9/10 Update: God, it's been so long, but I have three revised chapters for this time! This chapter should hopefully cut down on some redundancy in my prose, explain my twist on some parts of establish cannon, and close up some plot-holes.

Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle does not belong to me... but my individual book copies and all original material here do :D.

Standing at the very edge of the threshold, Eragon peered cautiously over the edge of Helgrind. It was a sheer drop down to the jagged rocks below, each more likely to break him than his fall. Wings tucked closely to the sides and claws holding the ground in a death-grip, he could barely hear Saphira over his own frantic thoughts.

Eragon! Saphira snapped, wrenching the white dragon's horrified gaze away from the distant ground. Are you even listening to me?

He sheepishly avoided her piercing stare. Not really, he admitted. I'm a bit distracted at the thought of being impaled like a heretic!

Impaled like- Her mind briefly touched his memory of a rather unpleasant discussion with Brom before withdrawing in horror. ...Another good reason to get away from these damned mountains, then. At Eragon's continued hesitance, she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Don't tell me you're afraid of heights now.

Eragon snorted indignantly. If I was terrified of heights or of flying, I don't think I would have ever left Carvahall after that first nightmare. But flying on his own power was completely different from riding astride an experienced dragon. Especially if that dragon was no longer strong enough to drag him back to safety.

Flying isn't as difficult or frightening as it looks, little one, Saphira began patiently. Hatchlings are often able to get the hang of it within their first few tries.

Eragon glanced dubiously down at certain death. Something tells me we won't have that many chances.

Most hatchlings have parents to guide them in the right direction. I may... not have had that advantage, but it doesn't mean you can't.

Thinking about it, Eragon was positive Saphira would make a great mother... if she survived his soon-to-be lethal crash. There was a huge difference between redirecting a small dragon and a massive adult male.

Saphira nuzzled him encouragingly, nothing but positive advice flowing across her link. Remember, Eragon, you're a dragon internally as well as externally. Your new instincts (which I hope you have) will guide you, as well as (possibly) the ancestral memories of all dragons who lived before you. Concentrate, and you'll feel just how the masters did it.

Complying, Eragon focused his thoughts inward, forgetting all else. The shrieking wind and Saphira's assuring presence gradually dimmed into nothingness. Alone amidst years of his memories, he burrowed past his time as a Dragon Rider, past his childhood, exploring this section of his subconscious deeper than he ever had ventured before.

As time blurred and further distorted recognition, Eragon expected to hit an impenetrable wall, an end to all memory. Instead he entered a part of his mind that had not existed previous to his transformation. There, his memories were but one small whisper in a cavern that echoed with countless voices.

Eragon reached out, touching a barrier not unlike the one that had contained his magic, beckoning him onward. Concentrating, Eragon gently pushed, and unleashed the deluge.

Out erupted a maelstrom of memory wild as his flames. Colors blurred, scent and sound became indistinguishable, fragments of ancient conversation whipping through one metaphorical ear and out the other. The memories tugged at him like impatient children, begging him to join in their individual games. Amidst such glorious chaos, a mere human mind would have been overwhelmed, swept away like a tiny fish against the sea.

But he was a dragon now, a strong voice reminded him. They (parents, nestmates, allies) were as much a part of him (brother, son, friend) as Saphira (bonded, soul-half, life-mate). Unable to control himself, Eragon roared. He understood this greater presence, a universal connection transcending petty differences, a wonderful unity yet separation he had never before been able to comprehend.

Concentrating, Eragon narrowed his criteria down to flight, diminishing the torrent somewhat. Mating flights, hunting flights, first flights, flying for the sheer joy of it, flashed through his mind like lightning. He was unattached to the emotions attached to each one, an apathetic god gazing down upon the mortal world. The memories were too indistinct to care about or even tell apart.

Out of the chaos rose a trace of familiarity. The most demanding of the children, it tugged urgently at him. Eragon allowed himself to be pulled along, the other memories falling away like shadows before the sunlight. The dizzying blur condensed into crystal clear perfection.

The memory molded him, making him its bearer instead of a casual observer. Boundaries blurred, realities faded, time itself turned backward. He was no longer Eragon (Rider, blood-brother, protector), but someone else completely (daunted, scared, longing, oh so longing...

