Hey guys! So I have another story I should be finishing...but oops.

Anyway, this is the third version of a story I dearly love and should not have deleted. I know better now. I will not let tiny things such as the amount of reviews I get be deciding factors

Anyway, please enjoy!

Prologue: End of the Dragon War

In the year 7210 AC (After Creation):

A young elf-child, only ten years of age, sat in his chair by his desk, immersed in his studies. The only light came from the Erisdar hanging above him. His grey eyes quickly, but not without missing a single meaning, flew across the elvin runes of the Ancient Language, the Liduen Kvaedhi. A small slender finger turned the page of the book he was reading, a gift from his parents. Magic radiated from his body, as it was with young elf children.

A quiet knock came at his door. He gently shut his book, and slid off his chair, padding quietly and barefoot towards his door. He opened it, and stared up at a man, an odd entity in the Silverwood Forest. The elf child had not seen many men before, but he heard whispers of a strange ship that had landed far up north years ago. From the ship came creatures that looked very much like elves, but lacked the grace of one and had round ears. Their lives were short, as the elves had been before they were bonded with the dragons. The man in front of the young elf-child looked weary with grey-and-brown hair, but he stood tall, with strong hands clutching a wooden staff. His grey hair reached his shoulders, but his brown eyes remained clear. He wore a worn, grey robe, with a large bag attached to his belt.

The man held up two fingers against his lips. The elf child quickly mimicked him, remembering his manners, "Atra esterní ono thelduin." He greeted the man in a soft, quiet tone.

The response was "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr." Elf child wondered where the man had learned elvin manners, and whether they were the same as human manners.

"Un du evarínya ono varda," he finished, curious as to whom the man was. He had only heard about humans through tales.

The man didn't hesitate as he fluently spoke the ancient language "My name is Olwen, and I am one who wishes to right a few of the many wrongs that will plague this land."

The elf child stood on the other side of the doorway, perplexed. The confusing, vague lines of his kin had always confused him and he hated how the majority of them insisted on wasteful courtesy. Hearing the human speak this way, it made him wonder if all humans spoke in the style of the elves. Nothing would be so complex if everyone decided to be straightforward. "Why are you here?"

The human Olwen answered. "I have a favor to ask of you. May I come in?"

He stepped aside and allowed the man to enter. Olwen gently closed the door, and asked permission to sit in one of his chairs. The child nodded yes, and took a seat on his bed. He studied him intently, and felt the old eyes return the gaze.

"What is the favor?" the elf child asked, unable to hold off his curiosity any longer.

Olwen said nothing for several moments, but before answering "I must ask you to guard something precious, so that when the time comes, the right people may receive it."

"I'm only a child," he mused "Why me, why not one of the older elves?"

Olwen smiled, "Because a werecat told me that my daughter would birth a line of rulers. By seeking you, a child, a young one who will one day be one of the wisest of the land, and mentor these great sovereigns, I have given you the agathokakological gift of life."

"A-agatho-kak-kako-logical?" the child questioned, having never heard the word before.

But Olwen didn't respond, slowly opening the sack attached to his side, and he pulled out a worn wooden box. He beckoned the elf child to come forth, and Olwen handed it to him. The child opened it, and frowned in confusion.

The first circlet had green, metal leaves and gold stems; he couldn't recognize what tree they had come from. At the back of the crown, where the stems of the last two leaf stems met, was a purple diamond the size of the tip of his thumb. Underneath was a much slimmer circlet of the same style, except the stems were silver. Both were laid on top of black velvet.

"Crowns?" the elf child asked, confused.

Olwen nodded "They come from the original land of the humans, where King Palancar had fled from with his people. The history of the crowns is long and kept in the library in Doru Areaba. No one knows their full history. But my task for you is to guard these crowns, and keep them hidden."

"Why must these crowns be hidden?"

