Perhaps this is going better than I expected. I feel bad about this one, though. Not my best work. We'll see what you guys think.

Thanks to reviewers: RestrainedFreedom, The Pro, Daughter of King Orrin, Marshall88, Reader, JackoShadeslayer575, The Meepsta, warrior of worlds, kmc995 and Elvendiath.

Disclaimer: How dare ye bless me with such strange remarks?

13

A Dark Light

The first thing he noticed was that there was no light, wherever he was.

The second thing he noticed was that it was quite bright indeed.

These two thoughts put together confused him to no end, and it took him no short moment to try and make sense of how his brain could tell him two opposites, yet mean them both to their literal senses. He would have surmised that the notion made his head hurt, but that would involve having a head, as it were, and he wasn't completely positive that he did. However, that made little sense, since he was quite sure he did have a head. This, in turn, warranted the question of where it was, for he had the distinct feeling that he had misplaced it. Which confused the brain that was double-defining in the head which he couldn't seem to locate.

For a cranium he couldn't locate, thoughts he shouldn't have been having were giving him a great deal of pain.

He tried to reach out for Saphira, but without an unscrambled mind this was difficult. Even still, it was quite apparent that she was not there for him to touch, and this idea sent jolts of fear through his body. Their most intimate connection was still there, the one that bound each together and to the realistic world, but their communication was silent. He had imagined she may have been able to make sense of the weird spectrum he was observing, for it confused him to no end. Without her, however, he had little to do but try and discern his surroundings as his best abilities could do.

He tried to get up, but startlingly realized that he didn't know whether he were sitting, lying, or standing. Furthermore, upon trying to move his body, he wasn't sure if he still had limbs. Or a torso, for that matter. He tried to look down to check whether or not he was right, but realized he didn't possess eyes.

But that didn't make sense.

After all, he could see light. And… dark…

He looked around, if that was how he chose to call it, and found that he could both see yet find himself enveloped in, truth to his senses, complete darkness. It was a strange sensation, enhanced by the lack of a body or function. He couldn't move nor did he seem to have a need to. It didn't take long for him to realize that existing with physically existing was rather a disconcerting feeling, and wondered how dragons could manage it for millennia. He realized that he should be quite afraid of wherever he was, as he had no recollection of how he got there or what had happened to him. However, no fear penetrated him. Come to think of it, his last thought was of… something. Or was it? He wasn't sure if he could remember having a last thought. There were thoughts, of course, memories, but they were all very distant and he wasn't sure they weren't figments of his imagination.

He wished Saphira were there. She had always been better at navigating his mind than he had ever been.

Saphira… Murtagh… He had been fighting Murtagh. The cuts on his back.

Pain.

He remembered. Eragon remembered. He tried frantically to feel his back before remembering that it wasn't there. Or, rather, wherever his back should have been wasn't within his reach and even if it had been he wouldn't have been able to feel it with the arm he seemed to have to lost, as well.

He had been defeated. Murtagh had beaten him. It had been all too easy for Galbatorix's slave, his brother—his once friend—to scar and maim him as if he were nothing more than a pack mule, a lowly lord's concubine. For all of his training and his skill, there was no amount of power and strength he could have massed to even begin to contend with the stored might of the red rider.

Shame filled the mind he knew existed. He had been beaten. "I wasn't strong enough," he said to himself. He heard nothing; he had no ears. No sense could have told him that he had actually spoken, yet he knew that he had. It was a strange experience, to say the least, and wonder turned to concern as he realized the last memory he actually had was Saphira's face beheld close to his own.

Then, nothing. Then… here.

What was this place?

He couldn't tell if he could only regard one section of whatever it was, or if everything was the same and he was observing all of it at once. Either way, the concentration his mind needed to focus on it seemed to expend a rather generous amount of energy. The familiar drain, however, seemed to be drawing on an endless supply of such energy, for he neither tired nor felt burdened by the weight of the effort.

How strong this would make him. Strong.

He hadn't been strong enough. Had he a fist and something to punch he would have done just that, angered as he was by the thought of weakness. He couldn't afford to be weak. The only free rider could be nothing but strong… but no…

He had been crippled. Eragon Shadeslayer, Eragon Bromsson had been vanquished by the puppet of the Dark king, as easily as if Murtagh had been striking aside a mere Urgal or slaver, as he had done so long ago… but not so long ago. So much had changed in so little time, so much maturing had been done. Yet still Eragon was too weak to make the victory that had to be achieved. It disgusted him.

Again, he wondered where he was. Had he been captured?

Fear should have instilled itself at such possibilities, but the emotion of fright seemed to elude him here, for some reason or another. Despite this, the chance loomed heavy and near. If he had been captured, however, he could find no reason to be lucid, or not in discomfort. Or, for that matter, so in control of his thoughts. Unless his mind was being probed at that very instant, scouring him for information when his defenses were weak.

