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Chapter Text

Pro Epi Louge

“Submit!” shouted Galbatorix, and his mind bore down on Eragon witheven greater force as splinters of ice and fire lanced through him from every direction.

Eragon cried out, and in his desperation he reached for Saphira and the Eldunarí—their minds besieged by the crazed dragons of Galbatorix’s command—and without intending to, he drew from their stores of energy. And with that energy, he cast a spell.

It was a spell without words, for Galbatorix’s magic would not allow otherwise, and no words could have described what Eragon wanted, nor what he felt. A library of books would have been insufficient to the task. His was a spell of instinct and emotion; language could not contain it.

What he wanted was both simple and complex: he wanted Galbatorix to understand … to understand the wrongness of his actions. The spell was not an attack; it was an attempt to communicate. If Eragon was going to spend the rest of his life as a slave to the king, then he wanted Galbatorix to comprehend what he had done, fully and completely. As the magic took effect, Eragon felt Umaroth and the Eldunarí turn their attention to his spell, fighting to ignore Galbatorix’s dragons. A hundred years of inconsolable grief and anger welled up within the Eldunarí, like a roaring wave, and the dragons melded their minds with Eragon’s and　began to alter the spell, deepening it, widening it, and building upon it until it encompassed far more than he originally intended.

Not only would the spell show Galbatorix the wrongness of his actions; now it would also compel him to experience all the feelings, both good and bad, that he had aroused in others since the day he had been born. The spell was beyond any Eragon could have invented on his own, for it contained more than a single person, or a single dragon, could conceive of. Each Eldunarí contributed to the enchantment, and the sum of their contributions was a spell that extended not only across the whole of Alagaësia but also back through every moment in time between then and Galbatorix’s birth.

It was, Eragon thought, the greatest piece of magic the dragons had ever wrought, and he was their instrument; he was their weapon. The power of the Eldunarí rushed through him, like a river as wide as an ocean, and he felt a hollow and fragile vessel, as if his skin might tear with the force of the torrent he channeled. If not for Saphira and the other dragons, he would have died in an instant, drained of all strength by the voracious demands of the magic. Around them, the light of the lanterns dimmed, and in his mind, Eragon seemed to hear the echo of thousands of voices: an unbearable cacophony of pains and joys innumerable, echoing forth from both the present and the past. The lines upon Galbatorix’s face deepened, and his eyes began to bulge from their sockets. “What have you done?” he said, his voice hollow and strained. He stepped back and put his fists to his temples. “What have you done!” With an effort, Eragon said, “Made you understand.”

…

Galbatorix’s eyes snapped open—round and rimmed with an unnatural amount of white—and he stared into the distance, as if Eragon and those before him no longer existed. He shook and trembled and his jaw worked, but no sound came from his throat.

Two things happened at once, then. Elva let out a shriek and fainted, and Galbatorix shouted, “Waíse néiat!”

Be not.

Eragon had no time for words. Again drawing upon the Eldunarí, he cast a spell to drag himself, Saphira, Arya, Elva, Thorn, and Murtagh on the dais over to the block of stone where Nasuada was chained. And he also cast a spell to stop or deflect whatever might harm them. They were only halfway to the block when Galbatorix vanished in a flash of light brighter than the sun. Then all went black and silent as Eragon’s protective spell took effect.

…

Waking Dreams

“If you don’t have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over?”

– John Wooden

For a long time, all Eragon could feel was nothingness. No senses, no Saphira in this space. Nothing but the boundless magic pressing in on him from all sides. He felt like he was tumbling head over foot like being tossed through the air by violent winds, yet completely still. Voices overlapping that he couldn’t hear, but he knew they were there all the same.

Then nothing.

Then something.

Then everything.

Then, blinding pain and a bright white light that cast no shadows.

Eragon was first aware of the creaking: back and forth, back and forth. The persistent sound made him open his eyes and stare at the underside of a thatched roof. A rough blanket was draped over him, concealing his nakedness.

Eragon sat up with a start, only for his head to spin completely and blinding pain to cause stars in his vision. He cursed, and someone pushed him back onto the bed, calling him a foolish boy. The voice was strangely familiar; like he had heard it once in a dream or far, far away as a boy.

“I would ask you ---- -----, but by ---- cursing, I -- it’s not ----.” He made out from the throbbing of his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Who’s there?” Eragon whispered, his throat raw and palms pressing into his eyes, trying to dull the pain.

“It’s Gertrude. Brom found you dragging Garrow in, looking like death itself.” Eragon felt a pressure at his legs, like wrappings of a bandage. He moved to shift, only for the pressure to increase to stop him from moving. A shot of pain up his legs stopped him. “I’m the only reason you haven’t bled out or gotten more sick, so I’d appreciate it if you would sit still and reduce the cursing and I won't ask who you learned those words from.”

A moment later, the pressure on his legs evened out and a cool glass was pressed against his lips along with a cool cloth on his forehead. A few small sips and the throbbing had dulled slightly, enough, at least, to begin to think a bit more clearly. And well, it was a lot to think about. With the pain lessening, he took the hands from where they pressed against his head and tried to relax.

As he opened his eyes, he looked around the room. He was in a single-room hut. A mortar and pestle sat on a table with bowls and plants. Rows of dried herbs hung from the walls and suffused the air with strong, earthy aromas. Flames writhed inside a fireplace, before which sat a rotund woman in a wicker rocking chair—the town healer, Gertrude.

It was Gertrude’s house. It sat in the middle of Carvahall. His town. The town he distinctly remembered scrying and found burned to the ground. And then told by Roran that they had fled from the Ra’zac who had destroyed half of it before they left.

“What happened? After the-“ Eragon stopped himself, the memories played back in his mind. He had been fighting Galbatorix in the throne room of Urû’baen and Galbatorix had cast a massive spell. He had thrown up protections, but just as his spell had been meant not to harm, perhaps Galbatorix had only intended to trap them within their minds.

Eragon reached for his magic and found it there, but it was dulled and far from reach. He still knew the words to the ancient language, but it was like his body no longer had the energy that thrummed beneath his skin. He frowned and spread out gently and found no minds in the area around the hut guarded. The lightest touch revealed only mediocre thoughts from people he had known his entire life, the feel of their minds familiar, but still foreign as he had never used magic around them before. He retreated back into his own mind and took a deep breath, trying to regain the energy that was quickly spent by reaching out.

He paused. Was this a trick? Was Galbatorix trying a new game only to submit their loyalty? Eragon had to reach Saphira. Even in his mind, he would be able to tell if she was real, as not even Galbatorix could fake the touch of her mind and their bond, and if they were trapped together, then they could join forces to fight against Galbatorix. He made to reach out further than the nearby houses, but was interrupted.

“After Brom found you?” Gertrude asked, pulling Eragon out of his thoughts. “We took Garrow over to Horst’s. There wasn’t enough room to keep both of you here. And let me tell you, it’s kept me on my toes, having to run back and forth, checking to see if the two of you were all right.”.

“How is he?” Eragon couldn’t help but ask. Even if it was all a dream, a mirage, a falsity that Galbatorix cooked up, he cared for the man who raised him.

“Don’t worry yourself about Garrow. He’ll be fine. He’s a tough man.” Gertrude hung a kettle over the fire, then began chopping parsnips for soup.

“The whole town wants to know what happened. They sent men down to your farm and found it destroyed. Your barn was burned down. Is that how Garrow was injured?”

Eragon paused in listening to the words that sounded familiar. Should he follow the words he said before? Should he tell the truth? If Galbatorix was in his mind, he knew the answers and the words that Gertrude would say were only a memory. He scoffed to himself. Well, if Galbatorix was listening, then he could listen to Eragon speak the truth of what he did to this small village.

“Yes. I got back from the Carvahall since Horst told me to get home quickly, but there was shouting coming from the house.” He thought quickly for an answer that wouldn’t be too specific. “I ran into the forest to hide. I tumbled down a ravine and hit my head. I woke up the next morning and I had to climb out. By the time I go to the house, it looked like that.”

He sat in uneasy silence, his mind racing, until the soup was ready and Gertrude allowed him to go over to Horst’s and visit Garrow. He leaned on her for most of the walk, but the pain was not the worst he had felt of late.

The door was opened by Elaine, and Eragon marveled at her lithe form, her blonde hair pinned neatly in a way it likely hadn’t been since they left Carvahall all those months ago. As Eragon made his way through the house, it was like he was floating through a memory, the staircase smooth and cool beneath his fingers. Elaine was saying something, but Eragon could only marvel at the details he didn’t know he remembered. The walls were the color of honey. The door was intricately carved. Horst’s hand which had been used for nothing but war and fighting in recent times had created this entire house by and left it to burn to save his family and the village by following Roran. Because of him.

Eventually his wandering mind came into sharp view as he stepped through the bedroom door to find Katrina boiling rags at the fireplace, and Gertrude grinding herbs beside her.

Garrow lay on a bed piled high with blankets. Sweat covered his brow, and his eyeballs flickered blindly under their lids. The skin on his face was shrunken like a cadaver’s. He was still, save for subtle tremors from his shallow breathing. Eragon touched his uncle’s forehead with a feeling of unreality. It burned against his hand. He apprehensively lifted the edge of the blankets and saw that Garrow’s many wounds were bound with strips of cloth. Where the bandages were being changed, the burns were exposed to the air. They had not begun to heal.

He looked over the wounds. The seither oil had done its worst on the man and the wounds weren’t closing.

Gertrude spoke from the corner, “I’ve tried everything: salves, poultices, tinctures, but nothing works. If the wounds closed, he would have a better chance. Still, things may turn for the better. He’s hardy and strong.”

“Could I have just a moment with him?” Eragon whispered and after a brief moment of hesitation and glancing at each other, the women left the room quietly. Eragon looked over the wounds, the words of healing forming in his mind. His training with Oromis has been thorough and he had the knowledge of how to withdraw the seither oil from the man’s wounds. There were also the memories from the-

The thought escaped him as he glanced down at his hands. They were still young, unburdened with the war he had spent years fighting. Sure there were scrapes and bruises from the farm, but his childhood scars were there. He brushed a hand over his ears, round and soft. His eyes didn’t pull at the corners. His senses were not as sharp. The magic of the elves had left this body. But the magic… Eragon spoke a simple word over one of the scrapes on his arms and it healed without draining all his energy, though it was more of a struggle. His magic felt like it did before the Blood Oath Celebration when he was transformed. He was strong, but not as he once was… could be…

Eragon stopped the line of thought and went back to Garrow. So, his magical ability hadn’t disappeared- he could probably do most of the spells he was familiar with without hurting Garrow.

Eragon quickly looked over Garrow and whispered the words the Edul- Oromis had taught him. He coaxed the seither oil out from the man’s veins, whispering for it to obey. The oil came bubbling to the top of his skin, like pus, then slowly released to the magic, floating just over his skin in a sphere, no more than a shot of liquor from the tavern. It didn’t cost as much energy as he had expected, but the strain of working to seek and extract all the oil made him feel mentally exhausted.

Eragon fumbled in his words as he tried to figure out a plan for the oil. He could save it and use it against others, but even then it ran the risk of hurting someone he cared about. He instead moved it towards the fire and dropped it in to let it burn.

All of a sudden, Eragon realized his mistake as the oil flared up in the fire, raising the temperature by a dozen degrees in a flash as the oil was quickly eaten by the flames. He dodged away from the licking of the hot flames and threw up a hastily worded shield.

As the fire died down along with the rapid heartbeat in his ears, Eragon froze, hoping it hadn’t been noticed by the other inhabitants of the house. When no one came pounding down the hallway to see what was the matter, Eragon released the magic before it could eat up any more of his quickly fading energy and surveyed Garrow once again, to check on his wounds.

Like Getrude had said, Garrow was strong. He would survive this if his body was able to heal. But it would take too long for his wounds to heal, especially with the damage the seither oil already did.

Eragon looked back in his memory to the scrolls that Oromis had forced him to read. The memories were hard to retrieve. He barely remembered what the scrolls looked like, but he could remember some things. The skin was the uppermost organ. The easiest to heal. But the damage was done to the muscle and the internal organs. If he was careful to heal only the internal problems and left the skin the same, hopefully Garrow would heal just fine and be stuck with only scabs and scars to heal on his own and the others in the house would be none the wiser of his or any magic involved.

He formed the spell in his head, running over it many times for any mistakes. Arya and Glaedr weren’t here to check him, and he wasn’t about to curse his uncle in the same way he had harmed Elva. Despite his own reservations of using his energy, even if this was a mirage or a trick by Galbatorix, if he could make any kind of difference, he would. If Saphira were in the area, he would beg for her reserves as well to try and save the man.

Then, after a few silent minutes, he began murmuring and then singing quietly the words of the spell, the mark on his palm lighting up and his energy slowly seeping from his body into his uncle’s. Several minutes and most of his energy later, he let the spell finish and dragged his now heavy eyes to his uncle’s body. His face was still pale, but no longer looked like a corpse. His temperature was still above average, but hopefully would drop soon, and the open wounds had begun to form a thin crust to them.

Eragon closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bottom of the bed, too tired to get up. Now, if Garrow had resolve, he would have the strength to push through.

He wasn’t sure how much later it was when he was roused from the darkness of the void to the door being pushed open and Horst walking in, his figure towering over Eragon’s form by Garrow’s bedside.

“Come on. You need to get out of here.” Eragon let Horst drag him out, eventually picking him up and carrying him downstairs to the kitchen before placing him in a chair at the table.

“I think I may have overdone it on the walk over.” Eragon mumbled, the lie coming out of his mouth easily.

Horst nodded and placed a plate of food in front of Eragon. Only then did he notice the boys had stopped talking to their mother and were trying not to look too suspicious in staring at Eragon.

Eragon began eating slowly as Horst exchanged glances with Elaine. After a moment, he asked Eragon in a gentle voice, “I know this isn’t the best time, but we need to know . . . what happened?”

Eragon contemplated how much he should tell them as he finished chewing his food. “There was shouting coming from the house when I got back. I ran into the forest to hide, but I tumbled down a ravine and hit my head. I woke up the next morning and I had to climb out. By the time I got home, it looked like that. I dug through the wreckage and found Garrow. Those strangers in town were the ones who did it. This was in Garrow’s hand.” He pulled out the scrap of fabric he had in his pocket.

“It does,” said Horst. He looked both thoughtful and angry. “And what of your legs? How were they injured?”

“I’m not sure,” said Eragon, shaking his head. “I think it happened when I dug Garrow out, but I don’t know. It wasn’t until the blood started dripping down my legs that I noticed it.” Eragon felt bad lying about that, but if any of them had their memories read, he couldn’t have them knowing about Saphira. It would only put them in more danger.

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Elaine.

“We should pursue those men,” stated Albriech hotly. “They can’t get away with this! With a pair of horses we could catch them tomorrow and bring them back here.”

“Put that foolishness out of your head,” said Horst. “They could probably pick you up like a baby and throw you in a tree. Remember what happened to the house? We don’t want to get in the way of those people. Besides, they have what they want now.” He looked at Eragon. “They did take the stone, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t in the house.”

“Then there’s no reason for them to return now that they have it.” He gave Eragon a piercing look. “You didn’t mention anything about those strange tracks. Do you know where they came from?”

Eragon shook his head. “I didn’t see them.”

Baldor abruptly spoke. “I don’t like this. Too much of this rings of wizardry. Who are those men? Are they Shades? Why did they want the stone, and how could they have destroyed the house except with dark powers? You may be right, Father, the stone might be all they wanted, but I think we will see them again.”

Silence followed his words.

They discussed more about Roran and telling him for a bit before the men left Eragon alone in the kitchen with Elaine slowly working the bread. Eragon was contemplating his next move- should he warn the village about the Raz’ac returning to Carvahall? How could he protect them this time?- when the familiar touch of Saphira’s mind reached him.

“ERAGON!”

“SAPHIRA!” Eragon cried, sitting up quickly and agitating his scabs. He pushed love, joy, sadness through their bond.

“Do you remember?” She asked after a moment. “Where we were before?”

Eragon paused. “Urû’baen. So, you remember too?” He sat back in the chair and tried to not look too eager, calming his face so that Elaine wouldn’t notice him acting strangely.

“Yes,” she paused. “There are gaps where I know something important is missing. Something very important we did before we went to the city. But everything else is there. I woke this morning and found myself here again. I nearly burned down the forest trying to find you.”

“Do you believe it is a trick by Galbatorix?” Eragon asked

“We can’t know for sure.” She huffed. “If Glaedr was here, we could know, but so far, I can only feel the familiar touch of your mind. Everyone else belongs here. There’s nothing out of place that could tell me that this is a trick.” She sent an image of a clump of trees outside the village. “I am resting here for a moment when you can see me. I will investigate while you rest and we can try to decipher this mystery together.” She pressed through her mind love, trust and be safe

….

They parted reluctantly. He looked out a window and was surprised to see that the sun had set. Feeling very tired, he limped to Elaine, who was wrapping meat pies with oilcloth. “I’m going back to Gertrude’s house to sleep,” he said.

She finished with the parcels and asked, “Why don’t you stay with us? You’ll be closer to your uncle, and Gertrude can have her bed back.”

“Do you have enough room?” he asked, voice wavering.

“Of course.” She wiped her hands. “Come with me; I’ll get everything ready.” She escorted him upstairs to an empty room and helped lay out the linens. He sat on the edge of the bed as she leaned against the doorway. “Do you need anything else?” she asked. He shook his head. “In that case, I’ll be downstairs. Call me if you need help.” He listened as she descended the stairs. He lay, staring at the ceiling for several minutes, before carefully getting up and slipping down the hallway to Garrow’s room. Gertrude gave him a small smile over her darting knitting needles as he peered in from the door.

“How is he?” whispered Eragon.

Her voice rasped with fatigue. “He’s weak, but the fever’s gone down a little and some of the burns look better. We’ll have to wait and see, but this could mean he’ll recover.”

That lightened the weight on Eragon’s chest, and he returned to his room. The darkness seemed foreboding as he huddled under the blankets. Eventually he fell asleep, healing the wounds his body and soul had suffered.

Chapter Text

“Time stays long enough for those who use it.” — Leonardo Da Vinci

When he woke, he slowly opened his eyes to see the same view he fell asleep to. Sun had just brushed the edges of the surrounding mountains and he could see the pink clouds beginning to darken with the sunrise.

The house below him was starting to wake up with the crackling of firewood in the hearth, and the sound of bowls gently being placed on the table. Eragon slipped out of his room and walked silently down the hallway. His heart clenched at the sight of an ajar door and the quiet settled. Would it be like before?

Nervous, he opened the door to find Garrow on the bed, shallow breaths causing the bandages on his chest to rise and fall. He stepped closer and placed his hand gently on Garrow’s cheek. It still burned with fever, but less so. He checked on the injuries and ran over them again, careful not to heal him so much that Gertrude would be suspicious. He cast the spell again to search for the seither oil and was relieved to find none left in the man’s body. He sighed and released the magic which he noticed had made him drowsy again. What he wouldn’t give to have the Ed-

Gertrude stepped in the room, creaking a floorboard and startled Eragon from where he stood over his uncle. Eragon turned back to where his hand rested in Garrow’s. What was he just thinking about? He racked his brain. It had to have been important. It would help heal Garrow. Frustrated, he sat on the floor, feeling the exhaustion of the magic taking its toll on his body. Gertrude walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I told you he was strong. His fever is starting to break. Hopefully by nightfall we will begin to see him improving. The wounds are finally starting to heal as well. I still don’t know if he’ll make it, but he has been fighting which does well for him.”

Eragon just nodded and numbly let himself be led downstairs to where breakfast was waiting. After a hearty breakfast and enough conversation, he excused himself to take a walk without much suspicion.

He made his way to a clearing just outside of town. He sat down on a stump, brushing off the snow and stared at the sky, taking deep breaths. He reached out his mind to the insects that lay beyond what the eye could see. He felt the slow breaths of a rabbit in its den for the winter. Beyond where he could see, he could tell there were two deer digging in the fresh snow for roots that may have survived.

He brought his mind back and reached out to Saphira.

Have you decided if this is a trick or not? He asked. I can feel the animals and insects. I can touch these hundreds of creatures with my mind. Surely Galbatorix can’t falsify even the senses of my mind. Or he has truly won and we have brought the world to ruin by falling under his control.

I don’t know Eragon. Brom sought me out this morning, but I didn’t try to touch his mind for fear of it being a way to attack if I let my guard down. He merely came to the farm and shouted the words I remember him saying before that his is a rider and a friend. He spoke in the ancient language, so at the very least, he is telling the truth, whether this is a memory or a dream though, I know not.

Should I follow the same path as before then and flee the town? What of Garrow?

Roran shall be here soon, either to care for him or bury him.

Then I shall leave a letter this time. The truth to Roran. And maybe I can be of help when the Ra’zac come to attack again.

Very well. I shall be waiting for you and Brom at the house.

Eragon broke the connection after they spoke a bit more, and focused on the soil below him. The soil here was rich, as the people of Palancar Valley regularly farmed the soil, but the valley hadn’t faced the invasive construction of houses and shops that were familiar in the cities. Therefore, no one had any reason to guess the soil here had more flecks of metals than in the southern areas of the countries.

He spread out in the clearing and pulled the flecks towards him. He then pulled up gold from the ground, forming it into small pressed tokens, similar to the crowns Galbatorix used in his cities. He snuck from the clearing over to Gedric’s tanning vats. He didn’t bother trying to find the man, but rather left the one of the gold coins on one of the old slickers that looked recently used and placed a brush on top to keep it from view.

Then, he placed the folded leather hides in the woods where he had before and made his way to the butcher’s shop. The front door was locked, but he could hear Sloan in the back sharpening his knives. Eragon listened to the area and no one was coming to the butcher’s shop this early, neither was anyone looking for him yet.

He entered the shop quietly and found himself staring at Sloan’s back. The man had just finished sharpening one of his knives against a whetstone and was checking the point against the light.

Eragon took a calming breath, steadying his mind and then cleared his throat. Sloan whipped around and his neutral expression was instantly replaced with a sneer.

“What do you want, boy? You’ve brought nothing but trouble into this town. Look at what you've done to Garrow's place. Who knows what you'll do to the rest of us!”

Eragon fixed his glare into something that he hoped mirrored his look in battle. It probably looked less intimidating on a boy of sixteen and not one with the features of a battle-worn elf, but it would do nonetheless.

“For that Sloan, I am sorry. I don’t mean to cause the village trouble and I wish I could have avoided this. Be at peace knowing I intend to leave the valley and I won’t return.” Eragon lowered his voice. “But, I will tell you this, Sloan. I can apologize for my actions but unfortunately my destiny is set and no matter how I seek to avoid it, I cannot prevent what will happen. You already told those creatures that I had the stone, which led to my family’s farm being destroyed and Garrow being killed. That is your burden to bear.

You have a choice now. Very shortly that choice will come to light and you will either side with Carvahall; the people you have known and that your wife and Katrina love, or side with the creatures that will chew the marrow from your bones and not even blink. You will lose Katrina and there is nothing you can do to get her back.”

Eragon flipped the other gold coin onto the butcher’s block and they both watched it settle in the water from the whetstone. “Take that as an investment and a promise that Roran is worth more than you think. It is my fault he is without an inheritance and I intend to pay that back in due time, but if you risk your own daughter’s happiness for spite and hatred then you will be left with nothing but regret and remorse for the rest of your bitter life.”

As the man stood frozen, bristling with anger, Eragon turned sharply away and walked out the door before Sloan recovered and began sputtering curses after him. Before making his way back to the leathers, he stopped at Gertrude’s. She looked surprised to see him.

“Is there anything I can do for you Eragon? Your uncle hasn’t changed in his condition since I last checked.”

“No, I was wondering if I could borrow some parchment.”

Gertrude looked a bit shocked at the statement of him writing but supplied him with the paper nonetheless. When he was finished, he folded it up and sealed it with wax from a nearby candle.

“When Roran arrives, I'd be grateful if you could give him this. Also, please give my thanks to Horst and Elaine for caring for my uncle. If he lives, I know they will likely house him and Roran until he is well enough to rebuild and I apologize for leaving like this.”

Eragon looked up from the cooled wax to find Gertrude’s eyes boring into his. She seemed to be inspecting him completely.

“Something is different about you. And not just how oddly you’ve been acting. Where are you even planning on going?”

Eragon hummed and returned the quill and ink to where Gertrude had retrieved them from. “Unfortunately, your lives will never be the same because of me and I sincerely wish I could have done more to change that.” With that, he gave Gertrude a hug and left for the clearing with a small loaf of fresh bread she tucked in his hands before he could leave. He ran quickly to the clearing, as he knew he only had a matter of time before Horst would notice his absence and Gertrude would tell them where he went.

Eragon stopped in front of the empty clearing that held footprints instead of leather hides and smiled as he heard the snow crunch behind him. He quickly schooled his expression and turned to see Brom holding the leathers he had taken from Gedric.

“Going somewhere?”

…

Roran,

I am sorry I cannot say this in person, but- ….

…

Chapter Text

“He who knows most grieves most for wasted time.”

— Dante Alighieri

Eragon allowed Brom’s interrogation to play out the same way as far as he could remember. Saphira often had to remind him of what he didn’t know and Eragon found himself staying quieter than he could ever remember around Brom.

You think far too much, little one. Saphira mused.

Around their campsite, he shot a few squirrels and gathered what roots he knew of to make a stew when they settled for the night. After the stew finished and the fire burned lower, they spoke of Zar’roc and the Ra’zac, Saphira’s egg and how it appeared. He paused at Brom’s explanation of him being only a storyteller.

“Who are you?” Eragon asked, placing a familiar accusatory weight in his voice, if only for show. “And how did a mere village storyteller happen to have a Rider’s blade? How do you know about the Ra’zac?”

Brom tapped his pipe. “I thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to talk about that.”

Eragon sighed, “I’ve trusted you this far because Saphira respects you, but how can I trust you with all our secrets. You could be leading her to danger! You’re not the person I’ve known in Carvahall for all of these years.”

For a long time Brom stared at the smoke swirling between them, deep lines creasing his forehead. When he stirred, it was only to take another puff. Finally, he said, “You’ve probably never thought about it, but most of my life has been spent outside of Palancar Valley. It was only in Carvahall that I took up the mantle of storyteller. I have played many roles to different people—I’ve a complicated past. It was partly through a desire to escape it that I came here. So no, I’m not the man you think I am.”

“So who or what were you before coming to Carvahall?” Eragon asked.

“A gardener.” Brom said with a finality to his statement.

Eragon turned over to feign sleep and hide his laughter. A gardener, he laughed to Saphira. Is that really what he went with considering he had just killed Morzan before coming to Carvahall?

He did spend the years in Morzan’s estate as a gardener. Oromis said that’s how he met Selena.

What do you think of him so far? Real or another trick of Galbatorix’s?

I have not attempted to brush his mind. Perhaps tomorrow when we are well rested. He will be more skilled than us this time around but the touch of his mind will tell me the truth if it is Galbatorix.

But it will also tip him off that we remember if it is him. Already I seem like less of a curious and stupid young man. Don’t you see how he looks at me? Either way, if we decide to travel and take this path, it will be months on the road with you just as bored as before. Is there anything you wish to do away from us?

I don’t wish to part from you this early.

And yet, if you want to go to Oromis, it may prove useful to us if we need help or Glaedr’s power to defeat Durza without nearly dying in Farthern Dur.

But what of you? It seems every time I leave you, you get into more trouble.

The worst we can do is spar and learn magic. I have until Dras-Leona to find a way to save Brom from his fate.

Be what it may, we shall make our decisions tomorrow when you have rested more and we have a chance to talk with Brom. I will stay with you until we decide otherwise.

…

The next day, they made the saddle for Saphira and Eragon got Brom talking on the topic of dragon lifestyles. He tentatively broached the subject as if he was curious.

“Can all dragons speak to each other using their minds?”

“Well, how else would they communicate?”

“Does that mean I can speak with other people through my mind?” he asked, careful not to seem too interested in the topic.

Brom hummed as he worked, “The minds of men are not so different from a dragon’s or horse’s. It’s a simple thing to do, but it’s a power you must use sparingly and with great caution. A person’s mind is his last sanctuary. You must never violate it unless circumstances force you to. The Riders had very strict rules regarding this. If they were broken without due cause, the punishment was severe.”

Brom spoke more on minds, touching others’ and shielding oneself before Eragon could ask his question.

“Then,” Eragon paused. “Could you try to tell me something in my mind? If not only so that I know what it feels like and how to block it.”

Brom hummed and then sat up straighter and looked him dead in the eye. “When you block me, think of only one thing. Allow it to hold all your attention and think of nothing else.”

With that, Eragon nodded and focused on an image of Saphira’s scales. Then, he felt the touch of Brom’s mind. Saphira felt his shock and immediately joined his link and pushed Brom out before Eragon could let his surprise drop his shields.

Brom blinked several times and went back to his work. “I saw Saphira’s scales but nothing else. It was good of Saphira to join you to push out a threat. But a little less harshly next time. I am not as young as you.”

Eragon nodded and let the conversation fall back into the mating habits of dragons and other small tidbits. He idly let his mind connect to Saphira’s.

What did it feel like to you?

It felt like his mind. It was similar to before. But I can’t know if it’s a memory or the truth. Honestly I’m not sure. If it isn’t a trick, that means we are truly in the past, but I didn’t cast a spell of that magnitude- which means someone else did.

It could still be a trick either way?

Yes. We must wait until he offers information neither we nor Galbatorix would know. Something new enough to be proof that this is not a falsity nor a dream.

Then we shall continue in silence. But if we truly are back to the beginning? What should we do? Should we risk making changes?

I think that anything is worth the risk if it means we can stop Galbatorix and stop the deaths of so many.

…

As Eragon continued on his journey with Brom, it felt like he was floating through a memory. The actions he took felt rehearsed, but easy. Almost like he was in one of Brom’s tales.

They made it through Therinsford with no issue and collected Snowfire and Cadoc. Eragon smiled as he pet both the horses. It had been a while since he had seen the two of them together. Cadoc, especially, was a nostalgic sight as he had sold off the horse after Brom had died after Dras-Leona.

As they approached Yazuc, Eragon shared a tentative mental nudge with Saphira. She prodded back and they both decided to continue on into Yazuc. They had been trying to push the horses a little further each day, and he healed his legs each day a little bit of his discomfort, so they ended up covering more distance quicker than they had last time, but it seems fate had decided that this was not a place or a people he could save.

Coming back to this sight wasn’t any easier. Eragon still threw up over the horrendous sight of the poor villagers slaughtered by the Urgals. He kept his bow strung and trained on the shadows.

Brom jumped back on his horse with a shout, “They’re still here!” and they galloped forward, but this time, he kept his mind trained on the only living things in the city. As the Urgal swung from the shadows, he released the arrow on his bow with a snap and the first one stumbled back with an arrow in his eye. Eragon cursed as his aim held true, but it didn’t kill the beast. He continued forward and swung in a wide arc, turning Cadoc around and aiming another arrow for the Urgal as it stood and began charging towards him, sword in hand.

Another shot landed true to his aim in the other eye. Just then, Saphira landed on top of one of the houses and roared, distracting the Urgals. Just as Brom fell into his saddle limp, Eragon cried out and taunted the Urgals to follow him. He turned down a familiar alley and with the Urgals in a row, he released an arrow down the alleyway, whispering Brisingr under his breath. The arrow wreathed in fire and shot down the alley to where the urgals had lined up perfectly to shoot through their foreheads and the blue shock wave dissipated into the stale air.

As Saphira left to make sure the rest of the village was free from threats, Eragon quickly made his way back to Brom who was nursing a shallow cut on his arm. The red tint and the way he held it showed that it wasn’t as badly injured as previous, but the bone was surely broken underneath.

He grabbed cloth from the saddlebag of Cadoc who had since returned and began bandaging Brom’s arm, careful to stabilize it and fit it into the makeshift sling. Saphira in the back of his mind sent images of the far side of the village, free from threats.

She returned and he ended up helping Brom back into Saphira’s saddle. After they had taken off, he regretfully went into the nearby home in search of food. It took a short while to search for food that hadn’t been eaten already by the army of urgals, but there were some strips of dried meat and fruit that he took, taking the time to whisper thanks and rites in the ancient language to each household he stepped into. He finished by filling their waterskins at the well after determining it safe and getting on Cadoc to exit the city hastily.

Over dinner later, Brom complimented his fighting skills and care for his arm and asked what had transpired when he fell unconscious. Thus led to his second argument with the man over the use of magic.

“Well, I can use it, so why don’t you teach me more?”

“This isn’t something you should be taught- much less use!” Brom shouted, his eyes flashing. “It’s dangerous and unpredictable. The knowledge you ask for is more complex and unforgiving than you understand.”

I understand plenty you-

Be calm Eragon. Saphira said in his mind. It does nothing to be upset. Either is a falsehood created by Galbatorix to trick you or he is your father and it is useless to argue with him. Would you argue with Oromis or Glaedr?

Yes. Eragon thought back defiantly, but reluctantly sat down and ended the argument with a not completely sincere apology for pushing too far.

How long will it be before we can tell him about the future? If he knew, then he wouldn’t be treating me like a child.

How about treating you like a son he doesn’t want to die in his next battle? Saphira countered, laying her head in his lap. Eragon scratched at her scales automatically.

Even if Galbatorix is watching making this falsehood, then he’d already know what we would be telling Brom.

They are not our secrets to tell. Arya, Nasuada and Murtagh are all a part of this story and until we confirm we are safe from Galbatorix and unable to be deceived, then their secrets deserve to stay safe as well. It is what they would do for us.

Eragon sighed and stopped scratching her scales. I suppose you are right. But I know you don’t like this as much as I.

You are correct. Now get some rest my boy, you have lots of travelling and relearning to do tomorrow.

///

Eragon collapsed by the fire, his muscles aching and sore. Despite the magic coming easier each time he used it and his stamina increasing, he still had to retrain his boyish body into a leaner one that could fight with swords easily. Brom would best him in a match most of the time, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him when he accidentally used a stance that Oromis had taught him. He even felt sad sometimes that he couldn’t do the traditional forms and stretching before their fights, but he was unsure about how to bring it up to Brom when the older man thought him nothing but a stupid farm boy.

As they made dinner a little later from wild game Eragon had caught, he discussed with Saphira the best way to get new information from the man. They were only a day or two away from Teirm now, and they had to make up their minds on what to do.

“So, in Teirm, we’ll be able to find out where the seither oil was sent right?” Eragon said, unprompted. “And then, we go there and kill the Ra’zac. Right?”

Brom hummed and nodded. “That seems to be the plan as of now.”

Eragon looked away from the man. “And what comes next? Galbatorix is sure to notice me killing his minions. And Saphira will be noticed eventually when she gets too big. Do I just return to Palancar and hide?”

Brom stayed silent for a while and Eragon sat there, listening to the crackle of the wood in the fire. “I think the answer is another question. What do you want to do?”

“When I was younger, I used to think my mother was a princess who dropped me with Garrow. It made me think there was a better reason for abandoning me than just not wanting me. I thought if I fought and became a strong fighter, then I could find her again and prove I was a worthy son.

“But now, I have Saphira, and I know that I would do anything to protect her, and that’s probably what my mother was doing with me. She would do anything to protect me, even if that meant dropping me in Palancar and never returning. She wanted me to live a good life. That’s what I want to continue doing, living a good life, helping others and maybe even having a family who I can do the same for.” He paused and considered his next words, letting the pain of losing his valley, his people and his uncle in the past wash over him with anger and injustice. “But I can’t do that here and now. Galbatorix is at the throne and he brings chaos and pain to his people. There is no good and just world when he is in power. And as the last rider, I think that’s my responsibility to take him down, I’m just not sure how right now.”

He finished and then sat there, content with his words. He purposely kept his eyes from meeting Brom’s, worried that if the man looked into his eyes, he would be able to see past the half-truths he had been telling to keep the future from being revealed.

“I feel that your answer will not come until you have learned more.” Brom finally said, puffing on his pipe. “And even then, I won’t be able to tell you that answer, it’s one you’ll have to find for yourself.”

Eragon hummed in response and began gathering their dinnerware to clean in the nearby stream, their conversation clearly over for the time being.

Chapter Text

Eragon gripped the edges of his tunic and bit down on his cheek hard enough to break the skin. As a metallic taste flooded his mouth, he focused intently on the embers that remained of the fire. The images pushed back, fighting for him to close his eyes and give into their grasp. An immense pressure pressed down on his chest and his breath quickened as he struggled to keep control of his mind.

All of a sudden, Eragon stood up and grabbed his bow, walking to the perimeter of their camp. His steps were stiff and jerky, his muscles clenched tight enough to snap. Each crack of a twig in the forest or sound from some creature set him off, his arrow knocked and ready to shoot. He paced the border of their camp, searching for any sign of intruders or magic, whispering a steady stream of spells for both detection and protection.

When he heard Brom stirring at the sound of his pacing, he reluctantly expanded the borders of his worn path and went into the nearby forest, eyes and ears ready to find anything out of the ordinary. Twice, he fired an arrow into the brush which turned out to be nothing but the wind. His mental barrier was stretched thin, searching for any sign of life, but could find nothing in his range except for burrowing mammals, insects and the occasional bird flying overhead.

As the sky got lighter, he could feel his heartbeat returning to its regular pace and the exhaustion seeping into his limbs. Kicking at a rock, he placed the rabbit he had shot to the side and sat on a green patch of moss at the edges of their camp. As the fire began to catch on the embers, he looked around at the clearing. Saphira was a small mountain breaking up the monotony of trees, and Brom was just barely visible to her right from where he lay.

The cold leeched into his bones as he stopped moving and he could feel sleep just out of reach. He was exhausted, but no closer to finding peace. Instead, images from his dreams continued to swirl in his mind, if he closed his eyes for too long. He rubbed at his eyes until sparks of light bloomed and disrupted the dreams.

He was frustrated to say the least. In the time since they had left Carvahall, nearly every night he was unable to get a full night’s rest. Especially after Yazuac, Eragon would wake with a start in the middle of the night, his heart racing. From under Saphira’s wings, he would spend hours in the dark of the night, pacing or reciting parts of poetry and trying to get the visions of the dead to leave his mind.

Brom was the biggest source of the nightmares. He would have the same dream over and over. Brom jumping in front of him during their fight with the Ra’zac and then slowly dying, his face melting into Garrow’s, then Hrothgar and then the hundreds of soldiers he killed in the past year. He would be dueling with Galbatorix in his throne room and stab him, only to see Brom’s face instead.

Brom wasn’t the only part though. He dreamed of Saphira dying to Shrukien’s teeth in her neck. Of Arya hanging and bloodied in Dras Leona. Of the hundreds of people in the Varden, laying in pools of blood on the battlefield and Roran on top of them all, a sword impaled in his chest. They would cycle on repeat, his failures to save anyone. Angela’s voice in his head, prophesizing his death and the deaths of anyone he loves.

More often than not, he would fall back into an uneasy sleep which only led to whispers in his ears and lights shining in the dark that he couldn’t remember once he woke. It was those dreams that had him suspecting that someone was playing with him. That Galbatorix had truly trapped him in his own mind and was toying with him and Saphira to curse them to relive Brom’s death over and over again.

They fought over it often in the hours where he couldn’t sleep and Saphira would lay awake with him. Saphira making him remember when he had similar nightmares after the battles with the Varden and Eragon pointing out that they never had the whispers in them. Those conversations usually ended in a stalemate when the sun came up and Brom started stirring.

The older man had noticed something was amiss in the days after Yazuac - whether he was a light sleeper or he simply noticed the growing shadows around his eyes, Eragon didn’t know. One morning, Brom mentioned over breakfast that it was not a failure nor a weakness to dream of things that terrified you. It was part of what made them fallible humans- something that he should take care to remember when he fought against others; that he was a human that made mistakes.

That didn’t make the dreams stop though.

Eragon came back from his memories and stared at the stripe of purple on his forearm that flickered in the shadows of his growing campfire. It was mottled and darkened against most of his visible skin, a little yellow already forming on the edges. He was weaker without the magic the elves had done to him. He had the body of a young boy and was still training it back into shape. The ache of his muscles reminded him each day that he needed to work harder.

He and Brom were training every night, like he had on his first journey, but panic overtook him the night prior when he sparred with the older man. They had exchanged blows several times when Eragon twisted around and instead of seeing Brom, Galbatorix was standing in front of him. The shock of seeing him froze him mid-swing and he couldn’t defend himself or strike back. Brom had landed a strong hit on Eragon’s arm before stopping and realizing Eragon had stopped responding. Saphira’s sharp presence in his mind brought him back to himself a moment later and Eragon mumbled apologies and excuses of just being tired, walking off before Brom could question him.

Saphira had followed him into the woods and questioned him, but Eragon couldn’t find an answer, only showing her the memory. It was like he was holding me with magic again. He said, changing the memory to when they had entered the throne room. It was like I was helpless in his grasp. And when I saw the sword swinging towards me, it was like I was trapped again. Saphira didn’t have an answer either, but stayed with him until he could recite one of the elves’ lengthy stories without getting another flashback.

As the sky lightened more, Eragon threw a couple branches on the fire so it would be hot enough to cook the rabbit he had caught before they headed out again. He gave a quiet laugh as the meat began dripping fat and grease onto the fire, filling the clearing with the delicious smell of cooking meat.

Eragon guessed if there was anything good that came from losing his heightened senses, was that he could eat meat again without feeling guilty. Magic was just like his muscles. He needed to train it again to be able to have the connections he once had. Saphira kept on forgetting and flying out of range, only to come back quickly to check on his safety.

Hunting was a challenge once again without his advanced hearing or sight. And in the hours when he couldn’t sleep, he would hunt without magic as training. He had to search for the animals in the terrain and would often scare them off with a misplaced step to forest debris he hadn’t notice. Being in his younger body was odd though. He knew how to work it, but sometimes he would reach for something in the corner of his eye and grab air, falling just an inch or two short of the object. Or when he was walking, he’d stumble over something he thought he would miss since his stride was shorter.

He took to looking over his arms when he was bored in the saddle, counting the years of his youth through the imperfections on his skin. This was where he once sliced his palm while trying to use a tool for the first time. Here was the patch of raised white, a remnant of sticking his hand into somewhere it didn’t belong. Memories of his childhood were welcome compared to the nightmares.

Sometimes, his fingers would ghost over smooth skin where he remembered getting scars. Sword slice here, an arrow tip punctured here. He had healed the skin on the inside of his legs, but the new skin pinched and pulled, reminding him of his mistakes. Each time he twisted a bit too far during their spars and would clench, waiting for the pain, he was reminded of the scar that would come to happen in the fight with Durza. If anything, he thought, perhaps that is one thing I can change for the future.

Saphira woke a little while later, sniffing the air and then turned her gaze towards where he sat, turning the rabbit on the spit.

I told you to wake me. You shouldn’t have to be alone when your mind is plagued with memories. She said, sending him some energy. Instantly the weariness left his body and he felt slightly more rested. She brushed up against him with her snout and he embraced her.

You worry too much. It is a small problem I don’t want to burden you with.

You may not wish to burden me, but if there was a way to relieve you of this pain I would do it in a heartbeat. We are one, dragon and rider. Burdens mean nothing in the face of our time together.

///

The more time he spent with Brom, the more he realized that he hadn’t been paying very much attention the first time they were travelling together. He was far more concerned in looking at all the new things that came from the city, and weary of the people who were around him, eyes on the constant move for weapons. This time, with the less compelling need to stare wide-eyed at the new sights, he found himself drawn to observing the man’s odd mannerisms. Oromis had once said that coming from Kuasta, Brom had little quirks, and it seemed they hadn’t all disappeared with age.

When he entered any building, he would lean against the doorframe and touch it with his fingertips three times- so gently and barely noticeable that it took Eragon a few times to notice it. He would also avoid the number four- haggling any price lower or higher to avoid the number, and would never eat four of anything.

Saphira was the one who noticed it when Eragon came back from hunting once with four small birds and Brom stared at them, making an odd gesture with his hands that were quickly hidden by his cloak. He would make the same gestures on the full moon and mutter something that neither Saphira nor Eragon could hear.

The runes on his staff were also imbued with protection spells- mostly for when someone caught him unawares. Eragon learned that one night when he couldn’t sleep and took to staring at the staff that lay next to the man. But interspersed with the glyphs were also icons he didn’t recognize from any of his teachings.

Brom also never took off his outerwear in Eragon’s company. Eragon would often bathe in the rivers when they passed, or take off his tunic to avoid the stench of sweat when they were sparring. Brom on the other hand, was usually fully cloaked, his arms and legs covered completely. Once, when he took off his cloak to remove his woolen outer shirt after a rain, Eragon caught a glimpse of black dyed skin beneath the undershirt before it was quickly covered by the cloak once again. Brom had given a side-eye to the boy and Eragon caught the message to mind his own business after that.

Through their time travelling through the countryside, Eragon tried to pry a bit more, asking him more questions about his own childhood and savoring his short answers, committing the rare answer to memory.

Better he thinks me a nosy and rude fool, than to never know. He thought once to Saphira. Oromis knew very little of his life. I can only hope to know what kind of man my father is before he dies.

///

He hadn’t been back to Teirm since they had first visited and the sight of the city still astounded him. He was careful though, to remember the streets this time and the faces they came across for any signs of recognition.

As they finally arrived and Brom went to speak with Joed, Eragon made his way to Angela’s shop and repeated his first interaction with Solembum. When Angela arrived to offer him his fortune told, he paused, unsure if he should allow her to- either his fate was the same as his first telling, or it had irrevocably changed and he wasn’t sure which was he was more afraid of.

Angela stood there in his silence and he pondered his options. Instead of an answer, he asked her, “Say, during the telling I didn’t like what you were saying and I made a vow to never do what you foretold or chose to kill myself when I walked out the door. Would the bones change, or would my destiny end the same no matter what length I took to avoid it?”

Angela smirked and turned to her bookshelf, looking through the books while speaking. “There is a tale that I think you would enjoy.”

She rifled for a moment before pulling out a book and flipping to a page in the back. “And so the king had his fortune told that his son would kill him. So he accepted his fate and after working for a lifetime to better his kingdom, his son killed him as an act of mercy and kindness so that he was no longer in pain rather than the hatred and malice that once ruled his lands.”

She pulled out the book and plopped it in his hands. “Take a look and you can tell me what you thought next time we cross paths.” The Tales of Old by The Doctor, Eragon read the title. “Often our destinies will fulfill themselves no matter what steps you take to avoid them. But you decide on how to interpret the words and choose if you want it to be a different kind of destiny. Words have double meanings and fortunes have uncountable futures.” She held his eye contact for a moment longer almost as if peering into his mind though he felt no intrusion. Then, she smiled widely and her gaze softened. “But, for now, enjoy the book and perhaps the next time we meet, I shall convince you to hear your fortune, for now I am even more intrigued. Now go on, get! Enjoy the beautiful day and the book!”

