#lesbian rewrite

[the-pumpkween]

Brandy (you're a fine girl), but sung by her roommate, who has watched Brandy get her heart shattered by that sailor too many times to count, and wishes she could show her a love deeper than the sea.

[lesbianrewrites]

The Martian Chapter 13

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of The Martian by Andy Weir.

Chapters will be posted every day at 2pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

CHAPTER XIII

The employees of Deyo Plastics worked double shifts. There was talk of triple shifts if NASA increased the order again. No one minded. The overtime pay was spectacular and the funding was limitless. Woven carbon thread ran slowly through the press, which sandwiched it between polymer sheets. The completed material was folded four times and glued together. The resulting thick sheet was then coated with soft resin, and taken to the hot-room to set.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 114 Now that NASA can talk to me, they won’t shut the hell up. They want constant updates on every Hab system, and they’ve got a room full of people trying to micromanage my crops. It’s awesome to have a bunch of dipshits on Earth telling me, a botanist, how to grow plants. I mostly ignore them. I don’t want to come off as arrogant here, but I’m the best botanist on the planet. One big bonus: Email! Just like the days back on Hermes, I get data dumps. Of course they relay email from friends and family, but NASA also sends along choice messages from the public. I’ve gotten email from rock stars, athletes, actors and actresses, and even the President. The coolest one is from my alma-mater, the University of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially “colonized” it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong! I go to the rover five times a day to check mail. They can get a message from Earth to Mars, but they can’t get it another 10 meters to the Hab. But hey, I can’t bitch. My odds of living through this are way higher now. Last I heard, they solved the weight problem on Ares 4’s MDV. Once it lands here, they’ll ditch the heat shield, all the life support stuff, and a bunch of empty fuel tanks. Then they can take the seven of us (Ares 4’s crew plus me) all the way to Schiaparelli. They’re already working on my duties for the surface ops. How cool is that? In other news, I’m learning Morse Code. Why? Because it’s our back-up communication system. NASA figured a decades-old probe isn’t ideal as a sole means of communication. If Pathfinder craps out, I’ll spell messages with rocks, which NASA will see with satellites. They can’t reply, but at least we’d have one-way communication. Why Morse Code? Because making dots and dashes with rocks is a lot easier than making letters. It’s a shitty way to communicate. Hopefully it won’t come up.

All chemical reactions complete, the sheet was sterilized and moved to a cleanroom. There, a worker cut a strip off the edge. Dividing the strip in to squares, he put each through a series of rigorous tests. Having passed inspection, the sheet was then cut to shape. The edges were folded over, sewn, and resealed with resin. A man with a clipboard made final inspections, independently verifying the measurements, then approved it for use.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 115 The meddling botanists have grudgingly admitted I did a good job. They agree I’ll have enough food to last till Sol 900. Bearing that in mind, NASA has fleshed out the mission details of the supply probe. At first, they were working on a desperate plan to get a probe here before Sol 400. But I bought another 500 sols of life with my potato farm so they have more time to work on it. They’ll launch next year during the Hohmann Transfer Window, and it’ll take almost 9 months to get here. It should arrive around Sol 856. It’ll have plenty of food, a spare Oxygenator, Water Reclaimer, and comm system. Three comm systems, actually. I guess they aren’t taking any chances, what with my habit of being nearby when radios break. Got my first email from Hermes today. NASA’s been limiting direct contact. I guess they’re afraid I’ll say something like “You abandoned me on Mars you fuckwits!” I know the crew is surprised to hear from the Ghost of Mars Missions Past, but c’mon. I wish NASA was less of a nanny sometimes. Anyway, they finally let one email through from Martinez: Dear Watney: Sorry we left you behind, but we don't like you. You're sort of a smart-ass. And it's a lot roomier on Hermes without you. We have to take turns doing your tasks, but it's only botany (not real science) so it's easy. How's Mars? -Martinez My reply: Dear Martinez: Mars is fine. When I get lonely I think of that steamy night I spent with your mom. How are things on Hermes? Cramped and claustrophobic? Yesterday I went outside and looked at the vast horizons. I tell ya, Martinez, they go on forever! -Watney

The employees carefully folded the sheet, and placed it in an argon-filled airtight shipping container. Printing out a sticker, the man with the clipboard placed it on the package. “Project Ares-3; Hab Canvas; Sheet AL102.” The package was placed on a charter plane and flown to Edwards Air Force Base in California. It flew abnormally high, at great cost of fuel, to ensure a smoother flight. Upon arrival, the package was carefully transported by special convoy to Pasadena. Once there, it was moved to the JPL White Room for probe assembly. Over the next 5 weeks, engineers in white bodysuits assembled Presupply 309. It contained AL102 as well as 12 other Hab Canvas packages.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 116 It’s almost time for the second harvest. Ayup. I wish I had a straw hat and some suspenders. My re-seed of the potatoes went well. I'm beginning to see that crops on Mars are extremely prolific, thanks to the billions of dollars worth of life support equipment around me. I now have 400 healthy potato plants, each one making lots of calorie-filled taters for my dining enjoyment. In just ten days they’ll be ripe! And this time, I’m not replanting them as seed. This is my food supply. All natural, organic, Martian-grown potatoes. Don’t hear that every day, do you? You may be wondering how I’ll store them. I can’t just pile them up; most of them would go bad before I got around to eating them. So instead, I’ll do something that wouldn’t work at all on Earth: Throw them outside. Most of the water will be sucked out by the near-vacuum; what’s left will freeze solid. Any bacteria planning to rot my taters will die screaming. In other news, I got email from Venkat Kapoor: Maia, some answers to your earlier questions: No, we will not tell our Botany Team to “Go fuck themselves.” I understand you’ve been on your own for a long time, but we’re in the loop now, and it’s best if you listen to what we have to say. The Cubs finished the season at the bottom of the NL Central. The data transfer rate just isn’t good enough for the size of music files, even in compressed formats. So your request for “Anything, oh god ANYTHING but Disco” is denied. Enjoy your boogie fever. Also, an uncomfortable side note... NASA is putting together a committee. They want to see if there were any avoidable mistakes that led you to being stranded. Just a heads-up. They may have questions for you later on. Keep us posted on your activities. -Kapoor My reply: Venkat, tell the investigation committee they’ll have to do their witch-hunt without me. And when they inevitably blame Commander Lewis, be advised I’ll publicly refute it. -Watney

The presupply probes for Ares-3 launched on 14 consecutive days during the Hohmann Transfer window. Presupply 309 was launched third. The 251 day trip to Mars was uneventful, needing only two minor course adjustments. After several aerobraking maneuvers to slow down, it made its final descent toward Acidalia Planitia. First, it endured reentry via a heat shield. Later, it released a parachute and detached the now expended shield. Once its onboard radar detected it was 30 meters from the ground, it cut loose the parachute and inflated balloons all around its hull. It fell unceremoniously to the surface, bouncing and rolling, until it finally came to rest. Deflating its balloons, the onboard computer reported the successful landing back to Earth.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 117 The Water Reclaimer is acting up. Six people will go through 18 liters of water per day. So it’s made to process 20. But lately, it hasn’t been keeping up. It’s doing 10, tops. Do I generate 10 liters of water per day? No, I’m not the urinating champion of all time. It’s the crops. The humidity inside the Hab is a lot higher than it was designed for, so the Water Reclaimer is constantly filtering it out of the air. I’m not worried about it. Water is water. The plants use it, I use it. If need be, I can piss on the plants directly. It’ll evaporate and condense on the walls. I could make something to collect it, I’m sure. Thing is, the water can’t go anywhere. It’s a closed system. Plus, I made like 600 liters from MDV fuel (remember the “explosive Hab” incident?). I could take baths and still have plenty left over. NASA, however, is absolutely shitting itself. They see the Water Reclaimer as a critical survival element. There’s no backup, and they think I’ll die instantly without it. To them, equipment failure is terrifying. To me, it’s “Tuesday.” So instead of preparing for my harvest, I have to make extra trips to and from the rover to answer their questions. Each new message instructs me to try some new solution and report the results back. So far we’ve worked out it’s not the electronics, refrigeration system, instrumentation, or temperature. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be a little hole somewhere, then NASA will have 4 hours of meetings before telling me to cover it with duct tape.

