be daunted so easily. With a ferocious roar, a pillar of white flame splashes onto my armored chest and face, heat intensely unbearable. Without the time to even cry out in agony, I am forced back by his enormous bulk as he presses forth, ramming me back into the army. The bloodlust is clear in his eyes, glowering with the utmost hatred. Retaliating pointlessly, I struggle to maintain a semblance of control, barely noticing Eragon's absence as he is cast off to the side.

It is only the two of us – as wild, untamable dragons – who fight now, struggling and writhing, pressing and tearing, kicking and thrashing at the other. Neither giving in – our strange growls in sync as we defiantly face the other. Pressure – breaking, bone-crushing pressure – applies itself to my forelegs, yet my gaze never strays from his deep, almost hypnotic one. Lost in the throes of battle, yet never more aware of the other.

Saphira, Eragon's voice calls from a place far, far away – too far to be noticed or heeded. Our hearty pants – vicious yet fatigued at the same time – cloud the air before us, the thickening moisture in the air making each breath a heavy gust of fog. Melding, intertwining as they disappear, our gazes never faltering. An unfathomable desire to ask him – to finally ask the questions I so desperately wish to say – courses through me, yet I withhold it as I stare at him.

And then, he pulls back – almost clumsy in his haste – and stares off, gaze distant. I follow it and – for the shortest of moments – I can almost imagine us seeing it the same.

Now! a voice within me beckons, and I glance at his exposed neck with the briefest of hesitations before seizing his head. Large and thickly protected by scales, bone, and muscle, I know it's not fatal – and a strange content at this infuses in me.

Saphira! Eragon cries again, voice much closer. And suddenly, my jaws locked around his skull, I see it. I see the battle before us – but not this battle. The battle of a century ago – where dragons flew and tore each other out of the sky mid-air. Where they lay – far beyond any repair – on the ground, staring up at the sky hopelessly before drawing their last breaths. Riders – anguished – kneeling by their partners' sides, holding their fallen companion's head lovingly before being struck down as well. Phantom pain courses through me – and in that instant, all questions are answered.

He didn't survive the fear – he didn't endure the torture. He died – long ago – and yet here he remains, drowning beneath the dark magic's hold. Clinging desperately to the fibers of his former being – holding them close and firm – yet unable to mend the irreparable wound.

Despair envelops me as I realize this – the true hopelessness of it all. And yet, a fierce determination overshadows it and I stare at Galbatorix, beckoning Shruikan's power and shattering the mental fortress that looms there. Shruikan doesn't react – I wonder, for a heartbeat, if he even noticed. Lurching back as though struck, Galbatorix leaves the fatal opening. Even as my vision clouds, I smile contentedly as I watch Eragon finish the task, sword plunging deep into the tyrant's heart.

The deepest satisfaction, though, comes from Shruikan, but before I can react or respond, I fall back, my neck laying exposed before him.

Just as darkness overtakes me, I feel his own neck rest overtop mine, a low hum rumbling in his chest.

For once, I'm not afraid – but rather, an unreasonable feeling of being safe – completely and utterly – radiates through me.

It's over, I think – not happily, but contentedly – before my senses desert me.

10

'One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.'

-James Earl Jones

Shruikan

It could never have been, I tell myself repeatedly, wings ruffled in the gentle autumn breeze. The scent of pinewood and oak fills my nostrils as I take in deep, hearty breaths, forcing myself to be calm. The lush forest – leaves painted gold, yellow, and crimson – stands before me, so open of my presence it is painful.

It could never have been.

The dismal chant rings through my head, a monotonous drone that is the only thing keeping me from going back. My onyx eyes – glowing indigo at the edges, so perfectly melded that it is hardly noticed – take in the scenery with impassivity. Frustration gnaws at my innards – irritation drags claws down my wings mercilessly.

It could never have been.

Couldn't it? a part of me counters weakly.

I shake my head solemnly, gazing at the glowering sunset darkly. No, I reassert, voice toneless. My breath catches in my throat and I swallow a sob of despair, breathing out heavily.

Why? I plead to no one before snapping a young juniper beneath my ivory claws.

