A Rider's Plea
Eragon weaved Brisingr in a web of steel, slicing through the hoard of soldiers before him with a revolting ease. He was as sick as ever from the killing, but had long since come to accept it as necessary. Beside him, the partner of his heart roared ferociously and tore her way through the squads that dared approach her magnificent, terrifying bulk of power. Saphira opened her jaws and unleashed a billow of fire that incinerated a nearby magician, before setting alight those to whom his mind was connected.
Eragon grinned as the adrenaline rush enveloped him from head to foot and charged through the ranks of Galbatorix's soldiers, splitting bone and crushing arteries with the utmost of ease. He moved faster than any could have dared to anticipate even after seeing him in action many times before, with no need to even counter the swings and lunges of his opponents. He simply sidestepped, dodged and weaved his way past every blow, a casual flick in-passing enough to dispatch the would-be attacker in a flash of steel and subsequent spurt of blood.
He really didn't know why they had chosen to attack. Sure, the king's men were brave souls. One had to respect their enemy, and he certainly did at that. But the king was now dead, Murtagh had decided to flee, and the Varden were victorious. But clearly Galbatorix had given a second commander one of his Eldunarí, judging by the raw power on-display. Eragon leaped over a platoon of the man's guards, who missed in their attempts to bring him down with spears. Saphira swung a paw at the dishevelled warriors as their backs were turned, and tore through their armour like sheets of paper.
Eragon was left to face his opponent alone.
Without so much as a word, the man growled and began to attack, launching a mental assault as he swung his sword furiously. Eragon retaliated by easily driving the commander's probe from his mind before launching his own counterattack with the abundance of dragon minds at his disposal. This 'battle' had clearly been a last-ditch effort to cause the Varden as much hurt as possible, evidenced by how easily the general was overpowered by the young Rider. He screamed in agony as Eragon's attack penetrated his mental barriers like a liquid-hot dagger, and Eragon took advantage of this opening by rushing forth and plunging Brisingr deep into his chest.
The commander garbled a mouthful of bile, before choking on his own bodily essence and succumbing to the wound. Eragon ripped the sword out and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain, before slumping sideways, eyes staring into nothingness. Nearby, the remainder of the Empire's warriors threw down their weapons, seeing their final leader collapse at Eragon's feet. The Varden were quick to round them up and tie them down.
"What was all that about?" Eragon scoffed, sheathing his blade. "Such a pointless assault."
"Eragon! Come quick!" Saphira cried, ignoring his question.
Eragon felt his heart lurch and quickly bolted towards her. She hadn't been hurt! Of that he was certain – he would have felt her pain. That could only mean one of his friends had been wounded. And judging from Saphira's cry... badly.
"Saphira! What's happened?!" Eragon demanded, stopping beside her to catch his breath. It had been an exhausting day in total.
Saphira radiated pain and fear, and Eragon's heart skipped several beats all at once. Lying in front of her was the elven princess Arya, the woman he loved more than any other. He shot a quick glance at Angela as he ran past her and saw a faint shaking of her head. He stopped beside Arya's still frame and fell to his knees, taking her hand in-between his own.
His analysis was not good. Her breastplate had been penetrated by a sword straight through to the other side, directly beside her heart. He knew it had penetrated a lung. Her entire left side was covered in horrific scorch marks, and his breath caught. These continued all up to her neck, and he could see tissue where skin should have been.
He uttered the foulest curses he knew in rapid succession, before removing his gloves. It had been that commander. He knew it. No one else would have been strong enough to bring down Arya in such a manner.
"Saphira, I need your help for this," he pleaded lowly, voice breaking.
There was no response.
"Saphira!" Eragon shouted, looking over his shoulder furiously. Tears were silently streaking down his face, basking his war-beaten frame with unholy sorrow.
"Little one..."
She didn't need to say anymore. Eragon could read the emotions spill across their mental link, and knew instantly she was correct. This was far too much damage to repair, especially in his weakened state. His reserves were gone, and the Eldunarí had expended their energy in order to help him fight the king.
He couldn't heal her.
As that one thought entered his mind, he lost it.
"Oh, gods, no!" he cried, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, miniature rivers that would haunt Saphira's nightmares for all eternity. He tightened his grip upon Arya's soft fingers, face contorting in agony of loss. He didn't even notice the circle that had surrounded him. Varden and elven warriors alike stood there, watching their heroes with respect, pride... and misery. They shared in his pain, echoed his sentiments.
They say the most morose of poetry is written when the poet has suffered grievous loss in life. Had Eragon written anything about this moment, he would have been renowned as the greatest of writers for all time. But his mind was fixed on only one thing, and that was the slain beauty that lay before him. He released his emotions as a torrent, sparing nothing for the audience he didn't know they had.
He almost collapsed from shock when her eyes fluttered open ever so briefly, two sparks of emerald green amongst a canvas of reddened hue. She was still alive!
"Era...Eragon..." she whispered, staring up at him. Her eyes tore him apart.
