Summary -
He failed. Galbatorix has succeeded, and killed Eragon, the beacon of hope against the Empire, the Last Free Rider. Eragon has failed - but you see, that wasn't supposed to happen. So the forces of Alagasia and the Eldunari combine their magic, and send Eragon back, before the Fall of the Riders. And now he has a second chance - for everything. He could prevent the war, prevent the Empire. He could save everyone - including Arya.
Bom chika wah wah.
If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.
Emily Dickinson
He didn't remember when the Earth had stopped moving. He just knew that it had.
Everything seemed to have frozen (he may just be delusional), as if time too, had held it's breath when the air from his lungs were stolen. And the thief - the sword of ebony, glistening with red, protruding from his chest - was cold. Few men have ever felt the ice of a blade with the flesh from their lungs. You'd think that his last thought would be something along the lines of depression, sadness, regret. Maybe before he left for the void, that he would chance upon the puddle of red dripping upon the edges of his soaked tunic. That at the end of his life, he would look back at the twenty years he had given up for the people of Alagasia, the people that he failed. It was odd that he didn't ponder about the mistakes that he made, the mistakes that had led him to this moment, this moment of failure.
It was here, staring at his reflection upon the red floor, that he saw the face of death.
He did not scream, grunt, or gasp. Time had frozen (in his mind), and yet, he could still hear the dripping of scarlet droplets, splashing upon the floor. He could still hear the cackle of Galbatorix behind him, a tint of regret lacing the deep baritone. He could still hear his heartbeat, a faint flutter, within his chest, fighting for a hopeless cause. But the most wretched sound of all – he could hear the dying screams of his dragon, his heart-sister, his Saphira. And that sound, the dying breath of his heart, his other side, was more painful than any stab through the chest.
He had always been told that a man's dying seconds were the longest hours of his life. They were wrong. His longest hours were buried beneath the sand rock, with Brom, the father he never knew. His longest hours was spent upon the red hill (not a hill, bodies, hundreds), next to Roran's incapacitated head. His longest hours were underneath the dungeons of Helgrind, next to the gnawed bones of Nasuada. His longest hours were wasted next to his loved one, with Arya, their hands entwined, the light within her eyes slowly leaving.
No.
These final seconds, the final moments of his failed legacy, was just that – seconds and moments. And as his knees gave away, as he closed his eyes within a pool of his own blood, he knew.
He, Eragon Shadeslayer, leader of the Varden, Rider of the last free Dragon of Alagasia, the beacon of hope against King Galbatorix, had failed.
Closing his eyes for the last time, he was unaware of the shimmering air that was being emitted by the Eldunari on the other side of the room. He did not catch the smoke, now a solid color of mass, gliding towards the gaping hole of the palace's ceiling. He had not noticed the now giant birds of color, flying within the vast expanse of gray that was the sky, whispering his name.
He did not notice the dragons.
And neither did Galbatorix.
He heard naught but the King's cry of contempt as he raised his sword in what was surly the final death blow of Alagasia's (fallen) hero. With his eyes shut, he managed but a small whisper within his now empty (and broken, so utterly broken) mind, his famous last word.
Fuck.
1448 Months Earlier.
"I care not for the reasons. Morzan had no right to suddenly leave without me." The young man stated, biting into a red apple, making a delightful crunch.
Blowing back slightly from the wind, the boy's chocolate hair blinded his vision. He lifted a tan arm, swept his hair back, and continued to lean back upon his seat, tilting the chair as he did so. He had an apple in his hand (bitten). He threw it up, fairly high for such a throw, and caught it again, unhesitating as he took another bite. He was strong and graceful for a human. But then again, he was a Rider.
"There was an emergency meeting with the Dragon Council. He had to leave. He's representing the sector within the border of Du Weldenvarden. You know this."
His brown eyes were darker than usual. Probably due to his annoyance at his brother (not in blood, mind you), whom had decided that a brief note would suffice as an explanation of his sudden departure. It wasn't though. I mean, really? Two sentences? And one of which was an apology. Sheesh. Morzan could of at last had the decency to say it to Broms's face.
