A/N: Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Fabulous readers of all ages! The Crazy Authoress Conglomerate proudly presents *drumroll* "Líf Jierdaí"! :D

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to Christopher Paolini. Oh, except for the riddle. That's a line of Switchfoot's song "Dare You to Move" which is awesome and obviously not mine. Anyway...on with the story!

They stood in a rough oval, silent, staring. Not a single eye was dry, not a single person even moved. The only sounds on that corner of the blood-soaked battlefield were the sobs heaved by all present. The thirteen humanoids were dirty, bloodstained, and exhausted, but they did not care, for one of their own was dead. Around them, the remnants of the victor's army – their army – moved in dazes, some assisting wounded, others carrying bodies, but most simply wandering, shell-shocked.

It had been a mighty battle, one that would be sung about for generations to come. Countless times, it looked as if the rebels would be defeated. However, time and again, they managed to pull through. In the final moments, soldiers from both sides died by the dozens, but the renegades won. By the skin of their teeth, the combatants said. The bards would contend that the battle had been one-sided in the rebel's favor, but the fighters knew that the complete opposite was true. They also knew that they had prevailed through sheer dumb luck. The king's army had held every conceivable advantage, yet the Varden won nevertheless.

Just outside the city walls, the thirteen mourners stood. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows by the main gate and walked hesitantly to the group.

"Eragon?" Nasuada whispered uncertainly.

He half-turned in soundless acknowledgment, allowing her to see his face, ravaged by grief. He turned back to gaze at the figure on the ground, not even registering his liegelord's shock.

She struggled to form words, before giving up in favor of walking away. She had been planning to apologize, but the Rider's face had been so...she didn't even know a word strong enough to describe it. What was clear, though, was that he needed time to heal – in body as well as mind. She shuddered as his tortured expression flashed before her eyes once more.

For his part, Eragon stared numbly at the elf sprawled on the dirt, unnaturally still. She had never been that still in life, he knew. Though they had met mere months ago, no one – human, dwarf, or elf – was so motionless as long as breath filled their lungs. He was aware of nothing but her face, her beautiful, cold face. Even Saphira was distant, his sorrow an impenetrable wall between them.

Finally, after an unknowable length of time, one of his companions spoke softly in the ancient language. Eragon glanced up, the words barely penetrating the veil of his grief. He looked at the speaker questioningly, and she repeated herself, still in the ancient language.

"I suppose she finally found the answer."

Eragon frowned his confusion. The elf elaborated in a pained whisper, "When we were younger, someone posed her a riddle: 'Where can you run to escape from yourself?' She-" the elf paused and licked her lips. "Neither of us could ever figure out the answer. Now...I suppose she has."

Eragon nodded, fresh tears welling up in his eyes. "Yes, she has," he murmured hoarsely past the tightness in his throat.

He returned his attention to the dead woman at his feet. He had loved her, and now she was gone from him. Arya was dead, and there was nothing he could do to change that. They had lost so many soldiers, but losing Arya hit him the hardest. The elves had lost a princess, but he...he had lost a love. The worst part, in his eyes, was that he hadn't even known that she was dead until after the battle. He had not been there for her during her final moments. He had not been there to save her. A few more tears squeezed out; this was Garrow's death all over again, but a thousand times worse.

But no; there was something he could do. He could remember. In that way, her spirit would live on inside him. Before the elven spellcaster beside him had spoken, he had felt as if the sun would never shine again, despite the mockingly cloudless sky. Now, though, he felt a twinge of hope. Not much – barely a spark – but one that Eragon felt just might make the transformation into a flame.

A/N: Short, I know. Just over one page in Word without the author's notes or disclaimer. But it's taking a very small bunch of ideas and running with it. So, sorry about the shortness, but it's the best I can scrounge up without totally running away from the original idea. Oh, and the title? It means "Broken Life." It's the best I could do. :(

*insert your name here*, come on down! You're the next contestant on...REVIEW THAT STORY! (Whatever, I'm desperate. Deal with it.)