If this chapter is not up to the standards of the rest of this story, I understand and simply apologize. My inspiration has been somewhat lacking, and I apologize for that, as well.

Thanks to reviewers: finaldragonquest, Wolfyman123, RestrainedFreedom, Unique Fantasiser, Halcyon5, xxx (x3), TheCrimson11, warrior of worlds, SlayerX86, Hyperspacewizard, Gman022, SimplySupreme, paolinifansimon (x17), TooLazyToThinkOfAGoodName, BokitoProof, Rise Against713, Dagibsta, Thejasalex, Aestafication, Elvendiath, Alyra90, ShadowWolf15, Riptide, waggishremarks, and README.

It took a long time to thank everybody.

Disclaimer: Disclaiming from TWO parties, this time.

24

Blood of Brothers

Three blankets were simply not enough to keep his wife warm. Roran made this decision with sharp verdict as Katrina still managed to shiver despite being tucked away comfortably beneath them. Left with nothing but his own unused clothes to cover her up with, he was hastily running out of solutions that didn't involve causing discomfort to his fellows that kept the one he loved most in the world safe from winter's bite.

Despite the fact that she had not woken from her chills, the fact that her night was spent in discomfort made Roran stand and begin to pace their small, shared quarters. The action was as much to keep himself warm as it was to stymie his concerned mind, as he had already sacrificed his personal blanket as well as their shared comforter to give his wife every benefit. At this point, he imagined his body temperature was so low that it wouldn't even have been worth it for him to lend body heat by rejoining her in bed.

Roran Stronghammer, by his own definition, was a tough man. He did not complain about life's hardships, but embraced them. He did not run away from the sweat of the sun or the bowing of the wind, but learned to endure them. Physically—and emotionally—he considered few a man who could stand up to him in a test of wills or strength, or even cunning.

But right now, all surface appearances aside, Roran Stronghammer was worried.

His wife was approximately four or five months pregnant, a vulnerable stage. Then again, there wasn't really a stage, in Roran's opinion, that wasn't vulnerable. The increased worry that smeared his mind in recent days was the ferocity of the winter he felt on the wind with every gust, every tendril of air rushing past his ears and eyes. In Carvahall, much farther north than Belatona, he had been no stranger to his share of difficult winters. To the best of his estimations, the storms and snows that had already hit were formidable for any time of the season, and they were yet early. He feared the possibility of even stronger chains striking the Varden's stronghold in the middle of winter's icy grip on their army.

More than the Varden, however, Roran held a great, reserved anxiety regarding Katrina and their unborn child. She was shivering under three blankets, and, after Roran crossed over to his measly garment hooks and threw his overcoat over her to boot, there was little else her husband could do to warm her.

He began to pace the room as he failed to force his anxieties away, rubbing his eyes as he did so. His exhaustion was manageable, heavy as it was; he had all of winter to recover, and with limited duties at the moment his primary concern was his family. And food for his family. And warmth for his family. Every category he examined seemed to have factors that were under any category that was not in his favor. As eccentric and numerous as his difficulties were, the solutions were relatively simple. Reaching those solutions, on another hand, was a matter of controversy… and controversy was the last thing Roran was intent on causing at the moment.

The first possible thing he could do was ask Nasuada, under the condition of Katrina's pregnancy, to spare an extra portion of ration for her. Alternatively, he could request additional blankets, although he was aware that the largest problem affecting the Varden at the moment was lack of proper shelter and materials for comfort. Either way, he knew, although simple, it was a grave weight to ask the leader of the Varden for her people's sacrifice in order to warm a single woman, albeit pregnant and the wife of an officer. Considering his prior standing with Nasuada, regardless of field record, he wasn't entranced by the idea.

The second thing he could try was appealing to Eragon, but Roran did not know exactly what his cousin could do to help. As much sway as Eragon held as the Varden's Rider and Nasuada's vassal, Roran had doubts that he would be willing to request food and warmth from the armies he fought for only for Katrina, sympathetic as he may be. If he had any of his own food to spare, Roran knew Eragon would selflessly give it. Even if he had none extra and still felt Katrina needed it more, Roran believed it would be passed over without hesitation.

