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Chapter Text

The splintered wooden railing isn’t what keeps Nuanorúm away from her subjects, but she leans heavily against it just the same. Her eyes, faintly luminescent, hunt across the horizon, where gently lapping waves lick the sand. A golden ship with billowing white sails soars towards the port and Nuanorúm inhales, a sharp, desperate hiss. Her tail flicks angrily and she settles into a crouch at the edge of the balcony, waiting for the moment she can finally speak.

“He’s grieving,” the crimson man grimaces, amber eyes fixed on the approaching vessel. A snarl forms behind his pointed teeth but he swallows it.

“That’s clear, Lausvit,” the man beside him replies, a subtle sarcasm curling his words. His gaze flicks almost involuntarily towards the dilapidated tower where he can almost imagine their emerald queen standing proudly to greet their guests. “Even a fool could see that.”

Arcing one perfect ebony eyebrow, Lausvit allows the first of his snarl to change his expression. “And so a fool did if you noticed, too,” he replies in a low voice. “You are documenting this, Domifethr? Scribe?”

Adjusting his jerkin and his pride, Domifethr clears his throat. “Yes, sir,” he replies dipping his head. With one hand flat against a blank page, he hums quietly to himself and the paper glows as inky black lines pull themselves into letters and words.

Lausvit sighs but somehow it doesn’t seem like he relaxes at all. “Don’t worry yourself, scribe,” he remarks shallowly, turning his eyes to examine his subjects. Nuanorum’s subjects. “Someone’s doing enough of that already,” he grumbles.

Domifethr’s copper eyes return to the tower and he traces the lines carved in the stone by twisting vines. The massive piles of wreckage compete with the rest of the castle for height but the tower stands alone, rising far above the rest. Even with the sun flooding the shore and a salty air dancing in a light breeze, the ruins are ominous.

“She is very quiet, though,” he observes, concern creeping into his voice.

Scoffing harshly, Lausvit seems to yank his eyes away from the looming ship to fix Domifethr in a mocking stare. “She must be, scribe. The vow doesn’t break until the Shining Palm arrives. When he accepts our hospitality, maga will release her. She will be beautiful.”

Domifethr doesn’t respond, preferring to focus instead on his work. He glances down with a disgruntled frown when he realizes his perfect letters and words have become misshapen. Waving his hand to clear the sheet, he starts again. Regardless, the things he doesn’t dare say come to mind unbidden, and he wonders if the queen could really be beautiful after twenty years in isolation with maga.

The looming ship begins to glow as it gets closer, the thoughts of the dozen or so elfin on the shore focusing sharply on it. The helm seems positively radiant, and of course it is. The work of fine artisans, this vessel is meant as much for beauty as for practicality.

Glowing headstones litter the beach, proof that the ship isn’t the only thing on the minds of the gathered crowd. The thoughts of each individual strengthen the display and Domifethr can’t help sending a silent whisper to whatever force of maga might be listening, begging that this be the end of it all. When he looks up again, the sky seems to glitter and he realizes that he’s caught a glimpse of the massive wingspan of a dragon, certainly a good sign. He smiles softly.

The others notice as well and a tremor of nervous excitement ripples through the elfins, gathered in small groups. No amount of fear could stoop these shoulders, and they stand proudly, a rainbow display on a sandy brown beach. Their tails flick nervously and their fur bristles, evidence of the ferocity they possess. After so many grief-filled years, it’s hard to accept that they’ll have any real cause for celebration, and of course they can’t ignore the possibility that it’s all coming too late.

Although most of the men keep their eyes fixed firmly on the ship, a few allow themselves a brief glance at a particular headstone, as if afraid it will be damaged by the ships arrival and the splashing waves. More often, it’s the women who do so, although their stances make it clear that they’re ready to act should the need arise.

Every color is represented among the men and women on the shore, and the rumbling basses and chiming sopranos dance across the breeze with the low conversations that escape their lips. There is no laughter, and there are no children.

We’re here, Little One. Saphira pushes her head into the ship’s main cabin and nudges her resting Rider, amused that he can remain still for so long. Knowing that this rest is spurred by the deepest grief he has known colors her emotions with bleak melancholy.

Eragon rolls over with a groan, his stiff muscles protesting sudden movement after laying down for so long. His face feels tight and dry, the result of too many wasted tears. Saphira’s soft concern rolls over him and he allows his eyes to drift sadly toward her great blue face. Am I weak? he asks meekly.

No, she responds quickly and firmly. She observes him for a moment before adding: but you cannot go on like this. Neither of us can. Let us leave our grief in the ocean and let it sink like a ton of stones. A puff of smoke escapes her nostrils and Eragon sees a memory of a certain green dragon drift across her mind.

It certainly feels like a ton of stones, he remarks with false humor. He grimaces and rolls to a seated position, reaching a hand out to scratch the corner of her jaw.

She puffs a second burst of smoke, this time with a cheerful grumble in her chest, and withdraws her head slowly, allowing Eragon the privacy to get dressed. We are here, Little One. Be ready.

“Where is here?” he wonders aloud to himself as he pulls on one of the outfits the elves gifted him. The association hurts but he can’t deny the beauty of the garments and something about their landing seems to justify a courtly bearing. Donning an ornate jerkin and sword belt, he clasps Brisingr at his hip and steps towards the cabin door.

Blödhgarm approaches, Saphira murmurs as Eragon takes a steadying breath and emerges onto the deck. The bright sun tickles his skin and he squints against its light. He remembers the first time he saw the sun after spending time in Tronjheim and wonders whether that stone labyrinth ever felt so oppressive as his own grief does now. The salty air tingles his raw face and he breathes another desperate mouthful of it.

Approaching with the same stoic expression as usual, Blödhgarm manages a stiff nod, no doubt a remnant of his time serving under Eragon with the Varden. “Astra esterní ono thelduin, Eragon Shur’tugal,” he announces, twisting one hand over his chest.

Eragon pauses, considering the words, and his friend. With careful eyes and deliberate slowness, Eragon responds in like: “Mor’anr lifa unin hjarta onr, Blödhgarm-vor. If it’s all the same to you, I think it’s best that we leave these traditions behind.”

If the blue elf is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Acknowledging Eragon’s suggestion with a curt nod, he continues in the Ancient Language, “You look unwell, Shur’tugal.” He searches Eragon’s face for a moment, although the movement is discreet and Eragon wonders whether he’s trying to keep from looking too concerned, or keep from making Eragon feel like a specimen.

“Our grief is heavy,” Eragon responds, switching naturally to the plural pronoun. “It weighs on us like stones, but we must let it sink.” He turns to face the looming shore and the promise of a new life, whatever that means. An array of men and women seem to be awaiting their arrival and he can’t help noticing their resemblance to his companion. “Have you seen these people, Blödhgarm?” he asks, peering sideways at the elf.

“Indeed, Shur’tugal,” he responds sharply, fur bristling. He doesn’t elaborate and Eragon doesn’t push.

They look like dragons, Saphira comments, surprising Eragon. He reconsiders and realizes she’s right. Although the people on shore have the lengthy, slender builds of the elves in Alagaësia, their flat noses and wide eyes seem more like a dragon than anything else.

Muscled tails flick anxiously around their feet and Eragon wonders if they’re scaled. His sight is vastly improved since the Agaetí Blödhren but he can’t quite see that small a detail from so far away. Nerves build tightly in his stomach and he clenches his muscles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Blödhgarm do the same, and realizes Saphira must have projected to them both. Considering that it is only the three of them moving on from here, he supposes he must get used to that sort of closeness.

Saphira silently confirms this assessment and Eragon places a gentle hand against her neck, looking forward like the bold statue adorning the hull of every ship. His attention pulls toward Blödhgarm and he stifles the awkwardness in his chest, reaching an arm out to clap his hand across the elf’s shoulders. He’s not sure how much comfort or solidarity it provides but he seems to relax at the touch and Eragon allows himself a small smile.

As they pull into the port and the ship knocks gently against the dock, Eragon swallows hard. He begins to raise his hand in greeting but drops it quickly, wary of cultural differences. Waiting until they meet face to face seems to be a safer option, although he’s also afraid their languages will be too different for that to go smoothly either. With one last swell, the ocean delivers the ship finally against the shore and the vessel stops.

Do we fly? Eragon asks, already climbing onto Saphira’s back. The question is hardly necessary as he knows what her answer will be, and indeed nearly always is.

Not always, she corrects with another puff of smoke. But I am the sky.

Eragon laughs uneasily, not sure what he is detecting in her thoughts. He glances at Blödhgarm who has already moved to the front of the ship and begun disembarking. As Saphira thrusts her wings into the air and plummets them downward with a strong precision, Eragon notices what feels like the slightest shift in their energy, as if his mind is suddenly clearer.

Something inside them, ancient and powerful, seems to have come to the surface and stirs there, ready to be released but not quite pushing itself out. Eragon shakes his head and closes off his mind to all but Saphira. The rush of wind against his face enlivens him and he cautions a glance back at the spot where he knew the Eldunarí are hidden.

We are well, Rider, they confirm together, overpowering even the strongest of his mental barriers.

Eragon settles easily into the saddle and breathes once, steadying himself as he and Saphira embrace the sky.

No, he corrects, the air. Saphira is the sky. He can feel the joy in her thoughts and allows it to pour into himself as well. And so am I.

Cracking violently, as if under the weight of a massive stone, Nuanorúm bellows a silent scream. The force of the maga, contained in her chest for so long, threatens to rip her apart as the Shining Palm arrives. Burning and devoted, she keeps her thoughts focused on her subjects and waits while her own powers return to her. She flexes her fingers against the pain, grinning wildly, and fixes her eyes on the brilliant blue dragon as it takes off.

Chapter Text

The softest of breaths escapes Nuanorúm’s lips and she smiles, allowing herself to revel in the nearness of her voice. Her wide emerald eyes are fixed on the dragon as it soars towards her subjects and anticipation builds painfully in her stomach. She can feel the slow release of maga and she cringes as her ears pop and joints ache, reminders that she has not been supporting her own body these past twenty years.

Forcing herself to look away from the sight on the beach, she concentrates on the preparations she must make. As much as she longs to be among the first to greet the Shining Palm, she knows that is not her place. She can do nothing for her people if she is ill-prepared when she finally does get to meet the dragon and its Rider, though, so the time has come to focus.

Rolling her shoulders and pulling herself straight, she tries to remember the regal outfits of her family’s hayday, and selects a memory of a woven leather jerkin over a silky purple dress. Her body begins to glow as her thoughts transfix themselves there and the garments shimmer into existence around her. The soft skirt flutters around her legs, tickling the otherwise bare skin, and her calloused bare feet are covered in small leather footwraps.

She frowns at the dark green scars around her knees and ankles, evidence again of the turmoil maga has reaped in her body. Shaking her head, she puts aside thoughts of her beauty and focuses instead on her presentation of self. It’s been so long since she interacted with anyone that even standing tall and smiling is an effort. Even to herself she seems feral—what will the others think of their queen?

She practices for a few more moments before she realizes that she feels lonely. Her thoughts seem so one-sided and her chest feels empty. A ferocious grin builds on her face and she opens her mouth, wrinkling her scarred nose, and growls loudly. The Shining Palm has acknowledged her people and her imprisonment under maga is over.

The queen has a voice.

With lithe movements, she returns to the banister and peers down at the interactions on the shore, examining the great blue dragon and the curls of smoke that escape its nostrils menacingly. The dragon pulls its neck high, surveying the gathered crowd with fierce eyes and loosely bared teeth.

Reaching out to one side, Nuanorúm presses her fingers against the cool stone walls of what remains of the castle, and hums low in her chest. The response is immediate and she smiles as the ruins pulse, thoroughly alive at the touch of their master. Two stone wyrms carved into the archway above her shimmer and awaken, groaning as maga floods their still bodies.

She smiles warmly, revealing pointed teeth, and a purr escapes her throat. “It’s been so long, my loves,” she murmurs, tears springing to her eyes at the sound of her voice. She does her best to ignore the raspy quality of it, and focuses on the fact that it’s available to her once again.

The wyrms fix her with sparkling eyes and she recognizes a reflection of her own ferocity there. She places her forehead against theirs, each in turn, and then climbs aboard the back of the nearest one. The second one drifts gently beside her in case she needs it for support, and together the three guardians descend towards the shore.

Eragon knows better than to chastise Saphira, and indeed feels no need to. Still, his trust is a decision in this moment, and he can’t help wondering if her brusque greeting will be received poorly. Reaching for the magic within himself, he allows its power to comfort him and relaxes slightly in the saddle, although he doesn’t otherwise act just yet.

He thinks again of his time in Tronjheim and realizes that his comfort level with crowds has only minimally changed. He grimaces internally, working to keep his outward expression more neutral.

The great Firesword can’t handle a few friendly faces?  Saphira snorts, enjoying herself and the obvious admiration of those gathered.

A few?! Eragon demands as he begins counting. He stops when he reaches twenty, and swallows hard. Not too many of them look friendly, either. He is hesitant to force a smile when a grimace might come out instead, and an unpleasant warmth spreads across his cheeks as his embarrassment grows.

As accustomed as it is for him to be the odd one out—among dwarves, elves, or even humans at this point—he is acutely aware of how vastly different he looks compared to those gathered. Every imaginable color—every shade and hue—is represented among the faces that stare with hungry eyes, and he wonders what they see when they look at him.

Blödhgarm’s mind gently brushes against his and he opens his mind to the touch. They are friendly, Shur’tugal, the blue elf’s thoughts come softly. And they are so beautiful. Blödhgarm’s astonishment is evident and he shivers excitedly.

Eragon allows himself a small glance towards his companion and realizes that their appearances aren’t so similar as he first assumed. With the same slender, pointed nose as the other elves of Du Weldenvarden, and the dangerous yellow eyes of an eagle, Blödhgarm hardly resembles these dragon-like creatures in more than color and the soft fur that adorns their bodies. More than that, Blödhgarm lacks a tail, the one feature of these new people that strikes Eragon as particularly interesting.

Have you touched their minds? Eragon asks. He can feel no direct hostility but is hesitant to reach out more vulnerably, particularly when their faces are so hard to read—it would be all too easy to mistake hostility for friendliness in the eyes of these people.

No, Shur’tugal, Blödhgarm retreats, recognizing his presumption. Eragon frowns, and makes a mental note to look for opportunities to demonstrate his trust in the elf. Saphira rumbles her agreement.

A loud growl emanates from somewhere in the distance and those on the beach unanimously turn their eyes to the ruins of a black tower. Conflicting emotions seem to grip them as some pale, clearly afraid, and others put their heads down, resigned. A few others smiled, visibly relaxing as if they can finally afford to believe the best. When their eyes turn back to Eragon and his party, those faces no longer look so apprehensive.

Neither of the two in front seemed to find reason to smile, Saphira observes, pointing with her mind to the fiery red man with broad shoulders and impossibly black hair, and the man beside him who seems to be chanting over a piece of paper, his lavender lips moving quickly but softly and his burnt-orange eyes fixed cautiously on Eragon. In fact, this is one of the only set of eyes that’s not looking at Saphira or Blödhgarm instead.

Eragon bristles, wondering if they think the blue man should be aboard the blue dragon, and Saphira allows an image of her bucking him into the crowd to cross their connection. Do not be jealous, Little One, she urges lovingly.

He bows his head and his cheeks warm again, as much with an embarrassed flush as with a grateful glow. He wonders at the cultural practices of those gathered, and what the growl from the tower really meant. He catches a glimpse of what appears to be legless, wingless stone dragons hurling themselves away from the tower with a green woman aboard them, but they seem to have disappeared when he blinks again.

After what feels like several minutes, the crimson man steps forward. His expression seems cautious and the raised fur along his spine emphasizes his hesitation. Eragon can’t totally blame him, either, considering he was greeted with the low rumbling of a ferocious dragon.

Thank you, Saphira rumbles, appreciating the description.

The distance between them isn’t more than thirty feet but Eragon is loath to climb down from Saphira’s back and approach as well, so they wait together for the man to close the gap. Through sheer force of will, Eragon keeps his eyes focused away from where the Eldunarí are hidden, and borrows some of Saphira’s strength to throw hardened walls around his mind. She offers the same to Blödhgarm, who agrees after a moment’s hesitation. With as much protection as is possible, the party awaits their first contact.

Lausvit bites back his disdain and does his best to present a civil expression as he approaches the strangers. His legs feel heavy as he makes his way closer and he can’t help be grateful that they don’t also attempt to approach. This distance allows him the time he needs to suppress his concerns. With a broken savior in front of him, it’s impossible not to feel disappointed.

With pale skin and clear deformations, this party hardly provides the hope they’ve waited so long for. He wonders if the man atop the dragon is sick, or if he sheds his hair for another reason. He shudders when he realizes they have no tails. His fists want to clench and to throw his fury into the subject of his punches, but he manages to remain calm instead. He forces his contempt to the back of his mind and focuses on the good: a dragon has come. Only one dragon, but still.

He stops in front of the party, still a good distance away so that if the dragon stoops her great head again, she will have room to do so. He avoids her eyes, respecting the ancient customs. It has been far too long since anyone has been able to pay proper respect to a dragon and nervous excitement bubbles in his stomach. Grumbling internally, he strikes a posture of respect, bowing slightly, twisting his hand across his chest, and allowing his tail to curl in front of him. He waits.

Eragon stares, surprised. For a moment, he had almost expected the familiar gesture of the elves of Du Weldenvarden. Even Blödhgarm seems to register surprise, the feeling flitting across their loose connection. The man in front of them seems regal and very well maintained, his crimson fur blowing softly in the salty breeze. His features are strange, but not as entirely foreign as Eragon had first thought, and he recognizes a submissive expression.

Do I copy him? Or use what I know? he asks Saphira, wishing he could ask these questions faster and reduce the time it takes for him to respond to this man. Saphira merely snorts in response. Am I supposed to use a greeting? Should I start since he didn’t say anything?

You don’t even know his language, Saphira reminds him with some subtle hint of humor. As tense as she is and prepared for anything, she is also enjoying herself.

Grumbling, Eragon settles for copying the motion as best he can, grateful that he has experienced such similar gestures before. Beside him Blödhgarm does the same although his innate grace lends beauty to the movement.

The man’s spotted ears flick, although whether it’s surprise, annoyance, or something else is unclear. As the three of them return to a relaxed position, Blödhgarm and the man standing straight and Eragon straightening in the saddle, the onlooking crowd bows deeply, wrapping their tails around their legs and bending low. Eragon knows that if he had ears like this strange man’s, they would have flicked, too. The knowledge does little to help him understand the driving emotion.

“Greetings,” the man finally speaks, his rumbling voice using something close enough to the Ancient Language that Eragon can understand. “My name is Lausvit. Welcome to Yggdrasil.” The air seems to shimmer as he speaks and Eragon feels the same pulsing power as before. He imagines that if life was a force unto itself, it would feel like this.

How do you know it’s not? Saphira questions, something strange resting in her mind. Eragon ignores this comment, wary of its meaning, and focuses on Lausvit.

“Hello,” he replies, hoping his eyes display the same sort of liquid magnitude as this man’s. “My name is Eragon Shur’tugal. I didn’t expect anyone to receive us. How did you know we were coming?”

Saphira silently agrees that “Shur’tugal” is better than “Kingkiller” in this situation and Eragon stifles a grin at her dry humor. Lausvit smiles, revealing dangerously sharp teeth like Blödhgarm’s. No. Like Saphira’s.

“Maga showed us,” he explains simply. His expression is light but his eyes are heavy and Eragon gets the feeling this meeting isn’t precisely what maga predicted.

I don’t think maga is a “who,” but a “what.” Saphira answers Eragon’s silent question.

“You brought the Sky with you,” Lausvit continues, admiring Saphira, although he won’t look her in the eye. Her scales seem to glow a little brighter under his gaze and Eragon wonders at the effect. She seems to shrug mentally in response and he doesn’t press the issue.

Lotha, Blödhgarm murmurs across their minds, repeating the word from the Ancient Language as if remembering something important. He shakes his head, confused at his own reaction.

Saphira crouches low, bending her neck to peer at Lausvit with sharp eyes. Why won’t the red man look at me?

Eragon repeats the question and watches, surprised, when the man sinks to the ground. It’s a difficult thing to watch someone shift from king-like to bug-like and the pressure of having disappointed Saphira seems to weight him down even further than that.

His voice is hardly above a whisper and he’s clearly terrified when he responds, his ears flat against his ebony hair and his tail curled tightly around his legs. “I never meant to offend, but to respect. Please grant me forgiveness, Your Majesty.”

Saphira bristles, pleased with the title but with little else. She rises to her full height and snorts, eliciting a flinch from Lausvit and shifting Eragon to an even higher position above the crowd. Blödhgarm shifts nervously and the others gathered press their ears flat back as well, stooping into a position of reverence.

Won’t you console him? Or at least acknowledge him? Eragon asks, surprised by Saphira’s apparent callousness.

No, she snorts. He did offend me.

He didn’t mean to. Don’t you accept his apology?

He apologizes only because he is scared, and rightfully so. I will accept an apology when he makes one properly, and because I am worth it, not simply because I could rip him to shreds. She doesn’t explain further and Eragon doesn’t push, although curiosity prickles at his mind.

Another ferocious growl interrupts their conversation and the creatures Eragon thought he imagined suddenly alight nearby on the docks, only a short distance behind Lausvit and his lilac companion. Ravaged with dark scars, a pale green woman with the most luminescent figure Eragon has ever seen climbs off one of the stone creatures and seems to take great joy in the feeling of the sea breeze as she approaches. Eragon’s focus is torn between the strange monsters and the woman herself, and he chooses to focus on her as she walks with determined steps towards them.

Following some instinct, Eragon climbs out of the saddle and onto the ground beside Saphira. The woman walks as if sore, placing each foot with careful precision despite her speed and when she stops she seems to sway. Her eyes positively glow and Eragon isn’t sure whether he’s more terrified or thrilled. He imagines it must feel similarly to be shocked by lightning. He was surprised to notice a similar feeling from Saphira.

“Welcome,” the woman announces. Her voice sounds as if it is echoing from somewhere very far away, or like she’s speaking with two voices at once. The power resonating in her tone is crippling and Eragon is surprised by his own strength under the force of it. Blödhgarm, he notices, seems to sway and hunch slightly.

Nasuada is a great leader, Eragon acknowledges to Saphira, but far from capable of that.

This woman is made of magic, Saphira responds distantly, her attention focused more on the woman than the conversation. She is like a dragon…. She is clearly uncomfortable and Eragon places a hand on the nearest part of her leg that he can reach. She’s gotten far too tall for him to reach her neck unless she lowers it and he stands proudly beside the most beautiful creature he’s seen. Saphira doesn’t respond to the praise, further proof that she’s distracted.

“I am Nuanorúm,” the woman speaks again, her voice settled into something more personable. “I am queen of Yggdrasil, Your Majesties.” Beside her, having returned to his feet, Lausvit cringes openly. “Könungr Brisingr,” she nods at Eragon, who stifles his surprise at her knowledge of his most notable magic ability. He puts a wary hand on his sword and reaches for the comforting magic within him, surprised to find it burning hotly inside him. “And Lotha Dröttning.. Of course, you are Sky itself, Majesty.

Extending her arms, Nuanorúm suddenly sprouts great feathered wings, that lift her into the air and make her deep bow clear to everyone around, even those who could not otherwise see the exchange.

Saphira extends her neck, beaming at the woman who seems so small in comparison. She brings her face very near to Nuanorúm’s and puffs a ring of hot smoke around her before suddenly opening her mouth and breathing a heavy stream of blue fire around the woman, neatly parting it so as not to roast her. Eragon’s eyes widen, his own surprise mingling with that of the crowd’s, although he certainly has more confidence in the woman’s survival than they probably do.

When Saphira finally closes her jaw again and Nuanorúm returns to the ground, both seem to glow, alight with new strength and life. Saphira’s breath comes hard through her nostrils, the way it does when she drinks too deeply from a cold stream and forgets to breathe in between gulps.

Greetings, Dröttning Stenr, Saphira acknowledges, projecting her comments to everyone in close proximity. Eragon notices a few birds suddenly take off and some of the people gathered stoop to the ground under the weight of a dragon’s consciousness. Skulblaka-kyn.