Eragon smiled and gave his thanks as he left the shop and headed back to Jeod’s place. The weather was indeed beautiful and he spent the afternoon reading in Jeod’s courtyard.

///

The heist went much quicker this time. Eragon was able to remember vaguely where the books were this time around and was able to read much quicker than he could before. They made it out without even encountering the guard, due to Solembum’s warning.

“So, Dras Leona.” Brom and Joed began talking eagerly about what they knew of the city and of Helgrind.

Already knowing what they would speak of, Eragon tuned them out and pushed his mind out to the outskirts of the city where Saphira lay in the woods, out of sight of the people of Teirm. They debated once again on the necessity of telling Brom their knowledge of the future.

I don’t want Brom to die when we reach Dras Leona. I can’t spring it on him in the city or wait for him to be stabbed when we make camp. What if I still can’t save him again? What if by saving him from the Ra’zac, he dies in a different way?

I don’t want him to die either Eragon. But you did your best for Garrow, even if he is hurt with the seither oil, you have the skill to save him. But we have to be careful. How else will we find Murtagh as well? He found us after we were attacked. Will you spend time away from saving Arya to find him again? And what of the Ra’zac? Will you kill them to save Palancar or let them attack so that the people will be brought to Surda where they can gain riches in the war?

Who am I to decide that! Eragon cried. Why must I decide the fates of all these people? They were targeted because of me, so it’s my responsibility, but they gained so much on their journey. But those that were lost in that process… It’s not worth their suffering for the possible joy that comes from winning the war. He clenched his fists and tried to look invested in the book he was pretending to read.

Eragon we are the last of our kind. Saphira’s voice was softer now. For now, we must make these difficult choices because there is no one else who will do so. When the war is over, we can divide those responsibilities into a manageable amount but for now…

Yes, I know. Eragon let out a deep sigh and leaned deeper into his chair. Then for now, we can work on what all we can tell him without risking the future with our knowledge. Saphira agreed and he reduced their connection and looked to where Brom and Joed were still talking animatedly about what the journey to and city of Dras Leona would bring. More than you could possibly know. Eragon thought.

///

Chapter Text

Brom and Eragon left the city of Teirm early the next morning. He waited until an appropriate distance and time from the city and any other travelers they encountered to once again bring up the questions that had been humming in the back of his mind.

He first questioned about the things he should know nothing about in this time- the Varden and why Brom was training him. Why the Empire was fighting against the Varden to control him, and how Brom found Saphira’s egg in Gil’ead. And how Brom wasn’t going to take him to the Varden straight away.

Brom snorted and looked at Eragon with fondness. “The Varden are dangerous people. If we go to them, you will be entangled in their politics and machinations. Their leaders may send you on missions just to make a point, even though you might not be strong enough for them. I want you to be well prepared before you go anywhere near the Varden. At least while we pursue the Ra’zac, I don’t have to worry about someone poisoning your water. This is the lesser of two evils. And,” he said with a smile, “it keeps you happy while I train you. . . Tuatha du orothrim is just a stage in your instruction. I will help you find—and perhaps even kill—the Ra’zac, for they are as much my enemies as yours. But then you will have to make a choice.”

“And that would be . . .?” asked Eragon warily.

“Whether to join the Varden,” said Brom. “If you kill the Ra’zac, the only ways for you to escape Galbatorix’s wrath will be to seek the Varden’s protection, flee to Surda, or plead for the king’s mercy and join his forces. Even if you don’t kill the Ra’zac, you will still face this choice eventually.”

Eragon knew the best way to win the war quickly would be to return and join the Varden, but he didn’t know how to convince Brom to head there quicker. He mulled over Brom’s comments, trying to consider them from every angle. He noticed that Brom didn’t mention going to the elves as an option. Did he consider them worse than the Varden? He knew Oromis was alive, so why didn’t he talk about them?

He also looked at it from the angle of knowing how it would turn out. Did he want to pledge fealty to Nasuada again? While it was beneficial, he was sent on missions against his own desires and while everything had turned out fine, he wished he hadn’t bound himself to all the races in the land.

“And if I choose to be my own leader? I would still fight against the Empire, but on my own terms. Would that be okay?” Eragon asked, musing over his own thoughts.

“You’re starting to think smarter, boy. Yes and no. It is foolish to fight alone. While you and Saphira will make a formidable team to any soldiers that Galbatorix will send out, you will fall quickly to the magicians he has in his army. Thus, it would be smart to join a group that can fight with you.

"Though, as you deducted, it would be wise to avoid showing allegiance to any one group, as the Varden is made up of humans and dwarves alike. To pledge loyalty to one without the other is asking for trouble. And if you were to pledge to both, then the elves as well would want a piece of you. Politic is a troublesome thing and I have quite enjoyed not dealing with it for the last few years.”

///

When they later stopped for the night, Eragon was sure he was forgetting something when he went to search for water. It was the sharp crack of his wrist and the mark of a heavy boot in the soft dirt that had his mind sharpen in perfect clarity.

Urgals, Saphira! Quickly tell Brom and keep him safe!

Don’t worry little one, I have remembered more quickly than you this night. Brom is saddling the horses now.

I’m on my way back. Hopefully we can avoid a confrontation.

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t. Eragon landed in front of the Urgals and they spoke of bringing him to their master.

“Can’t you see he’s controlling you?!” Eragon cried, pushing against the urgal’s strongly protected mind. “Since when have you fought alongside your rival clans? Urgalgra are meant to be strong and prove their worthiness through combat, but this is manipulation. There is no glory and honor in this magic warping your thoughts!”

He could see their eyes focusing and unfocusing against his cry, but the Shade’s magic was too compelling and they focused back in on Eragon and the Urgals charged on his command.

Regretfully, he picked up several stones at his feet and sent them flying at high speeds towards the Urgal’s helmets with a few words of magic. Of the twelve, four immediately fell, the stones severing all life in an instant. Four more fell from the pain and stumbled. Saphira took action and swept her talons, wrenching the front most two urgals into two pieces. She whipped around her tail and took the other two off their feet.

Planting her bloody claws into the ground, she roared at the remaining six urgals. They stumbled back and faltered as Eragon notched arrows on his bow and took out three of the urgals with more words of magic muttered under his breath. He was taking aim at the other two when he failed to notice the urgal sneaking around back to attack Saphira’s flank. He barked a quick jierda and the urgal flew back, smacking against a tree. He winced as his wrist made a snapping sound when he pulled back on the bowstring and released another arrow, flying wildly off target.

His pain flashed through Saphira and she tackled the remaining two urgals and ripped them apart with her claws. He ran to be closer to Saphira as Brom approached the opposite edge of the clearing with a shout.

The last thing he remembered was something large hitting him from behind.

///

When he woke in the campsite, Brom and Saphira were gone. He made quick work of finding a nest of wild game and capturing two, then building and starting a fire to roast them. As he waited for the two to appear, he scryed Roran, finding him walking through Carvahall looking troubled. Brom and Saphira were flying. He tried to scry Arya and this time found her awake in a white space he guessed was a cell. From where she was curled up on , her eyes met his and a piercing chill went down his spine. She seemed to be trying to say something, but failed and collapsed back onto her cot.

He frowned and released the spell. She was still a prisoner. He would have to find her as quick as he could. Maybe he should tell Brom they needed to be checking all the cells in the cities between here and Dras Leona. But considering they found her in Gil’ead the first time after she was captured in Ceunon, he had no clue where Durza had been shuffling her around in the northern reaches.

About half an hour later, Brom and Saphira landed in the clearing with a thump. Eragon nodded at them and then gestured to the squirrel roasting on the spit. He had found some wild herbs while collecting the game and hopefully Brom would enjoy it a bit more than their usual bland meals.

“So, where have you two been?” he asked casually once the man had eaten some of the meat.

“Well, the urgal that gave you that right welt on your head distracted me from one of the Urgals that didn’t quite die from your attack. He ran and we had to chase him down. Took a while to find him and then we decided to check and make sure there were no others in the area. Saphira was keeping tabs on you, so we came back when she felt you were awake.”

“How long was I out?”

“Only the night. It wasn’t too bad of an injury after I wrapped it to keep your head from swelling too much. That wrist will have to heal naturally though. Consider it a punishment for not being aware of your surroundings and letting the urgal smack you around” Eragon grumbled an acknowledgement, unhappy with the man’s decision.

“But,” Brom continued. “I’m very proud of how you handed the fight. In contrast to your reckless attitude when we were in Carvahall, you’ve grown a lot during our travels. It was clever of you to use the stones to take out as many as you could.” Eragon tried not to preen under the words. “But you still need to practice and from now on I will be drilling you on the correct spells to use in different situations. And what in the hell were you thinking shooting a bow with a broken wrist? Now it’s going to take twice as long to heal as when you fell on it.” And there it went.

Eragon rolled his eyes. “Did Saphira say their leader asked to speak with me?”

“No, she didn’t get to it.” Brom said, his voice more serious now.

“They said they were to bring me to him alive. I asked who it was, but they said I wasn’t good enough to say his name. I’m guessing though that they mean the king. Who else would know of me and want me dead?” Eragon didn’t mention the Shade that was roaming the land that he would have no knowledge of.

“Yes, that’s unsettling to know. What’s good, is that we have avoided them sending back word to their master.”

“I guess.” Eragon agreed. “But what if they send more? How did they even find us in the first place?”

“My guess is that they happened upon us and got lucky. Spies may have spotted Saphira flying in a southern direction, so it was really only a matter of time before they happened upon us, even if they didn’t know the exact location.”

Eragon hummed. They had changed their fate. He hadn’t been knocked out as nearly as long as the first time, and managed to not die in the process. He was nervous, looking forward to Dras Leona, but perhaps he could save Brom after all.

…

Eragon allowed Brom to speak of other things for a while and as they set off to make up some of the lost time before the sun set, he brought up Arya, even though he hadn’t received dreams other than his nightmares in weeks.

“I’ve been seeing a woman in my dreams.” Eragon started.

“Don’t we all my boy,” Brom guffawed.

“Well, it was almost like scrying. And I did try to scry her and I could see her, but I’ve never seen her before. It looked like she was in a prison, and she had pointed ears and a green tunic.”

Brom froze. “And what color was her hair?”

“It was dark, but perhaps brown or black?” Eragon said. He pretended not to see the way Brom’s shoulders stiffened slightly and his lips pursed as if to ask more questions. “Do you think it would be okay to check the prisons on the way? It might be worth the risk, even if this is just a dream. I would feel bad leaving her there if she needs help.”

Brom hummed a short agreement and Eragon let the ride fall silent. Perhaps Brom would be able to find her more easily this time around.

///

More time passed as they made their way to Dras-Leona. Spring had crept over Alagaesia and the green took over the brown land. By the time they made it to Leona Lake, he had re-learned the names of all the local flowers and plants they had come across, as well as which were edible and poisonous in addition to his study of the ancient language. Brom was impressed by his ease at picking up the information and Eragon almost felt bad about not telling him about having done it all before.

They fought once again at the lake’s edge and Eragon disarmed the man, prompting Brom to deem his sword work sufficient. Eragon smiled and found himself proud that he had been able to train his body back into the proper shape. No longer was he forcing his body through odd and strenuous positions, but the movements had become muscle memory once again. He didn’t have to think about every swing and jab. It felt natural. Unfortunately, this fast pace in training meant Brom put him through more and more strenuous exercises that he was once taught by the Oromis. It seemed he would never stop going to bed sore.

Days passed as the road grew more used and signs of civilization were abundant. Brom made good on his promise to check every prison and drunk hole on the way, disguising himself as looking for his foolish drunkard son. But, they didn’t find Arya. Eragon hoped that she wasn’t still in Gil’ead or they’d have to retrace their steps all the way back north.

Several days later was the night before they would enter Dras Leona. Eragon faltered in the silence before the two men fell asleep.

“Brom,” he started. “If we can find and kill the Ra’zac here, where do you think we should go afterwards? To the Varden or to the elves? You said a while ago that we need people to back us up against the magicians in the Empire.”

Brom sighed and pondered the thought for a long while. Almost long enough that Eragon considered telling the man to forget the question.

“You’ve shown that you’ve grown a great deal my boy, but you are still young and both of them will take advantage of and try to lay claim on you, like you said they did before. It’s difficult to make a choice now, so ask me after whatever may happen in Dras Leona. Perhaps then my mind will be clearer.”

Eragon agreed and let the room fall dark and silent. What if you die in Dras Leona like before? The thought swirled in his mind. He shared his nervous feelings with Saphira and she sent back calm, trust, and love.

///

As they entered the city, Eragon could only frown at the beggars in the street and the children fighting over bread. For all that Galbatorix had promised to him in the castle; power, luxury and knowledge, he had never looked towards what he could do for his people.

That would be one of his first tasks when they defeated the king. He wanted to make a better place for the people here. He wouldn’t be able to change their minds on their horrifying religion, but perhaps if they could see what could be better they may choose something different and less cannibalistic to worship. He could help cleanse the land and provide better resources to the people rather than have them live in fear.

The next day, instead of hunting for information he already knew, he disguised himself to look older and played cards and other gambling games. With the extra money, he changed his disguise once again and bought the cheapest bread he could to distribute to the beggars in the lower parts of the city. He found where he had seen the beggar children earlier the day before and offered one of the smallest children a piece. Within seconds he was swarmed and had he kept any of his valuables on his person, they surely would have been gone too.

It wasn’t much, and they all quickly disappeared when they realized he had nothing left. Several of the nearby beggars shot him dirty looks and he felt bad he had nothing left to offer them. Eragon left quickly after that. The children would hopefully be fed for another day and when he came back after the end of the war, he wanted to help the people of this city. He kept an eye out for the Ra’zac but saw only shadows and shapes that could have been then. He didn’t go anywhere near the cathedral to avoid meeting them directly.

Eragon met back up with Brom at the end of the day and he spoke of his exploits in collecting information from around the city. Eragon listened carefully and when the man asked of his day, he told him of his deeds.

“The children here are in awful shape. In Palancar, we are poor, but we have the safety of the valley and the freedom of the Spine to roam. In comparison, I live the life of a king. I want to come back here after the war and help these people- allow them their own freedom outside of the rule of a king.” Brom hummed along to his retelling of how he spent the day. “But besides that, I walked around and remained in the shadows, but the whole day I felt like the Ra’zac were here. I saw some shapes in a crowd that looked like them but I couldn’t be too sure. I think we should leave soon. Otherwise we may be trapped.” He continued on.

They spoke for a while longer, and agreeing that they would leave as soon as they woke in the morning, Eragon relayed the information to Saphira. She agreed, saying that she would wait nearby and they would travel the following day to the cliff where he had once buried Brom. It was easily defendable from that position, and easy for Saphira to take off and fly away fast.

//

The next morning had an eerie quiet to it. Eragon woke far too early. It seemed like the entire city was silent, and the sky was grey with mist that hadn’t burned off with the light of the sun yet. He took a quick glimpse out the window, but the streets were clear save for a lamplighter extinguishing the flames as the sun rose and some drunkards heading home far too late.

He nudged Brom once the sun had come up completely and it was a normal time for them to leave the city without being considered suspicious. They bundled up anything identifying and draped hoods over their heads to keep from being noticed. Brom nodded and they made for the horses. They had ridden at a normal pace about halfway out of the city when he heard a chittering from the alleyways and abandoned any precaution. Eragon quickly swung around his strung bow and fired two arrows into the dark alleyway. A shriek came and he knew he had hit one of the creatures. Seconds later, he could hear the cry of the Raz’ac coming from behind them and they started a gallop. The city bells began tolling as a sign it was 7 o’clock and it only added to the chaos.

The guards at the gate seemed to be suspicious, but they weren’t able to close the gates fast enough for the two to be stopped. Once on the other side, Eragon used a small bit of magic to sever the rope on the gate and it slammed shut. Ha, thought Eragon. Now try to get an army out to attack us. They’ll be preoccupied for the next week to get ready for Galbatorix to worry about us.

They pushed the horses as fast as they could away from the city. The sounds faded as they ran from the city, leading them into the eerie silence of the forest.

///

Eragon refused to let Saphira keep him off the ground. He wouldn’t allow Brom to be the only one tracked. Instead, when they reached the point where gales had forced Saphira to the ground, they continued on to where they were more protected by the trees. Eragon put up several wards around Brom without telling him, as well as many around himself and Saphira. The drain on his energy was worth it to make sure that everyone was safe.

They ate dinner quietly and Eragon was on high alert the entire time. Saphira was similarly on edge, smelling for any scent of the Ra’zac. It was exactly one hour since they had stopped when she first scented them. She gestured with her tail and Eragon wasted no time in standing up quietly, bow in his left hand, arrows already strung with his right. Brom stood behind him, preparing for any attack. The Ra’zac were perfectly silent, as it was their element, but the flash of their weapons still shone in the sliver of moonlight.

Eragon released his first arrow, one he had added a layer of magic to be silent. At the last moment, he whispered brisingr and the arrow erupted in flame before burying into the shoulder of one of the creatures. A shriek called out and Eragon spun around to release another as a sound came from behind him.

The Ra’zac was already behind him and knocked the bow out of his hand, swinging with his dagger. Eragon countered and cast a quick jierda to push it back before pulling Zar’roc from his belt and parrying the creature’s next blow.

As they fought, Eragon kept an open link with Saphira who had taken to roaring and slashing at the tree line to keep the Ra’zac from getting closer to Brom. Brom on the other hand appeared to be mumbling some spell under his breath and using his staff as a defense. Please protect him, Eragon pleaded in his mind to Saphira. If anything, leave me and save him. They’ll keep me alive for now.

NEVER. Now defeat that thing!

Eragon slashed, catching the Ra’zac’s arm and a dark liquid oozed out. He prepared an elaborate spell in his mind. The Ra’zac were protected by dozens of spells from Galbatorix, but perhaps with his knowledge, he could simply kill them himself. Zar’roc arced above him and slashed, catching the creature once again on his chest.

It took a few steps back as more disgusting liquid poured from the slash on its chest, and appeared to be evaluating the scene when a hum came from the forest. Eragon only had time to hold up his sword and prepare a shield spell before two arrows pierced the Ra’zac’s shoulder and caught him off guard. He leapt in and quickly got another deep gash on the creature’s thigh before it cried one last time and Eragon plunged Zar’roc into its chest. The other froze and ran towards Eragon in retaliation, only to have an arrow narrowly miss its head.

It picked up the unmoving body of its sibling and retreated into the forest, the thud of several arrows burying themselves into the ground as it fled. Saphira stopped swiping at the trees. Her hearing showed the Ra’zac were far enough away.

Eragon took a deep breath before the leaves crackled on the edge of the forest. He held up Zar’roc again, ready to fight. He held back a smile as a man came out from the shadows, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Looked like you needed help.” The familiar face said.

…

Chapter Text

The stranger, dressed in battered clothes, exuded a calm, assured air. In his hands was a bow, at his side a long hand-and-a-half sword. A white horn bound with silver fittings lay in his lap, and the hilt of a dagger protruded from his boot. His serious face and fierce eyes were framed by locks of brown hair. He appeared to be a few years older than Eragon and perhaps an inch or so taller. He whistled low, and a moment later, a gray war-horse appeared behind him. The stranger watched Saphira warily.

“Who are you?” asked Eragon, nervous about how familiar this seemed and the possibility that it could be a trap.

“Murtagh”

“And why did you decide to help us?”

“You aren’t the only enemies the Ra’zac have. I was tracking them.”

Despite the possibility that Murtagh didn’t remember and could possibly attack them, the chance was worth it to make sure Brom was okay. Eragon nodded in appreciation and ran over to where Saphira had been protecting Brom. He lay on the ground, prone.

The smaller one caught him when he was trying to watch your back before I could swing around and defend him. I think it gave him a good smack to the head but the dagger didn’t touch him this time. Saphira thought, moving to give him space and to stare down the stranger who now walked around the area, collecting arrows that had scattered in the attack.

Eragon ran over Brom’s body and nothing seemed amiss. He studied the man’s head a bit further and found a lump starting to form on the back of his skull. He closed his eyes and went through his training with Oromis to make sure there was nothing wrong with his blood flow. Seeing it as relatively safe, he left it to heal on its own since the head was tricky to heal and made sure to clean the wound with water from their bags to avoid infection. He’d have to clean and wrap it again when there was less imminent danger and more time to build a fire.

Once he had patched up Brom and his own minor injuries, he turned to where Murtagh stood in the clearing, Saphira watching him closely as he fiddled with the arrows in his grasp. Eragon nodded his thanks.

“Without you, we’d probably both be dead. I owe you for that.” Murtagh nodded and handed back two of the arrows that were Eragon’s. “We should probably move locations though to avoid being attacked again.

“Thanks for helping us, but you should leave now.” The words flowed out of his mouth almost like he was reading from a book. They came from a memory that seemed like a lifetime ago. “Ride as far away from us as you can. You’ll be in danger if the Empire finds you with us. We can’t protect you, and I wouldn’t see harm come to you on our account.” Eragon tilted his head to Saphira.

Murtagh shrugged. “I think I’ll accompany you until you’re out of danger. I’ve no better place to be. Besides, if I stay with you, I might get another shot at the Ra’zac sooner than if I were on my own. Interesting things are bound to happen around a Rider.”

Eragon hummed and began loading up their belongings that had gotten scattered a bit when the Ra’zac attacked. It was exactly as it had been the first time they had met. He frowned at the stain of the Ra’zac’s blood that lay on the ground.

“Well, I guess we can hope its dead, but I could only be so lucky.”

“Why would the other one drag it off if it wasn’t dead?” Murtagh asked.

Eragon frowned. “If you’ve been tracking the Ra’zac, you know they eat from the bones of men.” He cringed, thinking about what Roran had told him that was Quimby’s fate. “I can’t imagine there being a courtesy towards their own kind such as burial.”

The sky began to lighten and they quickly departed from the clearing. As they walked, Murtagh gave no hints of having remembered their history, well, future. Instead, he stayed mostly quiet, and instead pointed out the familiar hill which was easily defended.

They arrived at the sandstone cave once again and Eragon felt haunted to see the sight where he had once buried Brom- the man who had still not yet woken. He avoided looking at the spot and instead laid Brom out carefully onto the ground, and built a fire with the wood Murtagh had collected.

///

After Eragon had cleaned and dressed the head wound once again with fresh bandages, he didn’t have to wait long for Murtagh to return with a rabbit to roast on the spit. They mostly sat in silence as the meat cooked and water heated, though for Eragon, he had a near constant contact with Saphira who was nearby in the trees, surveying the land and keeping an eye out for the remaining Ra’zac or its mounts to return.

We did it, we made sure he didn’t die. And we met up with Murtagh again.

You’ve done well little one. Saphira hummed. Now we wait. We are lucky Murtagh was able to distract them. You are stronger than before, but I nearly lost you several times over in that fight.

You’re right, Eragon agreed. We will have to see how he reacts when Brom wakes. He’s sure to recognize him, but hopefully he won’t be as bad as Ajihad was.

I don’t think Brom would fault a son for the sins of his father.

The Varden did.

The Varden were influenced by the Twins who sought to sow mistrust and chaos. This time, we can help protect him from going back into the clutches of the Empire.

And what of his bond with Thorn?

After this cursed war is over, then we will give him the egg when we take Uru’baen. But until then, he is safe with us and we will protect him.

Eragon agreed. They watched as the sun crested over the horizon, turning the deep blue and purple sky streak with rays of red. The fluffy clouds turned pink with shadows of light purple. He let out a jaw cracking yawn and arched his back stretching.

///

“So what tipped you off to where the Ra’zac were hiding?” Murtagh prompted over the remnants of their morning meal.

Eragon hummed in thought. “We followed the merchant records of the sales of seither oil. We discovered their hideout in Dras Leona, but I doubt we’ll be able to go back now to confront them on our own terms not that the element of surprise is lost. I don’t know where we’ll retreat to though. It depends on what Brom has to say when he wakes.”

Murtagh’s eyes lit up. “Brom, as in the Brom? The one who helped steal a dragon egg from the king, chased it across the Empire, and killed Morzan in a duel?”

Eragon nodded, aware it was the same thing he had said when they first met up. His lips formed the familiar words. ““How do you know all that? You talk about things that are secret to most, and you were trailing the Ra’zac right when we needed help. Are you one of the Varden?”

Murtagh’s eyes became inscrutable orbs. “I’m running away, like you.” There was restrained sorrow in his words. “I do not belong to either the Varden or the Empire. Nor do I owe allegiance to any man but myself. As for my rescuing you, I will admit that I’ve heard whispered tales of a new Rider and reasoned that by following the Ra’zac I might discover if they were true.”

“I thought you wanted to kill the Ra’zac,” said Eragon.

Murtagh smiled grimly. “I do, but if I had, I never would have met you.”

“Well, you found me. Dragon rider at your service.” He gestured in a mock bow.

Murtagh laughed. “So where to next? Back to Dras Leona to get the other one, or straight to Uru’baen itself to kill the king?”

Eragon hummed and Saphira agreed with him. Murtagh showed no signs of remembering, the conversation nearly identical to their first. The raw anger that was apparent when they had been fighting in the throne room was gone and his face looked young again. He took a chance and diverted from his original words.

“To Gilead actually. We’re looking for someone and we think she might be there. We might have to wait a while before we can get there though, with Brom’s head and all. I don’t want to push it and have him injure himself more…” Eragon trailed off, lost in thought.

“She? Lost your girlfriend or something?” He teased, popping the last bite in his mouth and tossing the bones in the fire.

“No, it’s not like that,” Eragon countered, ears turning red as he fidgeted with the seam of his leggings. “Just one of Brom’s friends who needs help.”

“Uh huh, so you’re telling me you don’t have the biggest boy-crush on Arya?” Murtagh taunted.

“It’s not like that!” Eragon said defensively, the blush burning his cheeks. Sure, he had tried to romance her a few times, and she shut him down every time. Even before they had entered Uru’baen, he had resigned himself to her never reciprocating and had let the feelings he had for her fade in the face of the upcoming battle. Now that he had a chance to do it differently, maybe he could not be as pushy. Since he was more skilled, would she see him as less of a boy and more of a man? Or perhaps he could not try at all and gain her friendship instead of marring it with his emotions.

He shoved down the questionable feelings and suddenly the second half of Murtagh’s statement made sense. His eyes shot up, “wait, shit, I mean, who’s Arya?”

“Hah!” Murtagh cried, a fist pumping in the air. “I knew you remembered!”

“Remember what, I don’t remember anything-” Eragon quickly tried to defend.

“Can’t fool me you little shit,” Murtagh cut him off, grabbing Eragon around the waist and pulling to the ground, and wrestling him for the upper hand. “And here I was thinking I was the only one.” He dodged a shove from Eragon and laughed, pinning him down and sitting on Eragon’s hips. “But here I come across the world’s worst actor who can’t lie to save his life.” He ruffled Eragon’s hair and gleamed.

“So what,” Eragon huffed, giving up and flopping to the ground in defeat. “Are you gonna suffocate me with your fat butt or get revenge by killing me or something?” He glanced angrily to where Saphira sat watching, but not helping him in the fight.

Murtagh laughed and patted Eragon on the cheek condescendingly. “Oh, dear little brother, I have done so much more already. You think me killing you is the answer? I woke up to a ceiling in the castle and assumed the explosion had knocked me out, only to not hear the presence of Thorn in my head. In my haste to run through the castle and find him, I stopped by a mirror and realized that I had agency over my actions again.

“And then, to my surprise, Tornac goes and walks around the corner. You remember him? My old master who I named my horse after? Well my horse now has a different name because Tornac is alive and well.” He sang the last few words and got off Eragon. He grabbed the younger’s hand and hauled him up to his feet, brushing the dirt off the front of Eragon’s tunic and slinging an arm around his shoulder in comradery. Eragon was stunned in silence with the new revelations and Murtagh’s complete change in personality from the last time he had seen him.

“Now, story time is getting a bit long, but to shorten it, after I woke and had an internal crisis, I realized I still remembered the name of all names. So I devised a plan to get into the crypt where Galbatorix kept the Thorn’s egg, took it and escaped the Empire with Tornac.”

Eragon looked at Murtagh in wonder. “So where is Thorn now?”

“With Tornac, about 3 leagues in the direction of Gilead.” He gave Eragon a toothy grin, pointing off into the distance. Eragon felt Murtagh touch his mind and let his barriers down to the familiar presence and there in his mind was Thorn as well.

It is nice to see my rider’s kin is safe. Thorn said and then Murtagh gently broke the connection.

“So, you’re just good after fighting me and Saphira for months? What’s to say you aren’t still loyal to Galbatorix and aren’t tricking us?” Eragon pushed, knowing it would get him a reaction. “You killed Hrothgar and Oromis without hesitation.”

“You think I don’t regret that!” Murtagh said defensively. His eyes narrowed, his voice lowered, and the anger Eragon remembered came through in his words. “Thorn and I were forced into that position. I told you this once before on the plains and again in battle. You saw it yourself in the throne room. He spent months torturing us until we bent to his will. He took control of my body like some puppet to slay one of the only living riders. I spent ages protecting Nasuada as best I could and suffered the consequences of it. But, this? This is our chance to make our own choices and be on the right side of the fight. Galbatorix forced me into servitude when he threatened Thorn’s life and I was disliked by the Varden and the elves for killing their kings under his force.

“Galbatorix doesn’t have that power over me anymore. And we haven’t killed anyone yet, well- anyone important. Best be sure, the moment we get to the Varden I’m slaughtering those twins though. I won’t allow us to be caught again and after all this is done, we’ll be out of your hair for good. But if we can keep our heads down, we won’t be enslaved by the king again. He didn’t seem to remember anything or he would have bound me by my true name the minute he saw me in the palace.”

“You saw him?!” Eragon gasped and Saphira perked up at this as well.

“Yea. When I woke up, it was just before he asked me to take a detachment and destroy Cantos. I fed him some bullshit about wanting to learn more about war tactics before I did and asking him for book recommendations.”

“You asked a tyrant for book recommendations?” Eragon’s eye twitched and Saphira fell into a fit of laughter (the dragon equivalent sounding like a choking mixed with growling) behind him.

“Yup!” He replied gleefully. “He didn’t notice a thing wrong. I left later that night.”

“Well then,” Eragon grasped at his last shred of sanity. “I don’t even know what to do with that.”

….

Chapter Text

Murtagh let Eragon get some rest before they set off towards where Thorn and Tornac were. When he woke, he voiced something both him and Saphira had been thinking.

“So, if you woke up and didn’t remember, and Galbatorix showed no signs of knowing, what sent us back in time?” Eragon mused. “Galbatorix surely has the power and the means to do so, but why? And if not him, then who?”

Murtagh was silent for a moment, then, “Galbatorix has amassed more information than you could dream of. He knows magic lost to time and his strategies of war are unmatched. He definitely has the power, but every time he doesn’t get something he wants, he loses his temper and it breaks his façade of a perfect leader. When he told me to destroy Cantos, to kill Hrothgar, and his rage in discovering that Oromis was alive led him to lose control.

“To see me in the throne room, and keep his cool after what I did, I’m not sure why he would let me go. But, I’m also not sure what could have led to this. Possibly one of his failsafes? There were many secrets he did not reveal to me.” Murtagh fell quiet and then turned to head down to the horses.

Before they left, Eragon stood on the top of the sandstone hill and pondered their past and future.

We changed it, Saphira. Eragon thought. Brom lived and Murtagh remembers. I think it’s safe to say that we have a chance now. .

A chance to make things better, little one.

They made camp later that afternoon, meeting up with Saphira who had carried Brom on her back as they left the sandstone hill behind. Tornac and Thorn would come from the other direction in a few hours, so they made a campfire and threw up perimeter wards to notify them of anyone coming.

Eragon jumped down the moment he saw Saphira and ran over to her, untying Brom from her saddle and laying him down on the ground. He quickly heated up some water and sent Murtagh off to collect some game and plants from the forest.

He checked over the older man’s head wound and was pleased to find the swelling hadn’t increased, and there wasn’t much blood on the bandage. A magical inspection showed that all the blood seemed to be in the right place, so he let it be and again created a makeshift place for Brom to sleep comfortably. He allowed some water to wet the man’s mouth as well before tending to dinner.

Thorn landed in the clearing and Eragon was shocked at first to see him. When he woke in Carvahall and saw Saphira, she was three months old again, her size greatly diminished and her ability to breath fire gone. Carrying him for long flights took a lot of energy out of her. But in the past month and a half, she had grown immensely and was slowly regaining her stamina. Her fire should come in by the time they reached the Varden with Arya.

Thorn on the other hand, had barely hatched a month ago. He was still the size of a large dog and his limbs were thin as often a young dragon’s were. Eragon had only seen drawings of other young dragons, as by the time he had first met Thorn, he had been augmented with magic that forced him to grow faster than was natural.

Murtagh walked over and embraced him as Eragon looked on. Compared to Saphira, he looked so young. Huh, is that what I looked like? Saphira said from where she was crunching on the bones of a deer.

No, you were far more fearsome. Eragon replied. Saphira preened at the comment and ripped off another leg of the deer, offering it to the younger dragon. Thorn watched as it landed a few feet from him, and after a glance to Murtagh, bounded over to it and dug in. Eragon could only watch a moment before going back to the fire and eating his own dinner which was far less bloody.

Soon after Tornac arrived on his horse, and there was a quick round of introductions and exchanged pleasantries. Tornac seemed to be a no nonsense man, whose loyalties lay with Murtagh and Thorn alone. He reminded Eragon slightly of Horst with his frame and dedication to his craft. Eragon, in a fit of genius, handed over Zar’roc for him to examine and actually got a smile (well, not a smile, but not the usual frown) for his efforts.

Murtagh had only explained to Tornac that he had received a message from his half-brother and they would meet here when spring arrived. It was a bit to him of a shock when Thorn hatched soon after they had left. But the man had taken to the situation rather well.

Eragon thanked the man for helping his half-brother. “-despite him being an obnoxious prick.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t say you’re the image of perfection!”

Tornac just laughed.

…

Eragon launched another pinecone in the air and watched in fascination as Murtagh let his arrow fly and it hit spot-on, pieces of it falling to the ground like rain. With a laugh, Eragon picked up several more and threw them one after another, each of them bursting apart. With his last arrow, Murtagh pierced two pinecones and whooped.

In order to keep him from pacing back and forth across their camp, Murtagh had challenged Eragon to a shooting competition. They initially were shooting at chosen trees, but when a pinecone had fallen from a tree and Eragon took the chance to hit it, their new game started.

Together, they went to collect the arrows from the forest, rummaging around the brush and grabbing berries off bushes as they went. Eragon grabbed a few red berries, popping them in his mouth and then shouted to Murtagh who stood a few feet away. He threw one of the berries and Murtagh didn’t hesitate to jump and open his mouth, catching the berry perfectly, and then gracefully falling to the ground with a thump.

He stood up, brushing off his tunic and threw a pinecone at Eragon. “Give me a heads up next time.”

Eragon let the pinecone hit him and laughed. He picked up another arrow and then counted how many he had. “I’ve got all of mine. How many more are you missing?”

“Just one. But I’m pretty sure it was stuck in a tree. I heard a thud when it landed. Eragon turned his gaze upward and found it a minute later. With a boost from Murtagh, he shimmied up the trunk and pulled it out.

By the time they got back to camp, they each had a quiver of arrows, and a handful of berries to share. Murtagh was teasing Eragon about something or another and they were bumping each other's shoulders. All of which could have led to the confusion of Brom who was sitting up and sipping water by the fire with Tornac.

“Brom!” Eragon shouted, running up and placing the berries down before prodding and checking his head wound.

“Bah,” Brom said, swatting his hands away. “You worry too much. I’m just fine. What happened with the Ra’zac?”

“I almost had them when one of them struck you and then our friend here came to our aid. I’m pretty sure that one of the Ra’zac is dead or at least mortally wounded. It took an arrow straight to the heart and had several deep injuries by the time the other dragged it off.”

“Yea, took off with one of my arrows too. Now I’m uneven until I can make a new one.” Murtagh grumbled, dropping down on the ground next to Tornac and passing over his own gathering of berries to the older man.

Brom froze, but didn’t say anything. Eragon felt his blood run cold and memories of Ajihad’s first meeting ran through his mind. He waited for Brom to say something- accuse him of being his father or draw his staff and attack. Instead he elbowed Eragon in the gut and turned his gaze to him. “I know you were raised in the woods, but aren’t you at least going to introduce our new friends?”

“Uh, yea.” Eragon stuttered. “Murtagh is the one who saved us. And this is Tornac, his-”

“-father.” Murtagh interjected. “Nice to meet you sir. I’m glad you recovered from your injuries.”

Brom hummed. “Nice to meet you as well. Thank you for helping out this one. He seems to always find a way to get in trouble.”

“Hey!” Eragon crossed his arms and sat back, no longer worried about needing to intervene. Saphira, he’s awake. Where are you?

I was scouting the area with Thorn. Shall we both come back?

Might as well rip off the skin and get it over with. He hasn't said anything about Murtagh’s looks.

We shall be there soon.

Eragon glanced over at Murtagh who cocked his head at the same time, likely hearing from Thorn as well.

“Well, despite saving him from trouble, I am afraid to say that I’m about to cause a bit more chaos.” Murtagh said, plucking a piece of grass from his leggings.

The wing beats of a smaller dragon didn’t shake the ground as Glaedr did, but she did shake the tops of the trees and stir up the dirt around their campsite. Several squawks blossomed from the woods as birds took flight. When her weight finally alighted on the ground, a small tremor shook Eragon’s body.

In comparison, when Thorn alighted, it was like watching a foal stumbling behind their mother. At just under two months of growth, he was long and gangly like the kittens in the barn when they finally took to straying away from their mother. Compared to Saphira’s vain attempts to seem graceful, Thorn was uneven in his steps, stumbling often and tripping over roots, not watching where he was going. Similarly, he was curious to a fault and snuck his thin neck around Saphira’s body to peer at Brom.

Eragon followed his gaze to see Brom tearing up. His eyes were shining brightly and his mouth had fallen open. He whispered under his breath and made a strange gesture. Then, he turned and thwapped Eragon upside his head. “You didn’t think to mention this part first?”

“We were getting to it. Why are you whacking me instead of him?” Eragon complained.

Brom jabbed him again. “I’m getting to that. You’re first because you should know better.” He looked over at Murtagh, pointing with his staff. “Where the hell did you get his egg?”

“Stole it from an asshole when I ran away from hell.” Murtagh said, smirking.

Brom used his staff to stand, and he walked slowly over to Thorn and after what Eragon assumed a brief mental exchange, he ran his hand over Thorn’s scales and looked into his mouth at his teeth. After a while of looking him over, Brom declared Thorn a healthy young dragon and Thorn preened under the praise. The red dragon bounced a bit and then turned and nipped Saphira on the tail. This quickly devolved into a chaotic match between the two dragons who flattened several bushes before running off out of sight.

Brom slowly returned to his seat and gratefully took a few of the berries and some of the cooked meat from their last fire. Eragon quickly made a fire to warm up some water and make a tea that would help with healing Brom’s wound.

Over the quick meal, Eragon explained how far they had traveled from their previous campsite. “We went east first and then doubled back west. Saphira hasn’t seen any trace of the Ra’zac or their steeds recently, so they may have lost our trail or given up and retreated for now.”

“We should keep moving anyway.” Murtagh said. “They’re nothing if not persistent.”

“Which way do you recommend?” Brom said, his gaze focused, but not revealing any emotion that Eragon could decipher.

“North. With spring ending, the traders will be heading that way to sell in the towns and cities. We can blend in pretty easily.” Murtagh said. “Grab supplies and figure out our next move from there.”

With that, they began packing up their camp, and got on the horses to ride north. Brom pulled Eragon to the side as Murtagh and Tornac spurred their horses forward. He waited until they had ridden a fair distance and then said quietly.

Brom looked Eragon in his eyes for an uncomfortably long time before speaking. “You haven’t seen or heard them do anything suspicious, have you?”

Eragon shook his head. “I trust them. Murtagh saved my life and yours. Tornac seems to be a good guy, if not pretty quiet. The horses are calm around them and Saphira trusts them both as well. Besides, if he has Thorn, then he has to be trustworthy right? He’s against Galbatorix just like us.”

Brom stayed quiet, but turned to glance at the boy again. “Not all riders are trustworthy, Eragon. Remember that it is a rider that caused the genocide of all dragons.”

Eragon frowned. He couldn’t say that Murtagh was harmless, because he wasn’t. He was incredibly smart and strong. They were only lucky that he was on their side. Even when he wasn’t, he spared Eragon’s life more than once.

“I trust him,” Eragon said. “He saved you from certain death had the Ra’zac gotten hold of you.”

Brom considered his answer for a moment and then grabbed the reins and spurred his horse forward. Eragon almost didn’t hear the words whispered in the ancient language under Brom’s breath as they headed to join the others.

“-just like their mother.”

…

When they stopped late the following day, the horses breathing heavily, Eragon and Murtagh were tasked with finding firewood and digging a ditch so that the smoke and light wouldn’t give away their location.

“I don’t see why we have to do this by hand.” Murtagh groaned as Eragon was digging.

“Because, Brom is going to be weird if we suddenly know magic we shouldn’t.” Eragon said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Then, just tell him the truth. Tornac knows enough that when I do something odd, he doesn’t question it.”

“I just-” Eragon dug fiercely into the dig without finishing his sentence. He wasn't going to have the same argument with Murtagh that he already had with Saphira. “He doesn’t trust you yet. I don’t want it to turn out like the first meeting with the Varden.”

Murtagh rolled his eyes and spoke a spell that had all the dirt spilling out of the shallow hole onto the dirt beside it. He dumped the twigs and sticks into the hole and said brisingr to make the whole thing jump into flames. When he was finished, Murtagh looked at Eragon who was still posed to dig into the dirt again and raised an eyebrow.

“When you decide to stop being a coward, let me know. Him knowing everything is going to help us in the long run, but only if you actually tell him.” Murtagh walked off to find where Tornac had gone to find something to eat.

Don’t say it. Eragon thought to Saphira who had been listening in.

I wasn't going to say anything. She sounded amused.

Yes, you were going to say you were right. But, I just need more time. Eragon faltered. He gripped tightly to the edge of his tunic. I don’t know what he’s going to say once he knows I know. Or if we’re going to doom him by telling him the truth. I don’t want to lose him again.

You’ll never know if you don’t say anything.

Eragon twisted the fibers of the worn edge and bit his lip. I know.

…

The following day was filled with Murtagh gently ribbing Eragon and throwing in tidbits about the future that were subtle enough that Brom didn’t understand, but he was confused. From his perspective, the two had known each other for less than two days and were now acting like they had known each other for years.

When they stopped for lunch, Murtagh gave Eragon a pointed look and then walked off with Tornac, saying they were “off for some father-son bonding.”

Brom watched them curiously and then turned to Eragon. Saphira stared at Eragon from behind as well, warming up his back with her hot breath. Finally, after sweating copiously for a few minutes, Eragon broke. Fine!

“Brom,” he started. “I- We need to tell you something. The last time we were on this journey, you had just died from wounds inflicted by the Ra’zac. We carried on without you and made it to the Varden.”

Brom was silent and his face placid as Eragon began quickly running through the details of his previous journey and eventual confrontation with Galbatorix.

“… We fought a couple more battles, then took Uru’baen. It was going well until Galbatorix overtook us and a spell turned everything black. I woke up in the past and at first we thought it was a trick of the mind, but it seems like we have truly returned in time.”

Brom was silent, as was the whole world. Eragon finally broke eye contact and put his head down, looking at the dirt. Would Brom think he was crazy? Then, a smack came to the back of his head.

“What the hell gives-“

“You stupid boy.” Brom looked to Saphira. “You knew all this too? You supported him?!”

Saphira bared her teeth in what looked like a fearsome intimidation but Eragon knew was her version of a cheeky smile. Guilty as charged, she said to the both of them.

“Now I understand how my teachers felt,” Brom shouted, stomping away and waving in the air. “Was I always this fucking idiotic? Well no, because I never thought to travel through fucking time!”

Eragon flinched as Brom shouted that last part at him. “Well, see now, it wasn’t really our choice in that matter.” He tried to placate the man.

“And another thing!” Brom said not listening. “How long have you been playing this charade? Since Carvahall? You stupid boy you’ve been downplaying your ability this whole time haven’t you. I probably haven’t taught you one new thing in this entire journey have I?”

“Omoris has a rather extensive library and strict teaching schedule during wartime.” Eragon mumbled.

“Fucking hell.” He cursed. “He trains with the elves for years and here I am thinking myself smart for teaching him how to raise a stone with magic.” He puffed several times in succession, cursing in a variety of languages. “He takes me to the woods with no one around, but doesn’t even think to bring mead.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“There better not be a next time boy-“ Brom pulled the pipe from his mouth and waved it menacingly at Eragon. “I’ll be kicking your ass from the past, present, and future if you even think about messing with magic again.”

A couple minutes of cursing, pacing and puffing later, Brom sat back down and looked at Eragon.

“So, how does that pertain to Murtagh and Tornac?”

Eragon explained that Murtagh had saved them in the first timeline as well, and he was truly on their side. “He helped us break Arya out of Gil’ead as well.”

“Arya?!”

Eragon quickly detailed Arya’s dilemma and their previous search of all the prison cells between Dras Leona and Gil’ead as well as Durza and his current position under Galbatorix and control over the Urgals.

“Well, damn, I didn’t think we’d have to deal with a shade as well.” Brom said, eyes wide open. “That explains why she sent Saphira to you-“

“Well, she meant to send it to you, but you know, magic doesn’t really measure in leagues.” That and the Edulnari had told him. Eragon paused. What was he just thinking about?

Brom scrubbed at his temples with his hands, completely exasperated with Eragon, and looked deep in thought.

“So, Murtagh remembers, and he’s on our side. And if the others who were there-“

“Nasuada and Arya.”

“Right, if they remember, then we need to figure out why Galbatorix doesn’t. If he’s just pretending, then we’re going to be in big trouble if he decides to launch against the Varden first. How exactly did you come back in time two years?”

“It wasn’t on purpose. We were facing off against Galbatorix when he retaliated with a spell. Something happened to it though. I cast a protection spell with Saphira but it all went black and I woke up in Gertrude’s house. I don’t know how or why, but Murtagh doesn’t remember casting any spell, nor hearing Galbatorix say anything after he said ‘Be not’ and started the cataclysm.”

Brom hummed and turned away from the camp. “I’m going for a walk.”

Eragon watched as he made his way deeper into the trees until he was gone from view. Murtagh walked up behind him a little while later.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” Murtagh commented. Eragon didn’t ask how he knew they were finished. Either he was listening in, or Saphira had told them. Either way, he was glad he didn’t have to recount the whole conversation.

“Could have gone better too.” Eragon climbed up on Saphira and began rubbing at a spot he knew she enjoyed. “Hopefully he’ll come back in a better mood. I know it’s a lot to handle. Why did you tell Tornac the truth?”

