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 13

Saphira didn't stop flying until they were well beyond the borders of Ellesméra, which didn't take too long. She flew hard and fast, and she didn't stop until she had passed over the forest and been flying over the desert for over two hours. Eragon looked at their surroundings and depressingly thought, Well, it's back to picking sand out of my eyes every morning. Saphira sneezed in agreement.

It was the Hadarac Desert yet again. Seated on top of Saphira, as large as she was, Eragon couldn't see an end to the desert. No matter which way they turned, everything was brown, dry sand. Eragon sighed, then sneezed, and then proceeded to curse.

He nimbly leapt off Saphira's back, and rolled when he landed to cushion his landing. Strangely, Saphira seemed a lot taller and bigger. Eragon turned to scrutinize her. The sun, though not quite in the middle of the sky, was hot and dry. Dusty though her scales were, they still glowed faintly through the dust with a deep, dark midnight blue. Eragon frowned and stepped closer to Saphira. She crouched down, understanding what he wanted to do.

Eragon rubbed the dust away from one of her hard scales, but the scale was as dark a blue as before. He scowled and kicked at the sand. It would seem that Saphira had not only grown more powerful but also darker, so to speak. He would have wagered that had he been able to see his own eyes, they would be just as dark as her scales. He could feel power bubbling just below the surface of his mind, power he hadn't had the day before.

Killing those elves had been an act of depravity done by his evil, murderous side, but his evil, murderous side wasn't a fool. By killing them, Eragon had grown much stronger, both physically and mentally. He could feel the strength emanating from his every pore. Had a normal human stood next to him, Eragon would have towered over the man. Even Horst would have seemed fairly average compared to Eragon's current physique. The amount of magic stored in him now was so much that Eragon almost couldn't control it. If he lost control of his magic or his emotions, everybody within a league would probably be able to feel it.

He stared out at the empty horizon. He was powerful now, far more powerful than any regular Rider would have, could have been. But was it worth it? Was it right to kill so many, just to achieve his own powers? But he needed the magic. If he wanted the slightest chance to kill Galbatorix, he had to have the magic and the power. It was necessary. But still, he wondered, had killing elves really been the only solution?

Eragon, you must stop. Saphira sounded tired and frustrated. Wondering about what you've done is not going to help anyone. You need to focus on what you need to do.

And what do I need to do, Saphira? Eragon snapped, I've killed I don't even know how many elves, and now I have power beyond what I ever imagined. And for what purpose? That I can be hated by all of the elves, the only race that might have accepted me as one of their own? Look at me, Saphira! I don't even look human anymore! And it was true. He was tall, taller than a human should be, but that wasn't all. His eyes, a dark shade of blue, glittered fiercely with a dangerous, smouldering fire. He looked too powerful, too angry and just too inhuman to be human. He would never fit in with them. The humans, petty as they were, didn't tolerate differences. They would never accept someone as different as he was. And the dwarves had a long history of not trusting other races. The elves... Having killed so many of them, he doubted they would ever even speak to him again, except perhaps to kill him with a word.

Eragon stretched and gazed at Saphira. She was the only one who would stick with him, through thick and thin. And then, there was Arya. She was still seated on top of Saphira, looking at nothing. He didn't know why he'd brought her with him. She probably hated him, and any opportunity to kill him would undoubtedly be taken. Then why did she save me? Eragon wondered. Perhaps you should just ask her, Eragon. Saphira sounded slightly sarcastic.

Eragon sighed again, then called out to Arya. She looked up blankly and turned to face Eragon. He climbed only Saphira's outstretched foot and reached a hand out to her. Arya cocked her head and hesitated. Eragon tensed, but then Arya took his hand. She must have been confused, or her guard was down, because when Eragon touched her bare hand, several raw emotions coursed through him. He felt anger, confusion, fear and something else, the strongest emotion, something he couldn't quite recognize. It made his blood run cold and hot, and his mind blurred. He quickly helped her off and let go.

