Eragon Ten Years Later

by Remember It Long After

After the Genocide of Urgals and the dethroning of the Empire's King.... ... .... Empire's King, Eragon and friends face new demons, schizophrenia, paranoia and insanity. Definitely not for everybody.

This is a work of speculative fiction, following the events of Eragon to their logical conclusion. An attempt has been made to adhere to the author's writing style, so get out your dictionaries. The first paragraph will make it or break it for you. I apologise in advance for the terribly, terribly immature humor of the beginning. Thank you.

Eragon, Ten Years Later

After a turbulent masturbatory session, Eragon was temporarily sated... but not for long. His carnal desires could be fettered by the rapid application of a sweltering crimson palm, and a few lascivious thoughts in relation to his dragon's asshole.

"Huurgghummmhummm", ejaculated Eragon, mopping the wall with a stiff cloth. Suddenly, he felt the beginning pangs of post auto erotica hunger.

"DWARF," he shrieked. "Send me a haunch of haggis, mine blood sugar is at a dire low!" "My Lord Eragon," stammered his hideous dwarven manslave, "Moon of Hope and Not God of All Peoples, for god does not exist; the haggis has run out!"

"I WANT MEAT" gurgled Eragon, His voice cracking with the aberrant chords of his displeasure. A cacophony of echoes relayed the decree all about the stone hewn chamber, which the dwarfs had built many years ago to store apples, but the dwarfs had no apples, so they converted the room into Eragons personal Love Station, but no one loved Eragon, and this made him cry single tears with alarming frequency.

"My lord, we will fetch you whatever you wish as soon as it is available, but the elves do not allow us to hunt animals as long as they are our allies!"

"SPEAK NOT ILL OF THE CHOSEN PEOPLE!!" Roared Eragon, spittle drenching the unfortunate, god believing, meat eating scrotum of a dwarf. He drew his sword, which had rubies and gold enamel and gilt glitter and a wolf head pommel, and shone with ephemeral, hauntingly beautiful, softly precious, light, and ran all of its 4 foot blade through the dwarfs pleading mouth. The dwarf's stunted, grotesque body, unfit to be Eragon, Not-God Thing of the Dragons', servant, did a macabre jig, and his blood poured over Eragons Silk and velvet crimson doublet, and over his still freely swinging genitals. Eragon, horrified at what, in a fit of clouded passion, he had dealt upon his wretched servant, turned and took two shuddering steps along the cartoon-animal-print carpet before falling to his knees. "WHAT HAVE I DONE!!" He cried, effortlessly pronouncing the extra exclamation marks. "HE WAS NOT TO BLAME!!"

Still though, supplied a quiet voice in his head, Perhaps his death hast not been in vain. Eragonwipedthe single tear, glistening like dew on a somehow flesh colored May hillside, off his fine, High Born cheek.No cirugeon can holpen you, my friend, he intoned over the prostrate and disassembled cadaver. But it may be that fate conspired for thou to aid me. Begorrah. On his hands and knees, his penis swinging obscenely, he began to devour the carcass in earnest, tears of joy running down his beautifully rendered face as the delectable taste of sweet, sweet dwarf-flesh filled his every sense.

"OH NON EXISTANT AND OUTMODED CONCEPT OF THE IGNORANT MASSES, THAT IS FUCKING DELICIOUS" screamed Eragon ecstatically. Could do with some herberies, however, he cogitated.

Later, his belly bloated with poorly digesting servant, Eragon strodedowninto the glade to sexually harass Arya, as was his wont after a meal. Arya, busy buffing her mysterious leathers in the nude while wind blew her shimmering raven locks, sighed with either delight or unfathomable disgust, Eragon couldnt tell which, at his approach. "Dearest Arya, paragon of the Elven Peoples", chimed Eragon in his beautiful soprano tones. "I have brought the remainder of my superb dinner. And I wrote a new poem."

Even as he attempted to act nonchalant, Eragon could hardly be blamed for his shimmering sight organs as they roamed freely over Arya'swellmuscled and lean yet still large breasted body, which had a perfect tan as well. His interlude in the Love Station seemed never to have occurred. He wouldst need to return posthaste after this little encounter, he knew it as he knew that those who harmed animals or believed in a higher power were fit only for execution.

