A/N: Hi there! How are you, dear reader, on this fine day? Me, I'm wonderful, as I have my first review (special thanks to Elemental Dragon Slayer, on being the first) and as such, I thought I'd set a few things straight. This story takes place after the end of Inheritance, decades on, and Eragon hasn't been seen or heard of for decades. Arya, until recently, led the riders, creating the furtive organisation that exists, or existed (until recently) and consisted of only fourteen dragons and riders, not including Arya herself.
So, by virtue of the (slightly, and hopefully) cliffhanger ending of chapter 1 (should I give the chapters titles? Anyone?) I'll, without further ado, get straight to it.
Disclaimer: since chapter 1, I have yet to come into ownership of any off the rights to do anything even remotely related to the inheritance cycle. So meh.
Morning had come, and with such a brutal, stark suddenness when compared to that which had been the grim, moody weather of the night before.
The light of the sun, which crept slowly over the horizon, before abruptly jumping through the clouds, woke Avery and Fenna, so closely joined were they that when one woke, so did the other. With his waking, so did Avery remember the horror that had been their last night.
The dragon attack, for Fenna had been certain that it was a dragon (It is as much a dragon as I am, Avery, and big enough to swallow me whole) notwithstanding, the rain that had started not long after they had started their fire threatened to extinguish it almost as quickly as it had been cast into life (Brisingr, Avery had grunted) and the ice cold, razor sharp gusts of wind had battered them throughout the night. The howl of wolves in the early hours of the morning had woken them in time to see slinking, insubstantial shadows with golden eyes circling their dying fire.
He slowly became aware of their predicament, which in the brief, if uneasy respite of sleep had faded amongst his dreams of fame, fortune, that which he would never reveal except to Fenna, and even then begrudgingly. He tried to stand, not frantic, nor fast, but even so found himself weak at the knees, and he stumbled. Even picturing the maw of the dragon, feeling the heat of the flames even from so far away, hearing the sound of its voice, its horrific, tortured howl of hatred and having it split his skull like the pounding of drums.
'Fenna' he said out loud, not trusting himself to open his mind without falling into that same paralysing fear that he had felt in the pitch blackness of the night. 'Fenna, we have to do something.'
She had managed to stand without stumbling or tripping, and he felt his cheeks flush at his weakness. He noted however, that as much as it was possible for a dragon to look nervous, Fenna looked terrified, as if in the light of day, far from driving away those demons that had caused them both such fear, those same monsters had become clear and defined, and so much the more horrifying because of it.
I agree. If we do nothing, others will die that we might have helped. If we act, however, we might save lives, even though we might finish ourselves.
He nodded in agreement, then said Even so, we should check the camp first, to ensure that there is not something we missed. Perhaps, if we are lucky, this was a training scenario we missed. That easily could have been Ragnar and Alden. He, even as he said it, didn't believe it. Ragnar, his brother's dragon, would have been dwarfed by that dragon just as dwarves themselves are by Kull.
Possibly. But, assuming it isn't, and I'm sorry Fenna, but I really doubt your theory, we must check for survivors.
Aye Avery replied shortly.
RTR
Alden hated himself, and his actions during last nights massacre. For it had been a massacre. The huge, coal coloured dragon had slaughtered everyone in the camp. The corpses of dragons resembled huge, twisted jewels of every single colour, blood drying on their surfaces. The riders were so much the more forlorn, all 12 of them dead. Tooth marks, huge rends from massive claws, and scorch and burn marks, most of which weren't inflicted as killing blows, but as sadistic, drawn out instruments of pain. The majority of the riders and dragons had been struck down by attacks that had somehow managed to circumvent all of their wards, killing seamlessly, effortlessly, and indiscriminatingly. Alden thought the sight of it all was one of the saddest things he had ever seen. Ragnar, silent and pensieve, communicated only through an intense, world eating hatred, and what could only be likened to a lust for vengeance, even when describing it thus does it not justice.
And that shame of Alden, the reason he had survived, he knew would haunt him for the rest of his living days. He had fled, he and Ragnar, as soon as Arya had been bought down. Though he had not seen a body, Alden had no doubt that the elven beauty was dead, for none could have stood against the mountain that had attacked. He felt within him a sense of loss that, he knew, could only have been overtaken by the deaths of Avery or Ragnar.
He had fled the scene, but he'd had good reason. The riders were dead, and had he stayed he too would have been killed. He had even seen, in his flight, that nearer the end of that brutal and swift battle, other riders had tried to flee, only to be snatched out of the sky like a robin by an eagle. Even so, he felt such pain to have had done so, his efforts to become the best weighing heavily upon him, in lieu of his failure. And there could only be one redemption, both he and Ragnar knew: death, or savior. They could die, facing the enemy down the point of a sword and a pillar of fire. Or, they could destroy the beast, and its rider. Either way, he reasoned, they must eventually face their foe, or flee like a coward.
There is, said Ragnar, in his gravelly mental tones, another way. Perchance, have you heard of the rider Eragon Shadeslayer.
We suffered through the same tuition, Ragnar. Why do you mention him?
Their relationship, while close, was noticably more tense than that of other dragons and riders, though their bond was no less strong. They constantly pushed each other to be better, through taunts and encouragement, and Alden had often thought that Ragnar was more his brother than Avery.
