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Chapter Text

Roran stealthily followed the tracks of an injured doe he had been hunting for the past two days. His bow was strung and ready to fire the moment he saw his quarry, unshakable in his quest to bring him meat to last him and his father, Garrow, for the long and cruel months of winter.

The search for the doe had taken Roran right into the Spine and into the untamed wilderness that had swallowed up an entire group of the King's army back when they had tried to explore it a couple of years back. Despite his ingrained fear for the Spine, Roran refused to turn back without the deer. His last three hunts had been unsuccessful, and he'd be damned if he returned empty-handed one more time.

The hunter heard a twig crack and turning his head sharply to the right, he caught a glimpse of the doe as she bounded away as best she could with a lame leg. Roran aimed his arrow carefully, finally deciding to let his shot fly. Unfortunatly, the arrow whizzed right past the fleeing deer and disappeared into the undergrowth.

Cursing loudly, Roran strung another arrow and took off in hot pursuit of his prey. He stomped heavily through the forest, all thoughts of stealth forgotten as he hoped to exhaust the wounded doe and get close enough to finish her off with a single well-aimed shot.

The chase seemed to went on for hours as Roran pursued the deer, who always seemed to be out of reach despite her leg. Finally, too tired to continue on, Roran dropped to his knees gasping for breath as the doe bounded away into the trees.

Remaining on his knees for a while as he struggled to regain his breath, Roran slowly became aware that he was lost in an unfamiliar part of the Spine and had to idea had to get back. While running after the doe Roran had forgotten to remember the route and now had no way of re-tracing his steps.

"Nice going Roran," he grumbled to himself. "You lost the stupid deer and now you got yourself lost in the Spine."

Swearing under his breath, the young man got to his and looked around in order to get his bearings. A quick glance up at the sky revealed that the sun was close to setting and Roran would soon be left stranded in the dark.

Gathering up his bow and the arrows he had dropped when he had abandoned chase, Roran readied them again. He would have to find shelter, and fast, unless he wished to spend the night in an unfamiliar forest that was crawling with dangerous predators that would all to be happy to snack on a defenseless hunter.

He hurried through the forest, desperately searching for a cave or something to hunker down in. The sun sank closer to the horizon, twilight rapidly approaching. Roran began to grow unnerved as the ordinary looking forest began to grow dark and twisted as night came in. He could almost see the predators stalking him in those dangerous shadows, waiting to pounce on him the moment he ventured too close.

Night had almost come when Roran finally found a cave nestled half way up a short and easily climbable mountain. Thanking every god he knew, Roran hurried over to the mountain and scrambled up it and into the safety of the cave.

Roran started a small fire from the wood he had collected from the mouth of the cave and warmed himself over the comforting flames. Roran then took out some of the dried meat he had packed out of his bag and began to eat it, feeling very cozy in the lit cave. Knowing he was safe for the time being, the young man found the softest section of the stone floor he could find and settled down for the night.

Exhausted from the taxing day, he fell asleep almost as soon as his eyes had closed. Unfortunately, in his haste to go to sleep as soon as possible, Roran had overlooked the odd polished dark brown stone that lay in the farthest corner of the cave. The brown stone, which was not really a stone, had now begun to tremble and squeak as the tired young man slumber on, oblivious to the miracle that occurred just a few feet away from him.

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Roran was waken up in the middle of the night by an unnerving chewing sound and what sounded like the scrabbling of claws on rock. The fire had nearly died, casting only a dull red light that barely traveled past the fire, and Roran was lost in darkness with his death only a few feet away from him.

With trembling hands he grabbed one of his arrows he had left by his sleeping place and held it like a dagger, ready to stab whatever thatwas. He narrowed his eyes, straining to see into the shadows of the cave. The creature moved, casting an oddly shaped shadow against the red light of the fire. Keeping focused on the thing's whereabouts, Roran grabbed a spare piece of wood with his free hand and threw it onto the flames.

New light suddenly illumiated the entire area and his intruder squealed at the sudden brightness. Roran dropped his arrow in shock as he gaped openly at the strange little creature that had snuck into his cave.

The creature had four regular limbs like most animals, and was dark brown and scaly. It also had an additional two extra limbs near its shoulder blades and they were...wings. The creature had a roughly triangular head framed with white spikes. Also, the same white spikes travelled down the creature's back.

Paying no attention to the shocked hunter gaping at him, the baby dragon continued to gobble down on the unfinished dried meat Roran had left in his pack. The dragon had almost eaten its full, its belly looked practically bursting with all the meat it had swallowed.

Roran's bulging eyes flicked from the ravenous dragon to the shards of the dark brown egg in the corner of the cave. So that was were the dragon had come from.

The dragon finally realised it was being gawked at and its tiny head shot up from its meal and focused on Roran. Dark brown eyes gazed into brilliant amber as the two beings could only stare at each other, both equally dumbfounded with the other.

The dragon opened its mouth, revealing sharp white teeth that made Roran gulp nervously and... belched so loudly that the cave seemed to vibrate from the sound.

Roran couldn't help but chuckle and the tiny baby squealed indignantly as if it was aware it was being laughed at.

"I can't help but laugh at you," Roran said as if the tiny dragon could understand him. "Just seeing a supposedly magnificent and majestic dragon belch loud enough that it could make a drunkard hang his head in shame is so ridiculous that one has to laugh."

The dragon growled and bared its fangs, but it looked so comical with its bloated stomach and miniature size that Roran could only laugh harder, all fear for the little creature gone.

The brown dragon looked hurt and his head and tail drooped almost like a disappointed puppy would do. Roran stopped his laughter, feeling ashamed as he saw he had hurt the dragon chick's feelings.

"Hey," Roran said quietly to the dragon. "I'm sorry I laughed at you for that." The dragon only snorted and turned his back on the young man, making Roran sigh in exasperation.

Great, he grumbled to himself. It's only a couple of hours old and it already has a sense of pride! He looked at the hurt little dragon and a frown crossed his face. I guess it's time to suck up.

"Look," the young man apologetically, "I'm sorry if I offended you. It is not a farmer's place to belittle a great and powerful dragon." That got the dragon's attention. It turned its head around, amber eyes saying "Go on." Roran sighed softly and continued. "O, noble beast, if you could find it in your mighty heart to forgive an unworthy soul like me for my uncalled for comments, I would be forever glad to have been spared by such an awesome dragon."

The dragon turned around and a look of scornful consideration on its scaly face. Its amber eyes still didn't seem satisfied, though Roran had used every single complementing word and praise he knew.

"If you're looking for more mindless praise, dragon, go and look somewhere else," Roran said. "I apologized for my deed and I played the role of praiser to the best of my ability. Now you can either accept that, or not. The choice is yours."

The dragon seemed taken aback by the abrupt change in attitude and its actions changed dramatically. Losing the haughty look, the dragon threw itself at Roran and snuggled into his lap as if to say "I forgive you."

Roran stroked the dragon, who had fallen asleep in his lap, and mulled over what to do next.

The poor thing is too young to fend for itself, he thought. And there is no way I would leave this dragon alone in the wilderness with all these dangers around.

Although Roran was still unsure of how the dragon's egg had come to be in the cave after Galbatorix and Shruikan combed through the Spine years ago to search for any remaining eggs, he was positive that this dragon was not his dragon. From what he heard from Brom about dragons choosing their Riders, when the Rider first touches their dragon there remains a silver mark where they first touch, and Roran didn't have that distinctive mark.

Beyond a doubt, this dragon was the first wild dragon in over a century. Roran was determined to make sure it remained free out in the wilderness, away from the Empire and the Varden and all their squabbling over Alagaesia. But until it was old enough to be released, there was the matter of caring for it.

There was no way Roran could hide the dragon in the woods behind his father's farm and go out and check on it every day. Garrow was bound to notice his son's frequent absences from the farm and would no doubt discover the dragon sooner or later.

Roran wasn't going to kill the dragon, either. This little baby might be the last dragon left aside from Shruikan, and it deserved to live even if its kind was long dead.

Sighing, Roran laid down and moved the dragon onto his chest as he began to fall asleep again. Closing his heavy eyes, Roran knew what he had to do for the dragon's sake.

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Garrow stared hard-eyed at the baby dragon Roran held in his arms. When he had first seen it, it was all he could do to not gape at the tiny thing open-mouthed. Now that initial shock had transformed into anger as he heard Roran's suggestion about them raising the dragon until it was old enough to care for itself.

"Roran, I won't allow you to take care of that dragon. Release it in the Spine, humanely kill it. I really don't care what you do with it, but I am not allowing you to endanger our family." Garrow would be damned if he was going to be swayed by any amount of arguing with his son. Despite how innocent the dragon looked now, it would evantually grow into something very big and dangerous that couldn't be controlled.

Roran's eyes narrowed and he clutched the dragon closer to his chest as if to shield it from his father's anger. "It would only be until the dragon is old enough to care for itself and then I would release it," he argued. "And didn't you hear Brom's stories about dragons? They would never harm anyone who they believed their parents and...since I was the first living creature around it...I think the dragon may think I'm its father or something."

Garrow was enraged to his son's ignorance. Didn't he see the most obvious hazard about this whole scheme? "Did you think of the King? What if someone catches sight of the dragon and reports us to Galbatorix? I, for one, am not going to risk my own skin for that dragon."

"Who would see it?" Roran snapped fiercely. The dragon shivered in his hold, terrified at the voice that gradually began to rise in anger. "We live away from Carvahall and we rarely get any visitors! We don't even have hunters come up here. They're all too terrified of the Spine."

"And what makes you think that the dragon won't venture into town or start picking off our livestock or another farmer's?"

"Because dragons are intelligent!" Roran argued. "Or at least intelligent enough to listen to us. Do you think the Dragon Riders could have become anything important if they didn't have proper communication from their dragons?" He looked down at the dragon, who looked up at him innocent amber eyes. "He can understand us, father. I just feel it somehow."

Garrow sighed and muttered a curse under his breath. Roran had inherited his stubbornness and Marion's passion. Obviously not a very good combination, especially when Roran tried to protect a menace that could bring nothing but trouble to their family.

The aging farmer glared at the brown dragon, almost expecting it to snarl in return. But the little thing looked up at him with wide golden eyes and Garrow felt his heart soften for the little creature.

"I can see there's no changing your mind once it's set," he began slowly. Roran winced, as if he was preparing to be disowned and kicked out of the house for his actions. "And I always told you to treat everyone kindly and with mercy. How can I turn away an innocent little baby that has just begun to live, even if it is a dragon?"

A great big grin broke across Roran's face and he hugged his father tightly, the dragon squealing in protest as it was crushed between the two bodies. "You won't regret this, father!" he said cheerfully. He looked at the dragon, who suddenly seemed much happier. "Did you hear that, dragon? You get to stay!"

Garrow smiled slightly. "But only until it's old enough to care for itself," he warned. "Then it's going back to the Spine where it belongs."

Roran didn't seem to hear him. He looked at carefully at the dragon, his brow furrowed in thought. "I think you're a male," he told the dragon. "And so I think I'll call you...Eragon."

His father blinked in confusion. "Eragon?"

"After the first Dragon Rider," Roran explained. "I heard Brom mention the name in one of his stories."

The newly named Eragon seemed to like his named as he chirped in satisfaction. He looked up at Garrow with big amber eyes that seemed to be saying "Thank you."

Roran turned away, bringing Eragon to his room to get him situated. Garrow shook his head, trying to get the impossible thoughts that he was thinking of out of head. After all, despite what Roran or Brom the crazy old storyteller said, dragons couldn't be that intelligent.

Chapter Text

High in the sky, a dark brown dragon flew. He wasn't that large compared to the dragons of old, as he was only three months old, but was still large enough to make any human who glimpsed him quiver in fear. In his front claws he held a deer, neatly killed with a sharp blow to the head.

Seeing the village of Carvahall rapidly approaching below him, Eragon flew higher so just in case any villager was looking up and spotted him, they would mistake him for a large bird. Although the people of Carvahall couldn't see him, with his much sharper eyesight Eragon could spy on them all he wanted. And as such, Eragon knew anything and everything going on in Carvahall, even if some of those matters were supposed to be kept secret.

He knew that Horst's wife, Elain, was pregnant...again. And that his "cousin" Roran was seeing Katrina behind her father's back and was looking for a job so he could work up both the funds and the nerve to ask Sloan for his daughter's hand in marriage.

The village or Carvahall soon past by beneath Eragon and he angled his wings so he was flying a familiar course back to the place where he was raised; Garrow's farm. Below him, he could spot Garrow and Roran working in the fields. His "cousin's" head went up and sighting his draconian friend, raised a hand in greeting.

Eragon, his front claws full with the deer, flared his wings and tried to land on only his back claws. However, the position was to awkward that the dragon tripped, falling face-first onto the ground and squishing the deer beneath his enormous body.

Garrow and Roran came over, the younger grinning in amusement. "Hello, Eragon. Did you learn something new today about trying to land with while only using one pair of claws?" he teased.

Eragon snorted indignantly, much like he had when he and his "cousin" had first met, and replied, Lesson learned. Next time when Garrow tells me not to try any fancy maneuvers, like landing only on your back claws when your front are full, I'm going to listen. He got back onto his paws, revealing the flattened deer beneath him. Here, I brought you a present.

Roran looked like he was going to comment on the deer, but Garrow silenced him with a look. "Thank you, Eragon," he said warmly. "Roran, will be so kind and put that deer somewhere so we can prepare it for the winter another time?" Roran eyed the flattened and dirtied deer and grimaced at the thought of handling such a thing, but feeling both his father's eyes and Eragon's eyes on him, he hurried over without complaint.

Eragon gave the dragon's equivalency of a sheepish grin and said to his adopted uncle, Sorry about the deer, Uncle Garrow. Next time I'll try to get it to you without landing on it first.

Garrow smiled slightly. "You'll just find another way to damage it, Eragon. Come on, I have some important news to share with you."

The brown dragon cocked his head, confused, but followed his adopted uncle closer to the house. Garrow leaned against the house, his gaze sweeping over his two "sons," one trying to drag the deer over to the cellar and the other staring at him with expectant amber eyes.

So much has changed over the past couple of months, Garrow thought to himself. If someone told be the day before Roran came home with Eragon that in three month's time I would be caring for a talking dragon that thinks of me as his uncle, I never would have believed him.

"Eragon," he began, "do you remember how Roran's been talking about moving away from home and getting a job so he can afford to care for a wife and family?" The brown dragon nodded his head, knowing where this conversation was going. "Today, the miller from Therinsford came by Horst's forge to pick up an order and he heard that Roran was seeking employment. Dempton, the miller, hired him as a hand."

Eragon was silent, looking back at Roran who was still struggling with the deer carcass. When does he leave?

"Same time as when Dempton returns to Therinsford, a week or so from what I heard." Garrow saw the dragon's forlorn look about being left behind without Roran and the old farmer quickly added, "And I don't you flying over and trying to visit him, Eragon. Therinsford is bigger than Carvahall and the mill where Roran is going to be working is very close to town. Someone is bound to see you."

I won't even think about visiting him, Eragon muttered. I know the risks that run at even going near towns, let alone trying to make contact with someone. Besides, knowing Roran he won't be gone for long. In a year's time he'll probably will have made enough money to impress Sloan and will be able to marry Katrina with her father's blessing. Come next spring both will be back and working the fields.

Garrow nodded. "Exactly, Eragon." A moment later the latter half of Eragon's talk sunk in and he asked, "Roran wants to marry Katrina? The butcher's daughter? Sloan's Katrina?"

Eragon hummed happily, proud to know something about his cousin that his own father didn't. There is no other Katrina in Carvahall, uncle. Besides, the biggest obstacle to their happy life in holy matrimony won't be old Sloan, it will be fact that Roran has a dragon for a cousin and she will have a dragon as a cousin-in-law.

The older man's brow furrowed grimly and he scratched his chin in defeat. "We will just have to cross that bridge when the time comes. Remember, Eragon, the future is not set in stone. Whatever Roran may have planned or what we may expect might not come true. Something completely unforseen may happen, like Roran falling in love with someone from Therinsford."

Either way, the dragon joked, it will be nice to have little ones much closer to my age running around. "Uncle Eragon." How does it sound to you, uncle?

"About as appealing as "Grandpa Garrow." The old farmer turned his gaze to the sky where the sun was beginning to go down and he gave a worried frown. "It's getting late, Eragon. Roran and I have to finish tending to the crops and put down the animals for the night."

Eragon sighed in dismay as he too glanced up at the darkening sky. Perhaps if he had been a bit faster in his hunting earlier, he could have spent more time with the family he rarely saw anymore. I better be leaving, he admitted. I've wasted so much of your time and I still have to hunt for my dinner.

Garrow smiled, seeing right through the transparent lie but choosing not to mention it. "Goodbye, nephew. Come back early tomorrow and you might just catch Roran before he heads into town."

Eragon bid his uncle and nephew farewell before spreading his wings and flying off toward his nest. He didn't have to travel too far, however, as he had made his home in a relatively large cave in the Spine that was close to his family's farm. Laying down in his crude nest he had thrown together one day out of sheer boredom, he mulled over what Garrow had said about the future.

Despite what his adopted uncle had said, Eragon's future was no doubt set in stone. He was the world's last dragon, aside from Shruikan, and would grow and old lonely without ever taking a mate. He would most probaly just hang around the farm, watching over Garrow and Roran as he took a wife and had kids of his own before growing old and dying. Eragon supposed he would just watch over each new generation of his cousin's descendants until he succumbed to old age himself.

Just thinking about his inevitable future made Eragon cringe sadly. He closed his bright golden eyes, wondering if what Garrow had said about the future not being set in stone was true or not.

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As the world's last wild dragon slept, far away in a distant forest three riders silently made their way through the outskirts of a forest bigger and wilder than the Spine itself. Their mounts were all a silvery gray and each moved with the grace of a deer. The riders themselves certainly couldn't be human, as they too were too beautiful, too elegant, too majestic, to be mundane.

The riders rode in formation, the two outside ones moving as if to protect the one in the middle. Faolin and Glenwing, as were the outside riders' names, looked around uneasily as if they sensed something was not quite right in this forest that suddenly seemed too peaceful.

"My Lady?" Glenwing said nervously as he looked around. Arya lifted her emerald gaze from the precious blue egg in her lap to her guard. "Something is not right here, Faolin, the horses, and I sense it. Perhaps we should turn around and go another way."

The elvan princess was silent for a moment, deciding. She could tell her mount was uneasy as it kept eyeing the shadows around it suspiciously and seemed ready to bolt at the slightest sound. Her guards appeared as equally cautious, each reaching for the swords they kept at their side.

"You are right," she conceded. She halted her horse, Faolin and Glenwing following suit as they prepared to change their course. "We'll go another way to reach our destination."

"A wise action, Princess," Glenwing murmured in a relieved voice. "Who knows what might-" He was suddenly interrupted as an arrow flew out of nowhere and caught him in the throat. The elf tumbled off his panicking horse, dead. More arrows erupted from the shadows, killing the horses as their riders fell off them to the cover of the ground below.

"Ambush!" Faolin shouted as he drew his sword. He looked at Arya, who seemed reluctant to leave. "Go, my Lady! Save yourself and the egg!"

The elf hesitated as she and her lover looked at each other with distress. But then Arya caught sight of Glenwing and she shrieked in grief. With unnatural speed she grabbed the dragon egg and fled for her life, tears streaming from her eyes as she heard Faolin trying to hold back the urgals that rushed to attack him.

Arya didn't get far before she heard the thundering of hooves behind her. She knew all too well who was on that horse and what he was after. The elf skidded on wet leaves, preparing to change direction in an effort to lose her pursuer.

"Brisingr!"

The forest around Arya suddenly burst into flame and she had no choice but to run in the same direction she had initially fled in. Arya struggled through the flames, her eyes tearing and her lungs burning from the smoke. Adrenalin pumped through her veins, her brain working madly to find an escape from this hell.

Arya had reached a clearing surrounded by fire with no way out except the way she came in before the horrible thought dawned on her.

I'm being herded!

Durza appeared behind her, his crimson eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. His face was glowing with violent triumph as he held out a hand and commanded in a calm and victorious voice, "Give me the egg."

Arya glared at him defiantly, the words of ancient magic coming out of her mouth filled with desperation as she had no other option but her very last resort. Durza screamed as the egg disappeared in a burst of green magic, his red eyes narrowing in pure hatred.

The defeated elf spat at the hooves of the Shade's horse and said weakly, "Now go and find it all over again."

The Shade screamed in rage, yelling a spell that knocked Arya unconscious. He was blinded by his rage of failure for a moment, but then a cool smile crossed his face as he gazed coldly down at the elf.

Two elvish prisoners, he mused. More than enough opportunity to torture the location of both the egg and the elvish cities! Galbatorix will be pleased, even if the egg has evaded our grasps yet again.

He pulled the limp elf onto his horse, holding her firmly as he parted the flames to allow himself out of the inferno and allowed the rest to burn. Unbeknown to Durza, Arya was not fully unconscious.

Her last real thought was if Faolin was dead yet before her she fell into an endless darkness.

Chapter Text

An explosion of bright green energy invaded Eragon's dreams that night and startled him into reality. The dragon roared in surprise at the unexpected awakening and shot straight out of his nest.

What was that all about? he wondered. Deciding to answer his own question, he ventured to the mouth of his cave and peaked outside. Looking down into the forest, he saw that an area of the trees was now nothing but a smoking crater, presumably caused by the explosion of that strange green energy.

Eragon remained on his perch for a moment, debating what to do inside his head. He could leave the area immediately, lest whatever caused the explosion proved to be dangerous. Or he could go down to the crater and check it out, satisfying his curiosity of hopefully finding out why that explosion had just occurred. Choosing curiosity over caution, Eragon spread his wings and glided down to the crater to investigate.

The brown dragon landed in the smoking hole, his heavy weight crushing the charred remains of trees beneath him. Eragon growled uneasily in his throat, sensing something wasn't right with the crater. For some reason, although he couldn't figure out why, this whole situation just seemed... off to him.

Maybe magic caused this, he thought. It would certainly explain the strange burst of green light, and this weird feeling I have. Strange things are known to happen in the Spine, anyway, and perhaps random magical explosions aren't uncommon here.

Eragon snorted at his own stupidity. That was the best explanation he could come up with? Since when did explosions of green magic that destroyed all in their path occur, even in the Spine? Most likely a magician of some sort caused it, although Eragon didn't know why. Why would a magic-user just decide to blow up a part of the forest?

Deciding it was best to figure out why, Eragon put his nose to the ground and began sniffing around. He found nothing out of the ordinary; a couple of burnt trees, ash from the destroyed undergrowth, the charred remains of an unlucky animal. Aside from the strange scent of magic, the entire crater seemed just like any other forest that had been ravaged by a fire.

Or not. Eragon jumped back in surprise as his nose touched something unusually cool beneath all the smoking wood. He pulled back his lips, revealing sharp white teeth, in an instinctive reflex that happened whenever he felt threatened as he eyed the place where his nose had brushed the cool thing.

Eragon cleared the remains with a claw, staring at what had caused him to startle with a suspicious gaze. What he found was a strange polished stone, no more than a foot long, lying innocently on the ground. Its color was quite unusual, the entire object was a brilliant sapphire blue.

The dark brown dragon lowered his nose down to the stone and sniffed it, discovering that the strange scent of magic was strongest there. But there was another scent to it, something that didn't belong on a mere rock. Eragon cocked his head in confusion as he gazed at the stone. For some reason that stone smelled...alive.

Feeling rather overwhelmed, Eragon decided he needed to double-check his impossible presumption. He reached out with his mind, and pulled back with a snort as he felt another mind, something that didn't belong to any animal he knew of, touched his own.

Okay...the stone is alive, Eragon concluded in a shaky voice. He felt the mind of the being inside the stone touch reach out to him again this time with a feeling of... exasperation?

All right, all right, the dragon said. You're not a stone, okay? You're an egg. The other being relented, satisfaction reaching Eragon through their link. But what kind of egg are you?

Eragon racked his brains, trying to remember if he had ever come across an egg like this. It was way too big to be a bird's egg, and mostly they were speckled brown, not even close to the brilliant blue this egg was. A memory, his earliest, came back to him. He recalled the shards of his own dark brown egg and how the texture easily mirrored the one he found.

The brown dragon gaped in awe at the egg, easily recognizing it now. A dragon egg! He reached out with his mind again, determined to find out more about the being inside it.

Eragon could feel the muted feelings of the baby dragon, not yet fully conscious thoughts and emotions, reach out to him. Mostly he could feel a feeling of peace that had lasted for a very long time, but the more recent feelings included the satisfaction he had felt at being properly recognized as a dragon egg and the haughty pride the dragon inside still felt toward Eragon.

'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' Eragon said, quoting a saying he had heard Uncle Garrow say once.

He knew what this mysterious stone was now. Without a doubt, no matter how impossible it seemed, this object was actually a blue female dragon egg. More importantly, the last female dragon in all of Alagaesia.

Eragon grabbed the egg in his claw, making sure he had a secure hold but not strong enough to crush the egg, and leaped into the air. Wait until his "family" heard about this!

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Roran. Roran, wake up!

Roran could feel Eragon's mind brush against his own, and could feel the unusual urgency in his voice, but was too absorbed in his wonderful dream to really care. Five more minutes, he mumbled.

