Here it is finally. After many nights of working and polishing, Evermore has it's update! Many thanks to S.P. Martin. You did get it to flow right. I can't really thank you enough. Maybe all I really needed was a fresh mind to take a look at it...and I got a good one at that... Anyways, I will also be updating my answer page in the next few days. So if you have anything you are dying to ask, now's the time. That or you'll have to wait till I'm crazy enough to update it again on a computer that loves to freeze up...Hopefully the next chapter will come much faster. As you can imagine, when something like that actually happens, I can usually write faster and I want to right more...

So with out further adue...


In the early morning, a solitary figure tossed around, unable to sleep in the light of the white skies predawn brings. He had never felt more tired, but could not sleep, tossing all night in his bed with worry. Fighting to close his puffy, vein-streaked eyes only made him more tired, but the more he tried, the more awake he became. Finally relenting, he got up to the grim light of the morning. The dawn was dead, without so much as a single birdsong to lift the spirits.

In the last few days, he had never felt so alone. Though a Rider he was, he had not really felt much like one. His dragon was no more than a wild beast, her mind muddled and broken. No one he spoke to could substitute for her; any conversations he held felt dry and empty without her constant commentary.

He could not stop thinking about her –no one could get close enough to her to determine what was wrong. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, as if she were some random animal. Her thoughts had even begun to spread to him, trying to turn him wild like she had become. He reluctantly had to hide from her, avoiding her mind and cutting her out completely.

Still, he could feel the angry reverberations her mind had left as she desperately searched for a way out of her cramped cell. Though she was asleep now, she, with her powerful fire and diamond-strength claws, had left imprints all over the palace, painful reminders of her rampaging furry. He had to sleep in his cousin's quarters, even, since his old ones had been the main site of the attack.

He got up, watching his sleeping cousin. The older boy snored loudly, not stirring a bit as Eragon slung on his clothes. Though Roran could sleep through anything, he still moved to the exit quietly. Due to her wounds, Aiedail's dragon stayed in his room, though not by choice. He knew if the hatchling even began to suspect he was leaving, he would instantly try to battle his way out to go see his Rider. Eragon sat at the door a moment, contemplating waking Roran, but with a baby on the way and a wedding to plan, his cousin had enough to occupy his mind.

He waited too long. In the corner of the room, he heard a small yawn. Instantly he opened the door, trying to leave before the tiny terror was upon him, but he was too slow. Half way out the door, it was upon him. The hatchling smashed into his leg, trying to push him away from the door.

"Not this time, little one." he said, reaching down his hand to push the baby away. The hatchling growled fiercely in response. As soon as his hand was within striking distance, the hatchling slashed at it, clipping his small finger and drawing blood. The hatchling then continued with his attempts at pushing Eragon away, head butting his limb while growling and snarling in a diminutive, evidently young, volume.

"Gah!" he yelled, shaking his hand and hissing an oath. He held his wound up to examine it. A drop of blood had gathered around a long scratch. He frowned, and then whispered towards the still belligerent hatchling, "Siesiot." Instantly, the baby collapsed where he stood.

This was the fifth time he had to use magic to calm the hatchling. The young little lizard just did not get the situation and was quick to react, but rash in reasoning. He'd seen Aiedail once, and when Eragon came to collect him, three grown, competent soldiers couldn't rip him away from his torso. Finally, Eragon managed to rip him away, in the process forever ruining a fine tunic that now lay in some forgotten corner with four long gashes torn in its fabric. Nevertheless, the whole way back to the room, the hatchling had struggled so badly, Eragon eventually had to put him to sleep. Using so much magic on the hatchling was dangerous, but according to Angela, it was more so to leave him with her.

Eragon picked the hatchling up, marveling at his growth. He had gotten larger than Saphira had in the short period he'd been out of his shell. Already as big as a large dog, if his growth rate continued rapidly, he would soon pass even the largest of horses. Plus, the hatchling had rapidly started growing thick, sturdy muscles that corded his limbs, chest, neck, and underbelly. If every male was like him, it was no wonder Thorn had been nearly as big as Saphira the first time the two belligerents met. Heck, the hatchling already weighed a quarter of what Eragon weighed. If he kept on like this, soon he would become difficult, and then impossible, to carry.

