Thanks to JWH for patiently discussing obscure words, and offering his thoughts.

A/N:

Man. Has it really been two years? I almost can't believe it. Two years, and I'm finally at the scene that started everything for me. This chapter will contain the first climax, it's what I based my story on – the idea I had first in mind, even longer than the two years by now.

I guess you could say that this is the heart of the story. What does it mean to truly love? And what does it mean to be guilty, to fail and fall, just like we all do, at times; yet to prove yourself a hero in the truest sense of the words, in rising again and moving on, stronger than before.

All that is part of the journey that starts for Eragon now, at the fateful black Rock of Helgrind, and that will end with discovering who he is, and what he has to do, in order to defeat the Dark King.

It was a pain at times, but I'm proud of how it came out in the end. I hope you all will enjoy it as much as I did. The real story is about to kick off. Let's go.

5. Choices: Fallen

.

Oh my love, if it's

All I can do

I'll take the fall

For you

.~.

A step to the left, a step to the right. Eragon did not think, as he fought the void in front of him. In the absence of his sight, he relied on his other senses, which seemed sharpened. He anticipated many attacks, heard capes and hoods rustle, telling him of his opponent's movements; listened to the swishing air when the sword moved, to the breathing, in and out.

He felt the stinging and the stickiness from the many wounds where he hadn't been fast enough and the blade of the Ra'zac had bit into his flesh, burning, where it went deeper; and ignored it, in the heat of the battle that pulsed through his body and pushed away everything else.

He felt every little groove in the pommel of his sword, the uneven ground under his feet, Arya against his back; knowing that she would defend it, and knowing that she counted on him the same way. It was a glorious feeling, he found; proving true the words he'd spoken, back when first they had set out: that there was no one he would rather have at his side in a fight.

And here, they were equals.

They were fighting back-to-back, hands still linked; his right in her left. It restricted their freedom of movement, but it was the only way to avoid becoming separated, losing each other and leaving their backs unprotected against a foe that could see in a darkness where they could not. It was a sure way to die.

The flapping of the unseen Ra'zac's cloak heralded another lunge at him.

Eragon deflected the attack at the last moment, estimating the path the sword of his foe would take, knocking it aside. At the same time, he extended right leg, feeling one of the Ra'zac's, and hooked his foot around it. The following pull was enough to make it stumble. Eragon's sword was already on its way down. The Ra'zac hissed and Eragon felt the air brush over his skin as its body moved – the thrust grazed it, glancing off on the chitinous exoskeleton. It probably had thrown itself to the side. Eragon cursed as he heard the figure scramble away into dark of the cavern, vanishing out of his reach and out of his senses, not three feet away.

Blindly, he turned his head. Suddenly, the air swished to his right and he spun around at once, the sword high. Just in time, he blocked the blade of the Ra'zac coming down on his and Arya's unprotected arms. Nasuada's gift rang clearly as steel met steel once more.

Sweat ran down from his forehead and dripped into his eyes, as he strained to push the opposing blade aside. His breath came short and quick. Bit by bit, his sword gave way under the pressure of the Ra'zac. His arm throbbed.

Suddenly, with the swords still in the deadlock, two things happened at the same instant.

Eragon sensed the head of the Ra'zac head jerking forwards, smelling its foul breath as its beak opened, aimed at his face.

And it lost its balance as it was knocked into.

Something sharp and pointy dug itself into his shoulder violently. The beak had missed his face; pain exploded down Eragon's arm, and with a metallic shriek, his blade raced alongside that of the vile insect-like being, generating a shower of sparks that blinked in the dark, shining light on everyone for the shortest of moments.

The second, taller Ra'zac had staggered into its companion, which Eragon was fighting, clicking rapidly.

Eragon's sword slid effortlessly into the thigh of his adversary.

It crashed to the ground. Perhaps its leg was severed. His left shoulder burned and sent an agonising spike of pain through his body each time he moved his arm, but he hacked into the darkness, piercing the wounded Ra'zac several times, until he could not reach it anymore as it retreated, apparently severely injured. He felt Arya's movements through their linked hands; she was now next to him rather than at his back, still battering away at the tall Ra'zac.

In the fraction of a second, Eragon realised he had to exploit the chance she had opened up for him by sending her Ra'zac stumbling into his, distracting it, if they wanted to end this fight anytime soon.

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the throbbing pain in his upper arm, he let go of her hand and leapt into the black.

– * –

In front of him was a stalagmite with a razor-sharp tip.