In his dream, he was holding Katrina close, running a hand through her silky copper hair. He gently cupped her chin, tilting her head upward to face his. Roran leaned in, brushing his lips against hers. He could feel Katrina's warm breath and he-

RORAN!

With a yelp of surprise, Roran rolled over and fell off his warm bed and cracked his head on the cold dirt floor below. The young man rubbed the sore spot on his cranium where a bruise was rapidly appearing, muttering curses under his breath.

What in gods' name is it, Eragon?

Something of the utmost importance, the dragon replied. Quickly, come outside!

Roran grabbed his tunic he had left by his bed and pulled it on to cover his uncovered torso. He walked over to the door, taking great care to not disturb his father, and stepped outside into the freezing late autumn night. Eragon was already by the house, his massive form blotting out the stars.

"What is so important that you have to wake me up in the middle of the night?" Roran asked, wrapping his arms around him to protect himself from the nippy breeze.

This, Eragon replied simply. He held out a tightly closed claw, opening it to reveal what it had been holding. Roran glared at the object for a moment, wondering why his cousin had forcefully driven him from his dreams of Katrina and made him step outside to see nothing but a mere stone, before realization dawned on him.

He gaped in awe, now recognizing the blue stone for what it truly was. "Is that a-"

A dragon egg? Eragon interrupted in an amused voice. Aye, it is. Alagaesia's only female dragon egg, to be precise.

Roran gently took the egg out of the wild dragon's claw, stroking its smooth shell with a look of wonder. Like Eragon had showed him, Roran reached out with his mind, sensing the baby dragon inside it. "Where did it come from?" he asked. He looked at Eragon with a suspicious look. "You didn't lay it, did you?"

Eragon's amber eyes widened in horror, snorting in protest at the outrageous question. Do I look like a she-dragon to you? And I didn't find it a cave in the Spine, either, he replied.

"Then where could it have come from?" Roran clutched the egg tighter to his body, the cool surface of it much warmer than the freezing night air. He felt the dragon inside the shell move, almost as if she enjoyed his embrace.

Eragon showed his cousin some memories of the green burst of magic and the smoking crater. Believe it or not, this egg arrived in that explosion of strange magic. It could either be a gift from a god who decided he likes me very much, or much more likely, sent here accidentally by a magician.

Roran thought it over for a moment, before nodding in agreement. "Whoever used that green magic was probably trying to transport this egg to a safer location, and obviously failed at the attempt." He glanced at Eragon, who wasn't letting that egg out of his sight. "What should we do with it?"

There's not much we can do, the brown dragon said. If the King catches wind of this, he'll be sending his agents to get that egg by any means necessary. We can try to find whoever sent it or who the egg was meant to be sent to, but what are the odds we'll stumble across that person. Our third option, and the one I like the best, is just to keep the egg and hope it hatches.

Roran furrowed his brow in consideration. "Keep it?"

Of course, Eragon replied. Do you think I'm going to let my only chance of the company of another dragon pass me by that easily?

The young man frowned. "This egg is someone else's property and you just happened to find it. Keeping it would be considered stealing."

Since when are sentient beings, especially dragons, considered property? the brown dragon shot back. Besides, what was that old saying you told me when I was a hatchling? Something along the lines of 'Finder's keepers, loser's weepers?'

"There's a difference, Eragon," Roran grumbled. "Especially when the "loser" is most likely an angry magician who just discovered that a certain wild dragon made off with their most valuable piece of property."

Eragon shifted impatiently on his claws, amber eyes narrowed at Roran's look of stubbornness. Roran might have inherited Garrow's mule-like personality, but not even that could match the insistence of a dragon. Oh, come on, Roran! What are the odds that the egg would land near my cave, even if it was a mistake? Finding that egg is fate, Roran. We were meant to raise this dragon.

The young man rolled his eyes at his adopted cousin's melodramatic speech. Trust the haughty dragon to get all sappy when the moment called for it. Roran opened his mouth to protest, but then he saw the obstinate look in Eragon's face. Roran sighed in defeat, knowing he wouldn't be argue with the dragon when he was in one of his moods.

"Fine," he said at last. "But I'm sure Garrow won't like having to raise another dragon."

Eragon's eyes glittered with amusement. I turned out just fine, didn't I?

A ghost of a smile crossed Roran's face and he began to carry the egg inside. Noticing that Eragon wasn't making any effort to return to his cave, the young man stopped and fixed his cousin with a reproachful gaze. "Shouldn't you be heading back to your nest?"

The brown dragon yawned. Are you kidding me? Do you really think I'd leave you alone and give you a chance to sneak off with egg. He laid down a short distance from the house, letting Roran know that he was here to stay.

Roran shook his head in exasperation, hoping that no unlucky visitors would show up over the next couple of days. Tired and cold from his trip into the cold night air, he carefully set the egg down next to him and curled up on his bed and gratefully closed his eyes.

00000000000000000000000000000

It took all of Faolin's willpower to force himself to emerge from the black veil of unconsciousness. He groaned from the effort, aware of the stinging wounds that the Urgals had inflicted upon him. Although his memory was fuzzy, he could remember that the patrol assigned to transport the egg from Ellesmera to the Varden had been ambushed by Urgals. Glenwing had been killed and he had been knocked unconscious.

Faolin looked around at his surroundings, his heart sinking as he realised that what he had hoped was a nightmare was indeed reality. He was in a prison cell, shackled to the stone wall behind him. His weapons had been confiscated from him and his magic blocked by a drug or perhaps a powerful spell.

Despite his dire situation, Faolin could still sigh in relief as his capture had not been in vain. He had distracted the Urgals long enough so that Arya could escape with the egg. No matter how much he vauled his own life, Faolin knew that the safety of the Princess and the dragon egg was more important than him.

"So, the elf is awake." Faolin's head shot up, trying to find the source of the voice. "I hope your accommodations are to your liking. After all, it's rare that elves stay in Gil'ead's prison."

Faolin searched the shadows of his cell, wheeling back in fright as he saw maroon eyes boring through the darkness and into him. "Who are you?" he demanded, trying to keep his voice from betraying any of his emotions.

A cold laugh came from the owner of the maroon eyes. "Come on, Faolin, surely you remember me?" The figure stepped into the faint moonlight, revealing a man with crimson hair and unusually pale skin.

Faolin's blood turned to ice as he gazed at the Shade. "Durza," he whispered in horror.

Durza laughed again, a twisted smile playing across his face. "Ah, so you do remember me." He advanced and the elf shrank back as far as he possibly could. "Because I certainly remember you."

Faolin glared at the Shade, defiance rearing up inside him like a snake. "It's hard not to remember the Shade that tracked down the one of the world's dragon eggs, only to have it slip through his grasp all because of a single elf." He smirked. "Tell me, Durza, do you still have that scar?"

Durza's hand unconsciously flew up to the jagged scar that adorned his skull, mostly obscured by hair. The Shade's cold smile turned into a dark glare and his eyes burned with fiery rage. He struck out with a hand, hitting Faolin's nose and causing a stream of blood to begin to spill out.

"The egg may have escaped my grasp that night and now again tonight, but it cannot avoid me forever." Durza's smile returned as he moved out of the way and revealed another figure chained to the wall opposite Faolin. "Besides, I captured the next best thing. The two surviving elves who transport the egg and know its whereabouts at all times."

Faolin's heart almost stopped as tears began to fall down his face and mix with the blood. "Arya!"

His lover didn't respond, her form limp and only held up by the shackles that wrapped around her wrists. Despite her unconscious state, she thankfully appeared to be unharmed.

Durza chuckled manically, his sadistic sense of humour enjoying the elf's pain. "You owe me for this scar, Faolin," he growled. "And I intend for you to pay your debt tonight."

A single word escaped the Shade's lips and Faolin was thrown into Hell.

Chapter Text

Garrow and Roran were loading the last of their excess crops onto the old wagon to take into town. The Traders had arrived in Carvahall the day before and were trading valuable goods such as animals and seeds in exchange for extra crops. The harvest this year, despite being slightly trampled by a dragon that had used to romp through the fields, had been surprisingly well and the small family were ready for bartering.

"Well, that's the last of it." Garrow rubbed his hands together to drive the chill from them, smiling at the completed task in satisfaction. "All we have to do now is get Birka and Brugh hitched up and we can leave."

He glanced over at his son, frowning unhappily as he saw Roran wasn't paying attention to him. The young man was peering out to one of the cleared fields, brown eyes full with concern. The massive form of Eragon rested in the field, hunched over the blue egg in what was most likely another desperate ploy to get it to hatch.

Garrow sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Let it go, Roran. If Eragon wants to waste away over that damned egg, let him. You can't get him to drop the matter and neither can I. Eventually, it will occur to him that it won't hatch and he'll forget about it."

"He's been hunched over that egg for three days and nights! It takes all of my prodding just to get him to hunt or even to get a simple drink of water!" Roran glared, cursing the accursed dragon egg. "That damned egg is more of a curse than a blessing. Eragon is going to wither away in front of that thing if something can not be done soon."

Garrow nodded his head. "You are right," he conceded. "That dragon's too obstinate for his own good. You might as well try and see if you can drag him away from that egg for at least a short while. The storytellers among the Traders will have some good tales this year and you know how your cousin loves to hear about the dragons and Riders of old. Just being around people and listening to their stories is good for his health."

Roran ventured across the field to console his adopted cousin while his father went off to the barn to hitch up the horses. Eragon lay in the center of the cleared field, too absorbed in the egg to notice Roran's arrival. He held the sapphire egg in his teeth, biting down softly as if to puncture the shell and force the dragon inside out.

Come on, little one, he told the egg. You can hatch now, you are safe from Galbatorix and from whatever cruel magician held you captive. Eragon crunched down on the shell again, his fangs making a sickening sound as they connected to the egg.

Roran watched the scene in horror, terrified for the young she-dragon inside the egg. What if Eragon broke through the shell and harmed the hatchling inside? His cousin was too desperate to have the company of his own kind, and his desire to free the baby might result in her accidental death.

"Eragon, you fool!" he shouted, running toward the great brown dragon. "What are you doing? Stop at once before you harm her!" Eragon looked up from his task, blinking in surprise as he saw Roran. His cousin hurried forward, reaching for the egg and trying to rescue it from the jaws of the dragon.

Realising what Roran was doing, Eragon growled threateningly and pulled away from his cousin. He did set the egg safely on the ground, covering it with a protective paw. He glared at Roran, fangs bared and growling deep in his throat.

Roran, who had grown up with this obnoxious dragon, was not intimidated by the cousin he had raised from since he was the size of a housecat. He stood his ground, scowling up at the dragon with equally furious brown eyes. "What do you think you're doing? You could have killed her!"

Eragon nudged the egg once, still trying to coax the dragon inside. Trying to free her from her imprisonment, what else? He sounded nonchalant about the whole matter, as if he had not endangered the life of the world's last female dragon because of his selfish wants.

"By trying to force her out?" Roran clenched his fists, wanting to punch his thick-headed cousin in the face.

Eragon shook his head. I've tried telling her at least a thousand times that she was free from Galbatorix or whoever owned her and that she was no longer a captive and free to hatch. I gave her plenty of time, but she appeared to not have heard me. What if she's stuck in the egg, Roran? Unable to free herself? I thought that if I helped her she would-

"Hatch?" Roran intteruppted. "Eragon, that dragon must have been in that egg for no longer than you have. She is perfectly capable of hatching herself." He thought he felt the mind of the baby dragon nod in agreement with him at that comment. "Perhaps she is waiting for her Dragon Rider or perhaps she is waiting for the right time or-"

This is the right time! Eragon protested loudly. He moved his claw from the egg, nudging again. When he failed to issued a response, he gave a forlorn cry. Who knows what kind of creatures are searching for her now? If she hatches, she has a better chance of survival than just lazing about in that egg. Besides, I am the only dragon left... He trailed off, amber eyes looking at the egg despairingly.

Who else am I to have if she never hatches?

Roran's enraged face softened as his cousin's heartbroken expression. Despite Eragon's frightening appearance, he was still only three months and naught much more than a child, if an extremely large child. He was lonely and wasn't allowed to communicate with anybody other than Garrow or Roran. He was the last of his race, save for the black dragon Shruikan and the egg. It was only natural that he desired the company of this blue dragon so badly.

Roran put a comforting hand on the dragon's flank. "She will hatch," he assured his cousin gently. "Perhaps she is merely scared of you. Biting her egg and trying to force her out isn't going to persuade her to hatch any quicker."

Eragon nodded in agreement. I suppose you are right, he conceded. Besides, I am to be alive and well for the next couple of centuries. I have all the time in the world to wait for her to hatch. He moved away from the egg, allowing Roran to pick it up. It's not like I'll be moving away from home once I'm grown.

Roran smiled, glad to see that his cousin's poor sense of humour had returned. "You will be coming into Carvahall, then?"

Of course, I wouldn't miss those storytellers for the fattest deer in all of Alagaesia! However, I will only go on one condition.

The young man winced. Something told him that this wasn't going to be good.

"What do you want?"

Is the egg all right?

It's fine, Eragon. You asked me that same question barely a minute ago!

What if it had begun to hatch in that minute?

Roran scowled, shifting on the uncomfortable wooden seat to find a better spot. He and Garrow were on the wagon and following the dirt road into town. The blue dragon egg was securely tucked away in the small pack he wore. Eragon flew slowly overhead so as to keep up with the wagon, making sure to keep up high so he would be mistaken as a large bird. His sharp eyes were trained solely on the pack which held his precious egg.

You should have carried this damned egg yourself if you wanted to check up on it so often.

You are so willing to entrust me with the future of my entire race? Eragon asked dryly. But what if I hold the egg in my teeth so hard that I crack it and kill the dragon inside? Or what if I hold it in my claws and I loose my grip on it, sending it crashing to the ground? You said yourself that I have slippery claws. His voice was laced with sarcasm and amusement for his cousin's indignation for having to lug the egg around.

Roran rolled his eyes. Why had he had ever brought Eragon home? The fool had become twice the pest after learning how to speak and how to successfully use the delicate art of sarcasm.

Garrow drove Birka and Brugh into town, unaware of the bickering going on between his two "sons." The small village of Carvahall was unusually crowded with all of the Traders and all of the nearby people who had come to town to buy and sell their wares. Garrow dropped his son off close to the tents that served as temporary shops, going off to barter his crops in exchange for much needed supplies.

For the majority of the day, Roran mainly wandered around and browsed, looking at what the Traders had to sell to see if his curiousty was perked. He was tempted to buy a small gold ring for Katrina as a farewell present, but she had reproached him for spending his money on her and urged him to keep it for himself. Instead, he wasted only a couple of crowns to buy a small lunch to keep himself nourished.

From time to time he would glance up, able to spot a large shape circling over Carvahall. Eragon was keenly listening to the storytellers, only contacting once in a while to check on the egg. Roran now had to remind himself to constantly check on the egg to make sure a thief had not stolen it, his hand always going to his pack to make sure the familiar lump was still in there.

As the light of the day began to fade and the shadows began to grow longer, Roran went to look for Katrina for a "proper goodbye." He navigated through the thick crowds of people, looking for Katrina's face. Sloan had most likely finished with his shopping by now and had gone to the Seven Sheaves to drink with the other men, so Roran and Katrina were safe from being discovered.

"There you are," Roran whispered to himself, catching a glimpse of familiar copper-colored hair. He altered his direction and aimed for Katrina. So focused on his target, he didn't pay attention to his surroundings and collided head on with a man.

Roran and the stranger both fell to the ground, the former banging his head and bruising yet another part of his head. The young man cursed his blindness, rubbing his head. He got up, wincing apologetically at the man he had bumped into. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-" He broke off, recognizing the face of the stranger.

"Watch it, Garrowsson!" Sloan got up, glaring at the younger man. His breath already wreaked of alcohol and he was swaying slightly on his feet. "Next time, make sure you pay attention to where you're going!"

Roran's fists clenched in loathing for this vile man and he forced himself to reply, "It won't, Sloan."

The butcher looked down at the ground, lip curling in distaste. "And now look what you gone and did. You went and spilled your belongings on the ground. Can't you see that other people are trying to walk?"

Roran looked down in horror, realizing that his pack had slipped off during the collision and had opened, spilling its contents all over the ground. Sloan stared at the mess, his gray eyes staring down at the dragon egg. He opened his mouth as if to comment on it, but then he turned and staggered away, lost in his drunken stupor.

Roran bent down, grabbing his pack and frantically stuffing all of his personal belongings back into it before anyone noticed. He was just reaching for the egg when another gnarled and ancient hand swooped down and seized it. The young man looked up, ready to wrestle the thief for the dragon egg.

He looked eyes with Brom, the town storyteller. The old man was smiling kindly, holding out the egg. "I do believe this is yours," he said.

Roran took the egg, nodding gratefully. He carefully stowed the egg back in his pack, hoping that the little dragon inside wasn't that angry at him for being unceremoniously dropped like that. "Thanks."

Brom nodded, still studying the pack that obscured the egg from view. "What an interesting stone," he said brightly. "I imagine that you came here to barter it off for something nice. A nice little gift for your sweetheart, perhaps?"

Roran forced himself to look disinterested, shrugging. "I came across this stone in the Spine while hunting. I may or may not sell it, depending on the offer. To tell you the truth, its kind of grown on me." Not to mention that Eragon would devour me alive if I ever lost it, he silently added.

"It is a nice little rock." Brom gazed at Roran with piercing blue eyes, as if trying to peer into his very soul. Then he smiled, looking like a harmless and friendly old man. "Well, it was nice to see you, Roran. Tell your father my respects."

The young man nodded. "Will do, Brom. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go." He set off in the other direction, exhaling in relief that he had escaped discussing the egg further. Sloan was drunk and Brom was old and most likely forgetful by now. With any luck the egg would slip both of their minds all together.

Roran didn't notice that Brom was staring after him with thoughtful blue eyes.

"So that's were you went, little dragon," he murmured.

Chapter Text

Snow fell silently from the dark sky above, landing and covering Carvahall and surrounding fields in a blanket of white. It was late into the evening and the festivities and crowds that had once clogged the streets had long since dispersed. Everyone, from the wealthiest Trader to the most foolish drunkard had enough sense to go indoors rather than risk their necks on a night like this. Only a sole person, with only a woolen cloak to protect him against the savage elements, traversed the treacherous roads.

Brom did not mind the freezing snow nor the biting wind. How many times had he flown through weather hundreds of times worse than this with Saphira? He trekked on as if the raging storm didn't exist, blue eyes focused intently on the location ahead.

When Arya and her escorts had been ambushed by the Shade Durza and the egg lost, Brom had low hopes of ever finding it again. The wilderness that surrounded Carvahall was so vast it would have taken him lifetimes to properly inspect it. Not to mention he couldn't venture out to search for the egg for too long without arousing the suspicion of the villagers.

Oh, what a shock it had been to Brom what he had literally walked right into the egg! It had been earlier that day and he had taken a brief rest from telling stories to anyone who would listen for a well deserved tankard of ale to warm his chilled body. He had come across Roran and Sloan both laying sprawled across the road, apparently just having been in a collision. There on the ground was a pack, its contents scattered all around it and clear for all to see. And what had been in the pack? The very dragon egg he had been looking for!

Brom had not immediately strode up and seized the egg. Instead he had merely walked over, picked up the egg, and handed it back to Roran. He pretended to be a harmless old man doing a nice deed for an old friend's son, nothing else. Once the younger man had accepted the egg, he had innocently inquired about the "stone."

Roran had appeared disinterested, saying he had found it while hunting. He said he was debating to sell the "stone" or not, as he had grown quite attached to it. Then the two had exchanged some minor pleasantries and had went their separate ways.

Brom found the young man's story somewhat plausible. Families were usually driven to the point of desperation around this time of year to stock up on as much meat and other such goods as possible. Some even went so far to temporarily dismiss old superstition and venture out into the Spine in hopes that they may shoot a deer or a boar. Roran could have easily stumbled across the egg, and thinking it valuable, had taken it home with him. It was also possible that he had unconsciously touched the mind of the dragon inside, and was reluctant to part from its presence.

But, Brom could also read people as easy as he could wield a blade or magic. He had seen through Roran's mask of indifference to the caution and worry that lay obscured underneath. It was almost as if this young and ignorant farmer had the vaguest of ideas of what he was in possession of and seemed almost...frightened to even momentarily misplace it.

Could Roran be a servant of the Empire, holding the egg into one of the King's pet magicians came to retrieve it? Brom immediately dismissed the idea. He had known Roran since he was a young infant and he had shown the same inherent dislike for Galbatorix and the Empire as virtually everyone else in Carvahall.

It really didn't matter to him, anyway. The important task was to retrieve the egg and send it to Du Weldenvarden, as it was the closest friendly area, before Galbatorix caught wind of it. So long as Roran was not a spy, Brom would merely sneak into his house and steal back the egg. Come morning it would be safe among the elves and Brom would be sleeping peacefully in his bed, appearing innocent of the theft.

At last Brom reached the end of the road. Before him was a small house and a barn that lay nestled amongst several acres of snow-covered fields. Beyond the farm was the Spine, so close to the house and only separated from it by a narrow field. The house was dark, its occupants sleeping soundly in their warm beds, blissfully unaware of the theft that was about to take place.

Brom headed toward the house. His old training had kicked in and he moved through the shadows as gracefully as a wild cat, leaving only a trail of light footprints in the snow as a sign of his presence.

Muttering a spell, the lock on the door undid itself and Brom was in the house. He looked around at his surroundings, seeing nothing but a dark kitchen. Brom reached out with his mind, touching the consciousnesses of the people in the house so lightly that they didn't even stir at his presence. He could only detect Garrow and Roran, both dreaming peacefully. But where was the...Ah, there she was, located very close to Roran.

Brom crept through the rooms, moving as silently as if he were only a shadow. He passed the bedroom that held the snoring Garrow, a spare room that had been a guest room when Marian had still lived, before finally reaching the door at the end of the house. Beyond it, he could sense both the dragon inside the egg and Roran.

The former Dragon Rider quietly opened the door and slipped in. Roran grunted once in his sleep at the sound of footsteps, but was subdued when Brom put him in a deep slumber from which he could not be easily awakened. After doing the same thing to Garrow just in case, Brom turned his attention to the room.

He had expected to the find the egg within the pack that lay carelessly on the floor, or perhaps tucked away on the shelf. To his surprise, he found both areas devoid on any precious dragon eggs. On a hunch, Brom turned toward Roran and inspected him closely.

Oh, for the love of gods!

Roran was curled up around the blue egg as if for warmth, his arms securely holding it in a protective grip. The hatchling inside the egg seemed vaguely amused at the embrace, as if she could understand she was being held.

Brom ventured toward the sleeping man, watching him intently in case he should awaken. Working carefully, he extracted the egg from Roran's embrace. It was a difficult process and required time that Brom did not want to waste. He forced himself to not knock Roran unconscious with a spell. If he awakened in the morning to find his property stolen and he alerted this to the King and was found to have traces of magic upon him...Brom shuddered at what would become of himself.

Once his job had been completed, Roran now clutched himself, as if missing the egg's warmth. Brom shook his head, turning his gaze to the egg itself. It appeared as blue and as flawless as ever, like it had never been out of the Varden's hands. He reached out and touched the mind of the dragon, half-expecting a welcome back.

The dragon inside the egg immediatly lost all sense of vague amusement it had felt for Roran. She was silent and did not acknowledge his presence.

Shrugging, Brom cradled the egg to his chest as if it were a newborn child. Strange that the female dragon, who had always been cold and aloof to all she came in contact with, should feel anythingfor Roran of all people. He would have to keep on eye on that boy, should he prove promising in the future.

Releasing Roran and Garrow from their minor sleeping spells, Brom took the egg and left the house. His mission had been accomplished and the world's last female dragon was back in the Varden's hands.

Eragon rested in his nest, golden eyes closed and breathing soft, but still only half-asleep. His drowsy mind was stretched across the short league that separated him from his adopted kin, touching the minds of the humans who had welcomed him into their family and the tiny she-dragon inside her egg. The connection was weak and allowed only for the strongest of feelings to pass through the link, but Eragon was content. He could sense his family and the dragon were all safe and sleeping peacefully, and that satisfied him.

When Eragon had been forced out of Garrow's home because of his rapid growth, he had refused to stray to far from his adopted family, barely more than a hatchling at the time. He had scoured the nearby forest and had found a decent sized cave within easy flying distance to the farm. Content with his discovery, Eragon had settled down and had lived there ever since. After discovering the full extent of his mental powers, he could now sense the feelings of both Garrow and Roran even when lying in his nest, which had comforted him when he was still a young dragon mentally dependant on his adopted kin.

Sensing something was suddenly amiss, Eragon cracked open his eyes and lifted his slightly off of his paws. He growled softly, the ominous feelings becoming stronger. The brown dragon broadened his connection with Roran and the dragon, following a hunch. Because of the distance, it was hard to find out about the precise details, but he picked up enough.

Roran had suddenly begin to stir, his peaceful feeling lost, as if someone had disturbed him from his slumber. Even stranger, the next moment his mind suddenly became lost in a tide of exhaustion that didn't match his formerly awakening mind.

