Wyrda abr Alagaesia
PROLOUGE: Loss of a Master
It was three days after the siege of Feinster. Eragon was sitting on a hill half a mile away from the Varden camp. His mind was immersed in an ocean of grief. He could not believe it. His half brother, his friend, has killed his master. He could not get the picture of Zar’roc cutting Oromis’s chest open out of his mind. He tried focusing his thoughts on something else, but could not. Suddenly, a calming voice filled his mind.
“Hello, little one.”
“Hello, Saphira. It’s good to hear your voice in these times of grief. But aren’t you grieving?”
“I am, little one. But I hide my grief behind a barrier of strength. I got over it by focusing my mind on the thought that we can and will defeat Galbatorix.”
“Thank you, Saphira. You always know what to say.”
“I am a dragon, little one. My logic is unbeatable.”
Eragon laughed. He said, “Come on, lets go see Arya. She is also grieving, and may need our consolation.
He climbed on top of Saphira, who took off.
“This is so much fun, Saphira!”
“Hang on, little one!”
Saphira rose, then corkscrewed towards the ground. At the last second, with twenty feet left, she rose. The wind buffeted Eragon’s face as Saphira performed her hair-raising maneuvers. Finally, they reached Arya’s tent.
Inside, they heard panting. Looking inside, they saw lots of blood, a body and an injured person kneeling near the bed, panting.
This post has been edited by Arya II: 19 November 2009 - 09:35 AM

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