Elves of Ellesmera II

Eragon sat at his desk in his home. Though if he were honest with himself, it did not feel as such. He felt like a pretender, blundering into the noble society of the elves by some joke of fate. He was raised on a farm in a village so far on the outskirts of the Empire that the only contact they had was with their tax keepers.

Now he sat at the very desk of Vrael himself and studied his letters. Eragon could only imagine what his predecessor might have studied in his time. Complex spells, no doubt. Enchantments that would make Eragon's head spin and demand enough energy to kill him, paltry as his human strength was.

What might Harry have studied at the same desk? He thought. Something similar. He, too, was fluent in the Ancient Language.

Eragon kept the bitterness behind mental barriers and away from Saphira. She would (and had) chastised himself for his feelings of inadequacy. But Eragon did not want to hear that at the moment, for Saphira could scarcely comprehend the feelings he felt. She was glorious; perfect in every war a dragon could be. Possessing of all her limbs and fangs and scales, Saphira was the unquestioned empress of the sky. She did not truly understand the feeling of Vanir's taunts questioning his worth, only for the rest of the day to be filled with those same taunts proving themselves to be true.

Harry and Arya were so far beyond him in magic that Oromis hadn't even deigned to teach them all at once. Harry had given himself the elvish strength Eragon so envied, fought with their great speed and strength. When they danced the Rimgar to limber themselves, Arya made it all look effortless and Harry struggled minimally compared to them.

Harry had burst into his life and gone and done everything better than him. Even his life's work farming the lands outside Carvahall, Harry had proven himself better at. He fed the Varden singlehandedly and Eragon found that he resented the young man for that. Perhaps worst of all, Harry was sleeping with Arya, literally the woman of his dreams.

Eragon knew he should not begrudge them the happiness they found in each other, but it was like pulling weeds, thorny and stinging. Nevertheless, it is my duty both as a rider and a good man to put aside these selfish feelings, he thought. Upstairs, Saphira lounged in the padded bowl set in the floor, watching him work through his eyes and ensuring she learned everything he was. That way, he would always have a second set of eyes who could catch any mistakes he might make–or at least try to.

Unbidden, an image of an infant girl rose to the forefront of his mind. A sudden wash of self-loathing surged forth in him.

"Do not waste your time hating yourself," Saphira sent. "You know what you did was a mistake, and you intend to fix it. Now all you must do is learn as much as you can so you may undo your error."

Eragon nodded and threw himself into his work with renewed fervor.

Two hours later the evening had grown late and Eragon's eyes swam with the unfamiliar set of glyphs that composed the written form of the Ancient Language. His head throbbed uncomfortably and his eyes stung with dryness. Eragon grew envious of Harry and the elves for their reduced need for sleep. Arya had once mentioned that they did not dream so often as enter a waking trance, and needed only three or four hours every other day to be rested. How he wished he had that extra time!

Inspiration struck Eragon. Eagerly, he jumped from his seat and pulled up his pack, rifling through it for something. With a smile, Eragon beheld the object of his search: a glass flask filled with a fine white powder.

Cautiously opening his mind, Eragon verified that Saphira was slumbering. He knew he should not keep this from her, but he feared she would try to stop him. He needed this, needed the time it could grant him…

Eragon pinched a bit of dust from the top and tilted his head back, opening his mouth. His fingers hovered hesitantly over his mouth for a moment.

He dropped it in.

Saphira woke to the sound of the hated bauble Oromis had foisted upon them buzzing and chittering unpleasantly. Growling, her tail flicked back and forth, but she did not use it to destroy the infernal device. Dragons were not precise, and she might accidentally destroy something important to Eragon. Instead, she opened her mind and prodded at Eragon, intent on waking him and getting him to silence the loathsome trinket.

Only to find that he was awake. His mind felt…different somehow. More awake, more energized. "Good morning, little one."

"Good morning, Saphira," he beamed. "That is irritating," he said aloud. "Kausta," Eragon commanded, summoning the trinket to his hand and silencing it by winding it up again.

"You are awake early," Saphira observed. "Why?"

"I am excited to learn," Eragon beamed. "I have a new perspective on Oromis's lessons. How many people would give anything to be in my position, bonded with the most magnificent creature in the land, free from the tethers of gravity, and learning from the wisest teacher in the world. Shall we head to the training grounds? I am eager to hone my swordsmanship."

Saphira eyed him. "Good. Let us go, then, if you are prepared."

Eragon practically leapt up from his chair, sweeping loose parchment and scrolls into a pile on the desk and strapping his sword to his belt.

Vanir approached the practice field thirty minutes before his appointed time to spar with the Disappointment. He liked to warm up beforehand so that he made no foolish mistakes in their bouts. It would not do to lose to a human because of a silly mistake and though it irritated him to admit it, Eragon was an accomplished swordsman–for a human. But Vanir was an elf, and so he held himself to higher standards. He would not lose his temper and would concede no touches to the Disappointment this morning.

Ahead, the sound of steel on steel had already begun to sing its discordant song. There was Vala and Aldr, fighting with their mismatched weapons in a display of awesome skill. Iduna and Neya twirled around each other wielding spears of gleaming silver, and along the archery range stood a dozen elves loosing arrow after arrow into their targets.

Vanir looked closer at the archers. Then he snickered. Some fool was standing nearly halfway down the range firing a bow with abysmal shot spread even from his handicapped position. Even Vanir could do better than that, and he rarely touched the bow. He looked closer.

Ah. Of course. It was the Disappointment. Curious that he would surrender some of the indulgent amount of sleep the humans seemed to zealously enforce in their routine, especially to practice an art he was inferior at. Oh well. Vanir guarded his sword and greeted a lone elf practicing her forms. He respectfully asked if she wished to spar and began his warm up.

Eragon's extra time had elapsed. He unstrung the bow Garrow had given him and slung it over his shoulder next to his quiver. Crossing over to the tamped dirt square where the elves left their bags when they practiced, Eragon tossed down his bow and quiver and picked up his sword.

He had been drawing his bowstring to its full weight for nearly an hour now, yet his arms were not tired. Eragon could feel the burning of overused muscles in his biceps, but the energy he felt rather overshadowed the minor pain. Since the moment he had ingested that dust, he felt a surging power in his limbs that made him feel invincible. And he was still 'running hot.' Vanir wouldn't know what hit him.

Speaking of the odious elf, Vanir hailed Eragon with a raised arm and greeted him politely. He spoke first since he was not a rider, but he still managed to hesitate just long enough to imply that he was giving Eragon a chance to speak first as if he was unsure of his own rank. The slight rankled him, but he was better than that, and so responded graciously.

"Good morning, Shadeslayer. Guard your blade so that we may begin."

Eragon nearly rolled his eyes as he ran his fingers along the grey edge of his blade. He set himself in a ready stance, squaring off opposite Vanir. The pair circled each other for a few seconds. Eragon attempted to put the sun at his back, but the elf proved too wily to let himself be maneuvered so. Already Eragon was getting impatient, uncharacteristic for him as opposed to, say, Harry. He wanted to study his opponent and make a plan of attack, but his muscles and instincts were all screaming at him to move.

He attacked. A whirling slash followed by a thunderous overhead. Vanir caught them both, but with surprise on his face. Eragon tried to read the elf, to apply Oromis's lessons. He was to take in all of Vanir's body, not just his eyes. He was to read the elf's body language and piece together the clues to his movements before he made them. But he found that tranquil state he strove for to be unattainable and instead lived in the instant.

Vanir probed left, feinting and testing his guard. Eragon batted away his blade and thrust towards his belly. Vanir twisted away and swiped at his arm. Eragon yanked back his arm and nearly cleared the strike, but it caught him on the wrist. The strike smarted, but he could continue.

Irritably, he conceded the bout and squared off again.

This time, he scarcely bothered circling or probing, instead launching into a frenzied offense that pressed Vanir back. Overhead, feint backhand, slash, stab, Eragon continued to force Vanir back across the yard so that he might evade the blur of his sword for one more stroke. He kept the elf firmly on the back foot until he feinted a left stab, then darted back and twisted his sword over Vanir's hilt and rapped his knuckles, forcing him to drop the sword. Eragon moved his sword up to Vanir's neck.

Wearing an ugly and bitter expression, Vanir sneered. "I concede."

They backed up. This time, Vanir stalled Eragon's furious attacks by darting back with superhuman speed, then continuing to circle. "We are not playing Tag," Eragon taunted. "Come fight me, Vanir."

Vanir merely smiled infuriatingly and kept himself out of Eragon's reach, forcing him to give chase. Thrice more he darted backwards before pausing and setting himself firmly on the ground. His eyes flicked disdainfully over Eragon.

His breathing was ragged and his stance sloppy to preserve energy. Eragon felt his muscles burn unpleasantly, but the energy in him kept him upright. When Vanir attacked, he managed to keep his sword up against the furious onslaught, defending with equally frenzied counterstrikes. The elf's face was surprised. Eragon grinned. Didn't expect me to have anything left, did you?

Vanir's surprise gave Eragon an opening and he managed to touch the elf's shoulder, but it would not have been a winning blow and they both knew it, so they continued. Despite Eragon's frenetic energy, Vanir was still an accomplished swordsman. He evaded Eragon's sword where he could and blocked it where he couldn't, probing and counter attacking all the while. Ultimately the bout went to Vanir.

Eragon grit his teeth and tried again. And again. And again and again and again, but no matter what he did, Vanir managed to block him. The increased power seemed to have come at the cost of his mental game and after the shock wore off, Vanir managed to leverage that defecit to keep coming out on top. By the end of their hour, he was infuriated. All the energy coursing through him demanded that he keep fighting, that he keep moving. But he mastered the impulse and mounted up to head to the Crags of Tel'nair.

Harry felt awkward leading Oromis to his own house. Glaedr had stayed atop Tialdari hall the entire night, watching through Harry's eyes as he kept the old elf under observation after the operation. When morning came and the elf woke, it was with a broad smile on his face. He climbed up Glaedr's back and sat in the hollow of his neck. They flew in formation with Arya to the field outside the hut. Since all his supplies were in his tent and it was trivial to bring it with him, Harry had brought it with him that day. He set it beside the walls of the hut and rejoined Oromis.

"We shall start with the Rimgar today," Oromis announced. But when they began, Harry noticed that Oromis was not doing the same stretches as the rest of them. They were much more challenging. When he asked, Oromis had said that "The Rimgar has four levels. We have been doing the second. The first is taught to children and complete novices, the fourth is for experts and completing it is acknowledgement that you have mastered yourself and your body. It demands great flexibility, strength, and balance. I am doing the third level, designed for advanced elves. I could not previously complete the set without triggering an attack. Now, I am curious how your healing has affected me."

Very well, it seemed, for Oromis flowed effortlessly through contortions, poses, and perches that bewildered Harry. He was a bit intimidated to see what the fourth level looked like if Oromis was performing the third. The wide smile Oromis had worn since the morning never left him and when he set down his right leg firmly and brought his arms down, he looked more loose and relaxed than Harry could ever remember seeing him.

"Truly, I am in your debt, Harry. You cannot deny that healing me took deliberate action, and to deny it would be to insult and demean the value of my good health. Know that should you ever ask something of me within my power, I shall grant it. You have the word of Oromis of house Thranduil."

Harry nodded respectfully. "Thank you, Ebrithil."

Arya gave him an exasperated look. "The proper response is 'you are welcome.' You rendered the service, you do not thank him for it."

"Ah," Harry smiled sheepishly. "Right. You're welcome." Oromis smiled bemusedly at him.

"Excellent." They began their lessons then and Harry felt very optimistic when they drew to a close. While he had not managed to use magic to make a meal he'd want to eat, it was at least edible, and Harry thought that was a decent improvement. Nor had he mastered the exercise of allowing the thoughts of the whole glade to flow through him, but Oromis had reassured both him and Eragon that it was unheard of for even the master riders of old to pick up the skill within a year. "Still, I have faith that should anyone master the skill so quickly, it will be the two of you."

Harry enjoyed the feeling of Oromis's confidence in his skills. He would admit that casually invading the minds of others made him uncomfortable, but he could see the utility of it when a single pre-emptive strike from a suicidal magician could take any piece off the board in the fight against Galbatorix. Defending against that required live intelligence, and the technique Oromis was teaching was the best way to go about it.

Soon the time had come for Harry to teach some wanded magic.

"Have any of you come up with spells you want to learn?"

Oromis nodded. "Though I am loathe to reduce your entire civilization's art to tools of butchery, I would know how your wizards fight."

"I understand," Harry said easily. "It was bound to come up eventually, since this kind of magic is guaranteed to be unknown to Galbatorix. The first thing you need to know is that wand magic is not instant like the magic here. There are some charms and transfigurations which instantly affect the target, but not one of them is considered a curse, which means that any and all damage inflicted by them can be healed, provided the person does not die too quickly. They are also trivial to shield against. The majority of harmful spells generate a visible bolt of slow-moving light, perhaps the speed of an arrow, usually slower. This means that fights between wizards are not comprised of one single spell but rather many, which both combatants fire at each other while moving around, dodging, and shielding."

"How lethal is wanded magic?" Oromis asked.

"As much or as little as you want," Harry admitted. "Killing a defeated opponent with magic is trivial, there is a curse called the Killing curse which goes through all devised magical shields and solid objects which instantly ends the life of anything it touches. The only defense is to dodge it or put a genuinely living thing between you and the curse. Transfigured animals do not count for this purpose. On the plus side, an ant will block a Killing curse just as well as a cow."

Oromis gave a deeply contemplative look. "Continue."

"Ultimately, how wizards fight depends on what magic they excel at. Most wizards and average fighters have a generic arsenal of spells I can teach you which enable them to subdue ninety out of a hundred people, but the experts, the masters of their arts all have their own fighting style related to the magic they are most skilled with. Professor Flitwick was a dueling champion and a Charms master. Charms are about adding or subtracting a quality from something. Freezing, removing friction, sending to sleep, sharpening, I assume it would be like fighting in a dream where the laws of the universe are at the whim of your opponent and serve him against you. Professor Dumbledore was a master of Transfiguration and a skilled Alchemist besides. Fighting him was like fighting the very earth. He could animate statues, water, even fire into fearsome constructs that would attack his enemies. He could produce bears, tigers, swarms of bees, sharpened stakes or arrows and send them flying at his enemies."

"What sort of style did dark magic lend itself to?" Oromis pressed. "I have finished your book now, and merely those spells would give any wizard a fearsome arsenal."

Harry smiled darkly. "Dark wizards tend to follow the same trend, but dialed up to eleven. The ministry classified all sorts of curses and spells as dark magic to justify banning them, but true dark magic is magic that deals with skewed sacrifice. You may have noticed that nearly all potent dark magic requires a sacrifice of some sort. The Horcrux demands an innocent life, the Baleful Eye requires seven eyeballs gouged from living victims, the Hammer of Hell the beating heart of an infant. This all stems from the principle of Sacrificial magic.

"Most spells demand temporary and transient magical power from the caster, if even that. But higher order magic often needs something more, and a crucial characteristic of Dark Lords is that they never want to sacrifice their own material. Thus, dark magic is about paying an exorbitant price in the blood of others, rather than a more reasonable one from yourself. What that means is that a Dark Lord who does not care about innocent lives has access to a virtually unlimited pool of power. What's more, the evil taint of sacrificing innocents twists the spell and the caster, making them more 'evil.'"

Arya looked horrified. "You mean they just- grab someone off the streets?"

Harry nodded. "Dark Lords are a recurring problem back home. There are always people who lust for power, and power like that is readily available, playing in parks or crying in their cribs for some monster to steal and consume."

"Then we are very fortunate Galbatorix does not know these magics," Oromis said grimly. Eragon's eye twitched, his face green.

"We can move on," Harry said sympathetically. "None of us are going to use those kinds of spells, so it's not important or relevant." Arya nodded stiffly.

The remainder of Harry's time was spent instructing his three students in the Protego shield, the Expelliarmus hex, the Stupefy hex, and the Unforgivables.

"The Unforgivables all have a secondary requirement. You can't just say the words, you have to mean it." Harry was uncomfortably reminded of the mad Bellatrix Lestrange, cackling and taunting him after murdering the last of his family in front of him.

"If you want to kill someone, you have to genuinely want them dead. Likewise, you have to want to cause unimaginable pain and enjoy it when you use the Cruciatus curse. The Imperius curse requires you to want to dominate your victim. But I would caution you against tossing these spells out carelessly. That they go through shields is perhaps the most likely candidate for penetrating whatever wards Galbatorix has enshrouded himself with. Chances are, a Killing curse might just sail right at him and end our problems there. I foolishly sent it after the Ra'zac who are his servants, but I never managed to hit them so Galbatorix may assume whatever wards he placed on them still hold."

"Agreed," Oromis concurred. "Unless in the direst of circumstances." He withdrew his wand and held it in a loose grip between his fingers. "Where shall we begin?"

Harry summoned the tent from Oromis's hut and propped it up before disappearing inside. He reappeared with a clear plastic box filled with rodents. "I suppose we'd better start with the Imperius," he said. "Less rat suffering, I reckon." Flicking his wand, Harry sent four rats floating in front of each respective student. Arya looked uncomfortable, Eragon apprehensive, but Oromis's face betrayed nothing as he beheld the doomed rats in front of him.

The rats squealed and pumped their tiny limbs madly, but they found no purchase. Harry conjured up little cages for each of them. Then he extended the table lengthwise several feet. "I'd prefer if we were out of each other's lines of fire," he explained. "For the Imperius, it doesn't matter so much, but I'd rather not be tortured or killed today."

Eragon nodded nervously and quickly moved his chair to the newly extended segment. Oromis followed him sedately.

"I've cast the Imperius only once before, on a goblin to steal an object from their bank which granted Voldemort a limited form of immortality which allowed him to survive the death of his body. A Horcrux," Harry explained. "At the time, I knew only the incantation and the general effects of the curse. Having read up on it now, I can tell you that these curses are trivial because the esoteric requirements are relatively easy to come by, at least in humans. They are all soul magic, and the fourth popular spell that falls under that category is the Patronus charm which is notoriously difficult because its esoteric requirement is some powerful positive emotion. Skilled users of these four spells are able to master the spell to the point where the esoteric requirement is less stringent, but some measure of the required emotion will always be necessary.

"Like I mentioned before, the Imperius requires the desire to dominate. However, that desire can come in forms more palatable than the pseudo-rape that most dark magic texts will espouse. Rather, you might find it easier to use an imagined authority to dominate. The emotional subtext is still present, authority is merely domination within a societal structure. Fortunately, all three of you already have an enormous amount of authority. Oromis can be said to be the de facto leader of the riders by virtue of being the only surviving master, Eragon is the leader of the new generation of riders, and Arya is the princess of one of the four nations on the continent. When you cast the spell, try to keep in mind that you are above the rat, and you have the right to make it do what you want."

Oromis nodded and placed his wand between the bars of the plastic cage. He paused for a moment, his face hardening. "Imperio." he said harshly. The urgent squeaking of the rodent ceased instantly, its voice dying mid-squeal. Harry imitated him with his own rat.

