Apparently the last time I uploaded was literally a day after this stories one year mark, which is incredible. Not only that, but with this chapter the story is above 350k! My continued passion for this story is all thanks to all of your support!

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 46 – A City of Ash

A gentle hand rubbed the side of his face, stirring him from his rest. Fighting against the tiredness that tried to drag him back into his sleep, Eragon blinked his eyes open and saw Arya's face peering down at him. The harsh sunlight pierced the thin walls of his tent, and Eragon could not help the groan that escaped him.

"How long did we sleep?" Eragon groaned, closing his eyes and turning his head away from the sun.

"Only a few hours," Arya answered softly, her fingers moving from his cheek to his hair. "A runner from Nasuada came a few minutes ago. She wishes for us to attend a meeting soon, to discuss the affairs of the city and the Varden's next move."

Frowning, Eragon turned his head and opened one eye to gaze back up at Arya. She was staring down at him with a soft smile, seated next to him on the cot and leaning over his frame. "I'm sorry," Eragon murmured.

Arya blinked. "For what?"

"That the runner saw you here," Eragon answered, facing her and opening his other eye. He grasped her hand cradling his cheek, running his thumb over her knuckles. "I know that you wished us to keep our relationship private from the Varden."

She shook her head fondly at him. "I've heard their whispers where they think I cannot. They already suspect that something is between us, especially given all the time we spend in one another's tents."

"And you're fine with this?"

Arya lips twitched into a smile, "There is little we could do to quell the rumors, so there is no point dwelling on such things."

"Oh," Eragon let out. A moment later he chuckled, making Arya's smile turn into a small frown. "I can only imagine the poor man's face when you answered."

"He did seem to think he had the wrong tent," Arya stated, her smile returning with a slight chortle. "Especially given Saphira's presence right outside."

Eragon could not help tracing his gaze over her features, the amused look she was giving him making him fall silent. She was hovering over him still, her freed hair cascading around her face. Reaching a hand up, Eragon gathered some of the locks and tucked them behind her point ear, his heart speeding up at the hitch in her breath.

Their locked gazes reminded him of earlier in the day, and the confessions they had given to each other. The remembered conversation stirred something in his memory, and Eragon pushed himself upright when he suddenly recalled the gift he had for her.

Arya frowned and pulled back, narrowly avoiding their heads from colliding as he swung his feet over the edge of his cot. "What is it?"

"I just remembered that I had something I wanted to give you," Eragon said in a rush as he made for his bags. He could feel the heat of her gaze on him as he rummaged through his belongings, his fingers shaking in anticipation of her reaction over his gift.

When he pulled the bag out containing the Fairth, Eragon had to take calming breath. He knew that she would appreciate the gift, but he could not help the nerves that suddenly taken hold over him.

Arya was seated primly on his cot, her curious eyes taking in the bag as he turned back to her. Settling down beside her, Eragon held the bag out to her. When her fingers closed over the leather and he did not relinquish his hold, Arya gave him a puzzled glance.

Taking another breath, Eragon gave her a small smile. "Do you remember when I told you about the assassination attempt on me, and that it was in the upper halls of Tronjheim?"

Her face tightened at the reminder. "Yes."

Wanting to remove the look on her face, Eragon pressed on. "It was because I was searching for something. You told me of the flower you found in Tronjheim long ago, and I-" He gave her a smile and a shrug, watching as her face transformed into one of understanding.

"Eragon," she whispered fondly, giving him a soft look.

Letting go of the bag, Eragon whispered in the ancient language and removed the spells he had placed to seal its contents. Arya opened the leather bag, reaching inside and removing the Fairth with a reverence he had not expected. When her eyes alighted on the Fairth Arya let out a sharp breath.

Slowly, one of her fingers rose and traced over the edges of the flower on the Fairth's surface, and his own breath hitched when he saw the look on her face. He had rarely seen Arya cry, and the tears that left her emerald eyes tugged deeply at his heart.

Reaching up and wiping the tears away with a soft hand, Eragon was surprised when she turned to him and grabbed his hand with one of her own. She stared at him with watery eyes, and he tried to search their depths for any hint of how she felt.

Arya must have seen the concern on his face, as she let out a small laugh and intertwined their fingers. "Thank you," she whispered. "I- This means more to me then I can impart into words. I had always held onto the memory of that flower tightly, but I had never-"

Her words trailed off, and Eragon understood what she was trying to say. She had never made a Fairth of the memory. Arya had Fairth's of her father and Fäolin in her home in Ellesméra, as they were important people in her life, but she was not one to do something like this of her own volition. She was too selfless in that regard, and far too practical.

Eragon tilted his head down and captured her lips, the salt of her tears mingling in with the taste of her. She returned the kiss, leaning into him and squishing the Fairth between them.

With a reluctant groan Eragon pulled, back pressing his forehead against her own. Swallowing heavily, Eragon whispered, "That isn't all I had to give you."

She blinked heavy eyes at him, surprise taking over the soft look she had been giving him. "I think you mean to spoil me," she responded, a hint of exasperation leaking through.

Smiling, he leaned back and took the bag from where she had placed it between them. He reached his hand inside and withdrew the seedling, closing his fist around it so that she could not see it. "I'm not sure if this is the right one," Eragon softly said, "So if isn't I apologize in advance."

Ignoring the puzzled look she sent his way, Eragon began to sing lightly in the ancient language. The seedling sprouted in his hand, a green stem shotting upwards and growing as he continued to sing. Another hitch of breath came from next to him, but Eragon did not let her surprise stop him.