"Placed upon the head of the monarchs they give great power. Placed upon the wrong heads, monarchs or not, will give great sorrow and destruction." Olwen's eyes looked troubled "It is wise to take on the council of a werecat, and it was a werecat who told me to hide away my family's most prized heirlooms."

The elf child gave a sharp gasp; awe striking his features as he recognized who it was that was sitting in his room. Olwen gave him a small smile "I see you know who I am, silver haired child of the House of Thrándurin. Indeed elves start their education at a tender age."

"It's an honor," The child whispered, bowing. Oh, the great deeds he had heard about this man!

"They who can wear these crowns will be the true rulers of the human race. Promise me you will look after them." Olwen gripped the child's right shoulder with a gnarled, yet strong hand.

The elf child closed the lid, and started into the eyes of the old man "I shall, your majesty," he whispered. Olwen smiled once more at him, and stood up, leaving the child all alone in the room to ponder the meaning of his words.

Six hundred and eighty-six years later, that's six hundred and seventy-six years since the elf child had grown and become a Rider, the Dragon war raged across all of Alagaesia. And the Order of the Dragon Riders, the Order that kept the land safe for two thousand years, fell within four years, in the year seven thousand nine hundred, measured and bloody.

In the year 7900 AC:

The Rider rode away from the burning city, where roars of dragons and screams of people emitted behind him. In the chaos, he knew that he was safe to leave, but he could not take his time. The wounded man in his arms needed healing, and there was always a risk that someone would see them. Ahead of him, the beautiful blue dragon of the wounded man flew quickly, alongside his red dragon. The thunder of the two dragons' wings was masked by the cries of battle behind them.

The body of the man he carried was the body of his brother, who was on the brink of death. But the Rider could not take the risk to stop and heal all his wounds; he did what he could while riding. The man, his brother, in his arms was important to the fate of Alagaesia, and he could not take any chance of getting caught by a traitor, or by a monster.

"You came back," if it wasn't for his sensitive ears, his brother's words would have been lost in the wind and the echoes of the city from behind.

"Shhh, you idiot," the Rider ignored the first question "You complete and utter fool. You know what our masters said! There would be a time for you to fight! And the time is not now you bastard!"

There was a small, weak chuckle. "I don't do well with orders" his brother whispered, a hand clutching the Rider's tunic. "I can ride my dragon."

"I'm not taking a risk," the Rider snapped. Why the hell couldn't his brother understand? He was a stupid, immature…little brother of his; the last of his siblings he loved to survive.

His brother leaned his head against his shoulder "Everyone was there. I thought that I could at least give them a chance to live."

"You did," the Rider muttered, "And you nearly killed yourself. Did you really think that you could take on Galbatorix so early? Now you're…" he voice faltered; he couldn't bring himself to say the next set of words. It hurt too much.

His brother was silent "I know it was stupid, but I felt like I had to try. Something told me that I had to try."

They rode on in silence for hours, heading southwards towards Dras-Leona. The Rider held on tightly to his brother, ignoring the words of his dragon as they echoed in his mind.

Do not ignore me, my hatchling, his dragon growled softly in his mind. He didn't reply, just letting his emotions pour through their link, so that his dragon could understand what he could not put in words.

He felt his brother chuckling against him a few minutes later. "You know, you can confess that you love me."

"I'm not your damn lover," the Rider snapped, feeling impatient and tired and weary and worried and scared for his little brother. "Just shut-up, we're almost there."

"Where are we going?"

"To that Grey Folk descendant of yours"

"I thought you hated him."

"I thought I told you to shut the hell up. You need your strength."

And they were silent again, until the sun rose from the sky. They were so close to their destination, but he could feel the strength of his dragon draining. The urgency of healing his brother drove them like a slave master, with Time watching callously as it spend onwards, towards his brother's possible death.

"I'll never see again," his brother whispered. The Rider didn't reply, unsure of how to, but the first ray of luck shined upon them when the vast ruins of Edur Ithindra came into view.

