Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle does not belong to me.


Bloodwar

The only things she could remember were random flashes and sensations – the rustle of silk against skin,the feel of warm skin touching someone's lips, his breath against her neck, his soft murmur as he listened to her pounding heart. She recalled not a face – only dark brown hair, black in the shadowed night… and eyes the color of warm honey.

She remembered him whispering her name, as if it was his lifeline. And it was always then that she woke up, tears to her eyes, struggling to recall who he was and if he still lives.

The thoughts stayed with her despite the fact that they were hard at work organizing and rebuilding Feinster after the siege. She knew he was important to the mystery at hand – a short passage that a human scholar discovered about the Vault of Souls in Doru Araeba , which she has never even heard of until that day. Or so, she thought.

Chapter 1: The Curtains Rise

It was a warm, bright morning, and Aesyr rolled off her bed stiff and exhausted. She was grateful for the room that was assigned to her in the Castle of Feinster, but she barely even spent any time in it. Helping the people of Feinster rebuild after the siege, and distributing supplies from the steadily arriving Surdan ships was tiring, especially when they worked late into the night. And there were the lessons they were getting from the teachers.

According to Master Ash, their education was more important than ever.

She stretched and began her morning ablutions, sensing Sardonis in the far reaches of her mind. He was probably out hunting. She wears a plain tunic though she was well aware that her features would be hard to conceal. Shuffling out of her room, she made her way to the small dining hall where everyone now residing in the keep ate their breakfast, and sometimes their dinner.

Ash was already eating, a simple plate of flat bread in front of her and a cup of steaming tea to her left. "Ah, good morning, Aesyr," she said placidly. Her eyes were red-rimmed either from lack of sleep, crying, or both.

Aesyr shyly took a seat beside her teacher as a servant arrived bringing bread and tea, along with a small serving of wild mushrooms. The young Rider nodded in thanks before turning to her master. "Ebrithil, is something wrong?" she asked.

The elder Rider simply smiled and sipped her tea. Her eyes seemed distant and unfocused since the conclusion of the battle and Oromis' death. She kept most of her attention on the plate that she barely touched, fingers drumming the table. "Despite the knowledge that we have about our life in Doru Araeba, there are certain memories that feel… incomplete."

"What do you mean?" Aesyr began to eat slowly, eyes on her teacher. She heard many tales of Doru Araeba and the glorious age of the Riders from them, and this revelation seemed odd.

Silence reigned for a few minutes, broken only by the subtle sounds of the younger Rider's chewing. Eventually, Ash broke it with a sad smile. "I do not recall, but there are some parts of life before the Fall that I cannot remember, and it seems like the other survivors are oathbound not to speak of it. I know not who or what it is about, or why it happened." She rubbed her arms with a soft shudder. "It involves a man. A man like me," she finally whispered. "He had half-elven features."

"But you are the only half-elf in Ellesmera, correct?" As Aesyr spoke, though, her mind began to wonder to that day in Rhunon's forge, when they first heard about Brightsteel. There was someone like Ash, and he carried a Rider's sword.

Ash nodded. "As much as I am aware of, as my brother still resides in Nadindel."

Aesyr vaguely wondered whether she should reveal the presence of Tryndemiel. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Eragon arrived with Murtagh, talking animatedly. It seemed like they did not show any traces of fatigue at all. They greeted Ash and nodded to Aesyyr in simultaneous movements that they must have been accustomed to as twins.

"Melikir announced that we will be moving on tomorrow," announced Murtagh. "We will be moving north to Belatona."

"Belatona?" Aesyr inclined her head. "I suppose that would then clear the way to Dras Leona, then?"

"Yes." Murtagh suddenly looked worried. "We have gained the help of some soldiers from Feinster itself that have been confirmed to hold no oaths from Galbatorix. A great number of their forces volunteered, though I know not why."

Eragon smiled tightly. "Not all of the people serving the Empire truly are loyal to the tyrant who is enslaving them."


The sound of the rushing waves calmed Vanir. He supposed that Eragon was right. There was something about the rythmic dance of the sea, and he understood his people's fascination with the sea and the great beyond that it led to for the first time.

