7/5 Edit: The italicized section has been altered drastically from its original format. Remember, this time I'm aiming for "shades of gray" instead of boringly black-hearted antagonists... and protagonists.

Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle belongs to Chris Paolini. Everything you don't recognize as cannon belongs to me.

Shockingly, the hunt was much easier than Saphira had expected. Usually when hunting in the Empire's lands she had to fly miles away to find a patch of isolated wilderness where she could hunt without fear of being spotted by human eyes. Even then, the pickings were scant, hunters already having taken the best prey for themselves.

But Dras-Leona was a sprawling city, not a self-dependent town or village. What little meat the average citizen could afford came from farms in the vicinity. The forest had been a buffer zone between them and Helgrind, a hunting ground for the Lethrblaka when they craved something other than human sacrifices. Here the deer were plump and plenty, perfect for feeding two hungry dragons.

It wasn't long before Saphira brought down two large deer for herself. She tore the meat from her prey with the ferocity of an entire pack of starving wolves. Only halfway through her second deer did her hunger subside enough for her to think cohesively again.

Eragon was a dragon now, be it permanently or temporarily. A large, white, male dragon. Though he acted like his usual self, right down to the endless volley of questions, Saphira suspected the change had been more than skin-deep.

The deep bond she and her Rider shared remained as strong and unbroken as ever, but... different. Changed. More like the maternal bond between mother and hatchling. In a way, Saphira was a sort of mother, caring for one defenseless, overgrown hatchling.

No, even a hatchling has instinct and ancestral memory! Eragon is a human... elf-thing trapped in a dragon's body.

But, with the species between them removed for the time being, just how platonic were her current feelings toward him? The part of her mind reserved for intimate relationships was mainly occupied by their bond. Saphira painfully knew from past experience just how much of a slave she could be to her own instincts. She was young, fertile, a member of a dying race that really needed reinforcements-

With their bond changed, did that make Eragon a dragon in essence as well as body? Had the Rider spell been unable to support such a warped connection between those now of the same kind? Did that make his transformation irreversible? If he changed back, would the original parameters of their link be restored? Or be broken forever?

What if not even the strongest magicians could change him back? Galbatorix already had two males to 'rebuild' the dragons. Eragon might be useful to him only as a test subject, to see if females could be transformed as he. If both captured, would they be forced to mate to provide even the tiniest more variety to the gene pool?

Saphira shuddered in revulsion. Even amongst Riders' dragons, mating was not an act to be taken lightly. Especially if their union was not of free will, only by Galbatorix's twisted desires to shape their offspring as he wished!

But the act of mating itself was... not as abhorrent as she had first thought.

Saphira smacked her head against a tree, growling violently. Damn instincts! Damn magic! Damn- No, it's not Eragon's fault, but if I can ever get my fangs into the god that's-

Shoving the remnants of her prey aside, Saphira turned to third buck she had caught, largest of them all. Eragon was probably starving, both from days without eating and from a presumably exhausting transformation. Even one massive buck wouldn't be enough, but Saphira wasn't going to push her luck; forcing any meat down her Rider's throat would be near impossible.

Hopefully he's hungry enough to shove his morals aside.

No dragon should have qualms about eating another living creature, not if it was the only food source that kept them around for those that actually cared about them. But Eragon had suffered enough for one lifetime, and Saphira could spare him this.

Recalling the simpler times before Du Weldenvarden, she held the deer down and reached toward the stomach with an extended claw.


Scouring every inch of Helgrind, Eragon had shoved is horned head into anywhere it would fit. Surely Galbatorix would have stashed something valuable in such a (formerly) isolated and well-guarded fortress! A key to his weakness, the last dragon egg, a magic sock; anything other than the bones and dried blood of past prisoners!

After hours of coming every nook and cranny, Eragon grudgingly admitted defeat. The protective enchantments held in place by the Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka had crumbled with them. Helgrind hid no more secrets.

Heeding Saphira's advice, Eragon followed the sound of gurgling water to a small stream that ran right through Helgrind's very heart. Mimicking the sapphire she-dragon, he lowered his head to the water and gulped it down greedily, soothing the desert his parch throat had become.

Licking the last water droplets from his snout, he curiously raised his head. His sharp eyes traced the stream's origin back to solid rock.

Rather than having his precious servants drink from a normal water source that could be easily poisoned or serve as a spot to be ambushed from, Galbatorix had simply conjured up one no rebel could sabotage. Eragon guessed he had summoned up the water from deep beneath Helgrind, channeling it up to a safer, higher area.

And I have trouble getting a handful of water from an entire desert! Eragon glared hatefully down at his white-scaled chest. As if I can even practice now.

