By The Campfire

The fire was crackling merrily and hissed as Eragon dumped another branch into its depths; he was too impatient for the flames to become hot enough to cook for he was ravenous. Across the fire sat Oromis, who in contrast to Eragon, was waiting patiently despite the fact he was no doubt as hungry as the young Rider on account for not having eaten anything since he'd died. Eragon and Saphira – and the eldunarí that had survived, which thankfully included Glaedr – were all awaiting an explanation for what had occurred on that hilltop. Oromis it seemed was in no hurry to offer one.

While he was over joyed at his master's return, he couldn't help but feel a nagging sense of disappointment – why couldn't his father have come back instead?

"Because you don't need him." Eragon blinked and looked up across the fire.

"What?"

"Your thoughts are written across your face Eragon." The Rider told him with a gentle smile, "Now whether that's just due to your exhaustion – to laziness or to the fact that death brings all kinds of enlightenments, I do not know …" he shrugged, "But in answer to your poorly phrased query; Brom did not walk the path as I did because you no longer need him there to guide your steps and to catch you if you should stumble. Because you have proved yourself a man who needs not his father's protection. He'd only be in your way, if he was to return … only a bystander."

A lump of emotion formed in Eragon's throat, and he swallowed. "Not a bystander never that, ebrithil …" he whispered, before amending, "but maybe a provider of a hoard of unnecessary advice and criticism."

Saphira hummed in amusement to that as Oromis allowed himself a wry smile. "Let it alone," he chided as Eragon tugged at the strip of coarse cloth tied round his upper right arm in the form of a crude bandage. He'd had no strength left to heal the wound with magic so Oromis had sewn it shut instead, he himself having just enough energy required to transform a small glob of copper they found in the ground into a needle. "Else it'll take twice as long to heal."

"Yes master."

Oromis surveyed him over the fire, his long fingers knitted together and his face unreadable. Finally he stirred, "In theory we ought to be spending the time while the fire heats to hand out explanations to one another … yet if you two prefer silence then so be it."

Eragon shifted, but it was Saphira who responded. And prey tell what you would do in our situation master? When one you practically watched die – he whom taught you near enough all that's kept you alive these past years – stands tall once more having shaken of death so casually … do you not expect silence as the unimaginable is attempted to be understood?

"I expect nothing less – but there was no mere accident that today brought us all together once more. While I can understand you surprise and your shock, what you must understand is that this is far from over. You understand the theory of Du Wydra Nángorörh – let that be enough of an explanation for now, please … there are more urgent topics to discuss."

"But no one called you through," Eragon protested. "I understand the theory enough yes; enough to know that you must call one through else they will not come."

His master sighed. "Yes. I know. As it happens I was called through – although not by any purpose or design but by accident …" the elf stared long and hard into the flames. "The one whom was meant to come back, the reason Du Wydra Nángorörh was uttered in the first place, you so utterly destroyed when you killed him that the void would not yield him."

Eragon frowned, his master's oddly twisted way of phrasing things forcing him to actually think about what had just been said. "Someone uttered the Forbidden Spells to bring back Galbatorix … and you're saying that he did not come."

"No. He did not. Another slipped through in his stead."

"Who?"

"Morzan."

A cold hand seemed to clutch at his gut and twist it into an ugly knot. Why Morzan? Why his father's most hated enemy? The man his father had once loved as a brother … of all the Forsworn to return why did it have to be Galbatorix's most loyal and devoted disciple?

Who called you through ebrithil? Saphira asked then, lifting her head off the ground and staring at their master even as he stared into the fire.

"In the chaos that ruled upon the hill in the few moments before the breach collapsed and closed, did insanity not domain? I heard my name echo through the tear between the worlds and let it guide me out; there was only one who could call through to me for he is the only living awareness or being that knows – or knew – who I was and am." Eragon lifted his gaze and met that of his master's as comprehension dawned. He had heard that cry, but not made any sense of it in the midst of his spontaneous fit.

"Glaedr."

Yet the dragon had made no attempt to contact his Rider; Eragon suspected he wasn't quite sure what to be thinking and feeling. That and he knew their bond was never going to be what it had once been; after so many years separation – one in death and the other trapped in his own mind – to be reconciled again was no easy feat, even if they had once inhabited each other as completely and utterly as Eragon and Saphira did.