Eragon reached out even more, expanding his conscious to include all of the living things in the surrounding area. His touch was light and barely detectable, but he could sense every animal from his small territory all the way to the farm. He felt the nocturnal predators on their rounds and the daytime animals safely tucked away in their burrows. He expected only to feel two human consciousnesses, because the farm was so far away from Carvahall. To his surprise, he identified a third presence.

Eragon honed in on this strange person, determined to find out more about him or her. To his shock, he found the mind of the third human blocked by a solid barrier of mental defense that he could not budge. However, he could still obviously feel the stranger's presence. He even thought it felt familiar, though he had not the slightest idea who it was.

And, to his horror, Eragon felt that the presence was close to Roran and the baby dragon. The mysterious human had apparently stolen the egg, for all of the hatchling's vague amusement she had felt for his cousin had instantly faded, and was now attempting to steal the egg.

Fury reared up in Eragon and he growled deep in his throat, amber eyes narrowing. Rage suddenly possessed him and he longed to hunt down this human like prey and rip out his throat for daring to steal his egg!

It had never occurred to Eragon that this thief might be the original owner of the dragon egg. He never took the danger that this stranger might be a powerful magician or a ruthless shade into consideration. He was blinded by fury and driven by the instincts of a dragon to protect his eggs from harm, no matter the costs.

Crawling out of his nest, Eragon charged out of his cave and threw himself into the sky. Flapping his wings, he quickly gained altitude and squinted against the snow, hunting for that unfortunate thief who had the audacity to steal his one chance at the company of his own kind.

Seeing a cloaked figure wandering through the icy roads and appearing to be cradling something close to his chest, the brown dragon tucked his wings in and dove.

Brom, no matter how many dragons hatched for him or how many winters he saw, was still human at heart. And with a human heart came human flaws. Like underestimating your opponents, for instance.

In all of his eagerness to recapture the dragon egg, Brom had overlooked several important details he usually meticulous mind would have agonized over. He had merely thought that he would be stealing a precious asset from two harmless farmers right under their snoring noses. He had assumed that he was the only one to know of the egg's whereabouts and had not thought it possible that one of the Empire's agents was spying on Garrow and Roran, as well.

With his mind closed to intruders and blind to any approaching threats, Brom had been open to attack. Just after rescuing the egg, he had been ambushed.

Out of nowhere came a massive force swooped from down from the sky and knocked him senseless, like a falcon dropping down on a mouse. Brom struggled to return to his feet, but found himself trapped under unmovable weight. He thrashed wildly, struggling to reach the wooden staff that had been knocked out of his hand when he had been ambushed. Unable to reach his weapon, Brom reflexively struck with his mind when he felt an alien consciouses touch his.

What he saw shocked him.

The mind of his attacker was a seething maelstrom of fiery anger and feverish fury. All other feelings and visions were nonexistent before that tide of hatred. A single want, the fuel for the fury, rang out loud and clear.

Brom found himself pinned to the dirt road by razor sharp claws that dug into his flesh. He was staring straight at gleaming white fangs of a monstrous size. Turning his gaze upward, Brom found himself staring into golden eyes that were fixed on him in pure loathing.

The dark dragon suddenly roared, the sound of his deafening voice nearly causing Brom to lose is hearing.

GIVE ME BACK MY EGG!

Chapter Text

Roran had grown used to feeling Eragon's bursts of rage. That scorching feeling of fury had first come as a young hatchling if his "cousin's" belly wasn't filled with meat the moment he became even slightly peckish. Later that rage had come whenever Roran had tried to part Eragon from his beloved dragon's egg, or when Garrow had nagged at him to get off his lazy tail to go and hunt for the family, rousing him from an afternoon doze. Which was why the young man instantly recognized the foreign emotions that bombarded him like waves of fire.

Sitting up straight in his bed, the first thing Roran noticed was the startling absence of the she-dragon's egg. Frantically scouring his covers and under his bed, he found not a trace of it. Then the realization hit him, along with a mixture of concern and panic for all parties involved.

Some foolish thief had gotten into his room and had filched the she-dragon's egg right from under his dreaming nose. Eragon, the ever-present watch dog he was, had sensed the thievery. While the burglar had been trying to flee, the brown dragon had swooped down and caught him trying to make off with his precious egg. That meant Eragon was probably contemplating on devouring the would-be thief alive, or just swiftly ripping out his thief.

Throwing on a tunic to cover his bare torso against the cold, the young farmer didn't even bother waking his father as he rushed out into the freezing night.

True to his suspicions, Eragon was indeed crouched over a trembling human figure like a cat over a mouse. His fangs were bared in a vicious snarl, amber eyes narrowed into molten slits of pure hatred. Smoke curled from his nostrils to blacken the snowflakes that silently drifted down from the heavens. Even to Roran, who had first known the brown dragon as a haughty and clumsy hatchling, thought Eragon to look absolutely menacing. A cruel monster ready to ravenously dig into his newest victim.

"Eragon!" he cried, rushing over to the great beast's side. "What in the name of all the gods are you doing?!"

Dealing with a thief, the brown dragon answered alarmingly calmly. He flexed one of his razor-sharp claws, poising its lethal tip mere inches from the exposed throat of his unfortunate captive. Should I just end his miserable existence right here and now? Or should I give him the proper punishment he deserves and make him beg for death?

"Neither!" Roran stormed over, wanting to get a good like at the thief that was no doubt terrified by now. "You'll give him to Garrow and me and we'll turn him over to the authorities to be handled properly. Though we may have to somehow bump his head to make him forget the memory of- Brom!"

Indeed, the thief that had dared to steal a dragon's egg was the old village storyteller. Even on the dark night, his long silver hair and beard were recognizable. So was the gnarled old staff that lay just out of reach from the elder's struggling form, effectively pinned beneath a large dragon's unmovable weight.

Brom had tried to steal the egg? Roran never would have thought the old man had it in him to do such a senseless thing. The young man had always thought the ancient storyteller to be kind and daft, a tad senile thanks to his advanced age, but still a decent and polite soul. Never in Roran's wildest thoughts would he had imagined Brom to be capable of theft. Then again, Brom didn't quite look like his usual benign self. His blue eyes, though still full of shock, were now thoughtful. Calculating like a soldier's eyes. A spy's eyes.

Don't be fooled, Roran! Eragon urged, snarling down at his prisoner again. This pathetic old man is no mere storyteller. He is a spy for that magician, or even for Galbatorix himself! He clearly knows the she-dragon's egg for what it truly is and intended to deliver it to his master. He deserves all of the things I have planned for him.

Spluttering at the accusation, the last of Brom's fright vanished, replaced with shocking indignation. "Me? An agent of the King? Gods, you overgrown hatchling, I am working for the other side! Never in my life would I swear any sort of allegiance or loyalty to Galbatorix."

"How can we possibly begin to trust you?" Roran challenged. "You broke into my home and had the gall to try and steal our egg. We have no reason or inclination to believe whatever lies that spew from your mouth."

The old man scowled up at him, looking positively bewildered at the younger man's presence. "And how are you involved in all of this? That dark dragon pinning me down I can understand. But you, the ignorant son of a farmer, what role do you play in this foolish fable?"

Roran pointed a finger at Eragon, a proud and mocking smile playing upon his features. "I'm his cousin," he announced boldly. "The family of a dragon. By the way, he has a name. And it's Eragon." Choosing to ignore Brom's shocked look, the young farmer looked up to the brown dragon. "It's unwise to have this discussion here. Father doesn't need to deal with this, and we can't run the risk of someone discovering this friendly little gathering. We need to go somewhere private."

Sighing, the brown dragon nodded in agreement. Fetch the hide. When his "cousin" had gone off to comply to his order, Eragon turned back to Brom. He released his stifling hold, but pried the sapphire-shelled egg out of the old man's grip to firmly hold it in his own claws. If you desire to learn more about all of us, my cave is mid-way up the mountain just behind the house. I sense you have a story of your own to tell, but I am only willing to listen if you comply to my demands. When Brom opened his mouth to protest, Eragon silenced him with a steadfast growl. You are the thief in this situation. Unless you desire to wind up in dragon dung, I recommend you obey.

Returning a short time later, Roran now carried a large piece of tanned hide with him. Though the object had once been intended to become part of some project, Garrow had abandoned the idea and had stored the hide away for whatever he needed for. Two months ago, when Eragon had become of a riding size, he had 'suggested' Roran make the hide into a saddle to he could take his "cousin" out for a flight. The endeavor had quickly been discarded when Roran had discovered he was terrified of heights during that first fateful flight, but the hide-saddle had been kept in case of emergencies.

Slinging the saddle over Eragon's back, in the large space between his spikes, Roran secured the seat with the old rope cinch. A part of him doubted the girth would hold. Stowing his fears of falling off to crash painfully miles below to the back of his mind, the young man swallowed his nerves and uneasily climbed onto the piece of cured hide. Bracing for the worst, Roran grabbed the spike in front of him with trembling hands.

Despite his best preparations, nothing could have stopped the terrified little girl's scream that escaped his mouth when Eragon launched himself into the air, pumping his wings to gain altitude.

The flight was even worse than the first one. Falling snow blew into his eyes, blinding him with a haze of whiteness until he closed his eyes. The overwhelming feeling of vertigo haunting him again, along with the bone-jarring sensation each time Eragon flapped his wings. Clinging to the dragon like death, Roran did his best to manage the unruly sensation in his stomach that had suddenly developed. Gods, Eragon would definitely buck him off if his "cousin" got vomit over his precious brown scales.

Was this flight really necessary? Roran grumbled mentally, not speaking for fear of getting a mouthful of freezing snow. Or did you just have to prove a point?

Aye, I did. Brom is willing to listen to me, but he doesn't respect you the way you should respect the family of a dragon. By allowing you to ride upon my back, I am showing I trust and respect you fully. Besides, the climb up the mountain to my cave is difficult in this weather. Since you decided not to even wear boots tonight, it was either stay close to my source of heat or catch pneumonia and slowly die because of the cold.

That was when it finally dawned in Roran he was not properly prepared for the first freezing snow of the season. Dressed in only a thin tunic and breeches, the crummy flight just became all the more miserable. Forced to huddle close to the heat Eragon radiated just to keep himself from shivering, the young man cursed his "cousin" and Brom all the way to their destination.

When the brown dragon finally reached the cave, his passenger thankfully slid out of the saddle. Blinking the snow out of his eyes, Roran stumbled toward Eragon's nest on numb legs, collapsing onto the bed of soft (if mishmashed) material with a sigh of relief. Eragon padded after him, apologetically breathing on his frozen cousin. Though he could not yet breathe fire, the gust of warm breath was enough to melt the snow and help chase away the chill. Roran gagged at the draconic stench of raw meat, but merely rolled his eyes in response.

"Give me the egg!" he said firmly. "Gods know you've done enough damage with it." Gently his adopted cousin transferred the egg into his waiting grasp. Roran clutched the she-dragon's egg to him, holding it close to ward off the alarming chill that clung to its shell. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the she-dragon inside. "I should have guarded over you better."

Her undeveloped little mind brushed against his own, her touch soft. She forgave him.

When Brom stumbled into the cave a while later, gasping and wheezing from the difficult trek, his audience were ready for him. Eragon stood up, his wings spread to give the illusion he was bigger than he truly was. The slightest hint of white fang showed just beneath his subtly curled lip. Roran had recovered from his freezing flight and had on the commanding look he had inherited from his father. (He truly looked intimidating, even with the small twig unknowingly clinging to his still-damp brown hair.) The she-dragon's egg rested in the nest, which was guarded by the angry dragon that stood over it.

Muttering under his breath, the old man shook the snow from his beard and his cloak. "Are you happy now, you twisted dragon? These old bones of mine probably won't stop shaking until the height of summer after that ordeal."

I just wanted to see how desperate you were for information, Eragon replied smugly. His amber eyes narrowed dangerously. Or desperate to get your gnarled hands back on my egg.

"Your egg?" Brom grumbled. Deciding to throw his earlier qualms to the wind (and since the cat was pretty much out of the bag) he mumbled two spells. The first dried his clothing of the wetness while the second provided floating globes of light for him and Roran to see by. Neither one of his interrogators looked very surprised at the magical display. "Chances are you discovered that egg lying in the woods, hatchling. You have as much right to it as a passerby that 'found' a traveler's dropped purse."

Finders keepers, losers weepers, the dark brown dragon retorted. The egg arrived just outside of this very cave. Were it for the snow, you still would have seen traces of the explosion that carried it here. Obviously someone or something wants me to have it and to raise the she-dragon inside.

Brom shook his head. How deluded was this overgrown lizard? "That egg will never hatch on its own, nor for another dragon. It was enchanted many decades ago to only hatch for its chosen Rider. The she-dragon inside is the last of her kind. Her egg was the only one freed from Galbatorix's treasury."

"There are other dragon's eggs out there?" Roran asked in shock.

"Aye, there are. Two. Both of them male. Both prisoners of Galbatorix." Brom gave them a wan smile. "I do believe it's obvious now, but I feel motivated to tell the both of you that I am an agent of the Varden. I was charged with helping to transport the egg from Du Weldenvarden back to the Varden's base and vise versa once a year. We are in desperate need of a new Dragon Rider to resist Galbatorix, and so the egg was exposed to as many promising candidates as possible."

Eragon snorted, releasing a puff of smoke into the air. Some plan you rebels cooked up, he commented scathingly. Obviously this egg has been in your possession for a while and yet she chooses not to hatch, either for an elf or human. Could this possibly some sign that she is not interested in giving herself for your cause? In giving her life and that of her Rider's in some futile attempt to overthrow an invincible King?

The old storyteller-slash-agent's eyes widened in disbelief, and what could have been a bit of disgust. "Never would I expected to hear a dragon of all creatures say that. Galbatorix exterminated your race, smashing eggs and slaying even the tiniest of hatchlings. It is because of him you are forced to shelter in the Spine like a wild animal. Rely on humans as your only source of companionship. Never know the pleasures of having a mate or family of your own, much less the company of your own kind. Have you no desire to avenge yourself and help bring about the return of the dragons?"

A hoarse and bitter growl that Roran knew as Eragon's equivlance of a humorless laugh escaped the dragon's throat. I have long since accepted that the return of my kind and the triumph over Galbatorix and his mad servant, Shruikan, are well beyond me. To me the she-dragon is only a companion, a kindred soul I can spend the rest of my lonely eternity with. She is not a weapon to exploit. Besides, one lone female and several males can not rebuild their entire race anew. Roran has told me of the horrors of severe inbreeding and showed me several unforgettable examples among some of the village livestock. Why would dragons be impervious to such a limitation of the gene-pool?

Brom was about to offer a rebuke, but Roran was not in the mood for it. He could tell both sides would stick to their unwavering opinions and the useless fight would continue on for a long time. The young farmer was cold and tired, and acting as the mediator between an ancient rebel and a hotheaded dragon was not his idea to spend a freezing winter's night.

"Enough!" he shouted. Eragon and Brom turned to him, both mildly surprised as if they had forgotten his presence. Roran scooped the egg up into his arms, scowling at the two of them. "This argument is pointless, and I for one am not about to waste anymore time on it. Brom (if that even is your true name) your rebellion had its chance and failed. It seems apparent this she-dragon will not choose one of your aspiring champions. Eragon, you are the world's last wild dragon. But you are three months old and unsuitable to be a parent for a hatchling, especially for one that will only hatch for her destined Rider. As far as I'm concerned, this egg will be kept with me until I'm damned sure what to do with it." Roran looked Eragon straight in one large amber eye. "Maybe I can find this she-dragon's Rider, if I'm lucky. If not, you'll surely be around long enough to eventually find him or her. The she-dragon will be in need of your guidance and tutelage when she does hatch."

After a moment of hesitation, Eragon bowed his head in agreement. Proud as he was, even a dragon had to concur that not all of his coercing and force could make the egg hatch before it was damn well ready to. You are right, cousin, he conceded reluctantly. After all, I waited almost a century to hatch. Surely I can wait a bit longer for some draconic company.

The dark brown dragon stared down at Brom, his golden gaze firm like a hawk's. We shall keep your secrets if you'll keep ours. So long as this rebellion does not hear of the presence of a neutral wild dragon living in the Spine, the Imperial authorities won't hear of a Varden agent hiding in one of their own villages. The same policy holds true for respect. Keep your distance from our property and our egg and I won't feel inclined to crush your cottage under me or leave beheaded deer on your doorstep.

Reluctantly, Brom nodded. "We shall see, Eragon." He turned to Roran, dipping his head slightly as well. "Good night to you, Roran. Tell your father my respects at a more reasonable hour."

Giving a terse farewell of his own, the young farmer tentatively climbed back into Eragon's makeshift saddle, the sapphire-shelled egg carefully in his grasp. Making sure his passenger (and the precious cargo he carried) were secure, the dark brown dragon padded back out of his cave. Unfurling his wings, he rose back into the cloudy sky.

Spitting more snow out of his mouth, Roran squeezed his eyes tight once again, trying to concentrate on anything but the nauseated feeling in his stomach. Do you think we can trust Brom? Garrow always told us magicians were never to be trusted.

In response the young dragon made his best shrugging motion beneath him. I am not fond at all of this rebel spy, especially after he tried to steal the she-dragon's egg. A part of me believes he will try to make off with it again, and possibly try to recruit me for his fruitless cause. Then again, another part of me says he is trustworthy, and that he has great information to share. Right now, I do not know what to think.

The rest of the flight was spent in silence, one of the "cousins" focusing on the unhatched she-dragon's mind instead of his own fear while the other mulled over his many options. When Eragon at last landed in front of the cottage, Roran gratefully slid off. Blinking the snow out of his eyes first, he then gently set the egg aside while he unstrapped the saddle from the brown dragon's back.

"Garrow is going to kill me when he finds out about all of this," the young human remarked casually. "Unless fortune is on my side tonight and the old man slept through the entire ordeal. If not, I may have to depart to Therinsford early, for my own safety."

Speaking of safety, I will be resting near the house for the rest of the night. My mind is still uneasy after that attempted theft, and I would feel better if all of you were within closer reach. At least for the night.

Roran sighed worriedly. "Are you sure, Eragon? It is snowing hard outside, and the comfort of your cave is far warmer than lying out in the open. We have no buildings that can shelter you now, save the barn. And the animals in there are too easily frightened by your presence to risk it." He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You'd think after months of dealing with an excitable but harmless hatchling that they'd learn you weren't a threat. Or at least tolerate your presence."

The small patch of trees near the house is shelter enough tonight, was the brown dragon's nonchalant reply. Brushing off his concerns, he gaze Roran a nuzzle of farewell. Good night, cousin. May the rest of your dreams tonight not be tainted by the sleeping spell Brom put upon you the first time he entered your room?

"What!" Roran exclaimed, but his bothersome "cousin" had already lifted up into the air to the short flight to the patch of woods near the cottage. Shaking his head, the young farmer gathered up the hide-saddle and the egg, racing back inside the house to escape the biting cold for the final time that agitating night.

She had been almost-awake for a while now, since she had first made mental contact with the frustrating-stubborn-young-male for the first time after the bright-transporting-incident. The past week had been the most exciting ordeal in her not-lifetime, surpassing even when she had been stolen away from her dormant-egg-mates by the coward-thief.

The she-dragon inside the egg, who possessed only the beginning rudiments of a mind that had yet to fully develop, had made contact with many aspiring candidates during her long sleeping-dreamless-existence. There had been a few that had been almost worthy of her blessing and acceptance, yet they were still unable to truly become her chosen-bonded-Rider.

Then, shortly after her first encounter with the obnoxious-juvenile-male, she had sensed the presence of one of the very few that were able to become her chosen-Rider. The key to her freedom after a long imprisonment had come to her at last.

But still she would not hatch for her Roran-Rider. The hatchling-male's feelings of loneliness and desperation frightened her, upsetting her innocent not-mind far beyond her desire to hatch. So she had cowered in her egg, relying upon that formidable shell to protect her from those eager jaws and forlorn calling. Strong as she felt her Roran-Rider to be, not even he was powerful enough to keep back the hatchling-male.

But tonight had sensed the hatchling-male's obsession subside, his earlier desperation at last giving way to resignation and a resolute acceptance he could patiently await her coming. Now the time was right for her hatching, her long-delayed arrival into reality.

The darkness that had once felt so soothing to her was oppressing. The hard shell that encompassed her, pressing her flimsy wings and stubby limbs to her body, was no longer sheltering but confining. Her whole body, from the tip of her butter-soft claws to her heart of hearts, ached for liberation. For the freedom of the unknown but promising outside world.

She sensed that Roran-Rider and the obstinate-male were in sound sleep, their exhaustion dampening their normally acute minds. The leader-male that gruffly ruled over them both was also slumbering peacefully. So her arrival into the world would not include an eager party waiting to welcome her to their realm. Oh well. She could be the pleasant surprise Roran-Rider would wake up to in the morning. Her blessing could wait for a while.

On the outside world, the egg that the snoring Roran hugged in his sleep was beginning to tremble. A muted peep emanated from the sapphire shell, effectively drowned out by the low rumble of the massive dragon that slumbered nearby. Quietly, the little she-dragon slipped into the world, patiently waiting for her chosen-Rider to awaken.

Chapter Text

Katrina was leaning in to his embrace, as beautiful and glorious as ever. But her face held neither a soft smile meant just for him or a familiar invitation that thrilled him so. Her features were sad, made heavy with resignation to a higher power. Her beautiful blue eyes were filled with unconditional love for him, but anguish darkened her gaze, and made her into a far more somber and unrecognizable woman.

"Roran," she whispered to him, drawing closer to his chest, "I love you, far more than I fear upsetting my father with our secret relationship." She gave him the faintest ghost of a smile. "The long hours of sneaking around, lying blatantly to my closest friends, the tender kisses stolen during free moments. All of it was worth it. I regret nothing."

"Katrina," he murmured. Roran did not know why she was so sad, so sorrowful. But he did not care for the reason of her sorrows, only for soothing her troubled heart. The young man raised a calloused hand to reassuringly brush back her coppery hair, which gleamed brilliantly in the light of the rising sun. She did not shrink away from his touch, so he leaned in for a peck on the lips. This caused her to draw back, tears filling her eyes.

"Nor do I regret what I am about to do," she finished. Katrina wiped the brimming tears away, something in her movements making her lover not help. She did not want it. Did she still even want him? Composure regained, she once again looked up at him. "Remember Roran, I loved you more than any man that came before or will come after you. Had things happened differently, I would have been proud to be your wife. Happy to be the mother of our many children. Satisfied, no, honored, to be a farmer's wife."

"Why can't we have that life?" Roran questioned frantically. Fear bubbled up inside of him, impending dread at what he slowly realized was happening. "I am only going to Therinsford for an apprenticeship, Katrina! I'll come back to Carvahall, return to you." He grabbed her hands, silently begging her to see reason. "No matter what, I will always return."

"You no longer belong to me." The young woman pulled back. "Fate has chosen a different path for you. Once we walked alongside the other and for a while I thought we would travel into the underworld hand in hand when our journey in this life was over." As if pulled by an invisible force she gradually drifted out of his reach, he powerless to stop her slow departure. "Our paths have divided for the last time, Roran Garrowson. Should we ever encounter the other again, the meeting shall end in further sorrow."

"Katrina!" Roran shouted in vain, futilely struggling against his unseen bonds. "Katrina!"

She gave him a final sweet smile, no bitterness in it. "There is another out there, one that can travel with you far longer and faithfully than I ever could. Should you wish, your paths could intertwine for eternity. Find her, Roran. For no matter what happens to me or you, everything will turn out alright in the end."

Mists descended upon him, finally shielding the fading Katrina from sight and throwing him into ethereal chaos. There were fragmented voices whispering in his ears, the broken clamor of battle, and countless other nameless noises that whipped past him. Blurs of colors also flashed by him, glimpses of images that went by too fast to properly see. Black and gold that hung heavily overhead, with brilliant crimson wavering in the middle of it all. Brown and green clashed violently, trying to stamp the other out but inexplicably bound together.

Then the burning sight of blue washed over all, drowning the other colors in an intense see of cerulean and sapphire and azure and countless other shades. Peace blotted out the chaos, and then he succumbed to the numbing darkness that overwhelmed even the waves of blue...

At this moment Roran bolted awake, momentarily displaced by the events of his dream. Blinking, he looked around at his surroundings, comforted by the familiarity of his own bed and room. Sunlight was sneaking in through the windows, gradually growing in intensity and strength. It must have been dawn then, with the sun just beginning to rise.

Scritch-scritch-scritch.

For a brief minute the scratching sound alarmed the young farmer, but he then relaxed. How could he not recognize that noise? It was the sound of soft claws against wood or stone. Like that of the mice that scurried in the walls, despite Garrow's best efforts to exterminate them with falty traps and unreliable cats. It was also the telltale sign that heralded the arrival of Eragon.

Aye, that was it. The brown dragon must have sensed his "cousin's" distress and had approached to both investigate and calm him.

Then Roran remembered that Eragon was no longer a hatchling, but the draconic version of a very large and surly adolescent. The dark brown dragon had not been able to squeeze inside of the cottage for months, let alone Roran's small bedroom. Jaw becoming tight in suspicion, the young man tensed, preparing to attack. If this was some sort of trick or trap by that damned Brom then he would face it head-on and not shrink away like a coward-

From the little dragon hatchling that was trying to get up onto his bed.

