"Hopefully I can get this story wrapped up once and for all by the end of January." - me, 2014.
Four years later...
Ellesmera burned. Though her people worked quick to extinguish the flames they could not so easily erase the aftermath. The trunks of great trees, lovingly shaped and sung to for centuries, were scorched or shattered by the struggle. Acrid smoke and bitter grief still hung heavy in the air. Six fine guards had given their lives for their queen and their city.
Islanzadi stonily stared up at the corpse of the beast responsible for such carnage. His near colorless scales and scrawny build belied the fearsome fight he had put up in his attempts to escape Ellesmera alive. Despite his sickly look the dragon was still decades old. His emergence from an elf-sized body had destroyed the hall upon Blagden's reveal of his true nature.
"What manner of abomination was this?" she demanded.
Such drastic transformations were impossible. Islanzadi's own daughter stood as testament no elf could become a dragon. Only Eragon had proved himself exception to the rule through a King dragon's unknowable magic. Only another unnatural twisting of nature could have resulted in this creature.
Even her wisest scholars could not answer her, just as they could not answer how the monster had breached Du Weldenvarden's barriers. The beast had died before his mind could be interrogated.
Blagden squawked. His talons pressed into her tender flesh when he landed on her shoulder. "Pale-eyed deceiver! Assassin! Wormed his way out of hell and sent straight back! Wyrda!"
Islanzadi peered thoughtfully at the raven that had once saved the life of her beloved. Evandar's blessings had resulted in far more than enhanced intelligence and a long life. Turning his feathers white had been far from the only unintended consequence. More often than not she regarded Blagden as an idle curiosity, a silly little thing whose nonsensical ramblings helped keep the night's crushing silence and the ghosts of memory at bay.
"What exactly are you?" she asked, for no mere raven had ever knowingly acted to save an elf's life.
Blagden nipped fondly at her ear. "Wyrda! Hatched once, hatched twice. Scale or feather, wings are wings."
Feiradis was no stranger to the price of war. She had lost her son and sister in the Fall, and her nephew in the black holocaust that had claimed Glaedr and many fine young elves serving beneath him.
Dras-Leona promised to claim countless more as toll. Feiradis had hoped news of Urubaen's utter destruction would persuade a peaceful surrender. She had unfortunately overestimated the sanity of a populace that worshiped Helgrind's ruthless peaks and offered up human slaves to the Lethrblaka had so recently dwelt there. The crazed priests that had seized control of the city proclaimed these days to be the world's last. They and their zealous followers swore to slaughter every man, woman, and child if Feiradis and her elves tried to take Dras-Leona by force.
Dras-Leona prayed for a miracle, the return of their Black King and the wrath he had first brought down upon the elves a century ago. Feiradis too awaited a miracle. As the siege dragged on she was increasingly convinced Dras-Leona would sooner starve than throw open their gates.
She was so, so tired of shedding innocent blood.
There was little to do but perfect assault plans that limited innocent casualties and watch Dras-Leona for signs of surrender or utter unraveling. Feiradis stared at the map of her forces, trying to will away the tedium, when the messenger entered her tent.
She listened to him once and bit back the urge to scold him for his lies. Then she asked him to repeat himself in the ancient language.
His message did not change.
In that same tongue Feiradis countered with terms of her own and sent the courier scurrying.
After several exchanges Feiradis readied her guards and left her tedium behind. Her heart fluttered like a bird beating against its cage. Despite her anticipation Feiradis projected nothing but stoic serenity to her elves and their audience.
Camp was a blur on the horizon when the red dragon, Thorn, landed a safe distance from their party. Murtagh Morzansson himself dismounted with a deep brown Eldunari cradled in his arms, one that obviously belonged neither to Glaedr nor his own dragon.
Feiradis opened her mind, the magicians at her back ready to retaliate should Morzansson react. Neither Rider nor dragon reached out to her, but the elder most certainly did. Aye, these two are the real deal. Now stop fucking around and get these humans under heel so we can focus on the real threat.
"Your intentions of allying yourself to us are true, then?" she pressed. "You are no longer bound by conflicting oaths?"
"Galbatorix is indeed dead, and our vows with him," Morzansson confirmed in the ancient language. "He was killed by the monstrous dragon he summoned, a mad beast determined to see the world burn with him. Thorn and I have no wish to be slaves to anyone. We and our comrade wish to aid the rebellion in slaying this monster."
Aye, what he said, Thorn confirmed as he connected his mind to hers. We would've flown straight to the main army, but your elves were closer. His head swiveled in Dras-Leona's direction. And apparently need us more.
"Perhaps you can get them to see reason," Feiradis allowed. "But you served Galbatorix only briefly, and Dras-Leona cries for its King."
Murtagh Morzansson quirked his lip. "We have the next best thing."