Chapter Text

Eragon reclines against the wall of a massive cavern, not the first of the amazing sites on Yggdrasil. The entire trip from the shore to this castle structure had taken nearly an hour after Eragon, Saphira, and Blödhgarm said goodbye to the others on the ship and began the trek with Nuanorúm, Lausvit, the lilac man whose name is Domifethr, and the entourage of others. Anywhere in Alagaësia, a group that size would’ve had trouble traveling together any great distance. Here, however, it seems the main roadways are built for such enormity and are paved with stones so wide they took several steps to cross.

The ruins of another castle, one where Nuanorúm had apparently been living, were hard to ignore but the most beautiful structures greeted them when they got past it that they simply didn’t have the concentration to be able to focus on it anymore. Like it’s long deceased inhabitants, it was quickly forgotten.

Now, in the massive hall of a castle in much better condition, Eragon and his companions are the center of celebrations. The Rider smiles, watching as Saphira nips playfully at one of the many granite wyrms in the room. They’d bothered her at first, no less because they seemingly sprang to life at Nuanorúm’s touch, but she warmed to them when she realized they weren’t afraid of her fire. Worthy entertainment for a dragon is hard to come by, and it’s no wonder she settled into a sort of wrestling dance with the creatures.

I haven’t had a chance to hunt since we left Alagaësia and I want to practice, she sniffs, not glancing up from her ‘prey’

You would be a fierce hunter, no matter how long since you practiced last, Eragon responds admiringly, laughing as one of the more slender wyrms spirals around one of her scaly blue legs and weaves between the spikes of her long back. And you’re getting so big!

The fiercest, she agrees, helpfully providing an image of her ripping out the throat of a bear. But I am only large to a human. Or more than a human, she adds, a meaningful glimpse of his changed appearance cropping up in her mind. But I want to be large and fierce even to a dragon. She falls silent with the thought of Shruikan and Glaedr coming to mind, but continues playing with the wyrms. After a moment, and in recognition of Eragon’s admiration, she adds: Thank you, Little One.

Eragon just smiles and returns his focus to the conversation at the table nearest him. The effort it takes is immense and he sees he’s not the only one struggling to keep up. Domifethr is chanting rapidly, one hand pressed firmly to a glowing parchment and spirals of black ink erupting around his touch. The elfins, the self-identification of this race, are a lively bunch and speak quickly when they put their minds to it. Eragon is comfortable enough with the Ancient Language to follow it but still, the work of it all leaves his brain fuzzy.

As does the Spice.

Eragon suppresses a giggle, naming the drink in the native tongue: Loisva! Lilies!

Watch that you don’t fall out of your chair, you drunk.

You’re just jealous they don’t have barrels like the dwarves did.

Saphira snorts indignantly and returns to her play, ignoring Eragon’s stifled laughter. He gets the feeling that she would raise an eyebrow if she had them and he snickers to himself, knowing she undoubtedly has as many memories of him acting foolish. Of course, he doesn’t have the dignity of the dragons to uphold and cares little for his reputation in that regard. The conversation beside him picks up fervently and Eragon finds himself drawn back in, listening to the strange double-voice of the green woman.

“It has been twenty years, Lausvit,” she speaks sharply, as if she’s more likely to snarl than anything else. “We must continue breeding practices or our population will be wiped out.” Her dark scars give her a strange, stripy appearance, and Eragon is reminded of the books he read in Du Weldenvarden, about foreign creatures called tigers.

Nuanorúm seems mostly healthy but she said that those scars won’t leave her and Eragon can’t help feeling slightly uncomfortable around her. The depth of her expression reminds him too much of Elva. He is grateful that Nuanorúm’s skin seems to have returned to a more normal glow, although still shine dangerously.

“Maga is free and it’s more powerful right now than it has been in a long time. Children can finally survive,” she presses, eager light growing in her face.

Eragon frowns, feeling like this isn’t a conversation he’s meant to be part of, but turns to see Lausvit’s reaction anyway.

“Maga may never return in full force,” the man speaks quietly, hesitant to meet her eyes. “Do we want to risk finding out in five years that it is no longer enough to support the next generation?”

Something about his posture tells Eragon he’s not quite submissive to Nuanorúm, only submitting for now. He wonders what sway she has over him that keeps his raging ambition in check. When he looks back at her, she’s staring in shock.

A half-eaten strawberry is pinched between her fingers like she’s forgotten about it and her mouth is round. “Don’t say that again,” she finally responds, her ears settling flat against her hair. “Maga is very strong, and I know that better than anyone.”

Her sharp eyes glare into Lausvit’s and he looks away again, a grimace on his face. His tail flicks against his furry leg and the movement reminds him of the same tense twitching of Saphira’s tail when she’s waiting for a particularly lengthy political meeting to cease.

“We haven’t seen any other signs,” Lausvit ventures slowly, appealing to her need for firm evidence. “And we still haven’t begun to assess those from the ocean.”

Your turn, Saphira grumbles, still disgruntled at Lausvit’s refusal to interact directly with her.

“What would you like to know?” Eragon asks, leaning forward to make it clear that he’s engaged properly in the conversation. Blödhgarm catches his eye from further away and he feels the blue elf open his mind towards him as if to listen to the conversation and see whether he’s needed. Eragon welcomes the presence and brushes the touch. “I have questions of my own but I’m a guest—I want to let you begin.”

Lausvit opens his mouth to speak and then snaps it shut again, either deciding he shouldn’t say whatever he planned to, or deciding he shouldn’t speak first. Eragon meets his eyes steadily, somehow less distracted by the man’s crimson face than he is by some of the blue and green elfins. Those colors remind him too much of the crashing waves and salty air that he has spent too much time resenting for him to feel comfortable.

You move as if you can hear them now, too, Saphira comments wryly, clearly wishing he would give up these associations.

We haven’t been here long, I’ll get used to it, he replies shortly. Blödhgarm is disoriented, too. He said the salty air makes mats in his fur.

Saphira snorts, laughing at the mental image. They have things to speak about but they do not wish to broach them so soon.

We have to get them talking, Eragon agrees. I feel restless without any direction after sailing so long and now they’re skirting these issues like it might be too much for me.

Breeding sounds like a very important issue. You must have noticed there’s no children here.

I noticed as soon as we docked. Nuanorúm said it’s been twenty years since there were any children and since whatever happened to these people happened. I wonder if she knows I’m almost twenty years old myself. Do you think we have something to do with all this?

Saphira pauses, considering for a moment as she envelopes a wyrm in a final blaze of fire and then withdraws, settling beside Eragon. Everything here seems frozen in time a long time ago.

That seems a bit…paradoxical?

Paradoxes are for humans to figure out, I have little care for such puzzles. I’m more concerned with the danger to children. She fixes him with one giant blue eye and something buzzes in her thoughts but he can’t identify the feeling. Eragon decides to return to that conversation later and Saphira agrees wordlessly.

“I can assume, by your silence and by your concentrated expression, that you are speaking with the Her Majesty? Have we displeased you?” Lausvit asks finally, staring sharply at Eragon.

Blödhgarm twitches over their connection, bubbling surprise and annoyance oloring his thoughts. “Oh stop,” Nuanorúm interrupts, redirecting their attention. She has finished her strawberry and crunches loudly on a grape. “Domifethr, scratch that from the record of this meeting, I don’t want to remember how rudely Lausvit treated the King of Fire and Queen of Sky.”

Turning suddenly to look at Eragon, she reaches up one hand and places it against Eragon’s cheek. The electricity of her touch shocks him and he stares with wide eyes, hardly having the opportunity even to flinch. Across the room, Blödhgarm’s eyes seem to flatten, as if he wants to narrow them but is too carefully maintaining his composure.

“You are not guests here,” she continues, peering at him with wild eyes. “You are home now. You said you can’t go back, so you will stay. Don’t worry about Lausvit, he just doesn’t want to breed!” She smirks devilishly at Eragon’s expression before recoiling and returning to her seat as if she hadn’t touched him at all.

Reaching for a creature she called an urchin, she scoops out the meat and resumes eating. “May I?” Eragon asks, reaching forward for an urchin for himself. Lausvit looks surprised at Eragon’s willingness to try new foods and Eragon surprises them all further when he cracks open the strange ball, eats half of it himself and throws the rest to Saphira, who grumbles happily. “We are grateful for your hospitality and generosity,” he explains. “And we want to help.” Saphira releases a plume of smoke, emphasizing his words.

“We have to begin breeding,” Nuanorúm says, a tone of finality and truth ringing in her double voice. “Maga is returning and there have been no children in twenty years.” She begins speaking louder as she realizes that the attention of those around them is fixed on her now as well. “We have buried the ashes of the dead, the sand has taken them, and the ocean has drowned our grief. We must crash like the waves, before the storm rolls in.” Eragon shudders at the similarity to Saphira’s words earlier that day.

There is much behind us, Saphira agrees.

When Eragon repeats the sentiment, Nuanorúm pushes herself to her feet. Casting her eyes towards the front of the cavern where a wide open door, large enough for a dragon, is still propped open to allow the light of the setting sun to filter in, she speaks firmly. “Tomorrow you will demonstrate your maga and be assessed. Tonight, the waters are churning and the sands are settling. Soon,” she adds, locking those sharp green eyes on Eragon’s brown ones for a moment before sliding them to the dangerous gold of Lausit’s. “The waves will swell. That always comes before they crash.”

The light in the cavern fades as the sun slips below the horizon and the energy of those gathered seems to leave as well. As if they’d only been waiting for this sign, the elfins stand and leave, heading off to wherever they go to sleep. Nuanorúm does the same, walking swiftly towards the darkened sky. Touching a glowing hand to the stone wall, she climbs nimbly aboard the back of a winged beast that shivers to life there. Eragon has no name for whatever that creature is, although he’s sure it’s not a dragon.

Do not be so convinced of what you think you know about dragons, one of the Eldunarí murmurs gently. The depths of these things extend far beyond what we can reach in a single lifetime.

Eragon swallows hard and peers at Saphira, wondering at the magic they’ve dived into. Certainly the elfins themselves are capable of incredible things, but the very thread of magic seems to be woven differently here. He wonders what that means for him as the weight of that concept crashes over him.

Ocean metaphors are complex, he decides, grumbling.

Chapter Text

Arya’s raven black hair feathers out behind her, riding the currents of the air as if it is made of air itself. There’s a beautiful strength in that freedom and Eragon smiles as he watches her. She glows with pride as she admires Fírnen, a dragon with scales the same color green as his Rider’s eyes. The resemblance is striking and the beauty in them both is unimaginable. Laughing and smiling, the way she only does when she’s riding, Arya turns to look at Eragon, soaring beside her aboard Saphira’s back. He wonders what they look like together, and if they would ever be as terrifyingly beautiful to look at. Of course, Saphira already is.

The blue dragon roars loudly and Fírnen snorts, eliciting a laugh from both Riders. They scream gleefully as the two dragons plummet, spiraling around each other. Arya reaches towards him, her fingers lightly brushing his cheek before she’s pulled away again, as if she’s merely taking the next step in a complex dance. He looks up to find her face and recognizes the Ancient Language pouring from her soft lips.

“Fëon!” she cries, and flowers drip from her fingertips, landing in her hair and streaming around them. She giggles, a sound he never thought he’d be so lucky to hear, and smiles. Shining adoration lights those beautiful green eyes and Eragon’s heart swells.

He remembers the boat he made for her when they were traveling through the Empire, and smiles. Reaching towards her, he opens his mouth to speak the words. A voice, dark and much much older than he is erupts from his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as his throat rips with the force of it. “Wyrda!” he bellows.

Arya’s face falls and the graceful spiral becomes a fearful plummet. Eragon tries to scream her name but a cold, mirthless laughter bubbles from his lips instead and Arya closes her eyes from him, blocking out that way into her mind. Her face grows pale and she slips lightly from Fírnen’s back. The green dragon is suffering similarly it seems, and makes no move to catch her.

Forcing himself to act, Eragon reaches out for her again but finds that he must struggle against glowing strands of letters. Neat and small, they spell the word Wyrda over and over again and the scrawl burns his skin. Binding him in place, powerless to do anything but allow it to drag him away from the elven queen, the letters tighten and he screams against their fiery touch.

Arya continues to fall and seems to shrink. Her skin becomes pale and gaunt. Just before she fades completely from sight, familiar wounds, evidence of her time in Gil’ead, blossom across her skin. Eragon screams,

And sits up sharply. He is drenched in cold sweat and the taste of bile is hot on his tongue.

Eragon! Saphira nudges him with her nose, panic flooding her eyes. Her bedspot is close enough to his that she can reach him easily, but she’s standing over him instead, protective and fierce. A low growl builds in her chest and the ends of her wings flutter nervously.

Eragon stares, wide-eyed, at the floor as if he’d just watched Arya sink through it. Without words—not that he could’ve chosen any—he sends images from his dream to Saphira. He finds that his dreams have continued, despite the fact that he no longer sleeps, and wonders whether natural elves experience the same thing. Nerves still raw, he isn’t careful enough and Saphira cringes away from the strength of his fear and pain.

I think it is just fear that drives these dreams, Saphira rumbles, comparing them to his visions of her before. But we should scry her soon.

Eragon nods gratefully and closes his eyes. Saphira is always so level-headed and seems to be entirely selfless, too. His dream did not revolve only around Arya’s destruction, but Fírnen’s, and Saphira makes no move to panic about his fate.

Wyrda.

She rumbles again, nuzzling him lovingly and humming in her chest. She seems as miserable as he but shakes her head to clear the feeling. Rise, Little One, she presses. It is time to learn what these strange dragon elves have to tell us.

Eragon smiles at her description but then grimaces, and groans as he climbs out of bed. It’s soft and warm and with Saphira so close he wishes he could stay there all day. Sighing, he pushes himself to his feet and undresses, preparing to bathe, shave, and perform the meditations Oromis taught him. Carefully considering each thought that dances across his mind, he notices a playful tone coming from Saphira. When he’s done with his meditations, he asks her about it.

Nuanenorúm will want to discuss breeding again.

I hope not, Eragon grumbles, finally settling into a bath. Lausvit seems disinterested at best, and I don’t know what she expects my help with. I certainly can’t settle a dispute between the two of them.

Saphira purrs but doesn’t answer and Eragon rolls his eyes, too agitated to pursue the matter. The cool water feels good on his skin and he stays submerged until he begins to shiver. Choosing another ornate jerkin and pants suitable for training and practice—whether with magic or with swordplay—he buckles Brisingr securely to his hip and climbs aboard Saphira.

He pays thought to Blödhgarm, who was given separate lodging closer to the rest of the elfins, and grimaces. Something tells him the elf will enjoy the proximity and opportunity to get to know the strange creatures, but it makes him uncomfortable to be separated, regardless. Of course, Saphira snores sometimes and he doubts Blödhgarm would be used to such sounds.

I do not, Saphira grumbles, eliciting a chuckle from her Rider. They soar from the mouth of their cave and over the vast community system below.

How do they keep their caves warm? Eragon ponders, looking down at the many dots of stone caves, handmade stone structures, and carefully woven earthen and tree homes. He’s surprised by the variety of their architectural abilities and preferences, as they demonstrate tendencies from every race he’s seen in Alagaësia.

This central city, Du Stenrsolus, features the majority of elfins and their bright colors are displayed proudly on their homes with paint, flowers, berries, fabric, and more. It’s hard to tell whether their activities are celebratory, or whether they always act so carefree. It’s a strange combination to Eragon’s eyes, who is used to the unobtrusiveness of Du Weldenvarden’s structures.

With towers and small stone homes surrounding the central castle, in addition to the more natural caves and other residences, Du Stenrsolus feels distinctly rabid. However, only the infirm and a few apprentices are housed within the city, the others live in more rural—and more natural—areas further away. From their height, Saphira and Eragon can easily see the spread of elfins and their ways of living.

Most of the tree dwellings resemble what Eragon is used to in Du Weldenvarden, and he suspects that the caves are formed largely the same way. He shudders to imagine the effort that would take and the power necessary to create something like that. Saphira provides the mental image of her creation for the Agaetí Blödhren, and the twisted stone work she made with her own fire.

If they are dragons…, she muses pensively.

Eragon shifts uncomfortably. You really think they are? Literally? The thought doesn’t sit well with him and he wishes again that they could go home.

We are home, Saphira responds sharply, knowing he needs the firmness. And no. But they might have something like dragon magic.

Eragon grunts in response before returning to his surveillance of the city. Much smaller than other cities he’s seen, it offers a lot to look at and he’s surprised to find that everything seems fascinating. Perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising.

There is no monetary system among the elfins, and they pay for services with their own lifelong commitment to serve others. Market stalls are setup where fruits, vegetables, and nuts are provided, as well as some homemade dishes like tarts, pies, and roasted vegetables. Others feature the limited variety of meat they consume, predominately seafood, including clams, eels, urchins, and giant fish. Saphira doesn’t particularly prefer such creatures but the elfins have learned to cook them so well that it’s hard to refuse, and she’s nearly as happy with a giant grilled tuna as she would be with a fresh deer.

Saphira makes a great circle and Eragon looks down to see a blacksmith, forging tools and swords, and other craftsman. Some of the workers seem to be making giant saddles and accessories for the wyrms and other strange creatures here, and Eragon wonders just how many of them share Nuanorúm’s power.

Magic is very powerful here, Saphira observes, shivering slightly. You must feel it, too.

Eragon is silent, uncomfortable with the unknown forces facing him here. He can’t help wondering if it was a dangerous mistake to leave Alagaësia, but something about it feels right and he knows they’ve made the right decision. Still, he wishes he could get Brom’s take on things, or indeed simply see the old man again.

An image of crashing waves comes across his connection with Saphira and she hums gently, comforting her Rider. Leave your grief in the ocean, Little One, she repeats. We have crossed beyond those waters.

You sound like Nuanorúm, he responds bitterly.

The rest of the flight continues in silence until Saphira begins her descent. We’re here, she warns quietly, aware that he’s begun to drift off into some spiral of thought. For a moment, he’s worried she’s upset, but she lands gently and nuzzles him as he climbs off. Resting his forehead against hers for a moment, she breathes happily against him.

I love you, he murmurs.

I love you, too, Little One.

Eragon pulls away and smiles, grateful for their companionship. When he turns, he realizes they’ve descended into a field surrounded by the most imposing cliffs he’s ever seen. They cross a short distance together to meet Nuanorúm, who is sitting crosslegged on a outcropping. As they approach, Eragon realizes they are atop a cliff themselves, and the sound of waves crashing against the bottom greets them when they get closer.

“Hello, Your Majesty-“ he begins, tipping his head gently.

Nuanorúm turns with a playful smirk, like she’s watching a child do something foolish but trying to find the right words to correct them. Eragon raises an eyebrow. “It’s rude to greet your friends as if they are strangers,” she explains, pushing herself to her feet. “Let us avoid the greetings and continue conversing each time like no time has passed. It shows that we thought of each other in the space between meeting.”

Eragon nods, respecting the cultural difference. “What is this place called, then?” he asks, gesturing around them.

“Vell’ollar,” she replies, smiling her strange, catlike grin. Eragon recognizes the combined words for mountain and plains, and nods, finding it a perfectly suitable name. Passing him a small breakfast tart with a raw quail egg, strawberries, and cream, she laughs heartily and opens her arms to the sea. “Only great maga creates such beauty and such impossibilities,” she breathes. Her voice seems like it’s dancing, and Eragon can’t decide if she is wild and beautiful or wild and crazy.

Both, Eragon and Saphira decide at the same time.

Eragon begins his breakfast while Nuanorúm begins explaining what’s going on in Yggdrasil. “We’ve been waiting nearly twenty years for the arrival of a Rdier,” she begins, licking jam off her dainty fingers. Eragon can’t help noticing that the tip of her tongue is forked. She nods respectfully to Saphira, who is happily crunching on something that looks like a deer but was apparently faster and bigger because Saphira is thrilled to have caught it. “Dragons are named—or were named, when there were any here—for the force they most closely resemble. That is why we call Saphira the Queen of Sky.”

Eragon nods, following. “Why do you call me King of Fire?” he presses, watching as Nuanorúm digs into a second tart.

“Lucky guess,” she says, looking sheepish. “Riders were named similarly, for whatever their force was, but we obviously don’t know yours. Good guess, though. You have strong power if we can all sense it.” He sends a questioning thought to Saphira who responds in like. Nuanorúm doesn’t seem to notice and brushes her hands off on each other before turning to Eragon with excited eyes. “Are you ready to begin?”

He nods, preferring to get it over with. The whole thing feels far too similar to his tests in Tronjheim and he’s struck by how similar this place is to other place he’s known. “Let us,” he agrees, standing. Saphira makes no move to do the same as she happily cracks into another bone.

Be careful with your magic, she warns. I think it may not act as you expect it to. Can you feel the energy here? Like the air is made of magic. And my fire has been much stronger here, too. Eragon nods, having noticed the same.

He takes his place several feet away from Nuanorúm and takes a comfortable stance, interested to see how they’ll start. She smiles mischievously and crouches, digging her hands into the grass until even the roots and dirt cover her fingers. The force of it surprises Eragon and he’s caught off guard when the ground suddenly buckles beneath him and the shape of the earth shifts.

Terrified, he looks back to Nuanorúm with wide eyes, wondering at her ability. She cast magic with no words!

I don’t think she’s casting magic, Saphira responds cryptically, an annoying habit of hers when she’s thinking something through. Eragon doesn’t have time to ponder her words though as the ground suddenly splits beneath him.

“Skaga!” he demands, pointing out an outcropping that looks more stable than the rest. It moves towards him and he jumps comfortably to his new perch, glad for the safety of it. “Sitja,” he mutters, almost more to himself than to the bit of ground. Still, he pours enough magic into his words that it obeys.

Nuanorúm looks up with wide eyes when she hears him speak and her black eyebrows come together in confusion. After a moment, she concentrates again and groundwater bubbles to the surface, as the earth settles back into place, soaking his feet. The force of it is strong enough that keeping his balance is a challenge.

“Sköliro,” he directs to his own feet and legs. The water splits around him and he relaxes a bit. Grumbling about his need to only defend so far, he glances up at Nuanorúm, allowing his competitive nature to burn in his chest for a moment. “Rïsa,” he gestures, carefully lifting her away from the ground and what seems to be the source of her abilities.

Panic crosses her face for a moment until she looks thrilled and laughs loudly at this new position. Reaching her hands out to her sides, she seems to suddenly gather the natural dust and dirt in the air until she’s collected enough to throw and then hurls it at Eragon. It explodes when it gets close and erupts into a dust storm around him.

“Du deloi lunaea,” he grumbles, settling the storm around him. When he coughs and clears his eyes, he finds Nuanorúm staring at him with a delighted and amazed expression. Glad that she’s finally stopped, he opens his mouth to ask how she performed such magic but she beats him to it, running towards him with open arms.

“How did you do that?” she demands, with flashing eyes. Her face glows with unconcealed…anger? Amazement?

Both, Saphira offers again.

“Do what?”

“You commanded the forces with your words, you did not need to channel them,” she says sharply. “And you did not rely on just one.”

“I wanted to ask you just the opposite! I wanted to know how you drew power from the earth like that,” he replies, surprised by her reaction.

“I didn’t ‘draw power’ from the earth. I gave it my will and it responded. It has maga and maga has given me power, so when they connect then they respond. My maga is earth and stone, so that is what I used,” she explains quickly, chirping with stress.

Eragon and Saphira exchange confused glances and she puffs a ring of smoke from her nostrils.

Is this magic much more sophisticated than what we learned? Or much more primitive? he asks, observing Nuanorúm as she returns to a crouch and begins some sort of motion that could only be described as worship to the earth.

I don’t think this is the same magic at all.

Chapter Text

Do you think the dwarves would call them gods? Eragon asks, staring at his own hands and trying not to be afraid. She used her own life force to tap into natural magical energy reserves.

It sounds like her life force is the same substance she’s tapping into, as well, Saphira adds, curling protectively around her Rider.

They are given enough maga to survive and repay the universe by channeling some of it back into nature. It’s all about balance, he murmurs. Some part of him feels…resentful? He can’t quite identify it.

Saphira considers him with one large eye before responding. It isn’t that you’re jealous, she decides finally. Eragon grunts in agreement, glancing up as she continues. But you are afraid. This is a very powerful force and one neither of us understand. And one we may never understand.

