Blueasice24: Hey! Thought I recognised your story title somewhere on this site! Glad you like it, and the action! And it is true, I'm all for ExA, and the paths it will take may be surprising and shocking to you all... I shall certainly keep writing.

: Yeah, it is overrated, and I just thought I'd do something different to it. Yep, they're captured! But what happens next... read on!

DomesticHouseCat: Thanks! Hopefully it won't be dissapointing... Sorry about the commas, but another chapter is coming up now, and it should be good!

Mattchew Inheritance: Yeah, he is weak... What can I say, he's drunk! Plus Murtagh has way more Eldunari than him, he's bound to look weak in comparison.

Elemental Dragon Slayer: Glad you like the plotline. And yep, ExA all the way! May be some unexpected parts though...

Chapter 2

Arya was unconscious. She was deep within her mind, behind her instinctive layers of barriers, noticing nothing around her. Vauge memories ran through her, of what had happened.

Eragon collapsing, and her collapsing onto him. Murtagh landing, after jumping off Thorn. The ground propelling her away, and landing on Eragon again. Healing him. Charging at Murtagh. Him taking out and holding down all the spellcasters. Being locked in place by his magic. Thorn lifting her and Eragon, Saphira forced to follow behind. Falling asleep from exhaustion. And now...

She began to stir, opening her eyes and expecting light to hit her and force her to blink. None came. She was in almost pitch darkness. She could see little but the faint outlines of four walls surrounding her.

Black walls, dirty walls. They seemed to reek of evil, of despair, and of countless peoplle formerly who had lain where she was, giving up hope all the while.

She was in a prison cell.

The thin wooden board that hung outwards from the wall, she could tell, was barely enough to hold her weight. She swung her legs off it, sitting up, and immediately became dizzy; a sensation she could easily recignise from Gil'ead. She had been drugged. She was a prisoner.

Which meant so was Eragon, and so was Saphira.

And they were Murtagh's prisoners, which meant they were in Uru'baen, and under Galbatorix's control. Victims of Galbatorix's tortures were certainly not silent, she had heard. On some nights, screams had been said to ring throughout the entire city, followed by the King's cold, cruel laughter; a signal of power over his citizens and his enemies.

As her eyesight adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, she saw that there was a single door to the cell; magically reinforced and guarded, she could see through the small gap, by a number of soldiers, but not a number so great that she could not defeat them herself. If she ever got out, they would be in for a shock, she swore to herself. But then it hit her.

She wouldn't be able to get out. The door was strong enough to restrain her, or Galbatorix was a lot more arrogant than any had ever presumed. Not to mention the fact that after a week or two in Uru'baen, she would be lucky to even be able to stand at all, let alone fight or break out of the largest city in the Empire. It was hopeless, for both her and Eragon.

And surely it would be worse for the Rider? Galbatorix needed him more, him and Saphira. And that would mean massive tortures for the last free Rider, her friend. While she felt a kind of guilty releif that she would not be the priority for Galbatorix's tortures, as she was with Durza, the fear and sorrow she felt for Eragon and their cause, not to mention Saphira, outweighed that by far.

Arya leant back against the cold, hard wall, conserving her energy. She shivered lightly as her back came into contact with it, but remained in the same position, before pulling her legs up to the wooden bench and wrapping her arms around them. Being in a cell again brought memories of Durza, of Gil'ead, and she struggled to repress the feelings of whips and swords and knives sinking into her flesh, knowing that they would only weaken her against Galbatorix further.

Arya lay down now, on her side, waiting for something to happen and strengthening her mental defences, just in case of Galbatorix hoping to catch her unawares. She would not be unprepared, unlike when Durza had first captured her. She would avoid taking the drugs as best she could, while she still retained enough sense to realise that, and she would resist everything as well as she could. And so she rested, as well as she could, in the blackness, waiting for someone to come.

An hour later, Arya heard a heart-wrenching scream of pain.

It was followed by a dragon's roar of fury, and a cruel laugh.

Then it happened again.

When Saphira woke, she was in chains. That fact alone was enough to cause fire to spew from her mouth by mere instinct. But even more disturbing and enraging was the great black dragon that loomed over her, like some dark mountain with malicious intent. Scales ran the length of it, great claws reached outwards at her, and ice-blue eyes scrutinized her, like some great hunting eagle sizing up its prey, but not so majestic. No, Shruikan's air was more that of an old, battered avian, losing its feathers, yet still staring down at an elegant dove in contempt for its size, though he could never match her grace nor her looks. Yes, Saphira preferred that analogy of the black dragon.

And Thorn too was nearby, an awkward spectator who did not seem to be required, but was there anyway. His red scales were as dull as Shruikan's in the low lighting.

