Thanks readers, you're awesome!

Chapter Nine: Connections

Brom tried again to communicate with Saphira in the few days after they had gone searching for Eragon. Brom willed Burka to hurry across the damp forest ground. He figured that stopping to attempt communication would only waste time. Instead, he talked to her. The tall trees created a barrier over them—not that the sun was shining to provide warmth. Every time Saphira heard her rider's name, her uneasiness flowed through their metal link, causing Brom to worry as well. Their closeness was evident. Saphira walked parallel to the frightened horse, keeping a reasonable distance in between them.

Can you hear Eragon? Brom questioned with deliberate emphasis, in effort to make her understand.

Eragon… No. Saphira seemed distracted. She abruptly paused, lifting her snout high into the air to take a whiff. Brom halted Burka, watching the sapphire dragon with interest.

What? he demanded.

Saphira's eyes seemed to light up. Eragon! I can smell Eragon! She darted forwards, running awkwardly towards a clearing ahead. Brom dug his heels into Burka's belly, racing after the excited dragon. When he finally caught up to Saphira, she was already sniffing the clearing intently. The dead embers of a fire rested in the centre of the space. Brom dismounted the raven mare, approaching the dead fire to examine it.

They must have been here, Brom concluded. He turned to see Saphira wander over to a tree with a strong trunk. Her eyes were wild with shock. She could smell the Ra'zac. She started clawing at a certain spot in front of the tree, whimpering quietly. Brom hurried to her, laying a gentle and on her neck. The dirt was covered in dry blood.

Eragon… here… The thought was laced with deep sadness. Eragon… was here.

Brom nodded curtly, his panic rising. He followed Saphira as she rushed towards a cluster of trees. More blood covered the ground. A small tatter of black material lay scrunched in the grass. Saphira growled menacingly, clawing at the grass, ripping chunks of dirt from the ground. Brom bent over and picked up the dark material. He recognised it to be part of a pair of pants… Eragon's pants.

If only he could write, Brom thought in frustration. He could have written a message in the dirt… I wonder if he knows where they're taking him… if he knows what they are. Saphira nudged her snout into Brom's hand, studying the material. Her feelings were jumbled, but were somewhere between depressed, furious, and worried.

And then she shocked Brom by saying a full sentence. We must follow the scent of the Ra'zac.

Brom blinked rapidly. Yes, he managed.

. . .

Roran sat next to Katrina in an alley in Carvahall, letting emotions rack his body. He had no idea where his father or Eragon were, and it made him feel lost.

Brom said he would find Eragon… Is Garrow with Eragon?

Katrina held his hand softly, watching him anxiously. Watching him cry was painful—he barely ever cried. Roran had gone straight to Horst's house when he arrived at Carvahall late at night. He told him and his wife, Elain, what had happened, Albriech and Baldor—their two sons—listening in surprise. They didn't know about Saphira or Brom—Roran didn't tell them. He wasn't sure why, but he felt it was for the best. Horst had insisted he stay, despite the fact that he had told them Brom had allowed him to stay at his place. They put Burka in their stable, alongside their cattle.

He felt like he had let his family down. He should have stayed with them. He had left Eragon on his own with a wild creature. He did not only feel as though he had let Eragon down, but his father too. Garrow always told him to stay with Eragon, no matter what.

"Roran," Katrina murmured gently, ducking under his arm to lay her head on his chest. Roran wound his arms around her, trying to control his ragged breathing.

"I-I should h-have been t-there," he stuttered dejectedly.

Katrina cupped his cheeks. She stared at him, her eyes firm. "Stop it, Roran. You didn't know what was going to happen." Roran closed his eyes, letting her comfort him reluctantly. He didn't believe what she said, but he let her speak nevertheless. Her voice soothed him, her soft fingers stroking the tears from his eyes.

"I'm scared," he admitted quietly.

"I know," Katrina replied hopelessly, sighing. "I know."

. . .

In Galbatorix's throne room stood Murtagh, his dark eyes lifeless, his body stiff. Behind him was his dragon, Thorn, his bright crimson scales shining. Yet another chore was to be placed upon Murtagh's shoulders. The dark king seemed to be pleased about something he was unaware of. Not that Murtagh was particularly surprised. He only hoped that he wouldn't be asked to murder someone. Galbatorix sat motionlessly on his throne, eyeing him sternly.

"I have some…" Galbatorix paused, his eyebrows rising. "Cheer up, boy; I have exciting news for you."

The sixteen year-old almost cringed. No, no, no.

"You will be meeting your brother soon." Galbatorix held his hands up. "Let me explain."

Murtagh couldn't control his hammering heart. How could he have a brother? The thought was so foreign, and he immediately wanted to reject it. Brother? He suddenly felt sick. He must be lying! Thorn willed him to stay silent.

"Aye, it's about time I told you what has been going on, because you would not know. While you were training with Thorn, many things occurred. A dragon egg was stolen. One of the elves who stole it managed to transport it away before a Shade under my orders could get it. I then sent the Ra'zac to capture the new rider. They have told me about him. Eragon is his name. Selena fled to Carvahall when she was pregnant with him, where she gave birth and left him with relatives."

Something is off, Thorn warned.

Murtagh stood rooted in his spot, before questioning suspiciously, "Why would she have done that?"

Galbatorix shrugged. "Who knows? It was a foolish decision."

