Harry Evans's Fabulous Multidimensional Adventure

by androidrainbow

After dying in the forest, Harry is offered the chance to help other children of prophecy. Adventure ensues. Vol. 1: Inheritance Cycle

43. Blood Oath

50: Blood Oath

Roran woke up immobilized. His shoulder blades dug into the hard, bare stone, and experimental tugging revealed padded shackles holding him in place. Despite that, he was surprised to find that he was in no pain beyond discomfort. The slash across his chest and his severed tendons had both been seemingly healed overnight. A strap across his forehead prevented him from seeing even what was to his sides. When struggling proved futile, he called out.

"Hello?" his voice echoed through the empty room. But none answered, save for his own voice, bouncing off stone walls.

At first, Roran's mind conjured up all sorts of nightmares for him. What could the King of the Empire possibly want with him, a poor farmer boy from Carvahall, a tiny village on the outskirts of Alagaesia? It all came back to that damn egg, didn't it? Eragon had to have his stupid little bauble, and now his father was dead, and he was bound in the dungeons of the notorious King Galbatorix, awaiting some horrifying torture.

That old storyteller Brom knew at least enough to send him a note warning him. Roran remembered well how embarrassing it had been to need to take the slip of paper to Gertrude to get it read. She'd promised discretion, but then who could keep such news to themselves? Gertrude probably thought Brom was raving. At least she'd not share the ramblings of a madman with the villagers. Except, now surely she would? Did not the villagers deserve to know why they had been run out of their homes by the Empire?

Hot fury bubbled in his gut. Roran was helpless to stop any of it. His life had been obliterated through no action or inaction of his own. Katrina vanished, Garrow slain, and now he was bound in the personal torture dungeon of the Mad King. He wanted to punch something, to let out his helpless fury and let the gods know of his anger, but he could not because he was shackled to the stupid rock beneath him.

As angry as he was, Roran could not maintain his wroth. Like a flame with naught to fuel it, his anger slipped between his bitter grasp and was replaced with boredom. No one had come to see him since he awoke.

The room he found himself in was eight-sided, hewn from bare stone. Simple designs trimmed where the wall met the flat roof. Three colored lines intersected, crossing over each other, circling the trim endlessly. He tried to pick a color and follow it but always did his place slip away after one or two turns.

Boredom seemed such a trivial torment, but Roran felt himself succumbing to it nevertheless. He counted as high as he could go, one second at a time as near he knew it. Every time he reached twelve thousand or so, his mind became muddied, the five digits running together. By twenty thousand, he could no longer pretend and had to start over. When he lost count of how many times he had lost count, Roran abandoned counting and tried to conceive some way of escape.

He could do nothing shackled to the stone slab. Someone needed to come by at some point, if at least to feed him and let him answer the call of nature. Would they release him? He was unarmed, but he was healthy. If a guard carried a knife or truncheon, he might use it to kill them, but then what? How might he escape when he was instantly rendered helpless before Galbatorix? No matter the scenario he conceived, Roran could not see a way out. His mind was caught circling through the same few hopeless ideas over and over again.

What did Galbatorix want with him, anyways? Why take him if he was just going to leave him shackled to this stupid slab, in this stupid room, bored out of his stupid mind?

---

King Orrin was pouting. Nasuada could tell. The man had pretty good courtly bearing, but Nasuada was better, and she knew it. Well, Nasuada valued directness. Be the change you wanted to see in the world and all that. "Something the matter, King Orrin?"

He glanced up from his meal. "Your magician, the wizard. He was here, yesterday."

"He met with you?"

"No," he scowled. "Just in Aberon. He bought out several textile merchants with so much gold, it's actually going to affect the local economy."

"And he didn't speak with either of us," Nasuada agreed.

"Exactly. Are you not his liege?"

She laughed. She couldn't help it. It was stupid to antagonize him, but the idea was so ludicrous, Nasuada just had to laugh. "I have as much control over him as I do Saphira. Less, probably."

Orrin glanced to the side at an open, blank scroll.

"He doesn't write much, does he?"

"Odd that I wish to speak to him more than the elven ambassador," he said wryly.

"Did you not think to write him?"

"I find it hard to get the measure of a man through their writing. And Eragon, too. It's disconcerting, placing all of our lives in the hands of these strangers." Orrin rubbed his eyes, prodding at a cut of steak with his fork.

"Hmm." The thought had occurred to Nasuada as well. Eragon had made a good impression on her when she'd met him, but Harry seemed deliberately hostile.

"And the Urgals," Orrin dropped his fork. "Even if I have – grudgingly – accepted them, Surda has not. We have yet to see any true incidents, camped outside of the walls with the roads snowed in, but my people do not feel safe."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Nasuada said, affecting a wise tone. "We need every ally we can get our hands on. 150,000 men will not be defeated by anything less than our best possible effort."

King Orrin sighed heavily. "I know. I just wish to air my complaints, if only to keep them from rattling about in my head. To meet a peer as a king is a rare but treasured experience. I imagine there is much that none save you, Islanzadi, and Hrothgar may understand as well as I."

Nasuada was very slightly surprised. She had not expected King Orrin to acknowledge her as a peer. The man was not half as bad as she had been expecting. "Indeed. I lament what limited time I have to manage what I ought to. Your perspective is a valuable one."

He smiled at the flattery, but the glint in his eyes told her he knew what she was doing. Something Nasuada found valuable about flattery: it didn't really matter if your target knew what you were doing; everybody liked hearing nice things about themselves.

"If I may offer my valuable perspective?" he joked. "People such as we can find unlimited things to consume our time. I can always fill my time managing one of my cabinet members more closely, but I would advise you against it. If you have chosen your underlings wisely, they will be encouraged by your trust in them, and you will be more effective with proper rest and relaxation."

Nasuada shut down her incredulity immediately. Relaxation? "I already spend nearly every waking moment putting out some sort of fire or another."

"Then you are failing to delegate properly," Orrin said simply. "It is arrogant to believe you can do every duty you do better than everybody else."

She tamped down her anger. "Every person I bring into my confidence is another Galbatorix may suborn."

"Ensure each has only the information necessary for their duties, and Galbatorix will have to suborn many men indeed to espy useful information."

"Thank you for your advice," said Nasuada with an empty smile. She stuck around only long enough to say enough of nothing to make the pretext that she was not leaving because of King Orrin, then made her excuses.

She strode past the guard by the door, collecting her own on the other side. The Nighthawks fell in around her, a pair of Urgals, humans, and dwarves each. Why had that made her so mad? Was she angry he gave such obvious advice it felt condescending, or was she angry he had so deftly struck at her character with his words? Was she arrogant to micromanage her underlings?

She did not technically have to leave Langfeld Hall for anything, but Nasuada preferred to see for herself how the Varden fared. Many things could not be conveyed by mere words, and she imagined it was heartening for her men to see her amongst them, stuck in the deep snow as they were. She sent for Farica to bring her fur coat and stepped out of the gates. It was as cold as she'd ever felt, and wet, besides. Blizzards blew in every other week, interspersed with yet more snowfall that all seemed to end up either as treacherous slush on the roads or thick snowbanks where men shoveled the pileup that threatened to close the roads. Thank Gokukara that Surda had sewers and drainage ditches flaking the raked roads, or else Nasuada thought all of Aberon might have drowned under the deluge of water that dropped out of the sky.

The Nighthawks in their full plate armor slogged through the dirty slush, an infernal racket of clanking and heavy breathing that drew the eye of every person on the street. A woman peered out of an upper-level window, a boy's head popping up at the bottom of the window frame. The boy waved a hand, grinning widely. The attention grew until it seemed every eye was on her and her squad of guards. The only saving grace was that the people seemed unwilling to slog through the snowbanks to mob her.

She headed towards the north gate, smiling pleasantly at everyone who recognized her. Craning her neck back, Nasuada looked up into the sky. It was a rare, perfectly clear sky. Azure blue filled her whole field of view. The sun shone brilliantly down on Aberon. The sour taste Orrin left in her mouth was cleansed by the beautiful weather. Surda saw so many overcast days, she was beginning to forget what the sun looked like. After growing up living under a mountain, the sheer size of the sky was humbling.

Absent in reality, it took Nasuada a few seconds to react when someone punched her in the breast, hard. Dully, she heard a sharp crack echo off the sky. She tripped backward, crashing into one of the Nighthawks with a clatter of metal. Grasping at her coat, she felt dampness.

But no arrow?

Someone shouted something far away. Strong hands tugged her away, dragging the hem of her coat through the slush and over a snowbank. The light dimmed the moment the door shut behind her. A woman, presumably the homeowner, said something frazzled, but Nasuada's attention was slipping away. The dim light of the manse darkened until only blackness remained.

---

The door opened silently. Roran could not see it from the plinth, and the hinges were completely silent, but the air betrayed it. "Hello?" he asked hoarsely. Thirst had dried his tongue.

"Roran Garrowsson," a rich, commanding, familiar voice said. "Or is it Stronghammer? Welcome to the Hall of the Soothsayer." The King's face loomed into view over Roran. "I apologize for the accommodations, this room was recently and violently remodeled. Rest assured, your stay here need not be very long at all. I am glad for your patience. A man in my position must apportion his time sparingly, else he finds himself without any at all." Suddenly, a wellspring of energy washed into Roran, sweeping away fatigue and hunger alike.

"Hunger, I may solve with magic, but I'm afraid you'll have to trust me enough to drink if you wish to sate your thirst."

Roran, hatefully, opened his mouth. If Galbatorix wanted to kill him, he'd had every opportunity. He would play along, at least until he saw an opening.

"Why did you capture me?" He demanded.

The King smiled indulgently as if he were favoring an amusing child. "I'm sure you have your ideas, but I'll elaborate. Here, this room is known as the Hall of the Soothsayer. It's older than Uru'baen and Ilirea which came before it. Supposedly, an oracle lived down here, inhaling fumes from a since-vanished crevice and granting foresight to those who sought her out. It is said that a lie has never been told in this room, and since it has passed into my ownership, I have respected that myself. I shall continue to do so, and I would ask you for the same courtesy. Would you extend that to me, Roran Stronghammer?"

Roran suspected he had nothing to lose by accepting. The way his mind had been laid bare before King Galbatorix, he entertained no delusions that he could keep his secrets from the man. "I accept."

"Excellent. You wished to know why I had taken you? Then perhaps a bit of a history lesson is in order. You are familiar with the Riders of old, are you not?"

"I thought you banned stories about them."

Galbatorix hummed. "A king knows his limits. I'd prefer that the vainglorious tales floating around in the minds of the peasantry more accurately reflected the Rider Order, but an idea is notoriously hard to kill. And as I am more than passingly familiar with Carvahall's esteemed storyteller, I can guess at how he described the Riders. Brom, after all, was one himself."

"What?!" Roran struggled against the restraints in a futile effort to turn and look at the King. "Brom, the cranky old storyteller?"

Galbatorix laughed richly. "The very same. Though I knew him as Brom Holcombsson, who was in his youth good friends with Morzan and later, the implacable enemy of all the Forsworn. He was the greatest thorn in my side for the longest time, though I hear he recently fell at the hands of a little project of mine. Today, I think Harry the otherworldly wizard holds that title. You certainly meet a lot of interesting people in Carvahall. I may have to visit."

Roran stared mutinously at the ceiling. The idea scared him more than he wanted to admit.

"Or perhaps not," he added. "I hear the village is in exodus. The Ra'zac are rather unfortunately zealous. There may not be much left to return to. My apologies, Roran. Loyal help is rare. I believe I was giving you a history lesson, though. The elves, for all their infuriating faults, are very enlightened thinkers. They rightly claim that every story has three sides; your side, my side, and the truth."

A captive audience, Roran quickly discovered how dangerous Galbatorix truly was. Garrow always used to say, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink." Galbatorix could do both. In confident, assured tones, he laid out a very different Fall of the Riders than Brom did. Despite himself, Roran found himself believing the serpent-tongued King. Galbatorix explained the general perception of the Riders as benevolent peace-keepers, then outlined the practical knowledge most learned people had; the Riders held themselves above Kings. While they were generally fair, there were several stories Galbatorix told where a Rider abused their power egregiously, and there was no recourse for the wronged party. The 'Glory days,' as Galbatorix termed them, had long passed after the Order began to take their power for granted and forgot about the terrifying dragon/elf war that had preceded and caused the formation of the Riders.

He elaborated on the increasingly obstructive politicking within the Order and their council, the elitism the elves held above even their human Rider colleagues, and how without any challenge to their power, they turned into a law unto themselves.