The curious mental sensation that accompanied the curse became present in his mind. But Harry was leaps and bounds more accomplished with the Mind Arts than he was when he first cast the curse. When he had cast the spell upon the goblin, there was a sense of resistance he had to suppress, but the rat had so little will he didn't even notice that he had crushed it. The Imperius also seemed to have added a mental link between himself and the victim. Harry cautiously traveled down it to find that it linked him directly to the rat's consciousness. He could see out of the rat's eyes, but with none of the disorientation that typically came with piggybacking off an unfamiliar species's senses. It was like the spell came with a helpful interface to allow him easier access to his victim's senses.

Give me a salute Harry thought to the rat. It complied without hesitation. Do a backflip. It gave a valiant attempt at acrobatics, but its form was terrible and it collapsed on its head. Stand up. It got up immediately, heedless of whatever pain it might have felt.

"It's too easy," Harry grumbled. "It's not resisting me at all. Something to keep in mind, I guess. If you use this on a person, they will try to fight you, at least initially. Imagine pushing a sponge repeatedly underwater. I'm sure there's a better way to control someone long-term, but I'm hardly an expert on the spell. My advice would be to keep your rats and maintain the spell as long as you can manage. I know for a fact that the Imperius can be held even when the caster is asleep. Experiment with what you can get the rat to do, see what limits you can find and try to push them."
Eragon glanced up from his rat, which was awkwardly mimicking his sword forms. Likewise, Arya's rat was failing to dance the Rimgar.

"There will be some limitations based on the species. Obviously, a rat cannot do the Rimgar. Its limbs are simply not long enough. But magic does fill some holes in the experience. If you travel along the link to the rat's mind, you will be able to piggyback off its senses, and I can tell you that its vision is far more human-like than what you would experience simply entering its mind by the established methods of magicians here. Similarly, I gave my rat the mental command to salute me and it obeyed, despite the rat not speaking my language nor having any concept of a salute."

"It's so easy," Eragon marveled. "And useful. Imagine the possibilities for spies alone…"

Oromis nodded. "An excellent idea. Are there ways to detect or end the spell?"

"None that I know of- well, Thief's downfall apparently ended my Imperius, but I understand that was specialized goblin magic, and it's impossible for you to run into it here. Before I ran into that–in the middle of a high-stakes heist, naturally–I assumed the only way to end it was for the victim to throw off the curse, or to kill or otherwise compel the caster to end it. And make no mistake, it is possible to throw off the curse. All you need to do is deliberately disobey a command given to you, and the effect vanishes. I'm unsure exactly how that feels from the caster's side, but I expect it will come down to a contest of wills. You probably won't be able to control Galbatorix, or a Shade, or his high-ranking generals, but it'll work on rank-and-file soldiers, civilians, and animals. I suppose I ought to find out if mental shields protect against it, too."

"A prudent measure," Arya remarked drily.

"What's the next curse?" Eragon asked impatiently.

Harry frowned. "The Cruciatus curse, I suppose. I've cast this twice, once successfully and once failed. I've also been hit with it, and I think you ought to experience it at least once before you start doling it out to others. In retrospect, it was actually pretty bad of me to cast that second Crucio. Some Death Eater who spat on a teacher I respected." He shook his head. "Regardless. The Cruciatus causes pain so intense the victim will do anything to make it stop. I got hit with it several years ago and I can still remember the sensation.

His face grew haunted by a phantom agony that flitted across his countenance. "It felt like a thousand red-hot knives piercing every inch of my skin, like I was drowning in the most potent boiling acid. Since coming to Alagaesia I've been slashed, stabbed, shot, cursed, and splinched all my limbs off. None of that pain even comes close to scratching the surface of what the Cruciatus does. All I can remember going through my head under the curse was how much I wanted it to end, to die or pass out so I could not feel it anymore…"

Harry glanced up and suddenly felt awkward. Arya, Eragon, and Oromis were all regarding him with horrorstruck expressions. "Well, at least we'll be the only ones casting the curse, right?" he chirped in a failed attempt at levity.

"Are you sure we should be casting it at all?" Eragon asked in concern.

Harry sighed. "Ideally, we would not need to. But Crucio still has its uses. If you want to end a fight without killing your opponent and they have too strong a will to suborn with the Imperius, Crucio will still go right through any shield and drop your opponent."

Tiredly, he opened the plastic cages and levitated out the enslaved rats, replacing them with a fresh four rodents. Eragon looked faintly sick at the prospect of torturing the animal in front of them. "Just a bit more to go over before we get to casting. Do not hold the curse for longer than seconds–trust me, it's enough. I was in so much pain that I could not track how long I'd been under, all you know is that it's too long. It couldn't have been more than five or six seconds, but standing up after that was the hardest thing I've ever done. The overwhelming agony ends with the spell, but curse damage still lingers and you feel extreme pain that has no cure for hours afterwards. Seconds under the curse is considered by most adult wizards to be a dreadful punishment they'd go to virtually any length to avoid, and mere minutes is enough to drive someone permanently insane."

He turned to Arya. "Whatever Durza hit us with in Farthen Dur, it's nothing compared to the Cruciatus. But, you already have experienced a facsimile to the curse. Eragon, Oromis, I would suggest touching the minds of your rats as you cast it so that you can understand the pain without actually getting hit. That way, you will understand and be less tempted to use it casually."

Eragon shifted nervously. "Very well." He took a bracing breath and aimed his wand. Hesitantly, he jabbed his wand twice sharply. "Crucio."

It was as if he had been jabbed by a thumbtack. He yelped and dropped his wand, severing the curse almost instantly. Eragon shook his head like a dog throwing water from its coat. "By the gods, that's uncomfortable."

Harry gave him a sympathetic smile. "You did it wrong."

"What?!" Eragon exclaimed. "But that was awful! How could you know I did it wrong?"

"You're not screaming on the ground," Harry said flatly. "Plus, I haven't even gone over the esoteric requirements, yet."

"But you said earlier; you have to want to cause pain and enjoy it."

"And what has given you such sadistic impulses against rats?" Harry raised a brow. Eragon shrank back. Harry flapped his hand sympathetically. "There is no shame in casting this particular curse poorly. Rather, it is a testament to your strength of character. But there is a way to cast it properly, and I'm going to teach it to you. The easiest way to engender those feelings in yourself is to think of someone you actually hate, rather than trying to dredge up hatred for the target of your spell. The esoteric requirements for the spell cannot tell the difference between, say, the Ra'zac who killed your uncle and the rat you're pointing your wand at."

Harry leaned in. "Think about the Ra'zac. The filthy monster who tore you from your safe, happy life in Carvahall and set the king and his dogs after you across the breadth and width of the continent. What do you want to do to get revenge on them? Is it enough to kill them painlessly? Wouldn't you much rather make them scream?"

As Harry spoke, Eragon nodded slowly, his normally affable expression darkening into one of hatred. By contrast, Arya and Oromis grew steadily more disturbed by the change Harry had wrought.

"Crucio!" Eragon barked angrily. And instantly collapsed with a dreadful, chilling scream." Immediately, Oromis was on his knees checking the health of his student.

"Are you well?" he asked kindly.

Eragon grabbed at the seat of his chair with unsteady arms, pale and shaky. "W-wow," he stuttered. "That was intense." The rictus of hate previously plastered across his features had been wiped away. Harry gave him a sympathetic look.

"Unpleasant, I know. But now you will remember this every time you consider casting the curse, and perhaps it will stay your hand when the need is not so dire."

Eragon shot him a sympathetic look. "I can't even imagine being hit by the curse directly," he admitted. "How could you stand after it?"

Harry smiled grimly. "Voldemort had summoned all his followers to jeer and laugh at the pathetic boy-who-lived in a mockery of a duel between I, a fourteen year old wizard, and him, a Dark Lord of nearly a century. He tried everything to humiliate me before he killed me, trying to use the Imperius curse on me to force me to bow. All I knew was that I would not play along, and I would not die on my back but on my feet with my wand in my hand."

The silence drew uncomfortably long.

"Do you wish to give it a try?" Harry asked Oromis.

"I shall," he said stoically.

"And you have an object of hatred for the spell?"

"I do."

"Then go ahead."

It did not matter that Harry was expecting it, there was something so incredibly jarring about seeing the archetypal wise old wizard screaming in agony. Especially when Harry took into account Oromis's history of violent and painful seizures. Even Arya looked shaken by the old rider's reaction.

When Oromis recovered, it was with a frown. "I almost hesitate to ask, but the Killing curse?"

Harry laughed flatly. "Luckily, its requirements are the kindest of the three. You must only want someone dead. And in Alagaesia with the war looming, death is cheap. The words are Avada Kedavra, and the motions-" he gestured at his forehead, "-are as follows." He glanced sideways towards Arya. "But I think we're jumping the gun. Arya and I have yet to take our turns," he said.

Arya nodded, leveling her wand at her own rat. A savage smile grew on her lips, and Harry was absolutely certain she was picturing the Shade who had murdered her companions and lover, puppeted their corpses along the chase across the Spine, then hunted them all to the ends of Alagaesia before leading a massive Urgal invasion against the Varden. The sharp and angular bone structure of her elven face sharpened further, twisting in an inhuman rictus of hate. "Crucio!" She crowed vindictively, and the rat screamed.

She released the curse after only seconds, after which the rat twitched feebly on the floor of the box. Eager to get past the (in Harry's opinion) most evil of the Unforgivables, Harry dredged up the familiar well of hate he used to fuel his darker magic: the cackling face of Bellatrix Lestrange. He remembered how she taunted him, the white-hot inferno of rage that consumed him. She did not care that she had just killed the last living person who could have rescued him from the Dursleys, she delighted in the agony she had caused Harry, the agony she had just caused Neville, the agony she had already caused Neville when she took his parents. And in that moment, all Harry had wanted was to make her feel the same pain.

The memory brought with it a near-limitless pool of hatred. "Crucio!" Harry snarled. He held the connection for five seconds, then broke it. And as every previous Crucio he had cast had done, he was left feeling more empty than before. The well of hate that had seemed bottomless had dried up, and all Harry could feel was disgust with himself.

Why had he bothered teaching anyone the torture curse? Here he was in an entire universe where the spell was completely unknown, and he had gone and opened Pandora's box. Sickened, Harry brushed aside the self-loathing and brusquely explained the Killing curse.

"You all know the incantation. You all know the movements. All that is required is a desire to see your target dead. However in contrast with the Cruciatus, it does not need to be a murderous hate, merely lethal intent. According to The Black Magick, even a desire to painlessly euthanize like in the case of a painful, terminal disease is sufficient to fuel the curse. I've killed attacking wolves with it, despite having no clear murderous intention, so I suspect desperate self-defense also suffices, so long as you are willing to trade the lives of your attackers for your own."

Four green flashes lit up the Crags of Tel'nair. The entire exercise left Harry tasting ash in his mouth. For some reason, casting the Unforgivable curses made the conflict in Alagaesia seem more real to him. Up until then, Harry had been able to distance himself from the conflict. Swords, bows, and shields were the stuff of high fantasy back home, and the fact that his enemies were previously quite literally inhuman and monstrous-looking, the conflict hadn't been made real yet.

But the Varden was gearing up for a bloody war with humans. And suddenly all the enthusiasm of a grand adventure drained from Harry. Unforgivables were the weapons of the wizarding world, their presence would give Harry all the wrong kind of reminders about what he was doing.

Harry's ruminations were cut short when Oromis spoke. "Before you all leave today, I must warn you that the midsummer festival Dagshelgr is almost upon us. It is a celebration of fertility and growth, and all throughout Du Weldenvarden, every elf will lend their magic to the strength of the forest. Besides its incredible age, it is this tradition which has made the trees of the forest so enormous. There are songs and dances to be done, feasts to be had, and parties to throw. But I must warn you, the celebrations of elves are so saturated with magic that it can drive a human to madness. Before the midsummer festival arrives, you must cast these spells upon yourself to protect your mind from the magic in the air." He handed Harry and Eragon two copies of scrolls with a list of short spells written upon them that neither of them had heard of.

"Of course, an even more momentous occasion draws nigh, the Agaeti Blodhren Celebration." He distributed another pair of scrolls. "It is the centennial celebration of the formation of the Rider Pact. The history, traditions, and notable occasions of the celebration are on those scrolls," he indicated. "It is traditional for participants to bring a gift of some sort, usually wrought by one's own hand. Unless magic is necessary for its function, your piece should not employ it if possible."

Harry left the Crags with heavy thoughts. "I have duties as ambassador and daughter of the queen that I must fulfill," Arya spoke up beside him. Each of them toted the plastic cages containing their Imperiused rats with their off hands.

He scarcely heard. "Have fun, Arya." She must have noticed he was lost in thought, for she peeled off and flew away without saying more. When he arrived at Tialdari Hall, he noticed he had a guest.

"Hello, Rhunon. What brings you here?" The old smith had a stuffed bag slung over her shoulder and waited outside the antechamber to the royal suites.

"Figured I'd make a start on the Varden's absurd order. Plus, your steel is better even than mine."

"Oh!" Harry smiled. "Great. Come in. Did you bring your own tools?" He opened the antechamber and led Rhunon inside, tossing up the tent in the middle of the walkway and setting down the plastic cage, commanding the rat to exit and take up post watching the entry.

The elf snorted. "Nay. I brought food. Metalworking is hungry work, and I've been around enough riders to know that Oromis is probably already making you jump through hoops to eat. You've more tools than I've heard of, and none of mine own are particularly special."

"Yeah," Harry sighed, "he is. But I can't complain. I'm learning faster than I ever did at Hogwarts, and the opportunity to explore a whole new system of magic with one of its masters is not one to pass on for a few missed meals." They tromped down the stairs to the workshop. Harry began laying out tools and fetching supplies. He heaved the cart of steel across the concrete floor, wheels thundering along.

"Have you any other anvils in this cavernous workspace of yours?" Rhunon asked. "I do not wish to share an anvil with you, not when it is that small."

Stepping on the wheel brakes, Harry nodded. "Almost certainly. I'll go check." The door to his family vault lay open, shelves upon shelves of magical artifacts stretching hundreds of yards back. "I really ought to catalogue this stuff," Harry muttered to himself. "Another time, I guess."

He perused the aisles for ten minutes, examining the enchantments on each anvil he came across, searching for one Rhunon might like the benefits of over a traditional one. In the end, Harry selected a gaudy looking anvil chased in gold filigree and encrusted with gems. The surface was perfectly flat polished steel, and it was enchanted with a spell that poured energy into whatever enchantments the smith wove into the work they were making atop it.

"Why the hell would any idiot bejewel an anvil!?" Rhunon demanded indignantly.

"Someone with way too much time and gold on their hands," Harry shrugged. "I didn't pick it because it looked nice, if that's what you're thinking. It is indestructible, of course, but mainly it's enchanted to power the spells the smith lays on their works while hammering, among other things. It clears away flaked scale when hammering, helps preserve the heat of the metal so you can work longer, and has an unnaturally smooth surface."

"I suppose that could be useful. How rich your family must be that they waste perfectly good gold on that." Harry snickered.

"You can take a peek if you like," Harry suggested. "Just through that door, the gold and stuff is on the left."

Rhunon tossed the acetylene torch she was playing with back onto the counter and strode over. A low whistle echoed through the workshop. "That is a lot of gold," she admitted.

"Help yourself," Harry offered. "I can always get more by drawing it from the earth with magic. There are a few magical alloys in there which are actually expensive-"

"Brightsteel!" Rhunon exclaimed. She had picked up a silvery ingot that gleamed with unnatural brilliance. "And more of it than I've ever seen. Where did you get this?"

Harry followed her into the vault and looked over her shoulder. "That's mithril," he corrected. "Pretty much the most valuable metal in existence, it is widely known as the only metal impossible to transmute even with a Philosopher's Stone. You made the rider swords out of this stuff?"

"Aye. Though much less pure than this," she tapped the ingot with a fingernail. "A comet of the stuff fell near Ellesmera right when the Rider Pact was sealed. When I heard that Eragon had arrived here without a rider's blade, I went searching for more of the stuff, but there is no more to be found. The last of it was used in the forging of Morzan's, Brom's, and a few others' swords."

Harry wondered at that. "It's lighter than steel, so its atomic number is probably lower, does it occur only in asteroids?" If it does not occur in the earth, either it's unstable and decayed, or supernovas and stars don't produce it? Where does mithril come from?

He kept further musings to himself. "You were able to find mithril with spells previously?" Rhunon nodded. "And can find no more?" Another nod. "But you've never left Du Weldenvarden to search?" he guessed. "I don't know the range of your scanning magic, presumably you do not want to venture into the Empire to look for your miracle metal?"

"Though I had less experience searching for brightsteel with magic, I had searched the Broddring Kingdom before Galbatorix and the Fall, and found nothing. I would not rely on more of this mythical metal falling into our hands. What other magical alloys do you possess? Perhaps metals you would be willing to part with or are able to produce more of?"

Harry hummed. "Alchemy is a wide branch of magic, and I have only dabbled in metallurgy when compared to homunculi and other fleshcrafting arts. But I would recommend Orichalcum, if not mithril. Orichalcum is magic-resistant to the nth degree, and that is its famed quality. Materials like steel and iron can be rendered magically inert, or mined through mundane means to keep it inert, but Orichalcum is inert by its very nature. I know that the 'known' process for producing it will only yield 50% pure alloy, usually mixed with gold, but there is an extraordinarily wasteful process that will further refine that to 65%. The purified stuff is absurdly valuable for specialized tools, shielding, and the like. But if you tinkered with the alloy, maybe steel or even mithril as the base, you could make a decent sword that would cut through virtually any ward or shield effortlessly."

"Could you still enchant this alloy?"

"With great difficulty, I imagine so. Mithril is the opposite of Orichalcum in that it is very magically potent. It accepts enchantments easier than any other metal and adapts to manufacturing processes, making it one of the most versatile known materials out there. We'd have to tinker with the fusion of the materials so the desirable material traits are preserved, and the deleterious ones discarded."

"A matter for another time," Rhunon announced. "We are not here to make riders' blades. We are here to arm and armor the Varden. Unless you can afford thousands of these weapons, we shall stick to standard steel."

Harry very quickly found out that despite Rhunon's hangups on accelerating forging with magic, she was quite good at it. At her request, Harry demonstrated the uses of the many unfamiliar modern tools he had available, which the elf effortlessly included in her metalworking. It was a rather daunting task forging with someone so obviously better than him at it. Even more intimidating was that Rhunon was making the armor and he, the weapons. Despite swords being far more important than armor.

Nevertheless, he soon found his rhythm and the two of them began working in sync. The aperture of the furnace was large enough for both Rhunon and Harry to heat their pieces at once, but the gilded anvil let Rhunon work for far longer on her piece before she needed to reheat. Neither of them spoke, they were both preoccupied with singing their enchantments as they forged. Despite working on different pieces at different times, Rhunon's skill with music was such that she effortlessly harmonized with Harry's own song, a stirring rendition of Ed Sheeran's 'A Team,' which had stuck in his head firmly enough that he still remembered the melody years later.

