Chapter 4 Time Stops for No One
He nimbly refolded the boat and sent it on its way. Calling his elder students and his former Elven spellcasters, he made his way to the center of the decks.
They gathered around the center, the solemn look in his eyes enough to keep them silent until he talked.
“I have just received word that in the short period of our travels, our sea faring enemies have taken the entirety of Belatona. Our allies, our people have been pushed back to Ilirea, and are in a stalemate.”
A burly dwarf Rider piped up. “The Beor Mountains are right next to them, we should sent word to them, they will fight!”
“Dorsun, the positioning of the Beor Mountains would give ample time and the perfect opportunity to strike, but our knowledge is that not one of the Alagaesian races are having success in defeating our enemy. They have taken the entirety of Surda in less than a week, their strength and speed are unlike anything we have ever heard of. Tronjheim will hold, of that we are assured of. Right now, we need to keep as many warriors alive as possible.”
Dorsun had his heart in the right place, but his stubbornness could have given a rock a run for it.
“Dwarves will not fall in battle, no matter the enemy. King Orik will not fall in battle.”
A hint of a smile remained on the Rider’s lips as he remembered his foster brother, another wave of nostalgia came through. Nari had a wry smile on his face, no doubt reliving his first encounter with the dwarf.
“I am not willing to take that chance. We have a better chance at winning when all of the races fight together.”
“Yes, ebirthil.”
Whurhig, Dorsun’s dragon had hatched for him quite late. Even though he did not look it, Dorsun was nearly as old as Eragon himself, born a few years after the elder Rider had left. Whurhig, on the other hand, was barely fifteen years old. Dorsun knew the most about the most recent of happenings in Alagaesia.
“Ebirthil,” a sing song voice piped up from next to him, “what will be the plan to get there in time? It seems we will be thrown into battle as soon as we arrive.”
“You are correct in your assessment, Amatria, we shall have to fight as soon as we arrive. Once we reach the edge of the Hadarac Desert, we will fly over to Ilirea, using height to mask our movements. They cannot know we are coming, else they will increase the speed of their attacks. We are fifty strong, full-fledged Riders, and we have enough power for a hundred armies combined with our friends who have chosen to accompany us. We cannot stop our flight, prepare the dragons for their upcoming journey. They are strong, but even this will be trying on their endurance.”
Amatria was of another Rider of pure Elven blood, but she possessed neither the softness of Ishmael or the balance of Kyra. She was, through and through, one of the coldest, iciest women Eragon had ever met, if not the most, for that matter. That being said, she had impeccable morals, perhaps not so much as feeling it was the right thing to do, but knowing it was, even if she had no opinion on the matter. Her perspective gave her the unique ability to remove her emotions, if she had any, and assess the situation with a cold and calculating eye. Lacking her own emotions, Amatria was able to perfectly read another person, as she had none of her own feelings to distort her perspective.
Amatria remained the only one who passed the situational tests and field exams without failing one. She was proficient in the sword, and carried her Rider’s sword with pride, but she preferred attacking from the behind, a stealthier approach, the approach of an assassin. And she was the perfect build as well. A small, powerful lithe body, cold black eyes and midnight black hair. It was so dark, it shone purple in the bright light. She preferred tight fitting Elven garments, ones that clung to her body, leaving no curve to the imagination, but noiseless when she moved. She was uniquely masked as well, whether on purpose or not, she left no scent behind.
Even now, she stood, her hands crossed over her chest and her eyes utterly blank. The knife she preferred lay strapped to her shoulder, its length nearly as long as her forearm itself. Her dragon, Ladrimme, was a perfect fit for her. She was small and fast, rapid turns, and dexterous movements. Not many could outfly her, but she was not the strongest. Ru’ali, or Hjarta, or even Arhel could have killed her within seconds, but they would have to catch her first, and to catch her was nearly impossible. To catch her without getting burned was completely impossible. Her name matched as well, Ladrimme, Night Flyer. They were the complete stealth package.
But even that was not their entire story, or her entire story. Amatria was just that, a beautiful dancer as her name indicated, and according to Ishmael, she was one of the best dancers in the world. One day she stopped dancing altogether and took the forests. She showed up in Ceris, miles away from her home in Kirtan, and Ladrimme hatched for her, an onyx dragon with diamond black eyes.
Eragon tore his eyes away from the beautiful elf maiden, he wished so desperately that she would find a reason to smile again.
“As Riders, we will be expected to change the tide of the war, and I have full belief that we will be able to. The reports hinted as beasts being the main reason of the trouble our people face, and I believe with the right technique, we can make this their weak point. Unfortunately, I am unsure of how we will be received in Alagaesia…”
“We are Riders, ebirthil! We will be respected!”
He sighed, “That may be the case, Thane. However, the people there are either too young to remember the pact or too old to forget the Fall. The Riders no longer have the reputation they once had. We will fight as Riders, however, until the time comes where we are trusted with soldiers and warriors to command. We will designate ourselves in groups of threes. Thane, Kyra, Marcus, Ishmael, Amatria, and Dorsun will definitely lead their own groups as per their exceptional work as leaders, and warriors. I shall decide upon the rest at a later time, but for the time being, allow me to explain how these will work. In each three membered team, there shall be a leader, this position has nothing to do with the function of each group. Fighting is just as important as protecting ourselves, and for that purpose, these groups have been decided. Your job, within your team, will be decided by your leader, but in essence, you all will fight, but someone will be designated to protect and heal, right on the battlefield, and another to spot for dangerous circumstances. Amatria, you will be in charge of a stealth team. These armies can move quickly, changing the battle in a instant, I will need someone in charge of targeting and taking out key players in the battle, say a general or a captain that seems to do quite a bit of damage to Alagaesia. On your team, you will have a spotter, someone who will watch and lookout; a distractor, one who will draw attention away from the third person; and lastly, the assassin, the one who will finish the job. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, ebirthil.” The chorus was sound around the room.
“Good, I have no doubt of your ability to take care of yourselves in battle, that does not change that I care deeply for all of you and wish only the best. I cannot be everywhere at once, and if I could, I would protect all of you. The battle will be fierce, bloody, and life – changing. I never expected that I would leave and return to Alagaesia on the end and beginning of a war. You will have to take a life, and for that, I apologize. Know that when the time comes, and your morals are questioned by none other than yourselves, for only you have the right to question your morals, that I will be here to help you through a time I wished never to have come upon you.”
The mood was somber, and his pupils eyes reflective.
You did well, little one. Preparing them for such a time.
I wish this were never the case.
You wish to never return?
Nay, never to return to battle is what I wish for.
Let it be heard, little one, our roar as we once again rise above our enemies.
Eragon watched as they slowly filed out, back underneath to the decks, or above sitting atop their dragons. Only Blodhgarm remained by his side as the others filed away.
“It pains me to admit, my narrow mindedness only basked in the feeling of returning home. But to battle, I had scarcely allowed myself to believe and now I hate for my naivety, my inability to see the true picture of where I am going to.”
He nodded silently, “I think it was a mistake we all made, Blodhgarm. You are not alone in that. But perhaps, it was the mistake we needed to make. We are on this boat, and we are heading home, even if it is in battle. Perhaps, we would have never left, and then Alagaesia would have fallen, our friends and allies, relationships we worked hard to forge would have fallen, and then it would have been a matter of time till they headed east or north and we would have once again been in danger. It was our blindness to the horrors that prompted us to leave.”
“You would have come back, even if you had thought of the horrors of war.”
Flashes of her body post her rescue from Gil’ead, Varaug’s death grip on them both, being chained underground with her hand completely removed of skin, the eyes of men he looked through just before running his sword in their necks, the explosion of the castle and the feeling of his heart in his chest as she sprinted off to find the green egg.
“I would have, if my duty was to return and fight.”
Blodhgarm nodded slightly, his blue fur catching the sunlight.
“Do you believe in the afterlife, Shadeslayer?”
“I do not know.”
“I like to think there is one.”
“Why? I thought elves did not believe in the afterlife, or heaven.”
“I believe in beauty, and as much as we may argue, battle is not beautiful. Those who die in battle, die in an aberration, a marring of beauty. I like to think that afterwards, they may see a beautiful place instead of battle.”
“Is that your motivation to fight?”
“Nay, my motivation to keep on going to battle, even though I may surely lose my life.”
“And what is your motivation to keep going to war?”
“The realization that I would rather fight in something I believe in than live with nothing to fight for.”
“Wiser words have yet to be spoken.”
Closing his yellow eyes, he let the fragrance of the atmosphere wash over him.
“We are nearing Shadeslayer, the land we left, we are nearing. I can smell the scent of Du Weldonvarden, the heat of Hadarac, and chill of the Beor. We are close…” his voice turned contemplative, “very close indeed.”
Let it be heard, indeed.
Come, little one, lest we be plagued by the horrors our minds will think of. One last flight, before the many flights of battle.
And then after, Saphira. After this, after this war, true happiness just around the corner. One last obstacle, and we will become what we have always wanted.
He spoke her true name, causing a warm sense of peace rush through them both, amplified by her return of the gesture.
Jump, little one.
He went to bow of boat, high above any water surface, and slowly fell forward. A large mass of blue, her wings compacted, swept right underneath him, capturing him softly as he landed perfectly in his place.
