Filing Cabinet Chapter 3: Sapphire Before Scarlet, an inheritance cycle fanfic

'We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others.'

- Albert Camus

Thorn

The sun descends.

Undertones of darkness soften the sun's radiant scarlet, foreshadowing long hours of oblivion. Violet and gold meld into cooler, darker colors, drawing curtain to the lovely display. Soon, all becomes extraordinarily quiet as the sun disappears. Sullen clouds left behind can only drift along darkening skies, heedless of anything below them.

Thick junipers line the forest beneath me. My heart beats out a quiet rhythm to match the soft notes of the sun's departure, each seeming to slip forever behind as I soar. Wings ripple at my sides with practiced synchronization as I keep up a steady flight, faltering only when a rogue wind slaps me aside. Air buffets me, yet I do not slow down in the slightest, eventually circling around as movement below attracts my attention.

Crouched over a fallen tree (sniffing hopefully for food), my prey lets out a despairing moan as autumn's stiff grasp dashes the last of the summer-grown food. Needles splay out of the branches around me, clinging to gnarled bark for existence, occasionally snapping off as birds find perch near them. Frost already collects on their tips, and it is evident from the dark tones of mourning how the trees prepare for the season's wrath.

Winter approaches here.

Sweeping down, I land near silently in a clearing, claws sinking into chilled earth. A distasteful shiver winds up my paws at the numbing sensation, though a deep breath soon quells the discomfort. I look ahead; a league separates my prey and I. Red shadows the forest around as the creature prods every place it can reach, even standing tall to scratch trees with its paws.

Slipping within the cover of forest, I shadow its movements as it advances further northward, silvered coat protecting it from most of the chill. Movements muted by a soggy layering of leaves, my claws extend slightly in anticipation, saliva pooling into my mouth.

Nearer, nearer, I draw, so close I can smell even the breath which my prey breathes, laced with barks and grasses uncharacteristic of its kind. The desire to go closer intensifies as the creature pauses near a slick boulder-face, crouching to observe a hole created between a set of firm junipers. Unsatisfied, my prey continues, the distance between us decreasing steadily.

It stops again. Slowly, I close in, fire burning in my throat as I suppress the urge to release the hot torrent upon it. Wait, I command myself, slipping into a crouch. Memory, however, betrays me, and I slip into a stupor. Ageless trees surround me, muted laughter in their toughened chests as fate relentlessly presses me onward. Soft, hesitant protests linger in my throat, yet I never once voice them—too cowardly, perhaps. Even as that same belligerent creature defiles my name and being, I am pressed ahead—forward—and left to suffer the consequences.

Reality breaks in as my tail catches a branch, the sharp snap! unavoidable. I growl in frustration as the furry-backed creature sprints to safety. It passes my vision once more a ways down, though I relinquish the chase as it vanishes a heartbeat later.

My anger proves useless as I simmer, quickly finding myself in the company only of mirthless trees. Pursuit rings in my ears, tempting—though not quite convincing. I know better. Or perhaps I've simply grown more cautious, more careful.

Defeat, I know well, is bitter.

Revenge is fatal.

"May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten."

-Irish blessing

PART 1.

'Of a sort too ghastly to recall,

A time too foul to speak of well,

There dragons resided in their thrall

Living on glorious tales to tell,

But even enemies must be bound

By that which hath been seen

Been found.'

Saphira

Sulfur drowns out my senses; potent and prevelant. A hiss of steam rises from somewhere, followed by an agonized scream. I tilt my head curiously in that direction, only to roar silently in pain as the harsh bite of a whip tears into my cheek. I jerk back—yet chains now pin me to the ground, bile rising in my throat from an unknown fear. I twist and strain against the bonds, a strange sense of futility engulfing me as I continue my struggling.

A black whip cracks—the sound like thunder in my ears—and my head jerks back in a silenced roar. Warm blood trails down my face, the scales already tearing away as it lashes out once more. Pleads for an end to the torture escape me, yet there is no reprieve, and so I find no voice for my secret cries. A shadowy figure appears briefly in the midst of the dark dream yet I am too ensnared in my own agony to focus on its features. Slicing at my neck like thousands of thin, penetrating knives the whip sweeps out again, too fast to possibly be wielded by a human.

Foreign words drift around me, a continuous stream of curses and spites. I try and turn my head away but shamefully the chains retaliate by dragging it down, forcing me to bow. I snarl as the whip strikes overhead, tearing at my head, and ache to break free. An overpowering desire to be free, to find some release from this torture envelops me yet I am powerless to oblige.

A roar escapes me—a collective cry of frustration, pain, and confusion—

—and it is only then I see that my scales are not sapphire.

A low rumble interrupts my nightmare and my eyes drowsily open, blinking at the blurry form beside me. Something warm brushes my cheek, nuzzling it slightly in a calming gesture. All is fine, a soothing voice informs. Such certainty resides in that voice there is no room for doubting, a sleek neck intertwining once more with my own. My breath comes in heated pants, though soon the soft humming in their throat quells my panic as I sigh once gratefully. A gentle nuzzle assures no thanks is necessary; still, words dance across my mind, unbidden.

I didn't wake you, did I?

Bemusement. All is fine, he repeats shortly. I nod once carefully in agreement, laying my head down on the ground once more, trying to convince myself as much even though my doubt in him is none.

Yes, I agree. But my voice holds no conviction; my eyes betray my true concern that the dream was more than just a dream.

He blows a light breath over my face and shakes his head slightly. Do not dwell on these things, he commands gently.

I lift my gaze, staring up at the fading sky above us; only to imagine the thick smoke, the agonized screams, the unending pain, the tight chains, the branding whip… the undeniable fear and need to escape.

A pair of deep, calculating emerald eyes stare worriedly back at me, fearing as though he has displeased me, as though it is his fault… I'm sorry, he murmurs, voice low with sorrow.

Time could stop the war—could bring us together—but it could not bring him back. He disappeared years ago and he vowed never to return. He promised never to harm me again, that he hoped I forgot him, as though he never existed… But my heart still searches, and with it, I am trapped to search forever.

I am too, I add solemnly. I am too…

"If you're stuck and you don't know how to rise, don't look outside yourself. Look inside."

-Bruce Jenner

Thorn

The repetitive beating of footsteps upon stone rouses me; several gruff voices converse in hushed tones. All males, I discern, as their voices fill the quiet chamber with banter. There is no mirth in their tones, however, as they share clipped comments of the King's latest orders.

'Of course,' one dismisses, 'his nobles have a definite stake in the trouble, and those not resting upon the battlefields are also to blame for the latest difficulties.' Anything is accepted with quiet remarks, though it is easy to see that most of it is forced. A light jest centering about the notorious Black Dragon is thrown out by perhaps the youngest of the three, silencing the conversation immediately.

I sigh in resignation, decidedly silent. Though I wouldn't particularly leap to the defense of my miserable comrade in this prison, I cannot help but pity him. There are benefits to being invisible to the guards; you never have to deal with the pitifully inaccurate tales thrust onto your name. Shruikan—though saying the name aloud is the equivalent of cursing the King—has never struck me as a foul, fire-breathing nightmare that they so claim. Then again, if pressed, I could not think of any rebuke. He is what he is; humans, or at least guards, seem to fail at understanding that.

But who am I to ruin their superstitious beliefs that, if tempered with, the Black Dragon shall smite them all? It certainly makes for an interesting threat, and, even if never has it come to pass, it is rumored that he scours the castle for stragglers and makes quick—though painful—work of them. Rubbish; but again, who am I to stop their cowering?

Having regained some sensibility that there is no immediate threat, one of the other guards breaks the cold silence with a nervous cough. Mildly intrigued, I listen as he dismally relates that more soldiers are to be drafted so that the King might reinforce the troops at some of the larger cities—Teirm and Dras-Leona in particular. I bob my head slightly in an uninterested nod as he woefully informs that his eldest son, Breod, lives in secrecy in Teirm—escaping exactly the circumstance that the King has imposed.

When the gruffer of his two companions responds, I allow their conversation to slip out of focus, diverting my attention to the growl of protest my stomach issues. Gnawing hunger aches in my belly, my nose twitching as the scent of mead and stale bread becomes evident. The soft, barely perceptible crunch of a stiff bite into a loaf reaches me and I lick my lips hungrily. Even crumbs would suffice at this moment as my nostrils flare in a desperate attempt to capture the beautiful smell of food. The craving intensifies and I moan low in agony, 'food' the sole thought dominating my mind. My claws extend, searching the floor before them for something to sate my thirsting.

Control yourself, I insist as saliva pools into my mouth, tormenting me further. Grudgingly swallowing, I stare at the darkness before me and force my thoughts to be emptied of such torturous things. Slowly—so terribly slowly—I manage to do so, a dull hollowness occupying my mind instead. Gazing ahead, I can just discern a scarlet-laced door, far too small for a dragon of my size to even attempt to squeeze through. Bolted around its edges are small, magically-enhanced rods pinning the steel mass to the wall firmly. The faint glow of my draconic sight allows me to peer through the slim bars at its top, narrowly sighting the stone wall beyond. The disjointed stones piece together firmly, stacked high beyond my narrow sight. Cracks decorate their surfaces, yet somehow the flawed surfaces only make them appear more durable.

A slight shuffling beyond alerts me to someone—or three someones—moving about, the light thundering of their feet cladding along in unison. I breathe a light puff of smoke in disdain. Though the King may have placed great strength and efficiency into majority of his troops, when it comes down to prison guards, they're sadly lacking in such qualities. Even talking so casually as they do so is an invitation to be eavesdropped upon, and in such a scarcely good world, most things are best left unsaid. I feel but a brief flicker of hypocrisy for thinking such, though at least I am not the one who is discussing such delicate matters so openly.

With sudden realization, the three guards seem to remember their former duties, dispersing along the thin corridor just outside of my cell. Silence reigns supreme as their armored chests heave sighs of resignation; they, too, are not looking forward to yet another day of guarding the seemingly empty cell. I growl low in protest to this thought—that I have obtained by spying on the one called Armon's mind—and the guards stiffen noticeably. In almost practiced unison, their darkened-heads turn to face the small opening in the cell door. Perhaps, I muse, they can see me in here, though it is doubtful as they warily glance away.

I have been caged in here long enough to know that roughly a dozen yards separates myself—at the farthest eastern wall—from that door, and half that makes up the breadth of my dungeon. I am not disturbed by the darkness here; at least, no longer. The scarlet tinge veiling my vision provides me a limited viewing of my cell. This assurance has kept me contented to remain in here—well, tolerant is perhaps the more accurate word.

Free from aches, though, is not a mercy I am granted;my face contorts in a grimace as I stretch. A cacophony of clinks resounds in the cell as the chains binding me groan in complaint. I'd give a lot to be able to just reach back and tear them apart. The binds around my throbbing wings are particularly irksome, though the thick one coiled tightly around my jaws is a close rival. I moan in irritation, startling the guards as the sound sends a rush of hot air from my lungs. The shushing sound that escapes my jaws sounds little of a moan and more of a hiss, though I stoically ignore their murmured words of the Beast within.

A sudden thought occurs to me and, without further warning, I subtly slip into one of the guard's again.

From him—Marr—I glean that it is early morning. The sun has nigh on risen, a grim spectacle to those who must awaken themselves in the camps. There is never enough rest for them, I sense from the guard, who acknowledges such with a sense of trepidation. He is wise to be cautious; foolish words are fatal in the presence of your superior. And though it appears just he and two companions—both of which are near him in age—never are we alone in this keep.

Preparations are always being made; it seems there is an endless flow of chores and duties to attend. He worries for his own maiden back in Narda, though disinterest soon sets in and I withdraw from his mind. He spares a curious glance at the cell door before a shiver makes its way up his spine. I cannot help but grin slightly; perhaps a fearsome story to go alongside a hidden past would make a fine superstition to add beside the ones they have for Shruikan.

Before I can entertain the idea beyond a moment's thought, a low peal of agony breaks through the quiet. My gaze is instinctively drawn away from the door, head tilted away in something akin to shame. The tell-tale crack of a whip knifing through the air causes me to wince even before the hoarse cry of pain inevitably follows. The guards appear similarly unnerved as they reign in their expressions to mirroring blank ones. I wince sympathetically as the whip strikes again, though a flare of anger courses through me as well.

How can those guards just stand there, and pretend nothing is amiss? How could anyone do such a thing? My lip curls back in a snarl, the low rumbling building in my chest drowned out by the victim's cries.

Crack!

The sharp, successive blows cause me to flinch back, though my wings quiver in outrage. And with a final, hideous scream, the sounds fade to nothing, and the quiet swish of the whip being drawn through air seems to fill the space between us. My mind practically screams in vehemence, raging against such treatment. I see the tormentor before me, wielding the whip with that same arrogance that they all have, that same confidence that they have power—vast power—in the pain that they control. And though no one truly stands before me, my eyes narrow to slits and my snarl deepens accordingly.

With crushing force, my teeth grind together, not a mark appearing on their ivory tips. I wish the offender were here before me—if nothing else, I could burn him with steam. The King might be able to subdue my fire-breathing capabilities with special herbal concoctions, though it is impossible to entirely quench the fire within. I imagine the simmering, boiling anger within me searing the torturer's smug smile away from his face; imagine the same cry echoing from their lips; imagine the justice finally dealt.

The trembling in my limbs rattles the chains slightly as I gradually settle, glowering in silence. I need not check to see the soft clattering of the torturer's approach, his whip hanging loosely from a thin hand. That same cruel smile boasts the undeniable victory over the victim he has earned; the victory he shall always earn. "Morning, gentlemen," he greets, as cordially as a nobleman.

Hah! Gentlemen, I counter, sneering in the safety of the dark.

Grunts of assent and muttered greetings answer as the guards straighten, one boldly asking, "Has his high King any news for us today?"

The lean man—just visible at the door of my cell—suddenly stiffens, though his wicked smile is unfaltering as he strokes his whip lovingly. "He requests," he begins slowly, "that the Beast be brought to him." His voice is a drawl, though his tone is clipped as he continues. "Immediately, if you please."

The three guards react with wary glances at one another. The broadest of them—Armon—speaks for them all. "You mean…" his calloused hand gestures vaguely backwards, directly towards where I lounge in pointed silence. The other nods curtly. Marr—the quietest—responds by walking over to my cell door, his movements slow and precise. The third—Naom—takes the news with solemn resolution as he turns to watch Marr. Warily inserting a key into the lock of my door, the resounding click seems to hold great meaning as he presses the door open.

A loud growl of defiance lingers in the air as I glare frostily at the man holding the whip, unceremoniously barging into his mind and discovering his name—Myrn. Staggering back as though struck, Myrn grasps his whip more firmly, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he moves into my line of sight, silhouetted at the door's opening. He and I share a long, pointed glance before he sweeps around the corner and disappears from my sight wordlessly. I can hear his quiet retreat, a sense of grim satisfaction filling the ensuing quiet.

Marr, formerly frozen in place by the unspoken warring between Myrn and I, hesitantly approaches, bearing a guard's impassivity in only that he does not tremble in fear. His companions watch disapprovingly from the doorway, though grim acceptance shines on their drawn faces. I straighten as Marr draws closer yet, gazing down at him with narrowed eyes as my low rumbling continues. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture, silent pleading in his eyes that I go quietly as he gazes up deferentially at me.

Taking the final few steps closer, his hands reach forward cautiously. I snap my teeth in warning and he stumbles back several steps. Nervously, he comes closer again, and I lower my head only so that I might lock him in a penetrating stare. The nervousness in his eyes is clear, though mingled in with helpless obedience. He desires no more than I do to carry out this task. My appraisal complete, I lower my head slightly further, my eyes never faltering from their stare. I nudge my face forward slightly in permission to continue.

A relieved sigh escapes him as he tentatively begins to undue the chains binding my jaws, his hands fumbling several times in his haste. I remain silent throughout the one-sided exchange, though the moment the chains are free from my jaws I raise my head once more and glare down at him. Marr proceeds to my legs, my chest swelling with hot breath as the temptation is held so near. It would be no difficult task to burn him severely—perhaps a slight challenge to kill him, but not much at that. Still, the King is clever in that he knows I cannot do such. Killing the guard would only grant the King yet another excuse to beat me harder, and I shudder to even think of what he would do if I actually did something wrong.

With rough clicks, the chains clink to the ground, falling into slouched piles as the guard cautiously ventures onto those binding my hind legs. I twist around slightly to watch him as he awkwardly releases me from my bindings. Completing such, he backs away and strides out of the room, immensely relieved to be away from me.

At first, I remain standing where I am, the chains still pinioned tightly around my wings. Those, of course, are never removed—aside from the rare instances in which I am summoned on a mission alongside my Rider, Murtagh. But those are few and far between, and terribly fleeting at that. My legs seethe in protest as I take a slow step forward, the overlapping scars on their surface seeming to burn. My face is similarly scarred, though a particularly jagged cut crosses my neck diagonally. Overall, I suppose, you could call my condition pitiful, though I manage to move forward without complaint.

"Come along now," Armon beckons as he saunters off. Marr follows wordlessly, Naom close at their heels. I snort in exasperation before whirling around as something shuffles forward. The door at the far end of my cell closes with a soft bang, my eyes narrowing once more as heavy breathing fills the air. I gaze forward, staring into the nothingness for several long moments before a dark form steps into the shallow light.

Obsidian glints clearly off it, its scales still blackened despite my crimson sight. Its demeanor is surprisingly regal, and a calming feeling exudes from it. Intelligence gleams in its dark onyx eyes, faint traces of indigo in them.

Shruikan, I breathe wonderingly, for he is more than thrice myself in size. The great dragon bows his head once in answer, otherwise silent.

Greetings, hatchling, he responds after a time.

Saphira

I yawn subtly as one of the dwarves leads us along, chattering happily away while Eragon nods politely and glances around at the camp. The stout man gestures here and there animatedly, occasionally drawing attention to a specific item before jumping back into a pleasant—if one-sided—conversation. I don't have the heart to point out that we've already seen the majority of this part of the encampment—the dwarven half, led under King Orik's command—and neither does Eragon, consequently. Apparently King Orik felt it necessary for us to be well-informed of the layout of the dwarves' section of the Varden's troops, despite our familiarity with them already.

Ah well. He's a good dwarf—with good intentions—just poorer execution of said-intentions. "We have to whet our swords with special stones or they'll shatter to a good blow," Orab—our guide—drabbled on. "Usually tougher gems work—if you were to use diamond, the sword would be nigh on stronger than an elf's!" His chest puffs out proudly, short spear clutched firmly in one rough hand. Eragon nods deferentially, though an amused chuckle escapes me as we continue. Orab keeps up a steady stream of explanations to supply ample talk, though my mind wanders as we pass the different tents. Other stocky dwarves pass us, occasionally murmuring a quick greeting though most regarding us with an air of disinterest.

Though Nasuada disapproves of our touring of the dwarven camps, it is a relief to be away from the constant politics of human culture. I am aware of the necessity of such exchanges, yet it seems that always—no matter the circumstance—things must be made a great deal more difficult simply to prove a point. And though I may view it as a ridiculous system, I am forced to concede under the alliances we hold. In short, it would not be worth the argument, and thus I do not bring it up.

But still, I cannot help but think how much more efficiently things could be run. It's good to have friends such as Solembum who can relate to such exasperating things, though even he is powerless to affect the unusual routine humans share when it comes to making decisions. Hours wasted deliberating over unimportant matters makes for a very dull, very long day. Luckily the last meetings of the day are typically those gathered with figures such as Angela-the-witch-herbalist and King Orrin-the-experimenter. Though, the only thing usually accomplished in those discussions are whether or not the existence of frogs is even meaningful and if blowing smoke rings out of your ears could be used as a weapon.

I laugh quietly in bemusement as Eragon nearly trips over his own two feet, the brief lapse in his coordination missed by our exuberant host. He nods toward something while Eragon shares a sheepish glance with myself. I snort once softly in retort, though he just turns back to the dwarf and attempts to listen without appearing too disinterested.

Thin, hazy clouds float lazily over head, shadowing a faint golden sun. Vultures circle hungrily from a distance, their black wings ragged and balding in places. Their low keening adds to the grim mutterings and sour curses of men and women alike, shields battering against themselves and swords clashing and unsheathing clearly. The constant shuffling and padding and even thundering of men, dwarves, and elves alike creates a cacophony of noise that cannot possibly be ignored. Though, even amidst it, it is ominously quiet, as though Orab, Eragon, and myself are truly the only ones here.

The grim, resigned faces of those we pass reflect such a feeling, haggard expressions fully displaying their true weariness. We all long for a good rest—even with the encouragements, there is little doubt that we're all aching, we're all hurting some.

When the dwarf leads us back full circle to near Nasuada's tent—sentries being two large Kull—I sigh silently in something akin to relief, carefully hiding the gesture from the beaming dwarf as Eragon cordially thanks him. Bustling away to attend to some other task, the dwarf disappears from sight quickly. With a tired smile, Eragon comments, Nice dwarf, but we really don't have time for tours.

I raise an eyebrow speculatively, a draconic smile curling my lips. I'm not complaining; less time sitting around listening to the councilors argue about how to do something. To that Eragon chuckles lightly, shaking his head as he relieves me of the heavy saddle settled on my back. I stretch, satisfied. Glad to have that off.

Heavy? he asks sympathetically as he struggles under its weight for several moments before placing it near the side of the tent. I shake my head.

Not really; it's just annoying to carry. I shake myself swiftly to clear some of the dry dust gathered over myself. The Burning Plains—driest, hottest, and one of the most uncomfortable places in Alagaësia. The cloudy dust swirling overhead seems to perpetually block the full shine of sun, though ample heat wafts down below. I breathe in heartily, my nose scrunching up slightly in distaste.

Eragon glances at me appraisingly as he sorts through a pack in search of something. What? Don't tell me you're outgrowing it already, he comments as he picks the timepiece from his sack, examining the small device nonchalantly.

Watch it, I growl playfully. He holds up his hands in defeat, grinning.

I'm just saying.

Mmm.

With a last, dubious glance at Eragon and his politely baffled expression, I laugh, the sound gravelly though somehow light. Come along; I'm sure Nasuada needs us for one thing or another, I add, musing.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and reluctantly considering my words. With a grudging nod, he agrees, I suppose.

No sooner is the thought proposed that a familiar—rather animalistic-looking—figure strides toward us, bearing a strange, feral resemblance to a wild-cat. Wielding an elaborate sword of fine silver and bearing a shield on one arm, Blödhgarm approaches with the regality of one who is certain that they hold acclaim. Blödhgarm, I greet, the elf bowing his head in acknowledgement. Eragon and he exchange a quick, formal greeting before the animal-like elf speaks.

"Your Lady Nasuada wishes a word with you," he states, voice a low rumble. "She wishes to speak to you—both—in private. It is of the utmost importance."

"When?"

"As soon as you are available," Blödhgarm answers dutifully. Both Eragon and I bow our heads slightly in nods.

"All right. Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Then thank you, Blödhgarm-elda."

The elf bows his head as well, and with a brief dismissal, departs to attend to other things. He must've been in a hurry, I comment offhandedly.

Oh? How can you tell?

I shrug. He didn't care to speak very long.

Eragon laughs slightly as he pats my shoulder affectionately. Well, it appears we're needed elsewhere as well. I think we should go see Nasuada before we miss out on anything too important.

What a crime that would be, I point out with a slightly sarcastic edge to my voice.

Shaking his head, Eragon starts off toward Nasuada's tent, myself close at his heels.

"Knowledge is only potential power."

-Napoleon Hill

Thorn

The Black Dragon—Shruikan—stares judgmentally at me, trying to decide whether it is truly worth his time or not.

I shuffle awkwardly under his appraisal, a low rumble of disapproval stilling me. His black gaze lingers on the scars crisscrossing on my neck and back, his own neck craning forward slightly to get a better look. Instinctively, I back away, my stance lowering into a half-crouch as I glare back at him fearlessly. There is no malice in his gaze, however, as he calmly dismisses my sudden aggression and moves on to view the roughened surface of my wings. Nodding once to himself in something of affirmation, he takes a halting step backward.

Hatchling, he rumbles again, and this time it seems that a note of sadness rings true in his voice. I cannot be certain, however, under the scrutinizing gaze which he has me. With a very slight bow of my head, I raise it again and stare up at him.

Why are you here? I prompt at last, sighing quietly. His breathing seems to be a continuous roll of thunder as he considers my question, his chest swelling and contracting periodically. Strangely enough, the typical scarlet edge that coats most objects seems to shy away from him, leaving his colossal form relatively hidden. His eyes are the most prevalent, twin black orbs that glower meaningfully. Something about his expression—though apparently blank—suggests thoughtful, and perhaps even inquisitive. A particularly loud rumble issues from his throat as he dips his head solemnly.

If you must know, you might as well be seated. It could take a while.

He fixes me with an unblinking stare as I silently defy him, eventually conceding as I crouch slowly and settle against the wall, body tensed in case he decides to turn on me. As he towers above me, I can almost see how the guards would think of him as the Black Dragon rather than Shruikan—certainly he is the blackest creature I have ever seen, and undoubtedly intimidating. Names offer solace to people—the assurance that somewhere, no matter how deep, we're all connected by our humanity.

At least, as human as we all can be.

He paces, enormous feet padding along softly despite his tremendous size. Never once do my eyes stray from him, though his gaze remains fixed on some unseen object. After several moments, his voice echoes like muted thunder as he speaks. The Varden have been attempting to steal our egg for a time now, he begins, as they have succeeded with only one another. Once was once too many for their success; and so we are bringing the egg here, to be left in my care. He growls low in something akin to irritation as I watch him, surprised by his sudden explanation. I cannot say to you where it is held now, nor how we are bringing it here—and certainly not where I shall be safeguarding it. He snorts in dull amusement.

Then why have you come? I ask boldly.

He pauses, the air around him heavy with an unknown importance. Thorn, he continues, in all sincerity. Are you aware of what occurred the last time one of the eggs escaped our care?

And for the first time since he appeared, my glare mellows and my expression falls blank. It is the unspoken acceptance that I should be as ignorant as possible, and so information that I am given is often few and far between. The King would never dare to tell me any more than he absolutely must, and of that almost all is orders and oaths. Perhaps a word or two aside, and then whatever I manage to gain from the guards. To be openly offered new information—with no hint of deception in his face—has me stunned for several moments. He chuckles, though the sound feels oddly hollow. And in that mirthless laugh, I can see the exact opposite of what I feel.

Ignorance is kindness in its own way, for knowledge is what is destroying the dragon before me.

I shake my head mutely, feeling quite small before him.

I was punished, he answers finally, by Galbatorix.

The significance of that word has me on my feet immediately, a hiss of fear lingering between us as phantom pain courses through me. With a cool glance, the Black Dragon stares at me without pity, waiting as I struggle in heated silence with the unrelenting pain. Finally, the effects of his name drift away, leaving me shaky and uneasy. I sit heavily on the ground, glaring up at him as I snarl defensively. Do not call him that, I snap, more out of worry for the pain returning than any honor towards his name.

The Black Dragon merely smiles at me—a surprisingly sympathetic one—and utters an unrecognizable stream of words. I apologize for that. It is easy to forget the true extent of your bindings at times, he admits after finishing.

It is true—for so many oaths are sworn upon mine and Murtagh's name that even speaking is hazardous if it is mentioning him. His name is forbidden to us—even thinking of the King as anything but such triggers immense pain. If the name itself is uttered by another, the pain is only slightly less, though still searing.

It's just one of many ways he controls us.

What were you saying? I quest, still on edge. He smiles draconically, though deep sorrow coats his voice as he resumes speaking.

I was supposed to keep the eggs safe—by Galbatorix's orders. I cringe, yet to my astonishment, only a slight tingle rushes up my spine. Perhaps irritating, but nowhere near the earlier sting. I glance gratefully up at him, though he ignores the gesture and continues. Who else was more qualified? Guards? Bah. Guards can't guard a loaf of bread if you try them. Urgals are no help either, and the Shade was never trustable to such a task.

So the task fell to me.

His gaze drifts downward, eventually settling on the ground. Shame colors his face. I was foolish to have left them for even an hour, though I was summoned by the Shade and thus forced to oblige. Luckily, I escaped any cruelties he might have delivered to me, though I was too late to reclaim the eggs. He sighs ruefully. Your egg—and your brother's—were still there. Miraculously, I admit, considering one egg had already been stolen. I searched in vain for hours, but it was gone.

A pained expression crosses his features before he hides it. Galbatorix was not pleased with my carelessness.

Though his voice is still authoritative and cool, it is clear that even mentioning such is unsettling for him. For a moment, pity washes over me as I stare at that confused expression on his face. It is not a lack of understanding that I see there. In fact, it is the vast amount of comprehension that reflects on his expression that tells me he is not tortured by ignorance—but again, knowledge.

For a hesitant moment, I wish that I had never asked.

Galbatorix never entrusted the eggs to my care again, he continues, gazing down at me, until your egg was nearly lost as well.

I blink in surprise, though my expression remains otherwise stoic. Feeling that it was still far safer in my care than theirs, he gave me the egg for safekeeping. When your Rider—Murtagh—came along and touched your egg, I relinquished my safeguarding of your egg as you hatched.

He pauses and I fill the silence with a question. What of my brethren—the green egg?

A mirthless chuckle escapes him. I do not know myself, but I know that soon again it shall be my duty to guard it. He sighs deeply. Be forever grateful you don't have to do it.

Why?

He shakes his head ruefully. You cannot be blamed for losing it. And like a retreating serpent, he turns and vanishes, the wall shifting aside slightly to allow him entrance.

I stare after him in confusion, feeling no more informed than when he came. The mental image of his pained expression—brought upon by the realization, the knowing—flashes through my mind and instead of annoyance, gratitude washes over me.

Resting my head on my paws, I wonder why he would bother to speak with me—even though it accomplished pitifully little.

I suppose everyone just needs someone to talk to once in a while, I conclude, a hint of a smile on my face.

Saphira

The light padding of my feet coupled with Eragon's allow our minds to slip into disinterested states. I can tell he is worrying himself over certain issues, particularly the revelations of his family. Though tempted, I resist the urge to tell him that it is really not worth the hassle to fret over who is or is not his father. Perhaps it is just some dragon practice not to bother oneself over the identity of our sires and dams. After all, what is the use in berating ourselves over the crime of someone else?

But apparently I am wrong in this aspect, for Eragon unrelentingly chastises himself as we walk along. In the absence of our gregarious dwarven guide, an odd silence seems to pervade, broken by the rhythmic shuffling and padding and grunting of the camp. Tents of a scratchy tan material are erected in uneven rows, well-trodden grounds separating them. Occasionally, a figure ducks outside of the tent flap, glancing around with a dour air about them before retreating back inside. Of course, the air here is so dry and humid that it is no relief to breathe in. Still, the necessity to be here quells most complaints, a disgruntled member sometimes daring to voice their protests. Usually these are dealt with swiftly and efficiently, sufficient punishment being used to silence them.

A blanket of hot, reddish-brown air cloaks the desert before us, deeply set with gold. The pregnant clouds hover, occasionally battering us anew with harsh winds and fierce sands. No respite is offered to us, however, as they continue their fruitless promises of rain. The endless dunes ahead—broken sporadically by gaseous holes—are constant reminders that here rain is scarce. Surda seems a welcome haven compared to the desperately barren land of the Burning Plains. Even vultures are absent from stealing a meal from some of the fallen.

With sudden clarity, I can feel the deathly pallor that lingers over the camp, graying our spirits and poisoning our minds with hopelessness. Forced enthusiasm glints on the passerby's face, yet it is clear that remorse and fear of the future are there as well. No one can deny it, nor can anyone drive it away. The fear of a worthless cause—of a futile cause—can be far more destructive than any blade.

My nose scrunches up distastefully as the ghastly smoke from the pyre—distanced several leagues away so as not to disturb the camp too terribly—wafts towards us on a dry breeze. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils. I wince slightly, ruffling my wings as though to dispel the unwanted scent. Eragon's steps become more halted, his head bowing slightly. Through his thoughts, I can sense the grave note to them. The disgust at the disposal of the dead rings clear, sadness lacing his mulling.

All will be fine, I encourage, though the gravity of the situation seems to douse any support I wish to lend. He grunts once.

Doubtful, he replies dourly.

I sigh—impossible, he is. But there's no point in worrying myself over his own stubbornness, so I decidedly ignore him until the familiar pair of Urgals enters our sight. With forced impassivity, Eragon warily exchanges a quick greeting with them, avoiding the customary head-butting that both wisely let slip by. He does, however, cross an arm over his chest, the universal sign of friendship between war-comrades, and offers an approving nod. The two grunt their acknowledgments, pressing gauntleted fists to burly chests in response. In almost practiced unison, they resume positions, Eragon brushing aside the tent-flap and disappearing within. Left alone to my musing—as the tent is far too small to admit one such as myself—I situate myself nearby, watching the guards with thoughtful blue eyes.

An animalistic stink radiates from them—not an unpleasant smell, but rather that of dirt and woods and grass. Of deep fall afternoons, spending long hours under the shade of thick junipers; of staunch summer days, sweating and laboring beneath a penetrating sun. Grayed skin covered mostly in hides of some strange bear-fur, their muscled arms and legs are trunk-like, supporting their bulk without complaint. Gruff faces stare out, unperturbed, to the rest of the world, though a keen sense of awareness radiates from them. An oddly casual feel surrounds them, as though standing guard is the most comfortable, natural position they must bear. Even the way they clutch their weapons—a rapier for one and a nasty spear for the other—is relaxed, if firm.

Brutish, perhaps not, I think, reminiscing from the first impressions of them I gained from Eragon. Even though the alliance had been made, there was never true acceptance from him. The same distrust was readily expressed by others, though they wisely held their tongues. I spare a brief glance at their horned heads, the coarse brown hair scattered over it surprisingly well kempt. Overall, they appear more warriors than beasts—I cock my head inquisitively, wondering.

What are your names? I ask, my voice startling them from their watchful stupor. The larger of the two—though hardly, mere inches separating him in height and less in muscle—glances over at me with a look of slight surprise.

"Bjartskular," he rumbles, the sound gravelly and strange. The elvin word rolls off his tongue oddly, though his companion merely watches me as though the name were pronounced perfectly.

What are your names? I repeat when it seems none are forthcoming. The first hesitates, knuckles grazing his spear as he switches it to his opposite hand. Bowing his head very slightly, he grunts, and rather than submission, I sense disquiet.

"Vor Laurk," he answers in the same emotionless tone.

I glance at his companion expectantly, who responds almost eagerly, "Vor Merrn."

Bobbing my head in a nod, I can hear the natural chatter arising from inside the tent. King Orrin is present, I sense, as his inquiring voice offers questions muffled by the tarp. Nasuada is also at hand, for her muted voice occasionally poses a question as well. It seems that Jormundur—aided by another I do not recognize—offers most of the answers, dutifully relying reports. Bored of such talk, I return my attention to the guards still regarding me rather warily.

Is Vor your clan? I prompt, attempting to perhaps breach the impassive walls they've constructed around their emotions. I can sense the hardness to Vor Laurk's thoughts, though his tone is almost genial as he replies.

"Yes, and no. Our clan has suffered many a tragedy—we live now to serve Lady Nightstalker alone."

"There are few of us left," Vor Merrn offers helpfully.

What happened to your clan?

Laurk appears reluctant, though Merrn merely grunts before answering. "Father. It is he who pitted our clan—our best rams and inferiors alike—against your warriors, and in the end it is he who abandoned us. Clan Myn has not suffered quite as poorly, though Clan Olm is not heard from."

To this, I raise an eyebrow. What do you mean?

"He means," Laurk interrupts stiffly, "that Olm has chosen not to participate in this war at all, instead isolating themselves."

I thought all your clans were allied with us?

Confusion sweeps over me, though I force my expression to remain unaffected aside from a slight frown. Neither Eragon nor I were aware of the possibility that the Urgals might not ally themselves with us—at least, not after the apparent alliances were made. With a band of Urgals that were potentially unfriendly around, it proposed new difficulties.

"No," Laurk continues, surprisingly grave. "But we are fairly certain that—from word of nomads—they have been dealt with by Father."

Even though the name is spat with distaste, the sorrowful expression that suddenly crosses both Urgals' faces leaves me at a loss for further questions. Despite their curt ways, the humanness in them is undeniable. The emotional connection they share, at least, is the same, and for a moment pity sweeps over me. I'm sorry to hear of that, I add, hoping to offer the slightest of solace.

Their callous silence is answer enough and I have not a moment to spare on that thought before another presence becomes distinct in my mind. Saphira, can you, ah, come in?

The thought catches me off guard and I climb to my feet slowly, staring at the Urgal pair and then at the tent flap guarded between them. Probably not, I admit.

Is it possible you can just stick your head in? Nasuada insists you see this as well, Eragon replies, a curious note in his voice. With a strange snort of disagreement, I glance at the guards doubtfully before snaking my head inside slowly.

A tight fit—I can hear some of the tarp tearing in part—but thankfully I manage to do so well enough. The dark interior is mercifully clear, as though the air here has been purged of all dryness and cruel sand. I breathe in expansive gulps, my chest rising and falling like a bellows. With a sudden, explosive breath, I back slightly, nose twitching.

Eragon chuckles from one corner, drawing my bewildered gaze. You sneezed, he explains with another quiet chuckle. I frown very slightly before rolling my eyes in a feeble attempt to regain lost dignity. Dragons do not sneeze—whatever sneezing is.

"Greetings, Saphira," the light, pleasant voice of Nasuada says, bowing her head in a nod. Her eyes—though bright with anticipation—are tired, her face drowsy from hours of endless working. Her thin arms cross delicately over the thick wooden table that is spread out in the center of the tent. Around her shoulders is a dark-copper tunic, underlined by a white shirt with laced edges. Her leggings are of the same dark material, though a ring of silver adorns them, adding a regality to her appearance. Her hair is pinned back in a loose bun, as though to stave off some of the outside heat. "King Orrin here," she gestures to the plump man beside her, "discovered that by leaving out a jar of a certain mixture of elvin herbs and water, the dryness in the air is reduced."

The eccentric king beams slightly under the praise, though he still holds himself nobly in a thin, comfortable set of dark azure robes. Bowing his head once, he adds, "Even the elves have not thought of such a device. And made from simple herbs!" He shakes his head, clearly pleased with his own ingeniousness. Glancing skeptically at Nasuada, I wait in pointed silence for her to bring up that which she has summoned both Eragon and now myself for. With a brief glance around, I notice Jormundur's absence, though to this I pay little heed.

Sobered, Nasuada reaches behind herself for something, returning with her hands clasped gently around a bound scroll. The parchment is heavily weathered, stains covering near every inch of it. A thin, scraggly string binds the paper together feebly, though with the lightest of tugs, Nasuada unfurls it. Both Eragon and King Orrin lean slightly in their chairs, curious. "A messenger," begins Nasuada, "delivered this to us only a day or so ago. Apparently," here she references the scroll directly, a thin finger tracing the writing delicately, "a scouting commission was sent out whilst the soldiers camped at Feinster."

Silence. Even I lean further in to catch the dark-skinned woman's words as she continues. "They reached Urû'baen with the assistance of a man I'm sure you are familiar with—Jeod." I raise an eyebrow in mild surprise. "They disobeyed orders by setting out on such a futile mission, though they slipped past our guard under cover of night. Amidst the process of tallying the dead and creating the pyre, we hadn't noticed their absence. Until—" she waves the parchment slightly "—we received this."

She clears her throat quietly and I wait, as do Eragon and King Orrin, for her to continue. "They reached Urû'baen," she reads solemnly, "and better, they say, they even reached grounds just before Urû'baen's heart—the castle." A startled exclamation—caught between a choke and a cry—bursts forth from King Orrin as he stumbles over words. Nasuada holds up a hand patiently and he quiets. "As expected, most of their sentry perished—some of Galbatorix's soldiers had discovered them and dispatched them swiftly."

A very soft sigh of disappointment comes from Eragon, though I continue staring at Nasuada as her face lightens once more. "But in the slaughter of our people, there was great confusion. Jeod, it appears, seized the opportunity with two companions to slay two of the Empire's soldiers amidst the chaos and don their armor. They camped with the soldiers there—before Urû'baen—for three nights before they managed to slip into the castle itself."

"What?" King Orrin bursts, stuttering.

"It is said that Jeod led them to the chamber where formerly they were to capture the eggs," Nasuada resumes, unhindered, "and discovered nothing. By a stroke of luck, they survived by staying there for a night, and then resuming their search. Eventually," here she pauses, for emphasis or out of grief I cannot tell, "Jeod and the other were slain, though the third member managed to discover something very, very important."

Again, Nasuada reaches behind her, and the silence of not even breathing seems thousands times greater than it is as her hand returns, again holding parchment.

"This," she concludes, spreading the large scroll before them, "is a map of Urû'baen's castle."

Before any of us can respond, however, she traces the edge of a spot, where a splotched mark is scarred. "And this—this is where the last dragon egg is supposedly being held."

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."

-Anatole France

Shruikan

Melancholy.

Perhaps it is just the nature of myself—perhaps it is just the story of my life. Either way, I am indulging myself in it. Some would call it foolish to constantly torment myself so; to constantly drown out hopes and sulk. I do it—not to be purposefully stupid or blind to all and any good—but to weep for myself a bit as I lengthen my last moments of glorious solitude. My feet touch the cold stone—so alike, I and that stone are—and I wish only to fall to it and rest and forget my other obligations.

And yet, extraordinarily, I am satisfied.

I am not satisfied for myself—heaven forbid that I find something in my cursed life satisfying—but rather that there is a life that exists to which I might influence. Might save from this final damnation.

All too soon, though, the cold corridors—narrow and slick in these late summer months—come to an end. My feet unconsciously carry me forward, my serpentine form twisting elastically around corners and past thick stone walls. Everywhere, shadows are cast in deep relief, showing with an almost wicked glint that only fuels my inner anger. It is as though the candlelight shown from the torches is mocking me—ridiculing me for a life I did not want or deserve.

I growl low in return, though the stone gives no response.

Eventually, I am offered reprieve from my stiff walk—a deep wall gapes open, revealing an even darker room within. There is no apparent light to be seen, though I march forward fearlessly into the blackness. Already, it seems, the air chills—a deadened feel lingers menacingly. I sigh slightly, melancholic.

If not for the evils of these world, there would be no reason for such dreary things as melancholy. There would be no sorrow to linger over; no deaths to mourn. There would be no such a thing as tragedy, nor would there be oppression. And yet it is ultimately melancholy which we use to shape ourselves—use to decide whether or not it is worth it to continue or if the darkness in our life deserves victory. Though torturous, melancholy is soothing, numbing, dulling for one who seeks only a way away from the pain. Or better—an answer to end it.

"Shruikan," a voice purrs, interrupting my thoughts. A snarl rumbles in my throat, though I tighten my jaw. Calm. I cannot kill him, so I must be calm. When I sense impatience radiate from him, I lock away my pride and bow my head submissively.

Greetings, Galbatorix, I respond, forcing cordiality to my tone.

The soft padding of footsteps approaches, and soon the hazy edges of a striking man become apparent. Blurred obsidian clings to his form, enhancing the shadows around him while dimming his piercing black eyes. A hint of silver glints there, though rather than welcome, they reflect malice. His attire is simple, yet somehow noble—striking blue linings adding sharp contrast to his black tunic and breeches. A ruffled cream shirt peeks out slightly from beneath his tunic, though he does not move to fix the slip. Instead, the unkemptness—though hardly—of his appearance seems to only enlarge his feral demeanor.

A sour taste teases my tongue at the sight of him, lips curling down in disgust. Instead of dismayed, a sadistic smile glints on the man's face. He is a giant amongst human standards—as tall as an Urgal and muscled leanly like a seasoned soldier. His arms fall loosely at his sides, connected to brawny shoulders that are relaxed yet firm. A silver hilt is obscured slightly by his left hand, resting in a seemingly casual gesture overtop it. The onyx sword sheathed within is belted to his waist, ready at any moment to strike.

The bumptious aura around him is unmistakable—glowing particularly cold on his face. Cropped black hair crowns his head, shadowing a pair of smooth eyebrows and a forever furrowed brow. His ears—though hidden—are tapered, the slight tips hinted from beneath.

What do you want me for now? I ask, trying to keep the disdain from my voice. Though his expression is unaffected, his demeanor darkens.

"Eager, are we? Well, there shall be plenty of time for eagerness later." Striding coolly over to a just visible throne of onyx, he adds calmly, "Though if you must know I do not appreciate you filling the poor hatchling with hope. Hope is such a tragic, fragile thing that mustn't be given."

I hiss involuntarily, the sound venomous and overly loud in the otherwise silence. Somewhere vermin frantically dart away, terrified. The breath catches in my throat, constricting until I can scarcely breathe—in a subdued panic, I lash my tail against the stone floor in protest. Finally, I am forced to cry out: Stop!

A cruelly amused chuckle fills the ensuing quiet, the man's light laughter almost sincere. Still, the hard edge is impossible to ignore, and I slowly lower myself to the flow to steady my shaking limbs. Dragons cannot tolerate such tortures as well as we would like to believe—and appear to be. Even we must crumple sometimes.

"Ah, Shruikan," he says, as though a father reprimanding a naughty child, "when will you ever learn? Poor manners will get you no where, for sure." Pausing, he glances down at me with a revoltingly pleasant smile. I cringe back instinctively from him as he saunters closer, unafraid. "Now, as you are aware, we've been bothered for many months by the Varden, and so I have decided to entrust in your care a very valuable piece."

I cannot meet his eyes any longer and I stare blankly at the floor, sobered. How can he so easily confer to me this information? How can he so easily condemn me? "All you must do is safeguard it until the female comes and we capture her. Beyond that, we will need no further use of it." My eyes narrow suddenly; You plan to destroy it? I cannot stop myself from asking. He chuckles darkly.

"Why of course. What use is one male when I have two under my command? I only need the purposes of one, and a third would just be an unneeded waste that could be to our enemy's use. No—it must, and shall, be destroyed once the time comes."

Why not use it—I hate the words I say, of using one of my brethren, but I find that I must defend my unborn kin—for further building the Riders? Surely the red hatchling cannot produce enough eggs for a new Forsworn—it would be much simpler to just have him and her mate and then come the maturity of their hatchlings, have the green one decide on a mate of his own.

Disgust wells within me at the thought of the red dragon—so tormented, I can see, by the way we have dealt with him—being used for such vile purposes. An ever sourer taste comes to the thought of the female being put to similar uses. I realize that it is bile in my throat and force myself to swallow and appear disinterested. Interest can be the greatest of weaknesses when it comes to convincing your opponent.

"Ah, but surely you might fill his place? You may even have her first, if it so pleases you," he all but trills. My eyes narrow, a growl rumbling in my chest. "Come; don't tell me you don't wish to have her as your own," he comments, raising an eyebrow naughtily. "I've seen your thoughts, Shruikan, and know of the fantasies you entertain. Think of how wonderful it would be to have her with you, wanting—"

Stop! I am surprised at my boldness, though there is a deep furor in my voice that I cannot contain. You will not discuss of her for such uses, I growl, or if you do, not in my presence. I will not do that to her—no matter your order.

He shrugs, surprisingly unperturbed. "So be it. The red hatchling shall fulfill his part of the bargain, and then if you are truly reluctant, I might consider the green one's part in such. You are dismissed. Though, remember; don't bother fill the poor beast with hope. It's not worth your time or effort." He ghosts back over to his throne, having somehow initiated a pace during our argument. I shuffle in awkward protest, wishing to speak but not daring to do so. It seems that chains bound more firmly than any iron secure my jaws from speaking, and shamefully, I retreat.

"Do you forget what I say to you so easily?" his voice asks from behind me, hard yet somehow still curious. I turn slowly to face him once more, jaw slackening and eyes widening as he withdraws a large, emerald orb from beneath his throne. I cannot see from where, though my eyes remain fixed on the smooth, glowing jade egg clutched between his scrawny fingers. Slowly, I approach, still wary of deceit. "Amusing, isn't it?" he continues, pretending to examine the stone with a smile that could rival the Cheshire cat's.

You kept it underneath your throne this entire time? I ask, bewildered. His booming laughter fills the chamber, a hand stroking the stone's smooth surface almost admiringly.

"No," he says once he's settled, "but for long enough. Well? Are you going to just stare at it or what?" The sudden coldness in his tone catches me off guard, though my stare unflinching remains on the egg. It's glow is particularly bright in such a dark room—almost blindingly so. I approach, though my steps are halted and cautious.

With a sudden, careless toss, he relinquishes the egg to myself. I catch it hastily in my jaws, craning my neck forward to do so. Galbatorix watches my unsteady catch with bored eyes, unconcerned of the potential damage he could be causing to the hatchling within. I can sense waves of unease from the egg, though I calm it with a hasty assurance of It's fine; I have you. My own voice, however, is a terrible assurance, for it glowers with hate. Still, the terror from within diminishes, and soon I, too, have recollected myself.

"You are to let no one see it," the tyrant before me drawls, "and no one know you have it. If anyone has so much as a hunch—kill them."

I nod once, though my heart sinks with dismay. Safeguarding this egg, I know, shall not be an easy—or admirable task. As I exit the room, I can only wonder how I might save the dragon within. Melancholy again surfaces in my thoughts, though this time it is with grim acceptance. If I cannot see past this despair that now shrouds my mind—of so many wrongs thrust upon me—then I can only pray that the hatchlings are not ruined because of it.

Saphira

The silence grows longer, the air tenser as we all exchange wary glances.

Before us is spread a splotched, stained, and otherwise battered map—yet the intricate patterns traced upon it cannot be diminished by the physical imperfections. It is a labyrinth in appearance, full of intersecting paths and perhaps hundreds of thin lines that represent pathways. Near the far left edge, the map becomes blurred and indistinct, eventually fading to nothing. The immense detail of the rest of it, however, has us all agape and speechless. Scrawled in elegant strokes near the end of the page is a single name—Urû'baen.

"How—how can this be?" Orrin stutters in disbelief. Eragon's silence is equally shocked.

Nasuada merely shakes her head, thin finger hovering over the paper meaningfully. I lean over slightly to better view the spot, reeling back involuntarily in surprise.

For it is not one of the many winding corridors, or twisted cells, or even just empty spaces that lie there. Instead, a black, unmistakable shape is curled against an ebony throne.

Shruikan, I observe solemnly. Eragon nods in silent agreement while Orrin pales; Nasuada reacts only in the slightest of nods before allowing her hand to drift back towards herself, folding her arms once more.

"It's hard to say whether this is good or bad news," she acknowledges slowly, drawing Eragon's disheartened and Orrin's astonished gazes. Shrugging a shoulder mildly, she runs a finger over the parchment wonderingly. "Strange that Galbatorix would keep a map in the first place," she murmurs, almost to herself. I nod silently in agreement, though Eragon leans back in his chair and sighs.

"Well, it doesn't matter. If Shruikan is truly holding the egg, there's no way we're getting it." I glare sternly at him, snorting a puff of clear smoke, though he shrugs in response. "Think about it, Saphira."

And unfortunately, I do. An enormous black dragon—one trained and weathered to kill dragons—appears in my mind's eye. He is stronger than I could hope to be, and swifter than Glaedr was. He is emboldened by my terror—even though he does not see it—and his savage heart begs for blood. I see a black-hearted monster there—a horror that is far too large, too dark to dare combat.

I shiver wordlessly.

There is hope yet, I offer, trying to be encouraging. Nasuada nods firmly in agreement, though Eragon remains sulky. In fact, if we can lure Shruikan from the castle, it might be easier than we previously thought.

"Lure Shruikan from the castle," Eragon snorts, more dismayed than angry. "Unlikely."

But possible, I add.

"What if you two went to him?" Orrin proposes boldly. Both Eragon and I turn on him with stern glances of protest and he shrinks back slightly, coughing delicately into a sleeve. Poor man—to be reprimanded by both dragon and Rider. But still, I cannot agree more on this one. "Just offering," he adds feebly.

"Perhaps he's right."

Surprised, I glance at Nasuada, waiting dubiously for her explanation. "We have a map of Urû'baen—the castle, at least," she elaborates, "and thus a way to get inside. We could dismantle Galbatorix from the inside, if planned correctly."

"What if the map is a decoy?" the brown-haired boy across from her protests. "It wouldn't be unwise for Galbatorix to have left such a thing, and certainly possible."

But just looking at the map sprawled before us, both mine and Eragon's doubts falter. Far too much detail is put into it—and an even more undeniable aspect lingers around it. Age. Certainly amidst the war Galbatorix would not have the time to reconstruct his castle, and thus this—if not false—must be the true map. I shift slightly, considering. Outside, I can sense the Urgals growing slightly disgruntled by my presence that prevents them from standing at their usual guard.

"This is the real map," Nasuada affirms, "though we're blind to Shruikan's position, and Galbatorix's, for that matter."

Too risky, I point out. Especially for us. And we cannot risk sending anyone else for fear of losing them as well. I glance pointedly at Nasuada, waiting for her argument. Instead, she is silent.

Then: "I suppose you're right, but is this not a risky time which we live in?" The answer startles the three of us—Orrin, Eragon, and myself alike.

"This could very well be the best thing we have to obtaining the green egg," she continues, emboldened apparently by our silence, "and certainly easier than trying to steal it from them in battle. If we were to send yourselves and several others there, you could do so quietly and save us a great deal of trouble."

"Galbatorix will know we're there," Eragon protests.

"The others managed to slip by," Nasuada calmly dissuades, "without problem. And Saphira's egg was stolen by a lucky third on the original mission. How difficult could it be for yourselves to shield against him and enter?"

"Very," Eragon warns. "Galbatorix wouldn't worry himself over some soldiers—especially ones incapable of using magic—but a dragon and her rider are a bit harder to conceal. Besides, how would you expect us to steal the egg from Shruikan once we arrived—not mentioning without alerting Galbatorix in the first instance?"

Nasuada pauses, evidently set back by Eragon's arguments. Even I must admit that the odds are highly improbable we would manage to do such a task—attempting just seems futile and foolish. "If you could escape Galbatorix's detection, could you handle stealing the egg from Shruikan?" she asks, suddenly fierce.

I blink in surprise and Eragon frowns slightly. "I suppose," he hedges. "But how, exactly, do you plan to escape Galbatorix's detection?"

Instead of answering, Nasuada dips a finger toward the sapphire ring situated on his finger. "If you were to cast a shielding spell—with sufficient energy to fuel it—then you would, in theory, be able to walk about undetected?"

Eragon frowns, glancing at the ring in something not unlike trepidation. With a slight nod, he agrees, "It's possible, I suppose. But even Aren cannot hold enough energy to shield both Saphira and myself that long…"

"You do not need to shield long," the dark-skinned woman dismisses. "Just long enough to get inside the castle. Beyond that and you'll have to be on your own for hiding your mind."

"That's the problem, though. How am I supposed to—with Saphira—remain undetected? Surely Galbatorix would sense our presences…"

Perhaps I can be of assistance, rumbles a deep voice, entering our minds like the voice of some divine being. I start, glancing around in surprise.

Glaedr-ebrithil? I ask in barely concealed astonishment.

The growl of approval emphasizes a 'yes' as he voices the same. Pausing, he adds: I could assist you in keeping yourselves hidden—my strength is yours to use at your discretion.

But Glaedr—I try to protest. He silences me with a swift mental jab, the equivalent of a light nudge.

Be not afraid of what lies within—for I believe you have no true reason to fear. Galbatorix was always a poor student when it came to focusing on the whole rather than mere parts. If the situation arises, though, I'm willing to serve you.

Even though his voice is lighthearted, I can sense the horrible grief that plagues him, smothering his words like a blanket. Subconsciously, my own conscious reaches out to comfort his, though he sighs slightly and adds, Do not worry for me either, Saphira.

Reluctantly drawing back from my efforts, I nod slightly. King Orrin is stock-still in his chair, bewildered by the strange contact, while Eragon and Nasuada have mirroring accepting expressions. Whatever you chose, I am here, he responds before parting, retreating into his Eldunarí.

Though the contact seems terribly brief, it is strangely comforting—to know that he still exists, and is there to be consulted.

"So it is settled?" Nasuada asks, raising an eyebrow. Eragon sighs heavily, running a hand down his face.

"I don't know," he mutters. "Perhaps, perhaps not."

"Eragon," the young Varden's leader insists, "There is never going to be a 'perfect time' for these things. We must act swiftly if we wish to prevail—while also keeping our wits about us. We've been presented with a strong advantage—" here she raises the map slightly "—and our resources are greater."

I rumble discontentedly at being ignored, and she addresses me sincerely. "And you, Saphira. The gain we might achieve far outweighs the risk—I would not think to risk you otherwise if not for these odds. You may bring others with you, if it helps—"

"No," the brown-haired boy interrupts, "We go alone—Saphira, Glaedr, and I."

And in that single sentence, it becomes clear that—both by his expression and his words—we've agreed.

Nasuada nods once, content, while King Orrin just shakes his hand and mutters, "This is a very strange day indeed."

"The greatest barrier to success is the fear of failure."

-Sven Goran

Thorn

Winter descends with the first flurry, a nasty storm that seeps deep into the castle through the cobbled stone walls. Everyone is in dour spirits, reinforced by the Varden's continuous burden upon our troops. In remote areas, they have claimed small victories, though on the true battlefield, we remain unbeaten. Their behavior is strange, though—their attacks sporadic and seemingly unplanned. The moment they appear threatened to be overwhelmed, they retreat. Suspicions are raised by the questionable behavior, though neither the King nor his Black Dragon bother themselves to truly do anything besides issue the usual orders.

A cold fog drifts hazily through the cells, a white-gray mixture that adds a wintry feel to all the prison. Guards shiver irritably outside their respective cells, grumbling about the cold and moaning new complaints each day. Sometimes I interrupt them with a growl—other times I silence them with a roar. In total, I manage to discern that six guards rotate duties to my cell. Always three, for purposes I do not understand—for if I did manage to escape, three men couldn't hope to overwhelm myself. Though, when I hear their words, it becomes apparent that it is mostly an assurance for them, as well as a continuous vigil in case one is struck down.

The chains binding my wings have frosted over, creaking and groaning whenever I dare move. The velvety skin that makes them is torn and fragile, paper-like against such chills. Occasionally, the webbed cracks lining their surface break, allowing rivulets of hot blood to drip down them. Though I moan and growl in protest, none of the guards heed my discomfort.

Something deeper than the chill of winter haunts me, though. Whether it is in the lengthened shadows cast across the walls, or perhaps the dreary feel which the guards emanate, or just the darkness that seems eternal, something is wrong. I wish to question Shruikan of such, though he has forbidden himself to return to me—which he informed me mere days after his first and final conversation with me. I begged that he tell me what was wrong—for the strangeness to his tone was unmistakable—though he flouted my existence as casually as a sparrow hovers out of reach a fox.

From Shruikan, though, I tasted the same bitter sadness that is being grounded forever. During our short discussion, I saw only a handful of times his wings had beaten against the wind, his mind had opened free to the sensation of flying. Like he, I long to fly—my corrupted dreams filled with the undeniable euphoria of having my wings catch the wind and my paws relinquish earth. I can almost taste the sweet breath of the wind—and the power of it, driven by the forces of the heavens. I marvel at the thought of being so free, of being able to twist and turn and tumble without the restraint of chains. And as suddenly as my musings begin, my dreams are once again smothered by the chains that stretch precariously as I do.

Flying, I sigh, craning my neck back to examine my wings.

A ragged scar festers on my face, though it lies unattended as I breathe in an expansive, cold breath. Combined with the poisons that lather my stingy food and the chilled season, the fire that burns within me is barren, doused by the cold. My scales have faded in color—a sickly russet in color, rather than the brilliant scarlet they once were. The ruby haze that usually tints my vision has turned gray, deadened and lifeless. My spikes have taken on a grayish color as well, unhealthy and brittle.

But no one notices—or cares—and I do not tell them. For what would be the point? 'Make the cold go away; make the pain stop,' seems a child's complaint, and 'I'm hurting; help me,' is no better. If I am fortunate, the infection blossoming below and across my left eye will kill me—though I have horrible doubts of such that mean I just must suffer through it in silence. Occasionally, I wake feverish in the night, shivering and burying myself deep in the recesses of my cell. Some times I attempt to halt my own breathing, nearly succeeding before my traitorous body takes a breath. And on even rarer occasions, I have quested out toward the Black Dragon, pleading that he just come kill me.

Though for the most part, I am ignored.

A sorrowful moan escapes me and I turn to glare at the place where once I could see the guards, now distorted by my grayed sight. Why can't you see that I'm suffering? I ask silently. Why can't you do anything?

And it is true—for as blind as I am, they are blind to my true misery. Food is brought to me from a separate guard periodically—once every couple days or so—and thus there is no reason to suspect I am in any sort of pain, as I do not cry out or beg them for reprieve. My ravaging hunger demands more than the scrimpy bones and tufts of fur that they provide, tainted with suppressive drugs. Yet if I do not bother eat them, I do not eat at all.

And I cannot starve, so eat them I do.

A lugubrious roar breaks free of my possessive hold, echoing painfully throughout the dungeon. Somewhere, I know, someone is weeping; is laughing; is howling; is moaning; is begging.

Somewhere—someone is dying.

And only once I close my jaws and fall silent do I realize that someone is me. Cold tears track down my face and I groan, ignoring the heated murmurs of the guards as they probably glance at my cell suspiciously. Now they must know—and as I learned from Shruikan, it was not ignorance that is the curse.

It is knowledge.

Shruikan

I pause, rolling my jaw so that the egg inside does not accidentally slip down my throat. What a fine excuse that would make—'I'm sorry, but I accidentally swallowed the egg.' I chuckle slightly, though it is bitter.

Galbatorix would have my head.

Or at least, so he says. The worried hatchling radiates fear and unease, prodding my mind hopefully for assurance. Irritable already, I offer only hasty thoughts of peace and well-being, though I know the young dragon sees through the thin excuses. Calm, I urge, all will be fine. A doubtful emotion comes from him, though he retreats within his own warm cocoon as I continue along.

Though Galbatorix has entrusted the egg in my care, I can only wonder why. He holds indefinite control over me, true, but there is always the opportunity to thwart binds and have freedom. I suppose it is just an insult—that he regards me as too stupid to be able to think of a way to circumvent my bounds.

Fool.

But I suppose he is right in some aspect, as I have not already figured out how to get around this particular obstacle without bringing harm to Thorn or the green hatchling in my jaws.

A sour smirk curls my lips at the thought, absently shifting the egg on my tongue. Fortunately the build of my face is sleek, but muscular, thick jawbones melding into a firm neck seamlessly. Because of this, the slight bulge against my right cheek goes unnoticed as I stroll aimlessly down the corridors, occasionally passing a guard. They dismiss me with a murmured 'Black Dragon', and I dismiss them with a flat glare.

The dark impression of fear clouds my mind, and for a moment I pause, convinced something terrible is about to happen. And in the next, I realize it is the hatchling, radiating waves of the paralyzing emotion. Calm, calm, I reply, my voice low and seemingly menacing. The hatchling, however, seems to recognize the presence of another dragon, oddly quieting to my words. The soft hum of his presence, troubled by my inner worry yet silenced by my gentle command, is like the dim glow of a candle in the dark. A steadying thing that allows me a moment of peace—to understand that there is more to the world than evil. That there are innocents who must be protected from corruption—even if it is a corrupted one who guards them.

I sigh weakly—this is the job of a dragoness, not an enslaved dragon like myself. Guarding an egg has never been the task of the male, and certainly never to one as 'untrustworthy' as myself. Though I suppose that it is my task, and mine alone as I quietly pad down the halls. Besides, I reason, the only dragoness remaining is barely above a hatchling herself—and on the wrong side of this blasted war.

I pause again, Galbatorix's words like poisonous taunts in my head. 'Don't tell me you don't wish to have her as your own… I've seen your thoughts, Shruikan, and know the fantasies you entertain.' Traitorously, my conscience agrees, while the rest of me protests vehemently. I am nearly a century her senior—the idea of a relationship existing between us is vulgar in itself. But how terrible is it, then—desperate times do invoke desperate measures.

I growl at the rationalizing, unable to resist the wistful part that begs I agree; that finds solace in the fact that maybe it could happen. Stop it, stop it, stop it¸ I order, as though the irate part that loves the idea is another being entirely. The green hatchling sends a hazy emotion to me, one that mimics calmness. No, not calmness—confusion. It's questioning mind urges mine for some answer, though I ignore his prodding and continue along.

No. I refuse to acknowledge it, even to a hatchling unborn. A purr seems to exude from the egg, though it is so small and soft I can only just detect it. Be silent, I sigh quietly, and the hatchling reluctantly obliges.

Everywhere I look, there are grayed stones covered in battered tapestries, depicting once fabulous scenes in splotched paints. One strikes me as particularly gruesome—the image of white dragon with ruby wings hung close by its sides, head drooping miserably. Drops of blood hover eternally on a carpet of black, a low moan seeming to escape the creature as its white eyes gaze downward. Surrounding it lie humans, elves, dwarves, Urgals… all races. The once white scales of the dragon's back are stained red as well—its face is splotched and twisted with agony. A single sword protrudes from the beast's left breast, though it appears almost content at such a thing.

And written brutally on the sword is a single name: Bid'Daum.

I turn, focusing my gaze on the damp hallway, though surreptitiously allowing myself to be draw upon a different painting. This one is remarkably different than the first, yet eerily similar. It is the image of a sea-green dragon, strangling another dragon in its bloodied jaws. The sharp contrast of green and red is stunning, though not nearly as the indigo dragon clutched in its maw. Mouth opened in a soundless cry, the indigo appears to struggle, its wings flared to reveal a myriad of scars and fresh cuts. The sea-green holds the same deadened look as the white Bid'Daum, though most striking is the way its claws drive themselves into the earth, its shoulders straining backwards. Its wings ripple with a nonexistent breeze, and its brow is furrowed deeply as its lip curls into a snarl.

It is frozen, yet I know that deep within, it is trying to draw back, trying desperately to stop. Twin swords cross malevolently in the bloody copper earth before them—one jade, one blue. Fundor, says the jade, and Ohen, reads the blue.

I shiver and move on.

Yet there is no respite from the dark, single-minded demons that possess the paintings before me. A crimson—named Jura by the red sword lodged in its left shoulder—dives to strike at another crimson—Beroan, whose naming sword is mounted in its neck, craned upward in a defiant roar. Savagely, Gretiem—a gray—and Briam—a silver—engage in a duel, their wings overlapping as their teeth sink into each other's flesh. Protruding from their sides are the gray and silver swords respectively, again branded with their names. Drawing a barbed tail back defensively is Roslarb—a violet—while Galzra—an orange—dodges with a silent hiss. Roslarb's sword is planted firmly in her tail, while Galzra's sticks grotesquely above her head.

Dozens of these dragons fight in silent combat, all frozen within the paints of a tapestry. Though the material is weathered and faded, it is clear of the names, and of the sickening skill put into making each appear as demonic as the next. Questioning thoughts come from the green hatchling at my disturbed conscience, though I ignore them, now focused solely on the dragons.

Hírador, an earthy brown, strikes down a sapphire whose sword is broken, one part jutting from just below her jaw. The brown's sword is stabbed into the base of his neck, while the blue's missing half lies on the ground beneath his ivory claw. I squint, just able to read the faded print—'Saph' upon the broken half, 'ira' upon the half that is still pressed against her jaw.

Who? the young green hatchling seems to inquire, the low purr of his thoughts suggesting such. Why? he adds in a troubled emotion of curiosity and fear.

No one, I assure. Be calm.

I feel sickened as I pass more of the paintings, each more fiendish than the last. Still, the most tortured appears at the very end.

A bronze dragon is crushed into the stony ground beneath it—looming over it a regal scarlet. The downed dragon's mouth is open in a wide, aching roar, though its eyes glisten with unmistakable tears. Torn wings—so ripped and mauled they barely resemble such—hang limply from its shoulders, and its spikes are cracked and bent. Its face is riddled with cuts, its eyes blinded with white. Even in its helpless state, the most tragic feature is of the broken pride in its destroyed wings—and the pleading in its blind eyes.

Yet the worst part of the painting is not of the bronze's demise—but of the red's complete indifference to such. Its face does not glower with hate, as one would expect, but rather remains as calm and controlled as though asserting a simple statement that is true over a false one. Its claws dig harshly into the bronze, yet it appears untroubled by the blood that has dyed them. And as it cranes its neck downward to spare a glimpse at its prey, the same impassive expression gazes upon the dying dragon beneath it.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply and turning away, stalking down the hall without bothering to read the single sword locked against the bronze's chest. I need not ponder why this is so—why the red has seemingly been spared from the cruel joke that the rest must bear.

For the bronze, I know, is Orandr—and the red, Baen.

And Orandr is Vrael's dragon, while Baen is Morzan's.

Saphira

I scan the horizon—darkened with the first touch of eve—before glancing over at Eragon, who digs through a sack furtively before nodding to himself and moving over to something else. He lifts the two saddlebags and reattaches them with practiced ease, not once glancing up at me as he knots them tightly. I snort once softly to get his attention, though he sighs heavily and reenters his tent, bustling about disinterestedly.

Miffed at being ignored—though understanding the true worry that plagues him—I keep an irritable silence, shuffling about to and fro. Only two days before and we sat before King Orrin and Nasuada, where we decided it time to attempt to steal the green egg for ourselves. It is, undoubtedly, a risky mission, though one we must at least try. I glance around, distracting myself from the despairing thoughts of confronting the one who apparently is the egg's true captor—Shruikan. Nearby, I notice, Vor Laurk and Vor Merrn spare myself a brief glance before returning to their dry duties of guarding, understanding smirks crossing their faces.

Around me, a light dusting of snow coats the ground—the result of a fearsome storm that swept across the Hadarac only a day before. Mercifully, we evaded its cold grasp, suffering only a slight chill in temperature as it moved northward. The intense underground heat fuels a constant dryness, and soon the snow reigned unacknowledged amidst the encampment.

I sigh heavily. Soon, I know, we must depart, as the Varden can only distract the Empire's troops for so long. Tarry too long and we risk Galbatorix catching onto our plans—an insurmountable difficultly that mustn't occur. Secretly, I almost hope he does discover our plans and we are forced to retreat, though a reprimanding thought enters my conscience almost as quickly as the idea crosses my mind. Saphira, rumbles my former teacher and master.

Yes, Glaedr-ebrithil? I inquire, more out of habit than anything.

Do not wish misfortune upon yourselves. Trust me—I wouldn't allow this if I were not fairly certain we shall succeed.

I paw absently at the ground, kneading the earth between my claws. I don't know, I admit, it doesn't seem very likely to succeed to me.

To my surprise, an amused chuckle radiates from the golden dragon's Eldunarí, the sound as gravelly and deep as it was when he possessed a true body. Ah, Saphira, you worry too much, he chides. Let things take their course, and then decide if it was truly foolishness. For now, be open. If this does in fact succeed, we shall add another dragon to our ranks. Better—one who can be your mate once he reaches maturity.

I cannot help it—I blush shamefully as the words take on a slightly reprimanding tone from my earlier mishaps courting Glaedr. Of course, the golden dragon had forgiven me, though I still could not help but feel immensely guilty for doing such a childish thing. Bowing my head slightly to the deepening night, I consider his words for several moments longer, an inexplicable anger welling up within me at how casually he states the need for me to mate with the green dragon.

I know that I must do so. If there is to be any hope for the dragon's restoration, it is in the offspring that I mother. Since Glaedr is not an option, and Thorn and Shruikan are likewise unsuitable, it leaves but that unborn hatchling. Still, I wish that Glaedr hadn't so blatantly disregarded my own feelings—that perhaps I might be concerned with how strong and how intelligent the hatchling becomes.

Saphira, reproves the ancient dragon at my thoughts, there is no room to be picky. You must accept what fate has dealt you, and live with it. That is the only way to live life—and that is the only way any of us may continue to do so.

Yes, Glaedr-ebrithil, I respond, feeling childish for even having thought such things. He is right—it is terribly choosy to be judging the unborn hatchling already, even worse to be angered by such. I'm sorry, I add lamely.

No need to be. Now, your Rider appears ready, so you should be as well, he notes. At my displeased nod, he pauses before adding paternally, Do not judge so hastily that which you do not know, Saphira. It is best to go in with an open mind than it is to be stubbornly set on one choice. There is nothing to discover if you do not look.

Surprised by the strange wisdom, I nod once. Of course, Glaedr-ebrithil.

Saphira, he chuckles, genuinely amused, I am your master no longer. Your training with myself and—he pauses abruptly, and his voice fades sorrowfully to nothing. Regardless, you need not refer to me as 'master', he finishes quietly.

I begin to protest before silencing myself. With a short bow, I say simply, Yes, Glaedr.

He retreats, Eragon emerging almost on cue, yet another sack slung over his shoulder. What's with all the packs? I ask, bemused. He shakes his head slightly, climbing into the saddle. I crane my neck back to look at him skeptically, though he simply shrugs.

We travel light as it is. One pack is for the way there, the other's for the way back, and this—he pauses to pat the pack shouldered on his back—is for once we're there.

Oh? What's in it?

He shrugs, unfastening the pack and holding it open.

Of course. Nothing, I chuckle in response, shaking my head slightly at his smirk.

We have to have something to carry the egg in if we succeed, he chastises, and suddenly our bantering fades to seriousness. I nod in agreement, Glaedr rumbling disapprovingly from his Eldunarí at my sudden solemnity.

Indeed we do, I agree, spreading my wings to catch the night air. Taking in an expansive breath to my lungs, I relish the cool breeze that filters past the humid air. Allowing my mind to empty itself of such pessimistic thoughts, I throw my wings outward jubilantly. Ready? I ask, not really caring for an answer. Eragon answers by gripping a neck spike tighter, and with a powerful thrust, I drive myself into the twilight sky.

Chapter end notes:

Yes, Thorn's and Saphira's parts were short. However, it was either have a filler chapter such as this or even more confusion later by skipping ahead. All three passages occur at the end of the second day after Nasuada, King Orrin, Eragon, and Saphira discussed plans of entering Urû'baen. Hopefully I didn't confuse you too much, and aside from Baen and Orandr, you can find of all the dragons that Shruikan mentioned from Eragon when Brom is discussion dragon names. I hope you enjoyed, and it'd be nice to get a review if you did. ;)

'Aren't the stars beautiful?' he said in the midst of delirium.

Shruikan

'If you fear to be wrong,' asserted Baen, 'you will never dare to be right.'

Something of Morzan's dragon is unforgettable in a way that cannot be pinpointed to a single trait. I know this because while the rest of the Forsworn have slipped into a shadowy part of my mind that refuses to remember, this red dragon has not. A tragedy, it is, that I cannot even properly relate his name—lost upon a cruel binding the old Order of Riders has placed upon us. I have been spared such humiliation—to lose one's very name, the core of your identity—but I cannot say the same of my unlikely compatriots.

He—the Red Dragon who deserves far more than granted—was not heartless, cruel, or wicked as so many tell. Rather, he was fatherly, in a strange way. He took charge almost immediately of our ranks and made sure that whenever day's end had fallen we were all accounted for. Much as a King commandeering his servants, he demanded of us obedience, even if I were supposedly our leader. I submissively fulfilled his commands as the others did, not daring strike a revolt amidst ourselves by challenging him. Despite his tyrannical behavior, he never once laid harm upon us—and rarely did he ever falter or chose wrong when he agreed with his Rider.

Blunt was another prominent trait of his I can recall easily—as well as fairly stubborn. Whenever he decided upon a path, there was no doubting—or questioning—him. It was to be followed almost thoughtlessly, though with such a devout trust in Baen that there was no disagreement to be found. Subtlety and secrecy were two arts Baen never mastered, for even in the most dire situations, he never sugarcoated things. For a time, it seemed an agreeable thing to be able to know of our true peril, though after a while, it grew to be almost intolerably grim. But never once did Baen think of speaking other than the truth, which made him both admirable and loathsome.

'If you cannot speak what it is you mean to say,' he admonished me once, 'then what point are you trying to make? That you are too cowardly to even speak what you feel—and thus wasting time trying to conceive a lie? Bah—worthless talk, that is, and even more worthless in the time of trouble. No, the only way to make sure what you wish to say is heard is to say it without hesitation—and without trickery.'

If I had been older at the time, I would've heeded those words better than I had in my foolish youth—yet I was not, and for that I am ashamed. Still, many a things he has told me remain strong in my memory—far more noticeable than any of the other things I was told. Perhaps it was the way he spoke—perhaps it was the words. But I know it could not have been just one or the other, else I would have remembered nothing.

Something about Baen himself, though, was unusual. He possessed a trait that was lost to the bards—lost to the legends. Charismatic. For even in the most discordant of times, he could draw forth unity from us, words alone settling qualms. There was no strife towards his authority, for nothing he did was arguable. Unless, that is, we chose to challenge logic itself—an impossible argument. He was companionable, even friendly, at times, and for that there was little to disagree with him.

Even the deep golden-yellow dragon never dared defy Baen, though the gold was perhaps the most rebellious of us. His name escapes me, though I believe it was something of Myrth. Or Aurum. Or Synom.

Ah, the cruel crime it is to remember the name, yet forget the one who bears it—and lose the ability to directly place it to them.

The only reason I am even able to know their old names now is because I was alive at the time when they had them—before they were stripped of their spirits and reduced to savage beings. For some unfathomable reason, Baen was the only one amongst our ranks that never suffered a streak of insanity from such a thing. I never suffered this punishment either, though it was torment enough to listen to the mad ravings of a poisoned dragon that craved only blood and death.

I am undoubtedly certain it is from these darkest times in which the entirety of the Forsworn's existence has been judged.

Baen, however, was remarkably levelheaded even in the most chaotic of periods—a rare reprieve from our crazed companions. He was very quiet, though, which both unnerved and frightened myself. Never once did he show the slightest sign of discomfort, though his words were short and brief—never returning to the fascinating dragon he had once been. Still, I was drawn to him, as he was the only one who I could go to for even the slightest of comforts. He never regarded me with more than a curt nod—the same courtesy he extended to our mad followers.

'Orandr will bleed,

As the bright moon turns black,

For Vroengard will see,

The protection they lack,'

Sung a dark violet dragon in a frightening voice.

Baen watched on in silence, crimson eyes oddly amused as a grim smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

The Forsworn never recovered from such a blow. As Baen's self-proclaimed rule declined, I asserted myself as leader, and from there, my reputation was earned. I was no longer an unnoticed follower—and never again would I be. Baen's health took a sudden turn for the worse, though he concealed it obstinately and refused to be rested because of it. He coughed blood at nights, and slept fitfully from fevers. Morzan attempted to heal him several times, succeeding only in nauseating himself and earning firm rebukes from Baen. The Red Dragon never appeared hindered, however, as we struck the Riders, bringing down their numbers.

Eventually, the madness that had disintegrated our once thriving hierarchy destroyed our ranks entirely. Galbatorix's conquest was nearly concluded—the Riders stood on ground that had been rocked to its core by our revolt. Only one task remained, and that was to kill the Bronze Dragon himself.

And it is here that history has brutally chosen to assert which side shall be remembered as the 'good', and which side shall be remembered as the 'bad'.

Before the destruction of the Forsworn's names, we had functioned remarkably well, dealing justice rather than revenge. We killed out of necessity, and stayed clear of the Riders who sought to massacre us. When the lines defining revenge and justice wavered, we were accused of horrible things, treacherously forced into positions which would leave us as the undeniable villains. No one would argue with the Elders at such time and they stole our names in turn.

Had they not, and I can believe things would've been far different than what they are today.

But alas, they were as they were, and soon the Forsworn's true nature and rumors of its existence coincided. With the corruption that was brought upon by the very ones trying to deter us from committing such crimes, we did exactly as we were not to.

'Irony is bitter,' remarked Baen hoarsely one eve, a surprise to me as he had not spoken to me in many a day. 'It treats all—the hero and the villain alike—to humility.'

Of course, history chooses what times it wishes to remember, and from which side it chooses to be written from. As the majority of people at the time sided with the Elders, there was no doubt our existence would be known as traitors—terrible beasts that had forever shamed their kind and deserved no remembrance for any good.

Baen's reputation suffered severely from the stories, rapidly falling from an unknown to a monster. I, too, had earned myself an unwanted position amidst the world's eye, though I would not dispute it and thus embraced it. When we decided that it was time to deal away with Orandr, we knew we would be remembered forever as the ones who destroyed the Riders.

'We tread on dangerous ground,' said Baen, a sense of his dry humor ebbing into his voice. 'History shall not be kind to us in the end, though we must take into firm account that there is no reason to let history bother us. If we stop now, we die in vain. If we continue and succeed, we'll die remembered.'

The night, I remember clearly, was very dark when we first struck Vroengard's heart. Shell-shocked by our ambush, the Riders and dragons attempted to rally themselves, though we swiftly disposed of them. When Galbatorix struck down Vrael, he fled—coward that he was. We pursued, and all the while Orandr evaded our grasp. Taunting us, sometimes, by drawing near enough that we might even scent the hardened copper blood on his sides.

Finally, in the last throes of our pursuit, Orandr landed, allowing Vrael to rest. The four of us—Morzan, Galbatorix, Baen, and I—descended upon them, and from there we battled it out.

I will never approve how Galbatorix disposed of Vrael, though neither was I capable of stopping it. Enraged at his act, Orandr mauled Baen within an inch of his life, though Baen doggedly snatched his neck and clung to him.

'You will die today, Orandr!' I remembered his cry.

'That I shall, Baen,' replied the bronze dragon tonelessly, 'but you shall die as well.'

While Baen's words had proven true, Orandr's had fallen short, making our battle seem all the more cruel to the people who heard of it. The injuries Orandr dealt Baen were horrendous, though the worst was blinding in his left eye. None outside our small ranks were aware of such a fact. It took weeks for his recovery, and by such a time, Morzan and Galbatorix had become a pair to behold, if not from the best light.

It was there that he lost my approval—when he ordered myself and the battered Baen to travel to the stone-cliff just beyond the Craigs of Tel'naeír. We discovered—to our horror and dismay—dozens of eggs, most already destroyed. Galbatorix and Morzan made quick work of the remaining ones, sparing only three eggs that appeared healthy enough. Disgusted by such work, Baen had requested—mildly enough—that we return to the city we now knew as Urû'baen. Morzan had not-so-kindly declined, though Galbatorix had agreed and eventually we were off.

Baen's life, I knew at that time, was fast ending. His health hadn't recovered from the blows Orandr dealt him, and his sight was irreparable. He suffered bouts of restlessness, sometimes rambling on through the night as I dutifully stood guard over him, at the time equal in size.

'Aren't the stars beautiful?' he said in the midst of delirium. 'So bright and perfect—how wonderful it would be to be one! Oh, Shruikan, you mustn't be fearful, for the stars are always perfect, and bright they shall forever be.'

As the life faded from his eyes and the strength from his limbs, I remained by his side, encouraging him as he had once done for me. Morzan was busy with Galbatorix for the most part, though he visited Baen often. Remorse was the only emotion I can recall him feeling towards Baen, and all I felt from Baen was the horrible doom that you know you are slowly dying and are powerless to stop it.

One eve, Morzan proposed that he and Baen deal with the newest threat of the time—Brom, and his dragon Saphira. Apparently, Morzan had some older issues to resolve with the man, and so was permitted to go and tend to it.

I regret ever having let them go, for it was within my power to stop them. Yet, in the words of Baen: 'We cannot anticipate failure if we wish to survive.'

From what I heard, it was not a kind death. I discovered for myself this several days later as I chanced upon his and Morzan's corpses. A red slit told me Morzan had been stabbed through the heart—a mockery, in a way, as though to proclaim he were a shade. Baen's face was a pale red, sickly and cracked. A long tear bisected it, and along he neck was a single, deep slash wound. Not far from him lie another—a blue dragoness, limp and still.

I remember that as the first night I ever wept, and the only night since I would ever do so.

'There are some things that deserve our respect,' chastised Baen wisely, 'and others that deserve our admiration. There are things that deserve our pity, as well as our regret. But few things deserve our hate—and just some that deserve our love.'

I bow my head, the memories fading as reality crushingly reasserts itself. A smooth round object slips between my jaws and lands with a muted clatter upon the marble floor, alarmed thoughts surging from within. Glancing down at the glistening egg, I smile sadly to myself and scoop down, gently taking it into my jaws once more.

Who? the young hatchling asks, though not in words.

And I have not even the words to explain it, so I simply answer as though he understands me, An old friend.

Chapter end notes:

So. This chapter is here for two reasons:

1) To build up Shruikan's past/character more

2) To give you more insight on the Forsworn from his perspective

So I do hope you enjoyed and next chapter will get back to the romance. ;)

'It's just so… different.'

Saphira

The thrum that reverberates through my wings seems to enthuse me with power. Instead of fatigued, I feel rejuvenated, as though before I were caged and now I am free. I wish to fly for eternity, feeling the steady rhythm that drives me forward. My scales shudder occasionally, shivering on my hide in the chill night air. Eragon tenaciously clings to a neck spike, though I need not ask to know the soreness in his back and shoulders from being hunched over, and the cold that nips aggravatingly at his face and hands. I attempt to soothe his aches with my own pleasure, though he refuses my offers with a grumble.

Save your energy, he refutes. I'll be fine. Warming his hands with a murmured spell, he straightens slightly to prove his point. With an exasperated snort, I soar onward, breathing clouds. They puff before me with each breath I take, dissolving into the velvety night only a moment later. Sometimes I allow the fire from within me to slip from my throat, hot air rippling before me before it, too, disappears.

Two colors dominate my sight—black and blue. The black cloaks everything, an overpowering shade that seems to seek out every shadow to coalesce. But just as prevalent is the bluish tinge that illuminates torches in the distance, and stars impossibly far above us. I purr happily, enjoying the calm contrast the colors share—how the black shadows the blue, which seems to forever elude its grasp. Breathing a heavy gust of air, I plunge through the cerulean cloud a moment later.

Black signifies evil in a way, remarks Eragon sourly.

How so? I ask, humming to myself as I glide.

It kills. Black poison, blackened days, black hearts…

Evil is not borne of blackness, I admonish. Darkness and blackness are not interchangeable.

What difference does it make? Blackness and darkness exist together.

Blackness is used for dark purposes, not the other way around.

And to that, he is silent. I drift along, the snowy desert beneath me quiet. My own words seem to echo in my head, unrelenting: Blackness is used for dark purposes.

A snarl rumbles in my throat as one particular example of such enters my thoughts, though I forcefully press it back. No. I will not even think of him.

Why do you worry about him? Eragon asks, misinterpreting my repressed anger for fear. With a shake of my head, I surge forward, Eragon's grip tightening slightly as he bows his head to the onslaught of wind.

We do not speak for the rest of that night, nor the two nights following it.

Eragon estimates three leagues separate us from Urû'baen's gates.

I watch as he shoulders a pack, filled with a few necessities as well as the empty sack. He relieves me of the saddle, allowing me to stretch for the first time since we left the Varden. The sun blazes low at the horizon—many will not be up for a few hours yet. I let a grateful sigh escape me, watching as he buries the saddle and extra pack. Though it is not a perfect concealment, I know it will suffice as few enough would come crossing the Hadarac. Nothing unremarkable is around us, leaving us relatively open amidst the dunes.

So crowded in here, Glaedr drawls from his Eldunarí. Tight fit.

Oh hush, you, I chastise. He snorts, the sound muffled through the mental link.

You do not have to be in a sack, he complains, and though I open my mouth to retort, I shut it wordlessly and shake my head. No need to bring up unpleasant things such as that.

Whatever you say, ebrithil. The word is spoken playfully, though a dreary sigh from him tells me that he has interpreted that another way. Sorry, Glaedr, I offer.

Eragon shuffles around my left side as I watch, his thinned shoulders burdened with the heavy pack. For a moment, he is silent, staring out at the city stoically. And then: How, exactly, are we supposed to get into the city?

By avoiding the guards, Glaedr pipes in, recovered. When Eragon threatens to comment, he continues. Human guards may be avoided or killed, and if you wish to kill them, it must be done carefully. Avoiding them would be simpler—just alter your appearance slightly and you can be unrecognizable.

Master, you never, ah, elaborated how to do that, Eragon admits sheepishly. Glaedr seems perplexed before 'ahhing' understandingly.

I see. Well, I suppose I will have to teach you then, won't I? And so he proceeds to do just that, Eragon occasionally offering comment or a nod. The spell, I recognize, is not unlike that used to encourage plants and trees to grow, though the wording is strange and seems foreign to my mind as I repeat the words absently. Be careful, Glaedr warns. Altering one's appearance is a costly spell—you must make the most insignificant changes you can with the largest effect.

Nodding once more, Eragon closes his eyes in concentration, standing silent on the plain. He wordlessly looses the pack from his shoulders, placing it to his right. A distant shushing of wind grazing sand reaches my ears, though I focus on Eragon as his brow furrows slightly, his fists clenching slowly. It is then I notice the golden tinge receding from his hair, replaced by a darker shade of brown. His brow thickens slightly, taken on a more human quality as his tapered ears smooth out to gentle tips. With a sudden gasp, he clutches his jaw, a trail of crimson seeping from it. Careful, reprimands Glaedr. Concentrate on flesh, not bone.

With a stiff nod, Eragon mutters a quick healing spell before resuming. Flesh from just beneath his ears pools slightly into his jawbones, enlarging them to a more human standard. His face appears more haggard with the effect, dark circles appearing beneath his eyes. His hands tremble, though he continues at his task staunchly, accepting my strength without comment. I notice how his chest and belly narrow slightly, as though emaciated, and the muscles from his legs vanish. His back becomes flatter—more natural on a young man—and he shivers slightly. Gritting his teeth, he continues, eyes leveling themselves infinitesimally to compensate for the elven curve they had taken on.

Suddenly, he opens them, and stares at me as I at him. His eyes, part of me notes offhandedly, turned almost blue in the process, grayness bearing down on them. Every elven quality that he had taken on is gone. Even more surprisingly is that though the alterations had seemed minor when he had slowly attended to each, together the change is astonishing. I stare in blank amazement.

He shudders suddenly before collapsing, convulsing on the ground for several moments before falling limp. My wings flare slightly in surprise and I stiffen. Just as I reach forward to nudge him and see if he is awake, he staggers to his feet with a groan, and the true alterations become apparent.

"D-mn," he mutters, voice so different I stumble back in surprise. Much deeper, and rougher, as though ailed. I cock my head at him as he brushes off his ruddy-brown breeches, appearing unfazed.

Eragon? I finally quest as he turns slightly to examine his back speculatively. He faces me, blinking twice and squinting as though his eyes are betraying him. He blinks again, and suddenly a heavy sigh escapes him. Moving forward clumsily, he adjusts to the graceless human body he has reverted to with slow steps. Wrapping a pair of surprisingly burly arms around my neck, he presses his forehead to my scales as though seeking comfort.

Is this a joke? he asks, lifting his hands slightly to peer at them. I frown, though he waves it off. I know this is real, he adds. It's just so… different.

I glance at him, bobbing my head in a nod. You look very different.

He chuckles, the sound causing me to shuffle uncomfortably. Though I know it is he, the changes have me uneasy.

Did it work? asks Glaedr.

See for yourself, replies Eragon, sending him a mental image of himself. I sense Glaedr's surprise, though the golden dragon hides it remarkably well.

Good. You might be best off, though, waiting a day before venturing into Urû'baen.

"What?" the outraged cry burst from both of us, though I sense Glaedr's unflinching presence resound calmly against Eragon and I.

As I said, it is a costly spell—who knows what the side effects of such a thing might be.

"What if nothing even happens? Then we've wasted a day!" retorts Eragon. His trembling arms, however, betray him, and he clutches my neck tighter to still them. I brush my snout reassuringly against his side, though he pushes me away roughly. Wordlessly, I withdraw, allowing him to press himself against my neck.

And what if you were to collapse in a seizure at Galbatorix's feet from exhaustion? counters Glaedr. No. You will wait here a day, or I will not assist you in your quest.

"And if we chose to refuse your assistance? Then what?"

You would be a foolish rider, Eragon, to deny my assistance, reprimands Glaedr mildly, though I sense the severity to his words. With a sigh, Eragon pulls back from my neck and I turn slightly to look at him.

"Fine," he mutters aloud. "We'll wait. Though I still don't get what worries you so."

Many a thing. Changing oneself can have greater repercussions than you would believe, murmurs Glaedr before retreating.

This is ridiculous, Eragon comments huffily as he sits by my side. I allow his ungrateful behavior, too mystified by the Rider-that-looks-not-like-my-Rider to protest. He crosses his arms, stilling the tremors there, though unable to hide the true tiredness from his face. His head is bowed slightly, chin resting on his chest.

Rest, Eragon. You cannot do any good like this, I urge.

He stubbornly ignores my command, glancing ahead dryly. He frowns, brow furrowing, and seems to struggle over some puzzle before sighing. At my questioning thought, he mutters, Blind. I'm going blind.

I stare at him, confused, before he rolls his eyes and roughly tugs me into his consciousness. The blue clarity that marks my vision suddenly vanishes, replaced by a hazy, unfocused sight that reveals only an unending plain of pale peach-gold. As he examines the horizon, I realize how damaged his sight is, the gates of Urû'baen nothing more than a blurry black line. Retreating, I blink at the sudden shift of perspective before glancing at him worriedly. Can you repair it? I ask.

He snorts. If I knew what were wrong, perhaps. Otherwise, I've no clue.

He rests his head against my cool side and I shift, allowing the warm scales of my belly to be exposed. He shifts, hunching over on his left side and curling against my side. I can still feel the constant shivers that rack his frame, though more prominent are the frustration and fear and regret he feels. Rest, I insist, and perhaps when you awaken it will be better.

He laughs bitterly. Perhaps. Curling in on himself, he barricades his consciousness from mine, the barrier fading as the effort from the spell takes full effect.

At first, the sudden shift from full consciousness to deep sleep startles and even frightens myself, until Glaedr informs, Spells such as these have unusual effects. Do not worry over it so much.

Glaedr, the spell damaged his sight, I answer, caught between grimness and anger at my old mentor for not having told us of consequences such as these. To my dismay, Glaedr appears equally confused.

Blinding? Now that I've not heard of in a while. Well, if I had to make judgment of it, I'd say it's temporary and harmless.

Harmless! I bellow, suddenly outraged. Glaedr, why didn't you warn us? Could not you have told us, and we could've just gone into the city and killed any guards we came across? What good will come of this now?

Trust me, soothes the golden dragon, though I refuse to be calmed. Give it time and it will be fine.

And if it's not? I counter. What if the blindness worsens? What if he becomes entirely blind? How, Glaedr, do you expect us to fight Galbatorix if my Rider cannot even see?

You'll find a way.

I sigh, laying a wing protectively over Eragon before craning my neck forward and reclaiming the abandoned sack. Within, I feel Glaedr's presence, drawing it between my forepaws. I stare down at the pack, wondering how a dragon so large as he could be reduced to a stone that could fit inside a pack such as this. What is it like to be in there, Glaedr? I ask, curious.

Very quiet.

I'm serious.

I am too.

Can not you be at least a bit more serious, then?

He sighs suddenly, as though exhausted. It's strange, he admits. To talk without the advantage of a body. Your thoughts so open… He pauses, and just as he noted, I notice how easy it is to sense his despair and dread, his true concern over Eragon and fear of what he agrees will happen—blindness.

Powerful spells, he agrees gravely. Mustn't tempt them—horrid results, they might have. Perhaps we should be grateful that it did not affect his old scar—just as easily could that have been renewed.

I think on that for several long moments before shivering. Nodding once, I add, Better his sight than his back. Durza deserves to rot for that—and many others.

I sense Glaedr's consent as he withdraws slightly, a hint of sadness returning to his demeanor. Quiet fills my mind. Restively, I shift, though Eragon shifts slightly as well, caught deeply in sleep. I absently quest for his mind, though a solid barrier of unconsciousness locks me away. Curling myself slightly against Glaedr's troubled and Eragon's untouchable consciousnesses, I stare out gloomily at the city so near, so foreboding and wonder how we will succeed.

Many hours later, when the sun has already begun drifting downwards from its zenith, Glaedr nudges me gently into awareness. I had not even realized when I had dozed, nor how I had let down my guard so easily, just that I had lost my bearing of the world for a time. Perhaps it was the silence that drew it on—I focus not on that as a hand pats my wing expectantly. Lifting it, I wait as Eragon draws a hand up over his eyes, noticeably bluer than before yet still tinged with grayness. His expression, however, is confused, and my own is crestfallen. So it has not gotten better.

Eragon? I ask tentatively, shielding him from the sun as I tilt my wing slightly.

It's not better, he answers my unspoken question. Though it's not worse. He sighs aloud, and I can sense his exhaustion more clearly than before. With his return to consciousness came the return of the gentle tremors, which he stilled somewhat by hugging his arms tightly to himself. Taking several deep breaths, he faces away from me, and I wait patiently for him to regroup. With sudden determination, he pushes my wing aside gently, standing on uneasy legs. Like a fawn first getting its bearings, he stumbles before steadying, holding out his arms for balance. Though he is bedecked in the same sparrow's colors as before—dark brown breeches melding into his light brown tunic—he appears much less a rider than he does a simple farm boy.

Glaedr had not lied when he said it would make him all but unrecognizable.

"Let's go," he says aloud, pointing with a thin hand to the distant city of Urû'baen. I raise an eyebrow reflexively in surprise, though he ignores it and slips before me to reclaim the pack. "We have no time to delay."

But you've not recovered your strength, I argue after a dazed moment. Or your sight, I add silently. He shrugs, twisting the ring on his left ring-finger and murmuring a brief spell. His cheeks flush slightly, a new life glowing in his eyes as the trembling settles slightly. Why didn't you use that before? I demand, pointing with my snout to Aren. He shakes his head grimly.

"To be honest, I forgot about it." Marching ahead, he adds over his shoulder, "Are you coming? We haven't all day here."

Eragon, I complain to his insistence.

"Saphira," he retorts coolly.

With a grudging sigh, I follow him, catching the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips. Oh shut up, I grumble, rolling my eyes at his amused chuckling. I add seriously, Once we get closer, I lead the way.

"Why?" he demands.

I look at him, and the message is received: Because you can't see as well as I can. We continue along, Glaedr silent in his Eldunarí.

'They will not be a problem to us.'

Thorn

Cold blood drips down my jaw, tufts of deer-fur clinging to it. My tongue darts out distastefully, bits of fur there as well. I crunch on the bones furtively, hoping perhaps to find marrow within them. But alas, they are dried and disgustingly soft, as though wetted before handed to me. I force myself to ignore their flavor and just eat, to take the sustenance without complaint, and to finish the meager meal before I can no longer stomach the thought.

Fortunately, it is a small meal, and soon enough only speckles of blood and patches of gray fur remain. I lick my jaws once to clean them of the revoltingly cold blood, my lip curling back as a low rumble escapes me. I know the King is aware of the sufficient amount of food that a dragon requires, though he seems to pleasure himself in providing me with the lowliest quantities of such. But I do not complain, for I learned long before that complaining brought nothing but pain.

My wings shiver against their restraints as I recall when I had first dared speak against the King's word—when I had first questioned why. Why he had enslaved myself and Murtagh so, why he would place such bonds upon me, why was he causing me pain, why was he laughing at my misery? But I learned that, in this harsh unspoken world, you do not complain, for complaining earns beatings from your superiors.

Beatings, the King says, are discipline, not cruelties. Beatings rebuke one in a way that cannot be denied or ignored—beatings chastise us for an unwise move. They are nature's way of humbling us. They keep us from growing too proud to believe we cannot be harmed, from growing too bold and arrogant that we question those who hold power over us. We all must succumb to beatings—of the mind, body, and soul—and therefore by using beatings as a force of punishment, the inevitable is used as a tool instead of a waste.

At least, so he says.

I sigh irritably, resting my head on my paws as I speculatively watch the guards move about. One of them mutters something under his breath, the light rasping of metal sliding over itself echoing as I shift for a better view. I can hardly make out anything, though my sensitive ears manage to detect the faintest of muted thunders. It rolls through the floor subtly, and my eyes narrow as I recognize the motion immediately.

So he returns.

Instead of pleased that the Black Dragon has not forsaken me to my solitude, I feel angry and unsatisfied with his absence. Could not he have visited me—just once? I realize my petulance is not because of his actions, but because of my own misery. So many long months spent in a dungeon, with none for companionship…and then he appears, and it seems the faintest flicker of light breaks the darkness, allowing me the briefest of contacts.

But then reality snuffed it out, and I was left to the darkness once more.

I longed for a friend—for someone to talk with and share memories with—yet I knew none were forthcoming. I needed someone to talk to, yet I knew that none would listen. And so I had grown bitterly resentful to the Black Dragon for so easily having offered me pleasure and then snatched it away.

The rumbling of his steps grows.

I stare gloomily at my cell, wishing if for naught else, my sight. I hate this darkness—this blackness that never leaves. For a time, I dreaded it, dreaded every second of sightlessness. Because I knew that without my sight—the very last solid thing I could anchor myself to—my sanity would deteriorate. It had happened once before—when I was but a young hatchling, mere weeks old, and punishment was served as a month in darkness.

I do not recall how I rescued myself from it, nor how I survived those hazy weeks of despair.

The light scuffling of claws scraping the floor gently reaches my ears, and the guards straighten reflexively.

How lucky, I muse, Shruikan is for his ability to wander the castle freely, without the restraint of chains or bars. I know what he would say if I voiced such a thing—'I am far more bound of heart than you could imagine to the King', most probably. But still, I would trade my soul and more if I could just be him—if I could see my Rider every day, if I could wander about without these cruel, cold chains digging into my back every moment, if I could see light and people that would cower before me rather than shrink away in disgust. If I could just waltz around as I pleased, without concern for attack since none would dare defy me; that I would be the most admirable and courageous one these men would lay eyes upon, that I would be the one to which they knelt and murmured apologies, to which they pled mercy and flattered me so as not to infuriate me.

To me, he conveys the great sorrow and misery of his life—a listless one spent obliging orders from a Tyrant. A cold shiver works down my spine, though I ignore it. My envy grows at the thought—that he might speak, think, so freely, without the worry of pain constantly prodding at his back. That his thoughts are his own, not influenced heavily by some sadistic bast—

Might I have a word with the hatchling? asks a deep, authoritative voice, interrupting my thoughts. Though the words are clearly directed toward the three guards posted outside my cell, I can almost hear them addressing myself.

Go away, I growl at him silently, though he ignores it. I can sense through his eyes as he looks down contemptuously at the guards, each as stiff as a board from suppressed terror.

"Of course," murmurs one bravely, speaking softly to hide the tremor in his voice. He shuffles over to the door, disappearing from my line of sight almost immediately when he angles left. I snort once in frustration, though moments later a yawning hole appears in the wall, sliding back smoothly to admit the Black Dragon.

He steps inside, feigning disdain for the guards as they nervously seal the door behind him. Once the door has been shut, he orders, Now leave us. I shall watch the hatchling. Each hesitates, and I glean from a quick searching of their minds the mirroring worry for being caught by Galb—the King away from their guard. You will have far more to worry if you do not obey than the King's wrath, Shruikan threatens.

The guards all but flee, leaving the empty corridor silent.

Shruikan lazily fixes me with an amused stare, and I growl at him in return. Why did you leave like that? I demand, ignoring how childish it sounds.

What? Now I have to accompany you at every turn? No, Thorn, and do not expect it either. You'll be gravely disappointed otherwise.

Something of his tone surprises me, though I cannot pinpoint it. What do you want, then? Last time you came to… well, I don't even know what, but why are you here now if you supposedly can't come? I realize I am rambling somewhat, though I let it pass.

He smiles sadly, just a twitch of his lips curling upward, before opening his maw.

There, sitting delicately upon his reddish-black tongue, is a remarkably green stone. I back slowly from him as though he has just showed me some gruesome sight I wish not to see again, and my eyes stray upward to his confused stare. Shaking my head, I continue my retreat, chains straining by the time I finally stop.

He hasn't moved.

Why are you showing me this? I ask at length. My eyes wander back to the stone, fixated upon the pulsing white veins and sharp contrast of jade and black. I feel suddenly dizzied. I don't want to see it, I say, almost sick. Please, I add. He bows his head solemnly.

I came here to ask you a favor, he murmurs.

I glance at the stone apprehensively, though he shakes his head. No. I need you to be on your guard, Thorn.

To this, I raise an eyebrow. Why?

A short while ago, someone—actually, a small group—attempted to infiltrate our forces and steal this. He closes his jaw slowly, concealing the egg once more. They succeeded in getting here—to Urû'baen—and even stealing an even more valuable possession. A map.

A map? I repeat, unconvinced.

Yes. It maps out near the entirety of Urû'baen's structure, and now it is in their hands.

They will not be a problem to us.

Ah, but that is exactly the problem. They won't. But they'll believe that they might.

Your point?

Think about it.

He falls silent, leaving me to do but as he said. I mull over the question for several long, frustrating moments. If the Varden have a map of Urû'baen, they have a valuable tool to infiltrating our grounds. But there is no way they could slip past undetected, for our sorcerers would detect the treachery at work. Unless… No, I groan in horror.

Ah yes, now you see.

Shruikan… I growl, inwardly horrified at the prospect. No, no, no—if they think that they have even a chance, they'll send her…

As I said, be on your guard.

Why?

But he shakes his head, terribly silent. Shruikan!

Shruikan, a voice orders in a purr, interrupting us both. I recoil and Shruikan flinches, otherwise unmoving. I retreat to the back of my cell, my furor fading to barely concealed fear. Come here.

Yes, Galbatorix, responds Shruikan with the same toneless pitch as a stone. His expression didn't change, though I sensed his inner dismay at being summoned. To my astonishment, I also sense a confused emotion, mingled with worry and curiosity, radiating from him.

No, I realize, not him.

I shiver, pressing the hatchling's emotions away with a stern back. The hatchling retreats, confused and fearful, though I spare it not a moment more as Shruikan lurches back.

I must go, he comments drearily. Goodbye.

Again, you come with no other purpose than to leave, I seethe. In truth, it is not anger, but sorrow. So soon I trust again, and so soon it is broken.

No; I warned you, he retorts to my unspoken thought. Before I can protest, he disappears.

I curse silently in frustration.

Saphira

I am amazed at the ease at which we have entered Urû'baen.

After several long hours, we walk freely amongst the city's inhabitants, myself at a distance while Eragon mingles at the edges of the loose crowds. Beggars line the street corners, while drunkards toast each other in taverns. Guards patrol with stiff demeanors of discomfort and suspicion, sparing no one under their scrutiny. Occasionally, one roughly shoulders past an elderly folk, or harshly reprimands children playing in the streets. A beggar's meager earnings are toppled over as a guard presumptuously trots over them, leaving the poor man to crouch over and scoop his few coins back into the dirtied pouch.

Low buildings predominate taller ones, though whether out of laziness or lack of supplies, I cannot tell. Most are wooden; occasionally a stout stone-based one squeezes between them. Smoke winds up from narrow chimneys, creating the illusion of fog above with so many buildings crammed together. Alleys are near nonexistent, so narrow in places only a very thin child might be able to squeeze through them. Well-tended horses clop down the streets, forcing aside pedestrians with the same callousness as their mounts. The Empire's insignia—three claw marks and a red flame—shines proudly from atop their helms and shields. A mace seems the chosen weapon, though I see a number with swords belted to their waist.

Overall, the atmosphere is grim. Each face is haggard, and distraught with the weariness war has brought about. They hunger, and thirst, and long for lighter taxes and better fields to graze. They are heartbroken over their lost beloveds, and anguished at the thought of sending more to be sacrificed. They are irritable with the tyrannical King, in their murmurs cleverly disguised insults and threats. They are wise enough not to directly voice such treason.

And I pity them.

I can sense the shared pain of the city—of how each member bears their own physical and emotional scars. The painful limp of a young man caught upon a mace ages him before his time; the dull ache of winter upon a true old man's bones rouses him forever from true sleep. A young girl giggles with another, shying away as a guard roughly shoos them; a mother weeps over the news of her dead husband. A baker worries himself over the sorry shortage in flour; an herbalist dreads cleaning up a haphazard experiment gone wrong. A merchant all but begs buyers to come, though his enthusiastic calls prove fruitless; a guard subtly adjusts the bandages covering his torso, beneath which lies a ragged scar from a sword-slash. A young woman panics silently in a corner as she is cornered by several drunken guards; an elder lady leans on her niece's arm as they chat gloomily and make their way home, the lady mourning silently how aged her sister's daughter looks.

I seal away my mind, silently bowing my head to their pain. No one deserves this. And if I could, I would end it, though I cannot.

As I watch, a slave is beaten before my eyes, all to the amusement of the jeering bystanders. The dark-skinned man begs mercy, only to have a harsh kick delivered to his side. I hear his soft cry, though he dutifully retrieves the wares he has dropped accidentally. Anger boils within me, though I contain my rage and move ahead, turning a blind eye to the incident as the beatings grow more severe and the man's subtle cries more pained.

War begets sorrow, I murmur to Eragon, who subtly nods in return. He strides with the same gracelessness as before, just as human as the rest of them. Though not clumsy, the awkward shuffle of his feet that so mirrors their own nearly has me in laughter compared to the calm strides of an elf he once possessed. He, too, seems vexed by his sudden inability to walk as coolly before, though Glaedr's mirth pours over us both and lightens our moods somewhat.

The golden dragon had proved an invaluable source of information when it came to slipping inside the city undetected. Once we had neared the range of a soldier's sight, he'd commanded Eragon to recite an unusual spell that, rather than shielding myself, repelled any who came near. Not so noticeably as they could not touch me, but to a level where anyone who sighted me was immediately convinced that there had been nothing there. Certainly the spell was imperfect—the person would still see a faint shimmer of my form, though it would be the indistinguishable glint of light that one cannot be certain was anything at all. And so it was rather foolproof—anyone within a league would be turned aside from my presence without even consciously knowing it.

The spell, as I expected, required a large deal of energy to commence, and then a steady stream to supplement every time a person sighted me. Glaedr willingly volunteered the majority of his strength, and between him and I we lent Eragon sufficient energy to shield myself initially. From there, Aren—the sapphire ring turned upside-down on his finger so as not to attract unwanted attention—would supply the power needed to sustain such a spell.

The first test had been the guards—at first, I worried they had spotted us, as one glanced suspiciously in my direction. Yet the spell had proven true, and he'd muttered something unintelligible and confusedly rejoined his compatriots.

The only disadvantage to the spell was that it was so effective—it worked almost too well at first. A crowd had cleared around myself, and soon Eragon appeared far too singled out for comfort. Fortunately we had remedied this error before anyone had noticed, and now I kept a discreet distance from him while hugging the walls so as to keep the 'shield' around me as small as possible.

The problem came when Eragon noted to me that he couldn't see anything amidst such a dense crowd—it was near impossible to distinguish anyone, let alone landmarks. I had questioned Glaedr on such, though he'd had little solution either. Sorry, he had commented meekly at my frustration. Luckily for us, a discarded cane proved a most useful tool, and by jerking his cloak over his head somewhat, Eragon effectively took up the role of a blind man. His clouded blue eyes were more than enough evidence to fool any passerby, and after several rough jostles, the crowd seemed to avoid him somewhat as well. Not enough to single him out, but enough to grant him the freedom to walk without fear of bumping into someone. The cane, then, just became a device for the act rather than the practicality of the situation.

You'd think I carried the plague from the way they avoid me, he comments with a mental chuckle. When I send a questioning thought toward him, he answers, The guards. Look.

I turn my head slightly, a young scribe bustling about and suddenly glancing off to the left as though met with an invisible barrier as he inadvertently walks near me. With a slightly puzzled look, he shakes his head and continues on, humming quietly to himself. Shaking my head, I refocus my gaze on what Eragon has pointed out to me. There I spot a pair of burly guards harassing several of the townsfolk, purposefully avoiding the half-hunched figure mixed in. I chuckle silently to myself, nodding once in agreement.

Indeed. Though it is probably to our benefit.

Bowing his head slightly in a nod, Eragon continues along, heading eastward as I follow, my path parallel to his. Occasionally I fear the spell has worn off, as a bystander catches my eyes. The understanding glint there freezes me, though with a confused shake of their head, they pass. True, no cries of alarm have sounded and none have shouted or screamed to my direction. But I still cannot help but feel terribly exposed walking amongst these people—indirectly my enemies—so freely.

Ahead, looming like a beast crouching in shadow, is the castle of Urû'baen, infamous lair of King Galbatorix and his black dragon Shruikan. Its stony walls rise high above the rest of the city, the lowly buildings crouched beneath it like dwarves amidst a giant's presence. The large watchtowers at its corners brim with guards, each containing at least one magician that quests out constantly for information. I feel the repelling shield around me hide myself from their sight as effectively as if I were not there. Truly, I am invisible to all.

Eragon, however, plays a tricky game with the magicians. His mind is guarded well from them, and he does his best to divert their attention to other things. Unlike myself, his shielding is like a dense, impenetrable fog, to which suspicion is raised. Soon, I know, we must either totally dissuade their mental searching, or we will be discovered.

But sooner, the crowds thin, and the buildings become more and more militaristic. Armories replace common shops, and infirmaries fill any gaps in between. The affectionate sarcasm of street vendors becomes the pained moaning of the dying, and the sorrowful murmurs of those tending them. The number of guards increases drastically, and soon Eragon discards his cane and lowers his cloak further. His own paranoia as we move to the north and circumvent the majority of guards seems to seep into me from our link, and I soon find myself glancing over my shoulder every few moments or so, convinced something is following.

Saphira, chortles Glaedr, there is nothing following you, for nothing can see you. Calm down.

Though I cannot logically deny his statement, I also cannot deny the urge to check, feeling somewhat ridiculous.

Somewhat?

Oh hush.

The rumbling laughter echoes in my head until quieting as we reach a darker passage. Eragon murmurs a word of the ancient language and suddenly disappears—visibly, anyway. The spell, I sense, has already depleted a vast amount of energy from Aren, though an infinitely greater amount still pools there, waiting to be tapped into. Hopefully this mission will not diminish the strange ring's supply entirely, for with such energy, I can only imagine the advantages it would have to combat Galbatorix.

We stand before a ragged tunnel, carved roughly into the wall and visibly only as Eragon magically presses aside the sizeable stone blocking its path. Inside, the stink of sewage radiates, and we're both forced to swallow our disgust and slip inside. Mercifully, none of the waste is around, though its stench is powerful and rancid.

Good gods, Eragon swears as we continue.

I thought you didn't believe in gods, I chide, mostly to distract myself. My nose scrunches up; the feeling is definitely mutual. Glaedr chuckles quietly from his Eldunarí, genuinely amused at our predicament.

I don't, Eragon sniffs in mock offense.

Mmmm, I agree dubiously.

We continue through the putrid tunnel, plenty large for a dragon of my size. The walls are ragged, though slick with something of water. There is no light of any form to be seen, though it is clear that we are gradually moving upward from the gentle sloping of the ground. We need not refer to the map to know where we are going, though it brings no comfort to either of us. Eventually, this will lead to a corridor, and from there, it is a race against time to escape Galbatorix's detection and steal the egg.

Water sloshes at our feet, though thankfully it is just that. Both Eragon and I breathe silent sighs of relief at this fact, for the smell nearly makes us retch despite this realization. Eventually, I spot the faintest of outlines ahead, Eragon wandering blindly at my side as I allow my bluish sight to guide me. I can soon distinguish a door-like object, and from there, the very soft scuffling of boots upon stone. As I watch in something of horror, the stone door is pressed back nonchalantly, revealing a tall, dark-haired man, lean in figure and broad-shouldered.

"Greetings," the man calls pleasantly to us. A snarl ripples in my throat. "Have you come to us so soon?"

Murtagh, both Eragon and I think, torn between irritation and dismay.

We were expected, Eragon comments.

Set-up is more like it, I return, glaring at the young man as he strides forward calmly, Zar'roc belted to his waist.

"What took you so long?" he asks, and for the first time I recall he shouldn't even be able to see me. I growl low in frustration.

How can you see me? I demand at last. He chuckles, the sound almost genuinely amused.

"You underestimate my training. Come—we mustn't keep the King waiting," he beckons, gesturing with a hand invitingly toward the exit. I step back in protest. Eragon does as well. With a sigh, Murtagh adds woefully, "So stubborn, you two are. Perhaps the King can handle that. But come—and I shall not have to hurt you."

I lash my tail in protest, and Glaedr all but roars from his Eldunarí. Raising an eyebrow in polite surprise, Murtagh steps forward. "So you do carry with you the Eldunarí of the Golden Dragon. How helpful—the King will be very pleased. Perhaps he won't beat you because of it." The last line is added scathingly, though Eragon and I ignore it. "Come along, hand it over," beckons Murtagh. I growl, snapping my teeth at him. With an exaggerated sigh, he holds out a hand, commanding a string of words too fast for myself or Eragon to catch.

Glaedr roars from his Eldunarí as it calmly slips out of the sack and into Murtagh's waiting hands. He flashes a triumphant grin at us, before turning to leave. I attempt to shoot a fireball at him—to scorch him for what he is doing—but suddenly the heat within me is just an uncomfortable simmering. There is no power behind it—the same as magma lying dormant in a volcano. Heat without strength is useless.

"Oh, and you might as well forget that," comments Murtagh over his shoulder. "This air you've been breathing for roughly a quarter hour neutralizes dragon fire."

"Thrysta vindr," intones Eragon in protest.

Nothing happens.

Murtagh chuckles, shaking a head of well-kempt blackened-brown hair. "Magic doesn't work, either."

"You used magic," returns Eragon.

Murtagh shrugs. "True, in a way. But I have not been breathing the fumes for nearly as long as you have, and am in no way as susceptible to it as you are. If you will, I've developed an immunity to it."

In some ways, his haughty explanations are casual and familiar, almost friendly banter. But in others, they are far more frustrating than the callous responses he should be giving. "Where are you going?" Eragon demands, like I unable to retreat or advance. Having been discovered now it would be futile, yet Murtagh does not seem concerned that we could walk out. I stare at him in confusion as he leaves down the corridor, whistling a child's tune as he carries Glaedr's Eldunarí.

You're just leaving? No threats, no force? I ask, incredulous. He turns to face me with a puzzled expression.

"Haven't I already threatened you? The King will be quite displeased, as you could guess, and you've no real way to escape now, so I've 'forced' you into following." He smirks, and suddenly I realize that he was ordered to do just that—threaten us once we came, and use force to get us to follow.

I groan in exasperation.

He nods knowingly as a look of understanding crosses my face. "See, now you realize it. Well, I'll be heading down this way—must get this—" he taps Glaedr's Eldunarí lightly "—to the King."

"You call him the King like he's a good man," Eragon growls.

Murtagh shrugs very slightly. "He is the King, isn't he? What else should I call him?" Something in his voice implies otherwise, though—something of wanting but not being able to. Trapped.

You don't want to call him the King, I put in. I can see the flash of agreement cross his face before he hides it.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he concedes, shrugging again. "But, you know, all this chatter is just wasting the King's time. Come along—as I said, I do not want to harm you but if you force me to I shall."

Eragon growls, drawing his sword and severing the shields covering us belatedly. Murtagh gives a disapproving tut-tut before casually flicking his wrist to the side. Brisingr slips from Eragon's grasp as easily as a wet eel, landing with a muted clatter on the floor. Murtagh smiles wolfishly, pleased with himself. "Now, are you coming or not?"

"What do you think?" snaps Eragon.

Murtagh sighs, sounding both bored and dismayed. "All right then."

Blackness envelopes us both so quickly I do not recall hitting the floor.

'This is my world.'

Shruikan

Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it.

The constant mantra in my head only causes me to glance down more often at the sapphire dragoness limp in my jaws. I am more than thrice her size, though I still feel suddenly too weak to continue as I gaze down at her. She is so young, I think with sudden weariness, and so innocent. At least, innocent compared to Thorn and I. I am forced to drag her along the smooth marble floor beside me as there is no effective way to carry her through the corridors. Still, I have taken the subtle precaution to tuck her wings back so they do not catch and tear on the stone beneath her.

Ahead, the young Rider—Murtagh—moves along, carrying both the saliva-covered egg which he has wrapped in his cloak and the Golden Dragon's Eldunarí. I recall tale of the Golden Dragon's existence, though I did not believe it possible. After all, we had destroyed the Riders—every last one to be found. We had scoured the lands countless times to be sure our mission was accomplished, the heartbreaking scene of dead dragons always meeting us.

Apparently, we were wrong.

For however he did it, he survived, and thus we were confronted with a new mission—to capture his Eldunarí as well.

I pad along silently behind Murtagh, allowing him to lead the way.

Despite his amiable demeanor, I can sense the deep sorrow within him, and the longing that is almost identical to Thorn's. Galbatorix's first order was that they not see each other unless summoned by he, and even then only when summoned and only as permitted. The throbbing broken-heartedness from both of them is near overpowering, though accompanying my own despair, it is just another rhythm of sadness.

Lying limply upon my back is the dragoness' Rider—Eragon, from what Murtagh has informed me. I can only hope Galbatorix chooses not to be too terribly cruel with them, otherwise I fear they will not survive the month.

At least, not until he's gotten what he wants.

Involuntarily, my teeth clench around the warm neck inside my jaws as I growl at the thought. It is only when a trickle of coppery blood pools into my mouth do I recall what I am biting down upon and I relieve the pressure immediately. Such a slackening nearly causes her to slip from my jaws, and I flare my wings outward to steady myself as I catch her. Murtagh pauses up ahead, turning to glance back at me with a look torn between bemusement and sadness. Shaking his head at my awkward catch, he moves forward again, and I slowly follow.

The thought of her—this beautiful, innocent dragoness—being used for such evil purposes is repulsive. I know it is wrong to harbor any affection towards her, but I cannot deny the protective feeling that overwhelms me. To have destroyed all other dragons and then to find one—just one who remains untainted by our malevolence—is a reward beyond any other. But I know that once she has served Galbatorix's purposes, she will be just another female as were the many others, and she will be killed.

I shudder at the thought.

Dragging her along, I blush reflexively when her tail brushes my right hind leg, her warm breath absently bathing over my neck. I resolutely keep myself from thinking anything of the gesture, though the heat seems to burn in my cheeks. Mercifully, it does not show—even the hot red blush cannot breach the black scales on my face.

I reach outward as a consciousness prods stubbornly at my own. It is feeble and fleeting, like the brush of questing fingers as they slip just out of reach of an object too far. As my own consciousness slips cautiously forward, the being exuberantly latches onto mine. Pleasure, confusion, relief, dismay, fear, and upset all vie for my attention, an almost giddying sensation. I force myself to retreat, sadness flinging itself at me as I slip out of its reach. Like a child's game, the treat stolen from their grasp, the being quests urgently, trying in vain to reach me.

Calm down, I urge. The overriding dismay at my departure overwhelms the creature, who continues to thrust the desperate wanting for my presence to return.

Where are you? Where are you? The question, though unspoken, rings clear, and I hesitantly allow myself to merge with them. Warm waves of contentment wash over me—Here I am, I reply, the words calming the small hatchling within the egg more than any chiding.

There you are, he seems to answer. Slowly, I convince the green hatchling to settle, quelling his uneasy emotions with assuring feelings, and insisting that he cannot continue to contact me with a firm stay away.

Why?

The hurt, sorrow, and confusion in his emotions is nearly overpowering—my resolve wavers before I harden my heart and force his conscious back.

Stay away, I urge with a strong emotion of repulsion, and evil. The hatchling whimpers, and I can sense him scrabbling weakly at the egg's shell.

No, he begs, sorrow and desperation.

I close my eyes. Don't talk to me, I order, and repelhim with a wave of fear, evil, and danger.

The green dragon's conscious retreats, slowly at first before I add an extra wave, to which he all but flees, locking his conscious from mine as best he can. I sigh, sealing the contact on my half as well.

He mustn't speak to me, I tell myself. He mustn't. If Galbatorix knew I harbored any friendship with the green hatchling, it would give him only more reason to destroy him. Still, the heartbroken emotion radiating from the hatchling makes my own heart sink in my chest. I realize guiltily that the hatchling has found myself to be an anchor in a constantly changing world. Someone consistently there—and worse, he's recognized I'll always be here.

So long as I do not perish as well.

I curse quietly, dragging the dragoness beneath me. None must attach themselves to me—for all I will do is drag them down eventually. I can offer pitifully little, and eventually am forced to be traitorous to all. Thorn, I know, I must detach myself from as well, for the way he reacted to my return was exactly as I feared.

He missed me. He missed someone to talk to—just as the hatchling now misses me. And this will ultimately destroy them both, unless I end it now.

Thorn knows not to contact me, as I shall not he anymore. The hatchling I have repelled as well. So I have accomplished what I should—I have driven away any who might form bonds with me. I have forced back any who might miss or cherish my presence, and forced them to hate me instead.

I hope.

Though instead of pleased, I feel only more miserable.

For I know that for everyone else's good, I must not exist.

Saphira

I groggily awake, cold marble beneath me. I groan at the ache in my neck, feeling a set of teeth impressed there. My eyes flare open suddenly, narrowing almost immediately after.

Galbatorix, I snarl.

"Welcome," he greets, as pleasant as any host. He sits upon an ebony throne, his countenance triumphant. A black cloak is draped around his shoulders, flowing partially onto the throne beneath him. To my surprise, it is not an elaborate piece, rather a simple chair-like statue carved from marble. Flanking his left side is Murtagh, bearing the same listless obedience as a dog does to an abusive master. He stands straight, though there is no defiance in his eyes, nor any hope in his expression.

Beside me, a low growl ripples, drawing my attention.

An involuntary growl escapes me in turn as I glare at the black behemoth before me. He glances down at me contemptuously, a disdainful sneer on his lips. He crouches as I do, ready to spring if necessary. I snap my teeth at him, though he doesn't flinch. Pleading is written in his eyes as he bows his head in a gesture that would otherwise be threatening, and for a moment I can almost see tears glinting there. Still, the rest of him suggests otherwise, and I find no pity for him.

"Shruikan," rebukes Galbatorix, "we mustn't treat our guests so rudely, now, should we?"

My narrowed gaze returns to him, as does the black dragon's, though I do not settle. An almighty rumbling suddenly issues from the dragon's throat, sending a strong vibration through the floor that causes loose stones to topple from their foundations. Silence, the growl unmistakably commands, and I oblige without comment. I straighten in an attempt to appear unfazed, though compared to the monstrous creature beside me, I have no hope of seeming such.

"Well. Now that we understand each other, I suppose you wonder why you are here," continues Galbatorix. I lower my head with a hiss, though a sharp nudge to my shoulder quiets me. I glance incredulously at the black dragon at my side, whose head returns to its earlier position just as I look. His eyes flick down to me before glancing back at Galbatorix, expectant. A silent conversation seems to be held between them, though I sense not the slightest of mental influences. Their gazes locked, Shruikan finally concedes with a bow of his head, Galbatorix's lip twitching upward in a mocking grin.

"I would hope you don't find his behavior too offensive," he apologizes, waving a hand toward Shruikan. To my astonishment, the black dragon bows his head to me before lifting it once more. "He's not very accustomed to other dragons," dismisses Galbatorix. "But hopefully you will acquaint yourself—well, yourselves—well with him."

Shruikan's lip lifts in a snarl, though with a single pointed glance at him, Galbatorix settles him. "Now," he continues, "There's many things to address now that you're here."

Where's Eragon? I demand. Shruikan fixes me with a disapproving glance, though Galbatorix smiles politely.

"Vakna," he commands.

My head jerks to the side as someone groans. Eragon shuffles about for a moment before he, too, opens his eyes, glancing around blearily. The whiteness shrouding his sight has not abated; if anything, it has grown thicker. I reach toward him though a sluggish barrier meets me and I growl curses. Shruikan prods my shoulder again with his head in rebuke, though I snap my teeth at him and he retreats.

Eragon? I ask, though he doesn't respond.

"What…?" he asks instead, holding his head. He glances ahead, giving a slight start as he recognizes—or at least notices—Galbatorix and Murtagh. I nudge his shoulder mutely and he jerks to see what it is, though with a relieved glance he pats my snout. He wordlessly glances back at the tyrant king and his pet-servant, eyes narrowing in similar distaste. Sharing a brief glance with me, the message is easily read: We're in trouble. I bob my head slightly in a nod.

Shruikan growls suddenly, interrupting our silent conversing.

"You realize, now," drawls the 'King', "that you've but one choice. Join me. Forcibly, or willingly."

I snort, and Eragon mirrors my distaste by narrowing his eyes and glaring at Galbatorix.

"Never," we both deny.

He chuckles, mirthlessly, and Shruikan sends a meaningful glance at myself. Be wary.

"I figured as much." He pauses, cocking his head to once side thoughtfully. "Well; I'll give you a week, and if you are still of the same state of mind, then I'll take further action. Until then… Murtagh, Shruikan, care to escort our gueststo their quarters?"

With mirroring bows from Murtagh and Shruikan, Murtagh strides over to Eragon calmly, unperturbed by Galbatorix's decree, and hooks an arm around Eragon's to drag him to his feet. Shruikan similarly locks his jaws around my neck, hauling me upright. I snap my teeth venomously at him, though he calmly bows his head, fixing me with a reprimanding stare. Don't fight me, is written in that expression, and he flashes a smile that is more threatening than playful.

I draw back slightly from him, though he corners me with his tail. Come along, he urges silently, dipping his head away from Galbatorix. I growl at him in protest. Shruikan sighs, sparing Galbatorix a brief glance, brow furrowing and relaxing almost too fast to recognize. And then, looking back at me, he commands in a low rumble, Come.

His voice is so startling that my feet traitorously lurch forward, and he snags my wings with one of his, trapping them to my sides as he walks alongside me. A smirk plays on his face and I growl, attempts to snap at him futile. I try to shake off his wing, though my strength is suddenly gone, and I all but collapse to the floor. Shruikan doesn't even glance in my direction, nor relieve the pressure of his wing on mine.

Just walk, he orders tonelessly. I struggle against him, though my efforts grow weaker as the energy drains from me. With an undeterminable sigh, Shruikan glances at me before gripping my neck and half-leading, half-dragging me from the room. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Eragon slouches slightly, weakened.

What is this? I snap at Shruikan once my strength slowly returns. He is silent, though a deep grating sound emanates from him as he drags me forward. Laughter, I knew, with an oddly embarrassed feeling. He calmly pulls me after him, the corridor becoming darker and darker for some reason. Quite suddenly, my vision fades, and then disappears entirely. I thrash in Shruikan's jaws in protest, though he seems un-bothered.

What is this? I repeat, insistent.

My world, he murmurs, though more to himself than me.

I struggle, though his grip tightens unrelentingly. Again my strength wanes, so drastically this time I barely manage to remain conscious. The more you fight the more you lose, he informs neutrally.

I pant quietly, glancing around in vain. So much darkness—how does he know where to go?

Like I said, this is my world, he dismisses.

Stay out of my head, I snarl.

Bit too late for that. Like Murtagh, his words ring true, but his tone implies otherwise. I glance up at him curiously, snapping my jaws slightly. He snorts a puff of gray smoke, though his jaws remain locked.

Let me go.

Too late for that as well, he muses.

Shruikan!

He flinches, jaw slackening slightly, and I wrench myself free. Glancing around, the familiar blue haze glows along two symmetrical stone walls. Nothing is before us and, sparing a hopeful glance over my shoulder, I am dismayed to find the same behind us. Shruikan sighs, marching forward with a slight shake of his head. Come along, then, he says simply. I stare at him, unmoved. He glances back at me, adding, Do you really wish for me to drag you the whole way?

I growl and step back, though the same drop in energy assaults me. He snorts. You're doing yourself no favors. Just follow me and it'll go much better.

I step back again, shaking my head vehemently. Never, I growl, retreating still. Never.

Pain washes over me. It begins like the flare of heat not unlike stepping on hot charcoals, eventually erupting into an inferno that scorches through me. I hiss sharply, though I refuse to cry out. The twin attacks—heat and energy loss—make my steps shaky, though Shruikan makes no move to stop my retreat. I collapse nearly a dozen yards away, unable to even walk. I lash my tail weakly, baring my fangs to him as he approaches calmly.

You should learn to listen to me, he comments.

I growl as he seizes my neck again—though not roughly, part of me notes. Glaring at his blurry black scales, I watch as my bluish sight vanishes, replaced by blackness once more. What-?

I told you already. My world, he cuts me off.

What do you mean?

He tilts his head to the side and the darkness before me shifts accordingly. I growl. Why? I demand.

He shrugs. Galbatorix doesn't want you to discover where you are being taken—not that it matters much. Nothing here to be seen anyway.

How can you see, then?

He rolls his eyes, the motion almost dizzying to me. This is my world, he repeats for the umpteenth time, I know how to navigate it. Sight is just another tool—I don't need it. He shrugs as though this is the most obvious answer there is.

I draw myself back slightly; the black dissipates, replaced by blue. I strain further against him, though before I can get a clear glimpse, the darkness smothers my vision once more. I knock my head against his neck harshly in protest. He grunts, one of the short spikes on my head slipping beneath his scales, though he pulls me away wordlessly. You know, you're really beginning to be irritating.

Well, at least the feeling's mutual.

Clever, he snorts, rolling his eyes again. I claw at him futilely.

The strange energy-sapping spell nearly overpowers me, my senses falling silent for several moments before I am once more aware of Shruikan doggedly dragging me down the corridor. You really oughtta stop doing that, he says in a drawl before catching his casualness. He stiffens before glaring ahead, moving along almost mechanically. I writhe in his grip in a last attempt to break free; his jaws clamp down harder upon my neck and I grimace. Finally, after what seems hours of struggling, I give up with a sigh.

Shruikan does not offer any more conversation, nor do I attempt to breach the silence. I notice that as we move, we descend, and gradually the air grows colder. Soon, both Shruikan and my breaths are visible, though he doesn't comment. I hang pitifully from his jaws, unable to protest for lack of strength and motivation.

I wonder absently where he is taking me, though more I quest out toward Eragon, hoping to figure out what has become of him. My efforts are in vain—not even the slightest of contacts exist. I know he is alive, and I know he is well, but that is all.

I sigh in frustration.

Abruptly, I smell human—three. They stink of sweat and blood, and I can hear their irritable grumbling already. As Shruikan pads along—myself sliding across the floor like a rag—the humans stiffen, talk silencing and postures straightening. I glance up at Shruikan expectantly, though he again remains silent.

Three guards enter my line of sight and I snarl at them. With startled exclamations, they barely suppress their amazement as Shruikan coolly strides past them. He moves over to something too dark to make out, and with a lurch stone is drawn back.

I stiffen as the deep snuffing sound of a hissing breath reaches me; Shruikan's dark sight retreats. A growl rumbles in my chest, and hot breath fills my throat.

For there, crouched defensively in the far corner, is what can only be Thorn.

Thorn

I lift my head, a dry snarl building in my throat as I sense his return—the Black Dragon's return.

What does he care for now? I was certain we'd already established he would stay away, not return just to leave. I fling my consciousness outward, stunned to discover a rather hazy one accompanying Shruikan's. I encircle it slowly, prodding at it hopefully for response. When none is forthcoming, I snort and retreat to myself, sulking. Who has he brought now? Another idiotic human, perhaps.

To my astonishment and horror, a flash of blue catches my sight. Sniffing the air curiously, I stumble back as the wall opens, Shruikan pausing at its entrance. I back away, shaking my head in disbelief. No, no, no. He steps inside, holding in his jaws a growling dragoness. I pause only once I can back no further, the chains cruelly keeping me from retreat. I cast a withering glance at Shruikan, though he calmly releases her. She lands on the ground almost limply, her growl unrelenting. Forcing herself to her feet, she glares at me.

Galbatorix, begins Shruikan, a flash of white-hot pain shooting up my spine, has ordered that I bring you to stay here. He addresses the dragoness, though my eyes are wide as I stare at him.

You cannot be serious, I say to him silently.

You will not harm him, continues the Black Dragon, not answering my question, or you her. For the first time since he's entered, his gaze falls upon me. A strange, unreadable emotion glints there. Do you understand? The dragoness snaps her jaws defiantly. I bow my head submissively, though a snarl teases the edges of my lips. Shruikan sighs, shaking his own head slowly, before moving back to leave. The dragoness suddenly flares her wings—glorious, I think, staring at them—and roars at Shruikan. I cannot catch her words, though the Black Dragon stiffens noticeably.

And then he is gone.

I stare in wide-eyed surprise at the blue dragon across from me—unbound. Armed with talons and teeth, and a barbed tail. Shruikan's words ring clear in my head, though glancing at her I cannot help but flinch slightly from the murderous look in her eyes. I shuffle back uncomfortably, hating to be bound so. If I were not so open—and so bound—I would not be so cowardly, and yet…

She suddenly leaps forward, to confront me face-to-face. A growl—caught between a roar and a snarl—issues from her maw as she stares me down. I roar back, though the muzzle-like structure on my face prevents me from obtaining the power necessary to be frightening. Still, she pauses, glancing at me with a snort, before snapping her jaws at me. I snap mine almost reflexively, a slight click echoing in the cell.

Thorn, she growls, and I have nothing to say to that but to growl in turn. She pauses, surprised by the sudden malice in my tone, though mimics my unspoken threats with her own.

For a time, we just stand there, I crouched leaning back against the far wall, and her barely a foot away, glaring down at me. Snapping her jaws with finality, she whirls around, purposefully allowing the painful spikes on her tail to gouge my neck. I wince secretly, keeping my face expressionless with an effort as the blow reopens barely-healed wounds. She does not turn to look at me, though I sense pain radiating from her as she groans and staggers ahead. Shaking her head before my confused eyes, she seats herself at the opposite end of the cell, as far away from me as she can be. I allow the blood to flow freely down my neck, not attempting to perhaps lick at it through the chains to halt the rivulet. No—I allow her to see clearly that I am unaffected by it, and that I will not crumple so easily. On the outside, anyway.

Resting my head on my paws, I glance at her suspiciously, waiting alertly for her reaction. She does not move toward me, though the fire in her eyes shows her true intolerance for me.

Why me? I silently question her in a look, cocking my head.

You serve the King, she seems to answer.

I serve him, I agree aloud, sounding terribly quiet. She starts before relaxing slightly, eyes narrowed.

You serve a murderer. An oath-breaker, she retorts.

I serve him because of bonds, not loyalty, I counter.

You serve him. You serve him—the great tyrant of Alagaësia—for nothing more than bonds. You are no dragon. You are a monster—a mindless slave.

I am not.

Prove it.

I growl in annoyance, though she glances at me, emotionless. No—expectant.

I cannot, I finally answer in defeat.

Of course you can't.

She thrusts me from her mind, as though throwing me out of a room, before slamming a mental door closed upon me. I wince slightly. She offers me no sympathetic glances—just another snarl.

I continue to observe her from my corner, just able to make out her bluish shape. Though I can only just see her, I cannot help admiring the richness of her blue scales. With a mental grimace, I consider how she must see me, sighing deeply. She stiffens, though I snort and roll my eyes.

Why am I a monster to you? I ask, curious. She ignores me. Will you not speak to me?

I won't, she answers contradictorily. Her stern glance is enough to show she's not trying to be funny, either.

Why?

My question falls on deaf ears; frustration gnaws at me. With an effort, I force it down—forcing back my anger, my pain, my wondering, and just allowing myself to glare back at her with the same irritable venom.

I cannot wait until she leaves, I decide, for no matter how beautiful in appearance she may or may not be, she certainly hates me.

Though I am not so certain I hate her.

'You judge me so quickly.

I judge you for what you are.'

Thorn

I stare at her through hooded eyes, hers bright and fierce as always.

An expansive yawn breaks forth from my jaws, though I don't bother suppress it. Not even from boredom but fatigue—I long to just close my eyes and drift, though I know the moment I do she'll do something. And, though I know it's rather pathetic, I fear whatever it is. Being chained rather tightly to the wall—head and wings included—does have its disadvantages, particularly against an unhindered, angry dragoness.

Want to answer any of my questions? I ask, not expecting a response. She doesn't disappoint—her flat stare is unmoved. I figured as much, I mutter.

Despite my seemingly amused countenance, confusion wells up inside me as I try to make sense of the situation. So the King has placed her and myself in the same cell, for an unknown period of time, for unknown purposes, with only myself being chained. She appears unimpeded by drugs—though magic clearly plays a role in restraining her. Aside from the slight imprints on her neck from where Shruikan had dragged her, she is unmarked. Injured—perhaps—though not physically.

It all makes so terribly little sense. Why would Galbator—

A roar bursts from my throat, startling her to her feet and myself lower to the ground in submission. The chains rattle slightly as I fight to still the tremors, teeth clenched. For several moments, we remain as that, icy pain nipping at my scales while heat burns me from within. With a grunt, the spell fades, though a light trembling racks my frame as I lower my head to my paws once more. I breathe in several deep, steadying breaths to quell the final shivers, and soon calm has returned.

To myself, anyway. The dragoness remains stock-still, standing with her wings flared as wide as the cell will allow. She stares at me, confused and angry, though I snort softly to the latter. Tilting her head to one side, she glances at me up and down before abruptly snapping her wings shut. Wordlessly, she seats herself as well, and I sigh wearily in response.

What, did you think I would attack? I offer with a bitter laugh. Her eyes narrow, not amused, though a sour smile curls my lips. I cannot, O Silent Dragoness, I respond, almost mockingly. She growls low, a threatening notion.

Don't tempt me, it seems to say.

I roll my eyes despite myself. Do you have a voice? I taunt.

She glares.

No? A shame. They're very interesting things—helping you convey feelings and instructions and whatnot. A shame you do not have one. Ah well. I suppose we may not all have voices with which to speak.

Throughout my rambling—meant to prompt her to speak—she remains queerly silent, vexing me. You really won't speak to me, will you?

To my surprise, she offers a slight shake of her head, tail flicking back and forth lightly. Her back is stiff, and her wings tensed and ready to spring outward. I glance at them admiringly, though she tightens them to her sides as though to prevent my viewing from them. Between my damaged sight and the darkness of the dungeon, she successfully ruins my observing of her wings.

You judge me so quickly, I remark.

I judge you for what you are.

The response startles me briefly, though I narrow my eyes after a moment. What am I, then?

A monster. A high servant of the tyrant. A murderer. An oath-breaker. A traitor.

I am none, I deny, fervent now. She glares at me apprehensively, unconvinced. What monstrous acts have I committed? How do I serve the King but as a slave? Who have I murdered? What oaths have I broken? Who have I betrayed?

The questions pour out of me, a sudden torrent of emotion I cannot contain. My voice rises with each word, a shout by the end. I do not bother hide my outrage—my breath comes suddenly quick and deep.

Frustration explodes within me when she regards me with nothing more than a narrowed glance. Why! I roar. Why won't you answer me?

You know the answers, liar.

My angry resolve disintegrates as suddenly as a flame doused in a river. I lower my head to my paws once more, my stare suddenly listless. The change in my demeanor seems to surprise her—I don't care enough to offer explanations she won't respond to.

Quiet words, growing in strength with each line, echo in my head, once lost in a memory.

I bind myself, Thorn, Dragon of Murtagh, to you, King Galbatorix, Ruler of Alagaësia, and you, Shruikan, Dragon of King Galbatorix. I will not disobey your words—I will not disobey your laws. I will not attempt to leave, nor will I attempt to plot treachery. I will not fraternize with the enemy outside our borders, unless you order it so. I will not speak unkindly of you to others, and I will not commit treason against you. I will kill as you command me, and torture as you command me also. I will accept that which you give me without questioning, and I will never turn against you.

I am yours—to be used at your disposal. If I prove myself disloyal, I will willingly submit to the punishment you deem as necessary—I will not defy your order of my execution, either. I will follow you as loyally and devotedly as your most dutiful servants and more, and I will belong to you. I belong to none other than you, King Galbatorix and Black Dragon Shruikan. Should you die, should I hurt too, and should I die, should the blame be mine alone. I will not mourn over my own pains, nor will I beg for better things. I will accept what you give me without complaint.

I, Raudr Baen, am yours.

A soft cry of pain escapes me as the mentioning of his name brings up scorching heat within me. My eyes burn hotly, though I do not close them to soothe them. I do not allow the trembles to control me, nor the heat to overpower me. Instead, I just lie on the ground, enduring the pain, waiting only for it to end. Across from me—with an expression torn between curious, confused, and disdainful—stands the dragoness.

I am not a liar, I protest tonelessly.

Looking back upon the oath—the lengthy spell I could never have hoped understand at the time—I notice with surprising clarity how the King mapped out my entire life in those words. He bound me—completely and utterly—to himself, sealing the deal with my true name. Red Sorrow, I think with some amusement, though mostly dismay.

I am a monster. There is no spite, no anger, no sadness at such biting realization. I am a high servant of the tyrant-King. I am a murderer—an oath-breaker.

But I am not a traitor.

So emboldened by my words I am that I rise to full height, ignoring the chains' protests, and glance firmly at the dragoness across from me. Never call me that, I order. Never. You have no idea what lengths I have been forced to never betray my King. None whatsoever.

And slowly, without once breaking the stare we're locked in, I lower myself to the floor.

I close my eyes, ignoring her—allowing myself to drift, to dream.

I see myself—only younger—as I approach the King, head bowed, wings folded. Beside me stands a young man—dark brown hair almost black—radiating waves of anxiety. I attempt to calm him, though he ignores me, staring ahead lifelessly as though made of stone. I flinch as a heavy snout shoves me forward roughly, to sprawl at the King's feet. I glance up at him before lowering my gaze submissively.

Rising to my feet, I yelp and jump back when a set of ivory teeth snaps dangerously near me. I flee toward the young man, though he glares down at me, radiating sudden animosity that startles me back. At last, I come to rest beside the King's feet, cowering before the large black dragon. Instead of welcoming, the King sneers down at me, kicking me towards the great behemoth. 'Fend for yourself, hatchling,' he commands emotionlessly.

I stare, wide-eyed and terrified, at the enormous dragon towering above me, closing my eyes and ducking my head to avoid the blow I know is sure to come. A snort of hot breath washes over me and I shiver; my wings instinctively tuck tighter against my sides. 'Don't hurt me,' a part of me pleads, though the other terribly silent half is indifferent.

With a squeal of pain, I leap back, though the dragon has not moved. Deep sadness resides in his eyes as he stares down at me, mingled in a hint of guilt. I turn away from such powerful, helpless emotions, only to confront the hate and sorrow radiating from the man. Again, I seek the King's protection, though he is the worst—amused.

'You will learn,' he says, as though teaching me a new skill. 'Someday.'

