Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE: HAUNTED

Eragon was awakened by a sharp rap on his door, which drew him out of his dream-like state of resting and caused him to sit up straight. Saphira lifted her head, before a small voice on the other side of the door said,

“Master Eragon?” In a quiet murmur. Eragon recognized the voice of Kharnine–the Urgal girl who had begun training at Mt. Argnor the previous spring. Eragon frowned and rose to answer the door.

He found Kharnine and her dragon Shillith–who had grown to stand just above her height in the intervening months of their training–waiting in the wide hallway, looking nervous.

“Yes, Kharnine, is everything alright?”

Saphira swiveled her head behind him and blinked at Shillith.

“Um, well… it’s…” Kharning looked down the hall, which was peppered by the lights of a few dwarven lanterns.

“...it’s Master Murtagh, sir. I think you might need to come.”

Eragon donned his heavy jacket against the cold winter air, and pulled his boots on, hesitating a moment, before strapping Brisingr to his waist and rising.

I can accompany you, Saphira murmured tiredly.

No, it’s fine. I don’t want to catch Blodgharm and other guard’s attention if I can avoid it.

Perhaps his attention needs to be caught. This is not the first time.

I know, Saphira, Eragon sighed, giving her a kiss on her scaly brow, I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Hmmm.

He closed the door quietly and felt Saphira drift back into her dreaming, as he followed Kharnine and Shillith down the hallway of the keep, past the chambers of the other riders, elves, dwarves and urgals who called it home. 

He carried a dwarven lantern to guide the way–more for Kharnine’s sake than his own, as he could see well enough on a moonlit night like tonight. 

They slipped out through a side door in the kitchens, rather than go straight out of the main doors, which would be guarded from above by the night watchmen–or watch- dwarves , in this case–and Blodgharm.

Kharnine’s arms swung as she waded through the freshly-fallen snow that had accumulated during the previous day, soft flakes still drifting down through the black night, dissolving as they came in contact with Eragon’s flameless lantern.

“Shill wanted to go for a night fly,” Kharnine explained, her rough voice dampened by the snow as they walked, “So I came out to keep him company, and I–I heard…” 

Kharnine gestured uneasily past a gathering of trees, and Eragon opened his ears, picking up on an uneven whistling sound and the murmurs of a one-sided conversation. He gripped the lantern tightly, his mouth turning down.

When they reached the trees they followed a small path that Eragon knew led to a clearing, one where they often did exercises and practiced meditation. There was no light except the clouded moon, but through the trees Eragon could see the shape of his brother’s dragon Thorn, sitting on the cold ground, hunched. 

The voice grew clearer as Eragon and Kharnine approached, and Eragon recognized it to be Murtagh, though whether he was talking to himself or to Thorn, Eragon couldn’t tell.

Thorn noticed the light of the lantern before they had passed the last of the trees, but Murtagh’s back was turned when Eragon and Kharnine stepped out into the clearing. 

Murtagh was swinging his sword Zar’roc in one hand, making jabs and blocks as though fighting an invisible enemy, and in the other hand hung a jug which Eragon knew contained liquor. 

Thorn made a little whining noise in his throat when he saw Eragon, as though pleading for help. This caused Murtagh to finally notice the lantern-light, and he turned, his eyes misty with drink and his movements uneven.

“Eragon!” He took a deep, smiling breath and raised the jug in greeting, Zar’roc’s tip sinking into the snow beside him.

“Wha-you–did–what are you doing?” He asked, blinking in the sudden light. 

Eragon’s lips were pressed, his shoulders tense. This was not the first time he had found his brother drunk and oblivious in the middle of the night, behaving in a way that was ill-fitting of a rider instructor. 

Eragon had previously scolded him for waking up some of the dwarves with his noise, but instead of quitting his carousing, he had evidently decided to take it from his chambers to the wooded clearing, where the temperature was enough to make Eragon’s bones chill. 

“Was… going to ask you the same thing,” Eragon said curtly.

“I’m pr–I’m just practicing,” Murtagh said blearily, swinging Zar’roc in a few lazy loops, as if to show his improvement. Eragon glanced at Thorn, who looked distressed.

“Well… I think it’s… probably time to go to sleep,” He said, his eyes flicking towards Kharnine, who seemed embarrassed. 

He hated that a student had been the one to find Murtagh this time. Though Murtagh’s penchant for imbibing too much drink was by no means a secret around the keep, he at least hadn’t shamed himself in front of any of the young riders up to this point. Now Eragon knew Kharnine would have a hard time respecting her instructor, after seeing him in this state.

“I’m not–I’m alright, you can go to sleep, you go, if you want,” Murtagh shook his head and rubbed his eye with the back of the hand that held Zar’roc, swinging the sword up unceremoniously. He took another drink.

“I think Thorn wants to go to sleep too,” Eragon suggested, gesturing to the dragon, whose head hung low. He blinked in Eragon’s direction thankfully.

“Thorn’s not–he’s–he can’t sleep inside. He doesn’t like to be inside.”

“He’s got his balcony, right? Outside your chambers?” Eragon suggested. This had been his effort to stop Murtagh camping down the slope from the keep after he’d decided to stay permanently at Mt. Argnor. 

Thorn was uncomfortable indoors, and avoided it as much as possible, so his sleeping cushion was set up on a small balcony with doors that opened to Murtagh’s bedroom. Thorn seemed pleased enough with the arrangement, but Murtagh had not quite settled in at Mt. Argnor yet.

Eragon is right, Thorn rumbled to all of them, It is time to put down the drink and sword, Murtagh, and to rest.

“I’m not–I’ve got energy! I don’t need to rest.”

As if to demonstrate his energy, Murtagh took a swig from the liquor jug, then spun Zar’roc around one-handed–swooping and slashing, the jug raised in his other grasp. In his drunken state, however, his limbs were clumsy, and he didn’t notice a rock hidden under a pile of new snow. 

His foot caught the rock and he tripped, and as he stumbled forward, Zar’roc swung upwards in an arc, and caught the edge of Thorn’s front leg.

Eragon heard Kharnine gasp as the dragon let out an angered growl and jumped back, blood suddenly dripping on the white snow around him. 

Eragon cursed and hurried forward, as Murtagh caught his momentum and tried to straighten, leaning on the tip of Zar’roc, and blinking blearily. 

Are you alright? Eragon asked, coming to Thorn’s side. Only the tip of the blade had sliced into Thorn’s scales, and the cut was not deep, but Eragon winced as the dragon held his foreleg up like a wounded werecat.

It is not bad, He rumbled, but his eyes were flicking to Murtagh, whose expression was still glazed, confused more than distressed at the damage he’d caused.

“Oh, I’m–I can fix that, let me fix that,” Murtagh stumbled forward, his sword still dangerously attached to his unsteady limb.

“I’ve got it,” Eragon snapped, standing over Thorn’s leg.

“He’s my–I can do it,” Murtagh insisted, his speech slurred.

“I said I’ve got it,” Eragon put a hand on Murtagh’s chest to keep him and the sword away. Murtagh blinked at him, his expression foggy and annoyed, but he stayed back.

“Waise heill ,” Eragon spoke over the wound, and he felt energy draining from him as Thorn’s skin knit itself back together and the dragon wriggled at the uncomfortable sensation.

Thank you, Thorn said, his large red eyes full of melancholy as he pulled his leg back. Eragon turned to Murtagh then, and said,

“Alright, now give me the sword,” He held out his hand tiredly, frustrated and annoyed–and furious at Murtagh for hurting Thorn in his carelessness. Murtagh frowned.