He didn't come because even with your fucking magic words he didn't trust you to not slay him on sight, grumbled the elder.
Feiradis bristled at the insinuation until she learned who else had escaped Galbatorix's thrall. Then she grudgingly understood his caution. Shruikan had not taken to the field in a century, but her people lived long lives and had long memories. So many elves present had lost a loved one to Galbatorix directly. Some were foolhardy enough to slip their oaths and find a way to take vengeance against his dreaded dragon.
When their plan was settled Feiradis gathered her forces as near to Dras-Leona's gates as she dared. The creeping stalemate gave her knowledge of the exact distance when the humans truly began to grow agitated by their presence. Every elf pointedly had the weapon sheathed, their stances braced for the worst but not outright hostile.
Feiradis' sharp eyes saw the eyes of Dras-Leona all turn skyward when Thorn dived out of the cloud cover. His fiery scales were unmistakable. So too was Murtagh Morzansson, in plain view upon his back. Their faces flickered with indecision.
Then Shruikan descended, his wings casting a shadow over the city. Though she expected his presence Feiradis still bit back a gasp at the sight of him. Ragged and ribs still visible beneath his scarred hide, he cut a menacing figure all the same. First her eyes found the puckered scar tissue at his throat, the last desperate claws and bites of so many dying dragons that tried to take their killer down with them. Last she'd glimpsed him on the battlefield Shruikan's eyes had been empty white. Now they were a brilliant violet.
Beneath his shadow Dras-Leona erupted into cheers. To them Shruikan was their King's mount, the last dragon their side had held for years, and as much a symbol of inspiration as he had become a black omen for the other side.
Thorn and Shruikan descended to the tallest building in Dras-Leona, one with a still intact dragon-hold. Feiradis scrutinized the faces of the soldiers on the parapets, searching for the slightest hint everything had gone horribly wrong and a violent intervention was needed.
A short eternity passed before the gates creaked open wide enough to allow a single terrified herald flying a white flag. His terms were easily agreed to.
The gates opened wide for to let through their delegation for Thorn strode at their head with Murtagh Morzansson at his side. Feiradis recognized the rest of their members as Dras-Leona's nobility. Most looked at least half-starved and blinked rapidly against their first direct exposure to sunlight in gods knew how long. Some were missing fingers or entire limbs. Still they were clean and well-dressed, carrying themselves with dignity. Lord Brutus Tabor's imprisonment did not seem to have broken him, but rather given him the stance of a leader Feiradis could respect.
Not a single priest of the Helgrind cult was amongst their number. Feiradis wondered how many Zar'roc had personally beheaded.
Even at their widest the gates could not admit Shruikan's bulk. Instead he flew over the walls to land at their rear.
Unlike the clearly stated succession laws of the human kingdom that had preceded it Galbatorix's Empire had lacked such laws entirely. After all, the Black King had believed himself immortal, and feared usurpation enough to have given anyone the slightest shred of legitimacy to hold his throne after him. Feiradis reckoned if the Empire's remnants still heeded a single man it would have been Murtagh Morzansson, as their side's only surviving Dragon Rider and Galbatorix's dubious apprentice.
Lord Brutus Tabor formally negotiated his city's surrender. He looked not to Morzansson, but to Shruikan, as he did so. Perhaps because the dread dragon was large enough to swallow even a human Rider whole.
Fearlessly the black dragon opened his mind far and wide. Feiradis blinked in awe at how mightily his words reverberated in her head but did not flinch away. For all his crushing bulk Shruikan carried himself lightly.
Humans of Dras-Leona and elves of Du Weldenvarden, you know me as Shruikan; the Dreaded, the King's Beast, the Last Dragon, and by a thousand other epithets. It has been largely overlooked the bond between dragon and Rider was supposed to be an equal partnership. With King Galbatorix dead I claim what is left of his kingdom to organize its surrender and to urge anyone else still loyal to his name to lay down their swords. Galbatorix is dead by the hands of the abomination he unleashed upon Urubaen, the same monster responsible for the destruction of our capital and the deaths of countless thousands. That monster has no regard for man or dragon, no elf or Urgal. It longs only to burn the world as it did Urubaen. Only by coming together and laying down our hatred can we hope to stop it. If not, all we'll have to war over are the ashes.
Dras-Leona surrendered without a single life lost.
...None worth mourning, at least. Feiradis did not spy a single tear shed for Helgrind's priests.
Day and night blurred together. Even the screaming of his wings had long gone numb. Sometimes Jarshan even wondered if was even still flying or if his wings had already given out and he was slowly bleeding out from the crash.
Nothing was real but his all-consuming grief and the implacable shadow at his heels.
Andariel tired and thirsted. Of this Jarshan had no doubt. When the Undying pushed his body to its breaking point he simply allowed himself to drop dead and come back revitalized.
