Chapter Twenty-Eight: Bid'Daum

Eragon knew from his experience during Dagshelgr that the celebrations of the elves were extremely potent, but this was something else.

The elves were excited to the point of frenzy, dancing and singing and filling the air with an enchantment that made his blood boil and caused his mind to take wild abandon with a desire to dance and run through the woods. It took several minutes of remaining still for him to fight the urges off and exert control over his body.

Before he even knew what was happening, however, he was dragged to one of the many tables and sat down next to Murtagh, with Brom on his other side. His anger was gone for the time being; the celebration would not permit such emotions from tainting its atmosphere.

"Right," Brom grabbed a pair of bottles and poured the brothers a drink each. "Eragon, I don't believe you've ever partaken of alcohol, have you?"

"Murtagh hasn't, either," he pointed out.

"Not true," Murtagh grinned giddily. "Roran and I got some from Horst once."

"And you didn't bring me?!"

"Well, no time like the present," Brom smirked. Even his solemn exterior had been replaced with an energy that seemed to belong to his younger days. "This is Faelnirv."

"Oromis talked about this stuff before," Murtagh lifted the cup to his face and breathed in the scent. It smelled like wild berries.

"It's quite strong. I'm curious to see how you'll both handle it," Brom snickered. He poured his own cup and they toasted, then drank them fully.

It wasn't long before Eragon felt a little floaty, like he wasn't completely inside of his body. He tilted his head curiously at the pleasant buzzing in his ears.

Brom threw back another drink and the boy frowned. "Don't hog it all."

"You don't need any more than that," Brom shot him down as he tried to snatch the bottle. "You've built up no tolerance yet and another cup of Faelnirv will leave you useless for the rest of the night. Just enjoy how it feels."

Fortunately for Brom, he didn't actually have to fight Eragon off of the alcohol, because another distraction took the boy's attention.

Murtagh ran to the other side of the table, sat down, and held an arm out towards Eragon. "Care to take me on, little brother?"

Eragon glared at him challengingly. "You're going down."

They joined hands and Brom leaned over the table. "Ready? Go!"

In hindsight, they were definitely a little too merry, because they forgot that Eragon's elven strength greatly surpassed Murtagh's.

His brother's hand was smashed into the table so fast that it produced a loud bang and caused Murtagh to yelp in pain. They all froze, and then burst out laughing. Brom leaned too far back in his seat and fell to the ground with a shout, and they laughed even harder.

When Eragon wiped the tears from his eyes and managed to control his giggling, he found Orik beside him and Rhunon across from him. Orik was already holding his arm up to challenge Murtagh, who accepted eagerly.

Rhunon raised a daring eyebrow at Eragon. "Care to test your luck, boy?"

"I might have to wait another hundred years to get a second chance," he told her, grinning. She laughed and they joined hands.

Rhunon was a brutal opponent. Blacksmithing for thousands of years had turned her body into pure steel. Eragon lasted all of three seconds before she crushed him so badly that she very nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket.

He was dazed from pain and heard the elf smith cackling while Brom healed his arm.

He looked up again and then Vanir was there. A gathering of elves was slowly forming around them, laughing and cheering. Eragon took Vanir's hand and they both glared at each other viciously. At the shout of the elves around them, they heaved and pushed with all their might against one another.

Eragon competed against a number of elves and other opponents (including the end of Saphira's tail!) for what was probably an hour. Brom ended up going against him at one point and Eragon smashed the back of his hand down so hard that his father's shoulder dislocated. While Rhunon—who was cackling madly at Brom's misfortune—set it back into place, Eragon laughed until he cried.

That felt like sweet revenge in a way.

Garzhvog eventually found his way to the table and Eragon was definitely too giddy when he accepted the Kull's hand—which literally swallowed his own—without a second thought. The Urgal grinned dangerously, all teeth as he leered at Eragon's fierce smile. By now, many elves were all around the table, and even more were watching and exclaiming in the branches above.

