How about a short note before we begin, shall we? This first chapter is a little preview of what continued, the entire story might be like. As you can see, it is POV Arya, and it will basically be a continuation of the Eragon story beginning with the end of Brisingr. I beg you all to PLEASE R&R! (I want to know if this is good enough to bother continuing.) So please enjoy! :)

As Arya stepped delicately into her small tent, a temporary housing provided to her by the Varden, she felt as if she were 1,000 years of age, not a mere 100. For, the past few hours (she really was unable to recall how many) had been a chaotic blur of agony, fear, anger, exuberance, and heartbreak. So many had died; some by her hand, many by others', and even now she relived the moments when she had truly believed that she would be dragged into their ranks. But in simile to a cat, she was surprisingly alive, as well as the majority of those she cared for.

With a little sigh of utter and complete exhaustion, the tall elfish princess sank into her rough little cot, listening with detached interest to the noises from outside the canvas walls of her oasis. Horses, men, weapons… even a dragon. And with her she assumed, that dragon's rider.

Eragon Shadeslayer. This was his name. And now, as she recalled (but was rather disinclined to believe) she shared it. Arya Drottningu Shadeslayer.

She snorted in derision.

What a name, she thought. It was a title to challenge even the greatest of nobles, and the greatest of heroes. Something her mother would waste little time in pointing out to her. With marked irritation, Arya sat back up and began pulling from her the gore-splattered armor she still wore from the now concluded battle in Feinster. Nasuada had been entirely correct; she must confront Islanzadi, and in no sluggish fashion, but now was an inopportune moment for this. For the moment, she must rest. The issue of the Eldunari must wait, as well as the officious display of what Arya assumed was meant to be motherly love.

Leaning wearily back once more, the raven-haired woman smiled slightly, her pearly teeth exposed for the most fleeting of moments. I am alive. I am a heroine. And I am one day closer to that hour when I shall bear witness to the feat of Eragon and Saphira tearing the craven head from Galbatorix's vile shoulders. And Arya, having attained some measure of peace, drifted into her waking dreams, not suspecting or even much caring about what the morning might bring.