9/10 Edit: In comparison to its predecessor, chapter satisfied me immensely. However, to drive the point home, things may get a little... unpleasant further in.
Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle ain't mine. However, all material you don't recognize as Chris Paolini's belongs to me.
WARNING: Large italicized block of text is a disturbing memory with graphic and possibly disturbing imagery! Squeamish readers are recommended to skip it, and reminded that there are far, far worse stories on this site also rated T.
Even from above, the Burning Plains was more terrible than Saphira had remembered. The landscape was charred and smoking, dotted with dead vegetation and the rare plume of flame. Sulfur spilled forth from vast gaps in the earth, making her lungs ache for the far fresher air of Helgrind. She and Eragon flew above the noxious clouds, their thickness shielding them from curious eyes below.
Glaring, Saphira strained to see beyond the eye-watering veil of clouds. The Varden's line of tents was just visible in the distance, the Imperial camp remnants too far beyond it to be spotted.
This is where we part ways... for now, she told her Rider-turned-dragon. Any further and you'll be sensed by the stronger Du Vrangr Gata magicians.
Eragon gazed past her, blue-brown eyes widening in dread. Though Saphira's initial wariness had faded, she still couldn't help but flinch at his unnatural gaze. The human brown in his irises had gradually succumbed to the brilliant blue since Eragon's transformation. Would the change still be reversible if all her Rider's 'humanity' was lost?
Are you sure this a good idea, Saphira? the white dragon pressed anxiously. The Varden see me as their last chance against the Empire and Galbatorix fears an enemy who may one day hope to best him in battle. I don't think I'll be doing us any favors by telling the world I can't even use my own magic! That I'm as powerless- Saphira snorted indignantly- as any mere dragon!
Which is why we're keeping our circle of confidants limited, Saphira replied briskly. Arya has more knowledge on magic than all the Du Vrangr Gata, possibly excluding Trianna, combined! Who else could possibly find a way to reverse the spell without dragging anyone from Du Weldenvarden into this? And we swore allegiance to Nasuada, we have no choice but to tell her. Besides, at least she can keep those other damned politicians away! And Roran is your nestmate and bond-brother, so...
The sapphire she-dragon trailed off as she got one good look at her Rider. Eragon looked practically ready to faint in mid-air.
Not Roran, Eragon whispered. I remember when he discovered I was a Dragon Rider... No longer a normal human... His tremulous voice steadied somewhat. No, Roran, never needs to know about this. Not until I'm firmly back on two feet, anyway.
Wishing their beating wings weren't in the way of physical contact, Saphira enveloped his mind in a comforting embrace. Forgive me, little one. It shall only be Nasuada and Arya. We can't afford to keep either of them in the dark.
Eragon silently pealed away from her side, all the permission she needed.
Folding her wings, Saphira plummeted from the clouds. She made no attempt to disguise her return, bellowing loudly and sending a tongue of flame streaking through the air. Men poured forth from their tents, cheering at what they presumed to be the safe and triumphant return of their revered Dragon Rider.
As Saphira neared, the joyed expressions faltered when they saw her back bare of any passengers, Shadeslayers or not. Most men were bewildered, but some paled in fear or even boiled in outrage. Spreading her wings, Saphira slowed her descent, making no effort to land past the swelling crowd. People scrambled frantically to give her room, all too used to the drill. As she gracefully touched down, she mutely challenged the throng with a cool stare. None had the courage to answer the question on everyone's mind.
Until the crowd parted, allowing Lady Nasuada through. Arya was not far behind, nimbly weaving through a forest of stunned bodies. While both women carried themselves serenely, Saphira easily saw through years of careful conditioning. Nasuada's jaw was clenched tightly shut. Arya's emerald eyes had darkened with worried confusion.
"Saphira Brightscales?" Nasuada began primly, the overwhelming curiosity simmering just beneath. "What has befallen the Shadeslayer this time?"
The blue she-dragon lowered her head, looking the two women straight in the eyes. Carefully barricading her memories to curious prods, she projected her words only to them. Forgive my rudeness, Lady Nasuada, Arya Drottningu, but I am not at liberty to discuss my Rider so freely. At least, not here. She glanced at the crowd. Fetch my saddle and I shall take you to him, upon my honor as a dragon.
