A/N: Just wanted to make something angst
Dead
Every soldier was dead. Arya was dead; everyone in the Varden and Galbatorix was dead. The war they hoped to victor only shed- wasted more blood. Being the last warrior, his dragon was dead. Being the last warrior, sitting on a broken shield in the battle fields, Eragon stared at the stain of scarlet blood in his hands, his eyes were empty. The blood, the guilt will never leave him. The blood will forever stain his soul; the blood of his brother. He had killed him. The guilt was monstrous, too heavy for him to shoulder, even if what he did was the right thing, he loathed it. Their dreams and plans were wasted. There were no victors. The people of farthen dur are all slaughtered and the varden had killed all those who guard the King's castle. What has become of this war…?
The battlefield had never been this quiet. Only the winds past by, whispering death.
The people have waited for the warm rays of sun to penetrate the dark clouds. It had been a long time since they welcomed any light. Yet, the sky only darkened. Eragon is the last rider, and one that failed. He remembered, before seeing the last soldier fall, an urgal no longer cared about victory. He had a family and had to protect them. Unfortunately a canon struck him and the urgal died just before he reached them, who were calling out to him.
What has become of this war? The guilt was immense, like an earthquake rattling his soul.
Murtagh, if only you weren't… taken away from us…
Eragon closed his eyes. He imagined the times before they had become sworn enemies. They were sparring
Laughing together,
They trusted each other and became best friends… until
Blood shed, oaths, hatred.
His world had been flipped around. Nothing was the same. He knew the hopes were false.
He killed the king yet, no one won. What does that mean?
He looked at Murtagh's dead face. I'm so sorry…What have I done?
Why did the dragons choose him? He even failed his own dragon. I'm so sorry Saphira…
The guilt was too heavy. He can shoulder it no more. It ate his soul, toyed with it and spat at it.
There was too much blood; inerasable blood, that represents guilt. Not even the seas of Neptune can wash away the guilt, the blood.
The guilt was too heavy. He can shoulder it no more. With his remaining strength, Eragon took brisingr, half broken and shut his eyes.
Pain erupted on his chest, blood was spilled
He dropped to the ground limply facing his brother.
The last rider had died, in the death of war itself.
He had freed himself from his guilt.
He didn't know it, but a small smile lit across his face.