Lewis and Beck opened Presupply 309. Working as best they could in their bulky EVA suits, they removed the various portions of Hab canvas and lay them on the ground. Three entire presupply probes were dedicated to the Hab. Following a procedure they had practiced hundreds of times, they efficiently assembled the pieces. Special seal-strips between the patches ensured air-tight mating. After erecting the main structure of the Hab, they assembled the three airlocks. Sheet AL102 had a hole perfectly sized for Airlock 1. Beck  stretched the sheet tight to the seal-strips on the airlock’s exterior. Once all airlocks were in place, Lewis flooded the Hab with air and AL102 felt pressure for the first time. They waited an hour. No pressure was lost; the setup had been perfect.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 118 My conversation with NASA about the Water Reclaimer was boring and riddled with technical details. So I’ll paraphrase it for you: Me: “This is obviously a clog. How about I take the it apart and check the internal tubing?” NASA: (After 5 hours of deliberation) “No. You’ll fuck it up and die.” So I took it apart. Yeah, I know. NASA has a lot of ultra-smart people and I should really do what they say. And I’m being too adversarial, considering they spend all day working on how to save my life. I just get sick of being told how to wipe my ass. Independence was one of the things they looked for when choosing Ares astronauts. It’s a 13-month mission, most of it spent many light-minutes away from Earth. They wanted people who would act on their own initiative, but at the same time, obey their Commander. If Commander Lewis were here, I’d do whatever she said, no problem. But a committee of faceless bureaucrats back on Earth? Sorry, I’m just having a tough time with it. I was really careful. I labeled every piece as I dismantled it, and laid everything out on a table. I have the schematics in the computer, so nothing was a surprise. And just as I’d suspected, there was a clogged tube. The Water Reclaimer was designed to purify urine and strain humidity out of the air (you exhale almost as much water as you piss). I’ve mixed my water with soil, making it mineral water. The minerals built up in the Water Reclaimer. I cleaned out the tubing and put it all back together. It completely solved the problem. I’ll have to do it again some day, but not for 100 sols or so. No big deal. I told NASA what I did. Our (paraphrased) conversation was: Me: “I took it apart, found the problem, and fixed it.” NASA: “Dick.”

AL102 shuddered in the brutal storm. Withstanding forces and pressure far greater than its design, it rippled violently against the airlock seal-strip. Other sections of canvas undulated along their seal-strips together, acting as a single sheet, but AL102 had no such luxury. The airlock barely moved, leaving AL102 to take the full force of the tempest. The layers of plastic, constantly bending, heated the resin from pure friction. The new, more yielding environment allowed the carbon fibers to separate. AL102 stretched. Not much. Only 4 millimeters. But the carbon fibers, usually 500 microns apart, now had a gap eight times that width in their midst. After the storm abated, the lone remaining astronaut performed a full inspection of the Hab. But she didn’t notice anything amiss. The weak part of canvas was concealed by a seal-strip. Designed for a mission of 31 sols, AL102 continued well past its planned expiration. Sol after sol went by, with the lone astronaut traveling in and out of the Hab almost daily. Airlock 1 was closest to the rover charging station, so the astronaut preferred it to the other two. When pressurized, the airlock expanded slightly; when depressurized, it shrunk. Every time the astronaut used the airlock, the strain on AL102 relaxed, then tightened anew. Pulling, stressing, weakening, stretching…

LOG ENTRY: SOL 119 I woke up last night to the Hab shaking. The medium-grade sandstorm ended as suddenly as it began. It was only a category 3 storm with 50kph winds. Nothing to worry about. Still, it’s bit disconcerting to hear howling winds when you’re used to utter silence. I’m worried about Pathfinder. If the sandstorm damaged it, I’ll have lost my connection to NASA. Logically, I shouldn’t worry. The thing’s been on the surface for decades. A little gale won’t do any harm. When I head outside, I’ll confirm Pathfinder’s still functional before moving on to the sweaty, annoying work of the day. Yes, with each sandstorm comes the inevitable Cleaning of the Solar Cells. A time honored tradition by hearty Martians such as myself. It reminds me of growing up in Chicago and having to shovel snow. I’ll give my dad credit; he never claimed it was to build character or teach me the value of hard work. “Snow-blowers are expensive,” he used to say. “You’re free.” Once, I tried to appeal to my mom. “Don’t be such a wuss,” She suggested. In other news, It’s seven sols till the harvest, and I still haven’t prepared. For starters, I need to make a hoe. Also, I need to make an outdoor shed for the potatoes. I can’t just pile them up outside. The next major storm would cause The Great Martian Potato Migration. Anyway, all that will have to wait. I’ve got a full day today. After cleaning the solar cells, I have to check the whole solar array make sure the storm didn’t hurt it. Then I’ll need to do the same for the rover. I better get started.

Airlock 1 slowly depressurized to 1/90th of an atmosphere. Watney, donning an EVA suit, waited for it to complete. She had done it literally hundreds of times. Any apprehension she may have had on Sol 1 was long gone. Now it was merely a boring chore before exiting to the surface. As the depressurization continued, the Hab’s atmosphere compressed the airlock and AL102 stretched for the last time. On Sol 119, the Hab breached. The initial tear was less than 1 millimeter. The perpendicular carbon fibers should have prevented the rip from growing. But countless abuses had stretched the vertical fibers apart and weakened the horizontal ones beyond use. The full force of the Hab’s atmosphere rushed through the breach. Within a tenth of a second, the rip was a meter long, running parallel to the seal-strip. It propagated all the way around until it met its starting point. The airlock was no longer attached to the Hab. The unopposed pressure violently launched the airlock like a cannonball as the Hab exploded. Inside, the surprised Watney slammed against the airlock’s back door with the force of the expulsion. The airlock flew 40 meters before hitting the ground. Watney, barely recovered from the earlier shock, now endured another as she hit the front door, face first. Her faceplate took the brunt of the blow, the safety glass shattering into hundreds of small cubes. Her head slammed against the inside of the helmet, knocking her senseless. The airlock tumbled across the surface for a further 15 meters. The heavy padding of Watney’s suit saved her from many broken bones. She tried to make sense of the situation, but was barely conscious. Finally done tumbling, the airlock rested on its side amid a cloud of dust. Watney, on her back, stared blankly upward through the hole in her shattered faceplate. A gash in her forehead trickled blood down her face. Regaining some of her wits, she got her bearings. Turning her head to the side, she looked through the back door’s window. The collapsed Hab rippled in the distance, a junkyard of debris strewn across the landscape in front of it. Then, a hissing sound reached her ears. Listening carefully, she realized it was not coming from her suit. Somewhere in the phone-booth sized airlock, a small breach was letting air escape. She listened intently to the hiss. Then she touched her broken faceplate. Then she looked out the window again. “You fucking kidding me?” She said.

[lesbianrewrites]

Harriet Potter Announcement

Okay, so as I’m sure some of you have noticed while reading Chamber of Secrets, certain things, such as the dormitory situation, have changed several times over the course of it’s rewriting.

The reason for this is I’ve been trying to make aspects like that work better, and now that I have, once I’m finished with Chamber of Secrets, and before I start work on Prisoner of Azkaban I’m going to go back through the first two book, and rewrite any bits that need it to fit with said changes.

The way I’ll go is I’ll start with the first chapter of Sorcerer’s stone and work from there, when a chapter is edited, I’ll add a bolded Update notice to the post.

If you see one chapter with an update, and the next doesn’t have one, but the one after that does, then the one without didn’t need one. I’m pretty sure there’ll be a few like that.

Anyway, hope you enjoy.

[lesbianrewrites]

Chamber of Secrets - Chapter 06

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling.

Chapters will be posted Monday-Saturday at 5pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

Gildaria Lockhart

The next day, however, Harriet barely grinned once. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harriet and Ray sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was a slight stiffness in the way she said “ ’Morning,” which told Harriet that she was still disapproving of the way they had arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Harriet had ever met.

“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a few things I forgot.”

Harriet had only just started her porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville’s head and, a second later, something large and gray fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk and feathers.

“Errol!” said Ray, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.

“Oh, no —” Ray gasped.

“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger.

“It’s not that — it’s that.”

Ray was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to Harriet, but Ray and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode.

“What’s the matter?” said Harriet.

“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ray faintly.

“You’d better open it, Ray,” said Neville in a timid whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped — “it was horrible.”

Harriet looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.

“What’s a Howler?” she asked.

But Ray’s whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners.

“Open it,” Neville urged. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes —”

Ray stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol’s beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears. A split second later, Harriet knew why. She thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —”

Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ray sank so low in their chair that only their crimson forehead could be seen.

“— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRIET COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —”

Harriet had been wondering when her name was going to crop up. She tried very hard to look as though she couldn’t hear the voice that was making her eardrums throb.

“— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.”