A pile of black-bladed, white-spined sword blades grew on the counter as the night stretched on. They took a brief break to scarf down the food Rhunon had brought, mostly hard-boiled eggs and cheese. "Curse this vegetarianism," Harry grumbled. "Shaming me into not enjoying a good cheeseburger."

"I have never kept too closely to vegetarianism, myself," Rhunon admitted. "I was alive well before elves stopped having to work for their survival. I wouldn't kill an animal for meat, but I wouldn't deny myself the pleasure if it was put in front of me." Harry made note of that.

"I'll make us food beforehand, then."

"I look forward to trying this burger you speak longingly of, then."

They got back down to work. Around midnight, Harry saw Arya enter their rooms through his rat's eyes. She popped into the tent to check on them before retreating back upstairs, Where Harry was able to watch her make herself food, then head to their bedroom. Though Harry wanted to send his rat to watch her undress, he thought Arya wouldn't appreciate being peeped on by a rodent, and also, Harry was likely to hammer his fingers off if he was distracted watching her au natural.

Rhunon kept turning out pieces of armor, banging them out in a pattern which covered a full suit of plate. First breastplate, then two greaves two bracers, followed by a helmet. Harry had the advantage of familiarity with modern tools and transfiguration magic, while Rhunon kept up through sheer mastery of metalworking. Harry was nearing twenty years old, and had been forging for less than three. Rhunon was nearly three millenia old, and had spent practically every waking hour honing her craft. It quickly became clear that were Harry not using an unknown brand of magic to cheat, Rhunon's pieces would be so far superior that Harry would look like a novice next to her.

Despite his numerous advantages, Harry simply could not compete with the confidence Rhunon had in her abilities. She did not need to check her work, she knew every strike of her hammer would do exactly as she had envisioned. Ultimately, despite the relative sizes of armor versus swords, Rhunon managed to keep pace with Harry. Their songs continued well into the night, and it was past 3 A.M. when Harry finally allowed his song to trail off.

"How many did you do?" He asked before descending into a fit of coughing. His voice was scratchy from overuse. Conjuring a pair of glasses, Harry filled them with water from the tip of his wand.

Rhunon drank deeply from her cup. "Three hundred and twenty seven," she said.

"Ha!" Harry crowed. "Three hundred thirty two."

"You have yet to make your crossguards and hilts," Rhunon challenged.

"And you, the buckles and straps."

"I think I can find someone to do those parts," Arya said from where she sat in a chair, a pile of textbooks open in front of her. Harry had not seen her enter through the rat's eyes, and was mildly surprised to see her.

"Very well, wizard. I concede this round to you. You managed to forge more swords than I, full sets of armor. Prepare yourself, for tomorrow night, I shall defeat you."

Harry grinned. "I look forward to it, Rhunon. Have a good night."

Rhunon's eyes flicked between him and Arya, and she gave him a saucy wink. "Yourself, as well, wizard." And then she left.

Arya watched the elf leave, then turned back to Harry. "I am impressed. The times Rhunon has willingly left her house this past century can be counted on one hand, with fingers left over." She got up and hefted one of Harry's blades by the tang, gripping the thin stick of metal awkwardly. "And you manage to do the Varden a great service at the same time." She replaced the black-and-white blade and turned to him.

"Mother has spread the news of Oromis's recovery throughout Ellesmera and sent messages to the governors of the other elven cities. There is to be a feast held in your honor, three days from now."

"No good deed goes unpunished," Harry remarked wryly. "I suppose it will be interesting to rub elbows with the elven elite again."

"Indeed," Arya's lips quirked. "I shall tell mother that you are positively shaking with excitement." She sauntered closer to him. "Now, come to bed, my lover. To an elf, the night is still young." Harry grinned boyishly.

"Yes ma'am."

At the same time, Eragon himself was still up. In front of him laid a scroll weighted open by two beautifully carved blocks of wood depicting a lifelike model of a creek flowing down a rocky bed surrounded by reeds and cattails. Between the two dioramas, little black glyphs marched like soldiers in straight lines across the parchment. Above the open scroll, Eragon's rat was eating through a small block of cheese at his instruction.

Currently, he struggled to parse meanings together from the unfamiliar symbols quite unlike the letters he had recently learned from his father in Teirm which scrolled across the faintly yellow surface.

Saphira was asleep again, and Eragon was running hot on Alchemic dust. The previous pinch he had taken last night was still in effect, ramping up his energy and keeping his muscles energized. He knew from Harry's description that the stuff was meant to let fully encumbered soldiers march for seven days without sleep.

He bent over the scroll again and painstakingly copied the symbols onto a blank sheet with an inked brush. Eragon would have to remember to ask Harry for one of his 'pens.' They simplified calligraphy immensely, and simulated writing with charcoal except with a surface that glided smoothly over the parchment. Eragon had scarcely copied another line when he heard something outside the base of the tree.

An elf was singing. It was a quiet yet stirring song, and though Eragon's grasp of the Ancient Language was not such that he understood all the words, he got the gist of it. Something about the North Star's lover being separated by her duty to guide the elves beyond the sea to their own homes, and the longing they both felt to be together.

Eragon decided that he would go downstairs and meet the singer, if only as an excuse to tear his eyes away from the symbols swimming before his eyes. He rose from Vrael's chair and stretched, yawning loudly and cracking his spine with a satisfied sigh. He prodded at Saphira's mind curiously. She was slumbering deeply, dreaming of chasing a fat golden stag through a forest, who always managed to stay one frustrating pounce ahead of her.

He padded down the stairway to the antechamber. There he beheld a stunning elf woman. Are there any elf-women who are not stunning? He thought with a touch of bitterness. She had long, silver hair that hung in a braid all down her back, red lilies woven into the reflective hair with golden pistles. "Good evening," Eragon said jumped in surprise.

"May good fortune rule over you," she said quickly, twisting her fingers over her lips. Eragon laughed hollowly at the presumption that she was of lesser rank to him. Politely, he returned her greeting. Now that she was facing him, Eragon could see that she had an uncharacteristically soft face, her jawline less angular and more traditionally beautiful. In all honesty, Eragon thought she rather had a similar aesthetic to himself. The Rider bond was not yet finished altering his features to resemble the elves, but the effect was noticeable, nevertheless. His ears were no longer wholly rounded, but tapered gently at their tops. His jawline was noticeably sharper than most humans, though far more rugged than the elves. She had violet eyes, wide and intense, and long black eyelashes, the only bit of black hair he could see.

"My apologies, Shadeslayer. I had not thought you would be awake at this hour." She carried in her arms a bundle of cloth.

"No matter," Eragon said dismissively. The energy coursing through him made him feel fierce and reckless. "Had I been asleep, my life would be made sadder by missing you."

The elf blushed. "You are too kind, Shadeslayer. I am but a simple weaver."

"You have me at a disadvantage, then. You know my name, might I have yours?"

"Niduen, Shadeslayer. Niduen of House Drotting."

"You are related to the Queen?" Eragon said, surprised. Niduen laughed gaily.

"Nay. House Drotting is not only the house of royal blood, but all who serve her majesty directly. It is a great honor to be selected among my guild for her house." She offered the bundle in her arms to Eragon. "I came here to deliver these to you. Clothing for Queen Islanzadi's guest."

Eragon accepted the bundle gratefully and unwrapped the package enough to see the contents. Inside were a bundle of tunics, leggings, and other assorted clothing items. He touched one sky blue tunic with an experimental finger, stroking the material. It was astonishingly soft and smooth.

"Thank you for this gift," Eragon said genuinely. "They are garments fit for a king."

"I thank you for your kind words," she smiled. "It is always good to know the fruit of your hands is appreciated."

"It is no more than you deserve."

"Good evening, Shadeslayer. It was pleasant meeting you, but my duties tonight take me elsewhere."

On an impulse, Eragon held out a hand. "Will I see you again, Niduen?"

She paused and turned with a genuine smile. "If you wish it, Shadeslayer."

"Then farewell."

Eragon returned to Vrael's desk with his spirits buoyed. Perhaps there is hope yet that I might get a happy ending.

The following morning seemed to fall upon Eragon all too quickly, and it seemed mere moments later that the young rider was strapping his nameless blade to his belt and carefully placing his homework into his bag. Saphira had risen with the sun and stood at the aperture to the bedroom, Brom's soft and minimalistic saddle resting on her back. Eragon had had to loosen several straps to keep apace with Saphira's rapacious growth, something which she noted with definite pride and a hint of hopefulness which Eragon understood the source of but wished otherwise.

Vanir was waiting patiently at the training yard, affecting a bored expression as if he had been waiting an interminable time, despite Eragon arriving nearly an hour later. Eragon deliberately ignored Vanir and instead spent the first hour practicing first his archery, then going through Brom's sword forms slowly by himself. When the extra hour he had allotted himself elapsed, Eragon returned to where Vanir waited and greeted him, speaking the first line without pause and so quick it bordered on rude, rubbing in his much higher status.

Vanir was nothing if not rigidly adherent to the letter of elven etiquette, and he responded with a bright and poisonous smile and the second verse of the greeting. "I understand you have warmed up already, Shadeslayer. I would beg of you a measure of leniency in our first bout, for I have not touched my sword since last morning."

Said in the Ancient Language, Vanir was incapable of directly lying about that, yet the dangerous smile the elf wore was testament to some verbal trap he had laid. Eragon shrugged dismissively and stepped forwards, uncaring of whatever insult Vanir would dole out. "Perhaps the Fall has diminished the elves, should they need to warm up to best a mere human in a spar."

Vanir tilted. "Yes, Galbatorix has diminished our race greatly. Fortunately, your prowess has brought us hope so painfully absent in recent decades."

What followed was a comprehensive and humiliating exhibition on all the most embarrassing ways to be defeated in a swordfight. Vanir could not have touched his sword since the morning prior, but Eragon thought he almost certainly had touched someone else's, and practiced all night long. All the while, the elf's venomous tongue lashed out at Eragon, covered in just enough honey to fall within the bounds of elven etiquette.

Though Eragon's strikes were heavier and quicker than any human's had a right to be, he found the lateral thinking Brom had instilled to be harder than normal to achieve. Devising counters to Vanir's routines eluded him, and again he was laid on his back, the point of Vanir's sword beneath his chin. "Dead" Eragon brushed the sword away angrily and scrambled to his feet. He might be getting laid out every bout, but he would not give Vanir the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to him. He was determined.

Eragon set his jaw and tore from his starting position, putting all the strength in his arm behind a devastating blow. Vanir tilted his blade just so, causing his sword to slide down its length and into the ground, where its point bit deeply into the tamped earth. He tugged desperately at the handle, but Vanir merely sneered and batted his arm sharply from the handle with the flat of his blade. He took a step forwards, the blunted and slippery tip of his guarded sword poking uncomfortably at the hollow of his throat. "Dead, again." he snorted contemptuously and turned away. "Coward. Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race's."

"Why do you hate me so?" Eragon snarled, while planting his boots on either side of the blade and tugging with all the force of his back, wrenching the nameless blade from the dirt. "I would have been happy to be on amiable terms with you. From the start, I have been nothing but courteous, and you repay me with all the worst things you can think to say to me. What have I done to earn such ire?"

Vanir bent his knees slightly and swayed slightly. Without warning, he struck with a thrust that Eragon only just managed to turn away from. "My opinions are of little consequence."

"I agree, but I would hear them anyway."

"Damn. That's a zinger," he heard Harry mutter where he clashed with Vala. Eragon's cheeks burned with the knowledge that he now had an audience. He was suddenly aware that the furious pace of Arya and Aldr's sparring had slowed.

"You want to know why I hold you in the greatest contempt?" Vanir sneered. He gave a furious backhand which Eragon managed to stop only by counterswinging against the blow with all his might. "I shall tell you."

Eragon spun around, reversing his grip on his sword and stabbing mightily at Vanir. He batted it aside effortlessly. "The Fall has affected no race besides the dragons greater than ours." He struck back, slashing at his thighs. "Everyone who was anyone went out to fight Galbatorix-" he swung a blistering uppercut that Eragon had to catch with both arms, bracing the flat of his blade against his left forearm. "-And perhaps one in fifty returned. We counted the dragons among our closest friends-" He grunted with the effort of a furious, straightforward blow that clashed so hard it jarred Eragon's arms violently. "-and they were hunted to extinction like dogs. We had no hope!" Crash. "No way to avenge our fallen partners. Or friends."

Each short phrase was punctuated by an increasingly violent blow. Eragon fended them off desperately, keenly aware that even Vanir's blunted sword would kill him if it hit his chest or head with such force. "For nigh on a century, we cowered in our hidden cities. Meanwhile, Galbatorix made his seat of power in the ancient city of our ancestors, where he resides even now. When Brom managed to steal Saphira's egg, how we feasted and reveled. "Finally!" We would exclaim, "A new rider will be born to us, and they will slay Galbatorix!"

Vanir was panting, something which Eragon had no response to. His breathing was ragged, the rage he had thrown into his strikes reaching a frenzied pitch. "And we waited. We waited over a decade with bated breath as Arya ferried the egg up and down the breadth of the continent, carrying the egg to every man, woman, and child in Surda and Farthen Dur, then back to Du Weldenvarden to tour every elven city in the hopes it would hatch. And by some cruel joke of fate, Saphira hatched for an uneducated farmer boy in the poorest regions of the Empire!"

Vanir pointed his sword accusingly at Eragon. "I am a fair swordsman, but hardly the best the elves have to offer. And yet I defeat you trivially in virtually all of our bouts. Do you imagine Galbatorix will be less of a challenge? As a human, you are so weak that entire branches of elven magic are closed to you, for casting a single spell would surely kill you. You cannot learn half as fast as an elf, who needs no more than a couple hours of sleep a day. Nor are the stakes half as high for you. Galbatorix is of your race, and the worst that could happen is that your people's king never changes. He has made no secret that if given half the chance, Galbatorix would wipe us all out! That is why I find you disdainful."

Eragon bowed stiffly to Vanir. "Thank you for your thoughts." and stalked away.

When Oromis heard a description of what had transpired that morning, he merely sipped at his tea calmly, sending Arya to meditate in the glade. "What are your thoughts, Eragon?"

Eragon sighed angrily. "Though I contest the fact that I am less dedicated to overthrowing Galbatorix than an elf would be, I cannot help but think he speaks true. Without the strength and power of the elves, I shall never be Galbatorix's equal. I never fought Durza directly, but if he was capable of defeating both Arya and Harry at once, I would have stood no chance."

Oromis hummed. "You may surprise yourself. Nevertheless, it is your opinion that you must become as an elf to stand a chance against Galbatorix? For none of us will ever be his equal, not in the manner of straight power. You have been in Ellesmera for only a week, and already you expect to best elves in arts they have honed for decades?"

"No," he said bitterly. "I just don't want to be humiliatingly outclassed."

The old elf's face softened. "I shall tell you again as I have before: the path you walk has no shortcuts. It is a long and thorny road, but summiting a mountain is no mean feat. As Harry has discovered, there are ways to grant you the power you seek, but you will always be lesser for it. A crown given is less than a crown earned. You will struggle and fight for every inch today, and when you grow into your power and earn the might of the dragons, those struggles will be the source of strength beyond anything a mere song could give you. Do you understand?"

Eragon searched Oromis's sympathetic face. He stayed obstinately silent for nearly a full minute, during which Harry became visibly uncomfortable. "Yes, Master."

"Good," he smiled. "Now, since Arya is away, this is the time to teach you the history she knows like the back of her hand. Listen closely, for I shall tell you the history of the midsummer celebration which is nearly upon us…"

Harry enjoyed the lesson, listening to Oromis speak of the tradition as old as their race itself. He listened as the old elf explained the songs and enchantments they wove into the trees, grass, birds, and beasts of Du Weldenvarden. Their songs would drive the wildlife to mate and bear many healthy children, for the trees to absorb the sun and rain and grow tall and mighty. "This celebration is one of the largest reasons for the immense sizes of the trees in the forest. Millenia of elves before us have lent the collective strength of our race to nurturing life in Du Weldenvarden. It is awe-inspiring to be a part of."

When they concluded, it seemed perfectly timed with Arya's return from the glade. Harry was sent away next.

He took the first few minutes of meditation to clear his mind, an exercise that came still with difficulty despite the vastly superior tutelage Blinky the basilisk offered compared to Severus Snape. When he had done so, Harry made the first effort to open his mind. He eased all the barriers between himself and the outside world down slowly, scrunching his eyes against the effort to resist the existential terror of such defenselessness that the state engendered in him.

As before, Harry lasted only until the innumerable plant and insect life crushed his consciousness under its enormous mental weight, at which point his heart rate would elevate to that of a rabbit, and the terror of mental invasion cloyed and choked at the tranquil state so necessary to take in everything in the glade.

He spent the next ten minutes observing his birds. The alien perspective they both had fascinated him. Harry especially enjoyed examining the way they went about building a nest; what instincts told them how to make it strong and stable, how to place it so it would not fall from the branches. His perspective from the female felt noticeably encumbered by the growing clutch of eggs she was preparing to lay. He was equal parts eager and terrified to experience laying them in the nest, and hoped very much that it happened while he was in the glade and there to experience it.

Harry also noticed that he was more easily able to return to the clear state of mind after each time being overwhelmed by the glade. During the hour, he was able to reach the desired state five more times, each time slightly longer than the last. That gave him hope that he was actually progressing at the skill.

Eventually, his hour elapsed and Oromis sent him a mental nudge to return to the hut. Harry noted that he had lost the connection with his rat during his time in meditation.

The rest of the day was spent learning about the history of the humans, specifically the Empire. As Eragon was most likely to be familiar with the topic, he spent the time meditating in the glade himself.

Oromis engaged Eragon in a game of chess while Arya and Harry struggled to produce something edible for lunch. Harry thought he had managed a decent sandwich (though chunky and burnt bread wasn't great.) By the time he could prepare himself food with any measure of competence, he was sure to be a master at any magic involving slicing, crushing, stirring, or levitation.

But then, he thought wryly, that is the point. Evenly baking anything still proved beyond his or Arya's capabilities, but Harry liked to think the char on the bread went a bit deeper before blackening the surface beyond edibility. Low, sustained heat was the key. Too hot, and the outside would burn before the middle cooked.

"I just got a great idea," Harry announced to Arya. She was glaring at a block of cheese with gritted teeth, shredding it into chunky, asymmetrical block-strands.

"Care to enlighten us?" she asked.

"Er, I need to get another bit of serviceable dough, first."

"Trivial, then," she said sarcastically.

A more focused application of the meditation technique they were learning in the glade proved to be immensely useful in making the dough rise. By examining the impulses of the yeast, Harry was able to adjust his technique to get the fastest rising of his dough. Threshing the wheat proved to be easier after the practice he'd done before.

"And now…" he murmured. "Heat." This time, Harry was careful to distribute the source of the heat evenly within the dough. He deliberately cranked it up higher than any baker would consider reasonable. Rather than burn anywhere, the bread baked evenly throughout, almost instantly.

