I'm back again! I know it's a pretty fast update, that's just because Thanksgiving is coming up and I'm about to get ready and go on break. But anyways, just some things I'll like to address. One is that the dragons aren't mentioned much because of the plot of the story which will be revealed soon. But once it is, it will be dragon power. Two, I'm still going to write about the time travel Fanfic but only after I'm done with this one. Besides that, I just finished Inheritance and it was a good book, I was just disappointed in the ending I guess. I won't say anymore because I don't want to spoil it for anyone but anyways, happy reading!

For the next few days, it seemed as if the weather was getting worse. It only served to disgruntle him even more than he already was, while Arya, though slightly annoyed with the constant winds and occasional downpour, showed no discomfort. It seemed to fit her to be out in nature instead of the high stone walls of Farthen Dur. It felt odd for him to say it, but he felt happy for her. He couldn't claim to know her before or during her capture, but he was sure that after being freed, she was much more relaxed and carefree. In that sense, he could compare to her. Ever since he left the accursed city of Uru'baen, he had felt much more alive.

One particular day when it was storming rather hard, he had ended up slipping on a puddle and falling into a stream that he didn't see at first, and would have been washed away were it not for his quick reflexes. Arya had laughed at his mishap, describing it, and him, as clumsy. Normally, if it were anyone else, he would've snapped a response of a few rather rude phrases, but he refrained as it was Arya who was laughing. He didn't mind, for some reason, that she found her happiness at his expense.

He took in a deep breath, letting the smell of fresh air and the different odors around him to float through his nose and to his brain. One good thing about a storm: it also smelled so nice and fresh afterwards. Or at least, it seemed that was the case to him. Eragon couldn't tell whether or not Arya would agree with him, but she looked rather glad for the sun to finally regain its position high in the sky, chasing the dark and gloomy clouds away. Saphira and Eridor would soon catch up to them, and from that point, their trip to Oromis's hut would be fast approaching. He didn't know whether or not he should be glad at that prospect.

"The weather is rather nice today." Said Eragon conversationally, glad that his boots were rid of the disgusting muck that had clung to it on days on end.

"That it is," agreed Arya as she guided Eragon up a rather steep hillside that seemed to disrupt the even balance of the ground. He easily climbed it with her, fatigue not a problem, for he was well rested from last few days. His illness was held at bay with odd and puzzling words games that would form between them and also by the stories that Arya would occasionally tell him to fill in the time. The latter he found more interesting and at the same time, entertaining.

There was one story that he found particularly riveting. As they walked, she spoke of a young man granted with the power of beauty by a traveling magician whom he had saved. And for some reason, the majority of the stories she told him usually ended with a sad note or a rather ironic one. This particular one was a combination of both.

"Women fell to his feet," Arya said as they walked, "Men revered him and children admired him. Everything was like a dream to him. How could a peasant boy, like he, have so much? Gifts from admirers, love from women all around him, and attention from the whole populace." He nodded, following her as she spoke. "But eventually it began to suffocate him. After some time, he'd begun to see the fake life that he was leading, but by the time he'd realized what had happened to him he was already too deeply involved with it. What the magician had given him was a curse. Overcome with madness, he mutilated himself, carving his skin with a sharp knife and rendered his beauty into a grotesque imitation of what he used to look like. In the end, he fled the city and died in isolation in the woods."

Eragon made a slight face at the ending. He scratched the back of his head, not knowing what to say to the boy's fate. It was rather odd. "That does make sense…" he said slowly. It was true; he could follow what she was saying. But it was rather…

"That is what one should remember: to be cautious when they are endowed with great beauty." Arya said wisely. Eragon raised a brow at her.

"It doesn't seem to be affecting you that much." Eragon observed. He never let it sway him but Arya was undeniably beautiful. Her angled eyes, her long lustrous ebony hair, and slender physique that belied her formidable strength were enough to draw any man to her.

A fleeting emotion flashed in her eyes but it was gone the second after leaving him really wondering whether or not it was there. She turned to face forward waving his comment away dismissively. "You've yet to meet the most beautiful of my kind," said Arya unconcerned with his indirect compliment.

