Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Inheritance Cycle nor am I Christopher Paolini. The only things I own are my ideas, my clothes and my ass, so don't burn it.

Chapter 12

In his waking sleep, Eragon travelled through the day yet again.


Glenwing, pouring something into his throat, convulsing and falling down, twitching and flailing until he exploded in a mass of black spirits.

The spirits engulfed him in a screeching, swirling whirl of formless evil, flying back and forth around the clearing, avoiding the elves, but coming dangerously close to Arya and even brushing up against Eragon. He shivered as he remembered the feeling of touching something so malevolent and purely evil. He didn't touch it, but the very essence of the spirit felt slimy and sent chills down his spine.

The spirits flew faster and faster, surrounding Glenwing till he couldn't be seen until they moved as one, a swirling vortex and murderous intent. Then they were gone. Just like that, the clearing, previously so thick with evil that the air was unbreathable, was clear and fresh. The tree branches, previously crashing together in the wind caused by the spirits, now were swaying gently in the light breeze. But Glenwing was gone.

It took a second before the elves and Eragon realized that Arya remained. She was still bleeding, but the arrow was black and looked like it was pulsing with what could only be a curse. She didn't appear to be breathing, but she was pale and covered in cold sweat. She suddenly convulsed. Eragon looked around at the motionless elves before exclaiming in disbelief, "Why don't you heal her?!"

Islanzadí was the elf who replied. "She cannot be healed by our art now. Had she the means to heal herself, she would not have allowed herself to be so easily subdued by Glenwing. The arrow is also now poisoned by the spirits, and she can only be healed by slow work of plants which we have only in Ellesméra, or by herself, from the inside. Also, even if we were to push our horses to the limit, something we are not wont to do, by the time they get back to Ellesméra, she would be dead. Had she even the thought of healing herself, however, she would already have done it. And it is not our custom to heal those who do not wish to be healed." All this was said calmly, as though her only daughter was not bleeding to death at her feet.

Eragon couldn't believe it. As cold as the elves were, or pretended to be, this was her child! The heir to the throne! She couldn't just let her daughter die! Of course, it was possible that Islanzadí was just trying to remain the aloof Queen, even when inside she was dying like Arya was dying. But he didn't have time for this. Arya didn't have time for this. "If you're going to let your daughter die, then so be it, but I sure as hell am not going to let that happen,' Eragon snarled.

With that, amidst the gasps of outrage among the elves, Eragon lifted Arya bodily from the ground and clambered upon Saphira, carefully manoeuvring Arya so that he didn't damage her more. 'Fly, Saphira. Fly fast to Ellesméra. We have no time to waste.' Eragon told Saphira urgently. Without a word, Saphira spread her wings and shot off above the horses. Several of the elves protested and raised their weapons, and some even turned their horses around, but were stopped by a hand movement from the Queen. Even as Eragon sped past the cavalry, he heard her clearly say, "Hinder them and die at my hands." He smiled faintly. After all that talk, the Elf Queen was, in the end, a mother first, and an Elf Queen second.

Saphira rushed maniacally through the trees, seeing them less than seconds before she could change course to avoid a collision. There were a lot of trees, a lot of chances to crash, fall, and waste time getting up again, but Saphira was focused in her terrifying speed. She swooped, ducked, spun, and folded her wings as necessary to avoid the branched and trunks. The way to Ellesméra was clear, a thin road, lined with trees that were increasingly taller and thicker. They were so thin, in fact, that Saphira was forced to glide sideways, an arduous task for her, and an almost impossible task for Eragon to hold on to Arya without hurting her further. Still, it was faster than riding those little ponies.

Time passed so quickly, with Saphira coming close to a collision every few seconds, and with Eragon desperately trying to hang on to Saphira whilst holding on to Arya that, unexpectedly, the trees thinned and opened into a large, circular space. Standing dead centre of the circle was an elf that looked ancient, but well and alive, a powerful aura of wisdom and magic surrounding him. Saphira angled herself well above him and attempted to fly past. She crashed into an invisible barrier and fell quickly to the ground before she could attempt to open her wings. She was winded and disoriented. The ground shook, and she landed right behind the elf.