"Curious," Oromis remarked. Because the heating was perfectly even all the way through, there was no crust and all of the bread was just as soft as the middle. He cut himself a slice with a murmured word and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. "Well done."

When Eragon returned, Oromis gave the three of them a lesson Harry had wanted Brom to expand upon when he last mentioned it. "Different materials have different properties of magical conductance and capacitance. " Laid in front of him were a dozen samples of various materials. Harry counted gems, metal, semi precious stones, wood, and generic rock among them.

"Understanding what they are and how they interact can help us with artifice and enchanting. For example, the most common material used to store energy is gemstones. Though the reason why is unknown, we have theorized that it involves the crystalline structure of gemstones. We know that higher quality, clarity, and size increase their capacitance, but value is not important. We choose to use gemstones like diamonds for their durability and resilience, but in reality, even salt crystals can store energy. They are merely so fragile and soluble as to be useless in nearly all circumstances."

"Could you seal salt crystals in some airtight container?" Harry asked. The potential for cheap batteries was intriguing. It would beat him accidentally destroying the value of gemstones by handing them out to everyone who had a reason to need a battery.

Oromis smiled. "Very clever. Indeed, the riders had a method of growing an enormous salt crystal within a metal cylinder, and these devices were used to store great amounts of energy cheaply, but they tended to be delicate, and dropping the battery on a hard surface would often shatter the salt within. The lessened quality of the crystal instantly diminished its capacity, and it would violently release the extra energy it could not contain. More than one rider lost a limb handling the batteries."

"Did anyone try to use them as grenades?"

"I am unfamiliar with the term."

"Handheld explosives to throw at enemies," Harry elaborated.

"Ah. No. During the sacking at Doru Areba, I am sure some desperate riders tried it, but the energy cost alone would be wasteful compared to just commanding an explosion in the Ancient Language." Harry nodded.

The rest of the lesson generally revolved around why other materials were not suitable for storing energy, though Oromis did give attention to metals and their ability to conduct energy easily, making them ideal for laying enchantments which drew power from the user. "You must be careful, though. To leave any power within the metal will mean its abrupt release on the next person to touch the material, like a bolt of lightning."

"You mean any magic will be turned to electrical power if cast on metal?"

"Just so," Oromis nodded. "It can be useful, but the method in question is lossy when compared to generic lightning spells." Harry grumbled in disappointment.

They learned then how to cast spells and traps which would be activated by the next person to touch them, and how plants, flesh, and sinew reacted to the imbuement of power. "I understand that Brom taught you, Harry, the basics of singing to plants, which you managed to expand upon to give yourself elvish strength. These lessons relate particularly relevant to such feats. Do you have any works with you? I would judge your skill at the art."

Harry did, and offered him the bow he had used to kill so many Urgals under Farthen Dur. Oromis took it in his hands and ran his fingers along it, golden eyes scrutinizing even the most minute detail. When he examined the gems, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "These are being fed power. Are you doing it?" Harry shook his head.

"I've learned to link the tree who gave the wood of this bow to the weapon itself. Also, by keeping the wood alive, its enchantments are greatly enhanced and the bow itself gains a sort of personality." He drew his rapier and handed it over, hilt first. "I do the same to the handles of my swords, at least the ones I intend to use myself."

The gem in the rapier was a flawless diamond, clear and colorless as glass. "The enchantments for sharpness and durability do not need power, and I have not yet decided what if any extra enchantments I want to put on this sword, but if nothing else, it's a free source of power to draw on."

Oromis turned the rapier back and forth in the sunlight, sliding his finger up the frictionless spine of the black and white blade curiously. He handed it back carefully. "You have already begun learning Rhunon's spellforging technique?" Harry nodded. "In regards to your trees powering enchantments, tell no one," he ordered. "It seems you have a talent for stumbling across extraordinarily dangerous secrets. When you have all mastered the exercise in the glade, I shall teach you all a technique related to this. Until then, you would do well to put it out of your mind."

Harry, Arya, and Eragon agreed easily. Oromis picked the bow back up and continued his examination. "You have grasped the functionality of singing quickly, but lack the refinement and artistry which is possible with the skill. We shall refine that skill further."

The day's lessons ended soon after, and Harry spent an hour teaching the stunning hex, the disarming hex, and the shield charm. As was becoming typical, Eragon mastered the spells first, followed quickly by Arya and Oromis. Harry would admit to himself that it was more fun teaching the D.A. because they were his friends and peers, but it was uniquely rewarding to teach magic to three attentive students who got everything he taught nearly on the first try.

Arya would be occupied during the afternoon, so Harry did not bother flying home and apparated instead. Rhunon was waiting outside the antechamber again, so Harry brought her in. While she set up at the forge, Harry opened a door he hadn't been behind for a while. The pastures behind the door hit him with a wall of shit-scented air. Harry suppressed a scream only through great force of will.

The colossal expanded space which stretched for miles was crammed at the seams with every manner of farm animal. And coiled up contentedly on a clear patch of path between the pens was Blinky. But the last time Harry had seen Blinky, it was after the battle of Farthen Dur two weeks ago. She had been about the size of a python, then. Currently, her coils were larger around than two cows abreast, and Harry could not even fathom at how long she was. Her enormous emerald coils stacked up beneath her.

At the sound of the door sliding open, Blinky's head rose from the pile of snakeflesh and pointed towards him. The top of her head was nearly twenty feet in the air. A three foot forked tongue darted out of her mouth. §Harryyy!§ She exclaimed happily. §Itss been forever!§

Harry cleared his throat nervously. §Um, yess. I have been very bussy. You've grown very- uh, big.§

Blinky laughed snakily. §Ki-ki-ki. Yess, sso much food available.§ She moaned in an oddly sexual manner. §I only eat the oness which do not fit in the penss. It iss sstill enough to feed me ass much ass I can eat!§

§Would you like me to expand their penss?§ Harry asked tentatively. §The more of them there are, the more babiess they will produsse.§

§Yess pleasse!§ Blinky chirped happily. §The bigger I get, the more I need to eat. Or elsse, I will have to hibernate. But I like being awake and playing with Hedwig and teaching you mind-magic!§

Harry swallowed. If she needed an accelerating supply of food, he would have to keep on top of the situation or else risk having a very large, very serpentine problem on his hands. He noticed only then that Hedwig was perched atop Blinky's head, plucking vainly at her flaming white plumage. She sang a peppy tune and leapt off the basilisk's enormous skull, circling overhead.

It was the work of minutes to quadruple the already-colossal spaces the animals roamed, and minutes more to extend the fertility enchantments and feeding magic over the new area. As he led out a single cow to feed himself and Rhunon, he asked Blinky to mention whenever the pens got too full, so that he could make sure to expand them again. The expansion charm in the place was starting to strain him to expand further, but Harry reasoned that he simply needed to put in a bit of practice with spatial magic to solve that particular hurdle. Worst come to worst, he'd simply open up entirely new rooms for each different livestock and make sure the doorways were plenty big enough to fit Blinky's ever-expanding girth.

"Took you long enough," Rhunon remarked when he returned, leading a live cow.

"My pens were getting full, and Blinky took it upon herself to cull their numbers. Her new size just- surprised me."

"She must be grand indeed to surprise one who has met dragons." she observed.

Harry shook his head. "You have no idea." He tugged the cow along, pulling together four tables and merging them with transfiguration before levitating the great beast atop the surface. "Avada Kedavra," he snapped, snuffing the cow's life painlessly.

Rhunon watched him butcher the beast quickly and efficiently, employing a handful of spells which cut the process down from an hour to mere minutes. All the prime cuts went into a separate pile. The choice pieces went into another, and everything else got tossed into a great plastic bucket that Harry would grind up and toss into the feeding enchantments. He saved the skeleton–Harry knew bones had use in some less savoury magic and did not wish to waste anything–and cleared away the blood.

"That was quick," remarked Rhunon.

"No point in dragging out an icky process. There are so many cows and whatnot in the pasture that I can afford to eat only the very best parts. Everything else, I'll toss back into the feeding array for the pigs, or whoever else wants it, really." Harry scooped up the bags containing the prime and choice cuts and went to the kitchen. He was surprised when Rhunon followed.

"I would have thought you would get a start on forging. Arya tells me you are interested in nothing beyond metalworking."

"Arya knows only what the rest of the elves know, plus a bit extra for being a good friend," Rhunon announced. "Despite popular opinion, I do, in fact, know how to feed myself. And no elf will teach me how to prepare meat for eating, so I'll take what I can get. What are you going to make?"

"Cheeseburgers," Harry grinned. "Wash your hands and I'll show you how it's done."

Rhunon proved to be as attentive a listener as she was a teacher. Though Harry did not go so far as to make the burgers through her own hands, she watched intently and asked questions. Harry started by dropping the choice cuts into a meat grinder and producing ground beef. When he'd finished and cleaned the grinder, Rhunon expressed her interest in the device by disassembling it and poking at the internal parts.

"How do you get the parts to work this small? I would never be able to work metal this fine without magic, certainly not steel." She eyed the tiny blades.

Harry picked up one of them. "Most modern manufacturing replaces heat with force. Enormous rollers which can weigh thousands of pounds can flatten a sheet of metal more evenly than any human hand. Machine tooling can produce parts on the order of millimeters without error, though I used transfiguration to produce this. That particular branch of magic allows you to create and shape material from nothing to whatever exacting standard you hold in your mind when casting." Rhunon announced her intention to learn Transfiguration, then reassembled the grinder with surprising deftness and moved on to ingredient prep.

"Getting ahold of these spices was positively miraculous," Harry admitted. "Angela the Herbalist just happened to be in my path and her shop in Teirm had not only the generic food spices and exotic seeds, but most of the magical plants used in potion making. Salt is easy enough to produce with ocean water, and I made sure to stock up when we were on the shore of Teirm."

He showed Rhunon how to pack the ground beef into patties, what mixes of spices and herbs made for the best flavor, and what kinds of cheeses and vegetables worked best with cheeseburgers. Soon he had assembled a tray of crisp lettuce, onions, tomatoes, pickles, and the like. "The burger bun is an oft-overlooked yet crucial element of the dish," Harry said sagely. "I prefer a white bread bun with sesame seeds, buttered and toasted. It adds a bit of crunch. You don't want a bread so dense and heavy that you really have to chew it, nor one so light that you cannot taste it." Harry grabbed an old bag of buns from a stasis-cabinet, fresh as the hour they came out of the oven.

"I made these specifically for this a couple years ago, before I figured out Arya was a vegetarian." Harry pouted. "They're still good, I stored them in a cabinet with a useful bit of time-magic on it that keeps anything inside completely frozen in time." He pulled one from the bag and squeezed it experimentally. "They're still warm from baking."

Harry quickly sliced a block of cheddar into a pile of slices, then gestured with his wand to transfigure them into circles. "Cheese generally comes in blocks, so cutting them into squares causes problems on a circular burger. Some people just put the square on as is, which is usually fine. Before I had learned any magic, I would fold off the corners and make an octagon, but transfiguration lets us shape the cheese exactly as we feel convenient."

"Do you often use magic so frivolously?" Rhunon asked. The tone was curious, and Harry knew she meant no offense, but he laughed anyway.

"This is hardly the most frivolous use of magic I've done. Every time you cast a spell, it gets a bit easier casting magic in general. By using magic absolutely everywhere and for every task, I like to think I've improved a lot more than I would have if I only used magic to fight or when necessary."

Rhunon hummed but did not comment. "How do you cook burgers?"

"When my aunt and uncle made me cook for them, I did it with a skillet on the stovetop, but grilling is undoubtedly better. And grilling is an outside activity." He led Rhunon to the back door onto the patio and pushed it open, the tray of food floating behind them.

Fir the first time since he'd met her, Rhunon was struck dumb. Harry felt smug at drawing such a reaction from a three-thousand-year-old elf who'd seen everything. The enormous mountains of the Spine fell away from the high ridge where the cabin appeared to be perched on, an awesome view which no denizen of Du Weldenvarden could hope to see. Across the range to the west, the fiery orange circle of the sun sank lower in the sky, framed between two slopes. Dusky colors shot through the sky, casting yellowed light over the gleaming white snowcaps. Fresh mountain air filtered through the temperature wards over the patio, filling Harry's nose with sharp, crisp, and clean oxygen.

"How have you wrought this, wizard?" Rhunon asked in amazement. "I recognize this range, a half-forgotten memory from the millennium past."

"We're not actually in the Spine, rather I expanded the space within this area to match the topography of the real Spine, then used a combination of conjuration and illusory magic to give the terrain a realistic appearance. You couldn't dig down into the mountains, and if you flew straight up or out, you'd eventually be turned back by wards that prevent crashing into the walls. But the area spans many miles, so it hardly matters."

"This is magic unlike anything in Alagaesia," Rhunon marveled. "The applications for endangered species, habitats, hiding places…" she trailed off.

Harry smiled. "If you really want to learn how to do this, I can start teaching you wanded magic, but this kind of stuff takes years of experience." he frowned. "Though Oromis and Arya are learning at an alarming pace. Maybe only a year or two," he amended. "Still, we came here to make burgers, not gape at the Spine."

"Of course," she composed herself. "Burgers. Show me."

Harry pulled out the grill and dumped coals below, lighting them with a word and shutting the hood. "One day I am going to invent a time-acceleration spell," He announced. "Waiting for this to get hot will take about twenty minutes. In the meantime, We can make some ketchup."

They left the tray outside under stasis and returned to the kitchen where Harry summoned tomatoes, sugar, and vinegar and taught Rhunon the sacred art of ketchup-making. "There are other condiments which can go on burgers, namely mustard, relish, and barbecue sauce, but none of them are as good or as versatile as ketchup. Practically any meat can be made better by it, and some people are mad enough to put it on non-meat dishes like macaroni and cheese, or ice cream." Rhunon dabbed a finger in the bowl and put it in her mouth. Her face screwed up from the vinegar.

"This is the most versatile condiment?"

"Doesn't work by itself, really. It's quite strong, so you don't need all that much."

By then, the coals had heated up and the grill was ready. Rhunon watched Harry squirt a liquid onto the clumps of ground beef he called 'patties.' "Adding some fat to the burgers makes them taste better, but it's a balancing act. Usually, ground beef is not made from choice cuts, beef with marbling that already has lots of fat in it. I'm using a bit of olive oil here, which helps keep the juice in the burger and prevents the grilling from evaporating it all." He laid each burger out on the surface of the grill, a lattice of metal bars. Immediately, the sizzling of fat and the smell of cooking meat assaulted their noses.

Harry placed the last one down, then nodded to himself and shut the top. "We check on the burgers every so often, flip them, and then they'll be ready.

He busied himself making raspberry lemonade and enchanting the bottle he poured it in to automatically cast the refilling charm constantly. When his timer chimed, Harry opened the grill to flip the burgers, releasing a blast of heavenly smell.

"This is a long operation," Rhunon observed.

"It is," Harry confirmed. "Usually, people do the grilling with a bunch of friends. Everyone drinks way too much beer and gets drunk. If they're parents, they have their kids play in the lawn until the food is ready, and spend the time snidely bad mouthing each other with barbed compliments and pretending to be disdainful of each others' drunkenness."

Rhunon laughed delightedly. "That sounds like a feast with dwarves and elves." She smiled forlornly. "We haven't been able to leave the forest in so long. I still have fond memories of learning smithing from Futhork, a dwarf smith who went on to elevate dwarven metalworking from primitive to masterful. In those times, the lines between races were thinner, and the halls of Farthen Dur were always filled with elves and dwarves, laughing and feasting."

Harry picked off the cooked burgers and began assembling them, conjuring a squeeze bottle for the ketchup and shaking it vigorously. "Really? His name was Futhork?" His voice shook with suppressed mirth.

"Yes, he was a dwarf long ago, one of great renown. Your dwarvish companion could tell you all about him. Why?"

He snickered. "Futhork is the name my world had for the common tongue here."

Rhunon smiled amusedly. "Curious. What do they call our tongue?"

"Er, English, mostly." The most curious thing happened when Harry said it. The word seemed to resonate for unnaturally long in the air.

The elf choked. "Keep that to yourself, please. Like, don't even tell Oromis. The barmy rider would probably shit himself."

Harry frowned. "Okay." Her reaction was unusual, but he saw no harm in doing what she said. Bizarrely, the word had never come up in conversation, and Harry wasn't bothered by the prospect of keeping it that way. He changed the subject.

"When this war ends, do you plan on venturing back out into the world?"

She hummed pensively. "Perhaps. My passion is metallurgy, and there have been precious few advancements in the field for the past millennium. I would be interested to see what the other races make of the tools and techniques you have."

"When Galbatorix dies, I thought I might start a university for magic and science," Harry admitted. "I have the benefit of an entire civilization's worth of knowledge that I could share with Alagaesia, and it would give me a great excuse to build an enormous castle."

Rhunon smiled. "A good idea. I would enjoy learning what metallurgy your civilization has discovered, and experimenting with their techniques and what we have now."

Harry conjured a simple porcelain plate and put a burger on it, sliding it to the elf. "There you are."

The elf looked at the cheeseburger curiously. "Are you going to magic up utensils?"

He rolled his eyes. "That's rather the point of the bread; you don't need utensils. You washed your hands, anyways. Just grab it like this." Harry demonstrated with his own, opening his mouth wide to fit the tall burger between his teeth. "Mmh. There is something to be said for using high quality beef."

Rhunon grasped her burger, regarding it dubiously, before she brought it to her mouth and bit down. "Shit, this is good!" she exclaimed. "I haven't had meat in centuries. Stars, I missed this." It was amusing to Harry, watching the ancient elf positively lose her composure eating food he'd cooked for her. She finished her first one in record time before snatching another and savoring the taste. "Shame that making it takes so long. I'd eat this every day."

Harry cackled. "Stasis charms, Rhunon. Stasis charms. Tomorrow night I'll use magic to make like a thousand of these and stuff them all in a cupboard. Every time I want one, I'll take it out, and the magic will have kept it as fresh as the instant I put it in."

"You'll spoil me," she warned. "I've subsisted on simple vegetarian food for centuries, brought to me by others when I couldn't be bothered to leave my forge." Her eyes grew unfocused and far away. "The dwarves have the right of it. They eat what they like, and their feasts are raucous things filled with drunkenness and revelry. Nothing like the insufferable banquets choked by cloying politeness and exacting manners. I'm old, old enough to remember the time before elves were immortal, and back then we could party just as hard as the dwarves when we felt like it. If you go ahead and make your university, it had better not be one of those stuffy, erudite ones filled with snooty students and masters."

Harry laughed out loud. "Never," he swore. "Hogwarts was nothing like that. The staircases always moved around and caused delays, the paintings moved and talked with the widest variety of personalities you could imagine, and it had this poltergeist, Peeves, who would fly around making trouble of himself. He'd throw inkpots into the air, knock over stacks of parchments, chuck water balloons at people. Hogwarts liked to give its students a sense of awe. In a world where graduates went to the stuffy Ministry of Magic with its excessive bureaucracy, everyone appreciated how Hogwarts managed to make magic feel…magical."

