AN: We are BACK! Endgame is BACK! Aye... it has been a while, and I am certainly not happy that it took this long to get this chapter out, but you know, life comes first. Admittedly I lost motivation for a fair while... not due to any of you guys, but just... well life in general. Rest assured I will endeavor to keep this going. No teaser this time! Straight back into the story!

A few shoutouts before I let you go:

To Nicole, for showing me there is more to the world than what you can see on a computer screen.

To Lisa, for always believing in me.

And always, to Saiyuki for never thinking that this story was done, and always pushing for me to keep writing.

We are back guys. Lets go!

-SeeKay.

Chapter 4:

Greetings, Saphira Bjartskular and Eragon Shadeslayer.

Rhunön-elda has informed me that you have acquired a new sword. She did not explain how Brisingr was made in her forge without the breaking of her oath but she did, however, explain how you came to obtain the ore required to make it.

The Menoa Tree is a great and ancient being. She has been existing long before the age of Dragon Riders, long before immortal elves. She is the keeper of our forests and protector of all its inhabitants. I understand that it was Saphira who stripped bark from its trunk and burned it with dragon fire. But you are intertwined beings whose fates are intimately connected. We are not so arrogant as to assume that a dragon, ruler of the free skies, is bound by our customs. As such, while Saphira is exempt from our laws, this does not hold so for you, Shadeslayer.

I must stress the importance of contacting me as soon as you are able to do so. There are matters of great concern that I can only speak to you of face to face. Use the same method as when you had last spoken to me.

May good fortune rule over you,

Peace live in your heart,

And the stars watch over you.

Islanzadí Dröttning

Hearing a dragon roar reverberate through and around Varden's camp was not unfamiliar to Niduen, but she could tell immediately it was not Saphira's customary expressions of exhilaration. Rather, it was enveloped in pain and tinges of frustration and it was this that sent her racing from her tent. By the time she arrived outside Eragon's tent, aided by a whispered speed enhancer, Saphira had reduced her agonised roars to pained whimpers.

"Saphira! What ails you?" Niduen asked, her eyes searching Saphira's scales for any physical disfigurements. Saphira was shuddering with some hidden pain, her wings folding in a shroud- a futile effort to protect herself. Her legs, normally pillars of strength that held her up proudly, had collapsed. Niduen placed a hesitant hand on Saphira's back, in an attempt to provide comfort. She could find no wounds and a quick skim of Saphira's mind showed no signs of mental attack. Niduen turned at the gentle brush of leather which revealed Arya exiting from Eragon's tent bearing a sword in her hands. Her face was grim as she wordlessly handed Niduen the weapon as though in explanation.

"This is…" Niduen said slowly as she drew the sword from its sheath. Its weight was disturbingly familiar to her and she realised suddenly that this was the package she had carried unknowingly across her back for a treacherous many days.

"Naegling, yes," Arya confirmed solemnly.

"Where is Eragon?" Niduen asked, instantly deducing the reason for Saphira's pain. She quickly scoured the area, her eyes lingering on the results of Eragon's retching on the ground.

"Gone."

"Then we must find him," Niduen replied at once.

Blödhgarm immediately started after him before Arya's voice halted his movement.

"Let him go. As Varden's sole Rider, he must learn to shoulder death and bear loss alone. It will strengthen him for greater falls that will undoubtedly occur. It is war after all."

Niduen paused midway in returning Naegling to its sheath and stared at Arya incomprehensibly. With a snap, that mirrored her quickly growing anger, she sheathed the weapon, opened her mouth to retort and then closed it. With narrowed eyes she closely surveyed Arya, who had uncharacteristically turned away from the scrutinising examination. Niduen had heard it, barely, the bitterness that had coloured Arya's voice. Had she been a little less close to Arya, she might have missed it. Thoughts racing, her eyes widened and then glittered with a sad understanding.

"Arya…" she said with surprising gentleness, a sharp contrast to the anger that had crossed her face just moments before.

"There once was a princess who learnt to shoulder her father's death and bear his loss alone. Her mother, though a great and powerful queen, was uncertain how best to give her comfort. The princess's dearest friend was too young, at that time, to understand. But the pain served its purpose, preparing her and giving her strength when she lost him in a war she had no control in. Isolation was far simpler and far easier. But it left her bitter and afrai-"

"Do not assume to know me Niduen!" interrupted Arya, her tone venomous. But Niduen could see there was no real strength in her voice, rather there was a vulnerable quality in it she had never heard before.