Arya turned away, showing off the other hemisphere of her exquisitely sculpted, yet battle hardened form. "Eragon, is that meat!?" She cried, horrified that an animal could have been harmed, as she slipped back into her super tight and very sexy leather. "Oh, meat it is, but fear not, flower of my libido, 'tis from a beast less noble than animal."

Arya didn't have to think long about what was lowest of lows. "Dwarf?" She questioned. "Eragon, the blood that cakes thine mouth is that of a dwarf? Disgusting! Those mud-things are filthy!" She turned and flounced away in a distressed and dramatic manner that best showed off her glutes and calves. Eragon approved, save for one thing. "Wait, fuel of my naughty dreams! You have not yet heard my romantic poem commemorating the love that can never be shared, between vampire and busty wench, that symbolizes the-"

"Eragon," she interrupted, turning at the gate, which was made of Elfwood and twined with flowers from the south, of green and blue, like tiny parasols open under the fluctuating sunset at an outdoor gala of a fairy land." Once I have heard one of your poems, I have heard them all, Eragon. And I did not appreciate the poorly rendered illustration of what I assume is me and an impossibly endowed you engaged in fantastical and unlikely variations of the love act, that you sent me the other day."

Eragon shuddered. He had been incredibly out of his head the other day, high on elven hashish and even stooping to dwarven mead to try and burn out the pain of being Eragon. He had no idea what he had done. Arya's harsh and familiar words on this subject never lost their cruel edge. He found he could not cry this time, not even a single tear, but it probably would have made his lashes curl like petals in the rain. "OH Arya!" orated Eragon, trembling from head to toe with filthy human desires and hating himself for it. "Please do me the kindness of reading this, my soul on vellum!" "Fine." Arya snatched the scroll from Eragons large, manly hand into her own delicate yet firm one.

"Eragon, this parchment is covered in naught but scrawlings of male genitalia!" "What?" wondered Eragon. "What? Tha- that cant be! I Remember writing it!" He pawed at Arya, feebly trying to grab the scroll but not wanting to touch her, lest she think him creepy or unusual. "Get out of my sight, Eragon." hissed Arya. " I'll dispose of this... thing."

"Arya, I-"

"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, HUMAN!!" she screamed, the exclamation points like daggers on the chalkboard that was Eragons heart.

Later, his soul tattered by the vagaries of his soulmates' moodswings, Eragon sat in his throne, which was carved from his enemies' bones and bore Eragons' device, that of a dragon giving birth to a miniature Eragon. Saphira, his other half and casual lover, was close by, behind the rich velvet curtains that separated the throne room from Eragons' bedchambers.

"Saphira, why will Arya not acknowledge my burning desire for her loins? 'Tis naught but romantic!" Saphira did not answer. He heard her rummaging around in the royal bathroom, built to accommodate her huge, scaly body. "I believe that I must no longer imbibe the elven Hashish," declared Eragon. "Today I devoured Gregert and I do not recall why. I was not even hungry, and moreover I despise meat. So delicious and sinful."

He heard a stifled sob from the bathroom, but his mind was, as always, on his own troubles. "I fear Arya and I have grown apart these past few days. We were once so close. Forsooth, at one point she and I shared the same bed. For one night. And what a precious night it was."

"Eragon."

"Of course, that was back when she was still unconscious and near death from torture. But the love was there."

"Eragon!!"

"Uff. I may retire to my Love Station for a bit."

"ERAGON!"

"Why, Saphira, what is it?" asked Eragon, shaken from the depthsof his recollections, which unfortunately were ethereal and unsteady due to his constant drug abuse for the last decade.

"Eragon, I wasn't ready for this... I didn't even think this was possible!"

"Laughably outdated theories, Saphira, spit it out!" chuckled Eragon, picking his teeth of some leftover dwarf. He looked down and realized that he had not been wearing any pants for the past ... two days? More?

"Eragon, I... I'M FUCKING PREGNANT!" Screamed Saphira, flame escaping her crocodilian maw. "Oh?" Oh'd Eragon. "Who's the lucky father?"

"You, you son of a bitch! How many humans do you believe I have had relations with?!"

"Well, some of the boys were saying you get around quite a bit-"

"What are you talking about? Are you even comprehending me?"

"Besides, we've never even-"

"YESTERDAY!"

"Wha-?" Cruel had yesterdays' drug haze been. Eragon dickered with the thought of sex with his dragon almost constantly, but had not thought it likely, nor even very anatomically feasible, for those dreams to become a reality. He vaguely recalled the use of a stepladder the other day. He may also have killed and eaten his servant Gregert earlier, but he was not sure. "Saphira."

