A/N/: Hi. Just a quick one-shot, hopefully not too long, inspired by a forum post on Writer's Challenges and the Dwarven Fan Club by Jessi Brooke. Accompanied by my faithful companion (my friend's dog, Alfie) I am going to venture into a very different Alagaesia...

Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritence Cycle or any of the characters. It all belongs to Christopher Paolini.

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The dungeons reverberated to the sound of screams. Murtagh winced. He hated it down here. But he had to come. Someone was counting on him, down here in the dark.

He reached the cell door and produced a key from the belled sleeve of his tunic. The key ground in the lock, and the heavy wooden door opened. The room inside was dark. Pitch black. He lit a werelight in his palm and made it float to the ceiling. The chained prisoner stirred from her position on the floor and turned to look at him. Her long, matted brown hair hung over empty brown eyes, alight though they were to see him. It made him cringe just to see her thin figure and bruised eyes.

"Did they hurt you again?" he asked softly as he knelt down beside her.

She shifted to face him. "Only a little. I think your warning scared them." He took her hand and she looked down for a moment. "Thank you," she whispered her voice barely audible.

"Next time I'll make sure they don't even touch you," Murtagh growled. Nasuada laughed and leaned back against the cold stone wall. "I've been trying to get you out," the young rider continued. "I don't care what Galbatorix thinks any more; I will get you out of this hell-hole."

Nasuada shifted to sit next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

Murtagh put an arm round her, and they sat for an immeasurable length of time, enjoying the only joy they found in their pitiful existence.

---

Eragon kicked a rock that was near his foot, then contemplated the action. Was it because he hated rocks that he had kicked that poor, innocent little rock? Was it relieve his stress and pent-up anger? Was it because-

Little one.

Sorry Saphira. I just find myself thinking about things in that way sometimes. More and more often, lately.

Maybe it is your inner elf finding a way to express itself.

Mmmm. Maybe.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't mention elves.

It's fine. I have to get over her. I should have already got over her. But...

But you have had so long to contemplate it, her death has haunted you.

Yes.

I understand.

I know. You are the only one who understands.

Saphira hummed and rubbed Eragon's shoulder with her nose.

They stood on a large balcony overlooking the dark city of Uru'bean. It was a bright, sunny day, but that did nothing to improve upon the city's appearance. The dragon hold, where Saphira and the other two dragons lived, was deserted. Shruikan had gone to sit in the king's throne room, no doubt to intimidate another set of earls, and Thorn had flown away to the east earlier that morning.

Where has Thorn gone? Eragon asked absent mindedly.

Flying. He didn't tell me anything else. You know how he is sometimes. Murtagh's voice sounded weary and depressed in his head.

Do not worry for him, brother. He will come to no harm. Where are you now?

Coming. I'll be there in a minute.

Eragon leaned his head on his hands and stared again at the city. He closed his eyes, pulled into the memories that lurked just below the surface of his consciousness.

Leaping bodies. Flashing swords. A dragon's roar. The last battle of the Varden's great struggle against the Empire. Eragon ran, fast as a hare, dodging the blows directed at him from all sides. He was almost there. Eyes on the prize. The doors. They were open. He flew into the castle, Saphira at his heels. The great doors that lead to the throne room were also ajar, and he sprinted through. Then stopped dead. The evil king smiled, more like a leer. The elf princess was stiff, the blade held to her neck just touching her soft skin.

"I knew you would come." The king was so self satisfied it glowed in an aura about him. "Now, no word games. Let us get down to business. I have very simple terms. Swear loyalty to me, and she goes free. Tell the Varden to drop their weapons and lay down at my feet, and none of them shall be killed."

Arya's eyes told him no, they must keep going, it was worth the sacrifice. Eragon couldn't help it. With a few muttered words in the ancient language, he was bound. A few more, and the Varden were weapon less and prostrate on the floor. The king leered again.

"So easy to please. But let me show you just what happens to people who betray their friends." And with that, he ran her through. Just like that, she was gone. Her lips formed his name silently as she fell, the evil king pulling his sword free, laughing like a maniac...