Murtagh sat in thought for a moment. “Too many people knowing a secret, especially this secret, is a dangerous thing. But Tornac is a formidable fighter, and the closest thing to a father I have. He knows something more is going on, but we trust each other, and once Galbatorix is dead, I’ll tell him everything.”

…

Brom returned shortly, the walk calming his overwhelm. He eyed Tornac who had since returned from gathering resources and after a greeting and short conversation, seemed to approve of the man.

“We head for Gilead next. We’ll act according to your information and see if we can’t rescue Arya. We will choose our next path after that.”

Eragon and Murtagh nodded in acknowledgment and the silence was only filled by the sound of the firewood cracking and popping.

…

They left after breakfast the next morning and put in a few leagues before night fell. The next week was filled with not one, but two old men critiquing their sword fighting forms and forcing the two boys to fight until they collapsed each night.

One night after the men had fallen asleep, Eragon looked over to where Murtagh stared up at the stars, sleep evading the both of them.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“Well, my entire body feels like a bruise, so probably about the same as you.” He paused. “But, I’m feeling good. This seems right, what should have been- you know, us as half-brothers and riders. Traveling and training together like we did all that time ago. Not the fights that he forced upon us… the plains and the throne room. That was…” He let his voice trail off, unable to find the words.

Eragon hummed in agreement. “It’s nice to have you here as my brother instead of a stranger or a foe. I’m lucky to have you on our side.” He paused and thought about what Saphira had said recently when they went flying. “Brom used to say that the future is foggy but the past is a clear sky. But, now that our future has clarity from our memories, I can’t help but wonder if there is something that we are missing. There’s a gap in our memories. Something happened in the days before we fought Galbatorix and neither Saphira nor I can remember it. I was wondering if you had any gaps as well.”

Murtagh narrowed his brows. “Thorn and I remember everything, even the stuff we would rather forget. Are you worried it’s Galbatorix?”

“I’m not sure...” He relented. “But I keep on feeling like it’s important.”

Murtagh didn’t say anything to that, and they fell into silence and then, a deep sleep.

///

In his dreams, Eragon could hear the whispering of dozens of voices trying to talk to him. He could hear them overlapping, but their words muddled together, he couldn’t make out what they were saying. They felt bright and powerful- stars blinding those who dared to look up.

He could see a large figure standing over him, wielding a sword, and in his arms, he felt the weight of… something. It seemed more precious than his own life.

What was it?

Who was it?

When he woke the next morning, he remembered nothing of the stars.

…

Chapter Text

Eragon began to become worried about Arya. In his travels prior, he had received a few dreams about her in the prison cell after what happened in Dras Leona, but now he received none. Every so often, he would try to scry Arya and would be met with her sleeping among a white background. On their journey north, Eragon became nervous about what the change meant. Did he change too much by saving Brom that Arya’s life would be forfeit? Those anxieties only increased as they approached the city.

As they reached Gilead, they paused at the crest of a hill overlooking the city. Eragon and Murtagh exchanged glances as the older men talked about what supplies they would need from the city.

“You could let yourself be seen again, then you’d be captured and we’d know for sure Durza would be there.” Murtagh said, his voice low so the older men wouldn’t hear.

“And waste three days trying to get myself out of the prison again? It was a shoddy breakout to begin with.” Eragon replied.

“How else do you expect to break in the prison?”

“The same way you did last time. You come and we leave the men out here. We fly out with Saphira and Thorn.”

“I think Brom and Tornac should be with us, more people, but also more of a chance to kill Durza, especially with Tornac’s proficiency. But, I’d rather not put our mentors in danger after we just saved them from their deadly fates. And Thorn is barely big enough to fly, much less fight.” Murtagh said with a pointed look.

“So three of us? We break our way into the prison, save Arya and have Saphira land on the roof? Then if we fuck up badly enough, we still have Brom to save us.”

Murtagh thought for a moment. “No, two is better. Easier to sneak around. The men can come to the city separately and get the supplies we need first and scout the jail and then not be suspicious later when we have to flee. Let’s keep Saphira a secret as long as we can. I can cast spells this time and I’d rather not tip off Galbatorix where we are or that I’m alive.”

Eragon acquiesced and then they detailed out the breakout.

///

The next day, Brom and Tornac went in together and came back with their needed supplies, thankfully not recognized or followed by anyone. They walked past the jail and found it had a normal number of guards and the boys guessed that Arya wasn’t being held inside. They held off from asking too many questions around in order to not be suspicious.

Eragon and Murtagh cursed. They were about a month ahead of the original timeline due to Eragon not being completely incapacitated by the Ra’zac and their hustle from Carvahall to Dras Leona. Arya may not be brought for another month, and they never knew if the catalyst for her being transported was Eragon’s capture in the first place.

“She had to have been nearby. Think about it.” Brom said to Eragon that night. “You said she once mentioned that she was ferrying the egg between somewhere and Ceunon. That means if she was captured, it would have been on the outskirts of Du Weldenvarden since they didn’t have time to flee any further. Durza has been doing work for the king and recruiting Urgals under his spells. We know urgals were in Yazuac at least a month and a half ago, possibly with Durza. He wouldn’t be heading towards the desert or too deep into the Spine- it’s far too unpredictable. Though Urgals tend to live on the edges, so perhaps he’s been making his way through the tribes.”

“Perhaps she’s been in Bulridge? Why wouldn’t Durza have taken her straight to Galbatorix?” Eragon pondered.

“Perhaps he wanted to toy with her and torture her for his own sadistic pleasure.” Murtagh said quietly. “I’ve seen something similar in the Empire. They have free reign except for death. Then once they’ve had their fun, they turn their prisoners over to Galbatorix. Once Galbatorix has what he wants, he either kills them or lends them out to his supporters.”

Eragon fell silent at Murtagh’s account. He knew Nasuada had likely been tortured for the weeks she was in captivity. But he didn’t have the time nor the courage to bring that up with Murtagh. Not to mention his own torture at Galbatorix’s hands. But they still had to find Arya. The memories of her talking about her time at Durza’s hands weighed heavily on his mind still.

Brom nodded grimly. “Durza has been at Galbatorix’s side for a while and is one of his most trusted vassals. Likely, he is willing to let Durza go through the hassle of spadework to avoid wasting his time. I have been lucky to not cross paths with him directly, but he is not one to be trifled with lightly.”

“Then we fall back on our first idea.” Eragon said after a moment. “Let me be caught and identified. Then Durza will have to come to fight me. It’s a slightly more dangerous option, but it wasn’t so terrible the first time around. I’ll break myself out and call for you and Saphira the moment I can use magic again. I’ll be prepared this time. He thinks me a foolish boy and won’t be prepared for my ability to use magic.”

Brom and Murtagh didn’t like the idea, but it was the best they could come up with for the time being. Durza would kill anyone who wasn’t Eragon on Galbatorix’s orders.

…

Their walk into Gilead was quiet and uneventful. When they were met at the gate by guards, they simply said they were from a town to the west and were looking for trade work. The guard looked at their slender forms, muscles hidden by loose tunics and laughed them through the gate.

The plan was for Eragon to go to the market and try to haggle, showing off his gewey insignia to someone Murtagh knew and by the time he was followed back to the tavern he was renting for the night, he’d be captured and taken to the prison, and Durza contacted.

Eragon stood wearily on the edges of the market, Murtagh in the back of his mind telling him he was in place and hidden. He took off a glove and shoved it in his pocket, switching it out for the small bag of change he had collected. It wasn’t much, but enough to make at least a few small purchases. They hadn’t wanted Eragon to carry much to avoid losing supplies.

He walked up to a fruit stand, smiling at the young woman and browsing a bit before trading two copper pieces for an apple and a wink. He moved on down the line, ignoring the fisherman and shoe salesman to where a man was selling fresh bread. The smell enticed him and he stood in line between two older women. The sounds of the market seemed to get louder when he stopped. The children running past, candy clutched tightly, and the fish monger shouting for good deals.

Fresh fish! Best this side of the river!

Another two young men queued behind him and began muttering about something. As Eragon got further, he noticed an Empire tattoo on the man’s uncovered arm just like Murtagh had said and his stomach clenched. This was it. No going back once this man recognized him.

Fresh flowers. Three for a copper!

He clutched the bag tightly and decided his order. Half loaf of the soured bread. That’d keep him full in the jail cell until the drugs wore off.

Bowls, plates and cutlery. Best deals around!

The first older woman tucked her purchase into her bag and the second stepped up. The men continued chatting in a low voice behind him. A moment later the exchange was done and Eragon stepped up.

“Half a loaf of the soured bread, please.” He said with a smile. The man didn’t smile back, grabbing the loaf and holding out his hand for the money. He moved to dump the cash into his hand and then suddenly the words behind him were clear enough to hear.

“I heard he’s got an elf up there.”

Eragon fumbled with his money pouch, nearly dropping it and several coins dropped in the dirt. He quickly picked them up, scrubbing his palm in the dirt and whispering a quick spell to hide his features. He stood back up and smiled apologetically.

“Sorry, make that the half loaf and the half tart please.” He handed a few coins more than the total the angry man had spat out, looking apologetic at the dirt he left on the man’s hands. The baker angrily dumped the coins in his moneybox and scrubbed his dirtied hand on his apron.

Eragon scampered away, weaving quickly through the crowd of people.

He had just made it to the end of the corridor when he was tugged by the elbow into a dark alleyway. He squeaked out the beginnings of a shout before the other hand covered his mouth and dragged him back.

“What the hell?” Murtagh said after he finally stopped trying to get free. “You were supposed to let him recognize you and definitely not pay that much for a tart.”

Eragon rolled his eyes at his dramatics and held up the tart. “I was gonna share, but if you’re going to be a little shit about it, I won’t.” Murtagh snatched it away, taking a big bite and sighing at the sugary taste. “And, I heard two idiots talking about an elf somewhere ‘up there’. She must be in a town around here” Murtagh coughed, choking on the large bite and Eragon took that moment to snag the tart back from him and take a bite with a smile. “So, original plan is back on!”

...

They spent the money for a room at the tavern after updating the others on their plan. The night was spent getting information out of the drunk soldiers who were more than happy to spout their ideals and secrets to eager young men ready to serve their country.

Eragon felt dirty to spout lies about how much he wanted to fight for the Empire. Back when he and Roran were children, the traders had come through complaining about the draft taking their sons and the taxes taking their money. As young boys, they couldn’t comprehend that death was permanent. Instead they play-fought with sticks instead of swords and waged war against Horst’s boys in the alleyways until the dinner bell rang.

Marian entertained their recollection of the afternoon until Roran had said he was going to be the strongest soldier the world had ever seen and fight to kill all the bad guys. She had set them in front of the fireplace and told them the truths of war. That fighting means you got seriously injured and death isn’t something they came back from.

“Soon, the king may decide that Carvahall has enough young boys and take more than our taxes and crops. And I have no desire to send my sons off to their deaths.” She said in a quiet voice. The boys had still played war after that, but not once did Eragon or Roran speak of wanting to fight in the king’s army.

It was this memory of joy before learning the truth that he channeled when talking to the older men. They humored him, laughing about how they used to be bright eyed young boys too. That was until they were forced to work with the urgals. The forced cooperation turned their jovial drinking into a complaint fest where the soldiers spilled everything about the Shade.

Turns out Durza had moved north with a collection of Urgals and soldiers to a small town that had been rumored to be harboring criminals to the Empire. The Shade had been planning to stake out the settlement in order to weed out the traitor.

The next day, Eragon and Murtagh left the city as inconspicuously as possible and rendezvoused with the men to tell what they learned. They spent the next day and a half making their way north through a roundabout path to the smaller village and then a further day watching the village and making their plans. It was decided that Murtagh would sneak his way into the camp’s makeshift prison which was repurposed from someone’s home and then Eragon would be waiting on the outskirts of the encampment. They’d strike during the shift change and fly out on Saphira who would be waiting overhead. Killing Durza would be a bonus.

Of course, when did anything ever go according to plan?

...

Sneaking in was a lot easier than they originally thought. When the soldiers had said, ‘a small village up north’, turns out a Gil’ead soldier’s version of small was roughly twice the size of Therinsford. So Murtagh and Eragon had no problem spelling themselves invisible and sneaking into the large building that most of the urgals were stationed outside.

Every hour or so, a struggling man was dragged in and questioned. A few minutes later, depending on how cooperative they were, the screaming would start.

Murtagh had gone around back, leaving Eragon sitting outside, watching the guards to make sure no one noticed the footprints in the dirt. He was nervously chewing on his lip when Murtagh contacted him.

I found Arya. She isn’t waking up, so she must still have the poison in her. I can’t find the cure. There’s a lot of guards heading my way. They must’ve finished the interrogation already. The Urgals are blocking us from the exit as well. I can’t protect her and fight them all off at the same time.

Shit. Eragon cursed. I’ll be inside in a second.

He jumped off of the barrel he had been sitting on, taking care to not show his footsteps and made his way around the corner and over a small garden gate. He was only met with two guards, both of which he put to sleep and tossed them into nearby bushes.

Eragon had just made it there when someone rattled the locked door and they could hear chatter starting up in the halls.

“Call Saphira. I think our exit is compromised.” Murtagh said, dragging Arya to the side of the room. Eragon nodded and picked up his sword, ready to call for Saphira, only to turn and come face to face with a man with pale skin and dark red hair.

“Well, I think it’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Durza said sinisterly. His eyes widened and nostrils flared when he locked eyes with Eragon. “You!” He hissed. “I can smell her magic on you. Where is the egg?”

“Shit!” Murtagh cursed, drawing his sword and lunging towards Durza. Eragon dodged the Shade’s first attack and spun, pulling Zar’roc out of its sheath and striking at the shade. Pounding sounded on the door and then it splintered, several soldiers pouring into the room to join the fray. They traded blows, switching between the shade and the soldiers. Durza still an even match for the two boys, as Eragon tried to push into the Shade’s mind and break his defenses.

“What a poor excuse for a Shade,” Eragon bantered, trying to throw Durza off balance enough to gain entry to his mind. “You can’t even beat a simple farmhand. No wonder you haven’t been able to best an elf.”

“You imbecile!” Durza spat as they grappled and the shade caught a glimpse of the gewey on his palm, confirming that Eragon was indeed a rider. “With my knowledge, I could have helped you become king!”

Eragon dodged several swipes that could have meant his death. Without the dwarves’ armor, he was far more unprotected than his first duel. But, he was far more skilled as well. A slash to his back caught some skin and Eragon leapt forward into a roll and turned back, locking eyes with Durza. A rivulet of sweat and blood poured down his back.

Since Brom had learned of their previous duels, he drilled Eragon and Murtagh in ways to fight a Shade. They often battled each other mentally and physically at the same time during their nightly spars. Combined with his previous knowledge and Saphira’s strength from where she was hidden nearby, he knocked the Shade off balance and pushed forward into his mind.

As the first torrent of memories overwhelmed his mind, he could hear Murtagh fighting off the last of the guards. Eragon forced himself to move forward and attack at Durza, keeping the man’s attention on him and allowing Murtagh the chance he needed to sneak around and stab Durza through the heart.

Durza looked down with shock at the blade protruding from his breast. His mouth was open, but instead of words, an unearthly howl burst from him. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He grasped Murtagh’s sword as if to pull it out, but it was lodged firmly in him.

Then Durza’s skin turned transparent. Under it was neither flesh nor bone, but swirling patterns of darkness. He shrieked even louder as the darkness pulsated, splitting his skin. With one last cry, Durza was rent from head to toe, releasing the darkness, which separated into three entities who flew through the prison’s walls and out of view. The Shade was gone.

Eragon fell to the ground, the shade’s memories swirling inside his mind. Saphira helped to close his mind and he recited poetry until he was able to stand again. He quickly searched the shade’s fallen clothes and found none of the antidote to the poison there. He did however grab several papers that were stuffed in an inside pocket. Shakily, he balanced on the wall and staggered over to Arya while Murtagh had just knocked out the last two guards. He cursed Durza and wrapped his cloak over Arya’s bruised form.

Murtagh joined him, picking up Arya in his arms, and in the quiet without swordplay, they could hear the chaos that was coming from the street. Murtagh nodded to Eragon and then left out the way he came with Arya’s bow slung across his back. Eragon, on the other hand, moved towards the door that led to the main street.

Outside was a scene of chaos. Several urgals had turned on the soldiers and each other, and the families of the village were being used as human shields. Children screaming and the cries of men on the ground with fatal injuries melted into a cacophony of noise.

One of the urgals swung, knocking a man out of the way and the child behind him fell to the ground several feet away. Eragon finally came out of his frozen state. Saphira, I need you!

“That is enough!” He shouted. The scene barely even paused for a moment, before the urgals turned back to their opponents, raising their weapons. “Urgralga, please listen to me.” He said in their language. “The Shade is dead and you are no longer under his control.” That halted the urgals, though the one soldier still swung his sword and was promptly bludgeoned for his audacity.

One of the largest, Eragon recognized as one of the urgals who served in the Varden under Nar Garzhvog’s command. “Khagra! Listen to me. You must no longer fight against each other. Instead fight against the man who enslaved you because he was afraid of your strength.”

Said Kull turned and looked at him, a face of rage. “How dare you speak in our language. You are nothing but human scum. We will have our revenge here and now and until blood has blood.”

“Listen, we both want the same thing- for this war to stop and our people to be free. For too long have your people been persecuted and used for Galbatorix’s gain. I have freed you from your chains and killed the shade, Durza.” Eragon put his hands up in surrender. “Join me in getting that revenge.”

The kull took a few steps forward and then bellowed out a tremendous sound. Eragon stood his ground as from the sky a roar echoed and Saphira landed behind him, shaking the earth and stirring up a storm of dirt and dust.

“We won’t fight you.” Eragon said, his voice echoing across the now quiet courtyard. “But know, that if you and other urgralgra head south to Surda, the Varden would be lucky to have strong fighters in their ranks. You can win great respect in the upcoming battles. As the last free rider, I am going to dethrone Galbatorix and restore peace to Alagaesia.”

Eragon turned his back to the looming kull and went over to the child who was now cradling an inflamed arm. He spent a few minutes offering to heal injuries from the people of the village who cowered from his presence at first. The urgals quickly dispersed from the area and soon it was only the villagers and the fallen soldiers.

“Galbatorix thinks you are hiding criminals here,” Eragon said to the villagers once he had helped all he could. “And whether or not you are, he is willing to kill everyone and burn this village to the ground to avoid anyone standing up to him. There is sanctuary for those who need it in Surda or with the elves in the forest. Tell them that Eragon Shadeslayer has come to help Alagaesia.”

When the villagers didn’t speak, he nodded and mounted Saphira and flew away in the opposite direction of where he would meet up with the others.

...

After his backtracking to hide their location, he landed in a clearing where Murtagh had already met up with the men. They quickly transferred Arya to Saphira’s saddle and left the small village behind.

While on horseback, Eragon healed his back and marveled at getting out of the fight without once again being afflicted by his painful seizures. Murtagh didn’t say anything when healing his own minor injuries, but Eragon’s gaze lingered on the thick scar that marred his back. They were closer than before, but the stark differences between the two still grew.

...

They made their way east to the river where they rode in the shallows for a league or more until the ground was firm enough on the banks to hide their tracks. Then, when the river was shallow and calm enough, they crossed and made camp deep in the forest on the other side.

They rode too quickly for words to be exchanged, but when they stopped, Eragon had a chance to read through the papers he found in the shade’s possession. They detailed his orders for the future and where they suspected spies to be hiding. Apparently Gil’ead was Durza’s home base, but he never left Arya alone for long enough for his poisons to wear off.

When they finally stopped far enough away from any towns, Eragon and Murtagh spoke to Brom and Tornac as the water was heated for dinner and for healing and bandaging Arya’s wounds.

“And now that Durza is dead, the Urgals will be waking from their enchantments and beginning to turn on each other, but more importantly, the king since he has no way to control them anymore. Hopefully the urgals from the village will spread my message to the others before it gets too bad. But, what is most important is Arya.” Eragon gestured to the elf who’s majority of injuries were healed the minute they set up camp. “I can heal the worst of it, but we don’t have the antidote. Tuniver’s Nectar takes a long time and a lot of skill to make. It would be a shorter time to travel to either the elves or the Varden to get the cure.”

“The Varden won’t be under immediate threat of the urgals, unless Galbatorix can create another shade and teach them enough magic quickly. But there is still the matter of the spies and taking them out before they can cause too much harm as well as getting the Varden to move towards Surda and begin claiming the bordering cities.” Murtagh mused.

“But, it would be beneficial to let the elves know that Arya lives, as well as two dragons now hatched and who stand against the empire.” Brom countered. “Their resources will be vital to the war effort. Besides, your teacher will be waiting for you two to arrive.”

“Perhaps it’s best to split up then?” Eragon said hesitantly. “You can take Arya to Ellesmera and get Murtagh training with our teacher. You have a way in, so you can get through to the elves and then after I’ll come after I speak with Ajihad to continue my training. He should have gotten Brom’s note and ring by now. And, if Nasuada is in the same situation as us, then she will want answers and quickly.”

“Hey, I’m not going to the elves without you. Don’t you remember the last time Oromis saw me?” Murtagh said quickly. “They’d lock me up in seconds!”

Eragon shook his head, ignoring Brom’s questioning glance. “They won’t remember that. And if they do, then you can feign ignorance and pretend you don’t remember anything.”

“And what of Nasuada?” Murtagh countered.

“What of her?”

“I should be there when we first get to the Varden.”

Eragon laughed. “Sure, fine, come along and flirt with her if you wish. I still think someone needs to go to Du Weldenvarden.”

Murtagh frowned. “As joking as you make it sound, I need to be there. Last Nasuada knew, she was held captive in Galbatorix’s castle. He used magic to warp her mind. The touch of my mind was all to keep her sane.” His face was grim. “I can’t imagine what she is going through right now. Trapped in her past, with no reason not to think it is another trick.”

Eragon fell silent at the realization. Murtagh did not share much from his time at the castle that was not necessary, and for good reason.

“I can head to Ellesmera by myself if need be.” Brom said, interrupting the silence. “That way, I can inform your teachers and Islanzadi about the circumstances, but you two can follow your way to the Varden. How long does Arya have in her current trance?”

Eragon thought back to what she had said previously. “Up to 7 days, possibly more if she doesn’t waste energy by trying to use magic. It shouldn’t take too long for you to get to Du Weldenvarden, but it’s about convincing the guardians to let you into the forest without your ring or another elf.”

“I have my ways,” Brom hummed ominously. Eragon was once again reminded that Brom had lived a long life before he knew the old man.

Eragon looked over to where Arya lay by the fire. “Then that just leaves Arya. Would you be able to carry her on horseback? I would worry she would get sores and get hurt.”

I could carry her just until you are safely within the forest. Saphira offered.

“Don’t worry about that,” Brom said. “If anything, I’ll carry her as I ride. You are better off together where you can protect each other.

...

They decided quickly which supplies would be divided between the two groups and then saddled Snowfire and Cadoc.

Before they split up, Eragon took a moment alone with Brom and handed over a note sealed with magic. “For Arya, if she remembers.” Brom handed over a similar letter to him for Ajihad.

He paused, drawing out the end of the conversation and trying to think of how to approach the subject. Ever since he had told Brom of their return in time, he had avoided being alone with him. He was conflicted. Every time he thought of talking about how Brom was his father, his stomach twisted and his throat closed. He was angry at Brom for lying, but relieved of course that Morzan wasn’t his father. Now, despite the time they spent together, it still felt like he was a stranger. Eragon felt lost in a way he hadn’t since he was a child. No mother or father to connect to- no heritage to call his own. Saphira helped, but she wasn’t family; she was connected to him in a different way.

“When we meet again in Ellesmera,” Eragon started. “I’d like to take some time to talk with you. Privately. If that’s okay.”

“I can’t say that I haven’t been avoiding this conversation,” Brom said after a moment, not making eye-contact with Eragon. “But if I died, then that means Saphira showed you her memories and you know that I am a rider.”

“Aye, I did know that.” Eragon said, looking down at his boots.

“And I can imagine that you have somehow discovered your parentage.”

“Aye.” Eragon said softly. “I originally thought Morzan was my father, and it compromised my feelings on the battlefield. Knowing that, Oromis was able to break his oath. I was happy, of course, to learn the truth, but also frustrated and angry. I felt so lost for the longest time.”

“I just wanted to keep you safe. To let you get to know me without the weight of expectations on both of our shoulders.” Brom said after a pause, then looked into Eragon’s eyes. “Can you forgive me for keeping these secrets from you?”

“I forgave you a long time ago,” Eragon said. “But I’d like to start again. I’m not expecting you to tell me all your secrets, because there is a fair amount of them that I have as well to keep those I love safe, but if we could communicate better, I’d like that.”

“Me too.” Brom said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Take care on your journey, I cannot lose my father again.”

Then, he held a hand up to Eragon’s cheek and looked into his eyes. “You have grown up, my son. I am sorry we didn’t have the time that you wished for, but when this war is over, I promise I will be a better father to you.” He tilted their heads and allowed their foreheads to touch.

Eragon felt something in his heart settle at the declaration. As they pulled apart and Brom mounted his horse, Eragon smiled up at his father and let the weight lift from his chest. “Now, don’t go getting into trouble old man.”

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it.” He laughed, and nudged the horses forward. “Be prepared for training from hell when you arrive in Ellesmera.”

Murtagh came to stand by Eragon as they watched the horses go deeper into the forest until they were lost from view. Murtagh leaned into a nudge, swaying Eragon slightly on his feet. “Let’s get going, we have a lot of ground to cover. We can’t all fly on dragons.”

“No,” Eragon smiled, his bittersweet mood turning to glee. “No, I think I’ll fly and you can take the horse.”

“No way! You got to fly all the time here. It’s my turn with the saddle.” He turned, laughing and started running to where Saphira and Thorn sat basking in the sun, the saddle between the two. “Saphira, give me the saddle. I’m sick of getting sores on my legs!”

“Get back here!” Eragon shouted running after him.

“Sorry, what was that? I don’t speak stupid.”

“How about move the ground beneath his feet to the left!” Eragon shouted in the ancient language. Murtagh said something Eragon couldn’t hear and suddenly the ground beneath his feet shifted and had him falling onto the soil and roots beneath him.

Groaning, he got up to find Murtagh already halfway finished with strapping the saddle onto Thorn.

“Saphira, do something!” Saphira rolled over, letting the sun glint off of her blue scales, throwing a dizzy array of blue light across the forest.

You know, I quite like the way the sun looks on my scales right now. Besides, she opened an eye to look at him running up. If you want to fly, I could always carry you in my mouth.

Eragon finished running the last few lengths to the clearing in time for Murtagh to climb up on Thorn’s back.

“You win some, you lose some.” He taunted as dragon wings unfurled and took up all the space in the clearing. Eragon had to duck to avoid being beheaded. “Hopefully next time you can learn not to trip over your own feet.” Eragon looked down to find the laces of his boots untied. He quickly tied them and stood to find the air calming down as Murtagh and Thorn flew higher. He threw an irritated glance towards Saphira who was snorting through her nose but quickly let it go, wrapping his arms around her neck.

We will get another saddle soon enough, little one. Saphira said.

And when we do, you will out-fly Thorn like you always do.

Of course.

Chapter Text

Their journey through the lands went by quickly, but this time, without Urgals on their heels, they were able to stop often to let the horses rest and drink and make camp each night. They were nearly through the Hadarac and to the Beors, stopping briefly at a pond for the horses to drink, when Eragon found that some events must be destined to happen. The slave traders who combed the area for deserters and people to enslave had happened upon them again.

Eragon and Murtagh exchanged glances as the group of twenty horsemen came up on them quickly in a mass of brown and gray. Eragon pulled his sword from his belt, as did Tornac and Murtagh.

The sounds of swords rang in his ears as just a few minutes later the area once again fell into silence. Eragon tried to ignore all the slave traders laying crumpled on the ground and began calming the horses in the ancient language. Murtagh and Tornac made quick work of stripping the men of anything valuable. They sent most of the horses north to Du Weldenvarden and kept two of the strongest to cycle out so that none of them would be too tired.

Later that night when they made camp, Eragon was still silent over the deaths of the traders. Murtagh sat next to him and bumped his shoulder.

“What’s going on in that fat head of yours?”

Eragon sighed and looked up into the clear sky where hundreds of stars were scattered, shining brightly in the dim light of the sickle-shaped moon. “We have this opportunity to make things better than last time.” He said quietly, aware of Tornac sleeping on the other side of the fire. “We know more magic and are stronger than we were before. But, we are still killing people without mercy.

“Not that they are better off alive, they’re slave traders.” He quickly amended. “But, I thought with this second chance we could just avoid the bad parts of our journey. Save and help more people than before. Make our land a better place than before. Not just kill anyone who disagrees with us because the alternative is to fight them. That shouldn’t be the way Riders operate. That’s how Galbatorix took power- by just killing people. I don’t want to be like him. My goal isn’t to go to war, it’s to end it.”

“I mean, that’s fair,” Murtagh answered after a moment. “But just being kind will never make the kind of difference you are hoping for. Those men would never have changed their ways and letting them live contributes to the bad in the world.

“You’ll never be like Galbatorix. He craves power and his soul is so twisted that he doesn’t have the capacity for love or kindness anymore. When we kill him, we’ll make Alagaesia a better place to live in. A place where killing people isn’t the only solution. But for now, we must place their lives on our souls and use it as a way to ensure that we are fighting for the good of the land. Not for Galbatorix.”

Eragon hummed and watched as the moon and stars were slowly covered by clouds sinking the night into darkness.

///

As they reached the edge of the Beors, Eragon caught sight of the looming trees and their foreboding feelings and taught Murtagh and Tornac a few of the elves’ hymns to quell nature.

It didn’t do much but to stave off the silence of the eerie woods, but Eragon could feel the trees calming down their anger at the way Saphira’s claws would tear at the ground and disturb their slumber. Saphira in turn kept the large animals away from them and their horses.

///

They made it to the waterfall about a fortnight after departing from Brom. They pounded on the wall, Eragon calling out that he was a rider and a friend. It was silent for a moment before the doors creaked open and Orik stood in the opening with a dozen dwarven soldiers. He frowned at them, no recognition in his eyes and demanded to know their intentions.

“My name is Eragon, and my dragon Saphira. These are my companions. I am the last free rider, and we are here at a friend’s direction to help the Varden in their fight against the Empire.”

Eragon was thankful that he did not have to speak in the ancient language, for if he did, he would have to twist the words even more to avoid their secrets. The main one being that Thorn wasn’t with them. Instead, he was hiding in the snow-covered peaks of the Beors, away from eyes of all who could possibly be spies for Galbatorix.

Over the span of the Empire, they had kept Thorn a relative secret. He would fly higher than the eye could perceive and only ducked down when it was dark enough to disappear into the shadows. Unlike Saphira’s blue scales which blended in with the night, Thorn had to be careful to not be noticed. Only during the nights, would he rest at Murtagh’s back and watch over the campsite with his bright eyes. Thankfully in the time since they had gotten together, Thorn had grown from the size of a sheep to a horse, but could easily disappear in seconds. He blended well into the Hadarac when the sun was at its highest in a way Saphira couldn’t. But even so, the moment they exited the desert, Thorn was careful to stay hidden.

Even now, Eragon could see Murtagh’s eyes shifting rapidly and he could guess that Thorn was close in his mind, taking in everything Murtagh was seeing as well. Saphira nudged him gently, and he pulled himself from his thoughts and focused back on the scene in front of him.

Orik and the other soldiers lowered their weapons at the sight of the dragons and looked around the surrounding area before ushering them inside.

“You will be brought forth to the council and have your mind read before Ajihad and King Hrothgar. If you are truly who you say you are and your intentions are pure, then we are grateful to have you, and you are welcome in our halls.” He said, though his eyes lingered on Saphira and many of the guards seemed amazed by her as well.

They gave their weapons to the soldiers willingly and were led down the hall into a large room lit by the red lanterns. Eragon breathed a sigh of relief that the Twins were not at the entrance this time to demand their memories at once.

They sat quietly in the cavern for a few hours before Ajihad and the dwarven king came to join them. Eragon scowled as he realized that the Twins lurked behind them, their eyes immediately focusing in on Saphira, then glancing over towards Murtagh who had a glamour hiding his most obvious features.

“I have heard that you are a Rider and wish to fight with us against the king. I wonder how you came to find us. We are grateful for this offer, but you must understand in these times that we are taking precautions, and we must examine your minds to prove no ill will. We can also check for any enchantments that may be there without your knowledge.” Ajihad said.

Eragon nodded and hummed, pointing a thumb towards Murtagh. “Might as well start with him. He can vouch for the rest of us.”

Ajihad nodded to one of the Twins who stepped forward from where he stood next to his brother and murmured a few words of the ancient language under his breath. Eragon tried not to laugh at the basic words.

Very quickly, the Twin’s face turned into a scowl and the second Twin stepped forward and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. With that as his cue, Eragon whispered a quick spell to place a barrier preventing the soldiers present from moving forward and gave the slightest incline of his head to Tornac.

Tornac, who had been slowly moving out of sight as the soldiers watched the Twins and Murtagh, acknowledged the signal and pounced. Eragon had gotten to know the man well in their weeks traveling together and still, he could not best the man in combat. Even working two on one, the man would beat the boys every round. The only thing that allowed them to win once in a while was their energy to last and tire the older man out.

It was with this stealth and skill that Eragon watched as his tunic shifted up ever so slightly to reveal the short sword he had hidden. His arms arched up, muscles tensing and hands tightening on the pommel. It was then, the soldiers began to notice his presence but were far too slow and not strong enough to break past Eragon’s barrier. In the moment before he reached them, Eragon whispered the name of names and stripped the Twins of their paltry wards.

His arms arced in one fell swoop and took off the first Twin’s head. The other flinched instantly out of his glassy eyed stare at Murtagh, only to be met with the sword coming down again and plunging directly into his heart. He collapsed on the ground next to his brother, gurgling nonsense before falling silent.

Murtagh blinked, coming back to his body, and was met with the points of several swords near his face. It was the lack of an order from Ajihad and several wards that kept him from having his throat slit at that moment.

After the exchange that occurred in less than a minute from the Twins stepping forward to challenge Murtagh, all three men put their hands up in surrender and Tornac let the sword fall to the ground with a resounding clatter, red speckling the ground near his feet. Saphira gave a rumbling growl and showed her teeth, keeping the soldiers far from Eragon.

“I can promise you those men are dead for good reason.” Eragon said quickly over the shouts of the men. “They were traitors feeding the information to the king.”

The soldiers sneered at him, not willing to accept his confession. Ajihad exchanged glances with Hrothgar.

“Explain yourselves. Now.”

“We were traveling with Brom.” Ajihad didn’t seem surprised. That means he must’ve gotten the letter. “It was him who told us how to find you. In a small village north of Gil’ead, we rescued the elf who was ferrying the egg, and I killed the shade, Durza.” Eragon gestured to the weapons pile that they had removed when they first arrived. One of the guards pulled out a wrapped blade and Ajihad identified it as Durza’s blade.

Eragon continued after the confirmation. “Brom and Arya have both returned to the elves in Du Weldenvarden to inform them of the proceedings of Alagaesia of late. We have come as messengers to ready the Varden for upcoming battles and give you vital information from Brom.” With that, he handed over a letter that Brom had written and signed. Ajihad read it quickly and then passed it over to Hrothgar who read it as well.

“How do you know of the Twins and their betrayal?” Ajihad asked once Hrothgar had finished. Eragon looked at Murtagh who had been studying the soldiers closely and he guessed that some of them could possibly be spies.

“We cannot reveal that in present company. But I will be more than happy to tell both of you as rulers of your domain.” Hrothgar nodded but Ajihad looked strained. After the slaughter of their magic users, there were few ways they could prove their innocence. “Brom sent a message with his ring recently. It should have arrived. That should explain our presence as well.”

The kings spoke amongst themselves for a long while before deciding upon what to do. Looking cautiously at Saphira, who had stayed silent for most of this exchange but still looked fearsome digging her claws into the hard ground like it was butter, Hrothgar stepped forward. “These caverns are my domain. I will allow you to stay for the night. After you rest, you will be brought before the council and we will hear of what you have to say. In the morning, another of our magic users will come to examine your mind. Do you consent to this?” The three nodded and the soldiers relaxed finally at their kings’ insistence. “Food and water will be brought for you. Is there anything else you need for the time being?”

Eragon shook his head and with that, most everyone left, leaving two soldiers to guard the door which closed with a loud snap. A while later, in the silence, the door once again slammed open and food was brought in the form of three bowls of soup, a loaf of bread and a hunk of raw meat.

They split the meal evenly and then spent the night in silence, rotating who slept in shifts so they would not be unprotected.

During his shift awake for watch, Eragon fidgeted with his tunic in the red light, scratching at specks of blood that had dried into brown stains. The Twins had been someone they could not leave alive, but the slaughter of them did nothing for their goodwill in arriving to the Varden. This time, he would likely not be met with the adoring crowds and goodwill, but with distrust by the people for killing one of their own, no matter if they liked or disliked the Twins.

As he picked at the stains, he couldn’t help but notice his hands. He didn’t make a habit of looking at himself in reflections, but he was constantly looking at the scars and calluses from his childhood. The things that made him human. He frowned. His appearance may look human, but in this moment, he felt as foreign as he had when he looked like an elf to these people in the Varden.

He had all the memories of two years fighting alongside these people- memories of battles yet to come, and yet the others knew nothing. Eragon frowned and wondered if this was how Brom felt when they were traveling the first time around. Wanting to protect Eragon from these battles because he knew how deadly they could be- how many people would die that he couldn’t save.

Relax, little one. Saphira said from the side of the room, opening one eye. Sleep. I shall keep watch now. Eragon closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

///

It was morning, as far Eragon could tell by his body, when there came a soft pattering sound from the hallway. He sat up, now more alert and waited for the pattering to stop at the door and a hushed whispering came from the two soldiers. The door opened a small amount and a single figure slipped in.

Eragon nudged Murtagh who sat up, quickly alert, and sent magic to grow the red flames. There, bathed in the red light, was Nasuada.

“Murtagh, is that you?” she whispered, not moving any further into the cavern.

He was quiet, but Eragon could see the moment his mind touched hers, as her entire body suddenly relaxed, the tenseness falling out of her limbs. Murtagh quickly got up and raced forward, collecting her in his arms and holding her close.

For their privacy, Eragon turned his eyes away and walked over to gently wake Saphira so she wouldn’t be startled if she woke to the sound. They stayed like that for a long while until Nasuada’s tears had dried.

Finally, Nasuada turned to Eragon. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked over Eragon.

“You’re so young,” She said in a whisper, brushing his hair back and tracing the edges of his eyes and the tips of his ears. Without the transformation the BloodOath Celebration had caused, Eragon knew what she really meant.

“So are you!” Eragon laughed. She did look young, but also skinny in a way she wasn't before. Her complexion was healthier, but something sat behind her eyes that he recognized as pain. Her arms didn’t have the raised ridges he had often worried over.

Saphira brought down her nose and Nasuada hugged her as well. “You look smaller, Saphira, but no less fearsome.”

The reunion unfortunately couldn’t continue as the doors opened again to Orik, who had the reins to their horses in their hands. He stared at Nasuada who was standing near Murtagh and was wiping her eyes.

“I am going to pretend that I did not see this.” he turned to Eragon and Tornac. “It is time to go. The council awaits your presence. Mount your horses and ride down this passageway until I tell you to stop.” The soldiers behind him made sure they followed the instructions and kept Nasuada at the back of their processions. After nearly a league, they allowed Eragon to mount Saphira and continue on down the path to two large doors set in the cave walls.

Saphira approached the doors at a measured pace. Her scales sparkled in the light, sending glints of blue dancing over the pillars. Eragon sat straighter on her back, as the doors swung outwards on their hidden joints.

As their eyes adjusted to the light, Eragon took in the familiar sights of Farthern Dur, the ground unmarred by fire and the scars of war. This time, we will save so many innocent lives, he thought. Saphira agreed with him. The crowds looked at him warily despite his smile and waving, but they were not rioting, so he took it as a good sign. Perhaps since there were no tales of an elf, and their killing of the twins, they would no longer be welcomed. There were whispers of Shadeslayer among the crowd though, so perhaps not all was lost.

The journey seemed shorter than before as they made their way to the council’s room. The guards deposited the three men into the room, Nasuada quickly slipping in via a side door, and then the doors shut. The walls were lined with both the Varden’s council and several of the dwarves that Eragon recognized each with a logo of a different clan. To have so many representatives; he realized they had made a bigger wave than expected with their entrance.

“Now,” Ajihad said, his voice booming with authority. “You will tell us how you know of the Twins betrayal and what other news you have of Alagaesia.”

Eragon nodded and gave a heavily edited version of their journey. “I was fleeing the Ra’zac who had discovered me and Saphira in Carvahall with Brom and we were tracking them as I began my training. We tracked them down in Dras Leona, but we were no match for them in the city and fled. We met these two in the forest as they saved us from becoming the Ra’zac’s dinner. We then traveled to Gil’ead, as we had heard rumors of an elf imprisoned and Brom insisted it must be Arya since I had found Saphira’s egg in the forest. There, we slew the Shade, known as Durza, and split up. Brom went with Arya to Du Weldenvarden, and we came here to prepare for war.”

The council nodded in acknowledgment and Eragon continued on for a little longer telling of the state the land of Alagaesia was in before finishing, “The rest, I am afraid I cannot speak on, as it is not my story to tell, but these two men hold my complete confidence as warriors and brothers in arms.”

“Well then, this matches the story I have read in Brom’s letter but I still need to verify you are of no risk to the Varden. Will you allow our people to read your mind?” Eragon saw Trianna step forward from the side of the wall.

“Very well, but only what is necessary. If she strays too far, I will forcibly remove anything that is a risk to those I love.” Eragon said firmly.

Ajihad nodded and Trianna stepped forward, pushing firmly into his mind. Eragon blocked off his thoughts and quickly shoved several memories into her mind. Of him fighting the Razac, of their flight from Dras Leona, of Murtagh and Tornac saving them, of Brom telling them how to get to the Varden. He shut his memories off quickly and looked Trianna in the eye. “Is that to your satisfaction?”

She nodded and moved on to Tornac and then Murtagh. When she came out from their minds, she seemed pale and a cold sweat had broken out on her forehead.

“They are trustworthy.” She whispered.

“Will you swear not to reveal the information you saw in our minds? For our own safety, you understand.” Eragon spoke.

“I swear it.” Trianna whispered in the ancient language and then fled from the room.

Tornac declared his dedication to the cause as well, and took his leave after Ajihad expressed his excitement in training the Varden in sword fighting, letting Orik lead the way down to the dining halls to eat and then lead a tour of the armory.

“I ask that the council leave the room as I have more sensitive, information to share with your highnesses.” Eragon said.

Ajihad relented after a moment and bid the council away though they seemed upset at being excluded. The dwarves had similar grumblings, but shuffled away with last glances to Saphira who was sitting to the side of the main door. Ajihad tried to make Nasuada leave but she stood firm with the blessing of both of the boys. Eragon cast a few spells that blocked the doors from lingering ears and sat down in one of the chairs, not entirely relaxed before Murtagh finally spoke for the first time.

“And now, it is time for my story,” he said, dropping the glamour that hid his familiar features. Ajihad’s face froze and he stilled, his hand moving to his sword and gripping the hilt tightly.

“You-” he started.

“Yes, my name is Murtagh. I am also the rider of my dragon Thorn, and bid my loyalty to no one but myself. Though I may not swear fealty to the Varden, I have no intention of serving the madman and I plan to help you fight in this war. Mind you that I allowed Trianna to view my thoughts and she agreed I had no ill will.”

“How did you get your dragon then? And where is it?” He accused, still tensed and ready for battle. “Brom had only found one egg and it was the egg Arya was protecting. Do you mean to tell me you just so happened to have another egg, right after leaving the Empire?”

“Galbatorix brought me to his table on my 18th birthday and promised me a place on his council. I had become disillusioned with the Empire, but went along with his plans with the intention to escape. Because of that, and my childhood, I was privy to explore the castle freely. I broke into his private storage and found the egg. When I got it, I fled. I meant to meet up with Brom, as Tornac and he knew each other from his time as a spy in the Empire. When Thorn ended up hatching for me, I knew I would do anything to keep him from Galbatorix’s control.

“We knew of spies in the Varden as Galbatorix loved to brag about knowing things you so desperately tried to keep a secret. He never named any of them save the Twins, which is why I have kept my dragon hidden to keep Galbatorix from knowing he hatched. He’s too young to fight right now and I won’t let him be captured or used by people until he has had the chance to grow some more. Once he can breathe fire, I will introduce him to the Varden and we will fight together.” Murtagh finished and fell silent, letting Ajihad continue to stare at him in silence.

Ajihad moved to speak when Nasuada placed her hand on her father’s shoulder. “He is telling the truth.” She said quietly. “I have looked into his mind and what he says is true. He will fight with us, so long as you will have him.” Her braids swung against her back and Eragon caught a glimpse of her unmarred arms and young demeanor. Everyone had changed so much in the war. To see her looking so young was jarring.

“And how is it that you trust him?” Ajihad accused. “Somehow you have just met him yet trust him implicitly? Something has been off with you for months. Has he enchanted you to vouch for him?! Do not pretend I didn’t hear Jormundr tell me of your visit to the caverns before the guards were sent to retrieve them.”

Eragon exchanged glances with Murtagh who had moved closer to Nasuada, in what likely looked like possessiveness to Ajihad.

“Aye, I also wish to have this explained.” Hrothgar spoke from his seat.

Murtagh nodded and Eragon sighed. He had hoped to keep their secrets for longer, but without the Varden and the dwarves’ trust, they would get nowhere. Reluctantly, he nodded and spoke, “Ajihad, I hope you can trust me with what I am about to reveal.” The man said nothing, but gestured for Eragon to continue.

“We knew of the Twins betrayal, not only because of Murtagh’s position, but because we knew of their betrayal when they emerged on the battlefield in Surda and slaughtered King Hrothgar. We thought they perished in the Battle of Farthern Dur along with you and Murtagh.”

Ajihad’s brow wrinkled as he struggled to understand the statement and Hrothgar remained as emotionless as stone. “The Twins had been feeding Galbatorix information on the Varden since they arrived. They were finally killed, but not before causing scores of lives to be lost. So, yes, we killed them when we arrived, but for good reason.”

“Then,” Ajihad choked after a long silence. “You have returned from an unsuccessful future. I had… no idea that magic could be used this way.” He looked to Murtagh. “And you are from this future as well.”

Murtagh nodded. “In the tunnels after the Urgals retreated, we were sweeping the area for stragglers. I had your back, but the Twins knocked me out and allowed the Urgals to kill you. Then, they tortured me for months in Uru’baen.” Nasuada gripped his shoulder tightly from behind, grounding him.