He laid the hatchling on his bed. "Sorry," he whispered. "She's not ready..." He found it truly cruel, separating the two. The first weeks were crucial for bonding, though Eragon wasn't sure how much more bonded the hatchling could get. He was worse than Saphira...

Saphira...

He left without sparing another moment, knowing the spell he had used was but temporary and had less effect on those with magical abilities, especially dragons.

Shutting the door silently, he breathed a sigh of relief. The halls were barren at this hour, so no one had seen the dragon fighting. It was bad enough, having half the palace whispering that there was something ghastly happening with the Varden's only hope –he did not need them knowing that the last rider was found, or that she was the one who was wounded. Nevertheless, with no one there, it only added to the deep-rooted, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. It only got worse as he went, slowly nearing his room. It was hard not to see the wild lines of black streaking the floor, the crumpled tiles, or the indentations on the floor. At the very least, though, the blood had been cleaned up and the worst of the damage hidden behind a newly installed door.

He quickly slipped passed the sight, not wanting to take any of it in or pause to gawk for a second. The charred and broken halls haunted him still until he was out of sight of them, memories of the time he had to battle his own dragon resurfacing and threatening to pull him down horrifically into the darker portions of his own mind.

Taking a turn around the next bend, he neared his destination. Freshly made of thick stone, the tower stood out easily against the alabaster sky. Two small windows about midway from each other illuminated the path, one facing the sea and the other overseeing the road. The tower itself was made of smoky black rock. At its top was a special lift run by magic, the sole constituent of a means to get down to the lookout pad overlooking the massive sapphire dragon held there at current. It was inconvenient at times, but it kept nosy nobles and the prying eyes of the unimportant out of the way. From the top of the shaft, normal eyes could see nothing of the dragon below.

The men and Eragon had tried three other methods before to contain the dragon; each doomed to end in disaster if not for the quick work of magicians. Each new idea took away from their accessibility, but kept her under control longer. Eventually, they came up with the current idea, and she had yet to escape.

He raced up the stairs, his Elvin endurance making eliminating the necessity of pausing for breath as he scaled the four hundred stairs to the top. This was the safest place, though the tower itself was carefully enchanted, each stone enforced more carefully than the finest armor.

From the top of the tower, he looked down past thick crystal glass and sturdy iron bars to the stone-lined bottom. As the first marvelous, unexpected streak of gold and pink erupted across the sky, his sharp eyes caught the glistening sapphire hide of his dragon, her body in a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Each deep breath she took soothed his nerves. She looked normal in these moments, as if nothing had ever happened to her. He stepped onto the elevator, willing it to move with a single word. In his eagerness, his descent was swift, rattling the board below him. There was only so far it would go, of course. Each inch closer to her, the risk became worse and worse, even if it felt safer than any place he could be at that moment. He reached a small, stone platform, about thirty feet above her, and stepped off the lift.

There sat a weary magician, watching her as a final safeguard against her fury. His tired gray-blue eyes seemed to come back to life from exhaustion as they saw Eragon. "Argetlam," he said, a deep relief in his voice as he bowed his head.

"I'm here to relive you of your post," he said with as much authority he could muster.

"But don't you have more you are supposed to be doing right now?" the man asked wearily, evidently clinging to his assignment more than his health.

"I am no help to anyone right now. I can only think about her." He replied, watching her lovingly. The man put up no more argument there, and moved towards the lift with a nod in farewell. As Eragon sat in his chair, the man tiredly made the elevator start. Suddenly, about halfway up, the board broke with an audible crack and dropped towards the ground below. The man above stopped it at the last second, less than a foot above the stone platform. The little board quivered for a moment in the air as the deprived magician caught his breath. Then he began to rise once more, slowly and steadily. At last, he was out of sight.