Eragon, who had been pressing his back against Saphira's neck, absorbed the shock of whatever Saphira hit. Arya, leaning against his chest, didn't seem to be hurt. And the shock of Saphira hitting something she couldn't punch through, at full speed, jarred him so badly that he fell off Saphira, Arya still clutched in his arms. From 30 feet in the air, he yelled out a quick string of words in the Ancient Language and dropped slowly but steadily to the ground, landing neatly in front of the old elf, Arya still in his arms, feverishly cold, but still alive, though barely.

Perhaps it was coincidence, but a spot through the branches and leaves of the trees above shone down directly onto the old elf. He wore a white, flowing robe and a thin circlet of silver on his head. He looked serenely at Eragon, as though a large blue dragon had not just flown above his head and crashed into something invisible right behind him and landed also right behind him, less than several feet away. It also did not seem to concern him that he had a Rider, intent undetermined, standing in front of him with a dying elf in his arms.

Somehow, Eragon knew that it was this unassuming elf, so calm and at peace with the world in the face of such danger, was the one who had managed to stop the powerful dragon who weighed several tons and still stood there as though he had done nothing more strenuous than breathe. Power did not always make itself known with destruction and terror. In the Ancient Language, still, Eragon said, "Let us pass. This elf is dying and in need of care that can only be found in Ellesméra."

The elf, in a rather infuriating manner, shook his head and smiled. "I am Gilderien the Wise, Prince of House Miolandra, wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, guardian of Ellesméra since the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka and I have my orders. Only those pure in heart and without evil intent are allowed into Ellesméra."

"I'm trying to save her life! She is the daughter of Islanzadí! Are you going to let her die?" Eragon exclaimed in anger. Supporting Arya as best as he could with one arm, Eragon shoved his palm with the gedwëy ignasia on it to the elf. "If you're so wise, then let me through!"

The eyes of the old elf darkened in the slightest degree, but in such a calm face, it was noticeable. "Do not attempt to force your way, Rider. I can see in you an evil so powerf-" Gilderien was cut off by Islanzadí's mental voice, clear, although she was still so far away. 'Gilderien. Let them pass. Whatever they may do is on my honour, and wherever they may trespass is on my grave. They have the favour of the Queen.'

Gilderien frowned dreadfully, his face transforming from a peaceful old man to a vengeful Urgal in a second. His eyebrows slanted in anger, his mouth curved downwards dangerously. His eyes, however, were full of something that looked almost like fear. He slowly raised his arms. Softly, and in the hiss of a viper, Gilderien said, "Pass, Rider, without my blessing, but with the blessing of our Queen. But I was old before the Queen was Queen, and I know that allowing you to pass is the greatest mistake of my life." He stared at Eragon, that anger on his face, that fear in his eyes.

Eragon was slightly shaken, but pushed his words of his mind for the moment and quickly passed around Gilderien the Wise, Prince of House Miolandra, wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, guardian of Ellesméra since the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka and into Ellesméra. Saphira followed beside him, tottering unsteadily on her feet. Eragon cried for help as he stumbled through the streets. Arya was barely breathing in his arms, and he didn't notice the simple, yet elegant architecture the elves had made out of trees.

Elves rushed towards him in a sea of people, young ones, old ones, blonde, brunette, red-haired, brown eyed, blue eyed, colourless eyes, all pale and looking at him as one. They engulfed him in their masses as Arya was taken away from him, they told him, to a medical unit. From there, everything was a blur. Perhaps because the shock of what just happened had finally settled in, or perhaps Gilderien had done something to him, he felt as blur as Saphira. The elves, with their soft questions and incessant greetings, blurred into a mass of shapeless, pale objects, and he fell into a half-consciousness, where he was only half-aware of things going on around him.


Eragon frowned. From there, things were unclear. He remembered hands catching him as he fell, Saphira growling menacingly, assurances of goodwill, someone carrying him somewhere, a soft bed, and, now, waking up. As his eyes opened blearily, he tried to contact Saphira, but she was busy hunting. The sight of all that blood from the deer unreasonably caused him discomfort. He closed his mind and focused on the person in the bed next to his. Arya. She looked paler than usual, but her stomach had been tightly bound in white bandages. Her lower torso was dressed in the same black pants as before, but her upper torso was bare but for the bandages.