He lives, across the ocean in a different land, with a dragon older than Firnen. Not much larger, but larger, certainly. And he has had decades to himself, studying, learning, training. Imagine, what he could do against a beast. He has such strength, to have defeated Galbatorix and that forsaken Shade for which he was known, at the age he was. He is bigger than all of us, and from the stories I imagine he could destroy even you if it came to a crossing of blades.
Alden bristled, knowing the truth of that last statement. The tales praised Eragon for having been an exceptional swordsman, even among the Elves, and with so many years without distraction, he must have learnt much.
We know not where he resides.
No, replied Ragnar, but we must find him. Across the ocean we must fly, for there is no other choice. I will not die pointlessly, for we know not whether your brother survived the attack. We might, for all of our ability, be the last dragons aside from Eragon and Saphira and that monster in existance. We should not squander our gift, Alden.
Alden recognised how much Ragnar was already committed to his idea. They were standing over the body of a beautiful Elven girl one year younger than Alden, and her one-year-older-than-Ragnar dragon, of the most beautiful blue. The dragon had been Ragnar's mate, and Alden had noticed the girl the first day she had appeared in camp. They had become close friends, and Alden had considered courting her. Now...she and her dragon lay in the dirt, the former with her neck twisted completely around, the latter having had an entire wing torn lose by the mighty jaws of that monster.
'We must.' Alden said quietly. Then, with more certainty: 'Yes. We shall fly across the sea, and we shall, on my word as a rider and by the blood in my veins, and our mothers and fathers, not stop nor rest until we have found who we seek: Eragon Shadeslayer, the last hope for use, and the dragon riders. We will not rest until we, our our enemies, lay dead on the ground.'
Ragnar roared in agreement, scorching the clouds with an immense burst of fire. Avery knelt and, cutting his palm with his dagger, murmured his oath again in the ancient language and slurring his words, for his eyes had begun to leak. He planted the dagger in the ground beside the girl, gently closing her still open, very much dead, empty eyes. He stood. He turned.
Then both he and Ragnar began to walk towards the centre of the camp, both already planning the journey ahead.
RTR
The Shade admired the victory he had gained, but fumed at that which he had lost: the green dragon, that which that feeble elf had riden, had escaped. Granted, he had utterly destroyed every other rider in Alagaesia, and indeed that selfsame dragon's rider, he was certain, but that dragon had almost been half the size of his dragon and, if only by logic alone, posed a threat. There had been less riders in the camp than he'd expected, as his intelligence told him fourteen eggs had existed in Alagaesia. Nonetheless, he feared not, for without a rider, the green dragon could not stand against him, and might even already be dead.
As a Shade, and as one whose dragon wanted nothing more than to burn everything he realised his aims as blindingly simple. He too wanted to burn everything, to reduce the entirety of Alagaesia to ashes, to take every single life that existed and destroy it. He wanted nothing more, and nothing less, than to sterilise the land entirely, as if life were a disease. And he would do so. He swore he would do so.
RTR
Firnen, flying low over those young trees that make up the fringes of Du Weldenvarden, remembered with no small amount of pain and remorse those hours following the attack on the rider's camp
Arya! He had cried with his mind. Arya, please, awake. Allow me to heal you.
She had stirred, and said No, Firnen. You must not, and cannot. Instead, please allow me to ask two things of you. You must... She drifted away from him again, even in his head, and he felt astonishingly empty for a moment, and filled with fear No! Arya, come back to me!
You must...she said...you must survive this, Firnen, and find those that survived. You must survive losing me, please. And you must...allow me to heal you. It will b the last of my strength andyou cannot... stop me... but I would prefer... your blessing. He had wrestled then, with himself, considering denying both requests, and instead healing his rider with the last of the strength of his bones and heart even as she had offered the same. But...no. He couldn't. He didn't know how he might heal her, as he couldn't perform magic on command.
I will allow it he grunted once, so short was he that Arya, in her near stupor, barely noticed. She did, however, sense his approval, and on her silent command, the magic began to flow. He felt the wound of his leg close, then felt the pain reduce, though a dull throbbing still existed. He felt his other injuries heal and slowly, slowly, he began to feel better. He felt so alive, so much energy was coursing though him, oh, so alive, so...
No! No, no, no! Arya! He cried out with his mind, for hers had dimmed briefly, then flared up again I love you, Firnen she had said.
Then, in an instant, without even a goodbye, a reply, or the opportunity for her to remove herself from his mind, she was gone.
Gone. Gone gone gone forever.
And he felt so...empty. So quiet, like the world itself had disappeared in some baptism of fire and been reduced to he too, fell into himself, fell silent, though he sank not into the embrace of death. He fell within his mind, behind defences so strong that a thousand men couldn't penetrate them. He didn't notice the ground rapidly approaching as he had stopped his conscious effort to fly. He didn't notice anything of the world outside his mind, for he had forsaken it. It was such that he didn't notice the body of his rider slip from between his claws. He fell to earth, so engrossed in that tiny corner of his mind that he felt no pain as he ploughed into the trees.
His entire world existed as the four walls to his mental fortress, completely impregnable. He retreated there, where no one could see. And there, his soul, his very being, began to cry.
Aww, poor little (rather huge) dragon. Do you feel sorry for him. I know, on some level, he'd probably be upset if you didn't review, you heartless monsters. Tell me what you think.
I remain,
Ladra.