A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ray’s hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harriet and Ray sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of Ray’s head.

“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ray, but you —”

“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ray.

Harriet pushed her porridge away. Her insides were burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for her over the summer …

But she had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules. Harriet took her’s and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first.

Harriet, Ray, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think they had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harriet, Ray, and Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gildaria Lockhart. Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harriet spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. Gildaria Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, her golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.

“Oh, hello there!” she called, beaming around at the assembled students. “Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don’t want you running away with the idea that I’m better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels …”

“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harriet caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. She was about to follow Ray and Hermione inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out.

“Harriet! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if she’s a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?”

Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, “That’s the ticket,” and closed the greenhouse door in her face.

“Harriet,” said Lockhart, her large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as she shook her head. “Harriet, Harriet, Harriet.”

Completely nonplussed, Harriet said nothing.

“When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself.”

Harriet had no idea what she was talking about. She was about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d done it. Stood out a mile. Harriet, Harriet, Harriet.”

It was remarkable how she could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when she wasn’t talking.

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do it again.”

“Oh, no, Professor, see —”

“Harriet, Harriet, Harriet,” said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping her shoulder. “I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young lady, you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for her, she’s an internationally famous witch already!’ But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” She glanced at the lightning scar on Harriet’s forehead. “I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harriet, it’s a start.”

She gave Harriet a hearty wink and strode off. Harriet stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering she was supposed to be in the greenhouse, she opened the door and slid inside.

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored ear-muffs were lying on the bench. When Harriet had taken her place between Ray and Hermione, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?”

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into the air.

“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout. “The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harriet’s glasses as it shot up again.

“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said promptly.

“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor Sprout. “Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young.”

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harriet, who didn’t have the slightest idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the Mandrake.

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t pink and fluffy.

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on.”

Harriet snapped the earmuffs over her ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harriet let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won’t kill yet,” she said calmly as though she’d just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. “However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up.

“Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.”

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Harriet, Ray, and Hermione were joined at their tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harriet knew by sight but had never spoken to.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking Harriet by the hand. “Know who you are, of course, the famous Harriet Potter. … And you’re Hermione Granger — always top in everything” (Hermione beamed as she had her hand shaken too) “— and Ray Weasley. Wasn’t that your flying car?”

Ray didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on their mind.

“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t she?” said Justin happily as they began filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. “Awfully brave chap. Have you read her books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but she stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic.

“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family. …”

After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harriet spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Harriet, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Harriet had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of her head during the summer. She was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all she managed to do was give her beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding her wand.

Ray was having far worse problems. They had patched up their wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ray tried to transfigure their beetle it engulfed them in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what they were doing, Ray accidentally squashed their beetle with their elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased.

Harriet was relieved to hear the lunch bell. Her brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except her and Ray, who was whacking their wand furiously on the desk.

“Stupid — useless — thing —”

“Write home for another one,” Harriet suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.

“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ray, stuffing the now hissing wand into their bag. “ ‘It’s your own fault your wand got snapped —’ ”

They went down to lunch, where Ray’s mood was not improved by Hermione’s showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons she had produced in Transfiguration.

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harriet, hastily changing the subject.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at once.

“Why,” demanded Ray, seizing her schedule, “have you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”

Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.

They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Harriet and Ray stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harriet became aware that she was being closely watched. Looking up, she saw the very small, mousy-haired boy she’d seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harriet as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harriet looked at him, he went bright red.

“All right, Harriet? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully.

“A picture?” Harriet repeated blankly.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked Harriet’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.” Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you” — he looked imploringly at Harriet — “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?”

“Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos, Potter?”

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd. “Harriet Potter’s giving out signed photos!”

“No, I’m not,” said Harriet angrily, her fists clenching. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe’s neck.

“Jealous?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. “Of what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.”

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ray angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.

“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “You don’t want to start any trouble or your mommy’ll have to come and take you away from school.” He put on a shrill, piercing voice. “If you put another toe out of line —”

A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this.

“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked Malfoy. “It’d be worth more than their family’s whole house —”

Ray whipped out their Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, “Look out!”

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gildaria Lockhart was striding toward them, her turquoise robes swirling behind her. “Who’s giving out signed photos?”

Harriet started to speak but she was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around her shoulders and thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet again, Harriet!”

Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with humiliation, Harriet saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd.

“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. “A double portrait, can’t do better than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.”

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and she set off back to the castle with Harriet, who was wishing she knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to her side.

“A word to the wise, Harriet,” said Lockhart maternally as they entered the building through a side door. “I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much. …”

Deaf to Harriet’s stammers, Lockhart swept her down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn’t sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harriet, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but” — she gave a little chortle — “I don’t think you’re quite there yet.”

They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and she let Harriet go at last. Harriet yanked her robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where she busied herself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s books in front of her, so that she could avoid looking at the real thing.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ray and Hermione sat down on either side of Harriet.

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ray. “You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or they’ll be starting a Harriet Potter fan club.”

“Shut up,” snapped Harriet. The last thing she needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harriet Potter fan club.”

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared her throat loudly and silence fell. She reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show her own, winking portrait on the front.

“Me,” she said, pointing at it and winking as well. “Gildaria Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

She waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in —”

When she had handed out the test papers she returned to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty minutes — start — now!”

Harriet looked down at her paper and read:

 1. What is Gildaria Lockhart’s favorite color?

 2. What is Gildaria Lockhart’s secret ambition?

 3. What, in your opinion, is Gildaria Lockhart’s

     greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

54. When is Gildaria Lockhart’s birthday, and what

     would her ideal gift be?

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!”

She gave them another roguish wink. Ray was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on their face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when she mentioned her name.

“… but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” — she flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione raised a trembling hand.

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business —”

She bent down behind her desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

In spite of herself, Harriet leaned around her pile of books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front row seat.

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

“Yes,” she said dramatically. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.”

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror.

“Yes?” She smiled at Seamus.

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are they?” Seamus choked.

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!”

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what you make of them!” And she opened the cage.

It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

“Come on now — round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted.

She rolled up her sleeves, brandished her wand, and bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!”

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized her wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under her own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harriet, Ray, and Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, “Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage.” She swept past them and shut the door quickly behind her.

“Can you believe her?” roared Ray as one of the remaining pixies bit them painfully on the ear.

“She just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” said Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage.

“Hands on?” said Harriet, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. “Hermione, she didn’t have a clue what she was doing —”

“Rubbish,” said Hermione. “You’ve read her books — look at all those amazing things she’s done —”

“She says she’s done,” Ray muttered.

[lesbianrewrites]

Eldest Chapter 1

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of Eldest by Christopher Paolini.

Chapters will be posted every day at 6pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

I

A TWIN DISASTER

The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.

So thought Aregon as she stepped over a twisted and hacked Urgal, listening to the keening of women who removed loved ones from the blood-muddied ground of Farthen Dûr. Behind her Saphira delicately skirted the corpse, her glittering blue scales the only color in the gloom that filled the hollow mountain.

It was three days since the Varden and dwarves had fought the Urgals for possession of Tronjheim, the mile-high, conical city nestled in the center of Farthen Dûr, but the battlefield was still strewn with carnage. The sheer number of bodies had stymied their attempts to bury the dead. In the distance, a mountainous fire glowed sullenly by Farthen Dûr’s wall where the Urgals were being burned. No burial or honored resting place for them.

Since waking to find her wound healed by Angela, Aregon had tried three times to assist in the recovery effort. On each occasion she had been racked by terrible pains that seemed to explode from her spine. The healers gave her various potions to drink. Arya and Angela said that she was perfectly sound. Nevertheless, she hurt. Nor could Saphira help, only share her pain as it rebounded across their mental link.

Aregon ran a hand over her face and looked up at the stars showing through Farthen Dûr’s distant top, which were smudged with sooty smoke from the pyre. Three days. Three days since she had killed Durza; three days since people began calling her Shadeslayer; three days since the remnants of the sorcerer’s consciousness had ravaged her mind and she had been saved by the mysterious Togira Ikonoka, the Cripple Who Is Whole. She had told no one about that vision but Saphira. Fighting Durza and the dark spirits that controlled her had transformed Aregon; although for better or for worse she was still unsure. She felt fragile, as if a sudden shock would shatter her reconstructed body and consciousness.

And now she had come to the site of the combat, driven by a morbid desire to see its aftermath. Upon arriving, she found nothing but the uncomfortable presence of death and decay, not the glory that heroic songs had led her to expect.

