Anyone who is reading this, I thank you already. No this is not the ending, and yes creds to Lil Wayne for the titles. I know this is a very poorly written story, but bear with me. I'm still a little kid :). Hopefully more chapters to come. Usually 2k per chapter but I had nothing left which would go with this. This is not my first fan fiction… Trust me, you don't want to see the first (spent all my life writing it when I was 10). So for now we can safely say that for all intensive purposes, this is the first ever. I don't care if you review to say you hate it, love it (most likely not…), or just to make conversation. Rated T. So long for now.

Eragon

The ground Eragon was lying on was cold. The cold seeped into his body, causing an involuntary shudder from the young Rider. The movement sent spasms of pain throughout his body. Eragon's hand shot out to his side as another bolt of pain shot from it. The familiar warm, sticky substance met his touch. Blood.

Eragon's head throbbed with the impact of the fall. The Rider groaned and in an instant the sheer disparity of the situation hit him like a tidal wave.

Eragon's mind flashed to the departure of all his friends from the Earth as he knew it. They had all passed into The Void, and he knew it was all his fault.

He was weak then. Each one of their deaths served only one purpose: to make him stronger. It was a gruesome thought, yet the Rider knew deep down, that it was true. He remembered the mental pain their deaths gave him. The mention alone of any of their names sent a force so severe, it would rip him apart.

Had he not been charged with leading the Varden, he may have openly thrown himself into The Void. As Eragon laid there, his control over his limbs slipping, he entertained that thought. Where would that have left Alagaësia? Eragon paused in his thought. How selfish of me. Alagaësia would probably have been better off without me. At that notion, Eragon could sense the anger emanating from his partner of mind.

Suddenly, a feeling of nonchalance passed over the Rider. His hearing became muffled and the cries of war slowly became nonexistent to Eragon. The Rider continued to sluggishly riffle through the painful memories.

Eragon could see Nasuada impaled on the spear of an Empire soldier. He could see Brom intercepting the dagger as it raced for Eragon's own heart. Brom, sighed Eragon mentally. His father. His mentor. Brom had been the only one to truly loved him. Nasuada only wanted to use him, Islanzadí wanted to control him, even Orik, being the friend he was, had his own reasons. How cynical I am, thought Eragon. In the last moments of life I can only think of the bad in people.

There was also Arya-beautiful, strong, caring, the woman of his dreams. She was the one thing he wanted the most, but he could never have. Death had viciously torn her away from him; the day she admitted to loving him, was the day before she was slaughtered, thrown down like an animal with the rest of the solders. She was the princess of the Elves, and unbeatable warrior, tossed aside like a broken blade, to be buried in the mass graves with the rest of the criminals. She should be treasured and given a warrior's funeral; better yet she shouldn't have died. I should have been there to save her. I should have died in her place. Eragon didn't need to torture himself with that scenario yet again, but he replayed her death over and over again. I should have been there. The one thing he wanted for himself, not for others; he had done so much for the land of Alagaesia; was he not deserving of one person

Everyone else got what they wanted, thought Eragon bitterly. Nasuada wanted fealty. Islanzadí wanted influence. Orik: brotherhood. Did Eragon ever get what he wanted? No. His whole family was torn from him.

The stream of bad feelings continued to spiral downwards. His mother left for The Void, though, Eragon reassessed, wasn't her fault. His "uncle" died for his own ignorance. His father died saving him from a blade. His mentor was slaughtered unjustly in the middle of a painful seizure by his own half brother.

The dam refused to close and the stream of bad memories continued to flow. He could see Roran breathing his last breaths as his own hammer came crashing down upon his head. Eragon remembered every fracture of his skull as it viciously cracked and caved in. Eragon could vividly recall as his cousin laid in Katrina's arms, oblivious to the world, as his lifeblood drained into the seams of his loving wife's dress.

It all happened so fast. Eragon tried to warn her. He tried. Oh, how he tried. But the distance was too far. He couldn't save his cousin, and now he can't save his cousin's wife. Eragon remembered his desperate shouts and how they were swept away in the chaos of war. The Rider fought frantically to get to her. But it was all in vain. The sweeping arc of the soldier's blade seemed to move in slow motion. Katrina was beheaded as she held Roran in her arms. What monster kills women? Imperial soldiers. Eragon answered to himself, a cloud malice surrounded the two words.

Eragon could clearly see Lord Barst as his sword ran through Islanzadí. He could see the gaping "o" of surprise on her mouth as he withdrew, his bloodstained blade glistening in the sun as he held it up to the sky, marveling at the Elven queen's blood.

The roar of an injured Saphira split through the sky. The bone shaking noise made Eragon try to jump to his feet. A wave of dizziness swept over him, but Eragon continued, snatching a blade from a fallen soldier.