“It’s not yours,” He said crossly, “That’s–it–my father gave it to me. He’s not your father.”

“I’m not going to take it. You can have it back tomorrow,” Eragon sighed heavily.

“It’s not yours!” Murtagh insisted, getting angrier. Eragon was worried things were going to escalate in Murtagh’s inebriated state, but then Thorn let out a low rumble.

Give him the sword, Murtagh, or I shall have to take it from you.

Murtagh frowned angrily between the two of them, shifting Zar’roc in his hand and pouting like a child, his breath visible in the cold air.

One more growl from Thorn and he huffed and tossed the red blade into the snow between them. Eragon rolled his eyes, before bending to pick it up, safely away from the drunken rider.

“Now the flask,” Eragon gestured to the jug in Murtagh’s hand. He scowled again, but Thorn stamped his foreleg in the snow, and, with one last swig, Murtagh shoved the thing into Eragon’s hand. 

“Y-don’t–you don’t even know anything you think,” Murtagh muttered with a scowl, wiping a hand under his mouth, “I–I didn’t do this, this wasn’t me.”

Eragon stopped trying to understand his brother’s disjointed thoughts as he emptied the jug into the snow.

“Alright, come on, back to the keep now,” Eragon muttered. Murtagh’s scowl deepened.

“Thorn doesn’t like being inside,” He insisted.

“Thorn is fine, you’re being the problem,” Eragon spat back, his frustration mounting at his feet grew numb from the cold.

“I’m–” Murtagh began, but he had to stop and swallow, holding out a finger as he swayed slightly, “You’re–you’ve got–you have a problem,” He grunted, his breaths thick.

“Are you going to come with or do I have to put you to sleep,” Eragon said tersely, working his jaw and trying not to punch his brother in the face.

“I can’t sleep,” Murtagh responded hazily. Then he tapped one finger to his temple, his clouded eyes drifting down to the frosted ground.

Eragon opened his mouth to say something sharp in retort, but at that moment, Murtagh leaned forward and vomited into the snow, falling to his hands and knees as Eragon stepped away.

Shillith let out a little mewl and flapped his wings once as Eragon scowled, the smell assaulting his nostrils.

“Kharnine,” He said softly as Murtagh grunted, swaying unsteadily on his hands, “Could you take these, please?” 

He handed the girl the unsheathed sword and empty jug, and she took them, before quickly backing away.

“Alright, let’s go,” Eragon said, stepping around the pile of sick so he could put his arm under Murtagh’s and lift him from the ground. 

Murtagh hung heavily as Eragon tried to get his feet under him, hoping he would not be sick again.

If you get him on my back, I can carry him, Thorn offered, his mental voice tired and ashamed.

I don’t think he could sit up, and you don’t have your saddle on, Eragon returned, trying not to be unkind.

Thorn gave a slight grunt, and simply followed Eragon as he hauled Murtagh back through the trees, his shoulder scraping against the trunks as they passed. 

It was tough work getting his intoxicated brother up the slope that led down from the keep, and they dug a trench in the snow with their steps, Kharnine and Shillith at the lead, looking back every few seconds.

“I need my sword…” Murtagh murmured as he tripped through the snow, heavy on Eragon’s shoulder, his sheath empty on his hip.

“Kharnine has your sword, you’ll get it back,” Eragon grunted, scanning the walls of the keep for any of the night watchers, hoping they were not noticed. 

Blodgharm had already given him stern words regarding Murtagh’s erratic behavior; he didn’t think it would go well if the elf saw this particular drunken escapade.

“Kharnine… she’s… you know she’s an Urgal?” Murtagh said, louder than Eragon would have liked.

“Yes, I know.”

“She’s not–I don’t think she’d try to kill me, do you? Do you think–you’re not going to kill me are you?” He said this last part loud enough for Kharnine to hear, and Eragon winced. Before the girl could open her mouth he said,

“You don’t have to answer that, Kharnine, just keep going.”

Her brow creased, but she turned and continued her climb.

“I think I might be dead, Eragon,” Murtagh murmured then, his neck craned back as he looked up into the black sky, his feet stumbling forward, “...I can’t see the stars.”

“That’s because it’s cloudy,” Eragon muttered.

“Are you angry at me?” Murtagh asked, his head rolling back to look at Eragon.

“A little frustrated, at the moment,” Eragon grunted as they crested the hill and made for the small side-door.

“Do you hate me? It’s okay–if–you can hate me. I won’t be mad. You can hit me if you want, do you want to hit me?”

“I don’t hate you and I don’t want to hit you,” Eragon returned as Kharnine reached the door and pulled it open.

“You’re my brother, and I love you…” He breathed with exertion. “...I just wish you’d be better to yourself.”

Murtagh leaned his head back again, his wandering eyes scanning the black sky, his mouth half-open, dazed,

“...I don’t think I know how.”

***

The following morning Eragon tiredly dressed himself and prepared to head down for a bit of breakfast, taking Zar’roc with him to return to Murtagh.

 He had taken the sword from Kharnine when they’d reached Murtagh’s living quarters and he’d dismissed her, encouraging her to return to her own room and apologizing on Murtagh’s behalf,

“I’m sorry you had to see all this.”

The girl shrugged, her horns tilting.

“I’ve seen wilder drinkin’ than that,” She dismissed, but her yellow eyes looked sad.

“You know he didn’t mean it, when he said that thing about you killing somebody.”

Kharnine rubbed Shillith’s neck, nodding thoughtfully.

“I know.”

“He likes you, and he knows you’re a friend.”

“I get it. I used to be really scared of humans when I was little. Took me a long while to warm up to you all, too.”

Kharnine offered a shrug again, before turning down the hallway with Shillith at her side.

Eragon had then gone back to Murtagh, who was sitting slumped in an armchair. He removed Murtagh’s boots from his feet, and his sword sheath from his belt, while he tried to help his inebriated brother into bed. 

Murtagh had thrown up again before letting Eragon roll him onto the blankets, where he promptly lost consciousness, still clothed except for the boots.

Eragon had cleaned the mess up with magic, which was the more tiring but less disgusting way to go about it, and had turned to Thorn with a sigh.

You going to be alright? He’d asked sympathetically as the dragon lay with his head in the doorway, the cold air drifting in from the balcony.

He will not awaken again tonight, Thorn said in answer, clearly having walked this same path with his partner before. Eragon had nodded, not knowing what else to say. 

Saphira was still asleep when he’d returned, and this morning she was much more wide awake than he. He quickly shared his memories of what had happened the previous night, and Saphira rumbled in disapproval.

It is wrong of him, to allow drink to get in the way of his common sense. If you had accidentally cut me, I would have made sure you did not make the same mistake again.

Eragon smiled sadly.

Yes, well… Thorn’s doing his best, I think.

He needs help, Saphira’s large eye was trained on him, and Eragon ducked his head, knowing she was right. He’d been avoiding dealing with this problem even as it had worsened over the past several weeks.

When Murtagh had first arrived to Mt. Argnor, things had been hectic, with the attack from the witch Bachel and their mother returning to them, and after that he’d been so busy catching up with things and spending what time he could with Arya, that he’d let the ever-increasing problem of his brother’s drinking be set in the background.

Once Arya had left things seemed to go well enough for a few months, as Kharnine had begun her training in earnest and Eragon tried to figure out how Murtagh would fit into the rhythm of life on the mountain. 

His brother had seemed to handle the change decently, and all three of their students had good things to say about his teaching, but in the past month or so Eragon had begun to notice a steep decline in Murtagh’s reliability–he would be late for training, disappear alone for hours at a time, fly off on Thorn without telling anyone, and wake the keep up in the middle of the night while intoxicated. 