Eragon frowns and nods. You’re right, though, it really isn’t magic.

Together, they play through their shared memories, analyzing them and reviewing them as evidence. Nuanorúm summoned stone beasts from the walls of the castle, Saphira remembers, an image of the wyrms cropping up between them. She fed the stone some of her own life force. Do they ever run out?

I don’t think so, Eragon decides, surprised that he even has an opinion yet. If her own maga is made up of the same stuff, then I think it’s an exchange. I wonder what would happen if they don’t use any of it?

Nuanorúm’s scars and her simple explanation that she’d spent too much time alone with maga floods Saphira’s mind and she snorts, grimacing mentally. I think we know the answer, she says.

Eragon shivers. Nuanorúm had seemed so upset when she’d seen his own use of magic. It takes great power to command the forces of maga, he remembers her saying before returning to her place on the rocky outcropping.

You tried to explain, Saphira offers, comforting him with a gentle nuzzle. Magic in Alagaësia is different. But even there, you were powerful, Little One. There’s pride in her voice and Eragon can’t decide whether he agrees with it. Still, he smiles gratefully for the praise.

Do you think this is the sort of power the Grey Folk had? Magic unbidden by words? he asks.

Saphira snorts again, a low chuckle bubbling in her chest. They certainly aren’t ‘grey,’ she snickers. But I think that that binding is just the truth-telling. If they made it so that you could not lie with the ancient language, then you either had to tell the truth, or you had to have the power to make your words true. That’s what magic is. If you say ‘brisingr,’ it either needs to already be true, or you need to make it true.

Eragon rubs his neck, wishing he could rub away the tension in his thoughts just as easily. He’s sure that Saphira is onto something and sure that he’s not ready to understand it just yet. He shifts his attention to Nuanorúm, watching as she dances along the stones overlooking the beach. Somehow it almost looks like she doesn’t even touch the stones, floating gracefully over them with lithe steps.

He can’t help noticing how similar she looks to Arya and he frowns bitterly.  She’s freer, he growls, watching her dark hair twirl as she does and her green eyes alight with joy.  Her mouth is moving and he realizes she’s singing, undoubtedly a joy after so much time spent in silence.

She is less free than you think, Little One. She has a heaviness about her, Saphira comments sadly, watching as well.  I think it relates to breeding and the lack of children here.  She tops abruptly, shaking her head as if she’s just realized she said something she didn’t mean to.

Eragon probes but she won’t say more and he gives up.  He extends one hand to pat her foreleg gently, the easiest way to reassure her that he’s not mad for her keeping thoughts to herself.  After a moment, he leans forward instead, scooping dirt to make a hole. Recognizing his intentions, Saphira moves her head to watch.

“Adurna rÏsa,” he murmurs quietly, hoping to avoid Nuanorúm’s attention.  It takes much less time for the hole to fill with water than it ever did in Alagaësia and he quickly stops the magic.  Taking one more studying breath, he focuses his mind on the elven queen and whispers the words: “Draumr kópa.”

The water swirls but remains black.  Grimacing he releases the spell.  She’s in Du Welden Varden, he realizes, feeling foolish.  She’s sure to have other magical protections in place.  He wishes they’d discussed some method of keeping in contact, although he knows it would only bring heartache.

Neither of them acknowledge that she might simply not want to be scryed.  Saphira rambles sadly and puts her head down on the grass.  Eragon watches her for a moment before resigning himself to disappointment and giving up any discussion of Arya.  Focusing his mind again, he scrys Nasuada, Murtagh, and Roran.

Each of the figures that appears in the surface of the water seems to be doing well, a fact which brings bittersweet feelings to Eragon’s already heavy chest.  I wouldn’t want them to be sad or dwell on the unchangeable, he says. But I do sort of want them to miss me too.

Undoubtedly, they do, Saphira responds quietly, watching the images over Eragon’s shoulder.

It’s clear that all three of them are overworking themselves, and they watch with reluctant amusement as Nasuada holds an audience with someone they can’t see.  Frustration is plain on her face and he can’t help being surprised she’d allow her emotions to show up so blatantly.  All too familiar with the look in her eyes, the one that only appears when she has to dole out a punishment she doesn’t want to, he can’t help feeling bad both for her and the rule-breaker.

Roran is in Palancar, working hard to restore Garrow’s farm.  His farm, Eragon realizes, feeling another wave of melancholy.  That life was never open to me.  From somewhere nearby, Katrina approaches and plants a living kiss against the side of Roran’s sweaty face.  Ismira reaches happily for her daddy from the confines of her mother’s arms.

The glint of the gold ring Eragon had given each of them catches his attention and he shudders, wondering what will happen when the rings inevitably alert him and Saphira of Roran and Katrina’s impending death.  Old age will take them and we will live for much much longer, he whispers.

Brushing the image away, he searches finely for Murtagh and smiles when the familiar young man appears.  Wherever he and Thorn are, it’s someplace Eragon hasn’t been, and all he can see is the bonded pair.  Murtagh sits at a desk, writing intently, while Thorn chews happily on the carcass of a deer.  This time, it’s Saphira who makes an observation, snorting a sad puff of smoke and whispering to Eragon, We are not that different.  It is only our circumstances that make us.

No, Eragon responds quickly, refusing to accept such fatalism.  It is what we do with those circumstances.

He releases the spell and sits back against Saphira’s scaly side.  They exchange no more words, preferring instead to draw comfort from their shard feelings.  Eventually, Eragon decides he can’t keep putting off the inevitable and calls out to Nuanorúm again.

When the elfin approaches, she takes a seat in the grass beside them as if it’s the most comfortable thing in the world.  He can’t help admiring her bravery engage with a Rider and a dragon so easily and he notices the same thought coming from Saphira.

Fixing her in a steady gaze, he hesitates a moment before speaking.  “Tell me about the children,” he says finally.

Eragon!

Nuanorúm’s lightness seems to escape through her mouth as she releases a long, pent-up breath.  Eragon notices again that the world itself seems to respond to the thoughts of the people here as the stones beneath them become warmer and the dust settles around them.  The silence is palpable.

“There was an explosion twenty years ago,” she begins, surprising them both with her willingness to discuss it.  “I was in the mansion at the time.  You’ve seen that there are only ruins left there now.  My entire family lived there at the time and our subjects called me the Lovely Queen.  I bore no scars.”

She looks up for a moment as if to check whether her audience is paying attention and Eragon nods encouragingly.  “Go on,” he murmurs, not sure what else to say.

Nuanorúm nods and adjusts her position.  “I had brothers and sisters, all younger than me, and both parents.  My grandparents had already passed away and we were a small family by most standards.  Most of my time was spent learning skills that would be necessary when my independent rule began.  Our kings and queens are not just leaders but guardians.  Of course, this dual-role doomed me as well.”

Islandzadí comes to mind and Eragon nods, understanding.  A great queen must be both, Saphira agrees.

“Lausvit was a young bachelor and the expectation was that we would breed, simply due to our rankings,” she laughs.  “I never thought too much of it.  It didn’t seem real to consider a future so far away.  But one day, shortly after the moon had set and the sun was rising, the air chilled suddenly.  It became brittle and impossibly cold.  Many people died in that moment.

Later, we figured out that maga had simply become too stretched.  Or dissatisfied perhaps.  In either case, it would no longer support so many people and simply ceased to do so.  We don’t know why it happened or what caused the change.  Something in maga broke.  When the cold lifted, maga was overwhelmed by the grief of our people and there was a second explosion.”

Eragon closes his eyes, imaging the scene as clearly as if he’d been there.  He sniffs to avoid crying, surprised by the weight of his own response.

Nuanorúm continues as if she hasn’t noticed.  “Because I was the guardian, maga retreated into me, silencing me and ruining my home.  My remaining family died then.  I stayed in those ruins for twenty years, unable to speak, sing, or cry for my people.  I was lone with maga.” A small shrug shakes her shoulders.  “The toll of that time is clear,” she adds, gesturing at her scars.  “But there are internal issues as well.  I fear that I will not readjust properly to civil and social life.  Lausvit fears this even more.”

Eragon hesitates a moment before speaking, wanting to ensure he doesn’t accidently speak over her or reduce her story.  After a pause, when Nuanorúm looks at him expectantly, he speaks.  “Lausvit was afraid that maga wouldn’t be strong enough anymore,” he says, making it a question.

Nuanorúm sighs and brushes her hair over her shoulder, the scent of fresh rain wafting into Eragon’s face, the scent overwhelming him. He leans forward naturally, taking a deep breath.

Eragon…, Saphira warns. Eragon brushes it away, not sure what she’s warning him about. She snorts and returns her attention to Nuanorúm.

“Lausvit is concerned that there is not enough maga for our people to breed again,” she explains, her liquid eyes solidifying into something Eragon can’t identify. “Because there was so little maga for the last twenty years, no one has been able to use anything but the most basic of their abilities and every birth has been still. Eventually they stopped trying.” Her voice is tinged with bitterness and Eragon wonders what her perspective is on the matter.

She certainly hasn’t faced a lack of maga over the last twenty years, Saphira agrees. Anything but.

“Most of the children who were alive at the time of the explosion perished, as their magas were still weak and unsustainable,” Nuanorúm adds. They sit in silence for a while, each contemplating their own thoughts.

The sound of crashing waves suddenly seems very loud when Eragon remembers the headstones on the beach below. Still, he can’t help thinking mostly of Nuanorúm herself. This strange green woman with her strange history and terrifying eyes colors nearly every other thought. He can’t help noticing the bittersweet humor in being so entranced by the Rider of a green dragon and now by a green woman.

Is that what I am? he wonders. Entranced? He thinks of her tail and shudders, sending his thoughts elsewhere. Saphira snorts, amused.

“I want to breed,” Nuanorúm announces, breaking Eragon’s reverie. Her eyes are liquid again and the effect is mesmerizing.

Eragon frowns. “But Lausvit hardly seems willing. How will you convince him?”

Saphira and Nuanorúm seem to exchange a glance, or perhaps they merely look away, surprised. Both are quiet for a moment until Saphira snorts and Nuanorúm begins laughing loudly, her head back and her eyes closed. She laughs for a long time, the cat-like sound pouring from her mouth and soft tears on her cheeks. Eragon frowns, confused and embarrassed.

“You’re very cute and as full of fire as your maga! Let us meet more people and see if you understand then,” she finally manages, standing and offering him a hand up. “Are they enjoying themselves?”

Eragon’s blush and Saphira’s roaring laughter in his head make it hard to concentrate but he does his best not to scowl and focuses on Nuanorúm’s question. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Your dragons! You carry dragon hearts with you, yes?” she asks, pointing to the spot hovering behind Eragon, where the Eldunarí are hidden. A smile blossoms across her face, despite the petrified look on Eragon’s and Saphira’s sudden silence. “We are glad you brought so many. Our people and our dragons will thrive again.” She turns sharply and leads them out of the clearing, singing something about stones as strong as dragons and dragons made of stone. After a few steps, she looks more like she’s dancing than walking and Eragon shakes his head.

Eragon and Saphira stare at each other wordlessly and even the Eldunarí themselves, normally content to observe in measured silence, can’t find anything to say at all. After a moment, despite the mass of pressure that seems to descend suddenly on the young Rider and his dragon, the Eldunarí begin laughing collectively. Finally, one of them speaks up and they recognize the deep bass as Morablr.

Enjoy, Shur’tugal. You will have an abundant future.

Saphira chuckles, adding her own rumbling laughter to the mix. Eragon scowls, confused and frustrated.

And you, Brightscales, Morablr continues. Congratulations.

Saphira stops laughing and Eragon raises an eyebrow at her before throwing his hands up in exasperation and marching off after Nuanorúm. Saphira snorts a disgruntled puff of smoke before launching into the air to soar above the two.

I don’t mean to be rude, Eragon tells her after a moment. We need to speak with Blödhgarm.

Saphira adds her agreement and allows the warmth of her feelings to comfort him as he catches up with Nuanorúm. The rest of their walk is in relative silence, the only sounds coming from the gentle flap of Saphira’s wings, the crashing waves, and the strange, double-voiced singing of a queen.

Chapter Text

Soft coils of moss pad the blue elf’s footsteps as he approaches a waterfall lined with hundreds of tiny crystals. He pauses for a moment, considering the scene and brushing droplets of water from his brow. The stones at the base of the falls catch his attention and he realizes they’re shaped in such a way as to promote bathing or soaking. He wonders who would take so much effort to sing the stones into shape for bathing so far away from Du Stenrsolus.

He’s spent the morning exploring, and in fact most of last night as well if he’s honest with himself. Sleep has evaded Blödhgarm since their arrival here and his fur seems to bristle at the slightest change of wind, a common occurrence on an island in the middle of a forgotten ocean.

Once again, Eragon has been drowned in the political life that all Shur’tugals are doomed to, and Blödhgarm prefers not to find himself caught in the same whirlpool. Having made his way slowly across the landscape, he discovered that the southern region of the island is mostly swamp and east is, of course, the ocean. Although he can swim quite well, and certainly capable of studying the marshes and beaches of Yggdrasil, he prefers not to get his fur wet. The idea of being soaked through on a windy island doesn’t strike him as a good time, particularly when there would be so much left to explore afterwards.

Shivering at the thought, he followed his curiosity northwest, past the main city. The waterfall in front of him makes the trip worth it. He hums in his chest, greeting nature with a song the way he had learned in Du Weldenvarden. The beautiful display seems to glow, very alive at the brush of his thoughts.

He extends his mind further out as he picks his way towards the edge of the pool of water at the bottom of the falls, and smiles at the energy of the plants and creatures around him. A mouse nearby nibbles on the bulb of a plant he doesn’t recognize and to his surprise the mouse seems to be the largest creature in close range. He pushes his thoughts downward, sweeping the depth of the pool and discovering a variety of fish and creatures there.

Eyes widening, he steps further away from the water when he sees claw marks and scuffles around it and detects predatory instinct in the inhabitants of the pool. Certainly these creatures are not bound there and he has no desire to become their next prey. He wonders how far they typically go to hunt and cautions a glance around to look for signs of their trails. He finds none.

Deciding he prefers not to be subject to any mental attacks, he closes his mind off again and continues around the edge of the pool to the crystal wall nearest the falls. A torrent of water rushes from a crack about twenty feet above his head. As he approaches, he realizes the crystals aren’t sticking out of the wall, but deep within the wall, shining through tiny pores in the surface of the grey stones.

A small rock suddenly bounces past his feet and he crouches menacingly, baring his teeth in the direction from which it came. A knife slides easily from its sheath on his hip into his hand and he holds it aloft, prepared to attack or defend. He’s grateful for his wolf-like appearance when he remembers the fangs in his mouth and a ferocious growl rips from his throat.

You’re jumpy, a voice in his mind says, regardless of the barriers he’s thrown up. He didn’t even feel them enter his mind, and he freezes in shock, muscles tense and eyes wide. Also, I’m behind you. So you do look a bit silly growling at the wall.

Blödhgarm risks a glance behind him and sees a small woman—small enough he’d assume it was a child if he didn’t know better—staring at him with a look of amusement in her sand-colored eyes. Her skin and hair are so pale that she almost looks like she’s been caught in a sandstorm and been thoroughly scoured.

He growls louder this time, his nose puckering into a snarl. The woman giggles a high laugh that reminds him of small rocks blowing over each other in the wind. Standing on a rock slightly off the ground, she surveys him for a moment before jumping down and approaching him. To his surprise, she’s even shorter than he first thought, the top of her head hardly reaching the bottom of his sternum.

“Astra esterní ono thelduin, Blödhgarm,” she says aloud, twisting her hand in front of her chest and inclining her head towards him.

“Mor’anr lífa unin hjarta onr-“ he begins the response out of habit but stops suddenly, eyes narrowing. More surprised than anything, he’s not sure he wants to trap himself in this greeting. His fur bristles along his spine and he suddenly wishes he did have a tail so he could flick it the same angry way that Lausvit did—the gesture had been very effective.

“They call me Akr unin du Und, the Mist in the Void,” she says, crossing her arms and cocking a hip. “But I prefer Tawny.” A devilish smile crosses her face, revealing sharp, feline teeth. She blinks and her pale eyes suddenly shift, the pupils elongating until she very nearly resembles a feline as well.

As it turns out, Blödhgarm wasn’t entirely wrong in growling at the stony grey wall. Moving past him with soft, lithe steps, Tawny leads him behind the waterfall and into a glowing crystal cave. The first few feet inside are narrow and bleak, despite the myriad of colors, but it soon widens into a warm cavern with all the necessities of a good home. Mindful of the map he’s been working on himself as he travels, Blödhgarm can’t help admiring a neatly inked depiction of what must be Yggsdrasil in its entirety.

When he turns his focus back to the strange child-sized woman, he is greeted instead by an empty room and clinking sounds from a nearby hallway. Before he can decide whether to follow the noise, Tawny returns, holding a tray of items that can only be used for a meal. He narrows his eyes, recognizing a selection of fish on one side of the tray and selection of fruit and nuts on the other.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” she purrs. “I know you don’t eat meat and you should have figured out by now that I do. I truly must insist you eat something.” She sets the tray down on a small table nearby and sets about working on another task.

Blödhgarm hadn’t noticed the fireplace before and realizes now that she must have gone to collect utensils and the tray because a whole selection of food is available here. She retrieves several clay jars and pulls a selection of toasted herbs from them, wrapping some in meat and some in dough. When they’re all prepared, she fills another shallow dish with oil and drops the items into it, shoving the whole thing into the fireplace.

She tends them carefully, taking strips of fish off the tray as she does and snacking on it while she waits for the items to cook. Blödhgarm hesitates a moment but soon gives in, intrigued as much by the smell as by his sudden overwhelming hunger. Some part of him registers suspicion as this change of status but realizes he really hasn’t eaten all day and he ignores it.

When the meat is crisp and juicy, and the dough is golden brown, Tawny retrieves the dish and scoops the treats onto a flat stone disc, careful to keep the meat ones away from the dough ones. Returning to the small table, she sets this beside the tray and takes another bite of fish.

He eyes her hesitantly for a moment before reaching for one of the dough rolls and taking a bite. It’s delicious. She smirks a bit at him as she reaches for her own meaty version of the meal. After a moment, she puts up a finger as if she’s just remembered something, and retrieves a flask and a bowl. Pouring heavy white cream into the bowl, she swallows her bite of meat and begins eagerly lapping the substance with her rough tongue. Needing no more confirmation, Blödhgarm breaks the silence.

“I didn’t expect to find werecats here,” he speaks softly, painfully aware of his wolf-like features and deep voice.

“And I didn’t expect to enjoy the company of someone who doesn’t eat meat, but here we are! And you certainly seem pleasant enough,” she responds, ripping another meat roll apart with her teeth. Don’t be such a stick in the mud, she adds, projecting her thoughts so as not to talk with her mouth full. We can’t all be vegetarians. The formalities and manners of strangers are a waste of time, let us eat like we’re friends.

He raises an eyebrow and she narrows her eyes at him, leaning back as if to view more of him at once. “Are we going to be friends?” he asks, his expression stoic. Tawny scoffs and returns to her meal, ignoring him until he’s finished his as well. She laps the last bit of milk from the bowl, purring happily. “What’s it from?” he asks, gesturing at the cream with his head.

“Dandelion milk, actually. Not as good as stenrblaka milk but certainly easier to get. Stenrblakar,” she adds, seeing his questioning glance, “are those big rock things Nuanorúm rides around on.”

“Stone flapper?” he asks, remembering the things he could only call wyrms.

Not the wyrms, the winged ones, she says, providing another image of the same creature but with two sets of wings and a small snout.

Blödhgarm growls, scowling at her. “Stay out of my head, werecat.”

Tawny giggles and begins licking her fingers clean, still purring. Make me.

He doesn’t answer, frustrated. Preferring not to engage her further if she’s only going to be licking bits of dead animal from her fingers, he turns his attention back to the cavern walls. Wondering whether he could see the crystals he’d noticed before from this side of the rock wall, he begins searching the interior surface for cracks or crevices. Surely the mouth of the cave is not the only way Tawny comes in and out.

“What else lives around here?” he asks after a moment, still focusing on his task. Tawny doesn’t seem to mind his preoccupation and glances up, silently asking for clarification. “I can’t imagine you like the water enough to hunt creatures from it, but the only other thing I saw was a mouse. You had fish,” he acknowledges, “but that meat was not from a mouse.”

She shivers, exactly as disgusted by the thought of swimming as he thought she’d be. The thought of icy water against her lovely skin or fur doesn’t sit well with her.

Lovely? Blödhgarm realizes, questioning his own assessment. Tawny raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything about it.

“Druknablakya. They catch their prey in their mouth and roll to drown it, breaking their bones. They have learned, however, to share,” she smiles wickedly, examining her fingernails and no doubt imagining her claws there. Blödhgarm raises an eyebrow again, not sure whether he wants to laugh or leave.

Before he can decide, a high, familiar voice bumbles out from the same hall Tawny had disappeared into. “Are you spinning stories again?” a woman demands playfully. “Yarn is for spinning, stories are for telling, and don’t get those things confused!” she sings, a smile clear in her tone. She doesn’t step through the hall, though, she seems to step through the very wall itself.

Blödhgarm stares in shock, realizing that he’s been fooled by the simplest of illusions when a woman with wild hair and a dirty face steps towards them. Winding up a throw, Angela the Herbalist tosses a ball of yarn to a very excited werecat.

Chapter Text

Nuanorúm scratches her scars absently, purring gently and smiling as she watches Eragon meet the crowds. He approaches an elderly woman with pink spots in her gleaming purple fur and shakes her hand, dipping his head respectfully. A warm crimson flush tickles her nose and she giggles at the attention. To Nuanorúm’s surprise, Eragon only smiles, a soft pink blush tinging his face as well, and dips his head again. He steps away from the woman and onto the tail of a man with banana colored fur.

Nuanorúm can’t help laughing as the Rider, so clearly capable on his feet and possessing greater agility and balance than his clumsy personality would lead one to believe, jumps away in shock and bumps into a young woman. Her ivory fur is long and must be particularly sensitive because she shivers seductively and wraps her tail around his ankles. “Hello, Shining Palm,” she coos, leaning forward with her ears sunk eagerly around her hair.

Nervous and embarrassed, Eragon makes a polite excuse and navigates away from the woman, through the crowd, and back to Nuanorúm. She notices him cast an irritated scowl in the direction Saphira went off to hunt and she laughs, wondering what the Sky said now. When he finally makes his way to Nuanorúm, his expression is somewhere between a smirk and a grimace.

“You insisted on seeing the market,” she says, smiling as she looks up at him.

He doesn’t respond, straightening his jerkin and sitting down beside her on the stone bench. It seems to ripple as he sits and he eyes it warily until Nuanorúm taps it with the tips of her fingers and it solidifies again. Nearly used to this behavior by now, Eragon doesn’t even arch an eyebrow.

“What do you do for fun?” he asks after a few moments, disrupting the muted din around them and drawing her attention to their small sphere of reality. He’s smiling gently. “Do you like desserts? There was a trader that always came to Carvahall and he had the best, stickiest cherry pie, and-“ he catches her confused expression and stops, smirking. “Let us drink, then,” he offers instead, returning to his feet and offering her his hand. The gedwëy ignasia shimmers brightly and Nuanorúm has to resist the urge to brush the center of the spiral with her fingers.

Standing without taking his hand, she smiles brightly, a playful snarl escaping her lips. Her ears flick eagerly and her tail is stiff, keeping out of the way. Before Eragon can address the change in posture, Nuanorúm raises her eyebrows at him and darts away through the crowd. A group of elfins admiring a craftsman’s bows reform after she passes and Eragon loses sight of her in the sea of colors as she tucks nimbly among her people. The only indication that she hasn’t disappeared entirely—a possibility that Eragon is not confident ruling out at this point—is the sound of her double-voiced giggle from the other side.

A chase! he realizes, surprised and excited. It’d been so long since he’s just played, mischievous fun the only thing on his mind. Don’t, he told Saphira as a cautionary warning takes shape in her mind. You hunt, I play chase. Let us have fun.

A plume of smoke escapes her nostrils and Eragon sees her view for a moment as she sweeps over a field, the market in sight. Do not forget that I hunt prey, she says stiffly. I do not believe you intend the Green One that way.