The stem continued to grow until a small bud emerged on the tip, growing in size until it bloomed. The relief inside him that he had managed to find the correct flower was grand; the purple peddles of the flower were as beautiful as the first time he saw it, and the shade of red inside the center was even more perfect than he had managed to capture in his Fairth.

When the spell was done, Eragon gently held the flower out to Arya. She took it gingerly, cradling the flower as gently as she had Fírnen's egg so long ago. "You should not have. But I am glad that you did."

Arya lifted a finger and stroked one of the purple pedals, and he could see another tear fall down her angled face. He knew the significance that giving flowers held for elves; it symbolized life, beauty, rebirth, friendship, and in some instances, love. She closed her eyes as she sniffed the flower, and the delighted glance she gave him made the days spent searching for the flower worth it. Finished in her admiration of the bloomed flower, Arya placed to down reverently on her other side.

A hand darted out and grasped his tunic firmly, her lips colliding with his and making Eragon let out a startled noise. His own hand rose and gently cradled her cheek, and Eragon lost himself in the sweet, slow kiss that they shared.

How long they remained locked together was a mystery for Eragon. He could scarcely hear the scuffling of feet outside his tent, nor did he pull away at the rap of knuckles on the tent pole. Even Arya, who was normally ever alert of her surroundings, seemed to forget herself.

"You can't just sleep the day-" announced Brom as he entered Eragon's tent, before letting out a startled huff.

Arya pulled away sharply from him, leaving Eragon bereft. She turned her head away from him, her hair shifting to hide her face. Frustration and embarrassment swirled inside Eragon, and he did not know which was worse.

Brom chuckled lowly, though when Eragon turned to his father he could see how uncomfortable the old Rider was, even as he crossed his arms. "My apologies," his father grumbled. "I did not know you were here, Arya Alfa-kona."

Eragon raised a brow at the old man, despite the redness he could feel seeping onto his face.

"It is no matter, Brom-elda." Arya stated, standing from Eragon's cot with her flower in hand. He could see a similar blush on the back of her neck, and he had to push down a smile. "If it is Eragon's presence you require, then I shall take my leave."

She stepped forward towards the entrance to his tent, but Brom reached out a hand and gently grasped her arm. Arya froze at the gesture; few would dare to touch her directly, as even Eragon had seen what she would do to those who presumed too much with her.

Brom must have likewise seen her previous reactions, as his father immediately dropped his hand. "I suspect," Brom began slowly, "that anything I tell Eragon he will simply relay to you. Besides, Arya, you and my son are mates. I know elves see such things differently, but in human culture you are for all intents and purposes my daughter-in-law, and thus have a say in our family's affairs."

Arya stared at Brom for a moment before glancing back at Eragon. He gave he a slight nod in support, leaving the decision to remain on her shoulders. Arya gave Brom a sharp nod before stepping back towards Eragon. "If that is your wish."

Eragon glanced over at her, but Arya's features gave nothing away to him. If she felt embarrassed or offended by Brom's presumptions, Eragon could not say, but she was not one to bow so easily to others. Turning his attention back to his father, Eragon finally stood from the cot and mirrored his father's crossed arms. "Father? What did you need?"

Brom puffed at his pipe, the smoke curling in the stall air between them. "Can a father not see his son, and ask after him? It has been weeks since I saw you last, only for you to dive right into battle as soon as you arrived."

His father was skirting his intended topic, and Eragon doubted it was because of Arya's presence. Taking a guess, Eragon grunted, "As you can see, I'm fine. And so is Murtagh. He is under Oromis and Glaedr's care now."

A sigh left Brom, his expression falling and displaying some of the four centuries he had lived. "Good. Did the two of you speak at all, or were the both of you too stubborn to do that much?"

"We spoke," Eragon replied tartly, before letting out a slow breath. He feel Arya's eyes upon him, but Eragon continued, "He was… unsurprised that a dragon and Rider managed to survive the Fall, and angry that they did not help him when he was captured, but after seeing their injuries I think he understood why they remained hidden."

Brom nodded sullenly. "When you left, how did he seem?"

Eragon gave his father a slight smile. "Determined."

His father's face shifted, a hint of relief showing before Brom cleared his throat. "It's after noon, and we've tarried long enough. Nasuada's awaiting us inside Feinster's keep with Lady Lorana."

"Very well." Eragon answered.

Brom swept the entrance to the tent open, motioning for Eragon and Arya to join him. Sparing Arya a passing glance, Eragon headed outside. His father came next and Arya followed, still holding the flower gently in her hands.

"A moment," she said, stepping away from the father and son. She disappeared into her own tent, and when she didn't return right away Eragon turned to his father.

"That was forward of you." Eragon probed. When his father gave him a puzzled frown, Eragon clarified, "What you said to Arya."

"Was it?" Brom grunted, before letting out a long breath. "You've spent much of your life surrounded by elves, and the rest alone bar Saphira, so you've forgotten many of our customs. There's few enough good in the world right now, Eragon, and I would see that you receive your fair share. If ensuring that Arya understands I accept her in your life is part of it, then I will gladly call her family."

Not knowing how to respond, Eragon remained silent, though he could feel a rush of heat on his neck.

The meeting that Nasuada had called for dragged long into the evening, and by the end of it Eragon was even more tired than he was after the battle. There was much to do after taking control of Feinster; supplies needed to be counted and distributed, the dead needed to be buried, and those who suffered injuries during the battle needed healing.

Arya had her own duties to attend and left short after Nasuada dismissed them, giving Eragon a quick glance before she departed. Eragon had Blödhgarm split his remaining spellcasters -who were not guarding the captured magician- between the various tasks that needed done, and when the last of them departed Eragon found himself standing outside Nasuada's tent alone.

