They returned at nightfall.

The rider had been gone for at least a fortnight, and Blodhgarm had felt the loss. He even missed Saphira's teasing. In that time, he watched Arya and Yaela. Just out of boredom, really. It was sweet that they could find something amongst the ashes. Arya caught his eye once, and they shared a moment of understanding. Then he felt the push.

His eyes glazed, and he went on autopilot.

Not even Arya saw the change.

Eragon.

Well it definitely isn't Guntera.


He needed a better job. The rope was a bit tight, but for some demented reason, this was a good idea. The other elves in their party were similarly tied to the end of a long rope. The ends were attached to a thick log, and even as he watched the air thrum under the beating Saphira was giving it, he knew Eragon was laughing like a madman. Because even though the others looked like fairies caught by children, he looked like a kitten tangled in a ball of yarn. The tips of his furry ears twitched. He almost thought he heard a tinkle-laugh.

It was his turn to laugh when the invisibility failed.

They sailed over the wall, and the soldiers underneath them screamed in fear. Blodhgarm pushed down the irrational want to cut the rope. Fall among them; raise their city to the ground. Build it again, in the name of freedom. He guessed it was the feline pelt, but he wanted to let go. Tear those bumbling fools apart. They stood between the Rider and the King. But he had more important things to do. He looked up, and as Saphira set them down in a gigantic courtyard, he settled into his role.

The supporter.

The Eldunari thrummed amongst them, and for a wild instant, he thought they could win. Murtagh was at their backs, tripping over his own feet. They surged through the front gates, and got past the door. That was farther than he thought they'd get. Much further. He thought they would be struck down at the hillock outside. He thought back to Galbatorix. The elf grinned. He was letting them in. Sick fuck.

The tiny witch-child threw up a hand, and a game of Simon-says exploded henceforth. They tiptoed and pranced their way around the traps left for them, and the door to the King wasn't getting any closer. Then the mages popped out, and he felt his insides rile. Fight time. Then Eragon's hand slapped the ground, and it was like watching Liotha cut vegetables. The mages fell apart like lettuces, their leaves falling to the ground in a crumbled heap; distressed and juices leaking. Blodhgarm had the courtesy to make a sad face.

Fools that licked the king's boots. He went to step forwards and test some of the trap's boundaries, but Eragon's hand stopped him. The safe approach. Right. It looked almost hopeless, and he was about to offer trying to crawl under the lower set of blades, when Arya pointed out that to stop the blades they needed to jam them open with something magical. His heart sighed.

It said, you could always just crawl under them.

He frowned, licked his fangs, and held out his sword.

The others followed suit. He felt something akin to broiling rage when Arya hesitated. Princess or not, he wasn't going to let her keep that sword. His was a present from the Queen after that fiasco with the forsworn, and he would bet his last gold coin that hers was some sort of butter knife from a thrift sale. Eragon seemed to catch his train of thought, because there was a sceptical, almost scolding stare.

Are you really going to do this now?

The cat shrugged. Grinned. Eragon's head twitched in reply.

They were all nervous.

When he ignored them and began the spells, Blodhgarm watched. He felt Murtagh running around somewhere, and sometimes he spotted the other brother scurrying around in the background. He looked similar to Eragon, but not much. He guessed they had similar hair. But he liked Eragon's better. He sighed; he almost hoped that they looked similar. Murtagh could act like a stunt double when Eragon went away. Then again, he smiled lightly, as if he would let the rider go far if they survived this.

Move.

They were like a really funny slug. Shitting its pants, pushing as hard and as fast as possible and still going at the speed of gunge. When the witch-child screamed faster, they barely kicked it up a notch. The instinct kicked in, and he wanted to tackle Eragon the last few feet. Save him. Fuck the rest. Fuck the king. Fuck it all. Then the feeling was gone, and they were past the blades.

Yaela shrieked.

He turned, blindly thrashed out with magic, and she was suddenly thrown past him. Eragon helped her up. He could almost feel the tension vibrating off Arya. If he put a rock against her stomach, it would be turned to crumbs in moments. Her eyes were wide, and her hands were shaking. But then the composure was back, and the ice-façade was in place. She couldn't stop a quick grasp of the other elf's hand, though.

