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Chapter Text

Snowfire was not a plough horse. He would never be a plough horse. He had borne two Dragon Riders on his back. He had carried Roran Stronghammer into chaos and slaughter and bore him out alive, and now he let Stronghammer’s little girl braid flowers and ribbons into his mane and tail and call him Snowfy, and he would even carry the tiny child into town when the traders came.

But he.

Was.

Not.

A.

Plough.

Horse.

And he was offended that Roran, his friend, would stable him in a building within a mile of a plough.

To add insult to injury, Roran seemed to be trying his damndest every day to get Snowfire to change his stance on the matter. Each morning, before working the farm, Roran would come into the stable with a large, padded leather yoke and harness. He would show them to Snowfire, probably expecting him to investigate them—Snowfire refused to acknowledge them—and recently he’d started to drape the harness over Snowfire’s back, and rub at Snowfire’s nose with the yoke.

The very idea of being put into harness was humiliating! Snowfire displayed his displeasure with adamance, tossing his head and circling Roran in the stall. Roran’s wife, Katrina, sighed at him—Snowfire didn’t know her all that well, so he wasn’t too hurt—but not even little Ismira was on his side! She giggled and called him ‘naughty Snowfy.’ Humans!

Fortunately, he now had someone to complain to.

The house and barn had both been standing and working for several months after the war when Roran received a visitor. Snowfire didn’t catch his name, but the man had two horses: a spry young mare that he was riding, and a strangely familiar, mellow gray stallion alongside. The man had been a soldier in the Varden, and had ridden the stallion into battle; but now that there was no longer a war, the warhorse was far too much fire for the veteran to maintain. He’d gone looking to sell the poor beast, but had had no luck.

And then Roran offered to take the stallion off of his friend’s hands, and now the big gray lived permanently in the stable next to Snowfire.

His name was Tornac, and Ismira absolutely adored him—almost as much as Snowfire, though the paler gray suspected his shiny, silvery coat might be more alluring to an almost-three-year-old.

Roran hadn’t yet tried to put Tornac into harness, but now, at the end of some work days, Katrina could ride the gray while Roran was back in Snowfire’s saddle (where Snowfire thought he belonged), and the lovey-dovey couple had splendidly romantic outings while Ismira remained with the blacksmith’s family.

Today was a different day. It started out the same as any other day: Roran came in early with Ismira, and the little girl watched with delight as her father and Snowfire did their little ritual. But then Roran chuckled, stroked Snowfire’s milky nose, and left the box… to venture into the next one over and offer the harness to Tornac.

Snowfire watched, aghast, as the noble gray snuffled at the proffered leather curiously, and then made no complaint as Roran slid the yoke over his head. Ismira laughed from her spot where she was braiding Snowfire’s mane (she was perched on the stall door, and Snowfire always sidled up close to her when she did so, fearful of her falling).

Roran cast a smug look Snowfire’s way. “See?” he told the stallion. “It’s not so bad. You’re just stubborn.”

Rubbing further salt into the wounds of Snowfire’s pride, Ismira dropped Snowfire’s mane and bounced to the floor, skipping over to Tornac’s stall to pet his nose. “Pretty pony!” she cooed, smacking a kiss on Tornac’s nose.

Snowfire decided that this would not stand. He marched to the dividing wall between his and Tornac’s boxes and stretched his head across, lipping at the yoke. Roran laughed and pulled another, newer-looking harness from around the corner.

As it turned out, Roran had been planning on getting another horse anyway. The plough he had was not particularly huge or heavy—he could heft it to where he needed it to be himself with no more effort than the heaviest logs he’d used to build the house and barn—but Snowfire was bred for agility, not brute strength. So both Snowfire and Tornac were hitched to the plough, and Snowfire decided that, with a friend, maybe it wasn’t entirely despicable.

Of course, his opinion on it diminished as the day wore on. The section of field Roran wanted to work today was quite large, and hadn’t been ploughed in a couple of years. Though the final snow had melted only three weeks ago, somehow Roran had chosen the hottest spring day yet. Every hour or so, Roran would bring Tornac and Snowfire to a halt, and Katrina and Ismira would come out into the field with a bucket of not-too-cold water for the horses to drink from, and when they were done Roran would take a wet cloth and rub their legs, which felt nice.