Before her uncle, Garrow, was slain by the Ra’zac months earlier, the brutality that Aregon had witnessed between the humans, dwarves, and Urgals would have destroyed her. Now it numbed her. She had realized, with Saphira’s help, that the only way to stay rational amid such pain was to do things. Beyond that, she no longer believed that life possessed inherent meaning—not after seeing men torn apart by the Kull, a race of giant

Urgals, and the ground a bed of thrashing limbs and the dirt so wet with blood it soaked through the soles of her boots. If any honor existed in war, she concluded, it was in fighting to protect others from harm.

She bent and plucked a tooth, a molar, from the dirt. Bouncing it on her palm, she and Saphira slowly made a circuit through the trampled plain.

They stopped at its edge when they noticed Jörmundur—Ajihad’s second in command in the Varden—hurrying toward them from Tronjheim.

When she came near, Jörmundur bowed, a gesture Aregon knew she would never have made just days before.

“I’m glad I found you in time, Aregon.” She clutched a parchment note in one hand. “Ajihad is returning, and he wants you to be there when he arrives. The others are already waiting for him by Tronjheim’s west gate. We’ll have to hurry to get there in time.”

Aregon nodded and headed toward the gate, keeping a hand on Saphira. Ajihad had been gone most of the three days, hunting down Urgals who had managed to escape into the dwarf tunnels that honeycombed the stone beneath the Beor Mountains. The one time Aregon had seen him between expeditions, Ajihad was in a rage over discovering that his daughter, Nasuada, had disobeyed his orders to leave with the other people and children before the battle. Instead, she had secretly fought among the Varden’s archers.

Murtagh and the Twins had accompanied Ajihad: the Twins because it was dangerous work and the Varden’s leader needed the protection of their magical skills, and Murtagh because he was eager to continue proving that he bore the Varden no ill will. It surprised Aregon how much people’s attitudes toward Murtagh had changed, considering that Murtagh’s father was the Dragon Rider Morzan, who had betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix. Even though Murtagh despised his father and was loyal to Aregon, the Varden had not trusted him. But now, no one was willing to waste energy on a petty hate when so much work remained. Aregon missed talking with Murtagh and looked forward to discussing all that had happened, once he returned.

As Aregon and Saphira rounded Tronjheim, a small group became visible in the pool of lantern light before the timber gate. Among them were Orik—the dwarf shifting impatiently on his stout legs—and Arya. The white bandage around her upper arm gleamed in the darkness, reflecting a faint highlight onto the bottom of her hair. Aregon felt a strange thrill, as she always did when she saw the elf. Arya looked at her and Saphira, green eyes flashing, then continued watching for Ajihad.

By breaking Isidar Mithrim—the great star sapphire that was sixty feet across and carved in the shape of a rose—Arya had allowed Aregon to kill Durza and so win the battle. Still, the dwarves were furious with her for destroying their most prized treasure. They refused to move the sapphire’s remains, leaving them in a massive circle inside Tronjheim’s central chamber. Aregon had walked through the splintered wreckage and shared the dwarves’ sorrow for all the lost beauty.

She and Saphira stopped by Orik and looked out at the empty land that surrounded Tronjheim, extending to Farthen Dûr’s base five miles away in each direction. “Where will Ajihad come from?” asked Aregon.

Orik pointed at a cluster of lanterns staked around a large tunnel opening a couple of miles away. “He should be here soon.”

Aregon waited patiently with the others, answering comments directed at her but preferring to speak with Saphira in the peace of her mind. The quiet that filled Farthen Dûr suited her.

Half an hour passed before motion flickered in the distant tunnel. A group of ten men climbed out onto the ground, then turned and helped up as many dwarves. One of the men—Aregon assumed it was Ajihad— raised a hand, and the warriors assembled behind him in two straight lines. At a signal, the formation marched proudly toward Tronjheim.

Before they went more than five yards, the tunnel behind them swarmed with a flurry of activity as more figures jumped out. Aregon squinted, unable to see clearly from so far away.

Those are Urgals! exclaimed Saphira, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring.

Aregon did not question her. “Urgals!” she cried, and leaped onto Saphira, berating herself for leaving her sword, Zar’roc, in her room. No one had expected an attack now that the Urgal army had been driven away.

Her wound twinged as Saphira lifted her azure wings, then drove them down and jumped forward, gaining speed and altitude each second. Below them, Arya ran toward the tunnel, nearly keeping apace with

Saphira. Orik trailed her with several men, while Jörmundur sprinted back toward the barracks.

Aregon was forced to watch helplessly as the Urgals fell on the rear of Ajihad’s warriors; she could not work magic over such a distance. The monsters had the advantage of surprise and quickly cut down four men, forcing the rest of the warriors, men and dwarves alike, to cluster around Ajihad in an attempt to protect him. Swords and axes clashed as the groups pressed together. Light flashed from one of the Twins, and an Urgal fell, clutching the stump of his severed arm.

For a minute, it seemed the defenders would be able to resist the Urgals, but then a swirl of motion disturbed the air, like a faint band of mist wrapping itself around the combatants. When it cleared, only four warriors were standing: Ajihad, the Twins, and Murtagh. The Urgals converged on them, blocking Aregon’s view as she stared with rising horror and fear. No! No! No!

Before Saphira could reach the fight, the knot of Urgals streamed back to the tunnel and scrambled underground, leaving only prone forms behind.

The moment Saphira touched down, Aregon vaulted off, then faltered, overcome by grief and anger. I can’t do this. It reminded her too much of when she had returned to the farm to find her uncle Garrow dying. Fighting back her dread with every step, she began to search for survivors. The site was eerily similar to the battlefield she had inspected earlier, except that here the blood was fresh.

In the center of the massacre lay Ajihad, his breastplate rent with numerous gashes, surrounded by five Urgals he had slain. His breath still came in ragged gasps. Aregon knelt by him and lowered his face so his

tears would not land on the leader’s ruined chest. No one could heal such wounds. Running up to them, Arya paused and stopped, her face transformed with sorrow when she saw that Ajihad could not be saved.

“Aregon.” The name slipped from Ajihad’s lips—no more than a whisper.

“Yes, I am here.”

“Listen to me, Aregon.... I have one last command for you.” Aregon leaned closer to catch the dying man’s words. “You must promise me something: promise that you... won’t let the Varden fall into chaos. They are the only hope for resisting the Empire.... They must be kept strong. You must promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Then peace be with you, Aregon Shadeslayer....” With his last breath, Ajihad closed his eyes, setting his noble face in repose, and died.

Aregon bowed her head. She had trouble breathing past the lump in her throat, which was so hard it hurt. Arya blessed Ajihad in a ripple of the ancient language, then said in her musical voice, “Alas, his death will cause much strife. He is right, you must do all you can to avert a struggle for power. I will assist where possible.”

Unwilling to speak, Aregon gazed at the rest of the bodies. She would have given anything to be elsewhere. Saphira nosed one of the Urgals and said, This should not have happened. It is an evil doing, and all the worse for coming when we should be safe and victorious. She examined another body, then swung her head around. Where are the Twins and Murtagh?

They’re not among the dead.

Aregon scanned the corpses. You’re right! Elation surged within her as she hurried to the tunnel’s mouth. There pools of thickening blood filled the hollows in the worn marble steps like a series of black mirrors, glossy and oval, as if several torn bodies had been dragged down them. The Urgals must have taken them! But why? They don’t keep prisoners or hostages. Despair instantly returned. It doesn’t matter. We can’t pursue them without reinforcements; you wouldn’t even fit through the opening.

They may still be alive. Would you abandon them?

What do you expect me to do? The dwarf tunnels are an endless maze! I would only get lost. And I couldn’t catch Urgals on foot, though Arya might be able to.

Then ask her to.

Arya! Aregon hesitated, torn between her desire for action and her loathing to put her in danger. Still, if any one person in the Varden could handle the Urgals, it was she. With a groan, she explained what they had found.

Arya’s slanted eyebrows met in a frown. “It makes no sense.”

“Will you pursue them?”

She stared at Aregon for a heavy moment. “Wiol ono.” For you. Then she bounded forward, sword flashing in her hand as she dove into the earth’s belly.

Burning with frustration, Aregon settled cross-legged by Ajihad, keeping watch over the body. She could barely assimilate the fact that Ajihad was dead and Murtagh missing. Murtagh. Son of one of the Forsworn—the thirteen Riders who had helped Galbatorix destroy their order and anoint himself king of Alagaësia—and Aregon’s friend. At times Aregon had wished Murtagh gone, but now that he had been forcibly removed, the loss left an unexpected void. She sat motionless as Orik approached with the men.