The dragons, both of them, landed close to the abandoned, nearly, Elvin outpost. Just as the dragons landed, a short, angry woman with curly brown hair and flashing brown eyes (and a large frying pan in her hand) walked out through the doorway of one of the small houses that surrounded the outpost. The house was, as were the rest of them, in ruins, and looked pitiful next to the tall outpost, whose glory was almost gone.

"You!" she shrieked, her eyes focused on himself and his red dragon, "You traitors! How dare you come back here! After all those you betrayed!"

Her arm was raised, ready to throw the frying pan, when the Rider swiftly got down from his dragon, and revealed the broken body of his brother. The woman froze; her face in shock.

His brother's dragon, with her brilliant blue scales gleaming in the sunlight, turned to face the woman. There were a few, tense minutes of silence. His brother spoke "Is that our lovely aunt? I haven't seen her," his voice wavered, but he continued "in years."

"Come here," the woman spoke quietly. "Tenga will see to you. And you," she glared at the Rider as she took his brother and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Stay here until I come back out. I'm not finished with you yet."

The Rider nodded, and watched hopelessly as his brother was taken away, dragged by his aunt, a woman who was surprising strong. He let the heavy silence sink in for a few moments. His brother's blue Dragon let out a mournful keen, wailing at her Rider's desperate state.

Gathering up the last of his strength, he turned to the brilliant blue dragon, collapsed in front of her. He laid a trembling hand on her snout, and whispered in the Ancient Language "Fear not. You know him better than us all. You know that he will survive."

The great dragon reared her head, startling the Rider. She let out a loud cry, which he could feel in the earth and the air, scaring any wildlife that was nearby. "I have shared his mind longer than any Dragon shares with their Riders. We are not two minds, but one. Do you know what it's like to lose half of your mind?" Her words bellowed loudly in his head. He winced, and clutched it, but otherwise stayed still. His dragon jumped behind him.

"No, we do not," He and his dragon spoke at the same time. "But know this; he will not die, and we will abandon neither you nor him again. Both of you have saved our lives, believed in us when all hope was lost. It was that which allowed us to change our names and save you. So we ask you this; do you forgive us enough to let us help you?"

The sapphire dragon did not speak, until 'You are the brother of my little one, and you are my mate' she spoke softly, gently. Her large nose touched the Rider's head, and then she moved her head so that it pressed against his dragon's large, ruby head. 'We are family, and as you have seen the error of your ways, I forgive you. But know that treachery in the future will not be taken kindly to. This is your second chance.'

He hesitated, though he knew the answer, 'Does my brother forgive us as well?'

The blue dragon gave a snort of surprise; he never referred to his brother as 'brother' before. 'He was never mad at you. He understood. But I must know, are the two of you willing to do anything to cleanse the blood on your hands and claws?'

The Rider looked down at his hands, turning them so that he could see his palms. He could see a clear vision of blood appear on them, and slowly drip onto his ground. He hastily shoved them away.

'Anything and everything,' both he and his dragon responded.

The blue dragon stared at him in the eye. 'I believe you.'

The silent älfa-kona knelt in a large clearing by a small tree, wishing to get away from the sounds of mourning. Her lover and her father had perished at Ilirea, now Uru'Baen, and her mother's heart had lost all feeling in it. She wept quietly, alone, under the roots of a large tree, where no elf would find her as they were all mourning the loss of their Könungr. Suddenly, she cried, a sharp, keen moan that echoed throughout the forest. Creatures fled at the sound of her mourning, and plants shriveled away from her. Her angst pained her, the loss of her loved one, her beloved, who promised her that he'd return.

Those who heard that cry could never forget it, for it pierced their hearts, it became a part of the song that runs through every Elvin mind for the next few decades. Queen Islanzadi was the first to find the älfa-kona, who was clutching her lower torso, tears streaming down her face. The mother rushed to her daughter, her own sorrow forgotten.