Nasuada wasted no time in motioning for her servants. Some frantically hurried back with the leather abomination. Saphira knelt down, suppressing an irritated growl at the cumbersome weight upon her back. The men fixed the straps as best they could with shaking hands. Although they bit into her belly and neck, the she-dragon patiently endured an eternity of waiting.
Arya ascended Saphira's outstretched foreleg with feline grace, taking the spot usually reserved for Eragon. Nasuada stared apprehensively up, but her impressive composure did not allow her to break down in front of her subjects. Despite her pale face, the leader of the Varden climbed up Saphira with as much dignity she could muster, assisted into the saddle by Arya. She primly sat in front of the elf-woman, clutching the spike before her in a death-grip.
Craning her neck around, Saphira respectfully nodded at her latest passengers. Though I trust you Ladies with my life, dire circumstances have forced me and my Rider to take some extra precautions. Lady Nasuada, you are somewhat familiar with the ancient language, no?
Nasuada nodded. "Aye." Arya watched the exchange sharply, recalling when two other confused souls had been sworn to a secrecy on the pain of death.
Then I must ask you both to swear, in the ancient language, to never reveal what you are about to see to any living creature without my or Eragon's explicit permission, even if your very lives are threatened.
"You demand much, Bjartskular," the elf whispered. "Any promise sworn in the ancient language endangers the lives of the oath-takers."
"But we have no other option?" Nasuada finished. At Saphira's grim nod, she sighed. "If only you had warned me before I had mounted."
Curiosity and concern overcame caution. With their oaths reluctantly sworn, neither could reveal Eragon's life-threatening new secret without his or his dragon's say-so.
Her Rider's well-being secured, Saphira lifted off as carefully as she could. Nasuada took her first flight in stride, yelping only once when the ground suddenly lurched away.
Saphira morbidly wondered if anyone (particularly Arya) would be so calm and composed when they met the gigantic white dragon Eragon had become.
Nasuada had not shied away from the strange white dragon, first thinking him a prisoner rescued from Helgrind. Upon learning the truth, she had blinked once before falling upon Eragon, dubiously tugging at his scales and rattling off a stream of questions not even Saphira could keep up with. Eragon gave up answering after the first few, halfheartedly listening to her rant.
Arya stood stoically apart from the others, green eyes never leaving Eragon. As Nasuada and Saphira discussed what was best, she remained unresponsive to their questions, a living and breathing statue.
Eragon was just as uncharacteristically quiet, replying only when addressed directly. He kept his gaze trained down on his paws, unwilling to look neither humanoid, especially Arya, in the eyes. He flexed his claws oddly, as if still expecting the versatility of human fingers.
"So, you remember nothing of the transformation?" Nasuada prompted.
The white dragon nodded with a heavy sigh. Aye. Just blacking out and waking up like this.
"And you never encountered anything like this before, not even in stories?" she pressed. "A mention of a secret defense for Riders in distress?"
Nothing. Eragon raised his head, hopefully meeting Arya's unblinking gaze for the first time. Do you think you could come up with a spell to change me back? I definitely recall many elves that had changed their appearances at the Blood-Oath Ceremony. Could you do the same thing for me, just on a larger scale?
We could always return to Du Weldenvarden, Saphira suggested practically. To find experts in transformation... She exchanged a glance with Eragon. Or obscure Rider enchantments.
For the first time in minutes, Arya blinked, her expression becoming unreadable. "Eragon... do you remember your days in Du Weldenvarden? How many kind doted and tended to Saphira like zealots worshiping their god?" She paused. "Elves have... always been envious of the dragons. Of their natural immortality, of deep magic beyond even our comprehension, of their freedom in flight, of how they can take but one mate and be satisfied for eternity." Her sighed. "In the ancient times, my forebears almost annihilated them for it. Our pact twisted elven hatred and jealously into something resembling outright reverence."