His young Riders looked on him with envy, longing for that bond between Rider and dragon, longing for the moment when their movements become as coordinated and perfect as theirs, when their understanding reaches the level of their masters, and their flight as soothing and exhilarating.
Saphira disappears above the thick clouds, looping through and in between, the moisture clinging to his shirt until his entire body is plastered in water. The cold got to him, causing his body to shiver, but his mind was already too absorbed in their link to be bothered by it. All he could see were Saphira’s eyes and what she saw.
Rest, little one, I shall watch over you tonight.
And she always did.

Chapter 5 The Return to Familiarity
They landed as expected on the Hadarac, and just as expected, there was no one to greet them. Eragon sighed, partly in relief, partly in disappointment. Duty must be attended to, but that did not mean he had to like it.
Dorsun sank to the ground, letting the sands flow through him as he shouted to the Beor, announcing he was home. Marcus stiffened slightly as Ru’ali curved his tail around where he stood and donned a more menacing face, daring anything to come from the desert to attack his Rider. The black haired man laid a gentle hand on his elongated neck, careful to avoid the spines. Kyra remained stoic, looking in the direction of Du Weldonvarden, before carefully locking gazes with Marcus. Her eyes revealed nothing, but her silence told him everything.
She was worried, anxious. He walked over to her, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Ishmael watched their exchange with an amused expression, but went back Arhel, redoing the straps on her saddle. Amatria clenched her sword tightly, the only indication of her turmoil, and just as quickly, her increased pressure vanished. She jumped atop Ladrimme, waiting for her orders.
Thane looked nonchalantly towards the capital, only he had sights for their destination. Nari sank to his knees, letting the familiar water wash over him. It had been centuries since he felt the water of this river wash over him. Blodhgarm let his arms out, embracing the wind as it seemed to embrace him.
They were home, the Riders, the elves, and Eragon. They were home.
Eragon let himself breath in the air, filling his lungs to the brim as the wind slowly brought the sand up against his face. Saphira stood proudly beside him, her long neck stretched completely as she engulfed everyone else around them. Her wings outstretched, she let out an earth-shattering roar. All but Eragon covered their ears as she welcomed herself back.
A small white boat made their way up to the shore, lightly tapping his feet to alert him of its presence. Eragon picked it up, knowing who it was from. He signaled everyone to mount their dragons. Blodhgarm rode with him, his arms held the Rider lightly. He had not forgotten his sense of balance yet. The Rider opened up the letter, shaking to see what news it would bear, ill or not.
To the one I trust my life with-
There is nothing to forgive, although, I am disappointed in not being able to see you as I had strongly wished. We are holding the capital, as best we can. Their armies are marching, and quickly marching towards Melian, it is only a matter of time until it falls. The survivors are flocking to the capital, I fear famine and crime may run rampant through the town. We are doing all we can, but even so, I feel it is not enough. The only consolation I have is that those who arrive are willing to train and fight for Alagaesia. Our numbers are growing, but how long they can last I do not know. I fear Melian will be abandoned before it has a chance to even fight.
The King of Ilirea is doing as much as possible. He is Nasuada’s descendent, and seems to possess her ruling ability, King Narhak. No doubt some of your more recent Riders have heard of him, however, as the Crown Prince, not the king.
On a brighter note, my emerald eyed companion is incessantly waiting for your sapphire eyed one. He almost left the capital out of his own volition to find her. As did I. You are right in your observation, the days, the hours, the seconds turn into years as I stretch each and every inch of the distance between us into a mile itself. I made a mistake, Shadeslayer, of letting you go once. I shall never do so again.
Never again, shall I put myself through this agony.
There was a hesitant mark, a smudge, an almost slight reluctance on the page. Intrigued, he read on.
-the one who loves you
He clutched the note to his chest, happiness bounding through him.
She loves me, Saphira!
He wanted to scream and shout, and jump for joy, his emotions getting the better of him.
Control yourself, little one. Blodhgarm might be alarmed.
I cannot help it, she loves me. Arya, Arya, my Arya loves me…
Saying her name in his mind broke those barriers he kept in place, he was free and soaring higher than Saphira was taking him, higher than light itself could take him. A smile broke over his face, and his heart exploded with love.
Little one, they are waiting for us.
They both are waiting for us.
He patted her long neck affectionately as they reached the altitude they wanted. Now it was to wait and fly.
Will you not reply to her?
My message to her will travel faster than if we flew with it than on a paper boat crossing the desert. And I must tell it to her in person. I must tell her everything in person.
She already knows how you feel for her, the depth of your feelings.
I know, but now, finally…
I know, little one, I know.
He opened his link up to his pupils, Riders, how fare the travels for you? We have crossed nearly a quarter of the desert. With this pace, we can cross in a day and a half.
His answers were of varied eloquence, but all stated they could handle the journey. The free dragons took breaks here and there, but they stayed out of sight, and promised they would arrive within the next day after them. When asked how they would know the way, they responded that the way to the capital was due west and they had an inherent sense of direction. So Eragon let them be.
“How does the journey fare for you, Blodhgarm? Are you comfortable?”
“Quite,” was the elf’s slightly louder than normal reply, “my fur is keeping me warm.” He offered no further explanation.
The Rider had no time to further question him even if he wanted. He felt a presence brush up against his mind, recognizing the presence he let a brief window for entrance.
Ebirthil, it is I, Elbryn. I must ask you something.
Tell me, Elbryn. What is it?
Nalmalk and I strongly wish to lead our own team, if you will of Riders. I realize you may have chosen, but I merely wanted to let you know of my desire to lead. I want to show you my true potential as a Rider, and we will work hard to prove to you our capabilities. We know we are young, but we have the desire to truly showcase our abilities here.
It is true, Elbryn, Nalmalk. I have already chosen the ‘leaders’ if you will of the individual teams. Why do you believe you will make a good leader?
We understand the importance of experience, but also of a new approach. We care deeply about our fellow Riders, and we will not give up until our deaths, it is the way of the dwarves. I am eager to prove myself to my clan, to my people, and even to the Dwarven women that we can do more than sit on the sidelines as the men take charge. Nalmalk and I firmly believe that we can show the strength of Dwarven women, if given the chance.
Elbryn was the only female dwarf to be chosen to be a Rider. She had a short stature, but strong, burly muscles and a thick mass of bronze hair to match her sight. She wore a thick helm around her head, signifying her status as a member of the Dûrgrimst Vrenshrrgn. It was a natural belligerent clan, unlike the other thirteen. They produced the best warriors, and King Orik even had run into trouble with them because of their war like nature. Elbryn was the daughter of a prominent member of the clan, what her exact title was, Eragon did not know, and neither did he press the matter. But even so, he could tell her family was foremost in the battles against the dragons so long ago, and therefore, said some choice words of her acceptance as a Dragon Rider.
Nalmalk was a different case, she was a larger, buffer female. Burly on the flight, but still well coordinated. She would prove a force on the ground with her stature. Elbryn also preferred fighting on the ground, making her a force to be reckoned with when taking out large numbers of enemies. The combination of two fierce warriors effective on the ground and with the stature of such made a formidable combination, which was why he had no trouble make that decision…nearly three days ago.
Glancing over to the silver colored dragon, silver like the coat of Shrrg, he gave his reply.
You have given good points to your argument, but none are actually the reason as to why you should be a leader.
She protested, but Eragon patiently stopped her.
Whether or not you are a leader of a team will not diminish your role in that team. You will be able to prove your capabilities and your strength as a Dwarven women and to your clan, especially of your capability. However, it is your ability to fight on the ground and in air effectively that will make you both good candidates as leaders, and that is precisely why I chose you as one of these leaders nearly three days ago. On your team, you will have Victor and Taque, along with Maria and Hulon. The six of you will be able to take out a large number of opponents in a short amount of time, giving us ample to recuperate and gather our defenses, that is your task on the battlefield.
The gray, nearly white eyes fixed on the blue mass. And then a deep female voice resounded through them.
Thank you trusting us, ebirthil. We will not let you or Saphira-ebithil regret your belief in us.
I have no doubt, younglings.
Eragon was slightly surprised it was Saphira that answered, but then again, she was always privy to his thoughts.
Victor and Maria were two human siblings, twin brother and sister pair. They came from a good family, a blacksmith’s family. Their father had mixed feelings about Taque and Hulon hatching for them both. Eragon could understand his sentiment: Victor was his only son and with him gone, he had no one else to inherit the business after he was gone. Maria was his only daughter as well, and the relationship between the father and daughter was a special one. But he parted with them on good terms, and his children had nothing but the utmost respect for their father. It would have been nearly twenty five years since they had come to train, and in this time, they had no idea what had happened to their father. He was in no danger of falling to enemy soldiers, they were from Therinsford, far too north past the border of the foreign insurgency.
Both of them had light brown hair, although Maria wore hers much longer than Victor, for obvious reasons. Dark, dark brown eyes accompanied their rather pale northern skin, and the leanness of their body would have rendered them unusually weak for humans, but their dragons gave them a unique strength. As far as anyone knew, Taque and Hulon did not get along with each other, but through time and affection for the family of their Riders, both dragons grew accustomed and even fond of the other. Both Taque and Hulon exhibited yellowish hues of varying degrees. Hulon was a pale yellow, nearly white unless one squinted, and Taque a more bright yellow. They were not inconspicuous by any means, and their bright colors would serve to confuse and blind their enemies, a good reason to put them on the ground. It would also be safer for them to attack the weaker, but multiple opponents with another watching their back.