"That doesn't mean he couldn't have left a longer note or something. Besides, why was I not chosen for the job, Saphira? (he knew why)"
"Because Brom, you are in higher command. He was sent to do the dirty work, while you get to sit on your ass, munching upon a -"
Brom, his mouth open to take in his next bite, stopped.
"What is it?"
Her head was turned to the right, towards the sky. He looked towards her direction of sight and saw noth – wait! The flip (forbidden to curse) is that, falling from the sky? He stood up, his left hand twitching for his sword, the other gripping the apple. Saphira blew out a puff of smoke. It dropped like a stone, streaking through the sky, though there was no smoke, so it was no meteorite.
"Sehvermögen"
Brom muttered a spell to improve his eye sight, and as the magic took effect, he saw the falling object more clearly.
It was a man.
Brom dropped his apple.
"We must do something!"
Brom said nothing, for his actions spoke louder than words. He mounted his dragon (a beautiful beast), and patted her neck. Saphira, like a spring cord of sorts, bent down, and pushed. Within seconds, they were off the ground, going God knows how many leagues an hour, towards the man. They were fast for the average Riders.
"How do you think he got up there? Did he fall off his dragon?" Brom asked his partner.
"He might be a hatchling Rider, or some cocky boy attempting a prank gone wrong …"
Her words were meaningful, and it gauged the right reaction. Brom's face began to heat up as he recalled his naive mistake, in which he tried to fly on Saphira's tale. I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time, a new way of riding your dragon. But there is no new way. Since Eragon, there has been only one way to ride your dragon, as it should be. A fool, Master Oromis had called him. He was right.
"Never again." Brom agreed, ending the subject.
"Letta enrogrus ploindina coraian!"
The spell, which was to reduce the man's momentum, took little to no energy, as the force required for the magic was taken from the speed of the man's fall. A helpful hint he learned from Morzan.
As Brom got closer, he was greeted by the most abnormal sight, for the man, if that's what he was, wore armor - armor, torn to scraps, of metal (painful, surly) painted by the blood of what was most probably belonging to the stranger. This man just came from battle, or at least, it looked like it. Brom commanded Saphira to be on alert for any enemies as he gently placed the man down upon the ground minutes (yes, for they were really high up) later.
Brom drew his sword, blue, to match his dragon's scales, as he jumped off of Saphira. With his mind, he contacted the presence of Oromis-elda.
"What is it?" Oromis asked.
"Have I got a story for you."
The ripping of his body parts, so viciously, by demons of the most awful sort, was supposed to be painful, right?
But what Eragon felt, was far from pain. It was as if, the weight of the world that was thrust upon him those many years ago, were gone. What was Alagasia to do? Psh. He couldn't care less. He was dead – what responsibility did he have to the land of the living? He failed, but then again, he was dead, so big whoop. And yet, why did he feel air? Yes, he felt air – he felt the wind rushing around him. He felt the sky. But surly, he was not (though he hoped) in heaven? Yet, the blast of the wind was undeniable.
His cerulean eyes (like Saphira's) opened.
And blue met blue.
He was looking up at the sky. Was he not dead? The feeling of blood streaming through his veins was unmistakable. The pain, or whatever agony he should have been, or had been, feeling, was lacking. The discord within his mind was no more (still no Saphira though). Then white. Wait, white? What could possibly be white within the blue …
Clouds
It was at that moment, that Eragon realized.
He was falling.
And again, the word in which what he thought was his final, was repeated.
Logic, reality, fantasy – it mattered not at the moment. He was falling. He had to do something. He turned, ever so slightly, allowing the momentum of the fall to do the rest of his work for him. His body, now angled towards the ground, felt weightless. He looked down.
Green.
Everywhere.
Coming up fast.
He couldn't use magic – he was too high up. He couldn't use it later either, for he knew his speed would be too great to stop. He was screwed, this he knew, so he did the only thing he knew how – he sped up. He controlled his movement, and aimed for a small dot, a dot of blue. Water.
"At least then if I were to die, my dramatic entrance would alert someone of my body." Eragon whispered to himself.
Then, something odd, even stranger then his apparent 'death', more unbelieving then his random falling within the sky, occurred. The lake, moved. It seemed to have glided farther away.
"What the hellfire is going on?"