"Arya," the mother cradled her close "Arya." But what words of comfort could a mother give to such loss? Next the brother of Arya, the second child of King Evander and Queen Islanzadi, through the bushes, and was leading a small crowd of elves. He was young, only twenty years of age, and his name was Glenwing. He too ran towards his sister, holding her shoulder, unable to help.

The thundering of ancient wings drew closer, and the golden dragon, the secret of the elves, landed. His Rider carefully slid, and ran as quickly as he could to the trio. "Arya hush," Oromis tried to comfort her "Hush, listen to me. There is still a chance that they survived, there is still a chance that-"But he cut himself off, when he noticed the dark stain growing on the front of Arya's dress.

Islanzadi drew in a sharp breath "She is with child!"

The Eragon lay on the bed, surrounded by what's left of his once-large family; the man the Rider had once called Father, his eccentric aunt, his brother's dragon's head that fit into the enormous window, and his aunt's newly adopted werecat named Solembum. The Rider, Murtagh, stood in the doorway.

His father, if Murtagh had any right left to call him that, was oddly calm. Yet to the receptive eye, he was still shaking, half-mad with grief. His dragon had died only a few months previous during a major skirmish between the Order and the Forsworn that left the flames underneath the land. "I've gathered what's left of those loyal to the Order, against Galbatorix's reign, and those brave enough to oppose him and his reign. We will fight back." Brom's hand grasped that of his unconscious son.

"We cannot let anyone know that Eragon and Saphira survived" Angela said, unusually solemn. "Nor can we let go of the fact that Murtagh and Thorn have returned from the north. It will take time for Eragon to heal, and they need all the time they can get before they are thrust out into war."

'That is for the best,' Saphira's voice echoed wearily through their minds. 'Murtagh and Thorn will help me guard him, and the Spine will be our home until Eragon has recovered fully.'

All stay silent for a moment, before Brom let go and abruptly walked towards the door. For a moment he stared at Murtagh, and then left. Angela, in the meantime, was mumbling something in Eragon's ear, before she too left, taking Solembum with her, and giving him a very cross look as she left.

Finally, it was just him and his brother in the room. His brother lay quietly on his bed, his breath shallow, but steady. His entire body was covered in bandages, his form naked under the blanket. Murtagh slowly walked over to him, and knelt by his bedside. "Hey," he whispered softly. He removed a necklace from his pocket, and placed it in his brother's hands. It had a green emerald hanging from a silver chain. "I," he fumbled, cleared his throat, and started again "I asked for our Elders to help. There's only a pair of them left now. Everyone else, except for you two, us, and the traitors, they're all gone." He paused, trying to organize the whirlwind of thoughts that paraded around in his mind. He watched as Eragon's hand tightened against the necklace, and heard his breath hitch in his throat; his brother knew whom it had belonged to "Only three of us and our dragons are left of the Order."

"Arya," he whispered, startling Murtagh, clutching the necklace in his hand "Oh gods, Arya, our child."

"I was not told what happened to them," Murtagh muttered softly in the ancient language. "I was only given the necklace, and I was given a spell that will help your eyes, though they will not thoroughly be healed."

Without waiting for a reply, Murtagh stretched his mind out to Saphira, to Thorn and to the emerald, and began chanting a spell that he was forced to memorize. Eragon began to moan, his hands moving to hold his eyes, only for his older brother to gently grab them and hold them firmly.

Eragon withered beneath him, and Murtagh forced himself not to stop there. It was something he had to do; something he could do to start amending what he had done wrong, to wipe the blood from his hands. It was, surprisingly enough, over in half an hour; Murtagh was expecting much longer. As soon as he let go of Eragon's arms, the younger Rider grabbed the cloth wrapped around his eyes, and pulled it off. Murtagh helped him into a sitting position, and could see a few drops of blood drip onto the blankets, but that was all. His brother blinked a few times, before looking up and facing him.

