Authors note: Well, it's been a while since I last updated, and even longer since I began this macabre attempt at a story. I hope that some of you are still reading this, despite the wait. I know I have been extremely hypocritical, chastising others for not updating when I myself near the two year milestone, with this being only my seventh chapter! Tell me what you think of this story, if enough people still like it then I will continue, for a couple more chapters at least. If not, well this chapter ends in a fairly decent spot; I could foresee ending the story here. Regardless, I will finish before Inheritance comes out. On a random note, I am now a senior in high school. All six chapters preceding this one were written in the summer after my freshman year (the summer I first uploaded a chapter), they just took me a while to type. This one I just wrote last week, however, so I'll be interested to see if you can notice any change in my writing style.
Well by far the longest chapter (and author's note for that matter) I have ever written. Please review.
Eragon looked across the campsite to where his traveling companion, Arya, sat with the emerald egg in her lap. She slowly caressed it with her fingertips, tracing the lines of the marble colored veins that ran through it. Eragon was completely enamored by the sight, and couldn't manage to draw his eyes off of it. Her own eyes, a dark green that currently held a strange glint to them as she stared, completely focused, on the dragon's egg. Eragon noticed that her eyes and the egg were precisely the same shade of green. Eragon felt a shiver go down his spine. He leaned back to rest more fully on Saphira, letting his head come to rest on one of her sapphire scales.
They were almost back to the Varden now, only half a day's easy flight separated them, but the decision to make camp at the first sign of dusk had been unanimous. Arya had, in fact, been the one to present the idea. It was, as she had said, to ensure that they appeared healthy and well rested when the Varden's populace saw them, to keep up the image of strength and success. Eragon couldn't help but agree with her, as he couldn't help but think that she looked particularly beautiful with the silver moonlight shining through her midnight tresses. He looked back to her hands, still caressing the recently rescued egg, and thought absentmindedly; Wouldn't it be great if Arya became the next rider?
Oh yes, I'm sure you'd love that, came Saphira's sarcastic reply, bringing a slight blush to his face.
I'm serious, she would be perfect. She is already trained in magic, she is an excellent swordfighter, she loves dragons, she…
Is very pretty. Eragon blushed even more at her interruption. Yes, of course he had thought about how their relationship might change if she became the next rider. In fact, he'd been thinking quite a lot about that since he'd captured the egg. Would she be more likely to return his affections if she had her own dragon? He could, and often did, hope.
Yes, and I'm sure you wouldn't care if a male dragon hatched for Arya, now would you? That quieted Saphira. Eragon knew she'd felt even more lonely after Glaedr died that she had before, and as much as he had been thinking about Arya, he knew his dragon had been thinking about the male residing within the egg even more. He let the conversation lapse into a contemplative silence, and patted her on the neck reassuringly.
The next morning, as they got ready to leave for the Varden, Eragon felt a cold chill on the air. Winter is about to begin, he mused. That single thought stopped him in his tracks. Winter. One year before, he had been not but a farmer, hunting for deer meat to feed his family. Then on a fated day at the beginning of last winter, an explosion shook the glade and the rest of his life. The magnitude of everything that had befallen him, changed in him, during that one year astounded him. Saphira gave him a mental nudge, and he resumed packing.
Something was off, disturbed. The universe felt for a brief moment like it was hiding something, but only for a moment. Eragon checked his leg straps, making sure they were secure, and then checked Arya's. He felt her hands wrapped softly around his abdomen. He searched the sky, but couldn't find anything. Saphira flapped her wings lazily below him. He stretched his mind wide, connecting with Saphira and Arya more acutely. Did you feel something?
No, replied Arya, slight confusion seeping through her mind. Saphira's reply was similar. What's wrong? Eragon slightly berated himself for allowing his concern and confusion to slip through the connection. He was about to reply, and dismiss it as nothing, when a figure streaked across his peripheral vision. Then, as if waiting to be seen before heard, low thumps echoed throughout the air. The sounds, probably originally masked by Saphira's own wing beats, went to an entirely different rhythm. He turned his head and saw a red dragon winging its way towards them.
The sight of Thorn, however, was overshadowed completely by the appearance of a second, much larger dragon. The black dragon came out of the clouds to fly by Thorn, easily dwarfing him several times over.