Jarshan had no such reprieve. He pushed himself past exhaustion and into delirium. Only the perpetual dying of the moon and sun kept him flying west instead of turning east into the jaws of Serdar's killer. When he thought he could push himself no further he always discovered himself unwittingly tapping into his magic to soothe his burning throat or gain another frantic burst of energy.
Yet not even a King's power was fathomless and Jarshan was no true King. Whatever well of wild magic keeping him aloft was near depleted.
He wondered if his heart would simply give out first and if he'd simply unite with Andariel in hell. Often he considered simply stopping and letting the Undying claim him for the mountain-lord's hoard. Better an eternity beside his uncle than burning in damnation.
Every time he considered surrender Serdar's final command rose up from his memory to urge him onward. Of course Jarshan obeyed it.
He did not scream when his wings finally failed. He did so when he landed on his side, his own bulk shattering delicate bone and sinew.
Run, you fool! Serdar's ghost demanded.
Gouging deep into the earth with his claws, Jarshan hauled himself up, and staggered forward. His broken wing dragged behind him. Now was the time to take the command literally.
When Eridor and Safiri's vengeful spirits dove out of the clouds he was too damned tired to rail against his fate. He instead stared grimly upward, determined to meet them standing up.
Instead the ghosts swooped past him to bombard Andariel with twin plumes of blue fire. The Undying, dwarfing them both, swatted at them like flies.
Jarshan numbly watched Eridor and Safiri land no more than glancing blows. Andariel's stoic demeanor never faltered even as he snapped and swattered after them. He dimly wondered if he was hallucinating the encounter or else envisioning yet another metaphysical battle for his soul. Perhaps he was slowly dying as Andarial worked to harvest his Eldunari. Would hellfire or the hoard win first?
Of all the phantoms to erupt from the clouds next it was some niece whose name he only half-remembered. She landed on Andariel's back, claws and fangs digging deep into the corded muscle of his neck. When he bucked her off and slammed her into the earth Eridor roared in rage.
Andariel flinched back. So did Jarshan when the power of a true King's Wrath washed over him. New fire surged through his veins and burned the fog from his brain.
Eridor and Safiri were a century dead. Instead Jarshan snarled futilely up at Saphira Brightscales and her abomination of a Rider. Each little more than yearlings, one bite from the Undying was enough to snap their spines. Elva, around a decade old, was little bigger. Rats might as well battle a bear.
Fools! he bellowed up at them. You're just three more for the hoard!
They all ignored him. He was a downed dragon in an airborne battle.
Dying was one thing. Dying alongside Eridor and Safiri's reincarnations to be stowed beside their Eldunarya for all fucking eternity was quite another. Rousing up all his grief and fury, Jarshan craned his head skyward and mustered the largest, hottest fire he could muster. Its pale fingers just singed Andariel's belly.
Andariel glanced down. It was distraction enough for the abomination to douse his head in the all-consuming fire of a fully-realized King.
Jarshan lurched out of the way as the corpse crashed to earth. He snorted at the stench of charred flesh. Nothing remained of Andariel's head but a smoking skull. Formidable as the Undying was, he was still but a sliver of the mountain-lord's age, and not even he had withstood the full-force of Aiedail's Wrath. Andariel and the abomination were both shadows of their forebears, but thus the pattern should still adhere to them both.
The three dragons, not knowing the true extent of the evil they had just felled, rounded on him instead.
You! Eridor growled from the abomination's body.
You'll never take me alive! Jarshan wanted to snarl. Instead he smirked and said, to the same effect, Hello, brother. I almost didn't recognize you in that puny little form. You really should have burned out that human weakness while you still had the chance.
The abomination's jaws smoked ominously while the two she-dragons snarled down at him. Faintly, beneath their rage, he just heard a sound like a multitude of worms squirming beneath the earth. Jarshan ignored his impending demise to gape down at Andariel's corpse.
Pristine whiteness blossomed from blackened bone just as sinew and scales smoothed it over. The head was still mostly skull when black, burning pits ignited into the eye sockets. With a ragged inhale the Undying lurched to his paws. Smoke rose from several parts of his skull as his flesh continued weaving its way shut.
Fools! he roared, though his throat only managed a raspy shriek. I am the Undying!
The three young dragons, gaping down at the Undying in horror, recovered enough to blast his form with fire. Already mostly recovered, Andariel bellowed. Composure shattered, he sprung into the air after them even as their burns faded from his flesh.
Jarshan moaned in horror and backed away. Not even the mountain-lord had survived direct exposure to the King's Wrath. Yet the Undying had risen from a blast that had melted his brain to mush. With his broken wing he could not flee far enough before the Undying claimed three more Eldunarya for his father's hoard and came for him instead.
...Then how had the Undying wound up in hell in the first place?