"Cousin, I may be young and inexperienced, not yet ready to be burdened with the responsibility of being the next heir… but even I can understand that, though you perhaps, had nobody to support you and be your pillar in your times of need… Eragon does have someone. A friend… is that not what you are Arya?" Niduen questioned softly.

Niduen's words left a pregnant pause in the air.

Arya began to feel not only the shame of having been so transparent to someone fifty years younger than her but also the shame of needing another to realise that the ice in her heart was tainting her thoughts.

"I… spoke without thought Niduen. Your words are mature beyond your age and it seems I have misjudged you."

It was the closest to an apology Niduen had ever received from Arya and she smiled in return.

"You will join me then, in finding Eragon?" Arya nodded in reply.

I will go with you both spoke Saphira suddenly and tried to stand. I have recovered somewhat.

"Bjartskular, rest a little longer… allow us to find him?" Arya asked soothingly, noting Saphira could not quite stand steadily, let alone fly.

"I will stay with you Saphira," Niduen stated reassuringly.

Saphira searched Arya's eyes for a long moment.

Finally, she folded her legs and rested her head against her paws.

I will give you an hour.

Dry grass was scarce at this time in the year. Eragon had not even realised his purpose for collecting it until he had a handful from an unconscious pulling of the dead plants around him. It reminded him of a time Roran and he had thrown grass at each other in an attempt to make the other extremely itchy. Eragon gave a rue smile as he remembered how that little scenario ended. They had both received rashes and a scolding from Garrow.

The memory of a tiny grass boat sailed across his mind and his fingers began to move. Albeit, much clumsier than Arya's practised nimble fingers, but just as eagerly. He thought perhaps that the complexities of folding dry grass could distract him temporarily from his pain. If he wasn't feeling so numb, he might have noticed the sharp prickles of pain from the slender points of the grass and emerald eyes watching him.

He did not know how much time had passed before he was finished. The result of his fumblings was sitting in his hands and it did little to give him satisfaction.

"A bird?"

Eragon looked up from where he was sitting with his back to a tree.

"How long have you been there Arya?" he asked tiredly, not meeting her watchful eyes.

"Long enough to realise your mind was quite far away from here."

Wordlessly he edged to the side to make room for her. She moved to sit next to him and there they sat together for a long while, a strange pair pondering pain and their world. It was with some bitterness that Eragon realised there could not be a world without pain. Pain and sorrow was necessary for comfort and happiness to exist. No sentient being could hope to experience love if hate did not thrive at the opposite end of the spectrum to contrast it.

"Flauga," Arya spoke abruptly.

"Fly?" Eragon translated in confusion.

Arya gestured to the roughly crafted grass bird. "The spell of animation. Flauga."

"Ah."

A long silence.

"Would you like me to-" she offered quietly.

"No! I mean, no. Let me try…"

Turning the Ancient words he knew over in his mind, he selected a few choice words and repeated it in his mind until he was satisfied. He then held a hand over the grass bird, narrowed his eyes in concentration and chanted a spell.

"Taka thornessa líf eom flauga!"

An unexpected warmth rushed through him and the grass bird promptly burst into flames, just as a rush of his energy drained from his body. With a cry of alarm, Eragon attempted to snuff the flames out with his hands. He was brimming with disappointment; another failure that this time, Arya had witnessed personally.

"No stop," Arya cried, her hand impeding him, "Look Eragon!"

He dropped the bird, but instead of falling limply to the ground in ashes, it hovered, still flaming at face level.

"It… does not burn," said Eragon wonderingly as the fiery grass bird flitted around them playfully.

"Taka thornessa líf eom flauga. Give this life to fly. You have created a phoenix Eragon. Phoenixes represent the sun, mystical rebirth, resurrection and immortality. Phoenixes are said to rise from their own ashes to live again, greater and more powerful. The very essence of fire," she said, smiling at him.

"How is it that the fire fuels itself?" Eragon asked curiously, "And more importantly, why fire? Your grass boat was as green and as lush as Ellesméra's trees itself."

"I can only speculate why it ignited," began Arya, "Perhaps it is because we breathe life into what we create. When we craft something we give a fraction of our very essence. Your sword's namesake suits you well Eragon, as fire always seems to be the core of your very being. You give life through fire and maybe that is why your bird was born in flames."

Instead of improving his mood as Arya had hoped, her words made Eragon's face darken with despair.

"Giving life, it seems so easy. If only it was as simple to restore the death" he retorted with increasing anguish. Arya could only watch helplessly as he placed his head into his hands.

"Oromis and Glaedr understood the consequences of their actions. They knew the risks they were taking, they knew the stakes. Their decision to fight was their own."

Eragon's bitter laugh startled Arya not because it was so sudden, but because it was so out of character.