When Orik saw Ajihad, he stamped his feet and swore in Dwarvish, swinging his ax into the body of an Urgal. The men only stood in shock.

Rubbing a pinch of dirt between his callused hands, the dwarf growled, “Ah, now a hornet’s nest has broken; we’ll have no peace among the Varden after this. Barzûln, but this makes things complicated. Were you in time to hear his last words?”

Aregon glanced at Saphira. “They must wait for the right person before I’ll repeat them.”

“I see. And where’d be Arya?”

Aregon pointed.

Orik swore again, then shook his head and sat on his heels. Jörmundur soon arrived with twelve ranks of six warriors each. She motioned for them to wait outside the radius of bodies while she proceeded onward alone. She bent and touched Ajihad on the shoulder. “How can fate be this cruel, my old friend? I would have been here sooner if not for the size of this cursed mountain, and then you might have been saved. Instead, we are wounded at the height of our triumph.” Aregon softly told her about Arya and the disappearance of the Twins and Murtagh.

“She should not have gone,” said Jörmundur, straightening, “but we can do naught about it now. Guards will be posted here, but it will be at least an hour before dwarf guides can be found for another expedition into the tunnels.”

“I’d be willing to lead it,” offered Orik.

Jörmundur looked back at Tronjheim, her gaze distant. “No, Hrothgar will need you now; someone else will have to go. I’m sorry, Aregon, but everyone important must stay here until Ajihad’s successor is chosen. Arya will have to fend for herself.... We could not overtake her anyway.” Aregon nodded, accepting the inevitable.

Jörmundur swept her gaze around before saying so all could hear, “Ajihad has died a warrior’s death! Look, he slew five Urgals where a lesser man might have been overwhelmed by one. We will give him every

honor and hope his spirit pleases the gods. Bear him and our companions back to Tronjheim on your shields... and do not be ashamed to let your tears be seen, for this is a day of sorrow that all will remember. May we soon have the privilege of sheathing our blades in the monsters who have slain our leader!”

As one, the warriors knelt, baring their heads in homage to Ajihad. Then they stood and reverently lifted him on their shields so he lay between their shoulders. Already many of the Varden wept, tears flowing into beards, yet they did not disgrace their duty and allow Ajihad to fall.

With solemn steps, they marched back to Tronjheim, Saphira and Aregon in the middle of the procession.

[lesbianrewrites]

Aregon Full Edit

Here’s the full edit of Eragon by Christopher Paolini! This doc is 260 pages long, so the full book is only going to be posted in the doc.

This is the last update for Aregon, thank you for reading! Eldest will be edited at some point in the future, though we do not yet have a date. Keep an eye out for more info!

Link to the doc here

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

[lesbianrewrites]

Aregon Chapter 59

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of Eragon by Christopher Paolini.

Chapters will be posted every day at 6pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

LIX

THE MOURNING SAGE

Snatches of the Shade’s memories continued to flash through Aregon. A whirlwind of dark events and emotions overwhelmed her, making it impossible to think. Submerged in the maelstrom, she knew neither who nor where she was. She was too weak to cleanse herself of the alien presence that clouded her mind. Violent, cruel images from the Shade’s past exploded behind her eyes until her spirit cried out in anguish at the bloody sights.

A pile of bodies rose before her . . . innocents slaughtered by the Shade’s orders. She saw still more corpses—whole villages of them—taken from life by the sorcerer’s hand or word. There was no escape from the carnage that surrounded her. She wavered like a candle flame, unable to withstand the tide of evil. She prayed for someone to lift her out of the nightmare, but there was no one to guide her. If only she could remember what she was supposed to be: child or adult, villain or hero, Shade or Rider; all was jumbled together in a meaningless frenzy. She was lost, completely and utterly, in the roiling mass.

Suddenly a cluster of her own memories burst through the dismal cloud left by the Shade’s malevolent mind. All the events since she had found Saphira’s egg came to her in the cold light of revelation. Her accomplishments and failures were displayed equally. She had lost much that was dear to her, yet fate had given her rare and great gifts; for the first time, she was proud of simply who she was. As if in response to her brief self confidence, the Shade’s smothering blackness assaulted her anew. Her identity trailed into the void as uncertainty and fear consumed her perceptions. Who was she to think she could challenge the powers of Alagaësia and live?

She fought against the Shade’s sinister thoughts, weakly at first, then more strongly. She whispered words of the ancient language and found they gave her enough strength to withstand the shadow blurring her mind. Though her defenses faltered dangerously, she slowly began to draw her shattered consciousness into a small bright shell around her core. Outside her mind she was aware of a pain so great it threatened to blot out her very life, but something—or someone—seemed to keep it at bay.

She was still too weak to clear her mind completely, but she was lucid enough to examine her experiences since Carvahall. Where would she go now . . . and who would show her the way? Without Brom, there was no one to guide or teach her.

Come to me.

She recoiled at the touch of another consciousness—one so vast and powerful it was like a mountain looming over her. This was who was blocking the pain, she realized. Like Arya’s mind, music ran through this one: deep amber-gold chords that throbbed with magisterial melancholy.

Finally, she dared ask, Who . . . who are you?

One who would help. With a flicker of an unspoken thought, the Shade’s influence was brushed aside like an unwanted cobweb. Freed from the oppressive weight, Aregon let her mind expand until she touched a barrier beyond which she could not pass. I have protected you as best I can, but you are so far away I can do no more than shield your sanity from the pain.

Again: Who are you to do this?

There was a low rumble. I am Osthato Chetowä, the Mourning Sage. And Togira Ikonoka, the Cripple Who Is Whole. Come to me, Aregon, for I have answers to all you ask. You will not be safe until you find me.

But how can I find you if I don’t know where you are? she asked, despairing.

Trust Arya and go with her to Ellesméra—I will be there. I have waited many seasons, so do not delay or it may soon be too late. . . . You are greater than you know, Aregon. Think of what you have done and rejoice, for you have rid the land of a great evil. You have wrought a deed no one else could. Many are in your debt.

The stranger was right; what she had accomplished was worthy of honor, of recognition. No matter what her trials might be in the future, she was no longer just a pawn in the game of power. She had transcended that and was something else, something more. She had become what Ajihad wanted: an authority independent of any king or leader.

She sensed approval as she reached that conclusion.You are learning, said the Mourning Sage, drawing nearer. A vision passed from him to Aregon: a burst of color blossomed in her mind, resolving into a stooped figure dressed in white, standing on a sun-drenched stone cliff. It is time for you to rest, Aregon. When you wake, do not speak of me to anyone, said the figure kindly, face obscured by a silver nimbus. Remember, you must go to the elves. Now, sleep. . . .He raised a hand, as if in benediction, and peace crept through Aregon.

Her last thought was that Brom would have been proud of her.

“Wake,” commanded the voice. “Awake, Aregon, for you have slept far too long.” She stirred unwillingly, loath to listen. The warmth that surrounded her was too comfortable to leave. The voice sounded again. “Rise, Argetlam! You are needed!”

She reluctantly forced her eyes open and found herself on a long bed, swathed in soft blankets. Angela sat in a chair beside her, staring at her face intently. “How do you feel?” she asked.

Disoriented and confused, she let her eyes roam over the small room. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said, her mouth dry and sore.

“Then don’t move. You should conserve your strength,” said Angela, running a hand through her curly hair. Aregon saw that she still wore her flanged armor. Why was that?

A fit of coughing made her dizzy, lightheaded, and ache all over. Her feverish limbs felt heavy. Angela lifted a gilt horn from the floor and held it to Aregon’s lips. “Here, drink.”

Cool mead ran down her throat, refreshing her. Warmth bloomed in her stomach and rose to her cheeks. She coughed again, which worsened her throbbing head. How did I get here? There was a battle . . . we were losing . . . then Durza and . . .“Saphira!” she exclaimed, sitting upright. She sagged back as her head swam and clenched her eyes, feeling sick. “What about Saphira? Is she all right? The Urgals were winning . . . she was falling. And Arya!”

“They lived,” assured Angela, “and have been waiting for you to wake. Do you wish to see them?” She nodded feebly. Angela got up and threw open the door. Arya and Murtagh filed inside. Saphira snaked her head into the room after them, her body too big to fit through the doorway. Her chest vibrated as she hummed deeply, eyes sparkling.

Smiling, Aregon touched her thoughts with relief and gratitude.

It is good to see you well, little one, she said tenderly.

And you too, but how—?

The others want to explain it, so I will let them.

You breathed fire! I saw you!