Shruikan! Galbatorix himself is chasing after us! Quick, Saphira fly as fast to Fienster as you can. Saphira turned her head to see them for herself, roared at the cursed-egg-breaker, and then started flying as fast as possible towards the Varden. The elves in Gil'ead were too far away, so their only chance was to make it to the spell casters residing within the Varden; namely Blohdgarm and the elven guards. Eragon remembered the last time, not long ago, when he had faced Murtagh. It had tired him greatly to defeat his brother and his eldunari, now there are likely to be twice as many, if not more, heart of hearts to overcome, not to mention Galbatorix himself. He rashly wished now that he had killed Murtagh when he had the chance, as he would need every bit of his improved strength to beat Galbatorix, if that were even possible.
They were nearing the city, about three miles away from the walls of Fienster, when Eragon realized that the slight pressure on his abdomen was gone. Panicked, Eragon completely swiveled around in the saddle. Gone! She's gone! Saphira, where is Arya?
I don't know… Last thing I remember was she was on my back, and then now she is gone. Thorn and Shruikan, obviously aided by eldunari, were only a few hundred meters away now, and gaining steadily on Saphira. Eragon was unwilling to connect to Blohdgarm, to warn the Varden, for such an act would leave him open to a mental assault from the too near dark king. It soon became obvious to Eragon, however, that they recognized the peril, as he could see them begin to form ranks in anticipation of battle. His eyes found Blohdgarm and the elves, and saw that they were sprinting towards him, bows in hand. Just then, a loud, deep, magically enhanced voice split the air from behind.
"Enough fleeing, rebel. Turn around and see what my power has taken from you." Eragon looked back, and saw clearly Arya sitting in front of Galbatorix, a dagger held firmly against her throat. Saphira, turn around! She could see what had happened through his mind, and was all too eager to comply. With a roar, she flipped around and dove straight for the black behemoth.
Blind fury drove Saphira, most of it seeping through their bond from Eragon. She rammed and raked, bit and blew torrents of flames, but nothing seemed to have any effect on Shruikan, and soon she was forced into retreat by Thorn, who flew up behind her scoring a nasty hit on her tail. Blood dropped in great globs, but Eragon healed it before substantial damage could be done. He drew Brisingr from its sheath; the blue blade shone bright with the light from the sun. Saphira flew back towards Shruikan, but this time when Thorn came from behind again Eragon stood steadily on her back and fended him off, tearing a gash on his ruby colored nose.
The fighting continued like this for a few minutes, before Eragon realized, after Saphira came out of a dive low to the ground chasing Shruikan, that Galbatorix had formed a magical dome over them. He saw the Elves reach the edge of it, confused, and then one reached out and noticed it was solid, though so transparent it was barely visible, like well cleaned glass. None can enter, then, and I assume none can leave. For good or ill, this battle ends here, Saphira, and likely the war with it.
Aye little one, it is as you say. Are you ready for this?
Are we one?
Aye, we are one.
Then you have your answer. Set us down in the middle of the dome, please, as this areal combat is getting us nowhere.
You're right. I don't think I have even hurt Shruikan or Thorn at all yet. She landed in the middle of the ground under the dome. It was all flat, with short grass. The terrain wouldn't factor in much to the upcoming battle. The dome had a diameter, at ground level, of about four hundred yards. It was taller than it was wide, which would give the dragons slightly more room to maneuver. Eragon was shaken from his thoughts as Thorn and Shruikan landed, their riders dismounting a hundred yards away from his current position. He noticed alarmingly that Arya was no longer in their presence. He looked around worriedly, then saw her outside of the dome, among his elven guards, attempting, with no success, to destroy the transparent dome. The Varden began to rally around the elves, and then set to surrounding the dome completely. Apparently, this battle would be a show, he mused. He picked Nasuada out of the crowd, astride her battle charger, next to a man pounding furiously at the relentless wall with a hammer. Roran. Well, at least they will be safe, he told Saphira.
Yes, little one. Listen to me, if we lose here today, Galbatorix will annihilate the Varden. I love you little one, and we can not let that happen. He stroked her neck lovingly for a moment.
I love you too, O partner of my soul. Let us finish this task that we have started, for Alagaesia. She sent her agreement to him in the form of pure emotions.