"Eragon?"

Eragon jumped as he was pulled abruptly back to the present. He turned to see his brother in the doorway. He walked over, a worried look crossing his handsome features.

"What is it? You seem troubled..."

Eragon shook his head. "Nothing. Just bad memories." Murtagh nodded. He understood. They stood in silence, watching, faint sounds of city and castle drifting past on the weak breeze.

Their attention was pulled away from this riveting view by the return of Thorn. His swift wings beat carelessly at the air as he glided towards the dragon hold's opening. He joined them a minute later.

See anything interesting? Murtagh asked.

No. Just a lot of farms and not a lot of animals.

Hmmm. Much the same as usual.

Yes. Windswept and barren.

Yes. And to think some call that beautiful.

They are not the ones who have to live there.

You're right.

"Have you heard about the resistance movement?" Eragon asked aloud.

"A little. I don't think it'll work this time, though. There's too little. What with the elves being killed and their trees being burnt, and the dwarves in slavery in the mines. I hate to sound so hopeless, but this time it really seems like there's nothing we can do."

"Yes. It does seem that way."

---

One hundred leagues away, deep in the Spine, Jormunder was having much the same thoughts. Their leader, Roran Stronghammer, was a good person, with a will and determination of iron, but this time around it really didn't look good. There were less than a thousand people in hiding, and getting food and housing here in this cold and inhospitable environment was tough. They had managed, but only just.

The haggard man walked down the tunnels they had made their home. They had been tunnelled by dwarves many centuries ago when they were trying to use the land for their growing population, but the attempt had been abandoned. But there were many tunnels, and much room. It was almost comfortable.

The plans for the New Varden were simple; forget defeating the Empire for now, and concentrate on surviving. They had been doing well, and were all determined to keep the faith alive.

Many of the Varden's old leaders had been taken by the Empire, so new ones had jumped up in their place.

Lady Nasuada was a prisoner in Galbatorix's dungeon, so Roran was now leader.

There was no Council of Elder's, the member's of whom had all been executed soon after the Varden's downfall. The replacement was the second in command, Jormunder, and third in command, Angela. Jormunder had obvious reasons for being second, and the herbalist had surprisingly leapt at the chance to become important in the New Varden's ranks.

King Orik was a slave in the mines like most of the rest of his race, and there were few in the New Varden.

The elves had been all but destroyed, and there were two in the resistance, Regan and Anclimeé. Their queen, Islanzadi, had died of a broken heart, alone and cold in Galbatorix's prison. Losing her daughter was too much for her to take.

The Surdan's made up most of the rest of the group, but as for their king's fate, no one was really sure. He had last been seen fighting in Uru'bean, but his body had not been recovered from the battlefield. Jormunder was sure Galbatorix would have shown the Varden his body, had it been found. Some said he had escaped, while others said he ran away and as now living in hiding, while still others believed he was a slave in the mines. Jormunder's view was that if the king was still alive, he would probably be in the king's dungeons.

And so the New Varden was formed. They lived a hard live on the slopes of the Spine, rearing and tending their flocks and growing things in terraced fields on the mountainside. No one had discovered them. Yet. But sometimes there would be a spark of panic as one of the two riders flew overhead. They were always way up, obviously not looking for them, but it was good to be cautious.

Sometimes Jormunder would look up at the sky and wish for hope, not fear. Freedom, not oppression. Happiness, not hardship. It was all they could do, now. Look, hope, wish and pray for a miracle.

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A/N/: Ok, hope you liked it. I really do. In fact, I love it.

Yes, I admit, the ending was a bit lame, but I'm tired and its 2:30 in the morning and I now want to go to bed as I have exhausted my writing flair.

Thanks to Jessi Brooke for giving the challenge. Hope this lives up to your expectations.

Just in case anyone asks, I may continue this. But not for a while. I have too much else to do.

Please, review if you like. All comments, good or bad, are appreciated.

Thank you for reading, and goodnight.