Ordinarily, dragons were the most powerful creatures in Alagaesia. Their wings and fire-breath meant they didn't even have to approach the titanic animals that prowled the Boers. Even the Fanghur, their close cousins, had neither their flames nor their superior size and strength.

However, with a single word, the weakest magician could stop the heart of the mightiest dragon to ever walk the earth. Galbatorix happened to be a magician strong enough to single-handedly corrupt the ancient bond between Rider and dragon.

Despite the incredible strength now surging through surging through his veins, Eragon had never felt weaker. He could no longer tap into the area of his mind that held his dormant magic. True, dragons possessed a unique and ancient magic no other race could wield, but not even they could control when and how it manifested. His human body, while physically fragile in comparison, could cut down legions of unguarded soldiers with a single spell.

Snarling, the white dragon shook his head violently. Normally he'd never be so negative, but with that gods-forsaken stench following him-

The wards are lifted and dragons can breathe fire. I can breathe fire.

Turning away from the enchanted water, Eragon retraced his steps back to the cavern he and Saphira had shared. There the cloud of putrid decay was strongest, the charred corpses of Helgrind's former occupants having been shoved into the adjacent chamber. Even now, with his uncle's murderers damaged beyond recognition, he growled at their infuriating presence.

When he stopped, the growl reverberated within the massive cavern of his chest. Something dormant stirred furiously, a hot and powerful heat bubbling up in the back of his throat, threatening to overwhelm completely. Like the fateful day at Yazuac, where he had first called upon his magic, a force beckoned him to act.

Traditional magic could no longer serve as an outlet for such a primal power. On a whisper of instinct, Eragon parted his jaws and loosed the torrent.

Searing blue light surged forth from his jaws on their own accord, a wild inferno guided only by the reflexive curl of his tongue. Eragon recoiled in shock at the unexpected force, the plume of flame faltering.

Common sense told him his mouth should be burning or blackened beyond recognition from the fire. Yet, despite the intense heat his mind registered, he felt no pain. He could almost call the warmth pleasant, a warm hearth on a cold winter's night.

The ravenous flames engulfed the bodies of the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka in a brilliant blaze. Their charred carcasses were visible for just a moment, illuminated against the blue flame, before they crumbled into nothing.

Eragon swiftly snapped his jaws shut, the torrent spluttering out in a puff of smoke and sparks. He gaped in disbelief as the heat in his throat subsided.

After only a moment's exposure to the flames, even the hard shell had been reduced to ash. He prodded the pile suspiciously, sending fine particles up into the air. Inhaling his former enemies, Eragon sneezed, adding a new scorch-mark to the already blackened ground.

Eragon had witnessed Saphira turn her fire-breath into a deadly art, sculpting rock into masterpieces and cooking soldiers alive in their chain-mail. During nocturnal practice sessions, Glaedr had set the night sky alight with flames that rivaled the sun in their heat and radiance. The eternal fires blazing beneath the Burning Plains had been started during a clash between Riders' dragons and the Forsworn.

But never had he heard of a dragon's flames so powerful, so devastating. Such an intense inferno looked hot to... melt even magic itself.

Snorting, Eragon shook his head. Even he didn't buy such a farfetched theory.

But Saphira and I woke to discover those bastards dead. If the wards protecting them from fire could only be broken with their deaths, then who killed and burnt them?

Gazing at the carnage he had created, Eragon backed away from the scorch-marked earth, shaking the ash from his moon-white scales.

Had he killed these creatures? He last remembering blacking out when the all-consuming rage and desire to kill and protect had overwhelmed his consciousness. A similar incident had happened back in Yazuac to two Urgals. Could that same power have possessed him again, transforming him into a dragon capable of burning magic itself into nothing?

Was this some gift from the Blood-Oath Ceremony? An innate Rider defense mechanism? A chill seeped into his bones that numbed even his new inner fire. Or is this always been there, needing only Saphira to awaken?

Padding away from the unsettling sight, Eragon curled up in the recent chamber, where the stench of decay was already dissipating. He closed his eyes in renewed exhaustion, spiraling down into a thankfully dreamless oblivion.


Weighted down by sin and sorrow, his soul had been too heavy to ascend. Around him the scavengers gathered, ripping into his broken body even as he dangled between two worlds. Every ravenous bite gnawed the tether just a little bit more, lowering him to open jaws that preferred spirit to flesh.

Until the weight upon his soul had fallen away. Unfurling ethereal wings, he had flown for the final time, to heights that would have killed the strongest fliers, up to where death and decay held no dominion.

Dragons were not 'civilized' like the ape-creatures. From generations before the first flickers of ancestral memory they had been guided by heart and bond; the bond of mates, of nestmates, of parent and child, ties that had allowed them to come together and prosper while lesser creatures had faded from even their shared recollection.