Eragon pushed with all of his might against Garzhvog, who used his greater size and ridiculous muscle mass to his every advantage. In the end, the victor was inevitable. With a mighty roar, Garzhvog shoved Eragon's hand to the table and claimed dominance. He raised both arms over his head and howled, and the elves cheered while Eragon nursed his bruised and possibly—probably—broken hand.

He took some time to heal himself and then rejoined the action. Eragon sat down and looked up at his opponent, only to blink when he found Arya sitting across from him.

Her smirk was all fire and he felt his blood roar hotly. Eragon took her hand and they glared at each other. The elves watched this match especially, eager to see their Princess participate.

Brom set his hands over their joined ones and with the crowd, called out. "Ready? Go!"

They lunged against each other, pushing hard with their teeth bared. Eragon's muscles burned; he was tired after so many matches, and Arya was fresh, but he refused to submit. The elves shouted and cried out in excitement as each of them gained and lost ground, still heaving with all their might.

Eragon growled, a guttural sound from deep in his throat and Arya's lip rose in a snarl. Sweat beaded their skin, the elves around them cheered, and with a mighty crack they were both on the ground.

He blinked up at the suddenly silent crowd, who all stared at the ruins of the table. They'd shattered it in their frenzy for dominance. Eragon looked to their hands and groaned; Arya had the back of his hand pinned to the earth.

They were lying flat on their bellies amidst the wreckage, but she looked up at him and grinned. "I win."

The elves cheered for their Princess and Eragon laughed, accepting his loss graciously. His arm hurt like hell, but the pain was barely noticeable in the moment. They pulled each other to their feet and panted, grinning and laughing at one another.

After the spontaneous competition, he took a break for the most part and sat down between Saphira's huge front paws. He was content to rest and watch the elves sing and dance. Above the heads of the dragons, elves sat on the branches and asked them riddles, laughing when any of the dragons answered them. This did not include Opheila's Eldunari—the dragoness was hidden back at Oromis' hut with her egg. The Eldunari could not become common knowledge, though many of them wished it could be so.

They had promised to share everything they could from the festival with Opheila, and she was grateful for that.

He felt the effects of the Faelnirv steadily wearing off from his exertion and though he was tempted to find some more, he felt like he could enjoy the celebration with a clear head for the time being.

Eragon laughed as he watched Murtagh, who had clearly decided to have more Faelnirv, drag Brom onto the dance floor so they could both perform a comedic stint straight from Carvahall's tavern. The elves roared with laughter at the sight.

At some point, Arget came over and shoved herself between Saphira and Eragon so he was leaning back against her side. Maud curled up in his lap and purred when Eragon stroked the werecat's shaggy fur.

During this time, the elves started to present their gifts and contributions to the celebration. He heard many poems and songs, some joyous, some sorrowful, and many held aspects of both.

Hours later, he spotted Garzhvog sitting on a root of the Menoa Tree with an Urgal pipe in his hand. It seemed it was his turn to share, and many of the elves watched curiously to see what the Kull would do. This was, after all, the first time an Urgal had participated in the Agaeti Blodhren.

"My gift is not solely from me," he began, his voice deep and gruff. "It is a tale from all of the Urgralgra, of a time long before the races of elves and Urgals, perhaps even dragons, came to these shores. A story from the elder days in Alalea."

The forest grew silent and Eragon listened, suddenly far more interested. The elves listened raptly, and even the dragons stared at Garzhvog.

He breathed in from his pipe and exhaled, and began to speak.

It was a long story of an ancient Kull known as Illgra (he pronounced it as ill-grah) of the Urgal Clan Skgaro, and the invasion of her valley home by an enormous dragon.

"He flew down with wings so vast they could touch the farthest sides of the valley at once," Garzhvog growled. "His scales were black as a new moon's night, and his eyes were the color of fresh blood. When he roared, the air shook. When he stepped forth, the earth seemed to shake from his great weight. When his wings flapped, the trees cracked and splintered. And when he breathed, black flames ate the world. He slept long, and only woke when he was angered or hungry.