He felt amused at her blatant refusal to accept it. Maybe it was her pride. He couldn't think of anything else that might cause her to refuse. Shrugging to himself, he waited for Arya to speak once more. But when it was evident that she was not going to, he decided to take the lead in the conversation now. "Arya…" she turned to look at him. "I've been meaning to ask you, what does the tattoo on your back represent?"

Her expression became one of seriousness. "It doesn't surprise me that you know about it," said Arya, referring to the time that he had healed her skin after enduring brutalizing torture under Durza. "Not many are wise to its existence so I ask that you refrain from speaking of it to anyone else." He nodded, prompting her to continue. "It is called the yawe and it symbolizes devotion to my race. Those who take up the yawe have dedicated their lives to our cause, an obligation that we don't take lightly to."

That would make sense. After all, Arya was a person who never shirked from her duties. It didn't seem like her and in the little time that he has known her, one trait about her that stood out greatly was her determination and responsibility. But not only did she have a duty to her people, but also the riders, for she was a dragon rider herself. After all the war was finished, and assuming they all survived, which would she choose? It was a thought to contend with. But the more he thought of it, the more he realized that he couldn't answer that question himself. What would he do after this was over? If he was still alive that is. Galbatorix doesn't take too lightly to treason.

"Do you believe we can do this, Arya?" Eragon asked, for the first time sharing his doubts about the war with the Black King. She glanced at him, somewhat caught off guard at his question. Her pace slowed until the two of them came to a stop, facing each other. He waited as she debated his question.

"It is too early to say," she said after a moment. "But the odds are slightly to our advantage don't you agree? We have three—no, four riders against Galbatorix. Once we face him," her eyes flashed. "If we ever do, it will surely give him pause. Other then that, I cannot say, for he no doubt has many devices hidden from view."

Eragon nodded. That was right, she didn't know. He was positive that Islanzadi and Oromis were the only ones that held any knowledge of importance. "I believe," Eragon said quietly as he took the lead "that we can accomplish it. If we don't then the whole of Alagaesia will be deprived of any hope."

"It is a sad thought," Arya said with a sigh. "All the more fitting that we should prepare ourselves against the worst that is to come."

Later that day, Arya refused to go any further until she had a chance to bathe herself of all the dirt and filth from the past days' travel. When she went off to find a small stream to bathe, he decided to cook something for them to eat that night. Before they had left the dragons, Eragon had taken some of the provisions that she had packed with him in case they couldn't find anything to eat. Deciding on onion soup, he brought forth the water from the ground and placed it in the sack that Arya had thoughtfully decided to bring along with her. The last few days, he had let Arya do the cooking, but it was high time he did his share. As he was looking into the water, in a tranquil state of solitude, it began to happen. Without the presence of Arya by his side, there was nothing he could do to distract himself.

As he stared into his reflection, it began to change until he found himself staring at a monster of himself. It looked like him but his eyes were an ice cold blue and violet. He grinned, a menacing grin, baring a row of pointed teeth that resembled an animal. Eragon…

He stared at the reflection, unmoving. It couldn't be. What's wrong, Eragon? Are you afraid? You can't escape me. Do not think that Arya can stop your transformation. It's just beginning. Don't you see it? Eragon blinked, a sick feeling penetrating his stomach. All around him, the colors began to fade as if it were like a wet painting dripping its colors down the canvas. And instead of a beautiful forest, he was kneeling in a red dimension that twisted and turned around his eyes. Ever shifting, ever changing. He stared at his distorted reflection, wary and cautious of what his mind was doing to him. Or was it reality?

Either way, he couldn't tell for sure. Don't deny it. You and I are the same. His image continued. You can never get rid of me and it's pointless to even entertain such a pathetic thought, Shadeslayer. He was mocking him. But what he was saying were not lies. In fact, Eragon knew that no matter how hard he tried, he could never rid himself of his own inner darkness, a darkness that had warped itself into its own identity. Two identities chained into one body.