"No one should ever be born to power, Roran," said Galbatorix. "A man will never know the bones and blood his throne sits on if it was his as a babe. Take the current King of Surda, Orrin of House Langfeld. Though reasonably competent as an administrator and learned in statecraft since birth, I am aware that his true passion lies in natural philosophy when he is not at the bottom of his cups, and he has no concept of what it took Loris Langfeld to win the throne he sits on. He believes his right to rule is derived from his father Larkin, when in truth, it is derived from his governors and to a lesser extent, the peasantry in Surda and their unwillingness to fight a war to oust him. I'm afraid I'm a bit too intimidating for them to risk civil war on the border of a potentially hostile nation," the King smiled modestly.

"Nevertheless, Brom has likely told you that I attacked the Riders without provocation in a fit of madness, and if he is truly knowledgeable, he may have mentioned a Shade named Durza. This is only half true. Only a Rider may truly know what it is to lose their bond with their dragon, but I assure you, Brom behaved even worse than I when Morzan slew his dragon. You see, my teacher among the Riders was Amadan the elf."

Galbatorix added an artful sigh of reminiscence. "I was young and foolish. I had just graduated into being a Rider, and with my newfound powers, I felt invincible. Amadan suggested I go out into the world so that I might grow more experienced. My friends, my cohorts and I went out to the North Sea to test ourselves against the wild and perhaps the Urgals, if they were unfortunate enough to cross our paths. There were four of us, Riders all with our dragons. One of the Riders' indispensable skills was to watch the minds of all those around us. The instant someone plots to put a knife in our backs or cast a lethal spell, we know and defend ourselves. Of the four of us, Io was the weakest at this skill. During her watch on a sheet of ice, many, many scores of Urgals descended upon us."

Roran saw real loathing on the King's face. "They are almost as bad as the Ra'zac. They are primitive savages driven by base instincts, further heightened by their ugly culture which pushes those values beyond even the most violent of humans. An Urgal ram is not considered a worthy mate until he has defeated three others in combat – usually to the death. It does not take a brilliant man to deduce that particular practice's unsustainability. They must look beyond their villages in the Spine to prove to their barbaric culture that they are worthy of reproducing. A dragon is the most formidable foe save perhaps a Shade, and many of those savages were drawn to the promise of glory." The painful recollection seemed to evoke strong emotions in Galbatorix, or else he was a masterful liar beyond any Roran had known.

"Io warned us when they drew near, but we were foolish and arrogant. Were the Urgals not the monsters we were trained to fight? At first, we were consumed with battle lust, thrilled to test our awesome powers against an unquestionably evil enemy. Many Urgals fell to our blades, more to our magic, and yet more to our dragons. The fight turned when Io was ran through the belly. It was no lethal wound given our magic, but suddenly, real danger was upon us. The beasts swarmed her and when we managed to fight to her side, she was slain. Her dragon Daruingr, enraged beyond measure, ripped and tore into those Urgals with reckless abandon, and was quickly slain. None of us could fly away without being shot down by their archers, nor were we willing to leave Io and Daruingr unavenged. Consumed by wrath, we fought until I was alone on a bloodstained sheet of ice adrift in the North Sea. Jarnunvosk, my first dragon, had been slain."

Roran was enraptured. Galbatorix spoke with such weight that he could not help but see the frigid landscape stained black, the King himself standing in a circle of dark bodies, bowed over the massive corpse of his dragon.

"Arrogance has ever been the downfall of powerful men, Roran. Even today, where I am the most powerful spellcaster alive, I am cautious. It saved my life not a week ago, when Harry snuck in here to steal from me and attacked me when I defended my property. You are surprised, don't be. I am sure either one of us could potentially kill the other if we truly tried. I have more raw power at my disposal than anyone could hope to match, and he has spells and magic completely unknown to anyone but himself. He slew Shruikan, whose corpse you saw when you arrived. I spent the better part of a century weaving wards around him and myself, yet his attack ignored them."

"That's it? You blame Amadan? It was bad fortune to encounter trouble you and your friends couldn't handle. Own your own actions."

"He knew," Galbatorix murmured. "He laughed and called me a fool when I returned broken and despairing, without Jarnunvosk. "What chance did a human have where an elf failed?" he demanded. He told me I should have fled immediately when Io was injured." He straightened and looked at Roran. "That was hardly the only reason – merely the inciting incident. People will endure quite a lot of discomfort before they are pushed to radical action. Jarnunvosk's death gave me the push I needed to take the first steps down a path that desperately needed walking."

"Why tell me all this?" Roran demanded. "What about me is so important that I rate personal attention from the King of the Empire?"

"Can you not guess?" Galbatorix prodded.

"If you think I'll serve you, you're madder than they say!"

The King sighed. "What evidence do you have that I'm evil, aside from what Brom, my greatest enemy, has told you?" That brought him up short.

The sun rose in the east, the sky was blue, and Galbatorix was heartless. Roran grasped for a reason. Heartless tax collectors seemed a pale excuse to offer the King of the Empire. "Slavery!" He seized upon. "In Dras Leona. It's a repulsive, vile practice that was forbidden under the Riders."

Galbatorix hummed. "Carvahall doesn't hear rumors quickly, does it? That particular practice was almost entirely supported by Dras Leona. Dear Governor Tabor was an early supporter of mine and perhaps I allowed him leeway that I would not with others. Nevertheless, he recently attempted to declare the city as sovereign, and has been removed. I find the practice wasteful if I lack the moral beliefs to directly abolish it and prop the city up myself during the transition. You may have a point, though. The slaves, at least, are sure to look upon me fondly were I to forbid it once more. Very well. Suppose I abolished slavery. Would you find me an acceptable liege?"

"No." Roran said immediately.

"Do you have a reason?" the King asked bemusedly.

"You sent the Ra'zac after Carvahall!"

"I sent them after you." corrected Galbatorix. "My reasons are many and very good. Would you like to hear them?"

"Aye, I would."

"A bit of context, then. You will not leave here unless you either agree to swear loyalty to me or the Varden manage to kill me. Therefore, I can afford to be more open with you than nearly anyone. This war revolves around dragons. Despite my distaste for the old Rider Order, they had noble intentions and noble origins, and I would see them flourish once more, though under my guidance. The Varden have not thought much beyond killing me, primarily, I expect, due to their founder being Brom."

Roran's jaw worked soundlessly. Galbatorix continued.

"They know they must deny me the next generation of Riders lest their goal grow completely impossible. Not so long ago, Shruikan was the only living dragon in Alagaesia. At the end of the Fall, I or my servants had slain every dragon save our own. What began as an attempt to prune the worst, most corrupt servants of peace became unavoidable genocide. Every single dragon myself or the Forsworn encountered attacked. Wild dragons were drawn like moths to a flame. In the time during and immediately after the Fall, Brom himself slew most of the Forsworn and their dragons himself, including Morzan and his red mount. Thus, at the end of the chaos, while I was busy unifying the corrupt, fractured kingdom I took from the idiot Broddring King before me, the dragons were brought to the brink of extinction. I had saved only three dragon eggs. Two were male, one female.

"Brom managed to steal the female one from me, a blue stone I am sure you are familiar with."

Roran's eyes widened. "So that means-"

"Your cousin rides the only female dragon in existence," he finished. "At first, it was frustrating but of no consequence. She would not be mature enough to lay a clutch for at least a year, and with no mate, the Varden had no choice but to use Eragon as a spearhead to defeat me and take the other two. But recently, Harry has snuck in here and stolen both the first Rider I had managed to hatch an egg for, and the last remaining egg."

"They have a breeding pair," he realized.

"Indeed. Even three riders are no challenge for me to defeat. Remember, Roran, I killed hundreds of Riders in my time, including Vrael himself, who had counted many centuries of experience. What chance do two or three young Riders stand? What chance do even three master Riders stand? Nevertheless, I cannot allow Eragon and his allies to retreat into their burrows and wait a few decades, lest they return with dozens of Riders. I have taken you to guarantee that the Varden's campaign happens now. In addition, I have taken you as some measure of retaliation against the brazen theft."

"But why do I rate your personal attention?" Roran demanded. "You could do all that just as well by sticking me in a cell and forgetting about me."

"I would like you to serve me."

And there it was. All the smooth, eloquent words built up to that pitch. "I would never serve you!"

Galbatorix sighed. "Are you deliberately being obtuse? What reason beyond slavery – which you would have the opportunity to help abolish – do you have to object? I do not intend you to be some mean foot soldier. You are a persuasive man, Roran. The kind of man that can inspire his entire village to uproot their whole lives and leave their generational home in the face of an external threat. Men like you are rare. I could use a man like you."

"You want to kill Eragon!" Roran exclaimed. "I'll not betray my family."

"I would never kill Eragon," the King said sternly. "He is bonded to the last living female dragon in Alagaesia. Don't you want the chance to make a difference? I'm building a new world, Roran Stronghammer. I want you to be a part of it. You can swear yourself to me here and now and in minutes you will know luxury unheard of in Palancar Valley. I can have Katrina brought to you – yes, I know about her – you will have men at your command, power and wealth, and a chance to have a hand in building the Alagaesia you want to see." He stood and walked just to the edge of Roran's field of view.

"Or perhaps…" he paused, turning back, "you need a push as I did."

---

Galbatorix just tried to assassinate Nasuada.

Harry glanced up at Arya. "Does Angela even need us?"

Ink scrawled over the scroll. It would be nice if you visited in Surda. "Hmph. Alright. I'm surprised it took so long." Harry stretched lazily. "You should take us, Arya. I've only been to Surda the once"

Arya glanced at Elva, who had perked up at the word 'assassination.' She was sitting on the rug in the living room watching a diminutive, orange, embodied Aupho flex her tiny body. "That's a long distance with passengers."

"Then just take me, first, and I can grab Elva. That is, if you want to come?"

Elva rubbed her bracelet – currently showing red – and nodded. "I want to see Nanny."

"We'll find her," Harry promised. "Aupho, you'll have to stay behind, and Firnen probably ought to as well; You two make the beginning of a very unpleasant surprise for Galbatorix."

Aupho bared her tiny, needle-like teeth in a draconic grin. "For him, perhaps."

Arya's confidence with apparition had grown in leaps in bounds in the months since Christmas. After a bit of increasingly long-distance practice, Arya often spent her weekends in Ellesmera. Islanzadi was busy preparing both for Ellesmera to host nigh on the entire elven race for Agaeti Blodhgarm and simultaneously gearing up for war. She had agreed to keep the Well of Rebirth secret for Harry to present at the celebration. Harry was positively giddy with anticipation. There hadn't been two hundred dragons in one place for well over a century. The last Agaeti Blodhren had been broken and desperate during the time of the Fall. Thus, the preceding one had been the last time the dragons assembled in all their glory to celebrate their bond with the elven race.

It was scheduled for a week from the day.

"If it takes nearly dying to get you here in person, I ought to do it more often," Nasuada joked.

"Don't," Angela snapped, looking harried. Nasuada was reclined on a lavish bed in a luxurious suite. It was all marble and silk, though the subtle perfume couldn't quite mask the smell of blood in the room. The herbalist sat next to an open bag that appeared empty, but when she reached into it, her hand emerged holding a vial full of bright green liquid. "You are absurdly lucky that I happened to be in Surda and know how to teleport. You may be the first person to ever survive being shot through the heart. Drink."

Solembum curled around one of Angela's legs, fluffy tail waving lazily back and forth. He gave Harry an unimpressed look and started licking his paws. "Angela has told me you know what the assassin used, but will not elaborate." Nasuada said after swallowing the potion with a shudder.

"It's called a gun. Did you manage to find the bullet?" Harry asked the herbalist. Harry had to pause to parse Nasuada's sentence. It had been many months since he had heard or spoken the common tongue. Elva had taken to English so quickly he had almost forgotten that her first language was the nordic one humans tended to use.

"It fragmented on her fifth left rib," Angela answered. "Between the bone shards and the deformation of the metal, it's impossible to tell exactly what it looked like. Even Reparo couldn't fix it."

"What's the diagnostic on her injuries?"

"I'm confident I managed to find all the bone splinters from where the bullet struck. She's already taken Skele-gro, and I used an old muscle-knitting spell to repair her left ventricle. Still," Angela turned to address Nasuada, "the muscle fiber is new and weaker than you're used to. No strenuous activity for a month at the very least, or you risk having a heart attack. Everything else healed up without a scar."

"What are guns?" Nasuada interrupted crossly.

"Imagine a bow and arrow, except the arrow travels so fast it's functionally instant and can punch straight through plate armor. You ought to learn the Ancient Language, Nasuada. I'm a little rusty, I only learned the common tongue a couple years ago, and it's been almost a year since I've had to speak it. You're not going to die, right?"

"Not if she follows my instructions." Angela's expression told Harry how likely she thought that was to happen.

