Yep, a new fic. And let me tell you, I've read Eragon fics where Eragon and Saphira are sucked into our world, where people of our world are sucked into theirs, and fics where characters are put in modern day locations and situations. Yet I have never come across a story where the true events of Eragon (or at least an altered version of them) are played out in a modern day setting. Well, I'm going to attempt it now. (If someone has already done a story like this, I apologize. I have just never come across it and hence assumed that I was the first one to think of this.)
Time Line: Roughly one thousand years after the Fall of the Dragon Riders instead of one hundred. This would put it in a modern day setting instead of a medieval one. That means Galby and Brom are really, really old.
Pairings: EragonxNasuada (what can I say, I always liked this one more than ExA) with maybe some SaphiraxThorn or SaphiraxGreeni
Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. All original material, including original characters and locations, belong to me.
It was far past midnight yet nowhere close to sunrise, an ungodly time meant only for the nocturnal animals and their nightly routines. Every sane person in the Empire was fast asleep, the lights in the windows darkened and the doors tightly shut and securely latched. This was the thieves' hour, the drunkards' hour, the slatterns' hour. After all, it was natural for such a dark time to have such dark lurkers.
As the cities of Alagaesia slept, the outcasts of society haunting the dangerous streets and alleys, three of a different kind of night-walker traveled silently across the land. Three silver horses walked about the edge of a great and wild forest, moving so quietly they appeared to be phantoms, merely a trick of the eye caused by the moonlight shining through the shadowy trees.
Upon the ghostly steeds were three equally ethereal riders. There were like something out of a dream, with their tall and graceful figures, unnatural pointed ears, and slanted eyes that gleamed like cat's eyes. Two were male, one female. All were tense, hands on the hilts of their swords or on their quivers, ready to whip them out the moment they sensed something was amiss. (1.)
The female rider was young, or at least she looked young. There was a somber air about her, like that of an old veteran that had faced countless horrors of war and had long since been hardened to the acts of cruelty that occurred every day. Her brilliant emerald eyes had a timeless shine to them, as if they were as ancient as the trees surrounding them and as new as the spring leaves that were just beginning to unfurl from their branches. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing, as deep an ebony as the night sky used to be.
Arya looked up again, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The deep black sky, with the brilliant pinpoints of light dotting its pelt, was no longer. The black sky was more of a hazy gray, though it was hardly close to dawn. Hardly any of the stars were visible, drowned out by the suffocating light that emanated from the Empire's cities even in the middle of the night. Even here, hundreds of miles away from civilisation, the world still bore the taint of modern day technology (2.).
"How disheartening," Arya whispered, commenting on the sight above her head. "It seems as if even the stars dwindle as our hope diminishes."
Faolin, her black-haired and blue-eyed companion, nodded grimly. "Aye, Princess, it would seem so." He sighed. "It is something like this that makes me long for the sky of my youth. Back then the sky was blacker than your hair and the stars more numerous than all the trees in Du Weldenvarden."
The eldest of the party, Glenwing, a male with hair like starlight and hard green eyes, shook his head. "You are hardly older than the Princess, Faolin. When you were born the taint of man already discolored the sky even then. Such skies now only belong in the visions of the past, of memories that are fading even for our kind."
Arya scowled at her unwanted name, but remained silent. She gazed at the object that sat in her lap, securely held in place by her hand. Her other rested on the hilt of her blade. She needed no hands to guide her horse, it had traveled this path many times over and was much more intelligent than the ordinary beasts the humans owned.
A small smile crossed her face as she gazed at the object. Even now, after being its guardian for seventeen years, she considered it beautiful. It was only a foot across, perfectly round and without flaws. Its surface was a brilliant sapphire, streaked with fine white lines. To the eyes of the ignorant, this precious object was nothing more than a finely polished stone. To those that knew better, this was a powerful object that would make its possessor one of the most powerful individuals in all of Alagaesia.
A dragon's egg, one of only three left. And not just any dragon's egg at that, but the one that held the last female dragon, the last hope for her kind.
Isn't it ironic, little one? Arya thought at the infant inside the egg. The humans of the Empire believe us, elves and dragons, to be only myths. Yet their King hunts the both of us, as we are the only ones who threaten his position.
The she-dragon inside the egg didn't respond, her half-formed mind still locked in its eternal slumber. Though many years had passed since her liberation from the Mad King, she still had not chosen a Rider. Considering how Galbatorix's power by the day, it was imperative that a new Dragon Rider be made as soon as possible. Which was why the egg was being sent away back to the Varden. If it had not found a Rider amongst the elves last year, then perhaps it would accept one in the Varden this year.