He stops, crouching eagerly as he prepares to spring forward. Her frustration is evident and he can’t seem to place a reason. He straightens, although she can’t see him. Saphira, what’s bother you? he asks genuinely, allowing his concern to color his thoughts.

She doesn’t respond but seems to sigh, sad resignation emanating from her. More than anything, she seems tired, and Eragon suddenly recognizes jealousy. He keeps that realization to himself.

Let us hunt! he roars, running the wrong way from Nuanorúm to meet Saphira as she looms closer. She tips forward, plummeting eagerly and swoops low for a moment. She’s far too tall for Eragon to climb on fast, now, and she gathers him in her claws instead, allowing him to make his way up her side as she rises again. The elfins below cheer and clap as she positively swims through the air, rolling on the currents and over their heads. The craftsaman is the only one who doesn’t look pleased by this change of attention, but even he can’t help the astonishment on his face.

Let us hunt, she agrees.

Together, they lock eyes on Nuanorúm as she dashes finally out the other side of the market. It seems that most of the elfins did not part way for her and she’s only just made it to the other side of the square before Eragon and Saphira spot her. No doubt having heard Saphira approach, Nuanorúm quickly darts between two buildings that Eragon recognizes as the medicinal storage tower and the tower for housing the infirm.

Swooping low and aiming a dive, she leans hard and Eragon cheers over the sound of wind ripping past him. It has been too long, he acknowledges. Tonight, we will fly for longer. Saphira’s thoughts are positively radiant and she suddenly seems more alive than she has for several days.

She tips forward and angles herself so that she’ll land at the end of the alley at the same time as Nuanorúm arrives there, catching her without startling her into running away before they can get close. Eragon can’t help admiring the physical prowess of both, and thinks again of how similar they are.

Their supple tails moving smoothly to support the movement of their hips and torsos. Their hard muscles engage and propel their bodies forward, Saphira on her great azure wings and Nuanorúm on slender emerald legs. The former snorts again but doesn’t comment on Eragon’s assessment.

The dragon’s timing is, of course, perfect, and she neatly plucks Nuanorúm from the ground the moment she exits the alley. Eragon’s eyes widen and he gasps, taken aback by this action. However, he needn’t worry as Nuanorúm reacts just as fast, surprising them with her agility as she climbs around Saphira’s claws and onto her back behind Eragon. She wraps her arms comfortably around Eragon’s waist and laughs joyfully, glancing down at Du Stenrsolus.

Eragon’s eyes remain wide and Saphira chuckles to herself at his discomfort. “Be careful,” he finally manages. “Scales.”

Together, they soar for several minutes in contented silence, each consumed with their own whirling thoughts. Eragon briefly catches a glimpse of Fírnen skitter across Saphira’s mind but she sadly brushes the thought away before it can become anything. He leans forward and pats her shoulder as they fly out of the city and back to the fields and forests.

I love you, Saphira, he murmurs, offering his comfort as best he can and silently thanking her for everything.

I love you, too, Little One, she responds. She has more to say and they can both feel it, but there don’t quite seem to be words for it and this is no place to exchange anything else. They silently agree to save a conversation for their flight together later.

“Thank you,” Nuanorúm mumbles into Eragon’s shoulder. Up close, her double voice doesn’t seem so menacing and he realizes she’s projecting her thoughts with her words. The second voice seems to reverberate in his head more than his ears. In either case, she sounds thick and sleepy.

He moves on some protective instinct, placing one hand on her arms still around his waist. For the first time, he notices how smooth her skin is. He tugs gently on one arm pulling it away from his waist and holding her hand in his where they can both see it. The back of her hand rests against his palm and he spreads her fingers, examining the hue of her skin. She seems intrigued by the gedwëy ignasia against her skin and rotates her hand after a moment to examine that as well. Tracing the pattern with the tip of her index finger, both the sign in his hand and her own skin seem to glow a little brighter. She shivers, and presses her cheek against his shoulder a little more firmly.

“I’m happy,” she murmurs quietly. She sounds surprised, almost as if she’s observing her emotions more for herself than for him. He doesn’t say anything, leaving her to her thoughts instead.

Saphira circles Yggdrasil, careful to avoid getting too close to the ruins of Nuanorúm’s former home. The waves crash below them and Saphira seems as intrigued by them as he is. Their last attempt to cross a body of water by flight had been to find the Eldunarí, and that had nearly killed them. This seems so much more peaceful.

Rarely is anything exactly the same the second time, Saphira observes quietly.

Rarely does anything stay the same at all, he remarks. There’s no bitterness in his tone, something that surprises them both. Saphira hums gently.

Under the moonlight, Saphira’s scales sparkle as if each is a tiny blue crystal. Nuanorúm’s soft skin shines in the dark as well and Eragon is struck by their majesty.

You are beautiful, he decides. Both of you.

Saphira swells with adoration of her Rider and angles away from the water. Little One, you will not see what we see, but there is much beautiful about you as well, she responds gently. There is greatness inside you and it shows in every movement and the way you carry yourself.

Eragon considers this quietly. But who you are is a beautiful creature. You are made of beauty, he responds after a moment. That is something to be cherished.

Saphira hums. They lapse back into silence, broken only by Nuanorúm’s gentle snoring. Eragon reaches a gentle tendril of thought out to brush her mind and check whether she truly is sleeping. He’s struck by that smell of rain water again, and the joy that comes with standing in a storm after a drought rolls over him.

I have much to tell you, Little One, Saphira says quietly. Eragon smiles, grateful again for their companionship. He nods, urging her to go on. She sends him only thoughts and pictures in response, allowing her reverberating happiness to cross their connection.

A baby! he finally exclaims, tears springing to his eyes. He wipes them away, surprised. You and Fírnen!

Saphira hums in her throat and snorts proudly, allowing a gentle burst of flame to accompany the gesture. Amazement flushes through Eragon and he struggles to find words to say anything more. Before he can decide, fear finds him, too as he realizes he has no idea how to help any woman during pregnancy, but least of all a dragon mother.

Don’t worry, Glaedr’s voice interrupts gently, warmth and pride in his tone. We are here. There’s a collective joy from the Eldunarí and Saphira’s mind seems to blush somehow. Eragon is sure her scales don’t turn red like his skin does, but the feeling is the same.

Hearing Glaedr’s voice is bittersweet for them and Saphira withdraws slightly, embarrassed by her memory of attempting to mate with the great golden dragon. Glaedr seems to understand and doesn’t push, although he makes it clear that he doesn’t hold anything against her.

Yes, Ebrithil, Eragon responds, speaking for himself and Saphira both. They stoop their heads slightly, Saphira’s gratitude pouring out in equal measure for Eragon and the dragons.

Eragon, she says quietly, Nuanorúm wants a baby, too.

But Lausvit doesn’t want to mate. I don’t know how to help her convince him, he replies, looking down at the arms around him and putting his hand against her skin again.

She doesn’t want Lausvit’s baby, Little One. She leaves him to ponder her words and when he finally reaches a conclusion, he realizes he understood long before he accepted it. He sighs and shifts his weight slightly.

I know, he murmurs. Memories of Arya slip unbidden into his mind and desire for what could have been fills his mind. Saphira allows him to grieve fully, providing her own memories and images. Glaedr joins, providing the now-humorous memory of Arya violently smashing Eragon’s fairth in Du Weldenvarden. They laugh together for a moment until Eragon finds himself choking back tears instead. Finally, Saphira offers thoughts of Fírnen and the brief time the four spent together as Riders and bonded dragons. Under the weight of so many thoughts, they mourn.

Eventually, Nuanorúm stirs and Eragon closes his eyes, settling his mind on a decision. “Ono eru nuanen, Nuanorúm, mar pömnuria ástandí vanta líf. Pömnuria harmr ikonoka,” he murmurs quietly, suddenly recognizing that her name means beautiful serpent. “You are beautiful, Nuanórum. But my heart is lacking life. My sorrow is complete.”

The elfin is quiet as Saphira soars towards the stone yard where dozens of paths lead out to the caves and woodlands where Nuanorúm’s subjects—and Eragon—reside. They land gently and Eragon and Nuanorúm climb down. Her bright green eyes pierce into his brown ones and he finds that he can’t look away from the depth of her expression, although he’s not sure whether he wants to anyway.

Her soft brow furrows suddenly, as if she’s finally come to a decision. Pushing herself onto her tip toes, she looks at him fiercely for another moment before leaning against his chest and kissing Eragon gently on the corner of his mouth. Her tail flicks around their legs and heat surges in Eragon’s stomach and chest. She returns to her normal height and presses her hands into his chest and resting her forehead against him. He finds his hands on hers without thinking and rests his chin against her hair.

“Hvé ono heill, celöbra edtha,” she whispers.

Eragon blushes and inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of her hair and wrapping his arms around her. She seems to sigh inwardly and remains only a moment before pushing herself away and standing a few feet away. She bows her head in farewell.

Pressing his lips together, Eragon wonders what his eyes look like, sure that they reveal too much of his broken heart. He dips his head in response and turns back to Saphira, climbing aboard her back as she turns her head and presses her snout against Nuanorúm’s forehead. The woman smiles sadly and watches as they take off. Eragon puts his head against Saphira’s neck and sighs, Nuanorúm’s words bouncing through his mind.

“When you heal, honor me.”

Chapter Text

Blödhgarm watches in frustrated surprise as Angela hooks a kettle over the fire and adds a wad of herbs to the water inside. Tawny giggles as she pounces on the bawl of yarn and chases it around the cave for a moment on all fours like a cat. Just as Blödhgarm makes the association, Tawny shifts into a long-haired cream tabby cat, purring and growling. She pauses for a moment to look up at Blödhgarm and blinks, amused.

Don’t be so surprised, Blood Wolf, she mews, tail flicking. You chase women, I chase yarn. Or do you just smell like that for your own enjoyment? She blinks, eyes sparkling, and chases the ball of yarn through the illusion Angela had so recently come through.

Blödhgarm murmurs a few words from the ancient language, hoping he can discover the nature of this magic and see through its deceit.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Angela chimes, a devilish smile in her voice. Blödhgarm turns to look at her and watches for a moment as she prods a pile of wet cloth with a stick, eyeing it cautiously. He’s not sure what the cloth is or why she’s pace something so obviously disgusting on the hearth, but doesn’t ask. “They don’t play by the same rules here and you certainly don’t want to get turned into a skeeter or something,” she continues, smiling menacingly. Apparently satisfied with the wet cloth, she turns towards Blödhgarm and cocks her fists against her hips.

He isn’t sure which question begs the most attention at first, but eventually settles on one and does his best not to glare at her as he asks it. “How did you get here, Angela Freythan-Kona?” he growls. It’s nearly impossible to stay mad, although he’s not even sure why he wants to. Other than a bit of deception, the herbalist has hardly done anything wrong.

“That isn’t a very interesting question. I’m here, what else is there to muddle over,” she replies dismissively, waving a hand. “You know, every single breath you take is one less left to use in your lifetime! So don’t waste them on those sorts of silly questions. Of course, you and me have centuries of breaths left, and more if we’re lucky.” She taps the side of her nose and winks before taking the seat opposite Blödhgarm. He only just realizes that he hasn’t made a move to get up and resigns himself to his apparent lack of fear. “Let’s talk about Nuanorúm and Lausvit,” Angela adds.

Itching to move now that Angela’s stern gaze is so much closer, Blödhgarm stands and squints out the cave’s entrance. He doesn’t answer immediately, preferring to consider the water as it falls past him. It moves so fast and is so loud, although it offers little else. He supposes that there are ecological reasons for its existence but in this moment he would prefer answers to his own problems moreso than those of the surrounding nature. He sighs and rubs a wrinkle that has taken lodge between his eyebrows.

Angela sighs behind him and he looks up, meeting her eyes with the most vulnerable expression he can manage. “I’m certainly not going to tell you everything,” she decides, interlocking her fingers and resting her hands on her lap. She seems eager to get the conversation done with, but also deeply amused by watching Blödhgarm’s anxiety. “But I’ll tell you just enough.”

Casting her eyes around the cave, she seems to suddenly remember the wet cloth behind her and reaches back to poke it, using her finger this time. She pulls back, muttering distastefully, and rubs her hand off on her skirt. Her eyes seem to glaze over as she returns to Blödhgarm and she closes them.

“Angela?” Blödhgarm asks, stepping closer when she doesn’t respond.

She draws a sharp breath suddenly and opens her mouth wide, speaking in a gravelly voice. “There’s more to writing than just quills and ink, and I’m sure the bird who gives its feathers for the task would agree!”

Pulling her hands apart and slapping them down on her lap as if she’s ending an awkward conversation, Angela sighs before grinning wildly. He decides that she looks more satisfied than anything else, but that same amusement is clear in her eyes and he can’t help scowling at the expression. Before he can say anything though, she waves a hand and practically jumps to her feet. He opens his mouth to ask a question but she storms through the illusionary wall.

“And get out, by the way!” she calls back, dismissing him.

As soon as Angela’s skirts clear the illusion and she’s gone completely from Blödhgarm’s sight, a terrible grinding noise emanates from the stone walls of the cavern. Not wanting to wait around for any better to reason, the blue elf crouches low and sprints from the cave, dashing along the slender precipice where Tawny had originally led him.

The wet stone is slippery but he balances himself carefully and avoids a tumble, stepping out from behind the torrent of water and back to where he’d first begun examining the crystal wall. Remembering Tawny’s warning about drunkablakya in the pool, he takes several steps away from the water before relaxing, letting out his breath in a whoosh.

Not caring whether he’s within sight of Angela or Tawny—and safely assuming that he is—Blödhgarm withdraws the a piece of parchment and the map he’s been working on from the inside pocket of his jerkin and examines it closely. Singing quietly to ward against mistakes and to encourage a steady hand, he pulls out a brush and ink and marks the cave’s location on the map before setting about a complete drawing of the exterior on the blank page. He adds excruciating detail about the waterfall and the pool, making sure that the image would be enough to allow him to find his way back in where the map reference alone might not.

He folds the two pages into neat squares and tucks them back into his pocket. Part of him wants to continue his exploration, glad to have made it so far today. However, a wash of exhaustion comes over him and he remembers that he hasn’t slept or hardly rested since they disembarked the ship the previous day. Night has fallen by now and he can hardly continue in this state. Besides, Eragon Shur’tugal and Saphira Bjartskula will want to know who he met out here. He wonders idly whether either of them will understand Angela’s message.

It crosses his mind then that he hasn’t heard from either Eragon or Saphira at all today, and he wonders whether he has been unreachable or whether they simply haven’t tried. In either case, his duty to ensure the success of their mission here remains the same. As much as he loves the opportunity to travel and explore, he knows Tawny is right—he enjoys chasing women and is bored without either their attention or their company. He ponders the customs for mating and companionship on Yggdrasil as he picks his way back towards Du Stenrsolus.

Eragon and Saphira soar over the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of Blödhgarm. Their night has been heavy and they agree that the blue elf should be involved in any discussions involving the politics of the elfins. Beyond that, they haven’t heard from him and they can’t help worrying. Saphira, who is particularly attuned to shades of blue in the world, is adept at finding Blödhgarm and Eragon sits back, not worried about helping.

I shouldn’t be so caught up in my head, Eragon murmurs unhappily. He rubs his eyes, hoping to clear both his tears and the bleakness that has settled in his mind. I am neglecting you and you are my priority. And your baby….

Saphira roars loudly, startling Eragon back into an alert position. Stop, she tells him fiercely, still growling. Skulblaku and I are fine. Dragons have had babies since the dawn of time and I am no less mighty for it. She snorts a jet of flames to emphasize her point. And you are confused, Little One, not neglectful. We both have things to consider. However, you must decide soon. I no longer believe we came here to rebuild only the dragon population.

Eragon finds himself smiling, caught on her words. He leans forward to wrap his arms around her neck in a hug. Skulblaku? he repeats. That’s adorable.

Saphira rumbles in her chest, amused. Yes, Little One. That makes you a Shur’tugalu.

Shaking his head, Eragon laughs, as amazed by language now as he was when he first learned to read. The elfins need to rebuild their population, he finally says, returning their conversation to the main point. Mixing human, elven, or whatever I am into their race wont’ help any. He tries to ignore the scarlet blush in his face but can’t help feeling hot suddenly. I don’t even know how to…how… How to court a woman, he finishes lamely.

Saphira snorts and Eragon appreciates her sense of humor, misplaced as it sometimes feels. Just use your instincts, she replies. Fírnen and I did not discuss anything. There is no need.

Not discussing anything also got you bit, he reminds her gently, glad that Glaedr chose to be quiet after their brief conversation earlier. I don’t know if I am prepared to be involved with anyone.

Saphira is quiet and they fly in silence for nearly twenty minutes, only exchanging wordless feelings and ideas, until she quietly announces she’s found Blödhgarm. There, she whispers, orienting Eragon to a copse of trees just a bit ahead. Through their mental link, he sees the blue man running through the woods with the familiar litheness of the elves of Alagaësia. Eragon silently agrees that it is their friend, and not an elfin.

Do you think he will have advice? they both think the question at the same time and Eragon hugs Saphira’s neck gently.

We don’t need advice, Eragon decides. We just need each other.

Saphira hums in her chest and agrees silently, offering again the image of the three of them standing on the boat together, as much a family as they could be.

She spirals slowly out of the sky towards a clearing a bit off from Blödhgarm’s direction. The elf must have noticed her, though, because he changes direction and meets them there as she lands. Eragon climbs down and they stand in silence for a moment, each considering their own day and feeling awkward with the lack of formal greeting. Finally, Eragon inclines his head and Blödhgarm mirrors the gesture, each visibly relaxing.

“Skulblaka, Shur’tugal,” the elf acknowledges.

“Du welden ikonoka nuanen,” Eragon breathes, looking around the forest. “Very beautiful indeed.” The heavy scent of moss and bark enlivens all of them and they share collective thoughts of Du Weldenvarden.

Eragon’s heart aches for Oromis and Glaedr as he remembers sitting in a clearing much like this and slowly learning to become as much a part of the world around him as it is of him. He turns his attention back to Blödhgarm and Saphira in time to recognize the end of a conversation as Saphira explains about her pregnancy.

Blödhgarm’s face draws into the most expressive look of deep thought Eragon has ever seen etched into the man and he can’t help a small smile. “Do you feel prepared to begin planning?” he asks after a moment, interrupting the elf’s thoughts. “We must find a place for all of us, and very soon.”

Blödhgarm fixes him with warm, cautious eyes. “There is much that needs to be explained, and by very many people. Eragon, is there anything that needs to be addressed between Nuanorúm and Lausvit?”

Grimacing as a hot blush extends through his ear tips now, Eragon exchanges a glance with Saphira. “There is much that needs addressed on that front, friend.”

Sighing, Blödhgarm takes a step forward, more comfortable with his companions than without. “There’s more to writing than just quills and ink, and I’m sure the bird who gives its feathers for the task would agree,” he murmurs. “There is much that needs addressed indeed.”

Eragon remembers the bird Brom had enticed when he was first explaining the ancient language. "Fethrblaka, eka weohnata néiat haina ono. Blaka eom let lam," he says aloud.

Sounds rather ominous, Saphira observes, remembering that Brom only said what he had to to make a point and get the bird to obey.

“He couldn’t lie,” Eragon points out, frowning.

“No, but he could’ve changed his mind,” Blödhgarm corrects, seeing the memory play out as Eragon and Saphira include him in their thoughts. “He is only bound to that truth so long as it is true. In that case, only as long as it took him to say it.”

Eragon’s frown deepens.”I don’t have an answer for that,” he admits.

Chapter Text

Inky black waves crash against the moonlit sands of shore north of the docks where they landed. Eragon can’t help wondering what the billowing white sails look like as they cross the ocean back to Alagaësia. Saphira amuses herself—or perhaps distracts herself—by breathing heavy streams of flame into a sandpit, melting it into convoluted glass sculptures. The designs remain alight long after she stops breathing into them, bits of wood and plant fibers on fire as well.

Blödhgarm strolls alongside Eragon, singing quietly to himself and kicking at the sand. He can’t help noticing how similarly the shapely dunes resemble a certain werecat’s fur and he realizes for the first time how comforting the color of sand is. His songs change into shaping magic and his eyes flash deeper blue, morphing oddly for a moment through green before settling on a golden hue. Eragon decides quickly that this new appearance is more frightening even than the last, and he’s once again glad to be on the same side as the fierce elf.

When Eragon’s eyes fall on Saphira, he thinks of Naunorúm’s explanation of maga and elemental magic. With such majestic flames in front of him, it’s hard to believe that his magic really is made of fire. He wonders what his magic would have looked like if he’d grown up here instead of Carvahall. Beautiful Carvahall. Ruined Carvahall. He has no home and the heartache in his chest settles deep and burns hot.

Maybe I am made of fire, he thinks sadly.

You are a Dragon Rider, Saphira snorts, bellowing a particularly bright blaze of flame from her gaping maw. Of course you are.

He cocks his head and considers that, eyes still fixed on her glowing blue flames. Images of Arya and Murtagh cross his mind, the only other relatively young Dragon Riders he’s known. Pushing aside the pain that comes with thoughts of these two, he wonders whether they are made of fire the same way.

Thinking of Arya’s crushed pine scent and the way her eyes glow with the light of the forest, he decides that she’s certainly not. Murtagh’s passion and anger is fire-like but his stony expression and black eyes remind Eragon more of a rocky mountain with too many cliffs and crevices to know them all.

I don’t mean every Rider, Little One. Just you.

He smiles at the compliment to his character and sends her his gratitude.

“Blödhgarm,” he begins, already picking up the bluntness of the elfins. “What troubles you so much?”

The elf looks up and Eragon notices that it isn’t only his eyes that have changed, their liquid depths glowing amber in the moonlight, but also his fur. Cream-colored spots lick the blue tufts around his ears, face, and spine. His expression is hard to read and he seems unsure whether he wants to smile or cry. He settles on a grimace, moving his gaze to the stars.

“I know nothing of these constellations myself,” he begins, speaking quietly. Saphira watches them both with sharp eyes, listening intently to Blödhgarm’s words. “But I have seen them before in texts we have maintained for thousands of years in Du Weldenvarden. Some texts have no date, and it is thought that they may have been from the Grey Folk. But of course, we know nothing of them and no way to verify such claims.

“We know nothing of anything that occurred before my people’s history, and it strikes me that we know nothing of what comes after us now, either.” His expression is dark but not quite graven. There’s something empty about his eyes, as if his will has suddenly burnt out.

Eragon frowns, keeping his focus on Blödhgarm’s face. “You are troubled because you regret coming?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level. Saphira nods to him, confirming his neutrality.

Blödhgarm doesn’t answer right away, but his eyes drift back to Eragon’s face and he examines the Rider’s expression for several moments. “No,” he whispers. “I am troubled because I am afraid.”

His low voice strikes an unfamiliar coldness into Eragon. The elf has never demonstrated or acknowledged such fear before, even in the face of Galbatorix himself. Eragon shivers, wondering what must happen for an elf to become afraid. His thoughts turn to Islanzadí and his frown deepens.

“Blödhgarm-vor, you are my friend,” Eragon says seriously, using the ancient language. He isn’t entirely sure of its truth-binding properties in Yggdrasil, although if Saphira’s thoughts about magic are right then it should work the same. Regardless, he knows he speaks the truth and can only hope Blödhgarm recognizes the sincerity. “I’m scared, too.”

The blue elf looks surprised for a moment before scowling suddenly. He drops his gaze and looks back down at the sand for a moment before closing his eyes and sighing. His mouth twists into a hopeless curl.

I am afraid, Saphira’s voice interrupts quietly, projected into both of their minds. The depth of her words is striking and both Eragon and Blödhgarm are stunned. Moving slowly, they drop to their knees in the sand, at such an angle that they can still see each other. Hard terror is behind the glassy exterior of Blödhgarm’s expression as he looks back up to meet Eragon’s warm gaze.

Saphira moves to join them, wrapping her tail around them protectively and lending both her strength and warmth to the group. For the first time, Eragon is not jealous. Normally, he prefers that he be the lone recipient of such affection. Even such displays towards Roran and Arya had been met with his discomfort, although he’d accepted it. This time, however, he finds himself contented by the growth in their companionship. He recalls the sacrifices Blödhgarm has made on their behalf and is glad Saphira can support them both.