Eragon knew he’d been putting off a confrontation for far too long, and this last episode was only proof that something had to be done.

Eragon left his room with Zar’roc in one hand and made his way back to Murtagh’s sleeping quarters, but his brother did not answer, so he took the sword down to the main hall, sitting by himself at the long table to eat quickly, Zar’roc leaning next to him.

Before he’d finished the eggs and seasoned squash–choosing to forgo meat that morning as he often did–he saw Blodgharm approaching from the other side of the table, clearly on a mission.

“Good morning, Eragon,” The elf greeted with a nod of his head–Eragon had finally convinced him and the others to stop calling him “Shadeslayer” all the time, since they worked closely with one another on a daily basis. 

“Morning,” Eragon greeted, as Blodgharm sat himself on the bench opposite, his eyes flicking to the red sword leaning at Eragon’s side.

“I take it your brother has not arisen yet this morning?” Blodgharm said with a knowing look. Eragon chewed slowly, debating whether it was worth playing dumb with the keen elf. 

Then he lowered his gaze with a sigh.

“Or he’s out with Thorn, not sure,” Eragon answered, abashed. Clearly he had not been able to hide Murtagh’s episode the previous night from Blodgharm.

“The next time you are in need of assistance, Shadeslayer, I am at your call,” He offered, and Eragon noticed the formal tone. He glanced up between bites.

“I… figured I’d handle it myself.”

“With the help of Kharnine,” Blodgharm corrected coolly. 

Eragon paused, inwardly cringing.

“...yes, she… she notified me.”

Blodgharm’s breath was even but his gaze was unrelenting. The elf did not tend to take a gentle approach to anything. 

“You understand, Shadeslayer,” He began, “That this matter is no longer solely between him and his dragon. If it is affecting a pupil of the academy, then it is affecting the academy, which means it is a matter for all of us.”

Eragon put down his fork and sat back, his stomach souring. 

He’d been waiting for this conversation–had known it was only a matter of time–but he supposed he’d been hoping that perhaps Murtagh would’ve figured out whatever it was that was dragging him towards his reckless drinking, and stop on his own.

“I don’t know what to do,” Eragon murmured, choosing now to be open with Blodgharm. The elf had earned that, at least, for his faithfulness and bravery during the war, and his commitment to helping Eragon bring Mt. Argnor to life. 

“I thought he was doing alright, you know… when he first got here. He was–he was managing, right? Then all of a sudden the past few weeks he can’t seem to stay sober for more than a few hours; I don’t know why the sudden change.”

“A dying leaf may cling to the tree by a single stem for months, and yet one gust of wind will send it spiraling,” Blodgharm answered in the cryptic way of the elves.

“So what sent him spiraling?” Eragon asked, after deciphering his meaning.

Blodgharm gave a small shrug, and looked at the fireplace, which this time of year was always alight in the great hall. When he answered, his tone was softer, and less aloof.

“I have found that a single breath of scent can send me back in memory a hundred years, to a particular place and a particular time where I last smelled that scent.” He turned his honest gaze back to Eragon,

“It is impossible to know for certain what causes old pains to rise up. Even your brother himself may not know. But if he is to maintain his good standing as rider and teacher, he must learn to manage the gusts, when they come. As we all must.”

Eragon breathed heavily, drinking in Blodgharm’s words. He was thankful for the elf–who himself had his own pains to carry, his own memories to keep at bay. They all did, and some days Eragon managed them better than others.

Eragon had come to look at Blodgharm as a sort of second-in-command, a person he could go to–besides the Eldunari–when he needed anything. 

Of course that meant Blodgharm would also call him out on his failures and bring problems to his attention, and while usually Eragon ended up appreciating the elf’s correction and guidance, in this particular instance he’d wished Blodgharm was a little less conscientious.

“If you would receive my advice, Eragon,” Blodgharm continued softly, “Take your brother to speak with the Elders. He clearly will not listen to his dragon, and he will not listen to you, but perhaps he will listen to them.”

Eragon blinked up at the elf, surprised by the idea.

Of course he went to the Eldunari for many things regarding himself, and often sat thinking in the room with Umaroth and Glaedr, learning whatever they felt like teaching that day. Others, too, sought guidance from the Elder dragons, as they were open to all who worked on the mountain.

It had taken the dwarves and urgals some time to warm up to the idea–sitting and speaking with the old dragons in their minds–but all of the elves spent regular time in the room of globes, especially Blodgharm, and soon the others began to appreciate the practice, and would go every now and then. 

Eragon had noticed that Nal and Ithki–the oldest urgal and the oldest dwarf–often liked to go together and speak with the dragons, though the Eldunari never shared what it was they spoke of. They were trusted advisors in that way–a safe place to ponder and speak, and not be worried that others would discover a private thought.

“You think he’d go?” Eragon asked, skeptical. 

As far as he knew, Murtagh had not set foot in the vault since receiving his commission to be an instructor almost six months previous. Eragon sensed that he knew approaching the Eldunari would take vulnerability, and Murtagh was not keen on it. 

“I think you may command him to go,” Blodgharm said, and Eragon’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t picture himself bossing Murtagh around, commanding him like a general.

“You are the leader of the riders; we answer to you, and he does as well,” Blodgharm assured, as though reading Eragon’s hesitance.

“And I believe that if you and Thorn both request it of him, he will go. He may not enjoy the idea, but he will go.”

Eragon sat with his arms on the table, his plate half-eaten, pondering. 

He glanced down at Zar’roc sitting innocently against the table. Murtagh had wounded Thorn with it the previous night, and both of them were lucky that the wound hadn’t been worse. 

Blodgharm was right–this was no longer just a private matter between Thorn and Murtagh. Kharnine and Shillith were involved, and Eragon was distracted from his duties today because of Murtagh, and if his brother was a danger to Thorn, then he could be a danger to anybody else. 

It had to stop.

“Okay,” Eragon agreed quietly, nodding. “I’ll–I’ll talk to him today. Can you take over Thrivka’s training for him?”

Blodgharm inclined his head, his expression neutral, as always.

“Of course.”

‘Thank you,” Eragon said, and he meant it. 

***

As it turned out, Murtagh had gone on an early flight with Thorn, and they returned just as the dwarves were getting to work on construction for the day. 

Eragon wondered how Murtagh had dragged himself out of his bed so early, after the state he was in the previous night, but there was no sign of his inebriation, except for a heaviness in his shoulders and circles under his eyes that bespoke exhaustion, but he often looked that way these days.

Eragon had hurried up to the Eldunari’s chambers to ask if they would see his brother, and help in what way they could, and they had agreed, reading in Eragon’s mind the images of the previous night.

You should have brought this to us earlier, Umaroth chided gently, seeing through Eragon several other instances of Murtagh’s decline in the previous weeks.

I am sorry, Umaroth-Elder, I had hoped he would fix it.

A broken limb cannot mend itself until properly set, Dila’ah murmured, and Eragon ducked his head.

Now he stood on the slope with Saphira as Thorn landed on the grass before them and Murtagh dismounted, looking darkly in his direction.

“I’ll kindly thank you not to take my sword from me,” He muttered as he grabbed Zar’roc out of Eragon’s outstretched hand and turned back to his dragon. Eragon fought down a sharp retort and felt Saphira grumble beside him.

“Well, when you’re hurting people with it, I’m going to take it,” Eragon responded coolly, and Murtagh looked back.

“What?”

Then Eragon looked up at Thorn, and back to Murtagh, taken aback.