Arya made no reaction. Her eyes were still fairly blank, and she didn't seem to want to do anything. Perhaps she hadn't noticed his accidental intrusion into her mind. Eragon scratched his head. He supposed he should help her out of her shock. Saphira said, You do that, Eragon. I'll go find some food for us. Then she was off.

Eragon felt completely out of his depth. What would get her out of her trance? Should he try to provoke her? Scare her, perhaps? Maybe he should have hit her, but evil as he might have been, hitting a woman still wasn't high on his list of things to do. Talking, he decided, was probably the safest thing he could do. He quickly searched nearby and found a couple of rocks that he placed together to give them a place to lean against. Arya watched him the whole while, but her face was still inscrutable. When Eragon was satisfied, he gestured for her to sit. Thankfully, she did.

Eragon took a deep breath and sat down next to her. He leaned against the rocks and closed his eyes. The back of his eyelids turned red from the beating of the bright sun. He opened his mouth and spoke. "There was this boy, you see, who never really had a mother or a father. He thought they were dead, and really, they were, but not as he thought. But that's a different story. The boy was raised by his aunt and uncle, and he had a cousin, whom he treated like a brother. The moment the boy could hold a plough without falling over, nay, when he could just barely grip the plough properly, he was given chores and started to help out on the farm. They were poor, you understand, and money was harder to come by every year. The aunt died, but the three of them continued working. They were pretty dysfunctional, but they were a close family. The boy enjoyed the work. It was hard but honest, and he loved seeing things grow."

"Then one day, before winter could really set in, this boy went hunting. His family had no food or money, and they needed food for the winter. He took his bow and his pack, and off he was to hunt for food. He tracked this deer just right, and when he was about to kill it and go home with a prize, the clearing the deer was in just exploded!'

Eragon opened his eyes and looked at Arya, but she had turned her gaze elsewhere. He continued. "When the smoke cleared, there was this shiny blue rock in the middle of the clearing. The deer had run off, and the boy was frustrated. He was also suspicious, because the smoke smelled of magic and danger. But because he was angry and hungry, he went over to the rock and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, but he took it and put it into his pack anyway.

"Winter was starting to set in, so the boy had to return home without any meat. The rock looked pretty valuable, so they kept it for a while, hoping to be able to sell it, but nobody would buy it. And as valuable as the rock seemed to be, it couldn't be eaten, and eventually the rock went to the back of everybody's mind. There were more important things to do, like harvesting all the crops.'

Saphira landed with a soft thud behind Eragon. A faint smell of blood permeated the air, but Eragon ignored it. "Then one night, the rock cracked. It wasn't a rock, it was an egg. Some creature crawled out of it, and the boy recognized it as a dragon. He had heard enough stories about them. The boy was afraid. He knew the potential a dragon had, and he knew that with it, he could save his family. Alternately, having the dragon could get them all killed. But the dragon, even newly hatched, was so sentient a creature that the boy couldn't allow it to be killed. That would have been an act of depravity. So the boy let it live. He built a home in the forest for the dragon. He brought it food. He spoke to it. He stole books about dragons. He asked whoever he could about them.'

Eragon's voice dropped to a whisper. "He learned about the war, and the Forsworn. He learned that a Rider was seldom born from a lowly farmer like him. He had to have had something about him; either a long line of powerful magicians or just one magical parent. He learned about one member of the Forsworn in particular. Morzan. Galbatorix's right-hand man. He learned that Morzan had been rumoured to have had relations with some poor woman. He guessed that the woman had been Selena- his mother. He felt a strange kinship with this Morzan, this supposedly evil man he had never met.'