He tore his eyes away, heat prickling across his neck and ears. She looked haggard but she breathed, and that was enough to relieve his worry. Seconds after he had regained his composure and was facing the blank wall on his other side, not daring to look around the room for fear that his eyes would wander, a door in front of him opened. Islanzadí, dressed in a simple red tunic and black pants not unlike her daughter's, strode confidently into the room. She did not even spare him more than a glance before she stopped at her daughter's bedside, and, unfolding a large blanket, carefully covered Arya with it. She looked at Arya with a look mothers reserve only for their children. From what Eragon could see from his vantage point, Islanzadí looked almost...vulnerable. She looked at Arya with such love in her eyes that Eragon felt his heart break a little, knowing that Arya would surely forgive her mother, if only the Queen had ever showed Arya that love while she was conscious.

Then the Queen stood straighter, then turned around to face Eragon. He struggled to a seating position, not tired, but not quite in control of his limbs. He clumsily raised two fingers to his lips and said, "Atra estern-"

Islanzadí cut him off with a swift look. "Rider, were it not for you, I would not even have a daughter now, so if anyone should be greeted first, it should be you, not I."

Eragon nodded slowly, but replied, "Still, you are a Queen, and I am a Rider. Perhaps this puts us on equal footing. Shall we just forego the traditional greetings?' and without waiting for a reply, Eragon inclined his head slightly and said, "Islanzadí Dröttning, my name is Eragon Bromsson."

At the sound of his name, Islanzadí blinked, but made no other movement. "Bromsson', she murmured. 'I miss Brom. He was one of a few exceptional humans. Where is your father, do you know?"

Eragon blanched. "He is... dead." Eragon looked away, shame creeping up his neck.

Islanzadí merely nodded thoughtfully, as though she did not notice Eragon cringing away from her. "I'm truly sorry about that. He was a great man." The great man's son cum murderer nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He did not dare to speak the truth, knowing how highly the elves thought of Brom. He needed all of his limbs intact to kill Galbatorix.

During a mildly awkward silence, Islanzadí had just swallowed enough pride to ask about her daughter's disappearance, but before she could, a loud crash outside the room interrupted her. Let me pass before I burn this whole place down! Saphira. Eragon smiled. In seconds, amidst murmuring apologies from the elves, the door to the room was magically enlarged enough for Saphira's head to fit through, which she did, whilst growling in annoyance. She laid her large head on the ground, leaving her eyes perfectly level to the bed so that she could look at Eragon.

Hello, Queen. Saphira sounded amused. It really wasn't my fault that that large vase outside broke. Your guards refused me entry. They were polite, but really, why didn't you want to let me see my Rider? Did you want to question him alone, perhaps?

Islanzadí flushed proudly, but nonetheless flushed, which meant that Saphira was right. She, Saphira, not the Queen, snorted smoke out of her nostrils. If you're done, I could quite possibly have him back now? I'm sure you are done, aren't you?

The Elf Queen made a half smile, half grimace and said, "I think whether or not I am done with him, you are going to take him back to your quarters. Go then, mighty dragon. I have not the authority or the power to stop you.

Saphira's bared her teeth in what might have been a smirk while Eragon got up as quickly as possible without falling over. He frowned and wondered why he still felt so strange. As though she had read his mind, Islanzadí called out from behind him, "Oh, and Rider Eragon, I must apologise over how Gilderien put that confusion spell over you. It will wear off soon enough. According to him, you're dangerous and he didn't want you to have your full senses."

Eragon stopped mid step, but didn't turn around. Firmly, he said, "Islanzadí Dröttning, I take my leave." It wasn't forgiveness, but it was all he was going to give, so she took what she could get. Then Eragon followed Saphira's withdrawing neck out the door, and into an elaborately simple hallway. Trees were walls, with the ceiling being formed by overlapping branches and leaves, allowing some light in through the tiny holes. Eragon concluded that it was night, judging by the occasional blackness he could see through the empty spaces.

Through the hallway, they had passed several elves, all of whom greeted Eragon and Saphira with the traditional greeting. He was forced to stop and engage each one of them. Soon, the hallway opened abruptly into a large courtyard. Even in the dark, Eragon could see that it was beautifully decorated; with plants he didn't even know the name of surrounding the perimeter.

Come. Saphira gently nudged Eragon with her snout. I'll take you to our living quarters. Are you well enough to walk? Eragon shook his head. Damn Gilderien. I still feel dizzy. Saphira growled slightly, but said, Climb up. When Eragon was firmly seated, Saphira took off to a mind-blowing height. Eragon gasped. Truly, the view was amazing, especially in the twilight. There was a rough approximation of a circle, surrounded by huge trees. Directly in the centre of the circle was where Eragon had just came out of, and it was obviously the place where only the elves equivalent of royalty lived.