“You don’t rem–Thorn, you didn’t tell him?” Eragon asked with a frown. Murtagh looked to his partner, clearly confused. Thorn almost shrugged.

It was no matter, I am well.

“It is a matter, Thorn, he could’ve really hurt you.”

But he did not.

“Did not what?” Murtagh demanded, his fists suddenly clenched.

“You cut open his leg when you were swinging Zar’roc around,” Eragon said bluntly.

“No I–” Murtagh started, horrified, but then he looked at Thorn and saw the truth in the way his dragon hunched. The horror only increased.

“Thorn, why didn’t you tell me?” He demanded, his voice strained.

I am healed, it is all well, The dragon excused, and Saphira huffed.

“It’s not well,” Eragon cut in, “And this needs to stop, Murtagh.”

His brother grimaced at the cold ground, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“What if I wasn’t around to heal him? What if you’d swung and hit Kharnine instead? Or someone else who can’t absorb a blow like a dragon?”

Eragon gestured angrily, trying to knock it into his brother’s skull, who had apparently been so dismissive of his problem that his partner did not find an issue with getting accidentally stabbed.

“I’ll–I’ll fix it,” Murtagh muttered, “I’m sorry, Thorn, I didn’t know. It won’t happen again.”

“You can’t promise that,” Eragon reminded, steeling himself, “When you drink you get out of control, so unless you can look me in the eye and make me believe you’ll stop drinking entirely–”

“–I can–I’ll deal with it,” Murtagh said, his shoulders shifting.

“I’ve given you months to deal with it,” Eragon decided firmly, “And it’s only gotten worse. So now–we’re–we’re gonna go talk to the Eldunari together.”

Murtagh’s gaze flicked to him, both angry and ashamed.

“Y–no, I don’t need to–”

“I’ve already asked them, and they’ve said they want to speak with you,” Eragon said. Murtagh scoffed in disbelief.

“Oh, now you’re talking to people about me?”

“This is not just your problem anymore, Murtagh,” Eragon gestured, echoing Blodgharm’s words, “ Kharnine found you. She and Shillith had to wake me up in the middle of the night, because they were worried about you hurting yourself, wandering around in the cold, in the middle of winter, with no coat or jacket, swinging that sword around like it’s a stick. That can’t happen.”

Murtagh held his tongue, unable to look Eragon in the eyes. 

Murtagh, Thorn’s voice rumbled gently, Perhaps the Elders have wisdom to help us. It cannot hurt to speak with them.

Eragon felt the tightness in his chest relax just a little. If Thorn was on his side, he stood a better chance. He was worried the dragon would side with his rider, seeing how he was clearly inclined to shelter him from the problem.

“Do I have a choice?” Murtagh muttered, giving Eragon a deadened stare. Eragon took a breath, and glanced at Thorn.

“You can go speak with the Eldunari, or you can swear to me in the ancient language that you will never have another drop of strong drink again.”

He met Murtagh’s glare–clearly his brother could not manage the second option. It would be a lie coming from his mouth, and the language would not allow it.

“Fine, I’ll go in a few days,” He turned away.

“Today,” Eragon determined, and Murtagh stopped.

“Blodgharm’s going to give Thrivka her training today, and the Eldunari are expecting us. So.”

For a moment Eragon thought his brother would refuse, but Thorn bent his long neck down and nudged Murtagh’s shoulder with his snout, some silent exchange passing between them.

“Fine,” Murtagh muttered, working his jaw.

Eragon let out a little breath, and he felt Saphira sit back on her haunches, relaxing just a bit.

***

When they passed through the keep the main hall was empty, and most of the workers had begun their tasks for the day–training or hunting or tending the gardens, working on the construction or clearing land for new outbuildings. 

Eragon tried not to think of all the things he would be behind on, after spending so much time on his brother. This was a task that needed done as well; it was just less pleasant than the other things he’d had in mind for the day.

The room that held the Eldunari was quiet and cool, round and full of coves for each dragon heart to sit in comfortably. The silver guardian Cuaroc nodded to Eragon and Murtagh as they entered, followed by Saphira and Thorn. 

Eragon took a deep breath, as the whispering of the hundreds of minds held within the room washed over him like a cool breeze through the leaves. 

He always forgot how peaceful it felt when he entered this place, the perspective he gained, as the wisdom of a thousand years greeted him like an old friend. He knew he had to make a point of returning here more often than was his habit.

Murtagh did not seem so at peace. His shoulders were tight and his gaze unsure, on the defensive, ready to bolt. Eragon took a breath, and tried to let the Elder Dragons take over.

“Greetings, Elders,” Eragon said for the second time that day. 

“I’ve brought my brother, as you requested.”

Hello, Murtagh Selenasson, hello Thorn Redscales, Umaroth hummed, It has been long since you have come to share thought with us.

The old dragon’s voice was gentle but chiding, and Murtagh looked at the ground, not bothering to offer an excuse.

“Yes, Umaroth-Elder,” He admitted.

Hmmm, I sense unrest in your heart, Dila’ah murmured, You are heavy with care, though you are surrounded by friends and given worthy work.

Again, Murtagh didn’t seem to have a response for this. 

The dragons had a way of saying exactly what they saw, and it could be pretty exposing. Eragon empathized with his brother; he knew what it felt like to be so seen. It could be freeing, but also terribly uncomfortable.

Do you know why we have sought audience with you? Umaroth asked, Murtagh was quiet for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back

“M–my brother wanted me to see you.”

And you understand why?

“He thinks I am a problem.”

He thinks you have a problem, Glaedr corrected, And he is right. But he did not bring you here because of that. He brought you here because he loves you, and he sees you suffering.

Murtagh’s grip tightened and his lips thinned. His walls were still up, and he did not want to hear what the dragons had to say.

You are accountable, Selenasson, not only for yourself, but for the pupils you teach, the order you represent, and, most especially, for the partner of your heart and mind, whom you have been mistreating terribly.

“I apologized for last night; it won’t happen again,” Murtagh defended sharply.

I do not speak of your wounding him last night–though that was a terrible deed, Glaedr said sternly, 

I speak of the position you put him in when you choose to drown your pain in drink. You lose yourself, youngling, and you force your partner to choose between being overwhelmed by your intoxication through the connection you share, and severing himself from you entirely, leaving him alone. Tell me, is it your purpose, to force this choice upon him?

Murtagh’s voice was very small when he answered.

“No.”

Thorn, do you have something you’d like to say on this? Umaroth asked. Thorn shifted uneasily, but Murtagh looked his way, distressed, both wanting and dreading to hear the truth.

I wish to shelter you, when your pain feels like the whole sky hanging over you, Thorn said, melancholy in his tone, but you refuse to share the weight with me. You bury it deep in yourself, but you do not realize that you are burying it deep in me as well.

Your partner knows your hurts, even if you do not speak of them, Dila’ah put in, as Thorn hung his head, giving Murtagh a sad stare, 

When you push them away, you force him to feel your pain without knowing its cause, and so he suffers alone.

Murtagh’s chin trembled and he looked away, abashed.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” He whispered. 

Eragon stared down at his hands, feeling intrusive, being here, watching this.

I know, Thorn answered, nudging him softly.

If you wish to stop hurting your partner, Umaroth said, you must face your past and your pain, and stop burying them.

Eragon saw the hunch in Murtagh’s shoulders tighten.

The path to healing… The rolling tone of another Eldunari came in, ancient and overwhelming, …is not found in running away.

Murtagh swallowed through his hurt.