"Angela, do you need to be here right now?" Nasuada demanded. The herbalist huffed and packed up her bag. "I apologize, I merely have a lot to discuss with Harry. I appreciate you saving my life, and if there is anything I can do in return, do not hesitate to ask."

She squirmed up a bit in the bed and propped her back against the headboard. "Who is this?" Nasuada eyed Elva, sitting on the window ledge, a black-and-white phoenix flitting about her shoulders. Had Harry and Arya had a child? It had been long enough, she supposed. That would have been a rather compelling reason to stay away from the campaign. Selfishly, she hoped it wouldn't continue to be a distraction.

"Elva, my lady." Nasuada flinched at the husky, mature voice that came from the tiny child. Her violet eyes were filled with dark wisdom that pierced her soul. "You needn't worry that Harry and Arya will abandon the Varden. I am not their child, anyways."

"You needed to talk to us?" Harry reminded her.

"Of course. Having full-time access to you is something that would benefit the Varden greatly. Can we expect you to return to leading Du Vrangr Gata in the near future?"

Harry glanced at Arya and Elva. "Er, yeah. There's a huge centennial celebration of the Rider pact in Ellesmera in a week or so which lasts about a week. There's some information I just can't tell you yet, but rest assured, our time was not wasted. Is there anything you need from us now?"
"How is Eragon's training coming along?" She posed the question to Arya, watching the elf's face intently.

The elf hummed thoughtfully. "He has come far," she decided. "He has received an education in line with your nobility, if compressed for time. His skills with magic have increased a hundredfold, but his martial skills were already impressive for a human, and what he lacks, we derive from our physiology which is unwise to grant one who is unprepared. He is better than any human, dwarf, or Urgal swordsman, yet he would struggle against a Shade in physical combat. I would not hold my breath for a miracle."

"A heartening testimony." Nasuada smiled. "I suppose in a battle between magicians, strength is of lesser importance. We can work around that. I must thank you, Harry, for feeding the Varden. It is impossible to overstate what a secure source of food does for us. Because we do not need to commandeer food from Surda nor purchase it forcefully, we hold the goodwill of the Surdan people and the single greatest expense of an army costs us nothing. Hearty, fresh meals also raise morale like little else save perhaps the great skill of our healers and magicians."

Harry shifted on his feet. "Yeah. You're welcome."

"Springtime approaches, and with it, Galbatorix's army. We will march again as soon as possible so that battle lines are drawn as far from Surda as we may manage. When you see Eragon, tell him to be ready. We have poked and prodded at the Black King in his den. Now we must be ready for him to emerge."

Harry was struck by how commanding and regal Nasuada managed to come off even while stuck in bed from a gunshot wound through the heart. "Of course, Lady Nasuada. We'll all be ready."

Before they left, there was a woman in the city they had to meet.

Nanny lived in a cramped, worn tent outside the walls by herself. She looked about fifty years old, but those fifty years had been unkind to her. She had an air of rumpled frazzlement about her that reminded Harry of his least favorite parts of both Xeno Lovegood and Molly Weasley. She was maternal in the same overbearing sort of way, and her mind wasn't quite all put together.

"Elva!" she cried. "Oh how wonderful to see you, darling. I'm sorry, sweetling, my tent's a mess–no one thinks to help a lone old woman out anymore, without a child to look after. I had just-"

Elva froze in place, eyes fixed upon the frantic woman, darting across her weathered face in search of something that was not there. "I-" she stopped. "I- Nanny I-"

In a shuddering motion, the tiny girl tore at her bracelet. Arya made an aborted motion to stop her, but drew her fingers back at the last moment. A terrible moan came from her lips. Dragging her eyes to meet Nanny, she spoke again, her voice suddenly smooth and assured. "I'm sorry to worry you, Nanny. You must be so worried about me, away from your care. Don't worry. Harry and Arya take good care of me. I'm safe and happier now."

Nanny burst into tears of relief, completely oblivious to Elva's state, an inch from outright writhing in the dirt. Harry gritted his teeth.

"Yes, yes. We love Elva very much. We erm- just wanted to bring her to say goodbye. Thanks!"

Nanny's gaze rose from Elva, the first time she acknowledged his and Arya's presence. Her eyes lingered on Arya, noting her pointed ears and slim facial structure. "O-of course."

Harry practically carried Elva out. What in Merlin's name was she thinking, flipping around the bracelet in the middle of a war camp? The instant she cleared the ratty flaps of the tent, he reached the end of her spindly arm and flipped it around again. Elva immediately slumped into his arms with a shuddering gasp.

"Are you alright?"

Elva flopped her arm dismissively, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.

"Should we go?" Harry watched keenly. Elva gave the tiniest tilt of her head.

---

"Very good, Eragon."

He dropped himself out of the pose and sprawled on the warm grass. Saphira had swept off the snow and laid on it while Oromis and Glaedr gave their initial instructions, melting the snow and warming the earth like summertime in late winter. The third level of the Rimgar had always eluded him before. Eragon grinned breathlessly.

I did it! He sent to Saphira triumphantly.

Eragon felt a portion of her attention split from Glaedr's lessons. Without magic in your bones. I know of no one else who may boast the same. Her pride shone through her words.

"I have mentioned it before, but I would not blame you for forgetting in light of the heavy responsibilities you have labored under, but the Agaeti Blodhren celebration dawns and it is traditional to prepare a gift of sorts." This is relevant to you, as well, Saphira. "I have left you much less time than elves oft spend on their works, yet no one will hold it against you given the critical demands on your time. These things may be anything which comes from the heart. An elf with a passion for carpentry might make some elaborate maze or carving, Rhunon is likely to put forth some work of metalwork. These gifts are given in the spirit of honoring the Rider Pact with yourself and your identity of a sorts. It is frowned upon to use magic overly much in the creation of your work, but many works are of magic themselves, which is perfectly acceptable. Glaedr and I have wrought separate works, and it is expected of the two of you alike, Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales." Eragon felt many eyes on him, though they were alone on the Crags of Tel'naer. Ever since Harry had brought back those Eldunari, his lessons tended to be observed by the minds of many. Oromis was firm with them that he and Glaedr were Eragon and Saphira's teachers, and often insisted on the dragons' absence during particularly delicate lessons such as his meditation in the glade, yet he did not begrudge them their wishes to see living dragons and Riders alive and in training as if their years in captivity were a mere nightmare to be woken from.

Oromis was also firm in that every time he allowed the Eldunari to watch, he extended the invitation to Orik, who invariably accepted. Those lessons were never enjoyable; they always managed to uncomfortably dig the notion into Eragon that he was responsible for the freedom of all races that called Alagaesia home.

The Eldunari weren't the only ones nosing around. What a shock it had been to realize that Murtagh had been recovering in Ellesmera since the robbery of the final egg. Somehow, his status as a Rider filtered through to Eragon before his actual location in the very city. Murtagh had been sworn to secrecy and then allowed to meet with Oromis and Glaedr. If Eragon thought Orik had been disrespectful in demanding where Oromis and Glaedr were during the Fall, Murtagh was downright brutal. Oromis bore the vitriolic criticism with the infinite patience Eragon knew too well, letting Murtagh vent and vent until he finally ran out of steam. When he offered his explanations, Murtagh remained dubious.

Oromis looked much better than when Eragon had first met the ancient rider. A general air of sadness hung around him, like he still drew breath only to teach Eragon or whoever else might be the next generation of riders. There had been fleeting moments when Eragon was concerned the elf's heart might simply give out upon completing his training. The air of melancholy persisted, but today, it was merely a shadow of mourning for the colleagues he must have lost by Galbatorix's hand.

Oromis was full of energy and vitality unmatched except by Glaedr, who's body and demeanor reflected that of his Rider. There was fire in their amber eyes and renewed passion for life. Oromis elected to take Vanir's place in their spars more and more often, danced the third and fourth levels of the Rimgar often with him, and could be seen marveling over the slim wand Harry had given him.

Murtagh had stalked off, then, his red, draconic shadow flapping after him. Oromis watched them depart with a muted longing. "How time makes fools of us all," he murmured.

"Excuse me, Ebrithil?"

Oromis laughed quietly. "You are both your fathers' sons. It is as though I am scrying the past. How often would I bear Morzan's passionate arguments before watching him stalk off, then turn to see Brom as the voice of reason and mediation. I dearly hope Murtagh walks a kinder path than his father. Yourself, as well."

When Eragon and Saphira's lessons concluded for the day, culminating in an awesome demonstration of magic by Oromis which he was hard-pressed to replicate in the meanest way, a familiar elf lingered at the base of Vrael's treehouse.

"Niduen!" exclaimed Eragon. Suddenly he was very conscious of the way his hair stuck up from a blast of wind he had guided poorly during lessons, or the mud stains on the hem of his tunic which Niduen herself had woven for him. He smushed his hair flat and glanced up at her with warm cheeks. With a fey laugh, Niduen twisted her fingers over her lips and greeted him by speaking first. Eragon often wished to honor her by speaking first himself, but her tongue was quick as a viper, and by the time he had considered it, she was already finished.

"Eragon-vodhr. I was without projects to do. I thought to come to see you. How goes your training?"

And like that, Murtagh and Morzan were banished from his mind. Eragon launched into tales of how much more enjoyable it was to train with Oromis now that he seemed to have found a second wind in life, how much work it was, and what he had learned just that day. Niduen always looked radiant, but to see her paying attention to his rambling tale felt like nothing else. He talked about how nervous the presence of all the Eldunari made him, but how awed he was by their grand presence.

Very smooth, Saphira commented wryly. Eragon gave her a mental shove and narrowed their connection.

"It sounds challenging yet rewarding," Niduen laughed. "I am glad you find joy in Ellesmera. Do you wish to visit my home? I thought perhaps you might have an evening free."

"Of course," Eragon nearly tripped over the hasty words. "I would love to."

She laughed again and took his hand, tugging him deeper into the leafy city.

Even after many months of living in the elven capital, Eragon was still liable to get lost at the drop of a hat. He would admit that Saphira had a far superior sense of direction to him, though he was careful to keep that admission under wraps lest her head inflate so much it floated away. Niduen led him quickly off those worn paths flanked by gardens and floating lanterns and took him beneath a tall, fenceless oak gate.

The House of Miolandra, the crossbeam over the gate read in embossed, gold leaf script. Just past it, the road changed from trimmed grass to cobblestone paths that spiraled around an especially massive tree positively bristling with windows glowing in the night. A grand archway nestled between the enormous roots. Where the cobbled path encountered a root, a small footbridge spanned over the knotted limb and smoothed out on the other side.

"That is our Family Hall," Niduen pointed. "Though only Gilderien the Wise truly calls it his house, it is home to all of us of House Miolandra. It is where we go when we wish to meet with our larger family, and host to many wonderful events special to our House. It is a sight to behold. There are feasts every night, though tonight's doesn't start for an hour. My own home is this way."

Niduen led Eragon down a winding offshoot. The massive, central tree was surrounded by smaller – though still titanic by any other measure – tree houses. "The trees surrounding the Family Hall have been shaped by ancient and oft passed members of House Miolandra. Out of respect, we do not change them very much, though they are all still occupied," she explained. "I wanted to create my own home from nothing. Many young elves choose to when they first decide to stop living with their parents. I am no expert on singing to trees," she apologized, "but I believe I did a serviceable job."

They stopped in a dimmer section, where the surrounding gardens narrowed down to a few beds of tasteful flowers. The lampposts around the cobbled path were the brightest illumination save the tree itself, a coniferous pine well over fifteen large paces across at the base. The road seemed to funnel Eragon's attention straight towards the welcoming archway at the foot of the trunk.

The moment he set foot inside, he gasped. Brilliant bolts of fabric in every color stretched from wall to wall, weaving between each other like some three-dimensional abstract art. Along the sides of the room, a series of escalating lofts wound around going upwards. Eragon spotted a dining table and kitchenette, a bed and lounge, a study with a desk and bookshelf, and a bathroom upon cursory glance. On the ground floor, several looms and spinning wheels were arranged around a basin like the bathtub in Vrael's house. Half-finished works were draped over frames and hung from cables, anywhere a bolt of fabric could be. A trio of mannequins had half-finished attire impaled upon them with dozens of little pins.

"It's amazing," Eragon breathed. "You made all this yourself?"

"Well, Chibi and Cthulu did a lot of the work," Niduen grinned. She beckoned him to the far side of the house and out a back portal to a small grass clearing. Two fluffy white sheep perked up. One nosed at the elf's hand. The other bleated irritably and turned its back.

"That's incredible," he marveled. "You do everything from wrangling livestock to tailoring clothing?"

"Chibi's a sweetheart," Niduen laughed. "It's hardly a challenge."

