Hoping that people are reading. Not too sure, cause I've only received one review so far. But I'm holding out, hoping more reviews will come as the story progresses. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I'm quite proud that I've actually written Roran's POV - its the first time ever! Would love some feedback about that particularly.


What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty and democracy? -Gandhi

Chapter Two

The Casualties of War

He had always considered himself a casualty of war….of fate. For a moment ice blue eyes blinked back in surprise not understanding it all. Ivory toned fingers grasped up at the fluttering red and white poured upon them from the roof tops as dark leather boots trampled almost gracefully through the crowded streets. It was heavy on his head…seeming more of a weight than an ornament; more of a curse than a blessing. Yet it was power.

Power

Pink thin lips pulled into an almost genuine smile, fingers brushing the falling rose petals that had settled upon ruby toned armour. Raven black hair had been pulled back; the glowing silver circle seated almost reverently upon his head. He could almost imagine that this was real. That this was genuine joy, adoration. He could almost ignore the lingering fear in the eyes of the bystanders showering them with poppies and roses; adults and their children yelling in joyful chorus. He could almost forget the torturous pain, the merciless whip, the choking oaths. He could almost forget the dying roar of the Golden dragon, the fading eyes of his Rider.

It was strange how death in the city of sorrow brought forth joy. Eyes glinted at the escort before him clad in mirrored dark red armour, the twisted flame of the Empire printed boldly in black upon the chests of fifty elite. Yet these men were not only the Empire's…they were now his. A swell rose in his chest at the thought, rising with the crescendo of screaming and the clamour of celebration. And the black haired man slithered on, for the first time feeling a part of it all. – the screaming, the cheers, the rose petals trickling in great baskets from the rooftops- And suddenly, he found himself waving back, eyes daring to smile at how the screaming borrowed louder at the effortless action. They were cheering for him.

Ice blue eyes gazed upwards glinting at the glimmering shower of red and white; and then he saw him flying, thick muscles shining like the shimmering red of a perfect sunset. This was their moment of triumph – a casualty of war, turned Prince.

-X-

It was raining. The heavy drum of thunder echoed across the jagged Surdan landscape. It fell upon the rotten fruits in the Aberon market, soaked the smoky ash that littered the burnt out shell of the grain house and sodded the streets of the city to favour small rivers. It was raining…and the city was alive.

Children were seen skittering playfully through the shallow brown water, women wading slowly through the streets with chattering toddlers on their hips, men standing on the threshold of dilapidated houses gazing out at the worsening weather. Roran clutched closer to his rain soaked coat as he stood amidst the heavy shower, cursing a little more as the minutes dragged on.

Mail travelled too slowly here. Every part of him wished to be beside her, to hold her-kiss her, to see their child born. Yet fate would not have it so…rather the war would not. Roran huffed bitterly as the cold rain slapped against him endlessly as if punishing him for some nameless crime he did not commit. Rather, he did – he had left Katrina pregnant, belly swollen with their child. He had left her when she needed him most. But she was safe; that was what mattered.

'She's safe…' he murmured inwardly as if trying to convince himself. He borrowed closer in the endless line as another person stepped up towards the shaded booth where the Capitol sorted its mail. Normally Roran would have waited for them to deliver the mail to his station in the heart of the large city. But with the majority of the Surdan population living in Aberon, that would have taken weeks. He couldn't wait that long…he had to hear from her. He had to hear that she was ok. The screech like voice of the infamous town crier continued to yell out the names that were written on the back of the crumpled letters. He could not see the man amidst the stifling throng of people gathered in the like, but his voice carried across the whole crowd. Roran hoped to the gods that this time they would call his.

Mind fleeted back to Feinster and for a moment he wondered if the Lady had yet received his report. The burning of the grain houses only managed to procur even further tension between the Varden and Surdans in Aberon. He remembered the look of utter horror on the soldiers faces as they awoke the next morning to find their food burnt to the ground.