You said that death brings enlightenment, Oromis. One of the surviving eldunarí said then, reaching out to both Riders and the dragon. Do you know who is responsible for such a crime as this? For threatening the safety of all that dwell here in this world?

"Murtagh and Thorn."

"What!" Eragon leapt to his feet, "But he broke free of Galbatorix! He helped … helped to slay Shruikan and win the battle … no … no, master, you've got it wrong." Whether or not Oromis knew that he'd had to alter his sentence to avoid uttering her name or not was of little importance. All Eragon knew was that Murtagh – his brother – could not have done this.

"Sit down Eragon; and let us talk." Eragon sat, although he could not bring himself to accept what his master had just said – at least not yet.

Do you believe it?

I don't know … it seems unlikely for they did break free from the restraints and oaths they were bound with. I cannot see them wanting to bring back that mad king for he would surely reward their efforts by binding them again all the tighter.

Oromis watched them both as they turned their attention and focus upon him. "Before we being let me tell you that I am aware of everything that has occurred since my demise. You cannot hide from the dead …" he shook his head, "let me see if I can explain this … suffice to say that I haven't witnessed it as such – as in the void is not merely a land filled with windows through which to watch the `events of this one … yet nor is it that I have been told of the events like a narrative; I simply know what has happened."

With a wry smile Eragon said, "You realise that makes no sense, ebrithil? But I shall take your word for it and let you continue," he added.

The elf nodded, his attention once again upon the flickering flames as he ordered his thoughts and pondered what to say next. For a long moment he said nothing then; "I do not know how he discovered the Spells, nor why he uttered them … I can only assume it is some design long planned before Galbatorix's death. But for whatever reason is irrelevant at this moment. Know this then; the eggs that you left here in Alagaësia hatched roughly ten years ago now to a dwarf and to an Urgal. As you'd no doubt planned, Arya and Fírnen –"

"You know about that then?" Eragon couldn't help interrupt. Oromis gave him a calculated look, rebuking him for interrupting so. "Forgive me," Eragon murmured.

On the contrary Oromis just seemed amused; "I have already told you; I know of the events that have taken place – do not ask me how I know, but I do know." He frowned and returned to his earlier trail of thought, "Arya and Fírnen taught them best they could with what little knowledge they have and a year or so later, maybe as much as eighteen months, the hatchlings were sent to join you and Saphira and the other elves in the east."

Only they did not arrive. Glaedr murmured then, Oromis looked up sharply at his dragon's words but Glaedr said no more and nor did he reach out to his Rider. After a moment, with an unreadable expression upon his face, Oromis continued.

"Again I cannot and do not know why, but for whatever reasons Murtagh and Thorn chose to intercept the hatchlings and take them into his own apprenticeship. Whether willingly or not is irrelevant for Morzan's spawn will surely know of Galbatorix's methods of creating name-slaves … we cannot know if it was a chance meeting – a spur of the moment decision – or a plan years in the making, but it seemed that Murtagh needed the hatchlings – or their strength – to complete the ritual required to rip apart reality as he did.

"All that I do know is that the dwarf Rider and his dragon died in the process … as you no doubt saw the evidence … and that Murtagh, Thorn, Morzan and the Urgal Rider and his dragon are somewhere in Alagaësia. But what they plan and have planed … that is beyond my knowledge. We now face once more the unknown and must strive to counter it without knowing its design. It will not be easy – but nothing we Riders stand for and must guard against ever is."

Silence took hold of their little camp as Oromis threw a couple more branches onto the fire before deciding that it was hot enough to start cooking upon. While he busied himself with supper, Eragon took the time to go over his master's words … he saw no reason for trickery in them, nor did what he said seem to be anything other than the truth as Oromis interpreted it. But it bothered him, acknowledging the fact that Murtagh was behind all this – that Murtagh was the reason he'd woken that night after dreaming of the event … he knew now who it had been he'd watched utter the spells and stride forth through that gap.