Murtagh frowned. "My mother wasn't foolish," he muttered protectively.

Grinning, Galbatorix said, "Why, you don't know that. Anyhow, I must ask of you a favour."

Like I have a choice, Murtagh thought bitterly. "What do you want?"

"I suggest you respect your elders. You are bounded to me by oaths. You will only regret defying me." Galbatorix waited until Murtagh hung his head, before continuing with slight amusement. "I would like you to teach him what you have so far learned, to take him as your student, for you are his elder."

Murtagh wanted to refuse, but he knew he couldn't, and his curiosity got to him. Maybe we could… He forced himself to eliminate the thought for the moment—he did not want to risk the king hearing.

You have no choice. You must, Thorn told him gently.

"I'll do what I can." Murtagh stared coldly at the ground.

A cold chuckle echoed through the massive room. "I think you'll enjoy the company of another rider. Together, you shall exceed all but me in strength."

. . .

Eragon sat in the grass, tied to a tree like usual. It was late, the moon and stars giving him something to stare at, thus he could forget both his physical and psychological pain. He couldn't remember how long it had been. He didn't care. What difference would it make? The days of endless traversing tired him, and gave his thighs no chance to heal. As soon as he survived a night of agony and his thighs stopped bleeding, he was forced onto a Lethrblaka, and the whole process repeated. He hadn't eaten for nearly a week. Every time the Ra'zac demanded it, Eragon only shook his head stubbornly. At first, it had been absolutely horrible, but the hunger had developed into an annoying reminder in the back his mind, and his stomach just felt numb.

He missed home, the villagers, and even Brom crossed his mind. He still had no idea where Roran was, but he prayed that he had left before the Ra'zac arrived—perhaps to meet Katrina in town, where he was safe. He missed Saphira desperately. Everything was a reminder of her. When they stopped to get a drink from a small stream, the water reminded him of her. When he looked to the sky, he was reminded of memories watching her learn how to fly. When he cried himself to sleep, he was taken back to the small tree in the Spine, where she hummed him to sleep after a hard day on the farm. Even the Lethrblaka reminded him of Saphira, because of their similar appearance to dragons.

He felt like they were getting very close to reaching Urû'baen. The thought of meeting the king terrified him. What does he want from me? Saphira's not even with me. He stared at his right hand, where the white oval glimmered. Saphira. A lump formed in his throat, and he restrained the urge to cry.

Every day, the Ra'zac filled Eragon's head with stories. They told him that the Empire was good, and it was people like the Varden who wanted to cause destruction. Some days, Eragon just ignored them, and others he listened. He didn't know what to believe. At first he argued, insisting that they were wrong, but the way they talked of Galbatorix—as if he was some kind of saviour—had started to twist Eragon's visions on everything.

. . .

Orik, Amira and Arya had arrived at Tronjheim a few hours ago. Their trip back to Tronjheim had been fast and tiring. Ajihad had been pleased to see Arya, and praised Amira's bravery for persisting on rescuing her. Arya and Amira recounted what had happened, and their worries concerning the Shade to Ajihad, before he had demanded they rest. After Arya had properly bathed, and had bid her sister goodnight, she was taken to a room by a kind dwarf.

Staring at the ceiling of her room, Arya reflected on the day's events. She felt uneasy. She knew something was very wrong. The egg must have hatched for someone, she thought anxiously. She closed her eyes, forcing her stiff muscles to relax. And that was the night she dreamt of him.

Arya wandered through the forest, smiling as she breathed in the fresh morning air. Her fingers caressed the leaves of trees and small plants as she drifted past. She walked until she saw a small clearing through two large trees. Approaching it, her heart leapt. Something felt wrong. She was shocked when she saw a sobbing boy sitting before a tree, curled up, his knees drawn to his chest. As she hid behind a tree, she studied him. He had longish brown hair, hints of red shining through it as the sun hit it. His face was hidden behind his knees. He wore ragged, bloody clothes—black pants and a long-sleeved deep blue shirt. There were marks in the ground beside him, as if he had been clawing away at the dirt for hours on end.

She didn't understand why she felt so drawn to him. Without thinking, Arya took a step forwards. He didn't seem to notice. That's when two dragon-lookalikes came into view. They were guarding him. Two large tents stood under some trees that created an overhang over them. The delayed realisation hit her, but she kept walking. As she got closer to him, she noticed how skinny he was. His skin was a pale complexion. Still, no one acknowledged her. She sat beside him, eyeing the rope tied to his blood-stained wrists. The side of his face was visible. Tightly shut eyes rested over pronounced cheekbones. His nose curved down to his dry lips—that looked extremely painful. He was beautiful. He eventually lifted his head. His attention suddenly shot towards her. Two stunning eyes stared at her, one a hazel brown, the other a glowing sapphire.

Arya woke with a start, jumping up from her bed like a spooked horse. All she could think about was the way he had looked at her, his right sapphire eye—the way it had glowed. The same colour as the egg! Arya couldn't draw any other reasonable analogies. He was the new dragon rider, something inside of her was certain of it. It still made no sense that she had dreamed of him.

. . .

Eragon's eyes snapped open. He was staring to his left, his head raised. Confusion flooded his mind. He remembered a beautiful woman sitting beside him, watching him with her emerald eyes. He felt his chest tighten. Why did he miss her?

Thanks!