And then something else caught his eye – purple. Something purple was moving with it, the blue. Then, a yellow. In a matter of seconds, Eragon was convinced he had gone slightly psychotic, as he was watching three dots of different color seem to move around within his line of vision. As if they were -
"Flying."
Eragon opened his eyes. He had tried to decrease the speed of his fall with the little energy he had left, causing him to faint. And yet, here he was, alive and breathing, upon what felt like warm dirt. This would be the second time he escaped death, the second time he defied fate.
His train of thought was disrupted though, by a shuffling of feet and something else (familiar clangs) clawing at the dirt towards his right. His arm, which he couldn't feel (that worried him slightly), reached for his sword. It was stopped however, by the grip of a tan hand, similar to his own. Like a manacle, it wrapped around his wrist.
"Don't try anything funny now, lad."
The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite recall whom's it was. Eragon looked up, straining his neck to it's limit, due to his awkward position, on the ground. The man's eyes, light brown, like caramel, was set into a hard gaze underneath a head of chocolate hair. A frown was set upon his face. A familiar face.
Shocked, caught off guard, whatever you want to call it - Eragon was speechless. But it couldn't be. This man was younger, much younger. Besides, he was dead.
No.
This couldn't be Brom.
Help was on the way shortly, but at the meantime, Brom was going to have to deal with the stranger's stab wound. It was a surprise that the man was alive at all, let alone conscious. He noticed his hand twitch towards his sword.
He reached out, and restrained the man's arm.
"Don't try anything funny now, lad."
Brom may be young, but the stranger was younger. His dirt matted hair, a light brown, was flat against his head from both the fall and his sweat. Though you could barely make out his face from the cake of blood and grime, one could still make out some Elvin features. Yet, the man was undeniably human. His eyes, a vivid blue, stared up at the Rider in utter shock. He looked no older than three and twenty. Brom was not much older than the boy, for when you live for an eternity, a hundred year difference was minuscule, let alone thirty.
"Who stabbed you, my dear fellow?"
He leaned closer to examine the wound. A clean puncture through his chest, inches from his heart, in the center of his left lung. A simple spell would suffice. Brom leaned in to clean the cut, but the man shrank away. Why? Does he not know that Riders are good, here to serve the people? Maybe he was one of those desert dwellers, with the odd water containing animals, called camels. But they were leagues away from the Hadarac, and his skin wasn't dark like the ones he had met before. And it still didn't explain his sudden predicament of falling out of the sky. Finally, the man spoke.
A stammer, not in doubt nor fear, but in pure disbelief, left his lips.
"Galbatorix."
One of his perfectly arched eyebrows raised. Brom was confused; so was Saphira. Who was it that this man was talking about? Was there a new enemy for the Riders to deal with (he was excited)? But surly it is not so, else he'd hear word of this new foe. But the man seemed so sure of himself, and Brom's line of work had required him to learn how to read the symptoms of dishonesty. Either this man was mentally ill, or a 'Galbatorix' stabbed him.
"Saphira, do you sense anyone in the area?"
"No Two-Legs."
"And the name, does it not sound familiar?"
"I don't believe so."
But surly, a skirmish of this magnitude did not occur in his presence, else Brom would have sensed it. And why was he in the air? So many questions. Questions he was about to demand from the stranger. A human will not fall out of the sky, and just walk away, no questions asked, on his land. And definitely not on his shift. What would they say, the other Riders, of such a folly? His reputation as a Rider was rocky enough after the whole 'tail-riding' thing.
Information, like his name and what not, will come later. Right now, this Galbatorix was a threat to this man, meaning, that he could be a threat to other civilians. So the first question he asked?
After what Eragon thought was a moment of contemplation, Brom asked a question he had yet to have heard before, and doubt he would ever here again (how wrong he was).
"Who's Galbatorix?"
It was after he saw the dragons (extinct) flying above him upon the sky, their presence dominating the air; it was after he saw Master Oromis step down from Glaedr's uninjured legs - it was after all of these logic defying events, did Eragon (finally)awakee from his stupor. He had to think. And it wasn't until after he was healed and bustled into what he thought was Ellesmera, did Eragon begin to think rationally. But still, it wasn't until he was escorted into the large amphitheater, the Hall of Elders, within Tiadari Hall, did Eragon put the puzzle pieces together.
