He watched her as she laid in the meadow. Beautiful, bright wildflowers bloomed around her in a sea of petals, the woman herself lounging on a bed of grass with a smile that made his heart melt. She caught his gaze, warm loving green meeting passionate brown. Her face crinkled into a smile, her tinkling laughter was music to his ears, it was intoxicating, the woman before him. Everything about her made his love stronger and greater than ever before. She beckoned to him with a finger, her face set in a teasing smile as she looked at him with pure love in her eyes.

He slowly walked to her, pushing past the sea of wildflowers in his haste, trampling through the ocean of grass in his eagerness to reach her. He laid down besides her, he on his side as he gazed at her in wonder. How had he been so lucky as to catch her eye? This goddess turned mortal? How had he managed to capture her heart?

He loved her so much… their hearts were not two, but one. A single heart beating at the same pace and tempo. A single soul shared between two lovers, love pouring out of them like floodwater. He loved her with all his being, as she loved him with her own.

He ran a calloused hand through her hair, the sun made it shine like beaten copper but it felt as soft as silk under his touch. She raised her hand to his cheek, her thumb caressing the bristles of his beard.

"I love you," he whispered suddenly, as though afraid he would never be able too again.

She smiled at him, "I love you too." She whispered back.

He held her in his arms, her soft curves melding into his hardened muscles like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. She smiled as she looked up at him, and he had to wonder, was there anything more perfect than the woman he held in his arms?

No, there wasn't.

His hand trailed down to her back, softly caressing the pale skin with surprising tenderness, before his hand found itself at her stomach. His heart jolted and beat wildly as he looked at the growing bump on his love's stomach, a physical reminder of their love. Their child growing within her.

"I feel so safe," she sighed into his arms, watching him as he softly stroked her growing stomach. "My family is safe here."

He smiled at that, though it was a wistful smile. He could feel his child -his child!- kick at his touch. "He has the kick of a mule," he stated offhandedly, his face pressed against her hair. She smelled of wildflowers, pine and of home. How he wished to lay there for all of eternity, safe from his enemies and with his love and their unborn child.

"Oh?" the woman raised a brow at that, "And what makes you think our child will be a boy?"

The man smiled at her lovingly with a hint of smugness, "Call it a father's instinct." He boasted proudly with a hint of smugness.

She looked smug as well, delighted at their game. "Well seeing as I am the one carrying this baby, I believe that a mother's instinct is greater than a father's. I think she will be born a girl."

He didn't look disappointed, if anything he looked even happier. She saw his eyes glaze over slightly, lost in thought. "Mmm… a little girl with your hair… and my eyes…" he wondered at that, seeing the child so clearly. "A little girl who gets her fierceness from her mother, a dragon in human form that is just terrifying," he laughed as she smacked him teasingly. "And my stubbornness too," he thought with a shudder, he shifted down until his head rested softly against the swell of his love's womb, "I'm sorry little one," he whispered as he listed to the kicks as joy swelled within his heart.

She kissed his temple, her lips as light as a butterfly's wings. "She or he will be perfect." She assured him, voice soft as she thought of the child waiting to be born to a loving father and mother. "Perhaps it will be a boy, with your face and my hair… and your father's eyes."

He tensed at that, sadness and sorrow overcoming him as he thought of his father long cold in the ground. Father… he thought to himself solemnly, I hope I've made you proud. If only you could have lived to see your grandchild born. But alas, life is cruel to those who are kind.

"I love you," he whispered to her again, his lips meeting hers. He pulled away and placed his forehead against her own, "I love you." He whispered, intoxicated by her eyes, by her everything.

She leaned her forehead against his, smiling warmly at him with eyes sparkling like gemstones. "I love you," she whispered to him.

The man had never felt so content and happy in his entire life, all he needed was the woman in his arms, the woman who was carrying his child. His beautiful wife. What mattered of the war that encircled them like hungry crows when he could be here, with her?

He suddenly heard her gasp in terror, her hands flying to her mouth as she stared at something behind them. He leapt to his feet as he spun around, his weapon in hand that had appeared from nowhere, he stared in shock.

