I wrote this... Months ago. A year ago. I don't know. Anyway, it was languishing in my documents folder and I decided to resurrect it.

There is a major shift in POV about two-thirds in... Please do let me know what you think of the shift and story structure. I haven't tried this before.

Merry Christmas!

It wasn't surprising, frankly, that this was the first time she was hearing this story. The elves knew better than to speak of such things, and the dwarves had more worthy things to do.

No, of course it would be the race of men.

Humans. Now there was a contradiction. Such a race of extremes and inconsistencies, passion and despair. Perhaps it was because their lives were so short. That certainly had to have an effect on their collective psyche.

Arya allowed herself the luxury of a sigh as she sat cross-legged on a bench in a nameless tavern in Illiria. She was perfectly aware that she really ought to have been sleeping. Nasuada's council would likely stretch late into tomorrow evening, and she was certainly not looking forward to participating.

Did the human queen truly believe that the elves would even consider supporting her strictures against magicians and spell casters? Nasuada had implemented legistature controlling magic twenty years before, shortly after the fall of Galbatorix, but now was concerned that her ruling was being circumvented.

Well, of course it was. Spell casters were spell casters; they certainly would not volunteer to give up their freedom, whether if asked by a human or one of some other race. And to ask the elves to help institute such a procedure… Asking elves to give up magic would be like asking men to give up water.

This train of thought led her naturally back to her previous sense of pique. Humans. Such a curious race… Hypocritical, impulsive, unreliable… Yet generous, forgiving, and friendly. And she knew that if she wanted to be honest, she understood humans better than almost any other of her kind.

She had her years transporting to Saphira's egg to thank for that; moreover, she had the months she spent with Eragon that had given her a crash course in human motive and ideology.

Not that Eragon was a typical human. As much as she understood humans, so he understood the elves. Perhaps that was why he had been so attracted to her at first.

Arya shifted on the wooden bench, leaning against one of the dirty tavern's support beams as she returned her wandering mind to the story that a bard told to the eager audience around her. It was full of inaccuracies, as was only to be expected.

Still, the tale was intriguing, and certainly a better way to pass the hours than in the bland, mindless blur of other people's conversation. And there was no way she was willing to return to her quarters at the palace so quickly. The mood at said location was… distinctly unpleasant at the moment.

The bard spoke of Eragon and Saphira, partners of mind and heart, bonded in childhood and innately linked. He spoke of the tragedy of the death of Eragon's foster father, their meeting with Brom, and the journey across Alagaesia to meet with a mysterious group known as "The Varden."

She listened in amusement and a significant amount of interest. Two decades removed these men and women from the time of Galbatorix's reign; what did they now think of the mad king and the bitter struggle for freedom?

If she sought the truth however, she was disappointed. In the tales of the War, as with all things, history had been written by the victor. The story was a watered-down version of true events, complete with admiration and respect and awe for Eragon and Saphira and disregard for members of other races.

But so runs the course of history. In another twenty years, the story would perhaps be redacted and redirected through the bias of a different race. She wondered how the dwarves told this tale.

Arya let the sounds of the tavern surround her and merge into an almost comforting blur. People were swirls of color and light, and no one gave her hastily-magicked disguise a second glance.

"…And then, in a dream, Eragon had a vision of a lovely elf princess, trapped and tormented in a jail cell of the evil Galbatorix."

Despite years spent acquiring self-control, Arya struggled to keep an emotionless face. Since when was her story well known? Why had her life become common knowledge? Regardless of her personal feelings of privacy, the sooner the elves faded into the background, the better it would be for both races. Unfortunately, her story, melded with the heroic tales of Eragon Shadeslayer, would now be immortalized. She ground her teeth tightly together.

"…He rescued the princess, Arya by name, and fled with her to the land of the dwarves. She was very ill from her long imprisonment, but he fell immediately in love with her spirit and beauty."

What on earth?

"And Arya too fell deeply in love with her rescuer on the course of their journey…"

She couldn't believe her artificially rounded ears.

"But she refrained from admitting her feelings, fearing the effects that such a declaration would have in the midst of a war."

The inaccuracies of the bard's tale, so innocent and even charming before, were now irritating and ugly.

"…After the battle of Furthen-Dur, she brought him with her to the land of the elves, to the north… Taught him the art of fighting with magic and the sword… Healed his crippled back… They returned to the aid of the Varden… Fought many valiant battles…"

Arya watched icily, lips pressed firmly together so tightly that they turned pale. The bard went on and on, and she retreated still farther into herself.

"…But despite their victory, they could never be together. They said their goodbyes on a wind-swept plain one night, as Eragon prepared to leave Alagaesia forever. Tears shining upon her cheeks, Arya kissed him passionately and fled into the night."

Arya's eyes flashed angrily.

Now the bard's voice dropped, "And no man knows what followed. Some say she relented and left Alagaesia forevermore to be united with her true love. Others that she stayed and reigns as queen of the elves. Some even say that Eragon himself returns from time to time, visiting the land of his birth and the only woman he ever loved."