Over the course of the journey, Eragon informed his Riders of their positions and tasks in the upcoming battles. His ideas were mainly uncontested, save for a few reassignments based on dragons whose egos clashed with one another. Saphira stressed the importance of working together despite differences in personality, citing the reasons if all the races of Alagaesia could do it, than so should individuals within the same race. Arguments were finally smoothed over and they finally were able to see Ilirea on the horizon.
Saphira let out an announcing roar, and to their immense delight, an answering roar reached their ears. The blue dragon sped forward into the city, immediately finding the source of that roar. She landed in the middle, her mouth nipping and nuzzling Firnen. He had grown bigger, nearly the same size as Saphira herself.
His deep booming voice could be heard through their link.
Firnen, how are you?
The green dragon touched his forehead, Too long, Rider Eragon. It has been too long since I have felt this good.
Saphira nuzzled him again and they both took off to the skies leaving Blodhgarm and Eragon in the dust. The rest of the Riders landed around them in grass surrounding the city. But Eragon only had eyes for the one leading the procession to their greeting. Men and women of lavish dressing started their way toward them, but the one leading the procession was the Elven Queen he had spent so long dreaming about. His knees nearly buckled beneath him, Blodhgam sensed him momentary lapse in coordination and caught him before he could hit the ground in relief or whatever overwhelmed him.
She rode to him, her raven black hair just as long and lush, the scent of pinecones sent his way specifically. Her emerald eyes locked on his, boring into his depths, and he had flashes of gazing into those beautiful gems thousands of times over. Dismounting, she came toward him, a fierce gaze in her eyes, a smile against her lips, as if she too was unable to take the sight before her.
Realizing everyone watched their encounter with trepidation, Eragon snapped out of his gaze.
“Atra esterní ono thelduin.” He started the traditional greeting in his flawless voice, touching two fingers to his lips.
“Mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr.” was her swift reply, and suddenly, her voice threatened to bring him to his knees even more. The velvet sound, the perfection of it all nearly made his forget his line. And she was smiling at him, as if she knew every intimate detail of how she affected him so.
“Un du evar…”
What was the last sentence again? He was so fixated on her he forgot the last portion. A chuckle came out from her, and whatever semblance of control he thought he had was gone. There was no way he could possibly remember that stupid line.
She stepped closer, her eyes only for him. Grasping his face lightly, she leaned up and kissed his forehead chastely, just like she had all those years ago when he left for Vroengard. Sliding her hands down, he grasped them in his own, and leaned closer, whispering so only she could hear, her true name, and felt that familiar peace and shiver run through her body. He responded in kind when she murmured his own name in his pointy ear.
“Arya Drottning.” He stepped away, letting her hands go and bowing deeply, his eyes never losing contact with hers, lest he miss a second of this.
They stepped away from each other as their old companions greeted their Queen, and their once fellow warrior in the battle again the Empire. Blodhgarm, Nari, and the other elves had smiles on their faces, especially at seeing such a cared for and well respected face, and such emotion from their two friends.
“And these must be the Riders we have all deeply missed.”
Eragon turned to the voice, unsure of who everyone was.
“King Larkin, allow me to present Master of the Dragon Riders and Kingkiller, Eragon. And this is King Narhak. They command Surda and Ilirea respectively.”
“Commanded in my case, Surda is no longer in my control, and I cannot say how much I wish for her to be back in my control.”
Eragon regarded with a knowing smile, “And we shall do all in our power to get her back and into Alagaesian power once again, King Larkin.”
He nodded, but left his gaze at the sights of fifty fully fledged Dragon Riders in their midst.
“Come inside, no doubt you are all tired from your journey. Firnen has hunted for the past week in an effort to get food for all of you after your rapid journey here.”
The dragons grunted or growled their approval, and took off towards the meat area.
“Quarters have been prepared for you, it is late and you must rest.”
Eragon kept watching her, unsure if she was real or a fiction of his imagination.
“Come inside, Riders, elf friends of old, we have much to discuss.”

Chapter 6 Doubts and Doubtless Things
They followed the Queen and Kings inside, all protests shot down at their tired bodies. Entering the capital was a sight to behold. Eragon had never seen it in its glory.
“Impressive, is it not?”
He looked to the voice, “Very.” But he doubted he was talking of the city. She seemed to notice, for a look of amusement passed through her features.
“Firnen missed Saphira greatly.”
“As did she. I had never realized how must he meant to her until very recently.”
“They both did remarkable jobs of keeping such an intimate detail from us.”
“They seemed so strong when they parted.”
She locked gazes with him, “They were not the only ones with such a convincing ruse.”
He nodded in agreement, “No, they were not.”
Turning back, she signaled their quarters in the East Wing of the castle. The rooms were well furnished, more comfortable than they had expected, but very well received. As they were increasingly left more and more alone, the quieter and quieter they both remained, as if anticipating and dreading the upcoming conversation.
Her movements stopped in front of a particularly large room. Opening the door, she waited for him to enter, and closed the door, based on their impending conversation.
“Arya…” But she had already opened a bottle of faelnirv for them to share. He shared a large smile before taking his seat and a large swig of it and handing it back to her. Nostalgia crept strongly on them both, enough to let them sit and reminisce before starting an actual conversation. Their silence, however, was short lived.
Eragon grasped her hand, “It was right here,” he looked at her questioningly, “where you can no longer feel anything.”
Arya nodded, and twisted her hand around his, holding him firmly. Pressing the bottle to her forehead, she breathed deeply, and snapped her eyes to his, softening ever so slightly. Seeming to quell under his gaze, she let his hand limp in hers, letting him go, but he caught hers, not letting her go.
“Eragon…” And her grip tightened on his.
He pulled out her letter with his other hand, reading over her ending greeting.
“Did you mean it?”
She stared at the letter, knowing fully well what he was speaking about.
“Of course I did. How could you doubt that?”
He closed his eyes, “It is still hard to believe, even after two hundred years, that you would ever be able to feel that way towards me.”
She tilted her head to one side, “How so?”
“A Queen, beautiful beyond belief, courageous, kind, perfect, ambitious, strong, focused, yet mischievous, falling for a mere Rider.”
“Not a mere Rider, the savior of Alagaesia himself.”
He stood up, walking toward her, kneeling in front of her, his eyes locking with hers as his grip never relented.
“Arya, I love you.”
She closed her eyes, “I know.”
Leaning her forehead against his, she closed her eyes and let her hands be soothed by the circles he drew over her palm. She held his jaw, covering the aristocratic cheekbone all the way up to his ears. He had cut his hair shorter, opting for more manageable, shorter locks than the curly unkempt hair he sported during the war.
“I love you, Eragon.”
He chuckled as he mimicked her response, “I know.”
Amusement passed over her features, but only briefly. He leaned in closer, and soon all she could feel was her heart beating far too fast, and the sound of his own heart pounding against his chest. A feral desire erupted in him, forcing him to act rashly, and so he leaned in even closer, only a hair’s breadth away from her.
Her patience wearing thin, she closed the miniscule distance between them, her lips grazing his, pressing softly against him. He was left in shock, his eyes closed as he felt her lips against his, but she was not keeping still. Wearing off quickly, his shock turned into something far more heated. Eragon responded in kind, his hands resting on each side of her face, framing its delicate, perfect features, all the while never breaking contact. And at once, he felt an entirely different sensation, her smile against his lips, her ragged breath beating on his mouth. Arya pulled away, ever so slightly, letting a finger run down the side of his face.
“I am sorry for leaving, Arya.”
She shook her head, her forehead still pressed against his.
“Never, it was why I fell in love with you in the first place. You knew, always, the right thing to do.”
Eragon was not certain if the effects of faelnirv caused her to be more open that usual, but he doubted she would be this open later on.
“I cannot be here without being with you, Arya. Without being together.”
She smiled again, the faint touch of it sending his heart racing.
“And you will not have to. We are together, Eragon, finally. Finally, upon your return, we have finally become what we should have become years ago.”
He kissed her softly, unsure of how else to express himself. It seemed faelnirv rendered her more open and able to express herself, and him rendered plain stupid. Chuckling at his observation, he caused her to pull away, that faint smile never leaving her features.
“I should go, Eragon. It is late, and you need your rest. We have much to do in the morning.”
“Saphira and Firnen?”
“They will return in the morning, he expressed her desire to tell you, Saphira being otherwise occupied.”
“They never take long, do they?”
Arya laughed, clearly remembering their first encounter with each other, “Nay, they never did.”
The Rider smiled at her, “You have had a long few months, you need to sleep.”
“Always looking out for me, are you not?”
Grazing her cheeks with the back of his knuckles, he murmured, “I would have you stay the entire night, if I could, but now is not the time. I suspect everyone will have their own perceptions to our greeting earlier today.”
Arya held his hand against her cheek, “I have waited three hundred years to do something for myself, let them speak. I have given my heart and soul to protect my people and this land, it is time I also look to protecting myself.”
The Rider smiled at her, soaring with the knowledge that she looked to him as her protector, or at least, he was part of her protection.
“Let me walk you to your room.”
“I am quite capable of walking there myself.”
He closed his eyes as a chuckle escaped, “Think of it as a selfish need of mine. I am not so eager to part with you, and this is my way to keeping you by my side for as long as possible.”