Saphira shuddered, contrastingly remembering both the elves who had lovingly washed her scales and the Stone of Broken Eggs, where their ancestors had killed members of her kind not yet hatched into the world. Had the elf who had ignited the Du Fyrn Skulblaka envied the dragon he had killed for want of the power he could never have?
"Your point, Arya?" Nasuada muttered, slightly unnerved. "I do not see how this... ancient obsession can help Eragon now."
"Come the days after the Fall," Arya continued tonelessly, "many of my kind sought ways to return the dragons to Alagaesia. We ventured north, far beyond our forests, and scoured the edges of the lands for survivors. When we found none north, some of our bravest returned to the sea, sailing to the ancient realms where the Forsworn's evil had never touched. Those haunted few who returned to us certainly brought no dragons with them. As far as even we could determine, four dragons remained in Alagaesia, all soundly in the King's possession."
Except for a single crippled male safely hidden away in Du Weldenvarden with his Rider, not that Nasuada needed to know that.
The elf-woman continued, her brows knitting together. "A few of the more... radical elves proposed an extreme solution to our problem. Were we not masters of magic? Did we not have almost boundless energy from the trees at our disposal? Why waste time searching for survivors who weren't there? Why could we not create?"
Saphira growled, hackles rising. Magically creating dragons from willing elves?
Nasuada clapped her hands over her mouth. "Could it even have been done?" she whispered in horror.
Eragon recalled eccentric elves he had spotted at the Blood-Oath Ceremony; furred like beasts, skins all colors of the rainbow, even one that resembled a humanoid dragon. But if such transformations were possible, where were these elf-dragons?
"I was but a child when the idea was first proposed. In theory, it was possible. We had manipulated magic before to alter out appearances, though far less radically. Elves that transform their bodies always keep a basic build, never straying drastically far from their original forms."
Her pale hands clenched. "It wasn't long until those radicals gained eager support from the noble houses. Queen Islanzadi's approval silenced whatever whispers of protest there had been. Why not resort to extreme measures if it meant restoring the dragons and the Dragon Riders? Liberating our people from Galbatorix? Years were spent gathering the hypothetical energy needed for the spells, thoroughly wording the incantations for the utmost precision, developing all that was needed to challenge nature. The most skilled casters were recruited for the spelling. Able-bodied elves flocked for selection."
Arya smiled humorlessly. "After all, who wouldn't want to become the first of a new generation of dragons, a savior of Alagaesia?"
Eragon shivered. Did you...?
"Duty called me elsewhere," she replied heavily. "Not that it stopped u-... me from envying those chosen."
For just a moment, the barricades around Arya's memories wavered. Saphira shied away, but not before catching-
Hair silver as moonlight, green eyes bright with excitement and pride, twitching lips barely veiling an eager grin-
Sharp brown eyes burning, words growled and accusing, ripping her heart in-
"The day of reckoning came," Arya intoned. "The chosen volunteers were prepared, the stored energy given to the casters. All of Du Weldenvarden, from its hermits to the Queen herself, gathered to watch. We all hoped for success... some for the next chance to join their ranks. Then..."
Saphira's mind was willingly nudged by Arya's. Reluctantly, Saphira peered with Eragon into the elf's memories, taking great care to focus on the ones she wanted to show. Nasuada, untrained in active mental contact, hung back in polite (and wary) interest.
It was only natural that she, the sole heir of King Evandar, Islanzadi's most likely successor, was among the privileged few allowed anywhere actually near the casters. She had come dressed for the occasion; formal finery, a circlet, and scales green as the spring foliage.
Of course Islanzadi had scolded her for succumbing to such an 'infantile' trend, but she was not the only elf who had spelled herself as such. Other nobles and members of her House pressed in close, their eyes riveted to the clearing's center. Scales had become old hat amongst them when dragon-fever had swept across the forest. Anyone who wore them, even their Princess, would soon pale in comparison to the real deal.
Five elves stood proud and strong in the center. They wore loose and simple clothing only to preserve their modesty. These were the blessed few, personally chosen from the throng of potentials by Queen Islanzadi to become the first free dragons of the age. The shining beacon to light the way for the rest of their rekindled race. They carried themselves properly, faces serenely stoic even when their eyes glittered with excitement.
