Disclaimer – I own nothing except for Amarisa.

A/N - Okay…so this is a new Eragon fanfic I'm gonna try to keep going. My old one I think I might discontinue. Anyways, this is basically set after Brisingr and (in my mind) the final fight that either the Varden or the Empire will win.

Enjoy and R&R pwease ;)

EDIT- Fixed it up a bit, I really felt like there were pretty bad bits. (cringy more like)


The Price for Freedom


A young boy with toffee brown hair was dragged into the pitch black throne room by two soldiers who seemed to have just come from the battlefield. Their armour was torn and bloodied and they looked exhausted.

A man dressed all in black was watching from the obsidian throne that he sat on; his face cast into shadow.

The boy was thrown onto the ground roughly and the soldiers left to return to their ranks, closing the huge stone doors and plunging the room into further darkness.

The sound of something hitting the walls of the castle with huge force echoed through the room and shook the foundations of the castle, knocking some stone statues to the ground where they smashed into tiny pieces.

The throne room was cold and damp; no light penetrated the windows which were covered with heavy black velvet curtains.

From where he sat on the throne, Galbatorix studied the boy. His black eyes showed no trace of any emotion, only a sinister mask that concealed his true feelings.

The boy pushed himself up stiffly to his knees. His breathing was laboured and blood dripped from a wound on his head onto the floor in what looked like black droplets in the darkness.

At the sight of blood, the King's eyes lit up with a strange animalistic delight that was quickly quenched before anyone could identify it.

For a few more minutes, the King watched as the brunette tried unsuccessfully to stand up.

He made no move to speak or to help the boy; he simply sat and watched as the last free dragon rider struggled to get to his feet.

Footsteps echoed from outside the room.

Suddenly the engraved stone doors swung open silently.

A dark haired young man stepped into the complete and utter darkness of the throne room.

"Sire." he bowed to the King. "You sent for me?"

The King studied him carefully for a moment.

"Yes Murtagh. I wish for you to be here in case anything goes…amiss." Galbatorix told him, grinning crookedly although the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Very well then, sire." Murtagh nodded obediently, understanding the mad king's meaning, and positioned himself so that he could pin his brother down if he needed to.

The King gazed at the boy still struggling to stand, concentrating on entering the boy's mind.

The force of power behind his mind had obviously overwhelmed the boy at first. There had been a slight gap in his concentration but, before Galbatorix could take advantage of it, the barrier was restored.

As the two minds battled for dominance, Murtagh watched impassively, waiting for one to defeat the other.

Sweat started to drip from Eragon's face, joined with his blood, as he fought to keep the King from his memories and thoughts. He clenched his teeth against the battering that the barrier around his mind was taking but he still didn't let it waver again.

While all this was happening, a figure dressed in blood red floated into the room through a discreet doorway to the right of the throne. She, for it was obvious from her figure and garments that she was a young woman, walked over to stand beside the King and Murtagh watched curiously.

He could barely see her so he had no idea who it was. All he could see was that she was standing passively by the King's side, not seeming to notice or care about what was happening around her.

Murtagh was intrigued; he wondered who would be required to wait on the King or who Galbatorix would have summoned. That woman must have been important to him somehow.

After half an hour, finally the King gave up, he looked to his side, "Ah, daughter, you have come."

"Of course." She replied tonelessly, letting just the vaguest hint of sarcasm escape her lips.

The King nodded for her to light the lamps and then said, "Murtagh, take our...guest to his room. You know which one."

Murtagh nodded, obviously dismissed, and hauled Eragon to his feet.

The room was lit by the flickering firelight of the lamps and he could see the princess clearly.

She was lighting the final lamp; her white-blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders in sleek curls. She seemed to be the complete opposite to her father. She was the light and he was the darkness.

He caught a glimpse of her face and felt as if his heart would break. She was completely emotionless; the light that he had seen in her grey eyes the first time he'd met her was gone. It had been replaced by a vacancy, as if they were waiting for her soul to return.

Darkness had prevailed.

Looking away, he roughly helped Eragon stand and pulled him out of the room, into the hallway outside.

The younger boy looked slightly dazed, not seeming to understand what was happening.

"C'mon." Murtagh said gruffly, continuing down the corridor with a hand on Eragon's arm to steady him.

They wound through the many corridors of the castle, passing no one as they went. The castle was eerily silent except for the occasional catapulted rock slamming into the castle walls; nearly all of the men were outside fighting.

It was a depressing place, there were no tapestries or paintings on the walls, it was like a huge, stone fortress of darkness. Even in the hallways barely any light shone into the building.

