Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon or any thing pertaining to the books, movie or characters.

Some of the characters in this story may be fictional.

Chapter 6

Murmurs in the ancient language swirl around in Eragon's mind. He feels confused, unsure of why he is being carried, and barely holding on to

consciousness. He's nearly panicked, and unable to move. He tries to free himself from the restraining hands of those who hold him captive. Are they

friends or enemies? His body won't move. Then there is a face, familiar, but unable to place, a woman. She's calling to him, crying.

"Has there been a battle? Where am I? Where is Saphira?" he is trying to ask, but cannot seem to form the words. He hears the voice in his mind

saying these things, but no one hears. Frustration sets in and he's screaming. Screaming for them to listen. Screaming for someone, anyone to hear.

Then he hears it, like the voice of an angel, a voice of comfort and warmth. Saphira.

"Welcome back little one, but do not struggle. You have been injured and are in grave danger. We are in Ellesmera, with the healers. Do

you remember anything? Just relax, there will be pain, but I will be there to relieve you of such a heavy burden. I failed to protect you. It is

mine to carry now," Saphira has never felt so conflicted. Such feelings of sadness and pain and guilt, but now so many feelings of hope and

relief. She will not let him down again. "Just relax and let their magic work, Eragon. Just relax. Do not be afraid. You are in the care of the

wise."

She is there with him, the familiar face. Who is she? He can't remember. She speaks in hushed tones, brushes the dirt and sweat from his brow, his

hair from his eyes, and yet her tears fall freely. Are they tears for him, or just tears for the injured? He is so tired, he feels as if every breath is a test of

will, but he won't give up. Somehow he knows that for him to give in to the pain would not only be of cost to him. Weakly the young rider gathers his

remaining strength and draws another breath, and then another. The pain in his chest is nearly unbearable, but he is strong of heart, mind and body,

and if this is a fight he must suffer to win, then that is how it shall be.

Arya hovers over Eragon's damaged body. She watches anxiously as the arrow is slowly removed from his chest. She can hear his breathing is

labored. Perhaps the shaft has pierced his lung. It had gone through on the right side, missing his heart, but that didn't mean that he wasn't in danger.

She had seen many soldiers fall to wounds much like this, and knew it would take more than magic to heal him. Hesitantly, she leaned down and

placed her soft lips to his fevered forhead.

"You must live Eragon, if not for the chance at victory, you must do it for me," her tears felt cold against his heated skin. With her cheek pressed to

his, she let her bottled emotions go and sobbed for a love she feared she may never have.

"The wound has been cleansed and cauterized," said Nasuada from Arya's side. "It is up to fate and the young rider's will now." Arya thought she

sounded too matter of fact, to crass and uncaring.

"I understand, but he is strong, and fights for much more that himself. Were there any traces of poison or dark magic?" she tried not to convey her

fear.

"It was a clean wound, and the healer's have done their best. It seems that it was just a lucky shot that took him down, not an assassin." With that

Nasuada turned and walked away, as though the fate of the land were not lying on a blood soaked table in front of her. She understood that

sometimes you had to tune out your fears in order to perform your best, but the coldness she felt from Nasuada had been more than anyone should

purvey.

Slowly and carefully, Arya bent down and placed another soft kiss on his forehead. "Rest, dragon rider. Rest Argelam."