Galbatorix was ten feet away now, Murtagh following him like a dog. He let out booming laugh, one befit for a gracious king, not the evil one he is. His appearance, too, was deceiving, for he looked like a handsome man in his mid forties. Wisdom seemed to shine from his face, eyes in particular, and strength was exuded from his powerful, yet not bulky, physique.
"Eragon, a pleasure to finally meet you. I am King Galbatorix, as you no doubt already know. As you saw, I returned your wondrous elf to your allies, quite unharmed, I assure you. Now, why are we fighting?" His deep, honey laced voice almost fooled Eragon into thinking that maybe, possibly, he had been wrong about the king. Then he remembered Garrow, Brom, Ajihad, and finally Oromis. He remembered how Galbatorix, through Murtagh, slew his master, and his will was solidified.
"You, Galbatorix," he spat the name like a curse, "are a murderer and a traitor. That is why we fight!" The offense showing on the king's face appeared genuine.
"Why, I have never murdered anyone! The elves have addled your brain, son. How am I the traitor? Through their oppressive hold the Dragon Riders of old were strangling Alagaesia! I rescued the commoners from their grasps."
"Liar! You are the oath breaker, the man who has slaughtered more innocents, directly or indirectly, than can be counted. "
"Lies and untruths all. If you pledge to serve me, I will show you the folly of your ways." Behind Galbatorix, Murtagh shook his head once, and so slightly even an elf would have missed it, but it was all too clear a sign for Eragon. With a great roar of, "No!", Eragon leapt towards the dark king, Brisingr aimed for the heart. Zar'roc darted forward and blocked it. "Very well, you have chosen your fate." The words fell on Eragon's ears like a commandment, and he got the distinct feeling that he would never see the next sunrise.
The monster that was Galbatorix slowly drew his charcoal black sword from its sheath. Eragon backed up a step and took a moment to gaze in wonder at the blade. Obviously a Rider's sword of old, the brightsteel seemed to suck all the light out of its surroundings. Down the length of the dark blade ran lightning bolts of the purest white, running all the way from the crossguard, shaped like a giant cloud, to the tip. The jewel set in the pommel was a pearl like gem, with light radiating dully from it. He has an eldunari set in the pommel of his sword! Saphira's reply to his mental statement came in the form of an extremely loud roar, waves of contempt radiating through their link for the man standing in front of them. She went airborne, her powerful legs throwing her high off the ground. Thorn and Shruikan followed suit.
Murtagh circled around Eragon. The blue rider watched his opponents, waiting for one to strike first. The expected attack came from Murtagh, who ran in with Zar'roc held high. Out darted Brisingr, cleanly blocking the powerful strike. Eragon silently thanked Glaedr a moment later, for Galbatorix came in at his exposed back with enough speed to slay an elf. A twist, parry, and roll later, and Eragon had managed to get both of his opponents in front of him. He attacked relentlessly. Every blow was strong enough to crush stone with ease. Every swing was faster than the eye, elf or human, could see. Yet every attack was blocked.
Eragon was unwilling to give up the offense, for he knew that he wouldn't be able to win with a defensive strategy. He weaved a web of pure brightsteel in front of him, always attempting to slip past the defensive parries of his enemies. He feinted towards Galbatorix, spun around and slashed at Murtagh, then leaped up and flipped over the king, slashing at his helm while in the air, and landed behind him. The attacks were soundly blocked. He ducked into a crouch, Zar'roc whipped through the air over his head, he pivoted around, and slashed low at the king's feet. Galbatorix leapt over Brisingr, taunting Eragon with the ease of his dodge. Eragon tucked into a roll, popped up on his feet right beside Murtagh, and thrusted hard. Murtagh twisted around the blue blade. Misery darted in to capitalize on the miss, but a twist and roll had Eragon around to the other side of Galbatorix before the strike ever got close.
The black blade came in at him in a mid level slash, but Eragon saw it for the feint it was, and had the appropriate block ready for the reversed grip slash aimed at his head. Brisingr clashed loudly with the enemy sword, sparks flying off, stunning Murtagh as they hit him in the face. The blue rider took a step forward, and from this position was able to see the glyph adorning the black handle. Deyja, a fitting name for the sword of Galbatorix.