Rhunon sipped the pink lemonade curiously. "Not bad," she said interestedly. Harry was unsure if she was referring to her drink or Hogwarts. "I am familiar with lemonade, and raspberry lemonade as well, though I have never had a glass quite this sweet."

After they had each eaten their fill, the pair of them made their way back to the workshop and recommenced their smithing. Over the course of several hours, Harry was able to further refine his technique, turning out swords slightly faster than before. Of course, Rhunon's growing familiarity with modern tools also accelerated her own pace, and by the end of the night, they had broken even. "Ha! You're in trouble now, wizard. I am still positively clumsy with these tools. You'd best hope you have a secret technique that will double your productivity, or I shall leave you in the dust."

"Of course," Harry fought to keep a sneer on his face. "My experimentation on my techniques has halved my productivity. It will be a trifle to leave you in the dust." Rhunon let out a guffaw of laughter.

"Though there is to be a feast tomorrow, the night after I shall teach you the sacred secrets of producing ice cream," Harry promised solemnly. "And with it, milkshakes. I hope you're ready to forge like you've never forged before, else we shall both grow as fat and round as a bowling ball, and twice as heavy."

"I would hold my breath until then, but alas, it is beyond even my prodigious talents to last that long." Harry and Rhunon shared another cheeseburger each before he saw her on her way.

He entered the bedroom to find Arya sitting upright on the bed, leaning against the headboard with one of Lily's old textbooks open to a passage on mitosis. Her eyes were locked on the page, reading avidly and at superhuman pace. When her darting eyes reached the end of the page, she flipped it so fast Harry winced, sure it would tear. "Good evening, dear." He murmured, slipping into bed and letting all his muscles relax bonelessly on the sheets.

Arya shut the book and placed it on the nightstand. "Good evening, Harry." She tossed aside the covers to reveal her state of dress–or lack thereof. "Has Rhunon worn you out, or do you have a bit more-" she bit her lip seductively, "-time to play?"

Harry scooted back and put his arm around Arya, drawing her in for a kiss. "Arya, it would take a monumental effort to wear me out for you."

An hour later, he had sated himself and his partner thoroughly, and ran through what he had accomplished with Rhunon that day. When he mentioned that between the food he'd been preparing and the fact that he was teaching the smith how to make it, she was sure to grow fat, Arya raised an eyebrow imperiously.

"Elves," she said archly, "Do not grow fat. We have much higher metabolisms than humans and thus we must eat more. We are stronger and faster than humans, that energy has to come from somewhere. And if by some miracle Rhunon did manage to get fat, it would be the work of a song to alter her body in the manner she desires."

"Hmm," he hummed. "How common is this? I know that gold is an unnatural eye color, which means Oromis likely changed his. Some elves have coloring that is egregiously unnatural, like brightly colored hair like blue or purple."

"We are called the Fair Folk. Everyone has changed something about themselves. Learning the spells to alter living things is something of a rite of passage among our people."

"Really? What did you change?"

Arya smiled sadly. "I used to have silver hair like my father. He had silver hair and violet eyes." Harry's ebullient mood died a quick and silent death. He tried to be sympathetic to Arya's desire to distance herself from her father, but the part of him that missed James Potter still rebelled against the thought.

"Why did you wish to distance yourself from your father?" Harry asked softly.

"It became too painful," Arya admitted. "He was killed when I was young, far younger than I am now. And when it happened, I hated Galbatorix and the Forsworn like nothing else. Every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of what they had stolen from me. That hatred was turning me into someone I didn't like. At the same time, mother was making her bid for becoming queen, and there was very little contest. I figured I would make myself look like her and forget the painful memories I did have of my father."

Harry sighed gustily. "Yeah, I kinda understand. My parents died before I really knew them, and my aunt and uncle raised me to think they were worthless, and by extension, I was too. But I always liked to fantasize about how they might be lying, and my mum and dad would come take me away from the Dursleys. Finding out they were murdered was a punch in the gut. After that, all I ever heard was about how much I looked like my father, with my mother's eyes."

Arya listened quietly. "Then, during my sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts, everything seemed to revolve around death. What kind of power it could grant, how my parents died and how Voldemort didn't. At the end of the road–after my own death, really, I got handed this title: Master of Death. At the time, God sort of baited me. She claimed true resurrection was possible, and that I could have my parents back if I learned how. I want to, Arya. I really want to get them back. But every bit of literature ever written on the subject says that death is permanent and final, beyond the reach of even magic, excepting some truly vile rituals and spells."

Harry shuffled and rolled on the bed so he was facing her, the side of his head in the pillow. "I spent a lot of time thinking on the subject. Why do humans seem okay with dying? Our society is structured around that inexorable fact; to live is to die one day. Maybe my own personal losses have skewed my perspective. Is it so terrible to think that Eragon should not have to experience the loss of his father? Nor you yours."

"It is a pleasant fantasy," Arya admitted. "But fantasies can be poisonous. Take care not to lose yourself in it."

Harry disagreed. "Fantasies are just goals to aspire to. For a man to walk on the moon was once a fantasy, until the United States poured billions of dollars and thousands of brilliant minds into the project. And lo and behold, Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the lunar surface."

"If there was no death, there would be no hope of dethroning Galbatorix," Arya pointed out. "No end to monsters like Durza and any number of evils."

"I disagree," Harry smiled. "Villains of the likes of Durza and Galbatorix would never be allowed to rise, not when the full might of every rider and dragon to ever live would bear down upon them" He sighed. "Who knows? Maybe God designed the universe so that intelligent life would discover immortality when their culture could handle it? Back home, Nicholas Flamel discovered a method of Alchemy which granted eternal youth and employed it for nearly seven centuries. Even non-magical science was making strides with the discovery of telomeres and theories for combating genetic degradation."

Stretching, Harry yawned widely. "I had a vision, you know? Not a real one like a prophetic vision or anything, just a wondrous idea of what I might be able to bring about."

"Tell me," she said softly.

"Do you remember back during the welcoming feast, I mentioned Horcruxes and how a ritual existed to give souls back their bodies? Oromis practically choked on his own tongue when he heard. I had this thought, that the riders left a bunch of not-evil Horcruxes behind and that we could use the Bone-Flesh-Blood ritual to bring them all back. A vibrant rainbow of dragons and their riders flying over Doru Areba in all its glory."

"A thunder," Arya murmured. "A group of dragons is called a thunder." Her eyes were far away, entranced with a vision that Harry's words had inspired in her.

Eragon was engrossed in a scroll Oromis had sent with him, The Lay of Umhodam. Its poetic structure and song-like stanzas forced Eragon to read it slowly to make sure he'd comprehended it right, which in turn gave him the time to really draw all the lessons it had to teach from the words.

Frustratingly, Eragon had noticed that things kept slipping out of his mind without discernible reason. His short-term memory did not feel so impaired, but when he stopped thinking about something, it vanished from his mind. Saphira had noticed and remarked concernedly on it when he was forced to reach out to her to remind himself of something he had learned the very same day.

He knew it was likely a symptom of the Alchemical dust he'd been using to keep himself awake and energized without sleeping, but for some reason, asking Harry why it happened or for a solution, his pride rebelled violently at the idea. I do not need to go groveling to him for everything that goes wrong in my life!

Eragon swallowed heavily. He knew as well as anyone in Carvahall that one didn't just take healing herbs without the instruction of a healer, lest they do more harm than good. He knew he wasn't qualified to make the decision, but he thought he could at least try to work around his problems before running off to ask Harry what he ought to do. Also, he admitted to himself, Harry will almost certainly forbid me from using the dust further, and I cannot afford to lose the extra time it has given me. Alagaesia cannot afford it.

His ruminations were interrupted when he heard heavy, unsteady footsteps down in the antechamber. Alarmed, Eragon rose from his desk.

What is it, little one? Saphira asked.

Nothing, hopefully. Let me see.

Nevertheless, Eragon thought caution would be prudent, even in the heart of his enemies' enemies. Strapping his hunting knife to his belt, he made his way down the carved stairwell. Inside he found a familiar dwarf. Orik was tottering unsteadily on his steel-shod feet, a flask sloshing in his unsteady hands and a strange expression of longinging on his face.

"W-woah!" he giggled, listing to the side alarmingly. One of his hands grasped at the air twice before he managed to snag one of the hands in the carved wooden statue on the pedestal in the antechamber. Eragon was struck with the bizarre observation that it looked as though they had clasped hands romantically.

Abruptly, he remembered his manners. "Orik!" He exclaimed in greeting. "How are you?" Eragon helped support the dwarf with his shoulder and led him to the stairs awkwardly. The dwarf would not take well to being carried (if Eragon even could, dwarves had the weight of two humans in their compact frames,) so their gait was awkward and unwieldy as Eragon attempted to lower his shoulder deep enough to support Orik without kneeling.

His back bumped into the arch of the antechamber, drawing a curse from Eragon. How on earth was he meant to get Orik up without carrying? Laughing a touch hysterically, he tried to lower his shoulder even further. "Bah!" Orik exclaimed. "I can mount theeshe dreadful sshtairs messhelf, Sshadeshlayer. I done it each and every day sshinshe coming to thish infernal playshe." He slapped away Eragon's arm and reached both hands up to the railing. Each step came nearly to the dwarf's waist. Grasping the railing, Orik yanked himself up with an aborted pull-up motion, only barely getting both his feet on the next stair. He tottered dangerously, during which Eragon hovered behind him, concerned, but Orik proved capable of keeping his footing.

The ascent was long and nerve-wracking for Eragon, but in the end, Orik made it with all his bones intact. Eragon helped him into a chair in the dining room, for that was the only surface to eat besides the desk which he was using. Eragon snatched up some leftover bread and nuts and filled a couple glasses of water. "What brings you here?" He asked, pushing the bowl of nuts between them and offering him a glass.

Orik pushed the water away. "Bah, I have a beverage of mine own, Sshadeshlayer. I am here becaushe I thought perhapsh you would enjoy my company." He shook the flask of what Eragon was nearly certain was liquor vigorously. "And perhapsh, thish as well." From the slurring words and tottering gait, Eragon was fairly sure it was good booze. Cautiously, he extended a hand and accepted the flask, turning it up and taking a gulp.

The liquor burned like ice down his throat, leaving a cool trail down his throat and suffusing his body with warmth. Shivering, Eragon took another quaff before handing the flask back to Orik. "This is incredible!" he marveled. "What is it?"

"Faelnirv," Orik proclaimed. "A mosht marvelloush beverage. It grantsh thee the gift of eloquence. Wordssh shwim off mine tongue like sshoals of fissh." Eragon was pretty sure he had already drank some at the welcome feast, and certainly did not remember the powerful kick Orik's flask had. The dwarf shook the flask, a fleeting look of disappointment at the much reduced level of the container, before taking a mouthful himself.

"How are you enjoying Ellesmera?"

"Dreadful, sshimply ponderous, these doldrums. The elvess are frushtratingly polite, there are no fightssh to be had, none save thoshe in the yard, where I have been lain on mine rear each and every bout. Why musht Hrothgar sshend me to thish leafy exile, where all I may do ish drink and grow fat, and without meat, at that!" Orik scowled and drank. "I am a third- nay, fifth wheel here. Utterly ushelessh."

"I'm sure that's not true," Eragon refuted. "Surely there is some hobby or skill you might pursue? You could learn much from the elves, in nearly any field of interest."

"Aye, I could sshmith, but why should I make fine sshteel arms for elves who shall dishcard them in favor of shorsherer's shwords like the wizard'ss. Anything I can do, they do better."

"I know how that feels," Eragon muttered.

Orik gave a shout of mirth. "You shee? Ushelessh, I am." He grabbed a cashew from the bowl and popped it in his mouth, chomping down deliberately.

Eragon grabbed a handful of the assorted nuts and chewed. "You miss Farthen Dur?"

"Very much, Sshadeshlayer. Though lessh the dull and dreary tunnels, more the village of my home. I have an intended back home. Hvedra," he sighed dreamily.

"She is Durgrimst Ingeitum?" Eragon asked politely.

"Of courshe!" Orik said indignantly. "Do you think that I would marry outshide mine own clan? Hvedra ish my third cousin, removed some infernal amount upon Hrothgar's side of mine family. She has calves as shmooth as shteel, cheeksh as round as applesh, and just as red." The dwarf continued to expound dreamily on Hvedra's many wonderful qualities while Eragon listened awkwardly. Before long, he was nodding off in the chair muttering, "Hvedra, Hvedra."

Exasperated, Eragon bundled the incredibly heavy dwarf up and carried him over to his own bed where he deposited him. He glanced forlornly at the desk, but Saphira caught him.

Sleep, little one. There will be time aplenty to learn what you must. Your mind needs rest.

Grudgingly, Eragon dumped the rest of his chemically-granted power into the necklace that marked his association with Du Vrangr Gata, and curled up beneath Saphira's wing on the soft pillowy ground of the hollow Vrael's dragon once slept in.

When Harry arrived at the Crags the next morning, it was with an enormous glass cylinder in tow. Arya had recognized both the cylinder and its contents with excitement when he had lugged it out of the tent.

"Good morning, Harry, Arya. I presume your container holds something of relevance-" Oromis's voice trailed off. "Is that-?" Grinning, Harry nodded.

"Yup. It is. It took a lot longer than human, elvish, or dwarvish limbs, both on account of its size and magical nature. I suspect reattaching it will be similarly difficult, but certainly within my abilities."

Oromis peered in amazement through the glass surface. Suspended inside, an enormous, golden foreleg shone dully through the liquid. Glaedr and Saphira both trampled over slowly. Glaedr lowered his neck and sniffed the container curiously. "It does not smell like me," he remarked.

"It shouldn't, else I would have sealed the container improperly and the leg could get infected before it can be attached to your body and immune system. Do you want me to put it on now?"

"You can do so properly, without employing your 'clean room?'" Glaedr asked cautiously. Harry nodded. "Then I would." The metal cap on the container popped off its rubber seal. Glaedr gave the open container another expectant sniff. "It smells like dragon," he confirmed. "Though it is faint. What is the liquid it floats in?"

"It's a compound designed for keeping living tissue in suspended animation. To keep a living organ or limb from dying, you can either keep it very cold–but not frozen–or use this stuff. Because it is not attached to a living body, nothing is eating food to keep the limb from starving, or breathing to keep its cells oxygenated. Coldness suspends all those processes, but it has its own drawbacks; namely shelf life. The liquid inside kills any bacteria or infection, respirates the cells, feeds them, and prevents degradation and muscle atrophy." Harry drew the Elder Wand and flicked it at the container, letting the heady rush of power flow through him.

"Please stand as straight as you can with your other three limbs," he instructed Glaedr. "We cannot let the open end touch the ground." The great golden dragon obeyed, assuming a rigid, tall stance with all three of his limbs locked. "I'm going to clean the area on your body with a rather harsh spell, don't let the stump touch the ground or I'll have to do it again," Harry warned.

"I am prepared."

"Scourgify!" Though Glaedr kept himself generally clean and his scales always gleamed, after the scouring spell, they positively sparkled. Harry directed a glob of the viscous, bluish liquid in the cylinder to smear over the wounded area, sterilizing it while simultaneously invigorating the tissue around the wound. Next, the golden leg drifted up so that its open end was touching the stump on Glaedr's shoulder.

Harry took a deep breath. "Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur," he chanted. The Elder Wand thrummed in his hand, lending its own might to the draining spells. Oromis watched silently as Glaedr's golden scales flowed to meet each other, bridging the gap between the new limb and the old wound. He followed that up with the bone-mending spell to properly connect the joint. Harry rummaged in his backpack for a moment before producing a vial.

"This is the human dose of nerve-regen potion for a severed spinal cord. Since you're a dragon and thus larger, it likely wouldn't fix your spine were it severed. Hopefully, the dosage will work out for a smaller limb like your foreleg." Carefully, he tipped the vial down the enormous maw Glaedr held open helpfully. "It takes a while to reconnect, especially when you haven't had the limb in question for years. Just keep trying to move it, and eventually your mind will realize your foreleg is back and reconnect with it."

"It feels…strange. Thank you, Harry." Glaedr bowed and bumped his snout up against Harry's forehead. Oromis stood silently observant, but with a genuine smile on his face.

Lessons that day mostly revolved around the midsummer festival. What to expect, how to participate, and how to ensure the protective enchantments Oromis had given them were properly cast and in effect.

"Statistically, the majority of elves' birthdays fall during the spring months. This trend occurs because the midsummer festival provides an enormous boost to health, growth, and fertility. Eragon, Harry, you must keep in mind during this next week that elves are not human and thus, our culture is different as well. There are many similarities, but one of the chief differences that will quickly become apparent is that we do not practice marriage or monogamy, not as humans understand it. Instead, elves' greatest commitment stems from having a child together." Oromis tapped a finger on the table, then traced characters with it on its surface.

"Nor do most elves understand the human concept of modesty. We all look exactly as we wish, eliminating self-confidence as a factor. Indeed, many elves enjoy discovering what others' reactions to them are. As Ellesmera is the capital, most of its residents are the more serious, dignified type, but the midsummer festival and the approaching Blood-Oath Celebration draw the vast portion of our population. Therefore you must expect to encounter elves engaging in tantric rituals, songs, and dances. I expect you all to hold yourself to the strictest standards, and that you will not shame yourself and by extension, us with your behavior." He gestured to Glaedr, then himself.

Eragon bowed stiffly, cheeks red. "Yes, Ebrithil." Harry and Arya were quick to mimic him.

"Good. Now, today I shall introduce you to the basics of earth-singing. In anticipation of the festival, it will be an excellent time to practice the skill. The abundance of energy flowing through the forest will make songs of shaping practically free in terms of power." Oromis entered his hut and retrieved four pots of loamy earth and a cloth packet of seeds. "This is normally a costly art. When you grow a flower, you must provide it with the energy it needs to draw nutrients, water, and sunlight from its surroundings and turn it into plant matter." He removed a seed and pushed it into the soil.

"When exercising this skill, remember to delineate in as much detail as possible what you wish the result to look like. Anything not specified will assume the characteristics of the seed you grow your work from. For beginners, it helps to try and turn a white rose red, or a red apple green and the like. By isolating a variable and attempting to turn it from one color to another that occurs in nature, the exercise is greatly simplified. True masters can take a blade of grass, and turn it into a tree."

Oromis began to sing a melody Harry had heard from other elves in Ellesmera, likely a popular or well-known song. It took only seconds before a shoot of green erupted from the pot and grew a bud, which yawned open into white petals. The daisy looked healthy to Harry's experienced eye, learned in Petunia's garden. Then, before his eyes, the petals turned a sky blue which darkened into navy, then black. The black shifted to red, pink, orange, yellow.

"This technique is effective on any living thing, and has a storied history among our people. I understand you are familiar with the Menoa tree, which was created through employment of this magic. The closer the Blood-Oath Celebration draws, the more exotic elves will begin to arrive and give you a better understanding of what is possible to do. We have been known to have claws, fangs, fur, and feathers." Harry hummed curiously.