A call came from somewhere behind him, and Eragon turned to see Glenwing approaching, his jovial smile in place. The elf slapped him on the back, "Sleep well enough?" Glenwing asked, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

Eragon scoffed. "The four hours I was able to get before being awoken because of Nasuada's meeting?" At Glenwing's chuckle, Eragon shrugged. "I've survived worse."

"That wouldn't happen to be Arya, would it?" Glenwing chortled.

Eragon frowned. "Where were you earlier?" Eragon prompted suddenly, trying to steer the conversation away. "Usually I cannot step five feet without you there teasing me about something new."

Glenwing raised a brow at the abrupt shift in topic, but the elf knew him well enough to know that Eragon would refuse to speak of Arya in such a way. "Making sure your cousin didn't get himself killed," Glenwing answered. "It seems getting into trouble is a family trait, much like your infamous stubbornness."

"I'm not that stubborn," Eragon grumbled.

The elf laughed heartily, shaking his head at Eragon. "No, of course not."

Ignoring the bait, Eragon asked, "How is Roran? I saw him during the battle a few times, but other matters needed my attention."

Glenwing let out a breath, his face losing all sense of mirth. "Roran was punished for disobeying a direct order from a superior a few days ago. Nasuada gave him an ultimatum; thirty lashes and expulsion from the Varden's ranks, or fifty lashes."

Eragon's fist tightened in his hand. "I'm guessing he chose the fifty."

"Aye," Glenwing nodded, his face tense. Elves did not believe in such punishments, finding the matters cruel and beneath them. Their own version of punishments were less violent but just as effective, though Eragon could not recall the last time he had ever witnessed such an event.

Even after taking a deep breath, Eragon could not let go of his disgust for such practices. "Why didn't Nasuada tell me this?"

"Nasuada argued that you would try to stop it, even after Brom and I tried to convince her that you would understand how that would be received by the Varden. Arya was… otherwise occupied, though she made sure her feelings on the matter were made clear. To Brom. Quite loudly, in fact, in front of the entire meeting." Glenwing smirked, as though reliving Arya's tirade.

Eragon blinked. That certainly explained some of the tension he sensed between Brom and Arya earlier, though he had never seen Arya act in such a way before. "She did? What did she say? How did the others take it?"

"Just that it was cruel and beneath them, and that by allowing it Brom was supporting its practice." The elf shrugged. "It was all in the elven tongue, and those of us who speak it refused to translate. That sorceress of Nasuada's tried, but she couldn't understand half of what Arya said."

"Did anyone tend to him?" Eragon asked, worried. Roran seemed fine during the battle, though he had noticed something bothering his cousin when they had spoken.

"I healed the worst of it," Glenwing waved away. "And Nasuada actually promoted him afterwards. Katrina was in quite the state. Roran refused to allow her to attend the lashing, and made me promise to stay with her."

"Thank you," Eragon intoned. "I'm glad that they are accepting of you. Too many humans see elves as other, and having Roran seen in your company will go a long way in convincing the Varden's soldiers that we are not so different from them."

"Who couldn't love me?" Glenwing smirked, placing a hand over his chest before pointing sharply at Eragon. "You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Thinking yourself no longer human."

Maybe he was no longer one, not after all that he had been through. The thought of it once would make Eragon recoil in shock, but now there was too much on his mind for him to devote any serious time towards considering the possibility. Shrugging off the elf, Eragon said, "Never mind all that. Where are you heading anywhere in particular?"

"No."

"Want to come interrogate the magician we captured with me?"

Glenwing smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

Turning away from Nasuada's tent, the two of them headed deeper into the sprawling tents surrounding the entrance to the city. Blödhgarm had taken their prisoner and placed him separately from the few other prisoners that the Varden held after Nasuada had raised worry about an enemy magician among their camp.

The elves had placed the magician on the edge of a line of tents, and as they approached he heard Glenwing let out a groan. "Damn it," the elf muttered lowly.

Raising an eyebrow, Eragon made to comment but was stopped when he saw what Glenwing had spotted; Yaela was standing in front of the opening to the tent, her palm resting on the sword at her side. To her right sat Laufin, another of Blödhgarm's spellcasters, who quickly jumped to his feet at their approach.

"Shadeslayer," the two elves greeted. He saw Yaela's eyes flicker to Glenwing beside him, but she did not greet him as she did Eragon.

"Yaela, Laufin," Eragon returned, glad that they did not start the traditional elven greeting. "Thank you for guarding the prisoner. I know that there are other duties the both of you hold, but I did not want to take any chances in losing any vital information he may hold."

"It's our honor to serve, Skörungr," Laufin bowed, surprising Eragon with the title. Very few outside the Rider's knew of it, as it was reserved for the highest of honored leaders.

"Are you here to question the prisoner?" Yaela politely asked. At Eragon's nod she swept the tent open, allowing Eragon and Glenwing to enter before her.

The magician was bound in shackles, sitting upon the lone cot with his legs crossed and eyes closed. The man looked to be in his third decade of life, with a bald head and closely shaven beard. He was still adorned in the red robes from the battle and covered in blood, though Eragon could see that the elves had provided him with a bowl of water and a clean towel. The magician did not stir at their entrance, seemingly unprovoked by their presence. Yaela drew close to the man and drew her blade silently, her gaze locked on him.

Exchanging a glance with Glenwing, Eragon resting his own hand on the pommel of Brisingr, his thumb brushing the stone lightly. "I am Eragon Shadeslayer, Leader of the Rider's and Rider of Saphira. Will you answer my questions, or will you force me to break into your mind?"