. . ."They might as well have murdered us in our sleep!" he remembered one soldier yelling, black soot covering his face and hands after he had bravely helped out the fire. He remembered all the others agreeing in terrible vehemence. Roran stood silent amidst the cooling ashes, a waft of smoke blew on him and he coughed instinctively. The gravity of the situation settled in when he knew that the soldier had been right.

This was one the major grain houses, the largest one that they had. Without it – they would not survive the winter. . .

After the incidents, he had received countless reports from citizens who claimed that some of the soldiers had begun abusing them. –Not that Roran could do much about it either, the citizens somehow could never manage to pick out the specific soldier that had harassed them and the soldiers protected one another with silence and lies. The tension between the peoples only further grew. Roran hardly anticipated the terrific crescendo and resounding climax that was bound to occur. He knew that bloodshed was close, it literally stained the air – the terrible sense of foreboding. It lingered in the gaze of those in the crowd with him who managed to stare at him endlessly -some in fear, others in utter hate at the Varden crest in his armour. And Roran leaned uncomfortably on one foot, partly wondering to himself why he had been so willing to take commanding position in the gods forsaken city in the first place.

'It was a great opportunity' he cajoled inwardly. 'I would have been an idiot to pass it down.' And indeed he would have been. The Lady Nasuada had given him a chance to truly become even greater than he already was. She had given him, a complete unit to himself in a country in which none of its true leaders were present. By default although he did not become the leader of the country persay, it made him extremely important indeed. And most importantly to him it made himinto a better leader. Roran not only had to deal with the strategies of battle now, but the grain houses, the running of the outposts, justice and the general harmony among the people here. As result, his men trusted him even more with their lives. Nasuada had trusted him, and Roran in the least to say was honoured. The distraction also helped – he didn't have to think about Katrina that often – her absence- and the terrible hole it left in his chest.

Katrina was in Ellesmera with the elves; far away from the reach of Galbatorix; yet even farther away from him. Today counted a month since he had last received word from her. Almost two months since he had seen her. The memory of the watery image of wide light brown eyes, long auburn hair and soft giddy laughter still haunted him habitually. It had been torture, not being able to reach out – to touch her – to feel the soft curls of her hair – to smell the soft wispy scent of peach that always lingered with her. He remembered the ripping feeling in his chest as her image slowly shimmered away fading to the fractured reflection of himself in the bowl of water. –Scrying, his cousin had called it. That evening despite the terrible hole that had been left in his chest, he had thanked Eragon endlessly, for the first time truly appreciating the powers of magic.

This was the seventh day he had been here clutching to thinning hope that there was a letter there for him. Dawn had caught him there planted in position; and despite the heavy gray of the rain sodden sky, he knew that it was now late in the evening. Like all other times, he had been standing there for half the day, abandoning his post yet again. If the Lady Nasuada knew of his now habitual lapses, he was sure she would have him whipped again - this time without promotion. There was the tiniest amount of guilt at the thought of abandoning duty, yet Roran consoled himself with the fact that he had left one of the other soldiers in charge.

-No word in a month

The thought resonated bitterly with him and a part of him wondered if something had happened to his wife. Reason however told him otherwise. She was safe in the forest, Eragon himself had told him that – and he trusted his cousin with his life.

- Perhaps, she had just forgotten about him…

He cursed himself for even entertaining such thought.

"StrongHammer…?" Brown eyes jolted at the name and for a moment Roran hesitated not truly sure if it was he who had been called. Gathering himself quickly however, he fought his way through the milling crowd and stepped up into the booth. Legs stumbled as they caught against the rickety steps leading into the small space but at last moment a pair of strong arms caught him, preventing him from planting himself face first into slimy mud covered floors.

As he straightened himself, feeling thoroughly embarrassed, he turned towards the individual who had helped him. Brown eyes widened as they met a rather short figure.

