The first thing Eragon noticed was the pain.

His first conscious thought was of Saphira.

His eyelids, which felt so heavy, slowly opened to reveal that he was in a dark room that had no windows and the only source of light was a single wicker candle that barely spread its warmth and light through the inky darkness.

Saphira? Eragon called out weakly into his mind; there was no answer. He felt no connection, no bond. Just his own thoughts; the thoughts of Saphira were nowhere to be heard or felt. It was just the emptiness of his own mind with only his own thoughts. It was as though he was back in Gilead, where he had been given, unwillingly, medicines that had clouded his mind from Saphira's bond and his bond with magic. His head was clear, which meant that he hadn't been given any of the medications, but his head was empty save for his own thoughts.

The silence unnerved him.

Eragon winced as he felt the faint yet prominent throbs around his wrists, his shoulders were aching, and a quick glance up was all he needed to know to evaluate the situation.

His arms were chained to the cracked and gloomy stone wall, but the links of metal didn't seem like normal iron or steel; instead the chains gleamed as black as obsidian, so dark that even the color managed to clash against the softer darkness that surrounded him. Faint glimmers sparkled in the odd metal from the faint candlelight; the harsh twinkling glints of purple hurt his eyes.

Eragon was in a cell.

Eragon felt his heart thunder inside his chest, his palms shivering as he realized the gravity of the situation. Be calm, Eragon thought frantically. Remember what Oromis-elda said to calm down the mind and body. Breathe. In and out. He could not panic. Not here, not now. To panic would result in his death. He breathed in shaky breaths, his heart still racing as he tried to not focus on the terrifying realization of his vulnerability. He breathed.

Once his heartbeat calmed and his nerves lessened, Eragon took note of the situation. He had been captured, that had been painfully obvious. The dull throbs of his leg and torso still burned but at a lesser pain, he shifted and he felt that someone had wrapped bandages around his wounds. At least the ones responsible had given note to his bleeding form, but probably didn't deem it important enough to heal him with magic. Though it seemed that they didn't heal him fully was to keep him weak and wounded so that he couldn't escape, but still left him very much alive.

Eragon glanced around and saw nothing but that lone candle, barely shedding any light, but his enhanced elven-like eyes could faintly see through the inky darkness. Bile rose to his throat when he glanced down and saw dried blood all over the floor.

"You're awake."

Eragon jolted at the soft voice spoken through the darkness of the cell, the chains wrapped around his arms and feet clanked and clanged. He searched for the source of the voice, it sounded as though it had come from near his right side, too close.

"Who… Who are you?" Eragon rasped out, his throat and mouth as parched as the Hadarac Desert and felt like sandpaper. He could feel the coolness of blood trickling down his palms and his arms, forming little rivulets that streamed down his body like bloodied worms. The sudden jerky movements had cut his already tender flesh against the rough manacles that kept him chained to the wall.

"A friend, I guess you could say." The voice said again, the voice was soft but deep, signifying that Eragon's cellmate was male. But the fact that this stranger was in his cell did little to calm down the Rider and rebel, for all he knew the voice belonged to his soon to be killer.

The shadows shifted ever so slightly as a figure become apparent against the soft candlelight. Eragon's eyes widened when he realized how young the other inhabitant was.

He couldn't have been much older than Eragon or Ronan, barely a man in human standards. Hair the color of ink clung to the man's head and hung limply to the prisoner's shoulders, the grease from no bathing shining in the candlelight. He was pale, at least as far as Eragon could tell from the bright flame. Whoever this man was, he had been here for a long time. The boy had once been muscular, not as broad as Ronan or his cousin but more of a leaner build like Eragon himself. But what had once been muscle had been eaten away as the man had slowly been starved in this dark cell, he was unhealthily skinny and looked like he could slip through the cell bars easily.

"You've stopped bleeding," the man continued, his back was to Eragon and was instead looking at the lone little orange flame that flickered lightly on the wick. Eragon wished he could see the man's face, to see his eyes. Eragon could tell what type a person a man was by looking into his eyes, no amount of magic was needed when one had the perception and judgment of Eragon. "When they brought you here, you were bleeding everywhere. I had to use some of my tunic to stop the flow of blood, I was afraid I had lost you until you started to breathe again. That's always good," he said softly, still fixated on the candle. "Breathing that is; not the bleeding."

Oh, so the dried blood splattered on the floor was his own.

