Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle and all its characters belong to the wonderful Christopher Paolini. Only the characters and storyline particular to this fanfic belong to 'The Meepsta :) :)'

^Well, it's over and done with now... I'm not going to repeat it every chapter ^

5 reviews... hm... pretty good! I was so engrossed in doing SimplySupreme's dedication; I forgot to do a target! :P Anyway, a huge thanks to the fantastic;

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Restrained . Freedom

Unique Fantasiser

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SimplySupreme

Sorry this took a while to come out! I don't know why, but I found this chapter a little harder to write than the ones before... maybe because there isn't much action in it, only thoughts and decisions. Anyways, here it is - an Elva POV- and I hope you enjoy it!

6 reviews would be amazing!

The Meepsta :) :)

(Elva POV)

"Do you want to buy anything?" The tradesman asks, a furrow between his brows."You alright, missy?"

Damn... I don't want to attract unwanted attention. The strain of leaving Skolir alone for so long must be more evident than I realised.

"Don't call me 'missy'!" I snap angrily, as if it was his fault that I had to leave Skolir in danger. I instantly regret my words as I have to explain now why I took offence. "I am the daughter of a lord and will not be called by such a title."

"My lady, please forgive my insolence." He begs and I secretly smile, imagining how easy life must be for a genuine lady. I should do this act more often...

"You are pardoned. How much is the pocketknife?" I point to a slight blade on display at the back.

"That would cost you two hundred crowns." The tradesman said, smirking as I hand over my entire bag of coins. As a lady, I would be expected to carry a fair amount of money, but two hundred crowns? This weapon had better serve me well... "Anything else?"

"No thank you." I wouldn't have the money if I did. At this outrageous price, his business with the populace must be nonexistent! Or will be soon...

"You sure?"

"Perfectly. Now if you would excuse me-"

"No." What do you mean, 'no'? "Before you go, what is your name?"

"Why do you ask?"

He gazes at me, eyes travelling slowly up my face. I feel naked under his gaze, stripped of all comfort.

Don't look at the silver brow or the colour of the eyes, please don't... don't...

"You don't get too many pretty green-eyed young ladies around here." Green-eyed? Stupid drunk. "Your name?"

I feel myself flailing, and I blurt out the first name I think of. "My name is Myeva. Goodbye."

Where there's a cart, there's always mud and dirt. Angela's irritating voice rings in my head, taking me back a year to when I last spoke to her. Where there's mud and dirt, there's always a beggar.

It is strange that only a year ago I was two years old, and I helped assist in the downfall of Galbatorix. It is strange that only an hour ago I was three years old and became the last of the Dragon Riders. But hasn't my life always been strange?

You may choose to ignore the herbalist- some would prefer to call her 'witch'- with her pointless hypotheses and theories. She once tried to convince me that the toad in her hand was really a frog, and there was no such thing as toads, only frogs. Such nonsense I have only ever heard from her.

But, as I have lived with her for most of my life, I have learnt that Angela is far more than she seems. She was the first to suspect my blessing to be a curse, and on my instruction, made Eragon's life miserable afterwards. Sometimes she spouts out useful information, and with her sharp intellect, she can overcome every situation.

We were a good pair, the closest to a 'friend' I ever got. She is what I miss most about my life before. But I have Skolir now and a whole new life ahead of me. A new life ahead of us.

Where there's a cart, there's always mud and dirt. Where there's mud and dirt, there's always a beggar. But nobody looks too closely at a beggar, for they will feel ashamed.

It is here, crouching behind a hay wagon in a side-street, that I finally understand Angela's words. To escape the city unnoticed, I must disguise myself as a beggar, and I must do this now.

In frenzy, I reach for my pack and grasp the bone handle of the pocketknife. I hack through the longer stands of my hair until it is just below the level of my ears, hiding the silver mark on my brow as best as I can. The mark concealed, I presume I look almost normal... like a young stable- boy maybe. But what should I do to hide my pale skin?

A veil? No good... draws too much attention, not to mention being a female garment. A hat? No good... I have no money left to buy one with. I feel the seconds ticking away... seconds that could cost us our lives.

Of course!

Crawling pitifully towards a puddle, I plaster my body in mud, making sure nobody is in sight. Once it has dried, my features would be distorted and my arms tanned. A brilliant camouflage for the city.

For nobody looks too closely at a beggar, as they will feel ashamed.

I look down at the murky water to see if my disguise is passable.

Two green eyes stare back at me in disbelief.

Two pure emeralds... beautiful emeralds of hope and life.

Two pure jewels... the colour of his emerald scales.