With his heart beating rapidly, he carefully felt his way around, between the columns and uprising stones he could not see. Worse, though, were the ones that extended down from the ceiling, ending at head height, just long enough to inflict horrible injuries with their sharp ends.

From ahead, a scraping noise reached his ears. He crept onwards. Around another bulky rock he moved, and he smelled the typical odour he'd come to associate with the Ra'zac; that of slowly rotting meat.

Hereto, the Ra'zac had crawled. And at this place, it would meet its end.

The stink of its bleeding body drifted over from directly in front of him. It tried to raise its sword, he heard, but Eragon knocked it away, his own sword now in his good, right hand, leaving the Ra'zac defenceless on the ground. He stared into the blind darkness, wondering what Brom would say, and whether he would be a little proud, could he see him now, at the end of the quest they had begun together.

It seemed like so long ago …

His path had led him away from home, throughout the entirety of Alagaësia, to dwarves and elves and back again. He had accomplished many a task, all but the one on whose pursuit he originally had left; and yet it had been on his mind the entire time. It had never been a question that eventually, he would set out to finish what to do he had left Carvahall for; and so he was here.

Most likely Brom would tell him to stop thinking and get on with it. A tiny smile flitted over his face, barely there, before he became serious again.

"This is for you … and for Garrow."

His whispered words hung in the air. Grimly, he brought down the blade. The Ra'zac screeched high and shrill.

The sword pierced through the chitin-armoured chest. A liquid bubbled out of the hole, audible by a squishing sound as he plunged in the sword again. The Ra'zac trashed on the ground, but the movement became weaker and weaker.

He stabbed it a few more times, until finally, it moved no longer. Breathing hard, he stopped.

Now, he had his revenge. He felt like a part of his journey was finished; and yet there was no pride, only a grim satisfaction. The Ra'zac would continue to lie here, in the eternal night of Helgrind's belly, never again able to do anyone harm and bring misery upon peaceful towns, like it had done to him and Carvahall. And that was a good thought.

He turned and walked away. He would not return. He would never find it again, here, in this cave. Be it its grave.

– * –

From ahead and slightly to the right still came the sound of heavy fighting. He felt his way back through the invisible maze of rock outcroppings, limping and wincing with each step as he suddenly started to feel his battered body again, and the coldness that was creeping through him. He was sweating from the exertion, and yet shivering in the cold that was not without him, but within. He was almost glad that the wounds provided distraction. It gave him something different to focus on, even if it was pain.

He groped for his wounds, hissing when he touched one. The most serious of them, beside his bad shoulder, seemed to be a stab wound at his side that was still oozing blood. Eragon gritted his teeth and walked onwards, arriving just in time to see swords meet in a shower of sparks. Like dimly glowing stars, kindling in the air and dying a heartbeat later, they flittered through the night.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The idea seemed so simple, he could not believe he hadn't thought of it before. He felt for the tinderbox that was still in his pocket and which he had not so much as glanced at since he'd traveled with Brom.

Had he become so lazy and used to magic that he forgot the obvious?

Kneeling down quickly, he searched for the one arrow that had hit the rock after passing him; from the Ra'zac's first attack. It had to be here, somewhere. It was a fool's hope, trying to find anything in the dark, but for once, he was lucky. After only a few minutes, his fingers felt its shaft. Careful not to touch the arrowhead with the Seithr oil, he tried to pick it up.

Pain flared up in his arm as it stretched, and he uttered a strangled cry. His left arm was useless, and he could not fix it. With his right hand, he lifted it off the ground. Clumsily, he tried striking the tinderbox with the flint one-handed, while not losing the arrow again. After the third try, sparks emanated from the metal, just like they had from the sword earlier. A few fell into the tinder touching the arrowhead.

He held his breath.

The sticky oil burned with a pale blue flame.

Eragon grinned. He tore a small strip of cloth from his sleeve with his teeth and wrapped it around the arrowhead. The flame latched onto it, and he had a makeshift torch.

The flame was pitifully small, but it provided enough light for him to see Arya's outline grey in the dark, even though she was a good six feet away. And if he could see her, she could see the Ra'zac.

Arya's movements changed at once. She became much faster, no longer defending against attacks at the very last moment. He saw her parrying an attack and quickly engaging into one of her own, which Eragon recognised to be a feint right after she had begun to move. He had seen her use it a few times: her right foot was angled a tiny degree more inward than during her usual lunge, to prepare for the spin back and allow her to execute it faster.

The Ra'zac, however, fell for it and moved at once to take advantage of the perceived opening. It stabbed at her abdomen, at the exact moment when she began to move and turn away, until she stood almost at a right angle to the Ra'zac. Its blade passed her on the front by inches, piercing the empty air, and her own elfin sword, high, raced outwards, directly towards its throat.