He stood on a precipice that sharply veered away to certain doom, claws clenching the edge in a death-grip. The buffeting wind tore at the wings he kept tightly pressed against his side, a howling wife trying to drag him into its waiting jaws.

Yet his little wings ached to be spread, to fulfill their one true purpose. His pounding heart demanded to claim the sky as their rightful domain. But his mind sternly insisted his trembling wings and yearning heart that it best for all four paws to be safely kept upon the ground. Flying was for mighty elders, not for little hatchlings more likely to be shredded by the wind than to soar upon it.

His three brood-sisters cowered behind him, their living shield between fear and desire. One shoved him forward, a test subject. Whipping around, he snarled furiously at his pesky-coward-sister, batting a white paw warningly at her jade-green snout.

His little stone-gray-brother remained right behind him. Eyes closed, he peeped nervously, too afraid to even gaze upon temptation. Nuzzling his shivering brother, he looked pleadingly around him.

Mother hovered just outside the cave, even she dwarfed by a void of blue and white. Her mind gently brushed against all five of her hatchlings, promising them safety-and-soft-landings.

Father stood behind them, stone-gray and unmovable as the mountain they called resting-home. He blocked the way to their safe-sleeping-nest. His Kingly-red gaze reminded them they'd either join their mother willingly or be shoved into the awesome-endless-sky-and-shrieking-wind by his callous paw.

Wolf-wind sky-dangers or smoldering-impatient-Father. He shivered indecisively, torn between known and unknown.

Father-King snorted ominously, and the decision was made.

His three brood-sisters leaped aside. Crying shrilly, his brood-brother followed, aware of-

He heard it; the scraping of scales against stone, the creaking of old joints, the thunderous growl of impatience.

Self-preservation kicked in. Wings unfurled. Paws abandoned solid earth as he hurled himself into the unknown.

The howling-wolf-winds forcefully pinned his wings to his sides. He powerlessly plummeted to earth. Squealing, he was only dimly aware of his nestmates' cries, Mother just behind him, ready with an open-forgiving paw.

His gaze focused. Father-King's scarred head emerged from the cave, prey-blood-red eyes burning, challenging.

Inside his heart-of-hearts, a soul-fire kindled.

Fighting against the wind-wolf, he snapped his wings open, squealing in surprised pain as their muscles protested. The gale carried him up, up past shocked-Mother, past awed-nestmates, past red eyes burning with fierce-fire-pride.

Blurs of white, green, and gray tumbled into the air excitedly after him. Mother gently caught flustered-brood-brother in a paw when he dipped too law.

Uncaring, he surged up past them all, free for the first time in his young-hatchling-life. He roared his triumph to the conquered skies, not yet a mighty-elder, but on his-

Memory released him. Eragon blinked, reluctantly emerging back into reality. Saphira hummed proudly, blue eyes as proud as Father-King's had been.

Saphira, he whispered breathlessly, that was... He struggled for a suitable word. Finding none, he simply sent his emotions across their link.

Her eyes sparkled. How can there be words for it? I take it you don't find it all that bad, being a dragon?

Bad? Eragon repeated disbelievingly. How can that be bad? The closest I ever came to it before was the dragon from the Blood-Oath Ceremony, and they're still so different! But why-

Why did one memory come clearly to you above all others? When it became so strong you became its bearer? Eragon nodded. There have been countless generations of dragons, too many for any other creature to even begin to process our ancestral memories. Our minds cope by subconsciously reaching out for ones they feel comfortable with, a soul and situation it can currently relate to. Like how a child will reach out for anything familiar in a strange new place.

Some part of the memory were strange. Not thoughts, but not fully words either.

Eragon tried to show her his vision, but the fine details slipped his grasp like water through fingers. Exasperated, he showed Saphira what he could. The she-dragon observed for a moment before nodding. Reluctantly, Eragon released the memory, feeling it sink back into the void of countless others.

A hatchling's first flight from somewhere in the Beors, she surmised. I can see why you can relate. His mind was still learning how to identify thoughts and feelings he knew with specific language. Those clustered words were his attempt to do so with the things he knew dearest; parents, siblings, familiar surroundings. It would take a before before he felt 'brat' would suffice for 'pesky-coward-sister.'