Blodhgarm knew he couldn't have been that calm, if it was the other way around.

He looked to the rider, just as they all had started to, and the boy was staring up at the golden-filigreed doors like a mouse staring up at a dollhouse. Curiosity, fear, and even a little apprehension glazed his face like the icing on a particularly nice cake. If only he had spent a little more time-

"What do we do, knock?"


Eragon turned around, and he watched as the billows of light caught each of his spell casters in separate tubes of magic. They were frozen, as were the completely stunned Arya and Eragon. They were all like statues, staring at whatever they had been looking at before. Caught in the middle of scratching a leg, playing with a strand of hair, nibbling a lip.

Eragon looked to Blodhgarm.

Blodhgarm was staring straight back at him.

Then they were gone, and Arya was pounding at the wall that they had disappeared through like wraiths in the night. She gave up, and the screaming was almost unbearable. Hearing the woman who fell to her knees at the realisation of Umaroth, and the Eldunari scream at them to open the 'fucking god-forsaken wall' was almost completely unbelievable. Then he figured, Yaela is gone, too.


Blodhgarm seethed.

There was no other way to put it.

Because hidden behind that stone wall he was staring at was Eragon and the others. He could hear them as could his other spell casters. At their backs was the rambling, foolish mages and other such cretins under Galbatorix, every once in a while an elf growling out an expletive as an inquisitive staff poked and prodded them. The mages had chained each of them to the ceiling with ugly black manacles; the metal seemed to be enchanted, because for once, Blodhgarm couldn't touch any of the others. Not even Uthinare or Yaela, hanging on either side of him.

They had all tried to cast spells, and gotten a nasty surprise for their trouble.

But he didn't care for the fact that he was hung up like a side of meat. Murtagh and Eragon were still fighting, and he could almost feel the angst radiating from the throne room. Yaela was still twitching and kicking, and even the magicians couldn't stop her. They gave up, eventually, and returned to the ominous orb that sat at the centre of their table. Blodhgarm looked over his shoulder again, watching the little people in the torso-sized-sphere dance around and yell at each other.

Then Uthinare started it.

He pulled himself up, and swung to the left.

The stupid mages in the room with them didn't hear the collision, nor the grunt as Blodhgarm's fangs sank into the collar of Uthinare's tunic. They didn't hear the chains twisting around feet, nor the monumental creak as the chains weakened at the base. The creaking and the eventual snap was hidden by the sounds of the fighting, the elves timing their tugs to the beat the clanging swords. The chain keeping Uthinare's feet secure to the ground snapped in the middle, and Blodhgarm could practically feel the relief surge through their group. The anticipation as Uthinare nimbly tugged himself up towards the ceiling, and the thick metal plate that held him hanging up. He twisted himself upside down, planting his feet against the stone above him, hands wrapped tightly in the chain, and he pulled.

It was painful, the wait for Uthinare to break his bindings.

Any moment, and one of Galbatorix's minions would turn around. Somehow, the king didn't know about their attempts, or he didn't care. Blodhgarm hoped he didn't care. The chain snapped.

Uthinare landed like a cat, and Blodhgarm silently applauded. With a gentle movement, Uthinare pointed at one of the many small tables at the back of the room, near that awful wall hiding the Rider from view. They could hear the yelling now, and the cat-man could practically feel the need to escape, to help, to do something. Uthinare stuffed a hand down the back of his neck, deep into his tunic. He wasn't pointing at the table. He was getting his sleeve in a less painful twist around his elbow.

When he tugged the sword from his tunic, Blodhgarm felt the surprise. The other elves bristled, but it didn't last. Uthinare swung Tinkledeath twice, and three elves fell, and their chains came apart. He freed the others, and by the time he turned around, Yaela and Blodhgarm had finished the mages. The cat-man's mouth was about to open, but the floor creaked. The ancient stone creaked. The ceiling shuddered, and the walls practically vibrated themselves apart.

"Time to go."