The town crier was a stocky man with a large milling white beard that rolled past his compact shoulders to the top of his rounded stomach. Roran at first mistook him for a dwarf, yet as he gave closer inspection he recognized the man's features were in fact thoroughly human. Still in slight shock, he hesitated for a moment at the short thick arm that was extended to him. He then grabbed it and shook it firmly. An eyebrow rose at the firmness of the smaller man's grip. All impressions of strong male presence were erased however when he opened his mouth to speak.

Roran was utterly dismayed upon realizing that the screechy voice that the town crier screamed through the streets in his announcements was in fact the man's usual speaking tone. Roran refrained from scratching at his own throat as the short man introduced himself. His tone was strung between two extremes, a harsh gravelly voice and an incredibly high one.

"Th- nam's Hal-yer….Hal-yer Browanson." The man shook his head at him as he croaked out his introduction in thorough Surdan country drawl. Strangely his beard remained completely motionless during the action. As he gazed at it in curiosity, Roran wondered to himself if the man had glued it unto his enormous chin or slicked it with egg whites to stiffen it. Contemplation however was interrupted upon remembering his purpose.

"Roran 'StrongHammer' Garrowson." He nodded back at him. He then continued almost immediately, not waiting for the man to initiate conversation. "I've got mail…? By chance do you know where it's from?" his tone had taken on a hint of desperation and the older man noting it, looked rather curious; his thick bushy eyebrows propped, reflecting the same.

"I called ya up -ere lad, cuz av eared ov ya all ovar d-city. I knoow ya face…wandering why yur –ere standing 'roun d-ardinary peeple." He snorted, before hacking into dirt smudged handkerchief. Roran refrained from cringing. "Ya, you got mayl –ere d- ohdah day…sum yung lad came –ere an picked it oop." Roran looked utterly abashed. A fierceness enveloped him as he demanded to know who took the mail and when.

The short man glanced nervously around him. His counterparts, taller men, glanced at Roran warily. StrongHammer curbed his sudden aggressiveness a bit and released the death grip of a hold that he had on the man's collar.

"-Er d'lad nevir gave is nam, boot ee picked oop 'bout siven letterz a week agoo. Ya know d-letterz oonly git c'llected fr'm d-mayn stay-sh'n e'vry Thray weeks…s' sometimes th-can git pailed oop. War still sortin th-old mayl now…" Halier murmured lowly, his strange voice almost cracking with anxiety as Roran visibly huffed before him.

"Did you give him the mail…" Roran demanded his voice set on edge.

"No…I did." Roran turned to his left at the sound of a younger voice answering him. He glanced towards a red haired young man with eyes as green as the pine of the tall evergreen that dotted his hometown. The young man stepped towards him and was visibly taller than he and Halier combined, but Roran felt in no way intimidated. The Varden soldier watched him with cautious eyes, arms folded in dissatisfaction at his chest as the young man came to stand in front of him. The crowd behind and below them radiated thorough annoyance at the hold up, as all the mail sorters had turned towards the obvious confrontation, abandoning their duties.

"The name's Favil Ewenson." Roran raised a head at the last name. Ewen was a well-known blacksmith in Therinsford, a town practically four days walk from his home town of Carvahall. It was then that Roran noticed his accent was northern.

"Eweson…?" he questioned, despite his annoyance managing to shake the younger man's hand.

"Therinsford man." Favil confirmed. "The man who came here the other day. I recognized him as one of your men…" Roran looked surprised yet remained utterly silent.

" I've seen him with you during patrols round the capital. I don't know his name though…" the young man continued. " He said that you'd asked him to collect them for you, and I saw the Varden plate in his armour, so I gave him." Roran felt himself jar even further. He found himself nodding in a dazed state, murmuring a weakened "thanks" and somehow managed to stumble down the rickety steps made of rotting wood through the crowd and into the now muddy streets. Large puddles resembling small lakes dotted the wide street, yet the rain had ceased and the sky remained fixed in the pallid hue of bleached gray.