Weak. Just like him.

But he felt no probe, and he doubted that even Galbatorix could invade his private residences of memory and deliberation without leaving at least the slightest mental footprint behind. The question remained.

Had he entered a state of healing, as Arya had to slow down her bodily functions and sustain her own life? He hadn't known that he possessed such abilities if that was what was occurring now. It was a strange existence if it proved true, although the prospect told him that he couldn't be mentally invaded, since Arya was quite aware when he tried to touch hers for the first time.

Arya.

He hoped she was safe. She had been on the battlefield. She had told him not to fight Murtagh alone… she had been right, of course. Of course. But he had been so consumed by his rage, his fury, even as he suppressed it simultaneously, that he had just rushed headlong in. Because Oromis and Glaedr were dead, and the traitor had to pay. If he had only listened to Arya, he wouldn't be here, wherever here was, and Murtagh wouldn't have won, if winning was whatever that could be described as.

And whenever Arya was right he either ended up on the short end of the stick or regretted going against her will. Despite Saphira's jests, there were some days where he really wished there was a good human female with whom he could share his burden, his willpower, his life, instead of falling prey to the fates that he couldn't control.

He should have listened to her.

He wondered what was going on right now. Wherever Belatona was, that is. He was assuming, first of all, that he was not, in fact, dead, since he could still feel his link with Saphira, even if it was not connected directly and securely. Secondly, he was predicting that he hadn't been captured, as there wasn't the slightest discomfort that he could detect. As for the other elements, he could only forage rough guesses at the best, but supposed that anything was better than being captured. In the distant fringes of memory, he could remember Thorn flying off, leaving him behind with Saphira. So there was a good sign.

Right?

But the Varden… how fared the Varden? Why had Murtagh left? To desecrate them? Eragon knew Saphira would never forgive herself for the dishonor, but that she would flee if his condition was bad enough, if only to save his life. Perhaps this is what had occurred. Perhaps his incapacity to fight had spelled doom for the rebellion.

Did that mean they were all dead? It was only a possibility, Eragon reminded himself, and he shouldn't dwell on possibilities that had opportunity to be completely wrong, especially when they were so grim.

The world around him continued to elude his comprehension. With little to go on sense-wise and no knowledge to guide him, Eragon felt effectively and conclusively lost, even if there was nowhere to go and the fact could have been that he was nowhere. He was fairly certain he was trapped in some remote cave of his mind, but for what reason he couldn't fathom. He had little clue as to whether it was induced or just a strange sleep he had never before experienced. To this end, he briefly tried to "wake up", but found that he could not., if he was in fact "sleeping". This thought caused him worry, but still no fear.

He cast out his mind, beyond what he could understand by corporeal senses, and tried to meet the barriers or openness of others. Nothing. It was as if the world was empty, where he was the last soul in an incongruent place. Save for the small comfort that Saphira was alive, at least—else their connection would be brutally and painfully severed—Eragon could not sense what was going on outside his little spectrum. If there was anything outside of his little spectrum. But it was impractical to assume otherwise, so he did.

When he had been growing up in Carvahall, Brom had told stories of great heroes falling into stupors that resembled what he felt like right now, in the middle of battles or in moments where they most needed their courage. In them, there was always another power, a greater force that came to them in their confusion, seeking them out and giving them precious council in the times where they most needed support and confidence. It was similar to how Oromis had contacted Eragon when Durza had crippled him, but even at that time Eragon hadn't felt so alone as this. Flooded with unfamiliar memories and the power of a mind as strong and old as Oromis' had comforted him. Oromis was dead. Eragon could feel no pain for anyone to help him combat. And if he had fallen into a self-induced stupor as Arya had when he and Murtagh rescued her from Gil'ead, he should have at least been able to cast his mind out and sense the presence of others around him. Unless he was vastly weaker than she, or otherwise completely alone, he assumed something else held his consciousness in this strange realm.

How he hoped she was safe… the Varden, as well. He cursed Murtagh and cursed himself for his weakness. If he were only as strong as he was supposed to be, as Oromis and Brom expected him to be, this would not have occurred. Murtagh would be dead. Belatona would be secure and one of Galbatorix' most powerful servants would be gone. Arya would be safe. He would have time to rest.

Alas, he was not strong enough.

"Garjzla," he whispered, or thought he whispered. He had no way to tell, but he had meant the words purely, by mind or word, and spoken or not he should have felt the magic inside of him. No light appeared, nor did anything else change. The darkness and lightness remained, akin to each other, mocking him with their mystery.

He thought back to the battle and wondered what he could have done differently. Not charging would have been a good start, he thought to himself, unsure if he spoke, as well. He should have been quicker, should not have lowered his defenses, even slightly, to contact Saphira. He had utilized the training he had been so precariously taught, yet he had still been defeated handily, and aside from his physical incapacities he wasn't sure how he could have otherwise mastered his brother in combat.

