Eragon sat on his makeshift cot, twiddling Aren in his hand. By the dim light of the flameless lantern magically suspended above his head, he could make out its features – in fact, with his elven vision, vividly so. He narrowed his eyes, allowing the image of the inscribed yawë to bore into his vision. Yawë. Elf friend. Am I really? Eragon thought faintly. And then he remembered Islanzadí, and how she had told him so long ago that he shouldn't have worn it, as it was designated for Brom. Brom . . . Thinking about him was painful, so Eragon diverted his mind and tried to focus solely on the basis of Islanzadí's words, until he realized that thinking about her was painful as well. Like Brom, she was gone.

It's not like I would be seeing her anyway if she were alive, he bitterly thought. He had left Alagaësia, and if Angela's prophecy was correct – as it had so far proved to be – he would not only be leaving his homeland for an unknown period of time, he would be leaving forever.

At the thought, Angela's prophecy boomed in his mind, sharp and unforgettable: Look closely at this bone. You can see how its end rests on that of the sailing ship. That is impossible to misunderstand. Your fate will be to leave this land forever. Where you will end up I know not but you will never again stand in Alagaësia.

Never again . . . The words played over and over in Eragon's head like a never-ending echo, an inescapable life sentence. Or rather, a sentence for eternity.

He was distinctly aware of Saphira listening to his thoughts. Eragon made no effort to resist her; he enjoyed her company. Remember, little one, that Islanzadí only pointed out that you shouldn't have worn it initially; however, she excused your mistake and allowed you to continue wearing it on the basis that you saved Arya from an inevitably gruesome death.

She seemed to recoil as she belatedly realized that the mention of Arya, too, pained him; in fact, much more than the thought of Islanzadí had. Nevertheless, Eragon sensed in her mind a thought which suggested that avoiding topics about people who had been important to them was foolish, so she continued. And besides, you killed Galbatorix. It would be falsely modest to question whether that is considered helping the elves. Granted, it was simultaneously helping all the other races as well, but if that doesn't merit the yawë, then I don't know what does.

Eragon nodded in agreement, content as he felt his prior guilt begin to melt away. He felt a faint, sudden warmness make its way up his bosom. At first, he couldn't identify what had prompted the emotion. Then he knew. It was a feeling of comfort and gratitude; a recognition that although he had left nearly everything behind, he had not quite left everything behind. He had Glaedr, the Eldunarí, the soon-to-hatch eggs and their riders, and, most importantly, Saphira. He had felt that warmness trickle through his body because it was in fact gratitude that he had felt. Gratitude that Saphira was always there for him; that he could always count on her, always confide in her. A reluctant smile crept up the corners of his mouth. Then, like a receding tide, his smile gradually vanished as his body filled with anticipation. Within minutes, they'd be greeted by the native Urgals. He had already, with the assistance of the Eldunarí, extracted a lot of useful information from the creatures. He had no fear of mortal danger – overpowering them would be simple. Still, he was hoping to be greeted peacefully, and that was the cause of his present anxiety. He was too weary, too reluctant to take any more blood. Killing the Emperor's warriors had been a means to an end, and now that the end had been accomplished, he was more than content to retire from any violence.

Saphira?

Hmm?

Thanks . . . for everything.

Eragon sensed a rhythmic hum resonate from within her. You're welcome, little one.