Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. All recognizable characters and places belong to Christopher Paolini. Everything else, however, is in fact mine.


"When I see you the World stops. It stops and all that exists is you and my eyes staring at you. There's nothing else." –James Frey, A Million Little Pieces


Chapter Fifty-two: A Reunion


Saphira fell, and the Empire broke and ran. It was a small matter to chase them down now, and Roran let his men do as they pleased.

The Red Guard had taken heavy losses today. They left their brothers strewn from the gates through here, to the great, monstrous temple where Marcus Tabór cowered with his brother and a small regiment of Imperials, sealed safe behind the heavy doors.

"Again!" Roran roared, gesturing at the group carrying a piece of the palace—a rather lovely wooden pillar—to signal them forward.

The men bellowed and charged, slamming the pillar into the doors. They rattled, groaning in their hinges, but they did not fall.

Roran bared his teeth.

He was tired and frustrated and heartbroken, and he would kill Tabor for this, he really would.

Galbatorix had taken Saphira and bent her to his will, and now she was probably dead. Brave, beautiful Saphira, the last bit of Eragon left in the world, was probably dead, and it was the Varden who had to kill her.

Roran's heart ached. He felt like he had failed.

"Again!"

The door shuddered, bowing backwards, but it still did not fall.

"Again!"

"It doesn't matter how many times you hit it," Jensen said, pulling his own horse beside Trumpet. "It will not fall for you."

"It will," Roran snarled through gritted teeth. His shoulders were bunched tightly and the Hound's fang sat heavy in his belt. "It must."

"It will not," the healer said gently. "Those gates are made to withstand a dragon's fury. You fight like a dragon, Roran Stronghammer, but you are not."

Roran growled wordlessly and bellowed, "again!"

The door stood, and did not fall.

"Damn it all to hell," he spat, turning away. He was so angry, so hurt, that his hands trembled. "Damn them! Galbatorix, Tabor, damn them, damn them—"

Trumpet whinnied unhappily, nudging Roran. He pushed the horse away. He didn't deserve comfort, not now, not after letting Saphira get herself captured and broken and killed

"It is not your fault, what happened to Saphira," Jensen said. "That is not your burden to bear."

"It is," Roran insisted. "Eragon was family, and family looks out for each other. I didn't. I let her get broken."

"No," said Jensen. "Saphira followed Shruikan of her own free will. Yes, she was grieving, and yes, she was out of her mind, but you are just a man. What can you do against a furious dragon?"

"I could have—"

"Roran," the healer said gently, resting his hand on Roran's shoulder. "Don't torture yourself. Saphira's fall was not your fault. It was Galbatorix's. Don't rip yourself to pieces. Instead, punish the ones responsible."

Roran bared his teeth and hatred like ice crept into his bones. His fingers itched for the Hound's fang hanging in his belt. "I will," he said darkly. "Starting with Tabor."

The men of the Red Guard drew back again, looking to him for orders.

"Again," he said quietly, and they slammed at the doors, making them quake and tremble.

"Allow me," someone sang in a liquid, lilting voice, and hissed a word. The door bowed inwards as if struck by a great force, groaning and whimpering in on itself. The newcomer sang another word and it crumpled like paper, and she hummed a third and it collapsed to dust.

"Thanks," Roran said, looking the stranger up and down.

She was an elf dressed in magnificent armor, her raven-dark hair pulled back to reveal pointed ears and slanting emerald eyes, a firm-set mouth and an elegant throat. Golden leaves were traced delicately onto her armor and she wore an emerald cape lined with snow-white feathers. She carried a quiver full of arrows fletched by those same feathers and a thin, shining sword. Blood splatters marred her golden greaves and sharp features, and she bled freely from a gash above her eye.

Trumpet nickered uncertainly.

"Well?" said the warrior-elf, her eyebrows arched in a terribly familiar way. "Aren't you going in?"

Roran blinked and shook himself vigorously. "Forward!" he bellowed, mounting Trumpet in one swift movement and charging up the stone steps, through the open door and into the depths of the temple.

Everything inside was dark and shadow, and even the Red Guard, who had faced nightmares and Hounds, faltered at his heels.

But the elf-woman came in behind them and threw up emerald flames, bathing the dank place in wavering light, and Roran led them on.

The temple seemed to be divided much as the city was. There was an empty, cold front section, the stones the color of rust and old blood. Here was where the poor worshipped, no doubt, and offered their blood for a few scraps of bread. Farther in there were wooden seats and more blood, then a series of rooms with beds.

Finally, in the very center, there was a great hall, inlaid with gold, and a looming, menacing altar. The pews had been turned on their sides to form walls, piled high on top of each other, and the gaps bristled with swords and the tips of arrows.

"Take cover!" Roran bellowed, spurring Trumpet to the side, behind a massive, misshapen statue.

