Again sorry for the late update. I've decided to continue. Before this chapter begins I have two things to say. One: I have cut down on the poetry and prose and hope it is easier to understand now. Secondly: I would like to ask for the forgiveness of Eragon and Roran fans. You shall see... I hope you enjoy and please point out any errors.
Eragon was panting with the effort of breaching another magically reinforced door, with its complex web of patterned wood that, like its peers, served only to further frustrate Eragon's exuberant physical state and mental balance. He had left Saphira - due to her bulk - and his irksome elven plethora of guards far behind, much to their darkened scowls and stinging words. Which, truthfully, had only served to alienate them from Eragon's thoughts and strained patience. Mastering his stray wisps of thought, Eragon focused his torrential attention onto the opposing door across the dilapidated antechamber. Reason dictated it to be the last of its kind: supplemented by the steel supports and the deep bronze branding off the royal insignia that clasped the prestigious door like a benevolent leech. Time hurried its wings and Eragon, burdened by the burden of its demands strolled, awkwardly, towards the remaining barrier. Each step a whirlwind of cacophony outliving the thick silence that curved the smooth recesses and exalted ceiling. His heart set a hammering expectation. Rushing to fulfil a lifetime of labour.
He knew.
He knew what awaited him; he understood the least of his worries.
It can only worsen.
He was perhaps halfway across the shadowed alcove when death halted his steps: releasing a snap of loathed memories... hated encounters... dreadful deeds... malevolent stains on his image... innocent murder.
Stop... please.
His fists clenched, perhaps thinking they could frighten the past with half-hearted threats of violence.
Violence... violence... violence.
Convulsing at the torturous truth, Eragon tore is protected avenue to the present, to find himself confronted with the cracked and soiled invention of the floor. Drawing dragging breaths, Eragon discovered his purpose and, with a shake of his head, continued on his way to the encounter with his demons. The door was still the same... his mentality... he wasn't sure anymore.
The door was unlocked, surprisingly so. It seemed to be expecting a visitor. It was heavy too; covered in a fine sheet of dust that recorded his dancing fingertips as they caressed the harsh surface in their quest to open. The creak of dead wood over cold, grated, iron produced an ear splitting symphony, playing on the despondent cords of battle. It resonated clearly and strongly, through Eragon's range of emotions and lit raging fires that seemed to hinder his limbs with their melting strength.
First glances uncovered little but the natural blanket of oppressing dark, then, as if by magic, three murky forms began to materialise; Eragon's sweat coated hand tightened around Brisingr's polished pommel, a lone tear drop of sweat slipped over the hilt and dripped to the floor with a emphasised thud. His insecurities and fears chambered within its infinite purity. Murtagh came into focus first; his face set in grim lines, un-armoured (is that even a phrase?).Zar'roc held glinting in his left hand, poised to deliver death and injury, yet no show of aggression was forth coming. The second man stood somewhat behind Murtagh: he was tall, with well groomed features and a full head of silky black hair, each cropping out like spindly legs, he wore hypnotizing black robes, with gold threaded sewing; his face was ageless, not a crease or wrinkle blemishing his outlook, eyes of liquid blue shone with knowledge and curiosity as they beheld Eragon; no inherent cruelty showed, instead the man supported an aura of utmost calm and... and perhaps misery. This was Galbatorix. Eragon knew. How he knew was still a mystery. The hate he had nurtured seemed to fall into a coma of infeasible depth. Behind him stood the last man: with hunched shoulders and long, dirty hair, he struck a striking image, worlds apart from the other two. That was when he looked up.
The world seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl, as Eragon recoiled in horror. This man was broken, broken and tired, his eyes had aged many a years, but Eragon recognized him in an instant.
"No..." he murmured, more to himself than another; weak legs gave in beneath him and he collapsed onto the unforgiving floor; his head ringing with pain.
"No..."
He was supposed to be dead. Dead. Yet he was alive... he was breathing... Roran was alive. Alive and in the hands of the enemy.
Galbatorix was quick to cut through Eragon's denial, he spoke in a quiet voice, frank and true.
"I see you two are already acquainted; I have waited long for this day Shadeslayer, though I had hoped we might meet under friendlier terms. It is an honour rider," he gave a small bow, whether mocking or not was lost on Eragon. He had eyes only for his cousin.
"How...?"
Eager to resume his monologue, Galbatorix answered, "That is of little consequence; Roran here is on a very important visit, to carry through a very important play."
Roran stepped forward as to mark the end of Galbatorix's words; he slowly drew his famed hammer, its rough surface displaying deadly intention, before speaking crisp, clear words.
"Fight me Eragon."
He charged.
Perhaps it was luck, perhaps instinct that allowed Eragon to stand and raise Brisingr, before the blur of muscle and steel caved in his skull. Roran was relentless in his attack, roaring and swinging with untamed anger, each strike attempting to kill. But he was no elf. Eragon blocked and dodged every push and each successful defiance brought an inferno of rage to the surface, bubbling and howling. Perhaps it was death, perhaps it wasn't. The outcome was the same either way.
Roran lay gasping, in a pool of his own precious blood, Brisingr embedded, deep into his chest, its jewelled elegance unable to hide the depravity of the situation. Everything pure and righteous died within Eragon, his vision glazed over as his ever naive conscious tried to incorporate a different end. As his numb memories fought to expel the intrusion of new information. From the fringes of his sight Eragon caught half spoke words coming from the king.
"Amazing, look, look Murtagh."
He cared not. The world tipped into hells cauldron.
Roran whispered tiny and gasping words to himself, "Katrina... our child..."
The light vanished. Listless eyes rolled, hitting the back of Roran's head.
He was dead.
So, what did you think? Can you please forget the way Galby talked to Oromis in Brisingr? You know the stereotypical villain. I feel as if Cp ruined Galby there and I have taken some liberties with him.