They’re quiet for nearly half an hour before Eragon leans forward suddenly and begins drawing in the sand with his forefinger. He moves easily and carefully, doing his best to make neat lines as he draws a symbol he knows too well. Leaning away, he admires his work.

A yawë left in the sand seems deceptively harmless and Blödhgarm takes a sharp inhale of breath, surprised by Eragon’s choice. His golden eyes are liquid again when they move to Eragon’s face in time to see the Rider steady himself and open his mouth. Crisply shaped words drip from his mouth and his voice pours forth in song. In the sand, the yawë changes slowly.

At first, his words are meaningless, simply associations to the symbol in front of him. Slowly, his thoughts seem to form a point and his song changes.

He sings of war and fire and death, and the yawë glows red.

He sings of tears and goodbyes, and the yawë becomes watery and distorted.

He sings of friendship and compassion and determination, and the yawë sets itself in glowing liquid stone.

Blödhgarm joins after a moment, singing of forests and ruins and many more years than Eragon can fathom. The yawë becomes more slender, appearing as a simple script in the sand.

Together, they sing of loss and gain, defeat and victory and the victories that hurt so much that they still feel like defeat.

Saphira joins, humming deep in her chest and lending the powers and magic that only happens around dragons. The yawë glows brighter, swelling in response to their touch.

They open their minds to each other and share memories in a new way. They see Arya’s face, and Roran’s, and those of elves Eragon has never met. They see swords and blood and friendships shattered by cruel wars and cruel words. Slowly, their singing changes again, and they share their memories of laughter and feasts and magic so beautiful it draws an amazed hush from those lucky enough to witness it.

When they stop singing, the crashing waves seem very quiet. The yawë is no longer the same symbol at all, but one of their own making. Every bit of both their best and their worst, of all their memories and experiences, has shaped it into something new and equally dangerous. Just as with the original, the bond of trust this symbol represents far surpasses anything any language is capable of expressing.

Moi gath, Saphira whispers quietly. Change unites. The symbol fades, as if the waves suddenly leapt up and licked it from the sand. There is no sense of disappointment as it disappears, only the feeling that it never really can disappear completely.

Their voices are sore and when Eragon looks up, he realizes that the moon is at its full height already. Surprised that they had gone so long without food, water, or any breaks, he shakes his head. A memory flits through his mind of Horst’s tiny baby daughter and he blinks away the tiredness that rushes over him, reminded again of how amazing this magic really is.

This magic was strong, he murmurs to both of his companions. The magic here is strong and the magic within us is strong. We are strong, he adds.

Blödhgarm nods in agreement, blinking with bleary eyes. Eragon smiles slightly, understanding. Together, they climb aboard Saphira’s back, Eragon hesitating a moment by her face to hug her.

You are full of goodness, Little One.

Eragon smiles and joins Blödhgarm and Saphira takes off, a final swirl of sand rushing beneath them as she drives her wings downwards.

Saphira flies higher than she normally does, allowing them all to enjoy the beauty of the strange lanterns the elfins use and call garfëonzla—flameless orbs contained in closed flowers so that the petals both enhance and distort the light. Flickers of color dot the night sky as Saphira soars over them and a few elfins—perhaps those whose maga is connected to whatever forces Saphira disturbs as she flies through it—look up, suddenly aware of her presence. Eragon wonders what they sense; whether only Saphira’s might leaves an impression around her, or whether a blue elf who is not just blue anymore and a young man who is not just a man anymore make any mark at all.

Eragon spreads his arms wide, allowing the night air flow through him as Saphira sweeps towards the northwest part of the island. Blödhgarm keeps his eyes down, focusing intently on a waterfall that Eragon can only hear, not see, somewhere below them. Saphira hums, sending vibrations through her riders’ legs.

If she was human, she would have laughed, and Eragon can feel her joy and love of flying. He grins and closes his eyes, allowing his mind to be drawn into hers and sharing their vision so that he can see as she does. Her ability to see at night amazes Eragon. Despite his new capabilities, he is far inferior to a dragon. Of course, he already knew this.

Her distinction for shades of blue allows her to notice minute differences between the mush of blacks, greys, and browns that make up the night for anyone with human eyes. Eragon wonders what Nuanorúm sees at night and suddenly finds himself wondering what she’s seeing right now. What her eyes look like right now.

Little One? Saphira murmurs, prepared for any response.

Älfrinn celöbra weohnata heill edtha.

She scans through the images he provides and sighs softly, as much concerned for him as pleased. Romance and physical affection have been the only source of their serious disagreement since they bonded and she can see now, as she had learned to see in Alagaësia, that he needs this.

Slowly, she warns.

Vëoht, Eragon agrees, concentrating on what he will say to the green woman. He can’t help being surprised that thoughts of her don’t bring another blush to his face, and he cautiously explores the expanse of heat blossoming in his stomach. Saphira is hesitant at first but Eragon welcomes her, allowing her to probe his feelings and observe, unobtrusively, his experience.

Ground walkers are so strange, she decides.

He sends back an image of his perspective as Saphira and Fírnen disappeared into the clouds, playing the sounds of their interaction through his memory and coloring it both with his humor now and his confusion then. Saphira sniffs pridefully but relaxes, enjoying their playful teasing.

I suppose each bird must flock with its feather, Saphira decides, shrugging internally. A peacock certainly looks strange to an owl.

And a dragon even stranger, Eragon agrees, laughing quietly. But whose feathers do we use for quills?

Blödhgarm’s strange comment from earlier comes to mind and Eragon turns back to ask what it had been about.

“Not now, Shur’tugal,” the blue elf responds quietly, shaking his head with a small smile. “I can see that you two are speaking and tonight is not the night to think any more than we already have. We can discuss all of this later.”

Eragon nods, preferring his friend’s trust more than immediate answers. He can’t help noticing, though, that Blödhgarm’s gaze quickly returns to the distance, where the waterfall had previously caught his attention.

You have grown, Little One, Saphira hums as they land outside their cave a few minutes later. Blödhgarm leaps deftly to the ground and bows, turning his hand over his chest, before excusing himself and running into the distance.

Away from his own cave, Eragon notices, cocking his head. And northwest.

And you must go south, Saphira pushes, pointing her nose towards Nuanorúm’s cave. She nuzzles gently against Eragon’s shoulder and he reaches out to scratch her jaw, smiling weakly.

His nerves have caught up with him and his throat feels thick. Part of him wonders if Roran felt like this with Katrina, but he hesitates to make such a comparison. Thinking again of his connection to fire and the burning sensation in his stomach, he labels the feeling with the ancient language: “Eldrvari.”

He keeps a careful grasp of his flow of magic and doesn’t change anything with his word, although providing a name certainly makes him feel better. Taking a steadying breath, he squares his shoulders and walks silently through the night towards…he isn’t sure what.

Flickering lights still dance in some caves and quiet whispers snake through the air like fog. Eragon’s ears are certainly capable of picking up individual words and sounds but he ignores it, although he’s not sure whether it’s by choice or necessity. The drum of senseless noise pours over him and the din is comforting.

As he walks, he mentally examines his own body, remembering every white scar that had once lined his back and hands. Although those had been healed, many new ones mark his legs and torso from wounds he’s received since the agaetí blödhren and he grimaces at the thought. In Alagaësia, such a war-torn body would have been a sign of strength and determination. Here, he’s not sure whether he’s more proud of such proof or embarrassed. Thinking of the uses to which such a body might be put bring the crimson blush back to his face.

The bottoms of his boots pad softly on the stone stairs as he moves from one clearing to the next, and he wonders whether the elfins could hear him. Certainly no human could. In an effort to calm himself, he welcomes a flow of information through all of his senses. An aroma of smoke and roasted vegetables brush his nose as the meaningless din continues around him, disturbed only by the occasional outburst of laughter from one cave or another. The outlines of stones and foliage dance in his eyes and he opens his mouth to breath in the taste of salted air. Nerves threaten to make him nauseous, though, and he snaps his mouth shut again after a moment.

Finally, or perhaps very shortly, he approaches Nuanorúm’s cave. He pauses to tug his jerkin straight, suddenly wishing he’d taken the time to clean himself off or change altogether. Sand still clings to his knees and ocean air has pulled his hair into little tufts of curls. One more steadying breath. In. Out. He steps up towards the entrance of the cave looming in front of him.

Stepping into the light of Nuanorúm’s fire, Eragon feels his worries fade almost immediately and relaxes his shoulders dropping as a warm expression fills his eyes and soft smile. There’s hesitance there, as well, and he doesn’t hide it.

Nuanorúm looks up from her work at a wooden writing desk, carefully marked script lining the parchment in front of her. She creases her brow and sets down a magnificent white quill, examining Eragon as he takes another step towards her.

“Ono naina iet hugr,” he whispers, crouching so that he’s below her eye level at sitting height. He continues in the ancient language, speaking quietly. “You alleviate my pain and have made every moment bright for me. I would like to honor you if you would have me.” His voice trails off at the end and he’s just grateful it doesn’t break. His boldness surprises him and he locks his jaw against another wave of nerves that flame in his stomach. “Vëoht,” he adds, remembering Saphira’s warning.

Nuanorúm stares for a long time, examining him with tight eyes. Eragon wonders if he would have held her gaze so confidently any other time and decides that he couldn’t imagine looking away now. Finally, she pushes herself into a kneeling position in front of him, so they’re both on their knees on the floor.

Moving delicately, she clutches at the material of his jerkin and brushes her fingers against his chest, shuddering. Her eyes are fixed on his. “Ono ignasia,” she whispers, the softness of her voice not diminishing its strength. “You are bright like the sun. Yes, I will have you.”

They stand together, hands linked, their breath mingling in the air between them. Nuanorúm leads him through a small archway off the main chamber of her cave and into a large bedroom. A large round bed greets them in the center of the room and Eragon breathes nervously, inhaling the gentle scent of fresh rain off her hair.

She peers at him with luminescent eyes and leans forward until she’s close enough to kiss. A sudden burning desire blossoms in his stomach and he leans down to passionately provide the gesture. She breathes heavily, responding with her own slow burn.

“Vëoht?” she asks, checking with him carefully as they move to the bed. Eragon shakes his head as his arms wrap firmly around her waist and he lowers them gently to the mattress’ surface.

“Né,” he responds easily as his hands reach for the ties on her dress. She smiles into the side of his neck and kisses the skin there gently. He melts into her touch but pulls away when her tail wraps around one of his ankles.

She gazes at him with wide eyes, worried. With one steadying breath, Eragon returns to kiss her again and they remove each other’s clothes with gentle movements that burn through their stomachs, adding their own sounds to the soft din of the night.

Chapter Text

Eragon doesn’t open his eyes when he’s done resting. He shuts them, and his mind, much tighter. Saphira will be waking up soon and will want to reach out, although she’s kind enough to wait for his contact first. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

He does, however, caution a quick sweep of the bedroom he’s in. When he’s satisfied that he’s alone, he opens his eyes and sits up. The blankets are gathered around his waist and he hates the thought of removing them for even a moment.

His face is warm and wet and he feels silly for wanting to cry as badly as he does. His bare chest also feels hot, despite the cool air blowing in from the main cavern. He wishes he had a shirt but can’t remember where it is and doesn’t feel like groping around mostly naked in someone else’s room.

In her room.

As he takes a steadying breath, he supposes he should be grateful. Some part of him is aware that he’s done something new and it’s a bit like using magic for the first time. Of course, his own magic doesn’t usually interrupt him and start crying when he tries to engage it. It certainly hadn’t been an ideal night.

Both embarrassment and anger bring red to his face and he decides finally to hunt down his shirt. He’s nearly happy when he finds it within reach, although that words is certainly a strong description of the feelings burning in his chest.

He dons the shirt and yanks on his boots, roughly tucking in the hem of his pants. He’s glad that he had at least thought to put those back on. An irritated snarl escapes his lips as he gets himself ready to go and it suddenly hits him that he will need to make his way through the entirety of the elfin dwellings to reach his own cave. The idea makes him sick and he takes another moment to smooth his hair, wipe off his face, and straighten his clothes.

The sun is already up and he can’t help feeling a wave of resentment towards her for not waking him up earlier. Not that he had particularly wanted to see her this morning.

Stepping out of the bedroom and into the main cavern, he hesitates a moment, lingering on the balls of his feet. The gesture is one he picked up before his transformation and it does as little to settle his nerves now as it did then.

A wooden chair is tucked into the writing desk where Nuanorúm had been sitting the night before and it’s quite clear that no one intends to sit there now. The white quill and the letter are gone. Eragon grimaces and another sharp pang of tears threatens to pour over. “I hope you’re happy,” he murmurs, wondering if he could say it in the ancient language.

He doesn’t try.

With his mind tightly shut and his shoulders stiffly set, he exits the cavern and begins the trek back to his cave with Saphira. To his relief, there aren’t as many elfins out as he expected. It seems most of them take their breakfasts late and in the privacy of their family homes. Most of the local residents were engaged in discussion over their morning meals and paid little heed to the Rider as he picked his way back through each clearing.

He doesn’t mean to replay the previous night’s conversations, but can’t seem to help it as he navigates the settlement. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard a woman cry, but Nuanorúm’s strange double voice and the fact that he was preoccupied with thoughts of more recent events made it more startling. He’d been laying on his back, staring up at the roof of the cave with a small smile when he first noticed the whispered sobs coming from his partner.

Despite being entirely unversed on the mechanics of their recently completed activites, he was quite sure that neither party was supposed to cry afterwards. He’d rolled over, prepared to comfort the woman, only to find her already staring at him with guilty eyes. Their conversation had developed slowly but taken sharp turns for the worse after just a bit of prodding.

Despite what she said, Nuanorúm had never been interested in breeding with Lausvit. This seemed excellent news at first, as Eragon rather preferred she not think about the crimson elfin whilst in bed with him. However, Nuanorúm went on to explain that one of the major sources of her unhappiness came from her rank. It simply wasn’t suitable for a queen to breed with a scribe, no matter how much she and Domifethr might desire otherwise.

The letter was for him.

During her parents’ lives, Nuanorúm hadn’t thought much of her responsibility as future queen. Now, with so much at stake, she has to consider what is best for her people. Apparently, she’d convinced herself that Eragon would be the best choice when Lausvit was so undesirable. It wasn’t until after they’d mated that she decided otherwise.

Eragon wonders what it all means. Under normal circumstances, he would never be with a woman whose heart was elsewhere, as he has no desire to take advantage of someone’s vulnerability like that. At the same time, he had no idea of her true feelings and was just as misled by her as she seemed to be by herself.

He grimaces at the thought.

Those beautiful green eyes still swim in his head, though, and he’s reminded painfully of their resemblance to Arya’s. At the time, he could almost forget the elven Rider. But now he wonders whether he’ll ever move on from either of these strange women.

It might not be worth it to try, he decides.

Unbidden, Brom comes to mind, and Eragon chokes solidly on a lump in his throat. His father, a man who had fought so hard for the Varden and the very egg that brought Eragon his own dragon even after the loss of her namesake threatened Brom’s sanity. His father, a man who had fallen so hopelessly in love with the wrong woman that it ultimately cost them both everything they had and resulted simply in him.

In me.

Something in Eragon is hesitant to disavow relationships forever, but he has no doubt it will be a long time before anything sways him. He notices suddenly that there’s another feeling in his stomach, and as he approaches his cave with Saphira, he identifies it as jealousy. Soon, there would be proof of the time she and Fírnen shared together, while he, Eragon, would have nothing of anyone. He looks down at his shining palm and clenches his fist slowly.

Not nothing, he decides, pushing away his bitterness.

Wanting to forewarn Saphira of his impending approach, he opens his mind gently. Not quite ready to speak, however, he sends only images of his night, each memory ripped jagged by the raw emotion that sears it. Saphira’s sympathy and affection pour into him and the weight is almost overwhelming, exactly what Eragon needs. Sinking into the crushing love of his companion seems better than anything else right now.

He enters their cave slowly and looks around the room with a blank expression. Everything seems so new, as if he’s suddenly realized how unfamiliar it all is. Everything from the fire pit, the washtub, and the large divot where Saphira sleeps next to his own bed seems foreign. Stacks of clothes and books, including Domina abr Wyrda and his own poem, decorate the otherwise barren cave.

Finally, he lets his eyes meet Saphira’s and a soft inhale passes his lips. It’s been so long since he properly appreciated the majestic blue of her scales, the gem colors that radiate in her eyes, her rippling strength evident in the toned muscles of her legs and chest, and the enormous size she has very quickly grown to. She has grown so much since they bonded in Carvahall, and he’s amazed by her abilities.

He can’t help but laugh at her posture, perched on the edge of her divot, crouching cautiously as if she were nervous about what he might do or say. He offers a memory of the first time he saw her like that, perched on his bedframe in Garrow’s house.

Saphira hums for a moment, appreciating the memory, before her expression settles into something more serious. I do not wish to upset you, Little One.

Closing his eyes, Eragon allows his tears to spill finally, and sinks into the aching grief in his chest. Shame, guilt, and bitter resentment seem to devour him but he sinks all the same, allowing the feelings to crash over him.

It is better to be sad today than angry forever, Saphira agrees, as a memory of Murtagh’s burning hatred reverberates through Eragons mind.

He moves stiffly, reaching for the blanket on his own bed and crawling into Saphira’s divot. Her eyes glow adoringly as she watches him, waiting for him to settle before following and wrapping protectively around him. She stretches one large blue wing over the top of him and he remembers how often he had compared the sight to the sky as they had traipsed across Alagaësia on one mission or another. With the increase in her size, there’s more space, too, and he curls against her side to soak in her warmth and feel the gentle humming in her ribs.

He weeps broken sobs.

Today is a very good day to stay in bed, Saphira murmurs softly.

Blödhgarm paces impatiently as he waits for Tawny and Angela to finish their breakfasts. Neither of them ate very much compared to the elf, who had to rely on vegetation for the necessary nutrients to sustain his body, and still he had finished his meal first. Finally, he decides that pacing won’t get him anywhere and decides to wait outside. Meditation, he knows, will make the wait seem shorter.

He had been sitting on the forest floor, a safe distance from the beasts of the pool, for nearly an hour when the two women finally emerge and he senses them approach. Carefully withdrawing from the minds of the woods, he opens his new amber eyes and glares at them.

“Eh, you can’t rush beauty,” Angela explains, propping her hands on her hips and smirking at Blödhgarm’s discomfort.

“Then why did it take you so long?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet. He represses a smile when Tawny laughs, although Angela flashes her teeth in amusement.

“Very well, elf. Then you can’t rush flavor, and my breakfast was delicious.”

He notices as he takes a step closer that he’s a full head taller than the herbalist, and several taller than Tawny. “Thank you for allowing me to stay,” he acknowledges, dipping his head. “And answering some of my questions.”

“Of course, plant-eater,” Tawny crows, a devilish grin on her small mouth. “I like the changes by the way.” She runs a hand through her own mane of sand colored hair and laughs at his expression.

“Nuanen,” he agrees carefully. “We are beautiful.”

There’s a pause and then Angela laughs wildly, throwing back her own curly mess of hair. “Speaking of the dangers of beauty,” she remarks, “did you give Eragon my warning?”

“Warning?” he asks, hackles raising.

“Well, I suppose it wasn’t really that surprising. It always seems to be the quiet ones, doesn’t it?”

“What warning?”

“About birds and ink and…oh I don’t remember what I said. But the Nuanorúm loves Domifethr, of course.” Angela’s recall for names strikes Blödhgarm as surprising for a moment, but he supposes that she has more reason than most to know the importance of names. “But Nuanorúm is beautiful and Eragon is sad, so of course he’s going to do something foolish. They’re both damsels in distress, I suppose,” she shakes her head sadly. “The things people do for love, right, Tawny?” She turns to glance at her small companion, only to find that she’s not paying attention. A large bug had flown by and is apparently of greater interest to the werecat. “Yes, well, you wouldn’t understand. I don’t even understand! And Eragon surely doesn’t understand. Do you understand?”

Blödhgarm’s muscles wilt and his fur flattens, making him appear much smaller than he actually is. Angela perks up, suddenly concerned. “Warning…,” Blödhgarm repeats.

“But of course, if you told him then I’m sure he didn’t do anything foolish! Unless you didn’t tell him. Or if he didn’t understand! No one ever listens to me,” she shakes her head again. “Well, you’ve got your answers. Do make sure you pass those along at least! Goodbye!”

She turns after Tawny, who has disappeared into the woods, and leaves Blödhgarm standing stock-still in the woods alone. “Oh, and do tell him to come visit me when he gets the chance!” Angela’s voice calls back. “I have my bones with me!”

Blödhgarm decides that now is not the time to pursue her or ask about the bones; now is the time to run. Panic bubbles in his chest as he realizes he might’ve made a terrible mistake in keeping this conversation beyond last night. Leaning into a sprint, he practically flies back to Du Stenrsolus, hoping to catch Eragon in the market or somewhere close by the city.

As he runs, he reaches out to the minds of the birds that fly by, examining their recent memories very carefully to see if they had seen Saphira. He appreciates this use for their thoughts, although he hates to be so hasty with them. He must be careful not to think directly of the dragon whilst inside their minds, for fear of scaring the birds straight out of the sky. Avoiding this result as often as possible, he quickly realizes that none of them have seen Saphira at all today.

He slows to a walk as he approaches the stone and vine walls surrounding the centermost part of Du Stenrsolus, and expands his mind wide. So far, he has not encountered an elfin who acknowledges his mind’s touch or speaks to him this way, and he is confident that there will be no trouble. Of course, Nuanorúm’s double voice may be the only exception, both to the mind-speaking and to the trouble, so he hurries. The bright glow of Saphira’s mental energy is impossible to miss, regardless of how tightly closed she keeps her mind, and he follows the sensation back to the cave she and Eragon share.

Today, we are resting, she tells him as he gets close, nearly stopping him in his tracks with the force of her tone.

Blödhgarm pulls himself to a stiff halt and kneels, the way he would if he was encountering an unfamiliar dragon. The gesture shows respect and Saphira responds with a curious pulse of energy. Saphira Svit-Kona, he begins, surprised by his own familiarity with her. As soon as you are ready, it is urgent that we speak. And if I am not too late, he repeats Angela’s warning, providing context and as much explanation as he can. Eragon must not pursue Nuanorúm.

Saphira stifles some burst of frustration, but whether it’s at his failure to tell them of Angela’s warning in more detail, or failure to tell them of Angela’s presence at all, he isn’t sure. Neither, she responds. But it is much much too late.

She speaks softly but guilt threatens to crush Blödhgarm and the weight of it seems to press him into the earth.

You may come in, Blood Wolf, Saphira adds.

He stands and enters slowly, with downcast eyes and a crestfallen expression. Looking up slowly to acknowledge his friends—although they no doubt will feel differently about him now—he finds Eragon standing near Saphira. Apart from his red eyes, he seems quite alert and prepared for anything. He had learned the hard way that he had to be.

Tell us, Glaedr says slowly, what have you learned from the witch?

Chapter Text

It’s been one long week since Blödhgarm discussed his conversations with Tawny and Angela. Eragon, Saphira, and the Eldunarí had made for a rapt audience and very politely declined to berate him for keeping news of Angela’s presence in Yggdrasil a secret. Eragon had been more surprised at the news than Saphira, who seemed to expect such mysterious behaviour from the witch and stopped asking questions about how.

They also politely agreed, through some unspoken sensitivity, not to comment when Blödhgarm explained Tawny’s appearance and the connection to his recent changes became more clear. His new amber eyes seemed to sparkle a little brighter when he spoke of the werecat, and Eragon was certainly not going to be one to question possible interbreeding concerns.

Blödhgarm had shared all the information he could and then the group decided to speak with Angela in person. When it came time to pack, a decision had to be made regarding whether they would return to these caves. It seemed safest to assume not, but there was no easy way to break that news to their hosts. In the end, Eragon had settled on leaving a polite note in the empty cave and departing much happier than he probably should have been. He stubbornly refused to look back—literally and figuratively-- as they followed Blödhgarm into the forest, heading northwest.

Carefully scripted, the note explained that they were grateful for the hospitality but that the time had come for the group to move on and begin work on their mission, relocating to a more suitable part of Yggdrasil. Blödhgarm had done careful studies over the past few days to discover precisely what parts of the island were uninhabited and available for their use, and Eragon debated whether to leave that information behind. In the end, he did not.