'What are you trying to teach me?' I ask, retreating from the now-snarling black dragon. I stumble back over heavy iron, entangling myself in a set of thick chains. I scrabble helplessly amidst them, unable to free myself. 'My King!' I plead. He laughs at my predicament, snapping his fingers.

To my horror, the young man—whom I once believed my friend—moves to my side, chuckling coldly as he locks the chains into place. He tightens the ones on my wings almost unbearably—I thrash weakly in protest. 'Let me go, let me go!' the cry is flung out to all. The King laughs more heartily, and the young man's work becomes more clipped. A regretful glance from the black dragon offers no reprieve—I wince as the final chains click into place.

Leaping upright, I scramble away from this human who I no longer know—who no longer knows me. A lick of fire brands my face and I screech, recoiling.

'Let me go!' I shout as the young man bends to lift me, chains and all. This time I can clearly see a whip as it slices through the air, landing like a hot knife upon my face. I bury my head desperately in the chains, hoping to hide myself, to flee.

Pain. Unbearable, unending agony scorches through me. Tendons snap, flesh rips, bones crack. My lungs nearly explode, my mind falling into a sea of sharp red. It seems the blinding color is the only one there—red—a scarlet that can only describe blood, describe pain. I writhe, though this only worsens my hurt, my bones grinding and rubbing against each other as though in a bag shaken anew.

'Let me go!'

Let me go!

LET ME GO!

I bolt upright in a cold sweat, trembling. Let me go, I breathe.

Saphira

He sleeps.

I raise and lower my head alternately, as though trying to be certain he is truly asleep or merely faking it. The way his chest swells and falls with each steady breath seems ample proof, though I do not lower my own stance. Instead, I shuffle to the left, as though to take a step closer, before hesitating. With a decisive shake of my head, I sit, wings folded to my sides.

He doesn't react when I growl at him. Snapping my jaws lightly, I watch in confused silence as he continues to rest, heedless of my taunts. You're not asleep, I protest, in a last effort to awaken him.

He seems to sigh in his sleep, though I cannot be certain.

With a sigh, I slowly allow myself to relax. He is no threat, I have decided, at least not now. How long he will remain such is impossible to know, though my only indication would be when the chains are removed from him. I examine the deep gouge marks cut into his skin by the cold metal, blood dripping down from them sluggishly. Satisfaction at the sharp slice in his neck washes over me, though the approval does not reach my eyes. While it is necessary that I show him I am intolerable to him—that I will not even entertain the idea of his presence as companionable—guilt at having inflicted even more pain upon him from what he's already suffered leaves me displeased.

His brow furrows slightly and he shifts, though with the slow movements of being caught in a dream. He flinches, shuffling again. I watch as he tosses and turns fractionally, all the while wondering what is plaguing his dreams.

But, I remind myself, I will not fall for any of this. His questioning, I know, would only bring trouble on us both for me to answer. Even those which I have answered I berate myself for, though I cannot take back my words. I resolve myself that once he awakens, I'll ignore him. If he asks, I'll ignore that as well.

This will be a very long week.

He shifts, wings ruffling in their bonds and head tossing slightly from side to side as though shaking it. A low moan escapes him, and he curls closer, as though trying to stave off some unknown pain. I instinctively draw closer, curious, before pausing and reminding myself not to bother.

Let me go! he roars, eyes flaring open. I shift back in surprise, his sudden awakening startling me.

Let me go? I wonder silently. The chains rattle around him as he shivers, panting deeply. A short string of words escapes him on a breath, though I can only just catch them. He glances listlessly down at his feet, not elaborating on their meaning.

Silence reigns between us.

The troubled expression on his face draws me nearer, though he glances up at me suddenly, the saddest look I can ever recall glinting on his face. And then it hardens, and he growls at me. I growl slightly in turn, though the deep hatred and sorrow in his eyes soon silences me. With a ruffle of my wings, I turn and move to the farthest corner of the cell, taking slow steps. Each once is accentuated with a growl from Thorn, forming a continuous rumble.

I coolly sit on the ground, glaring at him. He glares back.

Angry, now? I ask silently. He doesn't move, as the question was neither voiced nor directed at him. Such troubling emotions play out on his expression that I cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt for mocking him in his misery. I cock my head at him slightly, waiting.

Who is this dragon? Truly? For the monster in him is so clear, yet the hatchling is there as well. He is so split, though, that I dare not trust the hatchling. Sparing a meaningful glance at his face, I can see most clearly in his eyes anguish—so deep I wish only to move to comfort him. But I force my own face to remain stoic, my ground to be stood as uncaring.

With only a soft hiss, he draws back to his chains, as though to leave my sight. Shamed, he looks away, and I grant him the small wish that is to suffer in silence. I move away so that I am not facing him so directly, but not so that I am completely vulnerable before him. He sighs quietly, the sound a rasp in his throat, before wearily resting against the wall, head pressed against the cold stone miserably and eyes closed.

I do not extend a comforting tendril of thought, a question to distract or an answer to humor him. Instead, I close my eyes as well.

A game of stones lies before me.

Three black, three gold, three green, and three red are spread out on the marble floor, each one waiting to be taken. I glance at the rocks in wonderment before decidedly reaching over and selecting the first rock in the grouping.

Heartbreak. Deep, true, and cold as a stone, it radiates so strongly I find myself all but weeping as I stare out at the lifeless world. My heart sinks in my chest, and a deep hurt wells up within me. Delicately I reach forward, unable to release the stone.

So I grab the next.

Callousness. The earlier pain is discarded, replaced by an indefinable emotion. It still thrums terribly, though in the background, as though this new emotion is just a thin cloak to be draped over the former. The complete disregard for the pain I have inflicted, of the torment I have brought on, nearly causes me guilt, though I remind myself that what I have done is not wrong, but rather what must be done.

I reach over and pick up the third and final black stone.

Regret. By far the strongest emotion, it overpowers the first two, and a wave of anguish quickly follows. Such remorse over actions, such guilt, it paralyzes me. Tears well up in my eyes and I roar out in sorrow, the stones slipping from my claw.

The black stones slid into place, filling an invisible row on an unwritten game. I stare down at them, etched in sleek white letters 'Heartbreak', 'Callousness', and 'Regret.'

I force myself to reach to the next; the first gold.

Sorrow. An overpowering sadness sweeps through me, the tears flowing more freely down my cheeks. Such a demeaning, horrible gesture, yet so true amidst the unstoppable torrent. I wish to end it—to do something—anything—to end it. Death, I know, is far kinder than this—I wish desperately that it would come upon me and end it.

I snatch up the next stone quickly.

Acceptance. The calming emotion seems to soothe my pain, numbing it. I drift between the sorrow and acceptance, though ultimately, acceptance prevails. I know I must continue—no matter how hard.

And so I reach forward and grasp the last gold stone.

Satisfaction. This one, like the acceptance, is not a complete erasing of the first—rather the realization that this is right. That what has happened had to happen, and thus cannot be taken as wrong. And that what I have done was good—and has provided good.

I slowly drop the stones, which roll into the 'row' just behind the black. 'Sorrow', 'Acceptance', and 'Satisfaction' play in gentle white letters on their surfaces.

Dreading what I will find yet driven on by morbid curiosity, I tentatively grasp the first green stone.

Fear. Though it is not nearly as powerful as though other emotions, it just as chilling in its simplicity. It clouds my senses—worsens my judgment. Everywhere there is darkness, and my soul desire becomes to escape. I clumsily grasp the next.

Confusion. My brow furrows, and my claw tightens around the stones. What is this—this strange feeling? A fear without a fault—a judgment without a thing to be judged. I know whether not to be surprised or worried, though I reach forward anyway and grab the last.

Loneliness. Like a metronome, it thrums through me, striking my very core with its saddened beats. I search in vain around me, hoping for someone to prove me wrong and dispel this loneliness. But there is only loneliness, and the stones slip from my claws dully.

They slid into place behind the gold, behind the black. 'Fear', 'Confusion', and 'Loneliness' carve themselves in the rocks' surfaces.

I stare for several long, quiet moments at the marked stones before allowing my gaze to stray to the final group.

The red.

My claw closes gently around the first stone.

Hurt. It burns through me, scorching my soul from the inside out. I roar mutely in agony, though I cannot escape it. Everywhere, there is the pain—the hurt, the suffering. Worse, there is nothing I can do to stop it. So I sit and endure, pretending not to notice, pretending not to care, while hurting all along.

Want. A strong desire for companionship, for trust, for many things floods through me. The greatest of wants is for a being—though who, I cannot tell. I try and try to reach forward, to seize that which I wish, yet it always evades my grasp.

Soft whiteness caresses me, and through it I feel someone's trust. I feel the need to go on—the need to continue despite all. For somewhere, I know without knowing, there exists it—

-Hope.

"I am the King. I can do anything I wish with my captives."

Thorn

I wake groggy, shaking my head blearily as a guard shuffles by the cell door. Alert as ever, the dragoness already stares down at the door with a glare that I am certain could cow anyone, perhaps even the King himself. She stands hardly a foot from the door, a continuous growl rumbling in her throat. I resist a chuckle, though a throaty-cough betrays me. She spares me a brief, loathing glance before glaring back at the door.

I cock my head at her in bemusement as she sits there, cat-like, her tail partially curled around her and her wings angled for easy opening. Her eyes are bright—though I can tell by the faint dustings over her that she has rested at least somewhat. I yawn loudly, drawing her attention once more just as a guard hastily throws open the door. A fat doe is tossed inside, landing solidly on the ground. Judging by the healthy coloring of its coat that I can glean from the light pouring from the doorway, it appears a fresh kill, its blood still ruby. I glance suspiciously at the guards, though the door closes with a loud clang.

So this is the game the King wishes to play.

The dragoness growls indignantly at the doorway, slamming her head against the door. With a thunderous report, the metal vibrates in place, though otherwise it gives no sign of abuse. I wince very slightly; otherwise my gaze is unchanging as I stare at the meat just in my reach. Snarling in outrage, the dragoness turns from the door, whacking the metal beside it with her tail. She glares at me first, then down at the meat. Slowly, she moves toward it, watching me all the while as I make no move to claim it. Finally, she stands overtop it, staring at me with an unreadable expression.

She crouches to sniff at the meat, our gazes locked.

With careful movements, she opens her jaw and grasps the deer, raising her head slowly. Drops of blood slip from the doe's smooth coat, though otherwise there is almost no indication it was once alive. My stomach rumbles hungrily as I stare at her. With a questing growl, I silently ask, Well? What're you waiting for?

I stagger back in surprise when she suddenly flings the doe to my feet, where it lands with a dull thud. I glance at her, not sparing the deer a moment. Instead of attacking—as I half-expect—she calmly returns to her corner, sitting down with a quiet grunt. I wait for several moments longer before daring break our stare.

The deer is plump, belly sticking out healthily. No remarkable injuries score it—a scratch here and there, but otherwise unmarked. Odd, I muse, as most of my meals are quite bloodied and torn.

A new problem suddenly occurs to me as I bend to sniff at it. The chains muzzling my snout prevent me from opening my jaw wider than a hand's breadth, no where near enough to even nibble at the deer's flesh. Always the guards would come in and free me of the chains found there, knowing I would be severely punished if I ever dared take advantage of such a thing.

A growl rumbles in my chest, vexed.

I glance over at the dragoness, who observes me with a calm expression. Well? What're you waiting for? she seems to mock me with that look. I glare in response, glancing back down at the deer.

My throat clenches, so very near to food yet impossibly bound away. Cruelly my scales disguise my true emaciation, and so only I and the King know the depth of my hunger.

And he never gives me enough to sate it.

Nudging the deer forward with my snout, I slowly make my way toward her. She stiffens, though otherwise doesn't move. After several agonizingly slow moments, I manage to catch the nape of the deer's neck in my jaws, tasting only fur and skin. With a cool glance at the dragoness, I swing my head back slightly and throw the deer forward.

It lands limply at her feet.

With a gruff snort, I nod my head to her, retreating. Fur clings to my teeth uncomfortably, even bits of flesh taunting me, though it brings only more hunger. I groan loudly in exasperation, shooting a murderous look at the guards.

She gives me a disapproving glance before returning to the deer. Sniffing it again, she wordlessly places a paw upon its stomach and leans down to take a slight nip of it. She slowly chews the meat, testing it. Flicking her forked-tongue out, she bows her head and snatches the deer's carcass up in a single bite, loud crunches erupting from inside her jaws before she swallows.

She stretches, shaking her wings to clear some of the grime that has collected there as I so long to do with my own. As though to torment me further, she paces the length of the cell, to which I can do nothing but stare enviously. Catching my glance, she pauses.

What are you looking at? her pointed glance seems to say.

You take everything for granted, I reply.

Her brow furrows and I realize I have spoken aloud. I shrug a shoulder and she lets it go. She resumes pacing to my dismay, her movements quiet and eased. When she swings her head lightly to glance at me, I occupy myself with the chains near my feet, tilting my head convincingly and nudging at them. She seems to see through my thin display, though she—as usual—doesn't comment. I sigh and she looks away again with a quiet growl.

I lift my gaze to stare at her, brow furrowing slightly. She doesn't turn or offer an explanation, though I growl back in retort. When she keeps pacing—pointedly ignoring me—I growl louder, snapping my teeth as much as the chains will allow.

Her eyes flick toward me, though she quickly refocuses her gaze ahead.

So now you won't look at me? I ask.

Her step hesitates, though she continues without answer.

You can ignore me all you want.

She doesn't give any hint that she's even heard me.

Would you answer me any questions? I ponder, almost wistfully.

No.

You answered one.

She growls low, as though to intimidate me, and abruptly I find that her pacing has suddenly shifted so that she stands before me. The closeness allows me a brief chance to assess her, though with the darkness and my ineffective draconic sight, I can only make her out for shapes and a strange blue tinge. Her narrowed eyes appear particularly menacing from such close proximity, though I do not cower away.

Would you answer another? My tone is hopeful.

No. Hers—cold.

Why not?

A growl escapes her and she appears tempted to deal a good slash or whack to my side.

All right, I concede, but please, answer me just one more.

No.

She turns away suddenly, stalking back to the edges of 'her half' of the cell. I lunge forward daringly, thrusting my wings as far as they can possible go, straining against the chains. Mine skim hers, though it is enough. The weight of the chains topples us both, the balance of my wings tipped so drastically I am jerked first forward then back from the force. She scrabbles in silence at the floor, claws scuffling as I hastily climb to my own feet.

What is your name? I fling the thought at her, throwing as much force as I can behind my words. She glances away further, ignoring my question, and lurches to her feet.

What is your name? I repeat, watching her retreat. She doesn't spare me a glance, not the slightest motion that she cares. You know mine—why can't I know yours? What harm can be done in a name?

She seats herself after circling once, wings folded neatly at her sides. Thorn. What a fine name you bear. Spiteful. My lip curls back in a snarl, though inwardly an odd pleasure at the sound of my name from her flows through me. What of my name—I just want to know yours.

She stares coolly at me, unresponsive. Just as I again quest out to ask, she asks, Why?

It is the first question she has posed for me, and to it I am left grasping for words. She doesn't bother wait for my answer as time passes, and eventually she resigns to rest her head on her paws and sleep. I still rack my mind in frustration for an answer, though it seems none is there. I look up at her, watching her rise and fall gently with each breath, her teeth locked and her brow furrowed. She paws slightly at the ground, her wings shifting restlessly.

I don't know, I mutter to her silence, Cannot I just ask?

Shruikan

What do you hope to gain of this? I demand as I enter the throne room once more. Sitting nonchalantly in his throne, Galbatorix regards me with nothing more than a bored look before breaking out in a sadistic smile.

"I would've thought you'd be happier I'm at least giving them some time to acquaint themselves with each other," he answers. The smile doesn't leave his face and I growl.

You're toying with them now?

There is no threat large enough to temper my outrage at such a thing, and I find my wits to not try and pin him to the floor barely a moment before I crouch.

"I am not toying with them." Polite, as always, yet somehow insulting. My eyes narrow fractionally. "I am merely setting them up for the inevitable. Unless you would wish me to just force him upon her tonight, then? I'll have word sent to the guard straightaway, if that is the case. She may submit willingly to him, or she may submit unwillingly. There is no middle ground for this, Shruikan, and I will not debate upon it. It has been decided, and I reasoned you would be happier I were giving her and opportunity to submit willingly. But if you insist, it can be arranged otherwise." He grins, an unusually sinister one for his usual cordiality.

Enough! I bellow, glaring at him. My wings strain against their invisible bonds to no avail, though a feral snarl breaks my jaws. You treat them like dogs—chaining one and leaving the other to do with the first as it pleases.

"She can't harm him," dismisses Galbatorix, "without harming herself."

You're forcing them into this and you still argue that you're not? I fume.

"Well, Shruikan, I can honestly say I'm surprised at your jealousy. I would've thought you'd be happy for the poor, lonely little hatchling—instead you think I am cruel to be doing this."

But you are!

"Enough. I will not argue with you on this—as I have already said." He waves a hand dismissively. "Is that all you have come for? To argue about the inconveniences of the inevitable? How noble of you." I simmer at how he insults and compliments myself at once. "You really should stick to points of actual debate, Shruikan, if you wish to gain anything from speaking."

You can't do this. You can't force them together like this.

"I am the King. I can do anything I wish with my captives." The first edge of true malice enters his voice, his politeness suddenly turning cold. "That includes you, and if you were wise, you would not tempt me. As it is, I am sourly tempted to just have you force yourself upon the female and have it done with."

How dare you threaten me! I roar. His authority suddenly becomes painfully clear as a cool smile crosses his face. I hiss loudly as twin bolts of electricity strike the largest bones in my wings, leaving them limp at my sides.

"I can threaten you all I want, dear Shruikan," he informs sweetly. "I hold power. You do not. And you'd do best to remember that."

I step forward threateningly. He raises an eyebrow deferentially, though a moment later something sharp pierces my scales. I screech, throwing my head back and clawing at the ground in agony. The knife in my heart burns, burns so terribly I cannot bear it. Stop! I howl.

The sensation retreats, and I jerk my head downward, certain there is a sword run through my chest, that my very blood must now be pooling upon the stone floor.

There is nothing.

"The psyche is a powerful thing," comments Galbatorix offhandedly. "Tampering with it may cause hallucinations, phantom pains, or even insanity."

So now you're messing with my mind? I seethe, internally terrified at such a prospect. Never before has he so absolutely convinced me something without the assistance of magic—never.

"That was a warning. The next will not be," he answers. Calmness, as though informing me of a nice pleasure he experienced, resonates through his voice.

You'd drive me to insanity just for the sake of punishment? I ask, trying to sound frightening rather than frightened.

"Why not? You're no longer of true use to me, other than practicality in battle. And once we destroy those poor little Varden you will be of no use to me. I have what I need—what more could you provide? Companionship?" I need not hear it to feel the mocking in his voice. "Ah, you overestimate your worth, Shruikan. I need your strength, and since I have that already, I need you not at all. Your sanity is not something that must be preserved for myself to control you. Remember that."

I resist the sudden urge to apologize, to assure that I meant nothing of my outburst and I would not let it happen again. Yet I cannot force the words from my mouth.

I glance up, meeting his untroubled gaze, and wonder how it is possible that I must bow to he and not he to me. I will, I answer simply, turning to leave.

"Did I dismiss you?" his voice calls, like a serpent's in the dark. I slowly turn back to face him. "No? I didn't think so." I glower, forcing myself to be silent. "You see," he continues, folding his hands on the left arm of the throne, "I have recently acquired an unusual possession. And though I considered otherwise, I decided it would be best if you were the one to dispose of it."

I blanch. What do you mean?

"Shruikan, are you really that dull? Cannot you see what I'm getting at?" he purrs. "No? Well, you never were the brightest. The Golden Dragon's Eldunarí—Glaedr's Eldunarí."

You want me to… dispose of him?

"Of course. Sap his strength dry and then leave him with the others. Oh, and don't forget; torture him. Make him scream for mercy for ever having dared defy me. However you do it, make him in absolute agony before you destroy him. And once you have finished, report back to me. Failure will result in grave consequences for yourself." He smiles pleasantly at me, unperturbed. "I expect you will not fail, correct?"

Correct, I agree meekly. I balk from the thought of torturing, even more so when Galbatorix specifically says that I must make him scream and be in agony.

For words of the ancient language cannot be defied.

When must I do it? I dread it as much as though I were to go to a torture session myself.

"Now would be a most excellent time." As though coalesced from thin air, the gold Eldunarí suddenly appears in Galbatorix's hands. If I had blinked, I would've missed how he struck the stone throne beneath him, withdrawing from the invisible vault the stone. "Remember, Shruikan. Do not fail me."

I cringe to the ancient language, though he seems not to notice. I slowly move closer, extending my neck and taking the Eldunarí in my jaws when he proffers it.

I close my eyes briefly as I turn to shut out the thought of what I am about to do before breathing deeply and placing the stone on the ground before me.

With a heavy breath, I place my paw atop the stone, and enter the Golden Dragon.

Saphira

I shuffle in my sleep as something whines, opening my eyes to slits. Across from me, not a dozen yards away, Thorn scrabbles lightly at the floor, head burrowing deep into the chains locked around his forepaws. He shivers convulsively, though somehow the tremors do not reach the chains enough to rattle them. I watch as he moans, turning his head to the side, breathing deeply. A raggedy growl escapes him, cut purposefully short as several others follow.

Sobbing, I realize.

Tentatively, I quest my mind towards him, reversing the unspoken standard of him questing toward me. I am met by a wall of sorrow, a deep pain slicing down my heart and making my thoughts seeming painful to even think. Overriding it all is terrible longing, sadness so deep I can hardly bear to draw back. My breath is shaky when I withdraw, and my eyes watery from the shared pain.

He shifts restlessly, his sobs never once relenting. They become more grating, more desperate, and I close my eyes to try and ignore it. I focus on questing toward Eragon as I have not attempted in several hours, only to see again the futility of it. I open my eyes after several long moments, my gaze shifting back to Thorn.

He stares at me, breathing in rough pants, though seemingly unhindered by such. Even though there is no emotion to his expression, the depth of sorrow and longing in his eyes shows clearly.

He doesn't let you see him, does he?

We both know who I speak of.

He shakes his head.

Ever?

He shakes his head again, solemn.

Silence.

Why?

His lip curls downward, his brow furrows, and confusion reflects in his eyes. Without speaking, the message is clear: I don't know.

I shuffle awkwardly before his distraught gaze and he seems to notice; he turns his head away suddenly, not acknowledging me otherwise. I cannot ignore the scars—tinged with blue—that glow before me, marring his hide dozens of times over. His wings, I seem to see for the first time pinioned to his side invoke a sudden guilt in me. Here he is, trapped to roam only a small, cramped segment of the cell, battered, broken, miserable. Yet I have the majority of the cell to myself, and no chains weigh me down. No cuts and bruises such as his score myself; no restrictions bind me from moving about freely.

He fixes me with a lifeless stare.

You have no idea what I've gone through, he murmurs, as though to himself. You may guess all you want, but you'll never know. I stare back at him, unable to answer or dare speak. You may think I am strong to have endured—but I am not. Here he moves to the farthest reaches of the chains, curling up in the corner. I am weak. I am disposable. I am worthless. I should be cursed. I should be scolded and jeered at and shouted at. I should be ignored—I should be here.

I should be dead.

Before I can respond to that, he resolutely shuts me out of his mind, the first time he has done so to me rather than myself to him. I glance at him as he slips back into a fitful sleep, not thinking of him as sulky or seeking pity. In our brief commiseration from his dreams, I could see the truth in those words. And the loathing that it is so.

Thorn, I quest, though he ignores me. Thorn, answer me something.

No.

And I realize that amidst the callousness of his tone, there is mocking from my earlier refusals to his questions. Please.

He cracks open an eye to regard me with the same boredom of a cat awakened from an enjoyable nap. No, he repeats, closing it again.

Why doesn't he try to see you? I ask, plunging on despite his refusals.

He remains silent for so long I nearly give up on receiving an answer, turning to retreat when suddenly: He cannot, just as I cannot see him.

I turn in surprise to look back at him, though his eyes are still closed, and a peaceful rest seems to claim him. I stare at him for several moments longer before retreating to the opposite end of the cell once more.

With nothing better to do, I close my eyes and let reality drift away, inviting in calm darkness.

'Calmness is an easy disguise for anxiety.'

Shruikan

I was certain that I would come to regret my obligation the moment I encountered the Golden Dragon's presence.

You come at last, sighs a deep voice. There is no resentment, no bitterness to my surprise. I bow my head, glancing across the black expanse to the golden dragon before me. Our consciousnesses shape our beings here—no maladies of the flesh can harm either of us in this small, quiet world. Darkness surrounds us, though it is not threatening or discouraging, but rather natural and acceptable.

Neutral.

I have come, I answer, stepping forward in my conjured self. He sighs again, more wearily, glancing off to some distant thing neither of us can truly see. I follow his gaze momentarily before growling at him. What are you looking at?

Just the past, he answers mournfully, shaking his head. And my future, he adds with a rather wry glance at myself. I drop my growl in pitch, though I remain unpleased with the task before me.

How are you so calm about this? I demand.

Calmness is an easy disguise for anxiety. Cryptic, yet clear. My growl quiets slightly to his words, and a grim smile crosses his face.

You've come to kill me—I know.

I cannot kill you, I rumble.

Ah, but you can—at least of spirit.

He shrugs a shoulder, infuriatingly unworried. Could not you be the least bit concerned as to why I am here? Snappish, though I don't bother hide my growing temper.

I could, but it would be futile, he answers. He ghosts over to my side, steps silent and light. I'm not stupid, Shruikan. I know what you've come here to do. I know that you won't leave until you've achieved it. He spreads his wings wide, almost tauntingly, though the grimness in his expression doesn't fade. So, I'm ready.

You won't fight me? I ask, incredulous. He barks a laugh.

Fight you? Of course. But first you must strike at me. He shakes his wings as though this is obvious. I steady myself, finding the cool, invisible ground beneath me and sinking my claws into it. Crouching, he mirrors my movements, our lips curling back in twin snarls. Come, Shruikan. Come and fight me, he commands.

I growl lower, adding a hiss, before doing just that.

At first contact, our minds become a single entity, thinking and breathing as one. I can feel his emotions and memories as my own, his hurts and troubles as clearly as though they were mine. I cannot express what the bizarre feeling truly was—to feel things that weren't supposed to be mine, and knowing that things never meant to be felt by another were being shared with this dragon before me.

His jaws locked around my head, shaking me vigorously, before thrusting me off to one side.

The power behind such a blow is enormous, though I feel strangely unhindered by it. I instead leap to my feet, my crouch deepening as we circle wolfishly. With a roar, I lunge at him, latching onto his neck. We tumble to the ground, myself barely managing to keep from being crushed beneath him. Yet I truly need not fear, for it is somewhat impossible to die in this strange world.

I doggedly hold onto his neck, both of us thrashing against each other, scoring dozens of marks upon one another. I wince as his razor-sharp claws slice across my left eye, blinding me there. Through blurred vision, I manage to catch his right leg, jerking and tearing as ferociously as I dare. He kicks loose of me, throwing us both back against the ground.

You fight well, he compliments gravelly.

My claws rake down his sides, twin gashes sprouting there. He roars, though it is defiant, not pained. To my astonishment, he lurches upright, digging my claws in deeper, a satisfied hiss escaping him. What're you doing? I ask, ripping my claws from his flesh. He laughs morbidly.

The less I deny, the faster the inevitable will come.

I whack him once—brutally—with my tail, spearing and cutting his face at the same time. He screeches, unable to withhold his agony, yet he does not collapse. Instead he drives himself forward, using his head like a battering ram and plowing over me. His size, though equal to mine in this strange world, is daunting enough, and we crash into the unseen ground. I struggle for several long moments before pain erupts from my left leg. I try to move away, to move him away, but he overpowers me with our awkward positions and drives his teeth deep into my flesh.

I close my eyes just a moment before a powerful jerk tears muscle, tissue, and even bone apart. An almighty scream escapes me—a hideous sound for a dragon—though he unrelentingly bears down on me, clawing and digging his teeth into any flesh he can find. I try to ignore the blinding pain to retaliate, though the bleeding stub of my leg burns and throbs and aches all at once, paralyzing me. Stop! I find myself pleading involuntarily. He looks down at me with a disapproving glance.

I said I would fight you—fight back! he commands.

Hidden strength seems to well up within me, though I am not sure whether it is my physical or mental strength. Either way, I find myself glaring back as he glares down at me, and with a kick I topple him from his perch atop me. He snarls back, truly my opponent, yet somehow he also encourages me to come—to attack. Fight back, his words echo in my head.

I feint a lunge to the left and he moves to dodge, placing himself directly in my true course of attack. We tumble to the ground in a flurry of claws, teeth, and blood, the red droplets spraying us both as we writhe beneath each other. Slowly, very slowly, I can sense myself gaining power, and him losing it.

'Make him scream for mercy for ever having defied me.'

I latch—a murderous look in my eyes—onto his very skull, my teeth grating against the bone there with eerie similarity to metal on metal. A thunderous roar escapes him as my teeth apply greater pressure there, blood seeping from the sides of his head. Will you ever surrender? I taunt in a voice that is not my own. Will you?

I will never give in to you, he growls, and again, he answers not me but the demonic being that has possessed my voice. A flash of recognition glints in his eyes, though my vision pours over in red, allowing me an all too clear viewing of my bloodied prey.

I have driven him to the ground, where I press him deeper and deeper, teeth bearing down upon his very skull, blood that is not my own trickling into my mouth. A wave of bloodlust overcomes me and I lash out, drawing a deep, gruesome slash upon his neck. Combined with the crushing strength of my grasp on his head, he roars and claws at me futilely.

But no, he cannot reach me—I allow a sadistic smile to grace my lips. Beg for mercy, I sneer. Beg, you foolish dragon! I press harder, a bloodcurdling scream escaping the dragon beneath me as I crack his skull. Though not fatally, the wound impends him severely as his struggles fade, his form falling to the ground limply. BEG!

The roar escapes me and I press down on him—never once releasing his head—and jerk my head brutally around. The result is devastating; a large gash opens up on the side of his head, spilling blood onto my onyx scales. And yet, stubbornly—foolishly—he remains silent but for his cries of agony. I release his head suddenly to swipe my claws over his face, all but gouging out his eyes. Blinded, bleeding, and broken, he still growls at me defiantly, red staining his face.

I will never beg to you, he says, and I can feel the weakling's effort at strength. I snarl, fall back into a crouch, and lunge again. Too weakened to dodge, he falls back as well, sending us in a confusing fray of limbs. I snarl at him, devilishly striking his face again. His lower jaw hangs awkwardly from his mouth, broken yet not completely detached. Beg for mercy, Glaedr, I seethe roguishly.

No, he refuses, obstinate.

The pain will end sooner, I lie sweetly, my wings flaring out to encompass and drag his down. The pain will end much sooner if you just beg.

I will never beg! he roars. He latches onto my neck—how dare he, my dark conscience sneers—and drags me down to his level.

And then he drives his claws home to my chest.

Somehow, his ancient, enormous claws manage to penetrate my impossibly strong scales, and blood sprouts from my chest like a flower in bloom. Not a cascade of ruby, but rather a steady unfurling. My pain, however, is pressed aside by the demonic being within me, and I laugh at his attempt to bring me down.

You think it would be that easy? I roar with laughter, blood spilling over my jaws. He regards me with a cool glance, neither attacking nor retreating. Never!

I ram my forehead against his, forcing my way into his mind. He screeches, pressing back futilely as I sift through the memories as cruelly as I can. I snatch the worst ones and replay them again and again, his torment my pleasure. Finally, I come upon a most unpleasant one, so dark even I am mildly affected by the great sorrow within. I shake it off, however, and thrust the memory at him, greatening his suffering by taunting him for his weakness throughout.

And he begs me for mercy.

Suddenly, the demon retreats, work completed, and a horrible grief overwhelms me as I stare upon this dragon—face a bloody mess and body no better. My chest burns with pain from the blow he dealt me, and I know under any realistic circumstances I would be dead from blood loss. Yet this is no ordinary reality, and logic applies far less.

I wish to apologize but I cannot, and I have yet another duty to fulfill. As our gazes lock—his by some impossibility tear-filled—and I can almost see the acceptance he has given to his fate.

'Make him in absolute agony before you destroy him.'

I glance at him, though somehow the words urge me to do more. Powerless, I snag his left wing in my teeth, closing my eyes as the magic forces me to tear. He moans low in pain, yet still the magic insists on more.

I grasp his right wing and tear as well.

He roars.

The magic continues to press me for more, more, more!

I whack my tail against his side, breaking three ribs.

He collapses to the ground, a pained groan escaping him.

I close my eyes to stave off tears as I whack him again mercilessly, driving him against the ground. Again and again, I must hit him, pound him to the ground like some draconic stoning. He offers pitiful roars, broken jaw preventing him from achieving a true cry.

The magic suddenly falls silent, its words fulfilled.

I gaze down at him, traitorous tears streaming down my cheeks at the sight. I'm so sorry, I whisper, and for once I truly mean it. He smiles very slightly—grimly—and bows his head in a nod.

With a final whack, I bring my tail down upon his head and end it.

"Bravo," chimes Galbatorix as I retreat, stealing the last reserves of the Golden Dragon's strength. The Eldunarí cracks, then shatters, a thousand tiny gems landing on the floor. They glow out, becoming nothing more than dull pebbles. I feel a seeking tendril of thought reach me, allowing it to enter as he leeches my newly found strength from the Golden Dragon. "A shame I could not have been there to see it," he sighs ruefully.

I spare him a deadened look before bowing my head. Yes, I agree as I must. A shame.

He cocks his head at me, shaking it after a moment. "For now, you are dismissed." He waves his hand toward the door. Numbly, I retreat, the image of the bloody dragon—destroyed completely and utterly—lying on the ground as I beat him to death replaying in my mind.

I close my eyes once I have left the room, allowing a quiet sob to escape me.

Saphira

I bolt upright suddenly, startling Thorn to consciousness as well. He looks at me peculiarly. Something is wrong, I can sense, though what—I've no clue. I rise to my feet—he mirrors my movements. Pacing restlessly, I throw my mind's borders out haphazardly, desperately questing. What's wrong, what's wrong? I question to any and all. Thorn's brow furrows and he regards me with a confused look, making to take a step forward. I growl low to stop him.

What's wrong? I roar, the sudden certainty that something very bad is occurring driving me to the very limits of my patience. I realize with grim realization that my mind is bound from reaching past this cell, and the only one who might hear me is even more confused than I.

Saphira, a voice calls, sounding terribly aged.

Glaedr? I ask, incredulous.

No, responds the voice in a sorrowful moan, and in an instant I recognize Shruikan.

What has happened? I demand, ignoring his aching consciousness.

I…his words trail off, and a grotesque sight fills my vision suddenly.

You killed him! I roar in accusation.

I did, he sobs. Brutally. Slowly. He died in agony because of me. He begged me for mercy before I even considered ending his suffering.

The images flash by quickly, the entire fight seeming to take place in less than a minute. I watch, my own eyes filling with tears at the sight of my former master so broken, so defeated, and still clinging to life. I break the contact suddenly, if nothing else than to escape.

Thorn glances at me, still confused as ever—if not more. What happened? he asks, tentative.

I shake my head slowly, thoughtlessly sending him an image of Glaedr just moments before he 'died' again. The red dragon recoils as though struck, sending up barriers of his own to block out the sight.

Several long, silent moments pass between us as we try to reason with the horrid fate of the Golden Dragon.

What was his name? asks Thorn, inquisitive as ever. The sorrow in his eyes is undeniable, and I likewise cannot deny his question.

Glaedr, I answer softly.

He bows his head, growling quietly. Shruikan killed him.

It is not a question.

I nod anyway.

None deserve to die that way, he whispers.

Galba—I stop myself as he looks at me in horror, shying away from the word. The tyrant-King made him, I amend. He nods very slightly, though I can just catch his sigh of relief.

A bitter laugh escapes him suddenly. Just as the tyrant-King will dispose of me one day, he muses.

I glance at him disbelievingly. He shakes his head grimly.

What purpose do you think my presence serves him now that he has you and the green egg? And Shruikan, to boot. I am no more than the Golden Drag—Glaedr was in his eyes. He sighs wearily. A dour prospect to consider, I admit.

To that, I am silent. I struggle for words, for some denial, but the certainty in his gaze cannot be questioned. You won't die that way…I protest weakly. He shakes his head.

Won't I? I have failed to do both tasks the King gave me, and he has what he needs anyway. As far as he is concerned I have failed him miserably.

You won't die that way! I roar, vehement.

He chuckles, the sound like stones grinding against one another. You want me dead, don't you?

Silence.

His humoring over death suddenly turns cold, and his eyes become hard as he turns away from me. He settles upon the floor, curling up to himself, ignoring my dilemma. With a soft snore, I can tell he has fallen asleep.

I know I shouldn't want him dead—the hurt look in his eyes at my silent agreement almost makes me awaken him to prove such. But I know that it is true, and I should not become attached to him. As he serves the tyrant-King, he has to die, in a way.

I settle down to the ground restlessly.

Is it fair to judge him so? I wonder. To judge him for actions forced upon him, and still call him evil? Our actions show who we are, reminds Glaedr from a memory. I sigh heavily, resting my head on my paws.

If only he didn't look so innocent asleep, so hurt awake. If only he could understand that we cannot interact this way—that we have to ignore one another's existences. Or, I know, we'll drag each other down, whether willingly or no.

"O Great Black Dragon," murmurs a guard from outside the cell. I raise my head slowly, just able to make out a dark shape from the pitifully small barred window in the door. "What brings you here today?" A low growl. "Ah, right then." Shuffling, hardly distinguishable, rouses Thorn from his rest as the creaking of stone moves nearby. A portal seems to open as the dim lighting from outside our shared dungeon pours in. Silhouetted against it regally stands an ominous black shape, a terribly small human form nearby. The wall closes with a muted bang.

Neither Thorn nor I react to Shruikan's presence, as he similarly assesses us in silence.

What are you doing here? snaps Thorn suddenly.

Thorn

The Black Dragon's gaze—if not so terribly sad—would be bored, I'm certain, from the way he turns to glance at me. The dragoness stands in the corner, forgotten as he stalks closer, coming nearly a yard away before pausing suddenly. He glowers down at me, though the anger is deeply subdued by sadness. He retreats wordlessly, standing back by the invisible door once more.

Well? I dare to continue. The dragoness fixes me with an unusual look—incredulous. Shruikan growls, otherwise unresponsive. He moves toward me suddenly, stalking with strong, easy strides. I back instinctively, a low hiss seething from my throat. He does not pause, even when my wings rustle threateningly beneath their chains and my claws extend to full length. Abruptly, he cranes his neck forward and I mentally repel him back. He regards me with a look that I cannot know what it meant to say, but I know what it was meant to be. I pause, lower my aggressive stance, and wait.

He resumes reaching forward, teeth gently clasping around the rusty metal chains binding my head. Delicately, as though afraid to harm me, he moves his head back, drawing the chains back as well. Stock-still, I wait in breathless amazement as he pulls off the first length, wordlessly moving to the next. With almost cautious slowness, he continues to pull the chains away, untangling them carefully. The dragoness stares, similarly awed.

The last chains come with some difficulty as they have dug into my flesh; angry red scars mar my face where they had touched. Drawing the final length of metal away, he grasps the entire bunch of chains—intertwined at the base of my neck—and pulls upward slowly. I straighten my neck and he slips the bonds away, freeing my head for the first time in nigh on a week.

I gratefully glance up at him as he tosses the chains away, his breath rumbling from him in heated gusts. He and I stare at each other for several moments, a hint of paternal concern seeming to radiate from him, before he turns to observe the dragoness. She watches him coolly, though between them I sense the same unspoken acceptance.

Shruikan turns to leave. He suddenly bows his head as though shamed and murmurs, Forgive me. He taps his bulky head against the wall, which shifts easily, and then exits without another word.

I stare at the dragoness, and it seems the same disbelieving thought churns in our minds. What is your name? I ask quietly.

Why do you want to know? she responds just as before, though without the spite.

I want to know. I want to think of you as something other than just a dragoness.

You shouldn't, she answers, turning her head away.

Please, I beg.

She looks at me quizzically, cocking her head. I am just a dragoness to you.

I open my mouth as though to retort before shutting it with a frustrated grunt. Cannot you just answer me that? What harm can it cause?

She fixes a questioning stare on me before shaking her head.

I growl, irritated, and sourly seat myself. I scowl at her when she rolls her eyes, though she seems unaffected. Just as I turn my head away to ignore her, she startles me.

Saphira.

What?

She snorts once softly, tipping her head at me. I glance at her, surprised and pleased.

Saphira, I repeat, testing the word.

Thorn, she replies, almost mocking in the way she cocks her head at me.

I still cannot help but grin very slightly. For finally, I know her name. And even if a small victory, it is a victory, nonetheless.

Chapter end notes:

Glaedr's demise was as brutal as it was-not to antagonize Shruikan-but to emphasize that Galbatorix is very evil. If you caught on, Shruikan is quite reluctant to oblige, and once he has control of his actions he gives Glaedr a swift death. It had to be gruesome because it showed the person who ordered it done is very cruel, even if he doesn't show it very much. I hope I haven't upsetted you too much by writing it as I did-it was certainly my least favorite scene of the entire story and shall be the most violent/brutal. If you've become fond of Glaedr like I have, I sincerely apologize for killing him, but it was necessary for the story. They are in Galbatorix's territory-bad things inevitably happen. I hope you won't judge the entire chapter based upon it, as I did try to lighten the mood toward the end.

The next few chapters will be less dark and evil, so there's something to look forward to in case this sort of put you off. Don't hate Shruikan because of this, as that was certainly not my intention. Glaedr-fans, just take a deep breath and refrain from wanting to kill skulblaka_fricai for killing Glaedr. ;)

'Oh, that's irony for you. You wouldn't answer any of my questions, and now you're demanding that I answer yours?'

Saphira

Three days had passed since Glaedr's death—almost five had passed since I'd heard word from or of Eragon. The monotonous cycle of waking and resting hardly improved the dour mood of the cell, thrown in constant darkness. Thorn hadn't spoken since I'd told him of my name—it was a rather worrying prospect, were it not he slept near constantly throughout it. I had considered doing the same, though even rest could not oust the boredom weighing down upon me.

Upon the third night—gauged only by the cycling of guards and their moods—suspicion to Thorn's lethargy had grown within me.

Thorn, I quest, not curious, not concerned, just naming him.

No response.

I tilt my head to one side, observing his seemingly peaceful sleep. He shifts—head shaking slowly—and turns to reveal his left side. His ribs stick out—not unlike a starved dog's would—and his hips are faintly visible. A cold film of sweat coats his forehead, his brow furrowed. He paws restlessly at the ground, oblivious to my watching.

Thorn, I call again. He groans in his sleep, curling closer to himself.

It is then I notice how puffy the red scars around his neck and face are—the scars created by the chains digging into his flesh. I warily stand, approaching a step when he doesn't move to respond. I take another step, and then another. He tenses—as do I—before relaxing. I remain on edge as I cautiously close the distance between us, pausing several yards away. My wings stretch slightly, as though ready to fend off an attack, though he lies almost limply on the ground, unresponsive.

Closer to him now, I can easily see the sickness to him—the weary shadow beneath his eyes, the cold that seems to clutch him even as I stand near, the shallow and ragged breaths he takes. I examine the cuts on his neck and face speculatively, only confirming my suspicion.

Infection.

I hiss in aggravation.

With an exaggerated movement, I reach forward and nudge his neck roughly with my head. He groans softly, curling tighter. I nudge him again. His eyes flicker open sleepily, and he regards me with nothing more than a quick glance before closing them. I reach my mind toward his boldly, though his sickness diverts my consciousness from his fevered thoughts.

I growl.

Wake up, I urge, taking a breath before whacking my tail against his side. He moans loudly, eyes flickering open again. Even with their scarlet tinge, I can see they are bloodshot, and bleary. Stay awake, I command. He looks at me, uncomprehending. His eyes slip shut again. Stay awake! I roar, slamming my head into the base of his neck.

He hisses weakly. Wearily, he opens his eyes, regarding me as though I am a nuisance determined to bother his sleep.

Which, in a way, I am.

He snorts at me, impatient. What do you want? he snaps, as irritable as anyone interrupted from a good rest. When I am silent, grappling secretly for an answer, he snorts again and closes his eyes.

You need to contact someone and get that treated, I blurt. He opens an eye to a slit.

Get what treated? he grumbles.

I point my snout to his neck and face, adding in exasperation to his blank look, Your face, your neck—the cuts are infected.

A shame, he yawns, sounding none the bit bothered. Suppose that is bad, huh?

Yes, I insist in a growl. You need it to get treated.

By whom, exactly?

Galbatorix—he winces—Shruikan, the guards, a healer, I don't know! I snap.

They wouldn't help, he dismisses. He closes his eye again. I'm going back to sleep.

Infections kill, I growl.

What a shame, he drawls.

Why are you giving up so easily? I demand. He groans, tilting his head to the side.

Leave me alone.

Not until you answer me.

A dry chuckle bursts from him, sounding more a cough than a laugh. Oh, that's irony for you. You wouldn't answer any of my questions, and now you're demanding that I answer yours?

Yes, I agree, irritated.

He chuckles, the sound fading with his breath.

Thorn! I growl. Do something.

Do what? he demands.

Something!

Why do you care? He opens his eyes to look up at me seriously. My death would be of no consequence to you.

Thorn… I growl, though I have no answer. Snappishly turning and stalking off, I listen in frustrated silence as he chuckles after me. Quiet quickly replaces the quiet sound. I glare at the dragon across from me, irritated. How can he so easily dismiss his fate—how can he just accept death as though it is nothing?

Glancing at his emaciated hide, a hint of understanding ebbs into my conscious, though I stubbornly press it off.

Fine, I say, glaring at him. Die. I don't care—you're right.

He looks at me blearily. Now you're making me wrong, he sighs.

What do you mean?

By saying that, you do care—which you shouldn't.

I growl. He shakes his head slightly.

Forget it.

He closes his eyes again, though I don't bother rebuke him for such an action. If he wishes to just let himself die, then I should let him die. Simple as that. My gaze remains locked on him, however, and I cannot help but feel absurdly angry with him for just giving up so easily. Taking charge, I stand, storming over to the cell door and glaring out at the guards. I concentrate on expanding the borders of my mind, yet they seem impossibly bound to this small room, unable to be stretched. I focus on the guards, determined to reach them. The wall surrounds me like a bubble, stretching elastically to my efforts yet never once giving.

With an irritated growl, I redouble my efforts, ramming full force at the mental barrier. It bends, bends further and further, yet it stubbornly refuses to snap. Instead of pulling back, I steadily apply more pressure, my legs shaking slightly and my brow furrowed deeply in concentration. I can feel it giving at an excruciatingly slow pace, the ability to extend my mind tested to its very limits.

And then: snap!

The mental barriers recoil as though it truly were a band stretched too far, the three consciousnesses of the guards coalescing as though candles lit in the dark. I carelessly throw myself at the nearest one, ordering, Get a healer. He pales, turning to face me. Something in his expression is caught between awed and horrified. When he remains blank and confused, I snap, Now!

The guard fumbles over an excuse for his companions before darting off. I glance after him, riding his consciousness past several halls before the snapped mental barrier drags me back some. The other two guards stare in confusion after their partner, though I spare them not a glance as I turn back to the smile.

Thorn looks at me with an amused look—head raised—though deep sadness and confusion penetrates his gaze.

Why? he asks, voice clearer but still soft with weakness.

Why? I repeat, settling in the corner. I tilt my head one way, glancing at him. Why not?

He chuckles ruefully, shaking his head. You claim that I should not think of you anything other than dragoness—

-you shouldn't, I agree, though he continues unrelentingly.

-yet you make it impossible for me not to think of you differently.

What is that supposed to mean? I demand, mildly offended.

A raucous laugh escapes him, hoarse with sickness yet still genuinely amused. Ah, Saphira, he sighs, sobered.

Thorn, stop, I order before he can think any more on it. I fix him with a hard glare, though a draconic grin crosses his face in mock retort.

Why do you hate me?

Because you serve Galbatorix! I roar. He winces, curling in on himself and seemingly hiding from my presence.

So you hate me because you hate him? he asks. Bitterly.

Yes.

He shakes his head at me. You are gravely mistaken to think he and I are the same. He turns his back to me, wings ruffling beneath his chains.

You are gravely mistaken to think I'll pity you and decide otherwise, I counter. A quiet chuckle resonates through the cell.

I know, he answers simply. I know. He glances over his shoulder, flashing a pained smile at me, before lowering his head to the ground and closing his eyes.

I sigh in frustration at his impossibly accepting nature and sit in the opposite corner, waiting. I silently offer a hope that this week will go by quickly, lest I find myself agreeing with this strange red dragon.