Clinging to the bedpost with butter-soft claws the newborn dragon laboriously climbed onto the mattress, leaving gouges in the wood there its tips had penetrated. When its monumental task had been completed, it simply flopped onto the blankets, panting heavily from its impressive efforts. Breath regained and exhaustion overcome a few moments later, the little hatchling staggered toward Roran on unsteady legs.

Absolutely stupefied by the sight, the young farmer's only response to the unexpected discovery was to openly gawk in awe and shock. Wide brown eyes frantically examined the little dragon, thirstily drinking in every tiny and precious detail.

The dragon hatchling was a magnificent sapphire-blue, the exact same shade as the fragments of broken eggshell that now littered the floor. It-she had two tiny stumps of white horn crowning its roughly triangular and slightly over-sized head. Minuscule stubs that could have been the beginnings of spikes ran down her back, ending in a miniaturized version of the club that tipped Eragon's tail. Too-large wings hung limply to her sides, their membranes a darker shade of blue than her scales. Her irises were varying shades of blue, their slitted pupils black. She greatly resembled Eragon as a hatchling, but her features were finer, her build slimmer.

Cocking her head to the side, the hatchling studied him with intelligent eyes. She had at first seemed concerned at his unsettling shock, but now the simple emotions she radiated were all positive. Peeping in relief, she stared up at Roran expectantly.

Recalling what Brom had said about the egg hatching only for her destined Rider, Roran thoroughly inspected both of his hands. Legend said that a Shur'tugal was marked by his dragon shortly after it hatched with a silver spot on the hand that would forever symbolize their unbreakable bond. Finding no such mark, Roran dismissed the legend as a mere myth.

He was definitely a Dragon Rider, no doubt about that. Over the years he had heard just about all the tales on dragons and their Riders out there. While the stories had remarked that dragons were uncannily intelligent creatures, they had not revealed that the winged beasts were actually sentient. Let alone capable of speech. The so-called identifying mark of a Dragon Rider was likely fabricated by some inventive bard as well.

"Fine, then," he told the she-dragon in resignation. "You're my dragon and I'm you're Rider. Happy now?"

The blue she-dragon gave a small hiss, as if offended by his casual response. Yet another haughty young hatchling to raise. Roran sighed. Great. She took a few more wobbly steps toward him, scrambling onto his lap before giving him a frustrated look. Chirping again, the hatchling tried to convey a message that was obviously lost upon her clueless new Rider.

"Oh, Eragon will love you, little one." Roran tentatively extended a hand in the direction of the little she-dragon. She shivered in anticipation, the knowing glint in those intense eyes unnerving him. "Something strange is going to happen when I touch you, isn't it?" Slightly afraid at what would happen, his movements became slower, his hesitation growing as he neared the newborn's tiny head.

Sensing his increasing reluctance, the unnamed she-dragon took matters into her own claws. Leaning forward, she butted her snout onto his left palm, transferring the gift she had waited so long to bestow to him. Her blessing presented, she swiftly pulled back in apprehension of what was to come.

Roran didn't know exactly what had happened; he had just felt the enormous shock of energy that the she-dragon, his she-dragon, had given to him. Foreign sensations and feelings pervaded his body, and for the briefest of moments he felt ultimate power coursing through his very veins. The hatchling truly connected her mind to his for the very first time, and Roran felt her satisfaction and joy at her choice as if those emotions were his own.

Then all was lost as a black tide rose up to engulf him. The last thing he saw before all went black was the newborn she-dragon apologetically looking at him, sorrowed at his pain but not regretting her permanent decision to select him as her one true Rider...

The instant that unfamiliar consciousness brushed against his own, Brom was instantly awake and preparing to erect his nigh invincible fortifications against the foolish intruder. He had been about to do so before Eragon's furious voice shouted to him across their connection, demanding he allow him entrance. The old man had reluctantly complied, though he was loathe to let such a pigheaded hatchling into his innermost sanctum.

About time you answered! the brown dragon roared, every word ringing with fresh anger. I thought I would have had to forcefully bring down your barricades to get you to responsd, you senile coot. Just what has your blasted sorcery down to my cousin this time?

Glowering, Brom reluctantly rose from his bed and yanked on a tunic. Heading to his window, his heart almost skipped a beat when he spotted a massive shape just visible above the treeline. Illuminated by the rising sun was the familiar shadow of a small dragon, flying rapidly in his direction. Gods, what did that bothersome Eragon want now? Another round at interrogation and threatening?

The energy I harness is a very different branch of magic that the sorcerors and their spirits use, hatchling, was Brom's scathing response. What foul deed are you and your adopted "cousin" trying to pin upon me now? Galbatorix's tyranny? The near extinction of your race? Forgive me for crushing your foolish notions, but I am not responsible for any of the imaginary crimes you have to accuse me of.

You are damned well behind this! Roran has been unconscious for a while now and none of my efforts to rouse him have worked! Not to mention how the she-dragon's egg has mysteriously hatched during the night-

The egg hatched?! Blue eyes almost bulging out of their sockets from the shock of it all, Brom raced out of his small cottage to meet the brown dragon outside. Thankfully it was still ungodly early in the morning and the villagers would either still be snoring in their beds or preoccupied with preparing for the long day ahead. Silver hair stirring with the wind Eragon stirred up with his beating wings, he waited for the dragon to heavily alight upon the ground before frantically ushering him to the relative shelter behind his house.

Hidden from sight, the young dragon gently lowered Roran to the ground. The young man dangled limply from his jaws, clearly out cold. Brom uttered a spell to cause the snow to peal back, revealing dry grass. There was where Eragon placed his unconscious "cousin", giving him a final halfhearted nudge before turning worriedly to Brom.

He does not seem to be dying, the brown dragon said, but he will not wake up either. Fortunately Uncle Garrow sleeps like a rock since the crops have all been harvested. Gods know what terrible fate would have befallen me if he had woken to discover his unconscious son dragged out of the bedroom window by a giant dragon.

Kneeling down, Brom checked Roran's vitals. They were normal, meaning he was in no impending danger. Looking up at Eragon, his heart fluttered in his chest like a startled bird when he saw the tiny little figure clinging to Eragon.

There was the she-dragon, now a genuine hatchling instead of a half-formed consciousness encased inside of an impenetrable egg-shell. Her adequate control over her limbs and muscles suggested she had hatched a while ago, perhaps during the night when the others of the household had been fast asleep. She perched upon Eragon's head like a strange blue mutation, grasping tightly to one of his horns. Unsettled by her first flight, she quivered slightly from nerves.

Realizing her ordeal had at last ended, the sapphire she-dragon eagerly departed from her makeshift mode of transportation. Fluttering her useless wings, she lunged off of Eragon's head. The elder dragon grunted in fear and made as if to break her fall, but she landed on the snow-covered ground with only a soft plop, completely unfazed. Bounding through the bothersome white powder, she rushed to Roran's side. Brushing her snout lightly against his hand, she wailed at the worrying lack of response.

Suspicion growing, Brom grabbed Roran's left hand. Eragon growled warningly and the hatchling hissed, but they made no effort to hinder him. Silently he uncurled the unconscious man's fingers to get a close view of his palm. What he saw there confirmed both his greatest hopes and his greatest fears.

There upon Roran's pale palm was the gedwey ignasia, shimmering unmistakably in the strengthening light. He was a Dragon Rider now; the last freeRider capable of inflicting any serious damage on Galbatorix. Young as he may have been, Roran would one day develop the powerful magics and inhuman speed and strength that would make him a minor god in the reverent eyes of the mundane humans.

That meant the puzzling state the young farmer was in now was the middle ground between normal mortal and mighty Shur-tugal- when his mind fully adjusted to the deep bond with his new dragon while his body slowly began the preparations for the enormous physical changes ahead. Brom had seen the odd sleep many times before when he had supervised the hatchings for aspiring Riders and had observed some lucky candidates fall into the same state.

Mentally berating himself for not recognizing the familiar signs sooner, Brom unleashed a colorful stream of obscenities in all of the languages he knew (and a few interesting words he pulled out of thin air) at this unexpected development. While the oaths passed over the blissfully oblivious hatchling's head, Eragon's eyes widened at the unusual assortment of curses. Never had he thought the she-dragon's Rider to turn out to be Roran. And considering he had made the younger man a potential enemy during the earlier confrontation, Brom's task became ever more difficult.

Why did all of the misfortune in life always seem to favor him?

Harsh light poured in from the tiny little barred window that was the sole illumination for his cramped cell, beating mercilessly into his sensitive eyes and rousing Faolin from his extremely fitful slumber. The elf groaned, cracking open his green eyes as he reluctantly greeting a brand new day of imprisonment. His entire body ached from last night's torture session, and it took all of his considerable training to not cry aloud at the discovery of a briefly forgotten pain. Damn, now his very heart seemed to beat along with the throbbing sensation that must have cropped up during the uncomfortable night.

Shifting against the restraints of his shackles, Faolin tried in vain to stimulate his muscles in hopes it would lessen the discomfort. His efforts were rewarded only with shrieks of protest from his injured body and fresh blood flow as his manacles further aggravated the already furious wounds that enclosed his wrists. Apparently even simply moving his form provoked further harm to his self. Of course.

Shoving such useless information to the back of his mind for the time being, Faolin tried to concentrate on more important issues. Though the interrogations were stepping up in both length and intensity of pain, his will had not yet crumbled. His resolve was still strong enough to preserve his multitude of secrets. Prevent Durza from discovering vital information about the elves and their forest hideaways.

But for how much longer? His captors drugged all of his food and beverages, force-feeding him when he did not willingly partake in his meals. Faolin was unable to much to prevent this. The tainted water was necessary if he was to remain hydrated enough to insure his continued survival. But he was able to regurgitate most of the solid matter they shoved down his throat when they left, hence negating most of the drugs' effects. Thirst was a need that always required to be met, hunger could be postponed for a considerable while. Perhaps long enough for Galbatorix to tire of his fruitless efforts of interrogation.

While unable to access his magic, Faolin's mind was not as dulled or weakened by the drugs as it could have been. That meant he could put up a stronger resistance against the invaders that intruded upon his innermost thoughts and secrets every day, calculate their actions and predict what may happen to him next. Or the fate had had befallen his beloved Arya.

The two elves had been separated after the first night in captivity, when Durza had taken vicious revenge upon Faolin for his insults. Last the male elf had seen Arya she had been unsconscious, lost in the throes of either her injuries or drugs. Faolin feared the worse, and his shattered dreams always involved the forsaken form of his lover rotting in a solitary cell, forgotten by all others and doomed to lie there her bones were naught but dust.

Sharp ears detecting the familiar thud of footsteps heading in his direction, Faolin's heart filled with dread. From what he could discern, he had been moved to a small cell in an isolated area of the dungeon. That clamor could only be his captors coming to force more breakfast down his gullet, meaning he would have to work fast to purge the tainted food from his stomach before the drugs could further effect him.

No, it couldn't be the guards. They all walked heavily, the clang of their armor and their waddling gaits audible to him. But a mysterious person came with them, his footsteps lighter and more graceful by comparison. It was like an agile and lethal panther accompanied by two lumbering but dangerous bears.

There was a suspenseful pause as the party stopped just outside of his cell and then the jingle of keys and the groan from the protesting lock as it was undone. Then the steel-enforced door opened with an ominous creak, revealing Durza behind it. The tallow-skinned Shade scrutinized Faolin for a moment, crimson eyes alight with demonic triumph. Gesturing to the men that followed him, Durza entered the cell, his companions on his heels.

Straining to get a better look at them, Faolin weakly raised his head. The armed guards that accompanied Durza had their weapons sheathed and did not carry his customary breakfast with them. Apparently whatever order he had worked out during his imprisonment had just been tossed out the proverbial window.

Each man held a cushion in his arms, both holding it gingerly as if afraid to drop it and damage what lay on its padded seat. While the cushions were nothing extraordinary, what upon them made the captured elf blink in momentary confusion. Upon both of the pillows was what appeared to be a rounded stone, polished free of all flaws. One was ruby red while the other was a serene emerald, both streaked with thin white lines as if draped in spider-webs.

What sort of trick was this? Were those odd stones some form of new and inventive torture to further crumble his resolve? Yet they seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had been around others like it...

"Dragons eggs," Faolin rasped aloud in realization, green eyes wide with shock and reverence. "Two of the last remaining in all of Alagaesia."

Durza nodded curtly. "Indeed, you all possible creatures should recognize them for what they truly are. After all it was your Queen that helped orchestrate the thievery of these dragon eggs, and the fool hired for the part succeeded only in stealing the she-dragon's egg." He gave a predatory smile. "Fortunately for my King, the thief failed in filching the other eggs."

Faolin gave his best wan smile, finding the courage to mock his captor even in such a beaten state."What am I supposed to do with them? I am your prisoner and shall probably never see another elf again. They are as valuable to me right now as gold."

Reaching out a hand, the Shade yanked one of the chains connecting Faolin's arm to the wall, ripping it from its post in one lazy tug. The elf cried out in pain at the movement, and even the eyes of the men present widened in shock at their leader's inhuman display of supernatural strength. Holding onto the elf's arm with an iron grip, Durza forced the writhing hand to rest on the shell of the crimson egg.

"Galbatorix is not interested in unnecessary baggage such as yourself," Durza informed his victim mildly. "While the elf-woman is the main escort of the egg and an ambassador, hence making her invaluable to the Empire, you are simply a waste of supplies. Be grateful that my master has given you the opportunity to redeem yourself and perhaps earn the right to train under him, Faolin. Should one of the dragons choose you, I'm afraid you'll be trapped on the mortal coil for a tad longer than I hoped for."

The elf was able to manage a hoarse wheezing sound that was not quite a laugh. "Galbatorix has gone senile, Shade," he spat in contempt and mockery. "These eggs have slumbered for nigh over a century. One of them will hatch for you sooner than any of them would choose me to be their Rider!"

Ignoring the comment, the Shade traced a finger across the smooth surface of the green egg, eyes flashing dangerously.

"I am timeless, elf. The spirits within my body grant me immortality and provide unimaginable power." His free hand clenched, the air crackling ominously with his boiling emotions. "Still, my magics barely hold a candle to what the strongest Shur'tugal in history could do. Connecting with a dragon is far more empowering than having these spirits latch onto your life-force like parasites. When Galbatorix first founded his Empire, he gave me the honor of being one of the first to be judged by the eggs. My master felt positive that one would feel my strength and be impressed or frightened enough to hatch for me."'

I can see where this story is going, Faolin commented dryly, or at least attempted to. Just when he was inhaling the breath for his statement, Durza promptly punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping and recovering from the attack, the wounded elf was forced to hear the rest of the madman's tale.

"None of the dragons would have me," Durza continued softly. "The male within the red egg simply ignored me, as if I was not worth the effort to even contact. My only answer from him was silence. The sapphire she-dragon had the nerve to hiss at me. Dormant within her egg and she musters up the strength to make herself heard aloud! Were she not the last female of her kind, I would have shattered her shell right on the spot and grind her unborn bones to dust."

Glaring at the green egg with molten hatred, perhaps enough to make the formidable shell melt from the intensity of his cruel gaze, the Shade bared his teeth in a bestial display of rage. The man holding said egg cautiously took a few steps back, while his comrade with the red one had the strength to remain dangerously close to Durza. Malevolence dripping on every word, the red-haired creature concluded his story.

"The beast within the green egg actually had the gall to lunge out with his mind. He was a mere infant, not even hatched yet, and he could lash out like a provoked serpent. I was determined to pulverize him into oblivion, make him feebly cry for mercy as his life was extinguished before it even truly began. Galbatorix possessed Shruikan, as well as the male within the red egg. So I merely requested to dispose of the unneeded green creature. From first sensing his mind I knew the lizard to be too much trouble, a thing that could only pose a considerable threat when he finally selected his Rider." Durza smiled bitterly. "Galbatorix did not follow my beliefs. He saw the infuriating show of defiance potential for a powerful servant one day. Against my better judgement, I heeded my master's commands and allowed the green male to survive. Deep within I feel that male's survival to be my only regret. Mark you, Faolin, one day I will finish the task. Whether I fake an accidental death or have the privilege of executing the green male and his Rider for their inevitable disobedience, my restless mind shall be appeased."

"Why are you telling me this?" Faolin whispered, drawing his hand away from the crimson egg. The dragon within had seemed midly intrigued at his mind, as it had never sensed an elf before. However, that faint interest had quickly faded and it had not reacted further.

Sensing this, Durza beckoned for the holder of the red egg to step back and the other to step forward. "Because," he hissed so low that only Faolin's sharp ears could detect his words, "once this formality is over and done with the only soul you can share my secrets with is death itself."

Reluctantly Faolin brushed the shell of the emerald egg, fearing it might hatch if he merely touched it. He admired the little male within the egg, and feared greatly for his safety. Besides, Faolin had no wish to prolong his own suffering, or endanger the secrets he had been entrusted with any longer. Death and the unknown realm beyond it would be a welcome escape from captivity.

But the primitive mind of the green dragon did not seem to share his grim mind-set. He had not yet resigned itself to a life of eternal servitude and his slumbering heart burned bright with defiance. Coming into contact with Faolin's consciousness, the unhatched male stirred eagerly. Sifting through the elf's memories, the little creature liked what it saw.

No! Faolin thought, desperately trying to transmit these words to the dragon. Do not choose me! Pain and the looming shadow of death are the only companions you shall have with me as your Rider. Slumber on, little one, and perhaps you'll quietly pass this age of unrest. Perhaps you will hatch into a peaceful time to a Rider far worthier than I'll ever be. I beg of you, stay still!

The dragon's whirring consciousness fell silent again, perhaps for the final time. Together all four men (elf, humans, and Shade) stood rigidly as statues, scrutinizing the green egg with expectant eyes. For several heart-pounding moments this continued, with Faolin mentally praying to all of the gods he knew of for the dragon male to heed his warnings and fall dormant again.

Finally, Durza shrugged, dismissing the matter. "A near miss, elf. Had the dragon within not been so fickle you could have perhaps survived another day. Oh, well." The Shade unsheathed the blade strapped to his hip. Raising it with the clear intention of running it through the shackled captive, he paused for only a brief moment, relishing in his triumph over the troublesome Faolin at last.

Just as Durza was preparing for the strike, a cheep pierced the air. All eyes in the cell snapped once more toward the green egg upon the cushion, which its startled holder dropped in fright as the terrified man dashed out. The infant dragon seemed undaunted by the sudden drop and chirped again.

"S-sir," the remaining guard managed weakly. "The e-egg is hatching."

Snarling at the unbelievable miracle and the dragon's impeccable timing, Durza ripped Faolin completely free of the wall and through the elf, still fettered in chains, down to the stone ground. "I see that, idiot. Go and alert King Galbatorix. He will be most pleased to hear of this... interesting occurrence." When the guard hastily exited the cell, the Shade kicked Faolin's side. "What are waiting for, Shur'tugal? Your brand new beast is eager to greet you."

Faolin remained rigid, watching with wide eyes as a little hatchling with brilliant scales the same emerald color of the shell fought its way out from the egg and out into the real world. While this marvelous sight would have been a cause of wonderment and joy at any other time or location, Faolin felt as if he could only weep in despair. The dragon was doomed and he himself was damned to an eternity of forced servitude to Galbatorix. And Arya? She would be forced to rot in the prisons, continuously tortured and interrogated, while her love was forced to become a monster.

Liberating himself completely from his former confines, the hatchling eagerly bounded toward his chosen Rider on trembling legs. The carefree creature was oblivious of the chains that ensnared Faolin, and of the menacing shadow that towered above his young form. He cared only for sealing the bond, forever securing the connection between him and his Shur'tugal.

Pressing his snout into the elf's exposed right palm, the hatchling unwittingly sealed both of their fates. Faolin passed out a brief moment later, overwhelmed by the force of the new connection and from a combination of shock and exhaustion.

When a large party of guards hurried into the room a while later, they grabbed the unconscious form of Faolin and carried him upstairs to a better and far more secure room to where a rich meal and experienced healers were awaiting him. The squealing hatchling was soon to follow, snatched up and now in the firm grip of a burly man who took great care not to accidentally harm his unwilling passenger. After all, it would not do good for Galbatorix's two latest servants to suffer any unnecessary damage. When they were in stable enough condition to travel (and securely drugged and fettered) they would be transported to Urubaen. Their training was slated to begin as soon as possible.

Alone in the section of the desolate dungeon, Durza screamed, unleashing a devastating outburst of magic as he did so. The energy charred the cell to a blackened husk and rattled the very foundations of the solid building.

Now he really regretted not smashing the damned green egg when he'd had the opportunity to do so.

Feeling absolutely furious, Durza stalked out of the damaged cell, leaving the carnage behind. Perhaps playing with some of the insignificant bastards imprisoned here would cure him of his dark mood. If not, the elf-woman was entertainment enough. In fact, he had a sinister little poison he had been dying to try it out for ages and the female seemed the perfect candidate to test it...

Chapter Text

Struggling against the oppressing blackness that numbed his body and mind, Roran fought his way back into consciousness. His entire body felt weighed down with stones, as if the burden of the world had been placed upon his unsuspecting shoulders while had slept. At first he didn't even have the energy to open his eyes. Instead he lay back against something soft, groaning softly and trying to listen to the snippets of broken conversation that whizzed through his ears.

Trying to regain control of his arms, Roran attempted to shift himself into a sitting position. Gnarled hands pushed him back down onto the comfortable surface, then held the brim of a cup up to his lips. Thirsty, he eagerly gulped some of the mysterious liquid down to soothe his parched throat. The drink proved unexpectedly bitter and he would have spit it back out, had a vaguely familiar voice not ordered him to drink every last drop.

"There, that wasn't so bad now, was it boy? It wasn't supposed to taste good, either. Bitter as that herbal concoction may have been, it's still perfect in restoring the energy that bonding gave you."

Finally getting his eyes to open, Roran found himself in an unfamiliar room, gazing up at Brom. The old man was scrutinizing him with critical blue eyes that shone with curiosity, and the young farmer suddenly felt the understandable desire to punch that bothersome old face in just to get it to stop staring. Squinting against the harshness of the sun's light, Roran also noticed the giant brown presence of Eragon watching him through an open window.

About time you woke up, the brown dragon quipped, though Roran could feel the relief in his voice. I feared you would sleep another decade before you roused yourself.

"You're one to talk," his human "cousin" retorted, at last pulling himself up. He looked groggily about him, trying to piece together the events that had gotten him into this strange situation. Then Roran looked down and saw the blue hatchling that curled up against his side, and remembered the electric shock the creature had given him and the black oblivion that had swiftly followed. "So, you're behind this."

The little she-dragon was the same brilliant sapphire as her egg had been, and in the light of the rising sun her glittered like fine gemstones. Even at such a young age, he could see what a powerful and majestic creature she would become one day. Brushing up against his side like a cat, she seemed truly regretful for his pain and was doing her best to apologize.

Smiling slightly, Roran found the cuteness of the motion to strong to resist. He may have built up a resistance to Eragon's limited charms long ago, but this endearing little she-dragon crumbled all resolve. How could he not forgive her for something she had no true control over?

"Peace, little one," he murmured to her. "You are forgiven."

Eragon snorted, rolling his amber eyes. Humans and their weak wills. Just because the little imp does something cute you completely forget all the misery she caused you.

"Accidentally," Roran sternly reminded the elder dragon. "She had no intention to knock me unconscious and truly repents for doing so. Besides, she hatched, didn't she? You have the draconic company you have been craving since you were old enough to speak."

Eragon and the hatchling eyed each other, their lips curling into twin snarls at the sight. The elder dragon growled deep in his throat, while the little blue she-dragon responded with a hoarse rasping sound that could be interpreted as one. Obviously their relationship had not gotten off to a good start after the whole 'accidentally hurting Roran' incident. Roran rolled his eyes, allowing the dragons to carry on with their pathetic rivalry. Stubborn as they were, it was pointless for him to try and improve their standings.

Turning to Brom, Roran's brown eyes narrowed. He had not forgotten about how the old storyteller-slash-rebel had tried to steal the hatchling's egg and was not close to forgive him. Now the elder man was watching him oddly, as if Roran was the hero that had stepped out of one of those fictional legends he told around the fire.

"What are you staring at?" Roran grumbled grouchily. "You've seen dragons before today."

"Aye," Brom conceded with a nod. "A fair share of them in my glory days. Fascinating as they are, neither your draconic cousin your the miraculous little hatchling are the subjects of my gaze. It is a young farmer that has been remarkably made the world's last free Dragon Rider while he unwittingly slumbered through the bonding process between him and he dragon that chose him as her own."

Realization dawning slowly and gradually, Roran lifted his left hand, curling it as he did so. He was dimly aware of how it trembled from nerves. Shakily, he unfurled his hand. There, glinting unmistakably and undeniably upon his calloused palm, was a flawless silver mark. The gedwey ignasia; the legendary mark of a Dragon Rider.

He was indubitably a Dragon Rider now, the only one left in the world except for Galbatorix, the tyrant that had cruelly slaughtered the rest of them and most of the dragons, excluding the two before Roran, several dormant eggs, and the mad monster Shruikan. Roran absentmindedly stroked the she-dragon's head, finding the action comforting as he turned to look up at his Eragon.