Arya's rumination was interrupted when her horse came to a halt on its own. The two other steads that flanked her mount also stopped on their own accord. Glenwing and Faolin unsheathed their swords, alert for any signs of danger.
"We are here, Princess," Glenwing said brusquely. "You may teleport the egg now."
The elf-woman's green eyes widened in mild surprise. "We have reached the location? So soon?"
Faolin nodded grimly. "Aye, my Lady. Ceunon's population swelled last year (3.). We cannot get any closer to their new borders without risking detection by Galbatorix's forces."
As if this teleportation spell wasn't hard enough already, Arya grumbled to herself, now we must put more distance between the egg and the spot! Despite how exasperated she was with having to constantly increase the distances on her spells, the young elf gave no hint to her displeasure other than a frustrated sigh.
Setting both hands on the blue dragon's egg, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the spell, tuning all else out. Teleportation spells were easy to mess up, especially if there was a great distance between the object to be teleported and the target. Extreme effort must be taken to ensure the egg reached it's proper location. Though Arya had never seen the target herself, she was easily able to summon up the mental image of where she was to send the egg. It was a small clearing close to the town where the next guardian was. He would be able to safely retrieve it without running the risk of being discovered by Imperial soldiers or ordinary citizens there.
In the ancient language, Arya began to chant the words of the enchantment, careful to keep the memory of her target firmly held in her mind.
Suddenly, her horse snorted, dancing around nervously. Arya ceased her spell, looking up in agitation to see what all the fuss was about. Her mount's ears were pricked up, its rolling eyes locked on a shadowy part of the forest. The other horses were doing the same, their keen senses detecting a threat their riders couldn't.
Faolin and Glenwing strung arrows onto their quivers, also turning to watch the spot that aggravated the horses so. Arya kept her attention on the egg, ready to teleport it the moment she saw genuine danger with her own eyes.
"Could it be Imperial forces?" Faolin murmured to Glenwing. "Rumor has it that an elite band of soldiers are being led by the shade that once tracked us."
"Impossible," the silver-haired elf whispered back. "Shades would never agree to work with mere humans. The horses must have been frightened by a predator of some-"
Glenwing's last words were drowned out by the sudden eruption of gunfire. Losing it, the horses reared and pranced about in fright, whinnying shrilly while bullets rained down from all around them. Faolin and Glenwing shouted at one another, struggling to calm their mounts while looking wildly about for the source of the chaos.
Arya gasped sharply when the shower of bullets began to attack her. They stopped in midair, feet from herself or the silver horse the rode, falling limply to the ground because of the wards that protected them both. While safe for the time being, each deflected bullet depleted Arya's energy. Under the unrelenting torrent of gunfire, she was forced to end most of her enchantments, lest all her energy be ripped out of her.
Just when her wards failed, so did the others. Bugling in agony and fright, the horses collapsed to the earth as tattered heaps of red and silver. Faolin and Glenwing were shouting, but Arya wasn't focusing on them. All her immediate concerns were for the dragon's egg, the last hope of liberation. If it was not safely delivered to the next guardian, then all the rebellion had striven for would be forever lost.
Leaping from the saddle, Arya jumped away from her mount the moment gunfire hit it, fleeing away in the opposite direction. Her heart ached at abandoning Glenwing and her lover, Faolin, to the ambushers, but it was not their lives nor her own that mattered in this situation. When they had sworn to transport the egg around Alagaesia they had sworn to give their lives to protect it if need be. She now had to live up to those oaths, even at the cost of her own companions.
Arya ran blindly through the forest, swerving to avoid trees and ducking when branches came looming out of the gloom. She heard heavy footsteps behind her, the panting of the men that pursued their prey, and the occasional burst of gunfire.
Had she been fully rested, Arya could have easily outrun these men. But her energy stores were long since exhausted and it was all she could just to keep ahead of the hunters. If only she could get a small moment's rest, a brief opportunity to preform her spell...
The elf-woman suddenly turned in the blink of an eye, running full-speed in another direction. The men behind her struggled to copy her graceful maneuver. Most slipped on the dry leaves that littered the forest floor, crashing to the ground in an angry and cursing heap.
Panting heavily, Arya ran forward a bit more, finally coming to a halt behind the relative shelter of some trees. Clutching the egg tightly with both hands, the elf-woman shut her eyes, once again summoning up the image of that peaceful and secret clearing. Concentrating as hard as she could, she began to frantically murmur the words of the spell.
The words flowed from her mouth with unnatural speed, becoming one long phrase of complex magic. Still, the speed that had graced the young elf in her hour of need was not enough. Just as the last word parted her mouth, Arya tumbled back, great pain erupting from the back of her skull.