"Eragon?"

"I am the Moon of Hope and an Ubermensch of both elf and human."

"Whats your point? This isn't helping!"

"You are a dragon, incredibly powerful, if not quite so potent due to your femininity."

Saphira attempted to set Eragon ablaze, but his reflexes were honed to preternatural levels, and he dove out of the throne.

He made it out of the throne room in seconds flat. "Women," he chortled. Up ahead was a greater challenge, a steep staircase.

Later, when he slipped back into consciousness, he meandered through his Memorial Palace's grandiose and debauched architecture, until he came across Murtagh, his antihero counterpart, in the Hall of Portraits. There were two hundred twenty paintings in the hall, mostly amateurish self-portraits by Arya that she was immensely proud of and had killed people over. Some were of her killing people over her other portraits. It was a phase she eventually got out of.

"Eragon, thou art pantsless and thy member most bruised." Mused Murtagh, as if he were critiquing art, which, Eragon reminded himself, he pretty much was. "Aye. It must needs be a frigid night for me to don trousers these days," Eragon chuckled and clapped Murtagh on the back. He and Murtagh had a history of violence and of love.

There had been a time when Murtagh was thought to be Eragon's kin, until it was determined that Eragon was not actually human nor elven and was in fact not able to be identified with science.

"Also, thine face is crusted with what could only be the base and vile blood of a dwarf."

"Also aye. I ate Freidrich this morning. Or perhaps it was Gustav. They all look the same."

"The same they indeed look, but I have not espied Gregert today, though I have seen both Freidrich and Gustav."

"Irregardless," spake Eragon, "It is immaterial now. I have tasted dwarf flesh and found that it is quite a viable means of sustenance for unworthy meat eaters like humans, and I also believe I have found the cure for our kingdom's famine woes."

Eragon was triumphant, now he need only cure the bubonic paguethatravaged the countrysideand find a way to revive the economy that had been crippled by his genocide of the Urgals. Say what you would about the old empire and its inexplicable king, they sure could handle the country. Probably just because they relied on evils like keeping livestock, growing vegetables unnaturally tall, and taxes to keep themselves afloat, while Eragons' kingdom ran on love. Love for Eragon.

"Eragon, dwarves make up half the population in your glorious kingdom... I don't think-"

"No Murtagh, you don't think, and that is why I am king and you are pauper. And say kingdom correctly."

"I'm not a pauper, I'm your captain of the Guard and Keeper of the Keys! I'm important to this kingdom!"

"Say kingdom right, voiddammit!"

"I'm saying it exactly like you are!"

"Say it with a capital C!"

"It's spelled with a K!"

"I'M KING I KNOW HOW ITS SPELLED!"

"I'm almost ninety percent sure it's with a K!"

"DRAW TRAITOR!"

Eragon produced his sword from the sword belt wrapped around his waist, which was engraved with elvish runes meaning "Power" and "Destroy" and "Dragon". It was really stylish but unfortunately it was split in two by Murtagh's initial slash. They battled all the way down the Hall of Portraits, into the Gallery of Naughty Things, and out onto the balcony two hundred feet above the roaring sea, then back into the Gallery. They twisted and parried, they threatened and riposted. They swung from chandeliers and curtains. At one point Eragon lost his wolf pommeled sword Crushreaver, and desperately defended himself with an umbrella from a nearby stand. He managed to trip up Murtagh with a lucky toss of a ceramic phallus, and recovered his sword, but then Murtagh was viciously pressing him up the stairway of the Gallery. Just then a dwarven servant ran in. "Master Eragon, Master Murtagh, there's been a terrible murder!"

"THAT'S KING ERAGON" Bellowed Eragon. He threw his sword, all defense of himself forgotten in his incandescent rage. It twirled three times in the air before landing majestically in the center of the dwarf's repulsive face.

"Touchdown!!" yelled Murtagh, and, though this was a terrible misapplication of sports terms, it really lightened the mood and he and Eragon had a good laugh all the way to the bathhouse, where they holped themselves to a steamy hot two man shower.