The Ra'zac was beheaded before it could recognise the error it had made.

Arya wiped her sword on a rag, before placing it back into the sheath, never saying a word; but he saw her tight smile and the short nod, and took the silent praise for what it was. And then, they moved on, bruised and battered, yet victorious, through the rising stalagmites and hanging stalactites; their dim torch a bright beacon of light in a place of utter darkness.

– * –

The flickering light revealed an underworld of bizarre forms. Walls that looked like a cascading waterfall, descending out of the dark and subsequently frozen in time and turned to stone. Pillars and blocks that looked like animals born out of dreams, all in stone – all that passed by the two wandering travelling companions, who looked worse for wear, but dragged themselves onward.

Eventually, the last stalactites receded, leaving an open space that was not unlike the one on the other side where they had entered this strange landscape; the black ground uneven, the ceiling far above, lost in the dark, the gigantic cave unable to be lit by the makeshift torch by far.

And even that little light fled the darkness, when the flame sputtered and died.

– * –

The air was cold and stale; a little damp. Every now and then gravel crunched underneath their boots, but the ground mostly was bare rock, and sharp ridges threatened to punish any inattentiveness with a stumble; especially as it sloped downhill.

A rock clattered through the silence, somewhere, far away. It took many seconds until the sound came echoing back from the other side. And something else came to Eragon's attention: it felt as though a constant pressure had been lifted and a missing part of him returned, the by now familiar coldness he had never noticed creeping into him receding just a bit. At first, he could not ascribe the new feel, but then he thought he had a good guess.

He squeezed Arya's hand and stopped, focusing inwards.

– * –

Above them floated once more the sapphire blue ball of light that had served them so faithfully throughout the first part of their journey. With a sigh of relief, Eragon leant against an outcropping, healed once more. The bite had been throbbing agonisingly ever since the Ra'zac had attacked him with its beak. It had been swollen to a dark red, oozing yellow pus, but his spells had taken care of all that, as he'd cleansed the wound and repaired the damage done to tissue and muscles.

His magic had felt reluctant, it hadn't been nearly as easy as he was used to by now – in fact, he had had to consciously break the barrier in his mind as he did when first he had been taught how to lift a pebble by Brom – but the important thing was that it had worked. He drew a little more energy from the gems, and felt the burning in his tired and sore muscles abate, at least a little.

"You?" he asked and she hesitated for a moment, before she pulled up her trousers to expose a deep, bloody gash in her leg.

"Here." He lifted up his shirt, prompting her to use energy from the belt of Beloth the Wise. She looked astonished, perhaps relieved, then thankful. Placing a hand on one of the gems, she drew energy from it, and started to heal herself; confirming his guess that she was at the end of her strength. He had used less magic than her and doubted he'd be walking, had he not resorted to the energy he'd stored away.

She had been very taciturn ever since she had fought the Lethrblaka, even by her standards. Lost in thoughts, she barely had responded to what little he'd said, wrestling with whatever demons plagued her. She seemed miles away. Had she sought sanctuary in memories, or were they the cause of her troubled state?

Their surroundings seemed to present an ideal plane onto which to project sombre thoughts; dark and silent, their journey itself like a half-forgotten memory of a forlorn dream. No one was here but them, and while they walked ahead and ahead, nothing new came up; always the same empty black ground, and it was like they were not moving at all.

– * –

The ball of light floated high up, and expanded in size greatly, bathing the setting in light awide. Hours of walking had passed, it seemed like, but at last they had reached the end of the vast cavern below Helgrind. Like a pale blue sun, Eragon's werelight stood high above them, and yet still did not show the ceiling. It did, however, reveal the breathtaking landscape.

To their left gaped a chasm, not black, but red, like a wound in the ground; seemingly reaching into the middle of earth herself, illumed by the fire in her belly. Ahead, a massive, curved out wall towered, dwarfing them. There was no way around it; where it ended, on the left side, it dropped away sharply, seamlessly, into the chasm.

Eragon noticed that the wall expanded at the base even further, with countless foothills running away from it, forming a gnarled tangle of stony ridges that ran on top, throughout and athwart each other. Clinging and clawing at the edge of the red cleft, the black rock resembled nothing so much as twisting roots of a giant tree.

An identical rock formation appeared on the far side of the cave from within the dark, directly opposed to its twin, as if a mirror image of the first. Like two admonishing guardians, they stood facing each other, watching silently over the deep abyss.