“Come then.”
Lifting herself up with the grace and fluidity he knew only she possessed, the Queen of Elves made her regal way to the door, her hand carefully placed inside the arm of her dear Rider, as he escorted her to her quarters.
They walked for a while, basking in the peaceful silence, in the knowledge of the relief the acknowledgement of their relationship gave to them both. Sooner than either wanted, her quarters came, and she turned towards, enveloping him in a hug far longer than one considered to be chaste. But he took no notice of any detail past the fragrance of pinecones sweeping over him, and her soft, silky hair he ran his hands through before settling his arms around the middle of back, like two bands of steel promising never to let her go. Arya turned her face into his neck, placing a chaste kiss on the taut skin underneath his jaw.
“Good night, Eragon.”
Pulling out of their embrace, she quickly turned around, hiding her expression. He caught her hand though, forcing her to look at him, wondering if she regretted it at all. The effects of the faelnirv were fading quickly.
“Arya, do you…” He left the question unfinished, caught in his throat, fear of her rejection after such happiness.
She looked at him encouragingly, his hesitance confusing to her.
“Do you regret anything? I will understa…” he choked on his words, “I will understand if the effects of the faelnirv caused you to do anything you now regret.”
Waiting for the worst, he let her hand go and stared at the ground, amazed at how this woman could reduce him, a Rider of over two hundred years to a naughty boy who pushed too hard for too long. To his immense surprise, she began to laugh softly at him. His gaze snapped to hers, unsure of what he was going to see.
She stepped closer, placing her hand on his chiseled jaw, and a soft kiss on his lips.
“I am not so young that less than half a bottle of faelnirv will render me drunk or void of any ability of judgment.”
Her gaze turned more serious as she struggled to get through the last words. It must be hard for her, he realized, to express herself with ease. “I turned melancholy at the realization that even when we are together, I must still fall asleep and wake up alone.”
He moved to say something, to offer to stay for the night. But she caught him, knowing the expression in his eyes was one he donned when he was ready to do anything he could for her.
“It would not be proper, and we are not out of public eye. The Elves will not take kindly to the implications if you were found in my chambers late at night and early in the morning on your first night back, regardless of our feelings to each other.”
She placed another kiss on his jaw, working her way slowly to his lips, pressing softly against them. He responded in kind, growing accustomed to her displays of affection. Perhaps, once, long ago, had they pursued a relationship, she would not have been so open with him.
“I see many questions and speculations running through your eyes, do not dwell on the past and the what ifs. Focus on now, and what we are.”
The Rider smiled down at her, holding her tightly in his arms, “Do you not fear our foreign opponents?”
“Nay, you are here, the dragons are here, the Riders are here. And Alagaesia shall be in full strength once again, powerful over her enemies. It will take time, and patience, we are together, in every way possible.”
His smile broadened, causing those facial muscles he had not used in years to strain at their sudden frequent demand to flex. One last chaste kiss and they parted for the night, her emerald gems watching him as she closed the door, prolonging the separation of the barrier between them.
“Goodnight, Eragon.” She whispered as the door finally closed.
The slightly over two hundred year old man did a little jig on the way back to his quarters, Oh if only his students could see him now.
Reaching out to Saphira, he saw her curled up and safe in the dragonhold, her heart and mind content at having her mate back at her side. In all his years, he had never made a decision that made him this ecstatic before, and there was always some part of him doubting if it was the right one, but somehow, somewhere along the lines, he misinterpreted the feelings for simple butterflies.

Chapter 7 Commotions and Battles
The next morning came with a cold vengeance. While he was eager to let the cool breeze wake him, as he often did in his island home hundreds of miles off, the sharp chill of the winter was nothing like his normal breezy greeting. Sighing…and shivering, he lifted himself off the soft sheets and closed the window. Looking in the mirror, he saw his disheveled, windblown, and completely out of sync appearance. In all honesty, he did not want to believe he presented his love with his appearance so unruly. Sighing, he moved to the wash basin and cleaned the moisture and grime from his body. He donned black wool clothes, thicker than normal, but still allowed the flexibility of his Rider’s clothes, and the warmth of a cloak. A knock on his door resounded ever so loudly, only to be followed by a rapid, “Ebirthil! Ebirthil!”
It was a miracle he got any peace and quiet at all.
Eragon opened the door, “What is it, Ishmael?”
Every time this particular Rider of his was in a panic, it was for a very serious reason. To ignore his pleas would be to ignore the threat of a Shade, completely and utterly stupid.
“There is a commotion on the sparring grounds.”
A prolonged and deep sigh escaped the Rider. Pure frustration. He knew the egos of the dragons and their Riders would clash with a land that has had two hundred years without Riders at all, save for Arya, but she was in the forests, not among the people.
“Walk with me, and explain.”
Ishmael nodded, easily keeping up the pace.
“Kyra was in the sparring grounds, sparring with elves. One particular one watched from the sides and goaded her. Kyra remained calm, but the other Riders are now completely at arms at the obvious insult to her and his comments on the Rider order.”
“Let me guess, he had blonde hair, light green eyes, and looked exactly like Kyra with shorter hair, and a larger build.”
“Well…yes.”
“That is her older brother, Kyrian. He is purposely making trouble with her.”
The shouts could be heard from wherever they were running to, almost instigating Eragon himself to break into a full sprint. And then he heard his Rider’s voice.
“Silence!”
The commotion was reduced to murmurs as Eragon neared. No one noticed him and when Ishmael went to make his presence known, he laid a gentle hand on his, making him watch how they handled themselves.
“Kyrian, your problem is with me, not with the order of the Riders.”
A sneer broke across the elf’s face. “You are mistaken. My problem is with the order of the Riders. How could then let one such as you, the second best at everything, become a Rider? That is what I have a problem with.”
Hjarta reared on his hind legs as his voice boomed throughout.
You dare insult my Rider! Or my choice!
Eragon raised his eyebrows, never had he seen Hjarta lose his temper and to the point with his teeth bared and his eyes narrowly glinted. Dragons, no matter of what creed, personality, or doctrine, had their pride. He bared his fangs, daring Kyrian to say another word. The boy had good sense to step back, but he held his sister’s gaze.
“You expect me to believe that we, as Elven warriors, trained, are unable to defeat our foreigners, yet these Riders, trained in ways we have never seen are, simply because they have dragons. We should implore the free dragons to help us, not these Riders.”
Are you claiming me as weak?
Hjarta growled at him.
“No, only her.”
He pointed to Kyra, and finally Eragon turned his gaze on his pupil. Her eyes were oddly calm, her stance assertive, but not aggressive by any means. Her hands were crossed over her chest, and her face was impassive. Kyrian’s words were not getting to her. And then she spoke.
“I have never claimed that I had a right to become a Rider, or that Hjarta was correct in choosing me. There are many others more worthy, I understand that, but I have come to believe in him and his decisions as he has come to believe in mine.”
“You are not the strongest.”
“I never was, and most likely, I never will be.”
“Then you are not worthy.”
“Strength may have been the characteristic of our family, Elven men and women bred for the purpose of developing strength, but strength is not what makes a Rider worthy of being called one.”
“Than what?”
“The ability to learn, and I know I have demonstrated that to my ebirthil.”
Pride showed through her said master’s eyes. But he remained in the background.
“Then show me how much you have learned!”
Kyrian stepped in the ring, his teeth bared and hissing at her. He was an elf, a bloodthirsty, battle hungry elf that reveled in the ability to take a life as was the creed of his house.
Kyra shook her head, “If the only way to prove to you that I am worthy of a Rider is to beat you in a game of strength, and I take that opportunity, then I have not learned as much as I claim to have. I will not fight you.”
“Then you are weak! Find your master, tell him to fight! Surely he knows the importance of strength.”
“He is here.” Ishmael announced.
The crowd parted, revealing him privy to their conversation. He walked over to his pupil.
“You have handled yourself well, Kyra. And you are more worthy today than you ever will be.”
He raised his voice a little louder, “I am quite afraid I have a sore back today. I am getting quite old, and frankly, I do not care to start my mornings off with the clanging of metal. However, Kyrian, you shall not go without an opponent today.”
Eragon stepped to the side, allowing Kyra straight entrance to the rink. Leaning towards her, he raised his arms towards the rink.
“Ebirthil…”
“You are fighting for my honor, surely you have more confidence in defending me.”
“It is not your confidence in me that I worry about.”
“Then do it for yours, Kyra.”
She let her face slide into a sardonic smile and raised her sword. Stepping into the rink, she glanced around, looking for someone. Marcus slid into the front, wordlessly nodding at her, humorlessly smiling at her. And her gaze snapped back to the sight of her hissing brother.
Kyrian jumped at her first, she sidestepped him easily, his movements were easy to see. He was slow, she realized, slower than ever before. She caught his blade, eager to see how strong he was…he was weaker too. Was he playing with her? Or was this just a testament of a Rider’s strength?
Her brother noticed her lack of enthusiasm, and misinterpreted it as fear of him instead of observation. He left himself open is his whirlwind of movements, perfectly executed, but just not fast enough.
Kyra landed three blows to his ribs in quick succession, the last sending him flying backwards barely inside the ring. He was breathing hard, and her, not at all. Growling, his green eyes filled with red blood as he grew angrier and angrier, he rushed at her again. Kyra raised her blade, blocking with success, the formation that her family had perfected over their years. It was the most comprehensive combination of attack and defense, and only could the fastest switch from one to another, but she was faster than the fastest. Changing rapidly between her left and right hand, she ducked and swung at different levels successfully parrying and repelling each defense and attack tactic.