"How do you think this will effect my life?" he asked nervously. "I am supposed to depart to Therinsford tomorrow to begin my apprenticeship to the village's miller and I haven't even begun to pack yet. And I very well can't go to Therinsford with this she-dragon following me around all day long."

His "cousin" shrugged cluelessly. I haven't the foggiest idea. My only knowledge of the connection between dragons and their Riders are from stories of dubious origin. A nasty glare was momentarily directed at Brom, before he continued. Perhaps your bond with her is like ours, only stronger. You may be more attuned to the other's thoughts and emotions. Capable of communicating with each other over longer distances. Surely that seems like a logical predication.

Brom nodded wisely. "Aye, it is. Considering your circumstances and limited resources, a perfectly reasonable guess. And in a way, you are correct." He turned to Roran, fixing those knowing eyes upon him once more. "You and your dragon are bonded, far more than the familial connection you share with Eragon. During your time unconscious, your mind merged seemlessly with hers. Though it may not feel like it now, your minds are both in perfect harmony. Should one of you perish, the other shall go mad at the other's absence or perhaps follow their partner into the void."

The two "cousins" exchanged frightened glances, Roran clutching at the blue she-dragon as if to shield her from the words. "Are you implying she dies when I do?" he ground out furiously through gritted teeth. "I am only human! Perhaps I have only forty or fifty more years to live, I am fortunate and do not suffer a fatal disease or terrible accident. Eraogn shall live for centuries. What happens when his only dragon companion succumbs to death along with me?"

Brom shook his head. "No, you do not understand. The bond between dragon and Rider is more than you think it to be. Your minds are harmonized on such a level you shall begin to adapt characteristics of the other. Your dragon shall gain the ability to emphasize with other creatures and be more open and understanding than her wild kin. Eragon, you act like this as you were raised by humans. As for you, Roran, you are to face drastic changes soon. This connection grants you magical and physical strength no mere human can ever hope to garner. You shall be as sensitive to the minds of others and your own surroundings as a dragon is. And..." Here Brom hesitated, unwilling to finish his train of thought. "You shall inherit the longevity of a Dragon. Should blade or sickness or poison not claim you, you shall endure forever. Time will no longer effect you, as you would be impervious to its weathering effects."

Leaning back limply against the wall the bed was propped up against, Roran mulled over what Brom had just told him. For the longest while his mind refused to believe what it had been told, strictly denying the truth it had just learned as lies. But, against his own free will, his mind began to process those words, the longevity of the Dragon Riders, his longevity.

Dragons live for centuries, perhaps to the end of time if they can survive long enough. The she-dragon- my she-dragon -will live for centuries, as well. I will inherit that kind of lifespan. Or perhaps I have already recieved it during the time I was unconscious.

Katrina will grow old and die. Before me her lovely copper hair will turn gray and her smooth skin will wrinkle and her blue veins shall pop out. She will submit to the invincible force of old age and bow with a hunched back and lose her teeth. One day she will pass peacefully into the void, after decades of living. Her body shall be buried in the graveyard and in her coffin her very bones shall eventually turn to dust from the force of time.

There I will be, strong and young as ever. Untouched by time, while Katrina is a forgotten memory in this realm. Our children, if we ever have any, will suffer the same effects. They will age, have families of their own, and perish before my very eyes as well. So will my grandchildren and their grandchildren's grandchildren.

All because of touching that damned she-dragon...

"No!" he cried out, unable to accept that bleak reality. He shoved the hatchling roughly away, where it fell to the floor with a squeal of pain and hurt. Roran glared hatefully at Brom, brown eyes narrowing with the utmost malice. "You lie, or your assumptions are incorrect. I am mortal! I shall die of old age like my father and my beloved will! Why should I believe your senseless old tales? Your unreliable stories of people long dead?"

Shaking his head, Brom gave him a humorless smile. Lifting his right hand, he revealed the gedwey ignasia stamped upon it. It was similar to the mark upon Roran's palm, but it was darker. Faded with time while the younger man's glowed like a newborn star. "Because I am no mere storyteller spinning fictional yarn, boy. Once upon a time, I was a Dragon Rider myself. Back when my life was carefree and my dearest companion was by my side."

Golden eyes wide, Eragon gaped at the gedwey ignasia in awe and shock. You had a dragon, he whispered. What happened to him?

"Her." Brom's eyes closed with a century's old agony that still felt as if it had been inflicted, those familiar bitter tears brimming as he once again grieving the loss of his beloved she-dragon. "Her name was Saphira. She was killed during the beginning stages of the war between the Riders and the Forsworn. Upon her death I almost went mad, but I forced myself to stay sane so I could have my vengeance with the killing of her murder."

Roran listened sympathetically, knowing what it was like to lose a loved one when his mother had succumbed to a terrible fever one ruthless winter. He leaped off the bed as if to comfort the old man in some way, then remembered how cruelly he had treated his own dragon. Immediately he swooped her up from the cold ground, embracing her apologetically. She nudged him affectionately back, showing she harbored no ill feelings for his understandable response to such a horrible revelation.

"I am sorry," he said gently to Brom, ashamed of his earlier treatment of the man. "I had no idea you lost your dragon."

Neither did I, Eragon admitted, a rare feat for a dragon so proud of himself to never usually concede such mistakes. Please accept my sincerest condolences and apologies. I overreacted when I tried to devour you last night.

"You two owe me nothing." Brom wiped away of his tears, regaining his composure. "It was wrong of me to just try and steal the hatchling's egg from you. Had I any real comprehension of the circumstances, I would have explained everything properly to you. But there should be no bad feelings between any of us. Those against Galbatorix are so few in Alagaesia now. We should be doing our best to resist the King instead of fight amongst ourselves like dogs over a scrap of meat."

Eragon and Roran dipped their heads in agreement. Aye. Later we all really need to have a proper conversation about this. I truly desire to know more about my kind and Roran needs to learn more about his predicament. And we need to discuss what to do with the hatchling. The dark brown dragon turned to his adopted cousin imploringly. But I truly believe now is not the best time for more about this. Roran needs to cope with his new reality. And I need to convince Uncle Garrow that it is not the best time for his son to leave for Therinsford without revealing the truth.

Roran nodded. "Aye, my father should never know the truth behind these matters. It will be hard enough for me to accept my... immortality without dragging him into this mess. But let me talk to Father, Eragon. He needs to hear the news from me."

Brom seemed to agree with their decisions. He offered Roran a thick cloak and an old pair of boots to protect him from the cold, both of which the younger man gratefully accepted. "Take this as well," the old man said, thrusting a large rug into the new Rider's arms. "It won't last long, but the flight to your farm is only a short one. This rug should at least be enough to protect your legs from being rubbed raw."

Then Roran, with the hatchling happily trailing at his feet, headed outside to where Eragon was waiting. The brown dragon knelt low to allow the rug to be thrown over him, and even had the decency to not comment about walking around with a hideous multicolored cloth draped over his back. His "cousin" them clambered on, holding onto his dragon securely with one arm.

Though it was barely past sunrise, Roran's day had been a hectic one. He could only hope the rest of it would be peaceful and Garrow would not give him too much trouble about deciding to remain home for reasons he could not give for the sake of his father's heart.

Eragon clumsily threw himself into the air, with the human upon his back once again unable to contain the startled scream that escaped his mouth. The hatchling cheeped in excitement, enjoying this second flight and even trying to beat her useless wings to try and soar on her own power.

Great, Roran thought to himself. Another dragon that will force me to go flying with her when she's old enough to carry a passenger. Or maybe not. Perhaps she'll be a more sedimentary individual that perhaps sleeping in caves and basking in the sun than going on reckless flights like Eragon does.

Unfortunately for him, his final hope would turn out to be shockingly inaccurate about the true character of his dragon.

Brom watched the group depart, unable to keep the grin of bemusement from stretching across his face. Roran, no matter how tough he appeared to be on the outside, was obviously terrified of flying. A reasonable phobia, especially for a farmer that had never set foot off the ground before Eragon had mysteriously came into his life. (Brom reminded himself to ask about how the two had ever met in the first place. He truly was curious about how two human farmers could raise a wild dragon without growing tired of the tremendous responsibility and stress that came with the task.)

But Roran would have to get used to being flying sooner or later. Dragons were winged creatures that spent a large majority of their life airborne. And there was a reason why the Shur'tugal where called Dragon Riders instead of Dragon Masters or Dragon Friends. Flying with their partners was a mandatory part of the bond, though many immediately enjoyed soaring freely across the sky due to the harmonious glee they shared with their dragon. Obviously Roran's first experience of flight came with a dragon not that closely attuned to his own emotions.

Either way, Roran would soon become accustomed to what would one day be a daily part of his life. He wouldn't have an option about it if his dragon became half as stubborn as Eragon was.

Brom was already making plans to build the young man a real dragon-saddle. Perhaps all Roran needed to boost his confidence was the security of an actual saddle instead of just sitting upon an unreliable strip of hide or a loose old rug. If not, it only gave Eragon an extra excuse to get his "cousin" in the sky and help him break his fear of flight.

Closing the open window against winter's chill, Brom went to sit in the one chair by the heart not cluttered up by his impressive collection of books. Taking out his pipe, he began to smoke it absentmindedly, pondering over yet another series of unexpected events.

Roran was no rebel, but he had the natural dislike of Galbatorix that came from all villagers suffering from the heavy taxes the King imposed upon them even in times of relative peace. Brom hadn't the slightest doubt the young Dragon Rider would eventually come to his side, along with his two dragon friends. All they needed to do was be exposed to some of the King's true treachery against his own subjects, and all three would rush to join the Varden.

His blue eyes roved over to the small golden bowl sitting innocently upon the table beside him, filled with water as he always kept it. While the ornate little decoration added to the scholaristic atmosphere of his house, it also severed the dual purpose as a scrying bowl. All Brom had to do was reach over, contact one of the Varden of even Ajihad himself, and pretty soon every rebel leader would know of the presence of a new Dragon Rider.

But Brom was not as eager to report this shocking development as he had been when Roran had been unconscious. The young man still had to fully come to terms with his new permanent reality. Islanzadi and Ajihad would insist Roran and his new dragon to be brought to Du Weldenvarden to begin training with Oromis and Glaedr as quickly as possible. Should they learn of Eragon's existence, they would be all the more demanding to get both dragons and their new Rider to safety.

Much as respect Brom had for his former mentor, he had no desire to immediately hand Roran and his unnamed dragon over to him so early. He wanted him to introduce all three of them to the world of the Shur'tugal, teach the dragons more about their kind and Roran about the basic swordplay and magic skills he would need before being surrendered to Oromis.

Besides, Roran had a life in Carvahall. He had a father that needed his help to run the large farm and tend to the livestock. He had aspirations of becoming a miller's apprentice and earn up enough to begin a family of his own. Roran already had a lover he desired to marry, for the sakes of all the gods. How could Brom just rip him away from all of that without giving the man the proper opportunity to say goodbye to his old life and prepare to enter the new one as a Shur'tugal?

As a young child, Brom himself had grown up in Kuasta, an isolated sea port mostly separated from the rest of the world by the Spine mountains. His parents had been superstitious folks with off beliefs and a strong fear of anything against their norm. Strange humans that rode upon the backs of dangerous beasts that sometimes preyed upon the town's livestock counted among their hatreds.

Brom had shown no such fears, and had longed to leave Kuasta to pursue an interesting life somewhere else. He had caught glimpses of Rider's dragons flying overhead as they passed inland or headed out to to Vroengard, the home of their capitol. Since that first sighting he had desired to have a dragon of his own, and had brought up the matter with his parents, attempting to persuade them to bring him to Teirm, where eggs were shown daily to aspiring Riders in hopes that one would hatch for them.

Naturally, his parents had refused. From there on out, relationships between the family members were strained. Holcomb had blatantly shown his disappointment in his only son while his mother had remained mysteriously distant him from. Feeling more like an outcast than ever before, young Brom had decided to leave Kuasta once and for all. Gathering up his meager belongings, Brom had sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night and had managed to barter passage onto a merchant ship that was departed for Teirm at dawn.

At the massive port city, Saphira had hatched for him. Then Brom had been spirited off to Ilirea to begin his training as a Dragon Rider. He loved Saphira and his new life, and how desire to return to his hometown or meet his parents ever again. And he never had.

But Roran had a life here, one he had been content with until he had been forced into a destiny he clearly did not want. For now, Brom would just begin instructed him in secret, teaching him about the history of the Shur'tugal and perhaps teaching the man swordplay. It would take some time for the young farmer to warm up to the idea of leaving Carvahall, but a lust of adventure could be kindled in him.

Twirling his pipe around in his mouth, Brom's mind wandered back to earlier, when he had revealed his true identity as a former Dragon Rider. He had spoken of Saphira, the one being he had vowed to never speak of again after her untimely death. The memories of her were just to painful for his old heart to bear.

Then why had be brought her and his past up again, unbidden? Was a part of himself tired of keeping his past secret from everyone? The burdens he had to bear were too much for one man, even a experienced and mighty veteran that had personally slain Morzan and others of the Forsworn. Maybe the part of him that Saphira had once occupied was tired of keep her locked up away from the world.

Saphira was a proud and free dragon, Brom thought to himself. Never would she appreciate me keeping her locked up inside my soul like this. Perhaps the part of her that lives in me wants to be liberated again, to be shared with the members of her race?

Aye. Saphira had been the lightness of his soul, the one that had given his reserved spirit wings and had allowed him to soar high with her. Just like how the yet unnamed she-dragon would do to Roran one day.

Brom would teach all three of them, that proud overgrown hatchling Eragon included, all he had to know. It was want Saphira would have wanted of him. He had received a second chance in the form of these untried youths, and he was not ready to surrender them to Oromis just about yet...

Chapter Text

Eragon turned toward the door of his adopted family's small cottage in concern, his sharp ears listening attentively for the conflict between father and son that would undoubtedly occur the moment Uncle Garrow cornered Roran upon last night's... interesting events. The brown dragon winced sympathetically, knowing what it was like to get on the bad side of a stubborn and grouchy farmer so early in the morning.

So far, at least, his worries were proving to be inaccurate. Roran was telling Garrow a half-version of the truth, explaining how the sapphire she-dragon had chosen him as a Rider. Of course, Eragon's "cousin" failed to mention that such a rank came with immortality and great magical power, according to Brom. Instead Roran told of how the bond between dragon and Rider was stronger than that connection with Eragon (the brown dragon did not even try to stifle his indignant snort at this comment) and how it was imperative he personally raise this new hatchling until she was old enough to manage on her own.

Garrow didn't seem absurdly upset about the unexpected news. Remarkably, he took the whole thing incredibly well. For once, he did not unleash a stream of obscenities or bellow like a territorial dragon to show his exasperation against his son. However, that did not mean Roran was completely pardoned for blatantly rejecting the miller's generous offer of apprenticeship literally at the last possible moment. Intending to have a long and meaningful conversation with his son, Eragon figured Garrow would be lecturing for a good long while.

Ah, well, Eragon replied. He cocked his head at the little she-dragon, his amber gaze catching her blue. I guess that means you and me are alone for a while, young one.

Looking as if she'd rather face a pack of rabid and ravenous dogs rather than remain so close to her exasperating male companion, the hatchling's gaze flicked to the door that separated her from her Rider. Eragon felt the indecision that emanated from the female as she contemplating what to do next. Try and find a way into the cottage to get close to her Rider, but also be forced to suffer Garrow's poking and prodding? Or remain outside in the freezing cold, with the same insane male that had tried to crush her out of her egg?

Whirling away from Eragon as if her life depended on it, the sapphire-scaled hatchling bounded through the high snows toward the direction of the cottage. She began to chirp, which Eragon instinctively recognized as a call for attention.

Knowing it was a very inopportune time for the she-dragon to be complaining, the brown male responded. Swooping down like a hawk, he swiftly grabbed her by the scruff, holding her like a mother cat would a misbehaving kitten. Squealing in humiliation, she thrashed about in his jaws, her scales protecting her from being hurt.

Quiet, hatchling, Eragon broke in bluntly. Knocking Roran unconscious and granting him an immortal and cursed life he does not want is enough trouble from you for the day. Leave him alone until he is ready to deal with you again or you shall be put at the top of the tallest tree I know. Let's see if you can learn to fly the hard way.

Catching the gist of his warning, the she-dragon quieted and fell limp in reluctant resignation. Satisfied, Eragon plopped her unceremoniously back into the snow. Momentarily she vanished into a small drift, but emerged a minute later, like a snake poking its head out of a whole. The hatchling scowled at him, but the little mound of white powder upon her head only made Eragon chuckle hoarsely.

Then he remembered why the hatchling was so demanding. She did not want attention (certainly not from him) but she must have been lying dormant in that egg since the near extinction of their kind. Which had happened over a century ago. Considering how Eragon had gulped down an entire satchel full of dried meat on the night he had hatched into the world, gods knew how ravenous this little she-devil was.

Hold on, you. Don't go chewing on my tail when I turn away. If you cooperate with me, I may just be willing to alleviate your hunger. This stopped the she-dragon's glaring. Shaking her head free of its snowy cap, she rushed eagerly to his paws, head upturned and mouth wide open like a baby bird begging for food. Patience. I still have to catch the damn food first. Was it a good idea to swear in front of a baby? Considering how she would likely pick up some of Uncle Garrow's more colorful vocabulary, she was a lost cause already.

Pulling his mind away from the hatchling's, Eragon concentrated upon his surroundings. His keen hearing detected the activity of the cows and horses stomping go mad if someone touched his beloved fowl. Instead the elder cast his mind out once again, searching for the minds of wild creatures that may be lurking close by in the woods.

There were rabbits around the farm, Eragon had often hunted them as a hatchling. Once having avoided the fields around the cottage and the hungry monster that prowled around there, the smaller prey animals had returned when they realized their tormentor had outgrown them. Aye, Eragon had moved on from the small morsels and had graduated to deer and the occasional wild boar, but rabbits were still a good option for younger dragons like Roran's new blue pest.

A few paces away from his paws, a solitary bunny rabbit cowered within its den. It was standing completely still, whether paralyzed out of fright or hoping in vain that its tactic would fool a dragon into believing it wasn't there. But Eragon's hearing still detected the frantic pounding of its heart, the only sign he needed to confirm his suspicions and strike. Jamming a paw into the earth, the brown male tugged it back out again with the rabbit dead between his claws.

Here, this should satisfy you for a while.

Tossing his catch upon the ground, Eragon watched in bemusement as the she-dragon pounced on the still body and began to dig in, all dislike for the elder male forgotten. Young as she was, the little she-dragon already had a voracious appetite. Gulping down large mouthfuls of meat, she had devoured everything edible on the rabbit and even cracked its bones for marrow within an impressively short span of minutes.

Done with her meal, the little hatchling turned to try and clean the blood off her sapphire scales, oblivious to the dragon gaping down at her in shock. That little display had been... a surprise.

That settles it, Eragon murmured to himself, we need to give you a name, hatchling. Besides, we can't all go along and keep calling you 'little one' and 'baby' and whatever other adorable nicknames come to mind. You require a real name to last you through the ages. One Uncle Garrow can yell at you when you do something disobedient. He chuckled at the fond memories of his youth, of scaring chickens and romping through the fields. Gods knew I learned my name fast enough that man screaming it into my ear every second of the day.

But what to name the sapphire-scaled she-dragon? Eragon had a thousand good ideas, if she had been a he. If he ever had children of his own, it would take at least a hundred sons to each get a name from the long list of them he kept in his mind. For a daughter or this one particular she-dragon? He hadn't the slightest idea.

There are the dragons from the legends, the dark brown dragon told the hatchling. While Brom and the bards that came to Carvahall often told stories of men and male dragons, there plenty of heroines present as well. Hell, I myself was named after the first Dragon Rider. Lenora. Miremel. Ophelia. He rattled every female designation that jumped to mind, even those of Marian and Katrina. Unimpressed by his efforts, the she-dragon flatly rejected them all.

Then what am I supposed to call you?! If you're expecting your Rider to select a suitable name for you, pipsqueak, you're wrong. My cousin chose my name in a thankful stroke of fortune. He is far more likely to name you Sky or Bluebell than anything else.

This final statement caused the she-dragon to hiss, scales bristling. Even her young and inexperienced mind could contemplate the horrors of a large and majestic creature being named after a fragile and misleading flower like a 'Bluebell.' Apparently she wasn't a fan of femininity and the human trend of naming their daughters after something delicate or beautiful. There were enough poor creatures named after flowers and abstract qualities running around in the world, thank you very much.

Eragon hummed at this vehement response. Then perhaps you and I can get along, she-dragon. But none of us have the foggiest idea of what to call you. I have said all of the female names I know of... except Saphira...

Saphira, the name of a she-dragon. Brom's she-dragon, the one he had lost to the apathetic void of death. The one with the mere mention of her name made hardened and experienced rebel agent cry. Why had he brought up at all, let alone suggest it to a she-dragon searching for a name to call herself by?

Pausing, the sapphire-scaled hatchling mulled over the name. By the emotions rolling off her young mind in happy waves, she was pleased by what she merely saw as yet another suggestion. How was she supposed to remember that Saphira was Brom's dead dragon? That it was imperative for both sides to reconcile, for the betterment of all involved? Having Alagaesia's last female dragon prancing about with the name of a former Rider's beloved partner was not a wise choice at all.

Apparently, though, you don't care about the potential consequences this selfish decision of yours can cause. Heaving a sigh of resignation, Eragon dropped the fight before it even started. The events of last night and this morning had given him enough conflict for a lifetime, and he was tired of arguing with every living soul he came across. Fine, I officially dub your presumptuous hide Saphira II. Go forth and spread your chaos, little one. I've had enough of your antics.

Breathing warm air upon a patch of snow-covered ground until it was clear once more, Eragon lay down and curled up for a doze in the winter sun. One half-closed watch the newly named Saphira frolic about the area, investigating every thing her curious little snout stumbled across. When the hatchling abandoned her explorations to clamber across his body as if it were some miniature mountain, even then the male let her be. From deep within him, Eragon discovered some sort of well of limitless patience, a paternal instinct that allowed him to weather the impish actions of even the most mischievous offspring, and so drew upon it to keep his exasperation from getting the better of him.

Shortly after the sapphire-scaled hatchling had begun climbing over him, Eragon had drifted off to sleep. So immersed in his slumber, he didn't notice when she tired of her play and also wanted to settle down for nap. Making her way to the head of what she viewed as an obnoxious older sibling, Saphira yawned and curled up, mimicking Eragon's actions. Wrapping her tail around one his horns for balance, she too closed her eyes and truly dreamed for the first time in her short life.

Exiting the cottage, that was where Roran found them. Eragon basking in the pale warmth of the sun and with the hatchling snoozing upon his head like a blue mutation. Shaking his head and smiling slightly in amusement, the young man quietly walked by, not wanting to disturb them from their shared nap. Horses were far slower than dragons for flying to Carvahall, but they were fast enough to get him to the village in time for the important matters he needed to deal with...

Birka was not one of those slender and fine-bred steeds like those bred in Therinsford, nor was she a sturdy and trained mount like those the Imperial soldiers patrolled the roads upon. She was a giant of a workhorse, the same dull color as the earth she helped to plow. Meant solely for the farm and the occasional slow journey hitched up to a wagon, the massive mare's only gait was a slow plod.

Still, the mare was gentle and mild-mannered enough, despite her size. Brugh, the other of Garrow's horses, was a grouchy old stallion that had been sulking about the barn since before Roran had been born. Brugh was prone to bucking his riders off and putting up a fight, and Roran was in no mood to fight the foul tempered codger. Besides, Birka's ambling pace was still faster than the trudge her human master could barely manage on the snow-covered road.

Despite this, it still took a good hour to reach Carvahall. Children already played about in the snow, the boys making forts and doing their games of pretend war while the girls mainly stuck with making pictures on the pristine white ground. Their parents were busy shoveling clear paths from their doors to the road, making enough space for normal day-to-day business to go on as usual.

Birka plodded serenely through the streets, moving through the remaining drifts as snow as if they had never existed. Roran scanned the crowds with sharp brown eyes, absentmindedly inclining his head or murmuring a "hello" to a person he dimly recognized. His concentration was for Katrina, and all else drifted out of mind, even Eragon and his sapphire she-dragon.

There, on the outskirts of Carvahall, was a bundled up figure staring out at the road that lead to Therinsford, as if waiting for someone to arrive or watching someone that had long since disappeared on the horizon. Though the person's back was turned to him, Roran had no trouble identifying Katrina by the shine of her brilliant copper hair. No one else in Palancar Valley had glorious locks like that, not since Ismira had met her untimely death upon Igualda Falls.

"Katrina!" he called. "Behind you!"

Startled by the sound of her name, Katrina whirled around, her beautiful face confirming his prediction. Brightening at the sight of her somewhat secret lover, she offered him a bright welcoming smile and waved merrily at him. Spurring Birka into a reluctant trot, Roran eagerly moved toward her.

Upon reaching his destination, Roran dismounted from the enormous workhorse and tied her reigns securely to a tree, turning his attention to his beloved. The pair shared a warm embrace, remaining silent in the other's arms for a long while as they merely reveled in being with the other.