Like an ever-thinning finger, the utmost branch extended over it, far out. From the other side ran a similar offshoot. In the middle, the two mighty roots almost touched, like two broken fingers pointing at each other, or the halves of a destroyed bridge, spanning the chasm. They appeared all but artificially separated, so smooth were the ends.

Eragon looked around, but it was clear that the path continued on the far side of the cleft, and the only place far and wide that opened up at least a remote possibility to cross it was the bridge where the two walls forced it together more tightly than anywhere else.

They started walking on the first branches of what struck him to be the mountain's roots, which here, where they stood, were not bigger than the shaft of an arrow. Soon, though, two ran together, and they met another joint root, creating an even bigger one and so forth; and they had to balance on the ridge of the stone rise, a man's height above the ground.

– * –

Carefully, Eragon moved behind Arya on the arm that extended over the chasm.

It had started out just as thick as any other, true, but halfway along, it had dwindled down to the size of the trunk from a young birch tree. As if playing a deadly serious variant of the old child's game, where one had to jump from certain stones onto others while not touching forbidden ones, they had leaped from root to root to even come this far, always directly alongside the edge of the abyss, and they would have to cross the missing section in the middle in the same way. In curious fascination, Eragon's look went down.

Below them gaped the red abyss. Deep down, the long shadows shone in a strange light. It was no colour he could name, and the longer his gaze lingered on it, the uneasier he felt. He averted his eyes, quickly, when he thought he saw the shadows starting to crawl up the walls.

Ahead, a fine mist seemed to impend above the crevice. He watched it, filled with apprehension, while they neared the gap between the two arms. The mist wavered, like a summer's haze, almost transparent, and seemed to be confined strictly to the area of the gap, as though something kept it there, preventing it from being anywhere else. He wondered if it was the stone ridge he was standing upon.

Arya paused, then leaped gracefully through the air, crossing the mist, and landed safely on the other side, swaying a little while trying to balance the momentum on the arm yonder that was not thicker than Eragon's wrist. She appeared to be none the worse for it. After she had advanced to leave him enough space, he jumped as well. The shadows moved restlessly under him, he thought he saw movement, from the corner of his eye –

Nothing happened.

He came to a stand with his arms extended, balancing carefully, and jerked his head around. The haze still shimmered slightly, just as before, calm and undisturbed. Below his feet, the strange light glowed, the shadows crawling over the walls. He shivered and fixed his gaze firmly ahead, at the small black opening between the tangle of roots; the tunnel away from this place.

– * –

From ahead, the stench finally told of their journey's end. Eragon wrinkled his nose at the smell of death and rotting flesh. There was a soft rustling sound, but when Eragon turned his head, the tunnel behind him was empty.

Although after the gigantic cave below Helgrind the path had been easily discerned from the occasional traces the Ra'zac had left behind, it still had taken them a good while to get this far. It seemed as though the Ra'zac dwelt at the very top, as they had suspected; and so they had to ascend from the roots of the mountain to its summit.

Ahead, the tunnel turned to a cave, and Eragon frowned, stopping in his tracks. It was not much of a cell, more a widening of the tunnel than an actual cave, open on both ends. Katrina wasn't locked up behind bars, but simply chained to the wall.

In truth, though, it served much the same purpose and made no difference, he finally admitted. She couldn't go anywhere.

Perhaps even the chains were rendered unnecessary by now. She wouldn't be fleeing anytime soon on her own. Shaken, he stared at her. The Katrina he'd known had been a pretty young woman, with vibrant copper hair and a light-hearted smile on her face. The person in front of him looked prematurely aged, weighed down by despair and misery, and starved to death. Her face was gaunt, her hair grimy and dull; clinging straggly to her head.

Red welts showed where the metal of the links had chafed her skin, but not only there. Black-bluish bruises and old, scabbed wounds all over her body told a different story.

He kept down his mental barriers, just like he had in the dark, to be able to keep up a link to Arya and react to any surprises with but a thought; and felt her consent as she assumed a post on the entrance while he slowly stepped into the cave.

"Katrina!" he called.

Her eyes flew open as she heard his voice, but they held no recognition.

He tried to smile reassuringly, but she shrunk away, as far as the chains and her waning strength would allow.

"We will get you out of here," he said soothingly. She opened her mouth as if to answer, but no sound came out. She struggled feebly against the manacles that kept her near the far wall, and for a second Eragon thought he saw something shimmer next to her, but then she froze and stood stiff as a statue.

Only her chest heaved rapidly, as if she were breathing heavily, but still not even a sigh escaped her. Eragon frowned.