Thorn

She denies me so much I wonder who she addresses when she makes the refusals. For I know that I have not committed the wrongs for which she judges me, yet she treats me as though the faults are my own. It is confusing to try and be two beings at once—to be the humble, enslaved hatchling to offer only strength and loyalty to a King, and to be the rebelling, quieter dragon that secretly relishes in her presence.

I snort quietly—no. If nothing else works, I shall distance myself so much from her that she will not think to approach me. I will become callous, I promise myself, and cold, and reproving. Like the King, I muse sourly.

What?

I wince inwardly at the curiosity in her voice. When once I would've persisted for an answer, she now does. Nothing. Fatigue claws at me and I sigh deeply, submersing myself in it and letting her presence fade into the darkness, a candle snuffed.

Something drags me upright, teeth locked around my neck. I don't bother quest out with my mind or open my eyes—instead I just sigh wearily. My limpness seems to vex him, though I offer no showy strength that would deny my true ailing. The chains, I notice, have been removed from my legs, but not my wings, and somehow the dragoness comes to mind. I open one eye to a slit—through it I can just make out the hazy reddish-blue, tinged with gray, that is her. More prominent, however, is the enormous black mass half-crouched over me, dragging me swiftly away.

I sink beneath consciousness once more, not bothering struggle against the dark.

Hours seem to have passed when I next awaken, aware only of cool stone. My claws scrape lightly against it, testing it, and I recognize the room before I even open my eyes. Absent from his throne, the King stands silently before his dragon, their eyes meeting as the Black Dragon bows his head. For a long moment, the significance in that glance is even visible to me, though a sharp twist of pain in my neck interrupts it. Neither turns to look at me as I shift, the chains on my wings seeming to outweigh the world. I sink to the floor, as low as I can possibly be, and it is then I notice an unusual figure in the corner.

I blink twice, trying to confirm it.

Like a shadow, he slips from the room, sparing me a quick backwards glance. Our eyes meet, and for once, I can feel his true regret, his grief, and his despair just as clearly as I know he can feel mine. For a moment, we feel each other, and then he is gone, off to attend some other duty for the King, no doubt.

I glance over as a low growl beckons me. Shruikan's reprimanding gesture goes unheeded by me as I glance sorrowfully after the young man's exit—Murtagh. A moan breaks forth from me and I lurch to my feet, glaring loathingly at the two beings before me. The two who have imposed so much upon my life that I cannot dare defy, who have used my life—no, wasted my life as though I were worthless, a pawn to be sacrificed, who have given up for any value to come of me other than…

I hiss at the thought.

Why am I here? I demand, my anger feeding my weakened body energy. Despite such, I know that if this is not a short conversation my legs will collapse before I may finish.

"Why?" muses the King aloud, fixing me with a look that is both pleasant and terrifying. An unusual feat to both cow and assure someone at once. "Why indeed." He turns back to Shruikan, who rumbles some answer I cannot catch. "Oh? Is that so?" He manages to hold the same genial demeanor as a kind host, yet malice burns in his eyes. "How tragic. Well, I suppose this is good news in its own way." A questioning growl from Shruikan goes unanswered as the King steps forward.

He strides over to me, my head already bowed so that our eyes are level. His dark, vengeful, and cold ones seem to obliterate the anger in mine. I can only dare imagine what he sees of mine—bloodshot from sickness, darkened from lack of light, and a sickly gray where they should be scarlet. His eyes narrow fractionally as he appraises me, mine mirroring his. We remain like that for several moments, Shruikan observing with more than a hint of displeasure.

"Well," comments the King, turning with a flourish to stride over to his empty throne, "it appears we have a challenge before us, don't we?" Shruikan growls, though I dare not open my mind to him to see what he has said. "Know that you ask me yet another mercy when you have ruined so many I have given you," he continues, a rebuke for Shruikan and I. "To treat you would be to give you yet another opportunity to succeed—or fail. You have failed me so greatly I fear my trust in you is lacking."

Then kill me, I answer flatly. He chuckles in a way that could almost be mistaken for amusement if not cruel victory.

"No, I cannot kill you, for that would ruin the last of any of my hopes for you—what a tragedy that would be. To die absolutely worthless, having failed every small task I set for you, without even a heart for heeding my words and devoting yourself more." He shakes his head in mock dismay, myself burning with outrage. "Foolish hatchling. You're so terribly expectant that my mercy is a given—when it is not. I have had far more patience with you than I would with any other. It is a gift, really, for me to be so merciful, yet my temper can only be tempted so far."

The words are both a reprimand and a threat.

"So you present me an interesting quandary. If I were to just heal you, would you learn of your follies ever? The chains were not there simply to discomfort you, no—they were to show you as you clearly cannot see that you are bound to me, and bound to me you shall remain." He addresses Shruikan as he speaks, and the Black Dragon's head reluctantly bobs down in a bow. "You must remember that, Thorn. And if you push yourself too far, if you ignore me so, you will find unfortunate consequences." A skeletal hand gestures lazily at my head and neck.

I am baffled as to how he can suddenly take the fault from himself and place it upon both Shruikan and I. For a moment, he pauses, regarding us as though we are nothing more than two of his human guards. Spite curls his lip down, disdain written on his expression. A sudden surge of anger wells within me at that smugly confident look, though before I can even begin to voice a thought, he resumes speaking.

"So shall I heal you, or shall I not?" He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward like a child examining pieces on a game. "There is a possibility no healing is required," he adds, to Shruikan's growl. "Though that is unlikely." He leans back again, drumming his fingers lightly on his leg in consideration. "If I heal you, there is still no guarantee you will oblige to my orders, and thus I will have wasted all my efforts in vain. If I don't heal you, you will die. No tears shed for the failures, I'm afraid, and certainly nothing to be remembered by. Your existence will have been that of a shadowy pawn, used to destroy and kept away so the world might not have witness what you truly are."

I glower at him, though inside, I know, I'm agreeing.

So why not just kill me—get it over with? I press.

"Hmm, how easy that would be," he muses in return. "It would be a slow death, of course. Infections of this sort are not nearly as lenient as I am." I resist a snort to that. "And it would be a painful death—you'd be awake until near the end, in agony, and then your heart would stop." He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Lovely end, isn't it? Appropriate for you, I suppose." I growl at him, unable to resist, though my legs traitorously decide that they can no longer support me and fold beneath me. I lay on the ground, too weakened to muster a harsh glare.

"Or, I could heal you, you could actually do what I have commanded you—" he snorts derisively "—and then perhaps your life would not be so miserable."

My brow furrows in confusion, though I force myself not to sound too curious as I ask warily, What have you commanded me?

"'What have you commanded me, my King?'" reprimands the man before me. His gaze is cold—threatening.

What have you commanded me, my King? I amend.

"Why, to mate with the dragoness, of course," he laughs, as though it is the funniest joke he's ever heard.

Shruikan and I exchange glances.

"You have some time," he continues, "Two days or so before the choice will not be yours so much as hers."

What do you mean? When he remains silent, I sigh and add, My King.

"I am giving you—well, have given you—a week to acquaint yourselves. If she accepts my offer to join me now, she will swear an oath to mate with you within the year." If dragons could pale, I was certain my face would haven been white instead of red. "If she does not accept, well, I may either force her to accept—" a shudder involuntarily runs down my back "—or you might force yourself upon her."

I would never do that! I roar, more defiant then than I had been in perhaps all my life before. I simmer from the floor, wishing only to stand and tear him apart. He flashes me a wide smile; if snakes could smile, I know it would look as he did then.

"Who says you have a choice, my pawn? You are just that—a pawn, a small token that I might use to benefit myself. If you prove worthless, you have proved only that you are just as your position. If you prove something, well, perhaps you might not be such a coward."

Kill me, I growl. I won't do it.

He laughs again in earnest. "There you go again, believing your word makes any difference for my decision." He stands, casually strolling over to stand before Shruikan again. "Wouldn't you agree it's amusing how he oversteps his place?" he asks, though Shruikan and I both know he expects and wants no answer. A moment of consideration fills the silence before he nods once. "I will heal you," he concludes, "for nothing else than you to perhaps redeem yourself. Death would be a mercy, and as I said before, you may only tempt my mercy so much." I growl low, hoping to appear menacing. Instead, the dryness in my throat just makes me sound weak.

Shruikan looks at me, something torn between helplessness and pity in his gaze. He turns away quickly, though, and I imagine it is so Galbatorix will not notice the gesture.

For the third time, my mind falls away, drifting back into oblivion.

'...they close in, whispering all the while, a haunted look glowing in their eyes...'

Thorn

A million whispers fill my mind, each one murmuring something I cannot distinguish. Some are wearied, others vivacious, some sorrowful, others overjoyed, some silky, some rough, some bold, some quiet. The tumultuous emotions sway me in their midst, and I can hear their efforts growing only more fervent and confusing with each moment. My thoughts are stretched thin, a lethargy seeming to overcome me as well from the sheer volume of consciousnesses.

Let us free, the whisper carries, let us out.

So many verses to this wordless, emotion-written song; only few of which I can know. I strain to understand, my grip on comprehension teetering precariously. Frustration gnaws at me as that feeble grasp slips, throwing me once more into gray confusion. I feel the presences' desperation, their sudden urgency that I know—that I hear them for what they say—yet it all seems colorless. Not even white, but gray—cloudy, grim, and suffocating.

Help us! plead the whisperers. Save us. We need you.

How? I ask, cursing when they offer no clear answer. Like starving wolves snatching futilely at a slab of meat not large enough to feed them all, the presences' cling to myself fiercely, begging.

Let us free!

I don't know how! I answer, my own voice a lost whisper to them. The constant lisping noises nearly drive me to madness and I wish to shout at them for silence; yet they continue their assault unrelentingly.

Let us free!

Again, I answer the same, yet no matter how hard I try to make my voice heard, my shouts are only whispers as theirs, and eventually my despairing sobs at their torments are whispers too.

Let us free! chant the whisperers.

Let me free, I whisper back. Let me go. I can't help you.

Free us!

I can't!

You lie, accuses one, voice swept away as a chorus of clambering agreements topple over me. It sounds almost a hiss, the rapid yes's and liar's that follow.

I cannot help you, I again beg of them.

Help us, help us, they whisper as one.

I press my hands to my forehead slick with sweat and exhale heavily. Silence, I order.

Help us, they retort.

I feel the tension grow in my shoulders, my teeth grit, my eyes already closed tightly as I battle the whisperers within. My back is pressed against the cool stone behind me, a thin tunic pressing lightly against my scarred torso. I worry absently if a guard will round the corner, ask of me why I appear so ill and pale, and that I will have to devise an excuse for them. The whispers suddenly become louder at my mental distraction and I rub my temples with my fingers uselessly.

Quiet. Please, I beg of them.

Help us! they cry.

A loud groan escapes me and I drop my hands hastily from my face as heavy footsteps round the corner. Tucking my collar more securely and resting my trembling arm briefly against the wall to still it, I nod gravely to the man. He bows graciously in return, face hardly twitching from its usual stoic appearance. I sigh mentally in resignation at that all-too-familiar look. Unsure how to address me, he shifts uncomfortably, offering a hasty, "Are you well, sir?" as he searches for a better way with which to call me. I roll my shoulders subtly, feeling the ache there—and the bruises.

"Fine," I dismiss, as politely as I can force my voice to be past my gritted teeth. I reluctantly force them to unclench, my muscles to relax somewhat, and a pleasant smile to grace my face. "Very well, actually," I add.

"That is good," agrees the guard awkwardly. I can see from his edgy stance that he is just as unhappy to be caught before me as I before him. "I shall be returning to my post, then," he says lamely, departing. I watch after him for a moment, the whispering nearly driving me to kick the wall or shout curses or simply stomp my feet in some childish tantrum. Anything to rid myself of them would be reprieve, I know, from their incessant talking.

Be quiet, I try to order, though my voice carries no more substance than theirs.

Free us.

I cannot.

Free us.

Let me think, I beg, wearily forcing myself from the wall. I nearly collapse against it as the whisperers desperately fling thoughts at me, emotions of all sorts. Anger swells within me at their actions, my fists clenching just as my eyes water from their terrible predicament, heart tangled in a tug-of-war. I stiffly move down the corridors, pausing only twice to press my forehead to the wall in a vain effort to relieve the headache rapping harshly against my skull.

Free us, free us, free us, they chant.

I continue on, ignoring them. I straighten my ruffled black vest, smooth over my comfortable silk shirt and pat dust off my similarly dark brown breeches. Taking several deep, calming breaths, I slowly quell the harsh, shallow breaths from before, my headache relieved somewhat. I force myself to straighten from my hunched, sickly position, soon striding down the corridor with what one could call the regality of a Prince. My heart clenches in my chest at the whisperers' insistence, yet I force myself to be calm and to walk.

I ascend a stone staircase slowly, each step plagued with the weighty burden of the whisperers. I grasp the wall tightly for support, though even so I worry over whether my legs will support me. Despite my fears they do, and soon I am moving about a much more comfortable corridor, adorned with soft tapestries and a homey hearth in one distant corner. Nobility converge around there, servants bustling through the hall grimly, delivering trays filled with pastries and sweets to their respective masters. I spare a brief glance at a group of younger women gossiping with each other over glasses of tea. I smile politely at them and they wave back shyly in response, resuming their rumoring once I round the nearest corner. I can just hear their talk turn to me before the whisperers assert their presences' once more.

Please, leave me be, I groan in a whisper.

Let us free.

I sigh silently, nearing colliding with a stray servant. She hastily apologizes though I calmly interrupt her to assure she has not angered me at all and she should just continue about her way. The relieved look does not go unmissed by me that I have not hit her or scolded her as she passes, bowing deeply.

"Thank you," I could almost hear her whisper, and I flinch to the sound of a real whisper. The whisperers in my head—as though they have heard—begin anew with their scolding and begging. I move down the empty hallway, beleaguered by my quiet companions. It is a tedious process for me to undo the latch at my room, struggling to accomplish even that simple task as the voices batter me away.

Stop, I order them, flopping down heavily onto my bed. I place a hand over my eyes, closing them in a futile attempt to rid myself of the voices.

No, no, free us. I groan loudly.

I can't, I insist. I absently trace the smooth blanket beneath me, marveling at the soft cottony material. I peer out from under my hand at the ceiling, a deep oaken wood highlighted with streaks of copper. Around it are equally dark walls, a dormant hearth resting in one corner while a wash basin sits placidly in another. Two shelves crouch near the wall farthest the door, each filled clumsily with scrolls. I know those scrolls well—having read every word upon them in horror, discovering twisted secrets I would never have imagined. Morbid curiosity had driven me then, though I know that secretly I had hoped it would've been enough to distract myself from them.

I snatch the nearest pillow and pitch it at the wall, watching it slump to the floor pathetically. I bury my face in the remaining pillow, clutching the edges of it as though it is everything of reality and I dare not let it slip away.

Why won't you free us? ask the voices, dismayed.

I can't, I answer against the pillow. They continue their restless chatter, though I am no longer listening, no longer attempting to listen—just drifting in the grayness.

Sleep somehow finds me.

Murtagh!

The word bursts from me before I can contain it, my mind grasping after his as our consciousnesses suddenly seem two and not one again. A terrible loneliness overwhelms me at his absence and I redouble my efforts, finding nothing but a sea of blackness in his wake. I moan quietly in despair.

Hatchling, reprimands the deep, unmistakable voice of Shruikan.

Why? I ask brokenly. Why do you do this to me?

Do what? he asks, and I can tell he is only feigning innocence.

Allow me to see and then blind me again.

I don't think I understand.

You know what you just did!

A heavy sigh. Yes. I do.

Then why? Why would you let me see him if just for a moment? Why are you blocking me now?

Thorn, you know not what you ask.

Why won't you let me speak with him? I roar back, endlessly disappointed and saddened.

Another sigh. His suffering should not be yours too.

I want it to be mine, I retort fervently. He is my rider. We are meant to celebrate and suffer together, not apart.

If he must go mad then why should you be troubled by his madness too?

What do you mean?

He remains silent and I use the time to access my true surroundings. The familiar darkness of the cell greets me, though to my shock and surprise no chains bind my wings or legs.

The tyrant saw fit to remove those, elaborates Shruikan as I inspect the flawless skin on my wings suspiciously.

Why? I ask, forgetting my earlier request. For the moment, anyway.

Shruikan shrugs through our link. It's easy enough to guess. I growl indignantly, prodding him harshly mentally in demand for an answer to my question. I shouldn't have let you even know him for a moment, he rebukes. Look how ungrateful you are—how it would've destroyed you as it destroys him. There is no point in ruining both of you when it is possible to save one.

I would rather go mad than watch he go mad before me, I hiss.

Perhaps. But the King would not have you go mad so easily, and so you must oblige to his—and subsequently my—orders. Are we clear?

Who were they? I ask suddenly. The voices?

Dragons, answers Shruikan. A chill passes over me and I glance over to see the dragoness—Saphira—regarding me peculiarly. I glance off to the side, waiting for Shruikan to continue.

When he doesn't, I prompt, The ones from the Eldunarís?

I can almost see his nod. The same.

Why do they… whisper like that?

A shiver runs down my back at the word, the sudden cold around me seeming even more malevolent.

It is all they can do, he answers gravely.

A silence passes between us as neither dares bring up why.

I must be going, interrupts Shruikan suddenly. Goodbye.

I nod slowly, defeated, as his presence slips away as well. Pain racks me suddenly—as though his and Murtagh's presences were the only thing keeping me from it—and I stagger to my feet with a groan. Saphira eyes me oddly, a contemplative glint in her eyes.

Your fault, I seethe, finding a new blame to throw on someone else. It's your all your fault, you stupid dragoness.

Something in my voice keeps her from a sneering response, though her look is deadly. I did nothing other than save your life, she replies coolly, the same aura as a huntress asserting dominance over cornered prey.

Exactly, I snap, riding the surge of my anger. Had you let me just die, things would be so much easier! She growls; I ignore it. If you knew half the things I have to live through you wouldn't be so hesitant to let me die. If you were even somewhat kind you would've just allowed me to. You're no better than the rest of them—merciless.

Mirroring snarls remain on our faces, our eyes locked. Neither anger nor spite is there; a mutual sorrow seems to pass between us and I tear my gaze away from her.

There's something else.

Her words are quiet, yet somehow startling in the silence that had passed between us. I nod grudgingly. She cocks her head inquisitively at me, trying to determine it for herself, before her eyes narrow suspiciously.

If you're thinking what I'm speaking of, then know that it is of no willingness on my part, I point out. She growls dangerously. For a moment, I fear she will attack me, though a new surge of strength infuses me as I feel the freedom of my wings, my unbound legs. I glance at her levelly, confident in my abilities. She drops her head, baring her teeth at me, shaking with her outrage. As I said, it is of no willingness on my part and if I can, I won't do it.

What do you mean, 'if you can'? she hisses.

If I can, I repeat calmly, the King controls my life, Saphira.

Don't call me that, she growls. Never call me that again.

All right, dragoness, I concede. I won't. But don't blame me—I was, and am, as reluctant as you are now at such news. Which, I add with a dour glance at her, is why it was so unappreciated that you would save me. If I had died none of this would be happening.

She looks for a moment ready to lunge, a low hiss building in her throat. Don't you dare even try and blame this on me, Thorn.

So now you can use my name and I can't use yours?

She leaps forward and we tumble in a flurry of claws and limbs, haphazardly wrestling in the small dungeon. Blood is drawn on both sides, our teeth both stained ruby by the time we pause for breath. She latches onto my neck ferociously, shaking it vigorously. Though not, I notice, hard enough to kill or severely impair me. Retaliating with a swipe of my claws, I force her back, pressing my head down so her teeth cannot reach my neck so easily. Our wings graze the ceiling, folded silently as we press each other back. I notice with wry amusement how it is almost a dance, the way we shuffle to and fro, jumping back and dodging carefully.

Finally I manage to drag her down by her forepaws, her teeth futilely seeking purchase on my head as I bar her away from reaching my grasp on her legs. I keep her pinned despite her struggles and eventually she quiets, stilling with a disgruntled snort. I back hesitantly, still wary of an attack. She makes a false strike at my left foreleg and I dodge before ghosting back over to 'my' half of the cell.

We stare at each other for several long moments, both bleeding, both battered somewhat, both strangely satisfied.

And then: What in the name of Alagaësia were you two doing? Have you any clue how difficult it is to hide you two from the King if you are making such a racket as that?

Now, now, Shruikan, you're starting to sound like an old man. Everything's fine, I dismiss before realizing what I have said. Shruikan snorts, affronted.

You do not have to try and keep that from the King, so you'd best not talk to me in that way, he growls.

My apologies, I offer halfheartedly. Nothing's wrong—as I said before.

You were making quite a bit of noise, protests Shruikan.

And it is of your concern? retorts the dragoness slyly. Shruikan pauses, grappling with words, before shaking his head sourly.

Know that I will not be so kind next time—if you chose to be so loud as you are now, I will not be so lenient as to have the King think other thoughts. Understood?

Yes, Black Dragon, I sigh formally.

He departs without comment to that and I settle gratefully to the ground. Sometimes the only relief is solitude, though the presence of the dragoness is oddly comforting as well. She rumbles after Shruikan's presence, as though searching for further argument, though silence greets her.

With nothing else to do, I reach out with my mind, searching, questing, feeling ahead for anything. Familiar black cloaks everything, preventing me from gaining any bearings and leaving me blind to those around me. I concentrate deeply on the grayness, the familiar chill, the lisping murmurs, the frustration, the fear, the desperateness to my tone, and suddenly I am merged once more in them.

Like a wave dousing a fire, the voices pour over me, my courage fleeing as suddenly as it had arrived. I press myself back from them, their muddled consciousnesses and alien talk. Yet their conversing becomes abruptly clearer, and I am too bewitched to even think of retreat. I hesitantly quest forward and am suddenly immersed by them, as a champion is drawn into the ranks of their companions. A strangely odd feel it had on me to be suddenly just another consciousness in the vast, discordant begging.

I ease myself into the flow, a turbulent sweep of gray, feeling the hundreds of different yet remarkably similar beings around me. As I slowly sort out my captors, shadowy apparitions coalesce near the edges of my sight. Their wings are bowed over their heads like hoods, their head low to the ground in their constant murmuring. Magnificent colors dance before my vision, yet none of it seems substantial enough to belong to a single gray dragon. Even as I look at a blue, red from another blurs it. With sudden, frightening unison, their gazes lift to stare at me, each reflecting powerfully their true colors.

The whispers become louder, louder, and I wish suddenly to draw away. A circle, I note despairingly, as I glance around. Trapped—they close in, whispering all the while, a haunted look glowing in their eyes.

Let us free, they whisper, mouths moving fractionally with the effort as though they truly speak. Let us free.

I back slightly, only to whirl back around as I notice how close those dragons are. Cornered and terrified, I demand, Who are you?

A roll of mirthless laughter interrupts their whispering. You know who we are, they answer together.

Why are you like this?

Like what? they whisper levelly.

Demonic.

The word seems to sting them and several jolt back as though from a revelry. Their bodies liven with color, though as the unaffected gray ones turn to glare at them reprovingly, the color drains away. The gray ones, I muse, the barely-real dragons turning back to look at me. Their whispering grows as they close in. All around me I see gray; and somewhere impossibly far beyond, asylum in the blackness. I strain to keep sight of it, though a pair of glowing red eyes blocks my vision. I recognize the dragon—even colorless—in an instant. My heart stops in my chest.

For there, standing disdainfully before me, cloaked in grayness and closing in on me like its counterparts, is me.

I suddenly become aware of my surroundings once more, startled to find my eyes already open, my breath sighing out heavily as I collapse to the floor in confusion. The Eldunarí Dragons. The Whisperers. The Gray Ones. All of it seems insufficient to call them, yet the terror at the encounter clouds my thoughts for several long moments. I lie on the floor, realizing that barely a moment has passed as I watch the dragoness move warily at the edges of the cell, pacing and watching me as well. My confusion reflects in her gaze, though neither of us speak it.

Something very wrong has happened to the dragons, I say at length, slow and careful.

What do you mean? Genuine curiosity laces her voice.

I don't know. Perhaps it is the King's working—perhaps it is just the way Eldunarís are. I pause suddenly, brow furrowing as I recall myself. The unearthly quality, ghosted back to life to torment me. How we were one—I felt as he did, and I was absolutely certain he'd felt as I had in that moment we'd shared glances. There was no doubting that the experience would haunt me for days to come.

The Eldunarís are what?

Demonic, I answer, the word a curse in itself. Alien. Otherworldly. Evil.

She pauses to glance at me skeptically, though the seriousness in my expression must convince her for she frowns. How can you see them? she questions, noticeably less confident.

I don't know, I repeat lamely. Again, maybe it is just the way Eldunarís are. I pause thoughtfully before shaking my head. Though I strongly doubt it. Something beyond us is at work here.

Let us free…

What? both Saphira and I ask, exchanging looks. The ghostly whisper vanishes like smoke on a wind, leaving us nothing. I shiver in response.

Gray Ones, I murmur in my mind, toying with the name.

What?

The sudden urgency in her voice surprises me, though I roll my shoulders nonchalantly.

The Eldunarí Dragons appeared as gray when I saw them. And they whispered. I wince secretly at the word.

Thorn, answers Saphira slowly, and something in her voice is uneasy, I do not think those were just Eldunarí Dragons. I think… she pauses, frowning, before shaking her head.

I think that those were the Grey Folk.

'What is this?

Whatever you wish it to be.'

Thorn

I look at her, strangely stricken by her words; fearful on some subconscious level I couldn't have dared hope to pinpoint. My thoughts surrender to the quiet terror, allowing me no reasoning to dispel the unease. I inch back, my feet shuffling along carefully. A thin scar twitches on my leg as it brushes the cold stone of the cell wall, scraping gently before I scramble away from it. My heart thunders in my chest, my breath coming short as the dragoness watches me in stoic silence.

I shake my head slowly, bowing back into a corner. Sitting back on my haunches, I wrap my wings firmly against my sides, ducking my head slightly as I do so. Unsatisfied, something forces me to my feet again, and I circle restlessly the spot, finding ease finally with my back to the dragoness seated not a dozen yards away. I press my forehead wearily to the uneven rock before me, using the point of discomfort to press aside the other worries.

The Grey Folk. An involuntary shiver works down my back, though the meaning behind such words baffle me. Perhaps, I reason, it is not the words so much the image of the ghostly dragons, joined in a perfect circle, whispering to themselves. The tongue with which they had spoken had seemed ancient in some unexplainable way, reminding me almost of a forgotten language spoken once more. I had recognized it—yet I had not.

I breathe deeply, questing outward. My mind brushes the muzzy ones of the guards, forever ignorant of half the things truly happening, and then pushes past them subtly. A sleepy dog raises its shaggy head queerly at my inadvertent intrusion; a mouse stiffens in its warm straw-covered den in surprise. I ignore them, brushing past like a dog nosing through a newly-discovered closet. More humans, their thoughts selfishly concerned only with themselves; I take interest quickly in a quieter conscious, using it to steady myself somewhat.

A low rumble rebukes me and I reflexively edge back, steeling myself a moment later. Shruikan, I say tersely, though an odd feeling of being ignored—not unlike a rough shouldering aside—answers me.

Go away, Thorn. I won't speak to you, he growls in return. Back to me—presence no longer focused.

Very well, I agree mildly, before adding, Though, you do that enough anyway I need not bother. A stern growl. Alright. I'll get out of your head. One question: Where are you?

Some mental door closes between us, shutting me out forcibly from him. I wince, returning briefly to my own body, before expanding outward again, spreading myself around uncaringly. The stone walls drop away around me, replaced only by the thoughts of differing things—of a finch locked away dismally in a lady's room, of a spider dutifully repairing its broken web, of soldiers bemoaning various things over cups of ale, and of the three glowing consciousnesses of the hatchling, the dragoness, the Black Dragon, and myself.

I regretfully pull away, blinking blearily as though awaking from a stupor. A heavy sigh escapes me—how much easier it would be to be just a human, to be insignificant, to have a life of my own. But no, I remind myself firmly, I serve my King, and my King alone.

Whether willingly or no.

Who are the Grey Folk? I ask, decidedly letting the suddenness of my question aside. I turn my head to glance at the dragoness, though she regards me blankly, her expression oddly empty.

Why do you ask? she returns.

I look at her flatly yet earnestly before answering. I need to know, Saphira. Please.

Satisfaction overcomes me as her expression softens slightly to the sincerity in my voice, bowing her head in silent resignation. It seems the thrumming of our consciousnesses is the only sound to be found, though neither of us moves to break it. It is soothing—the soundless hum between us. Yet I refuse to be soothed, so instead I wait. I wait, wait for far too long for her answer; knowing inside that for any peace to possibly exist in me, I had to know who my Rider's tormentors were. She raises her head suddenly, as though I had voiced the thought aloud, and our gazes lock as she responds.

I don't truly know, she says, and I can hear the honest regret in her voice, little of them was ever known considering they were believed extinct long before written times. She gives a disdainful snort before shaking her head ruefully. Would've been greatly helpful indeed if someone had considered to do so.

Perhaps they never knew either, I defend lamely, my voice betraying my true disappointment. She shrugs a shoulder wearily before settling down as well.

Perhaps, she concedes, and to that I have nothing to say. We sit in silence, her bright blue eyes forever watchful, mine burning with need. Need to help my Rider, need to free the whisperers, need to escape, need to be me, not what he wishes me to be.

A memory not my own suddenly flashes behind my eyes and I start briefly before relaxing. I hesitate as it tugs me forward, drawing me away from painful reality. Wariness and questioning mingle within me, though eventually I succumb to my curiosity and I allow it to pull me along, ghosting alongside insubstantially.

Wintry smells fill my senses, overwhelming me briefly. As I test the bitter tang of them, I can taste their heady flavor that bespeaks great age, almost antiquity. Around me I can detect pine, oak, and maple, each scent dancing around me tantalizingly. Damp bark teases my senses; buried deeper a sweet hint of sap beckons. The fresh coolness of water suggests a river far beyond, out of reach the memory's expanses. Crisp grass prevails valiantly beneath the faint scent of heavy snow, earthy leaves covering it. Ice, too, I can detect from its clear, polished scent. Coarse hair of a large animal—perhaps a bear—emits a woodsy scent, a combination of the fine dirt of a summer day, the dryness of an autumn's rest in the shade, the grassy scent of lounging about in a clearing for hours, and the hearty warmth of a fresh kill.

I immerse myself in the memory, allowing everything of the world I know to be true to slip away. How beautiful the flowers taste, even trapped in ice; how calming does the smell of a robin's nest feel to my distraught consciousness. Every scent I find seems only to lead to another and soon I am certain the entire world I must've searched to find such vast diversity.

The smells vanish suddenly, though I realize a moment later that no, they have not vanished. Merely been dulled, as though a voice suddenly quieted. My initial dismay is greatly overridden by my sudden awe and disbelief as I stare upon a simple clearing, frosted over and unremarkable in most ways.

Despite its simplicity, it is absolutely beautiful.

The muted colors of cold winter months seem to shadow and soften its features so perfectly that I know it would be a crime to dare attempt copy it to parchment, to commit such beauty to a pitiful representation at all. For I see not just dull grays, buried greens and brilliant whites—but rather life personified, taking upon grays to shadow its shame, whites to caress and assure, to smooth out those problems and chase them away, greens to peer out quizzically, hoping for an opportunity at thriving.

I see lives in the shades and hues—how aged brown strikes a surprising similarity to a withered old man with his cane, somehow resilient enough to survive. The young buds—vague pinks and soft whites their coat—also draw my attention, resting up in the tree, like children curled calmly against the chill. A single rose—blood red and stunningly bright in the seemingly lackluster world—rests boldly atop the snow, perfect in every way. I stare at it, awed by its simple beauty.

What is this? I breathe aloud, still staring at the rose.

Whatever you wish it to be, responds a whisper. The colors lose their brilliance suddenly as renewed fear ebbs into my consciousness, threatening to shatter the glorious scene before me. I take several slow breaths to steady myself, locking away the fear stubbornly. Quiet approval echoes through me and I swing my head to the left, searching.

Twin violet eyes penetrate deep within me, yet I feel not the slightest unease—rather chilling peace with this new being. Gray washes out all color on the dragon's back and sides, though it seems less malevolent than before, less threatening. Nearly equal in size are we, and I hesitantly glance down at my paws after a moment's thought. If the dragon is gray, am I? Yet the scarlet upon my paws is just as remembered, and silent relief soothes away my unease. I glance back up again to find the dragon watching my actions pensively. A light furrowing of their—her, part of me amends as the luring smell of dragoness drifts toward—brow conveys to me her confusion, though her knowing purple eyes are unperturbed.

Who are you? I dare to ask, quietly as though fearing to break the perfection around me. She steps forward once, her paw leaving a gentle impression in the ground, the soft crush of snow beneath her pleasing to hear. I shake the thought off, focusing only on what she might or might not have to say. Even as I do so the pleasure at such a place seems to recede, the warmth retreating. I force away my doubts and once more embrace the goodness.

I am Avaera, she answers at last, drawing my attention suddenly. She tilts her head, a flush of purple suffusing her. Dazzled by her extraordinary appearance—shades both light and dark, all the same richness—I am left standing dumbly until finally the color drains away, leaving her a pale goddess in the snow. I shake my head again to clear the thought.

Where are we? I ask, distracting myself. She regards me coolly, almost icily, and then swings her head in a clear 'no'. At the crestfallen expression on my face, a very slight smile curls her lip, though she remains unchanged.

At one time, the entire world was as this is, she says, tilting her head back slightly to indicate the unfinished clearing. No matter the race we saw things as we were meant to—to savor the beauty around us rather than disregard it. Imperfections were not criticized; for there were no true imperfections at all, rather only critical eyes to view it. She looks at me, never once blinking, though her gaze softens slightly, shifting from penetrating to eased.

An impossibility, it is, to truly experience life until you have experienced what life is—what this is. She sighs suddenly as though wearied. I reflexively take a step forward when she bows her head slightly, eager for more. The snow cushions my step, though even so it seems to stab a hot knife into the serenity. A coldness creeps back into her gaze as she stares at me.

The world is riddled with strife, and grief, and guilt. Dangers and deaths and sorrow. These things cannot be eliminated entirely—but the damage can be mended. Here her look becomes almost hard, her tone flatter than before as she continues. Cling to the danger, however, and you can never hope to mend it. Just as you cannot dam the seas or quench all hungers of the earth, you cannot hope to resolve your qualms unless you first end them.

What do you mean? I ask slowly.

At a time our stances in the world would matter not—a time long since forgone in these dark days. You stand not in a particularly admirable position, and it is almost cruel to ask of you to sacrifice more. And yet, at the moment, you present a greater problem than perhaps you recognize.

A sudden wave of anger washes over me and the tranquility around us shudders with the force of it, the breeze surreptitiously picking up. The dragoness looks at me, unfazed. I know that I am a danger to those around me, I say, forcing my voice not to be a snarl. I know that my existence taxes those who are foolish enough to dare help. Whatever you ask of me cannot be cruel unless it is to grant me any more than I have already, for that would just bring about more doom upon those who might escape it.

A wry smile breaks her cold demeanor suddenly, though bitterness lingers in her gaze. Your recognition and acceptance of doom is almost noble, she comments, and yet still, I wonder, whether you might accept a last thing.

What? Genuine curiosity laces my voice, though I try to withhold any more interest. She shakes her head ruefully, her gaze leaving me for the first time since her appearance.

Surrender her to us, she answers at last, meeting my gaze once more. Despair engulfs me at her words, heart sinking; I force my emotions back. Even so, leaves wither on their branches, the breeze weakening and a sickly appearance overtaking the clearing. True coldness seeps into me and I sink to my knees dully.

You can't ask that of me, I say, surprised at myself yet fervent in my words. She just stares down at me and I feel a stab of pain lance through my heart. Everyone has been stolen from me—everyone. And finally it seems fate grants me a companion and you wish to steal her away?

She cocks her head at me, violet eyes considering. Were you not the one who fretted earlier over whether it would be finer if you were dead—she'd be safer if you didn't exist?

You heard that? I balk. She nods once, unperturbed.

Of course. And understand this, Thorn—an odd shiver runs down my back at the strange whisper—you were right. But your death would not benefit us, so I do not suggest that course. Rather, allow her to come with us, and we shall deal with the rest.

What will you do with her? I ask hollowly.

The purple of her eyes seems to brighten before darkening once more. What we do with her is best not spoken of, she answers finally. Though, I assure you this—we will not harm her, nor will we force her to join us.

A relieved sigh escapes me involuntarily and I curse myself silently. When? The coldness in my tone dulls the once pleasant clearing further, cold nipping at my feet.

Very soon, she answers cryptically. A vexed look from me earns a bemused look in return. I told you already that I cannot tell you. She sobers suddenly, a darkness creeping over her face. Very soon indeed.

The message in her words is unmistakable. I focus tightly on the contact as it begins to fade. Not now, I plead.

She gives me a last glance, finality in that look. Now, or never.

And then she is gone, and my world plunges into blackness.

I awaken hours later, stiff and aching from being curled so tightly for so long, forehead throbbing with a headache from being pressed against the wall. The warmth of the clearing is forgotten as I whirl around suddenly, searching desperately. I swing my head to and fro, scanning the unchanging cell furtively, finding nothing. My heart sinks in my chest as the truth finally prevails and bursts into my mind.

She's gone.

My claws and teeth clench, a new thought occurring to me. What of the King when he discovers his loss? If he has not already intercepted their attempt, though doubt at such a thing lingers over me. Perhaps foolishly so, but still a comfort over the thought of her suffering a beating for attempting to escape. No cries of alarm sound, though, and no thoughts from Shruikan or the King. Silence pervades, chilling and deep.

I restively lay my head down on my paws, disbelieving. Saphira? I quest, met by silence. A wall seems to bar me from extending my mind and I growl, flinging myself at it.

I plunge deep into the whispers, surrounded by them, unable to think or move or even breathe in such an onslaught. She's gone, I yell furiously at them, yet none answer. Where have you taken her? I demand.

Whispers, incomprehensible whispers of words I cannot say, drown me out, and I find myself floundering in them before sinking beneath, merciful silence engulfing me.

Shruikan

The throne room, thankfully unoccupied, is my retreat as I seat myself near the King's throne, grunting slightly as I settle down into a comfortable position. I glance over at the dimming hearth fire, staring at it several moments longer than necessary before lazily returning my gaze to the doors off in one corner. Folding my wings back and resting my head on my paws, I snort once quietly as dust kicks up from the floor.

A tentative thought prods my mind gently, seeking, searching, though I deny it and instead press it aside. Insistent, the tendril of thought slinks around my defenses, like a soldier trooping around a fortified camp they've found they cannot enter. Irritated, I lock my barriers tighter, steeling myself against them, though the feeling lingers like an insatiable itch. With a growl I drop my defenses fractionally, intending to drive them away.

Instead I am flooded with relief, the gesture almost an embrace as the being enters my consciousness. Thoughts of wonderment and confusion fill me, alongside fear and worry. The fretting alone nearly drives me mad, though coupled with the creature's clear relief I'm unable to fully drive them away. After a confusing moment I recognize the being and growl slightly.

Go away, I order the persistent little hatchling. A dismayed thought answers me. Stay back; stay away. I'm dangerous to you. Stay away. An amused thought, almost a laugh. This is not funny—stay back, I growl.

The contact vanishes without warning—a string snapped—and I bolt upright at the suddenness. Warily extending my mind, I find myself knocked clear of all logical thought as a mental blow plows into me. Once a hint of order returns to me I quickly throw up barriers—only to have them crumpled immediately after. Another spike shatters my thoughts and I lay dazed on the ground, unable to think of what is happening. A last blow knocks me clear into unconsciousness, oblivion swallowing me.

Saphira

Darkness sweeps over me, washing away the dullness of the cell to be replaced by an unusual nothing. Neither black nor white—colorless. The feeling disorientates me and I back, questing for some reality to cling to. A figure strides calmly from the darkness, a snarl rippling in my throat as I glare at them. Gray—of course. My snarl deepens, a growl echoing it in my chest. Violet flares to life in the darkness, sharply contrasting the nothing. I stare back at the dragoness in confusion and something akin to wonder as she approaches.

She looks at me speculatively, a pensive note lingering over her face as she slowly bobs her head up and then down. I wait in pointed silence before prompting, Where is this? She pauses, raising her head once to look at me, our eyes level.

Wherever it needs to be, she responds simply. The whispery tone unnerves me and I retreat a step, drawing her attentive look. An aura of ancientness hangs there, waiting to be spoken of—bespeaking in itself wisdom. She appraises me as though I am a shy child, though I snort slightly in return. Cool violet eyes regard me before she takes a step back. Come, she beckons, craning her neck forward. The grayness shimmers, overcome briefly by purple, before steadying once more. Follow me—we've little time. I don't move, though frozen by defiance or uncertainty I couldn't know. She looks back at me, unworried, and gestures forward again.

We cannot afford to tarry, Saphira, she chastises. I growl in retort.

How do you know my name? I demand. She shakes her head, chuckling mirthlessly to herself, and moves forward, fading into the nothing slowly until she is just an outline. "Come," she says, and I hear her as though she stands right beside me. I start, then settle, glaring forward apprehensively. "Hurry," she whispers urgently. I steel myself and shake my head.

Why should I follow you?

She looks at me, eyes white in their insubstantiality. A hidden plea seems to glow there. My feet traitorously move forward, following until I regain my wits enough to stop. She continues to watch me, undeterred, and beckons again, Follow me. Though a whisper, it seems a thunderous command, for I suddenly draw nearer with certainty. She reaches over, whispering amusedly, You and he are very much alike in some ways. Before I can ask what she means, she touches her forehead briefly to mine, a flash of white blurring out my vision.

A marvelous feeling of weightlessness envelopes me, every worldly sense dropping away to reveal only the nothing—a nothing so empty even darkness could not find a place to nestle. An eternity seems to pass, the nothing gradually giving way to darkness. I float in it without a care, trusting nothing and everything to this stranger, eventually just closing my eyes and waiting.

Abruptly, reality kicks in, and the darkness takes on an odd shape—conjured from beneath closed eyes. Lethargy clings to me though I force my eyes open, only able to see through blurred vision dusky sand dunes and distant city lights. I groan quietly, trying to muster strength from my laden limbs—my bones ache miserably and my skull throbs with a headache.

Summoning a tiny vestige of strength, I peer out blearily at the world, my stupor delaying my shock. Two things draw my attention—a sprawled human figure, as well as a sack, covering a glowing green object. The color reminds me of grass, cool grass, and I thirstily lick my lips.

Fatigue prods at me hopefully and I surrender to it with a sigh, managing a last thought of the same cool green grass, atop it a curled green hatchling.

'We have a duty to those people. This is certainly no time to be forsaking them.'

PART 2.

Saphira

Warmth bathes my sides, a satisfied purr escaping me as I shift slightly, allowing the golden rays to lap at my neck and shoulder. The soreness there eases somewhat to the light's soothing touch, muscles loosening. I bask in the warmth for several long moments, savoring its heated feel upon my scales, before a lazy thought intrudes my peace. Where has this sunlight come from? Certainly there is no light here in this dark cold cell of ours… I crack open an eye slowly, wary.

Around me, sand drifts in a faint breeze, kicked up by the light tide and swept across. My gaze, though blurry, reveals the muzzy silhouette of a city, tall spires standing in sharp contrast to stout gray buildings. I blink once—twice in an attempt to distill the impossible image from my sight, yet it remains so. I frown, brow furrowing, and shift upright. The wind teases my wings, slipping cool wispy fingers over them and ruffling the membranous material. I shake them briefly to still the feeling, sending a thin layer of sand into the air. Shaking my head vigorously in turn as the tiny grains pelt my eyes, I tuck my head down toward my chest and wait for it to pass.

Hot sand churns beneath my feet, a mellow brownish-gold in color. I shuffle a foot experimentally, the sand around it loosening and sliding downward naturally. Sinking my claws into the thin substance, I test the boundaries of this impossibility—where is the cell? Should not I be with Thorn, still in the tyrant-King Galbatorix's clutches? I crane my neck down, patting my legs delicately with my snout and feeling for some sort of bond, some sort of chain. Yet my eyes have not betrayed me, and I find nothing to claim for still being captured.

A new trepidation enters my mind as I sit, folding my wings so that they form a protective tent around myself. The sand grazes them harmlessly, the soft shushing sound lulling me away from my silent worry. This is impossible, I say over and over, yet I cannot convince myself it is so. Resting benignly before the sun's glow is the city which once held me prisoner, sluggishly awakening to the sun's ascent. Nestled amongst it is the castle which I was captive—so why am I not there now? I stretch my wings, feeling the breeze upon them yet unable to say if it is real or not.

I take a deep breath. If this is real, then it is real. Somehow—some way—I have escaped Urû'baen. That is the reality. So why is it so difficult to accept? Silence answers me and I stare at the glowing capital for a long time, waiting for the inevitable alarms to sound, the bells to toll and the cry to rise up, and the tyrant-King to come and reclaim me. I wait, and yet nothing of the sort happens—instead unnerving calm greets me. I growl low in my chest, unhappy. This isn't right, I repeat again and again; this can't be right.

A quiet groan startles me from my revelry and I throw out my wings reflexively, snarling. Saphira? asks a drowsy voice, fumbling for a contact. Sudden elation flows through me at the sound and I lower my wings and aggressive mental barriers.

Eragon! I return, carelessly seizing him by the back of his tunic and lifting him to his feet. He staggers, off-balance, and reaches a steadying hand for my neck. I step slightly closer so he can support himself, brushing my head against his chest reassuringly. He pats it carefully, one hand finding hold on a neck spike. After a hazy moment he seems to come to his senses, tightening his grip around my neck until it is such a strong hug it would choke any other. Unperturbed, I hum back quietly.

All too soon, he lifts his head, fixing me with a pair of bleary blue eyes. In them I can see the questioning—the wondering—yet worse, the fogginess of a slow blinding. Even the way he keeps a grip on my neck spike reminds me of a blind man seeking purchase, though I shake the thought off mentally. Still, meeting his gaze is difficult, sorrow he cannot see reflecting in mine. Sensing my dismay, he shakes his head, pats my snout again, and takes a careful step back. Don't worry about it, he urges silently, and with an effort I obey. He looks around curiously, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looks on. Confusion is written in his face as he looks back at me, though also hesitant disbelief.

Where are we? he asks slowly.

I stand wordlessly, sand hissing in protest as it is blown aside. My eyes rove the barren landscape, searching for some flaw—some trick that would prove it just some cruel joke of Galbatorix's. The haziness of a mirage has me wary for several long moments before I move on, dismissing it. Finally, having looked thrice over the land, I shake my head.

The Hadarac Desert. Doubt is clear in my tone, though also an uneasy certainty. This is where we are. Might as well accept it some time.

The Hadarac? he repeats, as dubious as I. I nod once and he places his hand on my neck as though for support, expression dazed. How? His voice is no more than a quiet murmur, though clearly heard in the sanctuary of our minds. I shake my head grimly, his arm loosening to allow me space to do so.

I have no idea, I respond honestly. Last I was in a cell, and then I awaken in a desert.

He gives a mirthless chuckle. What trick of the King's is this? he asks bitterly. I turn my head slightly to stare at him, discontented with his reference to Galbatorix as 'King'.

If it is a trick, I point out. He snorts once doubtfully, shaking his head again. A wave of nausea tumbles over us both and I rumble unhappily, he swallowing back bile. His arm suddenly seems less steady upon my neck, slipping off somewhat before I step closer and renew his grip. Did he harm you? I ask. He looks at me oddly, cocking his head as though I am fretting over nothing he can see. Then recognition crosses his face and he darkens slightly.

No. He speaks flatly, turning away so he doesn't face me. I prod his back with a nudge, hoping to draw forth an answer. When he shoves me away lightly, I growl teasingly. He growls in return and I quiet abruptly. Bowing his head to his chest he pointedly ignores my silence, drawing back and crossing his arms. I wait, though he offers no explanations. He starts without warning as he turns his head to one side. Ignoring my silent query, he moves to the left, drawing my gaze to the rusty-brown sack lying harmlessly on the ground.

I watch in silence as he picks it up, weighing it pensively in his hands. He pauses, staring at the sack for a long while, before slowly moving a hand over the top part of it, sliding the cover off.

Who? Who? Who?

We both stagger slightly in surprise, he recovering enough to keep the sack in his hands. I fortify my mind instinctively, blocking out the clumsy questing. Though not in words, I recognize the questions written in the creature's thoughts, perhaps better than Eragon. He lets another moment pass, silence reigning between us, before carefully reaching inside the sack. Balancing the thin leathery material in the crock of one arm, he slides the large emerald stone out carefully, never once speaking or lowering mental barriers I feel built around his mind. I rumble discontentedly at that, though immediately I retreat to my own mind as the questioning returns.