“I don’t… I don’t know how,” He murmured, his voice cracking.

Then let us guide you, Umaroth encouraged, I, Umaroth, know the path of pain. I have had a hundred years to dwell on mine–to sit with my loss, and walk through the mire of my hurt. It is not until you face the shadows which plague you, that you will be able to find the light.

Eragon felt a wash of agreement from the other Eldunari–they, who had lost everything, from their dearest partners to their very bodies. They knew what it was to face a dark past.

Will you trust us to guide you where you cannot see?  Glaedr asked, his voice low and solemn. 

Eragon knew what it meant, that Glaedr was here helping his brother, helping the rider who had been used to kill his own rider, the dragon who’d ended his bodily life.

Murtagh sniffed, but Eragon saw a pleading look from Thorn, whose red eyes were misty.

“I–I’ll try,” Murtagh managed weakly.

If Umaroth had had a head, he might’ve nodded.

Eragon, Saphira, His voice filled their minds, This is a matter between Murtagh and his partner. You may return to your duties. 

Eragon nodded, bowing, and feeling a little relieved. He hated to see Murtagh’s struggling, and did not love the thought of wading through a sea of pain alongside his brother. He had his own pains that he tended to bury. 

He wondered if Saphira had ever felt what Thorn did–that he was inadvertently shoving pain away from himself and onto her, burdening her with feelings that were not her own, with hurts that she had no explanation for.

He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her mental nudge as they turned from the Eldunari chamber, and he gave Murtagh one encouraging nod, before leaving him behind to face whatever it was the dragons had for him.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO: SHADOWS

The darkness shifted around them, heavy and absolute, the only way of knowing distance and space was through the breathing of the men nearby, and the scuff of one’s foot on the tunnel floors.

There were dwarves in the lead–they could apparently see well enough, but for all Murtagh knew he was walking through the underground tunnel with a bunch of armor-clad dogs.

His feet dragged with exhaustion, both from the long day of fighting and their hunt through the tunnels.They’d descended into darkness hours earlier to search out the stragglers of the now-decimated Urgal army, and Murtagh felt like he might lose his mind if he didn’t see some real light soon.

The dwarf in the lead had a single dwarven lantern, but it was covered, and the cranky old fellow wouldn’t let so much as a crack of light through for his human companions to avoid tripping into one another. Already Murtagh had apologized to the man in front of him–Tuarth his name was–more than once.

They were heading back now, after Ajihad had determined that they’d gone far enough, routing out the enemy in this particular tunnel, and despite his exhaustion Murtagh wanted to sprint back to Farthen Dur. 

Maybe he could get some food and water, and lie down somewhere soft for a few hours, before checking in with Eragon. His friend had been having a rough time of it, since the battle. The Shade had done a number on him before he’d managed to take it out, and Murtagh hated to see him in so much pain. 

Murtagh had only foggy memories of the days after he’d received the scar on his own back, but he knew what that kind of pain was, and that it would be a long healing road, if they couldn’t get it fixed by magic.

The dwarf in the lead called a rest, and Murtagh heard the other men sigh in relief, and immediately search for a rock or two to sit on. The lantern was uncovered and all the men passed around what water and provisions they had. 

Tuarth shared a bit of cracker with Murtagh–one of the only men in the company who was openly friendly with him–and Murtagh gave his thanks, too tired to say much. 

In the few minutes they had, Tuarth lay himself down on the tunnel floor with his hands on his chest, and closed his eyes. Murtagh smirked, amazed at the man, who probably could’ve slept in the middle of Farthen Dur while the battle was raging around him.

Murtagh was thinking about lying down himself, when he felt someone standing over him, and looked up to see Ajihad.

“Sir,” He started, rising quickly. But the older man raised a hand and and said,

“At ease,”

And Murtagh lowered himself back down, as the Varden leader sat himself on the rock Tuarth had recently vacated.

“I only wanted to see how you’re faring,” Ajihad said, his voice calm and warm in the coolness of the tunnels. Murtagh was tense with energy now, hoping he wouldn’t say the wrong thing.

“W–well. Thank you.”

“Sure you’ll be glad to make it back to the light,” He offered, his eyes white in the darkness.

“Yes, sir.”

Ajihad had taken out a knife and begun peeling an apple with it. After a moment he said,

“My daughter tells me you’re an accomplished reader and man of letters,” Ajihad continued, surprising Murtagh. Ajihad’s daughter had been talking about him? What for?

“Uh–I–yes, sir. Good enough, I suppose.”

“Good, good,” The older man said, cutting another slice, “We need smart men around here.”

Murtagh just nodded, unsure what to say.

“I’ve taken note of you during all this mess, Murtagh,” Ajihad continued, his deep voice hushed in the tunnel. “You’ve got a masterful sword-arm and a stout heart. I value the second more than the first, but both are important for soldiers of the Varden.”

Murtagh was looking at his boots, his skin tingling, hyper-aware of the grime and sweat that covered him, and the way his hair hung in strings, hyper-aware of how his breathing sounded.

“I know it was never your intention to come here,” Ajihad continued in the silence, “But you’ve comported yourself valiantly. And if you would like to join up as a member, I will not stand in your way.”

Murtagh had to raise his eyes to the man, who gazed at him frankly, without any malice or judgment.

“Sir?” Murtagh questioned, unable to quite believe it.

“Well, is that something you want?” Ajihad asked with a hint of humor. Murtagh averted his gaze again. 

Was it? Did he want to throw his lot in with the Varden? For good? He’d certainly made a statement by fighting with them against the Urgals–but that could be put down to a survival instinct more than anything. If the Urgals had overwhelmed Farthen Dur, they wouldn’t have chosen to spare him in his cell just because he was the son of a dead Forsworn.

Now Ajihad–the leader of the Varden and an imposing figure of a man–was offering him a place among them, to be a part of the rebellion, to fight against the Broddring Empire and Galbatorix and everything Murtagh’s father had fought for. 

Was that what he wanted?

“I suppose I’m not sure, sir,” Murtagh admitted, scuffing his boot along the tunnel floor, “Old swordmaster of mine used to tell me… ‘It’s no good making decisions when a body is tired, or hungry. You’ll most always end up the wrong ones.’”

Ajihad smiled.

“He sounds like a wise man. Of course I do not require an answer for you here in the tunnels, but it will have to come soon. Things will not move slowly, now that the first hammer-blow has fallen. Now that the King knows our whereabouts. All of us here must soon decide what we are willing to sacrifice.”

Murtagh nodded, and kept his peace.

“I’m afraid I will have to insist that you open your mind to search, if you choose to join up,” Ajihad said regretfully, and at this Murtagh tensed, instinctually checking his mental walls.

“It is, unfortunately, the only practice I have found effective in weeding out threats,” The older man sighed,  “but if you would prefer not to be examined by the Twins, I will give my approval to let you choose whatever magician you prefer, to do the examination,” He consented, and Murtagh met his glance.

“I know they can be… intense,” He murmured with a wry smile and a look over his shoulder, where the two bald magicians were sitting cross-legged with their eyes closed and their fingers pinched together, like strange crabs.

“You could even have Eragon do it, if you’d be most comfortable,” Ajihad consented, and Murtagh thought this sounded alright. 

He didn’t like anybody peering into his thoughts, but if someone had to do it he thought he could trust Eragon, or maybe one of the dwarf magicians. He sensed he might prefer a stranger knowing all the undesirable details about him, rather than Eragon, with whom he hoped to maintain some kind of friendship.

“Think on it,” Ajihad encouraged, finishing his apple and tossing the core into the darkness behind him. 

