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Chapter One:Aftermath

After battles there is always crying, weeping, and mourning. But that doesn't mean that knowing that it would happen made the sounds any easier to bear. Blood flowed in small trickles down the streets of Feinster that sloped, already starting to pool in places where one of the machines of war that the Varden used had created a dip in the stone. All thoughts that wars were glorious had been banished from the minds of all in the city.

What was glorious about small children crying out for their fathers, and some even for their mothers? While the older children herded the younger around the blood, even though the hems of the girls dresses were already soaked in the red liquid. No, there no doubt in any of the people of the city's mind, war was destruction.

Eragon skirted a pile of bodies while Saphira, not wanting to get her marvelous hide dirty, flew a good fifty feet above the carcasses. As he walked toward the center of the city, which was where the Varden leaders were had set up their headquarters, many stopped him and asked him to heal a loved one, desperation burning in their eyes. How could he refuse them? So each time someone asked he followed after them and either eased the dying one's passing, or heal a wound as best he could.

It was many hours before he reached the center of the city, though not on summons. Had he been summoned he would be flying on Saphira, though now he wished that he had, to avoid all the spoils of war around him. He hoped to talk with Nasuada about what she had decided to do next and, if she did not know yet, help her to map out a plan.

He turned the corner of a half building, that might have at one point been the main house of a noble, if the many smaller buildings and the crushed gate could amount to anything. It was in the large courtyard that Nasuada had set up her double tent.

The command tent was red, which was rather foolish as it was a red tent among gray stone and stood out like a black sheep in a white flock, while the smaller tent next to it, which was gold, was Nasuada's personal sleeping arrangement. He could sense, without really trying to sense, as he had gotten rather good at being attune to the world around him, that there was a meeting going on.

If I haven't been summoned, I won't intrude. Don't you think so Saphira?

That is, Saphira's gentle voice resounded in his head, unless we perchance left before the messenger found us.

But then, Eragon said back to her, Nasuada would have had a magician contact us.

But, what if the messenger of which I earlier spoke of didn't arrive to the command tent to tell Nasuada that he could not find us?

Eragon tried in vain to gather some comeback. But, as always, Saphira had backed him into a corner that he couldn't find a way out of, so to speak. He said the one thing that suddenly came to his mind.

Well, that's a shame then, because I was going to say that I wanted to go flying with you and that-

He got no further than this, for it was at this moment in time that Saphira landed heavily in front of him, probably shaking the people in the command tent, and snaked her head close to him.

You should have mentioned that sooner, then I wouldn't have argued with you. Hop on little one, I'll take you back to your tent, flimsy little thing, and you can put on one of the saddles.

Should have mentioned it sooner then.

He said ruefully to himself as he nimbly climbed up her foreleg. Once he had settled down as comfortably as he could, what with riding without a saddle. Saphira took off into the air, though more gentle than usual considering her rider wasn't sitting in a dragon saddle.

Gliding over the city with just the birds for company might have made other people lonely. But for a dragon Rider and his dragon, it was all that they wished for. Time to be alone with each other. Granted, doing so without a saddle was rather uncomfortable for the rider, and Saphira couldn't do any steep dives, but it was still amazing.

It wasn't long before Saphira was circling his blue tent, which was set in the middle of the Varden's tent, with about a hundred feet around it with nothing there, they were scared of him and he knew it. Scared yet adoring. Saphira alighted on the ground, and he jumped lightly off her. He looked on the inside of his pantleg, even that short ride without a saddle had started to wear away the threads. He walked into his tent.

The only furniture in the tent was a cot, probably softer than that of the others in the Varden, but still hard. The only other things in the room were his bow, his quiver, his shield, and two packs, he had separated his belongings into the two packs, one of them held the things that he would immediately be needing when the Varden were on the march, and the other held what he didn't need, Domia Abr Wyrda, his clothes, the copy of his poem at the Agaeti(sp?) Blodhren, and many other lesser things that needed not to be mentioned.

He strode over to the pack that held his clothes and picked a blue elven pair of pants, to replace the one which had started to be worn away by Saphira's scales. After changing into the new pair of pants, he went over to where the two saddles that he had rested. Picking up the molded one he started to walk out of the tent.

Little one, I would rather use the one that Brom made.

Why so?

He asked walking back and picking up the one made of deerskin.

I just feel that it would be a good way of honoring the dead to wear something that they made with their own hands. Do you not think so?

I would rather use the molded one, it reminds me of Oromis.

But I will be the one to be carrying you, and I wish for the one that Brom made.

Very well, Saphira.

It wouldn't have even helped him to argue with her, because he was already strapping on the flexible saddle. After tying the last knot he climbed easily up her foreleg and strapped himself in with deft hands. Saphira, before he had finished with the last one, roared and then leaped up into the air.