“How far back have you returned to the past?” Hrothgar finally spoke. “And what caused you to do so? I am not proficient in magic, but I know the tolls it can take from a magic user. Certainly this was the last possible option”

Eragon grimaced. “Close to two years. But it was unintentional, we believe, but we don’t yet know what tolls this magic has taken from us. We have knowledge of current events, but it may soon be worthless as we have already begun changed events. We slew the shade Durza in Gil’ead and Arya returned to the elves to rally them for war. This is far earlier than expected. When Durza marched on Farthern Dur with the urgals, about three days from our entry to the Varden in our original time, many lives from the Varden were lost and it was the start of the march towards Surda to wage war on the Empire.”

Both kings sat in silence for a long while, contemplating what they had been told. Nasuada stayed silent by Murtagh’s side. Finally, Ajihad turned towards his daughter.

“What do you know of this? You have been acting strangely today, and for the past few months.”

Nasuada stood straight, adopting the confident stance she used when she spoke to the council. “I led the Varden to Surda and we captured several of the cities in the war against Galbatorix. We successfully won Aroughs, Feinster, Belatona and were moving towards the capital when I was captured and brought to Uru’baen. Galbatorix-” Her voice cracked. “-tortured me. He wanted to know our plans, but most of all, he wanted me to give up and swear fealty to him. Murtagh kept me sane throughout the torture. I don’t remember much of the final moments and what brought us back to this time, but I can swear to their loyalties. Murtagh had every chance to kill me, but instead he helped me. He was as much a victim as I in the king’s grasp. Do not curse a man for his father’s actions.”

Ajihad’s jaw tightened and he didn’t speak any longer. He walked over and embraced his daughter, holding her close in his arms. They spoke in a native tongue that Eragon didn’t know.

“Then,” Hrothgar said after a while, letting smoke escape from mouth as he took a puff on his pipe. “Dragon riders, shall we prepare for war?”

…

They spoke for a while longer, discussing the details of the upcoming events of the war. Eragon tried not to give too many details of anything that would disrupt the timeline, and Nasuada filled in the information about the Varden and Surda’s troops moving forward.

When they dropped the news that Eragon and Murtagh would not be staying with them in the next few months as they moved into Surda and then Auroughs, Ajihad seemed upset.

“You just expect us to lay our peoples’ lives on the line when you will not fight.”

“You have lots to discuss with the clans and Orrin before you even begin to fight. We’ll be back by the time you take Auroughs. And besides, we know you will win. That is why I am confident you can do it.” Eragon said. Ajihad seemed uneasy at that, and Hrothgar simply laughed. “Besides, we need to meet with our teachers in Ellesmera to train and be strong enough to fight.”

Murtagh spoke rarely, letting Eragon take the lead. Ajihad and Hrothgar were still weary of his involvement but seemed to trust him for the time being. While the others were busy discussing, he spoke to Eragon alone.

“As much as I’d like to take my time and train to win this war, Galbatorix will still find the true name of names, or something that gives him power over us. Right now, we have an advantage over him in that sense.” Murtagh murmured. “We can’t risk them not joining us in the war.” Eragon agreed. They would have just under a year until Galbatorix discovered the true name of names, estimating of course by the Ra’zac’s ominous warning when he went to Helgrind.

“We must travel to the elves,” Eragon said. “We will spend the time training with them, and then attack from there. Unfortunately, there will be no other way.” He winced. There would be so much they would skip over and blunt force would have to be used more often than not. Murtagh seemed uncomfortable with leaving Nasuada to the war without protection and doubly uncomfortable with having to live among the elves, especially Oromis and Glaedr. “It will be okay.” Eragon promised, hoping he wasn’t lying to himself as well.

…

After extracting oaths of secrecy from both the kings, they left the meeting room as the council shuffled back in to discuss their next moves. Eragon slid Brom’s ring, returned to him by Ajihad, onto his finger and twisted it nervously. He left Murtagh with Nasuada as they went deeper into the halls of Tronjheim and wandered the empty halls. He made his way down to the caverns where the water was warm from thermal vents and after browsed the library with only half of his attention.

Happening upon a well, he drew up some of the water and poured it into a divot on the floor. When the water settled, he whispered dramur kopa and thought about Brom. When the image came in view, he saw the man sitting against a white background, looking like he was writing something.

Eragon switched the magic to Roran and saw him against a white background as well, standing and talking to someone unseen. He quickly scryed Carvahall and Teirm, to find them just as he remembered, and finally he scryed Arya. Her wards must have kicked in because nothing showed up. Eragon frowned and released the magic, kicking the puddle of water as it soaked back into the ground. He was no nearer an answer to his worries. Why was he so anxious?

He went to the kitchens and took a loaf of bread and then headed to the dragons keep above the stone gem. Perhaps sleep would quell his nerves.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Eragon was woken by something hitting his chest. He jumped up to defend against the assault, but found it was only Angela in a dressing gown, her hair wild and free, as if she had just woken.

“I see you made your way to Farthern Dur.” Eragon said, wiping at his sleep-crusted eyes. “To what do I owe this early morning pleasure?”

“Firstly, it is late morning as you are sleeping far later than any sane human being. If you aren’t awake with the sun, then it’s a wasted day, that’s what I always say.” Angela said, gesturing through the window to where the sky had begun to lighten the basin of Farthern Dur as the sun rose higher in the sky. “Secondly,” She gestured what Eragon finally recognized as knitting needles with something wrapped around them. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

“Well, yes, I am a rider. How did you figure it out? Did the giant parade through the city give it away? Or was it the massive dragon curled up by my bed?” Eragon rolled his eyes and sat back on his bed, pulling on his tunic. He looked over to Saphira who was watching the scene but doing nothing to interfere as Solembum had curled up on her back.

Angela threw up her hands, exasperated, and grabbed Eragon’s hand, dragging him towards the door. “I don’t have time to explain everything.”

Eragon nearly tripped several times as he attempted to keep up with her, not even bothering to try to get away. Clearly the woman had something that was important. He kept contact with Saphira as they continued into the empty halls of Farthern Dur where their footsteps echoing were the only signs of life.

Several times, he tried to ask a question, only to be shushed by Angela. She swirled around in a flurry of loose cloth as they stopped outside a room. Eragon lifted an eyebrow in question as if to say what?

Angela opened the door to a rather empty room. There was a desk with papers scattered with writing utensils and some books. A bag with yarn spilling out of it sat against a wall. Next to it was a small bed, and sitting on top was a young child with dark hair. Eragon’s entire body flinched and he sent his visual to Saphira.

I forgot about her. Nasuada didn’t say anything. She was knocked out in the throne room. How could she possibly be here? He said to Saphira.

“Hello Eragon.” Her voice was haunting and chilling in the empty room. “Isn’t it fascinating how magic works? Somehow, I have retained my ability to use magic without being blessed. I have willed myself to grow larger, and yet your enchantments to me stayed despite the mark you used disappearing.

“How lucky I was to be a few months old when I was returned to the beginning of this time. Any earlier and I would not have yet been born. You were rather skilled in choosing the day. I would be interested to know how you did it, but I fear that understanding magic is not one of my strongest talents.

“Though, I will say, you were clever to turn back time. If you hadn’t, we all would have perished in Galbatorix’s attack that was yet to come. I can still feel the pain that it caused.” She winced, biting particularly hard into the bread in her hands. “Everyone would have died. Not just us in the room, but everyone in Uru’baen. No one would have survived.”

Eragon gasped and leaned against a wall, reeling at the information. So there really was no winning from that fight. They would have all died.

“What have you told the people here?”

“Nothing. I convinced my keeper to keep me away from others so that I would not have to experience their emotions. She keeps me fed and keeps my secret. Angela here on the other hand is the kind of person who you can’t get rid of once she gets a thought in her ridiculous head.” Eragon sighed in relief.

“That’s good. We’ve killed the Twins, but we have no clue of what others may remain here as spies.” He walked over and sat in the chair at the desk, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’ve been trying to make as little change as possible. Hopefully we can clean up this war quicker than before with the element of surprise and the knowledge of everything Galbatorix can throw at us. We believe that he doesn’t remember anything of the future.”

“And how is that?” Elva perked up.

“Murtagh saw him in the castle-“

“And you trust that back-stabbing son of-”

“Yes.” Eragon said quickly and firmly. “He is on our side and deeply regrets the trouble he caused. If you wish to speak with him to confirm that fact, I will have him visit you later.”

Angela gave him a furious side-eye but thankfully Elva remained silent on the matter.

“Then we have much ahead of us. To repeat everything again is... displeasing to say the least.”

“But this time will be different.” Eragon said. “We have plenty of soldiers as the urgals did not attack Farthern Dur. Durza is already slain and we have magic to defeat Galbatorix, but in order to get that far, we need to strengthen our bodies again to ready for combat.”

“You are returning to the elves?” Smart girl, Eragon thought.

“Yes. You are welcome to return with us, but I know Nasuada will sorely miss you while you are gone.”

“Ah, has she returned to herself?” Eragon nodded. “Perhaps. Will you send the elves again? I rather got along with the spell casters.”

“Of course.” Eragon wasn’t sure on how to convince them to come, but surely Islanzadi wouldn’t mind sending them as protection again.

“Then I will stay here, for now. I will see where this future takes us. But I cannot and will not enter the throne room again. I fear that knowing what happened in there has taken its toll on me and I would not survive that feeling again.”

“That is fair.” Eragon stood up and made for the door. “I’ll have Murtagh stop by later.”

Elva nodded and he left the room, Angela close behind him. When the door shut and they had walked down the hall into another empty room, he turned to her.

“Explain.”

Elva is- before- when I-,” He took a breath and started again. “When I arrived at Farthern Dur for the first time, I blessed her and Saphira marked her on her brow.” Angela narrowed her eyes again.

“There is no mark upon this child’s brow.” Her words were stone.

“I got the blessing wrong, it was a curse to be a shield from pain, and not be shielded. She grew older to communicate her pain. I tried to fix it but I could only do so much. She chose to come with us to protect Nasuada when we joined Surda and marched on the capital.” Eragon bit his cheek to keep his voice from cracking. “We all remember. I thought she wouldn’t have been blessed yet, so she could grow up to be a normal child this time.” He tangled his fingers in his hair, pulling tightly enough to feel it.

“What do you mean by all of this? Why would she be protecting Ajihad’s daughter? And is this not the first time you’ve visited Farthern Dur? Everyone here was surprised when you arrived.”

“It is my first visit… in this time.” He winced.

“You used time magic?” Angela shouted and jumped to her feet, pointing her needles dangerously close to his neck.

“Not us, Galbatorix, at least we think.” He whispered. “It was meant to be the final battle but he gained the upper hand. I was attempting to overpower him, but he shouted a spell and everything went dark. I woke up in Carvahall. Murtagh in Uru'baen, Nasuada in her bed, and Arya in prison. We had been returned to the beginning of everything. Given a chance to save everyone. But Elva, she was in the room too. She had fainted and Murtagh carried her up on the dais.” He shuddered and curled up into himself. “She wasn’t conscious so I didn’t think she would remember since Galbatorix didn’t seem to.”

“You will fix this right now!” Angela cried, brandishing her needles closer. “No child should be subjected to magic like this.”

Eragon could only shake his head. “It is Saphira’s magic and Elva’s manipulation of that magic that allowed her to grow so rapidly. I have already attempted to fix my mistake and trust me, you yelled at me before for my mistakes as well.”

Angela considered this for a moment and then put down her needles. “Fine. I will take care of her as we move towards Surda, but if I find out there was something you could have done to avoid this, so help me.”

“Don’t worry,” Eragon said, standing up and heading towards the door. “You can’t hate me more than I already hate myself for what I did to her.”

///

Later, curled up next to Saphira, Eragon told Murtagh of how Elva came to be.

“I never knew you did this.” Murtagh said. “We knew she was somehow diverting all attacks, but we assumed she was an elf or born with the abilities. Is she how you knew of all of Galbatorix’s traps?”

“Yea. We’d be dead a hundred times over without her help. Nasuada used her as protection as well as they operated out of Surda.” Eragon frowned. “She hated me for my curse. I tried to reverse it, but I couldn’t fix it completely.”

He then told Murtagh of the haunting descriptions Elva had told of Galbatorix’s spell and how it would spread throughout the land, killing everyone.

“When I used the word on Galbatorix, I knocked down his wards. He was vulnerable to combat. There is a very small window to knock down the wards and then kill him before he can cast the spell again.” Murtagh mused. “Not to mention, he shouldn’t know of the true name of names until after I returned from Gil’ead. So before then is the window of opportunity.”

“There’s also the Dauthedart.” Eragon added. “We picked it up in the attack on Belatona and we would have to make it that far again with the Varden to acquire it in order to challenge Shurieken since Saphira and Thorn will no longer have the size advantage.” Eragon said, thoughts running through his head trying to organize the pieces needed for this puzzle.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” Murtagh said after a few minutes of silence. “Thorn and I were the only things standing in their way to move forward. Galbatorix had faith in us to keep you back, at least as long as he wanted, spreading lies about how you were the enemy. But without us, who will hold you back? We would move in and close in far too fast with two dragons. I worry about what that would do to the timeline. Would he hole up in the citadel or leave in order to pursue us? Already we have killed Durza who was vital to many of his plans. He must be angry and willing to do anything. I knew a lot of the man from my time at his command, but I was consistently proven wrong on what his next move would be.” Murtagh looked away from Eragon, the furrow of his brow deepening and Thorn growled from the side of the keep.

“What are you thinking of doing?” Eragon said, pushing up on one arm to get a better look at him.

“We would be able to do everything perfectly… from the inside.”

…

“Absolutely not. No way. I’m not letting you go back there!” Eragon cried, shaking his head. “You told me what he did to you. I won’t let you go through that again.” He was now fully sitting up and waving his arms around, incensed.

“But I would be able to know everything.” Murtagh whispered. “If I agree with everything he says, give him information on the Varden and feed him other things. Then when he least expects it, turn on him and kill him.”

“It’s not worth it. It’s not worth you being hurt again and for us to lose you.” Eragon said, his voice firm.

Murtagh laid there still, staring up at the ceiling. “But what if it’s the only way?”

“He could break your mind and end up knowing the name of names faster than we expected. And if he didn’t already know of the future, we’d lose all advantages.” Eragon sputtered quickly. “And even if he didn’t, we could lose you. We’ve only just got you safe here.”

“Where most of the Varden would want to kill me the moment they know who I am.”

“No, where Nasuada is. Where you can protect people and not be tortured by Galbatorix. Where we are.” Eragon pleaded. “Galbatorix doesn’t even know of you yet. We killed the Twins.”

“There are dozens of spies around Alagaesia. We received intel the moment you did anything.” Murtagh scoffed, still not looking him in the eye.

“But he doesn’t know how or why you are with us. I know you don’t want to be away from Thorn for this long, but you were the one who insisted on keeping him from the Varden. Come with us to the elves. Train and we can defeat him together. You don’t need to sacrifice yourself to be worthy. And after we’re done, you are free to do anything you want, with or without us, but you’ll truly be free to choose.”

Murtagh stayed quiet for a long time after that and Eragon sat perched on the edge of his seat, anxious, but waiting for his answer.

“Fine. I won’t try to infiltrate Uru’baen, but I still reserve my right to leave Ellesmera the moment I get shit for being Morzan’s son.”

Eragon nodded, and with a moment’s hesitation, quickly wrapped Murtagh into a hug for a moment, then let go. “Just stay with us and we’ll keep you safe.”

After their talk, Murtagh left to find Elva and came back looking more tired than when he left, but less troubled.

...

They dined with Ajihad and Hrothgar that evening and spoke of the plans going forward. Ajihad had already received word of supplies and reinforcements from Islanzadi who reopened communications with the Varden.

Eragon tried not to show his surprise. This helped move things forward considerably. This time, perhaps the Varden wouldn't face so much trouble trying to feed its people and keep the peace. He had heard of one of the men stealing and eating ten chickens when they had first arrived. Whether it was a rumor or truth, hopefully with the elves’ support, they wouldn’t be as strained.

According to Ajihad, the Varden would be moving forward to Surda in the coming weeks, and start a far more aggressive attack on the bordering cities. Hrothgar agreed that the dwarves would come to their aid, but it would take longer due to the politics of gathering the elves and getting the clans to agree upon the course of action.

Eragon and Murtagh both added several of their own comments about ways to take the bordering cities and both the kings were impressed with their knowledge of battle strategies and tactics despite their young age. Eragon tried not to look too prideful, but Murtagh finally let his shoulder relax when he was praised.

The morning they were set to leave, Orik guided them to the tunnels where they would depart from Farthern Dur. Standing in the tunnel was Nasuada and, already an inch taller, Elva.

Eragon embraced Nasuada and nodded to Elva who stood behind her in the shadows. Murtagh did the same, with an additional exchange of words and a small package and then they went through the mountains with Orik who led them to the far end of Tronjheim that would lead them north.

Hours later when they arrived to the mouth of the valley and well away from the eyes of spies, Thorn flew down from where he had been hovering and Murtagh embraced him fondly, grateful they were finally reunited.

I hope we’re not doing the wrong thing. Eragon thought to Saphira as they made their way along the river.

Only time will tell, little one.

Chapter Text

“It’s not enough to be busy, so are the ants. The question is, what are we busy about?” ― Henry David Thoreau

Their travel to the forest was quicker than Eragon remembered, though, it ought to be on the backs of dragons. They had only spent a week in Tronjheim, detailing the specifics of the Varden’s advances into Surda and then their subsequent battles that would arise.

Ajihad planned to join forces with King Orrin’s army and they would capture Aroughs again and then Murtagh and Eragon would be back in time for them to move past the borders of Surda and into direct opposition with the Empire with the elves’ reinforcements.

Eragon mourned the close relationship he had formed with Orik and his induction into the Dûrgrimst Ingeitum clan. The dwarf, no longer in trouble because of the Twins, remained under Ajihad’s rule and continued to direct Eragon while he stayed in Farthern Dur, but they didn’t grow as close as they did once in battle.

Even though they formed a friendship, Eragon felt it was almost deceitful to talk about topics he already knew much about. Instead, he listened closely and asked questions when the conversation lulled. When the dwarf had brought him to Hrothgar who offered him dwarves and supplies to travel to Ellesmera together, Eragon had politely declined the offer.

However, Hrothgar had once again offered the dragon armor as well as the armor for Eragon, forged by their most skilled craftsmen and kept shining despite the years. It remained undamaged since it had not yet met combat.

“That is a kind offer from a king.” Eragon said carefully. “I am afraid I have nothing I can give you in return except my word that I will fight as hard as I can to dethrone Galbatorix and allow the dwarves to live in peacetime once again.”

Hrothgar considered his words carefully and remained silent for a long time. Eragon let a shred of fear creep into his heart that the man would take back the armor. The elves likely had a spare set that they would be willing to lend, but it was beneficial for the Varden to transport it to Surda for him and allow Saphira to have unburdened flight when they traveled back from the elves.

Orik stood in the corner, just as patiently with the helm wrapped in cloth that Eragon knew from the shape alone. He would have to turn it down as well.

Since Ajihad was not yet dead, and Eragon was not compelled to swear fealty to the Varden, he had retained political impartiality thus far in the war. Ajihad had offered it to him once, between the numerous council meetings detailing their strategies. He had politely declined and repeated what he remembered saying in a previous time.

“I have no love of war, nor need to be tied to any one group of people.” Eragon had said carefully. “When this war ends, I will work with to establish peace, but I have no aspirations to rule or to have another undying leader on the throne.”

Ajihad had simply nodded and continued on without bringing it up again. Despite his short time with the man, Eragon was hoping that he would survive the upcoming battles and avoid the tragic endings that seemed to sweep across Alagaesia since he touched Saphira’s egg.

Hrothgar finally lifted his head and nodded, bringing Eragon back to the moment.

“The dwarves will still gift the armor to Saphira and you. It is made for a rider, a free rider, and so it shall be given without obligations and expectations only, that it will be used to fight against Galbatorix.” Eragon nodded and expressed his thanks. “Though, I will offer still,” Hrothgar gestured to the cloth in Orik’s hands. The dwarf stepped forward and proffered the helm, the crest of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum visible. “as Ajihad offered for the Varden.”

Eragon bowed his head, as did Saphira. “You offer something that we do not take lightly, but I once again but politely decline.” Orik seemed to wilt slightly, but several of the elders that stood in the hall with them stood a bit straighter. “We welcome your friendship and extend a hand in thanks and in alliance, but at this moment, we must focus on our training. Though, when the time comes to fight, I hope we can find you with us on the battlefield.”

“My people will fight with you to end this war Shadeslayer” Hrothgar said after a moment. “and we will soon join the Varden in Surda to turn the tides of this war.”

“We are grateful to have the knurla’s strength.” Eragon bowed once again, and Saphira repeated the sentiment from behind him.

****

Saphira flew them north for most of the day, Thorn still too young to fly with Murtagh on his back for a long time. When they landed, their free time around the campfire when they rested was spent with Murtagh worrying about meeting Oromis and Glaedr.

“I’m betting they won’t even remember you.” Eragon said one night around a campfire when Murtagh looked once again nervously towards the forest that formed a wall of darkness ahead in the distance. “I wrote in my letter to Arya to keep our past a secret in order to keep you safe. They would have reached out if she said anything damming about you. And despite anything they have to say, you are on our side now. If they want to fight you on that, we’ll go to the far east and they’ll have to go to Galbatorix without us. How’s that?”

“You’re an idiot and that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Murtagh said, but there was no bite as he rolled his eyes and stirred the embers of the fire with a stick, now that his attention was drawn away from the forest. “I just… worry.”

“To be fair, Brom will be there too, and he knows all about what’s going on. He’ll be able to talk them down if anything.”

“But he hasn’t said anything since we left him in Gil’ead with Arya.” Murtagh frowned. “I thought he would at least scry us or something. Surely you must be worried about her too?”

Eragon hummed neutrally. Considering they had only been in Tronjheim for a week, Brom likely was dealing with the politics that came with the elves’ realm and explaining the last few months to the queen. By the time he had a chance to scry them, they would have already been gone.

Either way, he was safe. Eragon had to keep on reminding himself. Brom was no longer entombed in the clear gem that haunted his nights. Both of the boys were being haunted by their pasts.

The terrors that usually woke him didn’t stop, in fact, they got worse once he learned what had happened to Elva. But, he wasn’t the only one waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes, he’d jerk awake to already see Murtagh pacing the perimeter of their camp, and he’d be able to fall asleep again a little easier. Other times, he’d wake up and stoke the fire until Murtagh jolted awake as well, then slowly fell back asleep once he saw Thorn.

They were… good for each other. But not all the time.

“You absolute shithead!”

“It’s not my fault!”

“It is! You’re the one who said to turn right at the fork!”

“No, I said ‘right’ as in correct to you saying left.”

“No, you clearly said, ‘turn right’!”

“It’s fine, we’ll just turn back.”

“We’ll be going against the headwinds! It’s going to tire out these two!”

“Then we take a break!”

“Galbatorix doesn’t take breaks!”

Yea, not always good.

…

When they arrived in Du Weldenvarden, it was to the same fanfare and celebrations as it had been the first time. Eragon had to laugh at the surprised look on Murtagh’s face as he was confronted with the joyous elves laughing in the forest as he declared they were riders. His hardened stare was slowly melting into something of peace the longer they spent in the forest without being attacked.

He was cautious to layer a glamour with magic and keep quiet most of the time, so they had no reason to compare him to Morzan, and the elves didn’t seem to mind- far too distracted by Saphira and Thorn who were preening at the attention. Saphira showed off, doing twirls in the blue sky and then splashing into the water, throwing up sparkling droplets onto the elves. Thorn tried to catch their attention too, but only managed to flop into the water when he couldn’t execute the twist to dive. The elves laughed and applauded nonetheless, as did Eragon and Murtagh.

They slept for the night at the edge of the forest that night, and when they woke the next morning, Arya had made it to their camp before they started eating breakfast.

Eragon caught her eyes as she ran into the clearing, her chest barely moving despite the exertion and hair windswept. She looked as she did the last time he saw her, though in more comfortable clothes than her battle gear. She nodded at him and they spoke the greetings.

“I’m glad to see you are healthy.” Eragon said, touching her mind and thinking the next part. Is Brom well?

Aye, he has returned to his old ways with much ease. Her tone was plain, but knowing her, something was on her mind. Arya looked to the elves who were in the clearing as well and greeted them before looking back to where Eragon stood next to Murtagh. Her eyes lingered on his hooded face and likely she spotted the glamour that kept his familiar features hidden. Any reaction or emotion was hidden from him, but the lingering pause was enough to know that she had several thoughts on the matter.

“We must be going to Ellesmera. There is no time to waste.” She said. Eragon nodded and they loaded everything back onto the dragons and thanked the elves for the hospitality for the night. They left after brief farewells to the humans and far more lengthy and polite ones to the dragons.

Murtagh glanced between the two of them who were standing there silently before walking off to a nearby river with Thorn. Once he had stepped out of earshot, Eragon turned to Arya with a pointed look.

“What do you need to discuss?” He said, once his mental touch had been accepted. “It’s rude to keep Murtagh out of the conversation.”

Arya stared at him. “I have not yet told my mother of the future,” she started, speaking in the ancient language so that Eragon would know it was the truth. “But Murtagh killed both Hrothgar and Oromis. I cannot condone allowing him into the homes of the elves where he could cause even more destruction. Already he stands on sacred ground. I need to search his mind before we arrive so that we can discern whether he truly means to help or to harm.”

Eragon narrowed his brow. “And if he refuses, would you have me send him back to Galbatorix for him to be tortured once again? Or will you keep him locked up in Ellesmera? His knowledge of the future could cause more deaths than before. He has promised me in the ancient language that his intentions are to never return to Galbatorix.”

“There are ways to circumvent the truth, even in the ancient language. You of all people know that.” Arya said.

“You may ask him, but if he says no, do not push. He is more valuable as our ally. Galbatorix stole his body to kill Oromis. That was not his fault. He spared me twice on the battlefield and saved Nasuada from revealing the Varden’s secrets.”

“I do not trust him.”

“Then do not trust him, but do not dismiss him or reveal what has not yet happened. Islanzadi already will not like that he is Morzan’s son, but if his actions in a future that will never happen again were to be revealed, she would lost trust in me as well. We need the elves’ trust and strength in this upcoming war.”

Arya paused for a long time after that. “I will consider your thoughts.” And that was the end of their conversation. A short time later, they took off north towards Ellesmera and she touched Eragon’s mind as well as Murtagh and their dragons.

“So,” She said mentally, looking at the two of them from where she sat behind Eragon. “It seems we have somehow returned to a time before our battle. Nearly two years. Do you have any idea of how that could have happened?”

“No,” Eragon started. “Murtagh and I have been discussing it while we traveled, but our best guess is that Galbatorix’s spell backfired and somehow turned back on us. Perhaps he knew he was losing and attempted to flee. We spoke with Elva who said that the spell had the capacity to kill everyone in the city.” Eragon quickly shared the memory of Angela dragging him to Elva’s quarters and her premonition of the city.

“He doesn’t seem to remember what has happened,” Murtagh added. “If he had remembered, he would have trapped me with my true name on the spot. Or used the name of names.” Murtagh added. “He is not one to be kind.’”

Arya pondered their words before speaking again. “The queen seems to remember nothing, nor does anyone in the city. I even spoke with some of the elves that were taken in the citadel and they showed no signs of remembering.” Arya was quiet for a few minutes and then spoke. “So what are we planning to do? We now have the advantage of surprise.”

They spoke for the next few hours, discussing possible plans and opportunities for the upcoming battles. When they spoke of what they had already changed- killing Durza in Gil’ead and keeping the Urgals from invading Farthern Dur, she looked at them in awe.

“It seems that we are all Shadeslayers now, though no one will believe us.”

Eragon couldn’t hold back a laugh, and then all of them were laughing. It seemed freeing to be able to laugh in a way he hadn’t since returning to the past.

…

They landed for the night, and unfortunately the upbeat mood couldn’t last. Arya had been watching Murtagh cautiously over the fire with narrowed eyes for a while now.

“Just say whatever you have to say already.” Murtagh finally burst. “But I’m not going to sit here and take whatever issues you have with me in silence.”

Eragon cast a spell to keep anyone from overhearing their conversation, and thankfully quick enough as Arya held nothing back in her equally sharp remarks.

“You killed Oromis and Glaedr. The last free dragon and rider from before Galbatorix’s genocide across the kingdom. You took away the only chance we had at winning the war. And this, only after you killed Hrothgar.” Arya kept her voice level, but the undertones were seething with rage. “And now you come into my home, the last sanctuary from Galbatorix’s reign, and you put us all at risk. How can I be sure that you fight with us when you have already done such atrocious things in the name of your king.”

“He was never my king.” Murtagh growled. “Once when I was younger, I was beguiled into believing that Galbatorix was good. I was raised by his benevolent hand and grateful that he never raised a hand against me like the man who I was forced to call father. The pain lingers, in case you didn’t know.” Murtagh rubbed the shoulder where Eragon knew the scar started. “Galbatorix didn’t heal me. He made sure that I felt the pain every time I went into battle. He never healed me anywhere close to fully, because he said that pain was the best teacher.”

“I do not disagree that you must have been in some pain, but even if he held you against your will, even with your true name, there were ways to disobey him. To fight against him. And yet time after time, you killed our people. My people! What a waste of life simply because you could not resist.”

“He held Thorn’s life in his hands and threatened him with death! I had no choice!” Murtagh was shouting now.

“And I was held for months and tortured to the point of death at the hands of Durza. Twice! You think I don’t know pain.” Arya spat, fury seeping out into her face. “I lost my partners who I loved more than anything in the world, and had no time to grieve because I was busy defending my mind so that he could not pry the secrets from them. Even if he had discovered my true name and tortured me for eternity, I would not have willingly given up. That is choice.”

“Would you have defended those secrets so strongly if Durza were torturing your partners instead of you? If you had to watch them in pain every waking moment until you relinquished control and swore fealty? You elves think yourselves mighty, but you are just as human as us when the lives of those you love are on the line.” Murtagh spat back, standing up now, hand on the hilt of his sword. “You hide away in your pretty little forest like children behind their mother’s skirts and pretend the world isn't as awful as it is. You live in paradise while the rest of us watch our mothers die and our fathers are taken in the war.”

“Don’t you dare say that we don’t know loss!” Arya drew her sword and launched herself at Murtagh who drew his own and met her halfway. “I lost my father, my loves, and everyone who I once held dear. I was born into this war and have known nothing of this paradise you claim. For a century, I have fought for my people. For your people! For years I fought, and then ferried Saphira’s egg in hopes that someone would rise to oppose the king. Don’t you ever say that I am hiding in the forest.”

Their swords clanged in the clearing and Eragon stood, poised to jump in if needed, but Saphira nudged him away from interjecting just yet. They need to get this out before we arrive to the city.

Thorn stood with his hackles raised and a low murmur of a growl, but didn’t intervene either. The fire echoed on his scales, turning him into a fire himself. Arya would stand no chance if he entered the fight too. Murtagh must be telling him to stay back as well.

“A century you have fought. A century longer than I have been alive!” Murtagh shouted over their swords. “I’ve fought every day since I was born to stay alive. Without magic, without help and without hope. I never asked to be Morzan’s son, for Thorn to hatch, or for any of this to happen to me. But I have been so fucking lucky to have been given another chance! So why won’t you just let me have that chance?!” He pushed her away and she took a few steps back.

Eragon watched as her arms clenched to go another round, but she stayed where she was. A second later, she stabbed her sword into the ground and stalked up to Murtagh pointing a slender finger and jabbing it in his chest.

“I will never trust you, so long as I live.”

Murtagh opened his mouth to retort, but her hand darted out quickly, punching his jaw and knocking him to the ground. Eragon winced as Arya stormed off into the forest, marking the end of their bout.

He went over quickly to Murtagh and gave a hand to help him stand up.

“Do you want me to heal your cheek?” He said softly.

“Nah, it’s not broken. And it’ll make her feel better to see it for the next couple days.” Murtagh’s tongue probed at the broken skin on his lip as his fingers traced the tender skin on his jaw. He flinched as it passed a tender spot. Eragon handed over a waterskin and Murtagh took it gratefully. “I just said that ‘cause she needed to get it out of her system.” He said softly. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t believe what I said, but I wouldn’t have said it out loud otherwise.” He handed back the waterskin and looked towards the forest. “I'll apologize.” Then he was gone.

I’ve never seen her that angry before.

There is much we don’t know about her. Saphira replied. Elves hide their true emotions well. For her to show them means she is in great pain.

I regret not going for her sooner , Eragon thought to Saphira. If I could have saved her some of the pain- or been there when she woke, perhaps-

There is no use pondering what-ifs, little one. By saving her first, Murtagh could have been captured by Galbatorix and the war lost before it even began.

Eventually, Murtagh returned and then Arya. They continued north in silence.

///

When they arrived in Ellesmera the following day, Brom and the elves had gathered in the clearing to greet Arya and the two riders. This time, Eragon noted, there was no grand reunion between Islanzadi and Arya. Instead, the queen gave them a formal welcome, though she eyed Murtagh wearily. Eragon greeted the queen and the other nobles with the rigid pleasantries that had been drilled into him, but gathered Brom in a quick hug once they had a spare moment away. He took the chance to inspect the man for any injuries, but thankfully he was looking well- better than he had when they departed. Like the magic of the forest had breathed new youth into him. Brom ruffled his hair and directed him back into the fray, promising they would have a chance to speak later.

Murtagh had continued using his glamours, as nearly all the elves would have known of Morzan’s terror across the land, and introduced himself as Mort Tornacsson, staying silent in most instances else to perform with the formal greetings.

Finally, after many formal pleasantries and a grand meal, the boys were released to the treehouse that Eragon remembered fondly. Thorn and Saphira were still small enough to share the space, and Eragon was more than happy to have Murtagh by his side. Much better than being separated anyway.

He went to sleep and felt a bit of the tension in his shoulders relax for the first time in a while. They all were safe. They had made it to Ellesmera and soon they’d train with Oromis. Everything was going to plan.

…

The next morning, they made their way to the Crags of Tel’naeír, where they were to meet Oromis with Islanzadi and Arya.

Sitting in front of his home, Oromis, Glaedr and Brom sat silently as the others arrived. They served tea and the clearing fell silent. Eragon knew that he and Arya would likely be the ones to explain what had happened. Murtagh would stay silent until the end, and then reveal himself, like he did to Ajihad. They would get the whole future business out of the way before the whole traitor, son of a killer argument and then-

“So, you’re Morzan’s son.” Oromis said plainly.

“Seriously Brom?!” Eragon said, an accusing stare pointed at the man. “I told you not to tell him until we got here!”

“I didn’t say a word!” Brom held up his hands in innocence.

“He’s Morzan’s son? And you let him into our home?” Islanzadi had directed her accusation towards Arya.

“It’s not my fault, Eragon’s the one who brought him.” Arya retorted.

Murtagh tried to sink deeper into his chair. The glamour, no longer needed, fell, showcasing his dark hair and sharp jaw.

“It was merely an observation.” Oromis said loudly, shutting down the crosstalk. “You forget Morzan was my pupil for years, as well as Brom. And the scents of a father and son are not so different that Glaedr can’t decipher.”

“He should have been examined by one of the elves before arriving.” Islanzadi said. “We need to make sure he doesn’t have any ill intentions or spellwork beyond what we know.”

“It’s fine, mother.” Arya said. “I checked when I first met up with them.”

There was an uneasy silence while a vein pulsed in Islanzadi’s temple, but Oromis cleared his throat and directed the attention back to himself.

“So, two new dragon riders. How did you recover the red egg?”

“I stole it from the coffers before I fled Uru'baen.” Murtagh said. “I used magic to create a false illusion. Galbatorix has no reason to touch it, so my deception should remain unseen.”

“Illusions do not hold life. The minute he reaches out to the egg, your illusion will be broken. But it is a good idea.” Murtagh’s lip curled, but he stayed silent.

“And Eragon,” Oromis appraised him. “Brom says you were a farmhand before Saphira arrived before you.”

“Among other things.” Eragon said.

“And Brom says there is something that you two need to tell us.” Oromis said plainly.

Eragon sent a silent thanks to Brom that he had not revealed their secrets without them getting together first. He took a deep breath and once again recounted their tale of war, returning to their pasts and discovering each other. Arya filled in her own accounts of what happened with the Varden and Murtagh slipped ever lower in his seat, hoping not to be seen.

“And what of our fate, Glaedr and I? Why didn’t we go into Uru'baen with you?”

Eragon and Arya exchanged glances and Murtagh’s hands were clenched into fists.

“In a battle prior to Uru'baen, you were overwhelmed by the king’s magicians. I recommend you store your energy in something closer to your body than your sword. That is all I can say on the matter.” Eragon said.

Arya looked uncomfortable, but said nothing.

“I see.”

“So where were you during this whole thing?” Islanzadi looked harshly towards Murtagh. “I don’t recall hearing your name in any of this.”

“Locked away by Galbatorix and tortured for months.” Murtagh said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Thorn hatched for me when the Twins dragged me back. There was no reprieve from that moment forward.”

Islanzadi said nothing and looked back at Arya who stayed similarly silent.

“So where shall we go from here?” Brom said. “I believe that you will cover the academic side and I shall deal with the physical?”

“I am weaker, but I am not infirm.” Oromis said to Brom. “However, I would expect the same. Mornings will be yours and the afternoon mine. Meals and evenings will be your time to explore or study at your leisure.”

“Great. We’ll start tomorrow. I’m taking the boys to relax. They had a long trip and enough politicking last night.” Eragon was surprised at the tone the man had taken. Brom was respectful, but only the barest amount. “Arya, you’re welcome to join as well, if you don’t have any plans.” He added on.

Brom stood up, brushing his breeches of dust and started off towards the edge of the forest. Eragon and Murtagh both quickly followed suit. Arya stood up a moment later and politely said goodbye and followed the boys.

Once they were deep enough into the surrounding woods, Brom stopped and turned around, a wide smile on his face. “Hah!” He laughed. “Did you see Oromis’s face? And Islanzadi’s? Both of them looked like they had drunk oversteeped tea and had to be polite about it.” Brom laughed a bit more, then turned to Arya. “My apologies for singling you out in front of your mother.” He apologized without laughing. “I just assumed you wanted to get out of there as much as I did.”

“Thank you, Brom. Being here with my mother is… taxing. I welcome the reprieve.”

“So,” Brom turned to the boys. “Fancy a swim?”

...

Eragon was in shock. This was so different from the wise old man he had been traveling with. They had all taken a quick forest path to a river that was deep in the woods and followed it to the waterfall that lay at the end.

The dragons had splashed around a bit before spreading out their wings and soaking up the sun. Dazzling specks of blue and red sparkled on the canopy above them.

Eragon and Murtagh had quickly stripped and jumped in, relishing in the cool water. Arya followed suit, but kept on her outerwear. Brom on the other hand, took off his cloak and shoes, but left on the thin shirt he had underneath and rolled up his pant legs. Instead of swimming, he sat on a sunny rock, letting his legs hang into the water underneath.

They relaxed for a while, before Eragon swam up and sat on the bank beside Brom.

“You used to come here often.” He said, not really a question.

“Mn.” Brom nodded. “This spot was never this quiet. After training, dozens of us would come to relax in the summer months. We would have races to see who could climb the cliff face or swim the quickest. Elves or humans- we knew how to have fun when the rest of our time was expected to be spent studying.”

Brom smiled at the memory, then pointed to a rock in the woods that was nearly hidden by the foliage of the forest. “That was the kissing rock. The older riders used to dare us to ask the person we fancied to take a walk to the walk and back.” He laughed a full belly laugh. “Anyone who had the guts to take a walk would find that the far side hides a heap of smelly mushrooms. Not romantic at all.”

Eragon laughed with him. “Did you ever fall for it?”

“No, I had all the love I needed in my Saphira. And I was lucky someone told me beforehand.” He said with a wink.

Eragon smiled and looked out in the empty water where Murtagh was floating with his eyes closed and Arya had gotten out to weave grass. He tried to imagine the clearing filled with young riders laughing and playing. Dragons rolling around in the patch of grass nearby and eating the fireweed that grew around the trees. There was a rock halfway up the cliff face that was perfect for jumping off of, and on a sunny day like today, the whole place was speckled with light coming through the trees. Even in the middle of summer, it would still be nice.

“It must have been nice.” He said softly.

“Yea, it was.” Brom said, his voice now tinged with sadness.

…

Their first day of training, Brom brought them back to the Crags of Tel’naeír and had the two of them stretch, spar and demonstrate their skills to Oromis. Arya stepped in for some two on one combat and then left before lunch.

Then, after lunch, Oromis had them take assessments to see how much they knew of the ancient language. At first, Eragon had to fill in several papers with various questions, and then he switched with Murtagh and was forced to demonstrate his knowledge and skill with the ancient language. It was grueling work and he was completely drained by the end of the day.

As the boys guzzled water, Brom and Oromis discussed their plans for training.

“Murtagh has the skill, but he relies too much on his energy. He needs to focus less on the power of the move and more on the skill.”

“Eragon has trouble concentrating entirely on the task at hand. He needs to work on focus and details he overlooks.”

“Both of them have great skill with weapons, but Eragon reaches too far forward, displaying his next move. Murtagh on the other hand stays back far too much. He needs to get closer to his opponent to end the fight quicker.”

“They will need to study more. Eragon’s skill with the fine points is close to nothing and Murtagh needs to focus more on his history and life studies. No doubt things that someone didn’t have a need to teach.”

Both boys likely had opinions on all their efforts being dissected to every flaw and fault the men saw, but they were too tired to care. Eragon was about ten seconds away from falling asleep if Oromis would let him.

Too late.

…

The second day was far more relaxed than the first. Brom took them through stretching the morning, speaking of the most important muscles and guiding them through a routine they should do every morning. Then, he sent them through several drills, the whole time circling them and correcting their feet, hand and body positions.

Brom wasn’t nearly as harsh or crude as Oromis or Vanir, but neither was he soft. He was firm but didn’t push the boys too far beyond their limits.

“We are rushing training far beyond what is expected of a rider,” Brom said when they stopped for water. “But that does not mean I should run you into the ground in order to get results. Sometimes, progressing slower is better.”

In their afternoon lesson with Oromis, he sent the dragons off with Glaedr and reviewed the ancient language with the boys until Eragon felt like his brain was mush. Murtagh looked like he was faring better, but his face never lost the pained scowl that was set when he was around Oromis.

...

Midday on their fifth day in Ellesmera, Eragon and Murtagh had stopped back in the tree house on their lunch break to eat and rest before their afternoon session. Eragon was writing notes in his journal.

“-on the plains?”

“What?” Eragon turned in his chair. Murtagh was laying in the plush bed in the floor with Thorn.

“What day was it that we met on the plains?” Murtagh asked again. “I’m trying to calculate how long I’m going to turn my legs to jelly every morning.”

Eragon grabbed one of the elves’ calendars that sat on the desk and did a few calculations from when the Blood Oath Celebration had ended, when he had returned to the Varden, and when they had met each other on the battlegrounds.

He told Murtagh his estimate and his brother groaned. “Ughhh that’s too long.” Eragon would have agreed, but seeing the short amount of days they had in Ellesmera didn’t seem like enough. “-meet Roran this time.”

“Roran?”

“Yea, I wanna meet him properly. I can’t thank him or anything. He’d be super confused, but seems like a cool dude.” Murtagh took a bite of his apple. “Where is he anyway? Didn’t Galby destroy your village or something? How’d he get out?”

Eragon’s heart ticked up a few beats. Right, the village. He had meant to check back in on them, but he had been traveling. And training. “Shit.” Eragon cursed and poured some water into his leftover soup bowl. He tapped his foot as he waited for the water to settle and then whispered the incantation.

“Are you okay?” Murtagh sat up, his face concerned. Saphira got up and stretched her wings suddenly, starting Thorn.

Eragon stood up and the image of Carvahall burning disappeared from the bowl.

“I’ve got to go. Sorry. I’ll be back soon.”

Chapter Text

“They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.”

– Andy Warhol

When Garrow came to in Horst’s upper bedroom, he was disoriented to say the least. He felt like he had gone through a fistfight with Sloan after a night of drinking. His head was swimming and his entire body ached.

He groaned, squinting into the bright room, when a cool cloth wet his lips and dripped cool water down his throat. He swallowed hard, wincing at the pain in the motion. The motion was repeated a few times, a gentle murmuring accompanying it until Garrow fell back asleep.

He woke the next time, to clearly see Gertrude sitting next to him, clicking her needles in a familiar pattern. He laughed softly, wincing at the pain.

“And what do you have to be laughing at?” She grumbled, putting down the needles and coming over to him, hands on hips.

“You would think that you’d run out of yarn one of these days.” He said, his voice scratchy. “I swear it’s like the wool multiplies. Have you ever tried using rabbit fur? That’d probably multiply even faster.” He giggled again, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries.

Gertrude rolled her eyes and checked him over, lifting bandages that pulled at sensitive skin. He let out a few more grunts of pain, but stayed conscious throughout. Then, she pulled him up into a sitting position and handed over a bowl of broth.

As he finished the bowl, Gertrude explained what happened to the farm, to his boys, and brought in Elain who came in with woven basket that gave off a burnt smell.

“It’s from the farm.” Elain said to his questioning look. “The men went up there the day after the fire. Most of the stuff was gone beyond saving, but we gathered up as much as we could. We asked around and got an extra bed set up in your old house as well. It’s been stocked with some firewood for the winter too.” She placed the basket beside him and took a few steps back.

“What of Roran and Eragon? Are they okay?”

Elain gave a strained look. “Roran came to see you, but he’s out helping some of the men now. He’ll be back soon. Eragon… he left the morning after he dragged you here.”

Garrow furrowed his brows. “Left? Where?” His heart clenched at the last words that he remembered those horrible creatures saying as they loomed over him.

The blue ssstone. Where isss it? Where isss the boy? Tell usss or we will kill you.

Their smell was revolting, like a rotting carcass in the middle of summer. But Garrow was paralyzed. He couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? The horrifying creatures pulled out a knife coated in a glimmering liquid. He tried to run, to flee, to cry out for help.

Garrow was pulled out of his thoughts as Gertrude answered his questions. “We don’t know. He left a letter for Roran, but he refuses to open it. Brom’s letter says they’re heading south to chase down those creatures and kill them.”

“Brom? The storyteller?”

“Aye,” Gertrude said. “You can trust him. He’ll take care of your boy.”

Garrow frowned. It wasn’t Brom he was worried about. It was the rest of the world that would be out to get his nephew. The Ra’zac had mentioned the blue stone Eragon had found in the Spine. And the only person who hated the Spine more than Sloan, was the King.

...

Later that night, he dug through the basket, sorting the items that were able to be saved. The villagers were very kind to go back for everything. Judging by the amount of rain falling past his window, if they had waited, it would all have been lost.