"Do not use this on yourself until you have a good enough grasp on your own anatomy that you could reproduce it should you make a mistake. Even then, practice on birds and beasts before attempting to effect any change in yourself. A foolish miscast on the heart, head, or lungs could kill you just as certainly as a sword through the skull," warned Oromis. "Take note of what increases or decreases a species' viability. Think about what your change might mean for it. By giving yourself fur, you remove the ability to sweat away excess heat, and must devise a way to control your body temperature. It is important to consider what your changes might do to whatever life you practice on, lest you doom them to a slow and painful death."

Oromis tugged the tiny drawstring pouch as wide as it would go and shook a dozen or so seeds onto the tabletop. "These are white daisy seeds. See what you can make of them."

Harry picked one up and poked it into his pot with a forefinger. Encouraging its growth was easy; that was what the seed wanted. Even if he did nothing, given even a cursory amount of care, the seed would grow to become a daisy. Changing its nature was very different, and rather more challenging.

He knew enough about plants to rightly conclude that green petals would be the most efficient, since green was the reflection of useless green light that occurred when a plant absorbed only the red and blue light useful for photosynthesis. Weeds which were entirely green generally had the advantage over more beautiful flowers with vivid colors. Why am I trying to make a super-weed? Harry wondered.

Instead of a generic daisy, Harry fixed the image of a rose in his mind. He recalled every detail he could remember from gardening at Number 4, collating that information into a sort of blueprint for what a rose ought to look like. He began his song by simply coaxing the shoot from the soil. The moment it did, Harry switched to describing exactly what he wanted from the flower; describing its characteristics, coloring, species name, anything descriptive he could recall.

Despite the depth of detail he gave in his song, Harry's daisy wound up a sort of hybrid between the two. It had red petals that formed a stiffer, more conical rim, but it was still too loose to really look like a natural rose. Further, the pistles resembled the dense yellow center of a daisy more than a rose.

"An admirable first attempt," Oromis commented. "You intended to produce a rose?" Harry nodded. "I will admit that even I was unfamiliar with some of the words you used, but I can guess at their meanings well enough. You started off well, coaxing the seed into a stem, but your efficacy diminished when you began commanding instead of convincing. By fighting directly against the daisy's nature, it resisted your attempts to turn it. For an unfamiliar flower, you must sway it to your will. However, I selected the daisy partly because its true name in the Ancient Language is known. Next attempt, when you command the flower to change its nature, address it by daisy, and you gain absolute authority over it."

An uncomfortable idea popped into Harry's head. "What about people?"

Oromis nodded. "Even people. All sentient beings have at least two names; one given by their parents to use every day, and another in the language of truth which perfectly describes the core of their being. In a kinder age, no one concealed their true names, but today you must take great pains to never allow others to know it. For knowing one's true name is to have absolute power over them. You can trivially compel or bind someone's behavior with it.

"Guessing true names is one of Galbatorix's greatest and most dangerous skills. It is said that we elves instinctively know our own true names, and can guess the Names of others more easily, which is correct. However, Galbatorix pairs his unlikely skill with another, far more dangerous ability. He is a master of invading minds. To guess someone's Name, elves must either know someone intimately, or else examine their mind deeply."

"Did he enslave the old riders to work against you?" Eragon asked. Oromis shook his head. "Not the riders. But any powerful servant of his, certainly. The Forsworn were all slaves in that manner, as are all his governors, officials, and commanding officers in his army."

Harry knew there was more to the story. He had never seen Arya's face so blackened with rage as it was then. Since living around Dumbledore and his countless secrets, Harry had developed a decent sense for when someone was not telling him everything. It told him that Arya and Oromis knew an important secret that they weren't sharing. Thankfully, Harry was more patient than he used to be, and did not push either of them on the matter.

A thought occurred to him then, a guess as to why the elves hated Galbatorix so much. Perhaps even one that went deeper than their love of dragons and the many elven riders who died in the Fall. "Did he enslave elves?"

Arya's visage darkened. "Only once."

Oromis looked similarly grim. "When you flew over lake Arwen, you may have passed near an old city, named the same."

"I think Saphira or I would have noticed," Harry frowned. "Or wasn't it on the shore?"

"It was," Oromis confirmed, extra inflection on the latter word. "You know that our capital city used to be Ilirea, now Uru'baen and Galbatorix's seat of power. We left for Du Weldenvarden long before the Fall, and the city was already occupied primarily by humans when it began. In that time before the Fall, elves, riders, humans, and even the insular dwarves lived together. Remember, at this time, the riders did not believe Galbatorix to be a threat. We had ambassadors and diplomats among King Broddring's courtiers, similar to the dwarves. Among them was the daughter of Arwen's governor, Vithe, and her mother Vallu."

He sighed sadly. "I lived on Vroengard by that time, so I have only the accounts of others to go by. Galbatorix announced his intention to overthrow the riders by massacring King Broddring and his court. Back then, Durza was the master in their relationship. He unleashed some horrifying magic that killed all the humans present, then murdered all but a single dwarf, Vithe, and her mother. Durza tortured them both so that Galbatorix might break their minds more easily. The dwarf was sent to shatter Isidar Mithrim, though he was intercepted. But Galbatorix did not take the chance that Vithe might throw off his thrall. Instead, he tortured her mother until Vithe allowed him through her mind and he managed to guess her true name. He sent her back to Arwen compelled her to commit suicide by overuse of magic in the middle of a crowded square that killed thousands. She used a similar spell to Thuviel when he turned himself into an explosion that rendered Doru Areba uninhabitable.

"What is left can be missed since all the towers collapsed. Virtually every elf who was in the square or the buildings directly surrounding it were killed, the collapse of the buildings killed further hundreds. Many elves who remained in an attempt to rescue the buried or injured died later from the poisoned air, food, and water. Ultimately, the city was abandoned. Since then, every elf at risk of capture has killed themselves rather than allow Galbatorix to capture them."

A heavy silence fell over the table. "Yeah, that's unsurprising, in a horrific way," Harry admitted. "Voldemort used to Imperius people into killing their own family, sabotaging the government, and committing other acts of terror. I think the only reason he didn't just make them cast Fiendfyre was because the ICW would have invaded Britain immediately if he did."

Oromis frowned. "I am unfamiliar with Fiendfyre or the ICW."

"Fiendfyre is a fire spell, more accurately ritual, and the most dangerous piece of magic not proscribed by the Interdict of Merlin. To cast it is to summon sentient hellfire from a fiery dimension that will consume everything it comes across with deliberate intelligence. Unlike normal fire or even generic cursed fire which is usually impossible to put out without a specific counter or otherwise has some property which makes it more dangerous, There is no counter to Fiendfyre beyond the caster maintaining control of and deliberately choking it of magic. It feeds off magic and can continue to burn indefinitely until there is no more magic to fuel it. It can think and plan with actual intelligence how to break free from the caster and consume everything, which makes it uniquely dangerous since crushing its will is not always enough to maintain control over it. Since it feeds off magic, it invariably attempts to turn on the caster and consume them, thus setting it free to rampage."

"A prurient reason to invade Britain, then," Oromis mused in faint horror. "The ICW?"

"Stands for the International Confederation of Wizards," Harry answered promptly. "They are the global governing body for magic users and magical species. Their highest duty is enforcing the Statute of Secrecy, a ritualized law that keeps everyone in the world who is ignorant of magic separated from the wizards. They pay lip service to maintaining peace and good governance across their constituent nations like the United Nations supposedly does in the muggle world, but they have been known to treat with Dark Lords so long as they receive assurances that whatever regime change happens, the Statute will be upheld."

"And rampages of sentient hellfire jeopardize the Statute?" Arya asked wryly.

"This magic falls under the category of 'never mention until Galbatorix is dead,' Harry." Oromis warned. "Fiendfyre-suicide is the sort of tactic he would certainly avail himself of should the Varden's campaign prove more successful than he hopes. He has plenty of disposable magicians to employ for such purposes."

Eragon spoke up. "If someone's true name can compel their behavior, has no one ever thought to use Galbatorix's name against him?"

Oromis nodded. "A good question. The answer is that they have. Galbatorix has a Name, as every living thing does. He knows it is a weakness, and has prepared accordingly. It is no great secret, three elves and a rider successfully guessed it at different times, but he has cast a spell of some sort that instantly kills whoever speaks it, wherever they are. All four of those who correctly guessed it were examined post-mortem, and no one could discern what exactly killed them."

Harry frowned. "That seems stupid." Oromis raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Suppose the rider guessed his Name on Vroengard, and Galbatorix was in Uru'baen at the time. Wouldn't his magic kill him trying to reach across thousands of miles to slaughter someone through their wards? And presumably with an expensive spell if it goes through all known protections and Galbatorix doesn't use it to simply execute every member of the Varden. The cost of casting magic across that distance would be immense."

"It certainly is," Oromis mused darkly. "But then, we already know that he has access to power far beyond any normal means."

"Why is that?" Eragon asked curiously. "No matter how efficient you are at converting your body's chemical energy to magic, his physical form should give him a hard cap on the upper bounds of his power."

"I'm not convinced that is the case," Harry disagreed with Eragon, before Oromis could answer. "He doesn't know how to expand space, so he can't have a grove of huge trees feeding him power, but he could simply dump energy into every gem and precious stone he could get his hands on. That, combined with eating hearty meals constantly and draining himself to exhaustion, he could produce the illusion of being some impossibly powerful magician, could he not?"

"He could," Oromis allowed. "But we know that it is not so. During the Fall, both Galbatorix and the Forsworn were incredibly wasteful with their magic, and Galbatorix himself frequently cast enormously powerful spells too quickly to be fueling his magic solely by himself and simply stockpiling it. Not even his forcefully bonded dragon, Shruikan accounts for the magic he threw around carelessly."

"What about sorcery?" Harry proposed. "I only know that Trianna practiced it, it's dreadfully dangerous, and can result in the caster becoming a Shade if done improperly. If its rewards are great enough to justify the risk, they must be incredible."

"Though Galbatorix almost certainly has dabbled with the unsavory practice, he would not find it to his liking," the rider lectured. "Sorcery revolves around spirits; enslaving them for power or coaxing them to do your bidding. I have practiced it myself, and thus it is from personal experience that I say he would never rely on it for the majority of his power."

"Why?" Eragon asked curiously.

"It is unreliable. Virtually nothing is known about spirits. They do not think like any sentient being in Alagaesia. They exist on a separate plane of reality that intersects haphazardly with our own, and experience the world through completely alien eyes. Galbatorix would never rely on a spirit helping him voluntarily, and enslaving one is incredibly difficult to do for even just the short period of time needed to siphon power from it, let alone having it at his beck and call for eternity.

"Generally, a sorcerer first casts a certain spell to summon what spirits answer their call, then negotiates or enslaves whoever answers. If they negotiate, some exchange is made and both parties uphold their bargain, typically power from the spirit. What they ask in return is always varied and never straightforward, though they will not or cannot claim a life. After negotiation and the exchange, the caster can simply allow the spirit to leave of their own power or do as they are wont, or employ the second spell which all sorcerers know to banish it."

"And if they choose to enslave it?" Arya asked.

"Then they must devise a trap to contain it themselves. Whatever method is used, it never works twice. Upon that spirit's departure, all spirits seem to instantly know what magic was used to trap them, and thus cannot be caught by it again. The riders found that two people casting the same trap simultaneously worked, but they had to both be banished within seconds, else the latter would break free. The caster then siphons as much power as possible from the spirit as quickly as possible, then banishes them before the spirit breaks free, else the spirits enslave the caster, and they become a Shade." He turned expectantly to his students.

"Why might those limitations make sorcery an unattractive option to Galbatorix?"

"Every time he runs out of energy, he has to run the risk of being enslaved," Eragon answered promptly.

"Good. Yes. We are fortunate that Galbatorix does not rely on sorcery, for as bad as he is now, it would be infinitely worse were he to become a Shade. Another?"

"The power he gets is not bound to himself," Arya answered. "Assuming he fills every gem he can find with energy, anyone who finds those gems can use his power against him."

"Correct. Galbatorix is somewhat paranoid and never trusts his servants with his power unless they are sworn to him in the Ancient Language and he knows their Name. Harry?"

"Is it unreliable?" Harry asked. "Whatever he does to summon spirits, must they heed his call? The spirits have some way to share information. Presumably, they have reasons besides treating with sorcerers to visit our plane of existence. If he kept enslaving them, eventually they would stop coming?"

"A good supposition," said Oromis, "But not entirely accurate. While spirits do not always heed our call when we summon them, not even the mightiest sorcerer could hold them indefinitely. Once trapped, a spirit will spend every instant of its imprisonment trying to break free and have its vengeance. Galbatorix would fear too many of them coming. There are plenty of cautionary tales of legendary sorcerers who choose to enslave their spirits, summoning them one time too many and being overwhelmed by hundreds of vindictive, powerful alien beings."

I wonder if being Master of Death gives me any extra authority or power over these spirits, Harry mused. "So to recount, sorcery is unsuitable because Galbatorix cannot secure its power perfectly, he has to consistently run the great risk of becoming a shade, and eventually, the spirits will get fed up with him and flatten him, no matter his power."

"Correct. There are likely other factors, but those are the most relevant. The title of Sorcerer is not meant to label a magician as particularly proficient with a branch of magic, but rather a title of recognition; that they have successfully treated with a spirit and lived through it. Sorcery is not meant to be a reliable source of power but a singular boost in power to accomplish a particular task which might otherwise be impossible."

"Then what is the source of Galbatorix's power?" Eragon asked frustratedly. Oromis remained uncharacteristically silent. "You know it," he suddenly marveled. "Why not tell us?"

"The secret to Galbatorix's power is one the elves and dragons have kept as tightly as we have been able, in anticipation of exactly what the Mad King has become. That is not to say we shall never reveal it to you, simply that you are not prepared for it, now."

"Yes, Ebrithil," Eragon said in frustration. He knew that if Oromis decided to keep silent on a matter, no amount of cajoling would sway him.

"And you, Harry?" Oromis said questioningly.

Harry scowled. "I know, I know. It's probably some incredibly evil thing like Horcruxes that you just don't want to mention. In this case, I have some sympathy because now I understand the implications of Horcruxes; they are a means of cheap, total immortality that can be fiendishly difficult to undo, and also are only an option for the unrepentantly evil. Proliferating the secret would mean an outbreak of immortal dark wizards that prove nearly impossible to put down."

"So you believe it was right for the knowledge of Horcruxes to be kept secret even from you until you had the wisdom to understand why such knowledge was proscribed?" Oromis asked.

"Yeah," he grumbled. "But Dumbledore did it foolishly." Harry turned up to the sky. "Hear that, old man? If the ring killed you before you got around to the point of all those lessons, Voldemort would have really been immortal, and you'd have taken the secret of his defeat to your grave."

Arya and Oromis looked at Harry curiously. "You are addressing a man who died on another world?"

He crossed his arms defensively. "What? Eragon has all sorts of superstitions. Why can't I behave in a logical way following the fact that I know as a certainty that the dead watch over us? Don't change the subject," Harry accused. "I'm only giving you a pass to keep your secret because it's pretty obvious that at least Arya knows it, which means Islanzadi knows it too, so your information won't be lost with your death. And I just made sure your death won't come about any time soon. But I will press you a lot more as any confrontation with Galbatorix draws nearer."

Oromis's face did not move, nor did he betray any outward emotion, but Harry thought he read the faintest trace of respect and approval in him. "You will learn it when you are ready and no sooner," he announced. "That is why I am the teacher, and you, the student. Now, let us move on from these grim topics and resume our lessons on earth-singing."

The rest of the lesson, Oromis quickly diverted any questions relating to Galbatorix's source of power while instructing them all on the basics of earth-singing. Despite Arya's familiarity with the technique (she had already employed it on herself,) they all managed to learn more on the subject. By the end of the lesson, both Eragon and Harry were able to produce individual plants they were familiar with.

Harry was glad that Eragon's skills were catching up to him. Harry's experience with botany and flora consisted of suburban gardening, while Eragon was a seasoned and skilled woodsman capable of surviving and successfully hunting prey in the notoriously harsh Spine. He thought that it was really good for Eragon to find out where his skills laid, and discover what his talents were. Ron Weasley had always had trouble figuring out where he fit in, and it probably didn't help that Harry was engendering such feelings of inadequacy in Eragon when he was already under enormous pressure to be a sort of messiah to Alagaesia, especially not when Vanir already spent so much time verbally tearing down his confidence.

Once Oromis's lessons for the day concluded, they both agreed that with Islanzadi's feast in mere hours, they would settle for an abbreviated lesson in wand magic that day.

"Since we are pressed for time, I won't bother teaching you any new spells. Instead, I'd like to follow up on your experiences with the Imperius Curse. How many of you managed to maintain the curse until now?" asked Harry.

Oromis inclined his head. "I have." His rat came scurrying out of his hut and scampered across the grass to the base of the table. The elf scooped him up and set him on the table gently.

"I lost the connection during my meditation in the glade," Arya admitted.

"I lost it sparring with Vanir," Eragon confessed glumly.

"Not to worry," Harry said cheerfully, "my curse broke when I was metalworking with Rhunon. You beat me by at least six hours. The only thing to do is try again. Oromis, did you do the meditation thing since you cast it? 'Cause if not, I would be curious to see if someone who has mastered the exercise is capable of maintaining the connection. It might be simply impossible to hold it while maintaining the passive tranquility that the exercise demands."

"I did not," Oromis affirmed. "But I shall do so tonight, and inform you of my findings."

"Excellent!" Harry beamed. "I don't know how you used your rats, but I set mine as a sentry, watching the entry to the royal suites. I saw Arya enter before she came to speak to Rhunon and I a moment later, which confirms my theory that the Imperius is an incredible advantage for spying. I was also able to touch your mind through the rat, though you were close enough to me that I might have accidentally used myself and not the rat. Further testing is required."

Withdrawing his own rat, Harry set it on the table. "If you didn't bring your rats today, make sure to do it tomorrow and for the rest of the time we spend practicing with them. None of us know the limits of this spell, so do make sure to experiment. Imperio!" he jabbed his wand at the rat sharply. The familiar connection bloomed in his mind. Effortlessly subduing the rat's will, Harry placed his wand on the table and had the rat grasp it with its short limbs.

Placing its plastic cage in front of the wand, Harry took direct control of the rat, looking through its eyes and feeling the warm wood of his wand beneath its limbs. Wingardium Leviosa! He thought, hard. Somewhat disappointingly, the cage stayed stationary. "Damn," Harry lamented, "that would have been so overpowered."

"You cannot cast magic through the rat?" Arya queried.

"Nope. I know it's possible with other wizards, though. Whenever we get back to the Varden, we can do some testing, I suppose. I'm curious if the Imperius supersedes an oath in the Ancient Language."

Oromis rubbed his chin. "An interesting theory. By compelling another, would the Ancient Language consider the body of the person who swore it or the mind which drove it," he mused. Folding his fingers, he glanced at his students.