Mountains – fogged by an ominous line of clouds – overshadow the peaceful forest, so oblivious to my hurt, my suffering. I wish I had died that day – this unbearable loneliness is far worse than death's kind release from worldly pains. To have come so close and then …

I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have disappeared like I did, awakening before her and fleeing – cowardly – to anywhere but there. I shouldn't have let the opportunity – right there – disappear, vanishing as I did.

There was no pursuit – none calling me back or tracking me down. I was just let go – my wings tinged with an oddly dark blue as I flew away.

Indigo.

The color is so familiar it hurts – yet I cannot recall why. Like a long-lost memory – rekindled, but in a hazy fog – I remember this, I know this, but I cannot figure out why. I sigh deeply, frustrated yet too defeated to feel any true anger.

Lapping at the edges of my claws is the golden tinge of the sun – setting as it always does, uncaring of my predicament. Gold splashes over my torso and back, casting my face into deep shadow. The indigo edge to my wings and scales lightens, almost beatific in the glow. Gazing out at the forest, I let out a low, aching moan – caught between a rumble and a sigh.

Three hundred years. I know I should be over it – have long since dismissed it. But I can't ignore it – the crippling blow to my heart. To be so near – the opportunity so close, only a word away – but to give it up and run. Run away to this place – this lonely, quiet place – and stare out at the mountains that curl down the western half of Alagaesia. The Spine.

And to know that I might be the last – to not even know if she's still alive. Beyond torture, beyond agony it is to be so cowardly.

I absently carve the hard soil beneath me, a single ivory claw sliding over it with sluggish ease. Interspersed plants trail lazily along the sides of the open clearing, grass near nonexistent in these colder months. When I glance down at the earth, I sigh and cross out the meaningless doodle. It could never have been, I repeat.

But why? Why couldn't I have just stayed? Why couldn't I have found it to at least talk to her – learn her name?

A light carpet of gray drapes over the trees as night descends, the sun's fall reaching its pinnacle in a flare of gold. Dipping beneath the horizon, though, it leaves behind a trail of obsidian, surrendering its lasting fight to remain high. I rise – slow and uninterested – gazing at the darkening sky dully. So alike that dark I am – forever feared, forever conquering the light at one time, only to fall at another, forever there. Lonely, cold, unwanted…

My head bows beneath it, hours passing as I continue to silently drown in my pain. Frigidity chills the air, clinging to my hard onyx scales, futilely trying to cool my fiery presence. Stars soon peek out from beneath the black shadow, the moon a solemn crescent. Finally, I raise my gaze, staring up at it and letting out a low, lugubrious roar.

I wonder if the heavens hear me – if there is such a thing. I wonder if anyone hears me.

Or perhaps they just turn away, ignore my call as the world so ignored my presence.

Finally – breathlessly – I lower my head, panting and shaking. For a moment, I see her – bloody, wearied, and fierce, but still perfect – panting as well, pinned beneath me so long ago… I can almost imagine that it is not just my breath filling the gap between us. At the mercy of my wrath – yet so unafraid.

Though, looking back upon it, I was the one who was vulnerable – unable to possibly kill her, yet unable to back down.

I stare back up at the sky, my heart throbbing low in my chest. If only I had known – known the truth. That it was all in my head. That if I had simply tried to see past the darkness – so strong, so compelling and deep – I could've killed him.

But forever that impenetrable fear had frozen me – prevented me from trying.

I'm a coward – a bloody, unwanted coward. So much pain, so much suffering I could've ended right there – but I never tried.

Crouching, I let my wings unfold, thrusting upward and shooting up into the sky, a blur of indigo in the night. My vision – once gray and hazy – glows a marvelous navy around the edges. I admire the bluish halo surrounding the moon, sparks of sapphire showing the stars. So familiar – the sky of a thousand ages and more – yet so unknown all the same. Always there, yet always changing.

With an exuberant bellow, I let my voice be heard, wondering who listens. I swoop over the darkened gray forest, leaves shimmering with the lightest breeze. Soaring upward, I crest the moon, knowing I am flying across the ceiling of the world. Ecstasy – pure and untouched by the world – flows through me, adrenalin coursing through my veins.