"True, Morzan committed acts that should never even be thought about, but he was a brave man, and nobody could deny that. He had done what other men didn't even dare to dream about. He was powerful, but cruel. And he had a sword. A dangerous red sword, a miserable sword. So this ignorant boy went around with his head in the clouds. Somehow, he had got it into his head that Morzan was his father, as unlikely as it was. Perhaps it was hope that made it so. And then, with this thought, the boy returned to his dragon. His dragon was bluer than the sky itself, and strong now. It was strong enough to fly, and to carry his weight. He named it Saphira, on a whim. This young boy, not even a man yet, thought that he could do better. He wanted to be something other than a farmer. He wanted to be a true Rider.'

Eragon sounded bitter now. Saphira whined low in her throat, a soft sound, hinting at pain. "So this stupid boy, he thought he was so strong, so smart, he left the village. He stopped in the forest and was intercepted by this old storyteller. This old man was powerful, but the boy didn't know that. The boy didn't know anything. The old man revealed this sword; this beautiful red sword that the boy knew on sight was The Sword. Misery. Zar'roc. That stupid kid, that young fool, killed the old man with the sword. And what did the kid get for all that? For wanting glory and strength and power, all the kid managed to do was to dig himself deeper and deeper into a pile of shit."

Eragon stood suddenly. The world was red and blurry around the edges, but he stood and turned away. "The story hasn't ended, but I don't think the ending will be happy. Still, what matters was at the beginning. What matters is that all the boy wanted to do, at the very beginning, was to bring life, and not death. That's what matters. Remember that." His voice ended in a raspy whisper. He started walking off. "I'm going to get some firewood, if it's all the same to you."

Arya didn't respond, but merely stared at his back as he walked away. Saphira whined louder, but she didn't make a move either. They both watched him walk away. They knew he needed space.

When Eragon returned, there was the carcass of a deer lying in front of Arya. It had been skinned and gutted and what-have-you. Saphira was cleaning her claws. She turned to look at Eragon as he walked back to them, and her eyes were deep and mysterious. She kept her thoughts shielded from him. He felt mildly irritated by this, but shrugged it off. He felt a pair of piercing green eyes on him, but he ignored them.

Eragon dropped the pile of wood in his arms in front of the duo and stepped back. Saphira moved casually over and snorted a stream of fire out from her nose. The wood crackled and burst into flames. Eragon deftly constructed a skewer and in minutes the deer was roasting over the fire. He pulled ingredients out of the bags and carefully spread them over the deer. It was just past noon and the smell made Eragon's mouth water, despite the depressing situation he was in.

In front of him, the fire crackled, and on his back, the sun burned him. He felt himself sweating, but didn't bother to cast a cooling spell. It felt good to suffer, if only a little bit. What was a little bit of heat compared to the deaths he had caused? It wasn't as though he felt all that guilty anyway, did he? Eragon sighed and shook his head before turning the deer around on its spit. There was no point thinking so much about it. When all this was over, if ever, then he would reflect on everything he had done. Thinking about it now only caused him unnecessary bother. His conscience didn't matter at the moment.

And so Eragon turned to another thought. If he ignored the possible chase the elves were giving him, then he had to focus on what he was doing now. Going to the Varden didn't seem much of an option. Dealing with politics would only waste time, and honestly, he didn't know if he could trust them. The dwarves didn't trust Riders, and by killing Brom, Eragon probably hadn't won any favour from the humans. That left no one he could turn to.

He was tired. He was tired and hungry and angry. This wasn't even his fight. Why did the fate of Alagaesia have to rest on him? As he had told Arya, he was only a farmer. He had been born a farmer, even if his father had not been one. He had been raised a farmer. All he wanted was to be a farmer. Watching things grow had brought him joy. Life was tough, but he had had Garrow and Roran, Horst and Katrina and all of the others, even Sloan! He had had life, even if it was hard. Now everything he had been was ruined. He could never go back to being a farmer. Nothing his bloodied hands touched would grow again. This he knew.