If he had waited for Arya and the elves… would it have been any different? That question would probably never receive an answer. Truthfully, he doubted that even with their assistance he would be anywhere except for where he was. In the end, it was his own strength, his own power—or his lack of it—that was the source of his loss. No amount of magic or manpower could have turned the tides, in the end, with such trivial weaknesses.

His injuries had been grievous, that much he remembered, and Murtagh hadn't been merciful once Eragon had been down. To be fair, Eragon had challenged him once defeated, and been thrown down once more, and each time Murtagh left him the opportunity to stay down. The pure strength of the red rider had defeated him, Eragon concluded. Not even the full strength. A snatch of a vast array of the power the world had never before seen.

If I cannot even beat Murtagh, Eragon thought, then how can I possibly slay Galbatorix?

You allow yourself to be weak, the other side of the argument told him, both voices his own, battling parts of his mind. There are times to be sentimental, times to insure that you do not become as heartless and cruel as them, to show compassion for your comrades and your friends and allies and life… but there are also times when you must become a weapon, cold as steel and devious in order to achieve victory.

That is not my way, though. He was well aware of the point he made, in balancing the good side of power with the bad and how it should be played out. He saw different lights shining through the argument, though, lights that cast a historic glow over events that shaped the horrible turn of events for Alagaësia. That is not how Riders are. Riders are compassionate even when facing down their enemies. As a Rider, I uphold the traditions and mannerisms that have played out since the beginning of the centuries when elves and dragons warred.

But I am the last free Rider left… The thought struck him with clarity, and it was true. The world had shifted around him, around all of them. The land had changed, grown old and weathered with the tyranny of evil. Galbatorix was not hindered by the worries of humility and respect as he was. The dark king had no such restraints on the way he conducted his affairs. Eragon could never compare with such power, even if he controlled the vastest sources of energy in the nation, without forsaking his most precious ideals.

While he knew this, however, Eragon refused to stoop to the level of ignorance and hate that the dark king employed. He would not commit killing without remorse at his actions. He would not permit slaying of innocents if it meant his tasks were completed. He could not; he would not even if he could. This was his weakness, he realized, and he cherished it… his love of life and contentment would be his ultimate undoing.

The Varden's Last Hope.

Argetlam. Shadeslayer. Bromsson. Firesword.

They were all names of respect that he bore, outside of the existence of mystery and confounding nature as he floated in oblivion. He had earned them; not wielded them with cruelty and lies. He thought of all the people, dwarves, humans, elves, Urgals, that had put their faith and their blessings into him, for his success. Faces flashed through his eye, if not before his eyes, and an undying sense of love enraptured him. Love was his power, but it was also the thinnest link of the chain of his soul.

He had to be stronger. He had to be a Rider. If the Varden was gone, if Murtagh had obliterated their ranks—if Arya had perished—he would not allow his suffering to control his actions. He needed to be the better man to the man he had been before. He had to follow his teachings, never allow anger or fear or vengeance cloud his thoughts and judgment again. His thoughts would be clear and focused, and considerate of all yet acting on the few. He would not falter at diversity and would not balk at love when it embraced him in the eyes of life. He refused to be influenced any longer by the greedy emotions of an individual. He was a Rider, and he was Eragon. He would make the two different personalities merge as a stronger individual.

Eragon withdrew the pleading tendrils of his mind from the outside world and decided to be patient. Either he would be retrieved from this world of nothingness and everything or he would eventually be forced to find a way out of it himself. Either way, it would come to him, and he would be in control of his thoughts and actions when it did.

His thoughts drifted over loving memories of Saphira, flying, gracing the clouds, tearing through meat, sharing each other's comforting presence through nights. It kept him sane through the endless moments.

And then he thought of Arya, and he wondered how things would pan out. She could not have died… for someone he cared so much for, he would have felt her… Would he not have? If he looked unto the world only in peace when he awoke from this endless slumber, what would he see of her? Hate for him in her eyes, misgivings passed on forgotten words, while he would have done anything to turn the events around? Anything to turn back the dials of time only a few exhausting days and return their relationship to friendship? He wondered if she looked onto him with as much misery and disgust as he looked upon himself.

Pain. Scars. Mysteries. Those were things that he would meet, of the body and mind alike. He would be forced to rise from the ashes of his former self, become more powerful, draw upon magic he had never before known, secrets unlocked that he had never considered. He would have to conquer his own mind once again, and never relinquish it to the darkness—never become as low and sick and cold as Galbatorix—again.

He would be ready, whenever he awoke, to sacrifice everything he possessed to save all of those he loved. Until that moment would come, resting in dreams of Arya and his maginificent partner-of-mind, Eragon resolved to wait until light returned.