"This dragon was Vermund the Grim, and when he claimed the mountain overlooking the valley, he became known as the Worm of Kulkaras."

The story went on, telling of Illgra's attempts to fight the dragon, only to be crippled in the process of her first attempt. It told of her journey to become a Shaman, to learn magic and claim revenge on Vermund for the death of her father.

It seemed the story would end in a grisly fashion, with one side destroying the other. And then—

"And Vermund roared, and Illgra realized he was in pain, and then she saw the foulest of creatures that stalked the night. The Lethrblaka."

The battle Garzhvog described was vicious. Vermund was huge and old, but he was slower than the nimble Lethrblaka, who pierced his hide and flesh with their enormous beaks. Illgra had to make a decision—the lesser of two evils.

She fought the Lethrblaka and their spawn, and distracted them enough for Vermund to rise up and annihilate the foul creatures.

"Illgra was wounded and could only watch as Vermund snaked his great head towards her. The dragon turned so one great eye could stare at her, and yet the urge to hunt and kill was not present in his gaze. For the first time she could recall, Vermund looked upon a lesser creature and truly saw.

"Vermund pulled away and with a roar, the dragon took to the skies and left the valley behind forever. Though her revenge was unfulfilled, Illgra had brought peace to her clan after years of the dragon's reign, and that was enough for her. With Vermund gone, she gave up her desire for battle and dedicated her skill in magic to heal. Her choice to sacrifice revenge to best a greater evil forged her legend. And so she has been spoken of in all Urgal clans since."

His tale completed, the elves let out a great cheer and began to clamor in fascination of the story. Eragon found himself reaching out to Glaedr and the other dragons in his mind.

Could the story be real? Eragon asked.

It could be, Glaedr admitted thoughtfully. There are not many who remember the old lands of Alalea, and I'm sure time has warped some aspects of the story, but his tale is accurate on several points. His description of Vermund paints the picture of a dragon perhaps as big as Belgabad, once the greatest of our race, and Vermund's behavior certainly matches that of the old, wild dragons. Who knows? But regardless, it was an excellent story.

Illgra chose to save her worst enemy to fend off a greater evil, Saphira hummed approvingly. In doing so, she forced Vermund to see a creature he thought much lesser than himself. She earned the respect of an old and wild dragon. Such a thing is not done easily.

Glaedr nodded. Illgra taught the Urgralgra a wise lesson. I can see why such a tale would endure for so many thousands of years.

Eragon could only agree.

Garzhvog's tale seemed to spark energy back into the elves, and they took a lull in their gift-giving to dance and sing again. The first day's ending passed in a blur, and before Eragon knew it, night had fallen upon them again.

He spent much of that time with his friends, and he only partook in a little more Faelnirv. He was starting to learn that he wanted the warm buzzing in his blood, but no more. Brom warned him of splitting hangovers should he go beyond that, and Eragon wanted to enjoy the celebration as much as possible.

By the time it was almost midnight again, Eragon was exhausted. Saphira told him to go and sleep a little, and he was about to head off for his treehouse when he heard someone call for him.

Arya walked over and after they greeted each other, she spoke. "Were you about to retire?"

"Just for a few hours, I think," he admitted. "I want to be more coherent for the last day, at least."

"I see," she nodded. Arya pursed her lips and regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments. "Have you partaken in a dance yet?"

"Not yet, no."

The corner of her mouth quirked up into a small smile and she held her hand out towards him, fingers outstretched. Eragon stared at her for a few seconds before he realized she was asking him to dance with her.

He looked around them, at the elves dancing to a steady tune as the music waned—as it would, gentle for a time, before it inevitably climbed to excitement again. Eragon felt nervousness building in him and he was briefly reluctant.

But then he looked back into emerald eyes and his body responded, spellbound, to take her hand. Arya turned, still smiling, and led him onto the dance floor. She swayed elegantly into the line of dancing elves and he matched her grace with his own.