As it was, he was not partial to either option, and the sacrifice he asked of others in either situation in order to satisfy his wife's needs and his own needs triggered guilt, as it should. He knew he should feel extremely lucky that the pregnancy had gone without incident as of yet, but all that was inside of his mind was anxiety and fear. Were he any simpler of a man, the erratic sleeping patterns that now tore apart his nights, coupled with the wild emotions roiling through his head, would have driven him into a useless pit of exhaustion.

Finally, when he imagined that his pacing would wake his wife, the last thing he wanted, Roran snapped his mind in half and retrieved a lighter jacket than he had thrown over Katrina. Wrapping it around his shoulders, he soundlessly left the room, descending the short stairs to street level and leaving the protection of the complex.

Belatona was ghostly at night; the snow did no depreciation to that image. Virtually none of the regular citizens, as previous nighttime strolls had informed him, left their homes after the sun set early in the evening. Despite the fact that it was not forbidden to be out at any time of the night, the more Roran saw, the more he believed that while the people of the city gave them not the slightest hint of resistance or hatred they were not pleased with their presence. The Varden had been given directive to stay out of the bystander way as much as possible, but Roran knew how difficult it was to live normally, even in your own home, with militarized force in close proximity.

He walked alone on the streets tonight. The winds of the day had abated, leaving the air cold but not unduly uncomfortable. Light snow cover on the street rocks crunched quietly beneath his steps as they took him into the city. The occasional sentry patrolling the streets passed by and nodded in his direction. Unluckily for him, his thoughts were his own alone, despite every attempt for him to divert his mind with his footsteps.

There was mixture of cloud cover and clear sky, and Roran watched the stars where he could see them. The lit streetlamps made it more difficult to behold them, but he appreciated what he saw. It reminded him slightly of his life on the farm, before… everything. Everything that made him the man he was now. The problem with that, as he stared up at the stars of the night, it was that stars of Belatona were quite different than the stars of Carvahall; just as the man of Belatona was a complete stranger to the farmer boy of the fields in Palancar Valley.

Roran walked for a long time, what must have been hours where the night air was his only company. The thoughts he tried to escape kept battering themselves against his conjured wall in extraneous efforts to occupy his mind. Eventually, he simply stopped walking. He raised his hands to his head and clamped them over his temples, forcing himself to relax. With a great amount of effort, slowly, one thought slipped from his mind and then another, and equally slowly he felt the clearness of silence become one with his head.

Call it perception worthy of the elves, but Roran liked to think he detected the presence before its voice spoke.

"It's much warmer if you meditate inside."

Roran opened his eyes and lowered his arms, beholding the witch Angela skirt out of the shadows of a nearby overhang as she smiled at him widely. He had met the herbalist, as she was known, of course, but had never before had reason nor interest in striking up a private conversation with her. Magic was yet a concept he struggled to grasp, and that which was contained not even in words scared him to the edge of his understanding.

He turned to face her, and he couldn't help the suspicion that jumped to the forefront of his spectrum. It was only natural for him, after all he'd been through, to warily regard anyone who approached him in dark streets at night. Trying not to sound rude while maintaining his passive face, Roran replied, "That's true enough. If I were meditating, I'd probably be indoors."

Angela's smile only grew. She wore a dark brown cloak, and for the first time he had ever seen her, her hands were empty of basket or devices. "Oh," she said simply, and nodded as if she knew something he didn't. "Even for one so renowned as yourself, Stronghammer, and in a city as safe as this, it is not always wise to dally outside in the night."

"I'll take my chances." He couldn't keep the harshness out of his voice.

He was surprised when the witch simply nodded. "I had hoped you would say that. A leader who cares for his own wellbeing is a fool. A leader who cares only for his peoples' wellbeing is also a fool. I have not classified you yet, but at least you're not so concerned about statistics when you consider your tactical orders."