Eragon saw none of it. His eyes remained fixed on the dragon below. He longed to sneak passed the tinted crystal, through the iron bars to the underground prison she slept in, to feel her warmth again and be with her.

And yet, it was unsafe at this moment. To do such a thing would put both him and, because of their bond, her at risk. He would have to suppress his wants for now, pained though it made him.

He looked through the small window facing the ocean. A crisp breeze echoed through the chamber as the sun began to come up. It rose steadily, changing the predawn colors with those of the regular days as it rose beyond its horizon. Birds began to sing in a sudden, spontaneous chorus, serenading the dawn.

The world went on with its daily activities, though he felt he could not. The birds still sang their songs. The waves still crashed on the shore. Yet, as he looked down at her, it all felt like it should not be this beautiful –not without her. He had spent every day with her for the longest time. Now, she could not even speak to him, even if she wanted to. It was as if he no longer retained the position of being a rider.

Suddenly, he heard a low growl. Below, Saphira tried to stand up, her legs shaking slightly with the effort after the fights. Though her body seemed fragile as a newborn's, the glare she sent his way once she noticed his presence was all too powerful. The hate behind her blue eyes belied what he had known for so long by her side...

Crude chains, each with bare hints of rust, pinned her wings down. Her legs and tail had the same fate, shackled like a mere prisoner. For the safety of the men, the chains had been tightened so that they completely restricted all movement, squeezing the scales underneath to the point where a few had fallen out in some spots. The only maneuverable part of her body was her long neck, though it too had a collar. The men had put a cushion beneath her, none of them knowing how long she would be down there, but she had torn it up with her teeth and sent it to the corner of the cell.

He reached out with his mind, sending her cooling thoughts before terminating the link to prevent her from entering his mind as he gathered her meal. It contained within it a drug which would calm her, keeping her from hurting herself. He murmured a spell as she bombarded his mental defenses, hissing with pent rage at her rider. The meal lowered down to her, passing through the safeguards as if it was a ghost. When it reached the bottom, he dispelled the enchantment. She eagerly ate, devouring each bite ravenously, messily tarnishing her scaled lips and face with blood. When she finished, her long neck reached over to a large watering trough, guzzling down gallons of water. Finally, she rested her head back down, the drug taking effect. Placidly, she yawned.

He watched as she lay there. The drug would keep her temper down and prevent her from breathing fire. It just felt wrong though, leaving her so defenseless, even though otherwise, she might well hurt herself and a few hundred people. And yet, as he observed her, he noticed how the chains, the water trough, and her once again sleeping form looked so much like a freeborn animal cruelly imprisoned for doing naught more than existing.

Time passed strangely, sometimes quickly, as lapsed into thought; when he only stared, Eragon barely knew whether he had been down there an hour or a year. Everything but the sun's position remained constant, its slow movement the only evidence that he want merely standing there for an endless moment.

Everything felt so repetitive that when something else finally happened, Eragon was not sure whether it was real or his mind making things up. It was a soft noise, distantly familiar. Could it be a bird's wings? No, the sound was louder than that. A mouse in the rafters, perhaps? No, further than that. His body could pinpoint the noise coming from a great distance. It was all so familiar, as if its identity was right on the tip of his tongue, yet couldn't be further away.

It grew louder. He then realized it was some sort of footfalls. And there were a lot of them, some louder, stranger than others. He look out the window, hoping to pinpoint its source. Across from him, a terrible sight met his eyes.

A mass of people shuffled by, the members big and small, strong and weak, young and elderly. Maybe twenty people, thirty at most, in all made up the procession. They all had their heads down in defeat, a distinctive lack of radiance or reprieve on their faces. Deep purple bruises spread across their faces, blackening their bloodshot eyes. Many displayed crude bandages covering injuries, some still raw, leaving a red trail wherever they stepped.