"And these tapestries!" Eragon marveled. "They are the stuff of legend." He examined a very faithful depiction of the Menoa tree standing tall over a great revelry with dragons dancing beneath floating lanterns. "Is this…?"

"The Blood-oath celebration," Niduen agreed. "I was not fortunate enough to have witnessed one during the peak of the Riders, but I did attend the last one with my parents. It is unlike anything I've experienced. How goes your own work?"

He cringed. "I haven't a clue what to do. It is very daunting to imagine the masterpieces mine shall be judged against. I have never seen a craft in Ellesmera of a quality less than the best masterpieces of everywhere else, and my own craft was hunting, which no elf does. Master Oromis said the gift was about giving of yourself, but so much of who I am is Saphira's Rider, I fear anything from Eragon the human will pale before the expectations of Eragon the Rider."

"Who are you, Eragon?" asked Niduen. "Are you Eragon the human? Have you been since Saphira chose you? Are you merely a vessel for the hope the world carries for Galbatorix's demise? Or are you something more? That person is who your gift should represent. The man you are as he stands before me, not the person you think we want you to be."

Eragon felt like the moment was one Oromis usually expected him to reflect on and return with an answer. Like he often felt standing in front of the wizened Rider after receiving a particular verbal blow, he stood there without an answer, and without a hope in hell of coming up with one on the spot. Oromis would stand there patiently until the end of time like a tree until Eragon gave him an answer or indicated that he'd think on it that evening.

But Niduen was uninterested in waiting. When she moved, Eragon was actually shocked. In a complete reversal of Eragon's natural order, she tugged him around the treehouse, the 'teachable moment' banished from her mind. He asked polite questions about textiles, a topic he quickly found Niduen was fully willing to expound upon for exactly as long as she thought he was paying attention, but her monologues were dotted with pauses where she waited for him to wrestle with the first world-shifting question Eragon had been asked that hadn't come from Oromis's tongue.

That promised hour before dinner passed filled with more information about textiles than Eragon had known existed before then. He filed away Niduen's suggestion for examination later and followed her back over the cobblestone path and up to the archway into Miolandra Hall. The archway opened to a branching hall. Niduen indicated which of the doors led to apartments or studios or offices, which one was the healing hall, and so on. Music drifted from one opened doorway, the sound of hammering and sawing, from another.

At the end of the hall, a pair of doors were propped open welcomingly. Eragon walked up to the railing and gaped. The doors opened onto a balcony a storey above a huge hall. The ceiling was another twenty feet up, a gabled surface of wooden planks that reminded him of Carvahall. Perhaps a third of the floor was given over to circular tables interspersed on the far side of the room next to a long table laden with huge servings of food. He spotted an elf serving herself food from the table and heading back to a table with five other elves drinking and laughing together.

The hall was dimly lit, casting the peak of the ceiling in shadow. Lamps hung on thin cables, yet only the ones over floorspace in use were lit. At the center of the room, a tiny tree grew out of a sort of massive, stone pot.

Niduen scanned the room briefly before identifying a table with two spots open. "Let us serve ourselves food, first." She explained to him the concept of a 'buffet' and led him down the table, explaining the dishes and pointing out her personal favorites.

Eragon sat down with a plate laden with what seemed like every dish under the sun except for meat. The other elves at the table, he assumed to be Niduen's siblings or cousins. One had hair that swam behind him as if he were underwater, another had irises that glowed like burnished gold, though the most interesting of them had coal-black skin on one side of her face and all down the other half of her body. He couldn't help but imagine a chess board where the sides switched at the back of her chin. Glowing golden veins brightened the black skin, illuminating her face with faint, yellow light.

"Mother, this is Eragon."

Startled, Eragon obligingly started the elvish greeting towards the woman he would have

Thought no older than twenty. She actually looked younger than her daughter – her frame and build were slighter and she held herself like one with few duties weighing on her. "It is an honor to meet you," she began. "You make my daughter happy."

Eragon fought to keep his lips from curving into a beaming smile. "She does much the same for me," he added quickly. The woman laughed.

"A sharp tongue for a sharp young man. You meet all sorts in Ellesmera, you know. I don't miss the cramped space beneath the leaves that blot out the stars, but it's filled with the most interesting folk."

"I have seen only Silthrim besides, but I cannot disagree with its airy beauty."

Once Niduen's mother Aoife allowed her family their introductions, she maintained a lively discourse over the wondrous feature of Osilon, occasionally interjecting little comments about how she wished Niduen would consider moving there for a short while – perhaps she might consider a decade or two? – and waxing on over the dreary, dim forest she must wish to escape. She painted a pleasing scene with her words on the elvish city. Apparently, it was close enough to the shore off Vroengard (Eragon read that as adjacent to Carvahall!) that during the golden era, she could hitch a ride with an obliging dragon and visit her aunt in Doru Areba. The city was built up against a mountain with two peaks, Du Stjornuskodari and Du Stjornugrip, similar to Tarnag's terraced city. Of course, Aoife implied that Osilon was vastly superior in her personal opinion, having visited them both in her life.

The food was incredible, a real contender for the feasts Islanzadi had thrown for this reason or that. Eragon was especially fond of a fluffy, sweet cream Niduen had said was for the pitted and quartered strawberries and other fruit. The cream tasted so sweet it was almost like candy with a cooler, smoother flavor of heavy cream. Eragon loved it.

Osilon, Eragon found out, was a very common point of discussion between Niduen and her family. From what he gathered, The Hall of Miolandra was more full tonight than it had been since the last Blood Oath Celebration. The only thing that was still missing was the conspicuously empty half of the hall where in days past, elfling children would play and make merry while leaving their harried parents a chance to enjoy visiting relatives. Eragon spotted a few faces he had seen before in Ellesmera, though only one or two he could put a face to, including, surprisingly, Gilderien the Wise. He almost didn't recognize the ancient sentinel without his armor and sword. The wizened elf sat in a quiet corner smiling and sipping his glass with three other elves, reclined deeply in his chair.

The conversation at Eragon's table cycled through a variety of benign topics which he was able to understand easily, final confirmation that he was truly fluent in the Ancient Language. An hour or so later, Niduen made excuses for the both of them, dropped off their dirty dishes, then headed back out to her house.

"It reminded me of Carvahall. Perhaps a more idyllic version, where the villagers never feuded, everyone was educated, fed, and happy."

"We have our own feuds," Niduen said bemusedly. "We just-"

"Hide them better," Eragon finished.

When they reached the base of Niduen's tree, a painful expression came over her beautiful features. "This is where we must part ways, Eragon. I like you a lot, but you cannot afford to be distracted thusly. We may only be friends tonight. If we both still live after this war, then perhaps."

"What." Eragon said flatly. "Why wouldn't you live through this war?"

"The elves are going to war," said Niduen in confusion. "Why would I stay behind?"

Because you're a woman! Eragon's primitive brain wanted to scream. Because I can't stand the thought of you dying. But he did not voice those impulsive thoughts which he knew were foolish. Are you saying Ellesmera will be…empty?"

"Even the most mediocre elvish swordsman far surpasses all human ones. When elves go to war, they do it wholeheartedly."

"But I've been defeating Vanir as often as I lose," Eragon furrowed his brows.

"Then you are no longer entirely human," said Niduen simply.

Eragon floundered. What could he even say? If he knew Niduen at all, then she was just as stubborn as Arya or any other elf he had met. And the idea that he was no longer human – it scared him. Doubly so, since he knew she was right. He had seen Orik grow more and more bored, ill at ease with the timeless nature of Ellesmera. Even Harry, who Eragon suspected to be ageless as well, fled the city of the undying.

"Who will tend to the city in your absence?" he tried.

"Nature was here long before us. It shall prevail even in centuries of absence."

Though it felt like he was prying the words from between his lips, Eragon nodded. "Then may fortune smile upon us."

"It seems unlikely that peace shall live in our hearts," Niduen cracked with a smile. "Go, Eragon. Be great."

"And you as well."

---

Harry was a bit surprised to see Murtagh in Ellesmera, despite being the one who dropped him off there. The scrappy, jaded man rather clashed with the peaceful, idyllic atmosphere in the elvish capital. Though his features were the same, Murtagh held himself like a new man. The little red dragon (Murtagh introduced him as Thorn) had grown to well over the size of a bear. Murtagh especially was still cautious, but Harry would bet that being in the one place in Alagaesia actually safe from Galbatorix was a weight off his shoulders.

"I would be lying if I did not thank you, Harry, Arya." Murtagh spoke.

Harry glanced at Arya. "No trouble." The red rider's eyes sharpened.

"It certainly was. And the bindings you released me from…the word I cannot recall-"

"Shush," Harry snapped. "If you want to show your gratitude, tell no one. Arya, Angela, and I are the only ones who know. Maybe Hrothgar could guess, but the elves don't know. I would like to hold on to this ace until we're facing Galbatorix if at all possible."

"He could guess."

"I don't think so. We used it only to ensure he couldn't force you to turn on us during the rescue, and he never gave so blatant a command that that would be the only explanation. Besides, if your true name changed, that would have the same effect. If we were going to be obvious about it, we could have just carried on using it to power through every ward and enchantment in our way."

"Time is of the essence, then," Murtagh hissed. "One of his many great projects was finding that word, and he claims to have found a tablet with it written in some dead script he's trying to translate." Harry laughed.

"Are you not listening? Galbatorix could discover the Name of the Ancient Language! Even if you know it-"

"He can't." Harry said simply, grinning widely. "I cast one of the most powerful spells of my world over that particular word. It is literally impossible for anyone to learn that word by any means. Three people in the world know it, and it's impossible for anyone new to learn it."

Murtagh suddenly went really quiet.

"Why not abuse it, then? Couldn't you have killed Galbatorix then and there?"

Harry winced. "Probably."

"Then why didn't you!" exploded Murtagh. "Surely you saw that he is evil! There can be no denying he deserves it!"

Arya glanced between them. "That is a good question."

"It's not like I didn't give it a bloody good try," Harry defended. "He would have died if his wards didn't push him out of the way of my killing curse."

"You didn't put your all into that attack," Arya decided.

"Putting everything into it is literally a requirement of the killing curse. You can't half-ass the desire to kill your target."

"No, your first lethal spell was when we were almost out."

"Well, yeah, but the mission wasn't about killing him-"

"You snuck into the CItadel without intending to assassinate Galbatorix?" Murtagh demanded incredulously. "Did you think he would just let you wander about and then leave?"

"He wasn't supposed to ever detect us-"

Murtagh barked a laugh. "How'd you manage that?"

Harry scowled. "Look, would you all really be happy if before the Varden even left Surda, before any dragonrider had the chance to avenge the dragons, before any dragon had that chance, I snuck in and killed him in the night? No! You'd be bloody well pissed that I robbed you, who has been wronged far more deeply than I, the chance to do him in yourself. If he seeks me out in battle before the Varden and I defeat him, fine. I'll not pull a Vrael and hesitate just enough to spell disaster for Alagaesia. But I would have been furious if Voldemort tripped down the stairs right before I had the chance to kill him by my own hand, and I can't imagine Eragon or you, Murtagh, wouldn't be glad for the opportunity to kill him."

The Red Rider went quiet again.

"If I knew anything about the Mad King before your rescue, it was that he would never get off his throne if he knew the Varden was coming to meet him. But you have snatched nearly all he holds dear out from under him. He might actually ride out to meet you in battle. You're right that Thorn and I long to kill him, but I doubt he'll give us the chance."

---

"Begin."

Harry knew from the first strike that he was outclassed. Eragon went into the fight with an easy competence that told Harry he had mastered the art as far as his physique allowed. Harry basically never managed to beat Arya, and Eragon was proving his skills to be on her level. There was less force behind his strikes to deflect, but the tearing sound of Zippy's black-and-white blade cutting the air felt detrimental now that they both had superhuman senses. Eragon didn't even really need to look to know where Harry's strikes came from. That gave Harry a wonderfully evil idea for a sword, but it wouldn't help him for that spar. Eragon wove his net of steel around Harry until the weave closed around him. With a blindingly quick feint to his shins, Eragon yanked the net closed and tapped Harry on the collarbone with his sword. "Dead."

Harry fell back panting. "Merlin, you're amazing, Eragon!"

Eragon grinned. "Yourself as well! That little sword of yours made me double-time to keep up."

"Gods above, Eragon. You've been practicing!" Murtagh exclaimed. He and Oromis watched from the sidelines of the training grounds, evaluating. "I've not seen fighting like that since Tornac died."

"Thanks," he panted.

