Her first memories were of wandering the marble halls of Tronjheim, running her hands along the cool walls, marvelling about how the dwarves, only a head or so taller than she was, had crafted such an amazing place, so beautiful and so extremely exact.

She remembered walking through the streets, talking to the dwarf women with their long hair and stone jewellery, playing with their children, and watching the men work at small pieces of stone, turning a chunk of alabaster into a bird in flight, or perhaps a piece of red granite into a bear, roaring his challenge to the sky.

Twenty-five years later, Nasuada stood inside Farthen Dur once again, watching the place she had spent so much of her childhood being turned into so much rubble.

Sunlight poured through the massive wound that ivory claws had rent into the side of the Father mountain, glinting off of the giant golden griffins inside of the mountain, the protectors of the paths.

A single, diamond tear rolled down her face and she turned away, the much-too-tight manacles 'round her wrists clinking together merrily, like some kind of warped bells, oblivious to the pain that was ripping through her very soul.

As she stepped away, the Red soldiers sent to guard her sneering and laughing, four quiet words slipped from her lips.

"How could you Eragon?".

AN: Oui, it's another story. Depending on the reception this chapter gets, I may or may not write more. More characters, more memories. Any ideas for me, O reviewers?