Author's Note: I am going to update this chapter too, because I took so long. Please give me advice and please review. That is all I have to say.

Eragon was stunned. His sword, his faithful sword, it was broken. He thought of the brilliant blue light and the loud crack. He cringed. The bright blue light was still issuing from it and words appeared on the pieces of the broken blade. Eragon lined them up and the words formed into a poem, a poem that was hauntingly familiar.

My magic is not mine,

It is from others, who pay

The price of magic, for ever and ever

Till' the end of time.

I serve my maker,

At the hands of him am I born,

From melted metal,

To as strong as the Forsworn's.

I will bite all his enemies

And reap from his kill

For I serve my maker

It is my duty to for fill.

But enemies are strange indeed

To want to destroy me is their only want

The spell that they make is of an ancient creed

What can do against that?

The spell is unreachable

Unstoppable yet

The price they must pay,

Is the greatest debt.

Though I am shattered

I have helped him to kill,

For I serve my maker

It is my duty to for fill.

The way to renew me,

Is still stranger yet

You must renew me,

From the endless depth.

Where your enemies wait

Till' the time that they die,

Is the place that you make

The place that revives.

The path that leads there

Is made by the kin

The kin of my master

The descendent of a man that had once been.

The words died into the metal and it glowed once more, and then turned dull blue. Eragon picked up the shards of his sword and walked over to his dragon. She was watching him warily.

What is the matter, little one?

Eragon was back at the battle. The pieces of his sword were in his sheath, the pieces lined up. The enemy was winning. They were milling everywhere, pouring through the Varden's defenses and slaughtering everyone. Saphira was back at the Varden's camp, getting extra soldiers and reinforcements. Eragon had a new sword. He had picked it up from a dead man, one that he had killed.

The weapon was bronze colored, the hilt made of gold. The blade was flexible but strong. The sword was new but it was scarred with numerous notches. It was a magician's sword. Eragon ran over to his cousin Roran who was holding of two warriors with his hammer.

"Hello cousin."

"Eragon."

Eragon looked briefly at the soldiers that Roran was fighting, then muttered a few words. The men jerked, clutching the place that their heart would be before collapsing to the ground, dead.

"We should retreat back with the others, Roran."

"Yes."

Then two walked, Eragon killing those trying to attack them along the way. The two were so different; Eragon tall, princely, and handsome; Roran; shorter, with the weathered look that showed he did much farming for a living. But the two both had a same proud and rugged look, which showed the similar passion, power and fierceness the two possessed.

They were back at the river's bank, were the Varden were trying to make a stand. Saphira was there, delivering wood. The Varden were trying to make some sort of wooden wall to keep the enemy back for the time being.

Elva was there, keeping the enemy at bay as the workers were building. Her hair was matted and plastered with mud, her weapons and clothes were bloody. One of her arms was severely injured and she was stopping abruptly as is if she was in pain. Despite the disadvantages, Elva did her job quite well, throwing spears, and slicing with a knife. Eragon joined her.

"When…will you free me from this…curse," she asked, flinching again.

"Soon."

"Please…the price is great…when I kill."

The enemy brought their catapults nearer, crashing down parts of the wall the Varden was building. Eragon shouted, words of death. The soldiers dropped, dead, on their own catapults. Instantly, they were replaced. Eragon destroyed them again. His energy slipped away. Soon, soldiers surrounded the catapults, replacing the dead quickly. Five boulders, raised into the air, aimed to destroy the Varden's work again. Letta! Eragon shouted. The stones froze in mid-air. Energy drained from him. Eragon crumpled to the ground. He needed more energy. Eragon moved his hand to where his sword once was, and then cursed when he remembered that his sword was broken. Concentrating hard, Eragon heaved himself up.

Eragon picked up his sword and got ready to fight. There was a crash. He looked up. The catapults had started to pick off the people who were defending the wall. One lone catapult sent a boulder flying. Eragon followed the stones path. It was going for Elva. She was fighting a tall burly solider and was completely oblivious to the missile speeding toward her.

"ELVA!"

She turned but it was already too late. The stone crushed her, snapping her legs as she stood. Eragon ran over. With a grunt, he lifted the stone off the ground. Elva was flat on the ground, her legs had mashed and were lying at her sides.

Elva was dead. She had given up all her life because of his stupidity, his horrible mistake. Eragon remembered her serious face, she had never had a real childhood. She never had a child's life, a child's dreams, wants, and thoughts. Every things had been too real for her, she had been pushed into the world long before she was ready. He had stolen her life.

He imagined what she might have been. She had a bright smile, a carefree life. She ran about, laughing. He remembered. Elva as a baby, a shining sliver star on her forehead, the curse. He remembered her look on her face, serious, even old, when she toldLady Nasuada of the assassin. He remembered her, with her spear, so dangerous, so unfitting. He cried.

Author's Note: Did you like it? Please review.