"Do you remember Arya, of the last time we spoke like this? I had complained, mindlessly, that Galbatorix's ignorance of Oromis and Glaedr was hardly an advantage if they continued to hide in Ellesméra. Oh, I was such a child!" he snorted, the torment he felt laced into every word.

Arya's slender wrist snaked out to grab his gently. "I'm sure if we could talk to your ebrithil now, he would tell you he does not regret his actions. Oromis was wiser than that Eragon. He had his reasons and we would be well advised to take note of them."

"Do you think I do not understand that?" he hissed, "But how much more of my family must I sacrifice to this war?"

Arya paused in light of this revelation.

"He was a father to you then…?" she ventured carefully.

Eragon sighed as though it exhausted him to admit it.

"First Garrow. Then Brom and Oromis…! How many more Arya?" he asked in a haunted whisper.

A flitting thought crossed Arya's mind and she wondered if he also considered Murtagh to be among those he had lost. Eragon turned his face to look at her and Arya almost shuddered at what she saw. Eragon's eyes had always been very expressive to her, but now they were deadened and shadowed; a mere shade of his usual bright blue.

"Only Roran is left. My sole family. I cannot lose my only brother Arya… though I cannot expect you to understand how it might feel to lose a brother."

The bitterness had returned, unbidden, to his voice.

"Oh but I do Eragon," she said before she could stop herself.

Something stirred slowly underneath the maelstrom of pain and anger in Eragon's heart. A dangerous hope which was tempered by his own disgust and shame for feeling such a useless emotion. Arya could only watch with regret and some relief as his eyes widened in realisation. She was too late to take back her words.

Eragon could hardly control the directions that his thoughts were spiralling in! Could it be that the one she considered a brother and not a lover... the one that she had lost was...

"Fäolin?" he asked quietly, his eyes becoming hawk-like as he searched her face for answers. But Arya had closed her eyes and become a blank mask once more. Though Eragon soon realised she had not completely masked herself from him. Her hand was still on his wrist, gently moving a thumb across it in an unconscious gesture of comfort. A shadow of a smile appeared on his lips and his heart felt lighter.

Alright, an hour's up!

Eragon looked up to see Saphira who hovered above them. He stood, pulling Arya with him as he did so.

Are you alright, little one? She asked as she landed.

Eragon stopped to consider this seriously.

I… think I am Saphira replied Eragon lightly as he squeezed Arya's hand once before letting go. Arya quirked her lips in return to his slight smile before looking to Saphira.

"Bjartskular, I give you my thanks for allowing me to find Eragon on my own," Arya said formally to Eragon's surprise. Saphira dipped her head slightly in return.

Let us return then. Niduen is waiting for us.

One thing however was prominent in Eragon's mind on their ride back to his tent.

Arya had not denied it.

"Draumr Kopa"

The mirror's surface rippled and swirled as Eragon spoke the words of the ancient language. Whilst typically scrying was a unidirectional spell –only allowing the caster to view those being scryed, the mirror was enchanted to allow communication between it and its twin.

To his surprise, it was none other than the Elven queen herself who appeared in the reflective surface. Ordinarily a servant or one of the lords who served the palace would respond, and then notify the queen. Just like her daughter, Islanzadí's face was devoid of any impatience or anger that she may or may not have felt. That familiar blank mask, gave little away.

"Atra esterní ono thelduin." Eragon spoke first, greeting her in the manner of the elves.

Islanzadí completed the greeting before quickly waving away Eragon's attempt to complete the formality.

"Shadeslayer, another time perhaps I would appreciate your efforts to adhere to our formal greetings, but in times such as these, perhaps we can put them aside for now."

"Of course, your majesty. What is it you wish to speak to me about?"

"I take it that my messenger arrived safely then?"

"Not even a scratch. A remarkable effort considering the paths she travelled and the dangers that accompany them."

"I send only the best Shadeslayer. Nonetheless it is good to know she is safe. May I assume you have received the package I sent you?"

"Yes."

"Oromis, as you know preferred a life of solitude. Normally, his sword would be either given to his family or a close relative, but during the fall of the Riders, most of the riders that stood against Galbatorix had their families hunted down. Unfortunately his family was no exception. Therefore as is proper, this sword now belongs to you as you are, with the passing of Oromis, the head rider and his senior pupil."

"That however, is not the reason I have asked you to contact me. This regards your sword, Brisingr."

Eragon inwardly flinched at the Queen's tone. Her voice was no longer emotionless but laced with a coldness and disapproval that chilled him to the bone.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Perhaps a month or two ago, he would have stumbled on his words: stuttered and started. But now, a tired and aged -albeit only slightly- Eragon stared unflustered, meeting the Queen's eyes without hesitation.

