Saphira's Story (Eragon fanfic)

Chapter 1- The Return

The first rays of the golden sun shone above the looming peaks of the Beor Mountains, glittering off the surface of Eldor Lake. Saphira could just make out the lake in the distance, and felt excitement welling up inside her as they neared the familiar landmark, and tried to stifle her emotions so as not to wake her rider.

She hummed quietly to herself, amused by Eragon’s waking dreams of the beautiful elf, who he had waited to see for so long. She snorted, bemused at the thought, Arya was kind and of course Saphira admired her, but she had always thought of humans, elves and especially dwarves as rather ugly looking creatures. Not like us dragons she thought, flicking her long blue tail so that the morning sun flashed of her scales, glinting brightly.

 To any looking on, it would have seemed she was right. Saphira had grown since her last visitation to Alagaësia, her huge semi-transparent wings stretched out as she soared over the land, each of her shiny blue scales were polished to perfection and her talons were razor sharp and cleaned of any blood from recent hunting ventures. Her azure eyes sparkled, bright with excitement and anticipation. She was a truly beautiful and magnificent beast, and she knew it.  If only all creatures were, well, as impressive as we are,  Saphira mused, Although I suppose that would make us dragons seem less superior!

 At the thought of dragons her heart skipped a beat, and the name that she had been thinking about ever since Eragon had told her of their trip leapt to the forefront of her mind, Fírnen. She had missed him so much. It had been three years since she had last seen him, yet she could still picture his shining amber eyes and hear his deep, rumbling voice clearly in her head.

She had so much to tell him; the places they had been, the people they had met, not to mention the other dragons! And, of course, the thing she had been dying to share with Fírnen for so long. A deep rumbling of pride filled her as she thought of it. She simply couldn’t wait to tell him, but she wouldn’t have to wait long now…

 The sun had fully risen above the peaks of the Beor Mountains when Saphira finally reached Eldor Lake. She swooped over the glassy water, and felt Eragon stir as she began her descent. We’re here?  Said Eragon, and she felt his overwhelming happiness building up; a happiness she had not felt in him for a long time. Yes little one, she replied, humming contentedly, We’re home at last… 

Saphira glided over the lake and landed softly on the grassy bank, she felt Eragon slip off her back and jump lightly onto the green pasture by her side. They’re not here yet, she grumbled discontentedly, Eragon laughed at her disgruntled tone

“They’ll be here soon.” He said out loud, as if wishing they would hear him and come. But despite his lightheartedness, Saphira could feel the rising agitation and desire to see Arya again. She shared in his longing, for she too was desperate to see Fírnen once more and gazed up at the skies wistfully, searching for any flash of green that would reveal their presence. Soon Eragon joined her, and the two of them stood silently, side-by-side, awaiting Arya and Fírnen.

                                              >X<   >X<  >X< 

To the north of Alagaësia, in the kingdom of Gildorn stood a fortress, with jagged spires and huge, iron gates, guarded by six, fearsome looking warriors. Each stood at least seven foot tall, armed to the teeth with daggers, crossbows and long, curved swords. They had shaggy mains and sharp fangs protruded from their snarling mouths and where their eyes should have been, instead were balls of fire, burning in their sockets.

Inside the fortress, the Witch Queen of Gildorn paced agitatedly up and down the torture room, her crimson robes billowing behind her. She had chalky white skin and blood red lips; her catlike green eyes were rimmed with thick, dark lashes and her claw like fingernails were a deep shade of scarlet.

 Long, black locks fell messily down her back and atop her mass of hair, sat a golden crown with five jagged points, representing the five spires of her fortress. Coiled around the central point, was a silver serpent with a trail of emeralds running down its spine and two rubies as eyes.

 “Tell me where they are!” The witch screeched, glaring down at her captive. On her torture bed, lay a young girl, bound down to the stone table by cords of rope knotted tightly around her wrists and ankles. Yet no pain appeared to have been inflicted upon her. She remained silent, so the witch continued, “The boy, the one they call Shadeslayer; you know him! Where is he?” Still the young girl said nothing. Enraged at her persisting silence the witch cried an order to a guard standing nearby.

 The guard was akin to those that stood outside the gates of the fortress. Surrounding him were the barely living bodies of men, women and children mauled by knife wounds, their skin torn. Some had bloodied sockets where their eyes once were, others had limbs hacked off. All were in pain. The guard dragged a young boy roughly to his feet and slowly began slicing long, deep gashes in the boy’s arm. The boy let out a howl, but it was drowned out by the agonising scream of the girl tied to the table. As the guard gouged his knife deep into the boy's flesh, a fresh flood of tears began to stream from the girl's eyes. Eyes that had seen a lifetime of pain. Eyes that were a vivid shade of violet…