A Dragon's Tears
Droplets of crimson rained down from the sky, staining the emerald grass red with the dying tears of dragons. Ear splitting roars tore holes in the night, and the stars flashed shimmering white, like diamonds in the inky blackness of a coal mine, deep underground, hidden from the greedy eyes of men.
Smoking holes burned orange in the darkness, and the scattered, mangled corpses of countless dragons littered the landscape. Darkening crimson. Shimmering sapphire. Glittering gold.
At the head of the carnage, an emerald green dragon squatted, tall and proud, his elfin rider surveyed the damage left by the vicious claws of fate. Cruel fate. Her flowing ebony hair whipped viciously behind her, a tail of darkness sprouting from her skull.
The emerald scaled dragon extended its neck and nuzzled his master's hand affectionately, fiery, leaf green pupils gazing out at the once fertile field, razed to ashes by the blasts of dragon fire that had assailed it so.
The elf sighed heavily. "Such an awful sight," she muttered.
Tears began to form on her midnight lashes, droplets of crystal against her flawless skin. "I wish it was not necessary to take these measures."
She sank to her knees in the filth beneath her feet, staining her perfect skin a dirty black colour.
Fírnen nudged her with his snout, obviously concerned for his master's wellbeing.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, the elf –Arya- buried her face in his neck, not caring that his rough scales were tearing her skin to pieces.
From the chest of one of the dragon corpses, protruded a long, glowing lance, its barbed tip buried deep into the mighty beasts' soft underbelly. Blood trickled lazily from the deep, unhealable wound.
"Niernen. Orchid."
Niernen was one of the twelve Dauthdaertya created by the elves for one purpose – to kill dragons. The very though sickened the elf princess.
The beast was long dead, well beyond saving, even for the most powerful sorcerer. Even- here, the elf shuddered at the thought- Galbatorix himself would have trouble resurrecting the noble creature. But the least she could do was destroy the weapon used to bring about its downfall.
Summoning all her energy, and muttering a spell in the ancient language, she drew the Death Spear from the dragon's chest, and hurled it, high, into the air, where she pointed her finger at it and snapped, "Brisingr!"
A bolt of emerald fire shot from her fingertip and struck the elven made weapon, shattering the enchanted spear into a million fragments that rained down upon the earth, showering the corpses with its debris. The air was silent now, the carnage long since over, the elves having slaughtered every dragon they could reach.
In a way, Arya was glad that it was over. But at the same time, her heart ached with sadness at the brutal destruction of what was once an entire race, a race that, once upon a time, ruled their domain of the azure skies above Alagaësia.
Dragons were, she thought, magnificent creatures, possessing enough power to rule over both the skies, and the seas, if they so wished it. And yet, now, all that remained of them were charred and blackened corpses, littering the darkening landscape like flies. She never thought her people could be so cruel.
A heavy sigh slipped from Arya's parted lips, and she reached out to stroke the hard, scaly flesh of her dragon, his jade armor surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips. Fírnen snorted and rubbed his cheek against hers, nudging her wrist until her hand rested gently at the point where his wings met his shoulder blades.
A satisfied growl emanated from deep within his throat, as the elf's slender fingers traced a spot between his wings, and he backed into her, trying to attain more contact between himself and his master's hand.
An amused chuckle escaped Arya's lips and she withdrew her hand, tracing her nails down the side of her dragons' face.
Fírnen emitted a low whining sound, and shuffled his wings in annoyance.
Arya shook her head and said to him, using her mind so that anyone listening could not hear. Not now. We must leave this cursed place. There is something evil drawing near.
No sooner had she finished her unspoken sentence, than a tall man, boasting flaming crimson hair and dressed in a flowing ebony robe stepped into view. He raised his right hand, locked eyes with the elven princess and barked, "Garjzla!"
Arya let out a cry of pain as the red lightning struck her in the chest, sending her flying backwards.
Her dragon roared, his ear splitting cry piercing the still night air, and a plume of emerald fire erupted from his maw.
The sorcerer, a Shade, laughed and knocked the fire away with his outstretched arm.
Raising her arm weakly, Arya croaked, "Brisingr!" and a shot of jade fire flew from her fingers, striking the man in the face, temporarily blinding him. Growling, the Shade opened his mouth to utter the words to another spell, but stopped when he saw the elven princess scrambling across the grass and vaulting, despite her broken leg, onto the back of her dragon.
Growing angry, the Shade, Durza, raised his right hand and roared, "Jierda!"
Arya cried out as the bones in her other leg shattered, and she was thrown backwards, off her dragon and into the hard, muddy ground.
A smirk found its way to his lips, and he reached into his midnight cloak, drawing, from within its ebony folds, a sword that glittered in the light of the moon overhead, a vicious maroon, as if the blade itself was coated in blood.
Arya's emerald pupils widened in fear as she recognized the blade in his hand. Scrambling hastily away from him, she leapt to her feet, a scream of pain flying from her lips as she stood on her broken legs.
From within her sleeve, she withdrew a shimmering blue stone; a dragon's egg and, muttering a spell in the ancient language, sent it west, away from Du Weldenvarden and towards the Spine, a place she knew even Galbatorix's soldiers were afraid of.
At this, Durza flew into a rage, striking the elf princess sharply across the face, and eliciting a scream of pain from her bruised and swollen lips.
Arya whirled round and tried to hobble away, but the Shade raised his left hand and barked, "Böetk istalri!"
A quarter mile wide section of the forest erupted in a shimmering wall of fire, blocking off her escape.
Grimly, the Shade burned one section after another, laughing as the trees were razed to the ground. Glancing one last time at the elf that lay, stunned on the blood soaked grass, he turned and started to walk away.
He quenched the fires in his path but left the rest to burn.