A sudden, startling blue soars through the air, appearing as though from the blackness itself. Curious, I roar out to them – It can't be her, I remind myself firmly. Unhindered by my call, they swoop around, and a hint of dread washes over me as I realize that it truly can't be her. Sullenly, I swing around – preparing to disappear again – when suddenly a flash of blue courses overhead, hovering before me in an instant.

My heart freezes before slamming back to full speed.

What are you waiting for? she asks – a lilting, smooth tone to her voice. There is no scorn – no disdain or anger – in it and for a moment I wonder if she even recognizes me. Well? she persists, and something – something – tells me she recognizes me. With a flick of her tail, she dashes off to the side, beckoning me to follow.

Frozen with shock – yet eager to obey – I soar after her, surprised at how much she has grown. Certainly this can't be the same dragon – can it? But that voice…

What are you doing here? I finally dare question, my voice neutral. Inside, though, it's a struggle to keep the desperately hopeful side of me from bursting forth.

She turns agilely, facing me with an unreadable expression. What are you doing here? she retorts – though not angrily, I note. I almost smirk – almost.

I'm serious, I insist, voice steady only through an effort.

I am too, she counters readily, and to that I have nothing to say. Smirking draconically, she flies upward, an unspoken challenge written in it. Will you just fly there all night? she dares. I snort – my momentary awkwardness forgotten – and swoop up to her height easily.

Soaring up again, she sets the challenge once more. Expectantly, she looks down at me, hovering effortlessly. I meet her once more, our gazes locked determinedly. With an almost playful growl, I shoot up, not stopping as she follows unflinchingly. She's fast, the more logical side of me comments.

I'm faster, I counter as I soar upwards, streaking through the night. The world spins and twirls; the previously unnoticed beat of our wings almost hypnotic. I watch her fly upwards – rich blue the only color I see – and daringly swoop across from her, my wings briefly grazing hers. Shivers tingle on them as we both turn to face each other, our gazes meeting for an instant. Panting from the thin air – chilled breaths sending gusts of fog – I realize that, truly, this is her.

Why… why did you come? I ask seriously. Instead of a witty remark, she falls silent, staring back at me for several long, quiet moments, interrupted only by our heavy breaths and beating wings.

I don't know, she finally admits. To thank you, I suppose, she adds.

I raise an eyebrow slightly. Thank me for what?

Answers, she replies cryptically, and before I can question what, she continues, It's a lot simpler if you just accept that much.

You're welcome, I breathe, dazed. What did I do?

Amusement radiates from her as she swoops around, plunging downward in a freefall. For a moment, I remain, staring out at the sky and wondering whether it is right to follow. I could leave now – run away before the painful past reemerges. She pauses, several hundred feet below now, and stares up at me, waiting. She knows that I could flee now – an understanding look comes to her face as she retreats, soaring off from where she'd appeared.

A sudden, dreadful feeling of separation engulfs me. I can't let her go this time – I wouldn't live it.

Diving down after her, I ride the wind and surge after her, determined to keep up. Allowing me to catch up, she stares at me for several moments, eyes unreadable.

There's no endearing love or passion there – no anger or resentment either. Rather, acceptance of our fates – to be the last of our race – gleams, mirroring my own. With a low, warm hum, she brushes her cheek – very briefly – against my own, as though greeting an old friend, and says, Come fly with me.

And, without hesitation, I fly with her once more, the dark dragon with the light; black scales melding with blue.

-Saphira

Soaring through the air contentedly, I scan the dusky landscape lazily, watching the insignificant trees pass below me. I sense Eragon at the edges of the contact, enjoying himself with a group of new friends living in the rebuilt village of Carvahall. Without the pandemonium of constant attacks and warfare, he and I are free to roam the new Alagaesia, though we still take precautions with elvin guards. I am comfortable, though, leaving him for the moment, taking this flight to who-knows-where, unaware of anything but the wondrous sensation of flying.

I spot a small herd of deer – a large, healthy buck at its head – wandering beneath me, freezing as I fly over them harmlessly. This is what it means to be a dragon of the skies. To have lesser beings cower in fear – even if unseen to them – at merely your presence. Casting a quick glance to the descending sun, I unleash a burst of white fire, tinged blue at its edges. It vanishes in a thin fog of smoke, disappearing behind me as I continue my meaningless flight.