And by the time eleven people, a mix of (very)important men from the farthest depths of Alagasia, had settled within their seats around him, Eragon had become the first to analyze and solve the conundrum that was his survival.
Living within the past, a hundred years before his birth, he now stood.
Joy.
Utter boredom is a phrase that few ever experience. It's when you have nothing to do. Seriously. Nothing. Breathing being it's only exception, nothing is another term one shouldn't use very lightly. But when you're a human guard within a large dark cave inside a monstrous tree, with several elves being able to distinguish your every move, you can't do anything. He was there to represent the warriors of the human race, and yet, everyone knew that his job wasn't really dangerous. Who would attack the Elven Minister? Really, who would attack an elf in general? Point being, he couldn't even sneeze due to the nobles around him.
Donel was of simple birth. He was born and raised in Feinster; that is, until they came. They were the Riders. Sure, you'd see them flying overhead from time to time, but that's from below. When you're right there, at eye level, with some of the greatest warriors in history? Well, someone was bound to get inspired. And that someone was him. He had it in his mind, that he'd be some great hero, like Rider Vrael or something. But of course, the scarlet eggs that they had placed within the center of the village, had no interest in him. He was the son of the town healer – what good was he? Yet, the egg cracked for Hamlet. He was the youngest born of Lire, the town's tanner. What did Hamlet have that he didn't? That mattered naught at the moment though.
His job? Stare straight ahead, hands by your sides, and shut up. Really. Those were practically the exact words Elven Minister Ambrose had commanded. He cannot sneeze, yawn, nor stand on one foot. He had to have the posture of a noble, the posture of a Rider. Maybe that's the closest he'll ever get to being a hero - a Rider's posture.
Standing straight though, could be a real pain in the ass after thirty minutes – and the meeting hasn't even started yet! The eleven representatives of each race's government had yet to have assembled themselves, taking their Goddamn time.
Once they had, they all stared down. Donel chanced a turn of his head, but his neck, by force, was snapped back in position. Minister Ambrose's voice chastised him within his head. So, though it would give him a headache, he turned his eyes.
"Blasted magic."
He was told by Hamlet, that this room was referred to as 'The Horns'. Riders and such were sent here to be chastised. More serious infractions would require the Council of Riders (or something of the sort), all the way in the Mainland. The room got it's name by the table in the center, which curved at both ends, like a rainbow. Meeting the bull head on, they would say, it would give the impression of meeting the 'horns'. The accused would be in the center, surrounded by the Eleven on both his left and right side as well.
And who was receiving the other end of the Horns today? Never before had Donil seen a man like this one. He seemed more rugged than any elf he had witnessed in his thirty years. Even from a great distance, he could still make out the man's fine features. Now, he wasn't no queer, but even Donil had to admit that he was better looking than even most elves! What stood out the most though, were these pair of cold eyes.
"Brown" Donil later realized.
He wasn't too focused on the eye color, but rather the immense stare or emotion within them.
The council began to speak (finally).
"Impermissible flying in a restricted air travel zone, you are to be charged by the fourth degree. You will receive a fine of two-hundred silver crowns if convicted by the eleven sitting above you today. Now call your Dragon."
The deep alto belonged to none other than the King of the Elves, Evander. Hamlet had told him of many stories about the powerful King and his wise rule upon the elves. The shock of being in the presence of a King (elven royalty) quickly passed though. His eyes moved down towards the man again, whom he just found out, was actually a Rider!
"Lucky bastard!" Donil thought to himself - he was jesting of course.
The air got quiet.
Silence.
All eyes on the man, a strange thing happened. For some reason, maybe the way he stood, or the way he held himself (that's it!), similar to that of the Kind standing before him, gave the stranger something. This something attracted the attention of everyone in the room. He stood tall. Like royal blood. And when he took a deep breathe, everyone else held theirs. And when he closed his yes, Donil made an effort not to blink. It was moments really, the time it took for him to open them. But in those brief seconds? Something magicical occured – guarding a bunch of magical creatures had trained Donil's mind to supernatural occurrences. But yet, this was different. The air, it seemed, held authority. Held power.
"I have no Dragon." was the man's simple reply.