Inside were some dishes from the kitchen, a portrait of Marian he had bought off a trader one year and usually rested by his bed, and the family book, which listed everyone’s names and dates of significance. He held that close, as it was the one connection every family would hate to lose.

That was the book that listed the birthdates of everyone in the family line, wedding dates, those they married, their children and their death dates. He would never be educated enough to read a book from the city, but he could recite the lines of this book by heart.

He was about to replace everything in the basket when he saw a small black book in the bottom. He picked it up, and suddenly memories came flooding back.

///

What he knew, he knew from what she told him and the rumors that inevitably came a few weeks into her stay. Selena had staggered into Therinsford on her horse and all but collapsed into an inn to sleep her exhaustion away.

The next morning, she traded some coins to the stable master for a ride on his wagon and housing for her horse. The relief after crossing half the lands by horse was palpable. She was dropped off in the center of the town, and crossed the remaining land on foot.

The family home was on the outskirts of town. Close enough to get help, but far enough to have the land needed for the crops, chickens, cows and horses the family raised. The brown of winter that had descended on the valley, but a few bright green crops grew by the house. Soon, it would begin to snow and the grounds would be covered for several months.

Selena wrapped her cloak around her tighter, trying to ward off the chill of the incoming winter. She was lucky to have arrived before the frost. She stepped up on the porch and knocked.

///

Marian was surprised to see her. Of course she was. Selena knew of her when they were children and of Garrow’s crush on her, but Selena was older and had already left the schoolhouse to pursue her future when the two of them began courting.

She smiled and listened to the woman’s tales of the past few years, and lovingly held her son when he was presented to her. “Your nephew,” She said. “Roran. He’ll be a strong one. Just you wait and see!”

She caressed his face. The soft cheeks and small fingers curled into hers. “He will be strong.” Selena said softly. “And the people will sing legends of his victories.” Marian laughed at that.

“I just wish for him to be happy.”

Garrow stayed silent for most of Marian’s memory recounting and stared at her. When it came time for her to speak, Selena paused before resting her hand on her stomach. “I beg of you to let me stay. Just until my son is born. It’s safe here.”

Marian looked at her curiously. With her cloak off and hood down, the woman could clearly see the state of her dress. Rich clothes of this color and material were reserved only for the richest of the nobles in the cities. And the pearls in her hair could easily have been worth a fortune to the people of Carvahall.

“Of course. We would never turn away family in need. Though, you will have to deal with the rumors going around the village. Unfortunately, they still haven’t gotten rid of that bad habit.” Selena nodded, a forced laugh coming out as well.

Marian continued the pleasantries for a moment before taking Roran back to put him down for his nap. Selena leaned back in her chair, her smile fading as Garrow pinned his eyes on her. Selena whispered a few words and then looked at him, looking far older than her 26 years.

“Well then, baby brother. Ask what you will. I won’t have you sitting there with your questions all building up. You look like you ate too many onions.”

Garrow worked his jaw. “I know what you’ve been doing. You told me so the last time you visited. So why have you come here. What are you planning to do?”

Seven Years Ago…

Garrow, I love him!

You know what he has done to this country! To our people! Look around at what his king’s taxes have done to our people.

Your head has been filled with lies told by storytellers. Besides, he will take me away from this place. I will be worth something!

This place is your HOME! Mother and father are buried here! You are worth something to me.

And is it my fate to live and die like them?! No! I wish to live a better life than raising chickens and crops as someone’s housemaid. No, I am leaving and there is nothing you can say to make me stay.

Selena broke eye contact and instead chose to focus on the fire, letting her hand rest on her stomach. “You know who has taken me as his. I bore his child just three years ago. At the time, I was enamored with him. I thought he could do nothing wrong. His power was… intoxicating.

“For three years I thought everything was perfect. I did everything he asked of me, and I did it well. I was invaluable. And when I was pregnant with his child, he treated me so well. But then when he was born, he ripped him away from me. I was lucky if I saw him every few months.” A tear escaped her. “You have no idea what that does to a mother.

“He continued to send me out to do his bidding. But, my heart had changed in becoming a mother. Each time I saw him, he was bigger. Each task I was assigned; I could see my son one day in the place of the men I brought to their deaths.

“Then, one night we were together. I had just returned from a mission and my return coincided with his own. I pleaded with him to see our son and he acquiesced for a few hours. He had a fine dinner for my victory and several bottles of alcohol for his own loss. He turned furious after the drinks. He always did, but I thought I knew what was wrong. I thought I could distract him. All the rage had been building up and he threw his sword.” At this, Selena was sobbing. “He was aiming for me and he hit my son.”

Garrow took in a sharp breath. “Is he okay?”

“He lived.” She said, and shut her mouth before she could say more. “In the next year, he was away more and more. My love, my allegiances had changed towards him. Enough in a way that I was no longer bound in the same way I had been. I was able to do more. Help people instead of hurting them.

“And I met someone new. He was kind to me in a way that man never had been. He made me laugh and smile. He snuck me stories from the maids of my son’s wellbeing when I wasn’t allowed to see him.

“I was foolish.” She said harshly. “I was a fool to lay in bed with him. But he loved me. He really did. Despite everything he knew I had done.

“I was sent on another mission and he was gone when I returned. By the time I realized I was with child, I knew I had to escape. But, without him, I had no way to bring my boy with me. I tried desperately to get only one day with him, but the guards were under strict orders by him. And without my new love, I couldn’t trick the guards. I tried. I did. I broke the windows and snuck in, but they had moved my son somewhere new. Somewhere safer they said.” She sneered.

“I was forced to leave that night. If I had delayed any longer, he would have returned and caught me. I spent the last three weeks coming here.” She finally finished her tale and tore her red, shimmering eyes from the fire. “Please, let me stay. He mustn’t know of my second child. He would surely kill them or worse.”

Garrow nodded his head and slowly walked over to embrace his sister. “I will do everything in my power to keep him safe.”

So, for the next few months, he didn’t question what led her back to Carvahall in specifics. Marian let her borrow her clothes and Selena worked as hard as she could to help on the farm until her size left her house bound and mostly in bed.

When she lay in bed, she often was found writing in a bound book, her scrawl undecipherable to Garrow. He lamented never learning enough to read, but deemed it meaningless when she said it was only a diary anyway.

By the end of the pregnancy, she’d often spend days with Gertrude or their neighbors, who had a boy on the way as well. She’d spend hours watching Roran in his cradle, rocking him with an absentminded foot as she wrote for hours.

When the baby came, she bundled him in a cloth knit by Gertrude and named him, writing his name in her hand in the family book. When he was fed and calm, sleeping in the late hours of the morning the fourth day, Garrow found her collecting her things and donning the fair clothes she had arrived in. Her eyes had shadows underneath, and her breathing was labored as she had been just a few days ago.

“Where are you going?” Garrow said in a low voice.

“I have to go back.” She said quietly.

“And leave your son?” His voice turned stern. “You failed your first and now you abandon your second?”

“No!” She snapped, turning to face him fully. “I am returning to save my son. I have to get him away. If I can just-” She slammed the pack that she was filling and wiped away tears that threatened to fall. “I am not abandoning either of them. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I just have to get him. Murtagh is my son too.”

Garrow froze. That was the first time she had told him his name. He helped her finish packing quietly and then before she left, she pressed a small black book in his hands. “You keep this safe. If something happens, burn it. It mustn’t fall into the wrong hands. Eragon deserves to get it when he comes of age if something happens to me.” Garrow fumbled with the book and she pressed back down on it in his hands. “You promise me you take care of him, okay? Promise.”

Garrow took the book and latched his fingers around Selena’s in a way he hadn’t done since he was a boy.

You promise you’ll come back Selena?

I promise.

“I promise. I’ll protect him with my life.”

“Good, good.” Selena said, her form deflating and looking even more frail. “I have to go. I’m getting a ride with someone heading to Therinsford. I should be back soon.” She kissed Garrow’s forehead and patted his cheek. “Be safe baby brother.”

“Be safe, Selena.” He whispered as she left out the door.

///

The book was warped around the edges, and Garrow was honestly shocked it had survived. By the time Marian had died and they moved out to the farm away from the town, Selena hadn’t returned. Garrow often thought of reading it to find if there was a clue to where she would be. Through the traders and the gossips of all Alagaesia, he found out that the king’s right hand man was killed around the time of Eragon’s birth. He had no idea what that meant for Selena.

For years the journal sat untouched and forgotten in a box under his bed. The last time it was even thought about, was when Garrow wrote Marian’s information in the family book and traced his fingers over the familiar script before tucking both of them away where he didn’t have to think about the hurt they caused.

He thought about opening it and asking Gertrude to read it for him, but he quickly stifled that idea. When he found Eragon, he’d give it to him. No one else needed to read what his mother had written.

He placed everything back in the basket and leaned back, memories coming back to him of when they were younger. After a while, he heard the door opening downstairs. Garrow smiled. His son was back.

///

Hours of fussing and eating dinner later, Garrow and Roran sat in the room together and Garrow heard the rest of the story, in far more detail from his son.

“The farm is ruined. It’d take at least a year to rebuild. We’re better off trying to get the land down here to work. And I have to go back to Therinsford to help in the mill, otherwise I’ll have nothing to offer Sloan in terms of an inheritance.” Roran spat out several curses directed towards his cousin. “I don’t know what the hell he was thinking. Why didn’t he just give up the stone? The money isn’t worth the trouble. And then he goes and runs off on us?”

“Roran.” Garrow chastised, thinking of his sister. “We don’t know for what reason he kept it secret or hidden from those strangers, but they are creatures I’d be terrified to cross again.” He coughed, and the pain in his stomach tugged. “Just as much as I believe you’d do anything for Katrina, he’d do anything to keep that thing safe. I don’t know why, as much as you, but you have to believe there is a reason.” Roran frowned and muttered a few choice words and then stayed quiet on the matter. “So why haven’t you read his letter?”

“Gertrude told you about that?”

“She said you were too stubborn to read it and I agreed that you were. In any case, it’s probably important and would either give you a good reason to be angry or explain why you shouldn’t be.”

Roran walked off, closing the door with a bit more force than necessary and returned a couple minutes later with Gertrude holding the letter. Garrow rubbed his side as Gertrude read aloud.

Roran,

I am sorry I cannot say this in person, but I am the cause for the strangers to come and destroy the house. Their names are the Ra’zac and if you ever encounter them again, run away as fast as you can. They are extremely dangerous.

The reason they are hunting me is because the stone I found in the forest was actually a dragon’s egg.

The Ra’zac are the king's servants which means they are going to try and hurt you to get to me. I recommend you get away from Carvahall. If you can get to Teirm, Brom has a friend named Joed who can help you get to a safe place. Take Katrina with you too. The Ra’zac will kill anyone who was close to me and chew the marrow from their bones. If you make it to our friends in Surda, they can keep you safe.

When you leave, have everyone blacken the family name. You must have everyone believe I’m hated by the town so the Ra’zac will not have anyone to use against me. I'm sorry.

Eragon.

There was silence when Gertrude finished reading and placed the letter on the table. Roran’s jaw was clenched and he walked out of the house mumbling something about going on a walk.

Garrow let the news process and Gertrude took a seat opposite him and placed a hand over his. He thought back to Eragon slowly disappearing more and more during the winter. He had guessed the boy was seeing someone in town- much like how Roran had slipped away to spend time with Katrina. But, a dragon. That made much more sense that he would offer to chop down more firewood or head into town and be gone for long hours. But still, dragons, the king and these creatures. It seemed his nephew had followed his mother’s footsteps in testing fate.

Garrow frowned and thought back to an argument he once had with his sister. This place is our home. Why would you leave something you love behind? Really, he had been asking why she would leave him behind. He frowned into his beard. He had long since thought his sister dead when she didn’t return with her firstborn. He had held out three winters before breaking and crying to Marian when Eragon called him Papa. He had explained to the boy over the years that his mother loved him. She loved him so much, she left to keep him safe.

And now, he would have to do the same. Run away and leave his home to keep the people he loved safe. He rubbed his chest and the hollow ache wouldn’t go away.

///

They left early in the morning a week later.

Chapter Text

Eragon touched down at the farm and frowned at the debris of his old home. It looked picked over and dilapidated- as if someone had taken anything worth taking and left the house to the forest.

He frowned before patting Saphira on her flank and leaving her to rest and hunt in the forest. The froth around her mouth and heaving chest were proof she had pushed herself too far on the flight over.

Relax, Saphira. I will need you soon. He said and she narrowed her eyes at him.

Do not even think of getting into trouble. She said, Or else I will have no other option but to come into town and get you out of it. Eragon laughed and touched his forehead to hers before setting off.

He took the road, but halfway there, he slipped into the surrounding woods to sneak into town. Thankfully there hadn’t been a recent rain to give away his tracks in the mud, but he still had to be careful as the leaves were beginning to fall again and their crisp crunch was unavoidable.

As he snuck closer, he noticed two wagons and a pile of wood blocked the town from the main road, and he froze. There was an encampment of soldiers just outside the town’s barriers.

Horst stood in the center of the town and was speaking with several angry villagers. The tops of some of the buildings, clumped near Morn’s tavern. Not for the first time, Eragon wished he had the heightened senses that came with the transformation at the Blood Oath Celebration. Only a month or so yet. Eragon thought. That is if they still decide to allow me the magic again. He shook the thought out of his head and thought about how to take on the men. He was strong now- he had spent the last three months training with Brom and Murtagh, but he was still only human. With that many soldiers, and to make sure none would get away to alert the Empire, he would need Saphira’s help- which once again put the village in danger if they knew of her existence.

He snuck into the village and into Brom’s house where he could now detect several enchantments keeping it hidden from prying eyes. With his own wards added, he holed up in the apartment and scryed Brom to tell him of the news. Brom wished him luck, adding in a few of his own observations and things to collect from his house and Eragon ended the spell to call for Saphira.

He gathered several requested items from Brom’s home including some old books and gratefully, necklace with an inset gem that would replenish Saphira’s energy enough to fight. He stuffed them in a bag and placed it by the door.

He was about to slip outside to find Horst when the door to Brom’s house swung open and a figure stood, shaded by the light outside. Eragon pulled his sword from its sheath and was ready to attack when the person spoke.

“Eragon?”

///

Eragon froze in recognition and quickly pulled the figure inside with only a quick glimpse that no one had seen him. He sheathed the sword and turned back to the figure.

Gertrude frowned at him and smacked him upside the head. “What on earth are you thinking, coming back here? Somehow you have the entire empire looking for your head and you come back?”

“What are you even doing in Brom’s house?” Eragon cried. “I was hoping no one would see me, but I’m trying to save the entire town from being burned to the ground.”

Gertrude frowned and began digging through the medicine cabinet on the right side of the room, pulling out dried herbs and putting them in her pockets. “He told me I was free to take his herbs while he was gone. I need it for the men injured in the fires last night. But that doesn’t explain why you’re in his house.” She finished and stood up straight and brushed her hands off on her skirt.

“I’m back to save the village.” Eragon said, peering out a window. “We- I am going to make them go away and never come back. Is Roran still here? Have they made demands?”

“Roran left about a month ago with about twelve others. Including Garrow.” Gertrude paused and looked pointedly at Eragon. He froze, a chill running down his spine and clenched his jaw trying not to show the numerous emotions at the statement. After a minute, Gertrude frowned at his lack of a reaction and continued. “The remaining have just enough men to fight, but we’re no match against the trained soldiers.”

“Have you clashed yet?”

“No. When they arrived, we blacked your names as you wrote in your letter. Sloan was actually the best at that- for Roran took Katrina with him when he left.” Now that was a shock and relief, and Eragon couldn’t stop it from showing on his face. “So the moment they arrived, Sloan has been telling them exactly where Roran went and who he took. But the problem is, some of the soldiers think he’s lying.

“A few of the soldiers got drunk and trashed Morn’s tavern and then burnt several buildings last night when they dropped their torch. Everyone is mostly pissed about that, but nothing else has happened yet. The men are planning to lead a charge against them tonight.”

“That won’t work.” Eragon said with a curse. “They’re stronger in the dark.” He glanced out the window again at the mid-afternoon sun. “We’ll have to attack soon.” Carefully he reached out to Saphira, shielding his mind at the same time from the soldiers and where he knew the Ra’zac lay.

Saphira. Are you well? He frowned. She wouldn’t have much time to regain her energy, and the energy in the gem would only do so much.

I will be, to protect the people of Carvahall.

Stay in the air then. High above. I will call for you when it’s time. Be safe.

And you little one. He shared some of his energy with her before breaking the connection and looked back at Gertrude who was staring at him oddly.

“What were you doing just then?”

Eragon grinned, his teeth flashing. “Calling for what will help us win against the soldiers. Now, let’s go to Horst’s and get in on this war meeting.”

Eragon threw on a cloak from Brom’s and trailed behind Gertrude, hunching his back and ignoring the people who were patching the holes in some of the roofs.

When they made it to Horst’s, he took off the hood of his cloak and all the heads in the room turned towards him.

“Afternoon, everyone.” He said with a smile. The room erupted into chaos.

///

Once the initial shouting died down, Eragon was ushered into a seat and then he asked Horst to speak first on everything that had happened despite everyone asking questions on what he had done to bring down the empire on their heads.

“They came about 3 days ago.” Horst started, clenching and unclenching his fist. “They told us they were searching for Roran and any information about you that we had. We told them that you had not been here since you left five months ago, and a month ago, Roran ran away like the coward he was, stealing away Sloan’s daughter to marry her when her father refused.”

He reached out for Elain’s hand. “What we didn’t tell the soldiers is that he took about twenty people with him. Some of them- Garrow, our boys and Katrina, left because they knew they could be connected to you. You spent far too much time with them.”

Eragon frowned. He had spent lots of time with the boys and for them to leave at the age of apprenticeship… It was unfortunate for many of the people of the village.

“The others went for a sense of security. There have been rumors of a Shade and urgals amassing just outside the valley. The traders didn’t return this spring, and Therinsford has been hearing even worse troubles happening around Alagaesia.”

Eragon thought on the man’s words for a while before clasping his hands and beginning his tale- asking them to save their questions until the end.

He started by speaking of Galbatorix taking over the kingdoms with Morzan and the Forsworn and a rider who struck them all down. The rider then rescued one of three eggs from the king and it had been ferried between the Varden and the elves, hoping it would hatch so that a rider may oppose the king and bring down his tyranny against Alagaesia.

He then told the tale of an elf, who bravely fought against a shade, only to succumb to the overwhelming forces and send the egg to safety. The elf sent the egg to a protector, but instead, the dragon found her rider. And together, the rider and his dragon have been training to protect Alagaesia and defeat the king.

Eragon paused for a moment, looking up from the rings of wood on the table which he had been staring at during his tale, and everyone around him seemed entranced in his story. He took a deep breath. “And that,” he said slowly. “Is the reason why Galbatorix sends his forces to Carvahall. For the new rider is none other than one who was born here and he believes he can force them to surrender if he hurts the rider’s home and family. For the new rider, is me.”

The gathered crowd was quiet for a moment and then burst into questions. Eragon tried to answer them all as much as he could.

“Yes, I am a rider. My dragon is resting from the flight over.

Yes, we can defeat the Ra’zac and get revenge for Quimby’s death.

No, I don’t know where Roran is.”

Sloan’s voice rose above the rest. “Will you truly kill the king?” He asked. “You’re just a boy, Eragon. You can’t expect us to believe that. You’ve brought nothing but ruin, chaos and death to Carvahall. How can we possibly believe you?”

“I- “, Eragon dug a nail into his palm, trying not to show his nerves. “I can’t promise anything. But I am strong- getting stronger every day. And I-” A dagger of memory struck his chest as he remembered the flash of light and pain from Elva as Galbatorix had exploded into a bright light. “I will do everything I can.” He continued looking in his eyes, until the man looked away and frowned, walking out of the house, muttering curses under his breath and clenching his fists tightly.

“First then,” Eragon said, swallowing down the bad taste after a moment of silence that fell in Sloan’s departure. “We must kill the soldiers. I won’t ask any of you to fight, but I will ask you to defend your homes if they come after you. So I need to make sure you are protected.”

He went through the defenses of their homes and sent off some of the men to make sure all the families were protected. As they continued in their war efforts, he brought out the spyglass he had taken from Brom’s house and looked from Horst’s second floor to where the soldiers camped.

We’ll surprise them with you from the air as I take out several soldiers by foot. I still can’t sense the Ra’zac but I’m guessing they’re still there. The soldiers are all giving one tent a wide berth.

How will you defeat the Ra’zac? We were stronger before, and we had Roran as well. Saphira replied.

Aye, but this time the Letherblaka are not here, and the enchantments from their lair will not protect them. We can hope that the Murtagh’s arrow damaged the Ra’zac enough. So long as we keep them in our sights, we should be able to kill them.

And if the Letherblaka do come- they will find their children dead and seek revenge. Will we stay here indefinitely? We must return to Ellesmera soon. Our absence is already missed. Galbatorix will burn Carvahall to the ground.

Eragon frowned. Saphira was right of course. Even if they killed both the Ra’zac and their mounts, Galbatorix would continue sending soldiers to Carvahall to try to get to him. For now, let’s get rid of these soldiers before they can kill anyone else in Carvahall. Then, we shall decide what to do.

With preparations complete and everyone securely in their homes, Eragon was surprised to see several of the men waiting for him outside Horst’s house. He searched his brain for some words to say that would encourage them to stay safe in their homes. Roran somehow knew the words he did not.

“They want to fight, Eragon. Let them defend their people.” Horst said quietly into his ear when Eragon moved to dismiss them. He nodded and placed a few wards around the men, drawing on their own energy to cast and making sure the wards would end if they lost too much energy. As they made their way to the entrance, Sloan joined them at the back of the group, not saying anything, but brandishing two of his knives and curses on his tongue.

He had the villagers split into three groups to keep the soldiers from fleeing and he took the direct route to keep the wind from blowing his scent to the Ra’zac prematurely.

As he walked, he picked up small stones, holding them in one hand, his drawn sword in the other. Connected with Saphira, she told him once the men were in place and then, NOW!

She tucked her wings and flew down, releasing a fearsome roar once she was in sight of the camp. As the soldiers raced around, and finally looked up, Eragon ripped through their minds, extracting any information he could, before sending the stones through helmets.

The chaos was more than he imagined. When their comrades fell, seemingly without reason, and the sight of a dragon and her flames coming directly at them, most of them scattered and ran to where the villagers lay waiting. He quickly cut down the two soldiers that were frozen and launched into an attack of the Ra’zac who came running towards him. He kept an eye out for the second, but relief came when it did not show up.

As he traded blows with the Ra’zac who spewed curses for killing their kin, an ear-shattering screech sounded and Eragon cursed as Saphira sent an image of the two Letherblaka. Once they spotted Saphira, they shrieked and began attacking her.

Eragon fought to gain the upper hand once again after the distraction, but only managed to push the Ra’zac onto the open road where a Letherblaka had broken away from Saphira and dropped down, shaking the earth. The Ra’zac scurried onto its back and cursed Eragon, black ooze dripping from its wounds.

“He wants you alive, Rider. That is the only reason we do not kill you here and now.” It hissed from under its hood.

“And you are alive only because I allow it.” Eragon retorted. “Go back and tell your king that I will not join him so long as I live.” Saphira gained the upper hand against the second Letherblaka and it shrieked as she pinned it to the ground and held its neck in her jaws.

“Then you shall die of your own stupidity.” It grasped one of the spikes on the Letherblaka’s neck and it spread its leathery wings.

Eragon shouted before it could take off. “If you return here, expect for you and the Letherblaka to die. It is now under my protection which is more than I can say for you under Galbatorix.”

Saphira just then wrenched the neck of the Letherblaka she had hold on and its screams died abruptly. The living Ra’zac and its mount took to the sky and disappeared into the fading dusk.

Eragon dropped to the ground and Saphira landed next to him moments later. He began healing the wounds on her body as the villagers slowly came out from the woods. In their ranks, two soldiers still stood, bound by ropes and swords to their necks. They looked terrified at the corpse of the Letherblaka and Eragon made a note that they would have to burn the body as soon as possible. Sloan on the other hand looked satisfied. From the red coating his knives, it wasn’t hard to guess why.

“They surrendered.” Horst said, gesturing to the bound men, his voice firm. “What shall we do with them?”

Eragon would never stop being surprised at people looking to him for answers, but from Horst of all people it was still a surprise. When Roran had come to the Varden, it was with the authority of a man who had saved his people from certain death and shepherded them across the country for the hopes of a better life. He held the people’s faith much more than a boy who disappeared for months and returned with a dragon.

But Horst was still looking at him with an even gaze. The man trusted him in a way that usually only village elders were trusted. Eragon nodded. This was now his responsibility as a rider. He turned his sights to the soldiers- they were young, still in their early adulthood, but had likely been through a few skirmishes by the damage to their armor

“I can search their minds for ill intentions,” Eragon said. “But I will not be the judge of life or death. It is your home they attacked, so it is for the people of Carvahall to decide their fate. Is that agreeable to you?”

Horst nodded and Eragon turned to the soldiers and searched their memories not entirely gently. The first man was young with dark hair and a patchy beard, not yet full. He was from Ceunon and had been conscripted into the war. Galbatorix had promised his family would be taken care of and if he denied, they would be slaughtered. He had been in several skirmishes and killed, but didn’t participate in any of the crude methods of power the other soldiers had displayed, often ridiculed for being a weakling.

The other man was older, he had a full beard, his stomach protruding slightly. His history was more fraught. Willingly joining the army, killing for fun and taking whatever he wanted from the villages they threatened. Eragon tried to pass over a particularly nasty group of thoughts about young women without going too deep. He finished and withdrew, tired.

“Armin is young, he has killed but not willingly. He was conscripted. He surrendered because he never wished to serve, only to keep his family safe.” Eragon said placidly, disconnected from his body in the moment. Their memories were swirling around in his mind and along with the exhaustion from the fight, he felt like he was drunk on mead.

He then turned to the other man who was wincing in pain from the search of his mind. “And Eron here joined willingly, killing, plundering and raping in every town they threaten. He surrendered because he thought he could trick you and then kill you to gain favor of the king.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t recommend letting him run free. He will tell the Empire of what happened here.”

With that, he turned back to Saphira and nodded as she grabbed the Letherblaka in her talons. “I must dispose of these now. Thank you for fighting with me. I will return once more before I leave.”

Then, he mounted Saphira and flew to where a barren field lay over the hills.

///

Once the fire was raging, Eragon sat down on the ground and ran through the memories he ripped from the soldiers with Saphira.

They said reinforcements were coming soon. But we frightened off the Ra’zac and the Letherblaka. Perhaps they will lick their wounds and leave Carvahall alone.

It would have been better to kill them here. Saphira said. They are now an unknown variable. If we return to Ellesmera, we will leave Carvahall unprotected. But we must return. We have spent far too much time here already.

Eragon hummed an acknowledgment and stared at the fire, mulling over his thoughts for several minutes. Saphira stayed quiet, watching them swirl around in his head.

It is not a bad idea. She said after a while. The people here are strong.

But, if Galbatorix is dedicated, he’ll come back.

He’ll be far too busy fighting the Varden. Even now, they march on Auroughs. His attention is distracted and he doesn’t have Murtagh to do his bidding.

Eragon frowned but agreed with her. It doesn’t mean I like it though.

Nothing good comes of war. But when it’s over, you can come back and make it right. Now, sleep little one. You need to regain your energy. I will keep watch.

Eragon slept.

He woke just after the sun had risen high enough to warm the ground. The air was dry, and stank of ash. He dunked himself quickly in a nearby stream, just enough to get the blood and grime off his body before heading back into town.

Do you wish to come? He asked Saphira, who had been dozing in the field. Or you can rest. We have a long way to fly soon.

I will come, but do not expect me to do much.

They made their way into the town where villagers paused where they stood, and then quickly rushed away. Saphira stopped in the main clearing, curling into a half-moon and resting her head on her forelimbs, eyes open enough to watch the courtyard.

Horst exited his house, led by Edmund who had first seen him enter the town. He came up to Eragon and shook his hand before grasping him into a hug. Elain then came up to do the same, her stomach protruding and Eragon could feel the heartbeat, strong and steady.

“You’ve done Carvahall a great service, Eragon.” Horst said, and the villagers who had come up in the moments after agreed. “But what happens the next time soldiers attack? Will you return and defend us?”

Eragon shook his head. “I can’t be here all the time. I must train with my masters if I ever hope to defeat Galbatorix.”

“So, you’ll abandon us like before and leave us scrambling to pick up your mess.” Sloan scoffed from the corner of his store, picking at his nails.

“No.” He said firmly. “I shall place a protection for you. But that means you can’t leave the valley. Not even to go to Therinsford.” Grumblings broke out among the people.

“We need the trade.” Morn piped up from his right. “How else will we get enough to survive the upcoming winter?”

“The protection will only work so long as they don’t know you’re here.” Eragon explained. “Anyone approaching from Therinsford will become confused and begin to forget what exactly they came for. By the time they remember, they will already be halfway to Yazuac. But if Horst were to come to Therinsford, then someone could follow him or his footsteps back, even if they were to forget why they were doing it. The best solution is for it to appear as if there is nothing more in the valley past Therinsford.”

“And if they approach from the Spine?” Birgit said. “How can we defend from them then?”

“Galbatorix’s forces dare not enter the Spine.” He said, harsher than he intended, then calmed himself and spoke more plainly. “This is what I can do to protect you.”

“Armin says there are reinforcements on the way.” Horst said. “What will we do with them?”

“I’ll stop them before they reach Therinsford. You should be safe from them.” He spoke for a while longer as the energy finally calmed and the people came out to speak together in the warmth of the noon sun. Several families brought out food to replenish Eragon’s strength as well as Saphira’s and he took only a small amount, not willing to handicap them for the upcoming winter.

“She can eat on the way out. I don’t wish to frighten the local animals.” He said, nodding to Saphira.

He smiled, then noticing the children of the town began making a game of who could get the closest to Saphira. He nudged her with his mind and she opened one large eye to stare at the children. They giggled with delight and Eragon excused himself to walk over to explain to the children they were okay to touch her, but gently.

Most were children of farmers, and knew how a startled horse could kick or goat could ram, so they were polite around Saphira and were soon giggling with glee at her shiny and smooth scales, and her velvety wings. One of the young girls started comparing her to jewels and got in a fight with a boy over which gem she looked like.

“It’s a sap-ire!”

“No, it’s a saph-fire. It’s got fire in the name dummy. She breathes fire.”

“She’ll roast you if I tell her too.”

“No she won’t. She’s too nice.”

Eragon chuckled along with the villagers and enjoyed the noon meal. As the sun crept lower in the sky, he frowned. Another night here would be a bad idea.

“Stay. Rest. You’re safe with us at your back.” Elain said. Eragon turned to where she stood behind him and his eyes fell on her stomach. The babe would soon be born… with a cat lip.

He promised to stay the night and asked if she or any of the other women in town would be willing to spare a gem in their necklace or two for him to use. She seemed confused at the question, but returned an hour later with five necklaces, differing gems in all of them.

He thanked her and took the three strongest gems of them, promising he’d return them in time.

Eragon then spent the majority of the night in Brom’s house casting the spells needed by firelight. Occasionally, he would consult Saphira who stayed in the courtyard, the buildings too narrow for her to go much anywhere else.

By the time the sun rose, he had gotten around 3 hours of sleep, but Saphira was well rested enough to fly soon.

His first stop was Sloan’s shop. It was a familiar scene to open the door to the butcher’s shop and the man was cleaning and sharpening his knives. He didn’t need to check with Horst to know that several of the soldiers that lay in an unmarked grave outside the city were slain by Sloan.

He cleared his throat and Sloan whipped around, pointing his knife at Eragon. “You.” He cursed, spit flying from his lips. “You are the cause of all the problems around here. You’d do right to leave Carvahall and never return.”

“That wouldn’t solve any problems.” Eragon said, leaning on the wall, exhaustion running through his body. “If I leave, the empire will still ask for more and more taxes every year. They will conscript boys from every corner of Alagaesia and leave their wives and daughters unprotected at home.”

“I will protect them.” He spat, knife still hanging in the air.

“Yes, and what will happen when you die?” Eragon questioned, the fight leaving his body. “Because you will die. You’re only human. Will you let hatred and spite stop you from seeing your daughter’s child? All because you think less of one man?” He sighed. “Roran is a strong man. He will do great things, and when they return, make sure it’s a good welcome. You won’t get another chance after this.”

“You’re just a boy.” Sloan cursed him in all the ways he knew how. “How could you possibly think you are better than us?”

“I don’t.” Eragon said, his voice quieter now. Just barely carrying over to the man’s ears. “Can’t you see how tired I am? I’ve barely hit manhood and the future of Alagaesia is on my shoulders. Even if I wanted to, I can never come back to this. To hunting in the Spine and pissing you off once a month.” He chuckled to himself. “If only it were that easy.”

“The pain of both my past and future haunts me.” More than you could ever understand. “Can’t we find peace between the two of us? What would I need to do to make that happen?”

Sloan cursed him once more and turned his back, not speaking any longer.

///

He knocked on the door to Horst’s and it was answered by Elain who ushered him inside. A kettle was whistling on the stove and she quickly poured tea for the three of them.

They spoke of inconsequential pleasantries until Horst returned with some eggs and milk from the neighbor. He politely declined a meal and then explained what he was going to do with the first gem and Therinsford. Then, he brought out the items he had enchanted the previous night.

“Next, a mirror.” He placed it on the table, and turned it to them. It was small. No bigger than a dinner plate. He had taken apart some items in Brom’s house to make it. There was a gem in the corner filled with just enough energy to last once. “Speak this phrase twice and I shall be able to speak with you. Use it for only the direst of emergencies. You can tell the others of the village about this.” Elain took it gently, nodding.

“Lastly,” He pulled out a necklace that had the smallest gem. “I give you a gift for you and your child.” He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “I likely won’t be able to be here for the birth. The necklace is imbued with spells of healing that can help all but death."

Elain was beginning to turn white. “What do you expect to happen?”

Eragon bit his lip and Saphira let out a stream of smoke outside, startling a passing washwoman who dropped a few clothes and quickly hurried away. Be careful little one.

He tried to smile normally. “I just want to do all I can since you won’t have Therinsford for help.”

Saphira grumbled outside, her tones vibrating the ground and giving Eragon an excuse to leave. He gave quick goodbyes and ran out of the house as quickly as he could. Saphira eyed him as he strapped on his saddle. You need to learn tact, little one.

As Eragon strapped into the saddle, several villagers came out to wish him farewell and he waved as he and Saphira walked far enough away from the courtyard to safely take off without disrupting the nearby houses.

They landed about halfway down the road to Therinsford and Eragon took a moment to survey the land before pointing at two trees. Saphira kicked them down easily and they fell in the center of the road, blocking anyone from passing without clearing them. He then placed the gem in a burl of one of the trees, and cast a spell that would pull its energy from the forest.

The trees would stop anyone from progressing further and anyone in the nearby vicinity would soon forget what they were pursuing. If one were to arrive from the air or the Spine, they’d likely be able to get through, but Eragon was hoping Galbatorix wouldn’t go to those lengths. To the trees, he sang, asking for their help to protect the people of Carvahall and the trees shook lightly in the breeze almost as if to respond and agree.

As they took off once again, he didn’t notice the brambles in the forest seemed to be slowly creeping towards the road.

///

It took until the sun was high in the sky for them to fly to Utgard. It was near the top where they found the skeleton of Umaroth, Vrael’s dragon. It was enormous, dwarfing Saphira’s body several times over. His head had landed near the watchtower which was in a state of disarray, broken by battle and by a hundred years of nature’s whims.

A skeleton lay, clothes and skin long gone in the center, cracks in several of the bones on the body, and its skull a few feet further. Dark stains coated most surfaces and the only things left were broken and beyond repair.

He cast out his mind and found nothing living on the top of the mountain. The peak had nothing growing on it, almost as if the ground itself was mourning as well.

Inside the watchtower, he attempted to look at the books, but it seems any wards or charms had been broken then the watchtower fell. Thus, the paper was all waterlogged and unreadable, if not dust. The only thing that had survived the time was some dishware that lay broken by the sink and bits here and there.

Sorry to have wasted your time Saphira. Eragon thought as he cast a glance over the remains. I thought there would be something here. Something about Vrael and his dragon seemed important.

Don’t be sorry little one. Saphira said, looking back at the bones of Umaroth the dragon as they began to ascend with powerful flaps of her wings. We all will die one day. It does not do well to forget that this is what Galbatorix did before and will do again. This is the rage that fills me and must fill us all if we are to be strong enough to kill Galbatorix. She snorted and looked back at him. Let’s go. I can smell a nice current coming. I should be able to ride it halfway to Ellesmera.

///

They flew high, Eragon’s spells protecting him from the thin air and keeping him and Saphira warm. The strong current held until the moon already shone brightly, and they made nearly halfway to Ellesmera before Saphira could fly no longer.

Eragon spotted a clearing near a small lake and Saphira drank while he hunted down a deer for her to eat. He found some fruit of his own and ate his fill, stomach settling from the flight and the sight of Vrael and his dragon slain on Utgard. He tried to remember what he had learned of Vrael, but his only memory of Utgard was the tale Brom had told in the pub long ago to several drunk men.

He pondered the thought long into the night as Saphira slept and kept coming back to the thought. What was Vrael’s dragon’s name? He seemed to remember it. It was on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn’t remember it. Why couldn’t he remember it?

Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep at Saphira’s side.

Memories came to him as he slept.

///

Umaroth was an old dragon. He had spent many years at the head of the bonded dragons and even longer as a teacher with Vrael. The two of them raised generations of new riders, watching them grow from hatchlings.

Never had he guessed the terror that would rise up against them. The hatred and malice contained in just one man; enough to manipulate others to join him in his dark movement and to cause pain across the lands of Alagaesia.

Their flight from Vroenguard was perilous. Even as they took off, Umaroth couldn’t tear his eyes away from the hundreds of bodies that littered the ground. He cried for his kin, keening at the loss. Most of them he had known since they were hatchlings and all he would consider friends in the sky. His rider sat on top of him, bleeding out and Umaroth poured as much energy as he could into his rider to keep him from dying.

The flight to Utgard was met with fair winds, and Umaroth was strong, but after the fight, they were both sore. The skies were empty and Vrael could not draw on any life for energy without risking themselves to be seen so low to the ground with no defenses. No, instead he flew on high currents and kept his eyes on the search for enemies.

When Umaroth finally landed, legs crashing into the mountain, chest heaving and froth at his mouth, he knew he’d likely never rise again. The wounds across his body had yet to heal and the sickness that Thuviel had sent across Vroenguard was poisoning him. Already, he could feel it seeping into his muscles and his bones.

Vrael was slow to get off his back, his body frail and trembling, whether from the cold or the blood-loss, Umaroth didn’t know. He had long since lost contact with the man as he pondered bigger questions and Umaroth had to concentrate to not break his wings or lose his focus while flying.

Vrael stumbled as he walked, slowly gaining strength as the grass beneath him shriveled and turned black. If Umaroth had reached out his mind, he would have felt the thousands of plants and living things that resided on the mountain top dying. With a scarce amount of replenished energy, Vrael entered the watchtower and began rifling through belongings looking for something and Umaroth blinked slowly, once, twice, and opened his eyes sometime later to a dark speck getting larger in the sky.

Vrael! He cried, but there was no time to run. Not even if he wanted to. He was far too tired and Vrael was too weak to continue. Vrael stood in front of him on the edge of the watchtower though, and drew his sword, never one to back down from the fight. In one hand he held a gem and Umaroth felt a small amount of energy pour into both of their bodies.

As the black dragon came into view, Umaroth twisted and strained his wings to flap. He could feel his unhealed wounds pulsing steaming blood onto the face of the mountain, dying the blackened grass red. He was only a few hundred feet off the ground when he and the black shrike collided, his force pushing the larger dragon back to the ground with a massive sound.

He fought against Shruiken, but was no match for the dragon who had been augmented with magic. The darkness had twisted his mind and he seemed in pain to fight against him.

Peace child. Umaroth called. I do not wish to kill you. But even then, he was digging in with his claws, ripping the younger dragon’s scales from its skin, targeting and tearing the soft skin at its joints. He snapped at Shruiken’s neck, but missed as the younger dragon was too quick- likely getting a constant stream of new energy from the Eldunari that Galbatorix had stolen and perverted. Already, his wounds were healing at an incredible rate and Galbatorix didn’t look a bit off put at the attempted attacks.

The dark man swung himself from the saddle and strutted over to where Vrael stood in the opening of the watchtower, the wall badly damaged from Umaroth’s impact into the mountaintop. Umaroth moved to strike at him, whipping his tail around as his claws and teeth were engaged but the man simply sliced with his blade and it bit through his skin, hotter than the fire that burned from his belly. He let out a horrible roar and struggled with the last of his strength to hurt Shruiken enough to get to Vrael. To protect him. To save him.

Vrael attempted to cast many spells, but Galbatorix cast each aside with ease, casting his own at the same time. They were at a standstill for a moment as Vrael tried to get past his defenses with magic. Then, in the silence, Galbatorix spoke.

“You have grown old and soft Vrael. You should have killed me when you had the chance, but you’re weak. How does it feel to know that you alone are the cause of the Rider’s fall? This is on you. If you had just given me a dragon.” Galbatorix’s voice cracked as he swung again, catching his cursed blade on Umaroth’s flank. The blade sliced through all his wards. Another white hot pain lanced through his body, and this time, he stumbled. Long enough for Shruiken to gain the upper hand. The black dragon was fast. His thin neck snuck around and grasped his in his jaws at the base of his skull, pinning him down and claws digging into his base at the base of his wings. Slowly pulling- tearing each muscle by muscle away from the bone. He roared, the sound resounding across the mountains and shaking the ground. Each time he tried to get away, the demon’s claws dug tighter into his muscles. He could feel each individual fiber of muscle snapping as the claws severed them.

Galbatorix laughed a horrible laugh- there was nothing human about the creature standing in front of him anymore. He caught blades with Vrael and they exchanged blows several times over, but Vrael couldn’t catch his breath. The energy from the gem was expended. Any energy from nature was too far away to grasp. He tried to cast spells to Umaroth as well, but the dragon was in too much pain to notice if they worked or not.

“And to think. You were chosen to lead. The great leader of the dragon riders and yet here you fall. Pitiful and weak.” Galbatorix spit on the ground. “The time of the Riders is over. I will build something better than you could ever dream. Under my rule, Alagaesia will become what it was meant to be.

I promise you,” He struck hard at Vrael on his already bleeding side, knocking him off balance and then kicked his leg up, catching him in the fork of the legs. “I will make a far better king than you.”

Then, he swung the sword, cutting cleanly through Vrael’s head and then a searing pain at the base of his neck and Umaroth could feel his consciousness retreating to a faraway place of darkness.

///

Eragon woke with a start and rubbed at his neck where there was a pain. An echo of a haunting laugh stayed in his ears until the light rose in the morning, but when Saphira asked what had woken him, Eragon couldn’t remember.

Chapter Text

“One must work with time and not against it.“ – Ursula K. Le Guin

Eragon returned to Ellesmera eight days from when he departed to help Carvahall. He met with and apologized to Murtagh and Thorn in their quarters before anyone else and he had plenty to say about what Eragon had missed.

“Tt, the crotchety old man is judging me for being my father’s son. Every lesson, he compares me to Morzan. ‘When your father was your age-‘ bah!” He cursed. “Like I want to be his son.” Murtagh paced the room several times over. “I only knew him long enough for him to scar me for life. The man whose blood runs in my veins is not my father.”

“No, that’s Tornac, isn’t it?” Eragon asked gently. Murtagh froze at the comment but didn’t deny it. “You always have something to say about him.”

“He was a kind teacher and a better father figure than I could have asked for.” Murtagh said quietly after a long silence. “He took care of me once Morzan died and trained me so that I could protect myself. Uru’baen is filled with people who want to get ahead. As Morzan’s son, I was considered the elite. So they would often try to gain my favor through gifts or more… forced means. Tornac… he wasn’t like the others.”

Eragon didn’t ask him to elaborate any further but instead waited for Murtagh to sit down angrily onto the floor and lean his head on the wall, before sitting next to him and offering a piece of dried meat from his bag. It was from Carvahall and seasoned nicely.

“Ugh,” Murtagh said after taking a bite. “That’s the other thing. These elves want to not eat meat, fine by me. But why do they revere Thorn when he goes off to hunt, but I try to roast a bite to eat with him and suddenly they’re all up in arms.”

“They’re too afraid to admit it smells good.” Eragon said with a laugh. “If they tried that stew that we had in that tavern near Bulridge, they’d think differently.”

The conversation delved into less heavy topics from then and they spent the night chatting.

///

The next morning, Oromis sent a message that Murtagh should go to the training fields and Eragon was to come to his home to cover what was missed during his impromptu trip to Carvahall.

Eragon flew over with Saphira after assuring Murtagh it was fine and quickly reviewing everything that Oromis had covered in the last week. When he touched down, Saphira stayed where she was in the clearing while Oromis took Eragon to a low table where tea sat steaming. Eragon gave a condensed report of his journey including the Letherblaka they killed, but not the enchantments he gave to the villagers. He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about wasting time and energy.

Eragon let the old man sit in silence for a while, eyeing him carefully and ignored the cup in front of him. After what Murtagh had described the last week to be, the man surely had something to say about it. Finally, he spoke up.

“The last week of training has shown me many things about both your and Murtagh’s training styles.” He started, watching Eragon for any reaction. “You are flighty and will make decisions based on your whims for what you think is right, but does not serve the greatest good. You should have chased after the remaining Ra’zac and its mount while you had the energy and means instead of letting them go free.” Eragon took the complaint in stride. Oromis wasn’t wrong.

“Whereas Murtagh seems so set in his ways, it is near impossible to change him despite his proclivity for hard work. Both of you are exactly like your fathers.”

There it was. Eragon clenched his teeth and Saphira cautioned him in the back of his mind. “See, that is where you are wrong.” He said, keeping his tone even. “My brother and I are nothing like our fathers. Perhaps we are like our mother. She was strong and fought for her independence even at the risk of her own life. She did everything she could to keep the ones she loved safe.”

“Your mother was the right hand to Morzan and committed various atrocities to the people across Alagaesia.”

“And Murtagh was a boy who was forced to grow up in the palace of a madman that he willingly left to help us.” Eragon said, his voice becoming sharper despite trying to remain calm. “He is not his father. Neither of us are. And the sooner you get that in your head, the sooner you can drop your biases and be a proper teacher instead of a petty housemaid who has nothing better to do than hold a grudge. There is a war going on Oromis, and if you won’t help us, then you’re better off fighting Galbatorix by yourself.”

With that, Eragon stood up and gave a sharp bow. “Thank you for the tea. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.” He didn’t wait for Oromis to respond, and went back over to Saphira and they flew back towards the heart of Ellesmera.

That was perhaps not the best way to address the problem. Saphira noted on the flight.