"I did what was necessary to better our chances against the Empire and Galbatorix. Had there been any other solution, then I would have taken it without a second thought, but as this appeared to be the correct course of action, I chose to follow my instincts. It was indeed Saphira who attacked the Menoa Tree, but it was I who did less than I could have, to stop her."

Once again, there was hint of a reaction on Islanzadí's face. Her eyes betrayed nothing; her lips were motionless as she pondered his words. Neither of them even blinked.

"I commend you for having the courage to standing by your actions." Were the words she spoke, followed by a pause. "But that does not excuse them."

"Your highness?"

"The Menoa tree is nature herself. Her roots, her spirit, are connecting with every natural, living object in our realm. A scratch to the tree, is a scratch on nature itself. When the Menoa tree is troubled, so is every blade of grass, every bird that flies, and every river that flows.

"I can understand why you thought your actions were appropriate, but that does not mean your actions did not have consequences. It has been weeks since the sparrows have sung their songs, the leaves have dropped from the trees early, and even the winter frosts are more bitter than what is the norm."

"I apologize if you feel these are what have resulted from my actions, but I stand by what I did."

"So be it Shadeslayer. However, know this. The elves, myself included, are not happy with what you have done. We will continue to support you in this war, because it is the right thing to do, and I believe that you are our greatest hope to defeat Galbatorix. The mourning sage spoke highly of you, and to go back on our word now would be a discredit to his memory. There will be further consequences for your actions, but that will be decided at a more appropriate time."

"If that is your decision, your highness, I can only accept it. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?"

The latter question was more out of formality than anything else, but once again Queen Islanzadí surprised him.

"How is Arya?"

"Arya?"

"My daughter, Shadeslayer."

"Ah- from what I know she is well."

"From what you know?" The queen's tone was as frosty as the winters of hell itself.

Eragon considered his next words carefully. Whilst it was clear there was little he could do or say to gain any sort of positive response from the Elven queen, there was still much that could be lost should he mirror Islanzadí's hostility. Doubtlessly, the support of the elves was crucial to the Varden's success. He was mostly certain that this was a personal matter between him and the Elves, but none the less he was not willing to gamble the lives of human, dwarven and urgal soldiers on his own need to save face.

The truth as it was; was that Arya still remained very much an enigma to Eragon. Whilst, out all of her companions, he was the one that spent the most time with her, he knew little of her wellbeing save from physical health. Idly he noted that he should strive to take a greater interest in the future.

"I cannot watch over her at all times, your Majesty." A faint smile passed over Eragon's face. "And I fear for the person that attempts such a feat. Your daughter has slain a shade your majesty, I do not doubt that she can take care of herself."

For a split second, a hint of surprise slipped into Islanzadí's regal features. It was barely noticeable, only a slight widening of the eyes and a coincidental blink giving it away. Her tone of voice, however, did not change.

"And when was this Eragon?"

"During final stages of the siege of Feinster."

"Please tell her I would like to speak to her as soon as possible."

"Of course your Majesty."

Islanzadí studied the mirror that reflected not her own image, but that of the young rider many miles away. As always, she was careful to keep her features stoic, and her voice devoid of emotion.

"Argetlam, there is one more matter that remains to be addressed. Fear not, I will not delay your rest for much longer."

The image of Eragon nodded for her to continue.

"It is… tradition for the head rider to be present at any rider's funeral. Understandably these are difficult times, however I-"

"When?" Eragon interrupted, feeling the weight of Oromis's death bearing heavily upon him once again.

"Two days. As the sun fades from its perch in the sky."

Islanzadí caught a glimpse of sorrow in Eragon's eyes, and felt with equal sadness, that this war had aged them irrevocably.

"I will be there."

"Ah'll tell ye wot Marcus."

"Wot is it Bardo?"

"Ah'm gettin' a little bi' sick of this runnin' around ye know wot ah mean?"

"Ye mate, ah'd kill for just a spot o' mead and good night's rest aye?"

"Ah hear ye, but there ain't none o' that for folks like us, nay."

"Jus' one night, mate, that's all I want. Jus' one night where ah can remember ah've still got a name, 'n ah'm not jus' a bloody soldier."

"Ah hear ye, ah hear ye. Hush now, can't have the gen'ral thinkin' we've gone soft."

"Och, here 'e comes now. Look busy, quick smart!"

"Roran Stronghammer to see you Lady Nasuada."

There was a pause from inside the tent, then...

"Send him in."