At last Katrina pulled away, her joy to see him now mixed with relief and puzzlement. "Roran. What are you doing here so late? Remember how Dempton said the miller from Therinsford meet you here at dawn? I was waiting here along with him, wanting to see you off in a proper manner." Grinning at the suggestion in this, Roran bent down to steal a kiss from her lips, but the young woman stubbornly turned the other way. "The miller left over an hour ago, love. He tired of waiting for you and stormed off, proclaiming he would find a punctual apprentice somewhere else." She glanced at Birka, noticing something mysteriously absent. "And where are your belongings? Surely you don't mean to depart for Therinsford with nothing but the clothes on your back!"

Unable to contain his sigh, Roran avoided her questioning gray gaze. He had been hoping to put off the inevitable for a while, and just revel in the affection of his beloved until he was ready to reveal a distorted version of the truth, but apparently Katrina wasn't interested. What, since when did all of the gods in the realm have a grudge against him of all unfortunate farmers?

"I don't mean to depart for Therinsford," he replied without preamble. "I've decided not to leave Carvahall."

Disbelief shone in Katrina's eyes, then her beautiful face split into a grin as she hugged him fiercely. "I knew you would never make a good miller's apprentice. You're skilled with your hands, Roran, and need a livelihood more active than running a mill. Keep searching. There is a job out there that is truly for you, one you can be happy with. Besides, being away from me for who knows how long? I didn't think your heart could bear the pain, Roran!"

Katrina hugged him, her touch tender. "But that's alright," she murmured softly. "There's always an opportunity out there for a bigger and better chance at a livelihood. Go ahead and find it. I can ward off Father for a little while longer."

Unable to bear her happy look, Roran pulled away. How was he supposed to tell this glorious woman he was no longer able to be with her? That when her bones were dust he would be untouched by time? Bitter tears brimming in his eyes, the young farmer kept his eyes trained on the horizon, unwilling to betray this emotional weakness to one who believed his strength to be invincible?

All around him where empty fields left to rest for the winter, clear patches of ground that revealed the large curve of mountains that surrounded Carvahall and engulfed it and the neighboring land into what Alagaesia called Palancar Valley. To some, the encircling mountains gave them the illusion of being penned in and the feeling of being stifled. Those restless souls, like Aunt Selena, had no desire to live in a quiet little village in a quiet little valley for the rest of their lives. So they fled to the cities like refugees from disaster as soon as they were able.

But Roran counted himself among those that saw Palancar Valley as a haven from the outside world, not a prison. He appreciated the uneventful and simple days. He wanted to be a farmer with a wife and numerous children. What desire did he have to leave his homeland for destinations unknown? To become an immortal Shur'tugal and leave all he cherished behind for time to ravage except two obnoxious dragons?

But how he possibly stay? Lingering in Carvahall was already beginning to feel wrong to him, like he was the spirit of a dead man clinging to a world no longer his. The first stirrings of restlessness gnawed away at his contentment for normalcy. Beginnings of what Brom would call wanderlust already beckoned to him; what would one day be burning desire to go out and do something significant with his life.

"I'm not staying forever, Katrina." But really then, what mortal could? "One day, I will leave Carvahall and Palancar Valley behind, perhaps for good. Something tells me I no longer belong here."

Confused gray eyes stared up into his, bewildered and worried. "How long?" Katrina whispered. "Why?"

"Because it is beyond my control," Roran answered, aching to tell her the true reasons behind his abandonment of her. But he had no assurance she would believe his outlandish tale, or how she would react when around two dragons she saw as dangerous beasts. Or if Katrina would run to patriotic Sloan, who'd be all too happy to report the glorious news to Imperial soldiers.

But when too leave? When all the villagers around me continue to age, while I remain untouched? After my father is dead and buried? When Saphira is old enough for the journey? And when can she even be considered that? Or should I just return home right now, hop on Eragon, and depart at that moment?

Reaching out with her hand, Katrina cupped his chin and tilted his head downward. Suspicious gray eyes peered searchingly up into his. To allow Roran to believe in his ideals or break him until he agreed to abandon his foolish notions and remain in Carvahall? She must have seen the pain and reluctance he tried so far to conceal, for Katrina lowered her hand and pulled away with a sigh.

"You don't want to do this," was her quiet response. "Leaving all you know and cherish behind to recklessly depart into the cruel world? That's not what the Roran I love would ever do." Gray eyes gazed curiously at him. "Then why put yourself through such torture in the first place?"

Love, if only you could know. If only.

"There are others involved," he answered tonelessly. "Their secrets are their own to keep. I can reveal nothing to you without endangering them or intruding upon their privacy. Forgive me, Katrina, for I cannot even offer you the smallest of hints."

Turning her back to him, Katrina mulled over this response. Chewing furiously upon a lock of copper hair, she pondered over the options available to her. Interrogate Roran anyway? Run away and seal herself up in her home until his inevitable departure? Insist to be shown the truth and taken along for the journey?

Instead the young woman charged up to him, unexpectedly crushing her lips onto his. Together the secret lovers partook their final kiss, sharing their anguish over their separation and their desperation they had to touch the other for a last time. Yet they also exchanged their passion, their bottomless feelings for the other. This kiss would be the final one, the sorrowful end to their blissful relationship.

And Roran bidding his normal life a definite farewell.

After what seemed like an eternity, they pulled reluctantly apart from their tender embrace. Roran made to touch her cheek as a silent apology, she shied away like a wild mare from his hand. Katrina looked up at her distraught lover, eyes brimming with tears she stubbornly refused to allow fall. Though her sadness seethed just beneath her forced smile, she somehow managed to keep the expression reassuring instead of heartbreaking.

"Goodbye, Roran. May your travels bring you the happiness you can no longer find here. Find somewhere else to soothe your heart, for it is no longer mine to keep restrained."

Realizing that this meeting had neared its end, the young man slowly walked back to Birka. Each step was ruthless agony, and his heart cried out for him to change his mind. To chase after Katrina and their chance of a life together. To forget about the dragons and mad old Brom and to continue his life as if he'd never found that first blasted egg in the first place.

Resolved now, Roran refused to give into his churning emotions. He and Katrina had already split up on their paths into later life, and it was already too late to turn around and follow his beloved down her road. Not without causing further suffering for them both.

Mounting his old farm horse, Roran took the mare's reigns and urged her along on the long road back to home.

Behind him, Roran could feel Katrina's eyes burning holes into his coat. Silently resigned but still desperately beseeching him to remain, despite her beliefs it was for the best.

He denied that yearning temptation and plodded on.

The ride home was more slowing and agonizing than ever before. Along with the freezing snow and biting winter's chill, something far more potent clawed at his heart. Tearing the poor thing into shreds and destroying his self. It was far too late to stop the transition from insignificant farm-boy with a simple dream to an immortal being with a misty future and a slim chance of survival against King Galbatorix himself.

Lost in an anguished daze, Roran mechanically guided Birka back home and lead her into the barn. Untacked the mare and placed her back in her safe and comfortable stall. He concentrated only upon his immediate actions, forcing himself to ignore the dozing dragons and the fears and wistful regrets that pounded in his brain as a frantic maelstrom.

Emerging from the dark barn and out into the frigid day, the young man had gotten only several paces away before something small but strong pounced on him. Shocked by the attack, Roran tumbled onto his back, temporarily stunned by the bold assault.

Raising his head from the cold snows, his gaze came face to face with the little creature that perched on his chest, snout only inches away from his nose. The little hatchling's head was cocked to the side, innocently curious as to the strange emotions that rolled off him in bitter waves. So close to his face, Roran partly expected his she-dragon to bend down and lick his face like an overjoyed dog might.

Haughty as she already was, the sapphire-scaled hatchling was not about to suffer the humiliation of a demeaning display of affection meant only for mindless mongrels. She instead enjoyed their reunion in a far more reserved way, prim and indignant to the extreme. However the mind that connected to his was anything but. Churning with love and enthusiasm for life, the hatchling was like a ray of pure sunlight to his darkened thoughts. Her presence brightened everything it touched, brilliant as a new dawn.

Roused from his depression, Roran smiled fondly, scratching the dragon right behind one of her owns. That had always been Eragon's favorite spot to be scratched, as a young one himself and even up until now. Apparently his she-dragon shared the same sensitive area, for she leaned into his touch and cheeped gleefully at the pampering motion.

"You need a name, little one," he told the blue creature. "Your buffoon of a companion already had one by now when he was your age."

The buffoon has already given her one, Eragon answered blithely. The dark brown dragon had climbed to his paws, blearily blinking his golden eyes and shaking the white snow from his scales. Or rather, rattled off numerous suggestions until the brat found one she like and refuses to give it up, even though it endangers her.

Roran scoffed at his "cousin's" dramatics, continuing to scratch the sapphire-scaled dragon. "Please, Eragon. How bad could it possibly be?"

Saphira, the dark dragon intoned bluntly. Like Brom's Saphira.

Tilting her head, the hatchling responded to her new designation. Great. She'd already grown accustomed to the one name she was forbidden from having.

Scrunching his brow in exasperation, Roran groaned. "Dragon, must have that name of all the ones available? 'Saphira' is the name of Brom's former she-dragon. Taking it would both be disrespectful to the dead and drudge up bitter memories for an... acquaintance of ours."

Had the dragon been older, she might have understood the severity of the situation and agreed to a change. But she had not been hatched out of her egg for even a day yet, and her infantile mind could not yet comprehend such abstract and difficult concepts. So her only response was a blank stare, the emotions she sent off in pleasant waves unaffected by the seriousness of her companions.

When Brom finds out about this and craves one of our hides, make sure you tell him Saphira's too stubborn to resign the name, Eragon said. It's her fault unwanted pain will be brought up again.

Roran scowled reproachfully at his "cousin", clearly not accepting of his suggestion. "You should have never mentioned the name in the first place. Saphira's a newborn, how could she know any better. You, on the other hand, neglected to remember to not bring up sensitive material around impressionable youngsters. Should Brom desire a dragon, he shall take the one not closely linked to my life and soul."

Another argument was quickly roused, and the two hotheaded family members bickered on for quite some time. But it was not serious, more of a way to unleash pent-up frustrations and acting more as a bonding experience than to divide the two males.

Relieved by the presence of his new she-dragon and by Eragon's endearing foolishness, the young human gradually forgot his former pain. Aye, he'd been forced to relinquish Katrina for both of their own good, but he'd gained something he would one day realize as far more precious. A sympathetic soul that would be able to understand him on a personal level no other could reach, and that was a bond he'd be able to fully reciprocate.

Roran had found not one, but two, lifelong companions that shared in his new immortal existence and would be there beside him every step of their perilous but shared journey. Grumpy and unyielding as dragons often were, Eragon and Saphira had a perpetual loyalty to any they considered kin. As well as unconditional love that was so hard for humans to come by.

Aye, Roran could get used to this unconventional but satisfying existence. Despairing as immortality might turn out to be, he had two companions who'd always be by his side. He may have even found a mentor in the form of Brom, to help him control any unusual powers or abilities his new status as a Dragon Rider may bring up.

Unbeknown to the young man that happily bickered with a dragon, his broken heart was mending. Forming connections far more powerful and deeper than it had ever experienced before. Ones that would help and soothe Roran in the ways that would one day be desperately required.

At the moment, man and dragons were content. Reveling in the peace and developing and strengthening their bonds to the other. As things would be for quite some while before the true adventure finally broke out for all of them. But at least they wouldn't be alone.

Chapter Text

When Brom had made Eragon relay a message to Roran about the whereabouts of their first lesson, the rebel agent had selected a place perfect for two men and several dragons to converse in comfort and privacy. Unfortunately, that location just happened to be Eragon's cave. While it was large enough for everyone, it was also a freezing winter morning and the hike up to the brown dragon's lair on foot was very exhausting.

Still, Roran had dare not complain about the arrangements. Considering the frigid temperatures and lack of space, Eragon's cave was the only viable option. Bundled up properly this time in thick furs and sturdy boots, Saphira and her Rider had ventured outside into the frigid cold together to take the long journey to the designated meeting place. Aye, Roran was content to walk the whole way. He'd rather eat his own boots than fly anytime soon. And Saphira? Her wings wouldn't be strong enough to support her weight for several more weeks and her newly developed sense of pride refused to hitch a ride on Eragon.

Looking back, both mutually agreed their prideful decision had been a foolish one and cursed their own pigheadedness. Roran's clothing was damp from the snow and his body refused to warm up. Saphira's young body shivered from the extended exposure to the cold. Even her sapphire scales looked bluer than before. Together the two huddled for heat, the twin scowls they aimed directly at Eragon showing who they blamed for their predicament.

Returning their bad looks with a confused one of his own, the brown dragon cocked his head in earnest bewilderment. Are you two honestly attempting to blame your misfortune on me? he asked incredulously. Who refused the free flight over? You could have gotten here ages ago that way.

Baring her miniscule fangs, Saphira hissed. Had she been capable of speech yet, gods knew what horrible insults would be spewing forth from her mind. Being raised by two foulmouthed farmers and an older dragon with colorful vocabulary certainly killed her chances of ever refraining from excess vulgarity.

Roran glanced up at his "cousin" grumpily. "Really, Eragon? If you hadn't been so huge, we all could have met somewhere warmer and not so far a distance from home. So thank you for nothing, you useless reptile."

That was probably the shivering and tired of the young man speaking, but the comment had still managed to draw the brown dragon's irritation. Saphira wasn't helping matters. Ever the brown noser since she accidentally sent Roran whirling into unconsciousness, she took every moment to endear herself to her Rider. Currently her head rested in his lap while she hummed in contentment as he once began to stroke her.

Amber eyes narrowing in extreme dislike, Eragon barely restrained the rumbling growl that longed to burble up from his throat. He wanted to be on friendly terms with Saphira, but the damned hatchling always insisted on being difficult. The petty female probably still carried the grudge she'd had against him while in the egg. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed.

"I take it you three don't get along well if you're left alone for extended periods of time," Brom commented smoothly. The old man was just strolling into the cave, wrapped up in a thick cloak to protect him from the chill. Despite his advanced age, he didn't seem winded in the slightest. Eragon noticed Roran's eyes shine a little enviously at this, but the brown male thoughtfully decided to just leave the potential argument be.

About time you got here, old man, he quipped instead. I was afraid I'd have to leave my warm spot on the ground and carry you here.

Brom flashed the cheeky brown dragon a docile smile. "Try all the best mediocre insults you have, hatchling. I've handled far more rebellious young dragons than you. Though your illogical jealously coupled with your body's rampant hormones make a formidable combination that I'm proud to say remains unmatched."

Golden eyes bulged in disbelief and embarrassment. What did you just say?

Brom shrugged, walking over and taking a place near Roran. Glancing up suspiciously at the questionable man that had ventured almost too close, Saphira thankfully didn't act up about it. She just squealed commandingly, butting Roran's idle hand until he began scratching her scales again.

"Nothing, Eragon, nothing. I was just merely stating how your jealously for Saphira coupled with your new territorial instincts are a volatile mix. This anger against an innocent youngling who is spending too much time with your self-proclaimed "cousin" is immature yet amusing for me. Forgive me for remarking upon it."

Rumbling warningly, the grouchy brown dragon didn't attempt to constrain the fury that bubbled up new and hot. Little did Eragon know that was the sensitive and easily provoke emotional side of an adolescent dragon speaking for him. Watch it, Brom. Besides, my feelings aren't petty. It's true that Saphira really is-

Blue eyes narrowed at this discovery, something dark and dangerously unknown surging through them. "Saphira?" the old man whispered quietly. "You named the she-dragon Saphira?"

Puzzled as to way her name had been used in so negatively a manner, Saphira cocked her head innocently and chirped inquisitively. Both Eragon and Roran exchanged a glance, silently debating over who should explain the story to Brom and risk possible injury by a bereaved former Dragon Rider. Thanks to the threat burning in the dragons' eyes, Roran lost the struggle.

Procrastinating the inevitable by inhaling as slowly as physically possible, the young man began his explanation. Tail twitching in agitation, Eragon's muscles tensed as he prepared to intervene if something were to go wrong. "While I was... away for a short while, Eragon was left temporarily left alone with the she-dragon," Roran said. He shot a pointed scowl at the male dragon. "The foolish lizard somehow got it into his head that she deserved a permanent name at that very moment. Essentially he suggested several hundred names and accidentally dropped 'Saphira' along with them."

Blue eyes still unreadable, Brom nodded in understanding. "So the hatchling decided she liked the name and chose it for herself? Now she's too attached to 'Saphira' to give it up willingly?"

Saphira, confused as to why her name was uttered so frequently but she herself was completely ignored, had grown tired of it. Cheeping commandingly, she rose out of her restful position near Roran's side, nipping his hand reproachfully at his total disregard of her. Roran jumped back with a startled yelp. His 'loving' she-dragon used this momentary distraction to her sadistic advantage. Pouncing on her Rider, the two went crashing to the ground.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Eragon turned back to Brom, comical spectacle forgotten. It was truly my error that I suggested the name of your dragon to an impressionable hatchling, he admitted seriously. Do not punish her or Roran for this. The blame belongs solely to me and I shall do my best to persuade Saphira to select a different name.

Brom's lips twitched slightly in amusement. "You just subconsciously called her 'Saphira'." While Eragon's golden eyes widened in horror at that unintentional slip-up, the old man only chuckled benignly. "It's official. The name has already stuck. Changing it now would be like forcing your "cousin" to grow accustomed to a new name." Those bright blue eyes lost their darkness, mainly friendly while nostalgia for happier times glittered deep within. "What kind of person would I be if I were to strip a young one of her newly discovered name?"

Are you certain? It won't be too hard for you to be around a she-dragon that bears the same name you bestowed upon your own companion?

Looking at the ruthless blue hatchling that had a full-grown man entirely at her mercy, Brom shook his head with a smile. "It will be impossible for these old eyes to make similarities between the two. Aside for their color and name, I can already discern your... Saphira will be entirely different from my own. My dragon never had the audacity to tackle her Rider, for example." He winced when Saphira still refused to relinquish her hold over Roran. "Or the capability to be unrelenting in her vengeance."

Amends made, the two males could only watch in morbid fascination as Saphira continued to 'scold' her Rider. Though Roran's irritation toward all three of them lasted almost as long as it took for his numerous bite-marks and scratches to heal, he eventually came around.

For now that all potential problems had been solved, true learning between the wise mentor and his three troublesome pupils could truly begin.

Fighting and failing to awaken so many infuriating times, a very broken and very cursed Faolin at last succeeded in the struggle to wrench open his bloodshot green eyes. The blackness that had long ensnared him crumbled away to let in a swirl of blinding light and nauseating colors. Reflexively bolting up and leaning over the bed he had been placed in, he began to vomit. Stomach so achingly empty, only a few strands of bilious saliva were expelled.

Collapsing back onto the hard mattress, the severely weakened elf groaned wearily. Finally, a sense of order seemed to return to his mind. The colors stopped swirling and settled into solid shapes. Even his initial vertigo subsided so Faolin was in as best a condition he could be in such dire circumstances. Once again hoisting himself up into a sitting position, the captive inspected his new surroundings.

Or, he would have, it not for the green dragon perched on his legs hadn't hindered his view. Emerald eyes shining joyously at the awakening of his Rider, the creature instantly linked his mind to Faolin's. Wincing at the painfully ecstatic onslaught of emotions, the elf instantly severed the connection. But not before he'd gotten more than his fair share of his dragon's consciousness.

Faolin had been flickering in and out of awareness for quite some while. He probably could have woken up earlier, if he had wished to. The dragon's mind was always there whenever he attempted to rouse himself. Always trying to coax him on into full consciousness. Every time, Faolin had allowed himself to fall back on that numbing black tide until it was no longer possible.

Now, however, the ravenous rumbling of his stomach and the dull ache in his very bones had both grown too demanding for him to simply ignore any longer. Trying to temporarily convince himself the young emerald-green dragon was nothing more than a hallucination of a long-since deranged and weakened mind, Faolin purposefully went back to examining his new surroundings. Undoubtedly Durza had transferred him to a more secure facility after the hatching incident, perhaps right in the heart of Urubaen itself. For all he knew, Galbatorix could be inhabiting the room next to him.

After his last hellish experience in a prison cell Faolin had no real idea what to expect. He had, however, not anticipated in being dressed in clean clothes that were a vast improvement on the threadbare rags that had served as his garments since his capture. Nor had Faolin expected to be unshackled, all remnants of his earlier torture having faded or vanished from his body completely. Focusing inward, he also discovered that, while still drugged and unable to perform magic, the effects that had limited his mind had lifted slightly. While his mind could venture no further than the confines of his room (it was far too luxurious to be deemed a cell, even for political prisoners), he would relatively freer than before.

Of course Galbatorix would want me living comfortably now. I have just become his greatest asset since the disappearance of the she-dragon's egg. He wants his new slave feeling all nice and comfortable, to try and convert him over to his side without much resistance. Faolin scowled defiantly. Weak as he was feeling, not even he would willingly betray Princess Arya and the entire race of elves just for a soft bed and a hot meal. Elves had their dignity, too.

Sighing, Faolin inspected his dragon. Judging by how it had doubled in size since he had last seen it as a newborn hatchling, he had been unconscious for quite a while. He was also concerned to note that the little beast was alarmingly skinny, enough so that his sharp-eyed gaze could just detect the hint of ribs beneath the dragon's emerald hide.

"I told you, little pest, you should not have chosen me. You have just confined us both to a fate worse than death." Faolin reached out with the hand that bore the gedwey ignasia, tentatively stroking the dragon's horned head while a sad smile ghosted his angular face. "Not that either of us can go back and change either of our mistakes now."

Ignorant, or uncaring of his Rider's cryptic talk, the green dragon only purred affectionately as he leaned into the warm hand. Again his mind brushed eagerly against Faolin's own, inviting him to freely share his memories and emotions. The elf complied. He desperately needed to acquire about as much information regarding his location and the fate of himself and his dragon. While he did not expect for his little burden to yield detailed and clear-cut memories, Faolin needed only some insight to draw a relatively accurate decision.

The blood-eyed-bad-man had brought him here, aye, along with his Father-Rider. It had been a hard and scary journey, in one of the moving-dark-rooms pulled by a snorting-giant-horse. He had only wanted his Father-Rider to comfort him, but Father-Rider was still lost in his dreamless-sleep. No matter how hard the little green hatchling had tried, his elf had remained worryingly unresponsive.

Moved now into the bigger-roomier-lighter-room, the green dragon had been unsatisfied. If anything, he had preferred the moving-room. This place was strange, and the loud noises and disgusting smells that drifted in from the world outside hurt his ears and unpleasantly tickled his nose. Still, nothing had been enough to wake his deep-sleeping-Rider. There had only been bad-people for company, so he had refused to even acknowledge them. The delicious-red-meat they had brought with them had also gone untouched. He had not wanted to eat anything they brought, especially not when Father-Rider was starving away in his sleep. Instinct told him to wait, and wait he did.

There were other things here, things that scared the little green dragon even more than the blood-eyed-bad-man himself. There was the black-unholy-beast that prowled somewhere nearby. He could smell its stink, hear its ravenous bellows, and could see its terrifying shape in his nightmares. The black-unholy-beast had once been a dragon, but now it was an abomination, something to be avoided at all costs.

And then there was the most frightening of all, the black-eyed-man. The black-eyed-one had pretended to be nice, had tried to persuade him to eat and play and meet the black-beast, but the green dragon had refused to listen. Instinct had also told him the black-eyed-man was bad, far badder than anything he had ever encountered before. His ancient-guiding-memories called the black-eyed-man "murderer" and "oath-breaker." Under no circumstances, he was told, was the black-eyed-man to be believed.

Faolin couldn't help but groan in dismay, for his worst fears had been confirmed. He was now being held captive in Castle Ilirea, beyond any help of escaping or being rescued. Arya was now all alone in that gods-forsaken prison, at the nonexistent mercy of a vengeful Shade that had been positively infuriated over the loss of his favorite plaything. Galbatorix had him, and his dragon, in his clutches now, and would take a hero the rebellion had long since been denied to loosen the Mad King's hold over the both of them.

"Don't you starve yourself for me," he chided gently, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Keep yourself strong for whatever trouble we'll encounter down here."

Given the permission he had so desired, the green dragon happily leaped off of the elf's bed and scampered over to a dish of fresh meat that had been left in the far corner of the room. This he gleefully and voraciously tore into, wolfing down what must have been his very first meal. Faolin turned his own attention to the broth and bread that had lay simmering at his bedside. Without pausing to check to see if meat had been added to the broth, he inhaled the entire thing, temporarily appeasing the rumbling animal his stomach had become due to hunger.

"Might as well name you now," Faolin muttered aloud. "Better I do so before Galbatorix or Durza can put in any suggestions."

Because of the fact that his invaluable status as a Dragon Rider now made him priceless to Galbatorix, Faolin realized he could probably name his dragon anything without being punished for it. Even his new insane master would not dream of harming his priceless, already weakened slave and his newborn dragon for something so insignificant. Even if it meant enduring an immortal lifetime of addressing the green dragon as 'Vrael' or 'Kingslayer.'

Faolin had instantly discarded both names, for he found the second one to be a horrible thing to call a dragon, and the former as all memories of the golden age already left him bitter. Why remind his dragon that he, too, was a remnant of a glorious period Alagaesia would never be able to experience again? Nor could he name his dragon Glenwing, in tribute to the elf that had once been his companion in escorting the she-dragon's egg.