His blood was pulsing hot and his heart was rabbiting in his chest. The feel of her soft skin against his was consuming and he fought very hard to maintain his composure. Arya squeezed his hand, offered him a gentle smile, and he knew she was trying to calm his nerves. Eragon managed a slow blink in return and took a steadying breath.

Then they were dancing around each other as easily as when they sparred, but it was slower and calmer and they fell into a rhythm that calmed the dragon-fire in his blood. His breath came easier and he relaxed into the motions.

Arya's lips moved, but he didn't hear what she'd said. "I'm sorry, could you…"

She laughed, quiet and merry, and her eyes gleamed. Eragon lost his voice at the sight.

"Now that I have your attention again," she said teasingly. "Have you been enjoying yourself?"

"I have," he answered honestly. "And you?"

"When I participated in the Agaeti Blodhren a hundred years ago, I was your age, I think," she told him. "Perhaps a bit younger. Back then, it was a very subdued affair. The Riders had just fallen, Glaedr was the only dragon present, and my father had died not long before."

Arya fell silent for a few moments. "Experiencing it now…I feel like perhaps I am seeing the celebration as it was meant to be for the first time."

"We suffered for this happiness."

"We did," she agreed.

The music in the background slowed more, a gentle flow from the flutes and harps. They shifted a little closer to match the slower pace, and for a few moments they were two weary creatures releasing the sorrows in their lives.

"Enough of this," he murmured quietly. She blinked at him and Eragon tilted his head, not leaving her eyes. "We should not grieve in such a place. They would…want us to be happy, would they not?"

"Yes," Arya was silent for a second, then smiled once more, a little teasingly. "You speak wisely for one so young, Eragon Shadeslayer."

"Wisely? You mean impulsively," he scoffed, smirking. She giggled and he laughed with her.

They danced for a little while longer, matching the form of the other elves around them. Their bodies drew close to one another, Arya's left hand rested on his shoulder and his right settled on her waist hesitantly. They both watched their free hands press flat against one another, saw their fingers slowly interlock in proper form with the other dancers, and yet it felt intimate as well.

The other elves had their foreheads pressed together, regardless of whether they were friends or strangers—it was simply part of the dance. Arya saw Eragon's hesitation and knew he was probably struggling. She knew he had feelings for her, and that he didn't know whether or not to proceed.

But he had always exercised restraint. She trusted him. Arya leaned forward to press her forehead to his and Eragon's breath caught. They both stilled—she didn't want to torture him if he couldn't handle this.

"Too much?"

"No, just—it surprised me," he swallowed. His breath was shaky as it left him. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry for."

Eragon closed his eyes and she could feel him quivering a little, his earlier calm slowly deteriorating. She squeezed his hand again and he squeezed back. Arya closed her eyes for the music and they breathed in the scent of wild mountain winds and crushed pine needles.

Neither of them saw Islanzadi watching their dance with surprise barely kept from her face. At her shoulder, the white raven Blagden croaked.

"Wyrda!"

The screech made them flinch and Arya watched Eragon's eyes fly open with panic. She knew immediately that the sudden, loud noise had jarred him too much, and she cursed Blagden in her mind. Without a word, she backed off and tugged him away from the other dancers.

Arya pulled him to the edge of the gathering and pointed him towards the path to his treehouse. "Go. Rest."

Eragon nodded, not trusting his voice, and turned away. Before he got too far, she called to him again.

"Thank you, Eragon," she murmured. Arya turned to rejoin the celebration elsewhere, making a beeline for the tables of food.

Eragon retreated quickly to his house and found Arget already sleeping there with Maud. He fell into his bed, barely remembering to remove his boots and tunic, and quickly fell asleep.

His dreams were filled with flashes of green eyes, honey-milk skin, and the smell of crushed pines.

He didn't mean to, but Eragon slept through most of the second day of the celebration. He must have been more exhausted than he'd thought.