Roran felt uneasy, but he restrained himself from demanding how she was so intimate with his battle tactics. "Is this a chance encounter? It feels to me as if I've walked into a trap."

Angela dipped her head from side-to-side, appearing in the middle between answers. "Yes… and no… Encounters are never really chance. Some are improbable, and others unfortunate, but there are specific factors that outline two things coming together."

"And ours is no different."

He swore her teeth caught and reflected the distant, miniscule light of stars. "That is correct."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"All in time, Stronghammer, all in time. Shall we walk?"

"Aye, but in separate directions," Roran said quickly. He hoped his insinuation that they put a great deal of distance between them was understood as literally as it was spoken. The factor of his current discomfort was so sizable that he was ready to turn and move away should this strange witch speak anything else he wasn't prepared to counter.

Angela made a clicking sound with her tongue and front teeth. "That won't do you well. I assure you, it is much greater to have me as your friend rather than your foe. Or even your acquaintance. A little walk with a stranger half your size will do you no harm."

Roran hesitated. Although he barely knew her, he knew from what men said that she was a mysteriously dangerous person who held many more years than her appearance indicated. From what he gleaned, he strongly believed her size had little at all to do with what and how much harm she could cause him. "Is it not a conversation we can have standing here?"

"The mind works better whilst in motion," Angela replied. "And it is not necessarily a conversation I have planned ahead of time. Perhaps it is merely banter from one warrior to another."

Roran's eyes narrowed slightly in the dark, but he doubted she noticed. Slowly, he allowed his feet to carry him forward, and, without altering the smile on her face, Angela quietly joined him. He observed her from the corners of his eye, keeping a substantial distance between them. Their exchange had given him absolutely no glimpse of whatever kind of person she was. He had no desire to speak, nor observe; it was unlike him to have such blatant fear of the unknown as he realized he was experiencing. It was unjust… the other men regarded with mystery, but never with fear.

"I trust," Angela said, startling him from his private thoughts, "that your strolls at this hour have something other to do than simply a lack of rest."

Roran blinked. "My journeys have everything to do with the fact that I can't sleep."

"You are journeying because your thoughts necessitated you to be awake," Angela replied. He observed her turn to glance at him for a moment before slowly returning her gaze forward. "That doesn't mean those journeys are the reason you are awake."

He planted his eyes on a slot of tile in the road, hidden slightly beneath the snow, and refused to look anywhere else. For lack of anything to respond with, he decided not to respond at all. He felt her staring at him again but made every effort not to give her the satisfaction of even a peripheral glance in return. If the conversation was to continue, which he had no doubt she would make it, he was going to force her to instigate its continuation.

For many minutes, that stretched into dozens of moments, they walked without words. Roran became quickly uncomfortable, yet Angela appeared undeterred by whatever silence had lapsed. He knew better than to try and sneak away or lose her, and excusing himself would require words, which he yet refused to emit. As he soon realized, however, that the witch's smile was a clear indication of her intention to prolong their silent contest until her victory, the time stretched so long he feared the morning would come before his disconcerting companion would leave him. Worse, before Katrina woke up in the night to find him… not there.

Begrudgingly, when his patience wore thin, Roran sighed. "Must you continue to follow me?"

"Who's following who? We are walking beside one another," Angela replied quickly, as if the sudden words were no surprise or victory to her.

"Why do you follow me tonight, Angela?" Roran growled, his teeth clenching in his frustration. "We have never exchanged words before. Why do you walk beside me as if devoted to hounding me for some methodical reason? Answer me!"

Angela stopped walking. Plain and simple.

Quickly, Roran was a step beyond her, but he swiveled the instant his reactions allowed him to, loathe to turn his back for even a second to the witch. Her image, now stationary, was slightly off from whatever it had been before, but for what reason Roran was not positive he could state. Her smile was gone and her eyes contained a glare of ferocious intent that had not been present before. For the first time, Roran detected her breath on the air, columns of fog drifting away into the night in twin jets from her nostrils.

She sighed multiple times before speaking. "You are much as I expected you to be, Roran Garrowsson of Carvahall, he who they call Stronghammer and who fathered a child from wedlock."