In a rush with her body, Kyra grasped her brother’s sword hilt, burying hers in the ground she lithely jumped onto the pommel and with a balance a dancer would be envious of, kicked her opponent straight across the rink. He went flying out of it, successfully ending the match. Staring at her brother’s sword in her hand, she threw it to him, and watched it sail and land right next to his hand. Pulling her sword out of the ground, she began to walk away.
A howl of agony erupted from far too near her. She turned, shocked by the scene in front of her.
At some point, Kyrian had gotten off from the ground, and rushed toward her in a silent frenzy. He was poised in mid air, his sword ready to bring it down upon her head, but it was not him she was staring at. Rather, it was Marcus in front of her, Kyrian’s sword in his hand, caught by the blade, the blood dripping through the deep cut the force of it made against him from his palm. A certain crackle of energy radiated off of him and without a word, Marcus pulled the blade from her brother’s grasp and watched his body with a malicious look as he raised him by the throat choking him. Kyrian was, at least, six feet in the air, the haunting now, nearly black purple eyes of Marcus turned on him as he gasped in his struggle to breath.
“Marcus, let him go.” Kyra’s voice was soft, pleading, comforting.
The black haired Rider shook his head, and whispered in a voice so low even Ishmael flinched, “He attacked you.”
“Marcus, please.” Kyra’s voice was growing more desperate.
“Anyone who attacks you…” He let the sentence trail off, the threat evident in his tone.
Kyra laid a gentle hand on his face, forcing him to turn to her, his cheek cupped in her warm hand, “Let him go.” She implored again, and finally, Kyrian was let down.
The color returned to his face, the gagging subsided, and soon he was on the ground, gasping for air.
“What power…wh-what power lets you hold me so?”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, his face still half covered by the blonde elf’s hand, and replied, “The power of a Rider.”
And it was true. Eragon was weak, the beginning of his journey as a Rider, he was weak. Riders were not made in year, as he and Saphira had to be, Riders, full fledged Riders took ten to fifteen years to complete their training. These Riders were not of the same caliber as he was before he left, these Riders were decades old fully fledged Riders with the power and knowledge of the eldunari. These were the Riders who rivaled the Riders of the old Order, who rivaled the strength of Vrael, the wisdom of Anurin, and the knowledge of Oromis. These were the Riders of New Order, and their strength was unmatched by any that had ever roamed Alagaesia.
Marcus was easily able to overpower Kyrian, he was, of course, a fully-fledged Rider with all the power of the old Order. But his thoughts were pushed aside as Kyra stepped closer to him, grasping his bloody hand. Without another word, she muttered “Waise heill.” And watched closely as the skin began to close together.
Eragon knew Marcus was entirely capable of healing it himself. A smile brushed across his face as he remembered his own Arya…ah it felt good saying that, his Arya healing his hand even when he was perfectly capable of doing so. As if on cue, she walked down the side stairs of the castle, just familiarizing herself with the commotion, smiling faintly, as if she too, was remembering those events.
She caught his eye, and Eragon knew she remembered.
But the end result was a little different between them as to these two.
Kyra stepped back, her green eyes suddenly angry.
“There was absolutely no need for such actions. I am not so weak, and I require no such considerations. Understand?”
Marcus was so taken aback that all he did was stare after in shock, an utterly confused look on his face, his hand still outstretched from where she let it go.
“Kyra!”
He called after her. She shot him a glare and continued walking. The black haired Rider shook his head, incessantly muttering, “She hates me, I know she does.” And took off on Ru’ali to calm himself.
Ishmael pursed his lips together in a signal that the daily entertainment was over and found a nearby tree to sit under and read this new book of poetry he found in the library of the castle. Thane began to whistle as he walked over to Eragon.
“Quite a day, is it not? Tell me, can I expect a daily drama from now on? I must say, it is quite entertaining.”
Before he could prevent himself, the elder man let a ghost of a smile through, and then Nari smacked redhead on the back of his head.
“I must say, the nerve you have…” and dragged him off promptly.
Arya watched in soft amusement, “I had often heard the Order of the Riders were more lax than elves, more friendly and open. I am glad I am privy to witness such history.”
“You are a Rider as well, iet Drottning. You cannot forget that.”
Her eyes snapped back to his, “‘Iet Drottning,'” she mused, “…it sounds nice, it has been a long time since I have been called any sort of endearment.”
“Iet naunen, iet feon, iet lif, iet solus, iet hjarta, iet garjzla, iet evarinya, iet Arya.” He stepped closer and closer, iterating each and every endearment he could think of.
A faint color rushed to her cheeks, how she could be so forward, yet so shy was a mystery to him, an enigma.
“As are you.” His smile broadened.
The sound of someone clearing her throat caught his attention. Immediately, he turned, looking on their intruders.
“Amatria, what is it?”
The dark-haired elven maiden looked at him, and bowed deeply to her Queen. Upon completion of the custom greeting, she turned her attention back on to her master.
“While I hate to intrude upon this special moment of yours, albeit well hidden, I have come to inform you that Ladrimme and I have come across interesting news on our morning flight.”
“And that would be?” he implored.
“Our enemies are on the move, with great beasts of burden as their mounts. They move quickly, and will be here in a day and a half.”
“That is preposterous, they cannot possibly hope to capture the capital so soon.”
Amatria nodded, signaling her astute assessment.
“They are growing arrogant with their successes, and I cannot say I blame them. There army looks no worse for wear, and Dras-Leona and Marna will surrender if Ilirea is captured.”
Eragon nodded, “I sense a but in there, what are you thinking?”
Ladrimme landed beside them, her calm and controlled voice filling the air.
Take three Riders, Amatria and I, Ishmael and Arhel, Kyra and Hjarta, and we shall attack them first.
“You cannot hope to take out their entire army.”
“We do not want to, only to take out their leaders. They will be disoriented if we assassinate them early. It will buy us time, and in the mean while, the other Riders can set themselves up in different posts, and we shall have their army surrounded by formidable forces on either side. We can outflank and then close in on them.”
“And their beasts of burden?”
I am dragon, ebirthil. They are not so big and most definitely not so intelligent. Just clumsy and scary looking. We can roast one in a minute if we would like to. “
“Do not take Kyra and Hjarta, or Ishmael and Arhel.”
“Then who? I would take my team that you assigned. I trust them.”
“I shall come with you. I need to get an assessment of their situation and this seems like the appropriate time to do so.”
“And the third?”
“Me.” Arya spoke finally.
“Drottning, I cannot…”
“It has been a long, long time since I have roamed the skies with Firnen, and we are all eager to get this over with. Three Riders going will not cause the elves to trust your judgment, and if things go wrong, they will blame you. However, if I accompany you, you have the added luxury of a third Rider, and the elves’ consent to my decision and growing favor.”
She nodded, “It seems the ways of the Rider are not always in consent with the ways of politics.” Turning away, she muttered understandingly, “There is much I have to learn about politics of the races.”
“I do not think I still understand.”
Arya let a soft sound of amusement slip through, “No one ever does.”
She moved to say something else, but the shadow of a purple hued dragon descended upon them. Marcus lithely jumped off, and unbeknownst to the intrusion between the Rider and Queen, he scrambled, “I need to talk to you, ebirthil.”
Eragon looked sorrowfully at her, but she nodded, chastely kissed his cheek, “Come and find me when you have more time on your hands.”
Looking between him and her retreating form, “Oh sorry.” was the dark haired Marcus’ only response.
“Let me guess, trouble with Kyra?”
“I do not understand her. I was only trying to protect her.”
Eragon sighed, “You are more hopeless with women than even I was.”
Marcus stood, dumbstruck at the distinction.
“She was touched, and she cared for you, and she let it show. It scared her, how much you care for her, and how much, she, in turn cares for you. Placing her barriers up, she pretended to get angry at you and walked away. In reality, she is, utterly and completely, scared of falling in love so quickly.”
Marcus thought on his words for a bit longer, “That cannot be it.” And walked away, feeling more dejected than before.
Is he alright, Ru’ali?
Just being difficult, ebirthil. Sometimes he is assured of himself, other times he is not. The key is Kyra. Of that I am certain.
The dragon snorted in amusement.
Who are we kidding? Of that, the entire of Alagaesia, but my dear Rider is certain.
Will he speak with her?
And risk making a greater fool of himself?
He did not make a fool of himself. On the contrary, it was quite good.
Seventy years of age, and when it comes to love, it is like trying to convince a child that you cannot eat a crystal even though it looks like a piece of rock candy.
When…” His question trailed off.
This morning in the market, it was most annoying. And with that the sarcastic, morose, yet oddly entertaining dragon took off into the air in an effort to find his equally morose and oddly entertaining Rider.
Chapter 8 In the Event of Failure
“Ishmael?”
The tawny skinned elven male looked up from his newly obtained history book, courtesy of King Narhak upon the Rider’s request. The slightly melting snow rustled around him as he sat perched on top, no evidence at even sinking beneath the ground. Eragon glanced at his own feet, shuffling unknowingly. He nearly winched at the sound of the crunch of his boots.
“Yes, ebirthil?”
“Has Amatria informed you of where she went?”