The section took about half the day to plough. When they were finished, Roran seemed very pleased with how Snowfire and Tornac had done, and the pair of them received very long, thorough rubbing-downs, which was lovely, and Katrina brought them each a bowl of sliced beets, carrots, and apples all drizzled with a bit of molasses, and then a nice mash. As evening fell, the family supped on the lawn of new grass between the house and the barn, and the horses grazed beside them, bemused by their celebrations—of a field being ploughed, but most importantly of a life coming together into something resembling normal. Snowfire had been a part of this family for over two years, and had seen Roran and Katrina return to their old home with Ismira in tow, and watched as everything was rebuilt from the ground up, relying on supplies from nearby Therinsford, funded by the capital. This was not the first new Carvahall field to be ploughed, but it was an accomplishment nonetheless, that another family had fully settled back into place.

The horses were given the next day off. Roran turned them loose into the woods he’d cordoned off for them, and they spited their own soreness and frolicked in the shade of the pines, while Roran planted the field beneath the sun. Midway through the day, Katrina brought Ismira to the fence, and Snowfire charged from the trees and slid to a stop just before them, pleased to elicit delighted giggles from Ismira. Tornac pranced out of the woods moments later, carrying his head and neck in a gracefully arched manner.

Ismira and her mother chatted to and about the horses for a little while, scratched behind their ears, stroked their long faces. Katrina steadied Ismira on the fence, and the little girl beamed with joy when she realized she had a horse on either side to give love to.

And then the day ended, and then the next day came, and Snowfire was perturbed to realize that Roran wanted another section of field ploughed.

The work was much the same: pulling the plough where Roran directed them, stopping every hour to be watered. What was not the same was the man falling from the sky.

Snowfire and Tornac had found an excellent rhythm in their step, and there were very few rocks to deter the plough from its steady straight lines. They were in the middle of a stretch when, from the northeast, a strange-smelling breeze blew over them. The wind heralded a great red shape swooping over the field, marked too by the high-pitched whistle of its speed. Both horses stopped, not nearly as concerned about a dragon as they might once have been, but nervous all the same.

And then another noise: a yell, or a scream, or something between the two, quiet but steadily growing louder—AAAAAAAAAAAAHH—until with a thump a man landed in the dirt in front of the horses. Snowfire whinnied and reared in the harness, more surprised than afraid, while Tornac nickered curiously.

Roran scrambled around the horses to get a good look at the newcomer from the sky. The man, dressed in a belted black tunic and long pants, groaned and muttered muffled curses into the dirt.

“Holy crap, you’re alive,” Roran said in amazement.

With a pained grunt, the man in the dirt pushed himself upright, squinting up at Roran and the horses. “Apparently I am,” he grumbled with displeasure. “Despite being thrown into a field by my own dragon.”

Roran held out a hand and helped the man up from the dirt. “You’re Murtagh, right?” he asked. “Eragon’s brother?”

Dusting himself off, the newcomer frowned. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Do you know him?”

“Yes, he’s my cousin,” Roran said dryly.

That seemed to stop Murtagh in his tracks for a good minute. “Oh,” was all he said. Then he frowned at the horses, and stumbled over to the gray. “Is that—is that Tornac ?!”

“It is, actually,” Roran told him. “Do you know him?”

“I raised him,” Murtagh exclaimed softly, cradling the stallion’s head in his hands and stroking his nose. He chuckled, “I’ll admit, I never imagined him taking to farmwork.”

Roran grinned. “He’s a damn sight better about it than Snowfire. Lucky coincidence, I suppose, that he ended up here. A friend of mine just brought him here a few days ago, said he was a good horse but had had no luck selling him.”

Murtagh snorted, discreetly wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “Not surprised. Tornac’s… picky about new people. And other horses. Maybe he remembered Snowfire.”

“The two of them do get along very well,” Roran observed. He shaded his eyes and looked toward the house to see Katrina, with Ismira on her hip, coming out to the field to investigate Murtagh’s arrival. “Since it appears you’ve been dropped off by your dragon, why don’t you stay here until he comes back?” Roran offered. “We have an extra room in the house.”

Snowfire was curious of Murtagh’s shocked silence. He remembered meeting the handsome stranger, just before his first rider died, and how the young man had offered his companionship to an injured, grieving Eragon. And now, he realized he did have reason to recognize Tornac: the gray had taken handsome Cadoc’s place by his side.

Where was he going with all of this? Oh, yes, Murtagh’s relationship with kindness. Without any real reason, and more guarantee of danger than safety, the young stranger had given kindness to Eragon. And now he seemed surprise to receive kindness in his own turn.