The magician's face twitched when Eragon spoke his title, but otherwise remained silent.

Frowning, Eragon asked, "Why did you attempt to create the Shade? Were you that desperate in your attempts to stop us, not caring for the lives that such a monstrosity would destroy?"

"Monstrosity?" the man growled lowly, finally opening his eyes and glaring at Eragon. "The only monster here is you, Shadeslayer. You who has destroyed two of the most beautiful beings to have ever existed. You who has slayed our prophet and delayed the birth of a true God!"

"Prophet?" Glenwing scowled. To Eragon he muttered, "What is he talking about?"

Eragon shook his head slowly, puzzled by the magician's words. "Who was this prophet?"

The man's face twisted, as though he had realized that he had inadvertently revealed too much. The magician refused to speak, even when Eragon pressed him further.

The only response Eragon received was an unwavering glare.

Letting out a sigh, Eragon reached out his mind and slowly probed at the man. He was met by strong barriers surround the magicians mind, and Eragon said to the two elves near him, "Ready yourselves."

At their nod he struck, sharping his mind and piercing through the magician's defenses with ease. He could feel his wards straining against whatever magic remained on the man, and he could see Glenwing and Yaela wince, but memories began to surface and drew him in:

The smell of fire as the Belatona burned around him….

…Murtagh crying out in anger in the middle of a warehouse, swirling lights swarming around the large red dragon near Galbatorix's Rider….

…Brother Keres speaking, telling the assembled Brothers how they would recreate Karth's work and bring about the birth of a True God…

A man introducing himself as Keres, and telling him about the brotherhood, about Du Vættr Bani and their prophet Karth…

Eragon withdrew sharply, his breath heaving. Rauk, the name of the magician, slumped over on the cot, his head striking the wooden edge hard. He had stripped Rauk of all his senses, leaving the man without any faculty; such was the price for knowledge, and the invasion of someone of Eragon's caliber into a human's mind.

His mind was spinning and his heart was pounding in his chest. A deep sense of grief filled him, and for a moment Eragon wanted nothing but to chase down these magicians and kill every last one of them.

They did this because I killed the hatchling, Eragon thought, his mind darkening. They turned Thorn into a Shade because of what I did that night.

No, Saphira growled suddenly in his mind, sweeping away the self-loathing that had been building inside him. Her mind had been loosely connected to his, as they usually did when they were near each other, but he had thought her sleeping. Their actions are their own; you did what you knew was right, and even my kin agreed with you. That night has haunted you for centuries, and I will not let it any longer.

That doesn't change what happened, Eragon argued. They wanted to recreate the Shade, and they succeeded.

Did they? Thorn survives in his Eldunarí, and that creature is unstable. How could such a being be called a God? They are vile cretins that deserve to burn, misguided by their belief of in a mad man.

A hand grasped his shoulder, bringing Eragon out of his conversation. Glenwing was panting beside him, grimace firmly in place. "Tell me you learned something," the elf rasped. "That was terrible." On the other side of the tent he could see Yaela in a similar state, though she did not display her grievances as openly as Glenwing.

Rauk must have had strong wards placed upon him. Eragon could not recall if the other magicians from the battle had similar spells casted on them, but any remanence of magic would have died alongside them.

"I did," Eragon faltered. His head ached from Rauk's memories. He gazed at the slumped over magician for a moment before turning away, his heart heavy in his chest. Without another word he strode from the tent, taking in a sharp breath of fresh air.

After a few minutes passed Glenwing appeared next to him no longer panting. For once the elf remained quiet, and it was not until Yaela emerged from the tent that Eragon finally continued. "He is part of a group of magicians that call themselves Du Vættr Bani. They are the ones who turned Thorn into a Shade."

Laufin, who had been standing by quietly, cursed. When Eragon turned to face the elves he could see the two spellcasters trembling in anger while Glenwing's face fell sharply.

"Did you see why?" Yaela asked lowly.

"To recreate what they call a True God."

Laufin's face twisted in fury, the first true emotion Eragon had ever seen the elf display. "That they would call such a devastation God shows how vile they truly are. Shadeslayer, command us, and we will hunt down this Du Vættr Bani and bring them before you to face justice."

He wanted nothing more than to give them leave, but Eragon knew that he could not. "No," Eragon shook his head, letting out a slow breath to help calm his anger. "We will face them, but chasing them across Alagaësia is not the right path."

Eragon could see how much the two elves wanted to protest, but it was Glenwing who cut in before they could. "Eragon is right. That they are here in Feinster means that they are widespread. It would be better to face them with an army at our back then leagues away from any who could aid us."

Glenwing speaking sensical nearly baffled Eragon, but he was glad his friend agreed with him. The two elves nodded their heads in reluctant understanding, and Eragon said quietly, "They will pay for what they have done, but we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of thinking we know their true capabilities. For now, we continue our march and aid the Varden as best we can."

"Yes, Shadeslayer." The two elves intoned.

They were quite for a moment, before Yaela stepped forward and asked, "What shall we do with him, Shadeslayer?"

Eragon rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh. "Hand him over to Nasuada. I cannot imagine that there is much else he could tell us now, but I will not deny her the chance to try."

"It will be done," Laufin answered.

He gave them a nod and departed, Glenwing trailing behind him. His feet carried him without direction, his mind wandering. The memories he had seen were unfocused and hazy, but he had been able to glean much from the magician's mind. This group of sorcerers called themselves The Bane of Spirits; the name implied that they were to be the undoing of spirits, but they clearly thought that Shades were the ultimate being. Did they perhaps believe that spirits were somehow lessor?