The barren emptiness of the skies, though, is discontenting, leaving a hollow, alone feeling throbbing inside me. There are no dragons left – none to inhabit these glorious azure planes. A wistful sigh escapes me – perhaps there was one, but he's long dead – long gone from possibility. Shaking my head quickly, I swiftly traverse another league or so in the air, my sapphire wings expansive and rippling with the wind. Allowing my gaze to wander over the sun – shining from a distant place – I cast a long glance to the mountains that distantly frame the left side of my sight.

An unmistakable scent abruptly washes over me as a light breeze bathes my face and scales. I pause mid-air, my great wings flapping subconsciously as I stiffen to that scent – one which I could never forget. I do not realize I have held my breath – as though desperately trying to hold it closer – until I suddenly draw in a larger one, needy to get air. Another blinding wave of that strange aroma makes me near dizzy as I unsteadily follow the trail.

Dragon.

It can't be him, I admonish half-heartedly, he died. Didn't he? But the closer I draw, the stronger the scent grows until finally it is nearly unbearable. My eyes scan the ground futilely, knowing he – It might not be him, part of me reminds. Gazing down at the forest in frustration, I ignore the drawing urge of the hauntingly familiar scent and dive down, landing in an open alcove of pines, shaking my wings slightly to free them of twigs and branches. Far ahead of me I can see the golden rays splay out from the sun as it reaches its climax, ruby and orange melding around it as a light, beatific pink melds into the calm azure. Settling with the sun, I watch it disappear with a twinge of sadness – how quickly, it seems, yet another day has gone by.

Night darkens the forest quickly, sluggishly encroaching over the woods until shadows dominate the light. Unease swells inside me, spreading across my membranous wings until they are taut with an unknown anxiety. Wondering if now would be the right time to return to Eragon, I glance up at the sky, cool and calm as always. Standing as though to leave, I pause – my wings outstretched and muscles tensed – indecisive. The strong, draconic scent still lingers, easily traceable to further east. And yet, while one part desperately wants to follow, another restrains me, a discontented feeling settling inside myself.

A low, mournful peal breaks the subtle rustling and I instinctively jerk forward, the sound drawing a horribly lonely feeling to the front of my mind. I stare upward, watching the cool velvet sky impassively, wondering if I should dare follow the sound. Certainly it cannot be him – he died years ago. He had to have…

But it continues – so terribly alone I want to fall to my knees and beg of it to end – oblivious to my own torment at the sound. I knead the soil restlessly, shuffling my wings unconsciously, debating whether or not to follow. After several more moments – so much longer it seems – the roar fades, silence filling the sudden void.

I stare at the dark forest, lost in the deep remorse of the wordless cry. I cannot bring myself to retreat – to fly back to Eragon, who still sits – blissfully ignorant of the tortured voice – with his friends. I cannot force myself to give in and find that voice, to comfort that being as my heart so desperately wants to.

I do not have time to make a decision as a black – no, indigo – streak leaps into the skies, obsidian wings disappearing into the endless night. My eyes narrow, then widen in astonishment. His scent buffets me just as the reality of his presence does, wafting through the air and reaching me powerfully. Reeling back, I crouch, even more troubled than before. How can he be alive? How can he possibly be alive? I shake my head, waiting for him to notice my presence and flee.

Yet he continues to soar, missing me all the while. I snort softly, caught between irritation, amusement, and utter confusion. Why did I just want him to find me? I shake my head once more, stiffening as another roar –far more pleasing – sounds out, loud and almost challenging.

Hear me! It seemed to cry, though I could never know if that was truly his intent. Finally – crouching almost nervously – I leap upward, soaring high and watching amusedly as his incredulous gaze settles upon me, observing my flight with awe written over his face. Obviously, I was not the only one not expecting this.

But to see him again is… oddly comforting. What once should've terrified or horrified me now pleases me – his vast black wings seem as open and inviting as a pair of outstretched arms, though the surprised expression keeps me at bay as I wait for him to react. He roars – not in challenge – but merely in an almost awkward greeting, as though trying to further gain my attention. I hesitate, taking the time to swoop around as I watch his expression fall. I frown at his hurt look, watching him turn around and shooting after him, soaring overhead and pausing in front of him, forcing him to stop.