She nodded to the chosen with a princess's grace. Even when she pointedly ignored looking at the silver-haired woman barely able to keep composure.
Out strode the magicians, their tunics nearly hidden by the glittering jewels draped over them. Such over-precautions were a mere formality, an appeasement for the worried few. The calculations had been checked and rechecked for years. Nothing could, or would, go wrong. Galbatorix possessed all true dragon eggs left in the world. Failure was no longer an option.
Perfect silence fell upon the crowd as the casters began to chant. She hung at the edge of her seat, entranced by every carefully-intoned syllable. A part of her and everyone else in the crowd, those who had adored and depended upon the dragons so, sung out in joy. The chosen five stretched out their arms in eager invitation. The silver-haired woman laughed, grinning broadly as her gaze sought out-
Cra-ack. Cra-ack. Cra-ack.
Overwhelmed, the gems collectively shattered. The ravenous spell reached ever outward, consuming all the energy it latched onto. The sweat-coated casters gritted their teeth in a struggle against their own power. But their magic no longer heeded them... and reached out with insatiable appetite.
Silently, elf after elf toppled, pale and lifeless husks. Those not paralyzed by shock and fear leaped up to stop the carnage, shouting and screaming and ordering-
It was not like she had imagined, the graceful and beautiful ascension from mere elf to majestic dragon. It was hell, monsters ripping themselves forth from terrified forms, destructive and disfiguring. Stricken, a deer before the hunter, she watched every vomit-inducing moment.
Razor-sharp scales ripped through delicate flesh, unleashing rivers of blood. Cracks like thunder rang as bones rearranged themselves. Elves fell screaming to the ground with bodies no longer able to support them. Skeletal branches emerged from shoulder-blades, the wings of the dead. Terrified cries became huskier, cracked, and gave way to blood-curdling bellows.
Three of the damned five fell limp as the magicians. One tortured male moaned his death-rattle. All were demons, an unholy blend of elf and dragon. Even the brief, unfortunate survivor was incomplete; without skin or muscle to cover the exposed bone of his twisted legs.
Her gaze riveted to the fifth form.
Blood-stained silver hair wreathed a head that sported malformed stumps. Two emerald-green eyes; one slit-pupiled, the other still leaking tears, fixated on her. A twisted hand with two curving nails reached desperately out. A tongue purposefully cut itself on sharpened teeth in frantic attempts at a name. The scales had had erupted from her pale skin were pallid or sickly green.
Except for those upon her all-too-familiar face. Those had darkened to a vibrant green, one like the spring foliage.
Numbness fled. Spinning around, she fled, pushing through the frantic crowd. Unlike the damned souls in the clearing, her artificial scales melted easily away, giving way to tear-stained flesh.
Tears that only worsened at her mother's heart-broken scream.
Saphira snapped back to reality, throwing back her head and giving a keining wail. Eragon shivered as if ready to burst. Nasuada remained gravely silent, their emotions tangible enough for her to sense. Arya kept her eyes shut against the tears, and buried the memory in her vast recollection.
Gods, Eragon breathed. I-I never...
For once, just once more, her body craved comfort. Saphira pressed close, her head burrowing into the white dragon's side.
Slowly, hesitantly, he draped one silver wing over her vulnerable form.
Her hammering heart quieted, soothed by reinvigorating warmth.
Assurance gave way to embarrassment when Saphira realized she quivered against her Rider's side like a quivering hatchling. Pride demanded she draw away to restore the illusion of strength.
For once, Saphira ignored the instinct. For all her ancestral memories, she was barely a year old, and needed comforting just as much as Eragon. Besides, when would the opportunity for physical contact with her own kind come again any time soon?
"What happened afterward?" Nasuada murmured.
"Our precautions were twigs against the deluge," Arya flatly intoned. "Even the wards shielding the candidates from physical pain shattered from the sheer force the spell unleashed. One survivor perished minutes afterward. His organs were incompatible. The other lived... for a time." Again she blinked away wetness. "Her transformation could neither be reversed nor completed. Not after what had happened. She took her own life four days later."