With quick strides, he stepped over a few gnawed off bones, disgusted; realising that they were human lower legs, when suddenly, there was a noise behind him. The faint twang of a released bowstring. The hissing of an arrow – and –

Eragon! Wait! It's a – Her voice broke off, turning into a desperate cry that he perceived as a mental scream inside his head.

"Arya!"

He whirled around, struggling under an onslaught of pain as his mind was flooded with feelings not his own: the searing of an arrow embedded in the chest, the burning feel that spread through the body, with each beat of the heart, as if it were liquid fire in the veins. For a moment, the world flickered and he felt sucked through their wide open link, agitated silver flame threatened by dark shadows … he almost stumbled to the ground, trying to close off his mind.

Disorientated, he looked past Arya. A shadow sped away into the dark depths of Helgrind, malicious laughter hissing from the walls.

"Brisingr!"

The fireball splashed harmlessly against the rock, but it showed the retreating figure before it rounded the corner: another Ra'zac, smaller in size than the two they had already killed. Eragon cursed the wretched creature, and himself; bitterly. Why had he not anticipated that there might be more than two Ra'zac? But every thought about his own careless mistake fled his mind when Arya gasped and slid alongside the wall, slumping down. He was leaping over to her, when a new voice brought him to a halt.

"Eragon!"

He turned, slowly. Next to Katrina's chained body, another form had appeared from seemingly nowhere. Tall, the eyes looking sharply out from under the brown hair, and with a shimmering red sword in hand; an appearance Eragon knew only too well.

"Murtagh."

– * –

For a moment neither moved. Then, when Eragon bent over Arya with a scowl to quickly see about her injury, which fortunately didn't seem life-threatening, Murtagh spoke.

"If you want the girl to live at least a few more minutes, leave the elf and come over."

He was holding Katrina's body up by her matted shock of hair with his left hand; his right slowly raising Zar'roc, pressing it against her throat. Wide brown eyes stared at Eragon, crazy with fear; but noticeably lacking any more strength. Katrina didn't struggle, she was too weak; and would Murtagh have let go of her hair, she would have slumped back onto the ground.

Eragon clenched his fists, suddenly feeling acutely aware of all his surroundings: the red sword, in all its beautiful and deadly details. The small depression where it pushed against Katrina's throat. Arya's laboured breaths on his other side. The black-feathered arrow sticking in her chest, heaving up and down, up and down. Murtagh's expression, not gleeful or enraged, but worse – indifferent.

And finally, there was his own feelings of bitter resignation, as he found the ultimate proof that Saphira's suspicions had been right, that they had followed Galbatorix's lead all along, and yet there was nothing they could have done in a different way. They had talked about the possibility of having to fight Murtagh, but never had it included him awaiting them under an invisibility spell with Katrina as his hostage, and Eragon having to face him alone. He admitted it should have. Arya had realised it at the last moment, and ere she could shout a warning, the remaining Ra'zac had taken her out.

This, he now saw it clearly, was last missing piece of Galbatorix's carefully crafted plan, with the aim to separate and thus weaken them, until such a time that he would be the lone threat left … and unable to act at all.

"What do you want?" he asked carefully, trying to hatch a plan. If he just were standing nearer to Katrina … He inched closer, keeping talking in an attempt to distract Murtagh.

"Let Katrina go and let me tend to Arya, and I shall come with you."

Murtagh showed no visible reaction.

"I rather think you overestimate your own importance, brother. Why would I need you anyplace other than here?"

Eragon stared at him.

"Well, if Galbatorix has no interest in me anymore, what is the purpose of this?"

Murtagh fixed him with a flat stare.

"The King has finally decided that your life means more trouble than the potential gain of having you on his side could justify. I agree with him."

His fingers moved, renewing the grip on Zar'roc.

"I told you to make sure we didn't cross paths again, did I not?"

Eragon's mind snapped back to what Murtagh had said on the plateau above the Burning Plains, where they had met last. He narrowed his eyes.

"Didn't you also tell me he had this wonderful vision of bringing back the dragons, for which he needed Saphira?"

Murtagh offered him a lazy smile.

"I didn't say anything about her now, did I?"

Eragon's eyes widened.

"Saphira! What are you –"

"You never should have come here," interrupted Murtagh. "Surely, you had to have known that it was a trap? Did you think the King would miss a Rider, an elf and a dragon flying through the heart of his own realm? If you attack his soldiers? He has his spies everywhere. It was a fool's journey, Eragon, and you a fool for trying to attempt the impossible. Risking the best weapon of the Varden for a simple human girl …"

He shook his head.