The lighting itself was magical, no doubt, Saphira thought with a flash of rage, powered by the Eldunari. A flame darted from her jaw, but it had no effect on the metal bindings that held her in place.

She was in a massive cave, likely that where Thorn and Shruikan resided. Bones of prey animals were scattered across the black floor, reminding her slightly of the remains left by the Ra'zac at Helgrind. Dark, black flames flickered ominously at random intervals across the walls and the cieling. The two male dragons were unchained, Shruikan's huge bulk in front of her, Thorn crouched out of the way on her right, glancing between the other two as if he was not sure which he was more scared of.

Saphira shot him a glare and he backed away quickly. But Shruikan merely looked down with contempt at her, as if he knew that she would be unable to get out or fight.

She knew it too.

But she would show her pride as a dragon and the daughter of Verveda, and she would not quail under the the stare that Shruikan sent her way. She held her head as high as the chains would allow, determination in her eyes and in her heart, and she snapped visciously at his head as he bent his neck towards her.

Saphira allowed herself a small snort of amusement when he quickly withdrew his nose from within her reach. She hadn't bitten it, or surely the crazed dragon would have torn her apart.

That problem dealt with, where was Eragon? She tried to reach out for him, but his mind slipped away from hers as it had only once before, when he was a captive of the shade. He was drugged; their connection dull.

But enough of it remained for her to feel large scrapes forming across his back, bruises and pain bursting into being. She gritted her teeth, unable to do anything, and then the sensation on her back stopped, only for the just-eased injuries to flare up again in pain. Then, she could tell, the torture truly began for her Rider, and his scream of utter agony was dulled out a few seconds later by her own roar of anger.

Shruikan, unfeeling, stared at the dragoness, unable to comprehend what she was going through. The black-blood-traitor had never shared pain with his Rider. But Thorn gazed at her sympathetically, having gone through exactly the same as a young hatchling, she could tell, and he blinked in sorrow as another roar of hers drowned out Eragon's screaming.

And he screamed again, and she roared again, long into the night, or the day, or whichever time it was outside Uru'baen, where time mattered not, and the passing of the sun a mere memory.

Eragon knew not where he was, nor what was around him. He knew no touch of mind, nor ache of heart. All he knew was the sensations that passed over his skin. Rough bumps as he was dragged over a cold, hard floor. Arms gripping his and hauling him upwards, before slamming him down again onto a wooden surface. A table. Cold metal gripping his wrists. Being pulled outwards in every direction by the chains on his hands and feet. Then, hearing a sound of amusement, twisted, wretched, from a way away, and an order. His skin being sliced and punctured by a number of blades and knives. He then, almost detatchedly, realised that his clothes had been removed. Every inch of his skin was exposed, and soon he felt like every inch of his skin had been cut.

It was, he guessed, an hour, maybe two, before the torturer stopped. He noticed now that the drug might have been wearing off, but the blood loss was keeping him incapacitated and unable to think coherently. Now, Eragon heard footseps, nearing him, then words he recignised from somewhere, but could not place. A new torture, a terrible sensation of itching everywhere that he had been hurt, came over him, and he writhed as best he could, before realising that the blood was returning to his body, and the words had been a spell of healing.

Eragon struggled to open his eyes, and to fight back against his captors, but the chains and his lack of magic restrained him, only allowing him to do the former. He looked up to see a black, indistinct shape looming over him. The shape spoke words to him, words that Eragon in his weakened state could only just comprehend.

"So, you are the Rider, are you? But weak, too weak... Your power is insufficient for what you want. I can give you power, and take you back to your dragon. That's what you want. You need to be with your dragon." The voice was not a dark voice, or an evil voice, nay, it was a calm voice, a persuasive voice, yet one that had its own menace. Eragon weakly shook his head. He knew, somehow, that the voice was not one he wanted to listen to. He had heard it before, using a different tounge, but the same voice; he remembered little after the voice but despair and mourning following in its wake, and he knew that he could not give in to the powerful, convincing figure that stood over him. The voice spoke again, its tones softer this time, gentler.

"But your dragon is in danger. She is alone with two others; males. Do you not know what could happen? I can save her. Do you accept my offer? Or will you allow Thorn and Shruikan to harm... Saphira?" Rage flared in Eragon them, irrational, as far as he knew, but he felt it, and it gave him strength.

"Do not defile her name with your serpent's tounge. You know not of which you speak!" The surge of rejuvenating energy that his anger at the man had given him allowed him to wrench his body upwards as best he could, drawing a smirk from the dark shape who stood above him. Now he could see, the man had black hair, and a crown on his head. Eragon stuttered, gasped out a name. "Galbatorix..."