The rest of the circle, which Eragon could barely see, was made up of smaller, but hardly any less grand, houses. The houses looked more like tree houses, but accessible and almost certainly more comfortable. They glowed dimly with light from the inside, giving enough light to the elves outside to walk around. The elves themselves, who looked tiny from so far above, were gathered in small groups, doing their own thing. Some wandered around the magnificent gardens, as late as it was, while others flitted in and out of the trees in a small swath of woods, clearly playing a game.

Saphira gave Eragon some time to appreciate the sight, and the fresher air, which cleared his mind somewhat. Our quarters are over there. Saphira slowly glided towards a house that looked more like tall tree. It was the tallest tree he had ever seen, but bare of branches along the sides, with only a massive head of leaves and branches on the top of the tree. It was situated further from the centre, more towards the border of Ellesméra. Saphira circled the tree until she came to a hole near the base that was more than three times her size, allowing her to land in the tree easily.

Eragon jumped Saphira, his dizziness ignored or forgotten, and eagerly explored the monstrous tree. They had landed on a circular platform, with cracks and scratch marks all over the wooden trunk/floor. The Riders of old must have stayed here. Eragon mused. No, Saphira shook her head. Only Vrael, and, of course, the first Rider, your namesake. It was reserved for the leader of the Riders of the age. Now it is yours. Eragon shook his head slightly, awed.

Next to the entrance Saphira had come in from was some stairs leading up. Where do those go? Eragon asked Saphira. They lead to other rooms, like the washroom, the bedroom, a study, and perhaps some other rooms for recreation. I do not know. There are no entrances for dragons there. There are only two such entrances. One here, at the bottom, and one at the top, at the bedroom. Too many such holes would have cause the tree to become far too susceptible to the weather. Saphira turned towards the entrance and said, Go on and explore. I will meet you at the top. With that, she leapt out and lazily flapped her way up, facing Eragon, which meant her shorter forearms stuck out. She wiggled them mischievously, which was out of character for her, but Eragon could sense some of her wonder, as much as she tried to hide it.

Eragon laughed and turned to the stairs, which, he found out, followed the outer trunk of the tree and with a thinned bark, allowed light in, and gave more space to the other "recreation" rooms, whereupon the stairs branched into two, one towards the middle of the trunk and one continuing upwards. The first room he entered was low, only a two or three arm's length above his head, but as large as the entire perimeter of the trunk, filled with low tables and no chairs. One long table was neatly laid out with row upon row of steel tipped arrows with delicate swan feathers, basic wooden arrows with tougher, dyed feathers, and a few barrels of arrows made of pure steel, covered in spikes. Eragon's eyes grew , looking out through his eyes, remarked, That's the weapon's room, as you've noticed. Islanzadí said they were checked on and maintained, just in case the elves ever set out to war. The weapons aren't for you. She chuckled.

Eragon frowned. That's the kind of arrow you were attacked with, Saphira. He gingerly picked up one of the spiked arrows. Saphira was silent for a moment. They humans probably took the idea from the elves, Eragon fumed. Such an awful weapon. I can't believe the elves would use this against their enemies! As if they can't kill enough people with their magic. He threw it back in the barrel, making it clang against the others. Peace, Eragon. It wasn't them who attacked me. Saphira counseled.

Eragon didn't deign to reply. He walked to the next table. It held all kinds of strange, six pointed stars. He had heard of these, but had never seen one before. The men in Carvahall had called them shurikens, made for cowards to use from far away. He picked one up by one point, marveling at how sharp it was. The quick thought of Horst calling the elves cowards for using weapons like these made him smile briefly. He put it back and walked on.

The third table was covered with sharp, steel tipped spearheads. There must have been hundreds lying in neat, perfectly straight rows on that long table. He was wondering where the actual spears were when a prickling on the back of his neck made him turn around. Eragon finally noticed the rows of spears, swords and bows hanging in neat rows the walls. They had been so unobtrusive that he hadn't even seen them. Wooden spears, halberds, bardiches, voulges, and other polearms that Eragon had never even heard of before lay horizontally, going all the way up to the ceiling in even rows. Next to it were even more rows of swords. Two-handed, one-handed, short, long, broadswords, cutlasses, falchions, rapiers, flamberges; Eragon's eyes hurt from the gleaming of the sharp edges. Normal bows like the ones he used also adorned the wall, though there were longbows and crossbows there too.