Roran's eyes widened. Eragon hadn't told her… he couldn't have; it would be a betrayal between brothers, a betrayal of secrets worse than the heaviest of blood feuds. As if she could read his thoughts, Angela's words flowed on relentlessly. "I need not lies nor eyes to detect your secrets, and very rarely have I so clearly spoken to one as I speak to you now. You are a great man, and great men are destined to play a role in history they never envisioned when they were young. I have traveled longer and farther than you would care to believe even in your exaggerations, and few alive today have seen so much as I. Know when I speak that my words should be heeded, for not even to your brother have I before revealed so much of myself. And never again shall I so easily."

Roran stumbled over himself for a moment. At first, he tried to formulate a challenge, as was his nature and instinct, but something in her eyes and his own heart assured him that all she spoke was true. Instead, he said, "Why do you say this to me?"

"Because it is to you I am speaking, and I advise you to speak it again to no one else," Angela replied.

"Speak to Eragon," Roran mumbled, taking a step back. He had a hard time digesting the fact that a woman a head than he was reducing him to a stammering heap of helplessness. "He's the one with a fate. I'm just here to fight for my people."

"And that is what makes your fate for you, Stronghammer," Angela replied. "You must hear this now because Eragon must hear different things. You must hear this now because it its yours to hear, not his."

Roran considered many options within the next moment, many of them which resulted in him turning around and walking away from the witch, refusing to hear her mischief and teachery. Instead, he merely swallowed. "I guess I'm listening."

"Not much to hear anymore, actually." Before his eyes, the ferocity of the witch transformed. The smile returned, her eyes became giddy once more. "I'll say this, though. Eragon's fate is sealed in stone. He has no way to change it, no matter which path he chooses or the choices he makes. Nor can any person in existence tell him what that fate is, for the secrets that cover it up are shielded by magic that has existed since before magic has existed.

"Your fate, Roran Stronghammer, is not set in stone. There will be a choice in your life that will change every other life in Alagaësia, whether you welcome it or not, and you will not be able to walk away from it and shelve the responsibility to another. It is yours alone—this I have seen—and it is best you be prepared for it when it arrives."

Roran could feel his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to break ribs. He struggled to take in breaths of air, blinking to keep his eyes from rotting in the power emanating from the witch's words. He didn't even have any doubt of her words; even if he had, he wouldn't have voiced it. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because sometimes even leaders need leaders, Roran. Remember that sometime. While everyone around you cannot control where they will meet their end, you have a choice. And no one, not a citizen of this world, not a bystander of the next, will question whatever you choose, however you choose it."

He watched as her eyes flitted over his shoulder briefly. Before he could say something more, she smiled wide and nodded to him, and immediately began to shrink back, descending quickly into the shadows of an alley. Quickly, Roran glanced back over his own shoulder, and was only half-surprised at what he beheld.

Eragon stood, huddled and simultaneously enshrouded in a traveler's cloak, in the center of the street at an intersection a short distance away, his face blank and his eyes patient, facing Roran as if he were clearly waiting for something to occur. Roran snapped back to Angela. "How do I get a choice? Why do I get a choice?"

Angela's only clue in the darkness was to smile as she disappeared. Seemingly not even an answer, her last words carried heavily from the shadows. "Sometimes the greatest leaders… are not leaders at all."

She was gone. Roran shivered heavily in the cold, unsure why it so suddenly affected his system. As if being hit in the face with a bucket of the most freezing water, he felt a wave of calmness and dread sink over him from head to toe as the words the herbalist had cast over him finally sunk into his system. He knew his cousin was approaching, though with no urgency nor apparent interest. Knowing Eragon, however, Roran would find some way to undermine his inner undoing and share everything he had heard, despite all his own sudden attention to keeping his thoughts private.