"If you are amenable, I would suggest ending your lesson early today, so that we may all prepare for tonight's feast. Arya will be able to help you procure appropriate garments," he addressed Harry, "And the same shall be brought to you, Eragon."

Harry agreed easily, and they all went their separate ways.

Immediately upon returning home, Harry posted his rat (he named it Remy) outside the doorway, conjuring him a little bellhop uniform and standing him on a little shelf he stuck to the wall. Inside, he hopped into the shower and cleaned himself thoroughly before toweling off. Wearing boxers and an undershirt, Harry trawled through his closet for something to wear.

Like the many copies of each schoolbook he had brought with him across dimensions, a veritable mountain of clothing for both sexes in all ages came with him. With a bare application of magic across it all, every garment would shrink or grow to fit him as if it were tailored by the best. He had found that enchantment in a book that almost certainly came from the Potters and their affinity for crafts.

Now they all stretched on hangars and folded in shelves that reached twelve feet up in a brightly lit closet that magically extended endlessly on as necessary. There wasn't much semblance of organization, but Harry thought that at least having everything visible was pretty good. He'd get around to sorting and indexing it all with his computer, eventually.

"Did you make all this?" Arya's curious voice came from the open door. The carpet and abundance of cloth in the room made the acoustics of her voice sound soft and the sound did not resonate or echo in the slightest. Harry turned to see that she was also wearing only underclothes, and took a brief moment to grin lecherously at her. He noticed Arya doing the same.

"Nope. I've never mended a piece of cloth in my life," he swore solemnly. "My Aunt and Uncle wouldn't be caught dead mending their clothes, and I think they must have gotten off on making me walk around wearing Dudley's old ruined clothes with holes and such in them." Arya's eyes flashed angrily.

"They did not deserve children."

"Yeah, Dudley was hardly the most well-adjusted kid," Harry admitted ruefully. "Anyway, what do the rich and stuffy elf nobles wear to big important feasts thrown in their honor?"

Arya sniffed. "They wear robes of rich sable and silk with intricate embroidery in gold and silver thread. What do yours wear?"

Harry hummed. "At least yours aren't immediately apparent to be a bunch of pooheads. The Wizengamot all wear plum robes and those funky three-pointed hats while in session, and probably generic rich people clothes when they are not. Muggles do it differently," he mused. "Man or woman, virtually every senator, councilman, congressman, president, and minister wear suits." He pulled an example from its folded cubbyhole and let it unfold from the shoulders. The creases magically disappeared, leaving him holding a pristine black suit jacket.

She examined the garment critically. "It is dignified," she admitted, "but simplistic. If you want to wear this formally, start wearing it during less important events, and it shall grow into the public eye. For tonight, we need something a bit more…ostentatious. What did you wear to formal wizarding functions?"

"I got killed when I was seventeen, remember?" Harry said wryly. "I only ever went to one formal function, the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament." He poked his wand dismissively down the closet and summoned the garment in question. The flowing emerald robes he had worn billowed as they flew towards him. Deftly, he snatched the collar out of the air and held it up at arm's length.

"This is…acceptable," Arya admitted slowly. "If a bit simplistic." Harry rolled his eyes.

"Molly Weasley bought this since I couldn't get out to go shopping before term started that year, and her family is notoriously poor. I expect this thing was fairly cheap. Still, at least it doesn't have any lurid decals or animated shiny baubles." Arya looked horrified at the very notion.

"For tonight, it will have to do," she announced. "What sort of jewelry do you prefer?"

"Why Arya, are you proposing to me?" Harry teased. "Human men traditionally exchange rings when they marry." Arya poked him.

"No, I am asking if you want to flaunt your endless wealth in front of the elven court. Bracelets, necklaces, rings, and such."

"Oh." Harry looked crestfallen. "No, men don't wear jewelry except for their wedding rings and maybe a necklace with the symbol of their religion." He gave her a sly look. "Why? Do you think I'd look dashing in a crown?"

Arya gave him a gentle shove. "If you want to look the pauper, fine. Your robes are less than impressive, and I know you're filthy rich, so you might want to find a way to show it off. Neither of us were expected to make a grand appearance at the welcoming feast. We had just come off the road and before that, the invasion. This feast is to be in your honor, and showing your financial power is a good way to earn allies."

"Why do I need to make allies?" Harry frowned. "I understood that we're practically guaranteed unanimous support for this war. Elves hate Galbatorix like crazy."

"Elves hate Galbatorix, they do not love you," she corrected. "Assuming we manage to depose the Black King, unless you plan to leave Alagaesia immediately, there will undoubtedly be something you want support for, and this will help you achieve it. Everything becomes easier when you are surrounded by people who want to help you. Do not throw that away because you like being rude to dignitaries."

Harry assumed a very put upon expression. "Fine. What do you suggest I do to prove I'm unbelievably rich. I may not be able to create gold-" yet, he thought privately, "-but I can make gems which are arguably more valuable for their practical use in magic. Any suggestions?"

"Do you have any ornate lapel pins?" Arya asked. "Or something to that effect. If you are not wearing jewelry, you must make it up with something else." She paused for a moment to think. Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she stuffed the bundle of emerald cloth into Harry's hands. "Fine. Tonight we will just have to make a mediocre impression. But after that, you will spend a couple hours with me before you meet with Rhunon, touring Ellesmera with the finest clothes gold and gems can buy, and meeting with the most important people here."

Amusedly, Harry agreed and crawled into the dress robes. He supposed that Arya had a point, but trying to make a good impression implied that he had to keep that impression, which meant no more poking fun at the stuffy nobles. That probably wouldn't be too much of a problem. The elf ladies and lords seemed much more bearable than he was used to from the short time he spent around them already. Harry promised himself that he would engage in at least a bit of tomfoolery when he got to Surda, if only to prevent himself from becoming stuffy.

"Do you have any clothes lined up, or do you want to peruse my selection?" He led Arya back to the entryway and into the female section.

"I suppose I could humor you." She began looking through the countless dresses on their hangers, examining and then sliding each along to get a better look at the next. "This is a curious amount of female clothing," she remarked idly, examining a bejeweled gown whose skirt had columns of tiny sapphires falling down it like water, each glowing slightly and casting blued light on the cloth of the dress.

"I guess I could have put them in your closet," Harry admitted. "But you moved in here recently, and before that you obviously had no interest in dresses." Arya seemed to weigh that, and decided it was fair. She didn't strictly need to search Harry's vast wardrobe; her mother made sure she always had something suitable to wear to further their image. But it was certainly interesting to see what kind of fashion wizards liked.

In the end, Arya wound up selecting a deep green dress that Harry was able to fit to her with a spell. It flattered her very well, and had decorations which were not gaudy, but impressive anyways. From the girdle of gilded vines, dark green embroidered trees stretched over the bodice and swayed gently in some invisible breeze. Harry had gone down to the vault and picked her brain on choices of jewelry before using a truly paranoid amount of detection charms on the pieces she had selected before letting her wear them. (The Black family jewelry was among them, and he would take no chances.)

Harry was mildly impressed at the ease in which Arya managed to slip into the dress, navigating fiddly straps and such easily after a mere glance to deduce the intended way to put it on. Arya smiled fondly at his awestruck smile. "Come on. I shall give you a- crash course? On courtly etiquette."

Eragon bathed and dressed immediately after returning to Vrael's house, hopeful that it would be Niduen again to bring him whatever he was to wear. The only elvish clothing he had at present was her own work, after all. Beyond that, he would be forced to wear the morose formal wear he had during Ajihad's funeral if nothing else, since that was the only formal clothing he owned. Privately, he thought the elvish tunics Niduen had made were superior to them anyways, but understood that they were meant as work clothes.

When he heard a knock at the door, Eragon nearly tore down the stairs to greet the person in his enthusiasm. "Someone has a crush," Saphira teased, a sense of amusement mixed with bitter forlorn in her tone.

Composing himself quickly, Eragon reached nervously for the door and opened it.

Niduen was on the other side, a brilliant smile on her face and another bundle in her arms. She switched it easily to one arm to make the gesture of greeting. "I have brought you my own work, along with regards from House Miolandra and a request from the Queen."

Eragon invited her inside, trying not to stare at her too obviously as she walked up the stairs in front of him. "I would be honored to hear it, and to wear whatever you have brought."

He ducked through the archway into his bedroom, the largest room in the house for its requirement of fitting a grown dragon. Niduen's eyes grew wide at the sight of Saphira, lounging majestically in her bed. Even in the faint light of sunset that filtered through the leaves and the flameless lanterns, her blue scales glittered magnificently. She stared in muted awe for several silent moments.

Saphira eyed her, amused. "If she's going to let me speak first…" she sent to Eragon. "May good fortune rule over you," the dragon sent mischievously to Niduen. She gasped and turned red, but was cornered by Saphira initiating the greeting. To pause as long as she had when she was gaping at the beautiful dragon could be taken as expecting the other party to speak first, suggesting that she claimed a higher rank than Saphira–not even the Queen would presume to be above a dragon.

"May the stars watch over you, Brightscales," she said nervously. Saphira drew up her lips in a lazy, draconic smile, then laid back and closed her eyes and resumed napping. Eragon grinned. He picked up his comb and ran it through his hair, tugging on his damp blonde hair. Niduen seemed to compose herself. "Islanzadi knows you did not have the space to haul fine clothes across the continent, and offers you these garments." She offered Eragon the bag.

He accepted and opened it gratefully. It was magnificent. Tightly woven ultramarine fabric made up a handsome coat with golden thread embroidery depicting a dragon in flight all across the back. Also within was a pure white blouse and black trousers of a light, almost silken texture. At the bottom of the bag was a pair of boots made from soft, supple black leather with silver buckles. "This is incredible," he breathed. "You made all this?"

"Not the boots," Niduen smiled. "But the clothing, yes. Though I was not able to tailor it to your body, I have much experience with sewing and am confident they will fit you well."

"How can I repay you?" Eragon asked faintly.

"Feast and be merry. Islanzadi has not spread the reason for tonight's feast, but anyone with an ear for gossip knows. Oromis and Glaedr hold a dear place in our people's hearts, and your friend has made himself some very grateful lifelong allies."

Niduen's presence was a pleasant one, despite Eragon being forced to play the poor host, leaving her her to shave his face with magic and change into the garments she had made. If her expression was any meter, the elf was proud of her work and the way it looked on his body. "Well fitted, then?"

"Perfectly," Eragon confirmed. "I have not seen the equal of these garments."

Niduen stared at him a little while longer, before snapping herself out of her study. "Though I would be surprised were we sat near each other, I shall enjoy seeing you later, anyway. Good evening, Shadeslayer."

"Good evening, Niduen."

Eragon attempted to whittle away the hour at Vrael's desk, scratching out his thoughts with his unsteady script. He had begged a pen off of Harry and counted it among his possessions, but Oromis had said that he was to learn calligraphy properly, first. But his thoughts ran crooked and in loops and circles that seemed to deny him comprehension each time he thought it within his grasp. Sighing, he scoured the tip of the quill with a sharp word and capped his inkwell.

Instead of forcing himself to do something, Eragon chose to explore the small library Vrael had left behind. Trotting down the slim wooden path which arched over the forest floor, Eragon entered the small chamber and browsed the cubbyholes. He fingered their titles and glanced over their contents, not looking to truly read anything but rather to get a feel for Vrael's interests and personality.

The scrolls covered a wide array of topics like he might expect from the Riders, whose members prided themselves on being thinkers as well as warriors. But a curious amount of scrolls were almanacs and logs which retold the patterns of weather over both Vroengard and Du Weldenvarden. He found several scrolls written in the loopy, scrawling hand of Vrael's, filled with both ramblings and observations on the patterns and parallels he drew between the data the great rider had found, as well as more formal papers outlining the conclusions he came to.

"A curious interest for a human," Saphira remarked, looking through Eragon's eyes. "I would appreciate it if you took the time to read through those, if only so I may know what they say." Eragon agreed easily, and settled in with the parchment spilling across his lap.

Reading for pleasure came more easily to him than the academic comprehension Oromis demanded, and Eragon found it a pleasure to simply take in Vrael's thoughts and ideas without filtering them through his own beliefs and experiences. Saphira continued to listen his mental narrator as he read through them all, a gentle breeze drifting through the open windows of the library which provided some cool relief from the warm summer air.

Two hours passed in that manner, and when the setting sun shot orange light through a crack in the leafy canopy which struck Eragon in the eyes, he rolled up the scroll carefully, and placed it back in its cubby. "Time to go." They both felt a mild disappointment at their obligations, but each overcame it for their own reasons. Saphira's appetite burned slowly, but was voracious when awakened, and she had not eaten since the feast was announced two days ago in anticipation. Eragon was simply interested in seeing Niduen again.

He climbed up Saphira's foreleg and swung his leg over her neck, settling easily into a comfortable position on her bare scales. As a more accomplished rider, Eragon knew how to stay atop Saphira without stripping the skin from his legs again like he had done the first time they flew together.

They landed in the same clearing which held the previous feast, under the dusky orange-pink sky between the branches of the Menoa tree. It seemed that preparation time meant a much more organized event. Where before the elves had to set out what food they had on hand or could prepare in the short time between their arrival and the feast, Eragon thought it likely they had begun preparing for tonight from the very moment Islanzadi ordered it. High above, elves had draped strings of paper lanterns and other such decorations from the boughs of the Menoa tree. A small stage had been erected, which elven musicians and singers currently occupied with their instruments in hand.

The shaggy carpet of verdant grass had been trimmed to a neat, level inch or so. The same tables were out in the same arrangements, but this time, Eragon noted that it lacked chairs on both sides to accommodate both Glaedr and Saphira. Already, the seats were half full of formally dressed elves, the familiar faces of the elf lords and ladies sitting at the head table and talking in a low, cheery babble.

Eragon noticed another detail that had eluded him on his arrival; each table had an enormous crest set in the very center. They were fourteen in all. One in the center with six on each side, and the high table which was set perpendicular and looked down the aisles between them. Eragon was not able to pick out each crest, but he passed between two and got close enough to see what each looked like.

The central table had a white knotted root in a crescent surrounding a swan with outstretched wings on a sea of red. Eragon supposed it was the symbol of House Drotting, the royal house. On his right was a green dragon with its tail curled to form a circle on a white background. Eragon could make out the rough outline of the other crests, all of which seemed to display animal imagery of some sort.

There was no food out on the tables, which let everyone talk without the interruption of eating. Eragon walked up to the head table, where Oromis had already sat and gestured across from him to a free chair. Saphira's bulk forced her to go around the row of tables, lest she knock anyone out of their seats. She took up her seat opposite.

"Ebrithil," Eragon greeted respectfully.

"It has been a long time since I've attended a feast in a human's honor, longer still since I was related to the occasion," he smiled. "How was your afternoon?"

"Good. I read through much of Eleannor's Metalworking for Beginners, and eagerly anticipate the scroll on woodworking you lent me. The latter part of the day, I perused Vrael's writings on weather patterns."

Oromis nodded. "Good. Did Saphira enjoy it?" he asked knowingly.

"She did," affirmed Eragon. "I was able to draw many parallels between his writings and how Glaedr has instructed Saphira. You have read them, I presume?"

"I did. Vrael's partner Umaroth was a storied flier, outclassed only by the rare wild dragon before the Fall. Vrael's passion for natural philosophy and interest in storms coincided well with his dragon, and the two of them greatly advanced what we know about their subjects. Many of those scrolls had copies in the library on Doru Areba and in Ellesmera's library. Indeed, I possess a set of my own. But his personal notes grant a unique insight into the topic. I would recommend you read them as well, should you find the time."

Eragon and Oromis spent ten or so minutes chatting idly. He was struck with the realization that Oromis was a very different person when he was not teaching. Less demanding, less driving. He still found ways to impart knowledge and help Eragon's understanding, but Oromis seemed to set aside his Master persona outside the Crags of Tel'naer. Eragon was grateful for the opportunity to get to know the elf for who he really was, outside of his duties.

It was not long after that Harry arrived, escorting an elf so beautiful Eragon nearly did a double take. Arya was on his arm, but she was wearing the most beautiful green dress. He hardly recognized her. Arya never wore traditional woman's clothing, instead favoring trousers and a jerkin that did not truly do her form justice.

"One of Harry's dresses, presumably," Oromis remarked. "Our magic has no way to make embroidered stitches move across the fabric. Though I imagine there will be a good many attempts after tonight."

Harry looked just as handsome. He had a roguish smile and tousled, wild hair that had interesting connotations for what the two of them might have gotten up to earlier. His emerald green robes looked cut from the finest cloth, and fit him perfectly. Arya probably wouldn't wear makeup, but Eragon could not fathom how she could present the appearance she did without it. Her lips were cherry red, and her eyelashes were full and dark. Below her woven gold thread belt, the green skirts of Arya's dress swayed behind her like leaves. Eragon's eyes were drawn unwittingly to her figure.

"Eragon," Saphira warned him gently. He snapped out of it and thanked Saphira for preventing him from making a fool of himself.

"Hi, Eragon," Harry greeted. "Ebrithil. Where do we sit?" he asked. Oromis gestured to a couple of chairs on either side of the central chair, which was slightly larger and had a distinct root-like theme. "Oh dear. This is going to be awkward." Arya shot him a glare without heat, then subtly dragged him along by his arm around the table to sit on either side of the seat which presumably belonged to Islanzadi.

"I'm not going to lie, I don't think formal is really my look," Harry remarked as he held his robes in beneath him to sit. "Maybe it's just the robe. Last time I wore this, my evening went rather poorly."

"Oh?" Arya raised an eyebrow imperiously. She pulled off the expression perfectly, Eragon noted.

"Yeah. I told you this was my only formal robe. Well, my only formal robe. Whatever the Potters and Blacks had hanging about in their vaults came along, which is why I have endless amounts of women's clothing. Anyways. I wore this to the Yule Ball when I was fourteen. As a Triwizard champion, they made me take a date to open the dance, but I really didn't want to, so I left out asking a girl until the last moment. She turned me down." Harry had a wistful expression on his face, which made Eragon mildly curious who rejected a date with the powerful, confident wizard.

"Cho Chang was already going with the Hogwarts Champion Cedric Diggory. I never asked anyone else because I was afraid of getting rejected again. Ultimately, Hermione set me and Ron up with the Patil twins. I ended up dancing only a few times with Padma, then I got distracted trying to eavesdrop on Snape and Karkaroff, who were both marked servants of the guy that kept trying to kill me."

"Did you tell Padma why you left her?" Arya asked archly.

"Nope," Harry said cheerily. "But as terrible a date as I may have been, I can at least comfort myself knowing there's no way I was worse than Ron. He danced once with Parvati, then spent the rest of the ball blatantly ogling Hermione, and completely ignored her. At least I had a reason to leave Padma."

"A good introduction may be the difference between a sword at your side and a knife in the dark," Oromis remarked. "Being well-liked draws allies to your cause. Did the Patils cause problems for you later? You or your friends?"

Harry shook his head. "We were fourteen, and no one really expects perfect gentlemans of teenagers. I think Parvati held a bit of a grudge against Hermione, but they never really worked against us, per se. Though I bet getting another date with them would be difficult."

