Chapter 5

As my Hostile Takeover was unsuccessful, I have declared a Violent Overthrow. Inheritance will be mine one way or another. Viva La Revolution!

Eragon strode through the streets of Feinstar, letting his conscious seep into the air around him, until he could feel the city around him, feel as it lived, breathed and thought, as every organism went about it's life. Cities, unlike men, are immortal. Which philosopher had said that? He couldn't recall, but he remembered the scroll Oromis had given him that had said that, describing the observances he'd made about humans way of life. He had taken only passing note of the words, but key points had stuck in his head.

The city teemed with life, from rodents and insects that lurked around the houses, to larger pets, and the humans themselves. Eragon didn't delve too deeply into the minds he brushed against, but he was dismayed by the emotions he did detect. Most of the inhabitants were subdued, their spirits crushed.

Eragon felt a flutter of pity for them. They did not serve the empire, not willingly, but they were the ones suffering, not those who deserved it. But one did not need magic to see this. It was all around him. Shops were closed, market squares were empty, both of merchants and customers, and the streets were all but empty, the few people on them keeping their heads down and hurrying from place to place. Occupation had accelerated the process of decay, and everywhere paintwork seemed chipped and vines created cracks within the stonework. Eventually, Eragon closed his mind. It was bad enough to have to see this.

Occasionally Eragon would see patrolling Varden troops. He wondered at the necessity but supposed it was better then leaving them to degenerate into a mob as he had heard almost happened in Surda. Keeping up military discipline took priority, but still, seeing them like that made them seem more like conquerors then liberators.

Even with the discipline, many of the soldiers had abandoned all sense of responsibility, and taken to drinking or other forms of excess in the city. Every day officers got back reports, that Eragon had managed to distance himself from with considerable effort. He did not blame the troops, many of them had been living as fugitives for so long, but he despaired at it. They weren't bad people, but they did bad things.

A few hollow eyed children stared at him from the corner of a street. They were gaunt and wasted from starvation, and dressed in rags. For a moment he wondered who they'd been, how they found themselves in the situation they were in. Sorrow moved him, and he wanted to kneel beside them, to comfort them, look after them and tell them it would be all right. But he didn't. Even if he helped these ones, there would be thousands more he wouldn't be helping, and there was little he could do anyway. Despite his prestige he had no money, no possessions but his sword, a few keepsakes and his clothes. He had nothing to offer these children, but the eventual prospect of liberty and freedom. The best thing he could do for them was keep on fighting.

Following the street down

Into an alley that was a shortcut to the main road, he noted how choked it seemed, the very air full to bursting with oppression.

At last he came to the gates, and walked through. The guards knew him, by description if not by sight, and were there to keep people from getting in more then getting out anyway. Just the same, they asked him his business in a professional tone, and had him state his name. Eragon found the whole thing tedious, but didn't hold it against them. They were just doing their job, and it had to be done.

Stepping through the gates he took a deep breath, enjoying the first breath of fresh air he'd had that week. The Varden's camp had all but disappeared, the majority of them moving into the city and appropriating lodgings. The officers were had been given estates on the borders belonging to the nobles they'd been forced to execute. That had been the hardest part of taking Feinstar, and the part that haunted Eragon the most.

Many of them had been ordinary people, had been 'just following orders,' and didn't want to have their souls sworn to the king. But they had, and nothing could be done for them. The rest had taken over the troops barracks after disbanding the soldiers, city guard and militia. They had not been penalized for taking the king's side. After all, they were just trying to defend their homes.

Eragon followed the road for half an hour until he came across a well worn game trail. Following it in long strides he walked along it until he came too the cliffs. Pausing a second he followed them along towards the setting sun, keeping his eye on the ocean. The storm two days ago had stirred the waves, and the Varden's fleet, such that is was, had been forced to go further out to sea.

The waves boomed against the cliff, with a sound like thunder, sending up great plumes of spray each time. Eragon felt the sting of it on his face and grimaced, but did not change his course. At last he stopped on a higher outcrop, and sat. Slowly he let down the shields around his mind. Saphira? He called mentally.

At first there was nothing, no sign of their link. After almost a minute, a tenuous reply began. Little one?