Eragon had been sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, and now he leaned forward to rest his forehead on his legs. His head was dangerously close to the fire. Eragon took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand to the point of pain. He let it out. He took another breath, and let everything out. He screamed. He screamed louder than he had ever screamed before. His ears were full of his own scream; he could hear nothing else. His throat hurt, but still he screamed till he had no breath left in his lungs. He screamed until all his emotions- his fear, his anger, his frustration, sadness and confusion were all out.

Arya flinched, but didn't back away. Saphira covered her ears with her wings. Her heightened sense of hearing was not a good thing in this situation. Neither of them tried to stop him. He needed this, and they knew it.

When Eragon finally stopped, he was panting. He kept his position and felt the rushing of the blood in his ear. He heard his heart pound. Eragon didn't move for a good five minutes. He couldn't feel anything. He liked that. For once, he didn't have to think. For once, he didn't have a million thoughts rushing through his head at the same time. For once, he felt like he had his simple farming life left. He closed his eyes and breathed steadily. He felt more at peace than he had since he had killed Brom; nay, since Saphira had hatched for him.

Still bent over, he heard Arya's soft, shallow breaths; Saphira's loud, guttural ones; the sound of something slithering over the rough sand; the crackling of the flames. He could smell his sweat; smoke; the spicy aroma of the deer; the dry, hot air. He breathed this dry, hot air in. Eragon sat up straight.

Arya and Saphira were deliberately looking anywhere other than at Eragon. They were waiting for him to speak, but they didn't want to push him. They expected the next thing he would say would be some deep, profound thing; something he had discovered about himself in the course of his screaming and thinking.

Eragon looked over at them, opened his mouth and said,"I'm hungry."

They whirled around to stare at him incredulously. He smiled innocently and started serving the deer on several pieces of bread. Arya's mouth had dropped open wide and she hadn't closed it by the time Eragon handed her a slightly stale piece of bread with a generous serving of roasted, spiced deer on top. Bemused, Arya took it and then started staring at the deer sandwich. She looked back up as Eragon cut himself a slice of deer. He then threw about half the deer at Saphira, who was just as confused as Arya. Saphira caught the deer in her teeth, but there it remained. She exchanged a wide-eyed look with Arya before facing Eragon again.

Eragon wrapped the rest of the deer up in oiled paper and then picked his own sandwich up. He was about to take a bite when he noticed the eyes of the other two. He lowered the sandwich and turned to look at them innocently. "You should eat it before it goes cold," was all he said.

At that, they couldn't hold it in any longer. Arya started out chuckling, before bursting out into full scale laughter. Her clear, sweet laugh rang over the desert, echoing slightly. She laughed till tears began prickling at the corner of her eyes. Saphira was no better. She started out with a rumbling in her stomach that sounded like an approaching thunderstorm, then she laughed as only a dragon could. If you weren't looking at her laugh, you would have thought a hundred knives were being sharpened in a waterfall. But while the knives were being sharpened, a hundred men would have been chuckling and humming to themselves. It was a magnificent sound.

At this, Eragon dropped his act, as well as the shield around his mind. He began to laugh as well. He didn't laugh as hard as the other two, but he could no longer deny the humour in the situation. When their laughter had finally died down, the desert was silent once more, but now the silence was almost peaceful. Eragon started on his sandwich, and it was delicious. Saphira munched on the deer, and the bones cracked against her hard teeth. Arya looked at her sandwich and then reluctantly took a bite, and then another.

They were silent as they ate, but it was a much more comfortable silence than before. When they had all finished, Eragon brushed his hands off and wiped them on his trousers. Nobody really cared, honestly. He cleared his throat and said clearly, "Well, to business."

The day had started early, and now it was past noon. Hanging high in the sky, the desert sun was blinding, the heat scalding. The fire in front of them was crackling and still going strong. The heat from there was, if possible, even hotter. None of these discomforts mattered. The three of them were tense and alert. In their minds, there was no heat, no sweat. There was only Galbatorix, and what they should do about him. And by the time the sun had fallen behind a cloud, they had talked and planned and strategized for nearly an hour. It was enough. They were ready.

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