Men surrounded them, dead men. Some of them were riddled with arrows, some missing limbs, some with gaping wounds that still bled and some with their heads smashed like a crushed robin's egg. They were all similar in one aspect, aside from their gruesome demises, and that was that they wore the armor of the Imperial Army.

"You…" the single word was whispered from a dozen mouths, a truly ghoulish sound that made the man tense like a cornered rabbit, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "Killer… Murderer… Monster…"

He gasped in pain at that, falling to his knees as though the weight of the world had been pressed upon him. The men surrounded him, their dead glazed eyes staring at him from beyond the Void, soulless eyes that stared into him with freezing clarity.

"I'm… not a murderer," the man gasped out, face contorted in sheer agony.

The faces of the men he himself had slain stared at him with those soulless eyes. "Vengeance…" the word was whispered by all. One of them stepped forward. He recognized him immediately, though his own hand had smashed half of his face. He had been a soldier at Carvahall… he had been his first kill. The dead man held a sword that had been shattered, the broken blade rusted.

Another man stepped forward, bruised skin a decaying grey. Eyes vacant as fogged glass.

The man could have been twenty five, but his hair was as white as an elders'. He held a poleax in his hands. Blood still poured from the gapping hole in his throat, just barely under his chin. The watchman from Narda, his eighth kill and the one that haunted him the most.

"I had a family. A wife whom I loved, children whom I held dear… you took me from them…" The watchman whispered out, his words rough and barely coherent as blood spluttered and sprayed from his wound in shower of crimson as he spoke.

"I… didn't mean too… You knew who I was… I had to, to protect those that I held dear!" He protested weakly, drawn to the fatal wound he had inflicted when the man had uttered his name so long ago.

"Roran…"

Roran Garrowson turned around to stare at Katrina, only she wasn't there anymore. In her place stood the watchman, who had somehow appeared behind him in the blink of an eye. The watchman stared at him with those blank eyes, his dead gaze burning into him with the fury of dragon fire.

He held his hammer tightly in his hand, sweat on his palms made it hard to hold but he managed. "Vengeance!" The watchmen yelled suddenly as he raced forward, the poleaxe aimed towards Roran's heart. The dead man was on him in the blink of an eye, Roran barely having time to dodge the swipe that would have cleaved his head off of his shoulders.

With practiced ease, Roran swung his mighty hammer and watched as the man's helm and skull cracked like a dropped robin's egg, blood and bone spraying and splattering in a bloody shower of gore.

But as the watchmen fell to the ground, blood spilling from him in massive surges that it sickened the former farmer, the man's form suddenly seemed to shudder and shift. Hair as white as silk slowly faded into brilliant copper, tanned skin fading into pale skin, the facial features –those that weren't horribly maimed- shifted and changed, becoming smaller and narrower, turning into a face he recognized instantly.

"No!" The scream that came from Roran Stronghammer was a cry that would have shattered hearts had others heard it. A scream of pure agony and horror, the sound of a man breaking and crumbling unto himself, a soul being torn and ripped asunder.

"No, no, no, NO!" Roran screamed and screamed until his voice grew hoarse, and even then he continued his mantra. "No! Gods why!?" he wept bitterly as he held Katrina's cooling body, hands bloodied as he held her against his chest. She was barely recognizable, her face had been caved in by his hammer. "No, please, Katrina… Katrina…" She did not stir at his words, would never stir again. He had killed her.

Katrina was dead.

He had killed her.

He shook and howled, agony in his tone as he continued to curse the heavens and hells that had cursed him. The men he had slain had disappeared, leaving him alone in a meadow whose wildflowers and grasses were wet and stained with blood.

"Katrina..." he sobbed into her neck, tears sliding down his cheeks to meet with the blood that trailed down her neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Her eyes stared up at him, bright and sharp eyes that had once burned with love dulled like fogged mirrors, that spark of life gone forever, snuffed out by his own hand. She was so cold. Why, why was she so cold when she used to be so warm?

He had killed her.

He smashed her head in with no hesitation, no remorse.

He was a killer.

A murderer.

A monster.