Yes, she said with pride.

She smiled weakly, still confused, then looked at Arya and Murtagh. Both of them were bandaged: Arya on her arm, Murtagh around his head. Murtagh grinned widely. “About time you were up. We’ve been sitting in the hall for hours.”

“What . . . what happened?” asked Aregon.

Arya looked sad. But Murtagh crowed, “We won! It was incredible! When the Shade’s spirits—if that’s what they were—flew across Farthen Dûr, the Urgals ceased fighting to watch them go. It was as though they were released from a spell then, because their clans suddenly turned and attacked each other. Their entire army disintegrated within minutes. We routed them after that!”

“They’re all dead?” asked Aregon.

Murtagh shook his head. “No, many of them escaped into the tunnels. The Varden and dwarves are busy ferreting them out right now, but it’s going to take a while. I was helping until an Urgal banged me on the head and I was sent back here.”

“They aren’t going to lock you up again?”

His face grew sober. “No one really cares about that right now. A lot of Varden and dwarves were killed; the survivors are busy trying to recover from the battle. But at least you have cause to be happy. You’re a hero! Everyone’s talking about how you killed Durza. If it hadn’t been for you, we would have lost.”

Aregon was troubled by his words but pushed them away for later consideration. “Where were the Twins? They weren’t where they were supposed to be—I couldn’t contact them. I needed their help.”

Murtagh shrugged. “I was told they bravely fought off a group of Urgals that broke into Tronjheim somewhere else. They were probably too busy to talk with you.”

That seemed wrong for some reason, but Aregon could not decide why. She turned to Arya. Her large bright eyes had been fixed upon Aregon the entire time. “How come you didn’t crash? You and Saphira were . . .” Her voice trailed off.

She said slowly, “When you warned Saphira of Durza, I was still trying to remove her damaged armor. By the time it was off, it was too late to slide down Vol Turin—you would have been captured before I reached the bottom. Besides, Durza would have killed you before letting me rescue you.” Regret entered her voice, “So I did the one thing I could to distract him: I broke the star sapphire.”

And I carried her down, added Saphira.

Aregon struggled to understand as another bout of lightheadedness made her close her eyes. “But why didn’t any of the pieces hit you or me?”

“I didn’t allow them to. When we were almost to the floor, I held them motionless in the air, then slowly lowered them to the floor—else they would have shattered into a thousand pieces and killed you,” stated Arya simply. Her words betrayed the power within her.

Angela added sourly, “Yes, and it almost killed you as well. It’s taken all of my skill to keep the two of you alive.”

A twinge of unease shot through Aregon, matching the intensity of her throbbing head. My back . . . But she felt no bandages there. “How long have I been here?” she asked with trepidation.

“Only a day and a half,” answered Angela. “You’re lucky I was around, otherwise it would’ve taken you weeks to heal—if you had even lived.” Alarmed, Aregon pushed the blankets off her torso and twisted around to feel her back. Angela caught her wrist with her small hand, worry reflected in her eyes. “Aregon . . . you have to understand, my power is not like yours or Arya’s. It depends on the use of herbs and potions. There are limits to what I can do, especially with such a large—”

Aregon yanked her hand out of her grip and reached back, fingers groping. The skin on her back was smooth and warm, flawless. Hard muscles flexed under her fingertips as she moved. She slid her hand toward the base of her neck and unexpectedly felt a hard bump about a half-inch wide. She followed it down her back with growing horror. Durza’s blow had left her with a huge, ropy scar, stretching from her right shoulder to the opposite hip.

Pity showed on Arya’s face as she murmured, “You have paid a terrible price for your deed, Aregon Shadeslayer.”

Murtagh laughed harshly. “Yes. Now you’re just like me.”

Dismay filled Aregon, and she closed her eyes. She was disfigured. Then she remembered something from when she was unconscious . . . a figure in white who had helped her. A cripple who was whole—Togira Ikonoka. He had said, Think of what you have done and rejoice, for you have rid the land of a great evil. You have wrought a deed no one else could. Many are in your debt. . . .

Come to me Aregon, for I have answers to all you ask.

A measure of peace and satisfaction consoled Aregon.

I will come.

END OF BOOK ONE

[lesbianrewrites]

Aregon Chapter 58

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of Eragon by Christopher Paolini.

Chapters will be posted every day at 6pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

LVIII

BATTLE UNDER FARTHENDÛR

“It has begun,” Arya said with a sorrowful expression. The troops in the encampment stood alertly with their weapons drawn. Orik swung his ax to make sure he had enough room. Arya nocked an arrow and held it ready to shoot.

“A scout ran out of a tunnel a few minutes ago,” said Murtagh to Aregon. “The Urgals are coming.”

Together they watched the dark mouth of the tunnel through the ranks of people and sharpened stakes. A minute dragged by, then another . . . and another. Without taking her eyes from the tunnel, Aregon hoisted herself into Saphira’s saddle, Zar’roc in her hand, a comfortable weight. Murtagh mounted Tornac beside her. Then a man cried, “I hear them!”

The warriors stiffened; grips tightened on weapons. No one moved . . . no one breathed. Somewhere a horse nickered.

Harsh Urgal shouts shattered the air as dark shapes boiled upward in the tunnel’s opening. At a command, the cauldrons of pitch were tilted on their sides, pouring the scalding liquid into the tunnel’s hungry throat. The monsters howled in pain, arms flailing. A torch was thrown onto the bubbling pitch, and an orange pillar of greasy flames roared up in the opening, engulfing the Urgals in an inferno. Sickened, Aregon looked across Farthen Dûr at the other two battalions and saw similar fires by each. She sheathed Zar’roc and strung her bow.

More Urgals soon tamped the pitch down and clambered out of the tunnels over their burned brethren. They clumped together, presenting a solid wall to the humans and dwarves. Behind the palisade Orik had helped build, the first row of archers pulled on their bows and fired. Aregon and Arya added their arrows to the deadly swarm and watched the shafts eat through the Urgals’ ranks.

The Urgal line wavered, threatening to break, but they covered themselves with their shields and weathered the attack. Again the archers fired, but the Urgals continued to stream onto the surface at a ferocious rate.

Aregon was dismayed by their numbers. They were supposed to kill every single one? It seemed a madman’s task. Her only encouragement was that he saw none of Galbatorix’s troops with the Urgals. Not yet, at least.

The opposing army formed a solid mass of bodies that seemed to stretch endlessly. Tattered and sullen standards were raised in the monsters’ midst. Baleful notes echoed through Farthen Dûr as war horns sounded. The entire group of Urgals charged with savage war cries.

They dashed against the rows of stakes, covering them with slick blood and limp corpses as the ranks at the vanguard were crushed against the posts. A cloud of black arrows flew over the barrier at the crouched defenders. Aregon ducked behind her shield, and Saphira covered her head. Arrows rattled harmlessly against her armor.

Momentarily foiled by the pickets, the Urgal horde milled with confusion. The Varden bunched together, waiting for the next attack. After a pause, the war cries were raised again as the Urgals surged forward. The assault was bitter. Its momentum carried the Urgals through the stakes, where a line of pikemen jabbed frantically at their ranks, trying to repel them. The pikemen held briefly, but the ominous tide of Urgals could not be halted, and they were overwhelmed.

The first lines of defense breached, the main bodies of the two forces collided for the first time. A deafening roar burst from the men and dwarves as they rushed into the conflict. Saphira bellowed and leapt toward the fight, diving into a whirlwind of noise and blurred action.

With her jaws and talons, Saphira tore through an Urgal. Her teeth were as lethal as any sword, her tail a giant mace. From her back, Aregon parried a hammer blow from an Urgal chief, protecting her vulnerable wings. Zar’roc’s crimson blade seemed to gleam with delight as blood spurted along its length.

From the corner of her eye, Aregon saw Orik hewing Urgal necks with mighty blows of his ax. Beside the dwarf was Murtagh on Tornac, his face disfigured by a vicious snarl as he swung his sword angrily, cutting through every defense. Then Saphira spun around, and Aregon saw Arya leap past the lifeless body of an opponent.

An Urgal bowled over a wounded dwarf and hacked at Saphira’s front right leg. His sword skated off her armor with a burst of sparks. Aregon smote him on the head, but Zar’roc stuck in the monster’s horns and was yanked from her grasp. With a curse she dived off Saphira and tackled the Urgal, smashing his face with the shield. She jerked Zar’roc out of the horns, then dodged as another Urgal charged her.

