WOAH, 1937!!! *dies* You guys, I don't know what to say except thank you. Thank you for your loyalty and support of this story, even though its taken FOREVER to write. I love all of you very, very much. 3333

Sooo, Chapter 38! I have had this chapter planned since Chapter 3 or so-- this is how I wanted to end Eldunari. So, I hope you all enjoy it! I will NOT have an A/N at the bottom-- you'll see why--, so PAY ATTENTION.

I am taking a brief hiatus, because it IS exam time! My final exams are spread over the next two weeks, so I will be studying like mad, holed up in my apartment. Sorry!

Many thanks to the loverly reviewers! And, of course, my betas! I love ya guys!

This chapter is dedicated to I am NOT cool and my beloved sister and friend, Kate. Even if she did move to Queens. And left me alone. Bah.

Disclaimer: I do not own CPs original locations, characters, or events. I do, however, own a large number of things in this story, so HAH.

ALSO: Please, no anger at the end of this chapter. :)

"Always the light. Always." –The Lake House

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Igniting

Galbatorix! The fearful thought thrilled through the Varden as they all looked up at the King, transfixed.

Shruikan was so black that the seemed to suck in all the light around him, his huge wings churning the air, fire spraying in inky arcs from his jaws. From the ground Murtagh could make out Galbatorix, tiny, with a deep blue light pulsing in his hands. Eragon and Saphira swerved to avoid him, running straight into Tariku and his monster; their roars and shrieks mingled with Ophelia's cries.

The great green dragoness was trapped, Shruikan's claws deep in her spine, ripping and ripping as he dragged her ever closer to his snapping jaws.

Deloi, still fighting Halflings, howled; Ophelia was his mate and he was helpless and—

With a furious roar, Shruikan drew back like a desert cobra, his fangs flashing, and lashed out.

Ophelia howled, and Shruikan came away with a large chunk of her neck, blood spilling all over the soldiers below.

The black dragon contemptuously let go and Ophelia, mortally wounded, dropped, her wings beating weakly, blood ribboning as her traitorous heart continued to pump it out of her wounds.

Murtagh, son of none… The old dragoness was there, in his mind, and he felt her bleeding away. Remember the light. She said. Remember the light, always. She stopped trying to survive, to slow her fall, even though Deloi was bashing aside his Halfling and racing towards her, keening lowly. Remember the light.

Murtagh's heart kicked in his chest and his blood ran cold. He watched, transfixed, horrified, as Ophelia had time for one last howl before she fell, plunging, her green scales rent open, to the earth.

She hit with titanic force, the tremors shaking Murtagh were he stood, frozen. Her presence was simply gone, and the cave-dwellers all screamed in pain and horror.

Ophelia was dead. Her body rested not too far from Murtagh, and her single eye was already fogging over, the vibrant green dimming into nothingness. She had landed badly, one wing crushed, her hind legs horribly tangled. The great rips in her scales spilled steaming blood that was quickly soaking the earth. The scarred matriarch looked small, in death.

And her last words had been the very same words Rhunon the sword-maker had spoken, not three days ago, in a clearing in the Spine. Those words chilled the red Rider to the bone. They sounded like a death sentence in his mind, and he was not ready to die.

Slowly, he staggered through the battlefield towards Ophelia's dead body. Thorn roared and fought, saddened and determined to protect his Rider, and when Murtagh reached the green body, the blood forming a pool beneath it, he bowed his head at the sight.

Ophelia's bones were more pronounced, her cheeks hollowed. She had borne the burden of hiding from the world for so long, had protected and hidden and provided for her family for so long, and she lay dead because she had finally emerged from her hiding place. Murtagh wanted to yell at her, to send her back, because so see her shrunken and dead was almost too much. He had not been particularly fond of Ophelia, because she had hidden and allowed him to suffer, but she had been good and brave and loyal, and she was dead for those very same reasons.

He also wanted to scream at her, to demand where she had learned of Rhunon's words, of her prediction and her command, and to ask her where she got the right to say such things.

But he also knew that he did not have time to even ponder these thoughts. The Varden was in trouble unless he did something, and did it fast.