“If your answer is no, then your other choice would be to swear oaths in the ancient language not to reveal any of the Varden’s secrets, and go your way. If you do that, you may go with my blessing and thanks, for your service these past days.”

Murtagh nodded.

“Thank you,” He murmured, turning all his thoughts over in his head, wondering what path he ought now to choose. 

It felt freeing to have a choice like this; two acceptable options, two paths, two steps in different directions.

 His life had always been dictated–by his minders, guardians, and tutors, by the rules of life in the city and the court, by the king himself… the only decision he’d made for himself had been a desperate, terrible one. A choice between taking innocent lives and risking his own. A choice that had resulted in the death of his closest friend.

Now here was a choice he could make: to throw his lot in with the Varden, or to go find his way in the world alone, maybe head down to Surda and seek anonymity among the people there, maybe head up to the valley Eragon was always talking about—Palancar–where he could build himself a cottage and live out of the way. 

He liked the idea, but it did leave him with the knowledge that he would be walking away from Eragon and Saphira, whose company he’d grown used to over their long weeks of travel.

He’d also be giving up the chance to get to know Ajihad’s daughter Nasuada better; this was of small importance, of course–he’d hardly spent a few days with the girl, though they’d talked for long hours in the comfort of his cell–but the thought bothered him for some reason. 

When Ajihad stood again, Murtagh knew it was time to continue their dark journey. The older man turned back to him with an outstretched hand and a smile,

“Just a little further to the light,” He said warmly, pulling Murtagh to his feet.

As they fell into formation and the lead dwarf dampened his lantern, Murtagh felt the back of his neck prickle, and his ears caught a distant echo.

He turned his gaze back into the dark stretch of the tunnel, and his eyes danced with blue dots as he tried to peer into the blackness, his hand suddenly drifting to his sword.

The darkness seemed to grow larger, a breath of cold air blowing close. Murtagh's heart pounded, squinting and holding his breath. Then a deep growl shook his bones...

...No, no, I don’t wanna see this I don’t wanna be here…

A surge of panic rose in Murtagh’s throat and he pulled his consciousness away from the memory.

Stop–Stop it–I can't be here, I don’t wanna be here…

Suddenly he was losing balance, as he returned to his body in the Eldunari chamber. He shuffled back on his hands, panting for air, the memory clouding his senses like smoke, fear reaching out its shadowy grasp.

Peace, youngling, Umaroth’s voice rumbled as Murtagh tried to blink away the darkness.

You are safe here. Memories cannot harm you, The old dragon encouraged.

“I–I don’t want to do this,” Murtagh gasped, feeling his limbs shaking and his eyes watering. Thorn came close and dropped his head near to Murtagh’s, his comforting breath warm on Murtagh’s cheek.

The terror you feel is in the past, Umaroth said, But it must be faced, or it will cling to you like the sucking of a leech, draining you of life.

“I c–I can’t…” Murtagh breathed.

You can, Glaedr rumbled, You have faced all these horrors before. You can face them again, now, knowing that their claws cannot touch you.

A long stretch of quiet passed as Thorn pressed his head against Murtagh’s, saying nothing, but sending out his quiet calming presence, like a blanket of comfort over Murtagh’s shaking frame.

No one here will force you to open your mind, The red female dragon Dila’ah assured, You are free to leave if you choose. But your partner has asked us for help. And we would give it. Trust, youngling, that we who have walked the paths of pain before, can lead you safely to the other side. 

Murtagh received an image of the red dragon standing over the broken body of an elf-woman, wailing her lament to the skies. 

You are strong, partner of my heart, Thorn said, And I will not let you be lost in the maze of memory. Let us face this together. And be done with it.

He felt such a strong determination coming from Thorn that the feeling almost overwhelmed him. A mix of anger, will-power, confidence, and wildness. Thorn was ready to tear down the walls of a thousand citadels in order to get them back on solid ground. He was a pillar, amidst Murtagh’s bog of uncertainty. 

You will not drown, Thorn assured, and Murtagh knew it to his bones. 

He blinked his eyes dry, sitting on the floor of the chamber and catching his breath as his heart slowed.

“Alright,” He breathed, pulling himself back into sitting, and preparing himself to dive once more into the past, Thorn at his side.

***

They were running. The darkness was still complete, and Murtagh’s feet still tripping, but they ran at a full tilt in the direction of the tunnel opening. Something was behind them; an arrow had sped out of the darkness and struck one of the dwarves in the neck.

They had all turned about face and drawn their weapons, and Murtagh’s blood was pumping, but they heard the sound of growls and grunts far down the tunnel, and a distant flicker of light, and it was clear that the host bearing down upon them now was far too large for their tired company to overwhelm.

Ajihad had shouted a retreat and they all began to run, heading straight for the opening into Farthen Dur, and hoping to reach the light in time.

Now as Murtagh ran he began to see a pinprick up ahead, the first signs of the tunnel opening. He hoped the Twins were contacting Eragon with their minds, reaching out for help so that someone would be there to fight back the Urgals the moment they emerged. Murtagh didn’t know how much more fighting his limbs could take.

Another arrow whizzed towards them, but fell short of its mark and clattered to the tunnel floor. Murtagh’s heartbeat was loud in his head, as the light in the distance grew bigger.

“Faster!” Ajihad demanded, and they obeyed, pouring on the last bit of their strength to run towards the light. 

As the tunnel opening widened, Murtagh thought through a dozen battle scenarios in his head. They would emerge, then he would turn, sword in hand, and the first Urgal’s blow he would duck, then swing his hand-and-a-half sword back to hamstring the beast, and lift it to strike another.

The ground tilted upwards and no more arrows came close, and the sounds of the growls echoed only distantly in the tunnel as the light began to burn Murtagh’s eyes, dim though it was compared to the sun. 

When he finally burst into the massive volcanic cavern, Murtagh felt himself take a full breath of fresh air, his skin tingling. Then Ajihad called on them to turn and face the enemy, and ordered the Twins to call again for whatever reinforcements were closest.

Just before he turned to face the tunnel, Murtagh caught a glimpse of Saphira’s blue shape on a ridge in the distance, watching them, as yet unawares.

Then Urgals were pouring out of the hole, and his mind was blank of all except the fight. He hamstrung the first, and ran his blade through the second, and men were shouting around him, and Urgals howled their war cries, and the clash of metal and metal and flesh on metal and flesh on flesh was deafening.

Murtagh’s heart hammered and his skin buzzed and his eyes took in every detail in the blink of an eye. He saw Ajihad doing battle at the side of the lantern-carrying dwarf; he felt Tuarth fighting at his side, the man’s breaths short and gasping. 

Then suddenly Murtagh felt a great shape collide with his side, and he was knocked to the cavern floor, his sword flipping out of his grasp. 

The Urgal was on top of him with wild yellow eyes and a raw yell. Murtagh thrashed and pushed as pain crackled from all along his side, but the brute was deadly-strong, and he’d gotten his weight on Murtagh’s stomach, his hands around Murtagh’s neck. .

Murtagh fumbled for the knife at his waist, pummeled the creature’s head with his fist, and kicked his knees up from behind, all while blue spots danced in his vision and he felt the crushing weight of the Urgal’s grip on his wind-pipe. 

It was futile, and Murtagh realized it. He was going to die. This was it. He’d survived the mad dash across Alagaesia and the whole of the Battle Under Farthen Dur, and now here he was going to get his life ended by a last-minute ambush from a rogue group. 

He grunted and fought, wheezing with whatever air he could squeeze through the creature’s great hands and flailing his limbs at its hardened skin. His eyes searched the sky, and he saw Saphira’s shape rocketing towards them, but too far, much too far. 