From a distance Jarshan surveyed the futile struggle. Every blow even the abomination scored was steadfastly shrugged off. Even how he could spot fury giving way to frantic fear and inevitable exhaustion. Even a King could fade and at last the mountain-lord could claim the crown jewel of his hoard.
Jarshan thought back to his one glimpse of the mountain-lord, a sight that he endured over and over again in his nightmares. The direct fire blast to the face had not blinded him. The scar tissue had been old and puckered, an injury healed from and ignored. Yet, even as the mountain-lord had been reborn anew from Galbatorix's ashes, the burn mark on his chest was still fresh.
A direct blow to the head killed even a dragon. Though the brain housed a dragon's mind it did not hold their soul.
Eying the four dragons above him he privately reached out to the one most likely to heed him and most capable of leaving lasting damage.
His wings! Go for his wings!
Elva's raging contempt for him was outmatched by cool rationality. While Andariel snapped after his greatest prize, the little abomination blasting his face with blue fire, she once more slipped onto his back. She ignored his heavily armored neck to instead gnaw at the delicate tendons where wing met shoulder. Andariel's head lurched in an aborted strike, for Saphira and her mate ruthlessly bombarded him with their flames.
When Elva at last forced Andariel to earth she moved onward to clawing and biting at his neck. Jarshan surged forward. His niece was just large enough to make the Undying bare his chest. Once more calling up his rage he hurled his burning grief into a blast aimed at Andariel's heart. Even as the black dragon lurched and keened Jarshan ruthlessly pressed onward. Only a third Andariel's size, he was still strong enough to pin down his struggling form and crack his ribs for the true target.
The Eldunari was almost too big for his mouth. Jarshan wrenched it from smoking flesh and crushed it beneath his bulk.
The Undying shuddered and fell still. For good measure Jarshan ground the shattered pieces of his heart of hearts with a hateful paw. Elva leaped away from the corpse before Saphira and the abomination set it alight. Blue flames rose from the pyre and into the cloudy skies.
Jarshan looked the abomination in the eyes, knowing two souls stared out from them. Why did you come for me?
Eridor snarled unintelligibly, but the other body's inhabitant shoved his frothing rage coolly aside. Your desperate terror haunted our every dream. We came for the... thing that followed you here, the thing you brought so close to those we protect.
Saphira mistrustfully watched the pyre as if its burning corpse would arise from it at any moment. Her paranoia was much welcomed. What was he?
He called himself Andariel the Undying, Jarshan answered numbly. The mountain-lord sent him after us. He got Serdar, but it was the King he craved most of all.
Eragon growled. Oh, he'll have me alright. He'll have my every spark poured down his throat and into his eyes.
Elva did not disagree with that sentiment, though she did curtly ask, How many more like him?
Jarshan laughed humorlessly. I'd say Aiedail fucking knows, but I really doubt even he does. The mountain-lord crawled out of hell and brought them with him. How many more sinners like me got condemned to the fires?
Well, he can't have you, Elva growled. Not when it's your damn duty to atone for your part in this. And you can't do that languishing beside the rest of our clan in his treasure trove.
Jarshan's gaze flicked to Eragon. In his place Eridor would have raged against such defiance from one of his subjects, especially his own daughters, and promptly tear into Jarshan's throat for his vengeance. Eridor bellowed for his host to do just that. Eragon calmly acknowledge his right to rage before setting him aside.
You help us end the mountain-lord or I kill you for getting in our way, Eragon ground out. You helped tear the dragons apart once when they needed solidarity most. I'll damn myself before letting that happen again.
Jarshan should not have stilled beneath the gaze of a dragon so much smaller than him, one who was not even truly one of their kind, but he did so anyway. I'm already in your way. My damned wing is broken and you don't have the time for me to limp after you.
Saphira sniffed. Then it's your good fortune a healer absolutely insisted on coming with us.
Elva flew off and returned moments later with a curly-haired human clinging to her back. She grinned as she dismounted.
"Well," she said brightly. "So glad I'm finally able to meet one of the dragons most responsible for the near annihilation of our race."
Jarshan suffered Angela's ministrations silently. Three dragons watched him sharply, all ready to slay him the moment he looked ready to bite the witch's head off. Jarshan didn't do so because he feared the witch's reprisal worst of all.
When they flew for the rebel camp Jarshan was bestowed the great 'honor' of ferrying Angela back. She took the opportunity to sprawl herself out on his back, leaning comfortably against one of his spikes, and happily wax poetic about how his particular brand of well-intended idiocy always made things fall apart in the most interestingly exasperating of ways.
Right when I was on the verge of completing this story, my inspiration for it deserted me entirely. For TRR, my muse took me by the hands to complete thirty chapters. It's a bit more of an uphill battle here but, come hell or high water, this fucking thing will get finished!