Eragon arrived at his side, didn't make a move or speak a word. Simultaneously, they turned their faces towards one another. Roran very slowly raised one shoulder and lowered it, and Eragon smiled slightly. They both turned their eyes back to where Angela had disappeared, and finally Eragon pivoted and faced away, speaking the words to break their mildly uncomfortable silence in the meantime. "I don't suppose you have any idea what just happened?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"If she spoke to you, I would definitely try," Eragon replied. "In my experience, there hasn't been a word wasted she's said to me. Whatever she told you, make sure you know what you think it means. And don't tell anyone else."

Roran was mildly surprised. Even of Eragon, one of the few he trusted without restraint, he himself wasn't sure he would accept if his cousin were not telling him the entire truth had their positions been reversed. As it was, he merely let the matter slip past his mind for contemplation another time. It may not have been Eragon that was the variable in the situation, after all; it may have been the witch. "She knows Katrina's pregnant."

Eragon raised one eyebrow but quickly lowered it. "Unsurprising. She seems to know everything that is worth knowing, no matter who wants it to be concealed or how secret it actually is."

"Who is she?"

Eragon shook his head and shrugged, perhaps the most confused Roran had ever seen him since his transformation from human to… more than human. "Whoever she is, she's just as keen at knowing things as she is at concealing her own self. To all whom it may concern, she's Angela the herbalist."

Roran wrapped his broad arms around his bulky frame, surveying Eragon as the rider took too steps to where the witch had been standing before turning back around. "And not even Nasuada knows? Funny amount of trust to put into someone who seems to hold a great deal of gravity within the affairs that occur in closed tents."

Eragon shrugged once more. "She has never before acted hostilely or uncertainly. She has given me no reason not to trust her. On the contrary, she has saved my life a decent many times. I hold her in esteem. Until I have the privilege to know more, her identity is of no concern to me."

Roran distinctly wondered whether or not Eragon would see Angela in the safe light if his darkest secret had been laid bare before. "I guess I'll have to take your word for security in this instance."

Eragon's eyes turned unto his cousin's. Roran stared back, trying to show confidence and strength in a meeting of brothers. "How is Katrina?"

Roran hesitated, and then cursed himself for hesitating. By the simple act, Eragon drew himself back and his eyes became clouded, as if they could see through Roran like a transparent wall. Roran hastily made sure his mind was protected, containing his precious thoughts even from one so trusted as his cousin, yet no force attempted to breach his defenses and access his mind. Eragon's eyes narrowed, however; he knew exactly what was transpiring inside of Roran's mind. And his question hung heavy on the air.

Finally, there was an answer that would not allow silence to persist. "I don't know. She's not on the verge of dying, but she gets colder every night and I can't warm her. If the pregnancy turns out like Elain's, and the winter continues on the path it's begun, I fear her health might deteriorate. And take the baby with it."

There was a momentary quiet. Eragon became fixated with the ground, his eyes distant. "When is it due?"

"Gertrude tells me not until the spring season," Roran replied. Eragon's head swiveled towards him. "It's only her best guess, as the… time can't be pegged down exactly. But it sounds about right."

"Right as we attack Galabatorix," Eragon repeated, nodding his head. Roran looked away, knowing the demanding look that Eragon would be holding in his eyes. He staunchly ignored his cousin's seeking glare, knowing the reproach that would be there. "Your child is to be born at the time when the people you now serve are expecting you to be in the heart of battle for the future of the world."

"I didn't mean for it to be this way, Eragon," he said. "I don't even think I care. If I am to create life, at least I can do it while I'm still living. While I still have the chance to lead it back to where we once came from, a little farm where my father and his father toiled in the dirt so that I could exist."

He watched Eragon run foreign hands through elven hair, and heard a sigh emanate on a crystalline breath. "It does the child no good if you are dead, and it has no father to protect it in the world. If you die, Katrina will have no farm to take it back home to. If we all die…" Roran silently thanked him for halting his words; the last thing he needed now was to imply their failure and the death of everyone he held dear.

They stood silently for a few moments. Eragon rubbed his eyes once more and then cast them into the sky, perhaps looking for Saphira on the freezing wind far above. After a moment the rider gestured for them to walk. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't… I know that you love them more than anything and that… their safety and happiness is your foremost concern."