He looked up and bared his teeth. Galbatorix and Shruikan hovered, gigantic, black, menacing, against the deep gray clouds.

The rip where Shruikan had burst through showed the dying sun, and it looked like the sky was bleeding. The black dragon thundered his triumph, black flames crackling menacingly.

The cave-dwellers scattered, afraid, pursued by the Halflings.

Get away! Murtagh shouted to them all. They did not stand a chance against Galbatorix, no one did, except maybe Eragon. Eragon!

I'm trying! His brother cried, and Saphira roared in fury as Tariku and Tresia held them away from Galbatorix. The blue dragoness howled and roared and slashed and bit and spurted flames, but she could not get past the Halfling leader, and suddenly Murtagh understood.

Tariku was to keep Eragon busy while Galbatorix either captured or killed the others; he would most likely have them captured, because Sunna was a female, and three strong males would increase the King's power exponentially.

And Tariku had been holding back all this time; he had energy in reserve, just for this. He would whittle away at Eragon's powers until the blue Rider was easy for the King to take down. Murtagh, even from a distance, could see the heavy shimmer of magic hanging all around Tariku. He had been given power, Hearts, enough to hold his own against Eragon for a time. Arya had Eldunari as well, but Murtagh did not know how many or how strong they were, or if they were even giving Eragon strength.

Barzul. Murtagh swore, gripping Zar'roc, indecisive.

Lightning sang forward from Galbatorix's hands, missing Deloi by inches; the bronze dragon, enraged by his mate's death, was savaging at the Halfling he was fighting, and he howled at the heat of the magic and rolled away, the deadly bolt sizzling the air.

Eragon was still struggling, Tresia's whipcord body blocking him at every turn. Fire flowed between the dueling Riders and swords swiped the air. It was a stalemate between them.

Thorn! Murtagh called, making a decision. He did not need to share his plan with his partner; the red dragon already knew.

Bounding through the screaming mass of warriors, some jubilant, some terrified, Thorn scattered them all, his long, long teeth flashing in a terrible snarl. His vermillion eyes gleamed, and Murtagh leaped onto his running dragon, swinging himself into the saddle and strapping in with ease. Thorn bounded several paces, and, with a roar that shook the trees, spread his wide wings and took flight.

Murtagh, no! Eragon shouted. Don't take him on by yourself! Worry spilled from the younger brother.

I am not alone. The elder brother replied grimly, and reached for his Eldunarí. For the first time, they gave their support willingly, and the sudden rush of magic made his hair stand on end and his skin prickle. He grinned savagely, and Thorn picked up speed, silent.

Another bolt of lightning shattered the air, shooting towards Deloi, striking him hard in the foreleg. The dragon's cry of agony was worrying, and silently Murtagh urged his dragon faster. He was not afraid, not any more. He was strong and capable, and he was going to hold off the King until Eragon shook off Tariku.

Remember the light. Ophelia had said.

Always. Rhunon had said.

Shruikan was a thousand feet away. Five hundred. Four hundred. The King and his beast were unaware of the impending attack until the last moment, focused as they were on containing the bronze dragon, and sensing danger, they swerved. But it was too late.

Straight as an arrow, Thorn collided into Shruikan's flank, digging his talons in, and he bit and bit with his teeth as the older dragon roared in pain and rolled and rolled, attempting to dislodge his former student. Murtagh drew Zar'roc and, with a shout, drove it down, slicing the jet black flank. Shruikan's howl reverberated through the air, and the members of Eragon's clan howled jeeringly.

Be careful, please. Eragon whispered, hacking furiously at Tariku.

Murtagh sensed his brother's desperation, and he too hacked, warm dragon-blood spraying into the air.

Galbatorix shouted and the very air itself slammed against Murtagh and Thorn, tearing them free of Shruikan, though they took chucks of muscle with them. The black dragon screeched and lashed out, and his powerful hind leg crushed Thorn's chest.