Ishmael shook his head and went back to his book.
“Although,” he looked up quickly, “I wish she had.” He turned his eyes back to his book, but they possessed neither the hunger or the drive to learn as Ishmael often demonstrated when reading. Instead they were blank, contemplative.
“Why do you wish so?”
“Her life is a lonely one, I only wish she could see how much she means to all of us.”
“All of us? Or to you?”
Ishmael regarded him with a certain wave of recognition, “All of us, ebirthil. We, Riders of the New Order, had to pick up our lives, sacrificing our homes, no matter how dismal for unfamiliarity with strangers in an even stranger land. We are a family, no matter how unconventional. Misery loves company, and we out grew our misery together. We only wish the best for one another. And we care about Amatria. She is special.”
“But especially to you.”
A small smirk flitted across his features, “I know where you lead me, ebirthil. I cannot say what I feel, not well. I do not understand what I feel half the time. My interests lie in words and history, but never the motivations or intentions. I believed myself to be in love, and when rejected, I was hurt. But Arhel, and the depths of those feelings, of that bond made me realize what was hurt was my ego, not my heart. That is not love, but infatuation.”
“And for Amatria?”
“I cannot express what I do not clearly know myself.”
“Are you usually this open with everyone? I never remember you to be close to anyone in particular.”
Ishmael nodded his head in agreement, “When one sees an open book, he often not inspired to read it. It is the closed ones, ones one cannot see, cannot hold, and must work for that enrapture one’s focus. And those who see an open book and begin to read it, realize how relatable those experiences are to themselves, and are frightened by it, and by the uncanny self awareness it brings about.”
He paused in his mini speech, only to further collect his thoughts.
“We are all not so different. Dwarves, humans, elves, dragons, and Urgals. In fact, we all fight and live for the same things. Some longer than others, and some more violently than others.”
“And what is that purpose?”
“It is simple, ebirthil. That purpose is to find a purpose, whether it be in the death of a king, or death by enemy hands, the becoming of a mother, a Queen, a Rider. And once that purpose is found, to find another one, perhaps to teach, or cook, or paint, or write, or study. And once that purpose is found, to find another and another until the very last breath comes to us, or time itself stops us in our tracks.”
“And your purpose now?”
“To see Amatria smile. Too long as she took to the shadows to hide her emotions. I only wish she would smile to let the world know that she is stronger than her fate, as strong as the woman I know her to be.”
Eragon nodded, keeping his thoughts on the matter to himself. There were many definitions of love, but he was fairly certain to see someone smile as a sole purpose was one of them. His memories shifted as he recalled a time when that was his sole purpose, and to the woman he loved.
Arya…iet Arya.
A faint brush of her mind caressed his and his face became blank in that sensation. Too long had he been without the faint violin emanating through her mind into his.
Where are you?
Have you completed your tasks?
Must you be so duty bound?
But his voice held a nuance of humor, they both knew Eragon would not like her half as much without her unwavering sense of duty and strength.
My very breath catches when I think of you.
Where are you?
The throne room. Come quickly, you are needed here. We cannot start our meeting without the Master Rider.
Ah…
His despair was rampant through their link, almost to the point of physical pain so strong it shot through to her before he could stop it.
Are you injured? I did not realize it last night, I apologize. Must you see a healer, or perhaps I can take a look once you arrive?
Nay, iet naunen, I am injured, but only from the pain that I cannot kiss you the moment I see you, and that I must keep my expression guarded when I gaze upon you properly. And I must hide behind our titles when I feel as if I have the right to fall to your feet as your slave, simply because of my love for you.
It was a while before she replied, Come quickly.
“Ishmael, please find Amatria and tell her to come to my quarters in two hours time.” He turned away quickly, but stopped, “And get her a flower, perhaps it will make her day seem a bit brighter.”
A wry smile appeared on his face, as he softly began to sing a black Bacarra rose from the cold of the ground. It would take a surprising amount of energy, but the elf was more than capable of supplying the rose with the energy it would need.
The elder Rider left the premises quickly, moving with swift feet past the familiar roads. A few Riders greeted their master on his way, but most were preoccupied with their new surroundings. If they were from the capital, they had been gone far too long, and if they were not, they had never set foot upon the Ilirea.
Where are you?
Coming soon, I shall be there in a few moments.
Do not, meet me in the corridor to the entrance to the chambers next to the throne room. I have ‘stepped out’ for a bit.
As you wish.
His sure footing landing him silently in the specified corridor, and before he could ask, she came around the corner. Making as much sound as a cat on the ledge of wall, she padded towards him, a strange glint in her eyes. But he could not so much as muster a protest, no matter how half hearted it would have been as she fisted the soft tendrils of his elven cotton shirt and pulled him down to meet her lips.
She pulled away moments later, their breaths turned to pants as they worked hard to control their heart rates. Eragon kissed her again, only because he could honestly not think of anything else at that moment, but more softly lest he be rendered catatonic from pure physical exhaustion.
“Was my need to see you as great as yours to see me? As great as that must have been.”
She smiled, laying her head on his chest, marveling at the warmth such a small space in such a large universe could provide her. His arms came around her, his closed, savoring the feel of her body against his.
“Never forget that my need to see you is great. In any case, you came from land far away because I asked. The least I could do is greet you with a kiss away from prying eyes the first time we meet in a day.”
His smiled widened as she buried herself in his arms. This Arya was as strong as she was loving, something he had been lucky enough to only see. His heart clenched at the thought of leaving her as he did, how stupid had he been. How many people had he hurt by leaving? Had not he hurt enough during the war? Even in peace he managed to cause the people he loved such intense pain.
“Hush, such thoughts do not become you. It takes strength to walk away from happiness for the better of the world. Not many people have it.”
“But I did hurt you, did I not?” His voice was barely above a whisper, if it could be even called that. But Arya heard, as she always would.
“I expect nothing but the truth when I ask you something, and I will expect nothing less of myself when you ask.” She hesitated, turning her head away from him, looking to the wall, knowing she looked far weaker in his eyes.
“I…” she started, “I had tears in my eyes for days, only wiped away for duty. It took years for me to smile again. I was as I once was, before I met you, after my exile…absolutely and utterly devoted to work and devoid of any life. Firnen taught me to live again, how half heartedly that might have been. And it took him years and years to make me smile again, but true happiness was still far away. Too far for me to see, and so I took one day at a time, waiting, watching, listening for a sign.”
“A sign?” He quirked his eyebrows. “A sign for what?”
“For you to come back.”
“Arya? After all this time, you still had hope that I would return?”
His voice held poorly concealed wonder as her longing. He resigned himself from the beginning that he would never see her again, and shut the doors to his heart, silenced his emotional mind, and existed as if there was never a life before this. He could not take that pain.
“I had to, Eragon. I had to. I lost everyone, mother, father, Faolin. The only one left was Firnen, and we are one, we cannot share our losses when our hearts and minds are one. I had no one to live for, nothing to live for.”
“Your people?”
“Strangers to an elf exiled for nigh over seventy years. They chose me for my deeds and I accepted out of grief. They certainly did not choose me out of respect for who I am, but rather what I did. And I was asked in the wake of my mother’s funeral, a time when I doubted my honor and would have done anything to make her proud, not fully understanding what I did would have no effect on our relationship, late as it was.”
“Do you regret it? I never want you to regret anything.”
Her grin was infectious, “I have a feeling you would never want any emotional distress on my part, even if it meant I would not pine for you.”
“And you would be correct.”
She kissed his jaw, lips lingering longer than they should to be considered chaste. But they were not chaste, nor should they be. They were every bit as passionate and charged as any other couple, only with two hundred years to ferment their love.
If it was possible, his arms tightened around her body even more.
“I do not know if I regret it. Truthfully…only Fate knows if we would have been together had I never accepted the throne. Or if you had stayed, perhaps it is because you left my feelings for you arose. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I grew colder. I suppose the heart only grows fonder with the definite knowledge of a return, not this hopeful desire that died every day it never saw their beloved face.”
Eragon chuckled, “Perhaps because the saying is ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder.'”
His deep throated laugh caused her to pull away, “You humans and your sayings, had it been in the Ancient Language there would have been no way to say the wrong words correctly.”
All humor erasing from his face, the Lord Rider leaned closer, his nose gently nudging hers as he bent down for a kiss, capturing her lips deeply, and slowly. Willing her to understand how she set his heart ablaze, willing her to see his heart thawing out from years to sealing himself in a snow cave, freezing himself in order to survive far past a normal lifetime.
“We should head inside, we have one day to prepare for war, and we leave tonight if we are to follow your prodigal student’s advice.”
Eragon smiled, “Amatria is one of my best.” he said walking into the throne room.
King Larkin and King Narhak stood stoically to a side, clearly uninterested in the king’s seat set high above them all, a gross difference from the last time he had arrived with everyone shooting longing glances at that chair, some with wonder and others with desire. The loud aspiration of the late King Orrin was not lost on him, but the Rider was pleased to see King Larkin seemed to possess none of the desire of his ancestor. The man barely looked at the chair, choosing rather, to wallow in the sorrows of his lost kingdom and people.
His advisor, Mark of the House of Barthon, laid a comforting hand on his king’s shoulder. From what he had heard, Mark and the king had grown up together and were good friends as well as sharing a good professional rapport.