Saphira, I need you! she shouted, but the battle’s tide had separated them. Suddenly a Kull jumped at her, club raised for a blow. Unable to lift her shield in time, Aregon uttered, “Jierda!” The Kull’s head snapped back with a sharp report as his neck broke. Four more Urgals succumbed to Zar’roc’s thirsty bite, then Murtagh rode up beside Aregon, driving the press of Urgals backward.

“Come on!” he shouted, and reached down from Tornac, pulling Aregon onto the horse.

They rushed toward Saphira, who was embroiled in a mass of enemies. Twelve spear wielding Urgals encircled her, needling her with their lances. They had already managed to prick both of her wings. Her blood splattered the ground. Every time she rushed at one of the Urgals, they bunched together and jabbed at her eyes, forcing her to retreat. She tried to sweep the spears away with her talons, but the Urgals jumped back and evaded her.

The sight of Saphira’s blood enraged Aregon. She swung off Tornac with a wild cry and stabbed the nearest Urgal through the chest, withholding nothing in her frenzied attempt to help Saphira. Her attack provided the distraction Saphira needed to break free. With a kick, she sent an Urgal flying, then barreled to Aregon. Aregon grabbed one of her neck spikes and pulled herself back into her saddle. Murtagh raised his hand, then charged into another knot of Urgals.

By unspoken consent, Saphira took flight and rose above the struggling armies, seeking a respite from the madness. Aregon’s breath trembled. Her muscles were clenched, ready to ward off the next attack. Every fiber of her being thrilled with energy, making her feel more alive than ever before.

Saphira circled long enough for them to recover their strength, then descended toward the Urgals, skimming the ground to avoid detection. She approached the monsters from behind, where their archers were gathered.

Before the Urgals realized what was happening, Aregon lopped off the heads of two archers, and Saphira disemboweled three others. She took off again as alarms sounded, quickly soaring out of bow range.

They repeated the tactic on a different flank of the army. Saphira’s stealth and speed, combined with the dim lighting, made it nearly impossible for the Urgals to predict where she would strike next. Aregon used her bow whenever Saphira was in the air, but she quickly ran out of arrows. Soon the only thing left in her quiver was magic, which she wanted to keep in reserve until it was desperately needed.

Saphira’s flights over the combatants gave Aregon a unique understanding of how the battle was progressing. There were three separate fights raging in Farthen Dûr, one by each open tunnel. The Urgals were disadvantaged by the dispersal of their forces and their inability to get all of their army out of the tunnels at once. Even so, the Varden and dwarves could not keep the monsters from advancing and were slowly being driven back toward Tronjheim. The defenders seemed insignificant against the mass of Urgals, whose numbers continued to increase as they poured out of the tunnels.

The Urgals had organized themselves around several standards, each representing a clan, but it was unclear who commanded them overall. The clans paid no attention to each other, as if they were receiving orders from elsewhere. Aregon wished she knew who was in charge so she and Saphira could kill them.

Remembering Ajihad’s orders, she began relaying information to the Twins. They were interested by what she had to say about the Urgals’ apparent lack of a leader and questioned her closely. The exchange was smooth, if brief. The Twins told her, You’re ordered to assist Hrothgar; the fight goes badly for him.

Understood, Aregon responded.

Saphira swiftly flew to the besieged dwarves, swooping low over Hrothgar. Arrayed in golden armor, the dwarf king stood at the fore of a small knot of his kin, wielding Volund, the hammer of his ancestors. His white beard caught the lantern light as he looked up at Saphira. Admiration glinted in his eyes. Saphira landed beside the dwarves and faced the oncoming Urgals. Even the bravest Kull quailed before her ferocity, allowing the dwarves to surge forward. Aregon tried to keep Saphira safe. Her left flank was protected by the dwarves, but to her front and right raged a sea of enemies. She showed no mercy on those and took every advantage she could, using magic whenever Zar’roc could not serve her. A spear bounced off her shield, denting it and leaving her with a bruised shoulder. Shaking off the pain, she cleaved open an Urgal’s skull, mixing brains with metal and bone.

She was in awe of Hrothgar—who, though he was ancient by both the standards of men and dwarves, was still undiminished on the battlefield. No Urgal, Kull or not, could stand before the dwarf king and his guards and live. Every time Volund struck, it sounded the gong of death for another enemy. After a spear downed one of his warriors, Hrothgar grabbed the spear himself and, with astounding strength, hurled it completely through its owner twenty yards away. Such heroism emboldened Aregon to ever greater risks, seeking to hold her own with the mighty king.

Aregon lunged at a giant Kull nearly out of reach and almost fell from Saphira’s saddle. Before she could recover, the Kull darted past Saphira’s defenses and swung his sword.

The brunt of the blow caught Aregon on the side of her helm, throwing her backward and making her vision flicker and her ears ring thunderously.

Stunned, she tried to pull herself upright, but the Kull had already prepared for another blow. As the Kull’s arm descended, a slim steel blade suddenly sprouted from his chest.

Howling, the monster toppled to the side. In his place stood Angela.

The witch wore a long red cape over outlandish flanged armor enameled black and green. She bore a strange two-handed weapon—a long wooden shaft with a sword blade attached to each end. Angela winked at Aregon mischievously, then dashed away, spinning her staff-sword like a dervish. Close behind her was Solembum in the form of a young shaggy-haired boy. He held a small black dagger, sharp teeth bared in a feral snarl.

Still dazed from his battering, Aregon managed to straighten herself in the saddle.

Saphira jumped into the air and wheeled high above, letting her recuperate. Aregon scanned Farthen Dûr’s plains and saw, to her dismay, that all three battles were going badly. Neither Ajihad, Jörmundur, nor Hrothgar could stop the Urgals. There were simply too many.

Aregon wondered how many Urgals she could kill at once with magic. She knew her limits fairly well. If she were to kill enough to make a difference . . . it would probably be suicide. That might be what it took to win.

The fighting continued for one endless hour after another. The Varden and dwarves were exhausted, but the Urgals remained fresh with reinforcements.

It was a nightmare for Aregon. Though she and Saphira fought their hardest, there was always another Urgal to take the place of the one just killed. Her whole body hurt— especially her head. Every time she used magic she lost a little more energy. Saphira was in better condition, though her wings were punctured with small wounds.

As she parried a blow, the Twins contacted her urgently.There are loud noises under Tronjheim. It sounds like Urgals are trying to dig into the city! We need you and Arya to collapse any tunnels they’re excavating.

Aregon dispatched her opponent with a sword thrust. We’ll be right there. She looked for Arya and saw her engaged with a knot of struggling Urgals. Saphira quickly forged a path to the elf, leaving a pile of crumpled bodies in her wake. Aregon extended her hand and said, “Get on!”

Arya jumped onto Saphira’s back without hesitation. She wrapped her right arm around Aregon’s waist, wielding her bloodstained sword with the other. As Saphira crouched to take off, an Urgal ran at her, howling, then lifted an ax and smashed her in the chest.

Saphira roared with pain and lurched forward, feet leaving the ground. Her wings snapped open, straining to keep them from crashing as she veered wildly to one side, right wingtip scraping the ground. Below them, the Urgal pulled back his arm to throw the ax. But Arya raised her palm, shouting, and an emerald ball of energy shot from her hand, killing the Urgal. With a colossal heave of her shoulders, Saphira righted herself, barely making it over the heads of the warriors. She pulled away from the battlefield with powerful wing strokes and rasping breath.

Are you all right? asked Aregon, concerned. She could not see where Saphira had been struck.

I’ll live, she said grimly, but the front of my armor has been crushed together.It hurts my chest, and I’m having trouble moving.

Can you get us to the dragonhold?

. . . We’ll see.

Aregon explained Saphira’s condition to Arya. “I’ll stay and help Saphira when we land,” she offered. “Once she is free of the armor, I will join you.”

“Thank you,” she said. The flight was laborious for Saphira; she glided whenever she could. When they reached the dragonhold, she dropped heavily to Isidar Mithrim, where the Twins were supposed to be watching the battle, but it was empty. Aregon jumped to the floor and winced as she saw the damage the Urgal had done. Four of the metal plates on Saphira’s chest had been hammered together, restricting her ability to bend and breathe. “Stay well,” she said, putting a hand on her side, then ran out the archway.

She stopped and swore. She was at the top of Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. Because of her worry for Saphira, she had not considered how she would get to Tronjheim’s base— where the Urgals were breaking in. There was no time to climb down. She looked at the narrow trough to the right of the stairs, then grabbed one of the leather pads and threw herself down on it.