The white dragon nodded, silently wondering what had happened to hatchling in his vision, and hoping he had hatched centuries before Galbatorix's birth. He glanced at the edge again. The hatchling had suffered taller heights.

At least no one's going to push me off, Eragon muttered. Might as well get this over with.

Unfurling her wings, Saphira leaped with the grace of a pouncing cat. Much like the mother she-dragon, she hovered off vigilantly to the side, leaving plenty of room for take-off. And there she stayed, ready to do her damned best at slowing his fall if he did screw up.

Eragon positioned himself on the center of the edge, refusing to glimpse down. He partly unfolded his wings, allowing the wind to rush over them.

Unlike the shrieking gale from the hatchling's memory, the winds were gentle, a soft breeze caressing his scales. It teased him out further onto the ledge. Feeling only empty air beneath his claws, his heart quivered in frantic excitement.

Come on, little one. Did you hesitate in plunging a sword through Durza's heart?

He snorted indignantly at the blow to his fiery new pride. Saphira's tone was an invitation to join her in h- their element. And who was he to deny her?

His heart lurched upward as his paws bid Helgrind farewell, then plunged against his ribcage as gravity wrestled for dominance, the jagged rocks below ever sharper-

Thrust after painful thrust, his untrained wings carried him higher and higher. Helgrind's looming presence shrank to a black dot soon swallowed by the clouds. Only with Alagaesia stretched out before him did he jar to a halt, barely managing a wobbling hover as Saphira steadily rose up to his level. Yet, even leagues below him ,his sharp eyes made out every scale on her shimmering hide, every ounce of pride and exhilaration shining in her eyes.

Quite a sight, isn't it? she mused, effortlessly circling him. I would have shown you sooner, but human lungs can't handle such heights.

Minutes later, Eragon nodded before pausing in embarrassment. Saphira swam through the air as a fish did water. He hovered frantically in one spot, beating his wings like a frantic hummingbird and without the slightest idea how to get back down.

Uh, Saphira, can you help-

Teach you how to steer before you crash?

Were it possible, his scales would have flushed scarlet. ...Aye.

Saphira's laughter rippled across their link. Trust me, Eragon, compared to mine your first flight is going fantastically!

The white dragon blinked in astonishment. Between household tasks and keeping his relatives distracted, Eragon had seen little of his own dragon during her most crucial period of development. One day she was crawling her way up to every great height, including his shoulder, the next she had fluttered up without a stumble.

Really?

I was sneezing pine needles for days, the she-dragon answered sulkily. I just held them in when you where around.

Eragon tried to smile, pulling off a terrifying grimace. He remembered that! So that's why you were too afraid to touch the forest floor afterward!

Afraid! I merely flapped from branch to branch, perfecting my-

His guffawing left him stranded miles above solid ground until his grovelling finally brought his touchy teacher back. Whiling struggling to propel himself forward, Eragon silently filed the story away for the next time he and Saphira were both stone-cold drunk amongst the dwarves. At least they wouldn't fawn over her 'valiance' or 'determination' like a certain race to the north!


Legend remembered Ilirea as an outpost of the godlike Dragon Riders, the last elvish stronghold outside of Du Weldenvarden. While all cities had flourished in the peace and prosperity of the golden age, Ilirea had been the crown jewel of Alagaesia. It was straight out of a fairy tale, with elegant buildings carved as carefully as the trees-buildings had been sung in Ellesmera. And with Doru Araeba across the sea and the elf capital forbidden to most outsiders, it was the only city of legend many could ever lay eyes upon.

Ilirea's last inhabitants had fought long and hard against the invaders pounding at their gates. Despite what most historians grumbled, Galbatorix had demolished very little of a city virtually razed to the ground in the clashes between his supporters and the enemy faction.

Atop the rubble of his conquest, the self-proclaimed king had founded his own new capital. With wave after wave of rebels still assaulting Galbatorix's forces, construction had been quick and bloody. Decades later, Urubaen's brutal and no-nonsense architecture still spoke of the Empire's violent beginnings, even when all whispers of rebellion were swiftly stifled behind its walls.

Only Castle Ilirea had survived the old capital's destruction. Even then, its towering spires and graceful carvings had been cannibalized into newer, more practical defenses.