The Red Guard took warning and vanished back down the tunnels as a volley of arrows clattered harmlessly off the stone walls.

"Sir!" a man called. "Should we retreat?"

"No," Roran thundered back. "We have come too far." Tabor was here. He knew it. There was nowhere else for the coward governor to run. He had to be here somewhere, and the only way to end the siege—and avenge Saphira's fall—was to kill him.

"Orders?"

"Yes, General, orders?" the elf-woman asked, in a smooth, slightly amused tone. She seemed to be mocking him, and his lip curled faintly.

"Elf," he barked. "Do you have a bow?"

"I do," she answered.

"Are there any other archers among us?"

"Aye," a few different voices rang out. "We are archers, but we don't have any arrows."

"Come and take some of these," Roran instructed, kicking some of the stray arrows back into the hallway. "Elf, do you know the fire spell?"

"What kind of fire?" she asked, her voice still amused.

"The kind that burns, and won't be easily put out." Roran knew that the Empire's men could hear him and were probably making their own plans, and also that there were probably mages among the gathered. But he had a plan.

"I know of a spell."

"Then use it," he said. "Set the arrows on fire, as they fly, if you can. They won't be able to put enough out in time."

You mean to weaken their barricade, the elf-woman said to his mind.

Yes.

"Is that wise?" she asked aloud, her tone still amused and slightly mocking. He bared his teeth in her general direction. Manners, little wolf. I mean you no harm. "Setting this place aflame?"

"The temple itself is stone," Roran said. "Their barricade will burn, but the rest of it will hold."

"Fair enough. On your mark, then, General Stronghammer."

She knows of me. "Archers ready," Roran said, and he could hear Tabor's men desperately readying their own counterattack, but the Varden wasn't a target they could hit. "Archers aim!"

He took a deep breath and dared to peek behind the statue. The Empire had withdrawn all of its arrows and there was a magician chanting in a high, frightened voice.

"Fire!"

The archers dove from their cover, loosing four arrows. The elf shouted a word and they caught flame, flashing a sickly, pale green, and slammed into the wooden barricade.

Two of the fires went out, extinguished by magic, but Roran raised his hand and shouted for another volley, and then another.

The Empire fired back now, but the elf sent their arrows away. Fire spread, eating away at the barricade.

Roran took another deep breath, and raised his hammer, calling for a charge, but as he was about to cry "Forward!" the Empire's men began to scream.

The ring of swords filled the hot air, and war cries rose from behind the barricade.

What's happening?

Through the gaps, Roran saw flashes of armor and cloth, swords sparking off of each other.

Has the Empire started fighting itself?

"Forward!" he bellowed, and Trumpet bugled a war cry, hooves churning in the air. The Red Guard rallied and surged behind him, and they crossed the distance to the barricade in a matter of seconds.

"Ware!" the elf cried, and threw up a spell.

The barricade collapsed, chunks of burning wood falling towards the Red Guard, spurred by someone small tackling Marcus Tabor through the pews—

The elf's spell shoved all the pews aside, out of the way, and Roran brought Trumpet to a halt, his mouth falling open and his heart leaping, twisting inside his chest.

For there, crouched on top of Marcus Tabor with a dagger held at his throat, was Katrina.


"Roran," she breathed. She couldn't move, couldn't run to him, couldn't do anything but press her blade closer to Marcus Tabor's neck—he made a gurgling sound, the coward—and stare.

He looked magnificent.

Her husband sat astride an inky black warhorse, hammer firm in his grip. He wore a soldier's armor and his eyes flashed, and from his belt hung a long, sharp silver tooth.

But Katrina could care less about all these trappings of war. Beneath the General's stern, fierce face, she saw her Roran. She saw the sweet, passionate young man who had begun to court her all those years ago, in secret because her father didn't approve. She saw the man who had rallied her village and led them through the wilderness, the man who loved his cousin so much he forgave the death of his father.

She saw the father of her own child, and the sight of him now was as sweet as it had ever been.

She smiled. "Roran," she teased. "A little late, are we?"

"Katrina," he choked, and stumbled off his warhorse. He staggered towards her and lifted her up, swept her into his arms.

He smelled like battle, all blood and sweat and smoke, and she hugged him back just as fiercely, aware that she didn't smell any better.

Roran pulled back, ran a thumb down her grimy face. He smiled so radiantly it made her heart kick. "Katrina," he breathed reverently. "You're alive."

"As are you," she said warmly, cupping his own cheek. "Reunions later, dearest. We have a siege to win."

Roran smiled viciously, kissing her cheek, and lunged past her into the fray, hammer raised.

The rest of his men—Imperials? They were wearing a Guard's colors, but they fought at his side—leaped after him and even that warhorse entered the fight, trumpeting a challenge and crushing all who came at him.