Eragon thought wistfully of grand balls of beautiful girls and wished for a moment that he could have had that experience. Instead, he worked the land on Garrow's farm and hunted around the Spine. Carvahall was too far away to idly run back and forth and play with the village folk, so Roran was the only one he could play with as a child, and never did they have enough spare time to just waste days amusing themselves. The farm demanded their constant attention, weeding, tilling, sowing, harvesting and such. A wave of nostalgia knocked into Eragon. How different he was from that farmer boy of scant years ago. He was sitting as an honored guest among elven royalty, wearing garments so fine a king would weep in envy.

He wondered what Garrow would think of him now, wherever he was. A bitter remorse shot through him at how he had left Roran. His father dead, his cousin gone, the farm razed to the ground, and the King's enmity hanging over him like a dread pall. If Roran had done the same to Eragon, he wasn't sure he could refrain from hating him.

Queen Islanzadi approached her seat, resplendent in gilded raiment and wearing a graceful silver circlet encrusted with a great emerald and a few, smaller gems. It was elegant, beautiful, and understated, which somehow encapsulated the magnificence of the elves better than any gaudy, thick crown or bejeweled helm like Hrothgar wore.

The queen sat regally, ignoring the way her daughter and her mate leaned forwards to talk across her. She did not greet any of the elves or humans present, her status as queen placing her above even Eragon, who was technically the head of the Riders.

"Queen Islanzadi," Harry said respectfully. Eragon nearly put his face in his hand at the complete (and surely intentional) ignoring of elven manners. If Islanzadi was offended, though, she hid it well.

"Harry." She turned to Arya, unsmiling, who greeted her in the traditional manner. Eragon could blatantly see how irritated Harry was at the long and drawn out ritual the queen seemed to wordlessly demand without expression from each of them. Islanzadi seemed to subtly punish Harry for his ill manners by engaging in only the most formal, courteous discourse between herself and Oromis, who reciprocated easily. Harry's eyes switched between the two, back and forth. A look of realization dawned on his face, before he grinned and closed his eyes momentarily, face screwed up in concentration.

Eragon thought he felt the wizard's mental presence pass by him, but the touch was too fleeting to be sure. Oromis glanced at Harry while his eyes were closed, curious and a little satisfied at the mental skills he was displaying, proof that his tutelage was effective.

When Harry opened his eyes, it was with a smug expression that made Eragon mildly concerned. He crossed his arms and kept silent for a couple of minutes. Just then, Eragon noticed a figure making her way up to the table, wearing sturdy work clothes and smelling faintly of charcoal and iron.

"Rhunon!" Harry greeted exuberantly, a wide grin on his face. "Please, come. Sit and be welcome!" Arya was absolutely mortified, and looked to her mother with an expression of I swear I didn't know he would do this.

The grumpy elf smith approached Harry. "I got your invitation. Very little notice for a formal feast," she groused. Her eyes scanned the table. "Where am I to sit?"

"Excellent question," Harry beamed. "Allow me to procure you a chair. Geminio." A duplicate of the chair he had sat on popped into existence. Each place was evenly spaced along the table, and not with enough room to comfortably fit another person between them. Harry seemed completely oblivious to this, scooting his own chair laboriously across the grass until his elbows were practically touching Islanzadi's. Magnanimously, he slotted the newly-procured chair between himself and an elf lord wearing the green dragon crest and a completely straight expression.

Eragon and Arya were not so composed, and looked absolutely astonished at the sheer gall Harry must have had to do that. "They haven't brought the food out, yet?" Rhunon asked.

"No," Harry observed cheerfully. "I believe we're still slogging through the bombastic and interminable formalities. I'm sure the queen will be finished any moment now."

"Hmmph," Rhunon harrumphed. "Things like this are why I haven't been to one of these in nearly a century. Still food is food, I suppose."

Islanzadi shot Harry a look of absolute loathing, but stood anyway. The many elves below who were staring in naked curiosity between her and Harry quieted down.

"In our culture, it is traditional to recognize great services to our people, especially when they are done by one who is not an elf. The last time we gathered in this manner, it was to name Brom Holcombsson a Friend of the elves for his daring rescue of Saphira's egg from the Mad King. Tonight we honor a human who has rendered a service of equal value. Harry Potter, please stand."

Harry got to his feet, standing uncomfortably close to Islanzadi. She glanced at him, then back to the crowd. "Harry Potter, the Wizard, named Ascudaruna by the dwarves, and Friend of the Urgals, head of Du Vrangr Gata, who has worked tirelessly for the betterment of both the Varden, and all of Alagaesia. We recognize your service; to have cured Oromis, who is Togira Igonolka and Osthato Chetowa, of both his seizures and magical disability which were gotten at the hands of Kialandi and Formora the Wyrdfell. And to have returned Glaedr's leg from where it had been taken by the Nameless dragons who bore those riders. For this and many other things, as is my right as Queen of the Elves, I name you, Harry Potter, Elf-Friend."

The tables exploded into cheers, the most loud and unrestrained Eragon had ever seen the elves behave. They cheered and whistled, stamped and clapped and sung as Islanzadi turned her awkwardly cramped arms to present Harry with a ring similar to Brom's, which Eragon now wore. The gem set in it was an orange ruby, the symbol of the Yawe engraved in silver on its face. When they both sat, Elves spilled into the clearing floating dozens upon dozens of trays laden with food, conducting them with a murmured word or two.

When all the food had settled between the finery set on the tables, they groaned and protested with their weight. A very impressive prospect in Eragon's opinion, given that the tables were not only of elvish make and thus likely to be sturdier even than the dwarves, but there was no meat whatsoever to weigh the tables down.

Rhunon and Harry both had voracious appetites, serving themselves great portions of cakes, eggs, and fruits. They consumed pastas and tall glasses of milk, dumplings and quiches and cheeses. Eragon noticed that he was among those who ate the least. Even the queen

Piled food high on her plate, though she ate with impeccable manners and exceeding dignity. Despite Harry's elbow frequently colliding with hers and the cramped space between them.

To their credit, neither of them were slovenly or glutinous. They chewed with their mouths closed and spilled no food on themselves. Their expressions changed like they were exchanging information, but they both ate constantly and never spoke. Eragon presumed they were communicating mentally.

"Who's that on your right?" Harry asked Rhunon, indicating the white-haired stately elf wearing the green dragon crest.

"Lord Dathedr. He is the lord of House Rilvenar, the House which presides over the elven military and any other armed ventures. A powerful magician and a cunning man, but a good one who advises Islanzadi faithfully. He used to be intolerably vain as a child, and you are familiar with his grand-nephew Vanir."

"I would not have expected you to be familiar with court gossip, you recluse," Harry taunted.

"It is hardly gossip, I merely knew him when he was a child. His reputation precedes him. And I know of Vanir because I knew his mother, Raila. She was in the line of succession for House Haldthin which is responsible for feeding the elves in Ellesmera, and it was a great uproar when she bucked the trend of farming to apprentice under me. I was greatly saddened by her death.

"Which house deals with metalworking?" Harry was curious. The Houses felt a bit like guilds of a sort, but led by a family through succession. He wouldn't have set up the system that way for exactly the reason Rhunon had illustrated; being the child of someone was no guarantee that you would be interested in what they were.

"House Ansil. I am its oldest living member and thus technically its lord- lady, rather. But I have no interest in running it, so it falls to my thrice-great granddaughter Ismira to manage the guild."

"You are a mother?" Harry didn't know why he was surprised, probably because he couldn't see Rhunon having the patience to be pregnant for nine months.

"Was." Grief colored her mental voice. "Irri and her wife were both killed in the Fall, and most of their extended family in the blast which leveled Arwen." He offered his condolences, then made sure to avoid the topic.

Spearing a particularly slippery bit of noodles, Harry wove it around his fork and brought it to his mouth. The energy of the feast felt a bit like a Hogwarts feast, if a bit more…dignified. Every table felt like the high table with all the stuffy professors and Dumbledore as the greatest source of levity. Harry took it upon himself to play the Dumbledore and swallowed.

"So, what does my fancy new ring mean?" Harry flashed the ruby against the hanging lanterns above.

"It means that you are to be treated like an elf in most things. Gilderien the Wise will grant you admittance even under circumstances where he would deny a human. You are entitled to a plot of land in Ellesmera and any other elven city to build yourself a dwelling, and your words carry weight now in our courts," Arya answered quickly. "Well, more than they did."

"It is a great honor," Oromis agreed. "One given rarely, which you should treasure."

"Oh." Harry blinked. "Thank you, Queen Islanzadi. I do not mean to demean Oromis's or Glaedr's health, or insinuate that their value is lesser, but I did not think healing them would be such a big deal. I have the abilities to help them, why should I not? Where I am from, Doctors and Healers swear oaths to do no harm, and to help who they can without discrimination. I reserve the right to kill Galbatorix and his men, of course, but I would not feel right with letting Oromis suffer a debilitating disability out of what? Laziness?"

Islanzadi smiled, a sincere if small expression that felt more genuine thanks than any flowery speech. "Your world sounds wonderful, and much kinder than ours. I hope that one day we may grow to be more like them than we are today."

Oromis nodded. "Your magic is fascinating. I would be very interested in finding out how society grew around wizards, and how their magic shaped the world you live in."

Harry popped a strawberry into his mouth. "The unfortunate answer is not much, really. The Statute of Secrecy split the two halves of my world apart right before a crucial era where non-magical civilization was going through an enormous evolution, namely the shift from dictatorships of some form into democracies and republics. Keep in mind that I am not the most learned wizard, and most of the history I know comes from a ghost with the most boring, soporific voice ever. But as I understand, imperialist nations like Great Britain, Spain, France, and such had access to court wizards and magician enforcers who could keep their many many colonies under their yoke. When the Statute went into effect, they lost the magical might they used to keep everyone in line. Muggles started testing their overlords, and in the end many colonies declared independence and managed to stave off the invasions of the countries who they previously paid fealty to.

"I would be interested in learning more about how your civilization differs from humans when every single person apparently can use magic. And how you accomplished that. Were you always all magicians? I know you used to be mortal."

"Ha!" Rhunon laughed. "We may all be magic users, but most elves have little appreciable talent. We became magicians long before the Rider Pact, in the time after the Grey Folk died out."

"Rhunon-elda is correct," Lord Dathedr said smoothly. "Though we have no dedicated corps of combative magic users like the Varden's Du Vrangr Gata, there is a spellweaver's guild where talented magicians may share and learn from each other. And there are not many of us."

"Were there before the Fall?" Eragon asked curiously.

"Aye. Several times over. But nearly every one of us fought Galbatorix and perished."

Harry murmured under his breath. "How many of you really died to Galbatorix?" he asked, faintly astonished. "Nearly every death I have heard mentioned relates to the Fall."

Islanzadi turned to Oromis. "You have not taught this?"

He sighed tiredly. "Not directly, I suppose. It is simply a grim fact of life among elves, one which I had not thought to bring up. Eragon, Harry, you can safely assume that virtually every elf to have died since the Rider Pact died in the Fall. Perhaps a hundred or so of us died in the stretch of time since the pact to just before Galbatorix. Remember, we are immortal. Some caught incurable illnesses, some died to brigandry and bandits, died in service to the Riders, or had some accident which killed them. Nine in ten elves alive during the time after, perished."

Harry looked horrified. "Why in the world did you keep fighting? Would you not concede when your population had literally been decimated, nine times over?"

"The dragons were our kin!" Islanzadi snapped angrily. She immediately relaxed and rubbed her temples. "They were family in ways that ran deeper than even blood. And Galbatorix did such unspeakable things to them, we would not rest until he died. But he did not die, and it was only after Evandar died that we removed ourselves from Alagaesia. This is part of why we rejoiced when you all arrived. Galbatorix's death is not a hopeless fantasy anymore. We have a real chance at ending him."

"Even now, we feel the effects of their absence," Lord Dathedr spoke. "Our strength in magic wanes, less children are born to us, and the oldest among us are beginning to feel their age. Immortality was granted to us by the pact. If the dragons go extinct, who is to say that immortality will remain?"

The high table fell into silence.

That explains why Glaedr is so revered, Harry thought. He could literally be the only thing keeping the elves alive. Were he to die, I doubt they would be eager to owe their immortality to Shruikan.

"Enough of this depressing drudgery," Rhunon announced. "Eragon and Saphira are here, and I know you, Harry, well enough to know you still have some tricks up your sleeves. This should be a time of revelry. Galbatorix is going to eat shit and die within the next couple of years, and we won't have to cower in these stupid forests anymore." She grabbed her goblet of faelnirv and swigged it. Slamming it down on the table, she cheered.

"Galbatorix is expecting one midget rider with only the hasty training Brom could cram into his brain before he gave his life for the cause. Thanks to Harry, we've got another rider and dragon, masters from before the Fall who have had a century to think of ways to kill the Black King. The Varden marches to Surda to begin their campaign. If there was ever a time to join the effort, it is now. For the dragons!"

Rhunon's voice carried across the clearing, drawing roars of approval and a frenzy of cheers louder than Islanzadi's speech had drawn. The rest of the feast, Rhunon and Harry worked together to keep energy and spirits high among the elves, reminding them of Eragon and Saphira's presence, how Oromis and Glaedr would once more be able to fight when the time came, and even subtly bragged about their own powers in metalworking, how they would outfit every man in the Varden who wished to fight with spellforged steel of the highest quality.

Thus the feast went, and for hours it continued. When the first elves began to make their excuses, Harry glanced at Arya questioningly. "When can we leave?"

"You are the guest of honor, Harry. You cannot leave until the feast is finished."

Harry nearly drowned himself in his goblet of Faelnirv right there. Islanzadi smiled slyly into her goblet and sipped daintily. "How are you enjoying the feast?"

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You win." He eyed his empty plate, then the multitude of pastries and desserts on the table mournfully. "What I wouldn't give for some ice cream."

Strangely enough, Harry found himself enjoying the conversations he had with Islanzadi. While she hid her emotions behind immaculate courtly manners, Arya's mother did have slight tells, and from them he was able to deduce that she had a wicked sense of humor. Most of their interactions trended towards questions Harry had for the queen about the elves in general; how their society worked, what people did for a living, how they provided for everyone's needs, and such. The answers were enlightening, and Eragon often chimed in with his own questions and curiosities. Oromis and Arya lent the queen their own experience to her answers, illuminating many aspects of utopian culture that Harry was unfamiliar with.

For instance, the Houses which the elves all belonged to were each responsible for an aspect of Du Weldenvarden's smooth running. Beyond the royal House Drotting which was headed by the incumbent queen, there were houses dedicated to food production, shelter and forest health, clothing, guarding the forest, and physical health and healing. Though the headship of the Houses was technically hereditary, few of the 'rightful' lords and ladies were interested in running their houses and abdicated in favor of their seneschals, scribes, or more administratively-minded elves who actually enjoyed the tediums of running a country.

Harry knew that Rhunon was the eldest living elf in the line of succession for House Ansil, but didn't care to lead it. Conversely, Oromis was the last living member of his line of succession for House Thrandurin, and spent what little time was not demanded by training Eragon doing administrative work for the libraries and preservation of elven knowledge, the duties handed to his House.

There seemed to be a certain prestige attached to heading a House, but Harry got the impression that Vanir was falsely proud of being in the line of succession for House Haldthin, especially considering practically everyone was in the line of succession for one House or another, if enough elves died.

He learned that Lord Fiolr was the Lord of House Valtharos, and thus responsible for trade between the elven cities. The elves used a very loose barter economy whose most common reciprocal good was IOU's for the buyer's area of skill. There weren't any true markets in Ellesmera, rather museums of a sort where elves could come forth and request the item from its maker. More often than not, the maker would agree. Because most craftsmen and women made their wares out of passion for the craft, they had little use for their own creations. Trade between elven cities was limited because every city was self-sufficient. They needed no food from each other, and instead exchanged literature and great works of craftsmanship between each other, couriered between cities by Lord Fiolr's elves on canoes or horseback.

The insight into utopian culture was bizarre and alien to Harry. He resolved to personally explore and see for himself the intricacies of elven culture. For a species with virtually zero pressure from nature to survive, instead of growing lazy they had gone the opposite direction, training ceaselessly with the goal of deposing Galbatorix. Du Weldenvarden was amazingly stable; its monarchy completely unmarred by the characteristic wars of succession even the Broddring Kingdom occasionally suffered. There were some arrogant or foolish elven rulers, but they never went so far as to be deposed and when the time came for them to abdicate or they died in service, the crown was always handed down peacefully. For thousands of years.

The mind baffles, Harry shook his head. Not even the American Presidency was so peaceful. He supposed the elves' erudite culture helped in that respect. No one wanted to fight pointless wars, and education was good enough that everyone knew fighting over the crown was pointless. Nobody starved, no matter who was king.

Soon those at the high table began making their excuses and leaving the feast. "Glaedr and I have yet to fully recover," Oromis claimed. "I wish you all a good evening." The wizened elf bowed respectfully, striding off towards Glaedr's end of the table, whereupon they both walked to the edge of the clearing so the downdrafts from his massive golden wings did not throw the tables into disarray.

Likewise, Eragon begged off, claiming the need to study and rest. "Humans need more rest than elves," and went on his way, Saphira loping along easily beside him.

"This feast is getting boring, now that only the stuffiest elves remain," Rhunon announced. "I shall see you tomorrow evening," she promised Harry, then left.

When she disappeared into the treeline, Islanzadi gave a meaningful look between Harry and the empty chair, then stared pointedly at the space between herself and Harry, where their elbows were touching.

"Ah. Right," Harry blushed, vanishing the chair and Rhunon's setting and scooting over.

"Next time you wish to rub elbows with royalty," Islanzadi said pointedly, "I am sure my daughter would enjoy your presence more than I."

"I would not," Arya said archly. "Keep your elbows to yourself, or I shall do it for you. Mother, stop giving him ideas."

"Yes dear." Islanzadi speared a tiny slice of blueberry pie and ate it.

AN: Oh dear, poor Eragon is feeling a bit inadequate. This is primarily why I didn't include Eragon getting crippled by Durza. He's behind enough as it is, and it was one more thread to the plot in Ellesmera which is already dragging on uncomfortably, IMO. I will try to wrap most of it up within the next chapter or so. Next chapter is going to wind up being more telling than showing, I'm afraid, simply because I want to speed the story along and get back into the action. After EoE III, I'll do a full chapter for Nasuada, then a full chapter for Roran, before we return to POV-hopping like before. Up next is a more personal reason for Vanir hating Eragon, as well as the Blood Oath Celebration. I want to your ideas for Harry's Agaeti Blodhren gift in the comments.

BONUS AN: Now that it's summer, I have way more free time to write and expect to put out chapters a bit quicker. I'm also starting on the next book in this series, back in canon-verse. You won't see the first chapter until this book is finished, but it may take up some of my time. The hope is that writing out the entire thing before publishing it will enable me to make bigger changes to tighten up continuity and plotlines and close plotholes without rewriting the whole thing.

peace,

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