Dropping the worthless sack, Eragon holds the stone eye level, turning it in his hands, the pulsing white veins occasionally flaring. A sick feeling of worry creeps over me before I belatedly realize it is the intruding consciousness's thought, not mine. Trepidation, fear, and curiosity mingle confusingly in my mind and I press the invader back, scarcely glancing at the stone as I search the unchanging landscape for my attacker. Nothing presents itself, though I don't dare to extend my mind to further assure myself.

Eragon touches one of the white veins speculatively, brushing a hand coolly over the egg's surface. So this is it, he muses, though the gravity of the situation does not go unnoticed by him. I silently appraise the stone, feeling the small hatchling within struggle against something before giving up with an exhausted sigh.

Help, comes the mental thought, fear and despair and desperate need calling out. Help me.

My eyes lock onto the jade stone as understanding dawns on me. I wordlessly reach past Eragon, nosing the stone carefully yet keeping my mental barriers firm. Hatchling? I finally quest, tentative.

Who? the creature chirrups in answer, a terrified note to its voice. 'Who are you?' the words seem to say.

A friend, I assure, though when the hatchling's confused emotion reaches me I repeat it and add the unmistakable feelings of companionship and acceptance to it. A friend, I repeat, and its simple terror quiets some. Eragon looks at me curiously and I drop my head slightly to nudge the stone gently. He relinquishes it to me as I carefully grasp it in my jaws, feeling the frightened emotions of the hatchling as I lift it. Be still, no harm will come to you, I say, using calming emotions to convey such. The hatchling chirps once piteously from inside the stone and I cannot resist a quiet chuckle.

"This is unbelievable," breathes Eragon, hands resting on his hips as he leans back, tilting his face upward to the warm breeze. Laughter fills the silence as he shakes his head, pacing around in a loose circle. "How, Saphira? How can we be here?" He turns on me suddenly and I pause, skeptical. Something—almost a memory—itches at my consciousness, daring me to think hard enough and remember. Yet the moment I attempt to do so, it vanishes, a rabbit startled away. I sigh heavily.

I don't know, I say simply. He continues shaking his head, a bitter smile appearing on his face as he quiets. Cursing once, he looks back at me, uncertainty written on his face. "The King will know of this," he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead as though to relieve some hidden pain. "He'll probably find us within a day—or worse, destroy the Varden in his search." He shakes his head again, raising his head to stare emptily at the rising sun. I nudge his back encouragingly, the stone clicking very lightly against my teeth.

Eragon, worry not about him. We are free now, aren't we? And—I pause to shift the edge in my mouth slightly—we have the egg. Come—let's go.

"Go where?" he asks dryly. "The Varden? Sure, lead him straight to them and then have him come pillage them all. Just innocents to be slaughtered, they are, if we return. No."

I stare at him oddly, vaguely perturbed by his sudden callousness. We've no choice, Eragon. Perhaps he won't follow us.

"Perhaps," he snorts. I growl in response, the green dragon shying away from us.

What has he done to you? I demand. Abruptly, his expression goes blank, his bitterness retreating. He dully drops his hand to his side, comes to a halt by my side. He doesn't meet my eyes—rather, he stares right through me, as though looking through to someone else. With a shake of his head, he returns to himself, looking at me in silent bewilderment.

"I don't know," he murmurs finally, and I can sense the honesty there. A trace of uncertainty—and even a hint of fear—lingers there, though I allow it to pass. Instead, I open my jaws slightly wider, silently proffering him the stone. He wordlessly accepts it, ignoring the slick saliva coating. "Should we even bother?" he asks with a heavy sigh, watching the sun illuminate the city. I shrug a shoulder, nudging him toward my back with my snout. When he doesn't respond, I lower my wing, blocking his view, and gently shove him toward my back.

Yes, I assert, taking the green hatchling's egg again as he slowly crawls up onto my back. Saddle-less, true, but still able to be ridden, if more uncomfortable. We have a duty to those people, Eragon. This is certainly no time to be forsaking them.

"Duty," he laughs, accepting the stone once more as I give it to him. "You might as well just speak clearly, Saphira. We return to our own slavery—trapped in bonds and sworn by oaths and fealties."

Now you sound like a servant of Galbatorix, I growl. He flinches, balancing the egg on one arm while gripping a neck spike in the other hand. Swaying slightly, his gaze loses focus once more, though I shake my wings to draw his attention. All right, I say, enough. Hold on—it'll be a rough ride.

"You're telling me," he mutters, though the teasing seems to have lightened him somewhat. Crouching, I spread my wings wide, sparing a last furtive glance at Urû'baen. I reach out with my mind, though a barrier—wrought deep with some antiquity—shuts me out, preventing me contact with even the simplest of people there. With a determined nod, I leap up into the sky, the ecstatic motion overriding my worry for an instant.

Why no alarms? I wonder absently as I steer away from the dark city. Why?

"Is that all you can do? Snap your teeth and snarl?"

Thorn

I pant, lost in the darkness, lost in the scarlet haze of pain, lost in the grayness of doom. My breath whooshes out of me, a malevolent laugh accompanying the crack of a whip as it singes my side. I lash out in protest, snaring something briefly before it is torn away and again the whip lands. "Is that all you can do?" the dark voice trills, "Snap your teeth and snarl?" Again, the sharp bite, and again, my determination surrendering to cries of mercy.

And then I sink below, into a cool wave of blackness, the world throbbing in distant undertones. My joints ache from their restraints against a wall, pinioned and bared to the cynical ravaging of the King. My wings sorely hang, my entire body throbbing in broken unison. A particularly sharp jolt returns me brutally to reality, allowing me the full effect of a broken rib. I hiss, head drooping pitiably and eyes barely slits as I glare at him. He mercilessly brings the whip down again, a dark black shadow seated dutifully in one corner, somehow visible. Our gazes meet for a moment and I see that Black Dragon for what he truly is—a coward.

My senses blur again, my own ragged pulse the only sound in my ears, coppery blood seeming to drain away from my mouth as my vision fails me. My pants come out in coughing wheezes, always seeming to take away more air than they replenish in the next breath. I sink, lower and lower, drowning in my pain and misery, hoping that perhaps if I am not forcibly surfaced I might just be lost to that merciful darkness.

But no, again the pain steals me to consciousness, making me aware of every lash scoring my hide, numbering only seven. I snort feebly, blood spattering from my nostrils. Unable to stand or support myself in anyway, I lean heavily against the wall, denied the reprieve to lie down. The whip strikes again at my weakness and, unable to summon the strength to withhold myself, I roar, the sound laced with blood that clogs my throat.

Let me die, I plead whatever Heavens or Hells that may or may not exist. Let it end.

Yet I am alone. The Black Dragon does not intervene—merely turns his head away, almost in disgust. Turns a blind eye to me, allows the beating to go on nevertheless. I snarl pathetically at him, snapping my jaws venomously as I yell, Coward! The whip cracks down again, the pain so great white overwhelms my vision. For a moment I am overjoyed—surely death has come to grant me mercy.

And then it darkens, revealing the cell once more, and throwing me back into my mangled body again.

The King does not speak—never does he speak to me during beatings. Jeering, he says, is pointless and encourages them to fight back. Sadly, I realize the truth of these words, for no matter the anger within me, I can muster the will to do no more than simmer. Twice more the whip strikes—twice more I cry out without wanting to.

Shaking from exertion, of muscles tensed and wings taut, I growl from my spot against the wall, weakly extending my bloody head forward to glare down at the man. He looks at me disdainfully, somehow appear taller, and I let my head fall limply against the chains. It is left suspended mid-air, not permitted to rest at all. I groan quietly.

"Perhaps now you will learn not to lie to me," the King informs coolly. He appraises me briefly before turning and striding calmly out of the cell, leaving me no more comment than that. I raise my head slightly to glance at the dark mass still watching from one corner, head turned away. After a long, painfully quiet moment, he turns to look at me, fixing me with a pair of unreadable eyes, before following dutifully the King, leaving through the invisible passage I could never discover.

The door thunders to a close behind him, the light clicking of claws on marble departing.

Silence—dreadful, awful quiet follows, and I find it intolerable as the pain adjusts and settles to a bearable level. A soft moan of despair escapes me—so now even the brief comfort of unconsciousness shall be denied to me. Loneliness, deep and true, encircles me, and I do the only thing I can think of in my destroyed state.

Murtagh, I croak, even wearied in mental voice. Silence reigns here as well, though I press on determinedly. Murtagh…

Wandering like a child in tatters looking for his parents, I search the emptiness furtively, never once considering the futility of it. Murtagh, help me, I call out softly. Nothing answers—no one hears me, I think bitterly. I give a last, wordless cry before retreating.

Alone, the quiet cell seems impossibly small, strangling the life from me slowly. I curl up as much as my new position will allow, sobbing mutely in the dark. Why? Why did she have to leave me to this forsaken cell? Why did she have to leave—just so I would be punished in her stead? Why did he have to blame me for it? Why could not the whisperers have done something? Why did Shruikan no longer speak to me, and yet in that silence deem me a lost cause? A hopeless, worthless red dragon never meant to hatch—never should've existed—never—

The cell door suddenly opens, surprisingly quietly despite the speed. Silhouetted against the dim glow of a candle, a broad-shouldered young man stands, frozen in shock. A soft sigh of contentment slips past my jaws, though it sounds more a whimper than anything. The door closes carefully, plunging the room back into foggy darkness. Despite such, the youth finds no trouble in reaching me, two long, warm arms wrapping around my head lovingly, a cool forehead pressing against my snout. I blow a hot breath weakly, the effort rustling his shaggy brown hair slightly.

"I don't care what he says," he whispers hoarsely, "I'll never abandon you to him again."

I chuckle quietly despite myself, his rebuking stare almost playful. You and I both know that can't happen, I respond. He shakes his head firmly, eyes watering at the sight of my tired, battered expression.

"I don't care," he repeats vehemently. "I don't give one d-mn of what he says anymore." He tenses abruptly, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he clings to me. I rumble unhappily, unable to do anything.

Murtagh, I reprimand gently, you can't do anything. I'm sorry I called you.

"No!" he roars, arms fiercely keeping my snout trapped in a hug. "Were I to abandon you again, then I should die, for there is nothing in a Rider without his dragon, Thorn." I sigh quietly in disagreement and he makes a frustrated sound before shaking his head and wrapping his arms firmer around my snout, if possible. "I'm not abandoning you like that again. Not if he'll just do this."

But you'll get punished, I protest, my voice sounding weak even to me. He glares at me darkly.

"You get punished already while I just sit around and do nothing. Is that fair?"

I don't want you to be punished on my behalf, I amend quietly.

"Neither do I want you to be punished because I don't bother protect you!" he retorts fiercely. "I'm your Rider, Thorn. I'm supposed to protect you, and yet here I lounge about, only waiting around for Galbat—ah!" I stare on worriedly as he clutches his chest, breathing heavily for several moments before relaxing, holding my neck for support rather than comfort. I nudge him gently to be assured he is all right, though the effort costs me more of my dwindling strength.

I would rather be whipped a thousand times over than know you are injured because of me, I say tiredly. A gargled yawn escapes me and Murtagh backs away suddenly as though struck before approaching again, one hand resting on my snout reassuringly.

"Tell me at least where you are hurt now," he pleads. We look at each other, silent denial in my eyes while his are pleading. After a moment, I shake my head, though he grasps my forehead firmly in both hands, insistent. "I can't just leave you like this. You're my dragon—it isn't right for you to suffer like this."

I am as much your dragon as the King's, I point out dully. To that, he is silent, though defiance is written in his eyes. Slowly, he withdraws, eventually standing against the door once more.

"I will get you out of here, Thorn. If it takes forever, I will. And you will never have to be the King's dragon again," he promises. The door closes quietly behind him, and though I am no better physically, I feel infinitely restored inside. I close my eyes, too weakened to keep them open, yet unable to sleep.

Only four days had passed since the dragoness had 'disappeared', yet it felt like four years from all that had occurred. Shruikan had lost virtually all his freedom after having 'forsaken his duties' to guard the egg and make sure the dragoness didn't escape. He had claimed that he'd been attacked, though of course the King would hear none of it. As for the rest of it, life moved on—the King livid at anyone who dared come within a respectable boundary of him, and myself usually at the receiving end of his torments. No one had dared talk to me for fear of invoking the King's wrath upon themselves as well, though I didn't care.

For what good would talking serve anyway? None knew of the sacrifice I had made—even if none understood the depth of it. For admit it aloud or no, I had come to like that dragoness, perhaps more than I should've. I had come to like her enough that her absence left a lonely hole in its place—an empty space that had always been there but only then had surfaced. I had tried to convince myself it was for the better—that the Grey Folk would take care of her. Yet uncertainty continues to gnaw at me even now, wondering if indeed they helped her or if they just forced her to join their ranks.

What should I care? I snort derisively to myself. I do not harbor any true affection for her, beyond that of a passing companion. Surely that is not enough to base upon any sort of tenderness. No, it is not, and I shall not treat it as so. Still, even as I dismally sink closer and closer to the darkness waiting from exhaustion, I cannot deny it in my heart, and it hurts dearly.

For if she did not escape, then my suffering is in vain—my tortures for a crime not committed. I shiver at the thought before forcing it back—forcing back the pain and the worry, submersing myself only in thoughtlessness. But, traitorously, my mind strays back, doubts resurfacing.

You fret so much over things that are fine indeed, a familiar voice whispers, though I cannot place it in my pain-induced stupor. Relaxing my muscles and relinquishing my hold on my thoughts, I float in the sea of darkness, imagining being something other than the King's dragon—being Murtagh's dragon instead.

A contented feeling reaches me briefly, a fleeting emotion, before horrible truth asserts itself once more.

No, I will never be with Murtagh as we are meant to be—Dragon and Rider.

For I will never survive the King in the first instance.

Saphira

Night had long since descended, now hovering between the very late hours of eve and very early hours of morning. Sleepily the land passes beneath us, the quiet thoughts of the hatchling rebounding lightly off my own. The tired stupor that claims him nearly lulls me to sleep as well, though I keep my wits about me enough to suppress the feelings. Eragon drowses on my back, only partly awake, holding my neck spike disinterestedly. A muffled yawn escapes him and I chuckle lightly at the sound, though he waves it off wearily.

Look, I point out, my joy a calm undercurrent through our mental link as I show him the lines of tents ahead—the Varden, camped at Surda once more.

Finally, he yawns, stretching his arms slightly. I can sense his stiffness, for though we have stopped twice daily along our journey, it has still taken us a notable amount of time to reach even this point. Eragon had complained that we should've arrived by such time, though I had commented in return that we also had to avoid detection, and thus take a wide bending route through the Hadarac rather than a straight flight southward. Still, even the unborn hatchling had resorted to wordless thoughts of complaint after the third day, though I had grown accustomed to his and Eragon's displeasures.

Just be glad you aren't the one who has to fly us, I admonish. He snorts once tiredly and shakes his head.

I don't know how you do it, though I'm not sure that I really care. He yawns again and a guttural laugh escapes me. He sits straighter upon my back to get a better viewing of the ground, wincing at the rawer skin on the inside of his thighs. Between the initial transformation he had induced to look more human and the fatigued slouch to his position, he resembles almost nothing of the elf-like human from before. I shake my head slightly at the thought before glancing down at the ground as well, watching as the landscape shifts from empty dunes to quiet tents. Sentries raise a cry of alarm, though a brief—if wearied—mental assurance from Eragon settles them and instead joyous shouts greet us as I near.

The green hatchling wriggles unhappily in the egg, confused by the sudden influx of consciousnesses around us. Pointedly ignoring him, I search for an open space, finding good landing ground roughly half a league from the tent I identify as Nasuada's. Soldiers flock to greet us, including a fairly flustered King Orrin and calculatedly calm Nasuada at his side. I land, shaking my wings slightly to clear them of dust and silently fending off any curious observers with a growl.

"Greetings again, Saphira and Eragon!" calls up King Orrin, waving a hand. I chuckle slightly and bow my head to him in greeting, my tiredness forgotten amidst the swarm of greeters. From one edge Roran stands, Katrina at his arm and leaning her head against his shoulder silently. Across from them are I recognize Eragon's old friends—Horst and Elain—as well as a bundle cradled gently in Elain's arms. She smiles benignly at us, Horst offering a grim one.

Allowing my gaze to sift through the crowd, I sort out the witch herbalist Angela, Solembum at her heel looking more bored than I can ever recall him as he holds up a basket of herbs for the eccentric woman. Standing aside them is the sorceress Trianna, arms folded mildly across her chest. She raises her chin very slightly, almost defiantly, though I ignore it.

Arms outspread, a fur-cloaked man emerges from the crowd, a broad grin covering his elegantly curved face. "Saphira Bjartskular, Eragon Shadeslayer," greets Blödhgarm, immediately given a decent amount of space amongst the others as he advances closer. I nod once to him as well and he tucks closer his fine fox-fur, oblivious to the disgusted expressions of several of the nearby elvin spell casters. They murmur amongst themselves though Nasuada silences them with a raised hand, instead looking expectantly up at me. I crouch to the ground to allow Eragon to descend, still holding dutifully the green egg.

"Greetings, Lady Nasuada, King Orrin," he says wearily, unable to fully hide his fatigue. A suppressed gasp of surprise from Nasuada—and an audible sputter from Orrin—answers him, though whether it is to his appearance or the egg he bears I cannot say. Recovering with admirable swiftness, Nasuada nods her head once, gesturing forward with a hand. Eragon hesitates. "Can we, ah, discuss this in private?" As it is, he glances around at the others, my own subtle trepidation mirrors his. We look at the stoic Varden's leader expectantly, her King companion not nearly so contained.

"The egg!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in hardly exaggerated shock. Blödhgarm cocks his head mildly from the group, crossing his arms coolly. King Orrin clasps his hands suddenly, like a child who's found a new toy to entertain himself with. "Oh this is wonderful!"

"Wonderful as it is," interrupts Eragon in a stern whisper, "It is best for not everyone to know of it now." He lowers his voice a notch as he adds, "Besides, we know naught of the true loyalty of our people, and openly proclaiming such invites trouble."

"Shadeslayer is wise," rumbles Blödhgarm approvingly. He holds out an arm again, as though inviting Eragon to take it. Instead, he says to the watchers, "Come; you have duties to attend, or sleep to catch up on. I'm certain Shadeslayer would prefer a moment to recuperate himself as well." Grudgingly the crowd scatters, evidently convinced not to argue with Blödhgarm's decision. The elvin spell casters linger particularly long, though a dismissive look from the animalistic elf sends them along their way as well.

"Now that we have that settled," he continues, "where shall we discuss, ah…" he gestures airily to the egg Eragon holds protectively to his chest.

"Why not my tent?" invites Angela with a laugh at our incredulous expressions as we turn to look at her. "I was kidding, you know. I would need at least a week to prepare for the disastrous mess you would make there before I'd even think to let you in my tent." She clucks her tongue disapprovingly at us, turning to the shorter boy at her side, rivaling through the contents of a herbal basket. I glance at Solembum briefly—in his shaggy black-haired boy form—one hand fondling a dagger speculatively. At my skeptical glance, he flashes a toothy smile, bearing his fangs and releasing the dagger with a clear nod of assent.

"Perhaps my tent would be the best place to meet," offers Nasuada, her voice sounding surprisingly wearied as well. I look at her closely, noticing her tired stance hidden beneath an authoritative one. Bowing my head once in consent, I glance at Orrin—practically beaming at the whole situation—before looking to Eragon. He nods once, curtly, and climbs carefully back onto my back, cringing slightly as his legs rub against the scales but clearly preferring it to walking. I straighten, nodding to Nasuada to proceed.

She strides forward, taking the lead—King Orrin close at her side, keeping up a continuous muttering to himself about anything and everything going on. I shake my head slightly to it, though he doesn't seem to notice. Blödhgarm trails along, striding along effortlessly; Angela and Solembum follow calmly without waiting for or needing invitation.

The green hatchling purrs contentedly within his shell as we move past smooth tan tents, curious Varden members peering from behind the flaps. Occasionally passing guards murmur their greetings, or a pair of Urgals cross their fist on their chests in silent greeting. Nasuada ghosts through the encampment, seemingly unnoticed by all, while King Orrin talks to nearly every passerby we come across. Having had enough Angela catches up to him talking with a pair of younger men, grabbing him unceremoniously by the shirt collar and dragging him forward, ignoring his indignant protests. Blödhgarm chuckles at the display, Solembum following with his usual impassivity.

The werecat shifts back into his cat-form, padding along near soundlessly after us, before halting abruptly. I pause with him, watching as he sniffs the air, meowing uncharacteristically. What's wrong? I ask. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, stretching lazily.

Something's wrong? he repeats, tone almost bored. I was just yawning.

Shaking my head, I move to follow Nasuada, a sharp hiss escaping Solembum before the twang of an arrow is shot off. A low grunt comes from on my back, followed by sharp pain in my left shoulder. Eragon! I cry in dismay, Solembum leaping ahead daringly. In three great bounds he clears the distance between himself and the archer, seizing the hand gripping the bow in a punishing grip. King Orrin bustles back toward us, shock and horror written almost theatrically on his face. Blurriness fights at my vision, clouding over as warm blood spills down my shoulder, soaking my tunic.

The green hatchling chirrups unhappily and I growl in frustration before craning my neck back—trusting Solembum to handle the attacker—and seizing Eragon carefully in my jaws, grasping him by the back of his tunic. He moans quietly as I place him on the ground before me, Blödhgarm appearing almost instantly at my side. The tall elf moves efficiently, crouching beside my injured Rider and grasping the arrow lodged in his shoulder. With a swift jerk, he dislodges it, a sharp grunt escaping Eragon in turn. He reaches up a hand, grasping Blödhgarm's wrist tightly for a moment before letting his hand fall limply back. The animal-like elf spares him a brief glance before checking the arrow more carefully, deeming it untainted after a moment and discarding it.

"Now what has the blockhead gotten himself into now?" muses Angela as she moves to stand beside Blödhgarm, shaking her head disapprovingly. I can feel the sting of the arrow wound as though it were my shoulder that were harmed, as well as a keen distaste for any sort of mockery at the moment. I growl at the herbalist warningly, the message clear. A faintly grateful thought reaches me, though I silently assure that it is simply what I should do. The witch doesn't speak, rather moves over to see who Solembum has successfully rendered senseless the one who attacked. "Oh dear," she says, unusually dismayed. I glance over to see her carefully hoist up the unconscious body of a young girl, a bow falling limply from her hands. Burned into her brow is a silvery circlet, and the knowing look to her face is chilling even with her eyes closed.

"Elva," observes the witch mildly. "Expected, I suppose, she would take revenge on the blockhead at some point."

"Is she dead?" Blödhgarm asks, voice a low rumble as he lends Eragon his shoulder, slipping one of his arms around it. I shy away from the thought of standing, groaning as Blödhgarm hauls me to my feet anyway. Shaking my head slightly to clear Eragon's thoughts, I watch as a slight crowd gathers around us, Nasuada holding the green egg protectively as Blödhgarm supports Eragon.

"Not dead," the witch replies eventually. "Merely knocked out. Shouldn't wake up with more than a bruise."

"Should she wake up at all," King Orrin puts in, surprisingly grave. We all turn to him briefly. "She tried to murder our only Rider—a crime that has been well-known amongst the Varden as punishable by hanging. Should not we uphold this?"

Silence reigns, doubtful looks from Solembum and Angela speaking volumes. And yet Nasuada simply nods, calm as ever. "It is law of the Varden that Eragon shall not be harmed—if this law is broken, we must uphold it." She nods, seeming to steel herself to the cause. Eragon sends me a pleading glance, the mental wanting to just lie down and rest coming to mind. I can sense all his pains as my own for a moment—the slight chafing to his legs, the raw and stinging wound in his shoulder, the throbbing headache from exhaustion, the soreness in his limbs from traveling.

Can we discuss this in the morning? I request, glancing at Nasuada specifically. Both Eragon and myself are wearied from travel, and neither of us are really in the condition to hold a meeting.

"Yes," agrees Blödhgarm. "Tomorrow would be a finer time than now, anyway. And then we may solve this new problem of this girl—Elva, you say? Well, tomorrow we can figure this out." He carefully supports Eragon to my side, making sure he has a good hold onto one of my neck spikes before stepping back. He bows with a flourish. "Good evening to you, Bjartskular and Shadeslayer, and I shall see you in the morning. Well," he observes mirthlessly, glancing up at the sky, "later today, I suppose." And with that, he departs, striding off into the camp wordlessly.

Can we… please just find somewhere to rest? asks Eragon wearily. I can feel the effort it costs him even to speak.

Is there anywhere for us to stay? I ask in turn, addressing Nasuada once more. She smiles grimly.

"For the moment, hardly. We've had difficultly maintaining supplies as of late, and so quarters have been short. But for the moment, you're welcome to my tent." She cradles the egg almost lovingly to her, though a protective aura lingers over her as she holds it.

That would be most kind of you, Nasuada, I say, speaking for both of us. Wordlessly, the young woman approaches, offering Eragon her shoulder. He hesitates before accepting, leaning heavily against her as she directs them into a tent not a dozen yards away. I follow slowly, Angela and Solembum hanging back to deal with Elva in whatever way. King Orrin mutters unhappily to himself, undecided, before moving off in a different direction to attend some other duty.

Nasuada leads Eragon to one of the pallets in the room, seating him on it despite his groggy protests. Head bowing down to his chest, Eragon stares at the floor blearily, casting me a sideways glance before sagging onto his uninjured side on the pallet. In moments I can sense him deeply asleep, Nasuada taking a seat quietly at the table occupying the main part of the room.

"So tell me," she begins, casting a taciturn glance at Eragon, "How have you come to obtain the green dragon egg?"

'If you fear who you leave behind, then you prove yourself nothing but a coward. And we do not help cowards.'

Thorn

My eyes stray across a dark indigo night.

Cool water laps at my feet, barely above my ankles yet still chilling as a sheet of frost over me. Smoke wisps lightly around me, shrouding my view of this sleepy world. My nose twitches hungrily at the scent of fresh meat that offers its sweet smell tauntingly to the wind. Saliva gathers in my mouth though I swallow it back; even here I can recognize the illusion of food. My gaze shifts to my left side, flanked by dark waters that lead off endlessly. A hazy horizon glowers dully with azure, traces of gray tempting the sun from its resting place. Groggily it rises, casting awkward golden lines into the barren land.

A tight nestle of trees huddle off to one side, barricading me from their inner reaches as effectively as any castle. I sniff hopefully in their direction, though only the piney scent of junipers reaches me. Brush congregates around their thick trunks, close and crouched over one another like children trading secrets. Overhead, I sense the rustling of leaves, though no swallows or owls greet me. Questing out, I feel the lifelessness of a desert there, and I turn my attentions to a ragged shadow illuminated on the opposite side.

Craggy rocks rise from the lackluster ground, providing ample shade and hiding place for one to use. The smaller stones jut out in the shadows of the larger ones, forming a structure near large enough to be called a cliff. From inside, the quiet muttering of the water beneath me—evidently streaming off to become a short river—flows. I nose after it slowly, steps tentative in the water as it grows both hotter and cooler at once. Pausing only yards away, I squint at a flash of light that passes between two of the rocks, though when I search I find nothing.

I start forward again.

A light splash brushes up against my left hind leg, startling me back slightly. My wings tilt back in a more threatening position, easily thrown out for flight. Jaw loosening slightly, I allow my sizeable front teeth to be shown, a challenging rumble issuing from my throat.

I wait, the sun making its sluggish ascent off in the distance. Instead of lightening the area in the golden-bronze typical of a sunrise, it instead offers a new cerulean tone to the watery land, revealing small ripples marring its surface as well as greater detail along the trees and rocks. I notice that no true distance separates them, aside from an ominous-looking crevice between them. The water pools down into it fearlessly, a sharp descent clear from the quiet shushing sound of a distant waterfall. I lower my guard very briefly to quest outward, though the trees, shrubs, and mosses are the only thing alive here.

My steps are slightly more confident on this knowing as I move towards the rocks, a semi-circle connected to the trees many yards away. An open stretch of water—wide and long enough to be an ocean—splays out before me, and no matter which way I turn, the light somehow manages to reflect its surface, baring me to the world. Instinctively I seek the quiet shelter of the large boulders, gliding through the water wordlessly.

I whirl around—a moment too late—as a purposeful smack splashes me from behind. My muscles tighten reflexively, legs dropping into a crouch as I lever for a lunge.

A bemused rumble halts me, my eyes widening in surprise as I swing my head to the right. Almost immediately, another splash greets me, this time washing over my face. Halted chuckles surround me as I shake my head quickly, growling in irritation.

Suspicion returns to me a moment later and, just as I sink again into my crouch, determined to capture them, the being vanishes. I glare in their direction, tromping purposefully after them through the water. It sloshes around my feet, a rich navy in color, yet it doesn't slow nor sound at the other's presence. I redouble my pace, nearly a trot as I follow their tracks in the water, unable to see them in the semi-darkness.

With sudden clarity, the trees reveal themselves before me, as sternly rebuking as a parent stepping before a child pursuing someone who they are chasing in a game of tag. My disgruntlement doesn't move them in the slightest; a light breeze further mocks me as it moves easily past them, the rustling of their leaves like giggling. Even there I see not the usual emerald and jade combination, but rather a beatific mixing of sapphire and cerulean. The veins of the leaves stand out as clearly as the hollows in their trunks, my thoughts briefly drifting to the stunning beauty of such a thing.

Another splash rouses me, this time slapping my side playfully as I turn to see. A shadowy figure darts around a corner, surprisingly swift for their evident size. I growl, crouching before leaping clear over the short distance, plunging straight into the darkness of the crevice.

My wings flail helplessly as I fall, water roaring at my left side as my paws scrabble around uselessly. Darkness is everywhere, though the narrowness of the crevice is evident as my wings are pressed tightly together. Plunging downward like a dart, I fall through darkness, indigo slithering down the sides of the waterfall beside me.

Something snags my left wing, my whole body jerking with the force as I smack against the side of the black—faintly blue—walls, a grunt escaping me. Water drips off my sides in steady streams, the joint connecting my wing to my shoulder screeching with pain. I growl low, shaking myself once in a futile attempt to free myself. Hot blood stains my wings as I hiss sharply, struggling harder. Eventually the stony gap relinquishes me to gravity, which rapidly tugs me downward.

It seems an eternity passes of falling, falling endlessly through the pitch-blackness, broken only but hints of blue. Above me, a light circlet of blue glows, a dragon head silhouetted against it. Before I can even so much as call out a question or a rebuke, water encompasses me once more.

I sink, legs pumping frantically as the waterfall pounds me down into submission, lungs screaming for air as every molecule is driven from my chest. I squirm beneath the foamy-blue water, darkness tickling the edges of my consciousness. Words flood my mind as my struggling slows, slows to become nothing more than a faint warring against the water.

'Look at him—the King's servant finally shown!'

'Worthless dog—come down and fight us!'

'Coward, hiding in the skies… look at the beast on his back, flinging his sword around… bah!'

'Death to you! Death to you and your rider!'

'Bleed, bleed for the pain you inflict on this world, for everything you have done!'

A strangled groan escapes me, cut off by the water that floods willingly into my mouth, the muted cries of someone above me distracting my thoughts briefly. The battle, I muse darkly, mind expanding upon the hundreds of vile curses and names they cried at Murtagh and I as we took off. If I drown here, I think sourly, I won't ever face another battle.

'A rat is a more competent servant than you, and a pebble holds more value to me than you do. How kind I am to keep you alive at all.'

'Were it my choice I would have you both hung for such a failure, but I suppose it is not in fate's way.'

'Why are you such an insolent hatchling? Do you not understand that I keep you alive out of mercy, not need? No, I have Shruikan for that, and for you I require only one task. And yet you fail me, fail me forever and ever. How bored I grow of your failures, Thorn.'

My lungs weakly supply me the breath to snarl at the King's words, the pounding of the water still dimly raining down upon me. I twist in its grasp, barely mustering the energy to do so, yet my efforts are in vain. I wonder dourly if the bottom is as far below as the fall was.

'Leave me—leave me you stupid hatchling!'

'Why? Why did you hatch for me? Couldn't you have had the sense to have hatched for someone who wasn't just fated to die? Don't whimper at me; this is all your fault!'

'If I weren't a Rider I would be dead, not some puppet tortured at his tyrant's whim. Do you hate me that much? Do you hate me that much that you couldn't have just hatched for someone else? That you couldn't have just let me the mercy of death? Apparently I must hate you as well for having cursed you to the same fate.'

My heart burns with shame and guilt as I think of Murtagh's early words to me. How I think of the way he would sob and screech them in equal parts at me, never once allowing me a moment to offer apology. Sometimes, I remember, they were accompanied with fruitless kicks and curses, venting he claims to have later regretted. Still, a cynical part of me insists, who would blame him for hating me?

Something suddenly grasps my neck, warmth infusing my body like an elixir. I surrender willingly to its heat, the light tugging of strong jaws dragging me along for an uncountable time in the water. My lungs wheeze and sputter helplessly, starved of oxygen and desperate for air as I force myself not to breathe. Air, I promise myself, will come soon if I wait. It must.

It must.

And just as that, it does, my head bursting from the surface cleanly. I cough and choke, water lacing the first couple breaths I dare take. The thundering of the waterfall echoes against the stony blue walls, a continuous assault on the water surrounding me. It is notably deeper than the ankle-deep water from before, though I manage to remain afloat in it.

I take in several more deep breaths, calming the earlier panic of drowning, and glance around, eyes slightly unfocused and strained in the darkness. A spark of determination renews itself within me as I catch sight of the shadow, undoubtedly the one who saved me. I splash around, trying to figure out how to move in this too-deep water, my efforts only exhausting me. I pant, claws searching the water for purchase. Nothing. Despair creeps over me, my will wavering as I consider just sinking below again.

The shadow glides toward me, slinking through the water effortlessly, tail a rudder against the waterfall's fierce current. My legs kick in tired motions, treading water awkwardly. The shadow brightens as it nears, standing out in sharp contrast against the darkness. The shady outlines of a dragon become evident, the hearty breaths smooth and calm. A dragoness, I realize abruptly, from the sinuous curves of their—her—neck and shoulders, as well as the sleekness to her chest and legs.

Shadows darken her face, though a sapphire hue quickly lightens on her figure. I reel back slightly in surprise. No. It cannot be… her, can it?

Her eyes bore into me pensively, forever thoughtful and almost cold, yet also tinted with mild curiosity. I flounder as a swift rush of water snags me from below, my worried cries not daunting her in the slightest as she continues her smooth approach. The moment before I ready myself to sink beneath the water her teeth grasp my neck, holding me upward effortlessly. Her muscles clench, though rather than strain I sense strength there. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the warmth of her jaws clasped lightly around my neck, before opening them again.

I am lying in the shallow puddle of the plain, the trees and rocks only a distant outline from here. Ripples course gently over the water's surface, though I pay them no heed as I stand slowly, warily. Shaking my head, I turn toward the sun, mid-way in the sky. It glows a brilliant white, standing out in pleasant contrast to the bluish-white sky. Around me I glimpse only that; blue. It draws me nearer, tempts me to just lye down in the waters beneath me and doze, or to sprawl in the gentle azure shade of the trees or rocks. Such temptations nearly cause me to move, though through fierce determination I turn away from them to where I know the dragoness was before.

To my disappointment, she is not, though a broad grin crosses my face as a tail slaps water, a cool splash grazing my side once more. Instead of immediately turning to confront her, though, I bring down my tail onto the water, a playful splash leaping up. She starts, shaking herself quickly to clear it, before snorting once, an amused glint in her eyes. I raise my tail again, though she dodges to my left, instead getting me with a splash. Gracelessly, I turn toward her, my efforts earning me a splash in the face. A guttural laugh bursts from me despite myself and I lunge forward, crashing into her joyously.

She nips at my neck in a mock-strike and I swat her away gently, shouldering past her as she snags my tail and drags me down again. I wriggle out from around her, snorting in mock-disappointment. In response, she crouches, and before I can even think to duck aside she plows into me, sending us both toppling into the cold water. Though shallow, it still manages to drench us both as we shove and nip and splash each other, our wings both tilted back though in play rather than challenge. Her steps—surprisingly nimble—keep her at bay from me, though I manage to catch her by surprise twice.

'You're fast,' I comment, in the same voiceless tone of a dream. I forcefully place the thought aside, though it nags at me reprovingly.

She chuckles slightly as she smugly releases my neck from her hold. Rather than answering, though, she darts over to one side, her eyes glimmering with spirit. Our gazes meet for a moment, the same playful joy reflecting there, before she leaps upward, evading me as I find myself unable to follow. A mock-groan escapes me, though instead of returning to continue our play-fighting, as I expect, she disappears, the sun bloating out the blue until it is only a muzzy image. The world around me falls away, revealing only a misty cerulean in its place. I whine low, disappointed.

Stepping from the new darkness, however, she stands, my mouth agape. Despite the obviousness that it is her, surprise courses through me as I stare at her. Everything of her is the same, yet somehow very different. Rather than playful, her entire demeanor radiates tranquility, as well as acceptance. Just looking at her sends a shiver down my spine and she tilts her head back questioningly. I respond by making a tentative step forward; she doesn't move. I close the distance between us, our gazes meeting, not a hint of doubt there. I reach forward to intertwine our necks and she surrenders hers, allowing me to do so. A quiet hum echoes from her, my eyes closing in contentment, determined to hold this perfect moment for as long as memory will allow.

And when I open them again, she is gone, as is my perfect world. Instead, the bleakness of my cell stands in its place. Perhaps the most depressing experience one may having is awakening from a pleasurable one, for I know naught what would have been more disappointing than to see that it was nothing more than a dream. I sigh heavily, the chains rattling against my shoulders as I shift. The same angry scars seethe across them, and as I turn toward the rest of my cell—half-expecting her to reappear—my spirits are further doused by the emptiness.

What makes the attraction of blue so potent? I wonder as I settle my head against the wall, a heavy breath whooshing out of me. For surely this torture must be lethal, and yet I would torture myself a thousand-fold over to experience it just once more. It is wrong to be so fanatical over someone I cannot have, I remind myself, yet no rational thought can completely erase the utter pleasure of being with her. Nothing can, I know.

I close my eyes and quest after my dragoness once more.

Saphira

The tent morphs into a prison cell, the reverse effect of darkening illuminating a shadowy figure in one corner. Nasuada's troubled form, half-crouched over the table in thought, eyes staring listlessly at the table… thin tarp-like material ruffling along the tents edges… grunts and rough curses from the Kull guards… a faintly pained thought, radiating the red-hot sting of a shoulder amiss… all slips away, revealing only the grayness of a cell.

Sleeping in one corner with tail tucked tightly around his left side is Thorn, shackles weighing heavily down on his legs and wings. A melancholic aura lingers around him as he twitches and pants in the throes of sleep. Angry scarlet stripes stand out in remarkable contrast against the paled scales coating his sides, bespeaking in themselves agony. I flinch slightly, the miserable expression that crosses his face drawing me back to look at him. The rusted metal digs thin ruts into his flesh where it touches, the ones around his face particularly brutal. I turn to look away, only to be met by a penetratingly clear face.

If you fear who you leave behind, then you prove yourself nothing but a coward. And we do not help cowards, informs the stony dragon, snout hardly twitching as he breathes, slowly and deeply. His eyes reflect a rich beige, the color escaping the gray's overpowering hold. I shiver slightly at the severity there, the cold stone walls dropping away to lighten on the calm tent walls once more.

"Saphira?" Nasuada inquires, looking at me with an expression torn between concerned and confused. I shake my head slowly to her, mutely staring back. Eventually she concedes and looks downward briefly, one hand lightly resting on the egg's shell, as though seeking solace. A worried frown appears faintly on her lips, noticeable as well in the crease to her brow. She shakes her head, mulling, and my thoughts unwind just enough to allow me to see the vague outline of the hazy red dragon.

"So you believe," she continues, decidedly ignoring my silence, "that the Grey Folk were the ones who freed you?"

I nod once slowly.

"And that they are under Galbatorix's power?"

Another nod.

She folds her hands over the egg, contemplative. The prison returns to my sight, though as I move to look away and return to the tent, I find myself surrounded entirely by the insubstantial image. My claws dig uneasily into the ground, my entire body jerking as hard stone screeches silently beneath them. I lurch upright, head rebounding painfully back against the wall. I shake my wings internally in a vain effort to free them, though physically I don't even flinch aside from the ragged breaths that swell in my chest. My eyes stare wildly outward, scanning the cell against my own thoughts.

As naturally as taking a breath before plunging into water, we merge, our consciousnesses mingling. An anonymous air surrounds us, cloaking our real identities to the other, and we slowly relax back against the chains, our heart still thundering in our chests. We strive to calm it with deep, slow breaths, eventually convincing ourselves that we are alone. A dreadfully lonely feeling replaces the anxious one a moment later, echoing in our hearts. But this… this is our life, we accept grudgingly. And loneliness is just another part of it.

We sigh, laying our head down upon our paws, and the contact between us fades as smoothly and quietly as it began. My mind aches to comfort the being, though at the same time my mind screams out in protest. "Saphira…?" a voice queries, seeming many leagues away. My thoughts drift back to the solitary figure, the pains that we shared, the intimacy so deep naming each other would've been a fruitless and wasteful task. We were one in that moment; what mattered who we were?

And yet, cruelly, my conscience prods me with thoughts of 'you know who it is' and 'lying to yourself?' I know I lie to myself in saying the contact was mutually ignorant, I wish to snap in retort, though instead I drag myself to attention as Nasuada's distraught gaze focuses on me. I lift my head suddenly from its position on my paws, ruffling my wings in a surprisingly sheepish gesture. She looks at me queerly, and I return her gaze but a moment before letting it fall upon the green egg. No, I dismiss, it couldn't have been him. Not Thorn.

I glance at Eragon's bandaged shoulder, a frown crossing my face. When was that tended? Surely not before we entered, and not when I reiterated our journey to Nasuada… as silently as a fox, Blödhgarm sits in the far left corner, legs crossed casually in their cottony shoes. Light black breeches hug his legs, a dazzling red shirt overlapped by a flowing cloak of black. The attire seems oddly dark on him, though also startlingly animalistic, even feral. Accompanied by a seemingly pleasant smile, it radiates something akin to threatening.

I turn to regard him more fully, though my attention is subtly commanded back to Nasuada as she clears her throat, looking at me expectantly. I look at her in dutiful silence. "We wondered when you would awaken," she murmurs, voice quiet. My ears strain to hear her over the faint muttering of water dripping down a cold cell wall… "You didn't sleep, really," she elaborates. "Just became very… "

"Detached could be a word for it," supplies Blödhgarm helpfully. I continue to look at Nasuada, secretly demanding more. Yet she shrugs her shoulders helplessly.

"I won't ask," she concedes, though a look tells me that the same mercy will not be granted twice.

How long was I… unaware? I ask slowly.

Blödhgarm folds his hands mildly atop his legs; Nasuada's frown deepens almost imperceptibly. "Only an hour or so," she finally answers, albeit grudgingly. My interest flares up, my stance straightening.

An hour? I repeat incredulously, staring at her. The fox-like elf is the one to respond, however.

"You wouldn't respond to anything… we even tried to rouse you with magic, though you were… untouchable?" He seems to struggle for words, a rare thing from the time I'd known the bizarre elf. "Nevertheless, I tended to your Rider," here he waves a hand in Eragon's direction, "And Nasuada informed me of what you told her."

I resist the urge to glare at Nasuada, reminding myself that I have no right to be mad at her for relating such information to him. Besides, the logical part of me argues, he would have learned eventually, and it is best for him to be told such rather than discover it on his own. The last thing, I know, the Varden would need would be a mutiny over a simple conflict such as that.

"Saphira?" the Varden's leader interrupts my thoughts, a shade of worry in her voice. I tilt my head at her, proving my awareness with a curt nod. "Blödhgarm and I managed to discuss another topic you might be interested in," she continues, heedless of my wandering thoughts. "That of Elva's betrayal."

I look to the elf, suspecting perhaps differing opinions, though his reflects nothing but impassivity. His jaw, however, clenches infinitesimally, a gesture not unmissed by myself. I look back at Nasuada.

And what have you decided? I prompt when neither speak.

"Execution," answers Nasuada, voice void of emotion. Her hands wring slightly over the egg, a distressed thought radiating from the unborn hatchling as he senses her dismay. I attempt to calm him, though the thought of Thorn's utter loneliness of before overshadows the gesture and I cannot find the heart to soothe him.

Why? I find myself asking, knowing it has nothing to do of Nasuada and Blödhgarm's judgment.

Chapter end notes:

So. Couple of things. One this is the fifth time I've written a chapter and trashed it for this, so I've finally settled on this as the best of them. I understand it's not the best but I did my best. *shrug* Second is that the late update is due to schoolwork and a vacation I recently took, so updates will be quicker after this. Hope you enjoyed! ;) And thank you very very much to all readers/reviewers. Much appreciated.

'Hide behind your words what you know is true.'

Thorn

"Pay attention."

I look up slowly, face showing nothing but misery. A disgusted look returns mine, so I lower my head in easy submission. So far this has gone on for roughly an hour or so, though I lost track after the first quarter-hour. Perhaps it is better to simply let time pass than record it, I reason. Recording time just leads to divisions in time, and divisions in time only shorten your perspective of it. I close off my thoughts stubbornly, allowing only emptiness to fill them instead. I think much like a human, I reflect sourly, remembering Shruikan's comment many weeks ago on such. He always referred to it as a flaw of mine—that by thinking as a human I would only inherit their greediness, their terrible need to expend time as though it were a dish to be consumed. No, he warned me, I mustn't think like that.

"Look at me." A note of irritation rings clear in his voice as I slowly bring my gaze back to meet his. I sigh resignedly. If he wishes to play such games on mannerisms, then I shall play them. I set myself firmly to this thought, though my right shoulder twinges painfully as several nerves tighten within it. My flinch displeases him, for moments later my left shoulder goes numb. I lose my balance, staggering, before surrendering to an awkward kneel as my opposite shoulder fails me as well. "You will learn to act courteously toward me, Thorn." Another sharp pain in my right shoulder—more nerves tighten. There is no question there; I offer no opposition.

The King's smirk lingers on sadistic as he adds nonchalantly, "Though, if you fail to learn, your death will matter not to me."

What do you want of me? I ask hollowly, voice coming out as a sigh. I leave my head bowed, tip of my jaw brushing the cool marble.

A chuckle of genuine amusement reaches me and I resist a grimace as he applies throbbing pressure against the back of my skull. "Must I have a reason for summoning you now?"

My King, interrupts a voice. I turn my head fractionally to glance over at the undefined shadow in the corner, marked only by the faint glow of torches along the opposite side. Shruikan rumbles disapprovingly, though at a twitch of the King's hand he rises and comes forth. I can sense his austerity as he bows his head to the man, meeting him eye-to-eye as I wouldn't dare. Their conversation is obvious, if mute, and the mental warring between the two is undeniable. It seems that rather than a debate it is a grating of two forces, stress building between them constantly. For a moment pity enters my gaze as I look to Shruikan, though it turns cold as I look at how his expression mellows, revealing only placid silence.

Traitor, I snap at him in a whisper, not daring speak louder for fear of drawing the King's attention. Despite such, he looks as well, both their black gazes staring at me with the same mirroring disapproval… and hatred. I clamp my jaws tightly against a snarl in return, even as Shruikan staggers back a step, his eyes adopting a confused look.

So you summon us for petty torture? I accuse, too outraged to not speak up.

"Torture?" scoffs the King before laughing once. "This is not torture, Thorn. This is discipline. If Shruikan acts against me, I discipline him, just as I discipline you."

Hide behind your words what you know is true, rebukes Shruikan, a sense of hope kindling within me at his daring. The moment the King's stare locks onto him, however, he shies away, his wings folding at his sides. An unmistakable growl rumbles in his chest as he stands nearer the shadows, stance far less confident than I had ever seen it before. It nearly sickens me to see how easily the respect is bought through fear, how his shoulders hunch forward as though to stave off a blow and his tail curls around his side protectively. This is not the same dragon of five days ago, I know. Certainly not.

"Good dragon," applauds the King theatrically, clapping in mock-sincerity. I only just catch myself from leaping before him, my wings still aching at my sides as they lay there limply. I glower instead, though Shruikan offers no opposition but a cool stare. Smiling wolfishly, the King paces slowly before us, observing us as though we are dogs to be beaten at his pleasure. Which, in a way, we are. Shruikan looks at me, eyes speaking his disagreement for him. He turns his head back to the King, as do I.

"You are both incompetent in your own ways," he lectures casually, never once pausing in his pace. "You," a lazy finger lifts to point accusingly at Shruikan, "lose any and all prized possessions in my care. And you," he glances pointedly at me, "fail at any and all tasks I assign you. So what, dare I ask, am I supposed to do with two incompetent dragons?"

Both Shruikan and I linger on snappish retorts, though our simmering manages to stave off an outright shouting match. Perhaps, my King, you should accuse less of our incompetence and rather set us to tasks we can handle, offers Shruikan, albeit grudgingly.