The red dragon yowled and dropped, his chest a mess of shattered bone. Murtagh screamed in shared agony, but he dipped into the swirling powers afforded by his now-willing (and they were willing now, as though they sensed that now was the time to strike at Galbatorix) Hearts. The spell that flowed from his lips was complex, but it did the trick, and Thorn breathed again and stabilized himself, shooting back up to reenter the duel.

This time the King and Shruikan were expecting the attack, and Murtagh barely had the time to deflect a terrible blast of lightning before razor-sharp talons missed his face by inches and left a bleeding trail down Thorn's right shoulder.

The red dragon snarled, seeing an opening. Together Murtagh and Thorn lunged for Shruikan's unprotected underbelly, and blood splashed them as they savaged him. He was not wearing armor; in Galbatorix's endless arrogance, he must have thought that he did not need it.

He's regretting it now! Thorn growled, his eyes alight with the glee of fighting. Swinging sharply, the red dragon sank all four sets of claws into the black dragon and scrambled up his side like one would climb a mountain, rending flesh with every step he took.

Shruikan's agonized howls were lost as he rolled over and over, determined to dislodge the steadily-climbing Thorn, but it was useless, for Thorn's grip was excellent and he slashed at the King, who was cradling the large, dark Eldunarí to his chest.

As they drew level, Murtagh realized, with a jolt, that the King was holding the ancient, huge Eldunarí he had only seen once, the Heart of Vrael's dragon, Wrdya. It was the source of the lightning, judging by the sparks running up and down the rough, glowing surface, and it had centuries of compiled magic sparking beneath the surface.

Murtagh's heart sank.

Seeing his former servant, Galbatorix's face twisted into a hideous snarl. "Traitor!" He howled. "I gave you a life! How dare you spit in my face, after all I have done for you! I made you a Rider!"

Murtagh glared, unafraid. This man, this traitorous, sneaking man, no longer had any power over the red Rider. Murtagh was a free man, and he knew it. It sang in his blood and in his thoughts, rebellious but ringing with truth. He raised Zar'roc in a challenge, and he laughed out loud. "I am the traitor? This from the man who slaughtered his people!"

"They were weak!" Galbatorix snarled. "Pathetic! They deserved to be eradicated!" He threw his own mind against Murtagh's, seeking a purchase, but in the rollicking movements of the dragons, it was impossible for even the great King to break into Murtagh's thoughts.

"You are a coward and a murderer. I am no longer yours!" With a war cry, Murtagh slashed with his father's sword, and the King leaned back, both from the blade and Thorn's snapping fangs.

"Away!" He screamed in the ancient language, and once more the pair was thrown from Shruikan, whose wounds mended and whose eyes blazed with anger. The massive dragon rounded, fire flickering, and issued a blast of deadly flames that blistered the air.

A bolt of lightning narrowly missed as Thorn dove, dodging the deadly onslaught. A second bolt was stopped, though just barely, but Murtagh's shields, and his magic flickered and bucked. The Eldunarí moaned a warning; their strength was no match for that of the dark navy Heart's own power.

Snarling viciously, Galbatorix hurled another bolt, and the drain on Murtagh's magic was enough to make him sweat, his brows knitting in concentration as he struggled.

I can't beat him head-on. Murtagh acknowledged. He is stronger than I. But perhaps we can outfly him until Eragon finishes with Tariku?

Yes! Thorn plummeted, and the enraged Shruikan followed, black fire and lightning pursuing the red dragon. Down and down they went, pursued by Galbatorix, but Thorn was smaller and faster, and he had been training with Saphira for days now. Together, Murtagh and Thorn avoided all the attacks, corkscrewing and twisting and, once, flying backwards and around their foe as fire and lightning rained down on the warriors, scattering both Empire and Varden alike. The scent of charred flesh and hot metal rose, the heat adding to the storm's growing power.

Eragon, hurry. Murtagh called. The Hearts in his mind were losing magic. Galbatorix had not given his former servant any of the strong Eldunarí, probably in case of betrayal, and the strain was starting to show on Murtagh. The red Rider was panting and Thorn, as valiant as he was, was trembling, his muscles exhausted by the incredible flying.

I'm trying! The blue Rider shouted. Saphira roared savagely, but Murtagh did not have time to look, for Shruikan was gaining, and rapidly.

We can't keep this up much longer. Murtagh thought. We don't have the sort of energy that he does.

We can't give up either! Thorn said, executing a daring maneuver, nearly colliding with treetops. The two dueling dragons were over the river now, and the water churned and surged.

Lighting and fire and air lashed out, the condensed air smashing into Murtagh, cracking his ribs; he too was armorless, though that was because he did not have any, at the moment. Blood trickled from his mouth and he spat.

Thorn rolled, and blue energy missed his left wing by mere inches. The heat from the bolt burned the papery flesh, and Thorn groaned in agony but continued his looping, swerving defense.

We need to destroy that Eldunarí. Murtagh said, suddenly understanding. Thorn, get me close to him!

Nodding in determination, the crimson dragon, the valiant, fearless partner of Murtagh's heart, banked sharply and rose on the heat rippling from the battlefield, ascending rapidly despite the burns on his wing.

Shruikan turned, but his movements were slower, hindered but his bulk, and Thorn spun around underneath him, rolling to slash at the black underbelly, and popped up behind the great dragon, falling onto his hindquarters and latching on, spitting fire that scorched the scales and peeled them away, blistering and cauterizing the wounds.

"Jierda!" Murtagh raised his hand and boomed, aiming his magic at the straps tethering Galbatorix to his stolen dragon. They snapped, leaving Galbatorix unfettered and therefore liable to fall from Shruikan. "Brisingr!" The straps burned away and immediately Shruikan stabilized himself, hovering, afraid to move and drop his master into the raging river below.

"Bastard!" Galbatorix spat, and he looked quite deranged, his eyes wild and flashing, his curly dark hair in dissary. "Whoresson!" He got to his feet, as Shruikan was easily wide enough to stand on, and staggered towards Murtagh, muttering a spell that helped him maintain his balance.

Murtagh cut himself free of Thorn, heedless of the cries of alarm from both the dragon and Eragon, who was still embroiled in a battle with Tariku. "Be that as it may," he said coolly, and Zar'roc seemed to vibrate in his hand. Shruikan's scales were slippery and smooth and Murtagh slid, struggling for purchase. He uttered a spell and he too was balanced, standing on Shruikan's broad back as easily as he would stand on land. Thorn?

Howling, the red dragon leaped, ripping up Shruikan's back, surging forward to knock the ancient Wrdya free and to shatter the stone and Galbatorix's power.

Immediately Murtagh realized that they had made a serious error, for the King, his hand forming a claw, jerked his arm and Thorn was yanked to the side and thrown two hundred feet, yowling. He was able to use two spells at once, then, because he still stood firm on the black scales.

Shruikan rumbled but did not move, and Thorn cried out, his left foreleg broken.

"Skoilr!" Galbatorix called, and instantly, Murtagh saw a translucent dark blue shield spring from Wryda's Eldunarí, forming a tiny floating ball that rapidly expanded to encase Shruikan and his two passengers in a huge sphere of magic.

Instantly, the sound was shut out and the wind ceased to blow inside the magical shield. The sudden silence was startling, for Murtagh saw Thorn, his red muted, breathe fire and lash at the shield, which rippled to absorb the impacts, but there was no whoosh of flame or thudding of contact.

Murtagh was completely cut off from his dragon, alone, and his heart sank. He tightened his grip on Zar'roc and the familiar weight of it calmed him, and with cool blue eyes he waited for Galbatorix to make the first move.

"I am going to make an example of you, brat." The madness was gone from the King's voice; he sounded calm, almost civil. "I will kill you, right here, in front of your dragon, your brother, and your allies." A sneer twisted his face. "You did not think that somehow pulling dragons and Riders out of thin air would frighten me, did you?"

Murtagh remained impassive. He mentally reached out for Thorn, but he could not. The shield of magic was blocking mental connections as well, then. He felt the crimson dragon's worry, anxiety, and anger, but no thoughts could flow between them.

"Are you ready to die, you fool?" Galbatorix snarled.