"…while yours is pleasing Nasuada, the elves, and the dwarves whilst surviving, training the newest rider, and killing the king." He didn't mean for his words to find their way from his mouth with such venom. Belatedly, he threw on a grim smile to cover the distaste.

"Something like that," Eragon said. He clearly noticed Roran's displeasure in the conversation.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the younger of the two said quickly.

"You seem on-edge."

"Who doesn't?"

Roran bristled, startled by the seeming negativity Eragon so seldom emitted. "From what I see, the Varden is in good shape. The men have just won two critical battles for two critical cities and have a foot at Galbatorix's throat. They're in good spirits, no less. It doesn't seem like anyone has ever been greater. You should be the happiest of us all."

Eragon grunted humorlessly. "That's not exactly how it works. I cannot be happy until Galbatorix is dead, no matter how many victories occur in between, no matter how many cities the Varden calls free. There is only one way to measure my success, and mine is completely independent from the Varden's."

The night wind and air became audible around them as they lapsed into their own thoughts. Roran stirred and sighed, equal to Eragon's actions of minutes previous. "You and I always used to know what each other were thinking. I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I can tell you're not enthusiastic for other reasons than what is expected of you."

The air groaned as Eragon's sigh hissed across it. His arms were thrust so far beneath the folds of the other it appeared he was trying to make himself into nothing. "This may be difficult for you to understand, for you cannot read my thoughts as I could read yours, but there matters greater than physical prowess and territorial victory on my mind. Not all of them are so simply solved as have been the Varden's problems as of yet. Many of them are too complicated to ever find solution."

"Try me." At the indignant look he received, Roran did his prized best to appear innocent and shrugged. "A simple man for a complex problem. You never know."

His cousin chuckled, eyes snaking away, over the snowy rooftops and frozen homes to the sweeping breeze of the night. "You are anything but a simple man. If my problems were so easy to solve, I would ask the Varden as a whole, see how intelligent they really are."

He turned briefly, as if to check to see whether or not Roran found amusement in the statement. Roran kept his reaction to himself, eager to learn whatever he could about his cousin's troubles. "If you trusted me now as you once did, you would do well to share your problems with me. I'm your brother."

"It's not a matter of trust," Eragon said, shaking his head quickly.

"If it's not a matter of trust, it's either a matter of women or not a matter at all."

Eragon grinned. "It is not a matter of woman."

"Try me, cousin. Please."

In the darkness, Roran watched Eragon swallow and turn eyes to make contact. Both of their gazes were relatively shadowed in the weak streetlight, and Roran could glean nothing of the moods that passed around them from their locked stares. "Do you ever wonder what goes through Katrina's mind when she wakes up at night and you're not there?"

Roran froze, completely taken aback. A sting of pain he hadn't anticipated wormed its way into his chest, and he regarded Eragon with a masked volume of hostility. "Is this truly what troubles you, or is that a distraction meant to anger me into forgetting what I demand from you?"

"I didn't mean it to trouble you," Eragon replied. His voice was suddenly weak and his eyes had turned to stare at the ground. "I merely wonder what she thinks. I also wonder what it's like to have someone wonder why you've left bed when there's no practical reason to."

"You're sure this isn't a woman matter?"

Eragon shook his head. "Sorry. I was distracted." He paused for several moments. "What was it that brought you out tonight?"

"I couldn't sleep," Roran said. "I was… worried about her." Before Eragon had a moment to comment or himself a moment to reconsider, Roran pressed forward. "I know it's not my place to ask of you, Eragon, but I implore, please, to help. I need blankets, wood for fire, anything to warm her. You could ask it of Nasuada, she would give it to you. I worry for her. My child is at risk. I don't know how to help them and I'm scared, Eragon. Above all, a burden is the last thing I would ever want to be to you, but I don't know who else I could turn to."

He ended his dialogue in a hurry, slightly fearful of his cousin's reaction. To his horror, Eragon had become quite still in the cold, his arms clasped and frozen as if his body had spontaneously shifted to ice. Roran prepared himself for the rebuke, and waited out the pause that would inevitably lead to his cousin's answer.