The last things she knew were a bright flare of intense emerald light and an enraged scream before darkness engulfed her.
The Imperial army was nigh invincible, winning virtually every battle it put its mind to. Rebellions were instantly quelled, pirate ships and mercenary ships alike blown to the bottom of the ocean in the blink of the eye, armies of rebels and rogues slaughtered in quick and decisive battles. Their tactics were cruel, their fighters merciless. Because of such strict conduct and heavy discipline, the Imperial army had kept the Empire alive and whole for more than a thousand years.
Within the armies were select bands, the cream of the crop, the best of the best. These were special men highly skilled in a certain branch of combat, whether in ancient magics like the mysterious Black Hand or in the art of bringing down the toughest of foes like the Fire Wolves (4.).
The Fire Wolves, named so for their brutal but efficient ways in bringing the most dangerous prey to its knees, like the infamous wolf. They moved like a pack, using their sheer force and numbers to overwhelm their targets. While not magic-users themselves, they were privy to secrets that the majority of the Empire remained blissfully unaware of. The Fire Wolves were charged with bringing such rogues down.
Ohand Yates, though new to the Fire Wolves, was not a fool. This was not his first mission in dealing with elves nor would it be his last. However, many greenhorns had been present in tonight's assignment, those had been told of the existence of allegedly mythical creatures but had chosen not to believe it. Now, presented with undeniable evidence of the truth, the newbies were silent. They gawked at the pointed ears, of the silver hair of one of the males, too shocked to even speak.
The seasoned veterans exchanged amused glances and chuckles at this, recalling the times when they too had gaped at impossible sights. Ohand merely spat onto the ground, sneering in disgust at the greenhorns' surprise.
"Yeah," he said. "Elves are real. Get over it, as you men have bigger fish to fry. This was a capture mission, all targets were to be disabled and brought back to Urubaen. I don't know why, though. Elves here are real formidable creatures. You have a better chance of getting a rock to sing than getting one of these pointy-eared bastards to reveal any of their secrets. Consider this a lesson for the rare scenario in which you actually capture an elf."
One of the greenhorns tentatively spoke up. "So we usually don't deal with elves."
Ohand smiled humorlessly. "Oh, you'll deal with a bunch of them alright. While most hide away in their forest, it's not unusual for one or two of them to come sneak out and try to observe us humans. When we are assigned to get elves, it almost always is to kill elves. And when you shoot them, shoot them hard and shoot them quick. One cursed word out of their darling mouths and you'll find yourselves dead. Be lucky these males were too thick to use their wretched magic."
"But if elves can't be successfully interrogated, then why are we capturing these two?"
Ohand turned in the direction in which the sole female elf of the group had disappeared. Durza, the leader of the Fire Wolves, emerged from the dark undergrowth, dragging the limp form of the elf-woman behind him.
Durza was a shade, hundreds or maybe even thousands of years older than any of the men present. (5.) He dressed in all black all the time, making his pale skin even paler and giving him the appearance of a ghastly ghoul. His hair was an inky black, though even the newbies of the Fire Wolves knew that the color was artificial. It truly was crimson, far too conspicuous for stalking the more elusive of prey. However, no amount of trickery or sorcery could disguise Durza's maroon eyes. They were twin fires that burned holes into your very soul.
Ohand smirked, noting the fearsome glare upon Durza's hellish features and the noticeable absence of the strange blue stone that they had been charged to recover. Tonight's assignment had obviously been a failure.
Turning to address the curious newbie, he replied, "Because our fearless leader lost the object of interest and will have to torture its location out of our freakish friends here."
1. Why do the elves carry such obsolete weapons? 'Cause they're elves. Can you imagine such a proud and stubborn race consenting to use technology their greatest enemy invented. Besides, they have magic. Unless they are ambushed, they're capable of defending themselves in most situations.
2. Electricity exists in modern Alagaesia. Light pollution lightens the darkness, as in our heroes can no longer hide under the convenient cover of darkness with as much success, especially if they're flying.
3. Little villages no longer exists. Cities like Ceunon are constantly having to expand to make room for growing populations.
4. I created the Fire Wolves as an elite band of fighters. Since the Black Hand is too valuable to use in ordinary combat, elite soldiers that are plain humans are used in most situations in which magic-users or 'mythical creatures' are involved. They are also some of the few chosen to bear the knowledge of the existence of magic and other sentient races. Yes, the Fire Wolves have replaced Urgals 'cause Urgals are too conspicuous :P.
5. In the books, Durza presumably came into being around the time of the Fall, which in canon would have made him over a hundred. Here, he's over a thousand years old. He's the one in charge of hounding the elves and leading the Fire Wolves.