Those of Urubaen remembered Castle Ilirea no longer; only the fully-fledged Fortress it had become in the time of their forefathers. And there their King resided, eternal as his Fortress, as the very ground it was built upon.

Galbatorix had claimed the heart of the Fortress for his own throne-room and personal chambers. Here every wall was etched in wards to cancel out virtually all magic it did not recognize. Aspiring assassins that could penetrate such powerful defenses faced patrols of sharp-minded magicians sworn to kill all intruders on sight, even if the person in question was but a visiting lord who had absentmindedly turned down the wrong hallway.

For those cunning and determined enough to make it past his unmatched security? Galbatorix granted them the final honor of becoming Shruikan's latest meal.

And there, in his Fortress's heart, the Black King himself lounged upon his throne, scratching thoughtfully at his well-trimmed beard.

Over-exaggerated, indirect accounts described Galbatorix as anything from a horned, green-skinned demon to an eternally young man handsome enough to make the mountains of Helgrind weep. (Galbatorix had ordered his Black Hand to spare no mercy on whoever had started that rumor... if only to keep the crowd of the insane women blubbering at his gates from growing any larger.)

Of average height and build, with an indistinct face and plain brown hair, Galbatorix was as forgettable as they came, capable of blending into any crowd with a mere change of stance and clothing. Only his eyes, black and empty voids, could engender such terror and awe in his subjects.

"Hn," he mused aloud. "When have the Ra'zac contacted me last? Their silence is... worrisome."

Dead white eyes blinked listlessly back. Galbatorix nodded, one hand patting the massive black wall of scale and muscle that encircled his throne. "You're right, not in quite a while. Since before the incident, in fact."

His treasure trove, his personal favorite amongst them, so dull and lifeless for decades, had all blazed bright as stars. Their chorus, a unified thrum of pure joy, had carried his heart to heights no living dragon could touch. Only twice before had they sung; the first but a year ago, when the she-dragon presumably hatched, and some months later when Thorn finally hatched for a Rider, confirming Galbatorix's hunch. Each and every dragon soul, dead and dormant for decades in their Eldunarya, had rejoiced for a member of their kind entering the world.

But how, why had they sung again but mere days ago? The last surviving egg of King Eridor and his mate, the last dragon's egg in the world, remained dormant in its hiding place. Galbatorix and his Forsworn had scoured the world for decades in search of unaccounted survivors.

There. Were. None.

"The she-dragon couldn't have laid any more eggs," Galbatorix muttered to his only companion. "It is too soon after the battle, and she certainly was not gravid then! Besides, how could any but you or Thorn have sired them? And there are no more eggs. There cannot be."

Were his Eldunarya trying to trick him into believing a fifth dragon had entered the fray? To lead him on a fool's errand while the she-dragon and her Rider prepared for a suicidal offense against his Empire?

Impossible. No Eldunari could shield any thought or feeling from their King, and he had sensed no deception on their part, nothing but their unadulterated joy.

"Do you remember how those last few Riders tried to deceive me, Shruikan? Conveniently leaked information about secret armed caravans. Messengers who'd swear under torture, in the ancient language, that Vrael had hidden away an entire cache of eggs?" A savage snarl crossed his eerily-average features. "As if the Order hadn't been running short for years, as if their females laid anything not dead and stinking!"

Galbatorix thoughtfully rubbed at the stone embedded into his ring, the only extra ornamentation he ever wore. It was simple, no more than a plain silver band. But the stone was like nothing that had been ever mined from the earth, nothing like even a dwarf had laid eyes upon. Shaped like an onyx-black diamond, it emanated its own dull violet light, giving his hand an unnatural tinge.

The wall of scales shifted anxiously behind him. Galbatorix patted them soothingly.

"Forgive me, Shruikan, I always forget how sensitive you are." Clenching his hand into a fist, he smashed the glowing stone against the arm of his throne. Shruikan roared in agony, shaking the very walls of the Fortress.

Galbatorix braced instinctively for the pain, a shared suffering that should have sent a Rider screaming alongside his dragon. But, for their bond, for the black dragon's mindless obedience, Shruikan was no Jarnunvosk, and Galbatorix shared his soul only with a beloved partner now long-dead.

Sighing, the King of Alagaesia turned to look at his greatest prize.