Saphira! Eragon roared joyfully, ecstatic after being separated for so long. It was a sad necessity to keep his mind shielded when in the city for fear of being overwhelmed by another magician. At first it hadn't mattered, since they had spent most of the time together anyway, but since the Varden had begun to call on him more and more for advice or assistance, and they had been forced apart.

Feeling her mind with his, Eragon joyfully threw down his barriers, letting her consciousness envelop his like a flood of warm water. Gasping as her new memories slid into his, he dropped to his knees at the joy of the feeling. He was no longer alone. Once more he was connected to Saphira, once more he was complete.

Stay there. I will come up and get you. She said, the joy in her voice a match for his.

Eragon picked himself up, and then walked over to the cliff. He could see at a glance that it was wet and slippery from the relentless pounding of the waves, and with the regularity of a heart beat they crashed against the cliff like an invading army. But he could see several outcrops, and more then enough handholds for what he intended.

No, I'll come down to you. He replied confidently, stepping cautiously over the ledge and lowering himself carefully. He nearly slipped, but he caught himself and continued.

Remember Terim, Eragon. Saphira scolded gently, but Eragon ignored her, dropping five feet onto the next outcrop.

I've grown since then. He snorted, waiting as a wave crashed below him, stopping barely four feet beneath him, the spray arcing up in a great plume leaving him soaked. Suddenly this didn't seem like such a good idea.

Taking more care he slowly continued down, sometimes having to make do with only one handhold or no footholds as he did so. Shells that clung to the cliff tore the skin of his hands, and twice he started as he felt like he was about to slip and fall. But he didn't, and continued down. He managed to avoid most of the waves, but was shivering by the time he came to the cave. Eragon walked into the cave. It was deep, and far back enough not to be wet. Saphira liked it, it gave her plenty of room and clear run to hunt. Best of all, it meant she didn't have to stay anywhere near the city, and cultivate her silence away from Feinstar. It meant she was out of range of their bond, but they couldn't communicate while he was in the city anyway.

She disliked spending time in the Varden's camp, and to her the city was intolerable. Why would so many people choose to live like that, crushed together, unable to roam to be free, forced to enact the same mindless tasks again and again while enslaved by convention? Why, when they had but to leave and be free to make their own decisions, be themselves rather then just another face in a crowd? She couldn't understand it, and didn't care to try. To a dragon the thought of doing so was maddening. Eragon respected her choice, but missed her company.

So, how have you fared, little one? Saphira asked, while sorting through his mind, looking for the relevant memories. Once Eragon would have found the idea repellant, that one being could have such a claim to his identity, to know his every thought and feeling, to steal any privacy he might claim from his life, but somehow it seemed right, meant to be. Saphira was not truly a separate individual, anymore then he was to her. They were two halves of the same being, their identities were separate from each other in exactly the same way his leg was separate from his arm. It was only right that they shared a mind.

Saphira's eyes lit up as she came to the council of war. Wise though she may be beyond her years, she could be extremely bloodthirsty when she felt she had reason, and the frustration from remaining static had added to this. This is good little one.

Eragon stopped for a moment. Unbidden, memories erupted. He saw a soldier, scarcely more then a boy, pleading before he broke his neck. He saw the Empire troops at the burning plains, screaming as the poison ate away at their lives. He saw the bodies, dead and broken at the battle's end, and then he thought of Feinstar itself, how the troops had refused to surrender even though they must have known they couldn't win. They had cursed him, blaming him for bringing the destruction. And he remembered the smell, of iron and copper and salt, of offal and fear and smoke. The smell of the battlefield. He sighed. It must be. He replied.

Saphira's great blue eye sought out his brown one. Once it had been hazel, but now it darker, and sparkled with azure highlights. In time it would be as blue as Saphira's scales. What troubles you? She asked, although she knew all too well through their bond.

This… All this. Eragon said, making a broad gesture that seemed to encompass the last year of his life. It's not right. I never wanted to spend my life resisting the Empire, but as events continued I got swept up in it, and now I can't stop. He sighed, a wave of negative feeling rolling of him. Once I imagined I could simply see the world, that there would be no consequences, free to make any choices I want. Now I am nothing more then a symbol.

Is that really so bad? Saphira asked, and when he only grunted she plowed on. You bring purpose and strength to hundreds. Your very existence is inspiration. And your purpose is noble. What more could you want?