Katrina was dead. Killed by his own hand, like the men who had haunted him before, like the watchman from Narda.

He sobbed against her, his hand placed against the swell of her stomach. Realization hit him like a charging Kull ram, he hadn't just ended Katrina's life, he had ended another. He had snuffed out the life that had never been born; he had killed his wife and their unborn child.

He sobbed against her cooling form, pitiful gulps of air taken as he tried to breathe but found himself unable too.

"Roran!"

He jerked his head up at the sound, eyes squinting at the harsh sunlight. That voice, that beautiful, angelic voice. Katrina's voice that spoke to him from beyond the Void.

"Roran!"

Gods, was she now haunting him like the soldiers? He couldn't bear the thought of seeing her ghostly apparition with those he had slain in battle, perhaps with a babe in her arms. He wouldn't bear the sight, he would rather die and be with Katrina, if she forgave him for killing her and their unborn son or daughter. He couldn't live without Katrina. He wouldn't manage a day without her in his life. Katrina was his heart and soul, if she were to be taken by the Void; Roran would follow her in a heartbeat.

"Leave me be!" He screamed to the heavens, pulling his hair as the blood dried on his face, making him feel as though it were a mask.

"RORAN!"

He jerked awake, breathing heavily as he gasped for air. He turned his head around, not recognizing where he was. He wasn't in the meadow, he was in a room. It took him several wild seconds to realize he was in his room, he glanced to his side.

Katrina was wide awake, her hand clasped over Roran's arm, she looked positively terrified for him. He must look terrible, eyes bloodshot, heart stammering, and a face so tortured it made her gasp. "Roran?" she asked softly, raising a hand to his cheek. Roran jerked away from her soft touch as though burned.

"K-Katrina?" He whispered to her, his voice full of hope that the meadow had been all but a terrible nightmare. He enveloped her in a hug, all but crushing his wife as he held her, tears of joy and relief streaming down his cheeks and into his beard. "Oh thank the gods, you're alive!" He cried into her shoulder, kissing everything he could reach.

Katrina looked at him, utterly confused for a moment but then realization struck her. Her eyes turned watery as she spoke softly, "You were having another nightmare, weren't you?"

Roran stayed quiet, though he knew it was foolish. Katrina was too smart to not know that something was wrong; she cared too much about him to not notice.

She sighed into him, looking weary and far older than she truly was. She always looked like that, Roran realized, ever since she had returned from her cruel imprisonment by the Ra'zac, she had been colder to people, as though trying to hide away the torture that she had undergone. Only when she was with Roran or one of the Carvahall villagers, such as Gertrude or Birgit, did she truly smile. "I wish we knew where Angela was, I'm sure that she knows some potion or concoction to help you sleep."

Eragon's cousin and cousin-in-law had met the strange herbalist when she had, quite literally, barged into their tent muttering something about toads and frogs, never minding the fact that Roran and Katrina had no idea of who she was. Roran had grabbed his hammer, thinking her an assassin come to kill them. Angela just stared at him and muttered something under his breath, and suddenly Roran blacked out, having an extremely bizarre dream about toads in the process.

When he had awoken from his forced slumber, he had found Angela happily chatting with Katrina, who was softly smiling at what she said. The sole reason Roran had forgiven the odd woman for breaking into their tent and knocking him unconscious was because she made Katrina smile, the first outsider to do so since she had arrived to Aroughs.

Angela had then introduced herself, happily telling them about how she had known Roran's bull-headed cousin, Eragon, and then randomly asked if they would like their fortune told.

They had declined, but Angela didn't seem to be insulted, if anything she smiled ever more.

That encounter had slowly enveloped into what Roran would call an extremely weird and bizarre relationship with Angela the herbalist, if one could even call it that. She mostly discussed, with complete and utter seriousness as though it were life and death, toads and frogs and how they were actually the same species. She had also been rather gentle with Katrina, which was surprising because nothing about Angela could be said as 'sensitive', and had helped console her over her imprisonment by the Ra'zac.

He however hadn't seen the witch for several weeks, nor had he seen her silent shadow. Elva.