We desire firstly and foremostly to be respectful. Should any of us intrude on elfin territory, I hope that matters can be settled diplomatically.

Even now, he hopes sincerely they do not meet again. Blödhgarm also seems eager to be away, despite his similarities to the elfins and merely shrugged when Eragon asked why before they departed. “If I wanted to see my own face staring back at me, I’d’ve stayed in Du Weldenvarden.”

Eragon can’t help doubting the sincerity of the elf’s words—certainly there are many differences worth studying among these people—but is grateful for the companionship and doesn’t argue.

At the time of their departure, Saphira had bemoaned the loss of her divot in the cave floor, but quickly decided it wasn’t as comfortable as she gave it credit for when Eragon gently reminded her of their lodgings in Du Weldenvarden. He promised to sing a beautiful new home for them when they established one and everyone in the party agreed that would be best.

It hadn’t taken them long to reach the cave Blödhgarm had so carefully marked on his map, and he leads the way to the entrance, cautioning them to avoid getting too close to the pool. In response, Saphira crouches eagerly, wondering what a druknablakya might taste like. Eragon stifles a laugh and follows Blödhgarm past the tumbling waters. The cool mist in his face is refreshing and he breathes in the refreshing scent of the forest with grateful lungs.

Having heard Blödhgarm’s description of the interior of the cavern and seen his drawings, Eragon is confident he will be ready to meet Angela with a focused mind, nt distracted by his surroundings. However, when they enter the cavern, there are no illusions, no magic, and certainly no residents. Even the signs of their time here are largely gone, as if Angela had simply decided they would move and packed up the entire fireplace in a bag.

The image strikes Eragon as funny and before he can properly respond to the panicked look on Blödhgarm’s face, he finds himself laughing. Side-splitting gales of laughter bubble out of his mouth and he doubles over with mirth. Saphira flicks a questioning thought their way but otherwise doesn’t interrupt. Suddenly, Blödhgarm does.

“A letter,” he murmurs, reappearing from the side cavern where an illusion previously blocked the way. Reading it to himself and then aloud, he passes it to Eragon for further examination.

Eragon can’t remember if he’s ever seen Angela’s handwriting before but the messy scrawl, written in the common tongue with the spidery letters of the ancient language, Eragon is sure that it’s hers. Her explanation is brief, providing simply enough information for the small company to follow her and Tawny to a location they staked out that should be suitable for their cause. Her most startling revelation is one that even Saphira doesn’t have a response to, and the Eldunarí offer little comfort.

We must consider carefully that she is either lying, or somehow knows much more than she reasonably should, Glaedr cautions, clearly uncomfortable.

Eragon nods as he rereads that portion of the letter, trying to make sense of Angela’s claim that the elfins here were deeply connected to the Grey Folk. While it is unlikely that the current residents of Yggdrasil are the ancestors of the famed bearers of magic in Alagaësia—and bearers of the land’s near destruction—it is impossible to deny the evident connections between the groups. At least, that’s what Angela thinks.

Eragon can’t help wondering how such brilliantly colored people could ever be referred to as the “Grey Folk” but doesn’t question it, sensing his companions’ discomfort. Saphira snorts her mild agreement, although she’s more apt to push the conversation. Blödhgarm seems particularly unarmed by the claim and settles into a morose silence.

They have left, Saphira finally declares, stating clearly what they can all observe. They have gone where Angela told us to go to ensure that we heed her advice.

Although clearly not amused by the manipulation, she does seem impressed. Regardless, she is not one to be trifled with and is not keen on following the whims of an herbalist, no matter how influential or important she might be. Blödhgarm glances at Eragon for a moment, wondering at the Rider’s reaction before suddenly erupting into a fit of giggles.

The sound is so foreign that Saphira and Eragon both stop moving completely until Saphira snorts again, nearly laughing. Eragon stares in shock for several moments before joining in, their hilarity coupling and growing as they laugh together. Saphira has evidently given up on hunting the druknablakya and has poked her neck into the cavern. Resting her head on the cavern floor, she watches the two men with amused eyes, like a mother cat watching her kittens wrestle. By the time their fits subside, they are on the floor, coated with the pale sand-colored dust of the area.

Eventually, they recognize that the only course left to them is to heed Angela’s advice since they certainly have no intention of returning to the elfins. Exiting the cavern, they climb aboard Saphira and take off. The journey feels like forever and no time at all, as riding a dragon any great distance always seems to.

The cool salty air feels good on Eragon’s face and he feels as though he’s finally able to shake the feeling he’s been holding onto since his meeting that first night with Nuanorúm and the other elfins. He feels free.

This has been a challenge, he tells Saphira, not a reason to turn tail and flee.

She hums in her chest, agreeing. We came for the right reasons, to do the right thing. We simply have to make that happen.

Simply?

Simply enough, she snorts.

Nerves tug at Eragon’s stomach but he pushes them away, deciding he has little enough energy to focus on everything else, let alone allow his fears to cripple him as he does so. His mind turns back to the previous night for a moment and he sighs, knowing those memories will continue to be a burden for a long time.

She seems to have enjoyed it, Saphira observes, watching his memories. Did you?

Eragon blushes and clamps his jaw shut, refusing to answer with the same stubborn gesture he’d use in an oral conversation. Saphira hums again a gentle plume of smoke escapes her nose.

As night falls, Eragon and Blödhgarm begin relying on Saphira, despite their own excellent vision. Saphira’s added advantage of an incredible sense of direction and geography means the trip is much harder on her than it is for her riders, although Eragon suspects she enjoys the flight even more than they do. Regardless, Angela’s directions specified how to get there, not how far, and Eragon and Blödhgarm pour trickles of energy into Saphira to keep her going comfortably.

Stiff muscles? Eragon asks lightly, wanting to check on his partner without upsetting her.

She grunts in response and he places a loving hand against her neck.

Angela’s note had also told them that this place would be perfect. Inaccessible on foot and highly dangerous by boat, flying or magic are the only way to access the rocky beach and nearby forest area. Eragon can’t help being reminded of Carvahall, but with a mountain range much more dangerous than the Spine on one side, and an ocean on the other. The association makes him feel warm and safe. Finally.

A thrill bubbles in his stomach as he considers the full ramifications of this discovery. Naturally protected from any species of magical or non-magical being, with access to a variety of landforms and easy enough to traverse on dragon-back, this area will undoubtedly be perfect.

In the distance, a campfire on the beach grants a waypoint to the group, who pours a last bit of energy into Saphira. Rocky crags jut out of steep cliffs and the promise of an extensive cave system greets them as they land, cold and tired. Eragon and Blödhgarm climb to the ground to allow Saphira to move without so much weight aboard her back. The area looks entirely uninhabited, despite the dwelling of elfins not too far away.

One cave nearby seems particularly noteworthy as its gaping maw was large enough even for the years of growth ahead of Saphira, and it overlooks the forest in such a way that any incoming creatures—allies or enemies—would be easily spotted. An excited tremble ripples through Eragon and he turns to see similar feelings on Blödhgarm’s face.

Several large deer skitter by and Saphira notices a sudden pang of ferocious hunger in Saphira’s mind before she turns her attention deliberately away from the potential prey. Other creatures move about the forest and many are unfamiliar to Eragon. Even Glaedr can’t name some of the strange beasts of this part of the world.

As they make their way down the hillside and towards the campfire and survey the landscape, the hum of their excitement is nearly palpable. Blödhgarm’s mind cranks through architectural possibilities, identifying appropriate strategies to turn this place into a comfortable home.

Eragon is focused on the training of future Riders and imagines the various uses to which the landscape could be put. We never got to train over the water, he reminds Saphira, that would have been helpful and I’m sure there’s a lot to learn there. Saphira snorts her agreement, analyzing possible breeding, egg-laying, and hatching zones.

“Took you long enough!” Angela practically shrieks at them when they get within earshot—although of course, their earshot was much longer than hers.

Blödhgarm snarls and Eragon claps a gentle hand on his shoulder, hoping to reassure the elf that there is no bitterness between them. “We weren’t given particularly clear directions,” Eragon responds lightly.

Angela sniffs. “My directions were perfectly clear, if you aren’t capable of following a simple-“

“Not those directions,” Eragon interrupts, putting up a hand as he steps into the ring of firelight on the beach. “Something about a bird?”

Eragon isn’t sure what expression he’s wearing but it must convey enough information because Angela wilts before his eyes. You look…severe, Saphira decides for him, rumbling her own dissatisfaction. If I were anything but a dragon, I would be terrified.

Surprised, Eragon considers reshuffling his face into something more approachable, but realizes that that is unlikely to be possible. He is not the fresh-faced boy from Carvahall anymore, and this particular instant he is not even the bold king-killer from Alagaësia. He is hurt and sad and very angry, although less so at Angela than at the situation as a whole.

“I’m sorry, Eragon-Finiarel. My riddles and games should never have caused you such pain.” Her tone is sincere and Eragon finds himself taken aback, unsure how to handle such a response from the herbalist.

“Your riddles brought me here,” he responds finally, remembering the dragon bones in Teirm.

When Angela looks up, the sparkle has returned to her eyes and she smiles devilishly. “So they did,” she murmurs. “I suppose I should have learned to trust you by now then.”

“I suppose so.”

They smirk at each other for a moment until a very small woman with a sandy mane of hair interrupts them. “So were you going to eat with us or just stand there and make us delay our meal even later?” she grumbles impressively, her small voice reaching great heights.

Blödhgarm seems to tense in response to her words—or perhaps her voice—and glances at Eragon for confirmation. Unsure whether he’s really eager to take up a leadership position again so soon, Eragon merely shrugs, doing his best to reflect the same expression back at Blödhgarm and avoid coming to any group decisions himself. Luckily, Saphira does it for him.

I’m starving and I’m going to go eat one of those things over there, she says to all of them, gesturing with her mind at a deer-like creature with antlers that grow downward, encircling its neck in a protective cage. She snaps her jaw definitively and moves away from the party before taking off and climbing steeply to gain an advantage over the creature.

Angela smiles and sweeps her arm towards the fire where Eragon and Blödhgarm take available seats beside Angela and Tawny respectively. As it so happens, the meal isn’t done yet anyway, and they aren’t ready to eat until Saphira has already finished her hunt and brought back the kill to eat with them.

“Is that any good?” Angela asks, watching as Saphira cracks the pelvis of the creature and slurps great chunks of meat off its hide.

It is, Saphira responds after a moment’s consideration. It was interesting to find new techniques. I usually snap their necks. Angela smiles, but whether it’s because of the conversation itself or the fact that the conversation was not mediated by Eragon in the middle isn’t clear.

Finally, Angela dips a spoon into one of the metal pots hanging over the fire and decides their meal is ready. She gestures for Tawny to set about preparing whatever is in each of the pots while she herself retrieves a stick and begins prodding several leaf-wrapped packages from the coals. She allows them to cool for a moment before tossing them to Blödhgarm.

He cocks an eyebrow before tugging open the packages and smelling whatever is inside. A look of elation fills his eyes and he bows his head in gratitude, neatly sliding a baked treat of some sort from the wrappings. Eragon glances at Angela inquisitively but she just shakes her head.

“I remember some of the elves’ favorite recipes,” she shrugs.

When Tawny offers Eragon a bowl, he thanks her and practically turns feral as a wave of starvation washes over him. He immediately begins pulling out pieces of stewed white fish, potatoes, and other bits. After a few bites, he feels immensely better and begins to eat more slowly. The next dive into the bowl reveals a small shell with something gooey inside.

He holds it up, brows furrowed. “An egg? A stone?” he asks, ignoring Tawny’s laughter at his question.

“A clam!” Angela crows, sucking the contents out of one of her own. She seems massively satisfied by the flavor and slurps happily.

Sniffing cautiously, Eragon prods at the gooey substance before consuming it as similarly as he can to Angela. Although the flavor itself isn’t bad, the texture is certainly unusual and he’s surprised to find, for the first time, something that he’s not sure he can manage to eat.

I don’t like those at all, he tells Saphira, stifling a gag.

Well of course you don’t, just look at them, she responds, eyeing one distastefully. Angela notices the look and opens several clams, tossing a handful of their squishy bodies to Saphira who quckly changes her mind.

Traitor, Eragon scowls.

Give me yours, then, she responds, licking salty brine from her maw and snorting happily.Jumping at the opportunity, Eragon allows himself to appreciate the humor of it when Saphira snaps his clams from the air. Shells are fine, she adds.

When the meal is done, there’s little left to do but rest and they make their way happily to the campsite Angela and Tawny have established. Blödhgarm takes them up on their offered bedroll and sleeps spread out in the fashion typical of travelers. Eragon can’t help feeling excited even at the prospect of sleeping under Saphira’s wing, the stars far above them both.

The next day’s sun sets on them sitting on the same cliff they had first alighted on. Eragon leans his head back against Saphira’s great blue leg and sighs, breathing in the ocean air and sweeping his gaze across the trees.

Du Weldenfrethyen? he asks, playing with the feel of the words. Saphira rumbles, disagreeing although she doesn’t have a better suggestion. Du Vindrwelden?

Better, but you are bringing too much here. This is a new place, Little One.

He hums, a habit he picked up from his companion, and considers the issue. What is this place, Saphira?

Silence stretches between them as they listen to the gentle sighing of the wind through the trees and the endless brushing of waves against the sands. Together, they wonder how different the world will be with the next host of young Riders in it. Of course, now, all the Riders are and will be young. They are the start of the oldest order, with only the wisdom of great dragons to maintain them.

Du Silbena-Elda?

Saphira is quiet for a moment. Is this place alive? she asks, noting Eragon’s honorific.

They’re silent again, feeling the pulse of magic, maga, and much more. Something feels dense in the air and there is sentience about the place. Yes, Eragon breathes. It certainly seems so. If nothing else, we are alive here.

Saphira hums quietly, appreciating both the break from convention and the adherence to them. It’s good to know where we came from, but not to dwell there.

Eragon agrees and they turn their thoughts to everything they’d accomplished that day. Most of their time had passed with Eragon and Blödhgarm singing some of the trees into a suitable home, complete with a winding pathway to the ground. Together, and with the help of Saphira’s own magic, the project had gone particularly well.

They had avoided discussion about the potentially strengthened force of the magic accessible here, although they are well aware of the magical saturation in the environment. Every breath is imbued with magic. Whatever the case, the project had still taken them the entire day, a fact which amazes Eragon who hesitates to imagine how long Ellesméra had taken.

Satisfied with their work for one day, they had agreed to enjoy their evening, although there is still much to be done. Everything from furniture to rooms had been sung into shape but items for luxury and comfort still are yet to be done and those intricacies will take time. Eragon remembers Islanzadí’s feather cape, constructed from feathers that fell freely from dozens of birds.

Creation of such things was certainly much easier when he was willing to kill, although they are able to use Saphira as an advantage, taking fur and feathers from her kills for bedding, insulation, and other things.

One of the first considerations is logistical, and everyone had agreed that the dragons should have their home most comfortably in the caves that riddle holes in the rockface overlooking the water. A wooden home is hardly proper for a fire-breathing dragon, particularly a young one. While their time with Oromis had been lovely, even Glaedr agrees that stone homes are better suited to their purposes.

Some accommodations will be sung from the natural structures to allow for Riders to accompany their dragons, as well as for nesting and other important activities, but for the most part, the dragons will have access to the entirety of the natural caves.

Despite all our progress, my agitation is growing, Little One, Saphira confesses, troubling Eragon. He is too used to seeing her as the very pinnacle of bravery and strength. I am no less so for my fear, she tells him gently. Unless I let it control me.

I am glad you can tell me, he finally responds. Although I hate that I can’t help.

She nuzzles against him gently. You do help, she hums. What would I do without you?

Raise hell? He guesses, smiling.

Of course.

They sit together in silence for a while, enjoying the closeness they share and the view they have. I’m not going back, he tells her quietly, thinking of everything all at once. His head swarms with faces, from Arya, Roran, and Nasuada, to Nuanorúm, Lausvit, and Domifethr. Each face strikes its own unique chord with Eragon, creating the melody that is his life, cacophonous and harmonious in equal measures. Only forward.

Miles away, a ruler is belittled by her subordinate, and a scribe is the subject of ridicule.

“How could you let him go? How could you ruin our only chance?” Lausvit shouts, shaking as a darker red flush spreads through his face. “You say maga has returned, that we have hope in this pale man, and then you let him go?” He’s pacing angrily, furious with the green woman in front of him. Eragon’s note is clenched tightly in his fist and Domifethr nurses a bloody nose in the corner, not daring to make eye contact.

“I couldn’t lie,” Nuanorúm whispers, wishing she could look as frightening as Lausvit does. “But there is hope, yet. We completed the act and we will see.” One hand flutters nervously around her stomach before dropping uselessly back to her side.

Domifethr flinches, either worried that another beating will come or simply as a reaction to the revelation. Lausvit doesn’t notice, a blessing for the scribe.

“This isn’t about you,” Lausvit bursts. “If we move on from here and discover that our people still cannot breed, our race will die, and it will be on your head and hands, Nuanorúm. You have doomed us.” Without waiting for a response, he storms out of the room. He spreads open each hand as he walks, flaring the torches to extreme levels as he walks, viciously emphasizing each step.

“He will try to take your place, Nuanorúm,” Domifethr speaks quietly. “You must not let me get in the way.”

The queen doesn’t respond, dripping out of the room after Lausvit, leaving the man she loves for one she hardly knows.

Hours later, when they discover the broken body of a scribe under the window, Nuanorúm blames herself. Something inside shifts, as if her heart rips. With glowing green eyes and lengthening scars, she becomes a shell of herself, ruled only by maga and grief.

She begins wearing gloves when the stone walls of her new home crack at her touch, and boots when her steps do the same. She leaves drought in her wake as the earth dries and cracks where she walks.

“No one will get in my way,” she whispers, wearing a hat with a white feather pinned into the top. She pays no heed to the bits of ink that still drip from its nib. Peering out the window, wondering whether Domifethr cried when he threw himself from it, she stares up at the moon, sure that it’s staring back at two guilty paper that night. As much as she blames herself, she can’t help blaming a Dragon Rider, too.

Chapter Text

Sweat pours off the limbs of the Dragon Rider and his blue and gold elven companion. Their brows contort with effort and their fists clench tightly, their poses mirrored. A muscle near Eragon’s eye twitches and Blödhgarm’s knee threatens to give out. Their nostrils flare. Finally, they take a deep breath in and relax, releasing their effort. Their singing stops.

“Is it always this much work? How did anyone survive the creation of Ellesméra?” Eragon asks, panting and reaching for his wineskin.

“There were several more voices,” Blödhgarm muses, almost sadly. He cocks his head and surveys their work. “And all of them were familiar with these ways,” he adds, eyeing Eragon playfully. The Rider grumbles; as glad as he is for the elves’ improved methods of construction, the restless farmer in him wants to tear and chop and lash together a home for them instead of sing one.

They had chosen to shape a training area for new Riders since there was already a decent space available. Their work is largely the finishing touches on a naturally shaped field. The idea is a bit unorthodox compared to the training of the original Riders, but they and the dragons agree that some changes to the curriculum need to be made in order to accommodate lack of teachers.

Despite this conversation, Eragon is significantly less afraid than he had been before. Something had changed overnight and he can’t help recognizing the amazing opportunity available to new Riders, tutored by a Rider, an elf, a…Angela, a werecat, and dozens of dragons. Whatever the group lacks in numbers, they make up for in diversity.

Trees had been sung into a ring round the area and reinforced to prevent stray magic, arrows, and swords from escaping. Cubbies of various sizes had been included in the setup to allow Eldunarí to be placed there and train with individual Riders. Neither Eragon nor Blödhgarm could hope to achieve a higher quality of education than these dragons could and the burden on Eragon’s shoulders seems significantly less in considering this.

You were never meant to do this alone, Saphira remarks, licking a spot between her claws and carefully avoiding his eyes.

I never thought so, he replies carefully. I’ve never once doubted your support, Saphira. Her response is simply to snort, and Eragon grins at her.

Most of Saphira’s work has been to help Angela collect herbs, bugs, and prey, either by her own claw or by carrying the herbalist from site to site. At first, Saphira doesn’t particularly seem to like Tawny, who quickly formed the habit of curling into a ball and sleeping on Saphira’s head. However, she soon changed her mind and now the two are inseparable, a fact which doesn’t seem to make Blödhgarm any more comfortable around Eragon.

Most of the work has gone relatively fast, as they focused most of their initial efforts on planning and designing each area and then could sing it together comfortably. The dragons’ quarters had been setup to include an area for paired and unpaired eggs to be kept and eventually hatched.

Eragon worries almost constantly that he’ll receive the first of what will be many conversations from the monarch of Alagaësia—be that Nasuada now or one of her successors as time goes on, a fact which haunts the human-born Rider—and the first arrival of eggs or Riders will be on their way. With so much stability available in Du Silbena-Elda, it would be no wonder if some of those eggs were unpaired and hatched rather quickly.

He isn’t sure how to handle living alongside wild and paired dragons, and can’t help fearing they might resent being left out of a bond with a Rider. Or possibly worse, that bonded dragons will resent not being granted that same freedom. Saphira’s assurances that the species would not want to be limited to either course entirely are helpful, but only serve to comfort him so much. One of the eggs they brought with them, a large purple one, has started to shake, and they’re certain it will hatch soon.

Eragon voices this concern and eyes Blödhgarm speculatively. “Do you think that you might be a Rider, Blödhgarm?” he asks, as delicately as he can. If the elf is not chosen, that could hurt. At the same time, he might not prefer to be and could be disarmed by the question. It’s a sensitive subject to broach.

But one that must be broached, Saphira adds. Consider Angela, as well.

Do you think that she could be? Elves, humans, dwarves, and urgalgra. Is she one of those?

Saphira shakes as if to rid herself of the thought. Fair point, Little One. In any case, we should keep an eye out for signs of change from her.

“No, Shur’tugal,” Blödhgarm answers, interrupting their side conversation. “Although the honor of being a Rider would be immense, I do not feel shunted because I am not one, nor will I feel thusly if I do not become one.” He pauses for a moment and consider a daisy near his hand, growing in the warm grass they have taken seats in. Eragon follows the gesture and digs his hands into the grass, feeling the power surging there. “It is honor enough to serve the next order of Riders,” he says finally, turning his gaze upward and gesturing at the work they’ve already completed. “To teach a dragon anything? That is an honor in itself. My role here is not as a Rider but as an advisor—and friend—to you, Saphira, the Eldunarí, and the future Riders. If an egg hatches for me, I would be a student then, and too preoccupied with that role to serve the cause in this one. I am not dissatisfied.”

Eragon bows his head, humbled by the honor and by his friend’s careful response. As if seeing him in a new light, Saphira pulls her head up to fix Blödhgarm in a straight stare for a moment before slowly and almost imperceptibly bowing her own head. The gesture is immense and neither Eragon nor Blödhgarm have a proper response except to allow their feelings to be known through their shared connection.

Wordlessly, they come to the conclusion that the time is right for lunch. Eragon smiles as he pushes himself to his feet, but whether he’s smiling at his companions or simply to himself he’s not sure. The nameless happiness is become more comfortable and he’s surprised to find himself enjoying Yggdrasil so much. At least the part of Yggdrasil that is Du Silbena-elda.

Saphira walks beside them, a funny movement in a creature so clearly meant to fly but a kind one nonetheless. After so many hours standing and singing, it feels good to walk, and Saphira’s kindness allows Blödhgarm and Eragon to stretch their legs more easily. Together, they approach Angela and Tawny’s shared residence, a simple structure sung out of the trees.

Eragon is sure the home’s size is deceptive, but he had decided the first time he’d seen it that he’d prefer not to know all the details. He has long since accepted Angela’s eccentricities and it’s usually best not to question them.

Hungry? Eragon asks Saphira, glancing up at his companion.

No, my hunt this morning was plenty. In fact, the hunting here is fantastic. Recalling her experience chasing a creature twice the size of any deer in Alagaësia, Saphira is practically dancing. The movement reminds Eragon of a puppy or a kitten. It was fun! The prey here are wonderfully fearful of dragons!

Eragon smiles, rubbing beneath her jaw and viewing the images she shows him of the various creatures in the forest. And you’re sure having so many dragons here won’t overtax the population?