Eragon did not know how he felt about that. Advisors should not be friends, they need to be honest, and he knew of the sacrifice of honesty one made for a friend.
“Ebirthil, we have arrived.”
Ishmael made his announcement to him in particular, but served to purpose of announcing it to everyone without declaring their presence as if they were some superiors in the lineage. A wise move.
Amatria trailed close behind, a black rose in her hand, her face expressionless. But her hand held the flower gently, as if savoring the feel of it against her palm.
The council of King Narhak gathered around, seeing the gathering.
“Arya Drottning, Kyrian of the House of Blodraya has arrived for your judgment.”
She replied without a hint of their earlier escapade, as composed and put together as if she had never met him at all. He smiled at that, knowing full well her desire to be with him was purely because of her desire, not her need or dependence on someone that he happened to be lucky enough to be.
“Send him in.”
She stood at the edge of a circular table in front of the throne, a hard look in her eyes as the blonde haired elf walked in. His head was held high, arrogant, obstinate, not what his queen wanted to see.
He bowed low, the traditional Elven greeting on his lips. She replied in kind, her voice cold and distant, not unlike her mother’s voice when dealing with…well, anyone.
“Your behavior to the Riders this morning was absolutely unacceptable. If you had a problem with their return, you should have come to me in private. As far as I am concerned, the public humiliation you suffered was well deserved.”
Kyrian remained defiant, “But an elf was still humiliated by a Rider. And a human no less.”
“Humans have proved themselves to be wise and powerful, equals to all other creatures in Alagaesia. Or do you forget that human Rider was the one who humiliated you so publicly?”
“He is street scum! Born, I heard, around this town to some lowlife.”
“That is enough!”
Eragon raised his eyebrows, he had not heard raised voices in years. But what surprised him most was that the outburst had not come from the Queen, but from Kyra who had come in to see her brother’s judgment.
Eragon’s Rider did not look or even heed him for confirmation that what she was doing was right. A sign of becoming a Rider on her own, with her own mind, and the ability to grow by herself, without an ebirthil as her guide.
“I came, Kyrian, to perhaps lessen your disciplinary sentence if required. I came to make sure that you would be fine, that you would still fight in our common cause. But here I am, instead, appalled at your notions of nonexistent superiority and your ego hurt more than your body. However, that I can overlook.”
She hesitated, her voice growing as cold as Marcus’s eyes.
“The insult to Marcus, however, is one I can never overlook. He was born to some lowlife, I can attest to that. And he is a prince among men, elves, dwarves, Urgals, and dragons. He is a hundred times the warrior and man you will ever be. If I ever hear you insult him again, your end will be at my blade, brother or not.”
And she walked out, her head held straight, her gait powerful, and her strides purposeful.
Kyrian swallowed deeply, perhaps a lesser man would perspire in his shoes, but he opted to show only fear in his eyes.
“Kyrian, for your lack of discipline and humiliation of the Elven race in this war, you are suspended for two months and required to return back to Du Weldonvarden with the next ship. Your duty will be to tend to the ships and maintenance of the weapons until your sentence is over. If I hear of your resistance in the slightest, you will be suspended…permanently.”
He bowed his head, knowing his was a losing battle and walked out, not sparing a second glance to the Lord Rider as he left.
“I thought you said the elves were happy we have returned.”
Arya looked at him, contemplating her answer.
“Most are extraordinarily happy, others are just happy. Truthfully, I had not even known Kyrian felt the way he did.”
“It is not toward the Riders.” Amatria stated nonchalantly from behind him.
“What do you mean, Shur’tugal?” The Queen addressed her directly.
“Kyrian had a personal reason not to like Kyra, not the Riders. His emotions stem from jealousy and a hurt ego, not from his opposition to our return. He has no opposition to the Riders, only that he never became one as his sister did.”
Eragon nodded in agreement with Amatria’s assessment.
“Well, that settles the case then. We have exactly a day to prepare for battle.” King Narhak looked around for help with defending his city.
“Not exactly.”
Ishmael carefully laid out his detailed maps, made by his own creation with an astoundingly accurate measurement of distance. Retrieving a bunch of pins and an aristocratic quill, he began his dissection of the progress.
“Drottning, Your Majesties, if I may?”
They nodded their assent to hear his words while his ebirthil stood next to him, watching him intently.
“From their pace, they are a day’s ride. They will be here midday at the latest. From Amatria’s information, if we strike their leaders, they will be in complete disarray for a few weeks. We must do this tonight if we are to keep the city.”
“And then what? Leave them a day away from the city?”
“Once the leaders have been assassinated, it will be easy to burn down the encampment. They will not have moved from the area. As long as they are surrounded, they will have no place to go. Within days, the Riders will come in from Dras-Leona, and the outpost to the south of their encampment, it will take a day or so to burn their army.”
“And the rest of them?” King Larkin asked eagerly, daring to hope their plan would work.
“Will be dealt with another time.” Amatria replied swiftly, “We must save the capital first. And then we shall look to reclaiming Surda.”
“How many did you see, Amatria?”
“Of their men, nearly ten thousand. But I do not think ten thousand men were enough to rampage through Surda. There will be more coming, and until then, we have time to prepare.”
“Amatria, Arya Drottning, and I will leave as soon as the sun falls in order to assassinate their battalion leaders.”
Ishmael looked up in surprise, “Ebirthil? May I be permitted to join?”
“It is a three person job, Ishmael.”
“I can be your eyes, ebirthil, all of yours from above. My bow is fast and accurate, I can make sure you face no problems during your mission without actually being on the ground.”
“A spotter would be helpful.” Arya agreed, “And I am eager to see the skills of our new Riders.”
“Very well, Ishmael, meet us at the outskirts of the city when the sun falls.”
He bowed deeply and waited for Amatria finished her goodbye before leaving the room together.
“Should you fail, Lord Rider?”
Eragon looked at King Narhak, he had the most to lose in this battle, “Prepare our men for battle, Your Majesty, to be prepared for our failure.”
He looked back down at the map, remembering the countless hours and arguments spent in front of one during his time with the Varden. Nasuada stood where King Narhak stood now, her black hair kept upright, her dark skin darkening the map itself. He glanced up, around at the people around him now. Larkin and Mark to the left, Narhak and his council to the right, only Arya stood where she always was, directly in front. Everything had changed, yet somehow…nothing had. Pushing his thoughts away he pulled the map toward him, deftly rolling up Ishmael’s incredible work and excused himself to prepare for battle.
Hearing the call for dismissal from council, he went to find his Riders.
Riders, meet me by the courtyard.
His message was sent around easily, and within five minutes, he was surrounded by his students.
“Tonight, two of your own, I, and the Queen herself will head towards the enemy camp in the dead of night in hopes of sending them into disarray. Should we fail, their armies will be here by midday tomorrow, and I expect you all to be battle ready in a moment’s notice. Prepare yourselves however you wish.”
They dispersed, some to rest, some to meditate, some to clear their heads, some to flight, and some more to their sparring.
Only Amatria and Ishmael remained, and only Ishmael spoke.
“What of us, ebirthil, what should we do in the event of failure?”
The elder Rider gave him a hard look, wanting him to know what he volunteered himself for, “Should we fail, Ishmael, I expect you to be dead.”
Those warm, amber eyes snapped to his master’s half in alarm, half in fear at the bluntness. But he guarded himself, remembering the words and oaths of a Rider.
“Very well, ebirthil.”
He left, his body somewhat straightened in gruesome acceptance at what he was about to do.
“He is a strong man.” Amatria muttered contemplatively.
“Will he be able to kill another? Sometimes strength means the ability to kill a person, and let someone live.” Eragon posed the question at her.
“No, ebirthil, strength is the ability to do whatever is necessary, good or bad, when the time comes. It does not matter if the person we kill is an innocent or a serial killer. Their faces still haunt that bit of humanity in us, whether we consider ourselves responsible or not. The character of those we kill does not matter on our conscience.”
And she left, leaving him to wonder what hell she faced before she became a Rider. He liked to think he knew his Riders well, but more often than he liked, Amatria’s perception told him he knew nothing of her, only what she displayed. Who she was, what she was, was unknown to everyone.
Chapter 9 A Taste of Blood
Where are you, Eragon? I must speak with you.
Saphira, it is good to hear your voice. I am in the courtyard.
Come to the dragonhold, Firnen and Arya are here.
He set off, his legs enjoying the feeling of the run up the stairs. Walking in, he saw his beloved dragon curled up quietly against the wall, her thoughts somber and her mood melancholy. Firnen stood, bending his long neck beside her, His face dangerously close to hers.
Eragon greeted Arya first, a chaste kiss on her lips, and an arm slipped around her waist before kneeling in front of Saphira.
What is it, Saphira?
I never realized how happy a life without war was. And now to come back to it. I almost wish…
…that you never came back at all.
Yes.
Firnen looked around in despair, his Rider immediately coming to lay a gentle hand.
It is not that I do not love you, Firnen. You do not know the horrors of war, of what we lost, you do not know the fear of nearly losing one another. And you are lucky for it.
War is a dismal part of life. But we must remember that war is only a part of life. To dwell on the few years we had, we cannot forget the good moments as well. And we will fight again, fight again for our people, not against our people as we once had.
Am I being childish, Eragon?
Had you not been dismal about returning to battle, I would have been quite distressed that my dragon is a bloodlusting monster.