Another part of the wall was entirely devoted to armour. Much of it was chainmail, much lighter and harder than it looked, to Eragon's surprise. It was even finer than dwarfwork. "Magic," Eragon spat. But even as Eragon condemned it, he found himself drawn to the weapons. The helmets gleamed and the gauntlets shone. War boots with spikes in the bottom of the shoe lined the ground in neat rows of different sizes. Eragon shivered, but went deeper into the room. One table was covered with daggers and small knives. They were lying in their scabbards, connected to straps, obviously meant to be hidden within loose clothes or in high boots. Eragon admired the brilliant workmanship before slipping one into his pocket. He ignored Saphira's radiating disapproval. Instinct told him he would need it.

The further Eragon walked, the more repulsed and revulsion mixed with admiration he felt. There were so many tables that at last, he could no longer take it. He shook his head to clear it of the many images of sharps blades and dangerous, unmentionable weapons. Just before he turned to go back to the stairs, he saw several rows of catapults and ballistas. He wondered why magicians as powerful as the elves, and as peaceful a race as theirs would need so many weapons. There were enough weapons here to take down a castle without magic. In fact, there were enough weapons here to subdue the whole of Alagaesia... He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and went to the next level.

The next level was far less worrisome. It was a circular room, fitted with mirrors on one side of it. The room was filled with punching bags, a climbing wall that went past the ceiling with about three feet of space between it, a round circular cage that spun on its wheels, and other such objects. The Queen said that when the times were peaceful, the Riders often used these to keep up their reflexes and muscles. You should try it sometimes. There was a smirk in Saphira's thoughts. Eragon rolled his eyes and continued up.

The next room was filled wall to wall with cubbyholes filled with books. They seemed to be arranged by author, topic and size. Only the elves would have had such patience to arrange these thousands of books, and then to not even let one speck of dust touch them. Eragon idly wondered who it was that came in and cleaned the books, work-out equipment and weapons every day. He went on.

The next level was entirely empty except for a huge glass wall on one side, allowing Eragon to look out of it. He looked out and caught his breath. He didn't realize he was so high already. Ellesméra stretched out languidly before him. He turned away, and noticed the climbing wall from the second floor had continued through a rectangular hole in the floor. It ended a few feet above his head, before it reached the next floor. He decided to try and climb it another day. Eragon used the stairs to get to the next floor.

He emerged into the top floor of the huge tree, face to face with Saphira. He patted her on the snout softly then wandered around the spacious interior, which was big enough for Saphira and several accommodations for Eragon. She hummed deep in her throat behind him. The ceiling seemed to stretch on forever before spiraling and closing up in a point. There was an entrance identical to the one on the first floor. He walked up to the very edge of it and almost fell out. The winds were slightly stronger than he expected, and they buffeted him. He stepped back. He looked and Saphira and asked, What happens if it rains?

Saphira stood up to her full height, unencumbered by a ceiling and, with her tail, gently caught a large hook hanging out of the corner of a hole. She pulled on it, and a large canvas flap tautly followed behind it. She pulled it down until it was low enough for Eragon to hold. Use your strength, little one, Saphira wisely advised. Eragon rolled his eyes and grabbed onto the hook. Had not Saphira prepared him to use magic, he would have followed the canvas back into the corner of the hole. It was large and heavy. With a little bit of a struggle, he managed to secure the hook with another hook at the opposite corner where it came from. The canvas, which, Eragon realized was actually hard rubber, held fast, curving in slightly where the winds hit it. The room immediately became slightly warmer. Eragon left it where it was and went on.

Where the stairs came in was a large empty space, soft but firm, obviously for the dragon to sleep on. The other part of the room had a normal bunk for a human with a bedside table, a writing table stocked with quills and parchment, and a small closet. There was also a wooden door, which Eragon discovered led to a washroom with an ivory basin and tub. He went back out of it. It was getting dark, so he lit the lamp that was on the bedside table. The warm glow of the lamp caused soft shadows to jump around the large area, making it feel much more like a place where he could actually sleep in.