How did they trap Thorn? Murtagh had not been particular with any details, though he supposed with Murtagh being sworn to this Brother Keres it would have been possible. Who was this prophet they called Karth? Was it one of the magicians Eragon slew centuries ago?

There were too many questions, and Eragon did not know enough to answer any of them.

The Varden was to march immediately from Feinster after another day's rest. Those who were too injured the walk would be carried by cart, and any unable to bear the ride would be left behind in the city with a small contingent of both Nasuada's and Orrin's soldiers. Lady Lorana had been glad to see them go, even after having her stores of food and weapons depleted to replenish the Varden's own.

Whatever deal Nasuada had worked out with the Lady of Feinster Eragon had not been privy to, nor was it his immediate concern.

He had spent much of his day of rest among the healers, from both the city and the Varden, lending his strength to anyone who needed it. Many of the soldiers of Feinster had been reluctant to let him work, though their worries lessened eventually when they saw that Eragon meant them no harm. Glenwing and a few of the other elves joined him for which he was grateful; the Varden's healers were well trained, but even a single elf could do the work of three.

"Waíse heill." Eragon whispered over an injured leg, hiding a grimace as his energy dipped. A sigh of relief rose from the man on the table in front of him. The soldier bore the city's crest on his armor as well as the markings of a captain, and had been injured by debris that had fallen from one of the many destroyed buildings.

As the wound closed, the middle-aged soldier glanced up at him. "Thank you, Rider."

Eragon nodded in reply, probing the wound gently to check his work. The soldier cleared his throat, drawing Eragon's gaze away. "Forgive me, Rider, but they say that you are human." The soldier glanced at his pointed ears with a furrowed brow.

"I was-" Eragon broke off, before correcting, "I am."

The soldier nodded as though he had been expecting the answer. "They also say that you are three hundred years old. Tis such a thing true? Are you older than even the King?"

He merely nodded his head, motioning for the soldier to stand before him. The captain did as he asked, testing the leg and giving Eragon a satisfied grin. "Tis good work, Rider. Pray tell, did you know Galbatorix before he became King?"

This time Eragon did not hide the grimace that rose. "No."

"I see." The captain glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on the healer closest to them. "It is good that you have come when you did, Rider."

Blinking, Eragon asked, "What do you mean?"

"Many do not speak of it out of fear, but life under the King's rule has gotten worse these past few decades. I'm nearly forty myself, and I've seen how little Galbatorix cares for the rest of us. He's been requisitioning soldiers from the cities even before the battle in the Burning Plains, and demanding we increase our monthly tributes of grain and produce. The cities are starving, Rider, and the King doesn't dare lift a finger to help."

Eragon said nothing, staring at the man with his eyebrows drawn in. The soldier gave him a nod, clapping Eragon on the shoulder lightly. "Perhaps you can change the Empire for the better. I'd certainly sleep better at night if you were King."

His stomach dropped at the captain's words.

Me, King? Eragon thought, disgust filling every inch of his body. Never.

He dared not respond to the soldier's comment, knowing how quickly such gossip could spread in the Varden.

The captain gave him a wave and departed. The door to their temporary room inside the keep slammed shut behind him, only to open once more.

The quiet murmur from the healers near him drew silent, and Eragon glanced upward to see what had drawn their attention.

Arya was standing in front of him, a slight frown on her face. She was devoid of her armor, like him, and instead wore usual leathers. He had not seen her since this morning, preoccupied with her own duties as ambassador to the elves.

Had she heard the soldier's words? Offering her a weak smile, Eragon asked, "What brings you by, Arya?"

She frowned at him, her gaze roaming over his tired features. "It's late," Arya began, speaking in the common tongue for all of those around them to hear. "You've been here long enough and need to rest."

Glancing around at the healers, he could see them eagerly nodding at Arya's words. A woman strode forward from one of her patients, her robes showing her to be a Varden healer.

"Lady Arya speaks truly," Kessia said, who was one of the more competent healers in the Varden. She had memorized nearly every spell Eragon taught her and employed them to skillful use. She was one of the few who likely had a greater connection with magic, one that had propelled the young woman to be one of Nasuada's head healers. "You've lent us your strength nearly all day, Shadeslayer, and we are most grateful for it, but we can manage the rest."

The others echoed her sentiment, though he could see how tired they likewise were.

When he glanced at Arya she merely raised a pointed brow, her emerald eyes glistening at him. She had played him well, knowing that the others would back her declaration.

"Fine," Eragon sighed, pulling off the blood-soaked leather gloves he had been wearing. Kessia smiled at him and curtsied to Arya, who merely nodded her head in return to the woman. Gesturing at Arya towards the door, Eragon bade the others farewell.

They returned his call, their words muffled when the door slammed shut behind him. Arya lead him through the bottom floor of the keep and out the entrance, and Eragon was surprised to find that the moon already high in the night sky.

Drawing up next to Arya, the two of them walked the streets of the city together with naught but the night as company.

As the main gate came into view, Arya startled him when she asked, "What did that soldier say to you?"

Eragon frowned for a moment before recalling the conversation. When he relayed all of it to Arya, she grabbed at his arm suddenly and stopped them in the street. He saw a hint of concern on her otherwise stoic face, her eyes narrowed and brows drawn downward.

"What do you think?" she asked, her words measured.

"Of what?" Eragon scoffed. "Being King? You know as well as I that I could never do something as foolish as that. A Rider should never sit on the throne of any race, especially over those we would outlive."