Quite sure, she responds solemnly, although no less excitement. We could gorge for eons and never run out. I can’t help wondering if they are descendants of creatures who were hunted by dragons before as well. They are plentiful and they are varied—they breed rapidly.

Eragon maintains his smile and tries not to consider “breeding.” Are you eating more? You don’t look too different yet. They send a shared question too Glaedr and the other dragons, although typically only Glaedr responds.

She will not change much physically, a female voice responds, that of the dragon Coralia. She had been one of the first to fall in Galbatorix’s reign. The egg she will lay will be small relative to her body. However, Saphira, you must make sure you eat more bones and hunt larger prey with thicker bones. I know it is uncomfortable but the calcium is important for your body to develop the shell of the egg. Eragon sends a grateful wave towards Coralia, glad that there is a female dragon among the Eldunarí, and one who can speak from experience. You will lay your egg in about three weeks, she adds.

Eragon is stunned. They had discussed this only a little and he can’t help the feeling that he’s about to become a father, despite how ridiculous he knows that is. He knows that he’s in no place to be afraid, but he can’t help it. He remembers how worried he’d been when Saphira had been small, and the nightmares that had come with that.

He swallows hard and focuses on Coralia’s words as she explains the birthing process. He then quickly wishes he hadn’t tuned back in, and glances helplessly at Blödhgarm, who had been privy to the conversation since they had questioned the Eldunarí. The blue elf’s expression matches his own feelings and he sighs, grateful not to be alone.

Alone.

The thought then strikes him that he and Blödhgarm are outnumbered for the first time in their lives. As men in leadership and as members of dominant races in Alagaësia, they had each only been the minority among the dwarves. Even then, the similarities were greater than now and they were still viewed as dominant figures. Now, they are vastly different. Since coming to Yggdrasil, each has been the only representative of their species. The realization is  a heavy one.

You must decide soon, Saphira, Coralia’s voice resonates heavily, drawing Eragon and Blödhgarm back into the conversation. Eragon can perform the necessary magic to bond the egg to a Rider. When the first eggs return to Alagaësia on the ship that brings the first new Riders, you must decide whether yours will be on it.

To Eragon’s surprise, Saphira’s first thought is ferocious. She imagines Fírnen meeting their baby before she does, possibly not even knowing that he is the father. However, she quickly recognizes that such an action would ultimately grant her more time with her child and quells the feeling. Either way, dragons do not stay with their parents for life and the desire to do so stems purely from her association with humanoid races and her own loneliness since her birth. The decision will be difficult and the weight of it all seems to crash on her at once.

I would never want anything but to be bonded to you, Little One. But my mother…to be wild is a great gift to give a child. But to lose so much potential, just for that independence?

Eragon puts a loving hand against Saphira’s side, offering comfort to his troubled companion. Blödhgarm politely looks away, allowing them the warmth of a private moment. Saphira snorts and nips at Eragon’s sleeve.

I love you, Little One, she hums.

I love you, too. He smiles and they are happy.

The moment is spoiled when Eragon’s stomach grumbles loudly, proof of his desire for lunch. To everyone’s surprise, Blödhgarm’s reaction is to laugh, a wide smile across his face.

“I’m starving!” he announces, his newfound freeness delighting the others. Running with dance-like steps the way the elves of Du Weldenvarden do, he turns and sprints towards Angela and Tawny’s house.Eragon and Saphira exchange a glance, not sure whether to laugh, before following Blödhgarm. The lightness in their steps and hearts is new and brilliant and they move with a new sense of reverence for their own lives.

The warm scent of damp mushrooms and earthy roots greet Eragon as he enters Angela’s hut, and Saphira as she pushes her head through a large window designed for this purpose. All of Angela’s dwellings have smelled like this, and somehow it brings more comfort to Eragon than anything. The bubbling stew and roast vegetables—complete with a bowl of cream and some raw rats for Tawny—is delicious.

Laughter carries them through conversations about everything and nothing, and Eragon realizes suddenly that they’ve found a home. Somehow, the idea strikes Eragon as funny, particularly since there are four or five species represented among them, not to mention the differences in experience for the Edunarí. Eragon eyes Angela, wondering whether she shares her race with anyone present, although she’d most likely be human and there aren’t strictly any other humans there. He sighs at the thought.

Throughout the meal, Blödhgarm seems hardly able to keep his eyes away from Tawny’s small face. With a pert nose and wide golden eyes, she’s certainly cute enough. However, her features are distinctly feline and something about the deviant thrill behind her expression is enough to put Eragon off. He wonders whether the attraction between his friend and this strange werecat is friendship, amazement, or something else.

Would a werecat-elf relationship even be possible? he asks Saphira, not expecting a response.

She offers first an image of Arya, as seen from his human eyes, and then of Nuanorúm. He scowls, not finding it as amusing as she does. He turns his attention to the conversation going on around them instead, not preferring to dwell on his own relationship problems.

“I’m glad we’re not in the pact,” Tawny announces as part of a heated discussion about the new Riders. “I don’t think very many werecats would want to be Riders, and doesn’t it seem a little unfair? We already have her two forms.” Eragon is surprised by her reasonability but not, apparently, as much as Saphira.

I am glad, too, she responds after a moment spent peering at the werecat. I don’t think it would work well for either race, and it’s far more interesting spending time getting to know you, rather than talking every single day! Everyone laughs and Saphira snorts happily, enjoying the attention.

Tawny smiles, flashing her bright eyes and pointed teeth. Shifting gracefully into her cat form, she pads across the legs of those seated at the table in order to reach Saphira, and jumps neatly from Eragon’s shoulder to Saphira’s head. They both purr and Eragon laughs, enjoying their bond.

Blödhgarm seems to glow, watching Tawny with big eyes and a small smile. When Eragon notices, he meets his eyes steadily and shrugs. Skewering a roast mushroom with his fork, he pops it into his mouth cheerfully and returns his gaze to the sand-colored beast spotting Saphira’s forehead. Angela bursts into high chiming laughter, apparently at both sets of interactions.

Family is never what you expect, Eragon decides.

Saphira provides an image from her perspective, the strange lumpy fleshy thing Roran and Katrina call a baby swimming to the forefront of her mind. She agrees wholeheartedly. Eragon laughs, his nose curling into a comfortable grin, before returning to his meal.

As the evening fades, so do the interests of those around the dinner table. At some point, Angela yawns and reaches for a stash of writing equipment before heading out towards the sandy beach, muttering something about making a new star map.

“The constellations just can’t seem to stay still,” she mutters to herself as she fades from earshot.  “But then, nothing interesting ever really does.”

Tawny has returned to human form and watches Blöhdgarm push a piece of roast potato around his plate for a while before finally speaking.  Her voice is quiet and sweet, like the sugary warmth that comes with a good tart. 

“I like you,” she finally announces. 

Smiling softly, he looks up to meet her gaze.  “I like you, too,” he murmurs. 

Tawny purrs gently and strolls upstairs to where she’s setup a small pillow basket near Angela’s bed.  Blödhgarm watches her go for a moment before heading out the front door to his own residence, smiling to himself and feeling much better than he has for a while. 

They don’t discuss anything tonight, nor do they need to.  Of course, both of these two are practically immortal.  They have all the time in the world to sort out whatever they want to sort out.  Eragon wonders whether they both enjoy the chase more than they would enjoy anything more concrete anyway.  Besides, elves and werecats are both fairly changeable, despite how lasting they are.  There’s no need to rush any decisions now. 

Eragon and Saphira enjoy time spent flying when they leave, circling overhead for a while before retiring to the hollow they’ve sung out for themselves. Set in the rockface above the ocean, this cave offers the very best view over Du Silbena-elda and seems the most appropriate home for the default leaders of the next order of Riders. lthough they both enjoyed their time in Du Weldenvarden, living each day in a ground-level tree-home, they also enjoy the sounds of the ocean.

Quietly, they all end their nights with smiles.  Blödhgarm sings himself to sleep, allowing a golden patch to grow amongst the dark blue fur of his belly.  Tawny purrs as she dozes off, enjoying everything about this new, strange life of hers.  Eragon folds himself under Saphira’s wing and falls asleep under the sky she provides, a warm feeling deep in his chest as his dragon companion hums softly.  On the beach, Angela marks a new constellation of stars that seem to dance around each other. 

Elfcat, she writes, positively cackling to herself as she rolls up the parchment and retires as well. 

Nuanorúm grows restless as she stares at the map from the scribe’s library.

The Scribe, she thinks carefully, preferring not to use his name again anytime soon.  She twitches, scratching her scars and twisting her neck around as she fights for concentration. 

It’s been so difficult to concentrate recently. 

Lausvit is mad. 

Suddenly, she is, too. 

Fury surges through her muscles and she upturns the table, throwing the map on the ground and yowling terribly. 

Tears spring to her eyes. 

She crumples suddenly, retrieving the map and flattening it with gentle hands. 

She twitches. 

Everything is too much.  Her people need a better leader and everything is too much. 

She stares around the room and out the window, paying no mind to the hot tears that slide down her cheeks. 

The moon.  The walls.  Cold, empty stone. 

The night is rich with stars and sounds and maga.  The last of these ripples just beneath the barely controlled surface of her powers.  She brushes an ungloved hand along the windowsill and watches the surface begin to crumble.  A memory rushes unbidden to her mind and she brushes it away just as quickly, a growl forming at the momentary glimpse of her destroyed former home. 

And then she laughs.  The moon is too close, watching and listening as she crumbles.  It shines light on her desperation and she wonders at the constellations that stare back at her. 

And she laughs. 

Chapter Text

Rainbows of color streak past Nuanorúm as she runs. She might’ve been diving into a pool of crystals with prisms of light erupting around her in every direction. Some part of her is aware that’s not the case…that she’s merely running through a busy square. Those colors are her subjects, her people, but she is not one of them anymore. She is too dazed and simply watches, eyes ahead, as the crowd of elfins parts for her.

Her luminescence has increased and she positively glows, radiating an unnatural and disconcerting light that might be the reason they move. Or perhaps it’s the look on her face. In either case, she does not blend in with the earthy tones and vibrant hues of those around her. She doesn’t see it though.

She has become just a shadow to herself. A dark smudge on a brightly painted canvas. She’s less of a destructive force now, her powers to crumble stone and earth having subsided, but now she only feels weak. As if she’s the one crumbling instead.

A shell, she decides. I am a shell. But of whom? Or what?

Her mind moves around Domifethr like a river around a rock whenever her thoughts threaten to reach for him. She only allows parts of him to swim in her memory—the color of his soft fur, the gentle way he smiled, his eyes, his humor—but never him as a whole. The memories are faded and the colors are leeched.

Thoughts of Lausvit rise to her mind in sharp contrast. Blinding whites, suffocating blacks, and burning reds. All the colors of both his maga and his physical self. There is no escaping these thoughts.

Inarguably, Lausvit is a beautiful specimen. He exemplifies strength and power and would likely make a great ruler alongside Nuanorúm if she could bring herself to breed with him. But he is also ruthless, punishing, and cruel. And she has decided that Domifethr’s blood is on his hands, staining his already crimson flesh with the stains of murder. If not for Lausvit’s ruthlessness, Domifethr would not have jumped.

Naunorúm’s body hurts, and it’s not until she opens her eyes that she realizes she’d closed them. The stars shine above her and she pushes herself to a seated position, wondering at the dwindling crowd around her. She recognizes the environment as the same market she’d brought Eragon to, and decides she must’ve fainted.

Hate seethes in her chest when she thinks of Eragon. He’s as much to blame for Domifethr’s death as Lausvit and his strange, pale face burns in her mind. She thinks again of Lausvit’s rage against her and decides Eragon is to blame for that as well. She presses one hand against her stomach and wonders what she wants to happen next.

Pushing the thoughts aside, she forces herself to focus on controlling her spinning head and rolling nausea. She takes a quick inventory of her state, noting with a frown the tattered remains of her clothing. She can’t remember the last time she changed or washed, and she’s sure that her recent bouts of extreme activity—like running blindly through the market until she collapses—have done them damage.

Shaking her head, she pushes herself to her feet and begins the walk back to the room she’s been using in the new castle. It still doesn’t quite feel like home but there was some dissatisfaction among courtiers and among her subjects when she was sharing their common housing, so she moved.

Empty, scared faces watch her as she goes. Try as they might to keep their eyes away from their decrepit leader, the elfins can’t keep their thoughts away. Nuanorúm’s clothes begin to glow with the distinct light of thoughts on them and she glares at the elfins that walk by, thinking pointedly in her direction.

“Bah!” Nuanorúm shouts, turning on a woman with deep blue fur and heavily lidded white eyes, like pearls. The woman squeaks and runs off, fur bristling.

Satisfied, Nuanorúm continues her walk, stopping only when she’s reached the castle’s map room. She hadn’t meant to come here, but can’t help the nagging feeling that she has work to do. A map of Yggdrasil as a whole is spread across a table in the center of the room, marked with tacks and ink to show various changes of the island’s infrastructure or environment.

Moving almost without thought, she retrieves a piece of paper she’s been working on and begins making careful notes. Rows of scrawling print already cover the first half of the page and leave her equally encouraged and dejected. On one hand, there’s only so much more to consider, and eventually she will find the Rider and his companions. At the same time, she’s done so much and hasn’t found him yet.

She wonders, not for the first time, at his magic and whether he might somehow be able to evade her detection. Ultimately, she can only trust her maga and her own determination.

He will not escape me, she vows, glancing heartbroken at the window she tries so hard not to think about. Not this time. 

Eragon marks another day in the book he’s kept for this purpose, and smiles at Saphira. Far below him on the beach, she’s rolling around in the hot sand, reminding Eragon of the horses that traders would bring through Carvahall. They always wanted their stallions and mares to look so elegant and beautiful, but the beasts usually preferred a roll in the mud or dirt to any other sort of attention.

Normally I wouldn’t besmirch my scales like this, Saphira explains, practically purring. But it’s so warm! It’s like the Hadarac Desert! And it doesn’t stick, so the wind shall clean me soon enough.

Eragon just smiles wider, not saying anything. Placing the book on the ground beside him, he leans back against the rock that’s supporting him and allows himself to enjoy a moment sitting. The warm air fills his lungs and the sunshine soaks his legs, enlivening him.

Everything is peaceful, he realizes. And I’m happy. Too far away to simply hum, Saphira releases a satisfied growl and a bark of blue flames.

Eragon smiles and turns his thoughts hesitantly towards the future. Soon, Nasuada will send word that a dragon has hatched. He can’t help checking his mirror to see if he’s been summoned, even though he’s sure he won’t be lucky enough to catch it in the moment. The call will come when it does, and he will stand to face it as best he can then.

Glancing away from the beach, he notices Blödhgarm and Tawny enjoying a game of chase. This particular pastime of theirs is massively amusing to watch, but he’s hesitant to make them feel like he’s spying, so he moves on. A short distance off, Angela is smacking a large mushroom with a rock. The rubbery surface of the fungus bounces back when she strikes it.

At first, it seems that she’s trying to pierce the mushroom’s skin. However, after another few strikes, she leans down to collect the oil that her abuse draws to its surface. Rubbing a variety of herbs in the juices and collecting several drops in a small jar, she nods satisfied when she’s done, and only then proceeds to harvest the meat.

Shaking his head, Eragon calls out to Saphira and pushes himself to his feet. When she arrives in a torrent of sandy wings and excited nuzzles, he climbs aboard her back. The feat proves more difficult than usual.

This sand is dangerous for me, he tells her. It’s slippery and gritty. I’m afraid it would injure me if we were flying a great distance. He imagines the chafing of sandy scales against his legs and…everything else.

But good for Saphira, Glaedr interrupts, providing a brief explanation of the benefits of sanding Saphira’s scales with literal sand. They will become harder, shinier, and any dead material will be scrubbed off.

Saphira snorts and Eragon bows his head. I will be more careful to get the sand off when I am done, she concedes. Humans are so fragile!

With another snort, she launches them into the air. Drifting in gentle circles to the ground, she doesn’t even flap her wings. They land in the soft moss just past the sandy beach and Eragon jumps down to survey their work. Du Silbena-Eldais progressing beautifully.

With most of the primary structures completed and expansions well underway, the new home of the Riders is shaping up to be a dramatic place indeed. All of the homes are complete for Angela, Tawny, Blödhgarm, Eragon, Saphira, the eggs, and the Eldunarí, should they want to be put down someplace. Room for ten more dragons and as many Riders is also prepared and Eragon smiles, satisfied.

With so much done already, he can’t help hoping they hear of a new Rider before the task is totally finished. He worries that some of the group will become bored with nothing to do, although he doubts there would ever be nothing to do.

Angela has begun work on a garden system, so that the Riders can learn about important herbs and more easily sustain the food needs of a larger group. A variety of herbs important to Riders and to dragons are already planted, as well as a selection of vegetables and fruits. A cave provides their mushroom supply, as do the various types of fungi that grow in the forest nearby. Some roots that grow best in the cooler environments provided by the caves grow naturally and others have been planted. Plants that need more sunlight are placed right outside the mouth of the cave.

One structure has been designated for books, scrolls, and other academic pursuits, and now includes the map Blödhgarm had been working on. In addition, several blank scrolls are available. Blödhgarm has been working on methods for safely procuring more parchment from their surroundings without harming the trees that give of their resources.

When Nasuada does contact us, Eragon tells Saphira as they make their way through what must inevitably be called a “city,” I want to request any available literature, as well as maps of Alagaësia and information about that part of the world as a whole. I don’t want these Riders to be totally ignorant of their homeland or the land they may be sent back to.

Saphira snorts her agreement. You should show her our progress, too, Little One, she chides, stepping around the beginnings of an irrigation system meant to turn seawater into drinkable water. You’ve spent so much time thinking ahead that you haven’t hardly stopped to realize what we’ve already done.

Eragon frowns but places a hand against what he can reach of her shoulder. There is much left to do, he responds quietly. One blue eye pierces him in response and he lets the matter go.

“Eragon,” Angela calls from behind them, a cheerful smile on her face. Suddenly, she almost looks like a mother, with soft eyes and a strong heart. Eragon smiles, too, grateful for the presence she’s become in his life. “Your mirror is active. It does appear as though someone is trying to contact you.” She points at his rucksack where he left it when he and Saphira landed.

On the ground, tied to the sack itself, is his mirror, flashing excitedly. For a moment, Eragon’s heart leaps as a wild thought of Arya flits through his mind. Turning his attention back to the moment, he pulls himself together and approaches the mirror with vague apprehension.

Closing the distance with just a few steps, he grabs the mirror and utters the spell to release the magic that blocks unwanted—or unexpected—contact, and smiles brightly. A happy, healthy, and positively glowing Nasuada greets him with equal delight.

“Your Majesty,” he breathes, thrilled.

She rewards him with a radiant smile. “Eragon,” she responds, inclining her head. Ever so formal, her sparkling eyes betray her excitement.

He is happy to see that her bandages have mostly been removed and the marks of her torture largely healed. He does his best to survey her state subtly, and nods satisfied. She seems to have waited for him to finish, though, and smiles when he’s done.

Despite her attempts at strict control of Alagaësia’s magic users, she certainly benefits from their presence. Eragon doesn’t point this out, but bows instead. The effect is lost since he carries the mirror down with him, but Nasuada seems to understand the gesture, regardless.

Eragon takes a moment to fill her in on the milestones in their achievements since their arrival, and a brief explanation of the native population. He’s hardly interested in these topics though, and the discussion goes quickly.

“Thank you, Eragon,” she responds, “Those are good things to know. We will have to consider how best to send new Riders. Have you a better port?”

Eragon glances towards the shore and remembers previous warnings that ships can hardly arrive here. “Not really,” he admits. “But something will be done in time. I can show you a map so that navigators will be able to find us at least. Perhaps equip ships with a smaller boat as well, for making their way to the shore.”

Nasuada laughs, the rich hearty sound of her humor bringing another smile to Eragon’s face. “A small boat for a dragon! We shall see what can be done.”

Eragon dips his head. “But what of you, Your Majesty?”

“Jörmundur has been a steadfast friend, companion, and guard. My nightmares have largely subsided and I am well.” Her tone is formal and disinterested, but her expression is positively alight with joy. “We’ve also heard rumors that a red dragon and its Rider are living happily in the mountains, although no one has quite been able to say which mountains for sure.” Saphira snorts a disgruntled puff, disappointed in the geographical knowledge of humans. Just out of sight of the mirror, she’s not visible to Nasuada and Eragon thinks that’s just as well.

He follows this conversation with a brief tour, at her request, explaining the functions of various areas briefly. As much as he loves and trusts Nasuada, he does not find it wise for any one monarch to have too much information about the Riders. Certainly, though, Arya already knows more than Nasuada, and Eragon tries to remedy that imbalance slightly. Finally, they finish their pleasantries and Nasuada guides their conversation to the point of her contact.

Inclining her head cautiously, she surveys him with steady eyes. “What we have waited for has happened,” she tells him slowly. “More than once.”

Eragon can’t hide his surprise—or his joy—at this news. Saphira, watching and listening through Eragon and from her spot a short distance from him, is equally surprised. They’d agreed not to speak about her own pregnancy just yet but the idea that so many new dragons are entering the world at once is a relief for her.

My baby will certainly find a mate, Saphira comments, glowing with happiness.

Eragon just smiles, enjoying both revelations. His mind turns immediately to the various races across Alagaësia, and he wonders how they might celebrate such news.

“Nasuada!” he presses, desperate for more information.

“As you know, twenty-two eggs of the in your possession are destined for Riders,” Nasuada begins. Eragon nods, eager to send more back to Alagaësia and their future matches. “Of course, many will not hatch for years, and the leaders of the races have agreed that if an egg does not hatch within a year, it will be sent back to…?”

“Yggdrasil,” Eragon responds, grimacing. “Du Silbena-Elda.”

She nods, accepting this news. “They will be sent to Du Silbena-Elda and replaced with another egg that will circulate Alagaësia.”

“Right, so what has happened so far?”

This time, Nasuada’s smile loses all formality. Somehow, she looks almost as skeptical as she does excited, and Eragon gets the feeling she’s eager to see the way this will play out.

“A young dwarf named Staug has bonded with a red dragon, much to the surprise of his hermit father.” She pauses to allow the implications of the situation to sink in.

Eragon remembers the hermits he’d seen during his time in the Beor mountains, strange dwarves hidden amongst abandoned corridors and rocky shafts. He nods, indicating that he understands. “And?”

“And Tulgrog, an urgal, has bonded with a white dragon. Both are prepared to join you in Du Silbena-Elda as soon as you are prepared to receive them. Tulgrog will not be able to ride for some time, as his dragon must grow much larger than Staug’s before it can support him.”

“Does either dragon have a name yet?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Eragon nods again. “I need to show you a map,” he decides, filtering through a long list of next steps. “It is important that they do not land where we landed. But like I said, they will not be able to sail into our location. It might be best to wait until both can fly at least a brief distance.”

That might be good for their bonding and development, too. But that is a long time, Saphira comments, remembering the time it took for her to be ready to fly her small human Rider around. Eragon repeats these sentiments.

Nasuada agrees, albeit hesitantly. “I am concerned that they may discover magic in the mean time as well,” she responds honestly. She’s quiet for a moment, thinking hard about something. “It will take time for them to say goodbye and make appropriate preparations, not to mention the time to travel to the port you sailed from.”

“Who will escort them?” Eragon asks. “Will they come on the same ship and the same crew as we did?”

“Indeed.”

“Then perhaps I can simply provide the map and you have a mage copy it and provide it to the crew? They should be able to understand the information better and may have a suggestion.”

Nasuada’s mouth hardens as she considers the next steps, but she ultimately concedes. “Can dragons swim?”

Saphira chokes her characteristic laughter and Eragon raises an eyebrow at her. Yes, she responds, carrying much more sass in her response than Eragon conveys.

Nasuada smirks, apparently aware of the change in tone. “Very well, then that may be an option as well.”

“I don’t think that either dwarves or the urgalgra do,” Eragon responds. “Give Blödhgarm and me some time, though, and I’m sure we could build an adequate port. We can disguise it with an illusion so no one else can get here.”

Nasuada nods and they turn the conversation to logistics, ending with their own requests for the other. When they part, Eragon feels strangely empty.

I thought I would feel more…something, he confesses, tossing the mirror gently back to the ground by his rucksack and leaning against Saphira.

