Chapter 1: Ataraxia

Darkness… choking darkness… black all over… drowning… shadows…

The scent of blood fresh, fresh and crimson… coughing on it…

"Our name is Varaug" said the Shade. "Fear us."

Fear us…

Fear us…

FEAR US!

Eragon's eyes snapped open as he breathed in deeply. His clothes were drenched in sweat, and he was shivering in the cold clamminess that covered his entire body.

Blasted hellspawn, he thought to himself bitterly.

Lying back down on the bed with a sigh, he tried to clear his thoughts. The dark influence that Varaug had left in his mind refused to go away, and lurked in the back of his mind. Only until a few days ago did it start to dissipate. Even so…

Eragon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

It had been a week since the siege of Feinster. The Lady had surrendered, and the elven spell casters were currently struggling to break the vows Galbatorix placed on her. The remaining soldiers and people had grudgingly let the Varden take control over the city, and Nasuada was doing her best to make sure that everything was running smoothly. Overall, it had been successful battle and celebrations were being held everywhere within the Varden camps.

Celebration. Hah! There is nothing to celebrate about. They should be mourning. A darker side of his mind muttered.

"Shut up." Eragon groaned, and he reached for a new set of clothing. The voice continued to whisper.

They should be crying instead of feasting. Wearing black instead of norm. Weeping, for the last rider of old was killed, struck down before the gates of Gil'lead—

Eragon placed a hand to his head and willed the voices to stop. It seemed that the Shade had done more than just give him nightmares.

"Shut up." He growled. Oromis would not want him to mourn over his death. He would want him to fight on, and fight on he would. He had already shed his tears, and not once more would he cry.

Oh, but deep down you want to curl up on your bed, sinking into your misery as you look over the gifts he gave you. So you could act like the little boy you really are.

Eragon tiredly belted Brisingr to his waist and walked out into the cool night air. Soldiers greeted him with excited grins, and raised mugs.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!" They chorused.

The rider smiled and waved at them, and politely turned down their offers to make merry together. He had something more important to do. To think.

Moving through the crowds, he noticed with amusement and exasperation that the rumors of the new "Shadeslaying" were spreading like wildfire. People gathered around fires while they eagerly listened to soldiers who claimed to have seen it with their own eyes, eyes widening with each word. One of the more outrageous versions involved the rider reviving the fallen elven ambassador with a kiss, and then both fighting the demon head on with a mix of sorcery and swordsplay.

Eragon tried not to think of what Arya thought about those particular stories.

"So… what really happened?" said a voice from behind him.

The rider sighed. "Not now, Roran. I've—"

"No, no. I want to hear the story from your own lips. A few days ago, it was that you two fought with him for a full hour before Arya killed him as he succumbed to his weariness. Now, it was that you two finished him off in a heartbeat."

Eragon turned around incredulously. "Finished him off in a heartbeat?! I doubt that even Murtagh could have gotten away alive from that monster!"

"That's why I'm asking you for the truth. Even someone like I gets weary after listening to a Shadekilling so many times."

Eragon let a small smile tug at the corners of his lips. "It was not a fight. We were merely trying to stay alive. 'Tis all."

"Is that so? Then the rumors of the heart-warming kiss after the battle were false as well?"

Blood rushed into his face. "Roran!"

"The men were always speculating." Roran said with a smirk. "The young, handsome rider and the elven ambassador with a heart of ice. The fact that the both of you had killed Shades, one after the other, just served to justify their guesses. And, it didn't displease them that you did those heroic acts together."

"Why, I'd--!"

Roran shook his head in mock sadness. "But for the real truth…" he was sniggering now, "is that the hope of Alagaesia, the pride of the Varden is actually just following the woman around like a pup does with his master!"

Eragon stood there, frozen. Then he started spluttering incoherently.

"Roran, you—I… I don't—"

His cousin laughed all the harder. Eragon tried to remain angry at him, but soon, laughter overtook him as well.

It was almost like being back in Palancar Valley again. The two of them bickering like children while they walked through the fields… tossing insults at each other while they roared with laughter…

Then Roran leaned towards him. "About your masters. Are you still…" he said in a quiet voice.

This question didn't surprise him. Still, Eragon did not know how to respond.

"I…" he began. What should I say? He asked himself.

Roran continued to look at him intently.

"…I don't know myself." He said softly.

Roran placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then it means that you've gone through the worst of it." With that, he grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

Eragon touched the place where Roran had placed his hand. Then he smiled, and continued to walk towards his destination.

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When he was back in Carvahall, one of the things he liked most at night was to lie down under his favorite tree and stare up at the stars. As he did so, he couldn't help but wish wistfully that he were one of them. Shining, shining, so far away… with no worries to speak of.

Picking out a medium sized elm, he sat down and leaned down against it with a contented sigh. It was perfect here, on the outskirts of Feinster. No one ever came here.

How long had it been since Carvahall? Two, three years? He couldn't tell. These flights and journeys throughout Alagaesia had long since addled his sense of time. It seemed so very long ago…

Garrow, Brom, Ajihad, Hrothgar, Oromis, Gleadr… so many have died. So many that he cared for, gone into that dark abyss…

There was no sorrow in his thoughts. More like a hollowness that couldn't be filled. What was he fighting for? What were they fighting for, the people who had died in this bloody war?

Justice? Revenge? For their own lives?

What did he fight for?

First, it was for revenge against the Ra'zac. That had been completed, and ever since he joined the Varden that had never been his priority.

Then, what was it?

"Because no one else can?" he muttered to himself. Plucking up a long stalk of grass, he started to wrap it slowly around his finger.

No, that wasn't right. He fought for a different reason.

A drop of water landed on the back of his hand. But he ignored it.

Not for glory, of that he was sure. For those he loved? Definitely, but probably not the main reason.

As long as he remembered, Garrow had told him to do what he thought was right, to have no regrets. The act of doing what one thought was correct… it was a more serious thing than most people knew, he had said.

Was it that what propelled him forward, to meet his destiny with an unwavering determination?

It was pouring now, but Eragon barely noticed it, too caught up in his thoughts. Drops of rain came through the spaces between the leaves, soon drenching him with water.

Doing what was right… was it?

Soon, he drifted off into the sweet softness of dreamless sleep. He did not notice the arms of the person carrying back, nor the fact that she was as wet as he was.

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Brisingr. After I read it, you guys know what my first thought was?

Hmm. A pretty nice fanfic. Could use a bit of advice though. I'll leave a revie—

Then…

Holy mother of god! This is canon?

(╯--)╯ ╧══╧

Yeah… and for some reason Shades have become awfully easy to kill. If a rider and an elf like Arya together could kill a Shade in a few minutes, then Shadeslayers are grossly overrated.

Please review!