Just the thought of the cursed child sent shivers down his neck, the next time he saw his cousin he was going to yell at him for cursing, though most likely by accident, an innocent child and turning her into some odd pain empath who felt the suffering of others. She was only a child, but had felt greater pain than those decades her senior.

"Would you like me to fetch Gertrude, Roran?" Katrina asked him softly.

Roran shook his head, "No. I am fine, let the old woman rest." He refused the idea of help, for he seriously doubted that a sleeping potion would help him with his vivid nightmares filled with terror.

"What did you dream about, Roran?" His wife asked him softly, looking at him with such worry it made his heart twang at the sight.

"I don't want to trouble you with my burdens," he whispered to her. She had already suffered enough because of him, the Ra'zac had captured her because they knew he loved her and would do anything to get her back and would try to enlist his cousin, their original prey, in helping him. It hadn't necessarily happened as the monsters had planned, as Eragon had fought them by himself without Roran ever truly asking for help.

"Roran, I am your wife, your burdens are mine to carry as mine are yours," Katrina said stubbornly, a glint in her eye that warned him that it would heartily foolish to disagree with her. "What did you dream of?"

"I..."Flashes of the men he had killed swarmed his mind, their vacant eyes staring deep into his soul, their thirst for vengeance upon their killer. The guardsman from Narda… how he had killed the love of his life, Katrina. "I dreamed of them again… the men I've killed. They haunt me."

No bard has ever sung of a hero's guilt, no storyteller ever told the story of how the valiant warrior awakens from his slumber screaming as men long dead kill him in some twisted form vengeance. Am I the only one who must go through such heart wrenching agony? Am I the only one who is haunted by those long since faded into the Void? Am I truly a warrior, or am I craven? I was born to be a farmer, not a killer, but yet here I am with my hands stained with the blood of others.

"How can I ever hope to return to Palancar Valley and live in peace when my soul is stained black with the blood of hundreds, Katrina?"

Katrina kissed his brow tenderly and placed her forehead against Roran's own, she stared at him with determination burning in her eyes. Strong green eyes stared into confused brown, "Roran… Your soul has not blackened like rot, it is still as pure as freshly fallen snow."

Roran looked away from her, too ashamed to look his wife in the eye. "You are wrong Katrina, my soul has begun to rot, and it isn't pure. It never truly was."

"Roran… why do you kill?" Katrina asked him softly, cupping his cheek with her hands to force him to look at her. "Why do you fight, Roran?"

"I kill for love…" Roran shut his eyes tight, Katrina's hand caressing his cheek. "I kill for you… I kill for Eragon… I kill for the villagers, Horst, Baldor, Birgit, Fisk, Gedric, Gertrude, Morn, Nolfaverell, and all the others… I kill so we may all live to see another day, even if I must make sure others cannot as well."

"Is that what a normal man would fight for, Roran? No. Some men fight for glory, as though taking another's life is well worth the price for boasting rights at the tavern. Some men fight for coin, men who have no true loyalty except to themselves. Some men are just dark men; they fight because they wish to kill. You are not those men Roran, you just said so yourself. You fight for love. You fight for me. You fight for your brother, Eragon. You fight for your people, the people of Carvahall." Katrina said softly, pressing her lips against his temple.

Roran sighed at her touch, leaning into her neck as he inhaled her heavenly scent. He twirled her copper hair in his calloused fingers, "What would I ever do without you?" he all but whispered to her.

She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling like gemstones. "You'd probably do something stupid, like believing that your soul was stained."

He laughed at that, chuckling softly into her.

"Go back to sleep Roran," Katrina whispered to him. By the gods she looked so beautiful in the darkness that it made his heart twang, as he knew that she was his and he was hers.

"Alright…" Roran said as he slowly laid back down on their shared cot, wrapping his strong arms around Katrina's slender form. I would never hurt her, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes, his hand straying to her swollen stomach. And I would never hurt you, little one.

Roran slowly felt sleep overcome him, but now instead of nightmares that plagued him, only sweet dreams welcomed him as he held Katrina and their unborn child in his arms, safe from the world that wished them dead.