Something in her gaze shifted, and he could see her relief at his answer. "Forgive me," Arya whispered. "I knew what your answer was to be, but I needed to hear it for myself."

Eragon merely hummed, gesturing for them to continue their trek. Arya complied, her stride matching his as they approached the gates. A contingent of guards from the Varden nodded at them as they passed, the men hardly sparring the pair a glance.

"It's bothering you," Arya stated.

Eragon shook his head. "It's an awkward thing to ask for sure, but you were right to do it."

"Not that," Arya replied. The lights from the torches were dim this far from the city, but Eragon could make out a slight smile appearing. "Though your assurance is well noted. No, I meant the soldiers words. They are bothering you more than you would like to admit."

Eragon grunted. "That obvious?"

"To me," Arya inclined her head. He spared her a small smile, following her lead towards their tents. When he hesitated between his and Arya's tent she grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards her own.

Entry 82:

What is the difference between gravity and any other force that acts upon an object? Both result in the experience of acceleration, and if one were to eliminate any evidence for their respect frames it would be impossible to determine one cause from the other. Thus my conclusion is this: that which binds the world is the same for all non-accelerating individuals. More simply put, there is no single truth, and everything must relate to something else.

Nasuada had the Varden marching early the next morning, long before the sun made its appearance over the horizon. The early hour made Eragon grateful to Arya's insistence that he sleep. The men were efficient in packing up their belongings and readying the carts, made all the easier when Saphira and Fírnen offered to help lifted some of the heavier armaments.

The last of the Varden fell in line when the sun was beginning to reach its midday mark. The march was a boring affair, though it gave Eragon amble time to commit himself to some of his continued studies. Reading atop Saphira while she walked behind a line of Varden soldiers was not as easy as he originally thought it to be, and when he teased her about her constant movements she offered to let him ride on her tail instead.

The thought of that made him queasy.

The Varden marched down the main trade route between Feinster and Belatona, the route skirting north between the southern edge of the Spine to their east and the Jiet River to their west. On the second day of travel the road curved further east, bringing them ever closer to the river and Leona Lake beyond it.

Belatona, or whatever remained of the poor city, sat on the southern tip of the lake where it flowed into the Jiet River, and would have been the second city the Varden sieged had Thorn not torched the entire place to the ground. Nasuada was adamant about traveling to the ruined city to provide whatever aid they could, and not even King Orrin said a word against it.

Reports came from the front of the Varden, signaling that they had spotted some refugees still fleeing from the city. Nasuada commanded for wagons to be made available to them to ferry the people to Feinster, were Lady Lorana was already expecting them. Apparently the people of Feinster had already received their fair share of refugees, and Eragon felt pity for those who had to flee their homes only to live through a siege.

Some from Belatona had already sought refuge with the Varden before their siege on Feinster. Nasuada must have wanted to prevent them from seeing their ruined homes, as she had sent them to Surda under Orrin's protection.

On the third day of their trek it was Saphira who first caught the scent of ash, and on the fourth even those without enhanced senses were gagging at the stench. The fifth day they were able to finally see the evidence with their own eyes; a tower of smoke rose in the distance, looking as if a menacing cloud hung over the city.

The road snaked further towards the Jiet River, and by nights end they were nearly upon its bank. Burnt debris from the city floated down the river, and every so often Eragon believed he would catch a glimpse of a corpse, though whenever he peered closer he was unable to find any.

The soldiers wrapped cloths around their mouths and noses as the ruined city gates drew larger in the distance, allowing them for the first time to see the devastation a Shade-dragon could wreck.

Entire chunks of the city wall were still engulfed in flames, and many more sections were entirely reduced to rubble. Every so often he would catch a glimpse of crumbling ruins between the broken stone, plumes of smoke gently rising in the still air.

Nasuada called for a halt nearly a league away from the city on the end of their third day, long before the sun was beginning to fall in the sky. The mood was somber as they set up their tents and prepared their meals, none of the soldiers willing to speak of the horrors that they knew awaited them.

The next morning Nasuada called for Eragon and Arya, and it was then that he found himself standing in front of Nasuada and a contingent of Varden soldiers. Nasuada stood at the head of the small host with Orrin and Brom beside her, the three of them gazing at the city with drawn expressions.

Blödhgarm and his elves were present as well, standing behind Eragon while Glenwing ambled over to Arya's other side opposite him. All of them wore their armor, though Eragon heavily doubted that he would have need of it.

Nasuada turned to him, her face tense. "We will be the first to enter the city. The remainder of our forces will follow and travel to the far side of Belatona and assist any of those who may linger."

Eragon inclined his head in understanding and gazed up at the sky. Saphira and Fírnen flew overhead, circling between the city and the army, their blue and green forms standing out against the dark grey smoke that billowed from the fires of the city.

Do you see any survivors? Eragon asked her.

No, Saphira answered, her voice low and sorrowful. The smoke of the fire's shroud even our sight. The air is stale and smells only of ash and burnt flesh. We won't know if any more survived until we brave the flames.

Wait for us, Eragon returned.

He expected her to snort and his words, but the harrowing sight of the city was depressing to even her. Arya must have been likewise communicating with Fírnen, as when he turned to her she gave him a slow shake of her head.

Nasuada motioned over to the captain of her contingent of soldiers. The older soldier nodded his head and called out for them to move, the sound of the marching soldiers growing louder as the ranks began to fall in line. Eragon and the elves fell in with group besides Brom, leading the way towards Belatona.

King Orrin remained behind, his gaze locked onto the ruined city.