Most were in stained rags of clothing, barely wearing enough cloth to cover their skin. Some were limping, hobbling along as the procession grew steadily closer. Nevertheless, for the uneven beat of their feet and the hooves of their horses, they carried on their grim march in a sad silence. Mothers carried their silent babies close to their breasts. Children walked aimlessly along, some alone but all in quiet. Many were leading distraught-looking mules and horses, which carried the dead and dying. Disease and infection had left their spirits low, and a few of them were rot-green in several patches of their skin. He could feel a great sense of relief coming from the crowd as they eyed Aberon.

The group moved with ghastly meaning, leaving a haunting presence to those who spotted them by chance as they drew closer. They continually march along, at a slow, constant pace. As he watched, they made their way to the gate at Aberon. The guards opened the doors to let them in wordlessly, and they spilled out onto the street, moving toward the palace. In the great roads, Eragon sometimes lost sight of them as he followed their slow, shambling progress, but they would always appear along the next bend, keeping with their haunting march. People cleared out of their way like a hot knife clearing its way through butter, cleaving away from them with the same ease a rider would get from them.

Soon they were upon the palace. The doors opened without questioning. They entered. Soon after, the group vanished, invisible from the great tower Eragon sat in. The sight sent a cold chill running down his spine.

Suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the silence. "Refugees." it said. Eragon had not even to look up to know who it was.

"Arya Svit-kona." he said softly. "Refugees?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Mostly from villages in the North. They're the lucky ones. Many villages near that area have been wiped out completely... Galbatorix has been tearing apart cities, looking for something."

"Looking for... what?" Arya shrugged in answer.

"No one knows..." she paused, looking down at Saphira. Eragon stared at his dragon, wishing he could hear her talk to him. Only she could soothe him. "Eragon, there's... something else."

He looked into her eyes. "What?"

"The refugees... I spoke to one yesterday... He says one person did this... alone." She did not need to go any further.

"Can it be true?" He asked her.

"I think so... Elva herself foretold he had... and he's in pain..."

"About what he's done?" She nodded. "Elva never said anything about him before the refugees, did she?" Arya was silent for a long time before answering.

"She said she could always feel him, a pulsing pain centre, constantly tugging at her. Now it is worse. He is in the greatest pain of nearly anyone in the Empire right now..."

"And he wasn't in that much pain during the Burning Plains."

"Eragon, don't make this about you. He is your brother! Do you not care about him, or his feelings?"

Eragon paused, closing his eyes tightly. Images of their last meeting pulsed through his brain. "It's not that I don't care. I wish I did, but I just can't let it go. I can't forgive him for what he's done."

"You will someday..." Arya murmured. "He is your family."

They both sat together, watching the waves rolling in, occasionally glancing down towards Saphira below. There was a peace between them Eragon had not felt in a long time.

"Can I talk to you about something?" They both said at the same moment. Eragon gave a nervous laugh. "You go first."

"About the other night..." Arya started. "Eragon, I've been meaning to apologize. I just..."

"No," he interrupted her. "I'm the one who needs to apologize." He paused. "I started it. Nothing would have happened otherwise. I... just don't know what to think, who to trust..." He looked down at Saphira, wishing he could have the warmth of her encouragement again.

She shook her head. "No, I have resisted you before. It is not your fault. The other day, I could have shaken it off before you had even thought of it. It's just that... the other day... it was..." her voice caught. For a moment, she was silent. "Years ago, yesterday, it was the first day... the day Faolin first told me..."

Eragon looked her hard. Her whole normally emotionless face was red, stained with streaks where tears had run down her cheeks. He had never seen her cry, but she obviously had. He had not been sure elves even could cry... Why had he not he noticed before now? Had she been crying while she had been there, the whole time?

"I just... I don't know. I really miss him, you know?" She mumbled.

He felt a massive pang of pity for the elf. She had been through something... something he had been through a long time ago. The only difference was that her wounds were still fresh... It just made him feel guiltier, knowing what she had been through and having shunned her for her behavior. It had taken him five years to get over her...

"I... I do." he frowned, memories surging through his mind.

They were both silent for a moment, too caught up in their own thoughts to speak. Finally, Arya spoke. "Nasuada told me she needed you before I came down here... I'll look after Saphira..."