His moment of distraction cost him, as he flew backwards at the end of a metal gauntlet. He tucked into a backwards roll, managed to keep a hold of Brisingr, and rose shakily to his feet. Not willing to risk magic on a non-life threatening injury, he quickly snapped his broken nose back into place. The sheer pain of the action brought tears to his eyes, and he could hear Saphira issue a roar of shared pain. Through blurry eyes he deflected both Zar'roc and Deyja, but they forced him back a few steps. For about thirty seconds, he was fighting blind off of instincts. When his eyes cleared, he had a small cut adorning his left arm that he hadn't been able to block fully. First blood goes to Galbatorix. He saw Murtagh drop into a spinning crouch, his red blade out wide, coming within an inch of Galbatorix's armored stomach. Galbatorix led with a sweeping thrust at his face. Eragon lunged into the air between the two blades, twisted to avoid them fully, and scored a poke on Murtagh's outstretched shoulder as he flew by. He landed in a roll, pivoted to face his opponents, and then leaped high into the air.
The Empire's riders stood with confused looks on their faces. Eragon had jumped passed them, but by the time they whirled around he was nowhere to be seen. Galbatorix first heard the slight whooshing sound on the air, and looked up just in time to see the tip of a blue sword sailing fast for his helm. He rolled away, but got nicked on the rump for his efforts. Murtagh was caught completely off guard, and was lucky Brisingr was busy stinging his master, but was thrown, dazed, to the ground by the vicious punch landed by Eragon the moment before his feet touched the ground.
The moment the hit landed, Eragon knew Murtagh would be out of the action for a while. So, one problem momentarily taken care of, he spun to face Galbatorix head on. "Your tough, boy, I'll give you that. By my side you could rule the world!" Eragon ignored him, and dashed the distance between them faster than a speeding arrow, and slashed upwards with Brisingr. Galbatorix blocked the strike, but when Brisingr suddenly burst into flames he was caught off guard, never seeing the kick Eragon sent his way. It connected solidly with the back of his knees, and Galbatorix fell forwards onto his face. The move allowed Eragon an opportunity to strike fast for the evil king's vulnerable neck, but a sudden pain in his back stopped him and quenched Brisingr's flames.
Saphira was more than outmatched from the outset, but she refused to be daunted. She could outfly either Thorn or Shruikan with the wisdom imparted to her by Glaedr's sacrifice, but not both at the same time. They complemented each other's every move, and wouldn't allow her an opportunity to face one at a time. Neither was she stronger than them, even Thorn was more muscled than her, and Shruikan simply dwarfed her in size and strength. She struck fast, talons a blur, then resumed flying around the edge of the dome. She dove at Shruikan, but Thorn came at her quickly, forcing her to fly away without connecting. She decided that she couldn't win this way, and so changed her strategy to just evading, not attacking, the other dragons. Eventually their formation would slip, and she would be able to wreck havoc on one of them without the other stopping her, but for now she simply avoided being harmed. Pain on her end would distract her pointy-ears-not-elf-rider, and she knew Eragon needed complete and total concentration if he was to survive.
She flew like this for several minutes, until she saw blood-red-scales-young-minded-Thorn descend suddenly in pain. Thinking to capitalize on his moment of weakness, she dove for him, talons outstretched. Suddenly, pain coursed through her back as Shruikan breathed flames on her delicate wings. She rolled away, twisted her head, and fired flame back at the mountain-black-dragon-Shruikan. The flames met in midair, and erupted in a blinding light. She flew away quickly to resume her evasive strategy.
Rolling back to his feet, Galbatorix let out a laugh and slashed at Eragon's exposed ribs. The gash that opened was large, but not immediately life threatening. Snapping back to attention, Eragon and Galbatorix crossed blades, dueling for an hour without either gaining the advantage. The gash on his ribs burned, and Eragon wished he had worn his armor. Scratches and bruises were dished out plentifully enough, but no real damage was done. Eragon had just completed a spinning parry when Murtagh reentered the fray.
Aided by Eldunari, Galbatorix and Murtagh weren't tiring very easily. Eragon himself was fatigued, but not enough to slow his strike. He gripped Brisingr with both hands, and sent it in a powerful arc, battering away Deyja and Zar'roc. He reversed his grip, and swung again, drawing twin scratches across Murtagh and Galbatorixs' cheeks. The battle continued.