Saphira bristled in outrage. Her suffering was prolonged to such a degree?
"What was there to be done? Most were too afraid to even minorlyy alter themselves for decades. Those arrogant enough to repeat the mistakes of the past suffered their own foolishness. Several elves have been found dead alongside their half-formed creations." Her gaze flicked to the she-dragon. "Then your egg was recovered, and such dramatic measures forgotten in favor of restoring the true dragons."
It happened other times, didn't it? Eragon fixated one blue-brown eye on her. Other elves who tried to truly become different animals. Wolves. Falcons. Frogs.
"Aye. None succeeded. It seemed an unwritten law that a creature could not magically exchange its form for another. Unless they were a naturally shape-shifting being, like a werecat, true transformation remained as impossible as resurrecting the dead... And there is only one exception to that rule."
The Menoa Tree! The elf who sang herself into the heart of Du Weldenvarden.
Nasuada blinked, wordlessly mouthing the word 'tree' in disbelief. Then her eyes slowly met Eragon's. "And now there are two." She brushed the red dust rom her dress, snapping straight back into her leader state. "Obviously changing you back will have to wait a while. At least until that squad of magicians arrive from Du Weldenvarden. Perhaps one of them shall be an expert in obscure Rider magics, or at least know someone who is."
Eragon and Saphira drooped in dismay. They personally knew a still-living Rider and dragon, and neither had ever mentioned Shur'tugal spontaneously changing shape!
Then what do we do, my Lady? The Varden are suspicious enough of my absence as is! How will they react at my current condition? Many see dragons as mindless best for the Riders on their-
"We can postpone this until we can determine a more permanent solution," Nasuada cut in smoothly. "Most will jump to the conclusion that you're still somewhere in the Empire. I'll 'accidentally leak information' to those who'll pass on the news. Obviously correspondence must be done in person for security reasons." She smiled wryly. "And who ever heard of a spy infiltrating the Empire with a dragon at his side?"
But why-
"Following up rumors of cached dragon eggs. Rescuing surviving Riders supposedly imprisoned in Urubaen for decades. Assassinating a target." Nasuada rolled her eyes. "Trust me, overactive imaginations will take care of that part."
"Then you must remain in the Burning Plains," Arya interjected suddenly. "Beyond the minds of the magicians, but close enough will communication between us will not be excessively difficult. Saphira, we can't risk someone realizing why you return to camp so quickly and so frequently. A trustworthy, unremarkable messenger can relay what our minds won't be able to receive."
Jarsha, the white dragon blurted instantly. Swear him to secrecy in the ancient language and he'd be as competent and reliable as any.
Saphira hummed in amusement. Eragon had been fond of the young messenger, if slightly creeped out by his adoration. Of course he would retain his soft spot for younglings, no matter what shape he wore!
Eragon settled down for a doze, exhausted from his first long-distance flight, while Saphira carried her passengers back to camp in near complete silence. She was just too drained to keep up her usual eager role in anything that involved her Rider.
Landing amongst the tents, Saphira politely bid the humanoid women farewell, gratefully thanking Arya for removing her damned saddle.
Only when looking into the elf's emerald eyes did the she-dragon recall a near-identical gaze she had glimpsed in Arya's memories.
Silver-haired, but green-eyed, facial features like a happy-
Privately, she murmured, Do you have siblings?
Passing the saddle to a waiting man, Arya paused.
No. I am Evandar's sole child.
Were Arya a dragon, or even dwarf or human, Saphira would have let the oddly-off answer alone. But elves did not bond souls like mated dragons, didn't offer their partners rings and promises of remaining together until death. Relationships lasted only as long as they chose; from mere hours to centuries.
...Are you Islanzadi's sole child?
This time her spluttered silence became rigid. ...Aye.
Saphira realized her mistake. Did you have half-siblings? From Islanzadi?
One. Decades older, sired by a male from one of the lower-nobility houses. He and our mother lasted only months together, but managed to conceive a miracle some pairs had been trying to obtain for centuries. My birth meant Evandar would never adopt her as his heir, not that it stopped our mother from trying to insure her eldest a rank, a title, anything that would guarantee her a respectable position... Perhaps a position even greater than being queen.