"The King was of the opinion you would need another incentive. He did not believe you were going to come. I told him you would. You did the same for the elf."

Eragon felt acutely the sense of betrayal that was welling up inside of him. A foolish notion it might have been, the idea that after all he'd come to expect from Murtagh, he still was but a reluctant servant of the empire; and yet the irrationality of it tempered not the feelings evoked, of Murtagh using pieces of information gained by shared companionship and words spoken in trust to a friend against him – willingly this time, it sounded like, not because Galbatorix had forced him to.

And yet, it was but half of the truth – Eragon had been ready to turn around and walk away, back in the cathedral. Murtagh didn't know him as well as he thought anymore. Have I changed that much in the short time since he and I parted ways?

But Eragon did not even have time to fully ponder the meaning of Murtagh's words, as his brother lifted his sword wide to behead Katrina. It was as though everything was starting to fall apart in front of him.

"Now, watch as she dies. I think that should please him, for once."

"No," Eragon cried. "Wait!" His eyes darted around the cave, from Arya who was not moving, to Katrina's terrified face; he was running out of time, out of time … "Galbatorix has not ordered you to kill Katrina, then?" A faint glimmer of hope sparked in his chest, as he spoke and saw no denying from Murtagh; indeed, saw him pause; and Eragon plunged on. "Why kill her? If you want me, let her go."

Murtagh shrugged.

"Why? She has served her purpose; she was to lure you here, you came. I have no further use for her. I doubt she would enjoy life as a slave in Galbatorix's castle much, anyway."

Behind him, Arya suddenly coughed painfully. The sound cut through Eragon like a knife.

"Please," Eragon said, desperate. "I promised Roran, she is his fiancée, he loves her –"

"Then your promise was broken the moment the words left your mouth," Murtagh said contemptuously. "You really oughtn't be surprised should your word be scoffed at one day; promising do to the impossible has that effect –"

Eragon wasn't listening, having already continued.

"If Galbatorix did not order you to kill her, you don't have to. You can choose not to, I know you can – let her live."

He stared at Murtagh pleadingly. For the first time, he showed emotions, but not the one Eragon had hoped for. A wild cloud of anger settled on his forehead.

"Choices!" he laughed scornfully. "Again, you speak to me of choices. Yet you fail to see, Eragon, that having a choice can be more cruel than anything on earth. Perhaps you need a lesson."

"What –"

"Yes, I rather think you do. Stop there!" he barked. Eragon, who had edged closer all the while, halted in his tracks. A small trickle of blood ran down Katrina's throat, where the sword had nicked the skin.

"Another step and I'll cut her throat."

Eragon clenched his fists in a surge of anger, feeling helpless at the same time; worried and fearful – he wanted nothing better than to attack, but could not, and that was a feeling, he came to realise, that he did not like at all.

"Are you that much of a coward that you would use helpless innocents to threaten others?" he spat.

"Careful brother, I might get offended, and then –"

The sword moved a little along her throat.

Eragon's eyes flashed and he bit his tongue, to keep himself from cursing Murtagh. Something seemed off about him. His brother offered him a sardonic smile.

"There's a good boy."

Then he tilted his head, regarding him.

"Now … you choose."

"What?" His words threw Eragon completely off balance. "I have no patience for stupid games, Murtagh –"

"Oh, but you should." Murtagh's eyes glittered. "That is, if you want the girl to live. Or perhaps – the elf?" He nodded towards Arya. "Your little friend is dying, you know."

Eragon blanched.

"No – why … it's no fatal wound …"

But then, why hadn't she long since tended to the wound herself? But no, it couldn't be –

"You're lying!" he shouted as though the volume could make up for the lack of conviction, because it had to be a lie – had to –

Panic-stricken he stared at the lifeless form of Arya on the far side of the cave. She was still breathing – although – wasn't it irregularly? Weaker than before? Was –

An amused smile tugged at the corner of Murtagh's mouth at this reaction.

"I'm wounded. You would doubt your brother's word?"

"You –"

But Murtagh switched to the Ancient Language, continuing.

"Well, I suppose you could simply take your chances. But luckily, we have an easy way out of this particular dilemma, do we not?"

His eyes started to gleam, and Eragon stepped back involuntarily.

"The arrow was poisoned, you see. It's a rare poison, one only few have the knowledge to make, for the crucial component is magical. Thusly refined, it is impossible to heal for the victim on their own; even for elves. Oh, she will try; she will reduce her heartbeat to slow the progress and remove the poison from her bloodstream, but it's a futile attempt; all she can do is prolong the time before her end.

