A/N; Ouch, it's been a while, huh? ^^;
Ah, well, I've just been really busy with school and people and everything in general. Haha. It's been a pretty rough yearrr~ But anyway, let's see if I can't come up with a new chapter for this story. ^^
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A delicate breeze skirts through the land, cooling the beads of sweat on the nape of his neck. Through the intensity of the heat, a chill runs down his spine, though he cannot tell if it is due to apprehension or something else. His dark eyes cannot seem to stay in one place; they flicker and wander and dance about.
His gaze focuses, however, when he reaches his opponent, the glorious, the magnificent, the wondrous Shadeslayer. A sneer of contempt twitches at the lips as he beholds the blue Rider.
"Eragon, my comrade," he says, giving a mockery of a bow. In return, the blue Rider simply stares back at him, eyes hardened in to a glare.
He steps forward, the firelight refracting in his shadow-filled eyes. "Is that any way to treat me, Eragon? The two of us could be so, so powerful together. Join me, join me and your worth will not be left to die here with this pathetic excuse of a force known as the Varden." His words fly through the air and slap the other Rider in the face, though if there is any emotion felt, there is none betrayed.
The only response he receives is an unwavering glare. The seconds tick by, and though the air around them is filled with dying screams and last breaths, the world surrounding the two Riders is silent, full of questions and dares and unity and dreams.
"Here stand the last two true Riders," he proclaims meticulously and majestically, "the ones in which the whole fate of Alagaesia rests."
"You are no true Rider," is the snapped reply, and within the instant of those words, swords are drawn in unison. The blades hiss their thirst for blood.
They circle one another at a slow pace. The winds pick up, and so does their footwork. It is he, the red Rider, who makes the first move, darting quickly and out of step, coming from the side. This is easily evaded, and returned with just as much agility. The battle continues in this give and take manner, neither of them slipping nor faltering.
He allows his mind to wander. He knows that he shouldn't, but he has confidence that he will not fail in battle even if he is not paying attention. Though his eyes are focused on his opponent and part of his consciousness is still fighting, the rest of him is lost in a void of thought, of regret, of darkness, and of light. He lets his own mentality guide him through the maze that is his mind. He is not pleased when he realizes what he is thinking about.
He's thinking about the elf. He's thinking about her feline posture, and how her back curves slightly. He's thinking about the slight protrusions of skin that mark where her collarbone is. He's thinking about the music and the radiance and the passion that she seems to encompass but never shows.
A sudden blow with the flat of opposition's blade finds him on the ground. He is dazed and at first does not even realize his back is not where it should be in combat. He comes to a realization that he is in danger, however, once he hears the fierce, loud growl of his dragon.
Get up for heaven's sake! Get up before you are killed!
If the growl from his dragon alerts him with its intensity, it is nothing compared to the mental message that pounds in his mind.
You idiot! Get up!
Thoughts of the elf swim through their connection.
No, no! Murtagh, you fool! You have time for your idle daydreams when you are in no danger of dying.
I am always in the danger of dying was the retort he gave before snapping back to pay attention when he saw that his opponent was speaking.
"I should kill you at this moment, but I do not kill when unnecessary. You have caused much havoc and pain, but it is never entirely your fault. You have risked your life and shown mercy to Saphira and I. For that, we are grateful, and for that, we extend this offer to you: I will spare your life, if you swear to come back and allow a group of handpicked spell casters, I being among their ranks, to work toward freeing you of your bond to Galbatorix."
"I have been made to swear too much, and have been given too little in return," is the answer. It is a surprising sentiment, for despite how he speaks tales and wonders of how Galbatorix has given him power beyond belief, this statement is lined with regret. It is as if the door has been happened, and he now sees everything clearly. This is false, however: he has been seeing and understanding everything since it all began. He knows that he is Galbatorix's tool and key to destruction, and he knows that everything inside of him wants him to fight back. But he can't.
"We can help you. But if you turn your back on us, I will need to kill you."
"Then kill me."
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She is not awake, but she is not deep in slumber. The effects of the spell cast upon her are wearing off relatively quickly, but not quite yet. Instead, she finds herself a figure wandering through the dark part of her subconsciousness. She steps lightly, cautiously. She finds that even though there is no visible light, she can see perfectly fine.
Come to me, Arya, as I have come to you.
She bites her lip when a figure steps out in her path. She holds her head high, masking any sign of fear.
Do not be afraid.
She is afraid. She is petrified. She is terrified. She wants to scream, but she can't. There is no oxygen. There is only darkness, suffocating, clutching at her arms, her eyes, her throat, suffocating, drinking the life from her, breaking her, darkness…
"We can help you. But if you turn your back on us, I will need to kill you."
"Then kill me."
These statements awake her from her visions. She opens her eyes and stands up in a fluid motion. She will think nothing of what she has just witnessed. She will move on. She does not need to dwell over such matters that are probably foolish anyway.
Her eyes flicker to where the two Riders are, their dragons keeping a sharp eye on the battle. She longs to rush in, to help—and then she stops in the middle of this thought. To help who?
Eragon, of course. Why should she help that traitor son of Morzan?
She stares at the two men. She cannot help it. She stares, and stares, her eyes unwavering, unblinking. So different, so alike, so, so, so—she cannot push herself to find the correct word. She swiftly looks at Eragon, then focuses on the red Rider.
Once she does, she cannot tear her gaze away.
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A/N; I'm kind of in a hurry to get this up right now since I'm tired and I want to go to sleep, but, uh, yeah. There might be some mistakes or something near the end. ^^;
Well, that's pretty much it. Thanks for reading. (: