"You were the first of Saphira and the unnamed green dragon's hatchlings?" Milda asked.

She had decided that conversing mentally with someone else's dragon – especially one like Ferondal – wasn't the best thing to do and had now settled for speaking with her out loud. "Because, you know, judging by your size, you seem pretty old.

Ferondal observed Milda; the girl had frozen completely in happiness, with only her ear was twitching. Ferondal watched interestedly, breaking her trance, as Milda's mouth stretched slightly open. The next thing the brown dragon knew was a strong purple streak flying toward them from behind Milda. This, Ferondal supposed, must have been Milda's dragon – the girl appeared to have summoned her.

Ferondal watched as the violet dragon alighted before Milda, rumbling from deep in her throat. Milda's eyes glowed yet more as she scurried forward to run one hand down those large scales. "Iganì's my dragon," Milda said, "Well, not really my own, I guess – because everyone knows that dragons are their own. You know what I mean." She grinned. "But, either way, come on, Ferondal, fly with us!"

Ferondal observed coolly as Iganì allowed her mistress to embark her tail and crawl over to her back, shaking slightly but otherwise deft with te movementt. Now, the four eyes – a pair of cinnamon, a pair of velvet – met each other's. Iganì saw in Ferondal's a deep sense of calm, wisdom, serenity, peace, dignity, a love of the world, though it – contradictorily, if such a thing were even possible – was coupled with weird widom galore. Ferondal saw in Iganì's eyes wisdom – more than herself possessed, she felt, though one could never be sure – coupled with a fiery temper. It was odd, the two of them recognized in unison, yet it seemed that the two came to know each other with that simple glance. It was strange, for sure – but, then again, what in all of Alagaësia wasn't?

Now the two were gliding together, soaring together, enjoying themselves together. The world below their scaled underbellies was a nothing, a mere trifle which the two of them were flying over with not a care in the world. Even Milda lay forgotten, perched atop Iganì's broad backside; for them, it was just the fun of being with a fellow dragon, the fun of having a friend. It was, for them, an inexplicable joy; it was a happiness that demanded nothing, simply giving itself away when asked. It was the sort of joy a dragon could get used to – yet, at the same time, eternally love it, never growing bored, just flying there with nothing but the sun and a chatty Rider chatting of everything and nothing on your back.

Yup, this was the life.

"So, you are the first of Saphira and the green dragon's hatchlings, right?" Milda, not having got an answer previously, asked.

Aye. At least, that's what they told me. Ferondal's voice was laced with indifference. But what does it matter? Honestly, either way you look at it – we're all a mix of human and dragon, elf and dwarf, on the inside.

I like this, too. Iganì sounded serene, calm, relaxed. It's one of the best experiences I've ever had in my short life. Deep from within her radiated a deep sense of nonchalant, collected happiness – though, the way Milda perceived it, it was completely covered with a thick layer of joy. Pure joy that raised her spirits, pure joy that could survive through any obstacle that deterred their path, pure joy that crackled with life as a flame on its candle. Pure joy that could never be staunched when flying with a friend but not a worry in the world.

"Awesome." It was the only word Milda found suitable for the situation, filled with all the power and awe the three of them were feeling. "Awesome."

'Tis simply awesome, the two dragons concorded in unison.

Awesome, the three of them thought together.

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"You were having so much fun you couldn't even talk to each other." Tosaën raised an eyebrow.

"You know, you're pretty dense for an eighteen year-old." Slakk frowned, absently stroking one of Arget's silver scales. "Sometimes you don't need to say anything to make stuff awesome. Like, I'm a Dragon Rider because when adults in Fasaloft weren't hatching any dragons, they had to turn to us younger folk – but I didn't have to mention how awesome it is, did I?"

The group of youths were at the southern Surdan shoreline, talking of what had just occurred between Milda, Iganì and Ferondal. Tatiana, Alden and Merrick were there as well. Merrick was sitting straight, an excited gleam in his eye as he listened to their conversation, while Tatiana looked from one to the other in a mix of confusion and comprehension. Alden was, as usual, asleep, and, a short distance away, the four dragons were listening in as well. A little ways off sat Mirofr and Keltra; they still looked more than a tad annoyed of the way Tosaën acted. You could almost sense them thinking something along the lines of 'I can't wait for a few more centuries to pass for this Shur'tugal and his absent-minded dragon to get wiser!' – an odd thought for 'wise' elves such as themselves.

"He's got a point, you know." Jarsha, who was sitting by the waves, running a stick through the sand, agreed. "I mean, why? Why talk when you don't have to?"

Milda nodded. "Besides, buddy, it's over and done with. Nothing you can do to change the past. At any rate, we liked what was happening – it was supreme, it was great, it was awesome, it was awesome. Y'know what I'm saying, don't you?" She too raised an eyebrow. "Why elaborate about a trifle, an absolute nothing?"

Nanette stifled a giggle. That wasn't very smart for Milda to say – she always elaborated. "I agree, too," she said hesitantly, hugging the dozing Alden. The four year-old was snoozing peacefully on her lap, not reacting to her touch. "A person doesn't always have to talk, and Ferondal's your dragon. If you've done a lot with her, you should know that."

"What are you saying?" Tosaën retorted. "Your dragon doesn't even talk yet!"

"She still senses him, though," Milda added thoughtfully. Right on cue, Crimson Flame suddenly appeared behind her and headed toward her. "Dragons and their Riders are supposed to have a mental link together. Sometimes you don't even need to have a dragon that can talk for it to happen." She grinned. "I could elaborate—"

"Please don't," groaned Jarsha, and her grin grew wider.

"—but I won't – for once, mind you."

Merrick looked at her, surprised; he understood what she'd said, but he'd never thought about it that way. "Me, I just know that I should be happy right now," he called out joyfully as he danced like a demon toward Crimson Flame. The golden dragon looked up, amber eyes bright and inquisitive.

"Nah, I don't agree with you." Tosaën stretched comfortably onto the grass, his eyes closed. "'Smatter of fact, I think people wouldn't be able to live without speech."

"I think that your words are no guide to living life," replied Keltra dryly, crossing her arms. "Perhaps some – such as we elves – could live without speech, but that's no reason to be incredulous when your dragon is enjoying herself ! Truthfully, anyone can say what you do, yet none can say it as badly – though I daresay your absent-minded dragon comes close and, being one of the few remaining of an awe-inspiring race of creatures, that's saying something."

"Aye." Mirofr glared, steadfast, at Tosaën. What do you think you are? A boasting liar? An acrobat? One who can change the world with a mere glance yet never carry the name of Rider?" A pause in which his chest heaved with inhuman speed. "Because, Tosaën, that is what I think you are – from the way you act and talk, the way you portray yourself, your very demeanour – is that what you are, a dense, swaggering isiot? Have you no mind in that overinflated skull of yours?"

Tosaën didn't seem scared or even surprised. Rather, he barely seemed conscious of the elves' outburst. He merely relayed them a sarcastic, snide, snarking look, barely cracking open his eyelid. When he spoke, his voice was low, deep, dangerous. "Really?" he said softly. "That's what you think of me?" He glared pointedly. "If that's what you think of me, then I think you are useless elves who have done naught since the glorious days of Alagaësia but hide in your forests. Why, I daresay that you've never even met Eragon!"

"It's an outrage!" cried Keltra, ignoring him. Instead, she threw caution to the winds and, at a great risk of embarrassment (which came into existence before long, I can assure you), she angrily shook her finger at him. "Using the ancient language to fashion yourself a new name! 'Dance, in the ancient language?' How does that have anything to do with you?!"