Eragon. You should get some rest. Tomorrow, Islanzadí will send someone for us. She says we're to meet Oromis tomorrow. Eragon felt his heart catch at the thought of meeting another Rider. He quickly bathed and fell into bed, falling into his elven dreams yet again. But they were different, tonight. They were more violent, and bloody.


The feeling of falling, running through dimly lit streets, past shadows haunting the small spaces between houses. An elf, terror in his eyes, the steel smell of fear on his breath. The blood, the muffled shouts for help. The unwillingness in his eyes to give up, the cracking of bones, the scurrying feet of a few nearby elves. He felt powerful, bigger and stronger than all of them put together. No more would he be underestimated. Tonight, he ruled the night.

And so he did. One by one, the elves were violently, quietly, brutally murdered. Black eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, no eyes; it was all the same to him. They died at his hands, unable to protect themselves. Then at the height of his glory, when he had raised his head to the heavens, when blood was dripping down his hands, when he felt more magic than ever before rushing through his veins, one elf turned the corner and appeared in front of him. Even in his daze of power, he could see she was beautiful. Her green eyes shone with tears, her black hair glistened. In the back of his mind, he thought, 'Arya Dröttningu.'

And then he was gone.


Eragon thought he was still trapped in that terrible nightmare, perhaps fighting the cruel killer. He thrashed around on his bed, getting entangled with his blanket, yelling. Then he realized he was awake, and Saphira was scrutinizing him closer. As he gasped for breath, his heart pounded hard against his ribcage. His sweat was cold on his skin, the room was dark, the candle almost burnt to the end. Shadows danced on the walls in time with the flickering flame. Slowly, as Eragon calmed down, he leaned back against his bed. He brought his hand up to his face to wipe his sweat off when he froze.

His hands were completely covered in blood.

His heart seemed to stop for a second, then restart at treble the speed. Eragon? What just happened? Saphira's conscious was confused, and she sounded afraid.

I... I don't know, Saphira. I just... I had a dream, but I... Eragon tried to swallow, but couldn't get past the lump in his throat. There was something cold and hard and dry stuck there, blocking his airflow and his thoughts. His mind whirled and his bones ached.

Saphira's mind melted into his, then recoiled. She hissed. You didn't have a dream! She snarled. I just saw you come in here and go back to bed. You wouldn't answer me, and I had no idea what you were doing. Then you suddenly leapt up and then I realized you were covered in blood. Eragon, what have you done? Saphira was agitated, her tail swinging around the room, breaking a lamp and tearing her sheets.

Eragon still had no answer. He gaped at Saphira and stared at her. Then he rasped, "Saphira, I think I killed a lot of elves. I don't know what happened." Without warning, Saphira calmed down. Okay. Okay. Were you seen? Eragon nodded slowly, remembering sad green eyes. Who did you kill? Saphira pressed. Eragon merely shrugged. The faces were blur and nameless. We have to get out of here, Saphira decided. We have to get out of here now. They will never forgive you for this.

Eragon looked blankly at Saphira. His mind raced, but his thoughts didn't make sense. He knew that if he just went back to sleep, everything would be fine. Saphira's teeth were snapping now, right in front of his face, but he didn't react. Her razor sharp tooth barely missed his eye, but Eragon just sat there on his bed, staring down Saphira's throat. He couldn't hear anything; all he could do was stare. Then someone slapped him in the face.

The world rushed back. He could hear his heartbeat, fast but steady, his breath, excited and fast, and Saphira, growling in annoyance. He could see past the two round pinpoints of light he had been focusing on. Then he looked up from his bloody bed sheets and saw Arya standing right beside his bed and staring right down at him, her eyes hard and dangerous.

"You have to get out of here." She said flatly. "Soon, the Queen herself will enter with her most powerful guards and interrogate you. Nobody will know who slaughtered all those elves but everybody will being questioned. You will be the prime suspect, but no one will dare come to you so soon. When the whole of Ellesméra is roused, they will come, and even you will not stand a chance. No one is yet awake, but the sun is rising, and the bodies will be discovered. Get up and run now, before it is too late. Get. Up!" Arya almost screamed the last two words when Eragon didn't move.

Eragon's reaction was immediate. He scrambled off his bed hastily and stood face to face with Arya. He looked down at himself and with mild surprise realized that he was dressed in a long sleeved black tunic and black pants. He realized with growing horror that they were splattered with a dark, sticky and wet substance. With a shaking finger, he wiped some of it off. His finger came away red. He closed his eyes and took a few breaths. One word, soft and passionate, escaped his lips. "Dammit."