Such deep thoughts so early in the day, mused Diamanda, perching beside him precariously on the great wall facing the docks. So what is this news I am hearing everywhere? Are we truly leaving for Belatona tomorrow? Why did you not tell me?

Because I do not know what to feel about the upcoming battle. Vanir straightened up, tearing his eyes away from the sea to face his dragon. I want this war to be over with. I want to see Galbatorix and his Forsworn slain – but I do not want to cause more unwanted death and misery. There are many innocent people thrust into this chaos.

And more will be, if you do not participate and do your part, Diamanda told him. We have talked of this many times.

Vanir nodded. There is no use in fighting what seems to be our destiny, he finally consented. He stood up, breathing in as much of the sea breeze as he could. Maybe he will see it again after the war.

He clambered up Diamanda's foreleg and took his place on her saddle, smiling in spite of himself. They took to the skies, circling Feinster slowly before Diamanda turned to the sea. Let us ride the waves, she began. Maybe this moment will free your mind.

Vanir nodded, relishing the salty breeze that the sea brought. The dragon dove into the water, and Vanir kept his eyes closed. He felt her tugging, and before he knew it, he was pulled into her body, seeing the world through her eyes. They flexed their powerful wings together, using it to propel themselves through the water – whose vibrant blue-green hue seemed to be muted, though the white of the foam was amazingly vivid.

They leapt right out of the water, and they admired the way sea water made their opalescent scales glow in the bright early morning sun. They were beautiful, deadly, and most important of all, they truly were one.


Arya looked up from the piece of armor that she was polishing as footsteps resounded from outside her room. Firnen, as much as she was aware of, was too heavy to be the source – and besides, he was busy training with Brand. She raised an eyebrow when Faolin finally strode into the room, dressed in dark clothing.

"Arya," he all but whispered, sitting down beside her. He seemed sad, his eyes distant. "I am so afraid of the war on the horizon."

She stared at him, confused. Her brother was always confident. "What is wrong?" she asked, putting a hand on her brother's shoulder.

Faolin stared at her, sudden fear and sadness lighting up in his forest-green eyes. "You remember how Niduen… sees… at times, do you not?" He looked away, staring instead at the armor pieces on the floor. "It seems like she has seen a few things about the war, but refuses to disclose the information to me. I am afraid that someone will get hurt before everything is over."

At those words, Arya felt indescribable rage overcome her fear. She could taste it in her very tongue, and in her mind, she could hear Firnen roaring in defiance. She felt the urge to do the same – to let out her desire to defy fate if it does exist. "We write our own destiny," she growled at Faolin. "No matter what they say must happen, what they say we must do, we forge our own paths. We won't do anything because it was preordained. We will be doing it because we want to."

"So we shall," murmured Faolin, smiling tiredly. "Still, forgive me for worrying that a dire fate may befall us in this war."

Arya smiled and touched Faolin's hand. "Once the war is over, we shall visit Father's grave, you and I."

Faolin still seemed so distant. He rubbed his wrist idly. "Arya, I wish it will be so. I wish to have Niduen as my mate once the war is over."

"Then you shall." Arya willed herself to sound like she truly believed her words. She hoped that it would be the way they all wanted – everyone alive and safe, and finally doing what they want to without fearing Galbatorix and his twisted Riders.

Faolin nodded and rose to his feet, dusting his cloak in the process. "Then we shall," he agreed with a smile. "I will be seeing you later, sister. May the stars watch over you."


Nasuada stood at the top of the wall, watching the Varden begin to move their supplies out of the city. The gates were thrown open, and people freely filed in and out of the city. Trade was fluorishing again as Orrin appointed one of his lords to temporarily preside over the city.

She wondered if Feinster would survive the coming war. It is highly possible that the Empire may choose to attack it while the Varden pushes forward. She wrapped her arms around herself, lost in her thoughts. She barely felt the strengthening of Solaris' thoughts in her mind as the mighty golden dragon made her way to her Rider.

I smell blood and tears in our future, she mused, taking her Rider by surprise.

Nasuada bit her lip. I pray that we shall prevail.

We shall, and I would rather that you do not think otherwise.

With a sigh, Nasauda put a hand on Solaris' side, feeling the ridges of the gaps between the vivid scales. Solaris, we ride to battle again soon. Do you think we shall have time to visit Doru Araeba and find the Vault of Souls? I have a feeling that it will be important in our final battle against Galbatorix and the Forsworn.