Slowly, deliberately, Tosaën rose. Pushing a lock of hair behind his pointed ears – Showoff, Ferondal couldn't help but think with surprising annoyance instead of usual good humor – he stood, plain and flat, on the grass. Then, it happened: he spun and swirled so fast that he wasn't more than a multicoloured blur. To them, it seemed as if he were dancing, as if he were a part of the very land itself, dancing to the ground underneath his feet in all its harmony.

Keltra looked as if she thought the whole situation were more than a preposterous outrage – for once she was speechless. Angrily, she arose and stalked off, followed by an equally angry (yet somehow amused) Mirofr. Tosaën, on his part, though, watched calmly as they disappeared into the distance.

"You made yourself a new name?" Jarsha asked, intrigued, once Tosaën's attention had snapped back to the others. "What was your old one? And, I have to say," he added as a tactful afterthought, "why are you such—such a fool?"

Even Crimson Flame, curled up beside Nanette, looked up at him with imploring eyes. Nanette, stroking her dragon's back, gave a sarcastic, mean-tempered look that seemed to say – estrangedly enough – 'End this madness so that Jarsha can continue his story.'

"Fine," agreed Tosaën with a shrug, though even these simple movements were nonchalant and smooth. "Fine, I'll tell you." He paused to clear his throat. "My old name was…"

Slakk gazed at him through honey-glazed swamp-green eyes. Milda deeply surveyed him, a veiled excitement hidden by the masqueraded calm. Tatiana and Merrick were standing side by side, having gone completely still and rigid; even Alden roused himself to watch as the older teenager prepared to reveal his secret. Jarsha was sitting next to Nanette, patting Crimson Flame along with her; even the dragon's face of intelligent, inquisitive repose was piercing. Arget, while continuing to say nothing, as he was apt to, nevertheless looked at him calmly, despite that something like annoyance burning in his eyes.

"…"

Now it became more glaring than intense, interested gazing.

"Brett," Tosë began finally, blowing his hair out of his eyes. "My name was Brett, short for Bretten."

All of a sudden, there were outraged exclamations.

Slakk: "Brett, fine. But Bretten? Tosaën…. I like that much better than Bretten."

Milda: Y'know, I could elaborate. Shade's blood'n'bloodied Urgal, I should elaborate. But I won't – not unless you think is elaborating. (titter) Anyway, your name was Bretten? Bretten? Seriously, what kind of a name was that ."

Crimson Flame: (confused look)

Nanette: Er… Um… I don't know what to say. I like Tosaën much better than Brett or Bretten, though, but that doesn't excuse your actions toward us and the elves.

Tatiana: Bretten? What are you talking about? First you don't care about how important it's sometimes t'not talk, an' then you tell us your old name was Bretten? Shade's blood, that's weird!"

Merrick: I just met you and Ferondal today, Tosaën… But I think I like Tosaën better than Brett. (gag) That's very weird! (Note: Being a five year-old, he had a limited vocabulary.)

Alden: Eh, this is weird… Bretten? Brett? I don't even know your name now, but I don't like those!

Jarsha: Bretten? (blinks) I wasn't expecting that… Then again, I suppose your parents didn't know you'd become a Rider… On the whole, it all makes sense, though – Brett's not so bad. You didn't have to change it, you know.

Milda (again): Wouldja look at tha'… Keltra'n'Mirofr've already lef'. Mebbe it's b'cause they didn' wan' t'hear your 'orrible real name! Ah, yes, tha' makes sense… I mean, in all reality, Tosaën sounds cooler, even though I didn' know y'could dance, b'fore… Hones'ly… Why did Ferondal choose you anyway? You're jus' so weird an' so – such a fool I don' even wanna talk of it. (Other note: As you can see, Milda was agitated. Hence the slang.)

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By the time all these surprised outbursts had finished unravelling themselves, Tosaën had his hands shoved deep into the belt of his nifty woollen green pants. When they were done, he looked up, his eyes glinting. When he spoke, all that emerged from his mouth were a mere two sentences, a mere six words in total.

"True… Why did Ferondal choose me?"