Eragon stared into the darkness of the night, Roran's eyes tracking his every flinch or miniscule gesture. There were none, of course, his motionless stance as pristine as that of an elf. Moments must have stretched into minutes, but there was no sense of strain or rush on the face of his cousin. Finally, when Roran began to wonder whether or not he had literally frozen in the night, Eragon let a pent-up breath hiss quietly from his lungs. "I will ask. I cannot guarantee she will answer."

The relief Roran felt couldn't possibly have fit into his expression. "Thank you. I pray it does not burden your relationship with her."

So sharply he nearly jumped away, Eragon's eyes snapped to his and narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Roran stumbled over his words several seconds before managing to answer. "I merely meant… I don't wish to hinder whatever passes between vassal and lady, of course. If it is too much for you to ask, then please don't."

There was a silence for several moments, and both of their gazes wandered away from each other. Roran was at a distinct loss for words, unsure why one moment his cousin would offer support and become hostile the next. Eragon, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content to stew in abrupt seething, suddenly untouched by the winter and its throes. Roran thought back to his previous words, and could seemingly locate no item that he believed would cause Eragon to act as he was.

Eragon shuffled suddenly, clearly less than comfortable. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"What's wrong?" Roran replied quickly. "There's something the matter, and stop trying to pretend like it's not there or I won't see it." Eragon didn't answer, staring off into the wind. "Have you tried speaking to Saphira about it?"

"It's as much her problem as mine."

"Arya?"

"Same situation."

"Maybe try me? Whatever it is, if it's not solved already you obviously haven't enlightened me to its nature." The jest went nowhere, although Roran hadn't really expected it to. Eragon stood as stoic as ever, and eventually Roran sighed heavily. "What in hellfire must I do before you speak to me as you once did?"

"Roran," he finally breathed, and nearly by the subtle inset of his voice, the glow of conciliation, Roran felt his cousin relinquish the resolve he'd constructed upon itself. He watched the rider bite his lip briefly, and then the words he desired came forth. "The hatchling—Arya's hatchling—is in grave danger. Galbatorix has lost his extreme advantage with Murtagh's death, alone, and now, while the Varden gains another rider, he may have lost the upper hand altogether. That is not something he is willing to allow. I imagine, even as we sit here now, he has his agents on the way to destroy Faölin."

"Faölin?"

"That's what she named him." His tone was quick, and Roran noted without comment how his lips had pursed.

"It's a beautiful name. Sounds very elf…"

"It is after someone who was very important to her." A shadow had come over his cousin's gaze, but it wasn't precisely dark. He was no master of identifying facial expressions, but he might have detected a hint of dry, guilty resentment in Eragon's voice. "Someone she held close to her heart." The rider hesitated a moment, as if dwelling in thoughts, and then shook his head and continued. "Nasuada has refused repeated requests from both Arya and myself to take the hatchling away from the Varden, away from where it could be in imminent danger… any moment, dark magic could be at work to steal its life. And not only would it be a tragedy for the war should we lose the advantage… it would a crime on life to be robbed of another dragon."

His eyes had grown dark. Roran shuffled on his fight, sensing the weight of the uneasiness Eragon had been hiding. "Why does she refuse?"

"She is enwrapped in her politics… she sees keeping the dragon with the Varden as a tool to inspire their continued allegiance to her. She thinks it helps the men to see her, and that the winter will shield Faölin from any threat of the Empire."

"And you believe—"

"She is damned wrong," Eragon cursed. Venom filtered its way through his tone. "Snow will no more defend us from the dark king than a feather would serve as armor. There is only way to protect the advantage now… by protecting it. By taking the hatchling where none may do it harm, and training it where none can learn its ways but its rider and itself."

There was no denying the immediate sympathetic thoughts Roran immediately seized for both sides of the argument. On one hand, he could understand Nasuada's concerns about being unaware of the dragon's location herself, in addition to being worried about the Varden, all of her own personal political objectives non-withstanding. Alternatively, he sensed immediately how strongly Eragon felt about the issue, and was inclined to agree with his cousin. "And there is no way to sway her?"