Dinner that night was a turgid affair. Saphira would not speak to Eragon, and sat at the end of the fifty-foot dinner table eating her slops out of an immense golden bucket. She would, however, confide loudly to Arya about anything Eragon said, in between massive gulps of fresh meat. Eragon thought that was petty, seeing as how he was the one who had provided tonight's main course. Murtagh and Eragon where still chortling about Murtagh's 'zinger' and Arya, attention whore that she was, wanted desperately to be a part of the discussion, but was too haughty to 'lower herself to their level'.

"So, the elven Grand master is inspecting the Memorial Palace tomorrow," said Eragon through a mouth full of hash, his supper. "So nobody better screw up and make me look the fool again." Last time a dwarf had made itself visible while the Grandmaster and Eragon were enjoying a game of Memory, the traditional elven pastime.

Needless to say the Grandmaster was furious, and rightfully so. It took a joint beatdown between he and Eragon, administered to the dwarf, to calm him down.

"Arya, did you hear that? Eragon doesn't want anything to go wrong tomorrow." Bitched Saphira. "He may want to put some pants on, then."

Sure enough, Eragon was still pantsless, but that was the least of his worries. The Grandmaster would have some pointed questions about the Urgal apocalypse and no doubt the fact that the country had no food whatsoever. He would probably like Eragons' dynamic Feeding Plan.

Murtaghclapped him on the shoulder before he retired to the Captain's Tower. That night, Eragon paced the castle halls alone, every now and then pausing to keen mournfully outside Arya's chambers until she threw open the doors unexpectedly and began playing an accordion, the sound of which still terrified him, fifteen years after that Fateful Day. He paced other, more distant castle halls until dawn.

"It's just not feasible." The Grandmaster was looking weary, from his travels no doubt. "Dwarves do make up half the kingdom and they would not exactly allow us to harvest them as foodstuffs."

"Where is their patriotism?" Demanded Eragon. "A chance to serve their country, to be heroes, the chance to be, for once, more than dwarfs!"

"They will not submit to being eaten."

"And my idea to dredge up the Urgal War dead?"

"With the disease rate being well over ninety percent, fumigating corpses for food is just not feasible."

"There's that word again! Feasible. Back when we were rebels, everything was feasible. I'd use my magic to solve any and all problems, then I'd call it a day."

"Back when we were rebels, child, killing was all that was necessary. Killing is all your powers can do. You've just about optimized killing people."

"Damn right."

"But we set you up as ruler to inspire the people you freed from work and taxes."

"What about me is not inspiring?"

Admittedly, he was currently playing with his testicles with one hand and smoking a large pipe of hashish with the other. But he sure had been inspiring back in the old days. More and more, that's what he longed for. That and Arya's loins.

"Grandmaster, perhaps the elven lifestyle is simply too sacred for those plebes."

"Oh without a doubt. Once most of them die off, I'm sure the survivors will learn to live in harmony with animals, only eating daisies and moss as we do. But we need it to happen a bit quicker."

"Kill... my own subjects?"

"For the greater good of complete Elvish control, yes indeed."

Murtagh came across Arya in the Library of Nod. "Arya, have you seen Eragon lately?"

"Thankfully no, I have not. He usually seeks me out after he eats lunch. I'm hiding in the last place he's likely to look."

Murtagh chuckled, suavely sliding in behind Arya. "Eragon's not much of a reader, no. But I like to exercise my brain as well as my body. Sometimes both at once." He picked up the biggest book he could reach. Arya justas suavely slid out from the side of Murtaghs' encroaching mass. "Hey, don't put me on the shelf!" Chortled Murtagh. Gagging, Arya just barely emerged from the library without hearing more of Murtagh's world famous wit. She decided it might be better to just go and spend the day verbally abusing the maids on floor seven, Eragon didn't usually go there because staircases were a hazard to him these days, and Murtagh was afraid of the clown tapestry on the landing.

Eragon was getting irritated. He was in the throne room, receiving reports and advice from his dwarven counselors. He didn't care for any part of that last sentence.

"King Eragon, Moon of Hope and Good of All Goodly Folk, your people are starving!"

"They are rioting in the north!"

"They are calling for your head!"

Eragon didn't recall his obsequious counselors' names. He was mentally referring to them as Wart, Pimple, and Abscess. "Gentlemen," he cooed. "Not to worry. Yea, though times be difficult, with love we shall pull through."