A ghost of a smile flickered across the red Rider's lips. "Killing me will accomplish nothing." He said quietly. "You will say a spell and then I will be dead, like thousands of others before me. You will make me a martyr!" He grinned. "Like you made Oromis a martyr by attacking him while his illness took over."

The King snarled.

"You couldn't beat me in a swordfight." The red Rider continued, boastful. "You have more magic than I; you fight like a coward, like an elf," he spat the word like it was poison. "And I fight like a man."

Galbatorix hissed in rage, and Murtagh knew that the King was perfectly in his trap. Calling him an elf had been the final straw, and the King was already unhinged at it was. "I can beat you without magic, brat!"

Murtagh laughed out loud. "Doubtful." He said.

The King bared his white teeth. He set the Eldunarí aside; it hovered at chest height.

Yes! Murtagh crowed to himself, though he kept his face impassive. He did not stand a chance against Galbatorix if he was armed with magic, but in a sword fight, maybe, just maybe, he could live long enough for Eragon to come to his aid.

Shruikan's wings trembled, but the dragon stayed aloft, and Thorn redoubled his frantic efforts to get inside the shield, fire and claws a blur.

"I will beat you." Said Galbatorix.

"By cheating." Murtagh replied calmly, as the King advanced with his black blade drawn. "Like you have defeated everyone else stronger than yourself."

"You dare--!"

"Yes!" Murtagh cried, and then he lunged, his sword lashing out, and Galbatorix retaliated with a crushing swipe, and the dance as old as swords began.

Left duck slash parry block slash—

Murtagh danced as the black sword slit open his shoulder, the shallow gash oozing, and grinned fiercely, his blue eyes vivid in his face. "That the best you can do?" He asked, as if discussing the weather, and ducked before stabbing, Zar'roc slitting the King's cloak.

"Bastard." Galbatorix growled.

Back forward back swipe dodge left right stab slash—

The whirling blades clanged and clashed, sparks flying, sweat streaming down Murtagh's brow as he locked blades, struggling, fighting not to be thrown from Shruikan. He nearly lost his footing; maintaining a spell while fighting for his life was proving difficult.

Forward spin slash circle parry—

"Give up!" Galbatorix spat. "You cannot beat me!" He gashed Murtagh's cheek, his arm, his ribs (which were still broken), and Thorn roared soundlessly, throwing his weight against the shield desperately.

"I can." The red Rider replied, and he turned, edging back to the Eldunarí, all the while parrying and thrusting and somehow avoiding all lethal strikes, only collecting shallow cuts.

Frustrated the King bared his teeth—

Whirl lash spin slash strike block duck—

And launched himself at Murtagh's mind, slamming into him, clawing at the shields, and Murtagh clawed back, all the while ducking and weaving and struggling to maintain the spell holding him to Shruikan, blood streaming down his ribs and his arm and his face.

The King's barbs poked and prodded, tearing an entrance like a blade punching through armor, and Murtagh was nearly blinded, his shields penetrated, and he saw Tornac, bleeding, dying, and Thorn hatching and then fighting and then he was three years old again, running through his father's castle, and white-hot pain lanced down his back—

No! Murtagh roared, and with all his strength he slashed with the very sword that had wounded him, all those years ago, and Galbatorix screamed in pain, blood flowing from the gash on his forearms and chest.

The King lost his grip on Murtagh and his shields were down, and the red Rider drove into his mind—

He blinked owlishly at the man in Rider's garb, a teal sword strapped to his back. The kind-eyed Rider smiled, softly, bouncing his sack of coins in his hands.

"Now where did you get this, youngling?"

"Givit back! 's mine!"

Galbatorix staggered back and turned them around, so that Murtagh was facing the floating Eldunarí, and it was so close he could almost reach it—

The black egg was heavy against his back as he ran through the streets, breathing erratically. He could feel his pursuerers behind him and he knew that the penalty for stealing a dragon egg was death.

He turned, desperate, into a dark alley, and then the egg began to rock and squeak, and then there was a dragonling, perfect, beautiful, and she was his and no one could ever take her away and Galbatorix laughed...