Yet, the bonds that strengthened and guided them so had led many souls to their doom. How many previously devoted mothers with new broods had left their hatchlings to starve, forsaking them and life behind to join her fallen mate amongst the stars? How many long-dead ancestors had perished in suicidal battles by their clan-lord's command? How many had been willing to turn against their own kind simply by their Rider's whim?

Even dragons, those who could stubbornly hold grudges centuries after death, knew forgiveness. At the end, even he, who had vowed to do whatever necessary to free his kind from tyranny, had sickened at the unthinkable costs.

Like all souls, he had been granted one merciful reprieve. For just once, murder and treachery had been overlooked.

But forgiven didn't mean forgotten. While his compatriots enthralled the world below even as their true origins faded into memory and myth, he had been barely visible against their radiance, darkened by the past. Where some souls shined for centuries, his warm welcome had cooled in less than one.

Thrown from the heavens like a fledgling from the nest, he had breathed again.

No. Someone that had once been part of him breathed and learned and lived. He had slumbered, dreamless, within, a mere fragment of a fully-developed human soul.

Occasionally, roused by his host's distress, he would stir to a half-wakened state, a 'conscience' in times of need. When the cruel boys bullied his host, he was the brave voice that whispered to stand up against their taunts. When his host's best friend had became the favorite of the girl his host admired from afar, he had urged him to take action, be it confronting his friend or acknowledging his claim upon the girl by abandoning his own feelings. Beyond such extreme anger or envy, he had been virtually helpless, a quiet influence that could be easily brushed aside.

But the tides had changed. A young man had come to the Varden, one who came to be called Shadeslayer. This was Eragon, bonded of Saphira, the last free Dragon Rider in all of Alagaesia. His host idolized Eragon like he (the dragon) had once worshiped his own elder brother. Yet, he stirred fretfully, for something was very, very wrong.

Eragon's she-dragon, Saphira, dredged up half-memories of bloody white and sapphire. His unrest had manifested as nightmares for his host, visions of a life not his own.

Yet, for all of Saphira's awe-inspiring glory, her Rider had been the final catalyst.

His host had always admired his role model from afar, too timid to approach. Only when delivering a message from superiors did his host finally look Eragon Shadeslayer in the eye.

The Rider's brown eyes had been kind, those that could have belonged to a boy one day worthy of legend. He had looked further, beyond the brown, to the spark of brilliant blue that smoldered just underneath. In Jarsha's mind, that spark caught alight.

Jarshan awoke, truly awoke, and Jarshan remembered.

The price he had paid for peace had been impossibly high, and he had settled his debt with his life. Though many had condemned the extreme lengths he had went to achieve justice, they had not rejected his cause, their cause. While Eridor had pandered to the Riders and their facade of equality, Jarshan had undoubtedly stood for them, the dragons who had been willingly sold into slavery by their parents.

And now his sacrifice, their sacrifice, would all be in vain. Eragon Shadeslayer, King Eridor's spiritual extension, would erase their efforts and reestablish the tyranny they had destroyed. And with Saphira the last female of her kind, every youngling hatched into the world would become slaves to another race's interest, be they human or elf.

And, stuffed into a body not his own, with an atrophied part of his own soul for a cellmate and jailer, Jarshan rattled bars of flesh and bone and roared his anguish and fury to his only possible listener-

Screaming, Jarsha thrashed desperately on his sleeping mat, falling still only when his mind caught up. Panting heavily, he groped for his blanket, a solid anchor to reality, as he shakily separated fact from fiction.

No scales, right? He glanced down at his clammy hands. Pale pink, as always, without gray scales and cruel claws. And no wings? He felt his back, sighing in relief at smooth shoulder-blades. Tail? Snout? Horns? Feverishly rubbing his hands over his face, Jarsha finally dropped them. He was just a normal thirteen-year-old boy, different from the beast of his nightmares as he could possibly be.

"Er... are you okay?"

Face flushing, Jarsha glanced over at his newest tent-mate. Nolfavrell had been one of the refugees that had arrived with the Shadeslayer's cousin. While the Council of Elders weren't about to conscript one so young as a soldier, an extra messenger could always be needed, and had shoved him into the same cramped tent with Jarsha and Irvard, the other two young pages.

"I'll be fine," Jarsha muttered testily. "What happened to Irvard?"

"Still on his shift," Nolfavrell replied, "but you'll have to relieve him soon."

Nodding, Jarsha reached for his tunic, scowling when he noticed the other boy's concerned eyes still on him. He wondered what Nolfavrell thought of him; alarmingly pale, slathered in sweat, gasping as if he had just outrun death itself.

Well, maybe I did.

"What?" Jarsha snapped.

"There are healers here, you know," the other boy said neutrally. "With magic. They helped me... get over what was bothering me."