We still have a long way before we meet these new Riders, and neither of them is your own race. Both of these things make the revelation a bit anticlimactic for you, she responds, offering some of her own excitement at meeting fellow dragons.

It means the magic worked, though, he replies. The inclusion of these races was a good thing.

That is yet to be seen. But it does mean that the dragons were willing as well.

Chapter Text

Telling Angela and Blödhgarm—and a very distracted Tawny— of Nasuada’s news helps validate some of the strange feelings in Eragon’s chest. It’s clear that they’re excited, but some of that same sort of anticlimactic resignation settles over them as well. Eragon can’t help wondering how they feel about gaining two new people, both of whom will also be the sole representatives of their own race.

Dipping his head, Blödhgarm speaks without looking at his companions, “Excuse me.” They watch him leave the hut as if watching a breeze open the shutters—there is no particular feeling associated with it, they simply watch. Tawny follows him wordlessly.

A moment later, Angela excuses herself as well. “There are mushrooms to hunt if we want dinner, and I do believe we want dinner,” she explains. To Eragon’s surprise, she very nearly curtsies as she leaves the hut, and Eragon, behind.

Somehow, the day goes on as normal. Of course, Eragon isn’t really even sure what a ‘normal’ day is anymore.

When night encroaches on the sky and the group sits down for dinner, Eragon discovers that his assessment was wrong. This day was extraordinary, and far from normal.

Angela had prepared a scrumptious meal of succulent mushrooms, roots, tarts, and more, having decided that the occasion called for much more food and much more variety than the simple roast plants that are more typical of their dinners. Tawny had prepared a dessert of mixed cream and berries. Blödhgarm magically froze the treat and called it ‘ice cream,’ insisting that it’s a delicacy. Everyone unanimously agrees with this sentiment when they try it. The blue elf had also brought treats himself, and provides two barrels of spiced mead, to the great pleasure of everyone present.

“It’s likely to be much more potent than other things you’ve tried,” he cautions, eyeing his companions with a mischievous smirk. “I made it quickly out of song and spice, so it’s going to have a bit of a...magical quality to it.”

Sitting beside the group around a fire in the sand, Saphira snorts her approval and waits for Blödhgarm’s confirmation that one barrel is all hers before picking it up and taking a massive swig. Remembering the aftermath of her previous drunkenness, she takes this barrel a bit more slowly, although her eyes are alight. Soon they’re all drunk anyway.

Eragon thinks of the feasts he’s shared with dwarves, urgals, elves, and humans, and can’t help being excited that soon, they will feast among dragons. The beginning of a new world is in their midst and suddenly, he’s thrilled. Looking around at the faces of his friends, he sees the same realization striking them as well.

Although they largely ignore Blödhgarm’s warning about the drink’s potency, Saphira heeds Glaedr’s warning when he points out the additional heartburn and complications that could accompany inebriation during pregnancy. Their celebration is wholehearted and they enjoy their time with open hearts and minds.

Looking around, Eragon realizes that he and Saphira are the only ones who didn’t bring anything to the feast. No doubt acting on the brazen spirits that come with a good mead, he pushes himself to his feat and raises his hands, concentrating on the ancient language. Suddenly aware of everyone’s attention on him, he closes his eyes and focuses. The others try to ignore the fact that he begins to glow a little bit when their thoughts turn towards him, a sure sign that Yggdrasil’s maga is active even here.

Seeing what he intends, Saphira lends her strength and her abilities, widening his abilities. Remembering that his own magic is supposed to be strongest when linked to fire—and trying to ignore that it was Nuanorúm who made the observation—they focus on the burning flames in the hearth and the warm feeling in his stomach. Playing on the connection, they toss around ideas for how best to perform what they seek.

What is it you want to do, Little One?

I want to burn, he responds fiercely, life flowing hotly in his veins. I simply want the night to blaze with the fires of the dragons.

Then let it be so.

“Istalrí!” he finally bellows, pouring magic into the one word for fire that avoids bursting his sword into flames. When he opens his eyes, pillars of flame leap from his hands, crackling and emitting the music that burns in their memories from other feasts they’ve attended. Every memory burns in him and he uses that connection to flames to shape his thoughts with that one single word. Music and light pour straight from his soul, it seems, and the altered yäwe he, Blödhgarm, and Saphira created dances through the flames.

Sitting back, satisfied, Eragon turns to see the faces of his companions, and is surprised to find shock reflected there. Angela seems to exhale so much air that she deflates and she stars with disbelief at the display that continues to twirl around them. Tongues of blue flame leap around each other and around the onlookers, spraying into the most beautiful shapes they’ve seen. Blödhgarm’s face is contorted with what almost looks like fear, and even Tawny watches in silent amazement.

“What is it?” Eragon asks, hoping he doesn’t sound afraid.

No one says anything for a long time. They simply sit in relative silence. When the flames shift so that they dance over the waters instead, the beach suddenly seems very dark. Unbeknownst to Eragon, he is still very much alight. A blue luminescence seems to settle on the Rider as he peers back at his friends. Saphira watches quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

Finally, Blödhgarm pushes himself to his feet and bows. “Every race has a king, queen, or elected leader,” he begins, speaking with reverence. “It seems that the king of Du Silbena-Elda is you, Shur’tugal. Your strength far exceeds any of our expectations.”

Eragon stares for a moment, not sure of his response. He thinks of the last great leader of the Riders, Vrael, and the weight of his responsibilities crash onto him. “Perhaps for the Riders,” he stammers, “but it was never meant to be more than that.”

“But more than that is here,” Blödhgarm counters levelly. “I am here and Angela is here. And Tawny. You are much more than the leader for the next Riders, Eragon. Consider us your lieges.”

“You have Arya Dröttning,” Eragon replies. Even to his own ears he sounds unconvincing. “And Angela, you have Queen Nasuada. You both have monarchs.” Angela’s high laughter reminds him that she is hardly one to be contained by any ruler.

“Eragon Könungr,” Blödhgarm interrupts, quietly touching his fingers to his lips.

“King Eragon,” Angela agrees. “Also, magic is hard and neither of us could have done that. It was beautiful!” She claps heartily, unperturbed when no one joins her.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Eragon doesn’t mean to smile, but somehow he manages it. Despite the pressure in his chest and the full-to-the-brim feelings, threatening to burst inside him, he beams at his friends. His lieges. Saphira snorts happily alongside him.

The voice of the great dragon Umaroth echoes through their minds, You will be great. You and Saphira will rule with strength and wisdom as Vrael and I did before. Such praise, and the reminder of his legacy, stuns Eragon back into humility. He pours his gratitude and sense of honor into the flames that dance accordingly, reflecting brilliantly off the surface of the ocean.

“Cheers!” Angela announces happily. She reaches over and takes a swig from Blödhgarm’s cup, earning a laugh from Tawny and a smirk from the elf, who reaches across the circle for Eragon’s cup and repeats the gesture. Tawny trumps them when she transforms into her cat shape and strolls easily towards Angela’s drink, not caring that she knocks over her own in the process. Lapping happily from the surface as the others laugh, she hiccups.

They erupt into bouts of giggles and laughter as Eragon takes his seat again. Saphira’s low humming and the affectionate humor of the Eldunarí accompany their celebration and makeshift coronation feast. Eragon wonders whether he should say something formally to vow his life to the service of these people and the Riders.

He agrees wholeheartedly with Saphira when she gives him the opportunity to get out of a speech: It is your actions and deeds that brought you here, Little One. They are sufficient proof of your commitment.

Chapter Text

Eragon opens his eyes and smiles up at the veiny blue sky above him, enjoying the sound of the great heartbeat that thunders beside his head. He debates waking the slumbering dragon before deciding it’s best to sleep in and enjoy their time together. Reminiscing about their time in the Hadarac and every moment together since her hatching makes his smile grow and he considers how grateful he is for their bond. His excitement grows as he does and some of it must bubble into Saphira’s mind because she wakes up with a cheerful groan a moment later.

I know, Little One, she grumbles, clearly preferring to sleep in despite her happiness.

I haven’t even said anything yet!

Your mind opens up when you’re excited, she explains, snorting. Yes, I am excited for the arrival of the dragons and Riders, too.

The plans are set and the course is decided. The golden ship rocks across a still sea and a crew of elves and mages move about the decks, ensuring a smooth ride for the urgal and the dwarf, despite the furtive glances they keep casting towards them both.

Towering over even the tallest of them, Tulgrog can’t help the nerves that claw at his stomach. He’s certainly never been ashamed of his stature or his status, but he never thought he’d be so outnumbered either. Beside him, and several feet shorter than the elves, Staug seems to be thinking the same thing.

“Bit strange, isn’t it?” Tulgrog finally comments with a heavy accent. “Did you really think there’d be any Riders who were dwarves or urgalgra?”

Staug hesitates a moment before answering, not sure whether he’s ready to open up to this strange man. He has no idea how old he is, or whether urgals age at the same rate as dwarves. “No,” he admits. “Not so soon at least.” His own accent is heavy as well, but Tulgrog doesn’t comment and they stare out at the waters together without another word.

So many thoughts brim in their minds, but there don’t quite seem to be proper words to express those ideas. The bittersweet feeling that’s been toying at Staug’s heart since the egg had hatched for him isn’t something he’s proud of, but he can’t shake his father’s cold stare from his mind. Of course, his own thoughts tend towards similar patterns. Until now, he’s always agreed with Grimstnzborith Orik that knurlan belong on the ground, no matter how eager he is to learn to fly.

Whatever the case, he can’t help feeling proud as he turns to see Hûnzorl spread his massive red wings that glow like the deepest flames of Farthen Dûr. When his eyes turn back to observe Tulgrog, he finds similar conflict playing behind the urgal’s eyes and relief spreads through his chest.

Both new Riders stay by their dragons’ sides constantly and neither are in any hurry to fly. Of course, Tulgrog’s milky white dragon, Vezh, won’t be able to carry her massive Rider for a long time.

“Do they seem different to you?” Staug asks as they watch their dragons playing together. He wonders what Eragon Kingkiller had felt when he had become a Rider. Alone and certain that the Riders were extinct, it can’t have been an easy transition. Staug’s nerves kick in again as he considers what it will be like to be under the first new Rider’s tutelage, particularly one so young who has done so much. Staug himself had been in his forties when Eragon had come to Farthen Dûr the first time and he is still considered young among his own people. To have done so much in less than twenty-five years is hard to fathom.

“They seem more like us,” Tulgrog agreed, interrupting Staug’s thoughts. The urgal’s muscles ripple as he admires the dense build of strength developing in Vezh’s arms and shoulders. Beside her, Hunzôrl’s sturdiness and balance are particularly notable. Staug wonders whether he looks as stocky compared to the massive Rider beside him and smiles at the thought.

“Were you scared to meet Nasuada?” he cautions, glancing up at Tulgrog.

“Not as scared as I am to meet Eragon.”

They laugh together and the cautious fear in Staug’s stomach seems to crumble. Tulgrog smiles, feeling the same.

The rest of their journey feels long but they keep busy, bonding with their own dragons and with each other. They can’t help agreeing that the best of their lives remains ahead of them. Laughter dances freely from their lips and tears flow easily from their eyes. The heartiness of their friendship develops quickly.

Hunzôrl and Vezh seem equally entangled with each other, wrestling and competing in aerial maneuvers and tricks as they develop better flight skills. The Riders amuse themselves practicing combat, each teaching the other about their own race’s fighting styles which they find horribly difficult to adapt. Both men had been in good shape before but now they were at their height and there’s an unspoken recognition of their desire to impress Eragon when they arrive.

When the billowing white sails finally cast them upon the shores of Yggdrasil and they are guided off the ship and onto a tangled wooden dock, neither Tulgrog nor Staug have anything else to say. On the shore, some thirty yards away, a young Rider awaits them, standing in front of a massive blue dragon that can only be Saphira.

A woosh of breath escapes the new Riders’ lips as they make their way down the dock with tense steps. The elves aboard the ship break into delighted song, an effect which brings a smile to the man awaiting them on the shore but is other-worldly and eerie to the urgal and dwarf.

The sun has risen just a short while ago and stretched vines of orange light still twist through the sky. Saphira’s brilliant scales dazzle them as they approach and Staug notices Hunzôrl shiver nervously. Peering up at his Rider with one golden eye, the dragon doesn’t need to use words to express his concern. There are no misunderstandings about the last red dragon to greet Saphira and the precedence is not a good one.

Dressed in his finest elven jerkin, Eragon can’t help smiling as the Riders and dragons disembark. He had intentionally chosen not to shave the past few days to demonstrate that he is in fact human, despite the pointed ears that stick out underneath his mess of brown hair. Besides Saphira’s brilliance, he feels a bit gawky.

You could roll around in the sand, too, but I doubt it would have the same effect, she sniffs proudly, smirking with her thoughts. She is enjoying the attention and Eragon does his best not to shake his head at her indulgence of vanity.

A slender female elf disembarks behind the new Riders and accompanies them to the shore, smiling softly behind the tendrils of white that are etched artfully into her porcelain face. Eragon approaches them with careful steps and returns the formal greeting the elf begins. He had desperately wished it would be someone he had met during his time with the Varden or in Du Weldenvarden, but he is glad to see this strange woman regardless.

Blödhgarm had been grateful that Eragon accepted his suggestion and greeted the entourage personally, but Eragon wonders whether it’s unfair that Blödhgarm doesn’t greet his own people.

Perhaps he is not ready to show off his new appearance, Saphira suggests, acutely aware of the effect one’s physical looks can have.

Eragon shrugs at her and smiles at the elf, exchanging pleasantries as he passes two eggs to her for travel back to Alagaësia. His stomach lurches a bit as he hands them off but he knows they are in safe hands. Inclining his head politely, Eragon watches as the elf woman returns to the ship, having completed an impressively deep bow to Saphira.

Smiling at the exchange, Eragon allows himself just a moment to regret not bringing a note to pass back to Arya, but he knows it is for the best. She might not even have read it and that would be worse than not trying. Shaking his head and returning his thoughts to the situation at hand, he takes a steadying breath and turns back to find that the Riders have excused themselves to the shore where they stand awkwardly beside their dragon. Together, the four of them look almost amusingly different from each other.

“Staug, knurla jurgencarmeitder, the first knurlan Rider,” Eragon greets the stout man with a customary gesture—a closed fist clamped tightly against the chest—and smiles. “And Tulgrog, urgalgra skazreg ruk, the first urgalgra Rider,” he adds, baring his throat to the massive bull beside him in his best demonstration of respect. He is grateful again for Angela’s familiarity with the urgal language and culture when both Riders smile, shocked.

For a moment, they both stammer, not sure whether they should return their own cultural greetings or try for Eragon’s. Of course, they’re not quite sure whether a human or elven one would be more appropriate in that regard and wouldn’t know what they are anyway. In the end, they both settle on their own customary greetings. Eragon dips his head, satisfied.

“And you?” Eragon asks turning first to the red dragon beside Staug.

“Hunzôrl,” Staug chokes out, frustrated with his voice for betraying him.

“Vezh,” Tulgrog says when Eragon approaches the white dragon.

“I am Eragon, although I will be Ebrithil Eragon. This is Ebrithil Saphira. We are your teachers while you are here. You will learn the Ancient Language—Ebrithil is ‘master’—and I will do my best to learn your languages fluently. Your cultures will be respected and encouraged, but we will also be forming a new culture. That of the Riders. We are doing so alongside others of course.”

Hello, Saphira greets them all simply, projecting her thoughts into all of their heads. Eragon watches as the Hunzôrl and Vezh dip their heads slightly, an act of humility he’d only ever seen from a dragon when Saphira met Glaedr. The golden dragon offers his own acknowledgement of the gesture with silent pleasure.

Eragon thinks back to when Saphira was as small as these two are now and smiles slightly. She snorts at him and continues. We will work hard and learn much. We will not settle for less than that. Come. We shall fly our Riders home.

They have carefully chosen a location where flight is easiest but not necessary, as they can all wade through the water across the inlet to Du Silbena-Elda. Blödhgarm and the others are waiting on the other side with a proper celebration.

The group is silent for a moment until Hunzôrl finally speaks up. We have never flown with our Riders, he says quietly, his steady voice projecting with surprising sharpness into their heads.

Saphira turns her head slowly and fixes the dragon with a ferocious stare, daring him—or perhaps pushing him—to stand up for himself.

But I can see, since you have not guarded your minds at all, that you have practiced many aerial maneuvers. Surely you want to fulfill the whole part? If Staug is the “Rider” part of “Dragon Rider,” then surely you must be the dragon. So carry him. Your Rider is small.

Eragon is disappointed to see Staug shrink into himself and he wonders for a moment if Saphira is too harsh. Remembering the beginning of his own training with Brom, he decides harsh is better than soft, despite the alleviation of the threats at the time.

Your Rider is large, she continues, addressing Vezh. But you should—

I will carry him, Ebrithil Flametongue. Let us Ride.

Saphira turns her gaze to Vezh, looking slowly between her and her Rider. Neither of them shrinks and Eragon fervently hopes it is out of respect rather than defiance. He peers up at the urgal and wonders if he would be able to spot the difference.

Very well, Saphira concedes. Let us fly.

Eragon pulls two softly padded saddles from the pack on Saphira’s own saddle and helps each Rider fit it to their dragon. Although both admit to having spent some time sitting aboard their dragon, neither is keen to receive the same scars Eragon mentions having received. It doesn’t take more than that to convince them to take the saddles and they harness them with vigor.

The flight is smoother than expected and they arrive in Du Silbena-Elda after just a short ride. Of course, it undoubtedly feels shorter to Eragon and Saphira than it does to the others and all four of them look particularly uncomfortable when they touch down, despite their obvious elation.

Eragon frowns slightly, remembering his first experience riding with Saphira. Of course, it had ended poorly and with the death of his uncle, but the experience itself had been extended and he wouldn’t change that for the world. He hates to restrict these new Riders to such short, guided flights their first time, but needs must.

Together, Saphira and Eragon introduce the new Riders to the others and to their residences, where wood has been provided for Tulgrog to carve any totems he desires, as per the custom of his people, and stone for Staug to do with as he pleases. The most appropriate tools they can manage are also available. They had tried very hard to ensure that each home suits its residents, but take a moment to explain that the Riders will learn to shape their own homes into something more personal should they desire.

Angela introduces herself eagerly, not waiting for Eragon to complete his comments to her. He tries not to allow his ego to get in the way of the interaction and watches as she delight Tulgrog with her fluent urgalgra and Staug with her knowledge of mushrooms and types of stone. Grateful once again for her presence there, Eragon almost wonders at how she arrived at all before remembering that he’s not questioning it. As if reading his mind—and perhaps she is--, Angela winks at him before excusing herself.

Blödhgarm and Tawny introduce themselves next and, to Eragon’s surprise, together. But of course, that might be coincidence. He wonders if Blödhgarm is the first elf the Riders have seen that doesn’t conform to the more normal figures of their race and stifles a laugh at Tulgrog’s expression as he observes the blue and amber wolf-man with a tiny feline companion.

Finally, Saphira crouches, facing Vezh and Hunzôrl. Wasting no words, she provides images of the prey they will hunt and their habits. She includes various types of creatures, offering images of those in the forests, the caves, and the shore. She conveys information that Eragon knows from experience any careful hunter would make use of, and wonders why she tells them so much before realizing that they likely haven’t hunted much before.

I want to see what they’ll do, she explains to him privately. They are dragons and they will succeed, but let them not be afraid of their own individualities. She remembers the snalgri she had eaten on their trip to the Vault of Souls. Or their preferences.

They fly off together and Eragon notices that Vezh immediately soars upwards, high over the forest. She circles like a hawk searching for a mouse for just a moment before diving sharply after a deer and ripping the animal cleanly in half. Eragon smiles and decides that her size is no demonstration of her strength. He notices similar delight and surprise on Tulgrog’s face.

Hunzôrl quickly takes off for the caves and Eragon senses through his link with Saphira the images of rodents and other cavedwellers he had likely eaten in the Beor Mountains. Eragon wonders whether their coloring will help them at all with their hunting habits and thinks of the fear he had sensed in animals who could recognize Saphira for what she is despite her sky-colored wings.

No, Eragon, no creature can hide from us, nor can we hide from any creature, Saphira responds, snorting happily and soaring lower over the forest, seeking a cleaner kill than Vezh’s had been.

Vezh sends images of the bears and wild boars that had lived near where she had hatched with Tulgrog and Saphira answers the inquiry. I have not seen those creatures here, but I have not looked. It is likely that we will find many new things.

Eragon turns his attention back to Staug and Tulgrog, who are chatting and picking at the meal they had been provided. He stares, surprised.

Neither of them is aware, he realizes. He remembers his first lesson with Oromis and Glaedr, when he and Saphira had been chastised for being unaware of each other’s lesson.

Yes, it was quite shocking for us, too, Glaedr’s voice echoes in his head. Eragon bows his head slightly, humbled.

“Where did your partners hunt?” he asks, not unkindly.

Both of the Riders stare at him blankly and Eragon watches as each of them mentally turns to their dragons in search of the answer. They struggle with the words and Eragon appreciates Saphira’s foresight in using pictures and images instead of words.

It was not for this, Saphira responds, amused. Although it worked quite well. I am an excellent teacher.

Eragon stifles a laugh, remembering that he is offering an important lesson. “You must learn to be connected to each other at all times. You must be aware of each other’s thoughts as you are aware of your arms or your hands—you know they are there, you know what they are doing, you know the intimate details of them. Do not lose focus over other things, but learn to attend to both.”

“Yes, Ebrithil,” they respond together, Staug timidly and Tulgrog determinedly.

“I want to see what you are both capable of, but I will not claim to be properly able to test an urgal or a dwarf. So we will start small.”

All four of the students quickly learn that ‘starting small’ means something quite different to them than it does to Eragon and Saphira. Indeed, starting small might have meant learning a few words of the Ancient Language for the Riders and practicing some flight patterns for the dragons.

Eragon can’t quite understand what Saphira is teaching, although he knows it’s difficult and he watches looks of horror cross the Riders’ faces when he hands them each a dictionary scroll. He is pleased that they are each familiar with reading and writing, although neither is particularly comfortable with the written form of the Common Speech.

At least they are both in the same place, Eragon decides, watching them struggle to spell ‘brisingr’ and ‘Du Silbena-Elda.’ This would be harder if one of them was an elf and one an urgal or something. Although, the competition might be beneficial, he adds, remembering the elf who had tormented him during his own training. He decides to add that to his curriculum, shaped anew each day with the help of everyone present.

As the days go on, the Riders in particular learn that closing off their minds is as important as opening them, and they each spend time sitting quietly in the forest for hours. Neither of them particularly enjoy the task although Staug finds it impressively easy compared to the effort knotting Tulgrog’s brow each day. Vezh and Hunzôrl offer their own strength to shut their Riders’ minds off when those exercises happen, until they are challenged as well.

All of the students are sore and grumpy by the end of their first week in Du Silbena-Elda, but their spirits lift quickly when Eragon and Blödhgarm hold a private conversation in the Ancient Language and they are able to pick up on most of the details. Although the conversation is staged, the details are true and a celebratory party takes place for most of the next day. More than the ale and the treats, the Riders are thrilled to understand the conversation at all.

Far away, Lausvit sits quietly, enjoying the silence that has fallen over the castle. He has not returned to his own cave for a few nights, preferring to bask in the gloom that hovers when Nuanorúm is around. In fact, all of Du Stenrsolus seems to feature such gloom and Lausvit can’t help taking bitter pleasure in it.

Some small part of him feels bad for the queen’s plight, but he settles into a comfortable rhythm when he witnesses the fervor that plagues her and the quickness with which revenge springs to her lips. Her wailing had been unbearable at first but ceased a few days after Domifethr’s death and Lausvit is able to focus on his own work now.

Peering across a table littered with notes and diagrams, he struggles furiously to unlock the key to the powers Eragon seems to possess.

Full of fire, he scoffs, remembering Nuanorúm’s excited words about the pale man. He is glad she doesn’t say anything about him at all anymore, let alone anything ggood.

In the ruined libraries of the queen’s former home, Lausvit had managed to find scrolls that seem to include information about a new world where people had sailed. He can’t help wondering whether Eragon has some connection to that long-lost place. Looking around Yggdrasil and his rooms in this castle, he can’t help wondering why anyone would leave here and its powerful colors.

Anywhere else, he decides, would simply be grey.