Murtagh reached one shaking hand towards his sword–which lay three feet out of his grasp–and he felt the blanket of unconsciousness settling over him. 

He had failed.

Then all at once there was a great grunt, and the pressure on his throat lifted, and Murtagh rolled to the side as the Urgal fell, and he was wheezing and sputtering, lunging for his sword before turning to see Tuarth reaching down to him.

“Up you get!” The man said, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. Murtagh took his sweat-drenched hand and began to rise.

“Thank–”

Suddenly Tuarth’s head snapped sideways and Murtagh’s face was splattered with the man’s blood. He fell back as an Urgal charged over Tuarth’s dead body and headed straight for Ajihad.

Murtagh shivered with shock as he tried to rise, watching the Varden leader defend himself in an ever-shrinking circle of allies.

Where are the reinforcements? Murtagh thought, scanning the battle for their two magicians. Why hadn’t they taken out these Urgals? Surely this rogue group wasn’t guarded by magic.

“Eragon!” Murtagh screamed, hunting the skies with his eyes. “Eragon!!” He shouted again as he rose on shaking legs, willing the rider to hurry.

Murtagh stumbled towards Ajihad, half-conscious and dazed, his sword quivering in his arm, determined to prove the man right about what he had said. 

A masterful sword-arm and a stout heart.

Murtagh forced power into his limbs as he charged, letting out a battle cry and raising his blade. 

Just before he’d brought his sword down on the closest Urgal surrounding Ajihad, Murtagh felt a pressure like wave of cold water over his whole body, and his legs gave out, and his lungs emptied, and a gray curtain descended over his vision.

The last thing he saw before he sank into oblivion on the ground of the cavern, was an Urgal pulling back his blade, and driving it into Ajihad’s side.

Eragon… 

He pleaded, and then he knew nothing. 

Chapter Text

When Murtagh awoke, his hands were tied over his head, and his back was against the rough bark of a large tree. 

He was at first too surprised to be alive to feel the panic, but after the initial moment of shock and confusion, he felt his chest tighten, and every hair on his body stood up.

He blinked bleariness from his eyes, coughing through a plume of smoke. The smoke was coming from a smoldering campfire that sat a few feet in front of him.

The darkness around the campfire was total, but Murtagh could hear the sound of creaking wood and the occasional hoot of an owl, and the dirt beneath him was sloped and strewn with pine duff. 

He was in the woods somewhere… but where? And how? And why hadn’t the Urgals killed him? 

The ropes cut into his wrists, and he felt the tips of his fingers tingling as the blood drained from them. Murtagh grunted as he tried to work his wrists free of the painful knots. The rope was thick and strong, though, and well-tied; he would need something sharp to cut through it.

As he scanned the dirt for a stone with a thin edge, using his boots to feel around in the dark, he caught a shape in the corner of his eye, and startled.

There, on a tree a few feet to his right, was one of the Twin magicians, himself bound, and half-conscious.

Of all the people who could’ve survived that fight… Murtagh thought with an inward scowl. But an ally was an ally, and it might be useful to have a magician on board.

Murtagh scanned the darkness around him again, looking for signs of their Urgal captors. But he heard and saw nothing but the soft crackling of the near-dead fire. The Urgals might’ve been out hunting, or they may have left Murtagh and the magician to be eaten by wolves in the woods. 

When he was convinced they were alone, Murtagh stretched out his right leg, prodding the Twin with the point of his boot and saying,

“Hey,” In a hushed whisper. 

The man groaned.

“Hey, wake up,” Murtagh said, prodding again. He didn’t have time to wait for the magician to come around. If the Urgals were gone, now was their chance.

“Whatever your name is, we have a problem so you’d better wake up quick,” He said again.

The Twin shifted, his eyes fluttering open as he slumped. 

“You conscious?” Murtagh asked again as the man tried to sit up.

“What is this? Where…?” He murumured, his voice getting under Murtagh’s skin as always.  

“Urgals. We were attacked, you remember?”

“In the tunnel,” The Twin said blearily, his eyes distanced. Murtagh glanced into the darkness, feeling jumpy. He knew the man was recovering from shock, but he had little patience, and the Urgals could return any time.

“Look, I know this is all a bit much, but we don’t have time. Can you… do some magic or something? Get us untied?”

The man winced, blinking and shifting.

“I’m… my mind is… they must have drugged me, I cannot… access the flow of magic.”

Murtagh fought an eyeroll, his head falling back against the trunk. 

Of course, He cursed, All these magicians and none of them useful.

The all-powerful hundred-year-old elf that Murtagh had helped Eragon drag across half of Alagaesia had been hamstrung by the same old trick. 

So much for magic.

“My brother and I combined, we might be able to overcome such an obstacle,” The man winced, working at his own bonds.

“Hate to break it to you,” Murtagh grunted, pulling down hard on the rope to try and break the branch it was tied to, “But your brother’s probably dead.”

The Twin gave him a strange look, and Murtagh shrugged.

“Sorry. Just the truth.”

The man breathed for a moment, staring at the smoldering fire ahead. 

Murtagh gave up pulling on the rope when his hands started to go numb. He let himself back to the floor and took a few breaths of smoky air to clear his head and loosen up the tightness in his chest.

“Those Urgals are gonna come back,” Murtagh murmured, “So we’ve got to come up with something quick.”

The Twin blinked, and Murtagh tried to keep down the hammering in his heart. He tried not to think of the blood spattered across his face–Tuarth’s blood–or the screams of the dying men around him, or the Urgal driving his blade through Ajihad’s side…

“There–there may…” The Twin started heavily, “...there may be a way I could get access to my magic.”

“I’m listening.”

“My body is the problem, the poisons are dulling my mind. But if I can remove my mind from my body, and move it into someone else’s… it might free up my access to the magic.”

Murtagh met the man’s gaze. He scoffed.

“No,” He said, turning his gaze back to the ties on his wrists. The creep wanted to insert himself into Murtagh’s brain and use his body like a magic puppet? No thank you.

“You want to escape before they kill us?” The Twin insisted.

“You often take over people’s bodies?” Murtagh deflected, annoyed. He was running through the possibilities in his mind. 

Never, never, never had he let someone else get inside his head. He’d learned early on the lengths people would go to accrue power and climb the ladder among the Uru’baen elite–they weren’t above using the child of the King’s fallen Lieutenant as a stepping stone. 

Could he let this slimy git crawl inside his head if it meant survival? Could he trust the man not to hunt around in there? Would he be able to live with himself after?

“I have done it before only in combat,” The Twin said, “And only for a brief moment to dismantle my enemy, but the technique is the same.”

Dismantle meaning kill, Murtagh thought. The Twins made his skin itch–he knew they were on the Varden’s side, but he certainly didn’t respect them like he did Ajihad.

“What–what would be your plan?” He asked, to buy time, setting to work on his tied wrists again, starting to feel the latent panic rising in his throat. He didn’t want to let the man into his mind, but he also didn’t want to end up pummeled to death or eaten by Urgals.

He didn’t know if Urgals ate humans, but he couldn’t think of any other reason why they would’ve taken prisoners, and he really didn’t want to find out.

“Start off by undoing these bonds. Simple spell,” The magician’s seedy voice came through the darkness, “Then cast another to clear the poison from my blood, and I can return to myself. We can get out of here and find help in Tarnag.”

Murtagh winced, but kept silent, still pulling at the ropes.