He freezes, shock the only emotion on his face as he stares at me. I, too, freeze for a moment, my heart thundering in my chest. Finally, I pull together enough of a semblance of control and ask, What are you waiting for? His reaction surprises me and I suddenly understand how the words might appear to be misleading. Continuing, I add, Well? Still, he remains shocked, surprised, and… happy?

Amusement rushes through me and, before he can see, I dash off to the right. He follows – almost clumsy in his suddenly helpless haste. I soar forward, watching him from the corner of my eye as he pursues. Hovering before me – unwittingly buffeting me with his strangely alluring scent – he asks, almost timidly, What are you doing here?

Unable to resist, I reply, What are you doing here?

A smirk tugs at his lips, though he insists firmly, I'm serious.

I am too, I grin, smirking. Surging upwards, I glance down at his still-dazed expression and ask, Will you just fly there all night? Snorting contemptuously, he soars upward, our gazes meeting for several moments before I fly higher again, determined to keep him from vanishing. Pressing higher again, I watch him hesitate for a moment before following. I grin slightly as he immediately soars higher, refusing to stop as I pursue willingly.

I match his pace with my own, our wings beating in a strange, draconic harmony, filling the night with their rhythmic pounding. The world tumbles into a cascade of swirls and twists as my vision hazes over slightly. I resolutely fly upward, watching him with surprised eyes as he surges in front of me, causing me to pause. His wings quiver as he and I stare at each other, panting into the night.

Our gazes remain locked on one another – his tinged with indigo and mine glowing blue. I cannot help but admire the kingly quality the blue puts on him – dark blue. After a moment, he asks shakily, Why… why did you come?

A playful retort quickly comes to me, though the seriousness in his voice and eyes is undeniable. Allowing the silence to draw out between us, I try and recall why I have come here – unsuccessfully.

I don't know, I admit. After a moment, another thought comes to me. To thank you, I suppose.

He raises an eyebrow, appearing incredulous. Thank me for what? he asks, tone matching.

And again, I don't know how to respond – until I remember, my jaws locked around him, the images flashing through my mind, providing me the courage to press forward and try. Answers, I finally provide. He still looks confused and for a moment I consider explaining before deciding otherwise. Let him wonder. It's easier if you just accept that much.

You're welcome, he practically stutters, obviously dazed. I withhold a laugh as I soar around, my wings freely absorbing the wind, and plunge downward, feeling adrenalin course through me. After a time, I look up, watching his still figure with a hint of disappointment. He just stares at me – not following, not making any move to pursue – rather just watches. I dejectedly take off, expression sullen. Almost instantly, I hear the mighty flap of his wings and almost smile.

Slowing my pace, I allow him to catch up, letting him fly beside me. Pausing, I stare at him, trying to discern what to make of this. This sudden need to be with him – yet not completely love. Just the need, the desperate desire to never let him go away as he did before. The comforting, protecting feeling that radiates from him is far too good to let go – the wonder of his presence is a gift in itself.

And so, hesitantly yet determinedly, I reach out, allowing my cheek to brush his oddly warm one for the shortest of moments. A wondrously pleased expression comes across his face, though I see both the acceptance and joy there.

Come fly with me.

And we flew – his blackened indigo against the night; mine always beside it, unwilling to let him ever disappear into it again.

Chapter end notes:

Well, it's been a wonderful experience for me to write this interesting, forbidden dragonistic romance. I've always imagined Shruikan to be far more animate and entertaining than a simple bloodthirsty slave, so writing from his PoV was very interesting for me. When I started this unusual fiction, I'd never have expected so many reviews - or reviewers - and to you all I am very grateful for taking the time to read this fiction. I never expected for this to be a Featured Fiction - so that was certainly a very nice surprise. I hope the ending satisfied you all - and if not, I apologize. But I thank you, nonetheless, for taking the opportunity to read this fiction, even if the initial idea of a Saphira/Shruikan seemed impossible.

-skulblaka_fricai