When he rejoined the festivities, the elves were once more sharing their gifts. Towards the end of the afternoon, it was his turn and Murtagh's to share their gifts. Murtagh presented a poem on each of their dragons, which greatly pleased them. His piece ended with a foretelling that their race would one day return to its former glory, and that earned him four powerful bellows from the dragons and cheers from the elves.

Murtagh being Murtagh, he made an exaggerated bow that brought forth laughter, and then he retreated to Thorn's side with a wide grin.

Eragon's piece was simpler and solemn, but perhaps more powerful.

He had created a Fairth, and its image was that of the mahogany-colored dragon egg being hidden in Ristvak'baen. In the background stood an elf, his back to the viewer, but a white Rider's blade was in his hand and far away, one could see the shadow of a black dragon approaching.

Eragon told the elves of what he'd discovered there; the truth of Vrael's sacrifice to protect the egg—though he could not speak of Opheila's Eldunari—and why he'd made his last stand at the ruined outpost. When the elves heard the story, many shed tears, for they knew now that the beloved, last Leader of the Dragon Riders had not been slain in cowardice or failure, but in selfless bravery to protect that which they treasured above all else.

Islanzadi approached when the tale was complete to take the Fairth from him, and told the host of elves that the piece would be placed in Tialdari Hall for all to see. Vrael's history would be re-written to depict his final duty instead of his attempt to flee, which was all they had known before.

Eragon returned to Saphira and he felt a pulse of gratitude from Glaedr and Oromis for righting an old wrong, for now their friend's honor had been restored.

As midnight of the final day approached, the elves gathered around the Menoa Tree.

Arya pointed towards the light in the tree's hollow, guiding Eragon's sight. The spell Islanzadi had cast days ago was growing weaker. "See how the werelight dims? We have but a few hours left to us before dawn arrives and we return to the world of cold reason."

The host of elves were excited and anticipating. As Eragon watched, Islanzadi stood on a gnarled shelf overlooking the gathering. She made a speech, speaking of the Dragon War that led to the formation of the Dragon Riders, the decline of their race since the Fall, and the hope that stood in the four new Riders and the last egg Vrael had saved. In them, there was the greatest chance they had to conquer Galbatorix.

At her signal, the elves cleared a large space at the base of the Menoa Tree. Eragon was guided to the edge of the circle by Arya, and found himself sitting on the ground beside her and Murtagh. The dragons sat behind them, with Arget and Maud curled up at their feet.

When all the elves were settled, two elf-maidens emerged and walked to the center of the space, and stood with their backs to one another. They were extraordinarily beautiful, and identical in every aspect save for their hair; one had ebony tresses, and the other silver.

"The Caretakers, Iduna and Neya," Arya whispered amidst the sudden hush.

The two maidens moved in unison and raised their hands to the brooches at their throats. They unclasped them and allowed their robes to fall away, leaving them bare to the eyes of the crowd. Though they wore no garments, the elf-twins were clad in the iridescent tattoo of a dragon. It began with the tail, wrapped around Iduna's left ankle and climbing up her leg and thigh, over her torso, and then across Neya's back. The tattoo ended with the dragon's head on Neya's chest. Every single scale on the dragon was inked in a different color, giving it a shimmer like a rainbow.

The maidens twined their hands and arms together so the dragon appeared to be connected fully, rippling from one body to the other without interruption. Then they each lifted a foot and brought it down on the packed earth with a soft thump.

Twice more they stamped their feet, and on the third thump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm to the sound. The harpists plucked their strings next, then the flutes, and then the twins began to sing. Their voices joined the music into a hymn, a pulsing melody, and they began to dance. Slowly at first, they picked up speed as the elves of the gathering began to sing with them. Eragon did not know the words, but he heard Arya singing beside him and listened to her voice as he watched. Behind them, the dragons hummed deep along with the song.

Iduna and Neya danced faster and faster until their feet were blurs on the ground and their hair flew around them. Sweat glistened on their fair skin and the tempo of the music climbed to match their movements.

