An hour a day for writing has to be my best idea in the last 5 months! This chap might be a tad lighter than the ones before it; I am really happy right now: had a really good fight/bout, for me anyway, can't talk for the other guy. That said I am quite tired right now so expect some mistakes (I didn't proof read this, I would appreciate it if you guys could). I am, again, trying to cut back on the imagery and poetic phrasing.

Hope you enjoy.

Strapped in tight, snug as a sheathed sword, Eragon could do little to combat the buffeting wind and was forced to endure its torment, hoping Saphira's escapade would not expand further; she had been uncharacteristically reserved following Eragon's encounter with Death, whether in deep thought or denial, was lost to Eragon; instead he humoured her, his brush with his own mortality had instilled a deep reverence for others privacy, reinforced as it already was by Oromis's late missives and his intriguing relationship with Arya. One could perhaps tempt fate, but he could not influence its decisions, neither could he hope to break its lure; the philosophy was a simple one and now encompassed any and everything Eragon partook in: whether love or war.

We can pick the game, but we cannot change the rules.

Saphira's tilted acrobatics temporarily severed his train of thought: bubbles of exhilaration tore from his stomach and forced him to tighten his strangle hold on the mottled, glistening sea of scales at his face, each duplicating the perfect wave brought on by winters awing clutch. The weightlessness was short-lived; Saphira balanced on the tip of one diaphanous wing, tenderly kissing the precious air, and then turned upright, causing the unique thrill of airborne acrobatics to fade like a child's memory. An insatiable greed for air compelled Eragon to gulp down, with heaving effort. Another memory presented itself to him: one of Saphira grimly circling him, agitation marking her limbs; each step a small earthquake upon the soft dilapidated soil; Eragon winced as he relived the death of a patrol of unfortunate ants, who, in their simplistic nature, had drew too close to Saphira's descending, cumbersome, feet. He swallowed before the imminent conversation and then immersed himself in the tidal flow of memories, each passing by with glaring speed.

(Flashback Starts)

"Eragon," she said, deceivingly innocent, her large eyes humming with inordinate intensity.

"Yes?" suddenly wary, thieving through their recent conversations for any cause for offence.

Saphira's low rumbling laughter sounded at his caution, it was well placed, "Do you remember who I am?"

"Off Course; what are you implying?" Eragon asked, confused at her question.

She lowered her head until they were eye level; some mysterious emotion roared across her ocular; Eragon watched, transfixed at the colour of her emotions. Others could not understand there bond, it went beyond mere intimacy; even death feared the separation, unwilling to concur their wrath. Scales shimmered has light travelled gracefully over them, murmuring of their magnificence. She stood: frozen.

"Why then do we not take advantage of this momentary peace and fly you and I?"

Eragon's eyes widened in incredulous disbelief; a brief chortle erupted and blanketed the small glade. Saphira's eyes hardened: two breathing diamonds.

Raising his hands to placate her, Eragon fought to control his amusement, "Saphira," a gasp interrupted him as his sobs of joy continued their spree, "Saphira... is that really what has been troubling you? All you had to do was ask," sobering, Eragon turned to her with impeaching eyes, willing her to understand his, never dying, love for her, "I have wished to share a flight with you for some time now," he whispered, compassion leaking from his mouth; it was the truth, he could never lie to her.

Drawing back Saphira had spread her wings, letting a childish excitement run rampant over their link.

"Come."

(Flashback Over)

And that was how Eragon found himself pressed against her hard back, thousands of feet in the air, hanging like two celestial bodies from the heavens. They had needed this; the peace and constant bond provided only this high in the sky. Eragon sighed and let himself break. What may or may not have been his drifted through his mind: Durza's maroon, glinting, eyes, the shadows of death, the raspy threats, Arya's face as she rejected him, Saphira as she rebuilt him, misery poured through his soul as he reminisced on Carvahall and his life before tales of old and elves took hold of his future.

Perhaps when this is all over Carvahall... can be restored.

He would like that, if not for him than at least for those who had suffered on his account. His thoughts sailing over the sea of emotions, coming to rest on his recent duel with Arya; he smiled pride coming to wake.

(Flashback Starts)

It was the moving shadows upon the leaf crowded ground that had first alerted him of the incoming blow; he bent, like a sycamore dancing in the melodious wind; a sharp, precise blast of air signified the passing elven blade, missing his throat by mere inches. Startled emerald orbs replaced the sword before them, raging forward Eragon made to crash her to the ground, but it was not to be: her nimble footwork allowed her to elude the charging bull.

"Faster!" she demanded.

Eragon had discovered the contrasting method of teaching from his previous teacher early in their 'lessons'. Arya was impatient, a vice condoned by her people, but also thorough: she processed every shade of Eragon's style, even had him surrender certain habits such as allowing his free arm to dangle by his side. "It is an obvious weakness," she had explained, disapproval clear in her voice at any flaw Eragon displayed. Arrogance was also present, not as strong as Vanir's but there nonetheless; her inherent intolerance was barely acceptable, quick to annoy, even quicker to anger: she reacted violently to any slight she suspected Eragon of and would proceed to effortlessly defeat his blade, many times humiliating him at the same time. Yet despite her subterfuge, her care for Eragon was evident, she made no secret of it, even mentioned it from time to time; not passion but care, not what he desired but what he required. Her friendship was now prominent and Eragon felt her offer held more to it than what one first thought: it was an apology, and forgiveness.

Eragon nearly lost his grip on Brisingr with her next flurry; her strength and speed astounding him again, reaching deep inside him Eragon loosed a savage sweep, the air around Brisingr buzzing with excited energy... it was blocked. However it took a force of will and Eragon watched, amazed, as a lone drop of sweat emerged, its salty sting lost in the silk of hair, another soon followed the first. She was tiring.

Yet their battle continued for what felt like an eternity, unleashing his frustration with each swipe, denying his need with each blocked. They moved in and out of contact as if they were two mad spirits performing a sensuous dance, rehearsed not improvised. Two crowned fates colliding.

It was glorious.

But nothing lasted.

Arya parried a sharp thrust and, with a terse snap of her arm, flung Brisingr from Eragon's grip. Eragon collapsed, exhaustion setting in; but what surprised him was Arya's state: she was panting! Her chest expanding as she took redeeming breaths.

"Arya...?" he asked, slightly worried.

"Well fought Shadeslayer," she said, "I believe there might have been some effort on my part this time," she concluded.

Eragon had frowned at her words: searching for hidden meanings. Only for her twinkling eyes to admit her sincerity.

He laughed.

(Flashback Over)

Eragon found himself smiling; Saphira's own emotions mirroring his.

She let loose a short, intense flame: incinerating the air foolish enough to face her.

A roar marked her territory.

There job done. Review please, tell me what clicks and doesn't. M&T pov soon, thanks to Restrained Freedom's help.