"I could–and will–critique your mistakes, Harry, but it is clear that you are not as naturally gifted with swordplay as Eragon or Murtagh, nor do you care to be," said Oromis. "You are of course better than any human swordsman, but your reliance on superior speed, strength, and reflexes will see you outclassed martially by Shades, elves, and Riders." Oromis rose and drew Naegling. "Your first instinct is to defend yourself with magic, and since you are capable of such, I can accept mediocrity here. Murtagh, would you spar with me?"

Murtagh looked poleaxed at the invitation. "I haven't a sword."

"Eragon?"

Eragon was already unstrapping the plain, enchanted blade Harry had made a while back. "Geuloth du knifr," he murmured over the edges.

Helplessly, Murtagh hefted the sword. The shocked look melted into a grin. "What a fabulous sword," he smiled. "Better than all the blades in Galbatorix's stock."

"You favor its balance?" Eragon was surprised. "It is as if I am holding Zar'roc with a longer hilt."

"Just so."

Despite the son of Morzan standing in the elvish capital, the many elves watching seemed to think the swordplay was of no concern. Instead, they watched the greatest gathering of dragons in a hundred years. Glaedr, Thorn, Saphira, and Firnen stood sentinel over their RIders' spars, the first time the three eggs Galbatorix had stolen were reunited since Brom's theft.

Harry began to understand the elves' obsession with dragons and their hate for Galbatorix, looking at those four dragons in the sunlight, scales glittering like a million gems. They were unearthly. They were so magical it felt like he was a little firstie on a boat on the Black Lake for the first time, gawking up at the majesty of Hogwarts for the first time. He could hardly imagine hundreds at once. What an unforgivable crime it was to deprive Alagaesia of their majesty for a base motivation like greed or power lust.

Clanging steel drew his attention away from the magnificent beasts.

Harry's first thought was that Murtagh fought just like Eragon. The two fought so identically, it took a minute for the differences to show themselves. His mechanics were like looking through a dark mirror. Murtagh's strokes were refined and precise, yet wound together with an aggression greater than Eragon's swordplay. Conversely, Eragon's style had a hint of brawliness that belied Tornac's differences from Brom. Brom taught swordplay to win. Tornac taught fencing to nobles and happened to find a student as gifted as himself.

Oromis probed unyieldingly until Murtagh expanded his repertoire, deviating from mechanical perfection and into tricks and traps and underhanded blows.

Oromis kept silent until the conclusion of the spar.

While Murtagh panted, braced on his thighs and bangs slick with sweat, Oromis stood still like he had done no more than walk briskly a moment. He waited for the Rider to recover.

"When I first sparred with Eragon, I said he had little to learn, and my advantages were merely of strength and speed that he could not gain without magic. Your form is better than his, for a given definition of better. Your strokes are perfect, your tricks and traps as good as any. In time, you will grow into your riderhood and join the ranks of master swordsmen who can reliably expect to match Shades and defeat casual elves with a blade in hand. Spar to maintain your skill, and that which you lack will come to you."

Murtagh left. Together, the four of them danced the Rimgar. Arya and Oromis displayed the ludicrously advanced fourth level while Harry and Eragon ably managed the third. They split up to bathe, then convened before Oromis's hut on the Crags of Tel'naer.

"You have both been absent for months. I would know what you learned." Oromis poured out tea for his students, then himself.

Harry, Arya, Oromis, and Eragon had an odd lesson then, where they each swapped stories about what they learned in the others' absences. Harry professed to have mastered weather manipulation, bio-alchemy, basic time magic, and the technique he had dubbed 'mental radar,' while Arya managed apparition and portkey creation, advanced transfiguration, and intermediate charmswork.

Eragon revealed that he was taught in a rather brutal way to be very, very careful of fueling his magic with the energy of other living things, but he could do it, since he had also mastered mental radar. He had focused on mostly herbology, which surprised Harry. His cursory impression of Eragon was very different from Neville, but when he really looked, their similarities surprised him. Both had come into their power later, but rose magnificently to their challenges.

Eragon handily trounced Harry in their spar with swords, though Arya proved still a cut above his skill level. Oromis displayed a pace of learning wandwork that made Harry envious. Apparently, transfiguration synergized very well with elves' understanding of the world. The way it linked concepts together as the caster saw them was similar to the nature of the Ancient Language, allowing Oromis to easily surpass Harry with mere months of effort and a single textbook.

"You have learned less than you would have in Ellesmera," Oromis said after. It was not accusatory, but a statement of fact.

"I accept that." Harry tried not to feel too guilty. The way Oromis phrased it made it impossible to interpret other than that he was disappointed.

"Time slips through our fingers like sand and if we try to close our fists, it will be gone all the sooner. Tell me your plans, Harry, Arya, Firnen. For how long do you intend to stay?"

"I would not miss the Blood Oath Celebration, but we can do more for the cause at the Varden's camp than here," said Arya. "Unless there are lessons we must learn?"

"There are always lessons to be learned," Oromis said. "Yet I have none left which you absolutely must."

"You're leaving already?" Eragon interjected.

"After the Agaeti Blodhren," said Harry. "The Varden can survive without us, true, but there is a lot we could be doing for them that we can't do from here. You said, Oromis, that what we choose to spend our time doing will significantly impact the course of this war. I choose to ensure Nasuada's safety from assassins, to organize the army as best I can help, and to otherwise make sure the Varden has every advantage I can give it."

"The Varden are fortunate to have you," commented Oromis. "Very well. If this week is to be our last together, let us spend it wisely. We have spent much of our time learning what you all need to be good Riders. Today, let us speak of our enemy. Each of you knows what Galbatorix did, let us suppose why."

---

Every time the jailer visited, Roran's heart soared. He hated how glad he was to see the odd, short man. He came off to Roran as simple-minded by his demeanor and utter silence. No matter how he needled or prompted, the man would not form a single word. He came in, tipped flat, tasteless water into Roran's mouth, then left. Roran imagined the jailer came on routine, though his sense of passing time was so warped, he could only guess.

Roran was reluctantly glad to see him because he was bored. Bound as he was, Roran's entire world was the roof of the chamber and the highest edges of the walls. There, it ended. Empty, silent hours dragged on. He did not consciously sleep. Rest came in fits of naps that blurred sleep with wakefulness. The sourceless light of the Hall of the Soothsayer remained steady–bright enough to see, but dim by comparison to Roran's experience outdoors. After what felt like an eternity, Roran had no idea how long it had been anymore. He had nothing by which to judge time except the visits of the jailer.

All that time, he had naught but his mind for company, a restless and nervous thing that cycled all sorts of terrible visions through his mind: what happened to Carvahall and its villagers, to Eragon, Katrina, Horst, Baldor, Albreich, and on and on it went. What might Galbatorix mean by "giving him a push?" Was he going to torture him? Could Roran last under torture? What terrible ways would he use? And perhaps more insidiously, would serving Galbatorix be all that bad?

Roran berated himself for the thought. Galbatorix was responsible for the destruction of his whole life. He had tread very close to hinting at threatening Katrina. Eragon was very obviously opposed to Galbatorix, and serving him would bring him into conflict with his cousin. Roran did not mind conflict, but he could not conscience the idea of being forced to kill his own family.

What would father do? Roran ignored the stab of bitter sorrow and wondered; Garrow always held honor, honesty, and dignity above everything. Roran didn't think Garrow would have let he and Eragon starve if they had a bad crop, but he certainly would let the family go hungry if it meant refusing charity. Did Galbatorix's offer count as charity? Whatever happened, Roran knew going back on his word was not an option.

Stone ground on stone. Roran strained his head against the restraint, trying to glimpse the jailer. Yet two sets of footsteps crunched over the floor he had never seen.

"How are you, Roran?" The King's velvety voice resonated from beyond his field of view. Dread pooled in Roran's gut. "Not feeling very talkative?"

Rustling movement did not stop, despite Galbatorix's voice coming from low enough to indicate he had taken a seat. "Today will be a bit different. Last we were here, we talked about the push I needed to get started on the path to forge a better Alagaesia. It occurs to me that I have not told you overmuch about what that looks like to me, so perhaps we ought to start there. If you remain unconvinced after hearing my vision, well, then, we'll see about giving you that push, too."

And then Galbatorix began to talk.

Talking felt insufficient a word to Roran to describe the power of the speech the King gave. He imagined that if the gods had appointed a prophet to speak for them, that person would be envious of the picture Galbatorix painted. The world he spoke of was so beautiful, Roran secretly ached to live in that world. Galbatorix described a happy people with full bellies and wide smiles. He talked about economic policies he'd concieved to elevate the commonfolk, treatments and cures he had discovered for sicknesses that often plagued Alagaesia, he talked about the majesty of the dwarves and elves, and how he would make it possible for the whole of the world to share in the grandeur of Farthen Dur and the breathtaking beauty of Osilon. The elves and dwarves jealously hid their masterpieces out of fear of tyranny. When Galbatorix showed them how just and fair a ruler he was, with the help of a new order of dragon riders, they would emerge from hiding. He spoke of the unfairness of magicians and their abuses of power, then gave promises of bringing them under his control so they might use their gifts fairly for the betterment of the world.

All the while, the second set of steps remained silent and unmoving. Roran wished he could plug his ears, while also straining to hear every word. Galbatorix was a siren, beckoning him to ruin, singing over the voices of his family and the virtues he held dear.

"So you see, Roran, why I need men like you. Will you join me in making my dream a reality?"

Roran wanted to say yes. He really did. But when he screwed his eyes shut, blocked out the King's voice, and remembered Garrow's tortured body by the hands of the monster who sat above him, the fog in his mind lifted.

"How isn't that a lie?" he demanded angrily, hoping rage would mask his fear. "You've had a century to create your perfect world. Why does Carvahall starve for your tax collectors? when is Alagaesia going to see your promises?"

Galbatorix shrugged. "I imagine it will be much easier to deliver when there is no longer an armed force dedicated to opposing whatever I do. I see that you are unwilling to consider my offer at the moment. I want you to know, Roran, I would not force your compliance by taking Katrina – I want you to be able to work for me willingly – but I find a bit of discomfort often forces a recalcitrant mind from its stubborn tenets. If you would?"

"What?"

But Galbatorix was not addressing Roran. The silent other lifted something. Roran felt the warm, red glow of the iron before it came into view. Then he began to scream.

---

Harry could draw a lot of similarities between Galbatorix and Tom Riddle. Young Galbatorix was born in Inzilbeth, though among siblings and parents, all of whom died. Inzilbeth was obliterated (by Urgals like Jarnunvosk) but before its destruction orphaned Galbatorix and killed all of his siblings, it was a settlement on the fringes of Northwestern Du Weldenvarden, close enough and during a kinder time that the two races were somewhat integrated. It was across the North Sea from Carvahall.

So immediately, Harry knew that Galbatorix vilified Urgals like Riddle did muggles. They had killed his family, destroyed his home, and then later, his dragon Jarnunvosk, who he likely came to see as a replacement for his family. This all by about twenty years old. Oromis said that he had been skilled and prideful in his training which Harry took as another parallel, but he placed little weight on the observation – prideful and skilled described many people he knew at Hogwarts, including Hermione. Pride seemed like an enabler to evil, rather than a source.

Unlike Riddle, Galbatorix found a mentor who was actively evil and sought to turn Galbatorix. Durza happened upon Galbatorix at his lowest point, immediately after the death of both his dragon and his friends. Harry could sympathize. If, say, Grindelwald had appeared at the Ministry right after Bellatrix Lestrange had killed Sirius, the retired Dark Lord would likely have found a sympathetic ear.

Durza poisoned Galbatorix further against the Riders, fanning his rage until he did something he couldn't take back: the murder of Ishka the Rider for no particular reason. From then, things spiralled for the former Rider. He stole an egg and used terrible magic to forcibly bind Shruikan to himself in a desperate attempt to fill the void Jarnunvosk had left. At that point, Oromis admitted that the Rider Order would have had no choice but to hunt him relentlessly and kill him – the dragons would allow nothing less. This, Harry likened to when Riddle killed Moaning Myrtle and made his first Horcrux.

Then Riddle's and Galbatorix's paths ran parallel. They both seduced prideful, like-minded peers to their ideals, pitched their tear-it-down approach to violent governmental restructuring to their new followers, and got to work. Oromis indicated that Galbatorix's current goals beyond the obvious control of the next generation of Riders seemed to focus on order. The issue was, it was difficult to tell. Galbatorix seemed to spend every waking second in his citadel, presumably subduing Eldunari to grow his personal power. He only intervened in the Broddring Empire to put out fires, and was wholly uninterested in actively ruling his kingdom. His public speeches indicated he intended to reign in magicians, and the elves who had been combing the copy of his office had found an old tablet which might have a word on it that would allow him to do just that.