As they neared the dungeons they passed a few maids carrying laundry baskets, all of them looked anxious, biting their lips in worry. They wondered if the men would come back from this battle.

But, as he passed, they eyed Eragon with pity. Their eyes widened as they noticed Murtagh, each of them rushing to curtsy.

He nodded carelessly at them and kept dragging the younger rider along with him.

His reputation as a powerful, merciless general earned him fear and respect throughout the Empire.

They reached their destination in a few minutes, Eragon half faint from fatigue.

About six guards were sitting in the dungeons watching over the prisoners, playing cards and drinking as usual, though they stopped as soon as they noticed Murtagh striding towards them.

Murtagh handed Eragon over to them and watched as they put him into the cell at the end of the room. It had one window and a wooden door. The walls were made of stone and the floor had straw scattered across it. Eragon sat in the corner staring blankly ahead.

Poor soul, it must've been a pretty tough day for him. Murtagh thought to himself, looking pitifully at the young Shur'tugal. His worst nightmares are coming true.

For the first time he actually felt sorry for the younger boy.

Sighing heavily, resigned, he decided to leave. He could do nothing to help Eragon. It would be better if he left him alone to try and think.

Turning around, he strode back the way he'd come. He yawned, looking forward to a good night's rest.


The King's daughter, Amarisa, was staring into her mirror.

Although the image of herself that she saw before her was beautiful, she could only see the flaws in it.

The odd chicken pock scar and her right eye that was slightly smaller than the left were some of the many things she noted despairingly.

Her hair was limp and lifeless, reflecting her state of mind at the time.

She had been looking at her reflection for so long that she believed it was her soul trapped on the other side.

Her soul's hand lifted up limply to meet hers through the glass.

This was the closest she'd been to human contact for a long time; she didn't count her father as human.

She had withdrawn from the other people of the court since the incident that summer. It had changed her perspective on life completely.

Her fiancée had been murdered by some rogue members of the Varden, unauthorised by their leader, as he rode out with a hunting party one day. They'd delivered his head to her balcony that night.

She still had no idea how they'd gotten it there.

The horror of that night was not something she liked to relive but, though traumatising, it had given her some insight to how those people thought. She was a liability, her father's weakness, and they had used that to try to get to him through some kind of misplaced sense of justice.

If that was how they thought, they were no better than the animal that people liked to call her father.

After that, Galbatorix had kept a disturbingly close eye on her, waiting to make his final move. Then, one day, she had been called to his study. He'd had something urgent to speak with her about.

She'd been stupid, thinking that he actually wanted to discuss strategy with her.

But she knew as soon as she stepped into that room, completely ignorant to the King's plan at first, that something awful was going to happen.

He attacked her mind, trying in vain to discover her true name so that she could become another one of his slaves.

But she'd been taught well, his blood ran through her veins whether she liked it or not, and she'd managed to keep him out.

Furious, he'd exiled her to her chambers, where she'd remained for the past year.

All she had ever felt was the cold and unfeeling numbness that she protected herself with. She was afraid of opening up to anyone in case they hurt her. Inside she was broken, a fragile porcelain doll, just like her poor shredded heart.

Being the daughter to a tyrannical King always made her the target. What they didn't seem to realise was that, whatever they did to her, her father wouldn't care. He wouldn't even bat an eyelash. Being a princess had ruined her life. She hated both the Varden and her father. She'd seen the bad side of both of them. She knew how cruel they could both be.

But, when she wasn't bitter and resentful, she could see the good sides too. She knew better than to judge them before she knew all of the facts. Life had taught her that much.

Amarisa looked down at her hand touching the glass.

She had been in one of her rare lucid states today but now the fogginess she associated with depression was back, pulling her under.

Her thoughts spiralled down, falling deeper into the thick, white fog.

It poisoned her mind, filling her mind with things that no sane person could think.

Her blank, glassy eyes watched her reflection with a gaze full of intense despair.

No one ever touched her; it had been so long since anyone had held her hand or touched her face. It had been so long since she had felt anyone's lips on hers.

A tear trickled down her face.

All she really wanted was to feel alive again, to be loved. But she never let herself; she just remained the cold and untouchable ice-queen that everyone saw.

No one knew how she felt. She never let them in.

The world was a barren waste-land, full of pain and suffering.

She looked at the harrowing figure in the mirror.

Then something occurred to her, the world was a terrible place, yes, but maybe…maybe if she smashed the mirror, her soul would come back inside her.

It would make her alive again.

She had heard the many comments on how she looked like her very essence had floated away and that she was just a shell of a person now.