Katrina's own people, led by Merida, surged around them, and between them they had defeated the Empire in less than five minutes.

She laid her foot on Marcus Tabor's heaving chest, and smiled.

"Governor," she said. "I think it would be wise to surrender now."

"Not to you," he spat, reaching up for her. She pointed her dagger between his eyes. He stilled.

"To me," she said sweetly. "And then to my husband, and then to our Lady."

"Peasants," Tabor snarled. "Heathen scum, traitors to the Empire!"

"Coward," she returned, not at all bothered. "Now yield." She bore down with her foot, persuading him none too gently.

"Fine!" he finally gasped. "I yield! I yield!"

"Tabor is finished!" Katrina bellowed, and the River cheered, stamping their dirty feet. Roran's people took up the roar and the temple shook with it.

Even the elf-woman, who stood apart and aloof, looked pleased. "Quite the wife you have there, Stronghammer," she said dryly.

Roran broke from his celebration to come stand beside Katrina, wrapping an arm around her waist as he glared at Tabor.

"You're alive," he murmured into her hair.

Some of his men came and bound Tabor, hauling him away.

"You're alive," she whispered against his neck.

She loved the smell of him, the feel of his warm hands on her back.

"I missed you," she said.

"I missed you too." Roran pulled away, looked her up and down. He laid his hands on her belly, and her little one kicked, sensing his or her father. "Why did you chose to fight? You're with child."

There was a slight accusation in his voice that made her bristle, but Katrina understood. She hadn't wanted to harm her unborn child either.

"I chose to fight," she said slowly, "because I could not bear the thought of my son or daughter growing up in a world still ruled by Galbatorix. I want them to be born into a free world, a world where they don't have to fear that their father is going to be taken or their uncles will be slain."

"But what if you had been killed? Or our child?"

She cupped his cheek, smiling gently. Her Roran was a warrior, that much was true. He was a leader and very brave man, but he was not a mother. He didn't understand.

"A mother's sacrifice," she said. "I will not have my children grow up in a world such as this."

"You would rather them die?"

"Yes," she said, "I would, rather than have them taken from me, or one of us from them."

Roran blinked and drew back a little, his eyes confused and hurt.

She sighed. "It sounds cruel," she allowed. "Heartless, even. But know that I do it out of love, and that I want this child. I want it. But I will not allow him to grow up like we did. I won't let him grow up in fear."

"A mother's love is a strange thing," the elf-woman offered, padding past them. "And not often understood by men. But know that your wife speaks the truth. Her choice to fight was made out of love."

Katrina blinked her thanks. "Are you a mother too?" she asked.

The elf's expressionless face flickered for a moment. "I was," she said.

"Son or daughter?"

"Daughter," said the elf. She turned away. "She is lost to me now. War is a heartless thing, General Stronghammer. Do not fault your wife for wishing peace on your child."

Roran stayed quiet, but his hand found Katrina's. He squeezed once, comforting, and nodded to the elf.

She offered him a crooked smile, touched her forehead, and glided back into the depths of the tunnel. The emerald lights stayed for a moment, until she was out of sight, and then they winked out, plunging the whole place into gloom.

"To think that people worship here," Katrina said, looking around with a shudder. The temple was menacing still, even with all its power stolen away.

Roran nodded. "Nasuada will have it torn down, I expect. Or she'll turn it into something else."

"Does she want to be Queen, once this war is over?" Merida came to Katrina's side, looking Roran up and down with a critical eye.

Roran blinked, startled. "I don't know," he said. "No one's given what comes after much thought. I just assumed that the Riders would take over."

"Because that worked so well the first time," Merida said, turning on her heel. "We'll come find you, Katrina Riverfriend. Don't leave the city."

It wasn't a threat, not to Katrina, but Roran bristled and took a step forward.

Merida arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"It's alright, love," Katrina soothed, and let her friend slip away. "She means no harm. She's a friend."

"What did she call you?" he asked, watching Merida go. Only when she was out of sight did he relax his grip on his hammer. "Riverfriend?"

"There's a group of slaves in the city that call themselves the River," she explained. "I don't know why, but they're the ones who found me, and led an uprising today."

"A slave rebellion?"

"Aye. Can you spread the word that they're not to be killed? I don't think they would attack the Varden, but just in case."

Roran nodded, beckoning to a young man in Imperial armor. "Get word to the Varden," he ordered. "Anyone not in Imperial armor is not to be harmed. They're slaves, rebelling against the Empire to help us take the city."

The young man bowed and rushed out after the elf-woman.

"How did you get your hands on the Empire's armor?" she asked curiously, leaning into him.

Roran smiled and pulled her tighter. "Interesting story, that one," he said.

She smiled back. "We have all the time in the world now," she said. "Why don't you tell it to me?"

And he did.


Next update in a few days, barring any complications.

~WSS