"Today, he has been robbed of the activity that has consumed all of his time for the better part of a century," Oromis warned. "We must be wary, for now he will be using it to oppose us. In some ways, it is worse. He would have been increasingly more difficult to stop with each Eldunari he enslaved, but at this point, we estimate he has thousands. There is little difference to us between a million soldiers and a billion; we will not beat him with a direct confrontation of strength. He is cunning and has the power to do most anything he wants, and now the time to use it. That is a dangerous combination."

The old Rider finished the lesson by explaining what they knew today: Galbatorix had several concubines, though they cycled in and out after about five years when their beauty began to decline, and he had never sired any children, nor was he particularly close with any of them. He never publicly ate or drank, so the elves hadn't even bothered attempting to poison him, when he left the citadel previously he went by himself in Uru'baen, and simply with Shruikan when away from the capital. No elf had tried to assassinate him for fear of being captured and having the secrets they knew ripped from their minds, and no human assassin had ever been willing to even try. Though he never brought guards anywhere, he was still a Rider with access to virtually unlimited magical power and thus the only real plan for killing him was to kill his servants first, then engineer a confrontation between him and his Eldunari, and Eragon and every single magician, soldier, siege engine, dragon, and Rider they could find.

"Remember that Galbatorix sacked the Riders' library on Doru Areba. All but the most forbidden, word-of-mouth-only knowledge we had was kept there. He is intelligent, but lacked the time to peruse it. Things like gunpowder, poisonous gas, spells of plague, and the like which the Riders knew about but hid away, he is free to pursue. I mean to warn you that this theater of war may be different from those you know."

Harry tried to imagine a primitive WWII with magic, or maybe a Napoleonic war with poison gas and magic. The image kept slipping from his head. Vaguely horrific, but fuzzy.

When Oromis called it for the day, Harry lingered. "I want to recruit a few elves. I have an impactful role that I'd like to fill, and elves will be better at it than humans. Who should I speak to?"

He frowned. "Islanzadi's seneschal, I would think, but there is no guarantee that any elf wants to."

Harry shrugged. "Thanks. I'll ask around."

Arya left to see Elva in Tialdari Hall. Harry headed down to Islanzadi's offices, but the queen herself was absent. He greeted an elf who identified himself as Argewe and asked.

"The Queen thought you would ask," he nodded. "I have a list of twelve. I can contact them, if you'd like?"

Agreeing, Harry conjured a chair and sat. A couple minutes later, Argewe glanced up. "Eleven of them agreed to meet. Shall I direct them to the Menoa Tree in an hour?"

"That quickly?"

"They were informed of your interests before. The last can be retold by her compatriots."

"Then yes, please," Harry said gratefully.

During the hour, Harry got together everything he had prepared and stuffed it into a quickly conjured expanded bag. He apparated to the tree on the hour to find all eleven elves waiting for him.

"Islanzadi told you what this is about?"

"She did," a short man inclined his head. "We are elves 'with steady hands, sharp eyes, and strong stomachs.' We are Filvendor, Virien, Vru, Val, Inath, Anzi, Wime, Ilentha, Eru, Ealyi, and Illo," he indicated each in turn. "Of us, Niduen is missing."

"Right. Well, the gist of it is that I've got twelve rifles that need shooters. Imagine a bow that can fire accurately from a mile away. They also shoot so hard that catching even one bullet is taxing on wards, much less as many as you feel like shooting. The idea is to set you all up on vantage points over big battles where magicians are dispersed among troops and let you kill them from a distance so our spellcasters can pick apart the rest of the army. There's a bit more to it, but that's about right."

The elves glanced at each other. One by one, they indicated their agreement to continue. Harry conjured a table and reached into his pack. Item after item thumped heavily onto the table. First came a rifle. Harry had tried some cutouts and contours to make the gun look sexy, but he hadn't quite managed to capture the elegant, lethal beauty of the guns he was familiar with. It was four and a half feet long with a mounted scope whose aperture looked like a black void. The back of the stock and the grip were covered in black polymer, and a matte black bipod folded out from the front of the stock. The other eleven came out of the bag and were passed around.

"This is the weapon in question. I tried to strike a balance between lightness for ease of transportation and weight to keep the scope stable and reduce kick. If you personally want it to weigh more or less, I can tweak it for you." The elves hefted them almost like clubs. Harry had to suppress a laugh; it was very "Planet of the Apes."

"They are meant to be used while prone against the ground or propped against a windowsill. Use the bipod whenever possible. If you're in close quarters, it can be hip-fired, but I wouldn't recommend it. It's a bolt action, so there's some time between shots."

They all quickly grasped the function of the rifle and how to cycle the bolt between shots. In the grand scheme of the weapon, the gun itself was almost unimpressive. The great convenience Harry had added to it was a toned-down impediment jinx when the user's cheek was on the stock while their finger touched the trigger. He had tweaked it a bit to strike the perfect balance, but in effect, it all but eliminated scope sway. The rifle resisted movement enough to keep the crosshairs steady, but not so much that it was difficult to track and make adjustments.

Harry vaguely understood the mechanism for semi-automatic guns, but they would be less reliable than bolt-action, which boiled down to a cannon with a little lever to pop out spent casings. Instead, he went all out on the action he did understand. Each rifle had its own mechanical suppressor despite magic being able to very easily completely silence it without. There were still advantages to a muzzle device, as Harry had learned from John Browning. By dispersing the escaping gas from a fired round, silencers, muzzle breaks, and to a certain extent even flash hiders reduced recoil. Harry had found a spell in the Black Library that created a one-directional field of darkness that could serve for flash hiding – the same one on the end of the scope to eliminate glint – yet he took pride in the fact that even completely unenchanted, the rifle would function completely fine. Magic just added more advantages.

But all of the enchantments on the rifle paled in comparison to the scope. He had learned lenscrafting (which had required him to bite the bullet and learn calculus) just for the project. It had four variable zooms at 1x-3x-12x-24x-48x for all ranges and a thin, luminous red crosshair that would be visible even at night.

"The scope has three additional features. There is the normal, optical sight, but if you press this button, it cycles through night vision–self explanatory, thermal–illuminates things whiter on black the hotter they are, and the last one which is similar, red on black being the vitality of the life source. They have their own advantages and disadvantages, and you can of experiment with which ones you like best. Night vision makes the world look as it would at high noon on a sunny day, even on a stormy night, but tends to skew the colors towards blue and green. Thermal vision excels at target acquisition since body temperature glows white, but there are a lot of false positives especially on warm days, and it can be difficult to see terrain properly. The last one is by far the best for target acquisition. Vitality is stopped by nothing but range, where microbes in the air, grass, dirt, and leaves will eventually red out the whole scope. Terrain doesn't show up at all, though you can get some idea from spotting worms, grass, trees and the like. Sentient beings shine like a beacon, but after a couple miles the image is so washed out it's nearly impossible to tell. Vitality is unique because it will show your target even if they are behind cover, and there's not much cover that can stop a shot from the rifle."

The elves ooed and ahhed appropriately for Harry's ego, waving the rifles about, peering through the scopes at each other and drawing a cringe from him. Clearly gun safety needed to be the next lesson.

"You should also note that it is blatantly obvious when a magician actively uses magic through the vitality filter; they're almost blinding right when they cast. I assume it will be hard to tell otherwise; I've noticed I actually show up dimmer the more I cast before resting. The final thing to note is target lock. It can probably be foiled so I would not rely too much on it, but if you press in the button on the stock by your thumb, the scope will 'designate' whatever target your crosshair is over at the moment so when you fire, the bullet will be dragged in line with the lased target. The little numerical readout at the top of the scope is the rangefinder, which gives you the distance to your target in meters."

He glanced around. The elves seemed a bit dazed. "Everybody got it?"

"You have distilled the art of killing into the most impersonal task," Filvendor said wryly. "But it does seem straightforward. Will we have time to practice, and what sort of ammunition do they use?"

He grinned fiercely. "Why don't you take these and try them out for yourself?"

---

It was only three days from the start of the Blood Oath Celebration when Ilentha brought by a backpack woven from astonishingly dense black fibers. Inside was a weapon – a rifle, her friend termed it. When she drew it out to examine, Ilentha had immediately demanded that the thing be pointed nowhere near her. Niduen was unsure why she was so fearful, the rifle resembled a blowgun of sorts, after all.

No, Ilentha had said, it was no mere blowgun. Niduen should take the backpack out far enough that no one lived nearby and try it on something far from her and with nothing behind it that she particularly cared about. Niduen shrugged and agreed. The next thing to be drawn from the bag was a little case made of a material she had never heard of. Airtight, watertight, and supposedly it needed no maintenance and would outlive her. Niduen laughed, until Ilentha mentioned that plastic – for that was the name of the material – was not supposed to compost for ten thousand years. Within was a few little 'magazines' and a kit for cleaning the rifle. When Ilentha showed her how to disassemble, clean, oil, and reassemble it, Niduen began to respect the weapon. The mechanical complexity was beyond anything she knew of, doubly so for the small scale of the rifle. The mechanism for loading it was relatively simple, but Ilentha refused to do it inside her home.

The next thing out of the pack was a suit, made from another unfamiliar material called 'polymer.' With a saucy grin, Ilentha demanded that she put it on. Obligingly, Niduen made a valiant effort to get into the suit. It was skintight, yet stretchy. Upon wrestling her legs in and stretching the overlarge top up over her shoulders, the one-piece suit sucked in as if all the air had been drawn from it, leaving smooth, matte black polymer right up against her skin. When she looked at her reflection, Niduen agreed that the black material made her very pleasing to look at, indeed. The suit was meant to go on under another layer of netting, 'ghillie,' or leaves, grass, and foliage to disguise her as part of the ground. The polymer suit was supposed to prevent her body heat from escaping and keep her comfortable even when laying completely still for days at a time. Ilentha listed off its properties excitedly; it was watertight so she would not get wet when laying in mud or rain, it had slash protection, so swords were more likely to break bone than sever limbs, it wicked away sweat and maintained a constant, comfortable temperature. Comfort seemed to be of paramount importance to better enable its wearer to never need to move.

And that was not all. Item after enchanted item she drew from the backpack, well after it was clear that the bag held more than its dimensions should allow: a bottle that never emptied of cool, clean water, three little tins from which nearly endless 'ration bars' could be drawn, different dull-flavored crackers of sorts that each supposedly sustained an elf for a full day of hard exertion. Boots and gloves that promised similar benefits to the suit and a plastic helmet that Ilentha assured would protect her better than any common steel all had tiny little hooks about them that allowed for a thin netting to be draped over it.

This was something that she had to do herself. Wherever she ended up going, Niduen was to take up mud, underbrush, leaves, and bits of sod and arrange it over the netting so none could detect her by sight. If she were to be in the desert, then she was to glue sand to the netting and become one with the dunes. If she were in a snowy field, then she must become a snowbank. Even the rifle had netting that carefully obscured everything but the trigger, the scope, and the muzzle.

Ilentha extracted a final promise from her to be extraordinarily cautious when first trying out the rifle, then left.

Niduen ran with the bag three hours, well beyond the furthest point where any elf lived, and cast her mind out far and wide to ensure there was nothing in front of her before making herself a comfortable vantage point on a hillock and shooting across a small lake as the sun set.

The scope was incredible. She could examine the lichen-covered stoney shore on the other side of the lake as if she were crouched over the rocks herself. Clicking through the magnification filters allowed her to count the bits of gravel between rocks a few hundred yards out. Further out, Niduen was able to spot wildlife wandering about the treeline.

417 meters, the rangefinder on the scope told her, the red crosshairs placed over a sizable boulder on the other shore. It was an exercise in patience to keep the crosshairs over the boulder when every twitch and minute breath sent the thing bobbling all over the place, but when she placed her finger upon the little lever, the rifle seemed to seize in place. She could still push and prod it how she liked, except now moving the crosshair took deliberate effort and when she did not mean to, the reticle stayed nearly dead still.

Warily, she lifted her cheek to load the AP magazine which was supposedly the closest thing to an arrow out of the three kinds in the case. The bolt moved smoothly and silently. When Niduen returned her eye to the scope, she found that the crosshair had moved vastly and sought to aim it once more. Again, once the crosshair was centered on her target, she rested her finger on the trigger and felt the gun still. Experimentally, she gave it a nudge. With the gun 'slowed,' Niduen was easily able to put the crosshair exactly on the middle of the boulder.

The trigger had a satisfying resistance. The instant it gave way, the gun pushed firmly back on her shoulder, just enough to let her feel the thrum of power from the shot. The air seemed to split with a crack. The rifle itself made an aggressive puffing noise distinct from the crack. Instantly, the boulder shattered into a thousand pieces of spinning shrapnel and dust.

Well. Niduen decided she was very glad Ilentha convinced her not to try it at home.