Jarsha knew the gossip. Nolfavrell's father had been killed by Imperial soldiers occupying the village. Then they had taken the body with them, returning it hours later as cracked-open bones once the demonic Ra'zac had eaten their fill. That was enough to scar any child, let alone one barely past childhood!

For a moment, Jarsha faltered, wanting to only finally come clean about the monster that had always been stalking his nightmares.

Always different from the others, always dreaming of blood and dragons, even before the nightmares worsened, and I can't even blame trauma! But they'll fade, they always do.

"I'm gonna grab some breakfast," he ground out, ducking out and emerging into their empty row of tents.

Something thudded heavily against his ribs, a bird frantically beating the bars of its cage, trapped and starving for the light of freedom. Clutching his chest in physical and imagined pain, Jarsha cried tears of desperation not his own.


Come on, little one, you're almost finished!

Eragon couldn't help his irritated growl. He had eaten meat before, had killed for himself and his family when the crops they grew couldn't sustain them, at least until Oromis had made him sensitive to their vibrant (if primitive) thoughts. Too bad dragons didn't digest vegetation well (as Saphira could personally attest to after Du Weldenvarden.)

Saphira had thoughtfully caught his first formerly living meal in months for him, had even roasted and gutted for him to help with the painful and inevitable transition to raw meat. Still, his stomach had quenched uneasily with every bite of an innocent creature.

I am finished, he protested weakly. I'm stuffed!

The she-dragon snorted skeptically, releasing twin puffs of smoke from her nostrils. Eragon, you're bigger than I am now! When I'm famished, I need two large bucks to feel like myself again. You haven't had any food for days and are no doubt drained from your transformation. You. Will. Finish. One.

But I-

You missed the head, Saphira answered sternly. They're of the most nutritious parts of the body. Just be glad I didn't make you crack open the bigger bones for their marrow.

No, Saphira had done that for him, unable to waste something she saw as invaluable. Eragon had watched her guiltily, feeling like a spoiled child who had turned his nose up at the food his parents had struggled to put upon his plate.

His blue-brown eyes flickered down to meet the deer's vacant gaze. Snapping up the remnants of his meal, he quickly swallowed before his mind had a chance to resist.

There. Saphira pressed her snout encouragingly against his cheek. Was it really that bad?

Eragon refused to reply. His new body hadn't minded in the slightest. Unsatisfied, his stomach gurgled commandingly for more. Only his mind, which had touched the gentle minds of deer, squirmed at what his body happily digested.

Noticing his discomfort, Saphira pulled away, dropping the subjected completely. Come. Now that we're both rested, it's time for a final lesson before we can return to camp.

Oh? Eragon's scales prickled in dread. And what would that be?

The she-dragon hummed in amusement, the deep sound vibrating pleasantly in his bones. Why, teaching you to fly, stone-head!

Eragon froze, stomach falling. He had forgotten about that.

On Jarshan: Dragons are creatures of passion, and if they believe their cause to be right, then they're gonna stick by it 'til the bitter end, which is why every dragon soul gets a second chance to earn a "true" place in the stars through rebirth. In the words of TvTropes, Jarshan has become more of a Knight Templar and Visionary Villain than a straight bad guy driven by petty vengeance and ambition. Also, kindly remember, that he woke up when is worst fears are about to come true, sharing a body NOT his own with a TOTAL stranger. I'd be pretty upset about that.

On "shades of gray": Galbatorix obviously had more than twelve Forsworn and some monsters on his side, so I sincerely doubt the Riders were the saints everyone remembers them as. The Dragon Riders were wiped out one hundred years ago. Humans have had plenty of time to miss "the good old days" when they weren't dominated by a mad tyrant. And of course elves are gonna be for the Riders! But I doubt their public opinion was so favorable a century ago for three reasons.

1.) Where elves got immortality and magic that turned them into walking atomic bombs, dragons got "language" and "civilization." How many dragon cities and scholars are there? What's happening to those dragons without Riders? (Jarshan's main reason to be pissed.)

2.) Dwarves remember the Riders as "meddling," because somehow a dragon-elf-human pact saw need to govern everyone in the name of "peace." Kindly look up colonialism in the Middle East and Africa to see how clueless foreign leadership can screw everything up for a society. If you want to leave Rider "protection?" 'Philippine-American War' is the one that sticks out most. Also, if Riders brought peace and knowledge to the world, why is everyone still in the damned Dark Ages?

3.) Who the hell did the Riders answer to? The Caretakers who looked after their bond? The rulers who would have to enforce their laws? Did non-Riders have a say in how they should be governed? (Elections for their ruling council, deciding which candidates to be sent for testing, ect.) I'd be pretty pissed if I didn't have any say in something that sounds a lot like certain Middle Eastern countries...