Now what? He wondered absently, running a hand through his hair and staring out into the bleak landscape around them. They had left the hill in search of surroundings that didn't reek of death and decay, arriving at the spot beside a gurgling stream just metres from the area that was dead land. Oromis had told him – not that he really needed telling – that was the result of what happens when energy is taken from the land and everything in it. The very earth beneath their feet dies and therefore has nothing to sustain new life into fresh grass and plants. Forever would that lowly hilltop be a blight on the landscape – a reminder of the price power came at.

They ate in silence, too hungry and exhausted to speak. Saphira curled round the fire and had long since drifted off into slumber. Eragon knew she'd wait until she'd rested before flying out in search for some game large enough and plentiful enough for her to hunt. As he finished the last of the simple yet substantial meal Oromis had cooked, Eragon let out a sigh and glanced to the hill where the bodies of the first dwarven Rider and his dragon lay abandoned.

Getting to his feet without a word, he trudged up to the crest of the hill and once again knelt down in the dust beside them. Ebrithilar, Eragon whispered to the eldunarí, will you lend me your strength so that I may lay this Rider and his dragon to rest? They said that they would and so he set about searching the surrounding nearby for a deposit of rock large enough to encase the dragon's body. A large quantity of the reddish granite that was used to build Bregan Hold – ancestral home to Dûrgrimst Ingietum – lay by a stream.

He carried the dwarf over himself, but used magic to lift the dragon. Once they were laid side by side, Eragon stepped back and said, as he'd once done so long ago when he'd told Murtagh in no uncertain terms that he was going to burry Brom, "Reisa du stenr." The rock rose up, flowing seamlessly into a vault around the forms of the Rider and dragon, his magic shaping until the rock had sealed shut over the top, like the lid of a tomb. Then did Eragon struggle to remember the words that he'd been taught by Gannel – the spiritual leader of the dwarves – so many years ago. Stumbling over the dwarvish, he recited the prayers appropriate, pleading with the appropriate gods and finished by saying in the ancient language, "sé ono stydja unin mor'ranr."

Oromis had come up behind him as he'd worked and they stood now together in a moment silent respect for the dead hatchlings. With a few whispered words, Oromis carved glyphs into the rock face, marking it as the resting place of the first dwarven Dragon Rider and his dragon. Eragon found it rather sad to know that they both would remain unnamed in death; unnamed and most probably unknowingly lost too.

"Now what?" he wondered out loud, Saphira's snores reaching them both from their impromptu camp on the other side of the hill.

"Now?" Oromis questioned, "Now it is time for you and Saphira to return home. For even if you are not of present, you soon will be sorely needed … Fírnen and Arya cannot hope to combat this evil alone – nor are they prepared to. There is too much that they do not know."

Eragon flashed a tired grin at his master, "Regretting not letting slip more of our Order's secrets to her ebrithil?" he teased.

A fond smile lightened the elf's face as he no doubt recalled the time he'd taken to tutor Arya in the ways of magic. "To this day I cannot recall why or how she wangled them out of me … that child had the innocence of youth about her and a countenance that could melt your heart in less time than it took for a single beat … within moments of birth did she capture so skilfully the heart of me and nearly all of my race for she was and is the first true born elf in almost a century and a half." Oromis sighed, "That girl was born to be free," he mused. "Yet fate decided she be born to a king and so then it could tormented her with the agony of choice."

Eragon followed the old elf back to their campfire and sat down beside Saphira's vast bulk. "She's a good queen," he muttered, not really sure he was able to cope brooding over her for long, lest his thoughts turn bitter at the loss of what could've been.

"Of course she is," Oromis agreed, "she is, after all, her parents' daughter … but yet her temperament is not one for sitting still and staying put and doing nothing; she is far too much like her father in that respect … and far to like her mother in others." He shook his head and smiled somewhat sadly across at Eragon. "Enough talk; we must rest … tomorrow … tomorrow we will decide what to do and where to go from here."

As Eragon was laying down beside Saphira, gazing up at the star strewn sky, that he let his mind drift off in thoughts of her … of Arya … over the past years he'd refused to let himself tarry over long on what ifs and could have beens for they were too painful. Yet she had never – not once – been far from his mind; no matter what happened thoughts about her and of her were always swirling at the back of his mind … not his mind he realised now, but his heart. He'd learnt simply not to listen to them …

In the few moments before slumber took him, a startlingly clear realisation hit him and suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to resolve it; to get up and act upon it immediately.

I miss her.