It was a long moment before Murtagh hesitantly replied, “That—that would be great. Thank you.” He and Roran clasped arms—a strange human habit that Snowfire had never even tried to understand.

“Hello there!” Katrina called as she approached. “Oh, goodness—you must be Murtagh,” she said, eyeing his dusty clothes.

Murtagh spread his arms and gave a half-bow. “Indeed, I appear to be wearing my name in bright glowing letters on my shirt.” They laughed, and Ismira tugged gently at her mother’s hair and whispered in her ear, casting a confused glance at Murtagh.

Katrina leaned in close and said quietly, “Murtagh. Mur-tagh.”

Ismira blinked, and, with a look of intense concentration, opened her mouth and said determinedly, “Murp.”

Roran slapped a hand to his face. Katrina howled with laughter. And Murtagh giggled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Oh, Thorn’s gonna love this,” he gasped. “That’s it. That’s my name now. Murp. Uncle Murp?” he questioned.

Katrina nodded between her snickers. “Uncle Murp,” she confirmed.

Ismira looked incredibly pleased with herself. “Murp!” she said gleefully.

Snowfire didn’t know what was so funny, but finally Murtagh… or was he Murp now? Whatever his name was, he finally seemed to relax. And Tornac was more content than he’d ever been, more even than he’d been with his molasses-coated apples and carrots. And though there had been a dragon in the sky, there was no fire in the ground, and no armor, bloodstained or otherwise, in sight.

So Snowfire decided that life was good.

Chapter Text

Tornac’s early life had been one of close companionship with a kind, but bitter, soul. Kind, to raise Tornac with a gentle hand and encouraging words. Bitter, to flee the company of others in favor of Tornac’s quiet stall. Without realizing it, Tornac made it his duty to protect this bittersweet companion of his, to listen to his words even if he didn’t understand them, to allow him close where other creatures would not be permitted.

He and his prickly rider had many adventures together; racing the snooty royal cavalry horses, travelling alongside a great scaly beast, keeping pace with a shining white stallion who had an inflated sense of his own importance. And then through a waterfall and beneath a mountain, where horses were not supposed to be—but Tornac followed his world-weary master, steadfast in the face of the underworld he found himself in.

And the battle! A great battle, the thrill of the fight that Tornac was born for, enemies falling on either side to his rider’s shining blur of a sword, the great scaly beast beside them shaking the ground with her roars that Tornac no longer feared. Burly horned Urgals snarled and gnashed their teeth and Tornac knew no fear of them—he charged them with a manic glee, placing his full trust in his rider’s direction, numb and blind to all but the touch of his rider’s boot and the closest enemy.

Finally, the battle ended; finally, the war-thrill faded. Tornac and his rider travelled far beneath the ground, though he knew his rider often walked those journeys.

But one day, his rider didn’t reappear when he should have. And then the next, and the next, and even the next he remained gone. Tornac began to pace his stall, growing restless without exercise, trapped in walls of stone. Snowfire was stabled beside him, and offered a little comfort in companionship.

Until he left, too.

And Tornac was alone.

With no rider.

With no friend.

Only the stony walls that grew too close and the unfriendly people who tossed him hay and grain and mucked out his bedding.

Perhaps a few days passed like that, perhaps it was years—Tornac’s sense of time was already unreliable, and hardly became more so without the passing of the sun overhead—but someone came to fetch him. Delighted to escape the cramped confines of his stable, and irritated at having been left there for so long, but mostly overjoyed to be moving again, Tornac may have gotten just a little out of hand. Really, a gallop into the main thoroughfaire was hardly a big deal, but the soldier leading him slid a chain over jis nose and yanked him into place.

Tornac thought that this was quite unreasonable. He’d already stretched his legs, he wouldn’t need to run off again.

The soldier at his side muttered sour curses at Tornac, and led him roughly through passage after passage until he came to an enclosed paddock where several horses in hard leather barding were being ridden. Tornac tossed his head and pranced in place excitedly as another soldier saddled him and gave him barding, but then there was a problem.

Someone who wasn’t his rider tried to mount him.

Now, if his prickly master had been there to let Tornac know that this absolute stranger could be trusted, perhaps events would have gone differently.

As it was, Tornac, immediately offended, pinned his ears and took off bucking.

No one he didn’t trust would ever ride him.

Ever.