Nasuada's guards parted to allow him passage. Roran slipped inside the tent, crouching on one knee.

"My lady."

If anything, Nasuada looked mildly amused at his formality.

"What's this? Courtesy? My, my, this must be something serious. Take a seat Stronghammer, there's no need for that when there's no one else around."

Roran stood, sparing a crooked grin and said, "Thank you my Lady. You're right of course. It is serious, but I'm hoping it will not be so."

"Oh? Please explain."

"I am weary from this war and it is not nearly half finished. Though I am certain your burden is infinitely greater than mine, I cannot vouch for you whereas I can definitely vouch for my soldiers. And no, they have not put me up to this, rather, I had heard in passing some of my soldiers succumbing to exhaustion and not a small dose of nostalgia. As a result, I'd like to organise some sort of night off for the soldiers... rather a party of sorts."

Nasuada's eyebrows furrowed at that. Not in annoyance but rather in one of her typical expressions of interest.

"Now is not the time to be complacent, Stronghammer. We cannot have our soldiers staggering around, singing and dancing when the enemy strikes."

"Agreed. But tired and stressed soldiers are no good for anything but target practice for enemy archers. From experience, there is often a lull in battle after a successful siege such as ours. Normally this time would be well spent in taverns or brothels; surely we can use this opportunity to promote unity and kinship amongst the races. One can be happy and gay without being intoxicated."

"May I ask? Why do you bring this up now?" She said.

Roran briefly mentioned the conversation he had overheard. He outlined his thoughts and plans for the evening, watching Nasuada's face as he did so, looking for any change in her expression. There was none.

Silence enveloped the pair as Nasuada remained motionless, as she careful considered his words. Finally she nodded.

"So be it, Stronghammer."

Why is there all this blasted noise? Eragon grumbled to Saphira as he woke from a quick nap. How am I meant to rest with all the yelling and laughing?

Before she could form an answer, a blur of blonde and the scent of autumn swept into his tent.

"Eragon! Come! Nasuada is throwing a party!"

With that, Niduen grabbed his hand and began dragging the startled rider towards the tent opening in nothing but his breeches.

"Niduen..." he tried to gently pry him off his arm, but like her swordsmanship abilities, her strength was surprising and not to be underestimated. And when had she begun to treat him so familiarly?

"No objections, tonight is a night to dance, sing, relax and share stories," she cried gaily, laughter permeating her voice.

"Niduen," he tried once, firmly.

"Do you dance Eragon? Oh how wonderful it will be to hear the tales of old over a pint of mead."

He wondered if this incessant stubbornness was why Arya had never mentioned Niduen to him before.

"Niduen!"

Saphira, traitor that she was, had turned tail and left Eragon to his fate, giggling all the while.

"And the fire Eragon! Ahhh the warmth, it chases away the winter chill."

"Niduen!"

Finally, she relented and Eragon took the opportunity to snatch his hand back.

"My lord?" She smiled as though oblivious to his glare. "Oh, Eragon, why are you not dressed?" she asked as though she had just noticed, "You must put some clothes on! We cannot have our master rider catching a cold. Hurry! I will meet you there."

Eragon huffed, knowing there was no way he could dissuade and he was beginning to grow curious about the 'party' Nasuada was supposedly throwing. He turned around to return to his tent, and retrieve his clothing. As he did so, Niduen gave him a slight push from behind; just a friendly, gentle, Elven-strength enhanced nudge. The combination of the slippery grass and his lack of footwear did not do his sense of balance any favours and he found himself once again face down in the mud. Spitting and cursing, Eragon muttered a quick spell to dispel the dirt from his skin and whipped himself around to face her. Niduen, however, was long gone, her musical laugh ringing in his ears as she faded into the night.

It was a good while later that Eragon finally found his companions sitting around a smaller fire conversing merrily sipping varying types of beverages.

His presence did not go unnoticed by Orik who immediately beckoned him over to sit by him. Eragon hesitantly glanced at the empty space beside Arya, but was immediately hauled down onto a log by Orik and handed a mug of mead.

"Eragon! We are sharing riddles and as you have only just arrived, you must share one with us! If we give the correct answer, you must down your drink, but if someone answers incorrectly, they must drink theirs, and if no one does... all but the riddler must drink!"

"Are you sure of your wager Orik? From what I can see, you have not been very successful."

Orik hiccupped in response. "Ah, tis part of the fun Eragon! Dwarves –hic- may not be good at riddles, but I've never had any problem –hic- getting drunk!"

Eragon gazed deeply into the dancing flames, trying to remember one of the many riddles that Saphira had asked him during their flights together. Watching the flakes of ash being spat out of the fire, he finally remembered one.