"Even now, the poison is burning in her body and her blood. It's creeping through her veins, trying to reach her heart, closer and closer with each beat. Once it reaches it, the poison will eat it away from the inside, corrode the muscles, shred the ventricles … until it eventually stops beating."

Eragon wanted to deny, shout that this was untrue, simply because it could not be, but as he looked over to Arya, he saw a glistening sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and the despair in her green eyes, and he knew Murtagh spoke true, even if he wouldn't have been talking in the Ancient Language.

"I know this because I created it. Do you see now the power Galbatorix can offer?"

Fear raced through Eragon, forming a knot of icy despair at the prospect of losing Arya, the likes of which he could only imagine when faced with losing Saphira. He stared at her, wanted to run to her, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that he might lose Arya, but then there was Katrina on the other side, and Murtagh, who held a sword to her throat and grinned.

"Oh, don't look so terrified, Eragon. I know you're fond of her. She does look rather nice, eh? A bit cold and stuck-up if you ask me, but that's a matter of taste, I suppose. And you can yet save her, too! I just said that, did I not? It should be easy with your magical skill. You only have to forfeit the life of this girl. A life for a life, that's all."

"Don't talk like that about her," Eragon ground out. "You don't know anything – you – you –"

He couldn't think. His mind was blank, as if a storm had swept a plain, but slowly, the paralysing despair gave way to anger, and the anger broke free, his voice rising steadily.

"Why? Why are you doing this? This is no game, Murtagh! How can you ask me chose between two lives? Do you even know what –"

"Yes!" roared Murtagh. "I do! That is the point! You cannot make that choice, but I should? Why? See this, Eragon! Get a small taste of what Galbatorix's and your choices are like and choke on it! A small dip covered with the sweet honey of perceived freedom, while in truth it is poisoned like the arrow in your elf's heart, with no favourable outcome on either end, this day, every day! So don't tell me anything about 'choices', when it is you that cannot even comprehend what he's saying!

"I have no choices and I don't want any. I am bound, by my birth and upbringing, by my status and Galbatorix's magic. Nothing I do is done by my own will, and thus I am absolved of all evil. Am I not?"

During the last part, his voice took on an almost pleading tone, but as suddenly as the eruption had come, it was gone by. A detached look settled on his face, as he gazed at Eragon and paused.

"And then, I admit. I am somewhat curious to see whom you will pick. Be grateful for my intrigue; for it offers you the chance to save at least one."

A cocky smirk settled on his lips.

"Really, is this not an interesting experiment? For once, it is you in a quandary; I cannot even begin to describe how satisfying that is. You have come far indeed … the servants and peasants are talking, all over the country. Did you know? They named you a hero. Eragon Shadeslayer, the leader of the Varden, selfless and always just. Bah! As if it were something special to you. Any one idiot would do the same in your place. It is easy to be selfless and just, when you live an untroubled life. Now is the time. Will you indeed sacrifice your friend for an oh-so-noble promise's sake, or will their hero fall – one short moment of weakness when it would have mattered the most … and in the end, the great Eragon Shadeslayer is just as guilty and selfish as we all."

Hate welled up in Eragon, the likes of which he felt before only for the Ra'zac. "Come now," Murtagh taunted. "Quick, brother, take your pick, else time will make the decision, and lose you both and save neither."

He stared at the devil that was his brother and that was making him choose, knowing full well what he was doing and relishing it – that Eragon would get beaten, would he try and use magic against him; that he could attack with his sword, possibly even save Katrina, yet lose enough time in a duel for it to be fatal to Arya; that so, finally, he had no choice but to choose. Yet how could he ever choose one over the other? He remembered the times Katrina had visited, when he'd been younger, when she always had a nice word for him, was always patient and merry.

And how Roran's eyes lit up, every time she entered the room. Much like he felt whenever he spotted Arya ... Arya … Arya – or her ... Brown eyes stared at him, so terrified, brown eyes, wide in fear, looking pleadingly… A cold winter sun, a lifetime ago; two brothers in all but blood walking out of Carvahall, back home … Roran's shoulders straightened slightly. "I want to marry." … Green eyes on his other side, looking stonily out from behind a curtain of black hair, accepting… A night passed waking, with a final realisation …"You love her, don't you?" "…but while I cannot see you as anything more than a friend, you are just as certain nothing less to me …" "Eragon … will you help me? … Now I have only one goal in life, to find and rescue Katrina, if she's not already dead. Will you help me, Eragon?"

A rush of unbidden memories, carrying him away in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Brown or green … his eyes flickered back and forth. Why? Why me? Mission or friend. Sworn oath shattered or happiness forever lost. It never should have gotten to this point.