The stone slide was smooth as lacquered wood. With the leather underneath her, she accelerated almost instantly to a frightening speed, the walls blurring and the curve of the slide pressing her high against the wall. Aregon lay completely flat so she would go faster. The air rushed past her helm, making it vibrate like a weather vane in a gale. The trough was too confined for her, and she was perilously close to flying out, but as long as

she kept her arms and legs still, she was safe.

It was a swift descent, but it still took her nearly ten minutes to reach the bottom. The slide leveled out at the end and sent her skidding halfway across the huge carnelian floor.

When she finally came to a stop, she was too dizzy to walk. Her first attempt to stand made her nauseated, so she curled up, head in her hands, and waited for things to stop spinning.

When she felt better, she stood and warily looked around.

The great chamber was completely deserted, the silence unsettling. Rosy light filtered down from Isidar Mithrim. She faltered—Where was she supposed to go?—and cast out her mind for the Twins. Nothing. She froze as loud knocking echoed through Tronjheim.

An explosion split the air. A long slab of the chamber floor buckled and blew thirty feet up. Needles of rocks flew outward as it crashed down. Aregon stumbled back, stunned, groping for Zar’roc. The twisted shapes of Urgals clambered out of the hole in the floor.

Aregon hesitated. Should she flee? Or should she stay and try to close the tunnel? Even if she managed to seal it before the Urgals attacked her, what if Tronjheim was already breached elsewhere? She could not find all the places in time to prevent the city-mountain from being captured. But if I run to one of Tronjheim’s gates and blast it open, the Varden could retake Tronjheim without having to siege it. Before she could decide, a tall man garbed entirely in black armor emerged from the tunnel and looked directly at her.

It was Durza.

The Shade carried his pale blade marked with the scratch from Ajihad. A black roundshield with a crimson ensign rested on his arm. His dark helmet was richly decorated, like a general’s, and a long snakeskin cloak billowed around him. Madness burned in his maroon eyes, the madness of one who enjoys power and finds himself in the position to use it.

Aregon knew she was neither fast enough nor strong enough to escape the fiend before her. She immediately warned Saphira, though she knew it was impossible for her to rescue her. She dropped into a crouch and quickly reviewed what Brom had told her about fighting another magic user. It was not encouraging. And Ajihad had said that Shades could only be destroyed by a thrust through the heart.

Durza gazed at her contemptuously and said, “Kaz jtierl trazhid! Otrag bagh.” The Urgals eyed Aregon suspiciously and formed a circle around the perimeter of the room.

Durza slowly approached Aregon with a triumphant expression. “So, my young Rider, we meet again. You were foolish to escape from me in Gil’ead. It will only make things worse for you in the end.”

“You’ll never capture me alive,” growled Aregon.

“Is that so?” asked the Shade, raising an eyebrow. The light from the star sapphire gave his skin a ghastly tint. “I don’t see your ‘friend’ Murtagh around to help you. You can’t stop me now. No one can!”

Fear touched Aregon. How does he know about Murtagh? Putting all the derision she could into her voice, she jeered, “How did you like being shot?”

Durza’s face tightened momentarily. “I will be repaid in blood for that. Now tell me where your dragon is hiding.”

“Never.”

The Shade’s countenance darkened. “Then I will force it from you!” His sword whistled through the air. The moment Aregon caught the blade on her shield, a mental probe spiked deep into her thoughts. Fighting to protect her consciousness, she shoved Durza back and attacked with her own mind.

Aregon battered with all her strength against the iron-hard defenses surrounding Durza’s mind, but to no avail. She swung Zar’roc, trying to catch Durza off guard. The Shade knocked the blow aside effortlessly, then stabbed in return with lightning speed.

The point of the sword caught Aregon in the ribs, piercing her mail and driving out her breath. The mail slipped, though, and the blade missed her side by the width of a wire.

The distraction was all Durza needed to break into Aregon’s mind and begin taking control.

“No!” cried Aregon, throwing herself at the Shade. Her face contorted as she grappled with Durza, yanking on his sword arm. Durza tried to cut Aregon’s hand, but it was protected by the mail-backed glove, which sent the blade glancing downward. As Aregon kicked his leg, Durza snarled and swept his black shield around, knocking her to the floor. Aregon tasted blood in her mouth; her neck throbbed. Ignoring her injuries, she rolled over and hurled her shield at Durza. Despite the Shade’s superior speed, the heavy shield clipped her on the hip. As Durza stumbled, Aregon caught him on the upper arm with Zar’roc. A line of blood traced down the Shade’s arm.

Aregon thrust at the Shade with her mind and drove through Durza’s weakened defenses. A flood of images suddenly engulfed her, rushing through her consciousness—

Durza as a young boy living as a nomad with his parents on the empty plains. The tribe abandoned them and called his father “oathbreaker.” Only it was not Durza then, but Carsaib—the name his mother crooned while combing his hair. . . .

The Shade reeled wildly, face twisted in pain. Aregon tried to control the torrent of memories, but the force of them was overwhelming.

Standing on a hill over the graves of his parents, weeping that the men had not killed him as well. Then turning and stumbling blindly away, into the desert. . . .

Durza faced Aregon. Terrible hatred flowed from his maroon eyes. Aregon was on one knee—almost standing—struggling to seal her mind.

How the old man looked when he first saw Carsaib lying near death on a sand dune. The days it had taken Carsaib to recover and the fear he felt upon discovering that his rescuer was a sorcerer. How he had pleaded to be taught the control of spirits. How Haeg had finally agreed. Called him “Desert Rat.”. . .

Aregon was standing now. Durza charged . . . sword raised . . . shield ignored in his fury.

The days spent training under the scorching sun, always alert for the lizards they caught for food. How his power slowly grew, giving him pride and confidence. The weeks spent nursing his sick master after a failed spell. His joy when Haeg recovered . . .

There was not enough time to react . . . not enough time. . . .

The bandits who attacked during the night, killing Haeg. The rage Carsaib had felt and the spirits he had summoned for vengeance. But the spirits were stronger than he expected. They turned on him, possessing mind and body. He had screamed. He was—I AM DURZA!

The sword smote heavily across Aregon’s back, cutting through both mail and skin. She screamed as pain blasted through her, forcing her to her knees. Agony bowed her body in half and obliterated all thought. She swayed, barely conscious, hot blood running down the small of her back. Durza said something she could not hear.

In anguish, Aregon raised her eyes to the heavens, tears streaming down her cheeks. Everything had failed. The Varden and dwarves were destroyed. She was defeated. Saphira would give herself up for her sake—she had done it before—and Arya would be recaptured or killed. Why had it ended like this? What justice could this be? All was for nothing.

As she looked at Isidar Mithrim far above her tortured frame, a flash of light erupted in her eyes, blinding her. A second later, the chamber rang with a deafening report. Then her eyes cleared, and she gaped with disbelief.

The star sapphire had shattered. An expanding torus of huge dagger-like pieces plummeted toward the distant floor—the shimmering shards near the walls. In the center of the chamber, hurtling downward headfirst, was Saphira. Her jaws were open and from between them erupted a great tongue of flame, bright yellow and tinged with blue. On her back was Arya: hair billowing wildly, arm uplifted, palm glowing with a nimbus of green magic.

Time seemed to slow as Aregon saw Durza tilt his head toward the ceiling. First shock, then anger contorted the Shade’s face. Sneering defiantly, he raised his hand and pointed at Saphira, a word forming on his lips.

A hidden reserve of strength suddenly welled up inside Aregon, dredged from the deepest part of her being. Her fingers curled around the hilt of her sword. She plunged through the barrier in her mind and took hold of the magic. All his pain and rage focused on one word: “Brisingr!”

Zar’roc blazed with bloody light, heatless flames running along it . . .

She lunged forward . . .

And stabbed Durza in the heart.

Durza looked down with shock at the blade protruding from his breast. His mouth was open, but instead of words, an unearthly howl burst from him. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He grasped Zar’roc as if to pull it out, but it was lodged firmly in him.

Then Durza’s skin turned transparent. Under it was neither flesh nor bone, but swirling patterns of darkness. He shrieked even louder as the darkness pulsated, splitting his skin.

With one last cry, Durza was rent from head to toe, releasing the darkness, which separated into three entities who flew through Tronjheim’s walls and out of Farthen Dûr.

The Shade was gone.

Bereft of strength, Aregon fell back with arms outstretched. Above her, Saphira and Arya had nearly reached the floor—it looked as if they were going to smash into it with the deadly remains of Isidar Mithrim. As her sight faded, Saphira, Arya, the myriad fragments—all seemed to stop falling and hang motionless in the air.