His vision started to fail him as he watched in terror as Saphira sped towards the ground, a stream of blood trailing from her chest, the maroon drops sizzling as they hit the ground. Blackness overcame him for a moment, but it soon dissipated only long enough for him to see Galbatorix holding Saphira's pulsing azure Eldunarí in his hand.

His beautiful dragoness had been killed. Just as hundreds of dragons before her, Saphira had died at the razor sharp point of the onyx blade. The emptiness swept over him, only to be quickly replaced by rage. Eragon dispatched of soldier after soldier as he moved through the once beautiful streets of Illirea, now Urû'baen. Several grievous blows were landed on Eragon, but the blood lust that surged through his body sedated his pain, sending more and more adrenaline each time he was struck, the anger building until it bubbled over.

Saphira was gone. Gone. The concept seemed too big for the young Rider to grasp. Eragon strode into the throne room, blinding cutting down any who barred his way. His partner of mind was not yet under Galbatorix's control, her Eldunarí pulsed in the center of the room, where it was unceremoniously thrown down. Eragon tried in vain to get to it. To break it so he, his dragon, and his friends could live in The Void together.

Eragon could feel his body was drained of energy. Death sounded so beautiful, but he couldn't embrace it without first saving his other half. Eragon fought with recklessness. The only thought was to free his dragon and avenge the death of all his loved ones. But the king was too strong.

Eragon was overpowered. Galbatorix smirked as he effortlessly pushed him out of the throne room window.

Eragon landed on the top of the stairs with a sickening crash. Eragon's body slid down the stone stairs, his head bumping against every single step. As Eragon lay in a heap at the bottom of the steps he could see the battle between the Varden and the Empire stopping. The last few hundred of the Varden's soldiers lay still as Galbatorix himself jumped out the window, landing with a soft thud.

Eragon rose to his shaky feet. Galbatorix laughed as he toyed with his prey like a cat.

The Dark King slashed at Eragon. The Rider struggled to fend of the blows which seemed to come from every angle. Eragon ducked and parried, never gaining an advantage, and barely managing to keep himself alive. As the fight wore on, Eragon collected a multitude if new wounds, while Galbatorix had the slightest bit of perspiration on his brow.

Galbatorix frowned, growing bored of the game. The Mad King flicked his wrist and Eragon's sword was out of his hand, landing with a loud crash which resounded on the Elven paving stones turned black from corruption.

Eragon stumbled backwards and landed on the battle stained grass. Galbatorix raised his sword and plunged it into the young Rider's gut, causing Eragon to howl in pain as he helplessly writhed on the ground.

I have failed. Failed, the words resonated in his head.

Fueled by pure desperation, and a wistful thought thought that he could still win, Eragon once more tried struggled to get up. His world went completely red, and pain erupted from his core. The mocking laughter of the Imperial soldiers started to become an oddly comforting noise, beckoning for him to embrace the darkness of death. Eragon's blearily eyes looked at Galbatorix standing a little less than a foot away. In a last ditch attempt to be strong, Eragon roared, "Stop restraining me with your dark arts and fight me like a dragon Rider!" The laughter from the crowd grew louder.

Out of a sick fascination, Galbatorix removed the blade with a horrible sound of screeching metal as the sword ran against his armour which lay in shambles against his bleeding skin, torn along the whole length of his body, prodding and bloodying his already deformed figure. The king raised his sword and with a demented smile, sent it downwards again.

Eragon was lying in the middle of the partially deserted battlefield. The stench of dead bodies permeated the air. The remaining Varden soldiers were being dragged around in chains little beaten dogs. Each one of them seemed to stare at him with shocked eyes. It wasn't the first time Eragon had been beaten by a servant of evil, but everyone was shocked to see it would be the last

Eragon moved his eyes down, taking for what seemed like forever. His body was mangled. Stab wounds littered his body. His armor had crumpled in on its self, and in some spots was nonexistent. In those spots, his clothing was tattered, showing streaks of blood.

Eragon could see a rapidly growing puddle of his blood around him. The unmistakable black sword of Galbatorix was implanted in Eragon's lung. Eragon's breath shuddered, and every breath was hard to draw. The sword seemed to shake with the hideous sound of air escaping from lungs. Fresh, crimson blood bubbled up from around the blade.

Once Eragon knew the importance of the war he was fighting, the war he had just lost; he imagined his own death, but it felt like a far away nightmare. Eragon drew a shaky breath, "And so it ends."

Eragon desperately reached out toward magic to keep him alive, murmuring a spell to save himself as Galbatorix once again reeled back and plunged his dark black sword deep into Eragon's heart. There lay Eragon: broken and dying at the hands of the Black King.

This was just the beginning of the end.