The hollow seemed ageless, as if it were removed from the world and protected by some magic against the withering breath of time. Around them, the thick pines formed a cave with their branches, hiding Eragon and Arya from the world and muffling the cool, still air.

"Arya, I'll do anything …"

"Hear me well, Eragon. This cannot, nor shall ever be."

And he started to feel a hot-burning resentment at the cruel fate that seemed to prove true her words with such terrible finality. So this was the way it was going to end?

"It isn't fair," he whispered. And again, shouting: "It's not fair!"

His words rang back to him from the cavern's walls, while he stared at Arya, spread out on the ground: her erratically heaving chest, her shallow breathing through the pain. Her hair sticky from the sweat, dirty, with streaks of grime, from a patch of mud she had fallen into. The silent tears on her face, twisted in agony from the horrible poison that burned its way through her body, toward her heart, while she refused to cry out.

She had never seemed more beautiful to him than right then.

He took a few steps towards Katrina, then hesitated again and looked back.

Her eyes widened for a brief moment, but then the look on her face became understanding, and the only emotion left was sadness.

Save Katrina, Eragon, and bring her home if you can.

So accepting. So brave, even in the face of death. Her voice in his head, hauntingly beautiful, the world crying for the passing of one of its favourite creatures, a silver light, enveloped in infinite sadness.

It was an honour to have known you and fight on your side. You gave me a second chance at life when all seemed lost, even if it turned out to be but a few more months. I … saw home again. For that alone, you have my eternal gratitude.

No! Arya, I –

Hush, Eragon.

Eyes closed, for a last time. The small smile on her face, so peaceful, almost happy.

I regret nothing. Keep your promise to your cousin, and save Katrina. And even if you start to doubt yourself, remember that I have faith in you. You will prevail in the end, and I am proud to call the person you are and will become my friend. May the stars watch over you and your quest, Eragon Shadeslayer.

Her voice drifted away like a soft call in the wind. A strangled sob escaped his chest. Katrina stared at him, uncomprehendingly. He looked away.

I can't – I can't do this. Gods help me, I can't.

And Roran's face swam in front of his eyes, clouded with terrible anger and bitter disappointment, and his only thought was that Roran could never know. …rescue Katrina, if she's not … already dead … A coward's lie, tasting like bitter gall in his mouth as he dared not resume that line of thought … and yet it was all swept away from his mind the moment Arya convulsed over at the entrance, and he turned around with a desperate shout and ran towards her. And he prayed for forgiveness he knew would never been given, and hated himself like he had never before when he ignored the hoarse scream of fear and betrayal at his retreating back, ignored the swishing of steel cutting through air, ignored the horrible thud on the ground and the wild laughter that followed.

It all mattered not in the face of Arya dying, who lay there as dead, not breathing; still, so still. And at this moment, would the choice have been about the war, and the price the outcome, Eragon would have forfeited victory to Galbatorix.

His heart beat wildly as he tended to her frantically. She couldn't die. Not ever and not now. Not when he had sacrificed this much, so very much. He quickly extracted the arrow, after having prepared the wound and extended his magic into her body, desperately searching for life.

For a terrible moment it seemed as if it were too late, but it couldn't be – she couldn't be gone –

A gasp. He felt like crying in relief, as she jerked, opening her eyes again, bright and clear. But he felt unable to meet her piercing look, and so he looked away; avoiding her gaze, unfathomable, hard, weighing on him heavily like the entirety of the deep green sea. He couldn't, however, avoid her voice, the one word, whispered, coming down on him like a hammer.

"Why?"

His magic racing through her body, fighting the treacherous poison that was creeping through her veins, inches away from her heart. And the question, so simple, and the answer, so impossible to speak. And he wondered if he was being a coward yet again, when still he never met her eyes, and told her in the Ancient Language: "You are one of the best fighters we have. Your mother is our greatest ally. Choosing you was logical."

Short. True. And never there was a greater lie, or so he felt.

Uh … don't hate me? Please? Or at least tell me so in a review :)

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CJ:

Thanks for the review, and no, Fäolin will stay dead. There'll be enough trouble for Arya and Eragon, I don't need to add even more problems ;) As for Arya being more distant and taciturn, yes, there's something there, and it has (well, of course :P) to do with the dark magic. I'll come back to that, eventually. And yes, their relationship is coming along well, doesn't it? If only Arya wasn't – but ah, no spoilers. That's in the final part.

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And speaking of which, since I'm a quite busy with my end-of-term exams, the last part will be up in two weeks. See you then :)