Outside the dome, the Varden worked ferociously to bring down the wards and aid their outnumbered rider. Elves and magicians cast spells, men battered with hammers and rams, Urgals charged it with their horns, but nothing came close to even denting the magical boundary. Only two forms just watched the scenes unfold. A black skinned woman astride a tall horse, and the raven haired she-elf who stood next to her, hands pressed against the dome, eyes glued to the movements of the brown haired rider, wishing and hoping against hope for his victory, or at least survival.
The sun was near to setting now, maybe an hour before such would come to pass. Eragon stood with his feet planted firmly below him and traded blows with his two opponents. He swung for Galbatorix, who blocked it strongly. Murtagh jabs for his flesh, which he parries, and counters with a thrust of his own at his half-brother. Suddenly, the black blade came flying high in a level swing for his throat. Time seemed to freeze. Eragon knew he couldn't block the attack. Brisingr was too far outstretched against Murtagh. He couldn't back pedal, it was too late for that. The blade drew nearer. He jerked his neck muscles back in the fastest twitch he could. Deyja slid by undeterred, drawing a thin cut on his neck. Again Eragon wished his fine armor had been on, instead it was sitting in a useless heap in Saphira's saddlebags.
The cut barely punctured his throat, and the blow didn't instantly fell him, but Eragon knew it would if he allowed it to go untended. Time resumed its normal pace the moment the blade left his neck, and he was moving again. A quick dash led him to Murtagh, where he whipped Brisingr around too quickly to be blocked or hindered, and Murtagh's head fell cleanly to the floor.
Using the pain and peril of his own neck injury, Eragon managed to ignore the emotional pain of killing his own half-brother. He leapt backwards, distancing himself from the fight. Those watching thought he had clearly one that exchange, for the cut on his neck was so slight that only the elves could see it from outside of the dome, but Eragon knew that may not have been such a victory for him. As he reached for his magic, Thorn crashed in a heap on the ground near Murtagh, and began twitching around like he himself had been beheaded, though his remained woefully attached. He went very still after a moment, and the ground ceased shaking. And so passed Murtagh Morzansson and Thorn Ruby-scaled. They died as they were born, slaves of wicked Galbatorix. May their next life be more peaceful. That was all the thought he could spare, as a multitude of minds crashed against his own.
Galbatorix and his Eldunari harried Eragon's mind, preventing him from healing himself. To Eragon's utter despair, the strength of several eldunari blockaded him from his access point of magic. Throwing himself forward, Eragon reengaged his enemy. His breath came in ragged wisps; blood seeped into his lungs from his slit throat. It was a slow process, but Eragon knew he had less than a half hour before he'd be no longer able to breathe. He pressed the attack.
Blue met black, showers of sparks erupted, then they disengaged. The blades struck again and again, connecting thirty times in ten seconds. Eragon spun. He slashed. He spun back the other way. His breath constricted even more. He battered his blade against the king's. Suddenly, the king's back arched, and his arm went out wide. Saphira had Shruikan by a wing. Eragon lurched forward, and swung an uppercut with his blue blade. The king jerked his arm, getting it in the way of his swing. No matter, for Brisingr easily cut through his flesh. Galbatorix's sword arm flew high into the air; Deyja followed it.
Shruikan managed to free himself from Saphira's grasp, and so she picked a new target. She dove, and swallowed the flying arm whole, but the sword fell to low for her to grab. It landed twenty feet away from the fighting, behind Eragon. Said rider pressed his advantage, stabbing forward with Brisingr, the flame igniting seemingly of its own accord along the metal blade. Galbatorix, even in pain, was too quick, however, and drew a knife with his left hand, then parried the thrust. The flames singed his armor a little, but no damage was done. Eragon struck again, but slower this time. It was equally blocked. Blood sprayed out from Galbatorix's stump, but then it glowed and the bleeding stopped. Magic, arrgh, mine's still blocked. Except for Brisingr's flame, he was still unable to access grammarye. The blood in his lungs pooled even higher, and Eragon drew a last, ragged breath, and held it.
The fighting these next couple of minutes got slower and slower, until the two riders were fighting at a speed even the humans outside the dome could clearly follow. Eragon kept up his assault, but Galbatorix no longer countered, he merely parried. Despite his lost arm and sword, a smile played across the handsome lips of the dark king. Eragon's vision began to fade, until his peripheral vision was filled with black. Limbs weak with lack of oxygen, he stumbled forward and struck again. His tunnel vision got worse, until he could only see Galbatorix in front of him, and nothing else. His insides yearned for the air that never came. He struck again, but the force of the block sent him reeling back.
