A/N/: Hello. You may have read my drabble series, 'The Lingering Thoughts of Fate'. It is not essential to read that to understand this, in fact it's not even necessary at all. It has a slightly different storyline, so it may confuse you. But that is what this is essentially based on, or the idea of that.

I am actually very pleased with most of the content in this first chapter. Unlike usual I have kept the dialogue to a reasonable minimum, used what I consider to be good descriptive language which I hope will paint a mental picture in your heads of what I am seeing when I imagine these scenes and the action that takes place, and I have made the chapter a good length and written what I hope is a gripping opening to what should be an interesting story.

But I would like you all to make your own conclusions upon reading it, and I value your input, whatever it may be.

Please enjoy.

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The wings of the eagle curved majestically as he soared high above the land. Brown, sleek feathers rustled in the wind that rushed past, carrying him on the breeze without a hint of effort on his part. He spiralled slowly, curving his mighty head down to survey the scene below.

Two black smudges blemished the barren plains. They were made up of hundreds of men, two great armies that stretched further than the eye could see. They faced one another over a wide swathe of no man's land, each behind hastily erected barricades which would serve a little protection if the opposing forces were to sweep over them.

Men watched from behind these barricades with wary eyes, looking out across the sea of shifting ankle high grass to the enemy lines. Spears and halberds clinked against each other as sentry's changed position, shifting from one foot to another. All was quiet watchfulness below the eagle now, the air charged with tension as both sides waited for the madness to break forth.

Eragon could almost feel the air tingling with the pent up emotion, the calm before the storm. He shifted his position again and itched his thigh. Beside him, Orik fiddled with a toothpick between the gaps in his teeth. He worked it around a tooth and then spat vigorously onto the ground. "Barzul," he muttered, dropping the pick in the dirt, "you would have thought they would have got on with it by now instead of just sitting here!"

Eragon pursed his lips slightly. "It's how they want you to feel, Orik," he replied sagely. "They're keeping us waiting in the hope of unnerving us."

Orik grunted. His eyes shifted restlessly around the camp, flicking from one point to another in quick succession. "Aye, it's working alright. I'm wound as tightly as a clockwork toy."

Eragon nodded in a quick birdlike way which Orik noted he had picked up from Arya. He said nothing more, but his face betrayed his own nerves as clearly as spoken word.

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Roran fastened the last buckle of his gauntlet and stretched. His armour, although not exactly comfortable, was not likely to cause him great discomfort when the call for battle sounded. It fitted well, he was always pleased to observe, better than an average soldier's.

He wasn't an average soldier, of course, but well fitted armour could be hard to come by.

He rolled his shoulders in their sockets, loosening the joints. It did little to ease the stiff tension of his muscles, and he doubted he would be able to relax whatever he tried. The air of gut boiling terror choked the camp like a thick and deadly fog, though none would have admitted it.

Roran heaved a heavy sigh and walked off between the tents. He passed many men who nodded and raised a hand respectfully. No one spoke, for a strange fear of breaking the deathly quiet had stolen over the men, and most sat tensely outside their tents, weapons in hand.

Roran continued on until he came to a small circle between the tents where many of the men of Carvahall had gathered. He was instantly offered a seat next to Horst, which he took. The big man regarded him speculatively. "You look pale and drawn, Roran. Memories trouble your mind?"

Roran simply nodded. Horst returned the nod and turned away to speak to his eldest son. Roran ran a hand over his tired face.

Katrina.

She was all he could think of. The campaign had progressed fast, but not fast enough for her time. She had given birth to a healthy, strong daughter, who already shared her vibrant copper hair. A few days later there had been tearful goodbyes and she had joined a train of injured men journeying back to Aberon. Roran had been heartbroken to see her go, even if it was for the best. He threw himself fully into helping the war effort to keep his mind from thoughts of her, but when he lay down to sleep her face haunted him again.

Another sigh lifted his heavy shoulders and was mirrored by the wind as it too whistled and sighed through the maze of tents, causing cooking fires to flicker and women to pull shawls tighter around themselves.

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The same wind whistled across the plain, swirling and blowing for many leagues until it came to the highest tower of a great citadel that dominated the skyline for many miles around. It was a black tower surrounded by the smaller buildings of a great sprawling city that seemed to cling to the hems of the fortresses' skirt, much as the many poor of the city clutched ladies' skirts and the hem's of men's tunics as they begged piteously for a scrap of food.

The great citadel was surrounded by a wall of granite that was ten foot thick, and the great tower that was the black king's palace was topped by a cone of pale green gemstone. The gem was translucent and would have filtered sunlight happily through into the room within had it been sunny on that dark day. The room inside was a great chamber that sloped with the outer design and was filled with countless walkways and rope ladders that hung between suspended baskets of all shapes and sizes. Near the top of the cone the walls curved and travelled straight up for a time before being broken by tear shaped wind holes large enough for mighty dragons to fly through. A great ledge circled the tower at this point and was lead up to by several proper staircases for those not willing to brave the terror of the hanging walkways.

It was here that the wind whistled through and lifted the strands of raven black hair that hung about Murtagh's slim shoulders. He stood upon the ledge in the great dragonhold, looking out across the boundless plains over which he would soon be flying. Flying into battle against the Varden, where he would have to yet again face his brother, Eragon.

His heart was heavy with despair as he stared out across the open grassland, which shifted eerily like the surface of the storm blown ocean. The knee high grass was flattened and trampled for many miles around in the wake of the enormous army Galbatorix had sent out to meet the Varden in Belatona. The grass was reduced to mud in places where great war machines had been pulled over it, and had been cut by scythes to allow better access.