Aye, but it was the fastest. In war, we do not have time to hold grudges. Oromis needs to learn to grow just as much as we do. Eragon said bitterly. I accept whatever punishment for my insolence, but Murtagh doesn’t need any more punishment for being born.

When they landed in the sparring grounds, Murtagh gave them a questioning glance, but didn’t say anything about his early return. Saphira inquired where Thorn was hunting and then flew off to join him as Eragon took his blade and began going through his stretches to warm up.

///

In the next few days, he spent the days sparring in the morning and reviewing the lessons he missed in the afternoon with Murtagh. Oromis didn’t send for them, but Brom would come by and review their lessons and Arya would drag them out for some free time to roam Ellesmera in the afternoons.

As he copied Murtagh’s notes onto his own paper on the third day since his outburst to Oromis, Eragon found himself understanding the finer points of the lesson. He took a break to stretch his legs and walk over to where Saphira dozed in a sunny clearing. He cast the spell he had been studying and smiled when it worked.

Murtagh should be a scholar with the details of his notes. I’m learning more from his lessons than I did with Oromis the first time around. He observed to Saphira, rather proud of himself for getting something on the first try.

Saphira emanated a feeling of melancholy at Eragon’s musings and he sent back a query to her sadness.

Little one, you had similar instruction from Oromis, but your seizures made it hard for you to focus, much less remember instructions.

She brought up memories from her point of view of the past and he flinched at her perspective. He looked haggard and ill with purpled eyes and despite his toned muscles, he looked weak. One of his seizures flashed across her memory and he watched as his scroll sprawled on the ground beside his twitching body.

The reminder stunned Eragon and had him viewing Oromis (and his already atrocious behavior towards Murtagh) as well as the other elves in a different light. After their experience last time, this time was completely different. Despite Vanir not a complete shit-head to him about being disabled, the elves seemed to avoid him even more. Treating him far differently than they treated Brom. When Brom walked into a clearing, all of those nearby greeted him and smiled, making polite conversation if time allowed. When Eragon walked with Murtagh, whispers followed and many pretended he wasn’t even there.

Oromis was revered as a rider, despite his clear disability that had him asking Brom to teach lessons instead, yet none of the elves mocked him for being weak. The double standards expected of them filled Eragon with unease and self-doubt. How could he have brought Murtagh here when the environment wasn’t good for either of them?

Later, when Brom came by to observe their studies, Eragon held him back when Murtagh and Arya departed to see some of the gardens. Eragon cast a spell to avoid eavesdroppers and he recounted his observations and revelations he had come to.

“I can’t fault them for how they treated me in the past, because they haven’t done it to me presently but they have done it before and show no regret in doing so.” Eragon said, frustration coming out despite trying to remain calm.

Brom hummed at his explanation and waited for Eragon to calm himself before speaking.

“The elves are an old and unforgiving race.” He said, his voice falling into the cadence that was similar to when he told stories around the fire in Carvahall. “They hold grudges for centuries and expect others to do the same. So their way of life has grown because of this.

“They were the first to be bonded with dragons and they think themselves the strongest because of it. They look down on the other races, and even now, they look down on you because you are human. Were you a fraction less competent, they would even consider taking Saphira from you for even the weakest elf would be stronger than you.

“For a century now they have hidden in Du Weldenvarden behind the safety of their enchantments and their magic and declared themselves better because they have the ability to hide themselves from this war. Yet, when they do march, they have the power and the strength to oppose Galbatorix’s forces.”

Brom’s voice got darker and angrier the longer he spoke. “They fled and hid under Galbatorix’s campaign because they could not admit that they could possibly be wrong, that the Riders were flawed and that the system was broken. That they had too much power to be balanced. Instead, they have crafted a false narrative in which they are the ones who were at the biggest loss when Galbatorix took control, and their egregious lack of ability to see the world as it truly is, rather than what they see it as, will be their downfall. They always fail to acknowledge that there was an elf in the Forsworn as well…”

He paused for a long while after that and Eragon stayed silent, though he had questions thrumming under the surface.

“I believed it for a long time too.” Brom said quietly once his pipe was empty. “I thought they were stronger, which means they were right and better. I followed them blindly because they brought me in at ten years old and told me that this was the way.

“When I was eleven, I met Morzan and for a while, he was my idol. He was just three years older than me and yet already charismatic and handsome. He had this natural aura that brought everyone to him, even the elves loved him.” Brom rubbed his wrist and Eragon noticed a small scar there.

“For six years, we trained together under Oromis. I viewed him as an older brother, a leader. He thought of me as a duckling who had lost its way. But after a while, he realized the usefulness of a child who idolized him. I would do his chores without question, tasks that were tedious and his studies sometimes.” Brom laughed and some lightness came back to his face.

“The elders always wondered why I was so good at my studies. It was because I was consistently doing work three years above my levels. He taught me spells I thought were so cool, but I didn’t realize how much of what he was doing was wrong.”

“When he betrayed us… betrayed me.” His voice wavered on that. “When he was the reason for my Saphira’s death, I was consumed by rage and pain. Nothing could have stopped me then. I fought so hard for years that I didn’t realize what was happening around me. With King Evandar dead, the elves retreated and I was one of the few left actively fighting against the Forsworn. I was so angry that none of them would leave the safety of the forest and fight back.

“When I first met Murtagh, it was like all that hatred came rushing back to the surface. I am not proud of how I behaved towards him, and I do owe him a true apology for that.

“In the last twenty years, spent back among humans, I came to a few realizations, as an old man does when he has time to think. I’ve realized my thinking was flawed, has been flawed and will continue to be flawed because of my own experiences and history.”

His eyes glimmered as he looked to Eragon. “Would you condemn Roran to death if he stole a dragon egg?”

“No,” Eragon said quickly, then shook his head. “I mean, I would be upset and want to talk to him about why, but I wouldn’t slay him for that reason alone. When I was faced with killing someone in my past, I couldn’t do it then either. He wasn’t a threat and I was tired of all the killing. If there was still one person I could save, I wanted to do it, no matter if he was a bad person. He would deserve a chance to redeem himself.”

“Ahh,” Brom leaned back. “And there is your bias. That’s the thing. We have compassion and care for each other. Even the short lives we live as humans, we value those lives above all else. We want to help each other and believe there is still good in the world. The people of Alagaesia have tried to fight back for a century, whether it be the Varden, the people of Surda or even in Dras Leona where they try to find a space for themselves. We never stop hoping for a better future.

“And yet, there is negative bias as well. Such is the memory of Morzan. Such is your anger against Oromis. But humans have the capacity for change. Oromis needs to learn that as much as any elf.”

Eragon sat and absorbed Brom’s words for a while, turning them over in his mind.

“On his own disability, the elves still consider Oromis strong as he received it as a result of battling the Forsworn. To say that your disability made you weak when you received it as a result of slaying a Shade is hypocritical to say the least. But we must let those frustrations go and work towards a better future.

“It will pain you to do so, but you should apologize to Oromis for the abrupt way you spoke. Whether or not you mean it, it would not do well to have him angry at you now.”

Eragon nodded and Brom stood up, brushing out his tunic and checking out the window for the time. “I’m needed for yet another council session with the elves.” He frowned. “But if you have free time in the next few days, we can talk about lighter topics.”

After their conversation, Eragon ruminated on his words for a while. He joined Arya and Murtagh in the garden and half-heartedly listened to their comparisons between Ellesmera and the capital.

“-Carvahall?” Eragon looked up as Murtagh nudged him in his arm. “These plants, do they grow near the Spine?”

Eragon looked down at the small purple flower instead. “We have something similar, but they grow red, not purple.” Arya and Murtagh fell into conversation again, and Eragon fell deeper into his thoughts.

When they returned to the treehouse, Murtagh went up alone and Eragon walked to a nearby bench and sat, picking at the grain with a fingernail.

Arya sat beside him quietly, her arm touching his. Eragon thought about how at this time in the past, he would still be trying (and failing) to court Arya. Somewhere between their excursion in Dras Leona and rescuing her in Gil’ead again, he had lost the drive to pursue her. She was still attractive to him, but the allure that drew him to her, that constantly had him making a fool of himself, was gone. Instead, his thoughts were consumed by trying to throw himself into his studies and make sure this time he didn’t bring the end of all of Alagaesia by failing to take down the king.

Mirth fell quietly from his lips and Arya finally spoke. “You have been pensive all day. What are you thinking about?”

“Everything.” Eragon said, the mirth gone, replaced by the emptiness that had opened from this morning. “Mostly my first time in Ellesmera though. I was so worried about doing things wrong and being a perfect student that I now realize I was far from observant.”

“Is this about Oromis?”

“God, does he just tell everyone what I do and say?” Eragon scoffed.

“No, I am merely observant. And Murtagh has been confiding in me about what Oromis does. I do not agree with comparing one’s skills to one’s parents. It does no good to either party.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Aye,” Arya said. She pointed to a bust of an elf south towards Tilandri hall. “My father died when I was just seven summers old. I barely had time to get to know him. As a child I was so focused on my own world. I was conceived in a time of peace, and born to a world of war.”

She seemed lost in thought for a moment before shaking her head softly. She cleared her throat. “When Galbatorix took Illyria and the throne, I was filled with rage and determination to fight back. My mother wouldn’t allow it, saying I was too young, yet I had already mastered what most didn’t learn until they were near twenty summers old. But I knew why she kept me close. Not only do I look like my father, but I have his mannerisms. Letting me fight would mean possibly losing me too, and she couldn’t bear it.

“When Brom created the Varden and reported back to Oromis, I took the time to interrogate him. By that time, he had already caused the death of one of the Forsworn and I saw him as a powerful ally. When he next visited Ellesmera, I had taken the yawe and promised to serve my people.” She rubbed at her shoulder where Eragon knew her tattoo was under her clothes. “I finally was stepping out from my father’s shadow, despite my mother’s insistence that I was still a child that needed to be protected. I trained with the Varden and eventually went on small reconnaissance trips into Galbatorix’s territories. I found my soul in two elves and my purpose in a blue dragon’s egg that I ferried for over a decade.”

“I wish I knew how I cast the spell that brought us here.” Eragon said when she paused. “I would use it to go back further to keep Glenwing and Faolin alive and save you from Durza’s grasp.”

Arya smiled softly. “I have come to terms with their deaths. But thank you for the sentiment.”

Eragon wanted to ask her about Durza and the month she had spent with him. If she resented Eragon for leaving her there. If she blamed him for bringing them all back. But, the conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence which didn’t last long. An elf came and said Arya’s presence was requested in the council. Eragon bid Arya farewell and climbed up the treehouse to where Murtagh was sitting quietly at his desk studying. Eragon joined him and opened a book, turning to where he left off.

The next morning, after their usual physical combat training, a message came from Oromis to meet them at his house. When they arrived, Brom was also there, drinking tea. Oromis didn’t apologize for the comparisons to their fathers, but he did talk only of what training would look like in the upcoming weeks. By the time they had finished for the day, Oromis had not made a single comparison or spoke about anything besides the lesson at hand.

Afterwards, Eragon privately apologized and that was that.

Over the next two months, their training was strict and unrelenting. Oromis and Brom seemed to be impressed with their increase in skills and would often split the time teaching them about everything they could about combat, philosophy and dragon riding. They traded riders some days, and Eragon would fly with Thorn and Murtagh with Saphira, and sometimes Brom would come with them.

In those times, Eragon would watch Brom closely. He seemed to lose the weight on his shoulders when he was on Saphira and become decades younger. But when he stepped off her back, that weight fell back heavier.

///

Oromis had once said in the previous time that he worked better when he had someone to compete with. Eragon had given more effort against Vanir, but in this time, with Murtagh it was tenfold.

Each day they would fight against each other to gain the upper hand whether it be in combat, in studies or in flight training. Eragon found his skills increasing at a rapid rate compared to his last time in Ellesmera. Sometimes they would fight together against other elves like Vanir or Arya and over time their ability to work together was like they had never fought.

Saphira and Thorn would spend their times in the skies learning new maneuvers from Glaedr and most of it ended up delving into playful fighting between the younger two. Eragon would sometimes glimpse the exasperated look of Glaedr and wonder if he was angry, but when he questioned Oromis, the man smiled fondly.

“While it is frustrating that they do not focus, it is in the nature of a dragon to play, especially when they are as young as these two are. Never would we imagine putting such young dragons through strict training like this.” His gaze fell somewhere into the distance, recalling a long forgotten memory.

“When we brought them to Ellesmera for the first time, it would be months before we actually expected them to study. There were so many things in the forest to explore, so many places to go on dragonback that were unreachable. Their time here was not just for learning, but for bonding. To make connections with older riders and to learn what makes dragons special.

“Those that chose to remain here or on Vroenguard once their training was done were often the scholars. Those that pursued knowledge more than they ever enjoyed learning how to parry and shoot arrows.

“But mostly, they travelled. Oh, the joy in a young one’s face when they learned they were free to explore the world. When they discovered the sea for the first time or attempted to fly the Beors. I’d love to say they never disobeyed, but they were young and free for the first time. We all were once. The world by dragonback was a magnificent place.”

Oromis came back from his memories and looked at Eragon. “I regret that I cannot share that time with you. But everything we are doing, the pressure I put on you in training, the burden the world asks of you-“ He frowned. “That is all in hopes that one day again, the world can be like it once was. Better than it once was.”

And that is all that was said on that.

Murtagh would usually train with him and tended to ask questions- some his own and some from his time with Galbatorix. Eragon tried not to pry too much about his time at the capital, but most of those conversations ended with Oromis cursing about how Galbatorix had warped the training of Murtagh and Thorn to such an awful degree. Murtagh would then furrow his brow and spend the rest of the afternoon with Thorn, flying through Du Weldenvarden alone.

Still, Murtagh never complained about having to start from the beginning of his training and neither did Eragon. Each day the elder men would also ask for more information about the future- which battles they won and how- what mistakes they thought they made and what they thought they could have done better. And each time the battle of Gil’ead would come up, Murtagh would flinch just barely noticeable and Eragon would quickly change the topic.

They had yet to talk of what had occurred in that particular battle. Whether the men had already figured what had happened or possibly, Glaedr did remember what had occurred, none of them broached the subject after the repetitive deflection besides that the elves had secured the city after a long fight.

The days melted together, full of training, sparring, reading and working on their presentations for the Blood Oath Celebration. Eragon felt it was a dishonesty if he were to write the same story as before, not only because it was no longer based in truth, but because he could no longer see himself in the story. Instead, he focused on something new and spent his spare time writing it.

Often, Eragon and Murtagh would meet with Arya in her spare time and discuss their plans for the future. She would leave for the Varden after the Blood Oath Celebration and Murtagh would likely join her at the same time, or soon after to help with the upcoming battles. Eragon had plans for after the celebration, but promised he would return no later than a week after them.

///

Three months after they arrived, the Blood Oath Celebration had arrived.

Once again, the boys lay enchantments over themselves to prevent them from falling to the magic. Eragon enjoyed himself during the celebrations. Without the pain of his back, it was fun to celebrate once again and watch as Murtagh slowly lost himself in the joy as well.

Eragon could see the life returning to Brom’s face through the nights. The years seemed to leave him as he laughed and danced among the elves he knew. It was strange to see the old man he thought he knew acting young again.

Murtagh presented his gift first, then Thorn.

Eragon, then Saphira.

Brom.

Oromis and Glaedr.

Revelry lasted in the days in nights, watched over by the werelight. Eragon lost himself only once and had to sit and clear his mind before he could rejoin. Brom joined him at the time and they spoke briefly before returning.

On the final night of the celebration, Islanzadi brought Eragon and Murtagh to the clearing with the Menoa tree, where Oromis and Brom already sat. The boys and their dragons joined in, Thorn and Saphira’s scales glinting light in addition to Glaedr’s. Many of the elves had already seen the three of them in passing throughout the months they had been in the forest, but not all together. A fair amount of elves could not tear their eyes away from the sight of the three formidable dragons- the few and last of their kind- there together.

Tearing his eyes away from the elves who stared at them, his attention was drawn to the twin elves who had disrobed, their tattoo on display. Islanzadi spoke again and the boys sat up in attention with the prodding of their masters.

As the younger two riders, the brothers were the ones to participate in the spell- letting both Brom and Oromis save their energy. The music started with the dance and Eragon found himself once again mesmerized by the dance. The hum of the dragons vibrated his bones and he felt the urge to dance with them.

As the elves spun faster, the music grew louder, and the clearing seemed thick with magic, the dragon came off the elf maid’s skin and hovered in front of them, magic in its truest form. It split into two figures, each hovering in front of the boys. The wings flapped in unison, the spew of fire licking at their cheeks.

The clearing fell silent, then, reaching out their palms, Eragon and Murtagh both touched the dragons.

A burst of power and black.

///

Eragon… Time is running short… Return to us…come… Come!

///

Eragon blinked back into consciousness and sat back upright in his chair quickly. They were still in the clearing and Saphira’s head hovered near his. He sent his reassurances to her as they completed the ceremony.

Murtagh, on the other hand, was gently carried off by a few elves and Thorn padded after him a few minutes later when the ceremony was ended. Eragon stood and took a long drink before looking at himself in one of the reflective surfaces that dotted the area.

His ears were tapered once again, but they weren’t as sharp this time. It was if the transformation was muted. His eyes didn’t pull so tight in the corners, and his face felt more his own than it once had been in a distant future. He looked more like an elf than before the ceremony, but not entirely unhuman. He could feel the strength in his muscles, his endurance allowing him to run for hours, lift great weights or use magic more freely, but not to the extent it once was. Looking down at his arms, the scars from his childhood still shone through, though their appearance was silvery and hard to see.

Perhaps because there were two of you? Saphira asked through the murmurings he could hear surrounding him.

Perhaps. Eragon agreed. I shall check on Murtagh.

Murtagh slept for another ten minutes with both Thorn and Eragon watching over him. Then, he woke with a start. Once he got a hold of his bearings, Eragon could guess he was speaking with Thorn before he turned to Eragon and took in all his new features.

“What happened to you?” He asked.

“The real question, is what happened to us.” Eragon laughed and passed him the mirror he had been holding. As Murtagh took in his new look of slightly tapered ears, slanted eyes and pale skin he scowled.

“I do not look like myself.” Eragon let his grin fall as he took in his own pale skin that was once tan, the scars gone and able to now hear the revelries from outside. He rubbed a thumb over his wrist where a curved scar lay unseen.

“You are correct.” He said, quieter this time. “But the magic gave us the strength we need to defeat Galbatorix. Without using cursed and warped magics.” He nudged the man’s shoulder and forced a grin. “Besides, nothing a little sun won’t fix.”

Murtagh rolled his eyes and made to get up, but his eyes grew wide and he twisted his back to see that the scar that once marred his back was now gone, the skin smooth as a babe’s. “Oh.” He said, stretching a few times. “Oh!”

Eragon laughed for real this time and opened the door, sounds of laughter and joy louder now. “Come on, let’s enjoy the last of the festival before we get back to work tomorrow.”

///

The moment the sun appeared over the tree-lined horizon, Eragon deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes as he returned to full awareness.

As he walked from the treehouse through the woods, he was greeted by several elves who seemed to still be celebrating though the Agaetí Blödhren was officially over. He nodded to them as well and tried to calm his heart which was beating a steady thrum in his chest.

Saphira walked behind him, keeping any elf from distracting him too long. Eragon had long since told Murtagh and Arya of his plan, but enacting it was something different. On the cusp of the celebration, the Menoa tree would still be awake, and this was the time to try to speak to her. Any sooner and she wouldn’t be awake, and during Agaetí Blödhren would only serve to disturb the elves’ traditions and wouldn’t help in gaining their favor.

When they reached the clearing, Saphira and Eragon both sat where on the roots where they knew the brightsteel lay beneath. From there, Eragon reached out his consciousness, asking for the tree to wake up. He sat there for hours, talking to her about the state of the world- about what Galbatorix had done to the lands of Alagesia, and what he had done already, and would do to Ellesmera.

She was awake more so than she had been the last time they asked, but the Menoa tree did not deign them to respond. When she did not respond to his begging, Eragon retreated from her vast consciousness and sought out Murtagh and Arya to tell them that he would be progressing to his second plan.

“You’re not as foolish as you were last time, but you are still a fool.” Was all Arya had to say in response. “I will tell the elves of what you are trying to do so that they will not stop you.”

Murtagh just clapped him on the shoulder and wished him luck before retreating and watching from a distance.

That afternoon, for there was no reason to wait, Eragon sat at the roots of the Menoa tree and opened his mind again. Saphira curled around the base of the tree, her nose touching the ground where the brightsteel lay and looked on the scene with amusement.

Eragon paused before he glared at the feeling of Saphira’s mirth. If you are just going to make fun of me, could you do it elsewhere. He thought to her.

Little one, I would do no such thing.

With another side glance, Eragon closed his eyes and calmed his mind, letting his body relax completely and his consciousness touch the Menoa tree once again.

During Agaetí Blödhren, the Menoa tree was alive and bright, her consciousness flowing from the core to the entirety of Ellesmera. Now, that bright warmth had faded into the light of dusk before sunset. She was not yet asleep, but a child who couldn’t quite pick up their feet enough to clear the next step.

Once again, he announced himself in the ancient language as one of the last free riders and Saphira, herself. Then after several minutes of silence once again, he started singing.

The song was something he had practiced in the weeks that they had been in Ellesmera and as he sung it, he channeled a steady amount of energy into the tree. His voice would never be as melodic as the elves, but it was something he had grown quite skilled in the past few months.

He sang of Alagaesia; of what he knew best. Of tilling the soils in his family’s farm, of hunting in the Spine, and of his journey from Carvahall into the greater world. It was not the poem he wrote during the first time he was in Ellesmera, nor was it an epic poem detailing his exploits of killing a shade or the king. No, it was simply the tale of a boy from a farm who wanted nothing more than to bring safety to his people.

When he finished his own tale, he was reluctant to tell the tale of the future, as, at this point, he could tell through Saphira’s gaze, there were dozens of elves watching him from the cover of the trees. Two bodies sat near him after a while, not quite singing, but humming along to his tune.

Instead, he told of his promises for the future. Things he had imagined would come when Galbatorix was defeated. He sang of the dragon’s rise again, of Saphira and Thorn standing side by side with a third dragon- the last of their race sworn to protect the land and bring forth a prosperous. He sang of the elves, the humans, the dwarves and the urgals fighting side by side to protect their people, their families and once this war was over, they would no longer fight against each other through hatred driven by a mad king, but live in harmony together.

This, he repeated many times so that the Menoa tree would know that he did not mean harm to her or her forest.

He could tell she was listening. She had not yet faded from the days of celebration that it was impossible to reach her and her lifeforce had begun to strengthen- the slow reaches of her mind gathering together almost as if to form a thought. But she had still yet to respond.

When his voice grew scratchy and he thought of giving up, hours, or possibly days after he started, in the stutter and falter of his song, a new voice took it up. They finished his refrain and then began their own song.

Eragon joined in, humming along as they sang their piece. They sang of peace through the lands of Alagaesia. Of the pain and torment Galbatorix had brought on their people- of the memories they held of the fall of the riders. The countless deaths of the elves who fought and the lack of children for they were afraid for what would become of them in the future. Then they sang of their joys and hopes for the future. A land which they may leave the forests once again and experience the joys they once had. A place where children would be welcome and not hidden away in the forest.

As their voice gave way to the tune, another and yet another voice joined in. Eragon dared not look around. On and on, voices joined in, adding to his song, begging the tree to help him defeat the king by giving him the bright steel that lay below her roots.

He pushed forward and touched the Menoa tree’s mind with Saphira a bit more forcefully, speaking to her directly instead of singing, his thoughts blocked from the other elves surrounding him.

Linnea, you have been hurt by the king as much as I. Let me be that revenge for you. I need a rider’s sword and you have the last deposits of brightsteel. I promise you, no one will bother you again. The king will be defeated and never again will your people or your forest be harmed under my watch. Please believe me that I wouldn’t be doing this any other way.

We know of the future. I know it is possible to defeat him. Please listen to me and do not force me to harm you. Saphira added.

The voices sang together in the background, but finally, The Menoa tree’s consciousness opened slightly, and her mind acknowledged Eragon’s. It was vast, too deep to comprehend. Eragon knew she was connected to the entirety of Du Weldenvarden, and if he tried to delve inside a bit, he would be lost forever.

Her roots came to cover him slowly, wrapping around his ankles and then his chest, holding him in place, but not tightly. Not to restrict, but to… feel him out.

Who… are… you.

I am the last free Dragon Rider in Alagaesia, and Saphira is the last female dragon in all of existence. We are perhaps the only ones who can defeat Galbatorix, the traitor who has destroyed the Riders and conquered half of Alagaesia.

There is brightsteel under your roots. We need it to forge a blade that will kill the mad king for he has stolen all the other blades that are strong enough to kill him. Saphira thought.

The Menoa tree sighed and the tree shook under her. You wake me for war. One that has no effect on me.

No. the war has been happening for a century. Eragon pleaded. If given enough time, Galbatorix will come to Ellesmera and burn the forest down. You are not strong enough to defeat him.

If he tries to kill my seedlings, then he will die, said the voice. No one is as strong as the whole of the forest. No one can hope to defeat the forest, and I speak for the forest.

He brought up memories of their siege on the capital and its failed attempt to kill Galbatorix as well as Elva’s memory of the pain that would have come down upon all the lands. This is our future if I am not strong enough. He dies, but he poisons the land as well. The poison would spread its reach to the forest and beyond. We are nearly there, but we need your help. I promise you that you are not strong enough. Galbatorix has dozens of Eldunari on his side and he has warped magic to be something awful.

Very well Eragon Kingkiller. I shall give you the brightsteel. You shall kill the man you call a mad king and then you shall tell me. If you fail to do this, the entirety of the forest will come after you. And I shall take from you what is my due.

Eragon indicated his agreement and then the root around his ankle loosened and retreated into the ground, as did those that had been holding Saphira in place.

Then, the surface of the earth rippled as the network of roots that covered the clearing shifted slightly. The disturbance flushed hundreds of panicked rabbits, mice, voles, shrews, and other small creatures from their burrows and dens, and sent them scampering across the open ground toward the main body of the forest. The canopy of the Menoa tree grew still, and for several minutes, all was quiet in the clearing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon saw dozens of elves who were not already there, running toward the clearing, their hair streaming behind them like silk pennants. Silent as apparitions, the elves stopped underneath the boughs of the encircling trees and stared at him and Saphira but made no move to approach or to assist them. The elves who had been singing in the clearing with him fell silent and there was an eerie silence.

Then the ground began to shake and the roots in front of Eragon began to twist and grind, shedding flakes of bark as they pulled aside to reveal a bare patch of dirt, out of which emerged what appeared to be a lump of corroded iron roughly two feet long and a foot and a half wide. As the ore came to rest on the surface of the rich black soil.

Here is your metal, whispered the Menoa tree. Take it and kill the king . . .

Thank you. I won’t let you down. Eragon said.

Go. . . said the Menoa tree, its voice fading away. Go . . .

And the tree’s consciousness withdrew from him and Saphira, receding deeper and deeper into itself until Eragon could barely sense its presence.

He stood, shaking out his limbs and the elves had all left the clearing, save Arya who stood at the edges. She walked over to him as he picked up the hunk from the dirt and ran her fingers over the cool metal in his arms.

“It is an impressive feat for one not an elf to sing for near on two days. Especially to one so vast as the Menoa tree. And to do it peacefully.” She smirked at him. “Much better than last time. The elves of Ellesmera do not hate you nearly as much. They might even be impressed with you slightly.”

Eragon smiled and Saphira huffed. I still think last time was easier and quicker. He shot her a glare and smiled back at Arya.

“I am glad we can make peace with the people of Ellesmera and the Menoa tree is not angered with us.”

Once again, Eragon took the steel to Rhunon and she agreed to help him forge the sword.

The next morning before they began, he bid farewell to Arya and Murtagh who were leaving to join the front lines as the Varden had just won over Aroughs and soon would be fighting on the burning plains.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Eragon asked Murtagh when Arya had taken her leave. “Galbatorix doesn’t know that Thorn has hatched yet, you’re still the secret weapon.”

Murtagh embraced Eragon tightly and then stood back. “Thank you, but I’m sure. They will need us to aide in the fight, and there is no more delaying it. We must move forward. With the twins dead, the only one who can challenge us is Galbatorix himself and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of him,” He gripped Zar’roc tightly. “But I won’t let that fear stop me.”

Eragon nodded and then watched as Arya returned with her small pack and mounted Thorn behind Murtagh. With a farewell, he turned and made his way back to the forge where Rhunon awaited.

Chapter Text

Roran frowned, looking out on the open sea. The person next to him put their hand on Roran’s shoulder.

“We’re almost there, just a little further.”

Roran tightened his grip on the hammer in right hand and nodded firmly.

///

Two Months Earlier.

Roran grumbled under his breath as he repacked his backpack. All morning, he had been collecting supplies from around town and spreading information around town per his father’s instruction.

When he arrived back to their old house for lunch, Garrow had several other elders from the town gathered in their living room around a blazing fire. He shooed Roran to the kitchen to eat some of the leftovers from what Gertrude had brought over. As he sat hunched over a table he remembered being much bigger, he tried to eavesdrop on the others.

“-must say it and believe it. Magic can tell when you are lying.” Garrow said in a low voice. “And you must never mention Selena’s name.”

“Where will you go?”

“I can’t tell you in case they force the truth with magic.” Various murmurings came from that comment. “But we will head south and look for allies. We’ll be safe as long as we keep on the move. Roran will be strong enough to-”

Roran frowned and stood up, pushing his chair back and leaving through the door in the kitchen. He tried to clear his head as he made his way over to the butcher shop and loitered for a couple minutes until he saw Katrina and then went over to their usual hiding spot behind Morn’s old casks.

When she arrived, she looked flustered and her ears were pink with the cold of the biting wind. The tight, stressful feeling in Roran’s chest unwound the moment he caught a glimpse of her, and he draped his jacket across her shoulders.

“You need to keep warm, my love.”

“You’ll freeze in this wind. You should take it back.” She said, moving to give it back. Roran shook his head, smiling and wrapped it tighter around her shoulders.

“Just for now, you have to go back soon anyway.” He embraced her and buried his face in her hair that rippled across her shoulders. Then, he told her everything in Eragon’s letter.

For a little bit, she was quiet, thinking hard about what he had said. Then, “I’ll come with you.”

“You will?” Roran couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised. Katrina was a strong, independent woman, that’s what he loved so much about her, but her loyalty to her father was often a contention in their relationship. As most in their town, family was the most important thing to a person. Asking her to date him without permission from her father would lead to her being disowned if they were found out. If Roran were to be disowned by his own father, he didn’t know if he would be able to show his face in the village again.

“You said Eragon wrote they’d come after me to get to you.” She said, her brow furrowed in thought. “If you took me when my father wasn’t looking and there was word spread that you took me without my permission, my father would be angry at you and spread the word of you leaving. When we returned, then we could tell him the truth. And Eragon would be on our side. There is no way he could fault a dragon.” Her voice shook on the last two words and Roran knew the weight they held.

If everything went according to plan, they would return safe and the village would remain safe as well. If not, they would be driven from the town they called home their entire lives. Roran cursed his cousin once again. The next time he saw Eragon, he was going to-

“My love,” Katrina said, wiping a thumb across his brow and smoothing out the wrinkles. “You must learn to not hold such anger in your heart towards your cousin. He did what he could to protect us then, and now he continues to protect us by providing us knowledge. Let’s take it and be safe. Together.”

///

Roran and Garrow snuck Katrina into the Spine early the next morning before the sun had risen, and headed south. They made it to the falls when they heard snapping of twigs behind them, and Roran whirled around, a hand gripping a thick branch next to him.

Then, emerging from the brush stood several villagers from Carvahall. Roran lifted his makeshift weapon, a pitchfork scavenged from the farm, and stood in front of Katrina. He wouldn’t let them take her back to be held responsible for his cousin’s fallacies.

“Stand down, son.” Garrow said, walking up and putting a hand on Roran’s bicep. Roran reluctantly put down the branch and Garrow smiled at the Albreich and Baldor who stood at the front of the young group. “Welcome to the group, friends.”

///

Who’s in the group? Roran, Katrina and Garrow, Baldor and Albriech, Nolfvarell, Mandel, Loring’s sons: Hamund(16) and Larne(14), Elmund(10) and Kelby(12)

///

On the way to Narda, Garrow explained what he had done. He had spoken to those he trusted and told them of Eragon’s claims to be a rider and that the Ra’zac would return. Several of the parents had asked him to take their children as well. Despite Eragon disappearing for most of the winter, before then, he was friends with most of the children his age. If not Roran or Garrow, his friends would be the first on the line for torture or worse.

Roran said nothing, but often took charge, doling out responsibilities to the others each night when they stopped to rest. He was surprised when none of them complained much, even when some of them woke tired in the morning from an uneasy rest with the howls of wolves around them.

When they arrived in Narda, he went into the city with Baldor and Elmund, who had proven himself to be quiet and sneaky when he wanted to be. They spent the night in a filthy inn, Elmund picking a few pockets of their gold and the next morning made their way to the piers to search for a boat looking for workers.

Most of the spring ships had already taken off, but there were a few still waiting to leave that Roran took note of. He spoke with three of the captains, but none of them had space for all eleven of his group. He frowned as he mulled it over with the group that night outside the city.

Of the eleven, three of them couldn’t work. Garrow was still recovering from his wounds and spent most of his days resting, Elmund was too young at just ten years, and Lorne had broken his arm when he slid down a ravine in the woods a week ago during the rainstorm.

To ask for three additional passengers who couldn’t work was a tough bargain for any ship captain, and Roran wasn’t willing to split up their group until they reached Teirm and Joed could promise them safety.

The next morning, he returned to the city with Katrina and Garrow as the older man was feeling a bit better, and would be better at bargaining with the captains. It wasn’t a surprise when many of the men on the docks took note of Katrina though. Despite the month they had spent traversing through the woods, Katrina was still a thing of beauty. Her hair fell in waves down her back, and her dress was clean enough that she looked more of a noblewoman than anyone else in the port.

That turned out to be their secret weapon. With one step onto the docks, several of the captains he had previously spoken to offered him passage on their ships. Roran furrowed his brows and frowned at the disgusting look in some of the eyes of the men. Katrina had it well handled though and dismissed most of the men with grace, and those that remained she took unwanted hands and twisted them behind backs to avoid them touching her.

Eventually they found a cargo ship that would be bringing textiles and other goods from Narda and the north down to Teirm and would be willing to offer them passage for the three who wouldn’t work. That night around the fire, Roran clutched Katrina’s hand a little tighter and worried about what the next morning would bring.

They entered the city quite early and made their way to the docks, each of those in the group wearing a pack full of food and materials for their trip. The guards gave them a look at Katrina travelling with a group of men, but ultimately let them through after Katrina spoke with them for a few minutes. They stared after the group with dazed expressions and Roran whispered to her as they walked.

“How do you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Charm everyone you meet?” He said, incredulously. “It’s like they’re mesmerized after talking to you.”

Katrina smiled, flashing her teeth and pulled aside a fold of her skirts to show him her father’s cleaver in a sheath. “Mesmerized, horrified. Either way, I tell them the truth. That if they don’t allow passage, my father was a butcher and taught me all the ways to skin a man without killing him right away. They don’t expect to hear that from a pretty girl.”

Roran watched in wonder as she nodded and let go of her skirt, taking a few large steps forward to catch something from Nolfvarell’s pack before it hit the ground.

///

The trip south took two weeks. Despite being too small to row, Elmund helped in the scullery and cleaned the ship. Garrow spent most of his time resting in the bunks below deck. Roran watched him with worry every day. Despite it being over a month since his recovery from the attack, he hadn’t gotten much better. Sometimes he couldn’t even keep his meals down- though that could have been a side effect of being on the ship.

His wounds sat almost frozen in time, not getting worse but not getting any better either. Larne, who had taken up learning about medicine from the ship’s doctor in his spare time, would keep a careful eye on him daily.

They spent each day hard at work, furling and unfurling the sails, coiling the rope, manning the helm. There was just enough time for sleep, but no time for rest.

Katrina became stronger in the weeks on the ship. She worked just as hard as any of the men, and often climbed the mast with the spyglass. She took to the sea like a fish, and spent her free time practicing sword fighting with the others from Carvahall. Roran would sometimes join in, and sometimes study from the sidelines. It was no longer a game he was playing with his friends, but something that would save their life in the future.

The one time he went against her, he was caught off guard the moment it started when she smiled at him lovingly and then immediately lunged. Her cleaver threw sparks off of his rod that served as a sword, and within moments she had disarmed him. Katrina pushed him to the ground and held the knife at his neck. If Roran had a ring, he would have proposed right then.

By the time they reached Teirm, they had all earned the tanned skin and rippled muscles that the work on the boat offered. The captain was kind enough to decrease the fee for them, since Elmund did some work on the boat as well, and with their pay, they had enough money to rent two rooms for the night.

Roran tied his coinpurse tightly and shoved it deep inside his tunic, away from any potential thieves. From the collection in his hands, he gave everyone in the group a small amount and pointed to a landmark in the city that everyone could find.

“You have until sunset to grab some food, try to get some information if you can and then meet there at sunset. Aldor, your job is to find us a place to sleep and tomorrow we can inquire about anyone heading south.” Roran said in a low voice, hoping no one in the busy port would overhear.

The others nodded and split up into groups of two or three, Roran stayed with Garrow and Larne, moving their way to the higher spending districts. Larne spoke with a few people about finding a healer or herbalist for supplies and was directed to an odd house. Unfortunately, when they reached it, they found it closed. Roran cursed under his breath. If he were to go to any of the healers in the city, despite how much gold he had, they would likely run into trouble, wondering why his father wasn’t healing right. And based on the posters in Narda with his face on them, it seems like the empire already knew of his flight from Carvahall, but not Garrow’s. No one else was on the wanted posters that they recognized besides Eragon.

He kicked a rock nearby and glanced at the sun setting quickly in the sky. He likely only had an hour before he had to meet the others. A man walked around them, a bulging bag at his side and a frown at his face. He dropped one of his scrolls and Larne bent down to pick it up and balance it back on the man’s stack.

“You seem busy, but could you tell us if the herbalist will be back soon?”

The man shook his head. “Angela left a month ago or so, saying she heard a baby calling for her. She’s a bit of a weird one, but she always had a good remedy to my allergies.” He sighed and shook his head. “Good luck though.”

He gave Roran and Garrow a lingering glance and then entered the house nearby. Roran kicked another rock and scowled.

///

Aldor had indeed found a good deal on a small inn near the edges of the city. So they had to trek from the near center to the outskirts, but they saved a good couple coins. Roran was in one room with Katrina and Kelby in one bed, Garrow in the other, while he and Larne slept on the floor.

In the other room, Elmund, Nolfvarell and Mandel squeezed into one bed, Aldor and Balreich in the other, and Darmen and Hamund on the floor.

That night, Roran dreamed of sailing three barges, and when he turned to look behind, he saw all of Carvahall standing behind him save for his father who looked like he was one foot in his grave.

“You can’t save them all.” This version of his father said.

The next morning, Roran stirred and stretched, a sense of unease falling over him. They had enough for one more night, but they needed to find another ship south to Surda. Apparently most were being destroyed by the Varden, or so people said.

Roran, Katrina and Aldor went down to the docks to survey the ships again that morning. The largest of them was loading up several barrels of food and materials for a long journey.

“If only we had enough people for that one, we could row it right out of here.” Aldor whispered to him as Katrina made her way over to the guards to question them.

Roran wished he didn’t agree. They would never have enough money, but if they were to pirate the ship, it would do them well. Without the number of crewmates to sail the ship though, they wouldn’t even get it out of the harbor. Perhaps if they joined the crew and then mutinied once they reached Surda…

He glanced at some of the other ships. They were smaller, but could be directed by the amount of people they had and guards taken out easily. Two of them were set to sail the following day, but one wouldn’t leave until the end of the week. And neither of them were heading as far south as Surda.

A man complaining on the docks broke his concentration and Katrina came walking back in a huff. He gave her a questioning glance.

“I was talking with the guards, trying to figure out who owns the ships when a man came up, saying he needed to talk to the shipyard master. Apparently they’re collecting his ships as collateral due to some bad trades. That’s all I got before they told me it was best if I left.”

Roran hummed and watched as the man continued arguing with the guards that he needed to speak with the man. Then it clicked, this was the man with the scrolls from yesterday. If he needed to sell his ships to collect on his dues, then perchance he’d be willing to sell to their group.

He walked over and stood a few feet away, smiling and hoping to appear non-confrontational. “My friend here says you’re looking to sell your ships. Would you be willing to cut a deal with us?”

The guards laughed. “This guy? He hasn’t got a penny to his name. His ships will be collected and sold at the end of the month. You’ll be lucky to buy a piece of advice.” One said.

The man eyed Roran carefully, looking under the beard that had begun growing. He took one last glance at the guards before turning and walking towards Roran.

“I’d be willing to cut you a deal. If you come to my office, we can discuss business.”

“You’re a fool to listen to this guy.” The guard said.

“If you go with him, don’t blame us when you get tricked out of your money.” The other said and the two of them departed to continue their rounds on the docks.

Roran shrugged and turned back to the man who suddenly grabbed Roran’s arm in a strong grip. “What is your name, son?”

Roran tried to pull his arm gently out of the man’s grip but it was stronger than he thought.

“I’d like to know yours first, if I’m making a deal with you.”

“If names are what you need, then you can call me Joed Longshanks.” Roran barely had a second to recognize the name before Joed smiled and pointed at Roran. “And you must be Roran Garrowson, brother to Eragon. Aren’t you?”

Roran whipped his head around and thankfully the guards were far enough away they couldn’t have heard. He caught a glimpse of Katrina’s hand clutched tightly in her skirts and he knew she would be willing to help him the moment he said something.

“You’d be Brom’s friend, right?” Roran whispered. “You have means to travel south.”

“Ah, yes, lots of business to chat about. I’ll bring you to my office. We can discuss business there.” Joed said loudly, loosening his grip on Roran’s arm and directing them over to Katrina and Aldor. “You are welcome to come as well. Lots to talk about!”

The two glanced at Roran who nodded. “Aldor, collect the others. Bring them to his place.”

Joed gave Aldor directions and he quickly ran off to collect the others from the inn. Roran and Katrina followed him to the veritable palace that they had passed in pursuit of the herbalist yesterday.

“I knew I recognized you yesterday.” Joed said, when they were seated and sipping on hot tea. “You look like your brother. He told me to be on the lookout for you, just before he left.

Joed explained what had happened when Eragon and Brom arrived in Teirm as well as the history of Saphira’s egg and his role within the Varden. After Roran detailed their departure from Carvahall, through the Spine and paying for their passage on the ships.

“How many others are with you?”

“Just twelve.” Roran said.

“Well, that makes things easy. On the other hand, I’m afraid I really do have nothing left. Everything has been retaken by my investors after my recent failure of land transportation. I’m pretty sure my secret of being mutual friends with some annoying individuals down south has the king wanting me out of the business.”

“What if we pirate one of the ships in the bay?” Roran asked, describing the materials he saw being loaded into the largest ship. “If we take the materials and you came with, we would have enough people to commandeer it and sail it south.”

“That’s the Dragon Wing, owned by the Empire. I believe that Galbatorix is stocking it with supplies and it will sail south soon with an army to confront the Varden. I have a few men who’d be willing to come with, but not nearly the number we would need to sail that ship.” Joed pondered a while, then, “We could have them pillage the ship when night falls, move anything we need to one of the smaller ships, and then light the Dragon Wing on fire before we leave. That’d sure put a thorn in his side.”

They discussed specifics for a while longer until the others had arrived at the residence. Joed offered them two rooms until they would be ready to set sail.

The following three days were full of chaotic planning, slow going as Roran never learned to read, and of their group, only Katrina and Kelby even knew their letters.

On the fourth night, they made their way down to the docks and began the heist, moving food quickly over from the Dragon Wing to another smaller ship they would be pirating. Roran worked with the men to move the heavy things while the three youngest, Larne, Kelby and Elmund set the wood and oil up for fire in the bottom of the ship.

Roran caught a quick glimpse of Katrina returning from the shadows of the guard’s gate, a dark splatter on her dress. She shepherded a woman in a plain dress onto the ship and Roran recognized it as Joed’s wife. She didn’t say anything, but carried her trunk into the underside of the ship and then quickly helped with bringing things below decks.

As the sky lightened, everyone quickly returned to the first ship and as the younger ones scurried below deck, Roran stood on the docks as Baldor nocked an arrow and they lit a fire beneath it.

The alarms sounded as the light lit up the sky and several guards streamed forward. Roran was first to engage, knocking them down easily with his hammer. Katrina stood next to him, slicing with her knives, her hair a whirlwind of color in the early morning light. Albreich defended his brother, and Baldor’s arrow fell true. The deck of the ship lit up in flames and the boat behind them groaned as the boarding plank began to drag along the docks.

“Everyone on deck!” Roran shouted, swinging his hammer one last time and the man he was fighting against dropped to the ground. The four of them retreated to the ship, jumping on just as the board was about to fall in the water. Roran helped haul up the plank and ducked down as arrows came streaming their way.

Baldor launched a few in retaliation before the oil caught fire in the bottom of the ship, causing an explosion that launched wood across the harbor. They kept down until they cleared the harbor and then launched into a quick speed north east.

Roran helped Katrina stand and embraced her, trying not to look at the red on the edges of her dress. “You’re alright?”

Katrina nodded, wiping off her blade and placing it back in its sheath. “We made it on the ship, now we just have to get down to Surda.”

He placed a quick kiss on her lips before turning to where the others from Carvahall had begun to come out from below the deck. “You heard your captain. Next stop, Surda!”

///

The ship was big, perfect for their needs, but they didn’t have enough able bodied people to do everything. The youngest among them spent most of their time cooking, so that when the others had a chance to break, they had something to eat.

They encountered a swirling mass in the ocean and thankfully bypassed it with enough time to spare, but had to fight against two ships soon after. They lost large chunks of the deck to the fire arrows and Joed had been caught in the shoulder, leaving him unable to row. Several of the men had burns as well, but they had outrun the ships eventually, leaving them to lick at their wounds.

Roran stared out across the open sea, frequently referencing back to the map Katrina had laying on the table. They had covered over half the distance, but there was still much further to go. Their people were tired.

Katrina wrapped her arms around his neck. “It will be okay.” She kissed him on his cheek and then tapped the side of his head. “What are you thinking about?”

“My father…” Roran said without hesitation. Garrow had been declining in health since they took to the waters. Being further from the coast, the waters were less consistent and every time they met unfair weather, the man would get pale and couldn’t keep any food down. His wounds had still yet to heal completely, and with the lack of food, his skin turned an ashy color and he couldn’t do much besides sleep when his nausea would let him. “I’m worried what will happen if we don’t get him a healer soon.”

