Sorry about the delay. Exams are starting and it's a pain. I've been reading some MxA fics (mainly the Midnight Masque, but also Diamond cut Diamond) and the whole concept is growing on me, I don't like it that much, but it is interesting. But I think to Eragon MxA would be the last straw. Lol. Murtagh would become his vision of the devil. Lol. I added a new character here. His main purpose is to portray what I think; in this chapter he makes fun of Arya for me. Don't worry, he is a minor character. This chapter feels rough and well... as if it was written by a three year old, I hope it isn't too bad. Read and Review. Please point out any mistakes.

It isn't about how hard you can hit, but how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, that's how winning is done! – I like very much.

Belatona was drawing ever closer, the airy dread Eragon had first associated with loss now erupted as if sensing death and destruction. With the approaching ramparts came an end to Saphira's confusion, the same fire of living ignited within her and each day brought a lighter mood; yet, as if to balance the scales, Arya withdrew further and further, she was hardly ever seen and her foothold upon the world seemed to give way to an ethereal existence, the normally tawny skin binding her adopted a ghostly paleness that frightened Eragon: death seemed to be making true its claims.

And then there was Murtagh... he had been seen, balancing upon the tip of the sunset, his form frail against the giddy lights of the sky; Thorn had swallowed the glitter of the stars, causing him to grow to the eye: a blazing red fireball, announcing his defiance to the elves and their friends. The pair had not approached any closer, preferring to gaze knowingly from their raised pedestals... preferring to mount Eragon's troubles with added burdens. It soon became the norm, the traitors would appear to grace the same quilt of night and day, seeking someone, something; many questioned Galbatorix's motives, yet the only conclusion sought was one of added wariness and security, or as Islanzadi had described it.

"Unfortunate."

Eragon had smiled through the days as he recalled the simple but accurate description of current events. However extended bouts of happiness were a forbidden desire and worldly worries were quick to evaporate the blasphemous pool of content, like poisons, inking their path through the once pure water, choking and throttling the innocence that remained. Eragon could feel the fractures rippling through the rebel forces: Nasuada and Islanzadi drew into suspicious circles, neither trusting the other, made worse by the fact that they resorted to pushing their thoughts onto those around them.

It was in these troubled time that Eragon was acquainted to the only other human amongst the elves: Anith. It had been a pleasant surprise to discover one of his one kind within the mysterious society of the elves, whose verbal trickery and shallow emotions would soon drive any man to insanity. Their friendship had started at a tentative step, with both holding doubts of the other; on Eragon's part it consisted of questions of history and future.

"About me?" Anith had exclaimed at Eragon's piqued curiosity. A tight, razor edge came to glint from the corner of his left eye: rabid and hungry. His hand followed suit, tensing slowly upon the pommel of the plain, somewhat tarnished, sword at his waist.

"Well yes, what the hell are you doing in with these annoyingly polite elves," Eragon asked, ignoring Anith's reactions, he kept his voice low in fear of passing warriors; but a trace of word in winters wind is all the elves needed.

Anith, clearly bothered at the sudden interest placed on him, was slow to reply, thinking over each word as a cook does a meal.

"Well there isn't much to tell; I was born twenty some years ago in the tiny human settlement of Dardish, doubt many have heard of it, it was near enough to Osilon," the past tense summoned a grim foreboding within Eragon, he could taste where this tale was headed, "Around my third year the village was attacked..."

"Urgals," Eragon stated darkly.

To his shock, Anith shook his head at him, "Not Urgals... spirits... scores of them; I was told later that they blotted out the sun in their numbers," he halted, a light frown appeared, "I was lucky... I guess... the only survivor."

"How...?" Eragon implored, a sickly fascination dawning.

"An elf: Ranithan and a few of his kin found me amongst the debris, they rescued me and Ranithan took me into his care, named me after his family. It was so strange growing amongst the elves, there was only one other child and he was better than me at everything because of his enhanced prowess," he stopped to laugh before continuing, "Once got into a fight with him, got him with a good one to begin with... ended up with a broken jaw and nose; the kid was real nice to me afterwards. The elves taught me their histories, their magic and their ways of war and now here I am, fighting a man of the shadows. Never thought I would meet the famed rider... ha."

The conclusion of the tale found both Eragon and Anith sitting side by side, in quiet meditation, gazing wistfully to the enigmatic canvas of the heavens; a shooting star lit their view with exaggerated wonder, glaring across mans vision in a godly light show, burning its image on the back of their retinas. Another question announced itself to Eragon.

"Are you married?"

Sighing, the man looked to his clasped hands, "I'm not a virgin if you're asking that... had quite a few flings with more than one elf maiden... nothing serious... I sometimes regret it. But no, never married; I was brought up by elves, somewhat rougher in my behaviour but marriage is still a strange custom... and you? Are you married?"

Eragon turned away with pain rolling though his heart. Images of Arya filled his head. Sharing was such a gift.

"No... Have you heard of Arya?"

Sitting upright, with a glint of interest in his eyes, Anith said, "The princess," before Eragon could intervene, he added, "Isn't she just so egotistic? Bloody woman, give me five minutes and a bed and I'll soon mend her ways," he let out a short barking laugh, that burned through Eragon, filling him with a deep, uncontrollable rage, "How many men do you suppose she's bedding?"

Standing abruptly, Eragon turned a fierce scowl onto the man sitting at his feet. The depth of his anger amazed him, yet the truth of the man's words was undiminished. His anger only soared.

Was she already with a man? Was she hiding the truth from him? Arya wouldn't do that... would she?

Their last encounter forced its way to reminisce. The look in her eyes. The silence.

"I believe you hold the princess in too low a regard," he said loudly, before turning to leave.

The low whisper of words stopped him dead, cold words sheered against his defences, "Or perhaps you hold her in too high of a regard."

Hope you enjoyed.