A flare of light ran down the length of the dragon, but Eragon was distracted by a slight flash of blue. He looked down and froze at the sight of his Eldunari glowing beneath his tunic. He pulled the necklace out from its hiding place and watched the gem that was his heart-of-hearts glow in tandem with the light emanating from the dragon tattoo of the twins.

He looked up at the sound of a roar just in time to see the dragon lunge away from the skin of the maidens, pulling itself free of them to climb into the air. The dragon flapped its wings, surveying the gathering, and it was connected to the twins only by the tip of his tail—like an umbilical cord. The creature loosed a bellow that carried centuries past.

Multicolored eyes regarded all the elves, the dragons, and then fixed on him.

Light surged from the dragon and blinded them all, even causing the twins to stumble in their dance. Eragon blinked the spots in his vision away and when he could see properly, the color had blanched from the spectral dragon, leaving it white as pure, fallen snow.

The elves fell silent and he chanced a glance at Arya, who stared at the specter with visible shock. Eragon looked back at the dragon and watched as it slowly flew down towards him, and he met eyes that were timeless—

The whole clearing was empty.

Not a single elf was there. Murtagh, Brom, Garzhvog—they were all just gone. Eragon stared up at the only other being in the space.

No longer a specter, a grand white dragon settled down onto its belly and looked at him serenely. It's eyes were a startling shade of light, robin's-egg blue, while its claws and spikes were black as pitch. The dragon was bigger than Saphira, yet smaller than Glaedr.

Eragon, the dragon dipped his head. His voice was soft, yet deep all at once. The dragon studied him for a few moments longer. How strange it is to call my Rider's name to one who is not my Rider.

That took a few seconds to click in Eragon's brain and he inhaled sharply. You're Bid'Daum.

Once I was, he agreed. Now I am a part of my race—of their memories from ages past, but I felt it wiser to come to you with a face you might not fear. Many of my kind are…shall we say, rough around the edges.

The dragon seemed amused by the statement and Eragon only nodded. Bid'Daum's head tilted curiously. You're younger…younger than I thought you'd be. My Eragon was not much older than you are now, but even so. My race has placed a heavy burden on you, little one. For that, I am sorry.

Eragon frowned. What do you mean, they placed a burden on me?

Your change. Your transformation, Bid'Daum explained. The dragons channeled their magic to turn you into something we have always needed—a Rider between dragons and the other races of Alagaesia. A conduit for our race, a nexus for the others.

He felt a thrill in his blood. Here was the answer to all his questions. To what he was and why.

What am I? He asked with trepidation.

Bid'Daum was quiet for a time. You have guessed some of it. You are unique; the only one of your kind to exist. You are like elves, and yet you are not. You are intimately intertwined with the dragons, and thus you are more like us than the others.

He blinked slowly. I suppose if dragons could change themselves, you would be similar to a werecat's human form. Worry not—such a thing will not happen to you.

Eragon frowned. Why do this? Why me?

A long time ago, it was meant to be your predecessor, Bid'Daum hummed. My Rider. My Eragon. But it could not be.

The dragon's eyes became sad. Eragon and I…when we formed the first bond between us, between a dragon and a Rider, it was rough and very difficult on the two of us. We nearly didn't survive the formation of it—Eragon especially. He was a sickly child, and even when my strength joined with his, his body was never as strong as those of the others. It was a disease that ran slow and certain through his blood.

The bond the dragons and Riders created with their official formation was refined and constructed carefully, but Eragon and I did not dare alter the one between us. We feared he would not survive the process. The long years of travel and peacemaking between elves and dragons had accelerated his sickness.

Time passed and we realized we would need someone to stand as a symbol of unity between dragons and their Riders. Someone to manage the pact between our races. Someone who could speak for both sides. Eragon was the obvious choice, and we hoped the transformation might rid him of his illness. The process took a toll on him, but when he recovered, he was livelier than ever. We believed it had worked. But soon, his heart began to pain him terribly.

Eragon felt horror dawn on him and he was all-too aware of the slight weight of the jewel against his chest. The Eldunari.