His mind then went through the ancient language, sorting through words that could define his dragon. He was neither "hope" nor anything resembling it, for the Varden and all the citizens of Alagaesia would not exactly be glad that Galbatorix had another Dragon Rider under his command, one that could invade Ellesmera and easily fell the large numbers of mediocre magicians the Du Vrangr Gata was comprised of. Nor would Faolin simply name his dragon "green" or "emerald." Names were imperative, and could help define one's fate.

Faolin smiled wanly as his dragon returned to him, drowsily crawling back into his lap. Now that his "Father-Rider" had woken up and his hungry had been satiated, the naive little thing was content to simply lay down and nap. He was oblivious that the long, impossible journey that lay ahead of himself and the elf had only just begun.

"Aelath," Faolin whispered at last. "It is what ties us together, and what shall define us for a very good portion of our lives, little one." He sighed. "Perhaps you can subvert your namesake, defy destiny and strip your new name of the sorrowful connotations it now holds. But I shall leave it up to you to decide. Unbreakable oaths shall soon bind us both to my master, and I doubt I will be able to withstand interrogations from Galbatorix himself when it comes down to that. It is you who hatched for me, and so I leave it to you to guide us from here."

Chapter Text

When Brom had made Eragon relay a message to Roran about the whereabouts of their first lesson, the rebel agent had selected a place perfect for two men and several dragons to converse in comfort and privacy. Unfortunately, that location just happened to be Eragon's cave. While it was large enough for everyone, it was also a freezing winter morning and the hike up to the brown dragon's lair on foot was very exhausting.

Still, Roran had dare not complain about the arrangements. Considering the frigid temperatures and lack of space, Eragon's cave was the only viable option. Bundled up properly this time in thick furs and sturdy boots, Saphira and her Rider had ventured outside into the frigid cold together to take the long journey to the designated meeting place. Aye, Roran was content to walk the whole way. He'd rather eat his own boots than fly anytime soon. And Saphira? Her wings wouldn't be strong enough to support her weight for several more weeks and her newly developed sense of pride refused to hitch a ride on Eragon.

Looking back, both mutually agreed their prideful decision had been a foolish one and cursed their own pigheadedness. Roran's clothing was damp from the snow and his body refused to warm up. Saphira's young body shivered from the extended exposure to the cold. Even her sapphire scales looked bluer than before. Together the two huddled for heat, the twin scowls they aimed directly at Eragon showing who they blamed for their predicament.

Returning their bad looks with a confused one of his own, the brown dragon cocked his head in earnest bewilderment. Are you two honestly attempting to blame your misfortune on me? he asked incredulously. Who refused the free flight over? You could have gotten here ages ago that way.

Baring her miniscule fangs, Saphira hissed. Had she been capable of speech yet, gods knew what horrible insults would be spewing forth from her mind. Being raised by two foulmouthed farmers and an older dragon with colorful vocabulary certainly killed her chances of ever refraining from excess vulgarity.

Roran glanced up at his "cousin" grumpily. "Really, Eragon? If you hadn't been so huge, we all could have met somewhere warmer and not so far a distance from home. So thank you for nothing, you useless reptile."

That was probably the shivering and tired of the young man speaking, but the comment had still managed to draw the brown dragon's irritation. Saphira wasn't helping matters. Ever the brown noser since she accidentally sent Roran whirling into unconsciousness, she took every moment to endear herself to her Rider. Currently her head rested in his lap while she hummed in contentment as he once began to stroke her.

Amber eyes narrowing in extreme dislike, Eragon barely restrained the rumbling growl that longed to burble up from his throat. He wanted to be on friendly terms with Saphira, but the damned hatchling always insisted on being difficult. The petty female probably still carried the grudge she'd had against him while in the egg. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed.

"I take it you three don't get along well if you're left alone for extended periods of time," Brom commented smoothly. The old man was just strolling into the cave, wrapped up in a thick cloak to protect him from the chill. Despite his advanced age, he didn't seem winded in the slightest. Eragon noticed Roran's eyes shine a little enviously at this, but the brown male thoughtfully decided to just leave the potential argument be.

About time you got here, old man, he quipped instead. I was afraid I'd have to leave my warm spot on the ground and carry you here.

Brom flashed the cheeky brown dragon a docile smile. "Try all the best mediocre insults you have, hatchling. I've handled far more rebellious young dragons than you. Though your illogical jealously coupled with your body's rampant hormones make a formidable combination that I'm proud to say remains unmatched."

Golden eyes bulged in disbelief and embarrassment. What did you just say?

Brom shrugged, walking over and taking a place near Roran. Glancing up suspiciously at the questionable man that had ventured almost too close, Saphira thankfully didn't act up about it. She just squealed commandingly, butting Roran's idle hand until he began scratching her scales again.

"Nothing, Eragon, nothing. I was just merely stating how your jealously for Saphira coupled with your new territorial instincts are a volatile mix. This anger against an innocent youngling who is spending too much time with your self-proclaimed "cousin" is immature yet amusing for me. Forgive me for remarking upon it."

Rumbling warningly, the grouchy brown dragon didn't attempt to constrain the fury that bubbled up new and hot. Little did Eragon know that was the sensitive and easily provoke emotional side of an adolescent dragon speaking for him. Watch it, Brom. Besides, my feelings aren't petty. It's true that Saphira really is-

Blue eyes narrowed at this discovery, something dark and dangerously unknown surging through them. "Saphira?" the old man whispered quietly. "You named the she-dragon Saphira?"

Puzzled as to way her name had been used in so negatively a manner, Saphira cocked her head innocently and chirped inquisitively. Both Eragon and Roran exchanged a glance, silently debating over who should explain the story to Brom and risk possible injury by a bereaved former Dragon Rider. Thanks to the threat burning in the dragons' eyes, Roran lost the struggle.

Procrastinating the inevitable by inhaling as slowly as physically possible, the young man began his explanation. Tail twitching in agitation, Eragon's muscles tensed as he prepared to intervene if something were to go wrong. "While I was... away for a short while, Eragon was left temporarily left alone with the she-dragon," Roran said. He shot a pointed scowl at the male dragon. "The foolish lizard somehow got it into his head that she deserved a permanent name at that very moment. Essentially he suggested several hundred names and accidentally dropped 'Saphira' along with them."

Blue eyes still unreadable, Brom nodded in understanding. "So the hatchling decided she liked the name and chose it for herself? Now she's too attached to 'Saphira' to give it up willingly?"

Saphira, confused as to why her name was uttered so frequently but she herself was completely ignored, had grown tired of it. Cheeping commandingly, she rose out of her restful position near Roran's side, nipping his hand reproachfully at his total disregard of her. Roran jumped back with a startled yelp. His 'loving' she-dragon used this momentary distraction to her sadistic advantage. Pouncing on her Rider, the two went crashing to the ground.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Eragon turned back to Brom, comical spectacle forgotten. It was truly my error that I suggested the name of your dragon to an impressionable hatchling, he admitted seriously. Do not punish her or Roran for this. The blame belongs solely to me and I shall do my best to persuade Saphira to select a different name.

Brom's lips twitched slightly in amusement. "You just subconsciously called her 'Saphira'." While Eragon's golden eyes widened in horror at that unintentional slip-up, the old man only chuckled benignly. "It's official. The name has already stuck. Changing it now would be like forcing your "cousin" to grow accustomed to a new name." Those bright blue eyes lost their darkness, mainly friendly while nostalgia for happier times glittered deep within. "What kind of person would I be if I were to strip a young one of her newly discovered name?"

Are you certain? It won't be too hard for you to be around a she-dragon that bears the same name you bestowed upon your own companion?

Looking at the ruthless blue hatchling that had a full-grown man entirely at her mercy, Brom shook his head with a smile. "It will be impossible for these old eyes to make similarities between the two. Aside for their color and name, I can already discern your... Saphira will be entirely different from my own. My dragon never had the audacity to tackle her Rider, for example." He winced when Saphira still refused to relinquish her hold over Roran. "Or the capability to be unrelenting in her vengeance."

Amends made, the two males could only watch in morbid fascination as Saphira continued to 'scold' her Rider. Though Roran's irritation toward all three of them lasted almost as long as it took for his numerous bite-marks and scratches to heal, he eventually came around.

For now that all potential problems had been solved, true learning between the wise mentor and his three troublesome pupils could truly begin.

Fighting and failing to awaken so many infuriating times, a very broken and very cursed Faolin at last succeeded in the struggle to wrench open his bloodshot green eyes. The blackness that had long ensnared him crumbled away to let in a swirl of blinding light and nauseating colors. Reflexively bolting up and leaning over the bed he had been placed in, he began to vomit. Stomach so achingly empty, only a few strands of bilious saliva were expelled.

Collapsing back onto the hard mattress, the severely weakened elf groaned wearily. Finally, a sense of order seemed to return to his mind. The colors stopped swirling and settled into solid shapes. Even his initial vertigo subsided so Faolin was in as best a condition he could be in such dire circumstances. Once again hoisting himself up into a sitting position, the captive inspected his new surroundings.

Or, he would have, it not for the green dragon perched on his legs hadn't hindered his view. Emerald eyes shining joyously at the awakening of his Rider, the creature instantly linked his mind to Faolin's. Wincing at the painfully ecstatic onslaught of emotions, the elf instantly severed the connection. But not before he'd gotten more than his fair share of his dragon's consciousness.

Faolin had been flickering in and out of awareness for quite some while. He probably could have woken up earlier, if he had wished to. The dragon's mind was always there whenever he attempted to rouse himself. Always trying to coax him on into full consciousness. Every time, Faolin had allowed himself to fall back on that numbing black tide until it was no longer possible.

Now, however, the ravenous rumbling of his stomach and the dull ache in his very bones had both grown too demanding for him to simply ignore any longer. Trying to temporarily convince himself the young emerald-green dragon was nothing more than a hallucination of a long-since deranged and weakened mind, Faolin purposefully went back to examining his new surroundings. Undoubtedly Durza had transferred him to a more secure facility after the hatching incident, perhaps right in the heart of Urubaen itself. For all he knew, Galbatorix could be inhabiting the room next to him.

After his last hellish experience in a prison cell Faolin had no real idea what to expect. He had, however, not anticipated in being dressed in clean clothes that were a vast improvement on the threadbare rags that had served as his garments since his capture. Nor had Faolin expected to be unshackled, all remnants of his earlier torture having faded or vanished from his body completely. Focusing inward, he also discovered that, while still drugged and unable to perform magic, the effects that had limited his mind had lifted slightly. While his mind could venture no further than the confines of his room (it was far too luxurious to be deemed a cell, even for political prisoners), he would relatively freer than before.

Of course Galbatorix would want me living comfortably now. I have just become his greatest asset since the disappearance of the she-dragon's egg. He wants his new slave feeling all nice and comfortable, to try and convert him over to his side without much resistance. Faolin scowled defiantly. Weak as he was feeling, not even he would willingly betray Princess Arya and the entire race of elves just for a soft bed and a hot meal. Elves had their dignity, too.

Sighing, Faolin inspected his dragon. Judging by how it had doubled in size since he had last seen it as a newborn hatchling, he had been unconscious for quite a while. He was also concerned to note that the little beast was alarmingly skinny, enough so that his sharp-eyed gaze could just detect the hint of ribs beneath the dragon's emerald hide.

"I told you, little pest, you should not have chosen me. You have just confined us both to a fate worse than death." Faolin reached out with the hand that bore the gedwey ignasia, tentatively stroking the dragon's horned head while a sad smile ghosted his angular face. "Not that either of us can go back and change either of our mistakes now."

Ignorant, or uncaring of his Rider's cryptic talk, the green dragon only purred affectionately as he leaned into the warm hand. Again his mind brushed eagerly against Faolin's own, inviting him to freely share his memories and emotions. The elf complied. He desperately needed to acquire about as much information regarding his location and the fate of himself and his dragon. While he did not expect for his little burden to yield detailed and clear-cut memories, Faolin needed only some insight to draw a relatively accurate decision.

The blood-eyed-bad-man had brought him here, aye, along with his Father-Rider. It had been a hard and scary journey, in one of the moving-dark-rooms pulled by a snorting-giant-horse. He had only wanted his Father-Rider to comfort him, but Father-Rider was still lost in his dreamless-sleep. No matter how hard the little green hatchling had tried, his elf had remained worryingly unresponsive.

Moved now into the bigger-roomier-lighter-room, the green dragon had been unsatisfied. If anything, he had preferred the moving-room. This place was strange, and the loud noises and disgusting smells that drifted in from the world outside hurt his ears and unpleasantly tickled his nose. Still, nothing had been enough to wake his deep-sleeping-Rider. There had only been bad-people for company, so he had refused to even acknowledge them. The delicious-red-meat they had brought with them had also gone untouched. He had not wanted to eat anything they brought, especially not when Father-Rider was starving away in his sleep. Instinct told him to wait, and wait he did.

There were other things here, things that scared the little green dragon even more than the blood-eyed-bad-man himself. There was the black-unholy-beast that prowled somewhere nearby. He could smell its stink, hear its ravenous bellows, and could see its terrifying shape in his nightmares. The black-unholy-beast had once been a dragon, but now it was an abomination, something to be avoided at all costs.

And then there was the most frightening of all, the black-eyed-man. The black-eyed-one had pretended to be nice, had tried to persuade him to eat and play and meet the black-beast, but the green dragon had refused to listen. Instinct had also told him the black-eyed-man was bad, far badder than anything he had ever encountered before. His ancient-guiding-memories called the black-eyed-man "murderer" and "oath-breaker." Under no circumstances, he was told, was the black-eyed-man to be believed.

Faolin couldn't help but groan in dismay, for his worst fears had been confirmed. He was now being held captive in Castle Ilirea, beyond any help of escaping or being rescued. Arya was now all alone in that gods-forsaken prison, at the nonexistent mercy of a vengeful Shade that had been positively infuriated over the loss of his favorite plaything. Galbatorix had him, and his dragon, in his clutches now, and would take a hero the rebellion had long since been denied to loosen the Mad King's hold over the both of them.

"Don't you starve yourself for me," he chided gently, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Keep yourself strong for whatever trouble we'll encounter down here."

Given the permission he had so desired, the green dragon happily leaped off of the elf's bed and scampered over to a dish of fresh meat that had been left in the far corner of the room. This he gleefully and voraciously tore into, wolfing down what must have been his very first meal. Faolin turned his own attention to the broth and bread that had lay simmering at his bedside. Without pausing to check to see if meat had been added to the broth, he inhaled the entire thing, temporarily appeasing the rumbling animal his stomach had become due to hunger.

"Might as well name you now," Faolin muttered aloud. "Better I do so before Galbatorix or Durza can put in any suggestions."

Because of the fact that his invaluable status as a Dragon Rider now made him priceless to Galbatorix, Faolin realized he could probably name his dragon anything without being punished for it. Even his new insane master would not dream of harming his priceless, already weakened slave and his newborn dragon for something so insignificant. Even if it meant enduring an immortal lifetime of addressing the green dragon as 'Vrael' or 'Kingslayer.'

Faolin had instantly discarded both names, for he found the second one to be a horrible thing to call a dragon, and the former as all memories of the golden age already left him bitter. Why remind his dragon that he, too, was a remnant of a glorious period Alagaesia would never be able to experience again? Nor could he name his dragon Glenwing, in tribute to the elf that had once been his companion in escorting the she-dragon's egg.

His mind then went through the ancient language, sorting through words that could define his dragon. He was neither "hope" nor anything resembling it, for the Varden and all the citizens of Alagaesia would not exactly be glad that Galbatorix had another Dragon Rider under his command, one that could invade Ellesmera and easily fell the large numbers of mediocre magicians the Du Vrangr Gata was comprised of. Nor would Faolin simply name his dragon "green" or "emerald." Names were imperative, and could help define one's fate.

Faolin smiled wanly as his dragon returned to him, drowsily crawling back into his lap. Now that his "Father-Rider" had woken up and his hungry had been satiated, the naive little thing was content to simply lay down and nap. He was oblivious that the long, impossible journey that lay ahead of himself and the elf had only just begun.

"Aelath," Faolin whispered at last. "It is what ties us together, and what shall define us for a very good portion of our lives, little one." He sighed. "Perhaps you can subvert your namesake, defy destiny and strip your new name of the sorrowful connotations it now holds. But I shall leave it up to you to decide. Unbreakable oaths shall soon bind us both to my master, and I doubt I will be able to withstand interrogations from Galbatorix himself when it comes down to that. It is you who hatched for me, and so I leave it to you to guide us from here."

Chapter Text

Garrow Cadocsson hated Galbatorix's murderously high taxes, pests, weeds- a farmer's usual woes. The only thing in the wide world he truly loathed was winter.

Spring called for field preparations and planting, summer for tending the growing crops, and autumn for harvesting and preparing for the ruthless season ahead. Aside from the few animals he had to care for and the occasional maintenance about the cottage, there was very little left to do once the snow flew. Last spring, when Roran had truly begun taking his plans for finding a bride seriously, Garrow had dreaded spending an entire damned winter alone in his drafty little cottage.

The following months had brought Eragon and Saphira into his life. With two dragons so close to home, he would have all the company and fresh game he'd ever need without ever having to leave his property. Then Roran had spontaneously decided to not take the job down in Therinsford, which had been both a worry and a relief. For this winter, at least, their unlikely family would remain whole.

Or at least Garrow had believed that until he had started to notice just how suspiciously absent both his son and the dragons had become.

Roran was gone for most of the day, stumbling in around dusk and barely making it to his bed before passing out. He'd be out of the house again by dawn before Garrow could confront him. By the smoke clouds he occasionally glimpsed outside, Garrow guessed his son had taking to cooking meat the dragons had caught for him rather than return home for food.

When his son finally crept in to his room one cold afternoon to retrieve his bow and arrows, Garrow blocked the doorway with his still-commanding presence.

"Am I that bad a cook, Roran?"

One hand still clutching his quiver, the younger man whirled frantically around. His eyes had the guilty look of a thief caught in the act. "I-I..."

"I miss you, son," Garrow began as he casually leaned against the door-frame. "Almost as much as I miss my bone-headed 'nephew'. Wish I could say the same for Saphira, but I've barely seen her since she was a hatchling. Growing as rapidly as Eragon, I imagine."

"Father, I..." Roran held his nearly-empty quiver up. "I needed to make more arrows, especially since I'm going hunting in a week's time."

"So Horst told me when I was in town this morning. Apparently you and Albriech were discussing such plans at the Seven Sheaves yesterday." His brown eyes narrowed. "Funny. I thought we had two dragons always eager to help out."

"We need to keep our cover," Roran answered confidently. "If Galbatorix ever-"

"Galbatorix?" Garrow barely suppressed the shiver traveling down his spine. "Are soldiers inquiring about Saphira's egg? Gods forbid, were they spotted-"

"We've been careful!" his son snapped.

"We?" his father echoed incredulously. "Since when did you fly? I thought you were afraid of heights!"

Roran's face darkened somberly. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Because you've been avoiding me like the plague!" Expression softening, Garrow reached out to the younger man. His child shied away like a spooked horse. "Son..."

"Forgive me, Father," Roran whispered quietly. "I'm only doing what's best for you."

Like a deer fleeing the hounds, Roran bolted past him, Garrow's fingers closing only on empty air. In hot pursuit, the old farmer charged after him, tripping just as the door slammed shut behind his son.

Knees throbbing, Garrow stared long and hard after the close door, damning Eragon for having ever discovered that second egg.

That night, Brom the old recluse had graced the Seven Sheaves to his hearty presence. Chugging something down that tasted vaguely of rabbit piss, he regaled the entire intoxicated tavern to just how he spoke from experience. Finally chased out by Tara after the ninth or so dirty tale, Brom staggered back to his cottage, waking up several irritated villagers when he accidentally tripped into a pen of squealing pigs.

The giddy smile finally fell away from the old man's weathered face as he slammed the door shut behind him. Gagging against the odor that now hung around him in a toxic cloud, sorely regretting the spell he had cast to prevent him from actually getting drunk. Barking a harsh "brisingr" at the fireplace, he angrily ripped off his soiled clothing, washing away the filth in a tub of cold water he had prepared just for the occasion.

Still, tripping right into a pigpen didn't even crack the top ten unspeakable things he had done for his own survival.

Clean at long last, Brom sighed as he wearily fell back in his favorite chair. A warm fire now crackled merrily in the hearth, bathing the room in welcoming light. Despite the large number of irreplaceable books he had anonymously sent off to Jeod, and the smaller amount safely tucked away in the dragons' cave with the rest of their supplies, there were still massive piles of scrolls and tomes piled precariously on top of tables and chairs. This cozy cottage had been his home for the better part of two decades, longer than he had been bonded with his Saphira.

Able to take the cheery scene no longer, Brom returned to the water tub. His reflection stared right back.

The life of a storyteller wasn't a bad one, he mused. Certainly better than killing in the rebellion's name!

He looked the part of the ancient storyteller. His loose and ratty robes gave the appearance of the paunch that should have been there. The long silver beard added to his somewhat mysterious air and disguised just how few wrinkles he actually had. The deceptive twinkle to his blue eyes spoke little of the decades of heartbreak and horror he had endured without his Saphira.

Leaving the fire to burn, Brom grabbed his razor and set to work. He could have used magic, aye, but this seemed so much more fitting.

The hair beneath the silver locks he had helped to influence was a far darker shade of gray, one that could have been black or dark brown in earlier days. Beneath the beard lay the haggard face of a veteran who had gone through far many battles. His true face, long since buried under the stories and cheer, reemerged.

There was an entire tavern of witnesses to his drunken revelry, a street of angry neighbors that would remember his face in the morning. And the night was so cold... who would blame an old and addled man for throwing too much wood on the fire to ward against the chill? An old and addled man who would have slept deeply in his favorite chair, not even stirring when the sparks leaped onto the mess he should have bothered to clean up...

There would be nothing left but ashes and charred fragments of bone indistinguishable from the deer remnants Eragon had so thoughtfully provided him. One less flushed face in the Seven Sheaves, one more name for exasperated wives to chide their drunken husbands with. And Brom the storyteller would be tragically missed... up until another weary wanderer undoubtedly filled his place with their own travels and tales.

Throwing on a nondescript cloak, Zar'roc's telltale glint invisible beneath, Brom's hand hovered hesitantly over his staff. Travelers of all ages carried one, and who kept distinguish one from the other...

There were other staffs out there, other branches that could easily be fixed for a new persona, a new life. Let the storyteller keep his.

Slipping into the darkness, the now-unrecognizable man never looked back as all trace of Brom the storyteller went up in smoke.

While no one in Carvahall could (openly) call themselves close with Brom, that didn't stop the majority from attending his funeral. By some miracle, Sloan had invented some excuse not to come. Roran was free to clasp Katrina's hand as the empty casket was lowered into the earth. He savored her soft touch, the warmth of her presence next to his.

With Garrow reminiscing with some of the other men over Brom's more boisterous tales, Roran quickly kissed Katrina's cheek, uncaring of the scandalous whispers that broke out behind him. Sensing that this would be their last, she tilted her head, catching her lips with his. She would never, could never, understand what had ground their promising start to a halt, but that didn't mean they hadn't left their marks upon the other.

After the ceremony, Katrina left when called by several friends. Roran lingered at the grave he knew would never be filled, sneaking a glance upward. He cracked a secret smile at the two shapes circling high overhead.

That night, when Carvahall toasted its best source of entertainment in over a generation, Roran had drank to Brom's memory right alongside their father. They staggered home together, drunkenly roaring an old ballad Brom had once sang at the top of their lungs. Farther down the deserted patch of dirt that led to their farm, their song broke off to shouts of protest as Eragon grabbed each of them by their tunics and carried them the rest of the way.

Three days later, with his father's snoring echoing from across the hall, Roran fought to contain his sobbing heaves as he stared down at the blank paper he so wanted to fill. Though he had only a candle's feeble light to go by, he squinted only against the tears, Saphira's bond with him having already moderately improved his eyesight.

What do you say to a father you can never see again? What can stop him from chasing you, his only son? What can you say to keep him from getting-

Roran clenched his left fist tightly. He had only one quill left, the other broken two already having been cast into the fireplace.

I can't give any ideas of where we'll going. That'll only give him ideas! Gods, I even can't promise we'll be safe, not while Galbatorix breathes. Can I even tell him the truth about Saphira and me? Will he catch on news spreads of a new dragon and Rider?

With ashes from the hearth, Roran wrote down all he could. Even with his trembling hand, his writing was far neater than it had ever been before Brom's grueling lessons. The remaining emptiness on the sheet of paper (ripped from one of Brom's books) stared mockingly back with every emotion he could not convey into mere words.

Father,

By the time you read this, we'll be long gone. Have you forgotten Saphira and Eragon can fly? I've finally gotten over my fear of heights, to answer your question from earlier. As far as the rest as Carvahall is concerned, I've just set out on the hunt I was so excited for. It won't take them long to notice my absence. Don't try to stop the search parties. They'll find nothing but an empty cave nearby. (I was the one that burned the nests. Your poor 'nephew' thankfully won't be able to make his own fire for another two months!) And the fake camp we set up. It's been a hard winter this year, who can blame the wolves for tearing into a freshly-gutted dear and a hunter in the wrong place at the wrong time?

