Here is a very small fanfiction chapter on Eragon, by Christopher Paolini. This takes place after Chapter 59, The Mourning Sage.
Eragon retires to his quarters completely exhausted. He had been on many tiring journeys before, mainly travelling almost 50 leagues in little over a week with Murtagh, but today had proven to be more than his already failing body could withstand. Every limb in his body feels as if it is filled with wet sand. Fatigue constantly threatens to overcome him as he finds himself rubbing his temples constantly in an vain effort to dull the throbbing pain in his head. Nothing he can do will help with the fatigue drowning his body. Immediately after getting up he had been thrown into the effort of assisting in the Vardens recovery of the battle. Everywhere he went he could see the signs of the destruction. A continuous stream of clean up crews pour in and out through the city, but even they are hard-pressed to subdue the destruction that the great battle had brought. The Varden may have taken a victory, but no reward comes without sacrifice. Sometimes Eragon wonders if he was right in joining the Varden. Maybe all of this death could be avoided by simply not opposing Galbatorix’s rule. He quickly discarded such thoughts however, as he remembered the slave trade he had encountered; he needed to do what was right for the greater good. Although a lot of the humans and dwarves were celebrating the victory, there were still many sad faces present as the families of the fallen mourned. In the back of everyone's mind, looming like an ominous raincloud, lay the thought that if not for Eragon eliminating Durza, the battle was lost for the Varden. This brought about a newfound respect for Eragon and Saphira within the Varden. Everywhere he went people now regarded him with an even higher level of respect, and Saphira with a newfound sense of fear, which she does not seem to mind.
Although the battle had a large impact on the human societies in the Varden, it was the dwarves that suffered the brunt of the blow. A great deal of the Dwarves armor had been ruthlessly destroyed by the savage Urgal and Kull tribes, whom Eragon now regarded with a newfound sense of hatred, fueled by the death of Ajihad. Every time he closed his eyes, he sees their wild, fiery eyes burning through him, blinding him. He could see their horns held high as they attacked innocent people, people with families, people with homes. He could hear their thundering footsteps filling the once peaceful air. Many of the Dwarves warriors fallen as well, especially since they had been at the front lines facing a larger force than the humans. Their biggest loss, however, has to be the gem of their race, now in thousands of fragments. Arya was right in doing what needed to be done. He reassured himself as he lies down, wincing as his scar rubbed against the hard floor. No matter what, everyone has to make sacrifices, even ones as large as Isidar Mithrim. Many of the dwarves, however, did not share his open perspective and are enraged. The dwarves blatantly refused to pick the pieces up off the ground, and would rather simply leave them there. Since Arya, an elf, had broken it, there is a small chance that some of the dwarves will take this as an opportunity to start to break away from the elves alliance, but if they are smart they will not. It will bring about a lot more trouble than is necessary and will not end well for either party.
His thoughts then drifted to the events directly following the end of the battle. Smiling bitterly he recalled the messenger who had called him with the title, Eragon Shadeslayer. Although he was proud of the title, he is not sure if the sacrifice was worth it. The damage that it had done to him could cost him and the Varden greatly. Eragon is one of their only hopes against Galbatorix, and he cannot do anything in battle due to his injury. He stroked the top of his scar, wincing as he felt its width and depth. Every time he reached for his back he half hoped to see the scar completely gone from his body, just like the baby fat he had attached to his body when he had left Carvahall. Although he knew such a miracle is most likely never going to happen, it still gave him the slightest bit of hope, however small, and he clung on to it. Earlier in the day, he had experienced a jarring attack while attempting to lift a heavy brick that almost immediately knocked him unconscious in pain. He had experienced the sensation of white-hot lightning bolts coursing through and electrocuting every nerve in his body. The agony had left him scared to do anything with his back, and he knows that this is only the first of many attacks which he will face. If only I could go back, maybe I would have never met the shade in the first place, I would have never left Carvahall, he thinks to himself as he lies in bed, although he does not bother guarding his mind, so Saphira can hear him quite clearly. His thoughts were interrupted by Saphira’s deep rumble. Do not dwell on such thoughts little one. Everything will work out. She reassured him. We will travel with Arya to the Mourning Sage who will be able to guide us. Eragon allowed himself a brief smile, letting Saphira’s comforting words blanket him as he fell into a deep, peaceful, sleep.