...What was her name?
Idunn. Arya's train of thought faltered. Her name was Idunn.
Night shrouded the Burning Plains in blackness even a dragon's eyes had to strain through. Dark clouds blotted out the moon and stars, the only illumination the flickering pinpoints of the Varden camp's distant lanterns. The wind howled across the charred landscape, bringing with it a biting chill his intense body heat kept at bay.
Eragon found himself yearning for the snug tent he had shared with Roran, warm and shielded from the desolate night.
Even sleep could not bring oblivion. Malformed hybrids and their agonized screams plagued him whenever he closed his eyes. Saphira, though her mind was firmly closed, must had felt the same way. She kept getting up, circling to find a softer patch of earth, restlessly repeating the process every few minutes.
Can't sleep? Eragon murmured, abandoning the pretense.
Saphira looked up from her latest spot, eyes gleaming jewels in the gloom. Little one, she chastised gently, like a mother scolding a young child out of bed. I thought you had fallen asleep hours ago.
Kind of hard to do that with you moving about every two minutes.
He was lying right through his metaphorical teeth. Saphira sensed his dishonesty as easily as he felt hers. Though their minds kept their emotions firmly at bay, the deep bond they shared from constant closeness made what was kept silent glaringly obvious. The two locked eyes, all the understanding the other needed.
Quietly Saphira rose up and padded over to his side, her head resting close to his as she settled down. Eragon draped one wing over her. The she-dragon's tense muscles eased at his touch. Her eyes drooped down, face serene as she drifted off.
Though Eragon did not draw away, he found the exchange unsettling. Saphira had always comforted him. When Roran had moved to Therinsford, she had been his constant companion through those dreary winter days. She had gotten through to him after Garrow's death, channeling his grief into something constructive when she had persuaded him to get vengeance on the Ra'zac. She had been his rock through the chaos, the only constant in the lonely life of a Dragon Rider.
Then the roles had drastically reversed, which had happened so rarely before. Eragon had last comforted Saphira when she had thought Glaedr had condemned her to an eternity of loneliness. Again he was reminded that Saphira was still mortal, just as vulnerable to pain as he was.
Sometimes, though physically incapable, even dragons needed a shoulder to cry on.
Yawning, Eragon let himself drift off to a blissfully dreamless slumber. With Saphira's assuring warmth at his side, the night no longer seemed as dark or as desolate.
1. From what Arya understands of magic, Eragon will be a dragon for a considerable amount of time. Why? Despite the magical skill and time the elves possess, the Menoa Tree is the only explicit example of extreme transformation. Casually changing shape (beyond superficial things like fur or scales) shouldn't be that difficult for those that practice. And, if elves were able to change themselves so drastically, why not just create some new dragons from willing volunteers?
My answer: Some things, like life and death, just aren't made to be messed with. Changing eye color and gaining blue fur (Blodgharm -.-') changes you on the inside no more than putting on contacts and dying your hair. Changing your species, the core of what you are? A whole different ballgame. Not to mention, just think of all those countless little genes in your DNA you'd have to rewrite, the concentration needed, ect. There's boundaries in life, people, and everyone's gotta learn them, especially elves with access to world-breaking magic.
2. Elves can live for centuries and have rather 'interesting' relationship dynamics. Why couldn't Arya have a half-sibling (albeit one quite a bit older than her)? Idunn, while not the royal heir, was Islanzadi's oldest and favorite child. Losing her only further drove a wedge in her relationship with Arya. An older sibling also explains why Arya and Islanzadi are distant, even in a race where children are extremely rare and treasured. Arya sought attention by rebelling (being 'controversial' in her youth and subsequently gaining an interest in the Varden while she was at it.) And, if Arya ever stated to Eragon she never had any siblings... she didn't by that time.
3. If Saphira seems 'softer' than usual, it is only because her pride and protective instincts drive her to extremes with Eragon. With Eragon as a dragon, they are suddenly on much more equal footing, allowing Saphira to be more open about her insecurities than usual.