How comforting.

At least this stranger had stopped the blood, and Eragon didn't have to fear bleeding out in this damn cell, but Eragon was still wary of this stranger. Eragon had learned long ago to not trust people so blindly, he knew from experience.

"How long…" Eragon stopped talking as coughs wracked his body, which had started to warm to uncomfortable levels. Which meant only one thing: fever.

"I'd say a couple of hours," Eragon saw the man shrug, sending twisted shadows across the cell. "It's hard to tell the time here. The only way I know is when the guard changes." The man chuckled but there was no humor, only bitter irony. "Oh yes, they make sure we're under guard at all times. Wouldn't want us to up and escape before the big ceremony."

Eragon didn't know why, but the way the man coldly said 'ceremony' sent icy chills crawling down his spine, sending the hairs on the back of his neck to bristle. "Ceremony?"

"Ahhh, right." The other prisoner drawled the words out slow and long. "You don't know who these people are. They're going to kill us. That's the ceremony."

The chill spread to Eragon's gut and heart. "W-What?" He couldn't help but choke out. He had assumed that he would live, after all Galbatorix was still rather short on Riders and seeing as Saphira was the last female that had given them the ironic command to not kill them. It would be simply awful if Galbatorix's dreams of a new era of Riders were to be crushed because of an accidental slash of the throat or a knife to the heart, Eragon thought with a morbid sense of humor.

"Well more like mutilate us and then sacrifice us," the stranger said casually as though talking about the weather. "There's a reason why they've paired us up in this little cell, Rider."

"Will you shut up?" Another voice mumbled out, somewhat muffled. Eragon whipped his head in the direction of the new voice, alarmed at the newcomer he had neither seen nor sensed.

The one who had spoken first seemed to realize Eragon's alarm, despite not facing him. "Relax, Rider. That's just Olyvar. He's a fellow prisoner and sacrifice."

"The two titles I am most proud of," Olyvar said snidely from the darkness. "I'm tired, so if you could kindly be quiet that would be great." Eragon heard the sound of chains rustling and the sound of something moving across stone; Olyvar must have shifted around, trying to fall asleep.

Eragon narrowed his eyes and struggled with his chains and manacles, trying to use his great elven strength to shatter them like brittle parchment. But his strength failed him. The unnamed stranger cocked his head as he listened to Eragon's struggles with his chains. "It won't work." The man said bluntly, he himself didn't have any chains. Eragon wondered why.

"What are these?" Eragon asked as he continued to pull at the manacles, ignoring the pain of the manacles cutting into his tender flesh. Eragon swore several curses, both in Common Tongue and the dwarven language, when nothing happened, "Brazul! They won't break."

"Chains are made to do that." The unnamed stranger said dryly.

Eragon heard a snort come from Olyvar's general direction.

Eragon glared at the back of the young man's head. "And why don't you have chains?" He asked bitterly, seeing as at least the odd stranger had the freedom to stand up or sit down comfortably without cold metal digging into his flesh.

"I don't need chains to be held here." The man said softly, but there was a hint of sadness laced within his soft tone. "Those chains have been embalmed with a special crystal; it sucks out energy, both physical and magical. Haven't you noticed that you can't hear your dragon or summon magic? That's how they captured you, wasn't it? They don't just use those crystals for containing; they use them to capture enemies. Nonbelievers."

"I have chains as well, so you're not the only special one, Rider." Olyvar said from the darkness, voice dry and sarcastic.

Eragon's head spun at the previous words of the unnamed stranger. A crystal that can pierce through my wards like nothing? I wouldn't have believed it had I not been confronted with such crystals. Brazul, those arrows must have been made up of those crystals that he's talking about… I'm an idiot. I let my guard down, I got cocky, and now I've paid the price.

"Nonbelievers?" Eragon asked after several minutes of tense silence. "What do you mean by that?"

"Those who do not believe nor follow the 'True Way'," Olyvar laughed at that, but it was still hard and bitter. "In Dras Leona, no matter if you are a traveler or a resident. You follow one religion in this awful, corrupt city. And if not… well here we are." He gestured around the dreary and dark cell with a wave of his hand.

"That priest speaking to the crowd…." Eragon's mouth turned dry as he remembered the crippled priest who had looked at him with eyes of hatred and loathing. Eyes that spoke of murder and damnation. Eyes that promised pain and sorrow to those who fell under his gaze and looked back with a defiant glare.