We did not realize what had formed in my Rider's heart until it was too late, Bid'Daum said mournfully. And because his bond with me was rough and not as careful as the one used by the Riders who followed us, when Eragon died, I died with him.

The revelation dazed the boy and he stared at the white dragon. They never tried again?

When Eragon and I died, they feared the transformation was what killed us both—not the rudimentary bond between us. So they withheld the idea and instead settled for Caretakers, like Iduna and Neya, to symbolize the union of our races. It was the best they could manage.

And then they tried again with me, Eragon shook his head in bewilderment. Why? Why risk Saphira?

I am not entirely sure it was intentional, Bid'Daum told him thoughtfully. The Eldunari that changed you sought to give you the strength to escape the Shade, Durza, by any means possible. That you became what we've needed for so long was…a fortuitous coincidence, I think. Only the Eldunari could tell you otherwise.

Eragon pressed his hands to his head, reeling from it all. I feel like everything and nothing has been answered.

I know the feeling well, Bid'Daum sounded amused. Trying to broker peace between the elves, before they were immortal and were indeed as belligerent as the dragons at times—well, it was trying, to say the least.

The boy cracked a slight smile. Yes, he could imagine how difficult that was.

Eragon frowned again, though. He looked around him, at the empty clearing, and then back to Bid'Daum. What is this, anyways? How are you doing this?

We are in your mind, Bid'Daum answered. And if one knows how, one can stretch a moment in their thoughts for a much longer time than it seems. But even so, we are undoubtedly running out of time. I cannot remain here with you for long, little one, and we still have work to do.

What do you mean?

Our magic is channeling itself through your veins as we speak, said the dragon. You must direct it where it is needed. The pact must be changed. Alagaesia lays too separated to defeat Galbatorix and the Hearts he has broken. They have to be unified, as my Rider and I once unified the dragons and elves.

Eragon felt the breath leave his lungs. Bid'Daum leaned down to press his snout to the boy's brow tenderly. You know what you have to do, little one.

He swallowed hard and met the dragon's eyes with his own. He was scared. I don't know how.

I will help you, Bid'Daum's gaze was deep and loving. Have faith in yourself, Eragon. You can do this. We are with you. Let our magic fly, and we will do the rest.

The magic in his blood was suddenly surging and Eragon gasped. Bid'Daum hummed against him, soothing and loving like a mother's song to her child.

Let go, Eragon.

Eragon screamed.

The specter of Bid'Daum pressed his snout to the boy's Eldunari, which glowed a blinding sapphire and vibrated intensely. Eragon's draconic eyes flashed from brown to cobalt blue, surging with magic.

The force gathering around him roiled and climbed like a tidal wave until he couldn't contain it any longer. He felt minds frantically pressing in on him, Saphira and Murtagh and Arya, and he couldn't respond.

Arya's voice screamed in his head. ERAGON!

He babbled mindlessly. TOOMUCHTOOMUCHTOOMUCHTOOMUCH—

Bid'Daum's entire body pulsed as Eragon threw his head skyward and what ripped free of his throat was the howl of a dragon.

A column of azure light roared towards the sky, deep and fierce. A ribbon of the energy snapped down like a bolt of lightning and consumed Murtagh with a gasp. When the magic reached the sky above the forest, it spilled out in all directions for a split-second, like a shockwave, and dissipated as quickly as it came.

The clearing was utterly silent. Bid'Daum melted into pure light and faded entirely.

Eragon slumped onto his side, panting. His eyes were glazed and his body was covered in sweat. The Eldunari pulsed weakly and his vision flickered. There was a low din in his ears. He saw Arya skid to the ground beside him and he'd never seen such panic on her face, and then he lost consciousness.

A/N: Let it be known that I sacrifice sleep to write when the desire is too strong to resist. Some chapters suck me in when I start writing, and I cannot resist the pull until I have completed it.

A lot happens here, as I'm sure you've noticed. Not all of the changes will be apparent immediately. You'll understand in time.

As ever, please review and thanks for reading!