He gasped. Eragon's eyes, once upon a time brown like the earth, were now multi-colored. Other then the black iris in the center, his brother's eyes were a kaleidoscope of red, green and blue, though the blue shone the most. But they had a slightly distant gaze to them, and Murtagh knew that he could never see clearly as he once had.

Then, even though he was shaking with fatigue, Murtagh knelt before his younger brother, who stared at him with blank eyes. He took a deep breath, an approval from his dragon, and drew out his iridescent, ruby colored sword; Edoc'sil, or Unconquerable. He offered the blade to his brother, and began his vows in the Ancient Language.

"I, Murtagh Swiftblade, Son of Morzan, Son of Brom and Selena, give up my sword, Edoc'sil, my life, dedicated to the New Order of Dragon Riders, and my loyalty, whom I swore none would have, to you, my younger brother, Eragon Shadeslayer, Slayer of the Shade Marzik, Eldest son of Brom, son of Selena, Successor of Lord Vrael, Dragon Rider of Saphira Brightscales, and Head of the New Order. Until my last dying breath, I will serve you, my Lord, and you, Saphira Brightscales."

Eragon's eyes widened in shock, but before anyone could say a word, Thorn spoke. 'And I Thorn Bloodscales, son of Glaedr, accept you, Lord Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of Brom and Selena, and the Dragon Rider of my mate, Saphira Brightscales, as the Head of the new Dragon Rider Order. Until my last dying breath, I will serve you Eragon, brother-of-my-Rider, and you Saphira, my mate.'

Together, the red Dragon and Rider said "Accept our services as your vassals." For several moments, no one spoke a word. Murtagh dimly wondered if Eragon would even accept it.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Eragon grabbed the hilt of Edoc'sil, and rested the tip on Murtagh's head. In a surprisingly steady voice, he replied "I, Eragon Shadeslayer, Son of Brom and Selena, Slayer of the Shade Marzik, accept your sword, your life, and your loyalty, Murtagh Swiftblade, Son of Brom and Selena. And I accept your pledges, Thorn Bloodscales and Murtagh Swiftblade, to me."

Here, Saphira joined her voice as well. "As the Successors of Lord Vrael and Umaroth, Leaders of the New Dragon Riders and their Dragons, and Head and Lead Hunter of the New Order; we accept your services until your last dying breaths or until our regimes end. We accept your duties as our vassals. We will not taint your name and title as long as you fulfill your duties with honor and respect. Rise as our vassals and Elders of the New Order."

Murtagh rose, and Eragon rose with him, though Murtagh grabbed his shoulders to keep him steady. His younger brother returned his blade by sheathing it in his scabbard, and the two brothers continued to stare at each other, wondering what would change between them, and Alagaesia. When Eragon's eyes watered, Murtagh held him close, something he had not done in centuries.

In the year 7910 AC/The tenth year of the reign of Galbatorix (10 New Era):

Chains rattled in the room, the only light came from the candles that lined the circular walls, and a few rays that peeped through the bars high above in the wall. But it, which was bound in the room for centuries, could not see, for the eyes of its vessel remained closed. "Stop rattling," its vessel croaked. "It hurts my ears."

"Elder one," a man's voice pleaded like a child's. "Can you tell me the story of the Soothsayer?"

Its story, that it would have a hand to reveal. "It's not for you to know!"

A raspy, sharp gasp came as a response. Then all was quiet.

"Elder one," the man asked again. "How long will we be in here?"

It relinquished its control of its host so she could answer freely "Until the foreign queen of this land is freed."

"Who's the queen?"

This conversation, so tiresome to it, had occurred numerous times over the past few years. But maybe the man forgot, or maybe he wanted to forget about his nightmares. "She's of my blood. She will fall in love with a peasant. She will wield the blood sword." Those were the only bits of information soothsayer allowed its host to say. Anymore, and the Thief would hear of it.

"Will she kill us upon our freedom?" the man asked.

"If you wish for it, she will kill you."