“It could just be the sickness from the sea. Larne finally got over it last night. He was jumping around and laughing with the others. It just takes time.”

Roran hummed and frowned. Had he done the right thing, bringing them all with him? If he had left Garrow in Carvahall, perhaps he would be healing correctly with rest and relaxation instead of this chaos. Once they met up with the Varden… Joed said they had elf friends who would help his father.

“My love.” Katrina said firmly, coming around and holding his face in her hands. They were rougher than before, the hard life taking its toll on all of them. She brushed his beard and smiled, looking into his eyes. “It will all work out soon. You just have to trust in yourself and in us.”

Roran looked into Katrina’s eyes and felt some of the tension release from his chest. He nodded and she laced their fingers and turned back towards the map.

“Here’s where Joed is estimating us now. We’ll have two days until we reach the…”

///

They stood at the helm of the ship, Katrina directing the others and Albriech steering their way through the river. In front of them, a battle raged and Roran could see a red dragon unleashing fire on a line of troops.

Suddenly, the dragon turned on the troops and started flying towards them.

“Below decks!!” Katrina cried and everyone who wasn’t armed quickly ran to the stairs. Roran armed himself with a bow and nocked it, aiming to hit the dragon. Eragon’s stone was blue, and as much as he didn’t know about dragons, he knew it was unlikely this was his brother.

The thuds in the air from the dragon’s wings quickly deafened him, but instead of spewing fire onto their ship, the dragon hovered above them for a moment before the rider jumped down, landing on the deck and shaking the whole ship. The dragon took off to rejoin the fight.

The man in armor approached Roran who stood at the ready on deck, his arrow pointing towards a space in the neck that was less defended.

“Name yourself!” Roran shouted.

The figure took off his helmet, a cascade of dark hair rippling down across his shoulders. He was an inch or two taller than Roran and his skin was flushed as if he had been in the sun too long. His teeth gleamed white and he stood with the air of a prince.

“The name’s Murtagh. You must be Roran.” He held out a hand to shake. “I’ve been eager to meet you. I’ve heard lots of great things about you from Eragon.”

Roran cautiously lowered his bow and stared at the hand. “How do you know Eragon?”

“Half-brother, fellow rider, partner in crime, take your pick. Wait- I’m also your cousin. Well, half cousin. On his mom’s side. Anyway. We’re in the middle of this massive battle. I’d welcome you to fight, but seems like you’ve got a small crew this time, so feel free to wait it out here. The leader of the Varden knows you’re a friendly, so they should be by to keep you updated.” He looked back to the battle and the dragon was swooping around again. “I’ve got to get back, but keep up the good work! Looks like you’ve already got your girl to keep you safe and sound.” He winked at Katrina who was ten feet back from Roran, her knife pointed at him, before putting his helmet back on and holding his arms out to the sides.

The dragon swooped in like a hawk plucking its prey and picked up the man by his arms, taking the both of them back into the thrall of the battle.

The deck was silent for a moment before Kelby, whose head had been poking out from behind a door, said, “Wow, he was really pretty. And he’s your cousin?!”

Roran shot her a glare and Katrina couldn’t stop laughing.

///

Roran had wanted to join the battle, but by the time they had made it to shore, the battle seemed to be over. Several of the empire’s soldiers were retreating and the only movement on the battlefield seemed to be healers.

As promised, an emissary from the Varden came over to explain the situation and offer them food and shelter on land.

“My father is injured. Is there someone who knows magic that can help him?” Roran asked after they had discussed what to do with the ship.

“We have several people skilled in magic, but first you will need to speak with the leader of the Varden and explain your journey.”

Roran nodded and the others quickly began collecting their things.

They walked into the campsite and were directed to a plot of land with three tents to place their things.

“Sorry there isn’t more.” The guide, Jarsha, said. “We have a lot of people and thankfully we haven’t met many deaths. You’ll get some hot dinner tonight though and assignments for work tomorrow.”

The twelve divided evenly among the tents, Joed already off to meet up with his old friends. A little while later, they were brought into a tent with several important looking people dressed in finer wear than Roran had ever seen before.

Joed was excitedly speaking with a dark skinned man who sat in a chair. He looked to be younger than Garrow, but perhaps that was only because his hair was not fully grey. Standing next to the man was a beautiful woman who was dressed in armor as well as a sheathed sword and bow and arrow on her. She watched Roran and Katrina carefully as they entered the tent, unblinking. He felt the hair on his neck stand on end, realizing she was likely more dangerous than she looked.

When the leader noticed their arrival, he waited until Joed had finished speaking to introduce them and then turned to them in acknowledgement.

“Friends, I am glad to hear of your safe arrival.” He smiled, but did not stand to greet them, nor offer an extended hand to shake. “My name is Ajihad, leader of the Varden and this is Arya, ambassador to the elves.”

Roran darted his eyes to the fair woman. If she was an elf, she would know magic and likely would know how to heal his father. He tore his eyes from her eerie gaze and back to Ajihad. “Joed has been telling me of the happenings in the eastern parts, and now I would like to hear about the northern parts.”

Roran quickly recounted Eragon’s cryptic message and their need to leave the valley. He quickly explained their journey through the Spine until they reached Joed in Teirm. “I’m guessing he told you about what happened since then.”

Ajihad nodded. “He did. You have had yourselves a long journey. You and your people will have sanctuary here with the Varden. You are not required to fight, but we ask that you all do your part in helping us in camp.”

“If we were lent armor, about six of us would be able to fight. Baldor and Albriech are skilled smiths and would be willing to help your people craft metalworks. The others are too young to fight, not to mention their parents would kill me if I offered, but they are skilled and hard workers.” Roran said.

“We will make sure they receive fair work duties for their age.” Ajihad said, nodding to a dark skinned young woman in the corner. Roran did a double take, not noticing her in the shadows of the drapes. She seemed to fade into the shadows.

“Jormunder,” Ajihad said, gesturing to the man next to him, cloaked in armor and sweat. “Is my second in command. He will be in charge of you in times of battle. Orrin here is the king of Surda.” He gestured to a man in the corner who seemed preoccupied with his notes. “Other people you can get to know tomorrow after some rest. Do you need anything as of now?”

“My father is sick and I heard you have some healers here.” Roran said, glancing to the elf who stood still, still watching him intently.

Ajihad looked at her, but she didn’t take her eyes off Roran. “I shall check on him.” The elf woman said finally in the silence. “Excuse my absence.”

Ajihad nodded and then dismissed Roran and Katrina from the tent. Katrina gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then ran off to tell the others from Carvahall about what to expect tomorrow.

He turned to speak to the elf, but found himself wrapped in the arms of the rider, Mur-something from before. His armor was gone, showing off his thin but muscled physique. His clothes were as nice as those he saw in the tent and his hair was bound back by a strip of leather. His face was nicely shaped, and the only imperfection was a small bruise forming on his jaw.

The man had slung his arm around Roran’s shoulders and squeezed. “My man, Roran. How was the journey? Sorry I missed the meeting, I was off doing rider stuff.” He wiggled his fingers and finally released Roran to look at the elf. “Arya! Where are you off to?”

Arya? Roran was thoroughly confused by this friendly exchange by a stranger.

“His father needs to be checked over by a healer. You can harass him some other time.” The elf gestured towards Roran with a deadpan voice.

“Next time then, cuz. Eragon won’t be the cool cousin anymore.” He gave a clap on the shoulder and then disappeared in between the tents.

“Is he always like that?” Roran found himself asking.

“Unfortunately.” Arya said. “Let’s get moving.”

When they made it to the tents, Garrow was sitting up and eating a bowl of soup that had been brought for him.

“I told you I’m fine.” He admonished when Roran began listing his afflictions. “It was simply the sea. I was never made to live on the water.”

“Eragon would be upset if I were to let you continue to be unwell, so allow me to check your health.” Garrow acquiesced and the elf worked quickly and silently, closing her eyes. Garrow winced only once when her hand touched the skin around the wound in his gut.

She stood up, brushing the dust off her knees and handed the man back his soup bowl. “You should be fine for the time being. I shall tell Ajihad he is relieved from work duty until Eragon returns and can speak with him.”

Then, she turned to leave the tent. Garrow looked confused, but ate his soup with a shrug. Roran, furious, turned and followed her out of the tent. They made it only three tent lengths before she stopped and waited for him to catch up.

“So you just close your eyes and say he’s okay? His wound hasn’t closed for months. I change the dressings every day and nothing is working. Don’t you have any salves or poultices that can help him with the pain?” He tried to keep his voice level.

She stared quietly for a moment before speaking. “Eragon attempted to save his life before he left Carvahall. What he did allows Garrow to be here today. If I were to reverse this process to help him feel better, I could potentially make it worse. I will send some medicinal healers over with something for the pain, but I recommend you keep him away from anything too strenuous and allow him to rest.”

With that, she was gone, weaving in between the tents and disappearing like a shadow.

Roran returned to the tents, more confused than before.

///

Chapter Text

CW: Thoughts of suicide and self-harm. Take care.

Murtagh woke. His eyes met the familiar ceiling and he shut them again. The familiar murals were burned into his memory. His heart fell to his feet as he realized what this meant. He knew protecting Nasuada had been risky, Galbatorix probably knew what he was doing anyway and was just toying with Murtagh to make him believe he had some semblance of freedom.

Aiding Eragon by tearing down his wards on the other hand, that was suicide. The minute he cast the spell with Thorn’s help, he knew they would either have to win, or he was dead. And here they were, lost and not dead. There was a spell he could cast on himself to avoid the inevitable torture. He and Thorn had spoken about it once after they were captured by Galbatorix. He felt for the magic, reaching to pull on it and end it all before Galbatorix could come and torture him again when he realized he couldn’t feel Thorn’s familiar presence.

Murtagh turned into the pillow and closed his eyes. So, this was his punishment. Separate the two and torture them until they relinquished all control. Murtagh let the thoughts of death leave his mind and curled tighter into the bed. He couldn’t kill himself until he could release Thorn from wherever he was imprisoned. He wouldn’t let him be trapped with Galbatorix without him. There was no telling what that mad man would do to him.

He woke to his door opening a while later, the sun in patterns on the floor indicating late afternoon. One of the palace workers came in and refreshed the pitcher of water on his dressing tables. She hummed softly and told him the time, then retreated. A while later, some food was brought to his chambers. Murtagh turned over and went back to sleep.

Besides the workers, no one came throughout the day. Murtagh drifted in and out of sleep. He made no attempt to escape the room. Galbatorix always warded them so that he wasn’t able to pass through when he was being punished. If he attempted to leave, it was like a noose was attached to his neck and the further he walked, the more it tightened. He tried a few times and nearly passed out before giving up. Galbatorix must be saving the torture for later and letting Murtagh stew in his failed attempt to free himself.

With Murtagh captured, he couldn’t imagine Eragon and the others had gotten free. They wouldn’t have left him here. Galbatorix had been waiting for nearly twenty years to have his hands on Eragon and the third egg since Brom had stolen it. He must be breaking them into the regular torture they could come to expect while at the palace.

He woke up during the night several times, restless and unable to sleep for longer than a few minutes at a time. His nerves tingled as they often did after Galbatorix’s torture and he couldn’t make them stop. He had read in one medical book that others called them shadow pains, and there was no known cure.

He got up and paced the room, the expensive bedwear feeling more and more restrictive as he walked until he undressed and threw them on the floor. He continued pacing in just his britches until he exhausted himself into sleeping another small amount of time.

When morning came, Murtagh was exhausted, but sitting upright on his bed, plagued by the tortures that he knew were coming. Was this some new game Galbatorix was playing? Was he expecting for Murtagh to try to run? Without knowing where Thorn was, he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. Galbatorix knew that.

He walked over to the window where the sun had come up and was shining on the gardens. At least the Varden didn’t destroy it. It was one of the only nice things about his room.

The door opened and Murtagh flinched, turning on his heel and standing properly as Galbatorix had taught him. He was surprised to see a young woman standing there instead. She looked surprised to see him and nodded, placing the tray on a nearby table and retreating quickly. Murtagh shrugged and went over to see what they had brought.

Clear brother, a hot cup of herbs and a piece of plain bread. Usually when he was being punished, it was cold gruel and stale bread that was just enough to keep him from starving. This seemed, almost like they thought he was sick.

Murtagh murmured a few spells under his breath, but found no poisons in his food. He ate at the table quickly and found his stomach had been aching for the food. When he was finished, he walked over to the dressing table and poured the water in the basin to wash his face and chest. When he was finished, he toweled off and most of the shadow pain had gone away. He tossed the towel back onto the table and was about to go back to bed when the mirror caught his eye. He was never one for vanity, but the small mirror was good for shaving.

His reflection stared back at him. His wide eyes were the first thing that surprised him. The dark shadows under his eyes were nearly gone and his gaunt cheeks were filled again. He looked healthy, no, radiant. He looked healthier than he had ever been with Thorn.

There was a scar on his cheek from training with one of Galbatorix’s men that had disappeared completely and his chest was relatively clean of scars as well. He looked to his shoulder where Thorn had accidentally sliced him deeply during training and the thick white line was gone.

Horrified, Murtagh pressed his hands into the wood, palms down. He was frozen, paralyzed by the thought. His hands clenched tighter. This is a dream. He’s trapped me in a mental world. He knows I know this room, and everything looks perfect. The murals, the servants. It would be easy to fake.

He unclenched his hand and turned it over slowly.

There was no gewey insignia.

...

Murtagh was heaving on his bed, trying to catch his breath. The room around him looked like it had been through a whirlwind. The dressing table was upturned. The pitcher spilled across the floor, the dishes abandoned.

Murtagh stared at his palm. Why wasn’t it there? What game was Galbatorix playing? He tried his best to break through any magic, but there was barely anything he could sense around him. Far down the hall, there was a gem that held a spell to reduce the creaking, and in the next garden outside, a gem in a carved statue that kept the flowers in good health.

But in this room, around him, in the hall, there was nothing.

Murtagh abruptly stood up and walked towards the door. He threw it open, the sound echoing down the hall. He stared for a moment and then ran like someone was chasing him. He made it down the hall and paused in front of one of the paintings. This is where he choked last time. But nothing was stopping him. No magic. No invisible noose. No Galbatorix or Shruiken or soldier to carry him back, a sword to his throat.

A worker walked by and his eyes widened at Murtagh’s crazed look, but said nothing and kept walking. Was Murtagh crazy? He kept walking forward towards the exit of the palace. This wasn’t the citadel- that was too main of a target to keep high profile guests. He lived with others just outside in a grand design. It overlooked the rest of the city. Murtagh opened one of the doors that faced out and saw the city laid out before him.

It was whole. The parapets were still in one piece, there was no smoke rising or buildings damaged in the Varden’s siege. The people working the grounds seemed remarkably unbothered and nodded as he stood in the doorway.

Murtagh went back inside, his head swirling with thoughts. It had to be a trick. Some new game Galbatorix was playing. Usually he could tell, but this was a new magic. He couldn’t find the chink in the armor. The details that proved it was a dream.

He was mulling over his thoughts when he rounded the corner to return to his room and instead ran into someone’s chest. He mumbled out an apology and moved to pass the man when he spoke up.

“Murtagh, what’s wrong with you? Wanting around in your undergarments.”

Murtagh froze. The blood in his veins, ice. That voice. He squeezed his eyes tightly with his fists. His nails cut into his palms. Murtagh turned.

“Tornac.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it. The man looked as he remembered, not a hair out of place. His eyes flashed to the man’s stomach and it was free of the gaping wound and endless blood that was his downfall.

Murtagh could feel the pressure building up in his chest. He attempted to suck in air as his throat closed up. He stumbled the last few feet to his room. If he had been more coherent, he would have seen Tornac quickly follow and shut the door behind them. But Murtagh was only focused on finding a wall and sliding down it, sinking his hands into his hair and clenching tightly.

The pain as he tugged on his hair didn’t help as it normally did. His breathing became quicker and quicker and each breath was a labor of its own. This, Murtagh thought, this is Galbatorix’s plan for torture.

Tornac was fussing about the room but Murtagh paid him no mind. His mind was racing.

I have to think about Thorn.

But I can’t do it again. I’m not strong enough.

You’ve disobeyed him once, you can break through again.

But I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t.

Murtagh whispered an apology to Thorn and quickly sorted through the death words he knew to the quickest and least painful one. He opened his lips to speak and was stopped by a hand on his back.

“Just breathe.” The hand was firm but gentle. Another hand gently worked Murtagh’s hand out of his hair and placed it on their chest. “Follow my breaths. In and out.”

Murtagh followed the breathing instructions, but the spell was still ready to be formed on his tongue. It would only be a moment. That’s all he needed, was to speak it.

A cool glass of water was pressed against his lips and Murtagh drank. The drink brought clarity. Of course he couldn’t kill himself. Galbatorix would have already warded against it once again. And if he tried it, it may rebound, hurting someone else.

Murtagh swallowed the water with difficulty. It felt like his throat had swollen. He coughed, and wiped his mouth, surprised to see there was more wetness on his cheeks than he was expecting.

After a while, he had come back to himself enough to hold the glass himself, and then finish it slowly. When he looked up from the floor, Tornac was sitting there across from him, studying him.

Murtagh chewed on his lip, waiting for the vitriol to spew. For the subtle negative words to come. For the screams that he remembered from that night. Galbatorix had used them all before. Murtagh was no stranger to the tortures the evil man could create.

“Murtagh,” Tornac started. Murtagh raised his eyes from the man’s shoes to stare him in the eyes. Brown. The same they had always been. An eyebrow with a small nick in it from where Murtagh had gotten a good hit in a spar once.

“I’m worried about you. You don’t feel feverish, but this is strange behavior for you.”

Murtagh said nothing and tried to find the piece of Tornac that would make this dream fall apart. His tunic had a frayed thread where he had patched the hole from the branch caught when riding. His hands, calloused where he held his sword. The leather cord around his neck, worn from his years wearing it to mourn his family. How could Galbatorix have known that? He only told Murtagh in confidence the night they left.

“Murtagh, please just say something.” His eyes were knit together with worry.

“I’ve got to find the discrepancy. Something to prove this is fake.” Murtagh whispered under his breath. “Count the threads. Look at the textures. Where is the missing piece?”

“Murtagh, talk to me. Where is this all coming from?”

“Find the lie, find the lie.” Murtagh mumbled, eyes darting around the room. He was subject to Galbatorix’s lies before. How else could he have told Nasuada what to look for? It took him ages to find the first time, but by the time she was there, he could find the chink in the armor in minutes.

He dug his nails into his arms, using the clarity from the pain to focus. Tornac was saying something in the background, but all Murtagh could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears.

Perhaps, he was going mad. That would make sense. What better way to control him than to drive him insane? He tried to control his breathing, but each inhale was a struggle and each exhale was a whine.

A pair of arms pinned him back and the pain in his forearms went away. The pressure was too much and eventually the exhaustion caught up to him and the world faded to black.

When he woke again, he was laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling again. A cool cloth was on his forehead and there was a blanket on his legs. He looked to the right and saw Tornac there in a chair. The light from the windows reflected the deep red of the sunset. He had slept for a while then.

Murtagh moved to sit up and Tornac eyed him carefully. “Are you feeling better?”

“I don’t know what to do.” Murtagh whispered. “I don’t know how to break out of it. I’ve failed.”

“What have you failed? You missed your lessons the past few days, but if you were sick, you shall be excused.” Tornac said. He was watching Murtagh carefully, his head tilted in the way he often did when he studied Murtagh during his lessons.

How could Galbatorix have known how to replicate all the man’s quirks? To copy his mannerisms down to the smallest things? Why couldn’t Murtagh see the falsities in his illusion? It was almost like-

Murtagh stared into Tornac’s eyes with a sudden ferocity. The man quirked an eyebrow but didn’t break down. He took a deep breath and then reached out with his mind.

Tornac was real.

It took a lot of talking and explaining, but eventually he finished in his death at the hands of Galbatorix.

“I must have died and returned back in time. Perhaps in penance and this is my punishment.” Murtagh said quietly.

“But perhaps it is a gift.” Tornac, who had stayed mostly silent in the explanation save for a few questions, took that moment to embrace Murtagh. The man was never one for affection. His version was to drill Murtagh in swordplay until he dropped from exhaustion and then force him to stand and do it again. Then, when Murtagh had nothing left in him, the man would clap him on the shoulder and give him a nod that meant, you did well.

But this embrace, it was like all the tension left his body and Murtagh could feel the tears flowing freely. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“You did what you could.” Tornac said back. “Don’t apologize for surviving.” The words echoed the last thing Tornac had said to him in another time and Murtagh sobbed.

Tornac, no! Please, you can’t. I can’t do this alone.

You must. Go, Aeron will shelter you.

I’m sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt.

Don’t apologize for surviving. The man wrapped his leather cord around Murtagh’s wrist. Go now, live.

Two days later…

Murtagh watched the man carefully, but his own façade was carefully woven from the eighteen years he spent under the man’s eye. He was familiar with this song and dance. A kind, benevolent leader until he wanted something from you. And if you didn’t agree right away, he would take it by force. Murtagh knew how to act as one of his subjects. Once when he was fourteen, he attempted to act out against his teachings and was taught a lesson for it. Since then, despite his hatred for the Empire, he went along with whatever he was asked of in order to survive.

Once Galbatorix had finished his spiel about going to the south to fight the Varden and burn Cantos to the ground did Murtagh nod his head and speak.

“Well, of course I’m excited to go on the mission and prove to you my strength. The Varden deserves to fall for the trouble they have caused you. Though it seems counter to the books I’ve been reading from the library. They say it is better to control them in order to reap the benefits their land provides rather than pillage and follow a scorched earth method.”

“Ah, control is a strong word my boy. Destroy is better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, while the books in the library have fair advice, the authors have rarely been at war themselves. Fat scholars who survived by hiding away instead of fighting on the front lines and witnessing it themselves. There is always room for the rebels to rise up once again. As long as they have a pitiful thing called hope. We must quash hope by eradicating the problem. The Varden are only half the problem. It is the traitors who house them that need to burn in penance as well. Only then, can we renew the land and look towards a better future.” His words were accompanied by a snarling grin. Murtagh bit back a shudder at the venom lacing his voice and bowed his head.

“Could you recommend something better to read? I admit I only know as much as my tutors are willing to provide. Without being in a detachment myself, I do not wish to fail you in my first task.”

“Come with me to my study.” Galbatorix turned and brought him to his personal library. Murtagh had been in there only a few times before, mostly only to quickly report back from his missions, but the size had always surprised him. It seemed like his books were endless. Ancient tomes that no one else was allowed to have. Spines of all different colors, and one that even looked like it was bound in dragon’s scales.

Murtagh found himself drawn to them and hovered his hands over cautiously, not knowing what spells kept outsiders from reading them. It was well known among his tutors and those who lived in the palace that Murtagh liked to read. Even from a young boy, he would often be found in the garden, skipping his lessons and instead curled up reading through the books he was allowed to take from the library.

Galbatorix laughed and gestured for Murtagh to come over to where he stood. “When you return from your mission, you are welcome to come back and peruse my shelves. But for now, I would like you to read this.” He placed a thick book in Murtagh’s hands. “This is a list of the disputes around Alagaesia since the humans arrived, and how each of the disputes ended. Pay careful attention to the leaders who thought best to raze their enemies to the ground, versus those who sought to control and reap the spoils of their victory.”

Murtagh opened the text to the first page and began reading, quickly absorbed in the battles of a long past war. Galbatorix sat down at his desk and began taking notes, and Murtagh sat on the ground, quickly turning the pages. He paused after several pages to ask for some paper to take notes and found it already sitting beside him.

The time passed quickly as Murtagh read. The accounts were factual and Murtagh couldn’t argue against Galbatorix’s claims. There was no bias towards the leaders who won or lost, simply details.

How long the battle lasted. How many died on either side. If this was a deciding battle or if it was just part of a longer war. Other battles that were connected to it. The book was a marvel. The author had taken great lengths to detail everything.

As his legs were growing numb, he shifted and startled when a knock came at the door. A palace worker passed a paper to the king and Galbatorix stood, straightening his tunic and glanced to where Murtagh sat on the floor.

“You are welcome to stay. I will be back momentarily, and I shall know if you touch anything.” With a pointed look, he left with the worker and the door closed with a muted thud.

Murtagh placed the book on the floor and murmured several spells in succession to identify what spells were already in place in the room. He put up several of his own just outside the door to let him know when Galbatorix would return.

He quickly went over to the man’s desk where there were several pages of notes stacked neatly on the desk. Standing upright, and off to the side several more, was a stone tablet with foreign writing. Murtagh’s heart seized. This was it. What led to Galbatorix finding the name of names.

He quickly looked through the tablets after checking for any spells protecting them. Thankfully, Galbatorix hadn’t placed any spells on them to prevent tampering, as they were of magical nature themselves.

Murtagh didn’t learn the language when he was trapped in the castle. Galbatorix hadn’t wanted him to have all his secrets. But with the name of names, Murtagh could use magic to understand the text on the tablets. Most of it was historical, detailing the studies that happened before they discovered the name of names. He skimmed over the information until he came across the name.

He glanced over the entire tablet and then changed several of the words to mimic something similar but different enough that it would keep the man guessing for a while. Then, he erased all traces of magic with the name and returned everything back to where it belonged, removing his spells and stood in front of the bookshelves, perusing the titles of the books.

When Galbatorix returned, Murtagh quickly gave him a sheepish expression and held up his hands. “I didn’t touch anything. But these titles are fascinating. I’d love to borrow some of them in the future if possible.” The man nodded and went back to his desk, resuming scratching silently. Murtagh sat, reading the book until a messenger came to tell them that dinner would be ready soon.

“So, what have you learned, boy?” Galbatorix spoke once the page had left. He clasped his fingers and leaned forward with a grin.

“In almost every battle where the victor captured the land and attempted to continue benefiting, the land was either regained or stolen from them. Whereas if they burnt it to the ground, they often kept it when they won the war, despite losing the ground during the battles. Despite supplies lost and armies weakened due to lower supplies, usually the benefits outweighed the losses.” Murtagh recited from his notes, conveniently leaving out that some of the winners had deliberately killed the troops that fought for him in order to cull the population and avoid famine and affliction to their lands.

“So you see boy, they deserve to be burnt like traitors and buried in their own failures.” Galbatorix rested his hand on Murtagh’s shoulder. “You are a bright young boy and I expect a quick report from Cantos that you have overrun them before the moon is full.”

Murtagh forced a grin on his face and straightened his back. “Of course my king. I won’t let you down.” He bowed politely to the king and thanked him again and then left with the book and his notes. He passed Tornac in the hall and gave him a nod that their plan was good to go.

He spent the afternoon in his room looking studious, but mentally planning his route through the castle. After dinner, Galbatorix sometimes took one of his mistresses to bed, or studied before going to sleep. When he didn’t see Thorn’s egg in the study, Murtagh could guess it was still sitting in the vaults under the throne room. As long as he disabled the alarms with the name of names, he would be able to get in and out of the vaults with no problems.

Tornac and Murtagh were set to leave with their entourage west when the moon was highest, so it left them only a few hours to plan the heist. Thankfully, with magic on his side, he was able to get the egg and get out silently.

When Murtagh arrived at the vault, he was elated to see Thorn’s egg sitting on the pedestal and after disarming the spells, embraced it warmly. Inside he could feel Thorn stir. He looked around for the green egg but found it nowhere nearby. He mourned the loss, but left the vault quickly, using the energy inside a nearby gem to power a false illusion of the egg. It would crumble immediately the moment someone touched it, but it would last long enough for him to get away and allow for his deceit to go unnoticed.

To spend more time looking for the other egg would be foolish and a good way to get caught. The guards patrolled the halls, so the longer he spent looking, the likelier it was that someone would notice something amiss. Instead, he placed the egg in a bag and spelled it invisible and forced himself to walk calmly through the halls back to his room.

When he made it back to the palace, jumping in through his window, he wasn’t surprised to see Tornac there waiting for him.

“Your horse is ready.” Tornac said, handing him a backpack. “I trust you are ready to go?”

Did you get it? He was asking. “Yes, I’m ready. Just had to finish packing.” I got it.

They stayed in the room, packing and going over some maps for a while until the sun had lightened enough to join the rest of the men at the gates. Murtagh mounted his horse and looked back at the citadel as they passed through. He could almost make out a shadow in the window that could possibly be the king. He looked ahead and fixed his gaze on the horizon.

…

In the time it took them to head south, Murtagh made nice with the soldiers. The detachment had 38 young men who were from Uru’baen and the outlying areas. Thankfully, Galbatorix hadn’t needed to send a magician with this troop or he would have been in far more trouble. He wasn’t the youngest, that went to one of the newest recruits who was in charge of cooking and cleaning, but most of the men had a few years on him.

On the first night, the older men scoffed at his leadership and treated him like some poncy noble’s son who knew nothing of battle. He knocked the loudmouth on his ass and challenged anyone to say anything more. That shut them up from outright complaining until the third night when someone finally got the courage to ask him who he was and he told them his full name. The man walked off, white faced and the next morning all the men followed his command without complaint.

When they arrived, Murtagh had decided which of the men were loyal to the king and which of them were drafted and reluctantly part of the detachment. He went to the city with one of the younger soldiers to spy. He brought the young man to a bar and bought him some mead and they drank, speaking of nothing of note. When the men from Cantos had grown sufficiently loose lipped, they split up and went around to collect information on the guard towers and defensive measures the town had taken.

With the younger soldier distracted, Murtagh went outside after declaring he needed some air and leaned up against the wall. He took a few deep breaths and then a man walked into the alley. He tensed at first, and then the feeling of a mind touching his and he relaxed.

“I see you made it here without problem.”

“Small holdup at the gates, but it was only two small problems that I fixed.”

“That’s good. We have a large load at 37, but perhaps we can save the work on two or three of them.”

“We’ll see. When are you planning to move?”

“Tomorrow is planning and then we move at dawn.”

“How does tomorrow night sound?”

“Hour after the moon’s at its highest.”

Tornac nodded and disappeared back into the night. Murtagh took a few more deep breaths and went back inside the tavern.

…

The next morning, he and the young soldier returned from the city to the encampment. Murtagh spoke of the defenses on the city that they had discovered and worked with the older generals on planning an attack strategy.

He pretended not to notice when one of the older men named Morrison, one who was often silent, but always watching, slipped away towards the city with a folded paper in his pocket. Murtagh had noticed him keeping a careful eye on everything happening. Galbatorix must have designated him the official informer on all of Murtagh’s movements.

When he returned, Murtagh had finished the war meeting with the generals and encouraged them all to sleep well and prepare for the battle tomorrow. The young cook had doled out bowls of stew to everyone. Murtagh sat on the edge of the cot, sipping at his when the informant returned to his tent.

The man seemed surprised to see him, but at least had the brain cells to pretend he was surprised.

“Sir, what brings you to my tent?”

“Oh, well, I was hungry and was guessing you didn’t need your rations since you already went to the city to inform them of our attack.”

“Sir!” He sputtered. “I would never. I am loyal to the king!”

“Then, pray tell, what were you doing slipping off from camp with papers?”

“The King wanted to know everything about what happens on this trip and how you fair as a leader. I would never-“

“And what did you tell him?” Murtagh cut off the whimpering.

“That you were performing remarkably despite your inexperience. The men seemed to follow your lead once they knew who you were and that your plans for the siege on the city were admirable, but still needed work in the future.” He wrung his hands together. “I also said that your loyalty was to the king and he had nothing to worry about.”

Murtagh smiled and placed the bowl on the packed down dirt. “Well, thank you for being honest.” He paused for a moment. “Despite being a spy. Such a shame you were the reason this whole camp was massacred.”

The man looked upbeat for a second before the words set in. “What do you-“

“Slytha.” The man fell down to the ground and Murtagh threw him on his cot. He left the tent and went back to the larger tent which housed the war meeting earlier in the day. He quickly wrote an account of the previous day’s information and additional insights he had into their strategy for the ambush tomorrow.

I am concerned about Morrison. He disappeared around noon and I discovered him coming back from the direction of the city. He has been chatting with the younger fellows of late, despite his age, and whether he was buying mead for them or spying, I know not. When we return victorious tomorrow, I shall question him on his departure from the camp. But I worry that tomorrow there will be an ambush if he let our position slip in the city. I will change the western flank to the southern wall at the last minute in the morning to avoid any surprises. Certainly it will throw the men, but it should keep them safe enough should there be an ambush. I don’t wish for my first mission to be a failure because of one spy. If anything, he is working with the Varden and deserves to be burnt with them.

Murtagh put down his pen and slipped the notes into his personal bag as if he had finished for the night. He listened to the noise outside the tent, and a few of the men were still sitting and talking around the fire, but the rest were quiet and likely already asleep. He nodded to the few that were still awake and went to his tent to close his eyes for a little while.

An internal alarm woke him as the fingernail moon began to move down from its highest peak in the sky. He made his way out of the tent and walked the perimeter, laying down a few protection spells on himself. When he caught a glimpse of Tornac in the corner of his eye, he turned back towards the camp and raised the hood on his cloak.

The light of the moon faded in and out as the clouds drifted across it, but Murtagh could see just fine. Tornac was doing just as well, or so Murtagh thought as he heard the man draw his sword and the first cries began.

They made quick work of the camp. Only two men were up on night watch, and Tornac made quick work of them. When two others came running out of their tents, Tornac caught locked in battle and the noise roused others. Murtagh first used his arrows from the opposite end of camp to make it seem like it was a long ranged attack. He used magic to divert the arrows to come from other directions as well.

When Tornac had slain ten and Murtagh eight, the rest of camp was awake and ready to engage in combat. Murtagh shot the last of his arrows and cast a spell to make it seem like the shadows were moving just outside the reaches of the light from the campfire.

“To me, men. Fight for the empire!” Murtagh cried from the shadows and a few of the braver men leaped forward to fight the shadows. They fell immediately as Murtagh used the words of death on them. He caught a few with the surprise attack and sliced them at their throats for a quick death.

The rest of the battle was quick and Tornac finished off one of the men who was attempting to flee. The coward was one of the men who had been bragging about becoming one of the top soldiers in the kingdom. Murtagh scoffed. What a waste.

He checked in on Morrison and woke him with the counter spell, while hiding behind the tent. The man ran out of the tent and began panicking as he saw his allies lying dead in the dirt. He cried and made to run, but decided against it and brought out a knife to slit his own throat.

After that, Murtagh went through camp, making sure there were no traces of magic and every man looked like they had died in combat save Morrison. Murtagh frowned when he saw the young cook fallen just outside his tent. He had been knocked over by one of the older men and hit his head on a large rock. He had been hoping to save the young man who was drafted.

He went back to his tent and waited for Tornac to arrive. They nodded to each other and Tornac picked Murtagh up by his shoulders and began hauling him out of camp. They staged it to look like an ambush and kidnapping, followed by tracks on horses until they got to the river. Galbatorix would be hunting for them heading east, when in fact they’d be heading west to Dras Leona and then north to Gil’ead.

Once they mounted the horses, Murtagh gave a last glance to Cantos and then turned towards the west.

….

Two days after Cantos, Thorn hatched. He was tiny and Murtagh couldn’t remember him being so small. Ever since his hatching, Galbatorix had been feeding him energy to grow larger in a shorter amount of time.

As they traveled for a month, skirting the larger cities and making their way to Dras Leona, Thorn grew ever larger and Murtagh enjoyed spending the days talking to him.

Tornac was, of course, shocked to find what exactly Murtagh had stolen, and even more surprised when it hatched. He took to Thorn quite well after meeting him, and often snuck him strips of meat at their nightly campfires. Murtagh missed the days when he was able to go riding on Thorn, but just having the dragon by his side without the threat of Galbatorix harming him was a gift enough.

When the little dragon grew tired, he would sometimes curl up in the saddlebags, or if he was particularly cheeky, he would go inside Murtagh’s tunic and curl up against his stomach, letting the soothing motion of riding lull him to sleep.

There were setbacks often when Murtagh would wake and think he was still in a dream and Tornac would have to calm him down. And sometimes the rage would overwhelm him about meeting Eragon and he would storm off, leading his horse in the opposite direction for hours until he calmed. Tornac would often advise him during those times to ruminate on his feelings until he could breathe, and then they would spar to get the energy out in a productive way.

One time, he even thought about fleeing to the Varden to see if Nasuada would remember him, but decided against it. The odds of him making it through the Twins without Eragon was a chance he wasn’t willing to take.

When it finally came to the time when he remembered meeting Eragon outside of Dras Leona, he left Thorn with Tornac to keep them both safe and made his way to the clearing where he had first met his half-brother.

…

Murtagh wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the way Brom looked at him. From the moment he stepped foot into camp, the man didn’t show his apprehension, but his eyes were constantly following Murtagh. Not for the first or last time, Murtagh cursed that he looked so much like his father.

…

After they recounted the story of destroying Durza to Brom and Tornac, Murtagh rolled his eyes and jabbed an elbow at Eragon’s ribs. “You just love being called Shadeslayer, don’t you? Couldn’t give up the fame for little ol’ me?”

“Well I did do all the hard work.” Eragon said sarcastically, then in a normal tone, “I honestly didn’t think you’d want it.”

“Nah, I’m jesting. I prefer the name I have now.” He glanced over to where Tornac had moved on to talking about something else with Brom. The two old men laughed and Murtagh’s eyes softened into something of tranquility. “I never thought I would be able to have those I loved alive and safe.” Thorn snaked his head into Murtagh’s lap and he rubbed a spot in the soft skin under his jaw.

…

Arriving back at the Varden was nerve-wracking to say the least. Choosing to separate from Thorn and leave him in the high mountains where no one could spot him was vital to their plans. If anyone were to learn that he had hatched, Galbatorix would be alerted and their training likely cut short. They had no idea who they could trust in the Varden.

Murtagh kept a near constant communication open with the young dragon. Thorn reassured him that his internal fire would keep him warm in the snow, but Murtagh could barely sleep without Thorn next to him. The dragon had grown several feet in length since he hatched, but he wouldn’t get his fire for months yet.

I will be fine. Thorn said again, feeling Murtagh’s apprehension. There’s a bird flying around up here and I’m going to chase it down. Get some rest.

Murtagh turned over on the hard ground and chewed on his lip for something to do. The Twins were dead. That much was all that mattered. And if the Varden chose to lock him up again, then Thorn would save him. He wasn’t alone anymore.

The door cracked open and he sat up quickly, to see Nasuada bathed in the red light of the cavern. Murtagh was surprised to see her looking much healthier than she had been in the chains, but she had a gauntness to her face and her skin was pale. She didn’t look well.

“Murtagh, is that you?” Her voice was barely a whisper and it cracked. The fierce and confident, unyielding woman sounded like a scared child.

Murtagh reached out his mind, opening it up to her, knowing that is what she needed as proof it was him. She relaxed suddenly and Murtagh went forward, catching her before she could fall and holding her close.

“You’re safe now.” Murtagh whispered. “This is real. It’s not a trick. I thought the same thing when I came back.”

“I can still feel those things under my skin.” Nasuada sobbed. “I could still hear his voice and smell that place.”

“You’re safe.” He repeated over and over, like a mantra. “You’re safe.”

…

They finally left Tronjheim after discussing the plans for the Varden at length with Ajihad and Hrothgar, as well as the rest of the council. Murtagh hated the long meetings, but unfortunately Eragon was quite useless in remembering what path the Varden took last time, and Murtagh had to often add more details.

They reached the edge of the mountains and Murtagh glanced to the cloudy sky where Thorn was flying high above. Eragon was taking forever to say goodbye to the dwarves that accompanied them to the exit and Murtagh couldn’t wait until he would be able to see Thorn again without fearing for his safety.

…

Arya was pissed. Of course she was. Galbatorix used him to kill hundreds of her people. To kill Glaedr and Oromis. She had no reason to believe he could or would change. No amount of words would change that.

So, when she sat across from him at the fire, staring with narrowed eyes as he ate, he felt his frustration build. All she wanted was a fight. Well, then a fight she’d get.

“Just say whatever you have to say already.” Murtagh said, “But I’m not going to sit here and take whatever issues you have with me in silence.”

And Arya did just that.

She damned him for killing Oromis and Glaedr, for killing her people, for everything he did under the command of Galbatorix.

And Murtagh yelled right back, complaining that she didn’t know what torture he had endured by the man’s hand. He went for the spot he knew would hurt her. He wanted her to fight him. Get the anger out. So long it had ruled his heart and he had no intentions of letting it do so again.

He drew his sword and met her halfway in the clearing, parrying her strikes that lashed out with such force that if he had any less skill, he would be dead.

I could stop her, Thorn mused in their minds.

Let her be. Either she injures me and I heal it or we talk it out. She needs this. Murtagh replied in between strikes.

Eventually it ended with him getting a bruised jaw and her storming into the woods. He took a break to allow the both of them to cool off before following after her.

He purposely stepped on several leaves and twigs to announce his arrival. Arya was sitting on the bank of a small pond, watching several small golden fish flash in the moonlight.

“I won’t apologize.” She said, “Nothing you can say will matter.”

Murtagh sat several feet away, pulling his knees to his chest and staring down at the fish. It was silent for a while as the fish swam in circles.

“I’m sorry for what I did.” Murtagh said quietly after a while. “I wanted you to get angry. Otherwise it would just fester. I used to be this angry at Eragon too. I thought it was his fault that I was taken to Uru’baen and tortured. I hated him for leaving me there. I hated Oromis for hiding and not saving me. And above all, I hated myself for being born.

“I cannot pretend to know the pain you have gone through, but rest assured that I do understand pain. Every day for months, I became familiar with Galbatorix’s ways to inflict pain. I had no intention of hurting anyone when I first left Uru’baen. But, when I met Thorn, I couldn’t do anything for fear that it would come to cause him harm. He’s a piece of my heart and soul now. In this time, we have the ability to start anew. To become better than we were before. And we are holding onto that chance with everything we have. I hope you can understand that.” Murtagh fell into silence and watched the fish. He didn’t dare look over to Arya, but in the long silence, he wondered if he should leave.

Stay. She will speak when she is ready. Thorn said in the back of his mind. Murtagh instead watched as a firebug alighted onto his knee, flashed three times, and then took off into the night.

Eventually, she did speak.

“My father died when I was a child. Countless people I called family disappeared overnight. Then, I serve my people tirelessly for sixty years, and finally we are blessed with an egg. An egg that only brings sorrow for each year it does not hatch. I have never known this peace you speak of.

“Five months I was tortured at the hands of Durza. At that time, I thought all hope was lost. I thought it better to die, to be with my hearts. I found purpose again in training the new rider. We were so close to victory, and I found myself returned to those terrible months. I was unable to call on my magic. I tried to kill myself rather than be trapped there again and I would have succeeded if Durza had not healed me at every turn.

“I suppose I should be thanking you for killing that monster, no matter how much it fouls my mouth to say so. He deserved a far worse death than the one you afforded him.”

The silence lingered a while and the air picked up. Murtagh could smell the honeysuckle in the wind. Arya had begun weaving something from blades of grass. Her fingers moved quickly but her eyes were glossed over, her mind somewhere far away.

I want to offer her to look inside my mind for the truth. What do you think? Murtagh said to Thorn.

I have no qualms. Do what you see fit. If she tries to harm you, I will kill her in an instant.

Murtagh sat with his thoughts for a moment, then he spoke his offer. Arya froze, her hand midway to pluck another piece of grass. She tilted her head like a bird and then placed the woven grass down and turned to look at Murtagh. He mirrored her and let his knees come down, unfurling from his defensive position.

“Thorn says not to stray too far from what we show you.”

Arya nodded and then Murtagh let his mental shields down. Vulnerability struck as her mind touched his and it seemed vast in the same way the Eldunari did. He resisted the urge to push her out and instead showed her quick flashes that should convince her.

She withdrew shortly after and went back to braiding the grass. It soon took shape and Murtagh noticed it was a ship. She placed it upon the water and soon it was dancing in the currents of the fish.

“I still do not trust you.” Arya said. Murtagh could feel frustration burning under his tongue, but he stayed quiet. “But I do believe you will fight with us. And I will tell my mother so.”

She stood and looked down at Murtagh. “Let us go. You need rest and tomorrow we arrive in Ellesmera.”

“Yea, and Eragon must be thinking you’re killing me by now.” Murtagh said with a small smile.

“You’d already be dead and buried.” Arya said in a deadpan. Murtagh froze before spotting the small upturn of her lips. Maybe things would turn out alright.

…

Things were not alright.

Arya had vouched for him in front of the elves, and while it was not warm, he was welcomed into Ellesmera nonetheless. Brom met back up with them and the four of them went to Oromis’s home to explain what had happened.

Murtagh stayed silent as Eragon and Arya spoke of the future. Glaedr sat on the edge of the clearing, Saphira across from him, and Thorn sitting in her shadow on the other side where he pointedly did not look at the golden dragon. Murtagh, on the other hand, did. He looked at the glittering scales which reflected onto the ground. At the stump where his foreleg once was. At the spot where Zar’roc had pierced his-

When Galbatorix had taken over his mind, he could still see everything, he was just helpless to control his own body and stop it. Every memory from that moment was etched into his mind. The night horrors that came from taking a life were common now, but to kill the one person who could have saved them- Murtagh felt hollow for hours after Galbatorix had left his body. He remembered digging his nails into skin trying to find some kind of clarity in the haze.

“-Murtagh.” Eragon whispered, nudging him. Murtagh tore his eyes away from the elder dragon, disturbing the memory and replied succinctly to the question before falling silent again. It was easier with Eragon here to answer all the questions and take the weight off of Murtagh.

Then, of course, Eragon had to get up and run off to Carvahall to put out a fire of some sort. Leaving Murtagh to clean up his mess and explain to Oromis where the boy had gone.

“And you didn’t stop him? It’s reckless to leave Ellesmera now. There’s only so much I can teach you if you don’t come to my lessons.” Oromis complained when he went the next morning.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Murtagh grumbled. “I came this morning, didn’t I?”

“And yet you show no responsibility for letting Eragon leave.”

“He has a dragon that’s bigger than mine. What am I supposed to do, fight him?”

“Speak to him in a reasonable manner, which you seem to have trouble with.” Oromis sent him a piercing look and Murtagh clenched his jaw. “Very well. You seem to be on par with him in studies, so you will learn responsibility by teaching him what he missed when he returns. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Oromis-elda.” Murtagh said through his clenched teeth.

In the days after that, Murtagh grew more frustrated as Oromis’s clear disdain for him only increased. The elder rider frequently compared him to his father when he succeeded and would compare him to his previous students when he failed. All throughout, Murtagh kept his mouth shut and instead vented to Thorn in the meantime.

He grew closer to both Arya and Brom as they were the only others to speak to in the city. The elves shied away from him, but fawned over Thorn. He found himself buried in his studies and waiting for the Blood Oath Celebration and their departure from the forest soon after.

…

He remembers? Shall we include him? Can we trust him? We must. We must.