Roran stumbled on, mind still in a terrible haze. Feet slushed through the puddles, the coldness of the water not resounding as he was enveloped in bleak realization. A Varden man had taken his letters. His letters,…from Katrina, and now even more importantly – the Varden command. Roran felt himself lurch at the thought as he trekked through the busy streets, shoulders bouncing off individuals who were too busy to notice that he was walking too close to them. He turned a narrow corner, head slunked downward as the streets made of cracked stone gradually tapered off to a familiar old dirt road. An empty lot now laden with large tents lay before him at a distance; there were no more Surdan buildings in sight. Eyes glazed as he beheld it from a far, the phoenix rising from the fire – the symbol of the Varden posted boldly on a flag that marked the Varden encampment. He knew it in his gut, though mind could barely wrap around the thought….

-There was a traitor in his camp.

-X-

It was night.

He was in Ellesmera again…the sweet smell of pine needles lingered strongly in the air, almost pungent in his nose. A soft ruby light shone fractured through the thick canopy of enormous trees so tall that their leafy crowns seemed to replace the sky.

Hazel eyes blinked as feet softly trampled through the thick debris of fallen leaves. He felt drawn to it, the light…it called to him like magic – fresh, sizzling with life. A soft hiss lingered unnoticed, as boots crunched silently through the forest.

Eragon knew this place. The trees were familiar, with thick ridged barks that were clawed by some sort of animal. He knew this place….yet he didn't . This was Ellesmera…wasn't it?

The pine needles were sickly sweet. A sense of nausea swept over him as he walked closer to the calling light.

It shone thickly through the trees now. He was almost at it - the core. It glowed like liquid ruby through the stifled air, just beyond his reach. Eragon felt his hand numb, then burn then sizzle. He yelled in pain, his mouth –opened- silent. And the light blinded as he collapsed to the leaf ridden ground, his whole body seized by the searing pain.

The gedwëy ignasia glowed a sickly awful gray colour in his palm, draining from its usual silver-blue hue. He stared at it in dark surprise, then horror as it disappeared altogether from his hand. The sickened feeling enveloped him and he could feel the wildness around him taunting, the sick scent of pine needles suffocating. This place was…hell…dark…haunted. He felt it – the dark presence singeing through the whispering trees. The magic, wild, blaring – crude. He was trapped, he knew it….trapped.

"Saphira!"

Eragon woke suddenly, screaming from nightmare. He lay there half propped in his cot, in the same position that he had lain in for the past week. Ivory hands, in turn mopped the slick of sweat from his face that now covered his whole jittering body. He lay there tensed, heart still pounding heavily inside his heaving chest, before slumping heavily against the soft cushions of his cot. Ever so slowly, he held his palm to the streak of weak moonlight that shone through a crack in the tent; stomach clenched in bleak anticipation. He then sighed with unknown relief as he saw the gedwëy ignasia glimmer from the reflected light.

It had been a dream…

The light was blaring, rich, evil…it attacked him, piercing through him – his mind- like an enormous probe. It ripped through him, every memory, every…feeling. He was powerless against the force…

-A dream that seemed so real.

Eragon turned on his side, a helpless tear slipping down his cheek as the memory of the nightmare lay fresh in mind. He had never felt so helpless in his life….so ravaged.

He lay there, slumped in his bed, listening to his breathing gradually slow to its normal rate. His heart slowly settled in the like, and soon mimicked the rhythmic slow thumps that had lulled him to dreamless sleep over the past week. But this night, he had dreamt. He had dreamt of a place, wild…dark. He tried to wipe the images from his mind, but they seemed ingrained; like he had truly been there, his whole body felt altered somewhat, burnt by the blaring presence in the sick ruby light.

'Eragon…?' the voice was low, more murmured than anything into his mind, yet Eragon practically jolted from it. He had felt so empty in the silence of it all for the past week. He sat up in the bed, muscles rippling in the faint light of the moon, as eyes unexpectedly lit up.