"Tasks you can handle?" laughs the King mockingly. "Oh, if I could find a task you could handle that would be a fine day indeed." He snorts once derisively, though Shruikan bows his head. "I could assign you to watch a rock and you'd fail. I did assign you to watch a rock and you failed." Shruikan's lip curls up in a snarl, though the King ignores it. "Discipline does not improve either of your behavior," he continues, to both our glares, "and no other techniques I have set you with have kept you in line. What must I do to get it through your thick heads that failure is not an option?"

Apparently it is, mutters Shruikan.

"Even now you dare to defy me," the King remarks, too calm. "Even now, when you know that with a simple word I could end both your lives, you dare to mock me with such words?"

Ending our lives would be a mercy, I muse absently.

"Silence!" he roars. I moan stiffly as my jaw goes lax, hanging openly as I cannot control the muscles there. My legs sink to the floor, though I notice from the corner of my eyes Shruikan's head tossed back, teeth clenched, claws driven hard against the cold floor as he fights off some internal pain. The quiet screeching of the marble against them is sickening, though I refrain from shouting for him to stop. The King smiles on coolly, unperturbed by his own dastardly arts.

"Dastardly?" he chuckles, looking to me with an eyebrow raised. My neck screams with pain as it is forced to bow forward further, brow pressed against the floor. I snarl once piteously in defiance though he only chuckles coldly at me. "You both disappoint me," he says, sweat filming Shruikan's face and limbs. His front legs quiver very slightly with strain, wings and muscles taut evidently. "Cannot you even stand on your own?" Shruikan staggers back as though buffeted by a wind, back hitting the stone wall with a dull thud.

A shapeless howl bursts from him as a circlet of red springs to life over his chest, each a puncture wound no smaller than a horse's hoof. His face contorts into a look of suppressed agony as he slips down to the floor, a soft moan escaping him as more holes walk up and down his shoulders and across his back. Soon he is near covered in them as they track over his face, two appearing just above and below each eye.

Stop it! I roar at the King, beyond outraged. Shruikan looks at me, turning his great head slowly to observe me. The red marks do not bleed out at all, though it is clear that they dig several inches into his flesh. As I look at him, sudden realization overcomes me. I blink once, and the red spots are gone, though the same unbearable pain radiates from him. I shut off my mind to him grudgingly, his breath wheezing from him as he struggles under the King's invisible torture. I close my eyes, silently pleading for him to be quiet so I don't have to think about it. I open my eyes once more, just in time to see the red marks burn particularly hot, glowing like dozens—perhaps hundreds—of brands.

Nothing could, nor ever would, have erased the sound of his scream from my memory.

He collapses, exhausted, as the marks cool tantalizingly slowly before retreating with the same prolonging torture. I wish to rush over to him myself and rip off those holes, though I know it is only the King's trick to make me see that which he does despite its insubstantiality. Still, I know with some certainty, it could not have been worse to have watched Shruikan be branded before me, those glowing scarlet holes driven into his flesh.

"That," remarks the King dryly, "is torture. This," a sharp twinge of pain scurries along my jaw, "is discipline. Do you see the difference?"

I stare at the King, at a loss for words. My mind reels with the thought of such inhumanity, such beastly pleasure at the inflicting of pain on others. More monstrous than beast, even. For what I had believed was torture was nothing compared to that. And I knew that I never wanted to see it again. I instinctively tilt my head forward in a submissive bow, though it can hardly be bowed any further.

"Good," he purrs, completely satisfied with himself. A glint of animalistic bloodlust glows in his eyes as he looks at Shruikan, maimed if not in true body. He looks back at me, and his grin could not have been more terrifying. "I think I have finally found the solution to this." He speaks slowly as though disbelieving himself, though his grin is unwavering. "If you cannot successfully complete a task, perhaps together you shall." At first, my brow furrows in confusion, and I raise my head slightly to look at him. A sting winds down my neck, though it is nothing to the pain shared briefly with Shruikan.

What do you mean? I ask carefully.

"Murtagh!" crows the King instead. "Murtagh!"

Obediently, a figure arrives at the door, hastily entering and appearing rather out of breath. I stare in shock at him, horrified that the King would bring him here now. Especially if our latest conversation was about torture…

"I have a task for you and your dragon," the King says, unknowing of my utter relief that his words are not what I feared. My heart plummets in my chest, however, as he continues. "You are to finish what Shruikan obviously could not. Steal the green dragon—egg, hatchling, or adult—and bring him and his Rider to me, dead or alive. Find the dragoness. Mate with her, Thorn, if you can, and if you cannot, kill her."

Why should I kill her? I ask, mentally flinching at the ancient language.

"Kill her only if you cannot mate with her," he dismisses calmly. "She is no use to us if she does not bear us any eggs. If I cannot have a Forsworn, then none of Alagaësia may have any dragons."

Silence reigns after his words, Murtagh's silent shock echoing my own. With a cynical smile, the King continues. "You may, of course, use magic, though if you even think to use it against me… well." He gestures airily with a hand back at Shruikan, Murtagh glancing at me mutely for explanation. I keep my silence, fearing to upset the King. "You will have to work for your own provisions, and that sword of yours is the only weapon I shall give you." Shruikan moans quietly from the corner, evidently still pained. The King's smile broadens. "You may have as much time as you need," he continues, my confused glance locked on him, "however for every day you fail, Shruikan shall not eat."

The Black Dragon's head weakly raises, looking at the King in shock, then to me with a hint of despair. My own eyes mirror his as Murtagh stiffens noticeably by the door. "Today counts," adds the King lightly, as though making a jest about something. My teeth clench reflexively, heart throbbing with despair. While a healthy dragon can survive nearly a month without food, a badly malnourished and weakened one is doubtful to say a fortnight. Not to mention, today, which leaves only nine days. My heart gives another dreadful beat.

There is no way, I breathe silently, horror lacing my voice. The King just smiles, ever pleased with himself.

"Then you must find a way. You may leave tomorrow."

Tomorrow! But that only gives us eight days! I protest, to the King's obvious bemusement.

"Who says it gives you only eight days? You have as much time as you need, so long as you do not care for Shruikan." He laughs coldly, shaking his head as though overwhelmed with his own ingenious. I look at Shruikan helplessly, though he lingers on the verge of passing out, only blearily aware of our conversation. My heart gives another aching thud in my chest, the only sound I can hear. Eight days. Eight days. Eight days. The words play over in my mind, my throat tightening. How does he expect Murtagh and I to do that all in eight days?

Staring at his terribly pleased look, however, I know the truth.

He doesn't. He not only knows we can't succeed, but he looks forward to our failure. Bile rises in my throat at such a thought and I only just force it down.

"You are dismissed," he says at last, moving back over to his throne. Shruikan rises stiffly, somehow managing to hobble toward the door. He silently moves past Murtagh, who stares after him as he noses his way through the door, limping out. I follow slowly, almost guiltily at how much easier walker is for me than for him. As I pass Murtagh, I lower my head, our own gazes meeting. When he just looks back, however, I nudge his side toward the door, and he moves through it as though in a daze. I spare a last glance over my shoulder, the King looking back with the same wicked expression.

I'll be back, I promise.

And I close the door behind me without another word.

We walk down the hall, the silence tight between us. Murtagh's strides are cool and easy, though he moves very carefully; cautious, though, rather than pained. My own steps lumber along beside his, my heart echoing constantly with those words. Eight days. Eight days until I fail yet again, eight days before Shruikan dies from starvation, eight days before the world is ruined.

I force the thoughts aside, shouldering past them as a vexed person does when agitated by another. Our steps click and pad along in quiet rhythm with one another, though neither of us dares speak. The ragged stone around us passes by in monotonous symmetry, completely and utterly unaffected by my dilemma. I glower at them, as though somehow it is their fault, anyone's fault that I have to do this. My tail lashes slightly in protest, though I know it is not true. Worse, I know that the only one at fault cannot be punished because of it. Eventually, Murtagh breaks the silence.

"What happened back there?"

I know he doesn't mean that which he saw, for the bitter understanding in his mind is unmistakable. I sigh deeply, shaking my head.

You do not want to know. Something in my voice keeps him from inquiring further.

"How long… can dragons last before starvation?" he instead asks, though the question is no less painful than the first. I force the sob back from my voice as I answer.

Up to a month, if in good health. Otherwise… my voice dwindles off, though with an effort I continue. Perhaps a fortnight.

He nods once, though I sense his wince even though neither of us looks at the other. A dry moan interrupts us and I turn my head to the left, Shruikan laying in a thick crevice between two corridors. His usually callous black eyes hold nothing but pity as he looks up at me, mirroring my own for him. Murtagh moves around my right shoulder, standing beside it, somehow knowing not to speak.

Whatever you do, begins Shruikan slowly. Do not kill them. I start to protest dutifully, though he again states, Do not kill them. The resoluteness is his voice cannot be argued, nor can the staunchness of his gaze as he looks at me.

I lower my head in silent anguish. He'll kill you, Shruikan. If I don't do this… he'll kill you.

He nods once, a hint of his patronizing self returning to him. I know, Thorn. He looks up at me, almost sorrowfully. You must understand this, though. If you kill them, you will do far worse to me than you can imagine. My life has been used to harm Alagaësia. I could not live it if it were the threat of my death that brought the end of it. Keep them alive, Thorn, and there is a chance. For you and I, there may not be, but for them…

His voice fades, and I know he doesn't realize the hurt he inflicts on me at his words. I will, I agree gravelly at last. I swear, I'll keep them and you alive. Somehow.

Thorn, he chuckles sadly. His massive black body curled up in the hollow seems oddly vulnerable and weak, matching my sudden viewing of him. Stop worrying about me, he continues. This is my life—how it's always been. The more you try and enter it, the more hurt you'll become. Just stay away and let life take its own course with you.

I look at him helplessly, wishing more than anything to protest but somehow not able to defy him. I nod once mutely, moving my snout forward to lay it beside his in a sign of comradeship. Goodbye, Shruikan.

He nudges my snout and I withdraw. Tomorrow is sooner than you think. You'd best be preparing yourselves, he admonishes. I nod again, turning to leave. Murtagh shakes his head slowly, though he follows as I move away again.

I can swear that just as I turned the corner I heard a faint, Farewell, hatchling.

Chapter end notes:

Sorry for the 'short' chapter; I didn't really want to crowd it too much, though, so I just stuck with Thorn's part. Next chapter will most likely have both-definitely a Saphira, anyway.

"What wisdom is there in secrecy?"

Thorn

We were ready to go at sunrise.

The moment that golden sliver had crept over the horizon, Murtagh and I were rested, packed, and ready to leave. The guards had been dutifully silent as we made our way past them, a great black shadow following from a distance. As we had approached the gates, the corridors had seemed only to grow bleaker, despite the questing tendrils of light seeping into them. My eyes were stoically set forward, my steps almost robotic as I moved beside my Rider. He had appeared equally subdued, and between us our contact reverberated with indefinable feelings caught between dismay, anguish, and even a sense of dutiful resignation.

My left foot catches on the stone floor, though I catch myself mid-stumble, straightening wordlessly. Murtagh offers no words, either, and the silence grows thicker between us. Again, the shadow sways around behind us, weaving through side corridors so as to appear less conspicuous. I dare not look back at it, for fear of losing courage and rushing back to him, to plead to the King that I will do anything—anything—beside this. A sharp 'ah!' doesn't cause me to flinch as a younger man is tended to be a healer, obstinately silent as she ushers him over to a seat. Guards grumble curses to one another, falling eerily silent as we pass by. My claws seem muffled as they click on the ground, Murtagh's feet gliding over it softly.

The corridor widens, twin doors shut firmly on the hinges before us. Nearly a half dozen guards barricade it, though at a flat look from Murtagh they move easily to unlatch it. Dim sunlight falls over us, my eyes contracting to slits in its weak onslaught. I blink owlishly for several moments, Murtagh soundlessly striding ahead, unperturbed. He moves over the stone path coolly, as naturally as strolling through a park. Around us, thick stone walls vanish to become city, guarded only by a last border of stone and then one of wood much farther out. The ruby sword belted to Murtagh's waist catches the light briefly; I grimace at the familiar scarlet color.

Taking a deep, resigned breath, I move outward, quickly joining Murtagh. Our strides match, though neither of us offers to fly. Eight days, eight days, eight days, my heart echoes. Eight days is all you have.

I look down at him and he wordlessly looks up, some mutuality clear in our gaze. I crouch low without command, offering my right shoulder. He grasps one of my neck spikes tightly, hauling himself up carefully. The unfamiliar weight on my back feels odd to me, though I straighten without comment. I can feel his slightly calloused hands tight around the neck spike, his shoulders hunched forward to bear the imminent gust of wind. I draw in another deep breath—eight days, eight days, my heart thuds.

I dare to look over my shoulder, back at that castle, looming ever so high into the frosty blue sky. Its towers seem cold and callous as ice, its gates dark arms beckoning inward. The stone that makes its foundation bares itself to the wind, built to withstand the harshest of winter storms. Very gradually my eyes stray downward, locking upon the shadow. The Black Dragon.

I do not believe that I had ever seem him so terribly sad or lonely standing in that entrance, lingering around a corner. His big black eyes never struck me as so sorrowful before, and I knew that that sadness would remain in my mind. But I had also never seen him as him before; that blazing spirit hidden in his eyes, almost a physical strength seeming to wash over me just at the sight of his own courage. A trace of indigo flashes there—the darkest, richest indigo I'd ever seen. He closes his eyes, however, taking a deep breath.

And for a moment, he is not black, but the purest indigo, his scales reflecting the light. His eyes open briefly, and for once I see him as what he was before Shruikan—before he was locked away in that castle. He bows his head once in farewell before slinking back, tip of his tail fading to black once more just as he rounds the corner.

Sobs break silently in my chest as I realize, truly, this could be the last time I will ever see him. Worse, he believes I won't ever see him again… for words needn't describe the finality in that look, or the showing of his true self to me. I shake my head firmly to clear those thoughts, and, with a powerful thrust, leap into the sky.

My wings catch the wind like sails as I open them, gliding along as effortlessly as blinking or breathing. My heart soars in my chest as well, renewed life beating through me as I disappear into gray clouds. The castle stands behind us, though its tall black towers—wicked claws reaching from some Hell below—cannot reach us. I roar once, though it is a cry of sheer enjoyment. Free, the thought echoes from my soul. Free.

Life is as bitter as it is sweet.

For even in that moment of perfection, I was reminded of the staunch reality that stood between myself and true freedom. The war. The King. The world itself seem to step before me, shaking a rebuking head and pointing me back towards where I knew I had to go. My exuberance dwindled away to silence, and finally despair as the severity of the mission set in. I had eight days to do this, if that. Eight days to either succeed and destroy this world and the one I simply could not, or eight days to kill a dragon I had come to know as my friend.

I wished with all my might to scream out my frustration to the world. To let it know how much it pressures me, and how much it hurts me. I was certain that it was absolutely determined to not only tear me apart but see that it was a slow and agonizing process. For if I died, I brought more than just myself to the grave, whether those others realized it or not.

I had to get the Varden, I knew suddenly. And I had to get there fast.

But what would I do when I got there? a pessimistic side of me taunts. Claim I wish only to help and hope they will listen? Bah. They would burn me themselves. If I attempted to complete the King's mission, I would ruin everything for them and Alagaësia. If I attempted to side with them, I would most likely be ignored.

And if I failed, Shruikan would die.

The dawn creeps upward over the land, each moment seeming in sync with my heart, ticking off the words eight days, eight days. My eyes wander over the landscape, barren and dry as ever. The Hadarac desert, I muse, remembering when first Murtagh and I had flown over it. I disappear in that memory, so desperate to escape the beating of my heart and its horrid reminder that the battle seemed a reprieve.

There were hundreds—no, thousands of soldiers, all scrabbling on the ground… swords clashing above their heads, ringing death with each clang. Piercing cries as lives were ended reverberated through my ears, penetrating deep into my mind and branding themselves there. The blood was like a carpet, writhing with the masses of bodies being thrust down upon it. Maimed horses whinnied and kicked, injuring any who dared venture close. Arrows twanged off, chorusing with the bangs of shields catching blows and soldiers being smote down. The scent of coppery blood was an overwhelming one, mixed with salty sweat and the thick scent of death that seemed to linger over the entire plains.

My eyes strayed downward as a formidable army of shorter men and women joined the Varden's faltering forces, sending an enthusiastic surge across their lines. Our men fell back slightly, though I growled low and met myself for the challenge as the scent of dragoness filled the air before me. My claws extended, teeth bared, I roared out my mingled fury and curiosity and called her to challenge.

We clashed, teeth ripping into one another, claws driven deep into each other's flesh, maws open in fierce cries at one another as our Riders dueled before us… A shiver of phantom pain courses through me and I cast the memory aside, wishing it to be gone even as it claws at my mind like a starving beast, trying to gather purchase there and haunt me.

A reassuring pat on the shoulder seems to speak volumes as I glide ahead, a strange gratefulness washing over me. Our minds linger on the same problems, and yet we both still accept it, and we would both weather it out, for better or worse.

With that thought in mind, I shoot off, bound southward for Surda.

Saphira

My dreams are plagued with fire.

A consuming, wrathful blaze that creeps over everything around me, silhouettes of dwindling trees being swallowed inside the inferno. Horrible screams resound through the air, echoed by the sharp creaking and groaning of bark being ripped from its tree. Fiery branches reach out questing fingers, naughty children snatching anything in their grasp. The heat drowns out all thought, coughing and wheezing smoke from its uppermost levels. A whitish haze blots out the land, though even so it is clear of the true animation to the forest.

Dying trees weep over fallen comrades, branches thrown outward like arms as they wail and screech in anguish. Shrubs sob softly together, huddled at their bases and shushing younger plants from their own crying. Branches of coupled trees cling to one another, bending over each other and whispering quiet goodbyes as they're destroyed. Grass hisses in useless protest, its defenses crushed, burned, and broken.

Yet amidst the fires grasps, two roses stand firm. Both are impossibly white, unaffected by the fire. They sway as though in a gentle breeze, sharply contrasting the fierce assault of smoky wind around me. The choking atmosphere doesn't touch them, delicate leaves sculpted perfectly and rising from the ever-burning ground calmly. Nearby a third rose bends, edges singed black and center grayed with soot. Despite such, its bright scarlet color takes me by surprise, captivating and bizarre at once. I step forward, fire lapping harmlessly at my paws, anger rising in it as I heedlessly approach the roses. I notice then a gray rose lying on the ground, destroyed by the blaze, a strange sorrow overwhelming me. Beside it a black one folds, slipping slowly toward the ground as well.

I stare down at the white roses, my eyes training on the one standing on the right. For a moment, the faintest trace of blue glows there, though when I blink it is gone. Beside it the white rose withers suddenly, sputtering and flailing about in the smoke as it is captured by it. Moments later the red rose flares, its petals just touching the edges of the remaining white rose. A singed splotch of red lingers there, though the rose does not crumple, despite the fallen white one beside it. The black one finally submits, laying itself beside the gray, and the white one grays as well.

The red one is suddenly torn away from the last white, thrown into the bitter onslaught of fire. I cry out involuntarily, though it is gone in moments.

The last image I see is that of the white rose falling as well, graying as it touches the dying ground.

My breaths come slowly and calmly, yet my heart seems to thunder in my chest as I lay on the cracked earth, eyes scanning the unchanging grounds carefully. An aura of dispirited necessity seems to hang over the camp like a plague, people moving around in an almost emotionless haze. The usually affable atmosphere is layered with dread, thickening with each moment as I stare in silence. A dream, I remind myself firmly. A frightening dream, but a dream—nothing more. My thoughts resist my calming notions, though eventually the shock and even fear of such a nightmare fades into nothing but a hazy memory.

Warily lifting my head from my paws for a better view, I glance over the thin tan tarps pitched in neat rows, soldiers wandering between them idly. Occasionally one raises their gaze to look at me, an unreadable expression there, before moving on, never once offering word. As my wariness grows, a soft murmuring of conversation arises from inside the tent at my left side and I turn my head. The fuzzy silhouettes of several humans—one prone on a pallet—greet my searching gaze, two of which I know are Nasuada and Orrin, and the third I know to be Eragon. Just perceptible through the surprisingly thick material is Blödhgarm's oddly relaxed pose in one corner, ever calm.

I shift around to peek my head inside, the Kull guards moving accordingly with the grudging acceptance of subordinates in the midst of a vexing superior. Well, I dismiss, there's nothing that can be done about such. Peering within, I notice that only King Orrin and Blödhgarm are awake, Nasuada sitting in a chair backed by a pair of chests. Her chest rises and falls lightly with each breath, though her face is written with discontent. I look to Orrin, who yawns silently as he nods off Blödhgarm's quiet inquiries. The unusual King dons a silky cream robe, traced with bronze and silver lining. The cuffs of his sleeves are wide and casual, matching his rather disheveled hair and the sleepy look on his face.

"Blödhgarm," he says in a conceding fashion, "I understand your concerns of your… kind's taking to execution, but it has to be done and I'm sure you can reason with them. Surely you do not see some other solution?" He looks at the elf tiredly. Blödhgarm stares back in silence for several moments, his fingers absently intertwining and his head tilting very slightly to the left, considering.

"I suppose," he agrees in a murmur. The fur on the back of his neck, however, prickles as though irritated, his eyes narrowing fractionally. Orrin, unsurprisingly, takes no notice of such, though I silently store it away for later.

"When's the execution?" mutters a dry voice. The three of us immediately look at Eragon, who calmly folds his arms over his chest, not bothering open his eyes.

"Uh… later today, I would assume," Orrin supplies, evidently startled.

"Mmm." A pause. "How much later, would you assume?" he presses, making no notion to move. Orrin frowns slightly, caught off-guard by the sudden addition to the conversation.

Blödhgarm replies. "By noon, most probably."

Eragon opens an eye to a slit. "Noon?" He groans. "And what time, dare I ask, is it now?"

Raising an eyebrow mildly, the elf answers, "Just a few hours past sunrise, Shadeslayer." His demeanor betrays nothing but calm, though the hint of bafflement in his eyes does not go unmissed by me. I look to Eragon as he sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his head dourly. He looks at Blödhgarm and Orrin both skeptically, as though doubting them, before shaking his head groggily and rising.

"The night is too short for my liking," he comments, absently flexing his once-wounded shoulder. "Hmm," he muses, offering no thanks or even notice of Blödhgarm's effort. I look at him oddly, though his expression betrays nothing but weary disgruntlement. With a mental shrug I stow it away for later; perhaps then it might be useful. "I can't say I'm surprised," he notes dourly. "Elva never seemed particularly fond of me." His fogged gaze scans the tent questioningly, a disturbing hint in his now-blue eyes. "Where is the egg?" he asks at last, albeit reluctantly.

King Orrin immediately glances to Blödhgarm, who calmly retrieves the egg from a nearby sack. Thoughts of wary confusion radiate from the hatchling, uncomfortable around the elf's peculiar presence. "Might I have a look at it?" prompts Orrin in the resuming silence. Wordlessly the elf rises, striding across the short distance between them and relinquishing the egg to the Surdan King. A subtle wave of unease and displeasure radiates from him, though subdued by his ever-calm aura. The eccentric King taps a thin finger against the egg, a delighted smile blooming on his face. His aged hands search the egg's polished surface, examining it with both wonder and speculation.

"Can this be so?" he asks aloud, to no one in particular. Nasuada blearily awakens herself, though neither elf, King, or Rider take notice. "How can this truly be ours?"

"I've been wondering that myself," acknowledges Eragon, rather stoutly. I shoot him a firm glance—a 'knock it off' look—though he mentally shrugs my presence off as though I am a bothersome cloak. I growl quietly in discontent. "It really is a strange miracle that we have it," he all but drawls on, King Orrin bobbing his head once in quiet agreement.

"Where is Elva?" Nasuada inquires sleepily, a hand raising as though to rub her eyes before falling back to her lap with a silent sigh. "I haven't seen her nor Angela or Solembum since last night."

"I am sure they can handle her," Blödhgarm assures knowingly. His scarlet-brown fur glows in the dim morning light that manages to peer through the tent. "After all, you yourself entrusted Angela to care for Elva initially, and she is hardly older now than then."

"Hardly," repeats Nasuada, dubious. She nods, however, and the conversation is dropped as King Orrin proffers the egg to her.

"Care to have a look at it? It's really quite remarkable," he offers, reverting back comfortably to his usual knowledgeable self. "I've never seen stone this smooth before; the closest I've come to handling myself is some diamond. And such fine color! A marvel in itself to be such a shade of green, for sure. These veins are unusual, though…"

"I would," Nasuada interrupts quietly, the King letting her take it from his hands without protest. Blödhgarm folds his arms over his chest in the corner, appearing vexed over something. I shake my head mentally. Strange creatures, elves are.

"Remarkable indeed," the Varden's leader murmurs to herself, a finger tracing the delicate white veins pulsing on its sides. The hatchling purrs within, snuggling deeper into his protected rest. I sigh once enviously. "We must remember to keep this a secret, though," she warns us all sternly, glancing up briefly from the egg. "If any hear of this there could be great trouble for us all."

"How do you propose we find its Rider, then?" Eragon retorts starkly. Our gazes all look to him, though his blue eyes meet ours coldly. "If the Varden do not even know what we have… well, I strongly doubt we'll be finding its Rider amongst them." He snorts once, crossing his arms and looking at Nasuada. The incredulous leader just stares back, finally finding her voice.

"You know it would be unwise to simply reveal to the Varden that we have a dragon egg, Eragon," she rebukes, quiet yet firm.

"What wisdom is there in secrecy?"

"A great deal, Shadeslayer," Blödhgarm interrupts, fur bristling under his ears. The elf looks at him for several long moments skeptically, though Eragon stares back.

Finally, I intervene. Enough, I order them both. Eragon, what is with you? You flinch to say Galbatorix's name, and the thought of hiding the egg from everyone who may or may not prove trustworthy irritates you. What's wrong?

"Nothing," he replies stoutly, and I know that is all the answer I will get of him. He sits on the edge of the pallet, shaking his head. "Nothing at all," he mutters, looking at the ground. I mentally nudge him for more, though he blocks me out. I sigh deeply in resignation as Blödhgarm stands.

"I do believe it is time we get this execution over with," he says simply, a look of brief disgust crossing his features. "No use delaying such things." And he exits the tent, slipping past me soundlessly. Nasuada looks after him, one arm cradling the egg, while Orrin leans back in his chair with a sigh.

"He's right," he admits. "There's business to be tended to today, after all."

Nasuada nods once vaguely, rising from her own seat as though in a daze and slipping the egg into a sack. The unborn hatchling within chirrups once, sounding unhappy, before she lifts the sack and shoulders it firmly.

"My Lady, don't you think that will draw attention to it?" Orrin protests. The Varden's leader shrugs once.

"It is safer with me than it would be lying around here anyway," she dismisses coolly. King Orrin shrugs and I retreat briefly to allow both them to exit. They move off, though I slide my head back inside as Eragon remains unmoving. He stares at his hands blankly for several long moments. Finally, he stands, moving over to the tent entrance. He doesn't look at me, though when he tries to slide past I casually block his path.

Eragon.

He shakes his head slowly. "I don't know, Saphira. We need to go with Orrin and Nasuada, so can we please discuss this later?" I can easily see past his false promise, though I nod once anyway.

We will discuss this later, I agree before allowing him to pass.

Chapter end notes:

Couple things I'd like to mention here. First, this is a filler chapter-sorry if it's kinda boring. Hopefully the next will be more entertaining for you. Second, there was some past-tense mixed in with Thorn's part; I hope that didn't break up the flow of his part too terribly. Lastly, thank you so much to my readers, and especially my reviewer. You guys know who you are and you're great; really keeps me motived to write. :)

'We never intended to come undetected.'

Thorn

What is worse than arriving at your personal Hell?

I don't think anything I'd felt before could've equaled the dread I felt as the stretch of land between myself and Surda grew thinner and thinner. Lead weights seemed to drag on my wings, pulling me towards the ground as I so wished to just leave behind. My teeth grit as I force myself to continue, tan clouds concealing the bitter sun beneath them. The dim morning light illuminates the encampment clearly even from this distance, though haziness soon causes it to twist elastically before my gaze. I squint, able to make out the small figures of people milling about, oblivious to my presence.

I rise upward, using the cloud cover to my advantage as I scan the earth below me gloomily. Soon, a pessimistic part of me taunts, I'll have to land. Very soon.

I breathe in deeply, the hot, sticky air seeming to frustrate me more than soothe. I shake my head, clingy dew clutching the pockets of air between scales. With a dreary sigh, I turn higher, wing-beats driving me upward with each powerful thrum. I glance up at the sun, eyes contracting to slits in response to the suddenly intense glare. It presses down on my back like a rebuking hand, forcing me towards earth with each pulse of my wings. I growl low and slowly obey.

Where to begin? the logical half of me points out grimly. Fail at mating the dragoness and kill her, or perhaps be killed trying to reclaim the green egg? Neither side lifts my spirits though eventually I settle upon the latter as I angle east.

Though not terribly obvious, it is not too difficult either to find the area where the most important people are dwelling. My eyes strain to identify perhaps who their leader is, though from such distance my vision fails me.

Careful, Thorn, cautions Murtagh as I dip out from beneath the clouds.

Why? I silently retort, heart yearning for an answer despite such. Futility is as effective a poison as hopelessness, and together they fit well. My heart drones out the word: futility. My breath quickens slightly, as though walls close around me, forcing me ahead where only a dead-end awaits. I try to slam my way through it, though it is bitterly firm, resisting my efforts as though I am no more than a bothersome fly. I roar in frustration, though my warring remains silent in my mind as I swoop back into cloud-cover.

We have wonderful timing, muses Murtagh sourly. Morning. No cover of darkness and completely seen by all. Perfect.

I shrug a shoulder, winding around to slow myself. Do you expect this mission to stay secret long anyway? I return. He sighs huffily and lays his arms languorously over my neck, grumbling incoherently to himself.

If they don't kill us, the King will. And all you can think of is 'well, since they'll notice us anyway why not just be noticed?'

Precisely.

A bark of harsh laughter escapes him, lost to the overriding keening of wind as it glides past us. My wings ripple slightly as I descend, my ruby form reflecting the sunlight far too brightly for comfort. Like a splotch of blood on an untainted piece of parchment, I stand out all too remarkably in the dull desert.

Yet, unbelievably, not a soul raises cry of alarm. I slowly ease toward the ground, ever prepared to lurch upward if necessary. Grainy sand shimmers beneath me as my claws graze it, landing with a single hop to keep my balance. I shake my head firmly to clear the dew, a shiver winding throughout my limbs in anticipation. I know not whether I look forward to or dread finding the egg, though the slight flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—I can succeed shoos away any sort of doubts. Murtagh slides down from my back, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword warily. Our heads turn back and forth almost in unison as we scan the grounds for enemies, yet none swamp toward us with blades and shields as we expect. No arrows rain down on our heads; no curses launch themselves at the air, piercing our souls as effectively as knives.

All is far too quiet.

Slowly, I start forward, body crouched low to the ground as my belly all but scrapes the sandy ground. My wings are folded tightly to my sides, though I still feel terribly vulnerable against the traitorously light-colored sand. My steps are calculated, my breath hot and thick as I continue. Murtagh moves silently in my shadow, our steps muffled by the sand that crawls beneath our feet. I growl low at it, irritated at the irksome stuff, though more focused on not being discovered.

A merciful sight greets us; a thick plateau, wedged between the desert and the Varden's obvious encampment, stands not half a league from us. I wordlessly move toward it, Murtagh needing no further prompting to follow. Soon we are encompassed in its thin shadow, hidden behind its tightly-packed walls. The tan structure stands before us, though whether concealing worse things to come or shielding us from those, I do not know.

I hug the wall as I walk, my wings folded close to my sides to make myself appear as small as possible. My eyes alertly scan the grounds for any signs of treachery, my breaths coming slow and shallow. Eventually I must relinquish the cover of the plateau to the desert, my steps crouched as I slink out into the open.

Distant voices are raised, their words impossible to distinguish from here. I lift my head hopefully, yet they defy my efforts, leaving me deaf to their threats. I slowly move along, sinking lower to the ground with each step for better cover. A light breeze blows past my wings, gliding past them soundlessly. My ears twitch as the sound of ruffling tarp reaches me, muted as twin wings are pressed close to someone's side.

My heart skips a beat.

I look upward very hesitantly, my eyes widening as I press myself tight to the wall, heart thundering in my chest as I subtly refortify my mind's barriers. I close my eyes, some childish notion that perhaps if I cannot see her, she cannot see me. The sound of her wings ruffling again stills my heart abruptly; not only is she nearby, she's close. A traitorous shiver squirms down my back as I crouch as low as I possibly can. My claws brush the sand, the shushing sound causing her to straighten. I hold my breath—she hovers above me, seated on the plateau. Her eyes scan the horizon skeptically, her nostrils flaring.

I cringe as a breeze sweeps through, drawing her attention almost instantaneously to myself. A snarl curls her lip, her eyes shadowed menacingly as she glowers down at me. Murtagh wisely waits off behind the plateau still, though I know it is only a matter of time before she notices him as well. Her claws tense on the hard ground, her muscles bending in unison as she cranes her neck upward and growls down at me. Her eyes flick toward Murtagh's hidden standing and I back slowly to draw her attention. Accordingly her head whips around, her wings flaring outward with a loud whoosh.

Her gaze never once leaves my as we stare at each other, hers full of malice and mine full of hopeless dread. Hello again, Saphira, I greet meekly in an effort to perhaps reassure our brief time together. I can hear the soil crack as her claws dig even deeper into it, her muscles all but convulsing from the strain.

What are you doing here? she demands icily instead. I resist the urge to cower back, reminding myself that I am no less cowed by her than she is by me. I straighten my stance, though I still feel unusually small against her. Her growl, though murderous, is so familiar a sound it aches like the whisper of a sound once heard, now changed entirely. Circumstantial bonding, I muse bitterly. It was only through lack of choices that we ever held any affection towards one another; nothing more.

At least, nothing more to her.

I tilt my wings back to show I am not afraid, though her outspread wings seem to dwarf mine. What are you doing here? she repeats impatiently, unpleased with my silence. I long to just explain to her it all, though I hold my tongue. She growls lower, her forelegs flexing as she settles back on her haunches. I am not fooled at the seemingly submissive stance, though I drop my wings suddenly to my sides and sit back as well. Her head cocks to one side suspiciously.

Why are you here? I ask. Our gazes remain locked intensely, the dispassion in hers drowning any hopes of winning her alliance. I bare myself to her, allowing the utter despair that has throbbed in my heart for so long to surface and pour over. The great sorrow sweeps me up in it, a smoldering anger simmering from beneath at the unfairness of it all. Never once does her stare break, though I can sense the change in it as I step away from my isolation and let her know my misery.

I could ask you the same, she returns with a pointed look over at the rock where Murtagh hides behind. Sensing defeat he emerges, hand leaving his sword hilt briefly as he strides over to my side. Saphira's gaze follows him, and I silently applaud Murtagh for controlling himself so. When your enemy holds the high-ground, it's best to appear neutral.

She does not seem nearly as impressed.

With a sudden lunge, she takes off, soaring over us both. Her scales glitter magnificently in the morning light, accenting the lightest of blues as well as deepening the rich sapphire that covers her. Her perfectly curled ivory claws seem the most remarkable contrast I've ever seen, far more beautiful than any other white. My eyes stray across her belly, the sinuous curve to her forelegs entrancing me, dipping healthily around her chest before gliding down past her legs to the very tip of her tail, barbs reflecting the light coolly. Her scent nearly overwhelms me a moment later as she passes, the entire motion taken mere seconds to complete. I sway, dizzied by the alluring flavor to her scent. My nostrils flare, capturing that smell and savoring it in memory.

Dragon scents do not register the same way human smells do; they are far less defined, and yet far more glorious for it. Her natural perfume carries with it the sweetness of honey, mingled with the delicate taste of evergreen. Cool freshness like the first sip of a drink resonates from her, intertwined with the ravishing feminine scent that is simply indefinable. I near sink to my knees with the force of it, watching in a daze as she lands not a dozen yards away behind me. I turn around slowly, swaying slightly on my feet as though drunk.

A delighted purr involuntarily escapes me as I look at her, though her strangely neutral expression suddenly darkens. Her eyes narrow substantially, her growl both furious and affronted. The murderous look on her face douses my gaiety as effectively as a drench in cold water and I turn my head aside shamefully.

She strides forward slowly, Murtagh nudging my shoulder once urgently. I look back at her, her expression cooling once more as she stops and paces ten feet away. So you come alone, she says thoughtfully, glancing at us both. I hesitate, torn between agreeing or lying, before nodding my head once. Are you so foolish as to believe you can just sneak into our camp, undetected, and do whatever it is that you want?

We never intended to come undetected, I lie flawlessly. My own voice surprises me, though I hide it well enough. She raises an eyebrow disbelievingly.

What do you want? she demands yet again. I shrug a shoulder, offering no answer. She closes the distance between us in a single nimble leap, myself stepping back reflexively. I can almost feel her breath, my legs going weak and nearly collapsing beneath me at such a thing. I shake myself firmly mentally, paling at the thought of mating with her. That I would dare even attempt to force myself upon such a wondrous, free-spirited dragon as her sickens me briefly and I lower my head unthinkingly. Not willingly, my conscience comforts, though I ignore it.

You want to know why I am here? I ask hollowly, looking back up at her with hopeless red eyes. Without waiting for an answer I step forward, pressing my forehead against hers before she can resist and dragging her back into the smoky darkness of my past.

Saphira

Though reluctant to leave my Rider's side, I had had no intention of staying around to witness Elva's execution, so I had excused myself for a time. Blödhgarm had accepted with nothing more than a bow of his head, King Orrin shrugging it off not unlike Eragon. Nasuada had simply given me free lead, allowing me to be excused. My feet had carried me while my mind wandered, eventually taking me to the ever-familiar plateau where Murtagh, Thorn, Eragon and I dueled. I do not know what drove me to that spot, though I had unquestioningly flown to its top and since remained there.

Minutes, hours, years, centuries—however great the time that passed, I knew not. I imagined Alagaësia free of its tyrant-king, and how families would be free to grow and live together peacefully, that there would be no bloodshed or tears such as this. That there would be some safety that the world was desperately lacking; some assurance that the next day would come, and that it would continue for many days beyond. My fantasizing was broken, however, when he appeared.

I had attempted to appear callous, though even so my curiosity at his presence was too vast to ignore. It had been days since we'd seen one another, yet it felt months from the malnourishment that showed clear on his ragged hide. No matter the questioning I asked him he avoided them, frustrating me. I had decided that I would confront him face-to-face as my higher stance seemed to intimidate him somewhat from an answer.

Then he'd purred and my anger had been renewed, overriding any curiosity I had. When he guiltily lowered, I longed to simply nudge him and force him to answer my question. Instead he fixed me with sad red eyes, filled to bursting with tears never shed over sorrows he should never have felt.

Recklessly he spoke, myself moving back a foot or so warily as he moved forward. Before I could escape his range, however, he thrust his forehead against mine, tumbling us both into a graveyard.

Or so it appeared.

A wisp of smoke curls around my neck, seeming to choke away my life and I stagger back. My limbs feel leaden with thick lead, far too heavy to move, and I slip down to the unseen ground. Voices shout in my ears incoherently, obscenities mixed in frequently. I gracelessly stumble to my feet, looking over to see Thorn seated calmly amidst a cloud of gray smoke, head bowed to the ground in what appears to be a placating gesture. I step closer, the vaguest outlines of… something confining his face, neck, and legs. I move closer yet, the shadowy lines gaining more substantiality. Closer and closer, clearer and clearer metal chains become, sketched out around him. They sprawl over his back, trapping his wings and leaning contentedly along the width of his tail.

A voice speaks, shattering the smoky darkness into new light. I blink owlishly against the thin torchlight, eyes widening in shock at the sight of Galbatorix's throne room. A sharp flare of pain brands itself against my shoulder, a roar escaping me involuntarily. I look for Thorn, though he exists no longer separately, our breath swelling and falling in sync as we share the mental body.

I step forward, drawing Thorn's body closer as well, our minds linked with a foreboding feeling. Everywhere we can feel it; that ominous, terrible presence of fear lurching in the air like a poison. Our breath halts in our throat, our heart pounding frantically as we squint, straining to see past the darkness.

Choked gasps fill the air suddenly, followed slowly by the faint shadows of humans. The two emerge as though stepping from behind the black curtain of a stage, horror thundering in our chest as we stare on helplessly. They are far larger than us, and the frightened aura lingering around the one draws forth even more panic within us. We crouch and chirp once pitifully, wishing to flee from the awful hurt of the man. The man with a dagger pressed to his throat, another looming over him as he chokes and wheezes.

"Swear to me," hisses the dark man strangling the other. The choked man coughs, ourselves sinking further to the floor in desperation.

But what is swearing? We know not, glancing helplessly up at them.

"Swear to me!" roars the dark man. We cower back, attracting the dark man's attention. He smiles at us, though something seems very unsafe about the gesture. We start to hobble back, though he catches us by the neck, releasing the other momentarily. The cold bite of metal nips at our throat, a hard fist wrapping around our throat as we are hoisted into the air. We writhe futilely in their grasp, distressed chirps squeezing past our throat. "Swear to me or he dies," the dark man whispers, looking only at the other man.

The other man looks at us with anguished eyes before bowing his head. "All right," he mutters gravelly, voice defeated. Something is wrong; if only we had the breath to scream it at him, to warn him against doing such. "I will swear to you."

It seems an eternity of falling as we are released by the dark man, his sinister sneer forever branded in our minds. We crash into a hard surface, groaning as the ache in our wings resurfaces. We shake ourselves carefully, looking up through bleary eyes at the King once more. He smirks at us; we bow our head to the floor and close our eyes, hoping uselessly that it will make the pain less brutal.

Something tugs at our minds, jerking us away, and we fall back against a cold cell floor, fresh blood on our burning wings. A black shadow lingers menacingly at the door, growling at us almost warningly before leaving. We lay on the floor, terribly hungry and achy yet too weary to sate either pain. We roll onto our side painfully and curl into a ball, willing away the pain.

Shapeless sorrow overwhelms us as we thrash against our bonds, desperate to escape them. A silencing black shadow appears at the door, growling that we shut up or they will alert the King. We shake our head vehemently, ignoring the black shadow as he moves off, shaking his head. Our chest heaves as we draw in more breath, roaring out our unbearable misery to the world.

Our teeth grit as a thousand commands ring clearly in our minds, countless murders stacking up at the King's order. Our heart cries out in protest though still we march down the hall, almost hearing the despairing cries of the victims we have deprived of life.

Failure. It stings red-hot in our minds, the word that marks our life, defining every action we have taken. Failure, failure, failure. We throw I head back in frustration, a snarl rippling in our throats as we glower at the dark, unforgiving cell ceiling. Why must we always fail?

Why must I always fail?

I gasp, falling backward in shock as our minds separate. Thorn breathes deeply as though to steady himself, swaying very slightly on his feet. Our gazes meet, an understanding beyond words passing between us. I shiver where I stand, unable to stand the emotion behind it. I wish so alike that red dragon of before to flee, to simply run away from it all. Thorn breaks the stare by bowing his head grimly, a sour twist curling the corner of his mouth. Murtagh stands, otherwise forgotten, by his dragon's shoulder, puzzled at our reactions.

Finally, I gather the breath and courage to comment, You didn't answer your own question. My voice sounds shaky even to me. Thorn stares at the ground listlessly for what seems an eternity before lifting his head slowly.

Didn't I? he asks mirthlessly. My confused glance only causes him to shake his head. I cannot fail again, Saphira, he finishes quietly. Yet I also cannot succeed.

Then run away, I blurt. A guttural laugh forces its way past him, though he shakes his head again bitterly.

That is failing as well. There is one way I might succeed—

What? I ask unthinkingly. He fixes me with an unreadable expression.

Kill me.

Those two words burn in my mind, though the severity of his gaze is nearly undeniable. I step forward, the hopeful glint in his eyes reminding me of exactly what he requests. I lurch back as though stung.

No, I growl. Get away or I'll drag you back to the Varden. I force anger into my voice, his heartbroken expression nearly causing me to take back my words. A moment later he steels himself, nodding to me once. He turns briefly as though to leave and I purposefully stride off, determined to put some distance between us. Just as I crouch to take off he steps by my side, looking at me stoically.

I'd prefer you didn't drag me there, is all he says, walking forward. Murtagh follows slowly at his heels, equally incredulous as I. Thorn lends him his right shoulder to climb up atop him, the young man wordlessly seating himself on his back. I shake my head, considering a retort before deciding it futile. I march after him, ready to turn him over to the Varden.

Chapter end notes:

Hurray, only took two tries to get this "right"! xD

Wow, 70,000 words... or close. ;) (Not sure since it doesn't show up yet but I'm guessing it'll go over the 70,000 word mark at this point. xD) It's cool to break this mark; and certainly the most chapters I've had for a single fanfiction. Couldn't have done it without you guys for sure, and I definitely hope you'll continue to read and enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it. :) Thanks again.

'What secrets are you hiding?'

Thorn

There is a great mercy in thoughtlessness.

To the one who has never experienced the torture of a great number of burdens laden on your back, thoughtlessness is merely a state of boredom. It is nothing of consequence, and therefore nothing to be appreciated. That thoughtlessness is synonymous with emptiness is a grave mistake, for it was in that moment when my worries ceased that a greater fulfilling of myself broke through.

My steps slip away; the rocking motion consequently caused by them vanishes, revealing only the simple necessities of breathing. My heart's beating fills my ears, the gentle whooshing of my breath syncing with it as I move. Every torment of Galbatorix's wounds disintegrate into the very air, leaving behind the jolting pain that races down my back, the jarring motion of walking on sorely beaten bones, and the painful nuisances of reality.

For once in my life, I do not think about whether or not I will survive to complete the King's mission. I don't try and think of what will happen to me, or Murtagh, or consequently everyone else if I follow through with this. For once, the burden lightens, borne off in my quiet and drifting, waiting to be carried once more.

I do not rush to reclaim it, instead embracing the cool calm.

It is a surprise when Saphira suddenly nudges my neck, her blue eyes full of odd thoughtfulness. Are you sure? they speak the words for her, her head realigning to face the foreboding gray of the Varden's camp. Murtagh's presence lingers between consideration and dread, knowing already that our chances of escaping now are terribly slim anyway. Still, the seriousness of Saphira's gaze demands an answer, and I nod once sternly in answer.

Never more certain, I respond boldly, never feeling more opposite my words. The brief moment of bravado seems to drain from me almost as quickly as it comes on as we proceed. Every step leaves a soft imprint in the ground, only to be carried off by the hot breeze. I glance wonderingly after our path, stolen by the wind. Shaking my head slowly, I nearly stumble after Saphira, who does not pause for my musings.

Hopefully you have chosen wisely, comments Murtagh grimly. I pause a moment, craning my neck around to observe his resigned expression. His half-slouched position on my back suddenly makes me aware of his vulnerability, and a coil of dread tightens in my stomach. So bold was I before, and yet I gambled with my life alone. In my mind, anyway. I lower my head shamefully, though he assures quietly, I would've done the same if I were you. Lifting my head slightly, I huff once doubtfully before turning and following Saphira.

I surrender to thoughtlessness as I walk, heart rate increasing with every step.

A million whispers pour over in my mind suddenly, drenching my thoughts in theirs, enveloping me in their conversation. A particularly loud whisper repeats a single phrase, over and over, incessant in their message: Let us free, let us free. Murtagh raises a hand to his head, pressing it to his forehead as though wearied. His brow furrows in concentration, eyes closed as he tries to reason with them. They do not heed his thin consolations, nor do they quiet. I attempt to silence them, though for all my mental roaring, my voice is but a whisper amongst theirs.

My apologies, a feminine voice consoles, but I cannot help you. I look to Saphira questioningly, though her expression is unchanged, her step unwavering. Seeking out with my mind, I find hers barricaded heavily, her gaze turning sharply to meet mine when our minds briefly brush. A stab of pain jolts through my forehead, a groan escaping me at the resulting headache. She snorts once, shaking her head at me reprovingly.

Hurry up, she says stoutly, moving ahead. I lengthen my stride, yet her quicker step has me struggling to keep a respectable pace without appearing to be running.

Who are you? I dare connect with Murtagh's mind, reaching for the whisperers with him.

You know who I am, the same voice informs, such familiarity she stands out in stark contrast to the others. A brief hint of purple fills my senses, lilacs and tulips conjuring themselves in my mind. Amidst them, a rich violet dragoness stands, even her smoke colored thinly in purple. She bows her head once in greeting to me, the edges of our surroundings shrouded and untouchable. In the detachedness of a dreaming state, she adds, You would do best to stay away from the Grey Folk, no matter their pleas.

You speak as though you are not one of them, I comment pointedly, to which her gaze narrows to a fearsome glare. I cower back involuntarily from the murderous look, though it softens after a moment.