"Ah, yes. You've figured out a piece of this interesting puzzle. But tell me, oh great and mighty Rider. Who are these priests and why did they go after you? Normally religions try to stay out of the war between the rebels and Empire, even this damned cult. But why you?" It was Olyvar who spoke.

Eragon glared at the men submerged in the darkness, whose back was still to him. "And why are you here, strangers?" He rebuked hotly.

Somehow Eragon could tell both men were smirking. The unnamed man spoke, "Oh I'm not some crazed maniac murderer I assure you. As for our current keepers… well I can't say the same for them." He chuckled again and leaned back on the palms of his pale hands. "They are quite insane." He sniggered, his form shaking as laughter over took him. Eragon grew uneasy as he watched the man laugh.

The boy's laughter soon stopped however and he said somewhat sadly, almost mournfully "Sorry if you think I'm insane. It's just that, that, well I've been in here for awhile."

Eragon felt pity for the boy in front of him, despite the circumstances the man before him had probably saved his life. "Were there others, before me?"

The other prisoner didn't say anything for a couple of moments and when Eragon thought he wouldn't the boy slowly nodded his head. "Aye, there were a few besides myself and Olyvar: my brother including."

"I'm sorry." Eragon said softly, he did not ask of their fates. He already knew. And the stranger knew that too.

"He was ten, my brother. But that didn't stop those fanatics from mutilating his body day after day as part of their ceremonies. I remember… each day he would leave and he would come back missing a piece of his body. Some days it was just a couple fingers, the next a hand. The next a foot and soon enough the legs followed." The man said, his voice distant but pained as he thought of the fate of his brother. With each word Eragon grew sicker and sicker, until he thought he was about to vomit the bile that was creeping up his throat.

Galbatorix… how could you allow this to happen? Eragon thought bitterly to the King of the Empire, these are your people and yet you… you…

Eragon thought of the slaves that were sold daily, the poor and crippled that lined the streets at the entrance of the city, the children that were whipped for stealing bread for their families, losing a finger in the process so all would know of their crimes, crimes that were committed because there was no food for those of low birth, while the rich and highborn dined on fine fare, with coins in their pockets and slaves to do their every whim. This city, Eragon thought vehemently, deserves to burn.

Dras Leona was not like the other major cities Eragon had visited, it was nothing like Farthen Dûr, where those different from one another lived together in peace and prosperity. It was not Ellesméra, the capitol of the Elven Kingdom, where those of high birth and low birth were of equal standing; even their monarchy was fair as it was not inherited but instead the wisest of the elves, be they male or female, were chosen to lead the elven people. Instead, Dras Leona was a pit of human treachery. It was a dark city, a rotting corpse of human civilization.

It was a cesspool of humanity's dark nature, and Eragon had fallen to it.

"He was barely a human being by the time the gods took pity on my little brother and sent him a fever that he couldn't recover from. It was for the best, but I was still left alone in this cell with no one else as more followed his fate." The stranger spoke, his hands clenched into shaking fists that blotted out some of the candlelight. "Now we're the only ones left, because we're special." He spat out the words like it was covered in Seithr Oil. "We are given the great honor of being killed alongside the one who slew the priests' gods!"

"What?" Eragon asked in confusion; he certainly remembered never killing any gods. Eragon already had enough people out for his head, no need to have the divines try to kill him as well.

"You really don't know anything, do you?" The stranger asked in disbelief. "You're hanging from enchanted chains and you don't even know why?" He shook his head, "So much for the rumors of you actually having a brain." He muttered softly but Eragon could hear it thanks to his enhanced hearing.

"And why are you in here, why do these priests deem you worthy enough for you to be sacrificed with me, who allegedly slew their gods, but not enough to actually chain you with even a measly piece of rope?" Eragon rebuked, more than a little angry at this boy's disrespect and seeing as he was in a rather foul mood at the moment, being captured and left hanging by his wrists did that to a man, Eragon wanted some answers.

Eragon heard Olyvar chortle, somehow amused by Eragon's question.

"They don't chain me because I can't escape no matter what." The man who seemed more boy that adult slowly turned his head, the light from the lone candle washing over his face that allowed Eragon to see his fellow prisoner for the first time.

