This chapters a bit early; I'm supposed to be "revising" (how I loathe the word) but I thought "fuck that" and here I am. Death rears his head again and we delve into the murky depths of Eragon's character. I was reading "The Shining" a few days back - by Stephen King - and it is a great read. Oh and here's a scene on my mind; it is to do with ExA and if they ever have a kid (in IC). Here is what I mean, their daughter was just born:

Arya lay with her back to the bed, holding their daughter, tenderly in her hands. Eragon watched contently from the bedside chair.

"She's beautiful," Arya states to no one in particular.

Eragon, switching his gaze from mother to daughter, gave a small grin before replying, "Well of course she is, just like me."

Arya snorts softly.

"You hear that little (insert daughters name here) you're beautiful just like you father."

End scene. Yeah I know very roughly written, but I just thought it up on the spot. Now if CP makes Eragon say that in an Inheritance prologue than Eragon will redeem himself as a man to me. Anyway hope you enjoy the chapter. Please review and tell me the pros and the cons. Thanks

Swords locked and scraped with bitter sweet trepidation as man faced the demonic din of battle once again. Above it all the pregnant clouds of fate poured their souls, capturing the slick of war with each tear drop, each an ended tale, each an inflamed desire, taking wing with kindled arrows, biting through the haven that was told to be found in tiny ringlets of burnished steel; charred and molested forms lay writhing upon deaths floor, precious pearls of blood percolating from their broken bodies and nonexistent souls. Comprehension came with silent heartbeats as Eragon trod - delusional - over the crippled howls of a small child; Belatona's spires hung, aloof, two cobwebs of stars, blind to the torment at their steeples. Confused, Eragon staggered to a halt amongst the continuous accosting of cessation occurring between elf and man. Images, not his own, shone though the multitude of voices at attendance: disappearing scenery, as Saphira raged across the battlefield, a tempest of solidified hatred, heavy grunts of flames devoured men and tailored claws snipped at the cords of vivacity; it was such an enlightening image, so true, so raw... so distracting, so, so distracting... a mirage of hardened scales and darkened eyes inaugurated beneath open eye lids.

"Set me free."

It whispered and it was a temptation of gold and silver, a symphony of lies, yet a symphony nonetheless, nebulous and beautiful. Eragon could feel his will slipping, a delightful strand of burdens lifting. The cursed gems of pain unravelling under the comforting voice of the other; he could see it, the light and it glowered with accepting embraces, stripping away worry, the duty, leaving him naked, safe, encapsulated in a cocoon of rapture. Temptation was ever a vice.

"I can assist, I can be the end, give me your trust."

He was close now, he sensed the shifting of power, oh so slow, oh so glorious... oh so slow. It finally immersed: the truth. It embedded into his flesh bringing not hurt but irritating logic, obnoxious reality. He panicked.

"Saphira... What am I doing?"

He tore and screamed at the chains, pushed his entity onto the fiend, painting it with despondent flourishes, quick and strong, he strained against the beast, each striving for mastery of an empty vessel. Effort was never enough... not when one faced the infinite sovereignty of a true immortal being. Inch by acrid inch he felt his wretched sanity lurching, tipped over a chasm of hellish despair.

"No... No... No..."

Fate had not favoured her hand yet. It appointed a saviour, a whistling blow to his shoulder, the instant flow of pain, the blatant crack of whimpering bone, the sharp clarity of intruding splinters and the oiled taste of spiked steel. Eyes wide open; magic streaming from his eyes, Eragon surged to substantive life as the steel retreated; he felt death ebbing away, its desire prolonged; leaving peace... peace...

It was a miracle when the mace intended for his cranium was blocked by an elegant, elven rapier, its forgery a testimony to patience; it was a miracle when functionality returned to Eragon with the casual renovation of his shoulder, a miracle when Brisingr cleaved a diabolical sting through the Empires ranks. A miracle he was even alive. But miracles were never thorough enough for the mortal mans standard and as Eragon resumed his dutiful fray the standard was declining; the hints of war metal sparked a ferocious intensity within Eragon, weaving and cleaving over the massed incarnation of humanity, all lead to the slaughter; combating unnatural strength and speed matched with a inhumane air of detachment. The synonymous screeches of dismembered men soon detained other senses, as they lay quivering in the cold mud, their entrails erupting like gluttonous worms surrounded by soups of blood. Wrenching his head to the side, Eragon methodically dispatched another battalion of men, denting their thick plates with viscous precision as Brisingr cavorted from victim to victim. All in the name of control, in the name, in the hope of repressing his own demons. What a coward he was. When the centuries epics noted his deeds, they wouldn't relive the terror he delivered, or the blood he spilt, they wouldn't mention the evil that coursed through him, how it controlled him, how he revelled in the death and the misery. No. For he was ever the mocked saint, supposedly pure of any corruption an angel sent from the gods, not a black hearted scoundrel, for there were enough of them.

"But they are all wrong. I am as much a monstrosity as those we war with."

The omnipotent swing of a barbaric axe wielded by a brute of a man passed harmlessly over his head, as he leaned back, swaying in the punishing humidity of battle, cries for help stilling tongues; straightening, Eragon proceeded to dig his sword into the man's skull, pushing through delicate tendrils of flesh: the soldier stiffened and his mouth fell open in a wordless howl as he fell to his knees, withdrawing Brisingr with a wet, low, sound Eragon turned the brain ridden blade onto the next hapless man of the Empire, ready to progress the ensanguined portrait, eager to escape his guilt through the oppressing heat of conflict, the torn present, where right was wrong and wrong was right. Destruction was simple. The aftermath was for the gods to know.

Eager as he was Eragon was not foolish; he knew who awaited them at the keep and as he tore apart all who stood to witness his finesse, he thought out the confrontation to come: it would come to swords, of that he was sure; even the conclusion of the confrontation was near assured... the substance was an enigma... the blind hand of seers was turned and fate was unlikely to intervene a second time. It was one thing to kill dearly sweet men, but the foe he perceived was no easy challenge to be overcome at Eragon's leisure. Defeat, even at these odds was an all too likely perception.

"Oh well, fortune favours the bold."

Raising a hollow roar Eragon dove into the den of death. His aims clear, his sword sharp.

"They are all wrong. Wrong."

So how was it? Point out any mistakes.