You know it yourself, don't you? His distorted image continued its grin, ever stretching until he achieved a demented look that was starved with an insatiable hunger. He gasped as a dark stirring erupted in his chest; it was constricting his thoughts and feelings. Stop lying to yourself Eragon…

"I'm not." It angered him that his shadow was able to get a response out of him easily.

In return his image laughed at his reflection showing a long red tongue that was uncanny of a human to have. After a moment he quieted, licking his lips with his tongue like Saphira after she ate. You don't belong here. No, you belong out in the battlefield…you feel it too don't you? The need to kill…the need to rip flesh from flesh…

"That's enough," he made to stand not in the mood to continue talking to his reflection. The world around him began to become more compressed and distorted as if it was trying to cage him in.

Rip off this fake skin Eragon. Take up your true role in this reality that is called life and realize your true potential.

A chord struck in him and he stood there for a while his shoulders slumped his head bowed as that phrase ran through his head without stop. Rip off this fake skin…Just thinking about it made his flesh itch. Take up my true role…What was he talking about? Not moving from his spot, he stood there, letting the world around him continue to distort and contract. And just a little, the darkness in his heart grew. It was right, he didn't belong here. Not amongst the elves, not even amongst the Varden. There was nowhere he could go besides back to Galbatorix's accursed castle. And he'd rather never return there.

No! He couldn't think like this. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath before opening them once more. The emerald green of the leaves dazzled him slightly as they filtered sunlight through their small gaps. It was just his mind playing a hallucination on him that was all. There was nothing else to it. Glancing back at the water that waited for him to cook, he sighed and bent down to boil it. After a while, Arya came to rejoin him, her hair slightly wet but other than that she looked cleaned and refreshed from her bath.

He was sitting cross legged, eating the onion soup he made with the small wooden bowl and spoon that she had packed. Arya sat opposite him as she usually did when they ate and poured herself some soup while glancing at him curiously. "Are you alright Eragon?"

He glanced up at her, trying to feign his normal appearance. "I'm fine, is there something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, it's just-" catching herself she turned to her soup and ever so calmly began to eat. He raised a brow at her sudden change in attitude before finishing his own share. Once done, he set the bowl aside.

"The dragons should catch up after another day's time," observed Eragon as he stared up at the sky. "At least if this weather keeps up." She nodded, a quick movement of her head. "Then we'll make head way to Oromis."

The thought of it made his hand slightly shake, for he knew that Queen Islanzadi would be there waiting as well. And this time, there would be no more secrets nor could there be. As he sat there thinking to himself, he stared up at the leaves around him. For a good part of his life, he had spent it within the confines of stone walls and vaulted rooms. But being out in nature seemed to be doing him some good. For one, he wasn't irritable as easily anymore. He would even go as far to say that he liked living out in the trees. It was peaceful, and wherever he went, there would always be life. He wouldn't be alone.

"Eragon…"

"Hmm?" his eyes met hers, and for some reason he felt utterly relaxed despite knowing of the confrontation that was going to happen soon enough. Maybe he had grown to accept his fate no matter how harsh it was.

"If you don't mind me asking but…how does Galbatorix look like?" her eyes gleamed with a strange light. "I've heard in stories and read through books though I doubt that the descriptions are even close to how he really appears."

Eragon frowned. It was odd that Arya would be the first to ask him such a question. Come to think of it why didn't anyone else ask him? The answer presented itself to him the more he thought of it. Because he was too frightening of a person to approach. "It depends," said Eragon. "Galbatorix doesn't keep an image for long. When he feels that it is time to change himself, he doesn't only change his mind and beliefs but as well as his appearance. Since I've left him, I wouldn't now whether or not he still looks the same. But there's one thing I can tell you, he is as intimidating as the stories say he is."

She nodded, taking it all in with good stride. "So that's how it is." Murmured Arya softly. "I would never have thought him to take up such a practice."

"Does it surprise you?"

"No, it just does more to reinforce the fact that he is cowardly." That was when he realized what was at the heart of her question.

"It's for your father isn't it?" Eragon asked softly.