It took them nearly two hours of marching to reach the open city gates, which had been likely thrown open once the evacuation had begun. Through them they could see what remained of the city; entire buildings had been burned to the ground, crumbling beneath their own weight as the flames ate at anything they could reach. Entire sections of the brick road were melted together and misshapen, appearing nothing like the worn carved road leading into the city.

Ash coated every surface of what remained of Belatona. Faint prints of footprints could be seen leading out the gates, their haphazard patterns making Eragon unable to track how many had managed to leave already.

The sight of the city and the despair its residence must have felt formed a tight knot in Eragon's stomach.

Plumes of smoke rose from the few remaining buildings nearby, surround them in a haze and making Eragon's eyes sting. A great gust of wind had them stumbling back as Saphira and Fírnen approached, their strong wings pushing back against the ash ladened air briefly as they landed.

Saphira sniffed at a nearby crumbled building, her tongue darting out to taste the ash. I smell only more death and fire here.

She had projected her voice out to those around her. Many soldiers Nasuada brought with them, who had been taking in the city with wide eyes, shifted uneasily at her words. Some of the men's faces were pale, their fear and grief plain for all to see.

This was the power of a dragon turned into a Shade. Able to destroy an entire city near moments after its creation.

Nasuada had been taking in the city with sorrowful eyes, but Saphira's words stirred her into action. To her captain she commanded, "Split your troops and search the city. If you find any survivors call out so that Saphira and Fírnen can hear you."

Glenwing muttered lowly, "I'm not sure anyone could survive this."

Eragon shot him a look, but silently agreed. The entire city was nothing but ash and ruins, only a fraction of the buildings left standing. Not even those that were still intact remained unscathed, appearing as though they would collapse at the slightest breeze.

The soldiers began to split themselves into groups, and Eragon turned to Blödhgarm behind them. The elf was taking in the city with a mournful gaze and a tight lip, his fur bristling and making him appear more wolf-like then he already was. "Split yourselves among the soldiers. Arya, Glenwing and I will do the same."

Blödhgarm met his gaze and nodded slowly. "As you command, Shadeslayer."

Each of the elves joined their own group of soldiers, only receiving a brief glance from the men before their stares returned to the ruined city. Glenwing moved off to join another group with a half-hearted wave at Eragon, while Arya immediately took off with the first contingent of soldiers who were heading deeper into the city.

Fírnen and Saphira trailed down the main road together, sniffing heavily at each building they passed. He watched them leave until a hand grasped his shoulder firmly, and Eragon turned to see his father staring at him with a solemn expression. Behind Brom waited with Nasuada and her own contingent of soldiers. Mixed in with them Eragon could see a few of her Nighthawks, two of the Urgal's towering over the humans. For all their love of war and battle, even the Urgal's seemed dispirited by the sight of the city.

"Seems like I'm with you," Eragon murmured to his father.

Brom gazed at him with firm eyes, a frown appearing at Eragon's words. "This isn't your fault, son. There was nothing you could have done."

Nasuada and the others were watching him closely, so Eragon merely inclined his head and motioned for them to go. Brom's hand remained on his shoulder as the soldiers began to move out, surrounding Nasuada as she led them down the main road and towards the center of the city.

Eragon followed behind, his father's hand falling off his shoulder. Brom let out a sigh before catching up to Eragon's slow pace, fiddling with a plain one-handed sword at his side.

As they began their search for survivors, Eragon cast several spells about him to detect any signs of life. He could feel the magic slowly spreading as his spells searched, and Eragon turned to his father. "You have a sword," Eragon pointed out.

Brom grunted. "In case you haven't noticed, we are in the middle of a war."

Eragon held in an exasperated sigh. "Not what I meant. What happened to yours?"

Brom's gate hitched, though his father collected himself rather quickly. "Lost it."

He shot his father a glare. "After years of you pounding it into my head that a Rider's sword is their most powerful weapon, you go ahead and lose it?"

"A Rider's sword is one of a Rider's most powerful weapons," Brom corrected with a growl. "You know as well as I that sometimes our words can be sharper than any blade."

"Now your definitely being pedantic," Eragon scowled.

His father stopped in the street suddenly. Nasuada and the others continued down the street ahead of them, seemingly unaware that the father and son had fallen behind. Eragon turned to his father and crossed his arms. Brom was frowning and looking out into the city, though his gaze seemed leagues away.

"I lost Undbitr the same day I lost my Saphira." Brom murmured softly. "We fought at Doru Araeba during the final days of the war, and she was killed protecting me from Morzan and the Forsworn."

An image of Brom's Saphira popped into his head; she was a brilliant blue, much lighter then Saphira, though she was just as sleek as her counterpart. She was also exceptionally kind for a dragon, and Eragon always fondly remembered climbing her scales when he was a young boy. She had found his antics amusing, despite Brom's grumbled protests.

"I miss her," Eragon admitted. She was the first dragon he had ever seen, more beautiful and powerful than anything Eragon had ever seen. At least until Saphira had hatched for him.

Brom nodded sharply, his grip tightening on his sheathed sword. "As do I." His father took a deep breath before glancing around. "Come. We are falling behind, and the others may have found those who need our help."

The keep that once belonged to Lord Bradburn had sustained the most damage of any structure in Belatona. Not a single part of the massive building had been spared; the few towers that lined the keep were toppled over, the rubble splayed out across the courtyard and making their trek difficult. Entire sections of the keep had crumbled, some of it seeming to have collapsed under its own weight. The rest of the courtyard was littered with the remains of what looked to be a number of broken ballistae, their frames smashed and tangled in a heap of wood and ropes.