I Just want this bloody war to be over.

We have always known it could take decades. Longer. It was always going to be hard. But in the end, when we throw down the false king, when we buy liberation for all your people, it will be worth it.

Eragon sighed, but seemed a bit less lackluster. Do you really believe that?

I know it.

It's just… Eragon began again, a complicated feeling he found it hard to articulate welling up in his chest, Why? Why does it have to be this way? I remember, before I joined the Varden, Murtagh killed a man, a slaver who wasn't fighting back, and I repudiated him for it. Eraagon thought, realizing with a start he didn't even remember the slaver's name. It bothered him more then he cared to admit even to Saphira. Now I've done the same thing. Sometimes there were even other options, but I just took the simplest way. What makes me better then them? Then any of them? I'm fighting to free them, but they don't want to be free. They're just defending themselves. I feel guilty, but not as much as I should. Most of the time I just feel empty. And I hate it, I hate the fact I don't emphasize with ordinary people anymore. What's to stop me from becoming as great a monster as the king?

Me for one. Said Saphira. You do not delight in bloodshed. You don't fight for fighting's sake. You're better then that. I don't fear what you are, and I will not let you become a monster,

Eragon stayed quiet for a few minutes as he considered her words. They sounded so convincing when she said them, and yet…

Do you think we can win, Saphira? Really?

The king is a traitor and an egg-breaker, his men are slaves and his allies monsters. We are fighting for freedom and a better future. Of course we will.

But how? Eragon despaired. How do we defeat him? We can barely defeat Murtagh! He killed Oromis like it was nothing. And Oromis was wiser then I will ever be. Eragon said, beginning to slide into depression. He hadn't allowed himself to feel his mentor's death, the situation hadn't let him, and he had kept it up all this time. A hollow feeling had been coiled around his heart since it had happened, occasionally lessening until it was only a dull ache. How could Oromis die?

He was the last free Rider. It was a thought he'd been wrestling with since Oromis had suggested the possibility, that had now become cold hard reality. He was the last hope. He felt a wave of sympathy through the link.

He took advantage of Oromis's weakness, little one. That is all. He will find us harder to deal with.

I… I just don't know what to do. How? So many people have tried before.

Remember what the Solembum said, little one. Eragon stopped, and sighed. He had thought about the werecats words, more then ever since the Menoa tree, but just the same he could not find any relevance in them. He had searched every resource he could find looking for some reference to the rock, and had found nothing.

Have faith. Saphira said gently, and he sighed again, not out of frustration, but out of defeat.

They remained together for hours; the heat Saphira exuded warming him, her presence filling he emptiness in his heart. They were both silent, but they were closer then they had been in months.

*****

At last, Eragon climbed back up the cliff. Low tide had come, and the sun had dried the rocks. He relished the exercise, but the danger was gone.

Eragon began to reluctantly close his mind, and Saphira did the same. He loved her company, she had a way of helping him find answers and conclusions he himself would struggle with indefinitely. At the same time, she needed him for a sense of purpose. By herself she had nothing to accomplish, no identity. They needed the other to exist. He felt less hollow, alive again. How did he live without her?

Coming at last to the lip, he pulled himself up and began walking back, a spring in his step that had not been present before. Suddenly the world seemed a good deal more bright. By the time he had found his way back to the road night had fallen like a shroud. It was dark by the time he was back at the city, and he was forced to rely on the second hand light that spilled from the windows to make his way to the palace.

Surprisingly he wasn't challenged once, despite the lateness of the hour. He made his way to the castle, and, after the peaceful solitude of the streets was startled to find it abuzz with messengers and servants. He supposed it made sense. Nasuada had given them very little time to prepare.

He found his way to his room and sat in his chair, then suddenly felt very tired. One way or another, it would be over soon, and he felt worn out. Moving over to the bed he lay down, exhausted.

But try as he might, he couldn't find sleep. Still the faces of the men he had killed, the men he had watched die haunted him, refusing to let him find peace, evoking guilt and self-disgust. It was a long time before he found sleep, and his dreams were the worst king of nightmares, restless and wracked with guilt.

I didn't plead, beg or cajole reviews from you last update, but do not take this as an invitation to stop. I take what meager sustenance I can through feedback, without which I waste away.