Her eyes were bright as she gently placed her empty wooden bowl on the ground. "Part of it." She admitted with such honesty that it threw Eragon off. But then again, Arya was much more forward than any other elf he had met. Well, besides, Rhunon. It was obvious how much she loved her father, King Evandar. It made him think of…he frowned; now was not the time to be stuck in the past.

"My father was kind and gentle," said Arya softly. It was an odd match when he thought of her father and Queen Islanzadi as mates. But he had no right to judge; he didn't know the queen before the Fall of the Riders, so he could not speak of such things. "He devoted his entire life to our cause, always valiant, always willing. But that day that I heard of his fall by Galbatorix, it changed my entire life. My mother was left to rule our people while I…" she stopped unable to go on.

He sat there waiting, not going to push her to finish. But as she spoke, it made him think about his own relationship to his father. It was strained and distant. "So you became an ambassador for your race in hopes to avenge him?" Eragon said quietly, trying to end her inner struggle with herself.

She nodded. "Not only my father, but also for others whom I've lost to him." Seemingly regaining her composure, she continued, her voice strong and steady. That was the Arya he knew. "And when I was chosen by Eridor, it was everything that I could have hoped for. Since I carried Thorn's egg, I had always wished to become a dragon rider to avenge my father and to protect my people. It wasn't until Eridor hatched for me that my dream became reality."

He felt himself smile faintly at her confession. That was how he had also felt when Saphira had hatched for him. "And I owe my thanks to you, Eragon, for allowing me to become his rider."

"He still would've chosen you."

"If he was ever freed from captivity or if I survived long enough to carry him." Corrected Arya. He frowned, never taking into account that Arya was susceptible to death. She was too strong for him to even think that she might not make it out of this war alive. The strange emotion that had manifested itself within him when he'd first met Arya had grown over time.

He wasn't going to let her die. Not now, not ever. His life didn't mean much to him, but her life did, as well as his mother's, Saphira's, and his servants'.

Now, now Eragon. He blinked, and as it did before, the world around him began to shift and change into a bloody red vision. And this time, it was stronger than before, pressing in on his weak defenses that he had let drop while he was conversing with Arya. You can't die yet.

A searing pain erupted in his mind as he stood, turning on the spot as if expecting someone to jump out at him. Why was it so different from before? Why did it hurt so much now? You shouldn't be so relaxed…it makes your mind easier to constrict. A demented laugh erupted in his ears, ringing and echoing with such consistency, he brought his hands up to block out the sound. But to no avail.

It kept on ringing. Eyes widening in pain, he grimaced. "Make the noise stop." He muttered to no one in particular.

It's broken Eragon…you can't fix it.

It was too noisy. He couldn't stand it. Suddenly a claw like hand reached out to grip his arm. It had long distorted fingers and when he glanced up at the owner of the hand, he took a step back as blood ruby eyes met his. What was that?

"Eragon," it spoke, its voice guttural and rough.

Are you afraid Eragon? The voice rang again. If you are than just kill it. Something dead can't harm you anymore.

"No, stop…" Eragon murmured weakly. What was happening to him? He needed to get to Oromis's, he needed help.

"Eragon…" the monster spoke again, reaching forward towards him. Eragon took another step back, causing the voice in his mind to laugh. There was too much noise. Everything was overlapping each other, and he couldn't take it anymore. Standing there with his hands pressed over his ears, his eyes tried to find an opening from the distorted realm in which he stood. But there wasn't any.

There's no escape Eragon.

"Eragon…"

You can't run from your fate.

Not being able to take the pain anymore, he drew his mind into himself, shielding his mentality from the outside world. All around him, the red began to spin and distort as the voices grew louder and more encompassing. Gratefully, he was glad when everything began to fade out into black, leaving behind a quiet solitude.

And in it, there was no noise.

There was nothing.

So, how was the chapter? I was so excited to get this posted! Soon enough I can finally write about the conflict and all that. But I will be getting another chapter up soon enough. Hopefully really fast since I have a vacation coming up meaning free time to type! I'll see you all next time! And don't forget to review!