"Saphira..." even in his mind the tone was gasped. They had not spoken during the whole week and for the past day he had not felt her warm presence in his mind.

'I heard you screaming for me…' she said, voice riddled with concern. Eragon sighed a bit, hands ruffling through short brown-blond hair.

"I…it was a nightmare." He finally stuttered. He inhaled sharply the sickening feeling lingering in memory. 'It felt so real…' he gasped. 'I thought that I had lost you…'

There was a silence between them then. It was long, yet neither comfortable nor disheartening…it was just there.

'I'm on the outskirts of the citadel, Eragon." She said tentatively. A surprised look crossed his face as the thought radiated through his mind. He saw through her eyes the nearing walls of Feinster from an aerial view.

"It's time…" she whispered. Eragon felt his gut clench.

"No…" he murmured almost painfully. "I can't…it's too soon." Hands found the golden orb that he had picked up from the ground before and placed in its habitual position on the bed beside him. Ivory toned fingers smoothed around the silent amber orb.

"The ritual mourning is three sunsets, Little One." He could hear the repressed hurt in her voice, the forced determination. "The Varden…-Nasuada- has given us two weeks." She paused and Eragon felt a wave of that forced calm that she had stilled within herself wash over him in their bond. "It is time." She murmured again. And Eragon, though a part of him wished to stay here in the silent safety of his tent, wallowing in the agonizing memory of a death replayed in every conscious moment, a greater part of him knew that Saphira was indeed right.

-It was time.

There was a sigh. It drew from his very core, and shot out slowly through parted lips…some of the wallowing, depressing sorrow seemed to ever so slowly go with it; fading away into the thin air. And what he found remained was silent respect, honour, and graced sorrow for the memories that he had of the Golden Rider; and now, an ever so slowly growing sense of determination - repressed whispers of vengeance.

-Vengeance

The thought got him out of the cot, and he stood chest bare, eyes dry –opposite to their state during the past week-. He inhaled and the feeling grew stronger. It fed him, gave him strength. Eragon stumbled to the small table that he had placed in the corner of the tent, fingers grasping at an abandoned lamp.

'Brisingr' the spell was whispered. And for the first time in that week, a light shone, illuminating the darkness that had settled in his tent; that had clothed him during his mourning. Hazel eyes glinted as he found a mirror and a basin of fresh water that he had not used.

Eragon gazed at his haggard reflection, taking in all the terribleness of the world that he had taken on in the past two weeks. Hands dipped into the freezing cold of the still water, then splashed against his face, washing it all away.

-Vengeance

The thought was murmured in a whispered tone that he knew did not come from Saphira. It came inward, a small presence inside him, a hate – a tiny fire that slowly grew as he blinked back at the reflection before him. The light shone brilliantly in the small tent.

The red dragon small, yet incredibly strong…his great jaws had the golden dragon by the throat. The terrible roar sent chills down his spine as Oromis seized violently in his saddle….The red cackling lightning flew in a terrible beauty, striking the Rider in the chest…

Hazel eyes furrowed as the memory came back to him, yet tears did not come. Hands instead dipped into the basin again, splashing the cold all over his body. And the word whispered even louder in his ear.

He shook himself, as the faintest sound of flapping wings sung through the still night air. Pulling on a fresh pair of breeches and a tunic, Eragon slithered to the giant flap of the tent door, for a moment hesitating. And then he remembered her voice, the truth, the terrible determination in her tone. It was time.

Eragon pulled back the flap and stepped out into the freezing night.


Working on my other story Highschool And Its Problems almost done with the next chapter, but the last part is giving me a fight. Hopefully my writer's muse should be working up and about soon and I'll be able to post it feeling thoroughly satisfied.

If anyone has any questions on any of my stories - don't be afraid to leave it in a review or pm me!

- S.B.