Curious, she cycled the bolt and switched to incendiary. A brass casing clattered out of the breach. Cycling the bolt once more, a brass cylinder with a pointed, green-tipped bit of metal sticking out of the neck spat out. Was that a round? It was massive compared to an arrowhead, long enough to reach from the tip of her finger to her palm, and twice as thick as her thumb. It had real heft to it, far more than even the longest arrows.

Niduen realized she had reloaded an AP round before cycling the bolt, thus the one in her hand was AP. She cycled it once more. The round that came out had an identical casing, but the protruding tip was more rounded than the almost nail-like AP tip. The red painted tip helpfully indicated that the round was the equivalent to a fire arrow. Hefting it, Niduen decided that it definitely weighed less than the green tips.

Replacing the mechanical silencer with the magical one was as simple as unscrewing it and screwing on the little grey ring. The silencer came away pleasantly warm to the touch, a black, baffled cylinder perhaps half-again as long as a bullet and slightly thicker than her forearm.

The next shot was utterly silent.

The crack was gone, and the whumph of air as well. The rifle seemed to kick a bit more, but Niduen presumed the immobilization that steadied the scope worked to moderate the kick, too. The boulder she shot split just as the first had, except it did so with a spray of fire that coated the area around it and burned fiercely for about five minutes. The dark notion of what that would do to a person sobered Niduen.

Finally, she reloaded the explosive rounds to the empty chamber and cycled the bolt twice to examine the round. Its form was that of the incendiary round, but with a black painted tip. Firing it obliterated a large section of the shoreline, blasted up a spray of water, and a few seconds later, echoed over the lake with a low boom.

Don't fire it in the house, indeed, Niduen thought wryly.

Niduen remained on the hilltop for several hours, flicking through the thermal, night vision, and vitality filters, making increasingly distant shots with relative ease, and experimenting with ballistic mode and target lock. Within hours, it was apparent that the weapon in her hands was a killing tool unlike anything Alagaesia had seen. Even Rhunon's swords would not make a poor swordsman into a legend. Harry's rifles took nothing but patience to use to devastating effect. Niduen could watch a deer walk behind several feet of solid wood and foliage and with AP bullets, kill it with impunity. She could track the movement of the fish in the lake as though the water wasn't there and the fish were flying and again with AP, shoot them through feet of murky water. The night vision filter transformed the waning crescent moon night into a blue-green hued noon, and the thermal filter functioned like a vitality filter that could see terrain and obstacles. With the 'target lock' function, Niduen could shoot around an obstacle in the way of her target at just the right angle, and the bullet would veer back around it to strike true.

Perhaps most astonishingly, the rifle simply did not run out of rounds. The magazines looked as if they could hold four bullets at maximum, yet Niduen had shattered boulder after boulder and every time she pulled the trigger, a bullet came out. That alone was an enormous advantage over the bow where even the greatest archer was limited in opportunity by the amount of arrows they could carry with them.

It was easy enough when shooting rocks to consider the rifle a fun tool to use and marvel over its capabilities, but Niduen could not shake the thought that she had agreed to work with Harry over the pretense of a 'strong stomach.' Why bother with vitality filters that highlighted active magic users if she wasn't supposed to be murdering them from so far away that they were helpless to defend themselves?

She would honor her commitment, but Niduen felt a sinking suspicion that she would come to loathe her job.

---

Ellesmera was full. It was the only way Eragon could put it. The labyrinthian roads and massive trees made it difficult to estimate how many people actually lived in the elven capital, though Eragon was sure it was far less than a city like Teirm. Now, he wasn't so sure. Treehouses he had never seen lit were illuminated every evening. There were dwellings he had only just discovered because they were so seamlessly integrated with their host trees, only the illuminated windows betrayed them. There were always elves on every path, and their variety had exploded from what he was used to.

Many resembled inhumanly beautiful humans, but the strange ones with fur, fangs, claws, and scales had never been out in such numbers before. He had nearly startled at the sight of a long-furred grey wolf when it got off its front legs and revealed itself to be a woman, greeting him in the elvish tradition.

The anticipation in the air drew tenser and tenser. Murmured conversations happened on the roads, where Eragon's sharpening ears caught words and phrases like "Galbatorix," or "dragons," or "Rider pact." One place of heavy foot traffic was the hall where the Eldunari Harry had rescued currently resided. Every time Firnen, Thorn, or Saphira flew overhead, all the elves in sight stopped in their tracks and craned their necks to watch in awe. Elves moved with unheard of haste between dwellings and places of work, presumably to put the finishing touches on their gifts for Agaeti Blodhren.

Even the forest drew forward in anticipation. The wildlife drew together to a borderline obstructive degree, deer and rabbits and mice and other such prey animals boldly walking among peaceful predators like wolves and bears. They walked across paths and astride elves with such boldness, Eragon might be forgiven for mistaking them as citizens of Ellesmera. Even the trees seemed to be whispering in hushed tones of leaves on leaves, eagerly awaiting the ceremony.

Saphira had been busy at work on her gift for the celebration, though she stubbornly refused to reveal what it was to Eragon, despite his best wheedling, needling, and flattery. Fire, lots of fire, had been her only hint, and for the life of him, Eragon could not piece that together with any kind of artwork. For himself, Eragon worked on his own project. Niduen's words to him had given him the notion that his first idea didn't fit quite right. He had thought of composing a poem about his own journey and its inevitable conclusion across from Galbatorix. Elves were big on the fine arts. But the prospect not only of coming up with something undoubtedly of inferior quality to everyone else, but of emphasizing the part of himself already linked so closely to his identity, one he wanted to grow beyond was not attractive to him. The most honest work he could put forth would be one that came from him, Eragon the real person, rather than Eragon the Rider who would decide Alagaesia's fate.

It was just after Eragon finished his piece that every single elf seemed to head down to the field by the Menoa tree. At the foot of his home, Eragon was surprised to find Oromis had ventured into Ellesmera proper and come right up to his doorstep.

"Eragon. You remember Dagshelgr, yes?"

Eragon cast his mind back. Vaguely, he did. Less than a year had passed, yet it felt like another lifetime. Perhaps it was because his perspective was totally alien to the Eragon who ventured in at first. "Yes, Ebrithil."

"Similarly, the nature of our revelry will be like Dagshelgr. You may hear music that is not there, be struck by the urge to dance or drink or mate, or otherwise be reduced to your more primal instincts. This scroll contains two spells you must cast. They will not immunize you from the effects but reduce them to a safe level for a mostly-human Rider. Even protected by these spells, you must remain aware of your mental condition and retreat from the celebration if it grows to be too much. Orik will require these as well, as he is your responsibility. I have given Arya another copy for Harry and Elva. Make haste, for Islanzadi shall begin at midnight."

Eragon collected Orik from Tialdari Hall and ensorcelled the both of them and joined the tide of elves heading towards the Menoa tree.

"The elves don't do things by half measures, eh?" Orik marveled, nearly tripping on himself craning his neck to see the hundreds of tall elves headed down the worn path. "This will be some revelry, Eragon. Mark my words."

When they came upon the field below the Menoa tree, Eragon gaped.

It was one thing to reason that there were many more elves in Ellesmera than during the welcome feast, quite another to see literal thousands congregated in the huge, grassy field beneath the monstrous tree. They talked amongst themselves, filling the clearing with the dull roar of excited chatter and conversation.

Eragon and Orik pushed through the tide of elves searching for familiar faces. They spotted Rhunon, surprisingly voluntarily away from her forge, though she still wore a sooty apron. They exchanged greetings for a moment when Rhunon broke into Dwarvish and addressed Orik. Delighted, he responded in kind.

"What did she say?" asked Eragon.

"She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal working." Awe crossed Orik's face. "Eragon, she first learned her craft from Futhark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Durgrimst Ingeitum! What I would give to have met him."

Then they pushed on. It felt like they had shouldered past a hundred little groups of conversation. Light faded from the golden horizon, replaced by a magical illumination in the truest sense of the word. Uncountable yellow lanterns hung from the boughs of the Menoa tree, so high above that they seemed like little stars. They ringed the trees on the edge of the clearing and floated overhead, unsupported and drifting like fish in water. Yet they were not so bright as to wash out the night sky, a majestic new moon that revealed billions of motes of starlight in a milky band striped vertically from horizon to horizon.

The elves made merry, chatting and singing and dancing in little pockets and groups, passing about picnic baskets and snacking while they waited for the stroke of midnight.

Eragon had nearly forgotten the anticipated ceremony, so drawn up in meeting all manner of unfamiliar elves when a collective hush fell upon the crowd.

Squinting, Eragon spotted a red, ant-like figure walking up the enormous roots of the Menoa tree. Gold flashed off Islanzadi's girdle and circlet. She held her arm high above her head, where motes of light from the lanterns coalesced into an orb. It grew until it was as large as the queen was tall whereupon she dropped her arm. The faintly golden light hung in the air, gently pulsating.

A great cheer went up among the elves, and suddenly, Agaeti Blodhren had begun.

---

Agaeti Blodhren was everything Harry had imagined a centennial wizarding party to be and more. He was actually a bit envious that Hogwarts had never hosted a revelry like it. The most awesome party he had previously experienced was the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. Two foreign schools in addition to Hogwarts, only upperclassmen so there had to be less kid-friendliness, Fred and George in top form, Hermione a vision of beauty, Lee Jordan and the Chasers with Ginny, Neville, and even the sourer professors grudgingly enjoying themselves, everyone together having a blast – well, except for Ron and the Patils.

The Yule Ball had nothing on Agaeti Blodhren. Maybe if everyone was of age and there was no adult supervision, but the Blood Oath Celebration featured elves outright having sex on the grass in the middle of the field. The clearing was so huge, presumably to accommodate dragons, that you could find any sort of party within the larger whole. There were tables and chairs set up that were constantly replenished with food for dignified dining, and then there were orgies happening on the other side of the lawn. Musicians were in top form, violinists sawing out head-bangers and funeral dirges alike, percussionists banging up a driving rhythm that seemed to sync up with your heartbeat, elves swinging and climbing over the massive branches of the Menoa tree, and all five dragons in the field. Intermittent blasts of fireworks lit up the sky in chromatic bursts of sparks. Aupho was playing coy, but could be spotted flitting about near Firnen before hiding, something she could only get away with while barely larger than a dog and the precise color of the lanterns, many of which were dragon-shaped. Also physically present were the two-hundred-odd Eldunari, set upon cushioned pedestals near the Menoa tree and dotted with benches where elves meditated or held the vibrant colored gems.

Elves got stone drunk and giggled, chuckled, and laughed uproariously next to weeping friends, smoked an herb that was probably marijuana, ran footraces, and danced to the beat of their own music.

A terrible vision came to Harry then that if elves widely used toilet paper, there would be rolls of the stuff thrown over every tree and all across the grass. Beer kegs drained and were replaced by elves who would leave the field only for exactly as long as it took to retrieve another keg from wherever they were kept. Harry saw a naked woman with bright pink hair dash off, and three minutes later, come sprinting across the field with a massive keg held overhead.

He hooked up with Arya to take his turn watching over Elva.

"This is a party that's well worth a hundred years of waiting."

Arya grinned madly. "There's nothing else like it."

Harry put a finger to his chin mock thoughtfully. "Do you think once we kill Galbatorix, there'll be another party like this?"

Flinging her arms around Harry, Arya stared into his eyes. "I think we can make that happen."

Elva was sprawled on the grass with a totally blissed-out expression on her face, her bracelet flipped to blue. "Elva?" Harry murmured, shaking her shoulder. Unfocused lavender eyes peered at him.

"Whaa?" she slurred.

"Having fun?" asked Harry, concerned.

"Oh yeah."

Well, Harry shrugged resignedly. I really hope this doesn't traumatize her sexual awakening too much.

The heady euphoria in the air lessened a bit to sharpen Harry's mind up just enough to comprehend the gifts at the base of the Menoa tree. Right under the golden werelight, elf after elf in an unending stream brought forth their gifts and presented them to the crowd huddled below the great root. Elves came and went from earshot, called upon by Islanzadi who read their names off a long scroll.

Many elves showed off the Fine Arts. A procession of pieces in every imaginable medium came and went. Oil paintings, pastel paintings, watercolors, (though no acrylics, apparently they weren't invented yet), and mind-bending paintings which fused the styles together. Photorealistic charcoal drawings of dragons, dragons on landscapes, depictions of Vroengard and Doru Areba, depictions of old Ilirea, abstract art, all done to the highest conceivable quality. The paintings alone could fill a dozen Louvres, booting out all paintings of lesser quality – probably including the Mona Lisa.