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I won't be inheriting the farm. No one will blame a grieving father for selling it off. The crowns you'll get should get you a comfortable apartment somewhere nice. I recommend Teirm, as Kuasta's apparently fully of crazies. You and I both know anything too close Urubaen would be suicide. What I've left should be nice enough to pay for a decent 'burial.' It's the money I've made on my own, what would have gone into a nice wedding present for Katrina.

He glanced over at the small pile of gold next to the letter. Roran smiled slightly. His father didn't need to know exactly how much of it had been Brom's contribution.

Father, don't come looking for me. Saphira, Eragon, and I have to disappear, and we'll do it so well not even the King can find us! You're stubborn, but I'm your son, and I've got two dragons on my side. If you want revenge, tell at the embarrassing stories you want to anyone willing to listen. Albriech and Baldor should find them hilarious.

Please, tell Katrina I loved her. I still do, but you'll find out the reason why I can't be with you two sooner or later. If you've caught on, please don't blame Saphira. She's a part of me now, and I need her as I need you. (So does Eragon, even if he's too like you to admit it.) I'll always be your son, no matter what happens, and I'll always love you. Thank you for raising me the way you did, and giving me the wisdom to know what I'm doing now is right.

Your son,

Roran

Laying the quill down, Roran wiped furiously at his eyes, hoping the drips on the paper would have dried by the time his father woke. Slinging the last bag of supplies he had yet to smuggle out over his shoulder, he gave his childhood home a final glance, and slipped out into the darkness.

Saphira circled diligently overhead, keeping watch. Eragon was waiting for him, golden eyes bright in the gloom. Wading through the snow to get to his cousin, Roran frowned in bewilderment at the empty saddle.

"Where's Brom?"

Paying his respects.

"To who?"

Eragon shrugged. He'd said he'd tell all of us when he felt like it... and promised he'd skin any of us who tried to spy on him.

Roran pondered this as he clambered into the saddle. "Strange. Most of my family was dead by the time Brom arrived in Carvahall. Except for my mother..."

Eragon's amber eyes widened. Do you think...

Not unless he became his father two and a half years after my Rider was born, stone-head, Saphira quipped.

Then who's he visiting? the other dragon grumbled.

Can't say, Roran's bonded sing-songed. I don't feel like being skinned today.

Even with the circumstances, the young man couldn't keep from smiling fondly as he shut off his mind to their bantering.

Garrow's forefathers had been making their living off of this farm for generations. So far away from Carvahall's cemetery, many of them had their final resting places in a far smaller plot in the woods behind their cottage their descendent would call home for a while longer. Most of their graves were unmarked, or the wooden markers having long since rotted away.

Brom paused to wipe the snow from Marian's marker. Back when he had been an outsider in Carvahall she had done her best to integrate him into the community, and was the reason why he had remained so close to Roran and Garrow even when he was no longer needed as a teacher.

"You raised a good man," he told her earnestly, "a very good man."

But Brom had come here for another, one who had not even lived a fraction of the years Marian had been blessed with. Tenderly, the no-longer-bearded man stooped to clear every last bit snow from the plot. No longer concealed, it was easy to tell how fresh the wood still was, as if the marker had just been placed yesterday.

Nestled in the earth beneath him lay the sole reason Brom had been so adamant for the position in Carvahall, the sole reason for what had kept him in such a quiet village for so long. Running his fingers over the name so carefully inscribed on the wood, he smiled sadly.

"A good name still," he murmured. "Even if that daft dragon makes me want to pull my hair out sometimes. So young, but still so curious, so bright..."

Knowing he could delay no longer, Brom gave the marker a small kiss. "Until we meet again, my son." His breath hitched. "My Eragon."

You called, old man?

Brom glanced upwards, scowling fondly. A second shape had joined Saphira. Only to make sure you were collecting your 'cousin' and not eavesdropping on me instead.

Not even I'm that stone-headed.

Leaving the snow-covered wood behind, the older man frowned critically at his human pupil. "Didn't shave this morning, I see."

Roran self-consciously rubbed at his stubble. "I was thinking of growing it out. You shaved your beard off to change your appearance, so why can't I do the opposite?"

The former Rider climbed up into the saddle with experienced ease, pausing expectantly when Roran didn't push back to give him his position. Eragon raised one scaly brow. "What?" Brom's eyes widened as realization dawned. "Ah. Your 'cousin', your front seat. I see how it goes."

Things up in the saddle became awkwardly silent as the two men struggled to maintain their personal space in such a small area. Beneath them, Eragon shivered with the force of his suppressed laughter.

Don't worry, Roran, Saphira assured her Rider. I should be strong enough for you to ride soon.

Heaving against gravity with the weight of two passengers, Eragon growled with the effort. Aye. Then I'll have you all for myself, Brom.

Brom shuddered with the countless horrific possibilities. "Pardon my enthusiasm," he drawled dryly.

Flying high over Carvahall for the final time, Saphira didn't glance back at the place she had little attachment to, for she already had her three dearest companions alongside her. Eragon's adolescent heart soared with the adventure he had longed for since being a tiny hatchling.

But it was not the dragons Brom worried for. Roran stared wistfully back even as Garrow's cottage became a tiny blur. Nudging his companion firmly, the older man made him look at him.

"So, Roran, did I ever tell you of when my Saphira and I left for our first big assignment?"

"No." Roran's eyes shone with earnest interest. "Go on."

And when Carvahall finally vanished from view altogether, no one particularly seemed to notice.

Chapter Text

Come on, hatchling, keep up.

Far behind him, Saphira panted, glaring daggers at his back. Then slow down!

Eragon casually craned his neck around, untouched. Time's not on our side, hatchling. Brom may be our mentor but he's still a member of the Varden. I'm certainly not going to give him any extra time to change my mind about not dying. As soon as I can breathe fire, and protect us all, we're out of Alagaesia for good.

Then what does they have to do me? Saphira grumbled. I already know how to fly!

We'll building up your endurance. The brown dragon swooped back, settling next to her. Gods know how far we'll have to travel to get away. Cowering on Vroengard or in the Boer Mountains will only hide us for so long before the King can hunt us down like prey.

Saphira glanced at him. Eragon's gaze remained fixated somewhere far beyond her, where only he could see. Where do we go?

To a continent Galbatorix's evil never touched, he breathed. Forget about the northern wastelands or the endless plains of grass to the east. West, to the human homelands, or maybe even Alalea.

Ala-what?

The elf's homeland, where they came across the sea in their silver ships, Eragon answered dreamily. Brom's showed me a few of their ballads. Every elf poet has apparently written something about Alalea. Worst case scenario, it's a fresh start with no evil kings. Best case scenario, paradise on earth.

Saphira tentatively peeked further into his mind. His imagination filled unknowns; a day or two's flight over the Silver Sea, beyond elegant coastal cities, to green and unending mountains. There the skies shimmered every color of the rainbow; dragons hunting, dragons her age playing, safe and sound where the King's evil could never touch them...

Awe-struck, Saphira nodded. Aye, let's go...

She trailed off, realizing her companion had long since tuned her out. Sighing, Saphira veered off to find herself some prey, leaving Eragon alone with a fantasy even she was starting to like.

West.

His cousin was captivated by the word, a simple idea that their lives didn't have to begin and end in Galbatorix's Alagaesia (and, with the elves and dwarves shoved to the far corners of the land, it was his.) Even Saphira now exhausted herself in 'stamina' flights to make it across a sea she had never seen.

Considering his only other options were to die for a cause he didn't believe in or hide around waiting for that cause to find him, Roran had to admit heading west was a far better alternative.

"Try again."

Grinding his teeth, Roran scowled at the deceivingly innocent pebble laying on the ground before him. "Stenr risa."

He slumped forward, exhausted from the effort. The pebble twitched before falling still. Hurling it across the clearing would have been so much easier.

"Promising," Brom allowed, blue eyes sharp. "Just concentrate, Roran."

The younger man glanced down to the journal resting by his feet. Every word of the Ancient Language he had learned was painstakingly written down within, definitions, pronunciations, and all. Most Riders took years to discover their inner magic. Even with tutelage, Roran's progress had been agonizingly slow, especially with swordplay and other lessons eating up what precious time they had.

"I am concentrating."

"Are you?" Brom asked dryly. "Mental arts certainly never took you this long."

Roran clenched his fists, knuckles going white, not trusting himself to speak.

A gods-know-how-long journey across the sea, unknown dangers, no maps, and I'm stuck here learning how to levitate rocks!

"Stenr risa," he growled aloud, forcing his anger and frustration upon the pebble until it wobbled inches above the cavern floor.

Bruised and battered, Roran allowed the training sword to slip numbly through his fingers. Saphira was instantly upon him, wrapping a protective wing around him and growling warningly at Brom.

From the far side of the clearing, Eragon rolled his eyes in exasperation. They were just sparring, Saphira. It's nothing to get upset about!

The smaller she-dragon hissed indignantly. It is when you can feel it! She turned toward her, trying to lick his bruised arms like a mother cat would a squirming kitten. Why you even need that pointy stick anyway? I'd rip anyone looking at you the wrong way apart!

Covered in dragon drool, Roran wriggled from her grasp, beat-red as he refused to look an amused Brom in the eye. "I'm fine," he assured them all. "My pride's wounded more than I am right now."

Brom chuckled, lighting the waiting fire with a simple spell. "You'll learn. It took me years of rigorous practice to become the master I am today." He went to stroke his beard, frowning slightly when he met only thin air. "Fortunately, not many on Galbatorix's side have the strength and speed of fully-realized Dragon Riders. In a few months you'll be able to best most of them in a straight sword fight."

Does it even matter? Saphira muttered, settling in to her familiar spot beside Eragon. The older dragon didn't comment, knowing she only sidled up to him to steal his own warmth. We'll be leaving this land for good once stone-head can breathe fire. She looked curiously at Brom. How far away are the lands across the sea? The elf one sounds like it would be more interesting than the human homelands.

Eragon's amber eyes narrowed suspiciously. Even the most expansive maps Brom had shown him barely encompassed Du Weldenvarden and the Boer Mountains. They showed nothing of the unknown lands to the north, east, and south, let alone what lay across the Silver Sea.

Aye, he said, dangerously calm. Care to show us a few maps, old man? Might as well start planning for the journey.

Brom diligently guarded his mind and secrets as a besieged army would their fortress. Yet beneath a dragon's scrutiny, not even he could not hide tell-tale tics of nervousness; a pause in his breathing, the quick flick of his eyes to another target. Eragon growled, rising to his full imposing height as he rounded on a mentor who had danced around the truth long enough.

Eragon! Saphira cried, aghast. What in the seven hells is wrong with you!?

Roran glanced between them, torn between the insistent glare of his cousin and the frightened half of his own soul. Putting a hand upon Saphira's side, he too turned commandingly to Brom, far more intimidating than he had ever been before with his stubbly beard and two dragons at his side.

"Once again, my cousin is right. How many days have we wasted on magic while he and Saphira prepare for a journey you never want to get around to planning?" At this, even the sapphire she-dragon's gaze snapped questioningly to the older man. "Do you just not want the last free dragons and Rider to leave you people to your doomed war-"

"Doomed?" With a mad glint in his icy eyes, Brom rounded on them, clean-shaven face haggard from weeks of lean living. "What do you know of being doomed, boy, of being forsaken by whatever gods you once worshiped as you call out only for de-"

Eragon roared, trembling the cave's walls as he drowned all argument out. With smoke billowing from his maw, never quite sparking into flame, he jutted his snout inches from Brom's face. What. Happened. In the. West.

Face becoming ominously blank, Brom stepped back and exhaled before calmly asking, "Who here remembers their history lessons?" All three of his students drew back, miffed. "When did the last human ship arrive in Alagaesia?"

Almost eight hundred years ago, Eragon answered tersely. Dark-skinned men who-

"Barely made it shore in a tattered, leaking vessel with whatever of their families remained." The former Rider eased himself onto the floor. "Come. This is not a tale to hear standing up."

Suspiciously glancing at each other, Eragon and Saphira curled up together, Roran taking the warmest spot between them.

What does this have to-

"Dear, stone-headed Eragon," Brom intoned, "have you ever wondered why the elves of the old sagas I sing to you always pine for the wine-dark sea and their silver ships, yet even before the Forsworn drove them into Du Weldenvarden, never settled too close to the coast? Why does even Teirm, wealthiest of the Imperial ports, receive ships only from as far away as Surda and the northern trading outposts?"

Roran rolled his eyes. "What sane kingdom wouldn't cut themselves off from a mad tyrant?"

"Then why, when the Forsworn was at his disposal, did the mad tyrant simply not head off after them? Or, if not for human conquest, then in search of dragons that survived his purge?"

Eragon felt Saphira shiver against him. Then... what...

Brom sighed deeply, looking every bit his one-hundred-something years. "For the sake of your futures, I'll tell you, everything that I know of it..."

Magic, gramarye to those who now know it best, has existed from the dawn of time. Even when bound to language by the Gray Folk, supposedly to make it safer, that race only gave their lives to make such a powerful, all-encompassing force accessible to those that had not the strength to wield it before. For the creative, word meaning is loose, and even a child's level spell can bring an empire to its knees.

Ancient elves were much like normal humans today; relatively short-lived, constantly outstripping resources to support an ever-growing population, and deviously innovative in gaining a leg-up over the competition. When a small fleet departed Alalea for lands unknown, they destroyed their graceful silver ships the moment they landed on an alien shore, regardless of the dangers it held. Dragons, for all of their fire and tenacity, were worth warring against, even if the elves were destroyed alongside them.

Riders long before my time attempted to decipher surviving records of those first elves. From war, disease, or age, those who had actually partaken in the journey were all long-dead. No other ships arrived after that first fleet. Those passages that mentioned Alalea were in the context of how the elves wished to remember their homeland.

Records indicate that Urgals originated from the same homeland, arriving some years after the elvan fleet. Perhaps whatever happened there shaped their value of violence and strength, perhaps not, for their lore carries no sound record anything definite.

If Alalea held on after those fleets departed, all it allowed was for whatever evil that had destroyed to fester within its borders and trickle out to the human kingdoms. King Palancar madly waged war against a far-superior army of flying dragons and near-immortal elves. Perhaps he would simply not allow his people to be driven back into the sea. Perhaps, in his eyes, whatever evils his people had fled were far, far worse.

Now consider the Ra'zac and their demonic parents; feeding almost solely upon humans as juveniles, physically similar enough to blend in amongst their prey, strong and fast enough to make a meal out of even the bravest mortal man. Unlike any other sentient race, they are naturally immune to mental powers, and have a breath weapon that can overwhelm any human, but has little to no effect upon dwarves and elves. Fully-grown Lethrblaka can fly and shriek loud enough to stun prey beyond even what their pupae can catch.

In a surviving fragment of the diary of King Palancar's wife, she merely mentions how thankful she is "the scavengers" only followed them, and not "the true nightmares."

Time passed, the old and fearful died, and the young and curious took their place; what remained of their forgotten ancestral homelands, what had returned and rebuilt, how accurate were the old elvan sages and human ballads?

From Alagaesian ports up and down the coast, fleets were launched westward in hopes of rediscovering lost history. Most ships likely succumbed to the notoriously fickle weather of the deep ocean. Those that reached Alalea and the other homelands? Who can say? The few that ever returned were too unstable to get reliable information from.

So the coastal kingdoms had fallen? Perhaps pockets of civilization had survived further inland, beyond whatever hell the ships had encountered. At long last, the Dragon Riders themselves sent an expedition. Not even they could determine how much distance lay between Alagaesia and other land masses, and so sent only the strongest fliers and experienced Riders.

Of the first party sent, none returned. Of the second, larger party, a single mad dragon carrying the corpse of her Rider had her heart give out before she could be treated. The third expedition, armed to the teeth and with several Elders amongst them... well, quite a few made it back. All simply concluded the west was forsaken, and left it at that; their memories of the journey were all tightly sealed.

Most sane individuals gave up after that. No one wanted to order a suicide mission into the frozen north or across the searing Hadarac. The Riders, with their advanced knowledge of the continent and the stars, concluded it best to fly east over the desert and the endless plains after it. If this planet was round, as they so calculated, then it was simply a matter of flying east until the homelands were reached from the backside.

Things were taken slowly, thoughtfully. Forts were established on the eastern coast. Nearby islands for rest and resupply were mapped out. Dragons and Riders treated the journey as if they were flying straight into the gates of hell.

And there...

Eragon blinked, waiting for an ending that never came. Roran and Saphira both simultaneously leaned forward in anticipation. Brom stared blindly ahead, lost in nightmaresthe brown dragon couldn't even guess at.

Well? Eragon prompted. I always heard that those plains were endless, even for a dragon. But if the Riders were setting up bases, then why don't we head east?

"In the eastern sea, the distance between Alagaesia and the other lands is not as drastic," the old man started slowly. "The weather was calmer, more predictable. Even for young dragons, reaching the homelands was no big challenge." His fingers subconsciously tugged a beard no longer there. "Getting back was no big challenge."

The two dragons cocked their heads in confusion while Roran furrowed his brow. "I don't understand."

"Forts were established," Brom repeated haltingly. "Supplies were imported, especially livestock for the dragons."

Saphira snorted indignantly. Those dragons were too pampered to catch their own prey?

"What else was there to eat?"

Deer, mountain goat, bear, the she-dragon dutifully ticked off, boar, bison, fish-

"Oh, there was plenty of food for the Riders." Brom shrugged, his tone almost mocking. "Fields and mountains were lush with edible plants and the oceans offered seaweed to be stored and dried for the livestock that could summon it. But were where the huge schools fish, the herds of deer and mountain goat and-"

Eragon's hackles involuntarily rose as a chill shivered through his tensed muscles.

Brom nodded at him. "According to records, it took days for those in the east to control that reaction, just as wild dragons roosted in the region never strayed from the Boer Mountains . And dragons aren't the only ones with such a sense for self-preservation."

No wild animals, no prey for us, the brown dragon realized, amber eyes wide. Wild prey, anyway.

"Compared to the Silver Sea, the waters were gentle, or at least more predictable," Brom said simply. "Even if not, the promise of fresh food was reward enough to try."

All three of his students blinked, trying to process what sort of beast would view full-grown, fire-breathing dragons and their godlike Riders as prey.

"As if anything survived the Riders!" Roran spluttered.

Brom shrugged. "Some battles were won, others lost, but the waves of abominations crawling from the surf were relentless. Most forts were abandoned as Riders were reassigned elsewhere. Even after the Council had dismissed the West as lost to whatever war and magical nightmares had driven our ancestors across the sea in the first place, an outpost of the mad and stubborn remained, fending off attacks and flying out across the sea until reports stopped coming in."

Eragon growled, But what were they?

"What weren't they?" the old man shot back. "Those at war with another can be so creative at it; normal creatures reshaped into ruthless monsters, beings crafted from dark magic that fed upon the life-forces of their prey, perhaps even abominations from another plane of existence summoned into our world. What specimens the Riders could study were horribly burned by dragon-fire, survivors of attacks too few and unreliable to build an account on."

The brown dragon fell silent, trying to fully comprehend entire nations destroyed by their own creations, a world with nowhere else to hide, an entire proud and noble race down to just two free survivors.

Leaning forward, Eragon disgorged his half-digested deer, and wailed his grief.

Instinctively, Saphira lurched away from Eragon, dragging Roran back by the tunic. She barely saved him from being bowled over as the brown dragon surged out of the cave in an explosion of heart-broken rage and golden flame.

"His first fire," Brom breathed in awe. "A pity it was in such circumstances."

Roran tugged himself from his she-dragon's grip, wearing a furious snarl that better suited her. "You should have told him, all of us earlier, before we built our hopes up for, for-"

"For the fact our ancestors all fled the creations that led to their own destruction?" Brom scolded gently. "Or that there was no place left for the dragons to flee, as if they would ever back down so willingly?" His ancient, agonized blue eyes closed. "Would you have believed me if I had first told you that? In no good conscience could I send the world's last free dragons and Rider charging obliviously to their doom, untried and untrained."

Roran clenched his fists, simmering powerlessly before he turned to Saphira. "Eragon! We should-"

Maternally, the sapphire she-dragon pressed down his rage with waves of calm. Your cousin needs his space to rage, to grieve like all hotheaded males must. Give him it.

"But-"

Coolly, Saphira leveled her gaze on the old man with a sharpness that did not fit a three-month-old. We agreed to have Brom teach us only until Eragon could breathe fire. You know how to wield a sword and enough to get by in the ancient language. I'm big enough to fend for myself. Should you choose, we can always part ways now.

Silently, Brom dipped his head in resignation, and slipped out of the cave. Saphira doubted he'd go crawling back to the rebellion; he had incinerated all evidence of his comfy life in Carvahall to teach them, after all, and would probably need to be shoved off a cliff before he finally took the hint to leave.

Only later, after she had forced Roran down into a fitful sleep, did Saphira finally decide to track down her errant companion, taking wing into a starlit sky. Some leagues away, her sharp gaze caught hint of a small orange flame flickering from a sheltered clearing. At least the old liar would have one long, cold night to think about how best to suck up to those he had so wronged.

It wasn't long until she smelled the smoke.

Frantically, she scanned the skies for smoke-trails a sharp-eyed scout (or Ra'zac) would notice disrupting the starlight. Finding no tell-tale wisps, Saphira banked sharply left, bracing for disaster.

On the charred peak, Eragon brooded amidst puddles of melted snow. Whatever fire there had been had long since spluttered out on the snow and sparse mountain vegetation, reduced to nothing more than a few scattered, dying embers.

Saphira landed a cautious distance from him. The older dragon, instead of the usual temperamental outburst, only looked at her with disturbingly dim eyes.

Roran's sleeping, the sapphire she-dragon started off gently. Had to force him, of course, but he's safe.

As safe as the last free Dragon Rider in the world can be. Golden eyes narrowed murderously. And the liar?

Gone away from the cave and suffering without our warmth and glorious presence. When the brown dragon didn't snarl warningly,Saphira ventured a few steps forward. You breathed your first flame. We don't need him around anymore.

Eragon flicked his tail and said nothing, staring thoughtfully into the distance. He didn't squirm or bat an eye when Saphira hunkered down beside him for the warmth he radiated. The King must have caught on by now, he mused darkly, or at least sent the Ra'zac back to the Spine. I hope Uncle Garrow chose not to be stubborn and just moved to Teirm. Humans look so alike he'd blend in perfectly.

Saphira nodded absently, her mind still on the man-eating monstrosities that had stalked mankind's ancestors across the sea like vultures tailing a dying animal. You'd be able to just burn the Ra'zac to ash, right? Roran's swordsmanship and magic need so much improvement and I'm months away from my first fire.

Eragon gawked at her strangely, unable to relate the reasonable she-dragon lying next to him as both the egg he had wanted so desperately to hatch or the obnoxious hatchling that had emerged from it. Before you ever exploded into our lives, did you know I had nothing more planned for my future than hanging around and protecting whatever family Roran had at the farm? I just pictured myself waiting in the woods for my 'nieces and nephews' to pop by and visit their lonely fire-breathing uncle.

Saphira recoiled in horror. That's all you ever imagined for yourself!?

I had already scoured the forests of the deep Spine for others of our kind. If Galbatorix's soldiers kept disappearing, why couldn't dragons have been behind it? But no matter how many times I called, no matter how many caves I'd search, I found only their rotting bones. Why would ever I want to leave the loving family I had to become like that searching for dragons elsewhere? Then you came along, and all I wanted was to fly straight out of Alagaesia to where no King could ever touch us. Eragon growled in frustration. All my life... why do I keep thinking running away is the only answer?

The she-dragon remained silent for a long time before quietly asking, If Brom is right about the west, does that make me the last female dragon left in the world?

Aye, her companion answered. Brom told us the last two eggs were male, remember?

Then all future generations could descend from me.

...Aye.

My daughters would have only three mindless slaves to choose as mates, to have their own children hatched into the same cruel life. Sharp blue eyes locked with bewildered amber. My sons would only have their sisters and me.

Had Eragon anything left in his stomach, he would have vomited from the sheer wrongness of such a terrifying thought. Don't even think about that!

Saphira growled, raking her claws against the dirt, imagining it as Galbatorix's hide. I would never subject my children to that, not when I had the power to stop myself. Our race's inevitable end will not be prolonged, especially if the our descendents succumbed to their own inborn faults. Proudly, defiantly, the she-dragon rose to her full height, challenging her companion to argue otherwise.

Eragon, however, only bowed his head in resigned acceptance. Roran showed me in Carvahall what happened when livestock with too closely related each other. No sentient being should have to endure that.

Good.

The brown dragon cocked his head, hackles rising suspiciously. Saphira, what are you-

In exasperation, she whopped the back of his head with her tail. Think, stone-head! If our race's future rests solely with me, then I will end it on my terms, and my terms alone. Her eyes flared with the fire she couldn't unleash, not yet. And I intend to end my life cowering away like a mouse before the hawk.

Eragon balked at her insinuation, burning bright and clear in her every thought and movement... until a spark from Saphira's mind jumped over to his. He rose to tower over her, smoke pouring from his maw as the doubt and fear burned away to a single all-consuming thought.

FIGHT.

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