"But she is mine, so she shall not die." The Soothsayer suddenly let go of control of its vessel to reply, and attached onto her again just as quickly.

"Soothsayer," this time, the man addressed it. "Will you reveal your form to me? I cannot touch the Elder one like I…seem to desire to."

The idea was appealing, very appealing.

And the man, who was leaning against the wall, hands chained up and feet chained together, watched with eager eyes as a thick, gray mist emerged from his Elder. The mist gathered upward, first into a vague shape of with a head, two arms, and two legs. But part of it still remained in its host.

The soothsayer took control of its host one last time "Your wish is my command, honored seeker. Pray tell, what do you seek now?"

The requests always changed. They went from earthly pleasures, to visions of the past and future. Or, merely to talk of events the soothsayer had witnessed. It would be lying to say that it did not appreciate these forms of contact at all.

"I wish for a woman's company, one to aide my desires."

It pulled out from its host completely, and turned into the shape of a beautiful woman, with black hair and gray skin that mirrored those who first sought her wisdom. But her skin color did not diminish her beauty. "Soothsayer," the man whispered, lust clinging onto his words as a creeper would around a tree. He took in her well-formed body as she stepped into the few rays of light that appeared. And the soothsayer shivered as it, now she, felt chills run up her spine as the man took in her form. His eyes raked over her every curve, and she felt shy, conscious of the minimal clothing she wore; it only covered the privates of a woman, leaving the rest to be exposed.

"Come here," the man's voice was hoarse, and she did as he asked. Upon reaching him, she straddled his gaunt waist, and stared into his broken, insane eyes.

"Help me," he whispered. She smiled, and waving a hand over his cuffed hands, so that they were free. His thin bony hands were placed on either side of her hips, and he pressed his forehead against hers.

"Tell me what ails you," the soothsayer whispered, pressing her new form up against the man. "I am the soothsayer; tell me what hurts your heart so."

The man put his lips near her ear, and whispered "I can see my death, over and over again. And I can see him dying, over and over again." He clutched his chest, face tight with pain "I can feel my heart beating, but it's not supposed to and it pains with every beat. I cannot see any shades of dark green as clearly as I once was able to. And I cannot control the desires of this body." He stared up at her; she could see traces of orange in brown eyes. The soothsayer and the man had much in common; both were bond unwillingly to bodies not their own. But while she could assume her desired own form, for a short duration, he could not. He was a creature bond to a flesh he was unaccustomed to, a flesh whose sister lies nearby on the cold, stone slab above the vapors of the earth. The vapors would not stay contained to the crack beneath the stone slab. Sometimes, they leak out, forming a sulfuric, burning smell.

Any mere human, dwarf, Urgal, elf and Grey Folk could not handle the vapors too long. But the man beneath her, who was laying kisses on her neck, as eager as a child with a new toy, was bond to the flesh and blood of a mad king from a distant land, and his mind and his breath from a creature bond to this native land. He was a creation made in madness, tormented by memories his own and his flesh's.

This man, the soothsayer decided, who had a hand wandering below her torso, was her lonely companion, whether she decided to be an it, a she, or a he. He would stay with the soothsayer for a long time, until their liberation.

Come quickly, mad queen, the soothsayer thought as she ran her hands through the man's hair. The man trailed his kisses down to her chest, his hands freeing her of the little clothing she wore. Come free us from this dark Thief who imprisons us.

In the year 7900 AC:

When Galbatorix's victory was final, a white raven, gifted by the late elvin king, sat atop of one of the branches of the Menoa tree, and gave out a loud, sharp cry of "Wyrda!" Hearing it, the spirit in the Menoa tree shivered, sending out forbidding feels throughout the forest of elves.

All throughout the land, those who were still sensitive to the pleas of nature could not help but feel the fear of the land; it was only the eye of the storm, and another war had yet to come to pass. Dread seized their hearts, and words of warning were passed down through the generations of all races.