Arya snorted, the sound lost amid the fervent applause that greeted the end of the bard's tale.

With sarcastic care, she placed several coins upon the table and stepped smoothly from the tavern, weaving around masses of drunken men begging for a second story.

Slipping down the dark streets, she ran to the city walls and lofted herself gracefully over them, using magic to cushion her fall outside the town.

Utterly ridiculous.

Her cheeks burned, not with embarrassment but with fury. How dare they? How dare they?

Humans! Had they nothing better to do than create such tales? As if they knew anything.

Firnen, chasing down a herd of deer when he caught his Rider's distress, immediately returned to the city, concern emanating across their mental link as he flew.

Uncharacteristicly, Arya blocked his compassion, content only with fury.

Phrases such as "love at first sight" and "passionate kiss" burned in her brain. They had no idea. How could they know?

It was simply the human idea of a good, epic, tragic romance.

Of course she had not loved him when they first met, or even when they had journeyed back to her land. The love of her life—Faolin; she was beginning to be able to think the name without a sense of wrenching loss—had just died. Murdered. And then she'd been imprisoned. Tortured.

And the humans thought she just fell in love with Eragon? Arbitrarily.

He had stumbled his way into her life. Charming but mentally clumsy, earnest but foolish, idealistic but ridiculously naïve. And they expected her to simply fall in love?

And his inability to back off. To take a hint. To realize that he was human and young and she was older and broken by grief that he had yet to imagine.

Finally, he had gotten the message and taken a step back. Then, at last, she could enjoy his friendship as they waited for the battle that ultimately had the potential to kill them both. Still, there was the uncomfortable underlying fact that he wanted more from their friendship and she felt nothing in that sense.

He had not understood her, had not seen her for who she truly was. She was an ideal that he had placed on a pedestal. He loved the idea of her more than he actually loved her. As time passed, as he understood her true nature, he would flit off to another human woman.

And she had been absolutely certain of this.

Until he'd irrevocably shattered her image of him.

"I see you."

Those words echoed around her head, replacing the phrases that had so angered her only moments before. At one of their endless sword fights, he'd seen her, understood her, enough to defeat her in combat.

Thus forced to completely reevaluate her sense of him, she made some uncomfortable realizations. One, that he understood her as very few ever had. He had not at the beginning of their friendship, that she was sure, but he had changed. Second, that he was no long the naïve farmboy he'd once been. Finally, that there was something, some small part of her, that placed his companionship above that of all others. Maybe that would develop into something more, something that she wasn't prepared to deal with.

The days leading up to and including the battle for Iliria were a jumble in her mind, much less clear than usual memories. Eragon had left and returned. They'd fought and won, and she'd returned to Ellesmera. Firnen had hatched. She became queen. She and Eragon had spoken upon the plains south of Du Weldenvarden, and he'd explained his plan to leave. The human kingdom was in shambles. The elven lands were not much better. It was a chaotic and blurred time.

Perhaps that was why she hadn't realized the truth until a full month after Eragon's departure.

The foolish, infatuated boy was gone. He'd been replaced with a thoughtful, confident, and caring man. A man with whom, she realized all too late, she had been completely happy. And he was gone, never to return. And she was bound as Queen and Rider to Alagaesia with bonds that could never been broken.

Maybe humans understood more than she gave them credit for.

Her fury had burnt itself out. For the first time since her mother's death, a feeling akin to the urge to cry tugged at her throat and eyes. She refused it. She had to.

Firnen swooped down beside her, wrapping a massive wing over her body.

She relented, feeling his concern flood into her own consciousness, and released the block between their two minds. Firnen closed his eyes as her memories and thoughts rushed across their mental link.

I knew the whole time. He said gently.

What?

How you felt about him. You just didn't know. And you weren't ready for me to tell you.

Arya toyed with the anger she received from Firnen's admittance, but then released it. There was no point.

I think I love him. She replied unnecessarily, acknowledging what they both already knew.

And what will you do?

There is nothing to be done. I have made my decision. Perhaps it was the wrong one, but it is still mine. I cannot go back.

Firnen snorted softly. No, one can never go back. But there is always something that can be done.

There is a central clearing in the old city of Ellesmera. Some of the elders say that trees have not grown there since the dawn of time. I wouldn't know. I have only twelve years. By the standards of my race, I am but an infant.

They say that Ellesmera was once our capital city. That our rulers reigned there for millennia. Perhaps this is so. Again, I do not know. Even the oldest of our race do not remember it. Queen Arya moved the capital from Ellesmera to the city Pelea, east of Du Weldenvarden, some fifty thousand years ago.

I was born in Pelea, and have lived there throughout my childhood. And I heard stories while growing up. Fantastic stories.

There were once, they say, wars between elves and dragons. Can you even imagine such a thing? Elves could not exist without dragons, nor dragons without elves. We are linked by bonds so ancient that recorded history does not know their origin. Wars with dragons indeed. Ridiculous.