Something moved behind Murtagh and he turned. Thorn had jumped into the nearest basket and as he watched the red dragon jumped onto the ledge upon which he stood. Servants appeared at the top of the stairs with his supplies and armour, which he let them strap onto him. They scurried around Thorn, first putting on his saddle and then loading it with the meagre supplies he might need to make the small flight to the city. When they were done they hurried away, only pausing to bow and whisper, "My Lord," respectfully.

Murtagh walked, armour clinking, to Thorn and mounted the mighty dragon. Thorn stretched his wine coloured wings and crawled to the edge of the wind hole. For a few seconds they stared out into empty space. Here we go again, Murtagh thought quietly. Then Thorn threw himself out into the air and spread his wings, catching the updraft and sending them soaring skywards. The black citadel dwindled beneath them as they caught the wind and flew out across the plain to their next confrontation.

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The horns for battle sounded as the Varden made their advance towards the city. The great oak gates had been pulled shut and bolted and soldiers lined the walls, sending arrows and pitch down upon the advancing army.

Belatona was a city that was pressed against the edge of Leona Lake, with one side opening to a wharf and docks not unlike Terim's. The Varden threw themselves against the walls, propping ladders against the wall to climb up on and using their battering ram to try and break down the gate.

While Nasuada directed from the back, Roran and the other captains lead with Kings Orrin and Orik, while Eragon and Saphira rained fire down upon the walls and soldiers.

Quickly, to that wall and help those Varden! Eragon shouted. Saphira responded, moving to the left and baking an oncoming advance of the Empire's soldiers.

Roran made mincemeat of the soldiers on top of the wall near where he had climbed up. His company took out a whole section of soldiers and made it to the stairs which would lead them down to the lower levels. Roaring a war cry, Roran sped down the stairs...

...and straight onto the spear of a soldier stationed at the bottom of the stairwell. He gasped, the pain lancing through him. The spear was embedded deep, the point breaking out of the skin on his back. The shaft had pierced through under his left shoulder, almost straight through his heart. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor. The men of his company roared their anger and cut the soldier down mercilessly, but that would not save their captain. Urgent shouts and the screech of a dragon were the last things Roran heard as he sank into blackness.

The screech echoed around the land as Eragon turned, horror forming an ice cold lump in his belly. Thorn's wings carried him as he swept towards them mere inches from the sparkling surface of Leona Lake. Saphira turned in the wind and roared her displeasure, powering her descent towards the other dragon with her bulging flight arm muscles.

Thorn mirrored her roar and sped upwards towards them. The world seemed to slow into a crawl as they got closer...closer...Eragon could clearly see Murtagh's face, in slow motion, as he came towards them with all the speed of a flying arrow, face expressing a strange mix of fear and resigned acceptance.

The two dragons hit each other with an impact that jarred Eragon's whole body. He held onto Saphira's saddle, unbalanced. Saphira swooped away and tried to get above Thorn. He mirrored her again, rising to meet her attack with a fierce snarl. Eragon noticed something was wrong. His legs moved too much. He looked down and saw that, somehow, the straps holding his legs in place had loosened. He was about to point this out to Saphira when she whirled, going over so Thorn skimmed the air where she had once been.

The straps were too loose.

He felt himself falling and cried out, plummeting through thin air. Saphira righted herself, then looked down. She screeched her fear.

Saphira! Help! Eragon screamed as he fell. She began to draw in her wings, then turned. She jabbed her head at Thorn, who was coming towards her again. Eragon sensed a great release of energy, and Thorn went flying through the air, spiralling towards the city. Then Saphira drew in her wings and dived towards him.

He turned over and saw the water coming up beneath him. Much closer than he had expected. Hitting it at this speed would be almost as bad as hitting solid ground. Saphira pushed herself faster than she ever had, going into freefall as well.

Too late.

Eragon hit the water as if it was a brick wall and was plunged into darkness. He gasped, the air knocked from him. Water filled his lungs and his vision blurred. He couldn't breathe or think. He could hear Saphira calling his name faintly, but he was sinking. Sinking into the darkness...

Thorn roared as he was thrown backwards. Murtagh caught strange glimpses of the ground and sky, turning over one another as they flipped backwards. He struggled, turning his head to see the city rushing up to met them.

Thorn! Murtagh shouted, you need to get control again, or we're going to crash!

I'm trying!

The city rushed into focus, spires and rooftops becoming sickeningly clear.

Thorn! Murtagh screamed. The dragon gave a roar of desperation as he powered his wings, but to no avail. With an impact that broke his bones, he slammed into the edge of a rooftop, plunging over its edge to hit another, lower building. He screamed as he fell through the levels of roofs, stacked up as they were in this part of the city.

He landed with a nauseating crunch on the paving stones below.

Barely conscious, he tried to review his injuries. Many bones were broken, and he was bleeding inside. Still, it could be fixed, if someone did it soon.

Murtagh? Thorn asked faintly. There was no reply. Murtagh?! Thorn called again. Still nothing. He moved slightly and instantly noticed the absence of his rider's familiar weight on his back. Cold shock and terror gripped him. If Murtagh had fallen out of the saddle, then there was surely no way he could have survived.

No! Murtagh! Thorn screamed, raising his head feebly to the sky.

And, a street away, his rider registered his call in some small part of his rapidly fading mind. Thorn! He tried to shout, but it came out as nothing but the faintest whisper, quieter than the sighing breeze. His last energy spend, Murtagh's consciousness faded away, consumed and overcome by the raging dark...

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A/N/: Well, what did you all think? Good opening? Mysterious? I'd love to have some reviews to see what you thought. All comments welcome, whether they be good, bad, or just plain ugly.

Thank you all for reading.