"Not many can remember that much under the influences of pain, torture, and drugs, Dragon Rider. You impress me, but not enough. You will not see your dragon unharmed when, or if, you come through this unless you swear yourself to me, now!" The figure became angry now, its cool and calm tones slipping away, but Eragon resoloutely shook his head in reply. He spoke back, knowing that of which he spoke, yet not remembering.

"I shall not swear myself to the one responsible for the death of my uncle, nor to the one whose same minions killed my mentor and later went on to attack my village and my cousin. I refuse to enslave myself to the one who allowed slavers like Torkenbrand to thrive, and the one who destroyed the greatest peace Alagaesia had ever known! I deny you the right to control me as you did Murtagh, through whom you killed Oromis and Glaedr, last remnants of the past you eliminated and my masters too! I and my dragon likewise shall never parley with the man we have fought all our lives to defeat and slay, and whatever gods may be be damned, we shall defeat you and we shall slay you, for our friends and our families, and for all those who are worse off under your rule. That I shall swear, but I shall never swear to you, Galbatorix. I swear it by the love of my dragon and all those around me that I call friend!" Tirade over, Eragon slumped back, ehxausted; his anger was released, and its energy too gone. He was almost into unconsciousness when he heard the man again.

"Interesting... love of all those around you, you say? Any in particular, perhaps? Never mind... Take him to a cell! Away from the elf and the dragon, so he won't escape with them or plan anything. I shall go to the dragon next..."

The footsteps started again, receeding, and more, heavier ones, came; Eragon was unchained, hauled off the torture table, and dragged along the cold stone floor again, aching all over, and minutes later he was thrown into a room and something thrust down his throat.

Then, something hard hit his head, and all went black again. He collapsed to the floor, and his last feeling was one of pain from Saphira; dull, blocked pain, but pain nonetheless.

When the screams, Eragon's screams, had finally stopped, it was not half an hour before pained roars of a dragon, obviously Saphira, rang through the castle. Arya, lying on the uncomfortable plank, felt a shiver run up her spine at the thought that her friend, and the last hope for dragons in Alagaesia, was being tormented by the worse fiend to stalk the land for years.

Another shiver ran through her upon the realisation that she was next, closely followed by a memory.

Her skin was pummeled like a dwarf would hammer rock, then cut with the ease of an elven canoe through water. Yet still she denied Durza the information, and when he attacked her mind, her barriers held firm. More tortures followed; whips, clubs, all bruised her; none broke her. They strengthened her resolve to fight against her tormentor, the killer of her friends, ever more, even as they struck her with all the force the Shade could summon. Then came the poison, and the drugs. Too weak to think, she could still feel the strange substances within her blood, weakening her further, and she was taken back to the lonely cot in the lonely cell, to get what little sleep she could before another session of torture.

The torments she had endured had been terrible, but she cast them from her mind and drew herself back into herself. Dwelling on the past would do nothing.

Half an hour after she came back out of her memory, unknowing of how much time was spent in the realms of the past, Arya heard the roars of pain cease, to be followed by a weaker roar of anger, then silence.

Galbatorix would come for her next.

It was some twenty minutes before forbodeing footsteps rang through the corridor. There was muttering from the guards outside, and shifting of nervous feet; Arya stood, fists clenched at her sides, staring at the door. She counted the steps from when they started, hoping to estimate the length of the space outside; any knowledge would be vital if she hoped to escape. At Gil'ead, the corridor outside her cell had extended for around forty feet to the left, before sounds ceased, but to the right the sounds had continued until they fell out of her range of hearing.

Now, she knew that it was quite a long corridor outside her cell; thirty-eight steps had been taken by the timme the footsteps ceased and reached the door. An order was given, then a conformation, and the cell door was pushed open by a guard. A pause, then the King walked in.

The first thing Arya noticed was that he had a small stride, of two feet or so, making the corridor heading away from her cell roughly eighty feet long. She made the calculations immediately, knowing that they might be needed at any time.

His boots, cape, and gloves were all made out of some kind of leather; which type she knew not, but she had a suspicion.

The sword at his belt was sheathed, yet the sight of it made her feel exposed without her own. The glyph, crudely crafted onto a scabbard that she could tell was not its own, said 'Vrangr', or 'Awry'. The hilt had a strangely translucent diamond in it, which in Galbatorix's hand did indeed appear to be wrong or misshapen, an unearthly apparation of somme strange form.

