The wind ran softly through the grass outside their window in a flurry of autumn golds and spring greens. A woman with a halo of red hair held in her arms a swaddled bundle that, mercifully, was asleep. A man, presumably her husband, stood over her and watched the newborn. The woman was humming a soothing lullaby, gently pushing back her new daughter's fine hair.
"What do you think we should call her?" Katrina asked.
Roran didn't respond. He just continued to stare with adoration at his child. His wife was accustomed to this and she waited patiently for his thoughts to thin. It took his a long time to reply, and when he did his voice was scratchy and soft, so as not to wake the slumbering child.
"I'm not sure."
"Maybe we could name her after your mother," Katrina whispered.
Roran shook his head "I don't think it fits her, she doesn't remind me of her..." he trailed off.
Katrina took her gaze away from the newborn and looked at her husband.
"She looks like Eragon." He murmured.
It was in the line of her brow and the curve of her eyes. He was there. Subtly, slightly, barely, he remained there.
"You want to call her Eragon?" Katrina questioned. She didn't sound angry, just slightly confused. Roran rarely mentioned Eragon. He was a painful memory, like an open sore in Roran's heart. Roran's dreams were plagued by him. The dreams were always sweet...that is until he woke up.
Roran once again fell silent. His eyes were off in some distant land, a place where Eragon sat at their dinner table and knew the names of his kin.
"Tarmunora." Roran said inaudibly.
"Hm?" Katrina said, tucking the blanket snuggly around the small sleeping figure.
"We'll call her Tarmunora. Eragon told me a story once a long time ago, an elvish story I think, about a girl called Tarmunora."
Katrina smiled "Tarmunora, I like it." She handed the newly christened child to Roran.
He carried her to the window just as he had done with his son before. The window was a large square cut into the castle's stone wall. Graceful curling iron vines decorated the window panes which were pushed out to embraced the dawning blue sky. A small village, similar to the one ravaged years earlier stood in the distance shrouded by a thin blanket of mist. The mist rose to the sun which was just creeping above the horizon.
Golden rays swept over the land of Roran Stronghammer and as the first streaks of spring touched the forehead of his daughter he felt a feeling of joy. Aches of his heart rose on the wings of sunshine and he smiled down on his daughter, promising to teach her of her uncle: Eragon Shadeslayer, killer of the Dark King, Rider of Saphira Bjartskular, and the First of the New Riders.