The King screamed in wordless rage, already reaching for the magic to smite Murtagh from Shruikan and from Alagaesia, to snuff him out like a candle. The memories sped up, blurring before Murtagh's eyes—

Jarnunvosk sprang into the air, her wings beating, and they took off, and they were free, soaring, unhindered, and they could fly and fly and never ever be caught—

Master Verloran hugged him tightly, tears in his eyes.

"I am so proud, my boy." He whispered. "So proud."

The Urgals, they were everywhere, roaring in their guttural tongue, and blood splashed the ground and an arrow, deadly and barbed, hit Jarnunvosk square in the heart and his scream reverberated off the mountains—

"No!" Galbatorix howled, and the blue Eldunarí crackled, heating up—

Shruikan hatched, wailing for his Rider—

Ileria was on fire, burning and burning, the elves fleeing—

Vrael, old and fragile, fell, dead, and his dragon screamed and screamed before its heart was pierced and it too fell—

He was King, he was the leader, no one would ever challenge him again, and—!

"Die!" Galbatorix screamed, and Murtagh came back to himself and Thorn burst through the shield, shattering it, but sound was still muted, and Murtagh observed the formation of lightning as he drew back Zar'roc, aiming for the deep blue stone, all his strength centered on the tip of his blade—

Remember the light. Rhunon had said. Always.

Always. Murtagh agreed, and he lashed out, Zar'roc driving straight into the center of the stone. It fractured, and Galbatorix opened his mouth in a silent howl. The blue lightning, brighter than anything Murtagh had ever seen, so bright that it blotted everything out, and he felt rather than heard it snap and pop and char the air.

He closed his eyes, and the light burned him still, so bright, so bright. Lightning crackled, flashing jagged forks, and Zar'roc vibrated as the Eldunarí crumbled around it. The bolt seared the air and someone cried out NO! and a dragon screamed in agony and suddenly Murtagh was airborne, falling, falling, and then the heat ripped into his chest, surged through him until all he felt was the heat, as he fell and fell, his insides on fire…

But he was not dead. He was still airborne, falling rapidly, the heat pulling away from him, leaving a burning trail behind him, and he was aware of the roar of fire and the woosh of wings. The scent of charred flesh filled Murtagh's nose and he knew it was his own. Zar'roc fell from his hands, searing hot, and dropped below, but the heat was no longer inside. It was outside, snapping and hissing, and someone groaned quietly.

Murtagh struggled to open his eyes.

Eragon Shadeslayer, hovering on wide wings of flame, hung between Murtagh and Galbatorix, and another lightning bolt, this time from Galbatorix's own hands, sprang into being, smashing into Eragon, and his brown eyes went wide and his mouth formed an 'o' of surprise.

Murtagh. He said, almost as if to reassure himself. You're alive. And then his brown eyes (Selena's eyes) went blank and flickered out. The fiery wings snuffed out, extinguished, and Eragon, brave, loyal, foolish Eragon, fell to the earth.

No! Murtagh howled. No, no, no, no!

Saphira was screaming and screaming, writhing as she fell after Eragon, desperately trying to catch him before he hit the raging river. Her screams tore the sky apart, and Murtagh keened as he too fell.

Kill me! He howled. Kill me, kill me, kill me!

Thorn roared in pain and his claws cushioned Murtagh, wrapped him, held him, and together they plowed into the earth, keening, mourning, screaming no no no. Fire burned inside Murtagh, a jagged line from the right side of his chest to his left thigh, and his heart cracked.

It wasn't possible, wasn't fair—Eragon was supposed to live, he, Murtagh, was supposed to die for him, Rhunon said so. By dying he would help the Varden, would save them, but Eragon was the leader, and he was dead, and oh gods, please, please, take me instead!

Saphira's heartbroken howls rent the air and Murtagh screamed with her.

Eragon Shadeslayer was dead.

Finally, the storm, filling to bursting, overflowed, and lightning and thunder and rain tore the sky to pieces.

In the shelter of Thorn's scales, Murtagh, burned, fire in his chest and in his leg, crippled, bleeding, and alive, closed his eyes.

His brother was dead.

And Murtagh cried.