I do not own the inheritance cycle. This is NOT the last chapter, the story decided against it. I think this will be finished by chapter 6 ish

Eragon was fully asleep for the first time in months, his mind finally free as dreams stormed across his imagined senses.

His mind, utter darkness, inky black, struggled for conscious thought as taunting memories flittered before his closed eyes, a hypnotising spiral of lost hope and happiness. He saw Garrow, bleeding and old, dying, Brom, weak and haggard, dying, Omoris, frail and aged, dying, and Saphira, his beloved Saphira, wreaked and torn apart, dying, parting without him. Why hadn't he gone with her?

He couldn't, he had promised, promised to live a life without her.

His eyelids flicked open as a tear escaped and slid down his cheek. He was lying on a soft, elven bed with a white thin blanket draped lightly over his thin frame. Matching in hue but opposed in brilliance was his hideously pale complexion. His brown eyes had lost its gentleness long ago, replaced with a rough colour like gnarled bark. Black scabs stood out on his white face. His right limb was much thinner than his left; millimetres of muscle separated the bone and the pallid skin. He would never be able wield a sword with that hand. Dark scars streaked his body, left to right, top to bottom, down to his legs, one of which was bandaged; he would never be able to run properly either.

The bright noon sun bathed the room in golden light, brilliant rays reflecting off specks of dust. There was a platter of fruit, ripe and sweet beside his bed. His throat was healed, it no longer felt raw and speech was not going to be painful anymore. Blood had ceased to ooze out of stubborn wounds and the chronic pain of torture had disappeared from his body. His head no longer spun with exhaustion and he could move without feeling lead weights on his limbs. The purple bruises had receded to spots of discoloured skin. Even breathing did not hurt and memories of former hurts had seemingly retreated into his dreams. Healed, he could focus on his surroundings. The walls were ornately decorated, carvings of dragons and riders had been sung out of the wood, thin strips of gold lined the carvings and were woven into the artworks like a liquid; he had been here before…he was in the tree of the Lead Rider, in the capital of the elves, in his homeland, healed.

And yet, still, the ache had no withdrawn, nor diminished. It still hurt, it still hurt a lot. His brow furrowed in pain while a sigh of resignation was breathed into the air, a melancholy tune in every breath. This song of loss, he would only sing alone.

"Eragon, are you feeling well?"

He jolted, hand whipping to his empty side for his sword, for anything to fight with. Vivid scabs reopened as he twisted his back and twisted back again in shock. A cry of agony leapt to his mouth, before he snapped his teeth shut and clenched his teeth in pain. Cool hands firmly griped his shoulders, holding him still as he briefly writhed around. Blood started to flow out, staining clean covers. He gasped and choked as the air burned down his throat and into his lungs; he bit down a whimper, narrow teeth stabbed into his lip and he tasted salt in his mouth. Recollections of despair blanketed his mind and forced him into a dazed and draining moment.

"Waise heil," Arya's firm voice cut through his seizure of pain and gave Eragon the strength to silently struggle in a breath as his skin and muscle stitched itself together. When he breathed out, his strength rushed away and he involuntarily closed his eyes. Exhausted and defeated, he let thought and control escape as his mind was reclaimed by sleep.

He had been strong as steel, at first. They were neither strangers to pain nor cowards to death. They had been proven brave and courageous; they bore this with no regrets, the safety of their charge foremost on their mind. He did not cry out when they whipped him, she did not flinch when they pierced her side. They had each other to rely on. A hope of a better future empowered them, and this they would bear to cause its fruition.

A miserable drizzle descended upon them, then, deafening rain. Lightning and the echoing thunder next and, the hissing of icy wind. Hope runs out, happiness slips away, but they had still had one another, still.

It was raining; angry clouds smothered the night sky and lashed the soft earth with harsh droplets. He shivered despite the wards that protected him from the cold, he could feel it, the pelting, the impacts of millions, the freezing wind. He felt it as he felt it every night. Finally, the bright flash of lightning lit up the dark clouds, for a instant, as did another, and, another. The thunder, he heard not but he imagined the horrible crack and the eternal ringing that followed in his ears.

Lightning flashed again. He was still feeling, imagining, frightened. Thunder roared in the rain and Eragon turned onto his side, away the gloomy world and caught sight of, on a lonely chair against the wall, watching him, Arya.

Arya? What was she doing here? Why hadn't she left? Had she left and come back?

"I apologise for startling you earlier, Eragon, it was not my intention to cause you harm." She tried to hide it, but her voice betrayed her fatigue.

"Nay, I should apologise for being so difficult to my saviour, my recollections of…unpleasant things… and myself alone are to blame, I am deep in your debt." Eragon hoped she would not prod such recollections out of him. He was relieved when she didn't.

"Guilt and debts are ignored between friends as close as we," spoke Arya, this time in the ancient language to reassure him. "You should rest further; our healers could only do so much."

Sleep: the land were his nightmares lurked, he didn't want to return and he was sure it wouldn't give him the rest he wished for. "You seem tired, perhaps you should retire to your chambers and rest, I can manage myself well enough."

"I do not need to just yet, and I would like to speak with you if you are feeling fine."

Eragon's mouth twitched upwards, "There is nothing wrong with me now, so do not feel restricted in your speech." They had rarely spoken with each other since she retrieved him from the rough seas and Eragon felt cheered by her company.

Arya returned a small smile which slightly loosened the chains of loss on his soul. "The riders and dragons plan to meet with you in the morning to discuss the path ahead, I will be there, as well as Murtagh. Nasuada will be in the capital as well, they have been married for three weeks." Arya paused and pushed back a lock of hair. "They will not be offended if you do not wish to attend, I will-"

"There is no need, I will be there, as long as no personal questions are asked." A smile fought its way to his lips as he continued, "Would you express my congratulations to my brother and sister in law, and my deep regrets on my failure to present gifts."

"You have my wo-"

"No!" Eragon fought to supress the emotions bubbling inside him. Arya looked at him with concern. He struggled to lower his voice, "No, please, do not promise anything to me." He groaned. "I have had enough of promises." He detested them now, because he was forced to bear his empty life due to one.

"Eragon." She was next to him, and had gently grasped his cold hand. "What happened?"

His eyes flicked away. He wasn't ready to tell her yet. He tried to turn away, but Arya careful not to alarm him again, trailed her fingers up his arm, across his shoulders and up his neck and brought them against the underside of his jaw, causing a barely noticeable pink to rise up to his cheeks. Diminished by her touch, he looked down, embarrassed. She comfortingly gripped his hand in response and slowly pushed back his head so he was forced to meet her gaze.

Her voice, below a whisper: "Show me"

He squirmed under her stare. He had tried to ignore it, ignore the pain, the hurt, the solitude. He had turned away as it ate into his soul, given up when it destroyed his thoughts, given up when it poisoned his heart. He hated thinking about their last seconds together, he couldn't bear its weight upon his fractured soul. He was breaking under his own loneliness. He refused to let the tears fall, or the screams of despair escape his throat. He wouldn't allow it. He would, he could, still, bottle it up inside himself. He would not break.

"You can't bear it alone, please, Eragon, let me help." Arya's voice

No, the memories, the memories would hurt her. He could not allow her to be tortured again. No, he would keep it from her. Saphira would want him to be strong. Saphira…

Stabbed,

"Saphira would not want you so depressed"

Roaring,

"I wouldn't want you to suffer on the same path I took"

Bleeding,

"You healed me Eragon, you allowed me to feel true happiness again."

Fading,

"Eragon?"

Dead

Eragon broke.

Good? Bad? Failure? Let me know about your thought by leaving a review.