Galbatorix slowly circled around Eragon, blocking every meager strike with ease. Finally, his foot bumped against what he was looking for. In a blur of speed, Galbatorix kicked up Deyja from the ground, caught it, and lunged forward. Eragon attempted to block the strike, but Brisingr never came close to the black sword as it was shoved passed his defenses. He could feel his insides tear and explode as the sword slipped through him, poking almost shyly out of his back.
Eragon fell to his knees. Galbatorix released his sword and stepped away. Time seemed to freeze; several things happened all at once. Saphira dove, and landed behind Eragon. Shruikan landed behind Galbatorix. Galbatorix drew his sword from Eragon's chest, and moved a step back to admire his work. But none of these things were noticed by Eragon, his eyes were focused, all of his will used to keep them seeing, on a green eyed elf outside of the magical dome. Their eyes locked, and he could see tears streaming swiftly down her alabaster face. She didn't blink; he didn't dare to. He released his breath, that last, long rush of air that he had held in. His vision began to blur. He stared at her nonetheless.
A silent understanding passed between the pair then, and finally, with a hole quite literally in his heart, Eragon knows that she loves him back. Arya, the beautiful princess of the elves loves him back. His vision blurred again. He willed it to steady. Then, a great blast of magic emanated from Saphira, a light that shattered the dome in her grief. A second, smaller light shine from Eragon, and raced towards Arya unseen. He stared for a moment longer, seeing at the last her emerald eyes, then collapsed to the ground, and all was dark for him.
Recognizing the danger he was in after the dome shattered, Galbatorix leaped onto Shruikan and flew away, more tired than he'd been in a century, but utterly victorious. A host of arrows and magical bolts followed him, but he escaped without further injury.
When the dome shattered, everyone outside it sprinted towards the downed rider. The Elves present easily outpaced all others. Arya easily outpaced all other elves. She reached Eragon within seconds, dropped to the ground, and cradled his head in her lap. Saphira wrapped defensively around the pair, keening loudly in soul-anguish. Arya felt the remaining heat leave his body. She wept loudly for lost opportunities and love. Saphira's loud grief was heard for miles.
It was a sad evening; a red sun set in the west. Storm clouds suddenly covered the area, releasing buckets of rain as nature cried for the world's loss. Whenever anyone approached the grieving pair, Elf and Dragon, they were sent running with flames at their heels. Roran and Nasuada were turned away so.
They stayed on the battlefield for three days, Elf and Dragon, mourning the death of the last rider besides crazed Galbatorix, mourning the man they both loved completely. During this time, the bodies of Murtagh and Thorn were burned without ceremony. The entirety of the Varden wept openly, grown men and little girls alike, at the king's victory in what was later to be called the greatest duel ever fought. Then, near the end of the third day, Saphira uncurled herself to go hunting, revealing in her wake a ten foot tall tomb, made completely out of diamonds. Eragon's corpse lay perfectly in the middle, cleaned from the rigors of war, and looked more peaceful in death than in life. Arya stood by it, finishing the inscription, the Belt of Belouth the Wise strapped to her waist, and Brisingr in its sheath dangling by her hip. Aren rested on a finger of her left hand, the green dragon egg securely strapped to her back. Her eyes were clear, her face a blank mask as she used magic to finish writing.
Here lies Eragon Bromsson, Rider of the Dragon Saphira, hope of the Varden. He was a beloved friend, and will be missed by all. May he rest eternally at peace.
Author's note: So, what do y'all think? You knew it was coming, so it wasn't really a surprise scene. Now, I need to know a few things, so reviewing would be helpful. To reiterate, tell me whether or not to end it here. Also, if you say for me to continue, then I need to know some more things. These are moot if you want me to stop, so stop reading at this point and just review saying such.
Now, should Arya have a child?
Should Arya become the green rider? If not, then I have a plan for her.
Should Eragon pull a Gandalf? (for those of you who don't know who Gandalf is, I am asking if he should come back to life, more powerful than he was before he died.)
Should I involve Elva with this story at all?
Review please, or I shall assume that you all just want me to stop wasting your times ;)