The Blood Oath Celebration was invigorating. When he woke from the ceremony, he found he had so much energy thrumming under his skin. He could twist in turn in ways he never remembered possible with the scar removed from his back. He laughed with delight as he realized his strength had grown as well and he could perform great feats with just the simplest of movements. The power felt his in a way the Eldunari’s power never had. This was his to control. A gift rather than a burden.

Is this what we were meant to be? He asked Thorn amid the revelries.

You are what you have worked hard to become. Thorn replied.

…

The elves offered him a fond farewell, though he guessed it was directed more towards Arya who had settled herself behind him on Thorn’s saddle. In the months speaking with her, she never grew any kinder to him, often brushing off his jokes with a plain response, but she did speak to him when they both had free time.

On the flight to Surda, they passed the time with Arya recounting her travels with Saphira’s egg, and pointing out where their paths were as she rode from city to city for close to fifteen years.

As Murtagh listened, he tried to imagine what it would be like to traverse the land and not have to fight against anyone he encountered. What would his mission be once they defeated the king? Would he be free to roam the land without hatred? Would he be celebrated like Eragon was?

They flew briefly over Cantos and Murtagh tried not to notice the black stain on the ground where the town once stood. His chest clenched and he turned away. Maybe it would be best if he just disappeared.

…

They landed in the Varden’s camp just outside of Aroughs. It seemed they had already taken control of the city, and preparations were being made for the Burning Plains and Feinster.

Thankfully the twelve elf spellcasters had beaten them there and Ajihad, Orrin, Hrothgar welcomed Murtagh and Arya with open arms. They gathered in the command tent and Murtagh was quickly tasked with several assignments, all hesitations about him being on their side apparently assuaged somehow.

He took to the position easily. The people of the Varden were eager to look for hope in a dragon rider. He often made his way through the ranks in his free time, healing injuries and helping with menial tasks like setting up tents or preparing meals. It was a relief that no one seemed to connect his name to Morzan’s and he found himself opening up more and more with the people there.

Afternoons were spent sword fighting with the men to test their skill, evenings laughing and telling stories around the fire, and mornings spent kneading dough with the women, only to repeat it all again.

Murtagh found community and warmth among the people of Surda and the Varden in a way he had never felt among the elves, nor even in Uru’baen. He could walk through the masses and be greeted with a smile instead of a sneer, children around him laughing instead of hiding behind their mother’s skirts.

In his free time, he often met with Nasuada who was not taking to her life quite as well. She was well in the shadows now, along with Elva, as the Varden’s secret weapon, but the council rarely listened to her advice no matter how many times they proved correct.

When the army was spotted on the Burning Plains only a day before they would reach the encampment, the council refused both Nasuada and Murtagh’s insistence that a beheading order go out to all soldiers. Orrin named it unnecessarily cruel despite being at war and the rest of the soft council members agreed. Murtagh scoffed, as if they had ever been on a battlefield.

But Murtagh didn’t argue. Despite Murtagh completing several successful assignments, the council never wanted to listen to him. They would soon find out the consequences and he and Thorn would do their best to mitigate damages on the battlefield.

Thankfully, not much had changed since the original battle and the Varden quickly gained the upper hand. Murtagh fought from Thorn’s back until it became too difficult to avoid hurting their own people, which is when he jumped off and fought among the other soldiers. Thorn flew above the range of arrows and would swoop down occasionally to unleash some flames on the rear battalion. Through their connection, Murtagh could feel a couple arrows pierce through his wards but he had no time to think about that when one of the elves brushed up against his mind.

There is a ship we believe is friendly coming up the river. Ajihad says to notify them to stay back from the fight or burn them if they are a foe.

Murtagh sent his acknowledgement and retreated from his current position to a more open spot. Thorn circled around and flew low to the ground, plucking him up by his arms. It was a move they had practiced several times in Ellesmera, falling several times and breaking his arm once. But it was far more efficient that Thorn stopping completely for Murtagh to climb into the saddle when it was only for short distances.

Murtagh laughed as he was launched into the air. The rush of the wind cooled his face through his helmet and he quickly climbed up the leather straps from Thorn’s underbelly to settle himself in the saddle.

The ship turned just as Murtagh and Thorn came close enough to see the ship, and several people were scattering and drawing weapons. He smiled as he recognized one of them to be Eragon’s cousin who had killed the Twins. Despite knowing they were dead in this time and Roran knew nothing of their existence, he still held fondness in his heart for the man who had rid him of his torturers once upon a time.

As Thorn came closer, this ship was far smaller than their old one, and Murtagh was sure if Thorn were to drop down, the whole thing might sink.

I’ll jump.

That’s a terrible idea. Thorn said.

Nah, then you can go off and do some more burning and swing back around to pick me up.

From this height you’ll break your legs.

Not if I use a spell to lessen the fall.

You’re a fool. Thorn said as Murtagh stood up in the saddle.

I’m your fool. Murtagh smiled. He tapped Thorn’s neck twice and then as they crossed over the top of the boat, he took a step off and let himself fall through the air.

The spell was cast quickly enough that he didn’t break his legs, but he did land slightly off, rolling his ankle. I told you so. Thorn laughed and Murtagh rolled his eyes and took off his helmet, looking towards Roran and the four others on the ship, all pointing their weapons at him.

“The name’s Murtagh,” He smiled. “You must be Roran.”

…

After the battle, Murtagh found himself healing several of the soldiers who had been injured when the painless men rose back up and struck them from behind. He blamed himself for not pressing the council more on the need to behead all the men.

He pressed his hand over another man’s torso and spoke the words of healing, using the man’s own reserves, and then his own when the man’s heart began to strain under the pressure. The man thanked him profusely, but Murtagh just moved on with the simple nod of the head.

Cot to cot, tarp to tarp and dirt to dirt. There wasn’t enough space to treat all the injured. Red soaked cloth littered every surface. Groans of pain and the stench of copper filled the air.

Murtagh tried to keep his eyes down and mouth shut. It was no better being on the other side, but he had never had to treat the men like this. It’s my fault. I should have pushed harder. I knew what he was planning. I should have made Orrin listen.

“It’s not your fault” Murtagh heard the statement from both Thorn in his mind and a voice beside him. He looked up to see Tornac standing there, his arm wrapped in a cloth that was thankfully still white.

“It’s not your fault.” Tornac said again, when Murtagh just stared at him. “You told them and they didn’t listen. Once we knew what was happening, the order went out, just later than you hoped.”

Murtagh didn’t say anything, he just moved to the next man laying with a cloth over his eyes and groaning in pain. He had an arrow in his shoulder and a gaping wound in his gut. Murtagh quickly assessed and put his hand over the gut wound to at least stop the bleeding and found it took far more energy than expected.

He stood to move onto the next injured and blinked to find himself in Tornac’s arms behind the medical tent. The air was fresh out here and the hum of people moving around camp drowned out the sounds of anguish.

“It’s not your fault. Quit punishing yourself.” Tornac said, placing Murtagh gently on the ground and offering him a waterskin. “Rest, eat and regain your energy. You did well today.”

Murtagh quickly drank the water and then reached out to put his hand on Tornac’s arm. “I can heal that so you’re not in pain.”

Tornac gently brushed his arm away. “You have done enough. Rest, my boy.” Murtagh felt his eyes drift shut and he didn’t dream.

Chapter Text

“Four things don’t come back, the spoken word, the sped arrow, time past, and the neglected opportunity.” — Arabian Proverb

Do not wrestle with the demons of the dark

When Nasuada had first awoken in her room in the Varden, she had thought it was another falsity created by Galbatorix. Like so many other fantasies he had created, she went along with it at first. Talking to her father was a pleasant memory and every day, she waited for the illusion to break. For a Rider and his dragon to break through and declare themselves, for the urgals to come and kill them all, something, anything.

Else upon your mind they’ll place a mark.

After the weeks had stretched out, she began hunting for something to break the illusion. She took to whispering under her breath, and guarding her mind, earning her odd reactions from the others he had placed in this dream. She would spent hours wandering the empty halls of Tronjheim, feeling detached from her own body and neglecting her duties.

Do not listen to the shadows of the deep

Often her father would attempt to speak with her and she would float, not listening and barely eating during meals, willing the days to pass faster. If Galbatorix could create this imagery, it means he had either captured Tronjheim or broken her mind to steal the memories of this place. She would not entertain him by telling him anything else willingly.

Else they haunt you in your sleep.

Her nights were spent sweating in the cool room, tossing and turning and pinpricks across her body where she was tortured in that dungeon. In her dreams, she could hear the skree of those horrid creatures, and the blood under her nails of the guard she killed.

In El-Harim, there lived a man,

But still, she kept her secrets. In the empty halls, her breathing was the only thing that echoed. Sometimes she lost herself down there and was found a day later by a worried dwarf who heard her whispers echoing in the halls and thought her a spirit.

a man with yellow eyes.

Once a medic visited her when she lay alone in her room, too tired to get up and wander the halls for something to break the illusion. She said nothing, though the medic was kind. She glanced into their eyes and imagined the world that lay beyond this.

To me, he said, “Beware the whispers,

Time passed in this place and Nasuada barely kept track of the days anymore. It was only when she heard whisperings when she drifted down to eat dinner with her father and his council that she finally came back to herself.

-for they whisper lies.

Dragon. The council murmured amongst themselves. And a rider. They arrived last night.

There. It was finally the end. Galbatorix would whisk her away on a fantastical escape.

Nasuada made her way down through the tunnels she had known all her life. She passed the guards who didn’t give her much protest, being the daughter of Ajihad.

She braced herself as she opened the door. She was ready to get out of this dream, even if it meant being tortured once again. Perhaps this would be the last fantasy. So, she imagined a good one.

But instead of a magical flight of fantasy including rider and his blue dragon, she found a second rider. Once who’s mental touch she knew. One she knew wasn’t false and he told her that she was safe. That this world was real.

Nasuada was shocked to see him, so young and unmarred by the hands of his tormentor. She imagined how she must look to him.

I thought he had trapped me here. She thought. Are you sure he hasn’t trapped you as well?

You are safe. Murtagh replied.

Safe. What a funny word.

…

It was hard to bounce back right away. From months of eating little, as well as clarity coming back to her little by little. There were still some mornings she woke from nightmares and the familiar skree in her ears that lingered through the day.

It helped to be able to touch Murtagh’s mind, but when he left with his brother, Nasuada was left alone once again. That was when Elva returned.

She knocked on Nasuada’s chambers the day after they departed, walking in without waiting for an answer.

“I see you’ve finally come back to yourself.” She said, eating a fruit she had taken from Nasuada’s desk. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Nasuada was shocked to see Elva so small once again, but the girl didn’t allow her to bring up the topic, ignoring any questions on how she was feeling.

The Varden spent a week preparing to move out to Surda and Nasuada worked hard to collect herself. The council scoffed at her behind her back and she worked harder in spite of it. It hurt even more when Ajihad told her that she wouldn’t be going with the rest of the Varden.

“Father, what are you talking about?” Nasuada said, louder in the now empty room. “I am invaluable on the front lines, helping you lead the soldiers. I know of what will happen.”

“You spent the last months sick and barely speaking. I was worried for you constantly. What if that happens again?” Her father rested his head on his hands. “You will stay here and protect the others unfit for combat. With the rest of the council moving forward, you will be our first point of contact here.”

Nasuada felt the rage swell up. She had led the Varden across Surda and through the Empire to the gates of Uru’baen. She would not be left behind like a child.

“I am fit to move forward. I have the experience and information that can help the Varden.”

“None of which the council is privy to know.” Ajihad said flatly. “As Eragon said, we cannot risk anyone knowing what happened to them and their knowledge. Thus, based on your actions in the past few months it would be suspicious to allow you to come. Instead I place you in charge of liaisoning with our allies and ask you to lead them to our side when they are ready. ”

Nasuada chewed on her cheek, trying to find an argument. Somehow all the diplomacy she had built was falling away and she was acting like a child in front of her father.

“If I don’t come with you, our people will die on the battlefield.”

“And so they must, if it keeps us fighting another day forward.” He frowned. “The dwarves are assembling and will march in time. I will do what I can to convince the council of your leadership when you arrive.”

Nasuada reluctantly nodded and left the room to go back to her chambers. Sitting at the desk, she pulled out a journal which she had been writing about the forthcoming events. Elva slipped off the bed beside her and skimmed over the words she was furiously writing.

“Huh.”

...

The dwarves marched out of Tronjheim a fortnight later to meet the Varden’s forces at the edge of Surda. Nasuada had not yet received news from her father, but marched with them anyway, keeping Elva tucked under her cloak and away from prying eyes.

She built up the dwarves' trust again, despite the rumors that floated of her roaming the empty tunnels. By the time they arrived in Surda, she was confident that the council would allow her to give her input in matters of importance.

Instead, she was delegated to sitting in the back and not speaking. She bit her tongue and stayed silent. No matter. Needing to be in charge wasn’t necessary. She would be like Elva, plotting from the shadows and protecting the Varden.

That was, until the assassin came for Ajihad.

...

A month after arriving, a group of Urgals arrived from the direction of the Hadarac and the entire camp went into a frenzy. The archers were set up to shoot despite the white flag before Nasuada could get them to calm down.

The urgals spoke in front of Ajihad, Orrin and the council and Nasuada gave her assurances prior to that, that they would be trustworthy. The men argued relentlessly until she walked into the middle of their camp and stayed there for three nights unharmed.

Two months passed from their arrival and Nasuada was woken in the middle of the night to be told of an attempt on her father’s life. The assassin was caught and secured, but not before putting Ajihad into a sickly state.

It took nigh on a month for him to recover, and only when the elves arrived was he healed completely. Those nights sitting at his bedside, Nasuada felt helpless to change the future. Was her father always doomed to die? Was this her fate, to lose those she loved?

The elves had arrived from Ellesmera once the Varden had taken Aroughs. Twelve familiar spellcasters greeted Ajihad and the council and Nasuada could finally take a breath. Elva often spent her free time around them, while Nasuada found herself avoiding them completely.

Not a day later, Murtagh and Arya arrived on Thorn, causing a stir within the camp. Despite their chaotic entrance, Nasuada was glad to see them. Despite his frequent missions, she made a point to chat with him when they both had a free moment.

When Murtagh was busy running missions for the Varden, she often spent her free time watching Orrin in his lab. Without her need to make the hard decisions, she found herself making friends with the man. “Do you really enjoy all this stuff? It seems tedious when war is fought with swords and not” She waved her hand in the direction of all the glass bottles.

“Progress always benefits my people,” Orrin said, his attention focused on a murky liquid. “It may look like I’m just having fun, but in a world without riders and elves, we without magic have learned to adapt. Angela seems to be getting use out of all of this, who’s to say another healer couldn’t discover a way to cure hidden illnesses instead of causing them.”

When the cries came out across the battlefield in the early morning, Nasuada found herself wondering what Orrin was trying to make.

The Battle of the Burning Plains favored the Varden. Due to the low mortalities in previous combat with the empire, as well as their allies in the Urgals and the dwarves, they quickly destroyed the battalions that were sent.

From the pavilion where Ajihad, and the council sat, Nasuada watched onto the battlefield. Her father was not yet back in peak health to fight on the front lines and the council were spineless in their fair clothes and golden bangles.

Murtagh swooped down, Thorn crushing the armored soldiers like paper. He swirled through the battlefield like a dancer. The elves fought among the Varden and she could tell where they were not by what they wore, but by the swathes of bodies that fell in their wake.

She turned towards the river as a messenger alerted Ajihad of the boat coming up the passage. “It’s Eragon’s brother.” She whispered into her father’s ear.

“See to it they are protected,” Ajihad said to the messenger. “And let them know to stay there until it's safe. Bring them here once the battle ends.” The messenger bowed and disappeared. “Can you convey the message to Murtagh to not attack them?” he said to the elf who stood in the corner.

The elf nodded. They were maintaining communication with the others and Murtagh while also keeping guard over Ajihad. Nearly a dozen more assassination attempts had happened in the past two weeks. They were increasing at an unnerving pace.

She stood watching over the battle as the sun reached its peak, and as the air burned, the battle finally broke and what was left of the empire’s ranks retreated. The Varden let out a cheer and she let out a quiet breath, the knot of nervous energy in her chest unwinding a fair amount. The vultures descended quickly, but this time, few of the corpses wore the Varden’s colors.

After the battle of the Burning Plains, she watched as Roran entered the tent and was surprised to see he looked different. He had a beard, but it was not nearly so wild and bushy. He also stood straight and looked far healthier than he did before.

Katrina on the other hand was far different than she remembered. The girl who she only met as a sickly emaciated prisoner was strong and healthy. Her hair rippled down her back and Nasuada would think her a noble based on her looks if she didn’t know better. She had strong muscles as well and looked as if she could take on any of their fighters and hold her own.

As they talked, she found herself amused that Roran’s words in another time had come true. His wife was far stronger than Nasuada had imagined. She even offered to join in some of the espionage in the upcoming cities. She’d blend in as a fleeing noble far better than any of the others in the Varden.

After the council was dismissed, she updated her father on Roran’s previous exploits and what he did in the name of the Varden.

“He didn’t mention any of that in his recounting and there were twelve in his company.”

“Yes, well, his wife isn’t in danger this time, and they weren’t being hunted by the Ra’zac. It seems Eragon’s meddling has done us a disservice.” Nasuada complained. Elva prodded her under the ribs and she shot the child a glare.

“And yet we have gained two master blacksmiths, a warrior and a spy. I think it a rather fine collection.”

Nasuada frowned, but didn’t say anything else.

Two weeks later, Murtagh was pacing back and forth in his tent. Nasuada sat on the cot and scribbled down his observations from the most recent battle. Her mind drifted when he went silent and she gazed at the polished metal on the side table. Eragon hadn’t contacted them since he had left Ellesmera on some trip to Vroengard.

Murtagh followed her glance and paused in his pacing. “I’ve tried contacting him. All I can see is the saddlebag though. I can hear the wind passing, so they must be flying.”

Nasuada hummed and tore her eyes away from the metal and down to her journal.

Laughing soldiers making more appearances in recent battles

Rumors of a shade

Magicians using scorched earth tactics

She moved to write another line when Murtagh jerked into a rigid stance before relaxing and turning to her.

“It’s Eragon.” He said and then a familiar touch brushed against her mind. Eragon’s mental touch was different somehow, and he was tense.

Eragon, it’s good to hear from you. Is all well? You aren’t injured, are you? Nasuada asked quickly.

I’m alive. I’m in the valley along the woods to the west of the Varden’s encampment.

Took you long enough. Murtagh said sarcastically. I was thinking I’d have to burn down Uru’baen without you. Is everything okay?

Eragon paused for a minute, then, There is much to discuss. Arya is on her way. Elva should come too. But only you four.

The connection abruptly stopped and Nasuada looked at Murtagh.

“He sounded strange.” She mused.

“Yea, I’m worried about him.” Murtagh went silent for a moment, communicating with the elves and with Thorn to excuse his absence. “Okay, things are ready. Let’s go, we’ll pick up Elva on the way.”

Chapter Text

Rhunon was adamant in insisting that forging a blade could take weeks. He impressed upon her the urgency to join the others, but knowing there was no emergency that was currently taking place, she insisted on taking at three days to forge the blade and then a few days after to craft the hilt.

“If you rush, not only you, but also the blade will suffer, Dragon Rider. It is better to take all the time possible and do the best work to create something that can withstand your fighting.”

Eragon knew he could spend even more time fighting with the elf, but eventually let it go and resigned himself to three days of work. It was quite similar to the first time around, but Eragon found himself impressed by the work she did with the blade. He could notice that longer she spent, the more detailed the blade became. He often thought to ask questions about why she did something different from last time, but had to stop himself from giving away his knowledge of doing this before.

A day’s work done, Rhunon let him rest and eat while the blade rested. Rhunon busied herself with getting the next stage ready, and Eragon found himself drifting over to the elf children who had arrived and were standing silently with Maud. He gave the traditional greeting and they responded in turn.

“So what may I call you two?” He asked them, still in slight shock at their unsettling appearance.

Their voices when they spoke were like honey in tea- the perfect sweetness. They were the first strawberry after winter and sunlight sparkling off Saphira’s scales. He would be completely entranced in their voices if not for his personal wards that he had against the enchantments of the forest and the elves within. Even with them though, he felt compelled to ask their desires and fulfill them even at his own detriment.

“I am Alanna and this is my brother Dusan.” Her lips tilted up in a smile.

“Do you wish to apprentice with Rhunon in the future?” He asked, nodding to where she fussed over the metal in the forge. “She is truly skilled in her craft.”

“No, we are more interested in you, Eragon.” The other said. His hair seemed to sparkle like gold in the reflection of the fire from the forge and seemed to hypnotize Eragon. “We have been watching you for a long time.”

“Yes, your first time here, we were once friends with you, not that you remember though.” Alanna spoke again. “But now we offer you some advice if you so wish to take it?”

Eragon felt fear grip his heart at the seemingly innocuous statement, but the two children had him pinned in place like a frightened deer at the point of one of his arrows. He couldn’t move though every part of his body told him to flee.

What do you speak of child? Do not delve in tongues when we are tired. Saphira said sharply from where she lay by the fire.

The two children laughed, the sound like a chorus of music, the instruments of the elves and the songs of birds in the forest. Like harps and violins, like joy if joy could be encapsuled into one sound.

“You are sharp as always Eragon Bromsson. Then, take our advice and be at peace; you are stronger than you once were, but do not rely on strength to fight your battles. You will never be the one to win a fight, but you can be the one to end it.” Alanna said, her and her brother’s eyes piercing.

The fire from Rhunon’s furnace reflected on their skin like sunlight through the trees. They stepped aside and allowed Maud to take the stage, her voice changed from the last time they spoke. “Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the times comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree.” The werecat spoke.

“I got the brightsteel from her roots. What more do I need?” Eragon questioned.

“Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.” The strange glint in her eyes faded and she shook her head and said nothing more.

“We wish you the best, Eragon Bromsson.” The two said in harmony.

The children bowed lightly and then backed away from the forge into the depths of the forest. Eragon watched as Alanna looked back once, her eyes glinting in the firelight, and then they were gone. He felt his entire body suddenly release a tension, and he walked slowly back to the forge to fall against Saphira. She wrapped a wing around him, and the heat from her belly warmed his chilled limbs.

That was…

Agreed.

I got the steel from beneath the Menoa Tree’s roots. Eragon pondered, looking for answers in the flames of the furnace, long after the children had gone. What more do we need? I don’t remember another weapon we possessed when fighting in the city.

I remember… something. Saphira said, then growled. The thoughts escape me. I cannot remember. We were flying… I was so tired.

Eragon tried to sort through his and Saphira’s memories. They were faded like an old cloth lain too long in the sun, details hard to make out, but still there. We flew west… A memory stood out. Somewhere in there. Sharp terror and Saphira started. The Nidhwal!

We were flying over the sea! Eragon cried, the memories pulled out like nails in wood. He had to work to remember each one, but then it was like he had never forgotten. The storm, the sight of the empty sky.

Why were we flying over the sea? Saphira hummed. Eragon didn’t know the answer. The only thing that far west was Vroenguard, and there was nothing left on the desolate island. It was uninhabitable.

Eragon dug his mental fingers into the blank edges of the space where his memories would be and angered when it fought back. He was interrupted when Rhunon came back, her arms filled with more supplies.

“Time to get back to work. You’ve have plenty of time to regain your energy.” Eragon stood and pushed aside his confusion to focus on the task at hand.

///

Unsettled by the experience, Eragon dove into the work, and finished the sword with Rhunon over the next two days. After finishing the scabbard, she presented it to him on the following morn.

“It’s beautiful.” He said softly, before adding several other compliments. Having the familiar sword in his hands, he felt stronger than ever.

“Go ahead and give it a proper name so that I can engrave it.” Rhunon said.

Eragon didn’t even have to think this time. “I name thee, Brisingr.” And as he said it the blade lit with flames. Eragon smiled and let it burn for a moment, admiring as the flames licked the sides then ended the trickle of magic.

Rhunon stared at the display. “I imagine it’s because you were involved in the process of the forging.”

He smiled as the exchange continued as it did once before and Rhunon bequeathed him the sword. He bowed low and departed from Ellesmera to visit Oromis once more.

///

Oromis looked at his blade and gave him a nod before returning it to him.

“Take care you do not lose it. It is one of the finest she has made.”

He spoke of the elves’ preparations for war and the siege against Ceunon and how Eragon would likely not see him again before they met in Uru’baen if they both survived thus far. Eragon tried not to let his mind drift to the agonizing memory of Glaedr’s grief upon their deaths.

During their months strategizing and learning in Ellesmera, both rider and dragon had told Eragon not to tell too much of the battle. “If you were to tell us everything, we would be too busy trying to prevent one death that another is sure to come. No, if our deaths must happen, then they must.” Eragon had let the conversation rest then.

Now, Eragon listened as Oromis spoke and once again, thoughts of telling the man raced through his mind. Oromis diverted from the topic of strategy once he had exhausted their planned information, but did not stop speaking.

“I am morose to say that you have opened my eyes while you were here Eragon. Both you and your brother are stubborn young men. But you are driven and have fight in you. You will do well to count on each other in the upcoming battles. And I believe you truly have a chance of winning this battle against Galbatorix. I was mistaken to just you both before I had come to see what you were capable of.”

The two of them bowed their heads to both their masters. “Then to this, I give you both. Tie your sword to your body for if you lose its grip in battle, you may not have the means to retrieve it. And to Glaedr, be sure to protect your left side.”

Oromis frowned, but thanked Eragon anyway. “That is more than we could have hoped for or wanted. Thank you for your warnings. You will do well to keep your secrets closer to your chest in the future.”

Oromis offered him a flask of Faelnirv and his blessing in the coming battles. As they left, Eragon noted in surprise that Glaedr did not offer his heart of hearts before they left.

Eragon. Saphira scolded. We should not know of, nor expect such a thing from him.

No, never. Eragon said quickly. I am simply surprised at the change in actions. Last time, it was rather beneficial to have the energy of his Eldunari- Oh! Eragon cried, turning to Saphira. Eldunari. There’s something there. Something we’ve been forgetting. It was like a piece of a puzzle, clicking into place. He couldn’t see the whole memory yet, but it was a glimpse that left him hunting for more. A piece of the hidden black veil cloaking his memories peeled up like a cloth drifting in the wind.

I remember now, we flew to Vroenguard on Glaedr’s recommendation. The snails!

Yes. But I can’t remember what we did there.

Does it matter? We didn’t die, or we wouldn’t have been in Uru’baen. It must have been something important.

…

Before leaving Ellesmera, Eragon scryed Murtagh to notify him and Arya of their change in plans. Even in the quick chat, Eragon could tell that Murtagh looked good. The recent battle left no visible scars, and he looked healthy.

Murtagh let him know that Roran had arrived to the Varden, but was currently out on a mission. Eragon was relieved that his cousin had made it there safely once again.

He had hoped to speak with Brom once again before he left, but his father and Blogdharm’s spellcasters had already left Ellesmera to head towards the Varden. He left a letter to be ferried to the Varden, informing them of his intended arrival and then took flight westwards.

…

On the flight towards the coast, the weather was fair, and Saphira had the chance to rest the past few days when he worked on the blade. So they made good timing, not fighting against headwinds, and flying high enough that they avoided any problems from the ground until they reached water.

During the flight, Eragon and Saphira talked often about around the point of their true names. They discussed the possibilities that it had changed in the time they spent reliving their lives and how their ambitions had changed as well.

Does it make me a different person when I have had the chance to right my wrongs when others do not, or does it make me the same as I was, I was just given another choice.

Saphira listened to his internal monologue, focusing on flying for the most part, but when the winds were fair, she would often include her own thoughts on the matter.

///

They landed in much the same way, Saphira crashing to the ground and Eragon setting up wards to notify them if someone or something were to come after them.

Eragon woke the next morning to a still sleeping Saphira and a snail peering at them from the edge of the clearing. It was quickly roasted and crunched by Saphira and Eragon ate his packed food from Ellesmera.

After Saphira had regained her strength, they took off and flew towards the rock. Eragon looked down on the overgrown lands with white peeking through and frowned.

I wish we had more time to stay here. So much knowledge was lost in the fall. I wonder if Brom ever returned here. Eragon thought.

This is a place of sorrow. Saphira hummed as they crossed over a particularly large skeleton. Is it better to mourn or to move on?

They landed outside the Rock of Kuthian and Eragon looked to Saphira who nodded to him as well. No time to waste, he thought.

///

Eragon shivered as they crossed the threshold to the stone and a cool air came sweeping towards them.

He walked down the dark path and tiny pinpricks felt like there was something stabbing his brain from every side. Memories wanting to get in, a cup just on the edge of overflowing. As he crossed through the doorway to the vault, he saw dozens of glowing orbs and then-

Before he could react, the mind stabbed through his defenses and seized control of his thoughts. For all the time he had spent practicing with Glaedr, Arya, and Saphira, he could not stop the attack; he could not even slow it. He might as well have tried to hold back the tide with his bare hands.

A blur of light and a roar of incoherent noise surrounded him as the yammering chorus forced itself into every nook and cranny of his being. Then it felt as if the invader tore his mind into a half-dozen pieces—each of which remained aware of the others, but none of which was free to do as it wished—and his vision fragmented, as if he were seeing the chamber through the facets of a jewel.

Six Seven different memories began to race through his fractured consciousness. He had not chosen to recall them; they simply appeared, and they flew past faster than he could follow. At the same time, his body bent and flexed in various poses, and then his arm lifted Brisingr to where his eyes could see, and he beheld six seven identical versions of the sword.

At last, long after he would have given up hope of release if he still had command of his thoughts, the whirling chorus carefully rejoined the pieces of his mind and then withdrew.

Our apologies, Saphira. Our apologies, Eragon, but we had to be certain of your identity. Welcome to the Vault of Souls. Long have we waited for you. We are glad that you are still alive. Take now your memories, and know that your task now yet nearly complete!

Once again, a blast of energy came through his mind, and Eragon was able to understand that the orbs lining the walls were dragon eggs. Saphira cried in joy, but Eragon looked to the largest of the Eldunari. Along with their memories of the eggs and the Eldunari, he once again remembered the stories the dragons told him in their past exchange as well as the entire flight back to Uru’baen.

“You did it.” He said quietly. Then again louder. “You were the ones who turned back time.” The pieces of the puzzle in his head clicked as the memories had returned from when they discussed with the Eldunari last time. He mulled over the words, turning them over in his mind as he slowly came to a conclusion. “You said you had been manipulating the events of Alagaesia. You are the only ones with the power to turn back time like that.”

Aye, you are smart to discover that. Yes, we are the cause. We allowed you to keep your memories, as we believed it would help you to kill Galbatorix. It was the furthest you had ever gotten. As we were with you, it was easier to stretch our power out this time, but we were... unprepared for the others to come along this time. Fortunately, or not, magic is unpredictable and took them without our prompting.

Eragon nodded in understanding. He reflected on what they had done since then. Then, a moment later he looked back at the large Eldunari. “This time…” He parsed out the words from where they were forming in his brain. “You said “This time”. That means… it’s not the first time.”

Ah, I had hoped you would put that together. We believe that now you have reached us and become acclimated to the idea of time- we could now give you the memories of the previous lives as well. You have victory just nearly in your grasp, and perhaps the memories of the battles you have lost will allow you to prevail in this battle.

The words about to roll off his tongue fell to a halt as a momentous wave of energy suddenly surged at him, or just to a single point in his brain. It didn’t hurt more than a pin or a splinter jabbing into his thumb, but that was only the beginning. The pin prick turned into a knife and into a sword, slicing through his brain as if a latch had opened and the dam allowed the memories to pour out.

Chapter Text

A/N: Time is a little wobbly in this chapter. The Eldunari speaking together are in italics, the plaintext is the memories Eragon is experiencing.

Eragon reeled and Saphira cried a mournful lament as the images came flooding in his head. The dragons pulled forth important memories as they spoke, guiding him through the recollection and keeping him from straying too far into the depth of memories that churned around them.

The first time you were just a boy and Brom received the egg as planned. But you talked to him at just the right time before he fled from Carvahall and Saphira hatched for you. He took you out of Carvahall and you two rescued Arya. You were trained by the two of them until you turned 18, which was the time when they took you to the elves for training.

Flashes of a life he never lived filled his memory. Spending days in the Spine training with Brom. Learning to fight and traveling the land. Going to the elves as a young man and holding his own as a rider. Brom teaching him everything he knew of magic there.

You were hidden from Galbatorix’s reach and he knew nothing of you. This allowed you the time to train through the stages of a dragon rider without fear of war.

They had hidden him well. His own family thought him dead in the Spine, attacked by whatever creatures lay in the depths of the woods. He never showed his face in the lands inhabited by humans. He had not spoken to anyone outside Ellesmera in years. He had become the perfect image of a Rider before the fall. He could perform maneuvers lost to time and could best the elves in combat half the time. Without the pressure of time, there was plenty to learn and space to grow into his role as the last rider.

Then he would travel to the Varden to prepare for war and he would have time to strategize his next moves in the war. When he flew to the entrance, his stance regal, his dragon grown and both of them looking like royalty, the Varden all but fell in line to fight at his side.

The summer of your twenty-fifth year, Galbatorix discovered the name of names, though we didn’t know it yet, and you launched the attack with the Varden. You had all the power and knowledge expected of a Rider, but we did not expect Galbatorix’s strength against you.

Eragon preparing for battle, Saphira at his side, larger than he could possibly imagine her. Eragon watched himself strap his bracers on and saw the scars he already- would never receive and the signs of aging- a face fuller and more developed than he had ever seen- would see in a mirror.

The battle was… savage. Murtagh never escaped Uru’baen and was allowed the time to train as well, his forces were far more prepared and the forces from Surda, the dwarves and the elves were lacking. They were crushed instantly. Despite your strength, Galbatorix overpowered you and you died.

There was no escape. The traps had killed everyone save him and Saphira. Murtagh had won the sword fight between the two and given him enough injuries that he may never recover. Galbatorix took one step forward, and then another. He was coming far too quickly for Eragon to do anything. He couldn’t speak and Saphira was held by her neck in Shuriken’s jaws, unable to defend him- but she tried anyway. He could see the blood falling as she twisted to get free, streams turning into steaming puddles on the stone floor.

“You will never win.” He will say, never said. And then his body was light and power and pain. Then nothingness and falling and-

We thought you just needed another chance to fight him. We turned back a day, then two, then three but despite your knowledge, there was nothing you could do to fight him in this state and with his knowledge of the true name of names. You were defeated every time.

We quickly realized our mistake and sought to fix it. The only solution was to turn back the clock and start where we went wrong. The beginning. We thought if we could leave your memories, you could train faster and defeat him before he had time to learn the true name. But we were wrong and you were driven insane in the process. You woke as a boy, Saphira not yet hatched and you went mad.

Eragon woke, his chest pounding. He was in an unfamiliar place. What madness and trickery was this? He reached out with his mind and found no one. Saphira was gone. His body was young and magic was just barely in his grasp in this small body.

He felt the pressure building up inside his chest. He called for Saphira, and found nothing but hollowness. The emptiness took grip of him and he knew this was a trick. Galbatorix had trapped him in his own mind. This was hell. But if he could just reach to where Galbatorix was. To break through the magic that bound him, he could still fight against the mad man.

You used magic far stronger than you could hold in your body and fell victim to the toll.

Eragon pushed the magic further. There had to be a way out of this quagmire. But the walls weren’t falling. The magic wasn’t breaking away. Everything felt unreal.

Then Brom was there. Brom was- will be- is dead. How is he here? He is- was- will be shouting something through the barriers of magic that rippled around him. Nothing made sense. All these memories- where were they coming from? What happened- will happen- is happening to him? The magic spilled forth, an overflowing cup that he could do nothing to stop and then nothingness.

Once again, we turned back time and saved you. We admitted our faults. This time, we believed that if we allowed you to grow older, then you would be wiser and yet, not knowing the entire truth which would lead to your demise. We kept the memories that drove you to madness and allowed you to try again. We let you grow older, but guided the forces you needed to you, made your training quicker, whispering hints of the unrest- dreams of secrets you needed to know.

This time, you joined the Varden in just your twenty-third year and yet during the battle you were overwhelmed and our wards could do nothing to save you from the fall in battle. We were just able to capture your souls before it departed and return you back to the beginning .

Eragon was slumped against a wall. He was only blocks away from Saphira, but there was no way she was going to make it in time. Their wards had failed them when they entered the city.

There was a knife in his lungs flooding each breath with blood, a hole where a spear once was in his back, and several gashes that would not be healed no matter the magic he used. Anytime he tried to draw on magic and cast a spell, the opposite would have effect, a new wound opening up or growing larger instead of closing. He could feel the dozens of holes that peppered Saphira’s wings, the gashes on her limbs and the beating of her heart in time with his.

The fight continued on around him, but he was numb to it. Saphira could feel him slipping away and losing control. Her fire burned everyone in her path as she trampled buildings to get to him.

He slipped away with a last breath and Uru’baen shook with the might of her sorrow.

Without you the war was lost and everyone would have died by Galbatorix’s hand.

The toll was beginning to wear on us. We had some energy in reserve, but we woke each time drained and unable to make such a large change to your fate. Each time we cast the spell, somehow Galbatorix discovered the name earlier each time. We knew we had wiped the memories of the man, but the whispers were remaining. The hint of something you knew, almost if you had seen it before but not quite. That, in turn, was how you progressed so quickly. Your body already knew the magic, you just had to learn it again.

Each time we reset you to your past, he was still growing stronger, just out of your reach to win. And yet, we didn’t know how to defeat him. His magics kept the name of the word from our minds. And no matter how quickly we moved, he would always have it before you faced him.

The fourth time led to total devastation of Du Weldenvarden, and perhaps was our greatest failure. We turned back time but were growing weak with the constant strain on our power. We were only able to make small changes. Diverting the spell, saving someone from a fatal blow by inches. On the fifth time, we tried doing nothing at all and hoping you would be strong and smart enough to defeat him on your own. Yet, we still failed.

The sixth time, we tried a new approach. We sent the egg directly to you. We kept all the memories from you, and stopped hiding you. We directed the Ra’zac to your location and hoped the drive to kill them would fuel you to reach Galbatorix quicker.

We were right. Your effect on others is fascinating. The influence of you on the front lines, leading the army did it. All those memories you could know but barely remembered allowed you the confidence to know exactly how things would turn out and that you would win. When the others saw that confidence, they fought harder, lasted longer than they would usually. They had faith in you, and faith is a strong thing.

You reached us for the first time. We were able to provide you power and additional knowledge. It had been the best attempt thus far. We were confident in your ability to win.

When you fought in Uru’baen that time, you would have won, had Galbatorix not cast that final spell. These are the memories that you held when you re-awoke in Carvahall.

We had not planned for the others to be in the throne room with you though and their minds and souls were mixed with yours in the final moments. We could not separate the threads of magic and instead sent you together. We could only manage a short trip this time. To the point in which you had the most possibility of success.

So now, your seventh journey has been the most positive so far. You retain enough memories to be effective and yet not enough to go mad with the loss. The memories of your deaths will help you avoid the killing blows. The memories of the fights will help you win the new ones. You are stronger with the others’ memories as well, and this makes your possibility of success very probable.

They released Eragon of the hold on the stream of memories and Eragon couldn’t breathe. He fell back, pressing his back against the wall and struggling to breathe as his chest clenched in on itself, constricting his lungs and not allowing any air to come in. He sucked in a thin tendril of air, painstakingly, his wheezing filling the echoed cavern as each breath fought to give him oxygen. He could feel his pulse in his temples and his ears, his heart beating as fast as a fearful rabbit. He was blind to anything that could have been happening around him as he fought for each breath.

The memories coursed through his mind at a lightning speed. He couldn’t make sense of it but he already knew it. Someone had cracked open his skull and poured in the memories. The six deaths he could feel in detail. The sword through his chest and the blood welling up in his lungs feeling like he was drowning. The spell turning his entire body into light and power radiating forth like a thousand fires pouring from the maws of dragons. The knife in his gut, twisting with loss and Brom’s eyes crying into his as he choked out blood. The clangs of fighting just out of reach as he took his last breaths. The pain of the poison of Galbatorix’s own power pouring into his skin and eyes, organs and limbs failing him.

Our sacrifice will bring the end of this senseless war. You can’t imagine the pain that Galbatorix’s reign has brought to this land.

The memories felt like trying to remember moments of your childhood that were just out of reach. He couldn’t figure out when or where he was remembering, but the smells, the feelings, the pain- oh god, the pain. It was all encompassing. Each death in excruciating detail. And not just his, but also Saphira’s. When he died, she lived on and those memories were still there, despite time being turned back. She rarely lasted long after he died, but when she did, those memories were nothing but hatred, anger, sorrow, PAIN.

Eragon said nothing, the pounding in his chest paralyzing him and trying to close his mind, to shut down the memories. Instead, Saphira had overcome her shock and, while standing protectively over him, she bared her teeth and let her fire lick over the ground towards the man in armor, a sea of flames lighting the cavern an eerie blue.

YOUR sacrifice? Saphira scoffed. What right do you have to toy with others’ lives? You may be dragons, but you are not gods. How are you any better than Galbatorix?! If you think you can just control us-

We do not control, only guide. We have lay in wait for over a hundred years while Galbatorix does nothing but poison the people and the land.

AND YOU SHALL WAIT A THOUSAND MORE. Saphira roared, the sound reverberating. But to take away free will. To play with us like a child plays with dolls is reckless and cruel.

Eragon’s heartbeat slowed as he dragged in breath after breath, each one less strained than the last. “Why?” Why him? Why here? Why now?

Why. The only question he could think to ask. He felt like a petulant child asking Garrow for answers about the world. Years of memory that he never had- will have- did have.

Because you are the only one who can do it. The voice was soft, like a mother whispering to her babe. The land whispers to us. Dragons are more in tune with the world than they are with their riders. The trees sing of you, the water composes symphonies and earth resonates with every step you take, telling the tale of the peace you will bring. You are Eragon. The first rider and the savior of this land.

I never wanted this. I was just a farm boy in Carvahall. I am no one. Eragon thought with the barest amount of energy.

And yet you are a rider, a savior and more.

Time dragged on until Eragon began to recover from the panic and paralysis that overtook him. His limbs felt like stone that had a thousand pins jabbing into them. As the numbness in his legs faded, he collected himself and moved backward until he could rest against the cool stone wall, Saphira guarding him from the Eldunari on the other side.

He looked defiantly at the Eldunari who sat patiently in their stone basin, away from the terror that had spread across Alagaesia. Away from the actual war fought by thousands who had died for their cowardice. Away from the lives and time they had manipulated for years and possibly decades.

Know this. He said with venom in his voice and lacing each word as he labored to get the words out. This is the last time any of you shall do this. This is against the natural order. If I die, then so be it. I shall die and let my soul rest wherever it may go. Whether or not Galbatorix is defeated, I will not allow our world to be distorted like this. My duty as a rider shall not be manipulated into something foul.

Finally recovered enough to stand up and breathe normally, Eragon made to walk out of the tunnel. He tried to shut his mind to the dragons who had begun to protest, struggling to find his own thoughts among the vast expanse of memories and knowledge the dragons had given him.

You will forget of our existence the minute you walk out. You need to take us with you. We will show you how. They said, showing the images of the magic and memories came rushing back of when he did it last time. He brushed off their words and scoffed, continuing walking up the tunnel.

“I’ll take my chances. I’ll be lucky if that’s all I forget.” He muttered.

He noticed the magic taking hold of his memories this time around, his mind more sensitive to the touches of the finely tuned spell. As he reached the edge of the tunnel with Saphira, he no longer knew what he was supposed to remember, but he knew that it was something he had once known. And the enchantment hadn’t taken any other memories than the one he wasn’t allowed to share of the Eldunari and what they protected- the ones of his previous lives and the knowledge of the dragon’s interference remained.

He found a fallen log and sat down, Saphira following closely behind him and wrapping her body protectively around him. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. They sat there until Eragon’s mind had quieted enough to form new thoughts without being overwhelmed with the old.

How do you feel, little one? She said, looking at him with one blue eye.

It took him a while to answer. Eragon meditated on the question, trying to understand from his current mind what he thought. I feel foolish and misled by the dragons. Sure they are older than I, and their magic is stronger than I could begin to comprehend, but this all feels… wrong. If there is the possibility to turn back time, then that means that everything we do has no meaning if it can be undone. And it means that the sacrifices that people made and the bonds we formed were forgotten. In those memories… I had time with Brom. Time I never got in this or the past timeline.

Do you feel cheated of those times?

No, I feel lied to and misguided. The dragons want me to kill Galbatorix. And what then? They are dragons long dead. It will be up to you and me to lead the next generations of Riders and to keep the peace. How will they control us then? He paused for a moment. And you? What do you think of all this?

These memories are different, but they are still me and I can bear them well. I can see their reason and logic, and in some ways I would do the same thing. You on the other hand, have a much more difficult path

So what, we let them continue resetting our lives? What if we continue this for the rest of time? Just resetting and retrying. If I’m not wrong, we’ve spent over 20 years in these loops. Sadness settled in his heart. I’m so tired. He thought, but the weariness seeped in, even without his voice. His limbs felt heavy and a weight pressed down on his chest. With the memories of all these failures… I just wish to end this war and be rid of the Eldunari’s control.

Saphira hummed at his thoughts and curled around him tighter, covering him with her wing. Sleep little one. I shall protect you and when you wake we will decide what to do.

///

When Eragon woke, for one blissful moment, all he could think of and see was Saphira. He admired her blue scales that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight and the way her internal fire kept him warm.

Then, the memories came flooding back and the pressure fell back on his chest.

Have you thought of anything while I slept? He asked Saphira who was currently focusing on one of the shadows that sat on a nearby branch.

I say we leave them here to rot and fly far away. We can leave Alagaesia and never return and never have to deal with them or Galbatorix again. This is their problem and they can figure it out themselves. She huffed, snorting out a small flame that scorched a bit of the nearby grass and scared away the shadow creature.

And leave all of Alagaesia and suffer at Galbatorix’s hand? Eragon picked up a fallen leaf nearby and traced the veins absentmindedly. No, we still have to defeat him, but then- then we can leave. He picked off the flat parts of the leaf, leaving only the veins as a skeleton of what it had been. And if they try to do anything else, I’m shattering their Eldunari no matter what they try to do to me.

Agreed.

///

Addendum:

***

Like a dragon is attracted to the scent of the deer and animals to their prey, there is a certain order to the world. Saphira once mused how it was possible that Eragon would get into so much trouble when he was alone- fights, powerful enemies and strange magics, but there is a reason besides strange misfortune.

Each time the timeline was reset to the beginning, the magic was once again swirling around Eragon. And mysterious things are drawn to large sources of magic. There is a reason why many men disappear into the trees of Du Weldenvarden never to return. The magic sings to them. It calls them to respond, yet rarely does the call of magic turn out well for those who seek the answer the call.

///