I've had this idea for a while and it wouldn't leave me be until I wrote it. I loved Inheritance, but I didn't exactly like the very end, so I'm changing it. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: If I was Paolini, I would be filthy rich. But I'm not.
Prologue
"Into the dark, there are eyelids closing, buried alive in the shifting sands."
He woke to fear's iron hand clutching his heart. It clawed and constricted, like a wicked serpent will mangle its ill-fated prey. Cold tendrils wound their way into his veins, turning his blood to ice. His lungs burned as if filled with blistering, scarlet coals that dissipated the air around them. His senses were numb; his sole existence was fire and ice.
They returned quickly, though. Pain tore through him like Shruikan himself, a black savage beast that ripped him to bloody shreds. The air smelled of coal and weeds, dry and suffocating like burning bones on a desiccated plain. He felt as though his insides had been set ablaze, though his skin pricked and he shivered violently. It was as if he had been cast into a frozen, raging, agonizing hell.
Death, was his first coherent thought. Death, please.
Silence shattered all at once. Loud. Oppressive. Staggering. It felt like hearing for the first time, after being deaf for eternity. Disjointed voices shouted around him, overlapping each other in such a dissonance he had no hope of grasping. It took him a moment for his ears to work through the pain; someone was screaming. Raw, piercing, and tormented. It quickly overwhelmed every other sound, debasing the chaos he had perceived earlier. This shriek was devastating, a seemingly-inhuman sound that ripped through what once had been distinguished as reality. Agony reached new heights that day. He then reached an even more startling conclusion.
He was the one who was screaming.
He was not a weakling. He had enduring things that many could not fathom. But this pain…it ripped him of everything he had once thought defined him. The man within him had become something instinctive and primeval. He had to get rid of the pain. He had to. It would destroy him. It already was. The sheer agony was consuming him, and soon he would have no semblance of reality. He who had been would cease to be, permanently.
Time held no meaning to him. The pain prevented him from piercing through the darkness that his vision had become consumed in. He knew not whether hours or years had passed. His shrieks became a backdrop to everything else. He did not exist without the Pain. It became ingrained into his nature, by no responsibility of his own.
The Obliterator, he came to call it. Because it rips through the soul and leaves only madness in its wake.
It was not constant, though. If it was, it would have been easier to bear. The pain came in waves, nearly drowning him in icy torrents of darkness. The inconsistency would be what destroyed him, he realized. Nothing remained and he needed something to cling on to; by this point, even his name was beyond him. But he had nothing to define him. Nothing but the …
Please
…
Make it stop
…
Death
…
Please
…
"MAKE IT STOP!"
…
His own voice startled him. His voice. Right? It belonged to him. Him. Who was he? He…couldn't remember. He was pain, right? No. His name. It was…
I don't know.
He did know. It had been given to him. It was his and only his. His name was…
I don't remember.
He needed to know. He needed this. But they wouldn't let him.
The …
My name is…
It's…
It…
"Eragon!"
He reached out on instinct. His hand shot up, searching desperately for the source, despite the pain that tore through him. There was nothing, at first. Nothing. Nothing…
Warmth. Pressure. Something grabbed his hand. It felt—
Alive. Real.
The void was threatening to pull him in again. He clung to the warmth like a newborn will grasp its mother. But his strength was waning. He could feel his grip slacken. Only darkness—
"Eragon!" The voice was faint, like a long-lost memory. "Keep fighting! Eragon!"
…
Eragon!
…
Wake up!
…
Eragon!
…
Color. Reds and blues and silvers blended together. It was a blur, preventing him from discerning one shape from another. Everything churned and spun sickeningly.
"He's awake!"
"You there, alert Nasuada immediately!"
"We're losing him!"
"Where is that blasted elf queen when you need her?"
"Jörmundur, go find that witch-child!"
"Help me soothe his mind, Blödhgarm."
"Eragon, stay with me!"
Please review! They make me write faster. And I enjoy criticism (aka advise, not bashing), because it makes me a better writer.
More will be up soon!