I am one of them in all the ways that matter, is all she says, already fading as the flowers color fades as well. The dream dissolves as she walks away, becoming gray once more. Murtagh drifts back to the Eldunarya's whispering, leaving me alone in the darkness. A sorrowful sigh escapes me as I open my eyes, returning to my own body. Indefinable sadness at her departure seeps through me, though I force it aside. Following Saphira instead, I match her stride, walking abreast her for a time.

Each step becomes painstakingly slow as the sand gives way to a dusty plane, cracked earth savaged by the constant winds. The Varden mill about before us, congregating almost immediately and summoning others with shouts and cries. Heads turn to glance at us as we stride into their midst, disapproval in their eyes as they pause in their tasks, lingering wherever they may get a good viewing of me. I resist the urge to duck behind Saphira, proving only a coward in their eyes. Instead, I raise my head, lengthen my stride, and meet their gazes with my own level expression.

"Red Dragon," murmurs greet me, venomous in their quiet. I pause as Saphira does, watching dispassionately as they raise their weapons. One has the audacity to strike at me, their arrow launching clear from my neck as I duck aside. A low growl rumbles in my chest as another arrow lodges into my tail, slipping between scales and burrowing into my flesh. I inwardly grimace, though my stare only hardens as I allow it to remain as such, not daring turn my back to them to pull it out.

Instead, Saphira does.

Quite calmly, she reaches forward and plucks the nuisance from my tail, relieving the painful pressure. Spitting out the broken arrow, she turns back to face the gathered crowd. Were there a more frightening sight than an aggravated dragoness, I would not know it, and the people have the wits to back away accordingly, giving her a notable girth. When this does not seem to satisfy her, she growls, hers higher than mine and overriding it in intensity. Wordlessly, the message is clear: Back off.

With obvious reluctance, archers lower their weapons, though none put away them, rather holding them at their sides readily. Kull, I notice suddenly, guard the edges of the people, standing with half-raised axes, clubs, and gauntleted fists. A powerful magical pulse—that of combined effort—suddenly renders me to my knees, my world swaying dizzily. Murtagh seems unaffected, having returned to that untouchable mental state as he silently wars with the Grey Folk's will. Desperate, I open my mind to him, a maelstrom of thoughts assaulting my own.

Most prominent is the powerful thread of magic woven between nearly a dozen figures, each pinpointed in the crowd. Their thoughts resound through my head like ice, purposefully shattering so the shards may bury themselves in me. Why is he here? is the only specific thought I can glean from their conversation, the others pooling strength into the pressure forcing me to my knees. Blackness threatens the edges of my vision as I pull back, a poisonous tendril worming into my mind. I roar once in outrage, slamming hard my mental walls. Even so, they easily batter and chip away at the stone, bringing down whole segments in their quest.

Help! I cry to no one in particular. They press over me, surrounding me and crushing me in their grip as I struggle to hold them back.

Here, offers a whisper, an immense amount of strength abruptly swelling in me. I concentrate the energy, making it hard as steel around me. The power smothering me vanishes, cast aside. In its place, the violet dragoness stands, beside her seven other gray dragons.

Avaera, I remember suddenly. Shock and surprise coat my voice thickly as I try to find the right words of gratitude.

Never let them know of us, she commands with all the authority of a queen, breaking off my thoughts. The seven dragons behind her watch me with mute stares, their identities a mystery.

I will not, I promise her, opening my eyes and allowing the dragons to fade from my mental sight. My eyes narrow as I spot my attackers, each one standing out suddenly in the crowd as I know where to look. Elves. Of course. Their faces appear oddly haggard, breath short as they stare at me in amazement. The power of the Eldunari, I muse silently. No wonder the King's strength is so with hundreds at his command.

I shiver at the thought.

Murtagh sits mutely on my back, a confused thought reaching me from him as he seems to regain his senses. I shake my head infinitesimally at him, a gesture that speaks more than words. Settling back with a soft sigh, he looks around judgmentally, trying to determine whether or not he should feel threatened or calm.

I know not what to project to him, though the mental affirmation that I have the Eldunarya's good will on our side seem to bolster my confidence.

What happened? demands Saphira, slipping behind my barriers while I am not concentrating. I hesitate, slightly surprised that she managed to do that, before shrugging a shoulder and glancing stoically ahead, making it appear as though our conversation does not exist.

Elves tried to break into my mind. Venom seethes clear through my voice, as well as accusation.

She fixes me with a calculating blue eye, though tilting her head away but a moment later hides the gesture as anything but a simple glance. You cannot blame them for being skeptical.

We did not agree to come if it meant our secrets would be revealed to them, I growl.

We did not agree on anything if you came here, she counters, unperturbed. What secrets are you hiding?

You should know.

The conversation ends there, her wordless retreat signaling her understanding.

I look ahead as one of the elves—a surprisingly animalistic aura surrounding him—approaches, lean form slipping through the crowd like a fox. He does not spare me a glance, rather focuses his gaze on Saphira as he approaches us. Pausing mere yards before myself, he finally looks up at me, impassivity radiating from him. His cold gaze draws my attention, our stares locking.

"Greetings, Red Dragon," is all his says, voice resounding with the power of the ancient language. I glower down at him, oddly hateful towards this particular elf. Something about him appears oddly… off. Not right.

"Why have you come to us?" he continues after a moment, looking at me pointedly. The bluntness of his voice surprises me, his tone reflecting wariness. My eyes narrow fractionally and I lower my head so that our gazes may meet.

Wrong, whispers a voice within me. Danger. Beware.

I lift my head once more, ignoring his question. He waits for several moments, his patience stretching thinner by the moment as I feel his growing frustration. In a flash, it disappears, replaced by a thick, unemotional countenance.

"Very well," he murmurs simply after a moment, backing off slightly. Animosity touches my consciousness, emanating from the strange elf. Blödhgarm, the word suddenly breaks through the thoughts. Before I can ask where it has come from, the elf retreats, back boldly to me. I snort once silently, secretly suspicious.

Be wary, urges a voice, a whisper dredged up from the Eldunarya.

I will, I reply in kind, somehow uneasy to even think loudly. But why?

The voice falls silent, leaving me feeling oddly alone.

Something about him isn't right, remarks Murtagh, speaking for the first time in a while. My claws clench fractionally in surprise before I loosen them, bowing my head very slightly in a nod.

Indeed. Though what, I'm not certain. The contact between us thrums all too loudly, and I feel a questing tendril of thought drift from the elves as they dare to try and eavesdrop. I secure our thoughts away, glaring at them. Saphira watches the exchanges coolly, never once inquiring what is going on. Stepping forward, she stands before me, appearing even more brilliant against their dull gray and brown armor. I shake my head fractionally to clear such thoughts, my attention drawn to a lithe, dark-skinned woman as she steps toward the blue dragoness.

"I'm assuming that you have come willingly," she says, immediately addressing me. The lack of an outright riot seems ample answer, though I nod once anyway. "Any reason why?" My stiff silence is unyielding as I lower my head slightly, looking her straight in the eye. Youthful curiosity shines beneath a layer of impassive civil duty, my brow furrowing slightly in confusion. Murtagh's thoughts supply the name to this strange young woman: Nasuada.

Saphira stands aside slightly, aligning beside me, our wings just touching at the edges. My heart rate speeds up very slightly, gaze stoically set forward. "You realize," continues the woman I now know to be Nasuada, "that you have possibly signed your execution order by coming here."

She looks up at me as though searching for a rebuttal. I offer her none.

"If I may have a word," pipes in Murtagh suddenly. Nasuada's gaze strays over to him, never once betraying the same longing ache I feel resonating through him. Still, her expression falters a moment, becoming almost pitying, before shifting back to impassive. "Killing us does neither you nor Galbatorix any good. Logically thinking, you're far better off locking us up to your own devices," he continues.

"And if you try to escape?" intones Nasuada coolly in return. Murtagh bows his head very slightly, though the seriousness of his voice is unwavering.

"Then kill us." Doubtful murmurs arise in the crowd, doused by a firm growl from Saphira. She swings her gaze back to me, staring me down and searching for a lie. I stare back neutrally, showing her I mean no deceit. Eventually she looks back at Nasuada, who watches us both with a contemplative look.

"Very well," she agrees finally. My secret surprise is mirrored openly by our spectators, a particularly large Kull stepping forth.

"Lady Nightstalker." His gravelly voice carries well, silencing the quiet mutters of the gatherers. "We cannot trust them. They are not our own, and we should not treat them as such." His thick horns and broad muscles stand out in stark contrast to the leaner, far less intimidating people around him. Gauntleted fists linger at his sides, almost threatening as his head is bowed slightly in the tell-tale challenge of a Kull.

"Then I must remind you, Nar Garhzvog," rebuts Nasuada calmly, "That your clans were not our own before, and we treated you respectfully despite such." She looks at him passively, her tone betraying nothing of regret or anger at such a choice. I silently applaud her control, if suspicious of her motives for allowing us to live. "Saphira, I suspect you know already what I'm going to say—" said-dragoness bows her head once in agreement "—so I ask that you would oblige."

I frown slightly, a low growl threatening to break free in my throat. Something was said, though what…

A wave of blackness suddenly tumbles over me, a brick wall crumbling around me and plunging me into darkness. Warm jaws clasp around my neck, supporting me as Murtagh climbs off my back hastily. I'm sorry, a vaguely familiar voice whispers, lost amidst the darkness.

Saphira

Why must he always make these things so difficult?

The crestfallen expression, submissive tone, and vaguely dutiful stance only make him more irritating, in a strange way. I cannot pity the enemy. And as he is still under Galbatorix's control, all may just be an act to infiltrate our forces. Sudden suspicious wells within me and I fix my gaze coldly on him as he walks, a dreamy expression written on his face. Pausing, he stares off unseeingly, mind elsewhere. I walk ahead, ignoring him, when suddenly his mind brushes against mine. A low growl rises in my throat as I glower at him, sending a warning mental spike straight toward his defenseless walls in answer.

He winces expectedly from the consequential pain, following me dourly as I order him to come. His expression loses focus once more, my walls lowering slightly to catch the distant hum of conversation. A hauntingly familiar sound resounds in my ears as I am forced to lower my walls further, an invasion of whispers crawling into my mind. Without allowing my expression to change despite my internal terror, I quickly slam up my walls, sighing heavily in relief as the whisperers retreat.

Thorn does not so much as blink, lost to whatever demons claim his mind.

My eyes narrow as I hope it is not Galbatorix.

Soon, the welcome sight of the Varden approaches, and I quicken my pace to get there sooner. The sudden reminder of Thorn's presence as he appears at my side is like a physical blow, reproving that by continuing along, I only doom him to capture—or worse, death.

No, I decide as the Varden swarm around us, eager to greet and threaten. I will not allow him to be killed. That is all, asserts the part of me loyal to the Varden. He is still your enemy. An arrow glances over him, a second embedding itself in his tail. He shifts on his feet slightly in discomfort, though otherwise he offers them no attack in return. I can almost feel the disappointment radiating off of the people at such passivity, though my admiration for Thorn's control is not unfelt. I growl silently in frustration; he's your enemy! the voice screams in my head.

Reaching over and plucking the arrow from his tail, I decide, qualifies not as being too kind to an enemy, though I keep my expression emotionless so as not to have him hopeful. Despite such, the brief glance he gives me is grateful, my heart giving a painful throb. Why is he making it so difficult? Could he not just act like he is my enemy for once?

I feel the sudden pulse of magic as the elven spellcasters pool their strength together, launching a quiet attack against him. A snarl ripples softly in my throat as I watch him collapse to his knees, forcing myself to stand aside and allow it to be so. Blödhgarm steps forth and speaks, trying and failing to get Thorn to explain his motives for willingly submitting. My own curiosity is resurfaced as I ponder this, suddenly interrupted by Nasuada's thoughts.

Saphira? Her mental voice sounds unsteady, almost awkward. My gaze flicks over to the side where she is, questioning.

Yes, Nasuada? I keep the skepticism out of my voice, surprised by the contact.

Why are Murtagh and Thorn here? The bluntness of her tone delays my answer for a time as I watch Thorn carefully, eventually shrugging a shoulder slightly.

They came willingly, as far as I know, I answer simply. I watch as a slight frown creases her forehead, confusion plain in her expression. I believe that Galbatorix sent them on some sort of mission, I continue grudgingly. Though what and why it would require them being captured, I've no clue.

She nods once dubiously to herself, approaching Thorn now. Do you suppose that he intends us harm?

I look at the ruby dragon skeptically for a moment, secretly trying to determine as much for myself. With a minute shrug, I respond honestly, I do not think so, though he could very well be hiding something.

An unsatisfied tendril of thought reaches me. Then: Would you say it would be better to kill him or hold him captive?

Instantly, the answer leaps clear in my mind, though I hold my silence, as though considering her options. When I believe an appropriate amount of time has passed, I answer. Capturing him could be beneficial to us, if he has good intentions. True names can be changed. The words seem thick in my thoughts, oddly hopeful. Nasuada seems to sense the sincerity in my tone and nods once in agreement.

Very well.

The ensuing conversation only reiterates what we have discussed, Nasuada's thoughts brushing my own again briefly. You and the elves will take them to Borromeo castle. Treat them decently, but be sure that someone guards them at all times, preferably some of the elves.

Lock them up? I clarify. I sense her affirmation as she closes the contact, responding to Murtagh. The entire conversation takes barely seconds, Nar Garzhvog's response to Nasuada unsurprising. I mentally quest out, feeling the elves minds. We are to take him to Borromeo castle. Do not harm them, I say to them, feeling their consent. A moment later Thorn all but collapses under the strain of magic emanating from them, his legs folding beneath him. I reach out and grasp his neck, a quiet I'm sorry my only words for him.

Murtagh grunts once in annoyance at his dragon being knocked unconscious, though I calmly drag Thorn along, heedless of the others watching and instead focusing on navigating the maze of tents. Two of the elves—Varûn and Narmth—seize Murtagh's arms and hasten him along after Thorn and I, Eragon walking calmly at my side.

How the tables have turned, he murmurs thoughtfully to himself. I can only help but nod once in agreement, thinking how only a few days ago I was held captive in Galbatorix's lair with this strange scarlet dragon.

Perhaps in our favor, I add. He shrugs his shoulders, appearing unconvinced.

Perhaps, he concedes.

Conversation ceases as slowly, the crowd disperses, the elves following in dutiful silence. Thorn groans once in my jaws, a broken sound. I wince internally, forcing myself to continue along despite such.

Enemies do not pity one another.

Chapter end notes:

Not my favorite, but it's more a filler than anything, and Thorphira fans will like what is about to come. :) Sorry for the wait as well; updates will be much quicker from here on out.

'I'm acting as I should. You are my enemy. I am yours. Remember that.'

Energy. Everywhere.

Skin crawls. Claws stretch. Wings shudder.

Need. Growing.

Back stiffens. Eyes open. Nostrils flare.

Escape. Escape. Escape.

Warmth near. Peace. Good, warm peace. Content. Yes. Content. Need to meet. Release energy. Meet peace. Meet calm. Feel good.

Skin tightens. Claws curl. Wings stretch.

Feel near. Feel good. Want closer. Want nearer. Want near peace. Peace good. Peace calm. Calm good, too.

Back loosens. Eyes close. Nostrils wrinkle.

No good. Not peace. Restless. Unsettled. Worried. Not want. Not near. Leave.

Muscles clench. Mouth opens. Throat rumbles.

More bad peace. More restlessness. More worry. Not good. No, no. Leave, leave.

Body relaxes. Sigh escapes. Energy returns.

Good peace near. Good peace alone. No worried. No restless. No bad. Only good. Yes. Content. Need to meet. Meet soon. Meet now.

Shell cracks. Wings strain. Chest swells.

Peace leaves. Shock. Good shock? Bad shock. Scared. Worried. Excited? Meet peace; assure peace. Yes.

Egg wobbles. Nose presses. Legs scrabble.

Near peace. Peace close. Contentment close. Need. Need more. More peace. More contentment.

Press harder. Cracks erupt. World falls.

Scared. Peace far. Farther. Still close. Still there. Still good. Shocked. Scared. Concerned. Stop. Listen. Decide, decide. Meet peace? Stay safe.

Throw weight. Egg shatters. Tumble forward.

Light blinding. World strange. World? No egg. Egg broken. Sad. Egg good. Egg peace. Egg gone. Look around. Sniff air. Strange air. Not warm. Not good. Nose wrinkles. Bad air. Bad smell. Bad world. Climb back to egg. Broken egg. Whimper. Egg broken. Peace scared. Contentment gone. Sadness. Look up. Strange being. Strange creature. Kind. Gentle. Good. Peace. Contentment. Hobble closer. Careful. No upset peace. No want peace upset. Peace nears. Being nears. Contentment grows. Yes. Good peace. Want near. Want good.

Chirrup. Happy. Leap forward. Touch warm. Warm thing. Being stops. Being stiff. Being scared.

Now. Now being content. Now being understand.

Being one. We one. Friend. Partner. Partner of heart. Yes. Partner-of-heart understand. Content. Snuggle closer. Wait for partner-of-heart near. Partner-of-heart no speak. Partner-of-heart quiet. Sad. Want partner-of-heart happy.

Sigh.

Wait. Wait for partner-of-heart. Wait for peace to notice. Yes. Wait.

Thorn

There are two infinitely valuable pieces of advice I have acquired from waking in the depths of a dungeon: never overestimate the height of the ceiling, and never stumble into an already irritated dragoness after discovering such.

Explanation enough for the gash burning hotly on my face.

Despite its source, I cannot blame her for it: it was more reflex than anything. Her remorseless glance begs to differ, though fortunately I fell onto my side from the force of the blow before she could inflict further damage. For a relatively small dragoness, she is remarkably good at throwing even a larger dragon such as myself off his feet just with a whack of her tail. Playing the dazed dragon proved a wise choice as I waited for her to move off before daring right myself, this time keeping my head slightly lower so it wouldn't hit the ceiling.

Are all your cells this, ah, short? I ask, glancing around. She seats herself at the opposite end, having sat nearby and discovering that that wasn't the most well-thought out position to be in. Snorting once, she glowers at me, her tail flicking back and forth irately. A freckling of ruby drops linger on the ivory spikes there, no doubt my blood.

We aren't accustomed to dragon prisoners, she responds frostily. Overreaction, or defensive? I wonder. For some reason the latter seems to be true, though I shake off the thought. Definitely not. She wouldn't… of course not. When she doesn't seem tempted to elaborate, I briefly duck my head aside, rubbing my cheek against my left wing to soothe the ragged cut. The membranous skin remains taut as I smear the blood on it, glancing back at Saphira after a moment. She examines her tail offhandedly, an oddly blank expression replacing the usually pensive look to her face. The moment she realizes that I am staring, though, her gaze hardens, her demeanor souring noticeably.

If you despise me so much, why do you stay here? Why not leave? Genuine curiosity laces my voice, staring her down expectantly. The coldness of her gaze eventually causes me to look aside, absently noticing that the walls are not the typical gray of stone, but rather a creamy-white marble. Odd or interesting, I'm not sure, though Saphira's rumbling draws my attention back to her. The heavy breath appears more a sigh than a growl, surprising me.

Does it matter to you? she returns.

It's my cell, I respond almost immediately, shaking my head at the thought of already being possessive of it. Of course it matters. Surely there are many other more interesting things you could be doing than arguing with me.

You're right, she responds stiffly, standing. There are. She turns to the wall behind her, head vanishing through it as she moves forward. The marble seems to flow around the rich sapphire of her neck, engulfing it like snow. Despite my marveling at such a thing, my sudden longing for her to stay responds faster and I step forward to stop her.

Wait, I blurt, risking placing my wing on top of hers as though a halting hand on her shoulder. Before a word of explanation or apology can even so much as form in my mind, she casually lashes her tail, dealing me a second gash on my opposite cheek. Agitated, I grab the last visible part of her neck, dragging her back. I'm tired of you just leaving or shutting up with no explanation, I growl, dangerously low. My muscles strain against hers as she doesn't answer, claws digging into the ground to halt my progress as I force her back into the cell. With an irritated grunt, I jerk backwards, forcing her away from the wall. She sits back on her haunches, staring ahead stoically as though her face and neck were carved from stone.

For some reason, her despondent—almost petulant—expression is oddly amusing. A snort of laughter escapes me before I can contain it, her head craning over to face me. Her eyes are blacker than I can ever recall them, darkened by the shadows of the poorly-lit cell and matching her mood perfectly. Let go, she orders, tone clipped. No room for disobedience, enhanced by the murderous glint to her eyes. With a roll of my eyes, I release her, stepping back slightly. She watches my movements through narrowed eyes, never once betraying any sort of empathy or kindness. Even Shruikan's anger couldn't match the blue dragoness' wrath at that moment.

I lower my head in a non-threatening gesture, feeling very small and foolish before her.

What do you want? she demands, resignation clear in her voice as she turns fully to face me, wings tucked to her sides and head bowed slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling as I initially did.

Answers, I respond truthfully. A long silence follows, her expression thoughtful as she considers. I spare a brief look around the cell, careful not to lift my head and bump it into the short ceiling. Large enough for perhaps four dragons of medium-size or roughly sixty feet across by thirty feet wide, it was only a tad smaller than the cell I occupied at the King's keep, a ceiling at least a dozen feet shorter above me. Straightening my neck slightly, I could feel the cold stone brush the top of my head, unmarred by cracks. Clearly, escaping here was about as likely as tunneling through diamond—not to mention I had no clue what awaited beyond here. Perhaps a labyrinth like the King's castle, or maybe just a dead-end. Neither seemed very hopeful, and so with a resigned sigh I focused my attention on Saphira once more as she pondered my answer. A curt nod was the closest thing to an answer I was going to get and so bravely I plowed ahead.

Where's Murtagh? The unexpected question catches us both by surprise; myself for not having even noticed it before, and her for the suddenness of the inquiry.

Nearby, she responds cryptically.

How near? May I see him?

Near enough and no.

I growl low in frustration, though her unyielding tone offers no hope of elaboration. I move on. Where am I?

Borromeo castle.

Surda? I guess. She nods once. At least a three-day flight from the King's castle, presuming I didn't rest and wasn't interrupted. Difficult, at best, was the task of obtaining the green egg and returning to the King with it before my eight-day time limit was up. Well, Shruikan's eight-days. Noticing the calculating look to my eyes, her eyes narrow.

Don't think about escaping, she warns seriously. You'll be killed on spot if you so much as set a claw outside this cell, and you're fortunate enough that you weren't already killed. It would certainly make our task easier, rather than have to keep you here. We're—

Why are you so aggressive today? I interrupt. Our gazes lock intensely for several moments, tension growing between us.

I'm acting as I should. You are my enemy. I am yours. Remember that, she answers after a pause.

But why? I demand in exasperation. What have I done to deserve your hatred? You treat me like I'm a monster. I'm not, I add firmly when she looks at me doubtfully. And I want to know why. I haven't done anything to deserve this. I've only done what I've had to survive.

That's enough to be treated as an enemy, she growls, though uncertainty lingers in her voice. Even if you were as innocent as you claim—which I doubt—there would be no point to it. You serve Galbatorix—I flinch involuntarily at the name—and I serve the Varden. There is no middle ground between us. No room for friendship.

But don't you even wish it could be so? I force her to confront my true question, her expression softening slightly.

It wouldn't matter is all she says.

Yes it would, I insist, stepping forward. She doesn't back away as I half-expect, her brow furrowed in thoughtfulness rather than wariness. I'm tired of everyone denying me everything I want to know, I continue passionately. I want to know that there's such a thing as lasting friendship. I want to know that some actually can be trusted. I want to know if it's even worth it, continuing on this empty hope that maybe I'll find out. And I know you have the knowledge I've been seeking, and yet you deny it because I'm your 'enemy'.

She lowers her head slightly, frowning at the floor in consideration. I don't press her for an answer, instead turning my back to her and moving to the far side of the cell, sitting in the corner. A rueful smile curls my lips at the thought; always seeking the corner, the shadows to hide in. The only source of light comes from a thin sliver of light peering in from the top of the wall behind Saphira, revealing cool torchlight. Standing in the shadows with the soft glow around her, I can't help but admire how marvelous she looks, innocence plain on her features as she struggles for an answer.

You can leave, if you want, I sigh eventually when she remains silent. Her gaze remains on the floor, lost in thought. Eventually, she looks at me, an unreadable expression on her face. I wordlessly close my eyes, bowing my head slightly and accepting defeat. When a warm body presses up against my own, though, a smile twitches at the corners of my lips, my wing draping over her body hesitantly as she lays beside me, the action conveying more than words possibly could.

Thank you.

A grunt. Don't push your luck. This is just temporary.

I know, I say, bemused at her tone. It's enough.

She sighs as though I am a hopeless cause, shaking her head minutely and laying it down on the ground, my eyes opening briefly to watch. A dry chuckle escapes me, rumbling in my chest before I gently slip my neck overtop hers.

That's all I ask, I add quietly, closing my eyes again. Just temporary.

But she is already asleep, my words falling on deaf ears. With a heavy sigh, I sink into a dreamless sleep as well, engraining in my memory the silent contentment of such a moment, willing myself to never forget.

The last thing I notice is the slight tremble of magic that ripples throughout the air, a flicker of surprise touching my consciousness as something great and horrible at once unfolds.

Saphira

Were he any less hopelessly loveable, I know that I wouldn't have spared him a second glance from the beginning. So innocently attractive in ways he didn't even seem to recognize, shrouded behind a cloak of worry and fear. Why couldn't he be frustrating and callous like Shruikan, or at least difficult to manage with as Glaedr was? A ripple of pain courses through my heart at the thought of my late master, though I force it aside with an effort. Too great is the need to focus on the present to mourn the past, and so I force my attention back to the situation at hand.

A soft snore nearly causes me to laugh, a secretive smile crossing my face as I lay beneath him. Quickly a frown overtakes my expression, reminding me that this is certainly not going to end well for Thorn or myself unless he or I ends it soon. Still, the temptation to just stay and never get up, never face the world again is so tempting an idea I can hardly summon the will to reason against it. Besides, my conscience points out dourly, his life isn't even a certain thing in the future. Neither is mine, I counter, though the point remains. I can't get attached to him; for more reasons than one.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his wing into a more comfortable position. The warm satisfaction of having him so near doesn't help my protesting conscience, nor does it fortify my crumbling resolve. I turn my head minutely, his quiet, almost possessive growl accompanied by a slight shifting of his head, wing tensing slightly. Even in sleep, it seems, he fears losing me. I sigh silently. A problem. One that needs—no, must be dealt with quickly. Otherwise, I fear, I won't be able to deny him.

Closing my eyes as well, I hope that tomorrow never comes, and that perhaps no one will notice my absence for as long as possible.

A silver dragon sours over my head, his scales a brilliant, metallic white, glowing brightly in an unseen sun. With a swoop, he descends, landing before me and instantly transforming into a dull gray dragon, cool white eyes the only sign of his former color. Regarding me silently, he bows his head slightly in recognition, gaze losing its focus as he glances aside. 'Your decision leads not to an easy road,' he murmurs as though to himself, though somehow I know his words are intended for me.

'Don't be fooled, though,' interrupts a different voice, a shimmer of purple coalescing in the dim light. Transforming quickly into a similarly gray dragon, the dragoness raises her head and looks at the former silver sternly. He snorts once, ignoring her. 'Your decision was the right one,' she elaborates.

'How?' Doubt coats my voice, both dragons looking aside now.

'You'll just have to see,' they say in unison, vanishing.

The encounter with the Grey Folk jolts me back to awareness, eyes flaring open and body tensing slightly. When a soft whoosh of breath comes from something nearby, I am painfully reminded of my predicament, suddenly wishing I had simply walked off when I had the chance. All this mysteriousness only worsens my mood.

Thorn, I urge reluctantly, shifting upright and consequently startling him awake. A halfhearted wince crosses my face as he bolts, head hitting the ceiling with a dull thud.

With a groan, he complains in a grumble, Couldn't there have been any higher cells available?

Yes, I respond, startling him again as he looks at me quickly. His body relaxes visibly as he remembers, the firm set to my jaw lost on him. But they're too small for you.

I see, he mutters, sounding unhappy with such news. I suppose you'll be leaving now? He looks at me questioningly. I nod once, albeit grudgingly.

Saphira, come now, breaks in Eragon, voice shaking with something of excitement and shock. Brow furrowing, I turn wordlessly from Thorn who watches as I leave, disappearing through the wall. Not unlike the illusion the Ra'zac used to mislead potential onlookers from seeing within their lair, the marble wall is maintained by the magic built into the stone, permitting access only to the ones the creator intended to allow in and out. In this case, the elves and their magic bound it so only select members of the Varden and myself could access it. Murtagh isn't on that particular list, though I press the thought aside as I consider the urgency in Eragon's voice.

Where are you? I ask, weaving down the corridors and eventually reaching the castle's main entrance. A mental image of what appears to be a room higher in the castle appears in my mind, though before I can inquire further his attention veers back to something different, dazed shock preventing me from contacting him. Worried that something is wrong, I step outside, gauging where the room would be and leaping upward, rounding the symmetrical stone structure several times until I came across what appeared the right corridor. Carelessly whacking down the wall nearest the hallway and landing awkwardly inside, I close my wings, looking around at the various closed rooms. Padding down the hallway toward the one that appeared the right one, my heart freezes in my chest as a single crisp chirrup breaks through the air.

Slamming into overdrive, my heart's pace redoubles as I pause outside the door the sound had come from, breath tight in my chest as I force myself not to be too hopeful. Surely it wouldn't be… no… Eragon opens the door suddenly, sensing my presence. The bright expression on his face speaks volumes, and, were I not so focused on the implications of such, I would have been pleased at the return of a smile to his face. So dour it had seemed lately; the joy seemed to return the Eragon I knew back to me. Stepping aside, he wordlessly grants me access, my neck slowly slithering inside.

There, laying in the gentle caress of Nasuada's arms, is a small emerald hatchling, bright green eyes observing the baffled King Orrin and stunned Blödhgarm with mixed emotions. The room appears to serve the purpose of a study, papers scattered over a dark wooden desk and rough books stacked upon one another in a cabinet. The Varden's leader sits in the sole chair in the room behind the desk, her hand trembling very slightly as she traces the small curved ivory spikes along the hatchling's back. Deep contentment radiates from him as he nuzzles her back affectionately, her hand stiffening briefly before resting gently between his neck and shoulder. The remnants of the hatchling's egg remain forgotten on the floor, shards of bright green broken to release its sole inhabitant. Shock beyond words radiates from Nasuada, her gaze lifting to meet mine. A slight, uncertain smile crosses her face.

"It appears I'm a Rider," she breathes shakily, the green hatchling chirruping once in agreement.

"Understatement of the century," crows King Orrin, clapping his hands delightedly. "Our very own Nasuada—a Rider! Oh this is great news, absolutely wonderful!" He shakes his head in astonishment, eyes bright with joy. Blödhgarm stands in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest considerately.

"Congratulations," he says finally in the low rumble of his voice. "I'll go inform the others," he adds, referring undoubtedly to the other elves. He slips around me and wordlessly departs, an oddly displeased aura radiating from him. Strange. I brush the thought aside, glancing over as Nasuada stares down at the hatchling, stroking his head lovingly.

"I never thought…" Words fail her as she bites her lip, appearing concerned to even voice her doubts aloud.

"You'll make a fine Rider," assures Eragon sincerely, Orrin's enthusiastic nod almost comical.

"A fine one indeed," he agrees. Nasuada nods uneasily, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing deeply. Her gaze strays pointedly to her left palm, a shimmer of silver visible there. She lifts her hand slightly, staring at the broken circle mutely.

"A Rider," she repeats, shaking her head slowly. "A Rider." She slumps slightly in her chair as though exhausted, holding her head with her hand. "I… I just… oh… why me?"

"Are you all right?" pipes in Orrin. She nods once minutely. An awkward pause follows, the eccentric king shuffling uncomfortably in the silence. "I'll go check on Blödhgarm and see about assembling a meeting for this evening," he adds suddenly, heading toward the door as he is evidently not needed any longer. Again, Nasuada nods slightly, myself backing to allow Orrin to exit. Eragon, however, steps closer, placing a hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

"It'll be fine, my Lady," he says, serious yet gentle. She sighs shakily.

"I hope," is all she says.

Chapter end notes:

And you... liked it? Hated it? Any mechanical errors? Too fast? Confused about anything? Review and I will be more than happy to correct errors/offer explanations. Thanks to those who already do. I appreciate it greatly. :)

'Needless to say, he's ruthless. He's taken power, and he'll never let it go.'

Saphira

I leave Eragon and Nasuada alone, hoping my Rider has the common sense not to ruin things in my absence. Comforting her would be the best he could do at the moment; with luck, he will stick to only that.

Winding down the thick corridor of Borromeo castle, I cannot shake off the feeling of something dreadful about to occur, my mind focused on other things. I know Nasuada is fully capable of being a Rider; and beyond the shock and slight fear of such a thing, I know she knows it as well. There is strength in her, strength tempered by trials and genuine care. A faint mental brushing, like a whisper of breath against my consciousness, sends a shiver running down my back, and I hasten my pace accordingly. Arriving once more at the gaping, roughly-formed hole in the wall, I throw myself outward, wings rippling like sails as I swoop around and land on the ground with a muted thud.

A flash of blue fur sweeps across the corner of the castle, followed shortly by the elusive consciousness as it touches minds with me once more. Questing out to solidify the contact, I feel barriers of a sort never encountered before, as though other mental barriers are constructed from stone, these from bones. Stacked and arranged to allow only slivers of consciousness through, they hush and mute words from the being's consciousness, and I stagger at the feel of their mental voice. Be gone, it urges me in a voice reminiscent of a muted roar, thrusting the bony barrier in my face. I recoil and refortify my own mental barriers, shaking my head furiously to clear it. A politely shocked notion reaches my thoughts as a sickly tendril of thought winds after mine, eluding my barriers and touching minds with me.

Terribly sorry, Brightscales, it murmurs with such sincerity it is impossible to doubt. Dazed, I nod once mutely, it withdrawing with a complacent mental smile. Too confused to look further into the shocking presence, I wander aimlessly back around to the front of the castle, observing how the stones of it fit together smoothly in an effort to distract my mind from the sickening image. Like pieces of an immense jig-saw puzzle, they wedge tightly between one another, smoothed by constant battering of sand. Almost as though it knows my thoughts, a gust of sand assaults the walls, their surfaces taking the brunt of it without a groan of complaint. I raise a claw and experimentally tap the stone; impressively, it doesn't budge, only shifting infinitesimally when I apply a bit of pressure. Lowering my claw once more, I snort and nod my head to it, pleased.

"Fine workmanship, isn't it?" observes a mild voice admiringly, appearing at my side in the form of King Orrin. "For nigh on two hundred years this castle has stood, unblemished. It's a bit plain, I'll admit, though competency must take precedence to beauty." He pats a stone almost lovingly, looking up at the enormous structure and shaking his head. "Many fights it's survived; you'd be amazed how many a siege it has fended off through sheer good building." He bobs his head in a nod, surprisingly serious and informative for once.

It's impressive, I agree, still a bit off from the mental… attack? Retaliation? I'm not even sure what to call of it, thought the sickly sound of bones being shoved forward lingers as though it truly occurred. He looks at me as though sensing my confused mood, raising his eyebrows in almost comical questioning.

"Are you all right?" he asks, concerned. I nod once, not meeting his doubtful look as I step around him, feeling smooth sandy-dirt beneath my claws. Heat rises up from the dark, golden-brown earth, my muscles relaxing slightly to the familiarly hot touch. A glance upward reveals crisp tan clouds, promising only an overcast afternoon rather than a rainy one. I sigh contemplatively, wondering what to do next. A rattling of bones in my mind jolts me forward as I lash my tail against the hard-packed earth, gouging a slight streak. Heedless of my annoyance—and secretly, fear—the bones back aside, a whisper speaking softly in my mind.

Be wary, dragoness, it warns, a distinctly feminine tone to it. Before I can question her, though, the voice vanishes, my mind oddly blank without the disturbing image of bones and the intriguing voice of the female. Shaking my head slowly, I allow my feet to carry me along, forcing myself to ignore all images aside from the sands beneath me, the stone castle to my right, and the dusky sky above me.

A time passes—how long I neither know nor care—as I walk amongst the Varden, laid out before Borromeo castle, and wonder. People mill around me purposefully, though my aimless gait does not distract them from their other duties. They mercifully give me a wide girth as I stride amongst them, deadened gaze sweeping out over them. A scarlet flash sends a painful throb through my heart as I look away, unwilling to even think of him. Still, eventually, my thoughtless walk only drags me closer, until again I stand before the castle. Dusk has colored its gray-black walls in tan light, beatific almost in the setting sun. Descending into the lowermost parts and consequently dungeons, I stare around the blank corridors, just large enough to compensate for a dragon.

An overwhelmingly tempting urge to visit Thorn overcomes me, though with a monumental effort I push the thought aside. I must resist that temptation, for were any others to discover the brief kindness between us… I stride away, moving down the sometimes narrow passageways, gaze roaming over the walls detachedly. Chilling silence penetrates all, ruining any sense of peace and vanquishing any familiarity with the place. All is dimly lit by torches, not even guards patrolling these parts as nearly all cells lay empty. Those I do pass are few and far between, with only a prisoner or two to speak of. Their defiant glares spear my soul as they await their inevitable execution; having denied the opportunity to join the Varden's ranks (with approval from elven mind-reading) they await their fate in sneering silence.

Eventually, I come across a fairly familiar cell, positioned so tightly in a corner it is impossible to believe that there is any way to barrel through the wall, magical assistance or no. Though notably larger than the other cells—and even stocked with some basic pleasantries—it houses only one resident, indisputably in a foul temper as I approach and peer inside the thick metal door. A sharp growl escapes me as a very uncomfortable mental spike snatches my consciousness, the equivalent of a rough pinch as I jerk back.

"Where is Thorn?" he asks, an outraged look in his eyes as he contradictorily sits calmly in one corner atop a finely made chair. His eyes glower with hate as he observes me, needing as well as demanding an answer. I shrug a shoulder fractionally in answer; I can almost hear the snarl rise in his throat as he stands and strides over to the door. Passing two other chairs—cushioned and well-crafted—as well as a smooth pallet, he moves over to the bars, glaring at me harshly. I tighten my mental barriers, though unafraid that he will dare attack. Magic woven so tightly around here by the elves is not to be tempted; only the feral look in his eyes sends trepidation through my consciousness.

"Where is he?" he repeats in a deadly-calm tone.

No where you can reach, is all I say, wincing slightly as he throws out another mental spike. A sadistic smile appears on his face as he pulls back, yanking up mental barriers against me. I growl low in annoyance at the prodding, refusing to be tempted to harm him. Don't mess with me, Murtagh, I warn severely.

"Tell me where Thorn is," he returns. Having adopted the loose gray tunic and black breeches left out for him to use, the rest of his clothes lay in a pile beside an untouched tray of food. Though I know no poisons lace the substances—and quite possibly he knows as well—the defiance there is clear, and I roll my eyes mutely when I spot it. A chunk of bread, an assortment of grapes, apples, and pears, and a piece of now-cold mutton sit neatly on the plate, undoubtedly exactly as they were set. A mug of water sits beside it—similarly full.

You will starve here if you do not trust us to eat, I point out coolly. He all but bares his teeth, no where near as civil as before separated from his dragon and in our hands now.

"If you do not tell me where my dragon is, then so be it."

You're being unrealistic.

"I'm being completely realistic!" he explodes, hands jerking on the bars to get my attention as I turn to leave. "Tell me where my dragon is!"

With an expressionless look, I meet his gaze, seeing the animosity and confusion there. Sighing deeply, I turn and walk away, hearing the faint whine of protest as he clutches the bars before storming back to the chair. My heart aches with a sudden twinge of deception, feeling wrong to be so… callous towards him. Though not intentionally, I cannot deny the obstinacy which has claimed me, guilt nearly overwhelming me as I move off.

My feet traitorously carry me back to Thorn's cell; I breathe in deeply, not daring enter for fear of stirring up a conversation of any sort, of any interaction at all. No, I turn back, closing my eyes against the hopeful look he flashes me as I simply walk away. With nothing noteworthy to explore below, I ascend back to the ground level, glancing around the grounds of Borromeo castle as storm clouds conjure themselves above. They swirl the hot air steadily, swelling with water and air. My eyes rove over the barren landscape, a weary sigh escaping me.

"What?" asks a voice coolly from my side. I shrug slightly.

For a desert, it rains fairly frequently here, I mention dryly. Eragon gives an amused huff of agreement as he comes around my left side, features worn as though by many sleepless nights. Dark circles ring his eyes; haggardness hollows the flesh of his face. Are you all right, little one? I ask, concerned. He looks at me, icy blue eyes fogged almost entirely by that potent white haze. Still, he shrugs and looks aside after a moment, evidently unperturbed.

"Fine," he assures insipidly. His gaze travels over the land as well, and I watch as his brows knit in irritation as he fails to pick out details. "And I suppose it does," he adds, glancing upward and observing the clouds unseeingly. "Though, even the desert has to get its nourishment from somewhere, doesn't it?" The stiff logic to his words prevents any emotion from showing through, my concern not just for his physical health redoubling. I gently nudge his back forward, urging him ahead.

Come. Let's have a walk, I insist mildly. We never did discuss why you were acting so strangely. I pointedly leave out the word 'earlier', and his expression darkens with understanding as he looks further aside. I crane my neck around to look at him, though he refuses to meet my gaze. Abruptly turning stormy azure eyes onto me, he shrugs.

I do not think I am acting strangely, he says. His eyes flash with an unspoken emotion—defiance?

You've been locked away, Eragon. His frown deepens. I can't understand you anymore. What's happened? What has Galbatorix done to you?

Had I been unassisted by our mental bond, I would not have noticed how he subtly shut off his emotions from me, providing only a sliver of access to his thoughts. I rumble softly in discontent; he does not seem to notice. Instead, he works his jaw as though trying to force the words out, closing his eyes for a moment as he pauses. I stop as well. After a moment, however, he recovers himself, and again the callousness is there, a barrier set thick between us. Sand pads softly beneath my feet; it offers no comfort as a vague mist sweeps over us.

"He did nothing to me." There is no room for argument, yet disagreement flashes across my expression as he walks ahead.

Then who did? I persist, undeterred so easily. Eragon attempts to escape by rounding the corner of a tent; I reach forward and grab the back of his tunic, growling quietly. Tell me, Eragon. You're not going to walk away from this without answering me.

"What do you want me to say?" he growls, equally dangerous.

Who did this to you? Who changed you like this? I stare at him coldly, demandingly, yet as frustrating as his half-brother he only smiles vaguely and looses himself from my jaws.

"I don't know, Saphira. I have no idea what you're talking about; if anyone, it's you who's changed." For a moment, the knowing look on his face sends a cold jolt of fear through my chest, certain he is aware of the intolerable kindness shared between Thorn and I. But after a moment, the look dissolves into one of satisfaction as he interrupts my dazed silence as acceptance. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he says with cold politeness, as though speaking with another. Someone as bitter and callous as he, I think unhappily, stepping aside to allow him through.

Cold rain patters along my sides, dousing my spirits further. Even the fire within me finds no reason to be summoned, and thus I shiver slightly in the cold, willing myself to ignore it and move on. Still, it claims me, unrelenting, unending, demanding my attention in its feeble but persistent assault. I bow my head forward as it sprinkles down, soon becoming hazy sheets that soak every tent in its path. My quiet groan of utter confusion and even despair goes unheeded to it, and I feel anger at such creeping along my side. The thought that I am angry at rain, however, soon smothers such a feeling, leaving only icy hollowness in its place.

The chilling image of stark-white bones fills my mind, accompanied by the drone of a whisperer, and lastly the faint echoing of Eragon's words. All torment me; my eyes search the world helplessly for some anchor to steady my thoughts on, to simply forget the rest and let go of my problems. But none exist, and soon I find myself drowning in the torrent of emotions, vaguely feeling my legs fold beneath me as rain continues to dance over me.

If anyone, it's you who's changed.

The horrible truth of those words proves too much; I lurch upright, breathing heavily, and surge upward, bee-lining back for the only one who has any possible answers.

He is far too pleased for his own good to see me than I am to see him.

Delight glints in his eyes as I slink through the wall, water casting deep shadows beneath and around my scales, accentuating every curve and line of my body. Hungrily, his gaze traces every one, my serious look not fazing him in the slightest. Thorn, I speak after a time, my voice quavering oddly. That draws his attention; immediately the almost lustful look transforms into one of deep concern, his quiet rumble a question. I look away so I do not have to meet the full image of him, unable to take such as I stare at the wall. My own uneven breathing seems to heighten his concern; when I do not speak to fill the silence, he does.

What is it? And what are you doing here? He takes a step forward; reflexively, I snarl at him, the emotions from earlier surfacing briefly to rippling anger. The hurt expression that crosses his face before he can hide it tears apart my resolve—I throw back my head and let out an agonized roar. His expression falls as he backs into the corner slightly, evidently confused and startled by my reaction. I hold the roar for as long as my lungs will allow, panting heavily once I must inevitably end such and staring at him with pained eyes. Questions fill my mind, surfacing and overflowing as I struggle to keep a hold of my sanity. Drawing in a deep breath that nearly ends in another roar, I suppress the desire and instead stare him straight in his ruby eyes, enunciating each word clearly to keep my attention focused on anything but their meaning.

What is it?

Eragon, Thorn.

What's wrong with him? What did Galbatorix—he flinches—do to him? He looks back, appearing more the confused hatchling than I can ever recall. Instead of slightly larger than I, he appears quite the contrary, his gaze meeting mine boldly despite such. For a long, ponderous silence, he stares at me, thinking, nostrils flaring minutely with every breath and lip curled up slightly in consideration.

I'm not certain, he begins slowly, in a tone that would be more practically addressed to a frightened animal than I, but I believe it has something with being near the King—

Call him Galbatorix, I order, ignoring his cringe as a jolt visibly winds down his back. He rolls his shoulders, stretching his wings slightly and evidently struggling to decide.

I believe it has something with being near Galbatorix that affects him so, he finally breathes, the wince in his voice enough to almost make me regret my command. I listen silently, however, as he continues, shallow breaths quick and even. The Kin—Galbatorix has always been a man who I will never fully understand. He has… strange… influences on the things around him. If I were to take an honest guess as to what your Rider is experiencing, then it is a side-effect of being with Galbatorix—a slightly deeper, steadying breath as he closes his eyes to ignore the jarring pain—that has caused any unusual behavior.

So you're saying Galbatorix is at the heart of this, I summarize. He nods once curtly, claws tight on the stone beneath them as he visibly struggles not to react to the word. The strong muscles, grown prematurely along his body, tense and loosen as he moves, his gaze never leaving mine. How long will this last? I ask after a time, notably calmer that I know at least that much. Thorn shifts uncomfortably on his feet; my anxiousness returns as I watch him, waiting and expectant.

I'm afraid I cannot say. Though it will go away—eventually, he assures quickly at my murderous look. Not directed at him, obviously, though fully intended for the King. Galbatorix was going to suffer—preferably dearly. Anything else you need to, ahh, ask me? he asks, albeit rather shyly. His wings stay close to his sides—protectively. I stare at him appraisingly, fixing him with a quizzical look.

What else do you know about Galbatorix? I ask slowly, genuinely curious. He cannot withhold a cringe as another piercing shiver jolts down his spine. Shrugging a shoulder painfully, he meets my gaze.

What do you wish to know? The look in his eyes is severe; tortured answers lie there, I know, though which to ask… more accurately, which to ask first…

He's sane, begins Thorn without prompting, my startled look lost on him as he glances unseeingly over my shoulders. Ruby eyes glazed over, he speaks from memory, a low monotonous tone concealing all emotion. Very much so. Reasonable, even, if you consider all other faults aside. He knows how to rule. Charismatic in the public eye, yet vile beneath it to those who disobey him. A slight wince is the only sign to betray emotion. He also knows how to keep a hold on power, he continues dully. Yet he's every bit the demon you think him to be. His eyes blaze as he looks at me, their inner scarlet alight with indescribable agony, very little of which seems from physical torment.

He's not afraid to dirty his hands for his work, though he prefers someone else to put his devices to work. All but the worst. A sour smile curls his lips as he shakes his head. That he always does himself; he'd never trust someone else to do it horrifically enough. He flicks me a questioning glance; I shake my head slowly.

Don't, I warn. No memories. He nods once mutely, understanding passing between us. Needless to say, he's ruthless. He's taken power, and he'll never let it go.

Have you ever noticed any weaknesses in him, though? I persist, knowing something valuable must be hidden in Thorn's thoughts. His expression, however, becomes almost amused, a twisted smile crossing his face.

In that aspect, I know as much as you, is all he says.

Chapter end notes:

I know, I know, it's short, but that was all that I wanted to reveal at the moment and adding Thorn's part would've made it too long. So. Thank you very much, faithful readers and reviewers, and I will continue to do my best to update as much as possible. Currently several of my fics are undergoing revisions, so updates for this might be delayed a bit more than usual for now. Well, since that's all I have to say for now, thanks for reading! :)