She slammed her hand into the mirror, smashing it.

Cracks rippled outwards from her hand.

The glass shattered, her reflection disappearing.

Shards flew into the air, scratching her skin, yet she couldn't feel it.

Frantic, she looked around for her soul. Surely that had freed it? Surely she'd go back to her old self now?

Grabbing shards of glass, she arranged them together in a futile attempt at bringing her soul back.

The tears came quickly now.

She ran her hand across the pieces, searching.

As suddenly as it had come, the white fog disappeared, swirling away with the last pieces of insanity.

Looking down at her hand, she noticed that it tingled a bit.

Funny, she didn't remember spilling any red paint on it.

Then it dawned on her.

She'd done this to herself. After all the things she'd sworn to herself, she'd done this.

Only now she couldn't remember why.

Dropping the shards she still held to the ground, she stood up and brushed off her dress.

The blood was barely noticeable on the ruby material, something that gave her chills, although she didn't know why.

Glass crunching beneath her feet, she walked over to French doors and sat down on the edge of her balcony, blood still dripping from her hand.

She still couldn't feel the pain. Gazing out unseeingly at the ruby red city, she only saw a place soaked in the blood of innocents.

This bloodshed had been all because a group of people wanted her father flung off of his throne.

It sickened her.


As he passed one of the doors on his way to his room, Murtagh heard something smash inside.

He whipped around and decided to try and open the door.

It was locked.

"Damn it." He muttered under his breath.

He ran and broke down the door, completely forgetting about magic, and saw a broken mirror lying on the ground, shards of glass covering the floor around it.

Sitting on the stone balcony and looking out at the chaos and destruction of the city was the King's daughter.

Blood dripped from her hand in ruby droplets but she did nothing to stem the flow.

He walked over to the balcony and sat down gently beside her.

"Why do they do this?" She whispered; hopelessness evident on her tear streaked face.

"It's the way things are." He shrugged.

"It shouldn't be like this. This war is pointless. I don't care if they think it's to achieve justice or to rid the world of evil. No higher being could condone this. Yet they ask for luck from their Gods, expecting that everything they do is what those unearthly beings want. Although, ironically, each man out there sees himself as a God."

"I can't do anything to stop it, so why try? As a race, all humans ever want is to look for bloodshed and war. But…if anyone could stop it," He mused, "It would be you. You're the rightful heir to the throne and you've been effected by both sides in this war. I'd guess that the only way to stop this war forever would be for your father to die and for you to succeed him."

She looked out below her, contemplating his words, "If what you say is true…the way out is much clearer than I thought. Although when my father dies is for him to decide, no assassin can ever dream of killing him."

Murtagh glanced down at the small puddle of blood on the ground.

"Your hand!" He gasped, remembering immediately why he'd come over to her.

He grabbed it and lifted it up, examining the cut clinically.

There was a deep gash on the palm of her hand that oozed huge amounts blood.

His dark fathomless eyes held an expression she couldn't comprehend.

Dropping her hand for a second, he ripped a piece of his shirt off and, holding her hand again, started to wrap it around the gash.

His hands worked quickly and gently, trying not to inflict any more pain than necessary.

She was staring at his hand as he wrapped the cloth around her wound.

Amarisa seemed to be awakening from a deep sleep as she stared at his fingers brushing against her skin.

When the bandage was tied he looked up. Tears were starting to gather in her eyes; tears of joy.

Her soul had returned.

And so the princess was awoken by a touch from her Prince.

She started to sob, face hidden behind her hands, and he pulled her to his chest where she wept her heart out.

Murtagh patted her back consolingly as she cried, seeing all of the death and the ruby red of the city below as the fighting continued, each side needing to win. Both wanted freedom but, in the end, would a new order be any better if this was how they were planning on getting it? If anything, they were worse than the current King, they would stop at nothing to overthrow him but the cost would be that of millions of innocent lives.

Was any new rule worth such a sacrifice? He didn't think so.

He looked back down at the woman that he loved. For he knew that now. What else could this feeling be?

Warmth had spread throughout his body just at her touch, lighting a flame deep within him.

She was still crying, her tears seeming to join in with the lamenting cries from the many people who had lost loved ones in this final struggle for power.


A/N – You like? If so, review please!! Constructive criticism is welcome. The next chappy might be finished soon…I'm not sure. We'll see anyways. I'd love to know whether my character is Mary Sue-ish or not because then I can try and fix it…somehow.

Love ya,

PPB xxx

EDIT 4/3/10 - Okay, so I fixed this up a bit, hope you liked. :)