The crown she recognised from depictions in scrolls, but not as the crown of Galbatorix. Nay, it was the ancient, ancestral crown of King Palencar, from the first land of humans across the seas. Red gold it was, gleaming, but the dark light cast by Uru'baen's very walls rendered its beauty fleeting and tainted. It was, Arya thought,extremely symbolic of the human race; ancient in lineage but enslaved and corrupted by a tyrant. Yet still sometimes its true power and strength would shown, like in Nasuada's ability to lead, and in Eragon's stubbornness, resiliance, purity, and honour. All those qualities shone strong in him, and in others too, yet in he they burned brighter than they did in many elves. He would remain uncorrupted as long as doing so was in his power or Saphira's, and she and the rest of the Varden admired him for it.

The King's face-framed with hair of dark black, a hooked nose protruding between two deep-set eyes-was something she had been expecting less then she had the spoils of war. To her, he had always been faceless, the idea of a man vile beyond comprehension, and to put a face to his name was a strange experience. It disconcerted her; in her mind, she went from being devoted to bringing down a tyrant to bringing down a man, and the change was strange to fathom, for some unknown reason.

All the observing took a mere few seconds, then she acted. Knowing it would be futile, but not caring, she started to lash out a leg at one of his, but before he had even moved pushed off with the other, hoping to catch him off guard and jump over him, possibly kicking him at the same time. However, his reflexes, enhanced with his enchanted elven speed, allowed him to duck and grab her leg as she jumped over him, bringing her head towards the ground because of the halted momentum.

Her arms blocked the fall, as they had when she fought Murtagh, and she wrenched her leg away before rolling forwards towards the entrance to the cell. A curse didn't stop her, but a spell did.

Galbatorix's simple 'Letta' spell had frozen her when she was still in a crouching position. She could see little of him, as her head was bent, but his feet circled her once, twice, then halted in front of her. The strange leather was almost under her nose, and it stank. If she had the freedom to open her mouth, she would spit on it, but she didn't.

His left boot suddenly lashed out, connecting with her right shoulder, followed by his right hitting her left. Arya felt pain burst into both shoulders, but it was worse on her left; obviously, he was right-handed, and that side's kick had been stronger. Fortunately, that left her own stronger arm better off, but she still couldn't use it. The spell was entirely restricting.

The dark King spoke; his words soft, yet powerful; his tone silky, yet malevolent to her ears. He was persuasive in his speech, but to her the words were tainted by the knowledge of what this man had done, both a hundred years in the past and over the course of the last few hours, the latter being the more personal anger, rather strangely.

"So, you are the elf Durza struggled with for so long. And he was right about one thing; you are very beautiful." A hand touched her hair, and she shivered. The motion made her realise that the spell had been released, and she turned the stationary roll into a backwards one, ending in a crouch, right hand on the floor and head looking up at Galbatorix. The king didn't seem fazed by the elf, ready to jump forwards and attack, in front of him, and he simply froze her with another spell and a little laugh.

"However, what Durza wasn't right about was how to break you. You're strong, aren't you? Proud? Arrogant? Obviously. You're an elf. The worst scars, the mental ones, will not come from large-scale beatings, at least not with you. No, you shall feel worse after small things, little things, one by one, which you cannot defend yourself against. The mental blow to your pride is just as bad from one torture to the next, because they are tortures. You can cope with the physical aspects; this you have proven. But small, mental blows to your pride are just as effective against your belief in your own superiority as the largest tortures. I have had a long time to think about such things." He reached down, kneeling in front of her and grinning from some sadistic pleasure. Still she could not move or speak.

"Therefore, when a small injury becomes a nagging one, which you are unable to heal by magic, and you are completely exposed to whatever might come of the small injury, you will feel worse than ever for being brought down by something so easily healable." He reached forwards, snapped her right little finger easily. Her face remained motionless, but within she was crying out in shock.

"And again..." The other little finger. Arya gasped now, realising again that she could move, but the King had already retreated a few steps, to the doorway. Out of reach of any surprise attacks.

"You have enslaved a world, and you shall die for it," She stated, coldly, and the King merely laughed, before slamming the door and issuing orders to the men at the sides. They replied, and the sound of the footsteps, thirty-eight of them, moved away down the corridor again.

She glanced downwards, at the crooked fingers that she could not heal, and a small tear escaped her eyes.

Galbatorix was right.

That was the only way she would be broken.

That or betrayal.

Not looking good at all. Oh dear. Captured, weakened... What can they do? Not much, really...

I didn't really find Nasuada's capture as something that meant Eragon would feel that all was lost and his power was insufficient, so that didn't really work with the prophecy in my opinion. All would be much more lost, and his power would seem even more insufficient, with a practical demonstration of Galby's power and cruelty, not to mention the loss of the only Rider and dragon who are free. So yeah, he needs the VoS, but how can he reach it? He's trapped! So are Arya and Saphira!

What will the Varden do now!

Galby is evil, as we all know, and I hope I portrayed Arya well in this. Should it be a part of the last chapter, or not? I think it works on its own quite well, so...