The main hall that housed what Eragon supposed was Bradburn's throne had a massive hole in the roof. Ash gently fell from the opening, reminding Eragon briefly of snow, coating the floor in a thick gray blanket. What remained of Bradburn's actual throne chair was nothing but a pile of melted stone and steel, twisted from intense heat. He found a corpse not too far from the remains of the throne, burned so completely that any hope of identifying it impossible. It was not the only body he had seen so far in his search.

The devastation of the city was astounding, and deeply disturbing. Eragon knew how powerful Thorn was, especially when he had barely been able to drive the Shade away with his spell, but this was a clear example of the kind of destruction such a creature could leave behind when left unchecked.

I knew Thorn was strong, but I didn't expect this level of desolation. Eragon confessed to Saphira. We can't let him roam free any longer.

She was busy sniffing through some of the various halls that were still accessible, checking for any signs of survivors. So far, they had barely managed to find any. Those few they did find were in terrible shape; those that had survived still bore burns from the fire, and nearly all of them were malnourished. Nasuada had sent for more men to escort them out of the city and to the healers, and Eragon had stretched his mind out to Blödhgarm and asked him to send a few of his spellcasters along with them.

We don't even know if he's recovered from his fall. Saphira responded, using her foreleg to push against a pile of rubble. The pile collapsed under her weight, allowing her to snake her head through the opening.

It's been over a week since then, Eragon retorted. We may not know how fast a Shade can recover, but from all the accounts we have heard, it can't be that long.

It's possible that he may have finally become unstable enough that he could no longer maintain his form.

Maybe. Eragon considered, saddened by the thought. It was possible Thorn would likely survive on in his Eldunarí, but it would make the already endangered line of dragons narrower. The concealment enchantment I place on his Eldunarí has already worn off, and it's likely that the spirits inside him need the Eldunarí to fully merge, so it would stand to reason that he would continue to pursue us.

He was leaning against a wall near Saphira, watching as she extracted her head from the small room. She turned her massive head to him, her sapphire eye blinking against the stirred ash in the air. Pondering uselessly like this will not get us anywhere. We are not ready to confront him; without Tenga's spell, then all we could hope to accomplish is a quick death for Thorn. Perhaps then he will be free of his mind prison.

The barrier we found around his mind doesn't make any sense, Eragon groused, before letting out a sigh. But you are right. We are in uncharted territory, and until we can help him the only thing we could do is ensure he doesn't cause any more destruction.

A horn sounded from the north, long and low. The sound was muffled by the walls of the keep, but Eragon knew what it meant.

An army was approaching.

Without a word Eragon took off down the hall, Saphira's claws striking heavily against the stone floor behind him. He rounded a corner and backtracked his path towards the throne room, the other soldiers that were searching the keep with him exited from various rooms.

"What is it, Shadeslayer?" A young soldier called out to him. "Is it the Empire?"

"I don't know," Eragon said, slowing down and waiting for the men to gather themselves. As he spoke he could see a dozen men forming up in front of him, each of their faces grim. They had just spent the better part of a day searching the ruined city for any survivors, a particularly grim task, and now were about to face down death again. "We need to regroup with the others. Did any of you manage to find any survivors?"

Most of the men shook their heads, but one soldier strode forward carrying an armful of rags. Eragon peered down at the bundle, surprised when the man pulled back the cloth to reveal a child. The baby was coated in ash and dirt, and let out a resounding cry that made Eragon wince. "Just the little one," the gruff soldier commented. He was an older warrior, the weathered lines on his face and hands a stark contrast to the smooth skin of the babe he held. "Found em' hidden down in the basement under his mother. She didn't make it."

Eragon held up a hand and gently placed it on the babe, whispering spells underneath his breath. The child was uninjured, thankfully, but weak and in need of proper care. He channeled some of his strength into the child, soothing its mind. The babe's cries whimpered out and some color returned to its cheeks. The soldier stared at him with awe, and Eragon quickly pointed to two other men beside him. "Go with him and make sure the child gets the care he needs. The rest of you, with me."

The men quickly nodded. The older soldier covered the babe in the rags again, cradling the child close to his chest. Quickly, they exited the decimated keep and into the courtyard, climbing over the various debris and aimed for the northern gates.

A gathering of soldiers stood outside the gates, and Saphira pointed him towards Brom, who was standing next to Arya near the front of the line. Pushing through the soldiers, Eragon approached his father and mate, sparing Arya a quick glance. She was covered in ash and dirt, and her face was grim, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

"The Empire?" Eragon asked.

The sound of crushing stone met his ears, and Eragon glanced upward at the gate. Fírnen had landed heavily on the structure, which groaned under his weight. The dragon peered off into the distance, swaying slightly as he balanced himself on the edge.

No. Answered the dragon, his deep voice rattling Eragon's head. Werecats.

I really hope I conveyed the destruction appropriately, even if I was a little lax with some of the more gruesome details that could have been present.

The next chapter should be up within my normal two-week period, but I just want you all to know that I'm currently studying to take a certification test, so I've been devoting a lot of my time towards that. If its late, it's only because I don't want to rush it.

Any way, let me know what you guys think!

Ancient Language translations (Old Norse):

Italics represents the Old Norse translation; Bold represents Ancient Language.

Fyrir Neðan – Below Something. Fallen One

Du vættr Bani – The Bane of Spirits: Name of the Brotherhood

Vættr - being, creature; supernatural being, spirit

Bani - death; bane, cause of death, slayer

Skörungr – leader, notable or outstanding person, paragon. Title for Leader of the Riders; given as an honor.

Guliä waíse medh ono, Skörungr - Luck be with you, Leader.