"My lord!" squealed Wart, his greedy little pig's eyes roving over Eragon's deific form, "An army of peasants is on their way here as we speak!" Eragon had heard enough. He had enough troubles without worrying about his people's. He thought Saphira was angry with him about something, and Arya had been acting distant as well. His Love Station had become a veritable swamp these past few days, yet it holpened him not a bit. The Elven Grandmaster had also been upset when Eragon had shoved him off the Garden Balcony, but what else was Eragon to do? He couldn't harm his people.

Pimple was weeping on the floor, screaming about opening sight organs or listening or something. Eragon had endured all he could of this dirge. He drew Crushreaver, and his counselors scattered, knowing he couldn't chase them all down if they went different directions. Abscess really looked like he had it coming, so Eragon veered into his trajectory, but the wily dwarf dove to the floor as Eragon swung, Crushreaver swept over his head and Eragon lost his balance. By the time he liberated himself from the tangles of the bear carpeting, his counselors had all dematerialized.

Murtagh strode into the room."Why Eragon, what are you doing, reclining on the floor as thou art, wearing women's underclothes and wielding Crushreaver inexpertly?"

"Silence, Murtagh." Eragon got to his feet, but a sudden head rush imbued his surroundings with a feeling of hyperrealism. The dragon patterned curtains spun before his view orbs. "It seems, old friend, we may soon be embattled."

"What? By whom?!"

"Mine loving serfs ond oafs." Eragon staggered into Murtagh for support. "Damn," swore Murtagh, "And someone's killed the Grandmaster. Saphira saw him smash into the Garden of Equanimity a fraction of an hour ago."

"Yes, I have my eye on a few suspects and inquiries will be made," lied Eragon dismissively. "In the meantime, we must prepare for the people's hors de combat."

"Whore's Combat was made illegal, I thought. Terrific sport though. I remember I had these great tickets and-"

"Disregard that, Murtagh. Raise the banners and call out the Guard!"

Arya had sneaked down to her chambers to don her sword. With the Grandmaster dead, there was no control over Eragon whatsoever, save for her. The problem was, she was fairly certain Eragon had been the Grandmaster's murderer, thus the sword. But she was more ardently dutiful to the Elven cause than any other, and the Elven plan was so close to fruition now, as long as she played this out correctly. Also, she was almost positive someone had gone through her lingerie drawer.

The Memorial Palace was seven floors tall, not counting towers and spires, and had eleven levels of basement. Eragon and Murtagh were currently on B3, carefully shimmying across a small rope bridge hanging above a pool of lava. They were attempting to reach the Wine Cellar, which had B4 and B5 to itself, so they could obtain a bottle of Eragon's Fruit of The Loom 1452, to toast to victory. "Woah there," exclaimed Murtagh, falling through the gaps in the ropes and barely catching hold of the bridge in time.

"You'd better watch it, Murtagh," chuckled Eragon, ducking under a swinging pendulum. The basement had been built according to the plans laid out by Eragon and Murtagh on one drunken night, claustrophobically scribbled onto a napkin but still followed to the letter by the dwarven architects. The minotaur and pressurized salt acid had been surprisingly easy to obtain, but even the most baffling demands like the Clown Room and the Man in Bear Suit Orally Pleasing Man in Tuxedo Room had also been met.

"So Murtagh, how is the armies' morale?"

"Well, about that."

"What?"

"The army."

"What of it?"

Murtagh didn't answer. Eragon turned around and, with great difficulty, pulled the black amorphous ooze off his friend's head and threw it in a corner. "Whew, thanks friend," exhaled Murtagh.

"Dont mention it. Now, what were you spaking?"

"Well, the army, Your Grace. It isn't."

"It isn't?"

"Well, save for a few deserters, they all died in your Grand Melee." Ah yes, Eragon recalled. An amusing yet perhaps unethical Saturday afternoon about five years ago.

They made it to the stairwell, but they couldn't let their guard down. The Toadites liked to set snares and traps here, and many steps were pressure plates that turned the stairway into a slide that sent you directly to Hell. It was all clear this time, though. Soon they reached the wine chambers, where towering shelves, some a hundred feet high, held dusty bottles of wine, every kind ever envisioned by man or elf. Bridges, ladders, and arches connected the shelves with each other, and magical torches forever illuminated the cavernous depths of the Cellar. Fruit of The Loom 1452 was guarded by a magic door that asked you riddles, but there was a trick to answering it.

The door bellowed at them when they approached.