Eragon retires to his quarters completely exhausted. He had been on many tiring journeys before, mainly travelling almost 50 leagues in little over a week with Murtagh, but today had proven to be more than his already failing body could withstand. Every limb in his body feels as if it is filled with wet sand. Fatigue constantly threatens to overcome him as he finds himself rubbing his temples constantly in an vain effort to dull the throbbing pain in his head. Nothing he can do will help with the fatigue drowning his body. Immediately after getting up he had been thrown into the effort of assisting in the Vardens recovery of the battle. Everywhere he went he could see the signs of the destruction. A continuous stream of clean up crews pour in and out through the city, but even they are hard-pressed to subdue the destruction that the great battle had brought. The Varden may have taken a victory, but no reward comes without sacrifice. Sometimes Eragon wonders if he was right in joining the Varden. Maybe all of this death could be avoided by simply not opposing Galbatorix’s rule. He quickly discarded such thoughts however, as he remembered the slave trade he had encountered; he needed to do what was right for the greater good. Although a lot of the humans and dwarves were celebrating the victory, there were still many sad faces present as the families of the fallen mourned. In the back of everyone's mind, looming like an ominous raincloud, lay the thought that if not for Eragon eliminating Durza, the battle was lost for the Varden. This brought about a newfound respect for Eragon and Saphira within the Varden. Everywhere he went people now regarded him with an even higher level of respect, and Saphira with a newfound sense of fear, which she does not seem to mind.
Although the battle had a large impact on the human societies in the Varden, it was the dwarves that suffered the brunt of the blow. A great deal of the Dwarves armor had been ruthlessly destroyed by the savage Urgal and Kull tribes, whom Eragon now regarded with a newfound sense of hatred, fueled by the death of Ajihad. Every time he closed his eyes, he sees their wild, fiery eyes burning through him, blinding him. He could see their horns held high as they attacked innocent people, people with families, people with homes. He could hear their thundering footsteps filling the once peaceful air. Many of the Dwarves warriors fallen as well, especially since they had been at the front lines facing a larger force than the humans. Their biggest loss, however, has to be the gem of their race, now in thousands of fragments. Arya was right in doing what needed to be done. He reassured himself as he lies down, wincing as his scar rubbed against the hard floor. No matter what, everyone has to make sacrifices, even ones as large as Isidar Mithrim. Many of the dwarves, however, did not share his open perspective and are enraged. The dwarves blatantly refused to pick the pieces up off the ground, and would rather simply leave them there. Since Arya, an elf, had broken it, there is a small chance that some of the dwarves will take this as an opportunity to start to break away from the elves alliance, but if they are smart they will not. It will bring about a lot more trouble than is necessary and will not end well for either party.
His thoughts then drifted to the events directly following the end of the battle. Smiling bitterly he recalled the messenger who had called him with the title, Eragon Shadeslayer. Although he was proud of the title, he is not sure if the sacrifice was worth it. The damage that it had done to him could cost him and the Varden greatly. Eragon is one of their only hopes against Galbatorix, and he cannot do anything in battle due to his injury. He stroked the top of his scar, wincing as he felt its width and depth. Every time he reached for his back he half hoped to see the scar completely gone from his body, just like the baby fat he had attached to his body when he had left Carvahall. Although he knew such a miracle is most likely never going to happen, it still gave him the slightest bit of hope, however small, and he clung on to it. Earlier in the day, he had experienced a jarring attack while attempting to lift a heavy brick that almost immediately knocked him unconscious in pain. He had experienced the sensation of white-hot lightning bolts coursing through and electrocuting every nerve in his body. The agony had left him scared to do anything with his back, and he knows that this is only the first of many attacks which he will face. If only I could go back, maybe I would have never met the shade in the first place, I would have never left Carvahall, he thinks to himself as he lies in bed, although he does not bother guarding his mind, so Saphira can hear him quite clearly. His thoughts were interrupted by Saphira’s deep rumble. Do not dwell on such thoughts little one. Everything will work out. She reassured him. We will travel with Arya to the Mourning Sage who will be able to guide us. Eragon allowed himself a brief smile, letting Saphira’s comforting words blanket him as he fell into a deep, peaceful, sleep.