Spoken with indifference, his tone sent a faint chill down Donil's spine. Indifference is not like anger, or sadness. It's the lack of emotion. Like darkness and it's lack of light. It was frightening to say the least.
There were murmurs throughout the table. Confusion. Disbelief. A few were kind of angry. His opinion? He thought this cocky teenager was a fool! But he always admired fools – they did things Donil only dreamed about, like defying the Elvin King. A cough ended the conversation. King Evander swept back his mane of silver hair, and raised two white eyebrows over his emerald green eyes.
"Explain."
The tension within the air was palpable, as green met blue.
"Dead."
Another wave of whispers. Donil's own thoughts were preoccupied with straining his ears in chancing upon spare words here and there from the conversations of the nobles. A hand was raised by the King.
"There is no word of any fatality of a Dragon. Explain."
Explain. Explain. Explain. You'd think that with a large mental compacity that an elf would use a variety of words. Jutting out his chin defiantly, the man stated a word that few ever said against the King of the Elves.
"No."
Again, the stillness of the air. There needs not a paragraph of explanation. It was still, nothing more.
A look of utter disbelief was sketched upon each and every stony face sitting at the table, all but one – King Evander. He looked … perplexed? Donil's vocabulary was limited, but yes, perplexed. But who wouldn't be? Not even Lord Vrael would do such a thing. But yet, the young man's back was straighter than Vrael's. His shoulders were broader, his air more pronounced. He seemed stronger.
"Enough with this foolishness! Off with his head!" shouted a voice.
It belonged to the man with hair like fire – Ambrose. Many knew of his short temper, but this once, they all agreed. How dare he defy the King?
"Who do you think you are, acting all high and mighty, hmm?"
The voiced, sounding amused, belonged to a stout little man. A dwarf, with a crown on his head no less. Kind Hrothgr? Maybe. Donil knew little of the dwarfs. He wore velvet though; he had to have royal blood. All eyes looked on expectantly at the man, expecting an answer from the dwarf's question.
A laugh resonated through the room; a deep-throat laugh, one of disbelief. It's the kind of chortle you hear when your brother has done something undeniably stupid, like dancing after having four tankards of rum. It seemed to echo. The man's head, thrown back in what Dolin thought was merriment, soon stopped shaking.
"Who am I?" he asked in an incredulous tone.
He was a storyteller this man must be, for he paused for a couple of seconds for dramatic effect. And the air was charged.
Suspense.
Even Minister Ambrose was engrossed with the man's random laughing, for he didn't notice Donil lean in ever so slightly, to get a better look at the sudden predicament below. The strangers smile soon faded. A smirk was left in it's wake.
A cocky smirk.
"Who am I?" he repeated again, but in a whisper of sorts, as if he himself didn't mean to say it out loud. In those words that seemed to have wheezed through his lips, from across the room, Donil felt pity. It was the same question demanded himself in front of his reflection, days after he killed his first man (a spy). Donil was a farm boy - he was no killer. And even now, he had no answer. And neither did the man in front, so his tone seemed - hallow and empty, like the bark of a dying tree. Then, he spoke.
"I go by many names. I am the one the dwarfs call Argetlam, the one the Varden call Silver-Hand. I am the beacon of hope against the mad King of the Empire. I am the man that hundreds have died for, that hundreds have died from. Fear me. Admire me. For who am I? I am Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of None, and what was once the last free Rider in Alagasia."
I know what you're thinking - freakishly long. I know. Never again, will it be this long. I just wanted the whole "I am Eragon!" speech, to be the ending of the first chapter. Still long though.
But I needed to fit in the Prologue with the first chapter, else it would have been utterly misunderstood! And I know, the idea is really far-fetched and all, but I've seen some stories with Eragon and Elva bouncing around, let alone my skit.
And Arya is going to be thirty-something at the time of her father's 'supposed' death, unlike the book (which I didn't particularly enjoy), so that Eragon and her can go bump in the night later on. I hate the fact that they haven't gotten together yet. Don't get me wrong, the book was good, the characters even better, but obviously, you're here right now because you have problems with how the book turned out, thus, the fanfictions. So don't screw with me :)
Anyways, reviews would be nice. Don't have a beta, so any mistakes? Tell me.
- D