"Thank you, Arya..." He smiled. "For everything..." He turned to the lift. For a second, he looked down, giving Saphira one last, pleading look. "Please get better. I can't do this without you..." he whispered softly.

Without another word or glance backwards, he climbed onto the elevator.

As Eragon moved through the halls, he passed a few nobles. Each bowed respectfully, but there was a different air about them –one Eragon had not felt there since the Varden had just moved in.

Fear. Pure, raw fear.

Even the small attack was capable of bringing it out in them. He stood tall, hoping to give the illusion that he himself was not afraid. Moreover, it worked. They all straightened up, their faces instilled with a new boldness.

Yet, as Eragon continued, he could hear someone coming. Their breath was elevated, moments erratic. He turned to see a young boy rounding the corner. His face was smeared with dirt, his clothes tattered and worn. Some of the seams in his tunic were coming unraveled, and he had to hold his pants to
keep them up. As he passed Eragon, his nose caught the stench of his unwashed body. But the boy's footing betrayed him, a small patch of slippery flooring sending him to the floor with a crash.

Almost by instinct, Eragon grabbed his collar. The boy's momentum ripped his shirt further and threatened to send both of them toppling to the floor, but Eragon held his feet firmly down. The boy's body bounced back up; Eragon used his other arm to steady him.

"You should be more careful..." he said gently. The boy shook his head, not even looking at Eragon.

"Let me go..." he said, pulling away, but Eragon's vice-like grip kept him still. "You have no right to hold me! I have to go..." he was silent suddenly as he eyed Eragon's face.

"Shur' tugal?" He blinked. Eragon smiled warmly, nodding. "I need to speak with you, please! There's not much time..."

Eragon's smile faded. "Yes, but not here. Come with me." The boy nodded. Eragon lead the boy away, up the stairs, all the way to his cousin's room. He was just about to knock when a dreary Roran stepped out. He smiled groggily at Eragon, letting him and the boy in without question.

He only said, "I'll be back later. I'm going to have breakfast with Katrina." Eragon nodded at his cousin.

As the door shut, Eragon explained, "My room is... under construction. This'll have to do for now..."

"An attack's coming." he said.

"Too late," Eragon answered. "One already came."

"No, bigger. Half the men in every village from here to the top of the Spine are leaving because of a draft. My own village was destroyed in an attempt to convince our men to join. Others suffered the same fate... my father..." he choked up.

Eragon turned away. An attack? Now? What would happen? Half the country was on its way to them? Surda may be a great fortress, but it could never repel that many! A sick feeling welled up in his stomach. Maybe if they had time to bring their allies in... But the dwarves were still arguing over their next leader, and many clans were repelling at every turn. They'd try to make a decision, but without a leader, different clans found strength in them to speak up. Nothing had changed and their people were failing. And the elves had promised their help in the next battle, but there was no way they could get organized on such short notice, much less cross the country, even through the back way! The people of Surda numbered far too little to do a thing to save themselves; their men would be slaughtered and their women taken for slaves within a day. He shook in shock. They would have to leave. They were too weak, too small in numbers here.

"There's more." Eragon looked back. "There are rumors... Galbatorix himself is coming..." This sent all his hair to stand up. Two riders? There was no way. Saphira would probably be able to fight; the only problem was she would probably end up killing just as many men of the Varden as she would the Empire. It would be better to keep her where she was. He could still fight, but without her, he wouldn't stand a chance against the two riders. And Aiedail was out, her injuries still bad. Even if she were healed, she was an untrained rider with a dragon who, while he could take on three soldiers alone, had only recently hatched. Also, if any of the other dragons caught him, the hope having another rider brought would be gone. Katrina's pregnancy would keep Roran out almost surely. Everything was in pieces. Galbatorix had picked the worst time. Worst only for themselves...

"How long?"

"They hit Surda in a week." He answered. Eragon swallowed, a massive lump in his throat as a sudden, sinister thought came into his head.

Saphira might have to stay behind...