"What is black when you get it, red when you use it, and white when you are through with it?"

Silence greeted his words. Eagerly Eragon looked around at the sea of empty of expressions. Just as he was about to announce the answer, he was interrupted.

"Charcoal."

The same ice blue eyes that had watched him fall to the dirt once again met his with the same mischief as before.

He winced as Orik pounded his back again.

"Drink!"

Was it just his imagination or did his mug seem larger than normal?

Eragon didn't have time to speculate, as the next person began to speak their riddle. The more he drank, the more his inhibitions faded away. He found himself watching Arya, who returned his gaze with a contemplative expression on her face. If it weren't for the hot ale coursing through his system, he would have seen a sliver of affection that crossed her eyes.

His worries seemed to slip away, as easy as the morning creeping upon them.

The pounding in Eragon's head did not relent despite the peaceful flying on Saphira's back. He had hoped floating aimlessly with the wind at his face would bring him enough contentment to ignore the headache that threatened to split his skull.

Urgghhhh he groaned, much to Saphira's amusement. She of course, had suffered no effects from the copious amount of mead she had consumed. It seems she had learnt from the last Dwarf feast they had attended.

You, go away.

That's a bit difficult at the moment, considering you are on my back.

Eragon opted to ignore her.

He had been flying for quite awhile before he heard something that did not belong. At first, he thought the sound was the whistling of the wind passing his ears. Saphira, sharing his confusion, swooped down closer to the snow wreathed trees near the Varden's encampment. The wind that breezed pass carried a high pitched keening noise to his ears. It mirrored the gentle tinkle of a bell: a multitude of wind-chimes dancing in a fierce breeze.

Eragon, someone is singing!

Eragon's eyes widened as he began to recognize the unearthly beauty of the voice that pulled him into faded memories of Ellesméra. Saphira landed in a clearing large enough to hold her and he swiftly slipped off her back, eager to find the source of the strange melody. He held one thing in absolute certainty: it was not Arya, whose voice sometimes edged unbidden into his dreams.

Niduen was kneeling against the roots of a large tree, its branches swaying lightly to the tempo of her singing. Her voice was saturated with magic and he could feel it permeating the air like honey. As he watched her, she turned to smile at him, still singing with one hand spread up against the bark like a crouching spider. Turning back to the tree once more, she placed both hands onto its trunk, and closed her eyes. Her voice was increasing in volume.

A rustle behind him revealed Arya who had undoubtedly been drawn by the familiar song. She moved to stand beside him and together, along with Saphira who had managed to fit her head through the gap of two trees, they watched the singing elf.

Eragon then witnessed something he had known and heard of but never seen.

She is singing something from the tree! Saphira exclaimed in excitement.

He stared in amazement as an object began to form from the tree's branches, weaving together into a slender shape. It was a long piece of wood, with sap-like substances running along one side. Even as he watched, the substance that clung to the ends of the wood dried and formed individual strands like thin strings. Completed, the object fell into Niduen's hands and she began to sing with renewed intensity, notes soaring higher and stronger into existence. Again, the branches twisted, but this time thicker ones that hollowed, into an oval-like shape which then thinned at its middle. As a long branch began to protrude from it, Eragon began to recall the memory of an instrument he had once heard during a festival in Carvahall.

Niduen held the violin-like instrument and its bow in her hands like she would a child: something precious and full of potential. Comparing the instrument to his memory Eragon could see that it was not quite the same: the Elven counterpart had more strings and consequently a thicker bow. In her pure bell-like voice, Niduen sang her gratitude to the tree which had returned to its former state.

Will you play for us Niduen? Asked Saphira.

Niduen laughed and shook her head, "Not I, Queen of the skies."

Then, to Eragon's surprise, Niduen offered the musical instrument to Arya who looked at her as though she was offering a snake.

"I'm afraid I have not played in too long Niduen. I would not subject you both to my unpracticed attempt."

Niduen's smile grew mischievous as she replied, "Dear cousin, it would bring us great joy to hear you play. Especially as I have not heard the sound of your music for too long a time. Your fingers grow calloused and scarred from war and perhaps it is time they touched something that creates rather than destroys. Besides, the Elven memory rarely forgets."

Briefly, Eragon wondered about Niduen's familiar referral to Arya as a cousin before he returned to the amusing conversation before him.

Niduen's playful expression promised she would not relent and rather than continue to argue, Arya sighed and took the pseudo-violin and bow in her hands. She glanced at Eragon who, to Niduen's amusement, hastily hid his excited expression. With a hint of exasperation, Arya placed her head gently against the slightly raised platform on the pseudo-violin's surface made exactly for that purpose, and lifted her bow to rest delicately on its strings.

Eragon waited with a thrill of anticipation. He had known that Elves possessed great musical talent but he had never included Arya in this reckoning. Carefully, as though the wooden instrument would break from her ministrations, she slid the bow across the first string.

The high pure note rang across the silent clearing and a touch of magic and something else filled the air. The tingling that ran up through the veins of his arms to his shoulders and back down to his feet, started at his fingertips. Each note was stretched out slowly and languidly as though they were afraid to be heard and of what they could reveal.

Eragon could feel Saphira in the back of his mind, listening with shared awe; eyes closed as though she could feel sound and track its echoes. The music wrenched something, irrevocably lost, in his heart because they sounded like tears falling. It was as though all the emotion Arya had always locked away, the key lost, perhaps broken, was laid bare in this haunting song. Here, in this secluded place, with a childhood friend, a noble dragon and someone that had somehow burrowed close to her heart, Arya could feel.

As her nimble fingers raced across the strings in a series of light trills, she mourned for her father's death, her lost memories and her mother's growing coldness. She mourned for Fäolin's pain, her own at the hands of the Shade and Elva who would never stop feeling it. She mourned for Oromis and Glaedr, and the loss of hope their deaths brought. But most of all, she mourned for the many lost, and those who will undoubtedly follow.

Eragon could see behind his mind's eye a house burning, a scar that stretched across a back and a stone grave. He remembered spending a night under Saphira's wing with an incurable agony in his chest, the hollowness in Roran's eyes and a broken fairth. He remembered haunted violet eyes under the gleam of a dragon's mark and the swift departure of a crimson dragon. Everything that had ever brought him sorrow was surfacing rapidly at the intensity of Arya's remembrance.

The gentle pitter patter of something falling reached Eragon's ears. He lifted a shaking hand to his cheek and found that it was wet. For the first time in an age, he felt human. The sorrow in Arya's music was overwhelming, so strong he was swaying on his feet, wishing he could soothe her. Barely noticing what he was doing, Eragon opened his mind and let his shields drop from existence. From somewhere inside him, near where Saphira's consciousness settled, he pulled out hope and edged carefully into Arya's mind.

He was almost overcome by the maelstrom of emotions within her but gently, as though he were soothing a frightened kitten, he let his mind emanate with his hope for victory, for life and faintly, a dangerous hope for something between them.

Eragon's calming presence was like a sentinel of light in the dark recesses of Arya's mind. Fuelled by Eragon's hope for the future, the agony radiating from her song dimmed and faded. Her furious movements across the strings slowed, returning to long pure notes that rang into the sky, soaring as though in flight.

Wonder filled Eragon and he pondered how it was possible that music could make him feel as though he was on Saphira's back, reaching for stars he could never touch. How could music lift a heart so completely? Arya's melody had changed, impossibly charged with hope for the future despite the grim awareness of sorrow ahead.

But nothing is without difficulty, Eragon contemplates with sudden philosophy. Life simply does not exist like in fairy tales. It is, however, moments like this that make existence worth fighting for.

Eyes closed, Eragon felt rather than saw the silent pads of feet nearing their little clearing. The echo of Arya's instrument had grown with volume, reaching even the heart of the Varden. They floated in like apparitions following the sound of the pied piper, with ghost-like footsteps as though afraid to disturb the harmony that pulled them to Arya's song. Men, women, children, werecats, Elves, Dwarves, warriors and sorcerers alike, even kings and hardened leaders were enchanted by this hope. This, was the entire embodiment of hope left to fight against the Empire.

It was with sorrow, Eragon felt as Arya's song concluded, that the hope would be dimmed. But as the last note faded, Eragon's eyes opened to the sound of cheering, the approving roar of a dragon joining them. For the first time in his life, Eragon saw Arya glowing at their audience's awe and he could not help but return Roran's wicked grin and Nasuada's smile.

Yes, Eragon thinks as his heart fills with protectiveness for this hope, this is definitely worth fighting for.

Saphira roars in whole-hearted agreement and this time, the Varden joins her.

The city still held traces of beauty.

Albeit, he thinks bitterly, a beauty marred by the tragedy that had befallen it.

The keening of multiple voices neither agreed nor disagreed with him. The Eldunarya that made their home in his mind were privy to his most private of thoughts. He abhorred their presence there where he had sought to protect above all else, but they had given him almost unimaginable power. They were necessary.