There are tales of dwarves, and of Urgals also. Long ago, it is said, these were different races of beings. And also they tell the stories of men. Such strange creatures they were! I am of the mind that the human race is a fairy story to amuse young children. I cannot imagine such odd beings ever existing here in Alagaesia. Short-lived, ugly beasts. Only a very small portion could achieve the simplest magic. And they ate the flesh of animals. They lived in small, underdeveloped villages sprawled along muddy plains.

But, perhaps, they did exist. Some of the most interesting stories in our entire history speak of men and their deeds. There was a war, the "Great" War, in the time of Queen Arya. She was our greatest leader. My grandfather says that she and a human man fought together to destroy another evil man who held sway over all of Alagaesia.

Imagine. Such a pair had probably never been seen in this land, nor has it since. Eragon was the man's name. That name has a rich history, stretching back to the mythical War with the Dragons.

I am not inclined to believe that such an insignificant beast as a human could affect the elven race. But then again, I also do not believe the idea that once an immense desert stretched for miles in the center of Alagaesia. The lush forests that cover the continent now are all that I know.

Still, I do love these stories. My father is taking me on a journey throughout the entire land. I shall get to see the holds of the Southern Mountains, where dwarves were rumored to dwell, and also the faint traces of "human" habitation.

But we are in the old city Ellesmera now. It is silent, as though the passing years have stripped away anything that might disturb its rest. The trees are immense and smooth. They extend for miles into the sky. There is one ancient tree, though, that dwarfs them all.

It is on the edge of the clearing. The Menoa tree, as I have heard it named, is the oldest living being in Alagaesia. They say it was ancient when Queen Arya reigned. I cannot imagine this.

But Arya is buried at the foot of a knarled root. It is not our custom to bury our dead in the midst of our cities, but she is a special exception. Besides, Ellesmera was mostly deserted when she died. As it still is today. The Menoa tree sighs all alone, waving enormous branches in the gentle breeze. It seems to carry the ghosts of centuries in its bark.

Of all the stories, I like the ones of Queen Arya the most. Perhaps this is because she is said to be my great-great-great grandmother. I should have liked to have met her.

My father says she killed a Shade. Only five beings in all of history have done so, and none of those in the last ten thousand years. They say the power and strength of the elven race is waning, and that someday we shall be as the men and dwarves are. I am not afraid of this. Our end will come or it will not.

They say also that her dragon, Firnen, had long suffered in the captivity of the evil man-king. He was green, the color of dark emeralds. From him issued a long line of progeny. I am bonded to one of his descendants.

But this is the odd thing. My dragon's ancestry is definite, yet mine is not. You see, the queen had one child, a raven-haired girl. But nowhere in our annuals does it mention the girl's father. The only hint of him is sketchy, to say the least.

Supposedly, upon the death of Queen Arya, three thousand four hundred years after the Great War, she was buried under the Menoa Tree. She, in the tradition of our people, was clad in a simple dress and her belongings were given to her daughter and friends, as she had decreed.

Yet they say a blue sword of brightsteel was buried beside her. Glyphs graven into the sapphire metal spelled out the elvish word for "fire."

You see, this description fits that of the sword Brisingr, owned by the human rider Eragon. No one knew where she got it. Eragon had vanished from Alagaesia centuries before. Her daughter refused to speak of it.

This is all that is known: One day, less than a half-century after the war's end, Arya abdicated abruptly and without warning. She vanished from Du Weldenvarden for two thousand years.

When she returned, she was accompanied by her daughter, a beautiful young woman of three hundred years. Immediately, the elven lord who had taken over the knotted throne in her absence returned it to her, despite her protestations. She went on to lead the elven race to prosperity and peace that it had never before known.

She herself, however, looked like she did not know peace. She and her green dragon Firnen were known to wander listlessly about the forest. Though she cared deeply for her people, she never was happy. She died well before old age. Her daughter, when she herself died, passed a story onto her own son that has passed through the years to me. The daughter of Queen Arya believed that her father was the human Eragon.

It may not surprise you to hear that I do not believe this story. Nor do I believe tales of blue swords buried with dead queens. They are stories meant to rationalize inexplicable events or to give credence to a ruler's decrees.

Still, the falsehoods do not take away from the grandeur of the old city. The Menoa Tree itself is worth the visit. The base of the trunk itself is as wide as a small mountain. They say it can take all day to travel around it.

I scramble up an immense root that juts up out of the soil. The root itself is as wide as a full-grown tree. I believe I could spend an entire day just sitting here. But there is a flicker, a glint of light on the ground beneath my feet. I jump down to find the source of the flash.

It is a sword. Buried solidly in long-compacted mud, it resists my efforts to remove it from its resting place. Once I tug it from the earth, however, and brush the dirt off, it gleams like a star. Apparently, it has not lain in the earth long enough to rust or dull. The pommel is a brilliant blue, and the blade itself is a darker blue color. As I scrape the last bit of dirt from the glistening sword, I freeze.

There, inscribed in the blade, are glyphs written in the old style that unmistakably spell a single word:

Brisingr.