He could lose himself in those eyes. He would kneel here, his hands wrapped around hers for all eternity, given the choice. He couldn't lose her, would not! Above them, a mighty storm circled. Lightning flashed across the greyed heavens, and thunder bellowed its challenge for all to hear. After that the rain started, thoroughly drenching everything in sight.
"Don't speak," he whispered, voice almost gone but in whispers. "I'm going to save you... I have to..."
Arya gave a tiny smile, but the effort caused her enormous pain. She looked as though she might choke, before turning her head to the side and coughing a mouthful of blood onto the ground. Eragon felt his chest contract at the sight and put a hand behind her head for comfort. Her gaze returned to meet his.
"Y-you... already... did," came her low, musical voice... it was agony for her to speak with a punctured lung, and both knew it couldn't last...
Eragon shook his head furiously, tears still making their presence known. "No! I won't leave you here!" he screamed, eyes wide as saucers as he contemplated the very thought. He wouldn't give up!
"Eragon..." she whispered again, clutching his face in her bloodied palm.
Eragon was beyond distraught. He was lost to the world, and wouldn't care if it were to end in that very moment. He wanted it to, point in fact. He just couldn't accept this as actually happening. If it was true... he had failed. Failed himself... but worst of all, failed his love...
"Arya!" Eragon exclaimed, as her eyes lost some focus. "Arya, look at me! I can't live without you! I... I love you," he gasped, finding his throat constricted. Not from the words... but the gravity of why he had said them. "Please don't go... please stay... I'll do anything... please..."
Arya blinked once, her eyes never shifting. "I l-love... you... too, E-Eragon," she whispered, and brought his lips down to hers.
Eragon pressed his lips against Arya's, tasting a mixture of crushed pine needles and blood. He did not care, and nor did she. She was the only thing in life he knew of at that moment, and all he could think was how he loved her. He allowed their minds to meet, and through that action he embraced her both mentally as well as physically. They became as one, and that was when he saw the truth.
She had loved him all along, but had been afraid of losing him. His was a dangerous task, and the chances of him dying had been high from the beginning. She couldn't lose someone who had stolen her heart, and so she had tried to forget Eragon altogether. But as she did that, his persistence finally convinced her of the truth: Arya loved him, and that would never change. Age did not matter. Nothing did... save her heart. She had almost told him during the Blood-Oath Celebration... had wept in private for hours on-end after smashing his fairth.
Eragon's tears redoubled their efforts at these revelations, and suddenly they were crying together. He could feel her pain in that moment, and whisked it away from her so that he could experience it also, reducing the effect upon her heavy life force. He ached, but did not feel so much as a tingle, his arms, lips and heart filled with Arya Svit-kona. He embraced her soul, and she his. Together they were one being, one entity. Love consists of one soul living in two bodies, and those halves now coupled together to form the whole that could not be matched, would not be denied.
Suddenly, the connection broke, and Eragon found himself lost and empty. He opened his sopping eyes, staring at his one true love. He felt a stab of icy fear plunge itself deep into his chest.
"I love you, Eragon," she whispered again...
...and died in his arms.
Eragon froze. His heart stopped physically beating, and his mind was drawing blank. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be. It had to be a dream, so why couldn't he awaken? He tried to force himself to wake up... but to no avail.
"Arya," he whispered, giving her a very slight shake. Her hand released his and rolled to the side, the back resting flat against the blood-soaked dirt. Her eyes shut, head lolled back. Eragon gasped, feeling his heart split in two.
With a dawn of what had happened, he threw back his head and screamed. He loosed his lungs, unbuckled his heart... he wanted to die...
"Eragon!" Saphira exclaimed, crying in her mind. She hadn't known dragons could produce tears, but that was now evident for all to see. Without a second thought, she grabbed both Eragon and Arya, whom he hadn't released for a lifetime... and gently helped them both onto her back. Eragon didn't even know what was happening, didn't bother to strap himself in. Saphira took off and flew away from the battlefield where they could be alone, leaving a hushed silence in her wake. The land didn't matter. All that mattered was the partner of her heart. They needed to be alone, and she knew it would take an awfully long time for him to recover... if ever he did.
"Arya, wake up..." Eragon pleaded, staring down at her closed eyes with desperation unparalleled. "Please wake up... I love you... how can I let go of someone I'm in love with?" he choked, barely able to whisper. His breath caught in a continuous flow of desire, the rain a testament to his grief. Now openly weeping rather than speaking, he put one hand behind her head and pulled her still frame against his, crying and screaming in equal measure. But she didn't respond. As the Sun set in the backdrop of Alagaësia a world away... Eragon's heart finally gave. He couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to die, but couldn't do that to Saphira. So he settled for the next best option after what would be years of pained mourning.
No one ever heard from him again. Nasuada searched for years to locate the missing Riders, but neither was ever found. Many thought Eragon dead, but she couldn't believe it. He would return some day... haunted... yet stronger for the experience. She kept hoping until the end of her life, as did Roran and Orik... but no word was ever given from the hero of the Varden. He was gone. He had lost his soul... lost his love.