As the man stared into the sky from the roof of Castle Ilirea, he wonders detachedly, about the fragility of the buildings that spiral into the air like cones of glass. But its foundation was built from stone and it remained resilient, as he too must be, in the helpless situation he found himself in.

Names, he considered as he stared mindlessly forwards, are funny things. A simple combination of words that hold little meaning if said separately, while together they manage to encompass your entire existence. They are the essence of an identity, etched into a being and shared by no other. So carved within a person's soul, it is almost impossible to erase and re-sculpt.

Almost.

From where he sat at the edge of the black citadel, he could see the kaleidoscope of light that refracted off its edges. It burned his eyes. As though this thought had power to remedy his dilemma, a great shadow passed over his eyes. Its owner landed next to him with a thump that likely would have been felt by even the prisoners who resided in the castle's dungeons.

And there they sat, this strange conjunction of souls: man and dragon, peering out into a city that could not save them. They did not speak, for words were unneeded. They had come beyond the point where words would have once been a comfort and made a difference. They were, after all, puppets on a grand stage, moving only on the whim of their master.

An unpleasant presence edged Murtagh out of his dark thoughts and he stood to face the black eyes of the one man he truly hated. For him to have sought him out personally did not bode well for Galbatorix's enemies. This could only mean that Murtagh would once again head out on Thorn to battle once more.

"Ah, Murtagh, Thorn. I trust you are well?"

His voice was deceptively pleasant, warring with the insanity that no doubt lay behind his eyes. Today, he was in a good mood but neither Thorn nor Murtagh was fooled. They had, after all, witnessed how easily Galbatorix's manner could change. In an instant his charismatic façade could be transformed into an expression of twisted, mindless fury. Such fury had cost the lives of five servants who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was why Murtagh met those misleadingly warm eyes with his own. Not because he desired to be foolishly defiant against the most powerful man in Alagaësia but because he was watching for the flicker of warning which was all he would receive before he would be subjected to Galbatorix's insane rage.

Galbatorix had not been waiting for an answer and he continued onwards, undeterred by Murtagh's silence.

"My soldiers will be moving to Belatona where they will no doubt march forward to meet the Varden's army. I want you to capture Eragon along with his dragon. Bring them both back to me, alive."

For a moment, Galbatorix's eyes flashed, and his overwhelming power permeated the air and blocked his lungs – he couldn't breathe –

But it was gone before he could begin to struggle properly. Galbatorix's black eyes merely watched him unconcernedly.

"Unfortunately, this unexpected snowfall means my army will not arrive in time to secure Belatona. But I am certain that its citizens will be more than eager to defend their beloved city," Galbatorix continued as though he had not paused.

Murtagh's eyes narrowed and Galbatorix could see that he understood. Belatona was renowned for its skilled craftsmen and while in these particular times all the Empire's cities possessed a garrison of militia, the men who made up this force were primarily blacksmiths, carpenters and leather workers! They would be no match for Nasuada's army of trained and battle-hardened warriors let alone a dragon rider of Eragon's calibre. They would only serve to wear him down a little, if at all, before Murtagh could arrive to battle him once more.

But of course, he thinks viciously, they are merely pawns for you to use and sacrifice. Like I am to you.

These thoughts must have been visible in Murtagh's eyes because Galbatorix smiled unpleasantly, and spoke three words in the ancient language. Almost at once, Murtagh stiffened and would have fallen if Thorn had not swung his tail in a crimson arch forward to catch him. Galbatorix had infused the words with his unrelenting power and its pressure was suffocating him. For the second time within minutes, breath escaped him. Dimly, as he fought to regain control of his body, he could hear Thorn growling at Galbatorix.

"You would do well to obey Murtagh Morzansson. Your role at my side will play a great part in restoring order."

My name and Thorn's… it must change, and soon!

Murtagh allowed the thought to flitter across his mind before he seized it and buried it under multiple, heavily fortified shields. But even these would not stop Galbatorix from easily delving into his thoughts if he chose to do so. Luckily, Murtagh's struggle appeared to satisfy him.

Gasping for breath, Murtagh placed a hand on Thorn's tail to steady himself and suppressed the sudden suicidal urge to express his thoughts on his true role as Galbatorix's puppet and pawn. While Murtagh could see the worth in Galbatorix's vision of utopia: the unification of Alagaësia under a single banner, the restoration of the Riders and the elimination of war, the cost was too great.

Murtagh had never been a supporter of unnecessary deaths. Particularly deaths that he and Thorn would be forced against their will, to cause.

We are all pawns on your monumental chessboard. To you, the deaths of innocents are dismissible. Just a game.

It was unfortunate, then, that their puppeteer was immortal.

The game would never end.

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