Songs and music, acapella and with full orchestral accompaniment made Harry want to curse himself for not cobbling together something to record the sound. Vinyl was definitely well within his capabilities. The music evoked wrenching emotions of sorrow, joy, misery, hope, triumph, and every other emotion a sentient being could experience. In the face of the beautiful lyrics and their accompanying music, the poetry pieces fell a bit flat for Harry. Elves recited epics about some Rider or dragon's legendary story, spoke tragic ballads and incredible romances, and otherwise stretched the written word to its absolute limit in emotional content and vivid mental images.

It was like the entire renaissance era had been distilled down to its greatest hits and presented proudly at the foot of the Menoa tree. Harry was in awe of the artifacts presented, many cool enough that he could see a legend like Excalibur's springing up around them if given half a chance. Glass balls grew blooming flowers like the Department of Mysteries bell jar and its hummingbird, Rhunon presented mail gloves woven so densely with tiny links and enchanted so well that its wearer could comfortably hold molten metal. Telescopes, helix pumps, and static generators made Harry wonder if the elves knew everything they needed to make modern technology happen and simply never needed it enough to bother developing it. Every few minutes, another miraculous work was presented before the crowd of interested elves, relentlessly for literal days.

Even with his increased constitution, the second day Harry was forced to retreat to a clearing beyond the treeline, conjure a bedroll, and nab a couple hours of sleep before running right back to the action. Of his friends, Arya and Islanzadi both presented poems (Harry valiantly stifled his disappointment in their choice of medium), Orik presented a wooden pyramid puzzle of interlocking blocks, Oromis presented a magnificently illuminated scroll of some old poem (again with the poems!) and Saphira brought a pillar of stone that roughly resembled a jet of petrified flame. When she torched the thing with her breath, the edges glowed orange and brought the piece to life.

What surprised Harry was that Eragon had chosen to pay homage to the farmer boy he had been in Carvahall. His contribution was a six-by-six foot planter bed wrought from living wood and filled with loamy black soil. He demonstrated it by withdrawing a single seed and placing it in the tilled dirt. As if in fast-forward, wheat stalks rose from the ground in dense thickets, filling the planter box with a bountiful harvest in seconds.

It violated the laws of physics so blatantly that it had to employ wizarding magic, but Harry had never taught him anything that would have that specific effect, which made him proud of Eragon's researching prowess. Hermione would have approved.

Harry found his physical urges to drink and mate and dance and sing growing too strong, so on the fourth day, he slept for two hours, then found a peaceful, placid lake a few minutes out by broomstick to clear his mind. Amusingly, the scorched and split rocks on the far side were probably his fault from a certain point of view.

At the end of the sixth day, Harry's name was finally called. He assumed Islanzadi was the one to write the list and put him near the end deliberately. He wasn't trying to steal anyone's thunder per se, but the four millionth poem in a row would look pretty pathetic next to what he was about to unveil.

He made his way up the knotted root, hauling the heavy well in a huge backpack and trying not to think about how many people would see him trip and fall. Eragon and Saphira, Oromis and Glaedr, Firnen and Arya, Elva, Orik, Islanzadi, and Aupho were all present, along with throngs of elves he was unfamiliar with, and likely many more that he knew but could not pick out of the crowd.

"I made something for the dragons. Uh, Aupho, can you come up here?"

It seemed that being named and then flying boldly in front of the elves was finally enough to make them take notice of the fifth dragon in Ellesmera. A ripple of awed gasps went through the crowd.

"Aupho, until recently, had no body but her Eldunari." Harry stripped away the bag and revealed the gleaming marble Well of Rebirth. The elves immediately knew where he was going, but seemed too desperate to dare draw conclusions before he outright stated it. "The race of dragons verges on extinction. As terrible a thought as it is, four dragons is not enough to support a genetically diverse species. I had initially thought of using DNA from old dragon bones and scales to clone new dragons, but that would solve only one problem. Galbatorix has relentlessly hunted and killed so many dragons that Eldunari outnumber living dragons thousands upon thousands to one."

Harry felt the weight of a thousand eyes weigh down upon him, drinking in every last word. And with them, the barest hint of a mental presence permeated the area around the root he stood upon.

"This is the Well of Rebirth. Any Eldunari submerged in it will become a dragon egg again and may hatch and be reborn as an old mind in a new body."

He beckoned to Arya who brought up an Eldunari, a purple one who had agreed to demonstrate in front of everyone. The faceted gem dunked below the luminous water which immediately began to radiate white light in a pillar over the well. The light faded, and a purple dragon egg of the same size emerged. A moment later, the sixth living dragon in Alagaesia emerged from his shell to a crowd of completely awestruck elves.

Silence rippled out from the root as every eye in the clearing was drawn to the display of light and realized what had happened.

"Right," Harry grinned. "Who's next?"

From there, the party turned outright riotous. It became the sort of event where a few decades later, someone might find common ground with another by saying "I was there," and instantly knowing they shared a profound experience with you. Over two hundred times, the Well of Rebirth lit up, and in the course of a single evening, the race of dragons clawed itself from the brink of extinction.

Harry was a bit uncomfortable with the reverent looks he started getting. "Lifebringer," they started calling him. Harry Lifebringer. He had avoided giving out his last name to avoid the baggage it carried for him. He should have known that doing something amazing was bound to saddle him with another title. Harry wondered how Dumbledore managed to get his legend attached to nothing but his own name.

It was downright weird to see dignified, mature, philosophical elves acting like Deadalus Diggle meeting him in the Leaky Cauldron for the first time. Harry thought the closest thing to Agaeti Blodhren was the night the news broke that Voldemort was dead. He didn't have a great reference to the feeling; Voldemort's second war felt very personal and it was hard to imagine him dead. Harry reminded himself that back then, everyone except maybe Dumbledore thought Voldemort was gone for good. The elves were going just as ballistic as the descriptions he'd heard from the Weasleys.

Two hundred dragonlings darted in and out between floating lanterns and their larger brethren, enjoying physical sensations from their own bodies for the first time in a century. Every one was followed by at least a dozen elated eyes.

Fireworks were plastered across the sky, blasts of color spawned from the whims of elves pointing their fingers skyward and calling Ember! What mournful magic played previously had been replaced by celebration. Elves bowed when he passed, murmuring Lifebringer like Boy-Who-Lived. He felt a pang of guilt for so obviously surpassing Eragon's legend. The elves occasionally called him Shadeslayer, but it was known that he hadn't killed Durza himself. Arya heard the title far more often, especially among humans. In Ellesmera, being the Queen's daughter seemed to carry more weight.

If Eragon's namesake and spiritual predecessor had not shared his name, Harry might have tried to coin him 'The First Rider,' but the title was too ambiguous with Eragon I in the picture. Underneath the firelit sky, Harry decided that he would make sure Eragon ended up "Kingslayer" by the end of the war.

The sun set on the final evening of Agaeti Blodhren when the more formal parts of the celebration began. Stories about Du Fyrn Skulblaka were told at the root beneath the werelight, tales of bloodshed between the elves and dragons. The story concluded with Eragon I's part in ending the war, whereupon the narrative shifted to the glory days of the past, and the renewed hope the elves had in Eragon and now the resurgence of living dragons that Harry had just enabled. Oromis and Glaedr each made speeches on their own experiences as Riders, the last of an old guard toppled by one man.

Finally, two elf women came to the base of the tree. A large area of dirt was cleared and many magicians clustered around the edge of the staked circle, readying their many varied instruments. Oromis bent to whisper something in Eragon's ear so as not to disturb the hush that had fallen over the whole field, but was too far for Harry to catch.

"They are the Caretakers, Iduna and Neya," Arya pointed out, unknowingly echoing Oromis's words. The elf women were identical in all ways except their hair; one white as moonlight, the other pitch black. In unison, they let their robes fall away to reveal a tattoo upon their bare bodies. An iridescent dragon stretched it's tail from Iduna's ankle, up her calf and around her torso, then jumped across to the other elf's back, wrapping around to stare out from the skin of Neya's chest.

Together they struck a pose with entwined hands and arms, linking the tattoo together in a continuous whole. Then they set the beat, stomping slowly at first. A familiar sense of anticipation and foreign presence began to grow. With each thump of their bare feet against the ground, another section of musicians began their instrument. Once the whole of the assembly had joined in the slow, primal rhythm, it began to accelerate and with the music, Iduna and Neya danced.

They moved in bewildering ways that would make no sense at all but for the apparent fact that the dance was not for them; it was for the dragon tattoo. Such was their skill that the bisected dragon tattoo ceased to be inked skin and danced all on its own. They added their voices to the mix and within their lyrics, Harry comprehended a grand invocation. Were he not a native English speaker, Harry would have quickly been lost by the grammatical nuances in the song, each verse adding another plea to the spirit of the dragon race.

Faster and faster the dancing went, and with it the drums, the music, the beat. Despite his preoccupation with dissecting the invocation the two elves were casting, Harry found himself singing along, just as the Fidelius ritual swept him up in the words and prevented him from mispronunciation. It was not just him; everyone in the clearing added their voices to the choir, including Orik and Elva, neither of whom were Riders or elves in the slightest. The assembled dragons hummed along in bass tones that shook the ground and resonated in his bones, the newly reborn ones circling in a flurry of colors.

The beat reached a fever pitch and suddenly, the tattoo came alive with a burst of flames, peeling itself from Iduna's and Neya's skin, anchored by its glowing tail to Iduna's ankle. The inked shape became a holographic dragon with depth and intelligence in its white eyes. Loosing a plume of rainbow flames towards the black moon, it let out a primal roar and surveyed the clearing, its eyes falling upon Eragon.

The young rider raised his silver palm, the Gedwey Ignasia shining like a floodlight. The dragon lowered its snout to touch Eragon's palm. Silently, something passed between them. Eragon abruptly collapsed.

The dragon flapped its great wings and craned its neck about, surveying the hundreds of tiny dragons with joy.

Then its gaze fell upon Harry.

The dragon was a god. He reached out his mind to confirm; the dragon had a mental presence. It was alien and vast, so all-encompassing even the briefest touch made Harry's head throb. It was frightening. Before him was a force Harry had no hope of defeating, stalling, or surviving. If the god before him decided Harry had displeased him, that would be it.

"You have our thanks, Lifebringer. Come to Vroengard and speak your Name to the Rock of Kuthian. No longer shall the name slip through your mate's mind. We are waiting."

The dragon reared up once more as if to depart when it spotted the Well of Rebirth resting atop the root. It flapped strainingly at Iduna and Neya, its tail stretching dozens of meters to reach over the marble well and its jewel-encrusted dragon images. Again, the dragon-god's snout dipped to brush against the water. The surface radiated light as if an Eldunari was being reborn. When the light receded, the plain marble and amateurish jeweled mosaics had been transformed into an unearthly white canvas upon which prismatic dragons of rainbow light danced. The rim of the Well turned gold, and the root of the Menoa tree where it rested had grown up around the base of the well, seamlessly anchoring it to the behemoth with living wood.

It returned to the pair of elves and vanished, leaving the clearing profoundly empty.

---

AN: The Blood Oath Celebration sprung from a lot of considerations about elves. I never liked the description of Ellesmera as being eternally twilight, like the leaves from the trees blotted out the skies. It felt cramped, especially when elves love the sky so much they ask the stars to watch over each other with every single greeting. Thus, the field is open to the night sky, and big enough to host all the dragons, riders, elves, and guests from the other races at once. I also wanted to capture the essence of the 'best party possible,' which was a bit of a paradox since some people like dignified dinner parties, and some people like drunken orgies. Thus, the optimal party is a party that includes every conceivable type of party within it. Party-ception, if you will. The description kinda strains at the 'T' rating, but whatever. If I get called out on it, I guess I'm willing to change the rating.

Someone mentioned disliking guns in fantasy. I kinda hear you, I really do, it's just that I want to set up Harry as into technology so that what happens after Galbatorix's death doesn't come out of nowhere. I'm not going to promise that's the only more modern invention to sneak into the story, but I do still intend to keep true to the idea of magic and sword fighting. After all, a huge part of my concept for my HP/GoT crossover is modern technology absolutely wiping the board with medieval swordfighting.

FInally, this chapter did actually take the better part of a month to write, especially the earliest bits, so I won't apologize for the delays because I wasn't just not trying like I had been for the last chapter.

I think I'll update my profile with updates on how far along chapters are, both this one and the other fics I have in the furnace. As always, reviews are a feast for the creative mind, and I love reading your ideas and encouragement. If you have an FFN account and it's logged into whatever you're reading this chapter on, I would appreciate your thoughts on the chapter, even if it's just "Yeet. Not a particularly offensive chapter." If you have ideas or want to see a certain direction for the story to take, post them. I plan very little ahead, and what plans I do have are very flexible, so if it's not too much trouble, I could conceivably add things. (If I like the idea. No guarantees.)