The soldiers handling them shouted strings of foul curses at him and yanked him back to the mounting steps, though Tornac would have walked beside them quite docile. Several more men attempted to force Tornac to behave under saddle, and each and every one ended up in the dirt; and again they all jerked at his reins so that the bit sawed painfully at his mouth, but NO MAN would ride Tornac with that kind of disrespect, no sir.

Tornac was beginning to get irritated at these annoying little two-leggers spitting at him and shoving him and tugging him; he began to nip at those who came to close, and hands cracked across his nose in return. The other horses began to call out in sympathy to his squeals of frustration—would these two-leggers never get it?! He was no pack pony! He had a master and only that master would ride him!

“Whoa there!” a sharp voice suddenly cut through the air. “What are you doing to that poor beast?”

The soldiers around Tornac stilled, and he too finally felt safe enough to stop rearing long enough to get a good look at who had spoken.

A woman in tall leather riding boots and neat riding clothes strode towards them, her eyes dark and angry. “I asked you all a question!” she barked. “What warrants that horrid treatment you’re giving him?”

“He’s too wild, Commander Southwood,” said one of the soldiers. “Won’t let nobody ride ’im. He’s that damned Forsworn boy’s horse, bastard didn’t even know how to train.”

Commander Southwood raised an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that,” she said, her voice full of knives. She held out a hand to the soldier holding Tornac’s reins. “Give him to me. I’ll see him assigned.”

“But he’s the Varden’s property now, Commander!” protested one of the soldiers.

“Well that’s just too bad,” said the Commander with an insincere smile. “That horse is trained for one rider and one rider only. He’ll be assigned, or I’ll ride him myself. Hand him over.”

Muttering foul words, the soldier gave up Tornac’s reins.

In the Commander’s firm but forgiving hand, Tornac immediately relaxed, gently touching his nose to her shoulder in thanks as she les him away. She laughed quietly at the display of gratitude, her angry demeanor gone. “You must miss your master, hmm?” she said.

Tornac did. Very much. Commander Southwood seemed to know that.

Commander Southwood—or Alfie, as some people called her—didn’t try to force Tornac to accept her as a rider. She kept him in a new, more spacious stable, with two other horses close by that Alfie worked with: a young strawberry roan mare named Satin, and a senior chestnut gelding named Scruff. Every day, Alfie would feed Tornac, brush him down, and muck out his stall before leaving to do whatever work she had in the day; and in the evenings, she would come back and do it all again, before taking Tornac out of his stall and turning him loose in a fairly spacious corral to exercise in.

Tornac grew to like her. He thought he might let her ride him, if she wanted.

And then one day, she did want to. Alfie brought him to the corral one morning and saddled him, vaulting easily onto his back and settling gently in the saddle. Her commands were subtle but assertive, while her seat and hand were quiet and light. Tornac loved her.

A morning ride was immediately incorporated into Tornac’s routine; sometimes, the soldiers who had tried to force Tornac under their saddles came by to watch. Tornac pinned his ears at them when he passed them, but Alfie didn’t tell him to charge them—except once, for a demonstration on how attuned he was to her commands.

If horses could be smug, Tornac would have been quite pleased at the terrified expressions on their faces.

A lot of time passed, and Tornac knew that, as good as life could be, this was probably as good as it was going to get. But he still missed his solemn, prickly rider who had whispered all of his secrets into Tornac’s mane.

At some point, Alfie introduced him to a serious-faced cavalry officer named Captain Ormund Dancer. He had a steely gray beard and calloused hands, and Tornac’s first impression of him was that he was quite soft beneath all the grim countenance—his first greeting to Tornac was a warm “Hullo, poppet,” with a pat on the nose and a shiny red apple.

Captain Dancer visited often in the following days, and Alfie seemed to be doing her best to help Tornac like him. On one of his vists, Captain Dancer came dressed to ride.

Alfie saddled up Satin, while the Captain saddled Tornac. When the Captain settled in the saddle, Tornac looked to Alfie. She smiled when he did, so he figured the Captain must be all right.

The four of them toured around the hollow mountain; it was the longest Tornac had been ridden since the last time his prickly master had ridden him. Satin was happy to stretch her long sturdy legs, and Tornac easily kept pace with her. The Captain was forward with his hand and kind with his seat, and hardly used his silver spurs at all. By the end of the day, Tornac decided he didn’t mind the old man; which was a good thing, apparently, as Alfie and Satin accompanied him to a new stable, got him settled in to yet another new stall, and then left him in the Captain’s care.