I have a feeling that it will be important, and that we shall find it. Do not discount the werecat's prophecy, for it shall come to pass.Solaris gazed at the crowd of warriors who were assigned to look over the supplies – warriors that included men from Carvahall and some Urgals.

It is interesting, the way this war has brought all of our races together, Nasuada noted as she followed her dragon's eyes. I cannot imagine that just two years ago, I was simply one of the children of the Varden – the leader's daughter, aye, but still a child.

And I was a hatchling a little less than two years ago, added Solaris. It truly is wondrous, how two years can change someone.

What I fear is how much the war would change us, should we survive to see it end, Nasuada mused darkly.


Matching Blodhgarm blow by blow would have been impossible a few months before, but now, Roran was proud to say that his skills have improved drastically, tremendously helped by the metamorphosis brought about by the Agaeti Blodhren. So much has happened since then – some of the memories, such as the first fight with the Forsworn, were still painful, but many were truly beautiful.

He felt a sudden hot pain in his arm and it jolted him out of his thoughts. He reeled backward, realizing that the furry elf's dulled blade struck him in his moment of distraction. His boots scraped the sandy ground as he tried to regain his balance.

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound that could be heard for a while would be the rushing waves crashing against the beach, splashes of water hitting the tips of the combatants shoes. Then, Blodgharm lowered his blade with a bow. "It was a good fight," the elf admitted. "You have improved most impressively, but it seems like your mind still wanders. That would not serve you well in a true battle, Roran-finiarel… ah, Roran-elda now, is it, Elder?"

"Roran would still be fine," the Rider stammered, cheeks flushing as he touched the Elder's pendant hanging from a chain around his neck. "I am but a child compared to you, wise elf."

"But you stand above all of us as an Elder," Blodhgarm countered, looking genuinely confused.

"Ah, never mind." Roran hefted his sword, testing its weight before sheathing it in its scabbard. "So we are done for today, then?"

The elf nodded solemnly. "Serylda Svit-kona requested for our presence by the gates."

Roran shifted uncomfortably, aware that they were about to ride into war once more. "Do you think this war shall ever conclude?"

"But of course. We can feel it in the horizon, you and I. You are just not aware of it yet." Blodhgarm's fur seemed to dance with the light breeze – something it had not done until then. "What will come will come, argetlam. We must simply be ready to face it."

Roran watched the elf walk away, a sudden feeling of unease blooming deep within him.


Murtagh stepped through the gates, leading wagons of supplies – clothes and sewing materials – out of Feinster. Most of these supplies were originally brought in by the Varden during the journey to Feinster, but many city merchants were more than happy to offer their wares at a certain price. Murtagh supposed it cannot be avoided.

Warriors surrounded the small caravan and Thorn soared above them to make sure that no one would sneak in and sabotage the wagons. Murtagh himself kept his mind open and aware, though lately the presence of trees and various wildlife started interfering. It seemed like he was more attuned to them than he was to the minds of people aside from his fellow Riders and their dragons. He discussed it various times with Thorn, but not even the mighty dragon and his ancestral memories could provide any theory. Not even Ash and Serylda – technically the most senior Riders in existence, now that Oromis was gone – could explain it.

A pang of sadness overwhelmed Murtagh as he recalled the tale that Ash told them – of how Morzan murdered his former master, Oromis. Never again would they spend time under Oromis' watchful eye, learning about various academical knowledge necessary for all Riders. He hoped that Glaedr would recover from his loss in time, but then again, no one ever would. Not fully.

I miss Oromis too. And the lack of Glaedr's presence does not feel right either, Thorn mused.

I know. Murtagh rubbed his chest idly as his throat clenched.

They were most wise when they lived. They have made mistakes, but they have always sought to correct them. The eldunari of Livia, Thorn's mother, stirred from the dragon's saddle, as if awakened by the pair's sadness. He lived well, and died in battle, as he would have wished.

Not to be killed by someone without honor like Morzan, Murtagh all but growled. He could still remember the mad Rider who almost killed Hrothgar.

