Masashi Kishimoto owns Naruto. Christopher Paolini owns the Inheritance Cycle.
"AHHHHHHH!"
A scream of pain resounded through the valley. Birds flew from their perches, startled by the loud exclamation. Other animals moved away from the epicenter of the loud cry, wary of its cause.
Two men however, did not move away. One: because it was he who screamed. This man wore a form fitting black t-shirt and baggy black pants. He also wore a green flak jacket with many pockets for storing things and a trench coat decorated with orange flames. He had bright yellow spiky hair and strange whisker marks on his cheeks. The other man was there because he had caused the first man to scream. This man wore a white Yukata that was open in the front revealing his toned chest to the world. He also wore tight, form fitting black pants and had a purple rope tied at the waist. He had dark black spiky hair and his eyes were blood red with three spinning tomoe in each.
Uchiha Sasuke stood above Namikaze Naruto, an indifferent look upon his face as he watched his former friend sink to the bottom of the lake. He knew that his old teammate wasn't dead, that it was just a farce. All things considered, he had survived a Chidori to the chest the last time they had fought here.
Sure enough, not a moment later, red chakra began bubbling up from under him in massive amounts. Jumping back, he narrowly avoided an explosion of water and chakra.
Sasuke smirked when he saw Naruto, in his eight tailed form. Realizing that he wanted to finish their long awaited battle, Sasuke unleashed his second stage curse mark, an evil chakra swirling around his body.
The two shinobi stared at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. Naruto, sick of waiting for his traitorous friend to make a move, began gathering chakra into his palm. It began spinning rapidly and grew in size as well as shape until the Rasenshuriken formed, complete. Sasuke also made his move at that moment. He gathered lightning in his palm, thousands of volts crackling as he formed the Raikiri.
Felling a familiar click in the back of their minds, the two shinobi ran at each other. With amazing speed, they covered the gap between them and slamed their palms into each other. Struggling for dominance, Naruto and Sasuke pushed back and forth, trying to break through the others technique.
As the two pumped more and more chakra into their jutsu, an orb of pure energy formed around them. The orb expanded until it reached either end of the Valley of the End. Then, it collapsed in on itself.
"Watch carefully, for this is of great importance to your heritage as Riders," spoke Oromis to Eragon and Saphira.
It was currently the third day of the elves Agaití Blödhren, the Blood-oath Celebration. The elves were scampering about the fields surrounding the Menoa Tree, looking for a place to sit so that they could commence with the final part of the tradition.
When all the elves were settled, two elf-maids walked to the center of the space in the host and stood with their backs to each other. They were exceedingly Beautiful and identical in every respect, except for their hair. One had tresses as black as a forgotten pool, while the other's hair gleamed like burnished silver wire.
"The care-takers, Iduna and Nëya," whispered Oromis.
From Islanzadí's shoulder, Blagden shrieked, "Wyrda!"
Moving in unison, the two elves raised their hands up to the brooches at their throats, unclasped them, and allowed their white robes to fall away. Though they wore no garments, the women were clad in an iridescent tattoo of a dragon. The tattoo began with the dragon's tail wrapped around the left ankle of Iduna, continued up her leg and thigh, over her torso, and then across Nëya's back, ending with the dragon's head on Nëya's chest. Every scale on the dragon was inked a different color; the vibrant hues gave the tattoo the appearance of a rainbow.
The elf- maids twined their hands and arms together so that the dragon appeared to be a continuous whole, rippling from one body to the next without interruption. Then they each lifted a bare foot and brought it down on the packed ground with a soft thump.
And again: thump.
On the third thump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm. A thump later, the harpists plucked the strings of their gilt instruments, and a moment after that, those elves with flutes joined the throbbing melody.
Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, Iduna and Nëya began to dance, marking time with the stamp of their feet on the dirt and undulating so that it was not they who seemed to move but the dragon upon them. Round and round they went, and the dragon flew endless circles across their skin.
Then the twins added their voices to the music, building upon the pounding beat with their fierce cries, their lyrics verses of a spell so complex that its meaning escaped Eragon. Like the rising wind that precedes a storm, the elves accompanied the incantation, singing with one tongue and one mind and one intent. Eragon did not know the words but found himself mouthing them along with the elves, swept along by the inexorable cadence. He heard Saphira and Glaedr hum in concordance, a deep pulse so strong that it vibrated within his bones and made his skin tingle and the air shimmer.
Faster and faster spun Iduna and Nëya until their feet were naught but a dusty blur and their hair fanned about them and they glistened with a film of sweat. The elf-maids accelerated to an inhuman speed and the music climaxed in a frenzy of chanted phrases. Then a flare of light ran the length of the dragon tattoo, from head to tail, and the dragon stirred. At first Eragon thought his eyes had deceived him, until the creature blinked, raised its wings, and clenched his talons.
A burst of flame erupted from the dragon's maw and he lunged forward and pulled himself free of the elves' skin, climbing into the air, where he hovered, flapping his wings. The tip of his tail remained connected to the twins below, like a glowing umbilical cord. The giant beast strained toward the black moon and loosed a mighty, untamed roar of ages past, then turned and surveyed the assembled elves.
As the dragon's baleful eye fell upon him, Eragon knew that the creature was no mere apparition but a conscious being bound and sustained by magic. Saphira and Glaedr's humming grew ever louder until it blocked all other sound from Eragon's ears. Above, the specter of their race looped down over the elves, brushing the elves with an insubstantial wing. It came to a stop in front of Eragon, engulfing him in an endless, whirling gaze. Bidden by some instinct, Eragon lifted his right hand, his palm tingling.
In his mind, echoed a voice of fire: Our gift to you so that you may do what you must.
The dragon bent his neck and, with his snout, touched the heart of Eragon's gedwëy ignasia. A spark jumped between them, and Eragon went rigid as incandescent heat poured through his body, consuming his insides. His vision flashed red and black, and the scar on his back burned as if branded. Fleeing to safety, he fell deep within himself where darkness grasped him and he had not the strength to resist it.
Last, he again heard the voice of fire say, Our gift to.