"WHAT IS GREATER THAN GOD, IS-"

"Me, king Eragon," Interrupted Eragon.

"VERY GOOD. WHAT WALKS ON FOUR LEGS IN THE MORNING, TWO LEGS IN THE AFTERNOON, AND IS THE BADDEST MOTHERFUCKER IN THE WORLD?"

"Me, king Eragon," laughed Eragon.

"TRUE. WHAT IS ALMOST AS COOL AS YOU?"

"Me, Murtagh," answered Murtagh. When the Door had been installed, he had demanded this, at least, be one of the questions. Eragon had conceded, after a long battle in the greenhouse.

Later, when they emerged from the Cellar, clutching the wine bottle and intact save for one of Murtagh's fingers, they were confronted by Arya.

"Salutations, sweetass!" Murtaghcalled joyously. Without breaking stride, Arya punched him solidly in the temple. He went down, still grinning moronically. With him out of the way, this would go down much easier.

"Eragon, we need to talk," she uttered, ushering him into the Hall of Arya, similar to the Hall of Portraits.

"What is it? Why did you savage dear Murtagh?"

"You may have noticed, but your army is nonexistant."

"Yes, and what a day it was."

"How do you plan to defend the Memorial Palace?"

"First, sheath for my manhood, let us toast. Where is Gregert? Tell him to fetch a corkscrew!"

"Eragon, an army of your loyal subjects marches, but a day away. They intend to kill you."

"THEN THEY SHALL PAY FOR THEIR TREASON, SHAN'T THEY?" Eragon hurled the vintage 1452 through a nearby window. He heard a distant scream.

"There is but us, and two score servants remaining, Eragon," continued Arya doggedly. "You must realize we will not survive when they storm the palace."

"Blimey."

"Blimey? You think so? We have to get out of here!"

"I need a fix." Eragon dashed away. He was still unbelievably quick.

"Hang on," muttered Arya, "That bastard was... no, couldn't have been wearing..."

Murtagh woke up ten minutes later, exactly as the Elven Lotus Strike allows. He woke to the sounds of mournful wails, and found the source in the east garden. A dozen dwarfs were gathered in a circle, around two freshly dug graves. A couple were attempting to revive a dwarf in pastor's robes, but he was not moving. A bottle of vintage 1452 lay nearby. "Cor!" Hooted Murtagh. He trod over the preacher and retrieved the Fruit of The Loom. "Master Murtagh, are we to be besieged?" asked Freidrich the butcher, who hadn't worked in a decade. "Who told you that? I could tell you the clouds are green," comforted Murtagh, remembering some of Eragon's old wisdom, "but that doesn't make it true."

"So there is no revolution?"

"Not that I've heard of, my friend."

"No liberating army?"

"Nope."

Turning as one, the dwarfs migrated back into the castle, wailing with renewed grief. One threw himself off a balcony. Murtagh just laughed and shook his head at these typical dwarven antics. Silly buggers, he reflected.

"Ten years," sobbed Eragon, his hand rhythmically pounding, "ten years of working towards the betterment of all, the love of my people! All forgotten when times get tough!" He had come to a difficult decision, that all of is former faithful subjects were guilty of high treason and would have to be executed. It was the only way to preserve the King's Peace, more worthy than any mortal's life.

But he had no army to dispense justice to the masses. There would be no way to fight them in the open, on a battlefield. He would be hunted, hounded, he would have to be one step ahead of his foes... Eragon jumped out of his Teddy Chair, a triumphant look on his angelic face. It will be like the olden days. Just me and my friends, against the forces of irredeemable evil.

For the first time in years, Eragon put on a pair of pants. He donned his auxiliary swordbelt, which had a smiley-face buckle. He pulled on his Dragon Boots, which had the dirt of a thousand leagues still stuck to the soles, along with trace elements of slaughtered Urgals. "DWARF," he shrieked. A trembling dwarf, he guessed it was Pimple, crept into the room, its misshapen head looking side to side, possibly for ways to escape if need be. "Yes, King Eragon, Moon of Hope and probably better than god, who thankfully is not real?"

"Send a letter to my loving serfs and oafs, addressed to whomever they believe can lead them. I wish to parlay."

"My king, they will not surrender."

"No, no, I wish to resign peacefully, they need only bear witness. I will then diminish to the West, never to be seen again"

"M-My lord?"

"See to it, Gregert. Do not fail me." Eragon's plan was officially begun.