Thorn shared his agreement. Most definitely not. Morzan shall burn for his crimes, and his dragon shall face the wrath of the true children of fire and wind.

A great number of us would scream for his blood as much as Galbatorix's. A wry smile crept up Murtagh's face. If he does not die in battle at the hands of people who hate him at the conclusion of this war, I will convince all elves in Ellesmera to try your favorite dwarven mead. After Melikir calls for his execution, of course.

Is that a wager, then?

Yes.

Then if he ends up dead in battle, I will be the one who shall convince the elves. Thorn seemed determined and amused. Mother, I hope you were listening.

But of course, assured Livia. Such agreements require a witness, my son.


Katrina stood at the top of the tallest tower in Feinster's castle, watching the ongoing exodus of the Varden. It was two hours before dawn, and she barely slept. Beside her stood Luneria, wings poised and ready to take flight once her Rider finally takes her place.

She felt like the ongoing war was a storm, and she had only two options – to be swept up in it, uncontrolled, or muster her strength and fight her way through it.

I trust your strength as much as you trust mine,Luneria told her. You defied your father for months to keep me, without ever knowing the true depth and value of our bond. You struggled to gain your confidence and grow into your gifts. It is the time to test yourself, and I am sure that you shall succeed.

I must succeed. Katrina's hand rested on the moonstone-adorned pommel of Manen, fingers tingling. We must survive.

And so we shall. The dragon's iron-hard determination and optimism could not be swayed. I thirst for the blood of my enemies, and I know you do, too.

Closing her eyes, Katrina could picture the broken form of Lady Velienne of Surda, crimson blood blossoming from her pale white throat.

Not as much as before, she admitted. But we do what we must.

Luneria's approval was warm and overwhelming. You truly are growing up, little one.

Carefully, Katrina made her way to the saddle, strapping herself carefully as the last of the Varden began to clear the streets. We have waited too long. Let us take to the skies once more as dragon and Rider.

Very well. With glee, Luneria leapt off the tower, flapping her mighty wings to push her heavy body upward.

Katrina closed her eyes and let herself be lost within her dragon's consciousness.

They opened their eyes, mighty wings effortlessly steering them eastward, three mighty beats bringing them to the gates. Their other kin were standing at the intact part of the wall, true partners-of-mind-and-heart, the last of their kind.


Dawn.

If the initial marching did not make him feel that the true final days of the war were coming, the vivid rays of the rising sun did. It was the color of blood, as if summoning the entire world to watch with bated breath as the two most powerful forces in the land were poised to truly collide. The Burning Plains were merely a test, Feinster almost laughable in its lack of resistance aside from the Shade.

The test is over, and now they are ready to truly ride into battle. He was sure that the Forsworn will be waiting for them once they reach Belatona, and he feared for the elves as he was sure that Morzan was in the north.

He had already confered with the other Riders regarding this matter, and it has been decided that three shall head to Gil'ead to boost the elves' forces, while a small number of elves are similarly on their way to Bellatona to aid in the siege as Melikir had graciously informed him.

He knew not what the coming days would bring, if they would still meet again once their forces converge upon Uru'baen, but they had to hope and do their best to survive.

In his mind's eye, he could see two children – a boy with Arya's ethereal features, and a girl more closer to a particular blue-eyed son of Palancar Valley. He could feel the future sitting tantalizingly close but out of reach and he was bent on pulling it ever closer.

He was determined to live and tell the tale to his descendants.

A tale of wonder, war, love, pain, and hope all put together like a snarl of iridiscent threads interwoven in an intricately wondrous way.


I'm baaaaaaack! Okay, I've been back for a month, but still... it's Bloodwar! Bloodwar!

Just a heads up guys, I will not be updating this as frequently as Ashes to Ashes as BW might overtake it and spoil more major stuff aside from the mini-prologue here. Oh and I am shamelessly plugging that other fic as some latter portions there will come into play here. Promise. It's pretty important especially as I've changed some stuff about the Vault of Souls.

Anyway, I'm sure I've never written a chapter containing all Riders' POV's before. I wanted to put in Melikir, Garrow, and Astrid (remember him?!) but it feels like having the Riders set the stage for the grand finale feels more fitting.

Thank you so much for sticking with me until this point. :3 You're all the best!