Indeed, and you? Should I feel worried that you feel no worry about returning to war?
Had it been foremost in my mind, I would be worried. He glanced at Arya, the soft smile on her features giving his heart peace. But it is not. And perhaps that is my fault, my mistake, but it is one I would happily make again and again.
The Queen of Elves looked up, locking eyes with her new beau, and sent him a small smile. She looked back to Firnen, only a smile as her display of affection. But that small smile was enough to send his heart soaring, enough to let him live for the next centuries, until he required another smile.
But I have fought, Saphira, we have fought, and I am content with it. The happiness of seeing you does not compare.
Nay, Firnen, my dear emerald, you have not. Arya answered him quickly. And I suppose that is my fault. Those memories I blocked from you, those memories I locked away.
Tonight, Saphira replied, you will see what war is. And how dishonorable one must act for the sake of survival.
“Night is falling, Eragon, we have to move quickly. Armor, you need your armor.”
He chuckled, “I left my armor and weapons here, save Brisingr.”
She furrowed her eyebrows, “You are able to say your sword’s name.”
He laughed even harder, “Two hundred years of meditation and I am finally able to silence the flow of magic towards it.”
Laying a gentle hand on his cheek, she whispered, “It is a much bigger feat than you realize.”
She pulled her hand away, and looked away contemplatively, “I have your armor with me. You left it in the castle armory for someone else to use. I confess, I took it with me to our forest, hoping no one would ask. No one did.”
“And you have it with you now?”
“I sent for it when I received your first letter.”
He kissed her quickly. “Thank you, I must say, I dreaded looking for it in the armory.”
Her eyes filled with amusement, “One of the few reasons you love me?” she started.
“Nay,” her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “one of the many reasons I love you, iet nuanen.”
She played with the curls around his ear, folding them over, savoring the soft feel of the chocolate brown locks as she ran her hands through. Ponderingly, she glanced away for a moment, stepping back to gaze more intently at him.
Furrowing her eyebrows in thought, she mused out loud, “Perhaps I should have armor made for you.”
“Why? It may not have been the grandest of the sorts, not nearly as grand as the golden armor of the Queen of the Elves,” he smiled a little, a little crooked twitch to his left, sufficiently melting her heart, “but it did the job. And it was quite comfortable.”
“You may not find it so comfortable now, dear Rider.” She came back into his arms, glided more like, or maybe even slid up to him, and ran her hands suggestively down his chest, “You are no longer a man in a boy’s body as you once were. You no longer carry the delicate features of innocence around you, graceful solely because of your age.”
Arya looked back into his eyes, the deep hue of blue faintly emitting from their depths, but for the life of her, she could not tell if it was his eyes she was seeing, or his soul he was baring to her, plainly to see.
I am bare to you, iet Arya, utterly and completely stripped of defense. If it is my soul you wish to see, take it.
A faint blush colored her cheeks, “And I need not even ask?”
Her attempt to diffuse the weight of his words with humor was short lived, if it ever had life in it at all. She knew the conviction he had given his declaration, and the underlying promise of eternity beneath it. There were men who would do anything for her, and grumble about it later, complain about it later. Such a man had been her first lover, Faolin. Not a bad man, just a man who would give everything he had, and hate every second of it. And then there was this man she fell for, this man who, it seemed, would gladly travel the world and find every bit of soul he left behind, every bit of soul that resided in every place he traveled to, every kind deed, and every life changed, collect it, and place it in her hands just to see her smile. Just for her to know that every part of him was hers, utterly and completely. And neither would he grumble, resent her, or even think ill of her for even a second.
What madness was this?
“Why doubt such a trivial matter?”
She bit her lip, afraid to answer, “Sometimes, Eragon, I wish you could see how great your love is, I wish you could see that you, and only you would be enough for me. I wish you would stop these declarations and promises, so that I may feel as if our love is equal.”
“I do not understand.”
“I fear one day you will realize that I cannot love as you do, and then understand that I am not the one for you.”
He laughed at her insecurity, her words foreign to his ears, “Silly Arya,” she scoffed at him, “I do not need grand declarations from you. And to your claim of incapability of love is baseless. Arya,” he gently held her face in his hands, framing it, cherishing her, “you waited two hundred years for me, in a silent depression, with the only hope that one day I might return. You sent for my armor without my asking. How can I ever need anything grander when you have already let me in your waking thought?”
Seeing her insecurity, he kissed her softly, wanting her to feel just as cherished as he truly did.
Suddenly, she pulled away, “Your armor! I nearly forgot. Eragon, you are not nearly as thin as were before, you have…for a lack of a better term, filled out. I doubt it will be large enough to cover your entire frame. It will not, at least, be as comfortable.”
He shrugged, “I shall take my chances.”
“Stubborn man!”
The sound of footsteps caused them to draw apart.
The two Riders came swiftly in, their footsteps falling silent as they approached the dragonhold. Arhel and Ladrimme landed quickly after. They were wearing some armor, just a leather cover to protect their soft underbelly, and a thicker one around their chest. Their wings were left bare, neck and tail as well for maximum speed and flexibility.
They bowed deeply, “Ebirthil, Drottning.”
A curious thought popped into his head, “Neither of you used to bow at every turn of the hat before, and now you do. Why?”
A wry smile appeared on Ishmael’s face, “We were actually bowing to our Queen.”
The soft melodious laugh filled the chamber, startling all three others around the source.
“Will you not reprimand him?” she asked with a laughter filling her face.
For gracing me with your laughter, never.
She stilled for a moment, the understanding on her face, but she smiled again when he stated more publicly, “There is no reprimand for the truth.”
Arya let the brief smile stay for a little longer, knowing their arrival meant the inevitable. She turned more fully to the Riders.
“You should know, the horrors of the old world are not lost on us, but these enemies are more vicious than those we have encountered, and while I know Riders are sworn to protect, I implore you not to hesitate to take a life. They will not hesitate to take yours.”
They nodded their understanding, but Arya, Saphira, and Eragon all knew true understanding would come after the battle, if they survived. The first battles were the most worrisome, inexperience was more fatal than one could realize.
Arya excused herself after that, placing his old armor in his hands, before giving herself the privacy to change into her armor. Ishmael and Amatria were ready, weapons equipped, and their slim fitting armor already made. Riders had armor, a different sort of them, according to the eldunari, and with the help of former children of blacksmiths and the knowledge from the elder dragons, they were able to forge the correct armor and the correct fit. Eragon never thought to make some for himself, there was no need for it when there was no war. But when the time came, he had not a second to waste on himself, and so he decided to wear his usual garb.
The Queen came back, the Rider’s blade at her side, and her black leather shaping her body. At once, images of the last he saw her in those clothes came to him, and she was just as stunning, if not more. He smiled inconspicuously, so that only she would notice.
“I was under the impression that the Queen of the Elves wore golden armor.”
“My mother did, and the Queen before that. But I prefer this.” And she offered no more explanation.
Ishmael fixed his bow on his back, making sure he would run into no trouble when the time came to shoot. He carried plenty of extra arrows, some on a quiver around his back, and others with easier access on his saddle.
Fixing the place of her knife, and her face emotionless as ever, Amatria mounted Ladrimme and took to the skies, flying around and getting used to the feel of the cold night air of winter in Alagaesia against her body.
Mounting their dragons, the rest of the Riders took to the skies, their battle just begun.
Where is the camp, Amatria?
We are nearly there, ebirthil. They are strategically placed just below the line of the visibility because of the hill. They would have taken us by surprise had we not scouted for them.
There! Eragon, just underneath the ridge!
Saphira’s eyes picked up the flicker of a fire, a bold move to leave it unattended and out in the open during a war, especially when they relied on stealth to attack and defeat.
Good. Ladrimme, Amatria, Saphira, and I will attack nearer to the ground. Amatria, when I tell you to, we will jump off, and leave Ladrimme and Saphira to attack with their fire. We will target the leaders from the ground, and attack. This way, we can gain a better understanding of their fighting style.
To take on the entire army is suicide, Eragon!
Arya’s protest was well heard.
We will not be alone, you and Firnen will attack from the top and join us when you can. The four of us will stay together. Arhel and Ishmael, you two will stay in the skies, watching for any unusual movement and firing arrows when you can. Arhel, do not come near the encampment, even to set fire, unless you deem it necessary to save us. We must have a lookout to make a quick escape if necessary and if you are not in the skies, our retreat will have failed.
Yes, ebirthil.
Eragon waited for a few minutes, watching the flame come closer and closer.
Split, NOW!
The jolt of air around him told him Saphira had dove down, to his left, so had Ladrimme. Glancing up, Firnen and Arhel grew tinier and tinier as they went closer and closer. Barely skimming the flat ground, the two dragons went up the hill, inches away from the grass, and set the air ablaze.
Screams around them and Saphira’s eyes allowed Eragon to see the destruction around him. They were yelling in some foreign language, not nearly like anything he had heard before. But even with the language barrier, he could sense their distress. Ladrimme artistically somersaulted in the air, avoiding some arrows, and shot her black fire through. Her weapon was in stark contrast to the blue flames lighting up the world of Saphira’s. Ladrimme’s fire could barely be seen, not that it mattered. It was the last thing to char her enemies anyway.
Amatria, now!
The two Riders jumped off the backs of their dragons, and paved their way to each other. Eragon hacked at his enemies, surprised at their swiftness and strength.