He looked into Arya's eyes, which burned with what appeared to be anger, but there was something more behind it. A dark emotion that she didn't want him to see. She looked so sad and so alone. By saving him, she was throwing away her own life. If she was caught, she would most definitely be killed, Queen's daughter or not. Eragon didn't have the right words to say to her. After all, what could he possibly say? He had killed her friends, her innocent friends. He reached up to touch her face, to brush away the tear that trickled down from her left eye and down her cheek, but decided against it. He didn't deserve to touch her. He turned away and started grabbing items.

Saphira unhooked the canvas and let it flap back up to the top of the entrance. She stood stock-still at the entrance and stuck her head out, letting the winds hit her hard. She was preparing for flight, and nothing could hurt her.

Inside, Eragon gathered most of the necessities, and some food that was in a small larder. He strapped the full saddle bags securely around Saphira's neck and quickly climbed up and settled himself. He turned back to look at the room that had provided sanctuary for one night. He didn't know what happened, but his best guess was that his dark side had taken over, if just for the night. He felt uncomfortable tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. Help from the elves, meeting with Oromis, Arya... Nothing was to be.

Arya.

She stood in the exact same position as before. She faced the bed with her hands at her sides. Her shoulders hunched slightly. Saphira, at the entrance, blocked some of the sunlight coming in to room. The shadows danced on Arya's face, highlighting her tear-stained cheekbones. Her head was bowed, and Eragon couldn't see her eyes. She didn't turn around.

Eragon hesitated, and then called out Arya's name softly. Slowly and mechanically, Arya turned her head. She looked up slowly and pierced both Eragon and Saphira through their hearts with one look. That look told them everything and nothing. "Come with us.' Eragon said desperately. A light sparked in Arya's eyes, but she shook her head, the same detachment settling around her again.

Eragon heard a distant shout, and the sound of footsteps, also far off. Urgently, Eragon said, "Arya, you can't stay here. They will kill you. Come with me. Please." He stayed on Saphira's back, resisting the urge to just pick her up and run. He gave her space.

Arya's body shook slightly, and then she took a small step hesitantly towards Eragon. Eragon held his hand out to her. With that, everything in her seemed to explode outwards. In less than a second, she had flown towards Eragon. She grabbed his proffered hand and lightly leapt up Saphira. "Let's go." Her voice was husky, but firm.

Eragon nodded. Saphira back slightly into the room before taking a flying leap into the air. Her wings opened and spread powerfully. They quickly gained height. She angled upwards and forwards, keen to get out and avoid Gilderien. He was right. Eragon's fist clenched. Islanzadí should never have let him in. Gilderien was right. He really was evil.

Just as they were passing over the passing over the border than divided Ellesméra and Du Weldenvarden, Eragon felt a buzzing in his ears and a sense that they were slowing down. Eragon! Something's pulling me back! Saphira cried in his mind. Eragon cursed and felt his mind connect with another. The presence was ancient and angry. Gilderien. Curse you, Rider. I should never have let you in. He began a quick chant, and Eragon felt Saphira straining to go forward, but instead she slowly and steadily sank.

Yelling, Eragon shook him off and sent a huge blast of power towards the presence. A soft cry rang out in his ears and Saphira shot forward, the pressure on her gone. In a minute, they were far enough that Eragon completely couldn't sense the old elf. He sighed heavily and leaned forward, then stopped when Arya tightened her hold around his waist, pressing her face into his back. He tensed.

So many things had happened in the span of one day. He had met a Queen, saved her daughter, and killed many of her friends. He had fled the only place Brom thought safe enough for him and now had the Queen's daughter behind him, after she had risked all to save his life.

So many things had happened, but what would stick in his mind the longest, the memory that he would hold forever, was the way Arya sobbed into his back while clinging onto him like he was her last hope. It would be the way her tears soaked his blood stained tunic, the way her body shivered and shook that would stay in his mind forever.


A/N

I know it's been ages, but hopefully the chapters will come up faster after this. As usual, a huge thanks to everyone who review, added me to story alert, favourite story etc etc. You guys/gals all rock.

So many questions, so little time… All questions will be answered in time though; just keep reading!

Reviews are way better than Arya crying into your shoulder.. Hmm..