"If I ask for your conditions for Katrina," Eragon murmured, "it is all but hopeless."

Roran felt as if he had been speared in the chest by a dragon spike. "Eragon… I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in such a situation with Nasuada. You need not ask her for my own gains. The importance of your matter—"

"I put my matters over no one," his cousin replied, any trace of resentment now erased from his voice. "I would betray the teachings of my masters if I did."

"Yours is not only your own matter, but a matter of the free world, Eragon." Roran noticed his own voice rising, as was his emotional level. "You cannot refuse the safety of a dragon so you may ask for a few more blankets to replace it!"

Eragon actually turned and faced his cousin. A strange grin appeared across his elven features. "If only there was a realistic way to accomplish mine. And if only there were a way to accomplish both."

"You can't just give up, Eragon," Roran exclaimed, his voice rising higher than intended. He quickly muffled it, hoping defiantly that none of the surrounding buildings were suddenly privy to their presence and conversation. He stepped closer to Eragon, and under his breath he murmured, "Have you considered ignoring Nasuada's word completely? Taking the dragon and going?"

The surprise he had expected from his cousin never came. Instead, the rider remained perfectly still, staring out into the cold. "I have contemplated it." Roran's eyebrows rose, but before he could get in another word, Eragon pressed forward. "And I fear that it is the course of action I must take. It will be against my allegiance to Nasuada, and will swear me as an enemy to her household. Inevitably, it may entirely rip my status amongst the Varden, which is something she cannot afford. If I were to take that course of action, she would be forced to announce that it was her decision, and do everything in her power to make amends. With neither Arya nor myself on their side, the Varden cannot hope to stand against Galbatorix."

Roran listened with rapt attention. His beard rustled as he smiled. "Sounds very… political."

Slowly, Eragon met Roran's eyes once again. "I abhor politics. If that is the decision I must make, I will choose the dragon… but it is the last thing I want to do, if it were to pit me against the armies of free men this country yet supports."

"Do you have any other choice?"

There was a flicker in the rider's eyes; just a momentary gleam, and then it was gone. "Perhaps. Perhaps there is a sly, simple and untrustworthy way. But perhaps there is that way."

"What is it?"

"How much sway do you hold with Jörmunder?"

Roran was taken aback, nearly physically forced a step away. "Jörmunder? As much amount as I deserve, I'd say, which is a fair share. I could never convince him to move armies, though. What is it to you?"

"Today Nasuada received word back from Orik, from the messengers who first took word to him about the hatching of the green egg. I intend to contact him myself and implore him to persuade Nasuada of the rightness of my argument. The dwarf king is a valuable ally; she may be less inclined to refuse him than I…"

"You've yet lost me. Jörmunder isn't the dwarf king, and Orik has nothing to do with anything I could do to help."

There was a look on the dragon rider's face Roran recognized; he'd seen it dozens of times as they hunted whilst still young… still innocent… a look Eragon put on his face only when he was revealing something meant to be spectacular. "Islanzadí would agree with whatever the bidding of her daughter were, and I am confident Orik will concur with me, as well… if the two monarchs of her greatest allies were against her, and her chief commander as well… what would you do in her situation, Roran?"

"You want me to ask Jörmunder to support your standpoint." His voice was deadpan, and he meant in no other way. He distinctly felt as if he were delivering the punch-line to someone else's joke.

"All of Saphira's life," Eragon said, and his eyes were once again dallying on the wind, "the two of us have been caught in the world where people tug us one way or another for their own gain or image. It has been too long we have not decided the way we were meant to decide. I'm tired of this process. Therefore, I'm going to exploit it."

The smile on the face of his cousin was so victorious—so genuinely good—it was enough to convince Roran to follow the blue rider anywhere.

"I will get you what you ask for," Eragon said. "Fear not of that. That will use up my favor with Nasuada. But… in the meantime, we're going to play a political game."