He had sharp angular features that clashed with his thin face making him appear rather sickish, that were the first thing that Eragon noticed. No hints of baby fat clung to his cheeks or chin, for imprisonment had stolen any unneeded trace of fat that had remained on his stick thin body. There was something wrapped around his neck, made of the same purple crystals that bound Eragon: it was a collar. But it was then Eragon noticed his eyes for the first time and couldn't help but not stop looking in shock.

The stranger's eyes were one color: pure white. It was as though a stonemason had replaced his eyes with polished orbs of marble that was unblemished from any imperfections or darkening that threated to stain the stark white rock. There was no pupil, and if there were than it was hidden under the layer of whiteness. The stranger's eyes burned into him, they seemed to glow in the darkness as the man's head fully turned to face the chained Rider, and the light from the candle was hidden by the back of the man's head. His gaze reminded Eragon of an eagle, piercing and strong that gazed into his soul without blinking or looking away but instead continued to see the soul for what it was, and what it made the holder.

Eragon then realized why neither rope nor chains were needed. Why there was no lock or cuffs on his arms and hands, why he was allowed to move about as he pleased without the guards ever worrying about him in the slightest amount of concern. You could have given the man a sword and the guard could sleep easy on duty with ale in his belly and breath without any worry.

The prisoner's eyes were looking to the left of Eragon ever so slightly, where his shoulder was but not his face nor eyes. Because he didn't see them, he couldn't see them. "You're blind." Eragon suddenly said loudly.

The boy raised a brow, his dark hair and alabaster eyes seemed to clash as one fought to blend into the darkness while the other seemed to gleam in the dark like the gaze of a dragon. "I had never noticed," the teenager said rather dryly with no hint of amusement in his soft tone. Eragon heard Olyvar laugh again, amused by Eragon's rather obvious statement.

"Oh, er," Eragon stumbled as he realized how foolish he sounded.

The boy sighed as Eragon tried to think of something to say that wouldn't offend the blind man, it didn't help that Eragon was suffering from the symptoms of blood loss and was very dehydrated. His vision had started to grow fuzzy and the small bit of light seemed to blur with the darkness, but the stranger's stark white eyes still gleamed despite Eragon's exhaustion and maybe hallucination. The other prisoner leaned up against the moist rock that made up their cell, his arms wrapped around his knees as he looked away from Eragon and instead opted to look out where the steel and most likely enchanted door kept them in the confined space.

"I guess you're tired," the blind man said. "I can smell the blood coming off of you, I think you reopened the wound when you were thrashing around."

A quick glance down showed that the dark crimson liquid was indeed soaking through his already bloodstained and tattered leggings. His enhanced hearing could hear each little drop as his lifeblood hit the cold and musty floor.

Drip…. Drip…. Drip…

Each droplet was audible to him, almost hypnotizing him with the steady beat. It rang in his ears, resonating in his soul. All he was aware of was the blood.

There was the sudden sound of hands brushing against the rough stone, the sound of feet hitting the stone; Eragon heard something rip and the stranger cursed. As his eyesight slowly got darker and darker, he was dimly aware of the stranger near him and ripping off the old and dried bandage and reapplying a new piece of his shirt to his leg.

"Your… name…." Eragon rasped out, his eyes could barely see the candle against the soft darkness that encouraged the weak Rider with its warm and soft embrace. His hands that had been clenched in tight fists, blood threating to be spilt by the pressure of his dirtied fingernails, slowly lost their grip and instead the Son of None hung there lax against the chains.

The blind boy paused in what he was doing; his marble like eyes seemed to pierce into Eragon's brown orbs with unnerving accuracy. There was silence before the boy spoke again, but it felt like a whisper as Eragon felt the darkness's addictive embrace loom closer. "Perdix… My name is Perdix."

"Era….gon."

Eragon hacked out a cough, his whole form shuddered as his lungs burned and gasped for air that it could not get but desperately needed. His eyelids closed but the darkness never changed, but some responsible and fearful part of him fought for consciousness. His curiosity was what won him those desperate and precious few seconds to ask one more question.

"Who are their gods?" Eragon rasped out, exhausted but curious all the same.

Perdix's soft voice did little to soothe Eragon as he leaned near the Rider's ear, knowing that he wouldn't have been able to hear had he not been so close. "The Ra'zac."

Eragon's eyes widened ever so slightly, but the loss of blood and exhaustion finally defeated his willpower and his curiosity; the rebel Rider lost consciousness yet again.

… Drip… Drip… Drip…