Shruikan, the dread dragon himself, lay curled around his throne, shackled to the wall by magically-enforced chains. The demon capable of striking fear into countless hearts at the mere mention of his name looked as pathetic as a kicked dog. Years of starvation and inactivity had left him a living skeleton. His open, panting mouth revealed rows of fangs broken and yellowed from neglect. His white eyes, unbroken by irises or pupils, stared emptily ahead.

"Such suffering," Galbatorix lamented. "Even if it is for the best."

For his own safety, Shruikan had to be restrained. Though Galbatorix held his very heart, he had gradually built up enough resistance to anything less than complete concentration, inflicting gruesome scars upon himself before he could be stopped. Shruikan was unleashed only for sparring sessions with Thorn or to renew the public's fears, when Galbatorix could keep him under his full control.

Not to mention a massive black dragon made a tempting target for any rebel magician. Just because Galbatorix felt nothing of Shruikan didn't mean a true bond wasn't there; numbed, but as powerful as any true bond between Rider and dragon. And Galbatorix would take no chances on finding out if breaking their artificial bond shared the same lethal potency.

Galbatorix ran his ring hand along the dragon's hide. Beneath his fingers Shruikan quivered violently, achingly close to his heart of hearts but infinitely far. "Do you remember yours kinsmen, deaf and blind in their Eldunarya?" The king looked his dragon straight in one dead eye. "Even now, pathetic as you are, you're above them. Yet, still you sang..."

The void of his black eyes somehow deepened. "When you remained silent for the others."

Shruikan lay motionless. But the conquered mind in the black Eldunari stirred, gathering the energy to push a small section of memory behind paper-thin barricades.

Galbatorix smiled patronizingly, the way an adult would at a young child's artwork. It would take but one prod of a mental finger to topple the dragon's defenses, and yet...

"Ah, dragons, so much stronger in spirit than even the most resilient dwarf, the proudest elf. Beaten down and broken as you are, Shruikan, your fire burns." He chuckled fondly. "Go ahead. Keep your secret. The suspense will just make the surprise ever sweeter."

The Black King rose from his throne. There was work to be done, especially regarding his very rebellious (or perhaps, very dead) Ra'zac. Murtagh would certainly appreciate another mission to distract from his rather pitiful defeat at the Burning Plains.

At the threshold, Galbatorix turned back. Shruikan's physical body was as still and unresponsive as always. Inside his Eldunari, however, his mind was sharper than it had been in ages, the heat of his hatred almost, almost hot enough to burn.

"Enjoy this while you can, my dear Shruikan." Smiling wryly, Galbatorix craned his head upward toward the ceiling. "The stars are going out, but my trove remains as bright as ever. Perhaps this one more soul will finally put me ahead."

1. I experimented with the whole 'ancestral memory' scene this time around. Those italicized words in the parentheses were supposed to represent the numerous feelings behind the words, as Eragon had the whole of dragon history whooshing through his head. The scene from the hatchling's memory had some funky descriptions to emphasize my theory on how dragons learn to communicate: Feelings and images first, then starting to condense that vagueness into more 'precise' language before simplifying something like 'pesky-coward-sister' to 'bitch.'

It's also why Saphira's POV from Brisingr irked me so much. She's a mature adult capable of speaking without the hyphenated prose, so why the hell throw it in then?

2. Confused about my stance a certain something hidden on Vroengard and Galbatorix's ideas about it? Please go back and read the foreshadowing I left to the dragons' ultimate fate, and why such a Deux Ex Machina is certainly not possible in this AU.

3. Expect the Galbatorix here to vastly change in character from the one in my original chapters. Why? My inspiration for his character has changed. To me, he's more like a mix of King Haggard-Darcia than... whatever he was before XD. And did any one catch my little dig at the fan girls that are always attracted to the villains, no matter homicidal or outright insane they are XD.

4. Yes, this time I gave Galbatorix some very good reasons to leave his very scary dragon completely out of shape XD. First, Shruikan's death may wind up harming or even killing him. Second, Shruikan can resist his influence just enough to severely harm himself if not kept restrained. Galbatorix needs full concentration to keep Shruikan safely under control, such as during training sessions with Thorn and Murtagh. Most of the time it's just easier to keep him locked up.