And so it was that Tornac was the proud steed of Captain Dancer when the Varden began to move towards Surda.

As the war dragged on, and many a battle was fought, Tornac began to trust gruff old Ormund almost as much as he trusted Alfie. Neither rider could replace his bittersweet first friend in his heart, but he was well-treated between battles, and Ormund always greeted him with a cheery, “Poppet! Hullo there.”

And then the battles were over. For a few seasons, old Ormund still rode him, carrying out the Queen’s orders, smoothing and spreading their hard-won peace. Tornac was still ready to serve and to please, though he often found Ormund’s set paces to be too relaxed.

After a few years, Ormund began to bring up a young filly he named Slick, though he more often called her Pop-pop, Poppet, Beauty, Sweetheart, Rascal, You’re Lucky You’re Cute, and Prettiest Mare.

Tornac thought the poor filly would get an ego to big for her slender frame, but he couldn’t exactly voice his opinion on the matter.

And, truly, she was a fine horse: a cross between the lean-framed desert breed and a more cold-blooded line from the north, with a coat as black as night that shone like oil—hence the name Slick. Tornac could run for days if he needed to, but Slick was as fast and strong as Ormund wanted her to be, and so eager to please. She carried herself with an almost feline grace, her glossy tail swishing; gorgeous and gentle-tempered. She was the perfect horse for a retired soldier.

Tornac figured that Ormund would soon prefer her to Tornac himself.

Tornac was right.

One spring, riding north in the planting season, Ormund paid a visit to a newly built farmhouse. The man that stepped out to greet them was only vaguely familiar, but the horse grazing by the barn was very familiar.

Snowfire whinnied in greeting, and Tornac whinnied back, excited by a familiar presence.

And so Tornac found himself with a new family, Snowfire stabled beside him (where, frankly, Tornac believed he belonged), cared for by a man who reminded him of a more open aspect of his first solemn rider, and adored by his little copper-haired daughter.

Tornac took to farmwork quite well—much to Snowfire’s dismay—glad to have something for which to put his strength to use. The food was plenty, the water was clean, and the grass was sweet; it couldn’t get much better than this.

Well, not until the familiar smell of dragon washed over them one morning, accompanied by a man tossed to the ground in front of them. The man stood, dusted himself off, greeted Roran warily—and suddenly Tornac recognized him.

Yes, yes it was him! Tornac’s bittersweet rider, his first master, his kind and lonely companion who first introduced Tornac to sugarcubes, and here he was before Tornac’s very eyes! Now more solemn than ever, until he, too, recognized Tornac.

There was no more work that could be done for the rest of the day; at least, not from Tornac. Snowfire pulled the plough on his own, and Tornac stuck to Murtagh’s side like a fly to honey. Ah, and Tornac still knew all of his master’s commands! To bow, to embrace him, to raise his upper lip in what Murtagh called a smile, even to stretch his foreleg forward so that Murtagh could move it up and down with one hand. Little Ismira was delighted at the sight, and even more so when Tornac bowed especially low, and Murtagh easily swung his leg over Tornac’s barrel to ride him without tack.

It was a good day, and it descended into a good evening. Murtagh stabled him and saw him fed while Roran tended to Snowfire, and the two men talked while grooming their respective charges.

As twilight darkened outside, Roran put his things away and said, “Katrina will have dinner ready shortly, and I can show you the room where you’ll be staying.”

Murtagh smiled. “I’d appreciate that. Could I just… have another moment with him?”

“Of course,” said Roran, and then he was gone.

Tornac turned his full attention to his two-legged friend. Murtagh had wound a hand in Tornac’s mane, and he rested his forehead between Tornac’s eyes, the way he used to in Tornac’s murky memories. He spoke softly, in words Tornac didn’t understand, but he knew their meaning deep in his bones; Murtagh told him all of his secrets and heartaches just as he used to, though these were far more heartbreaking than they had ever been.

The whole time, Tornac never moved a muscle, save to twitch an ear or his tail. Even when Murtagh’s words slowed and stopped, Tornac didn’t move until Murtagh did.

Murtagh gave him a smile, full of all the sentiments he couldn’t find the words to say.

And even as he turned away, Tornac was happy. For the first time in many, many years, he was finally at peace with the world; his solemn rider, with the whole world nipping at his heels, was neither dead nor destroyed. He had grown.

And Tornac felt a pride in his soul that seemed almost not his own.