“If we’re going to do this, we’d better do it now,” The nameless Twin said, “No telling when the Urgals will come back, and we won’t be able to outrun them on foot if they give chase.”

Murtagh sighed, trying to overcome his reluctance.

Survival, He reminded himself, It’s for survival. You’ve got to do it. You’ve got to get out of here.

He hated thinking how satisfied the Twin would be, getting into his mind after trying so hard to do it back in Farthen Dur. He didn’t want to give him the pleasure.

It’s not about that anymore. You’ve got to get help, He told himself, and he lowered his eyes–but just then he thought he saw a flicker of movement over by the fire.

His heart jumped, but when he looked at the space, there was nothing there.

“Murtagh, we’ve got to go get help,” The Twin said as Murtagh’s mind raced. 

He frowned at the dirt between his boots, something in his brain trying to catch up with itself. His pain and hunger and exhaustion were clouding his mind like the smoke drifting from the embers. Something was wrong. An itch. A suspicion.

“You said we had to get to Tarnag,” Murtagh muttered, turning his slow gaze to the Twin, his shoulders aching, and horror creeping up his spine.

“...how did you know where we are?” He said, breathless. 

At first the Twin’s expression remained blank, like he was thinking through which reaction to choose, or how to explain himself. But just as understanding settled into Murtagh’s bones, he saw the man’s expression change to a malicious disappointment.

“Ah,” He said with a click of his tongue, a wry smile crossing his lips, “Too bad.”

Before Murtagh had time to realize fully what had happened, he felt a lance of mental attack strike him and he was forced to slam up his defenses, pain ricocheting around his skull.

In his head he recited the scrap of verse he always used when defending himself. 

“Sweet little darling, where have you gone?

Table is ready and supper is on.”

He felt two presences trying to force their way around his walls–the cold, stinging touch of the Twins.

“ I’ve asked the butcher, the cook, and the maid.

Where has the boy gone and could he have stayed?”

Their attack was vengeful and harsh, but Murtagh had practiced his concentration for hours, tested himself whenever he could, mentally spared with Tornac every day, and he would not be broken.

“Sweet little darling, where have you gone?

Table is ready and supper is on…”

After an excruciating stretch of hours, he finally felt the two presences retract, but he did not let his concentration waver, suspecting a feint. 

When he was finally sure the attack had paused, Murtagh opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily, drenched in sweat and shivering. But his mind was clear.

He glared forward at both Twins, who now stood before him in the firelight, spiteful smirks on their faces.

“I’ll kill you,” He growled, anger rising in his throat. The Twins only smirked, the one who had been tied next to him now unbound. The other, he guessed, had been making himself invisible by magic–his spell wavering for just a moment when Murtagh caught his movement.

“What are you? What is this?” Murtagh demanded, every inch of his body vibrating with pent-up energy. He needed to attack. Now. He needed to squeeze the life out of these traitors and be gone.

“This is what happens when you turn against the King,” The Twin on the right said. “He was very interested to learn that his former right hand’s defector son wandered into Farthen Dur alongside his greatest enemy, and joined up with the rebels.”

Murtagh felt a flush of fear suffuse his skin. The King? He knew? Was he behind this?

“He’ll reward us handsomely, for bringing you to justice,” The other Twin agreed. Murtagh growled and yanked at the bonds, trying to lunge towards them, heedless of the pain.

“You fought for them! You were on the Varden’s side–the Urgals–” He stammered, “You–”

“–were good at our deceptions,” The left Twin confirmed, “So good that the fool Ajihad made us his tool for weeding out deceivers.”

Murtagh breathed heavily, roiling with fury and fear.

“You killed him? Y–you had him killed? You had them–” Murtagh knew he sounded pathetic, but the image of Tuarth’s bludgeoned head was flashing into his mind, the clogging smell of fear as they ran through the tunnels, Ajihad being run through by the Urgal’s blade.

“We used the Urgals to… execute a plan. To make sure no one followed us, and yes, to get rid of a few annoyances.”

Murtagh gritted his teeth, scowling in fury.

Then he was under attack again; he slammed up his walls and hid behind the nursery rhyme,

“Sweet little darling, where have you gone?

Table is ready and supper is on…”

The attack relented after a few moments, and one of the Twins was now sitting.

“It’s futile to resist,” The right Twin said. “We will break you before we get to Uru’baen. You’ll make a fine prize to deliver to the king.”

“You might as well kill me now; I’ll strangle you the moment I get free,” Murtagh scowled.

The left Twin smiled.

“We shall see.”

***

The attacks were relentless. 

When dawn broke the Twins forced Murtagh to rise, shoved a piece of hard biscuit into his hand and poured water down his throat, then made him walk behind them through mountainous forest as they rode on mules. 

As they traveled, one or the other of them was constantly waging mental attacks against him, striking when he least expected. Murtagh could get no rest, as one would take a break while the other launched an assault. 

His wrists were bound to a rope that was tied to one of the mules saddles, but more than that, he felt a magic binding on his hands, like they were stuck together and to the rope, and no amount of force would loose them.

He stumbled and shuffled and tried not to fall, clinging to the defense of the nursery rhyme as the attacks continued throughout the long days. 

At night they bound him to a tree, handed him a scrap of dried meat or a cracker, and attacked him again. 

When they’d given up for the night they would tie his hands above his head, but often he would awaken out of a half-sleep to another mental spike in his brain. 

He was heavy with exhaustion at all times, his bruises and cuts from the battle with the Urgals ached and smarted, and he only accumulated more bruises as he fell while trying to keep up with the mules’ pace.

He knew he had to escape before they reached the capitol; once he was brought before the king, he was a dead man. He tried to convince himself that someone would come after him–that Eragon would hunt him down and come shooting out of the sky like a falling star, obliterating the Twins and taking him back to the Varden.

But the Twins had orchestrated an attack, no doubt to make it appear that they, and Murtagh, had been killed in the tunnels under Farthen Dur. And if Eragon thought he was dead, then no one would be coming for him.

He figured out that they were using some kind of spell to keep him bound to them during the day, but at night they would release this spell–no doubt because of the energy it drained from them. Because of this, the first time he attempted an escape was just after they’d handed him his meager breakfast.

They were turning to load up their supplies and begin the sloping trek down towards the fringes of the Hadarac, when Murtagh bolted for the mule to which his rope was tied. He threw himself into the saddle and kicked as hard as he could, sending the creature lurching forward as he struggled to hold on with his bound hands.

He’d made it only about thirty feet when he felt the cold grip of magic on his limbs, and he was instantly paralyzed, falling from the mule and landing hard on the ground as the creature ran, dragging him helplessly along with it.

When the Twins finally caught up with him he had to deflect another sudden mental attack, before one of them kicked him in the ribs and shouted a curse at him. His whole body throbbed with pain as he lay in the long-grass, gasping for air. 

It had been a long shot anyway, but he’d had to try. 

For days he walked behind them, dizzy with exhaustion, his nerves frayed from the constant attacks. They passed out of the Beor mountain range and walked along the plains that edged the Hadarac Desert, the moss and woods turning into hard-packed ground and scattered, lonely trees.

Murtagh’s body screamed for water, but he was given only pitiful sips. His lips were cracked and his skin scorched, and he felt like his very lungs were rattling with the dryness of the air. But he refused to show weakness to the vile magicians who’d taken him as their prize. 

He would not ask for food or water. He would not ask for rest. He would not answer their taunts or tell them anything they asked. He would keep his pride, at least, ‘til the end, and he would die before giving up any information about Eragon.

 But as the days passed he began to lose hope that Eragon was coming to get him–surely a dragon would’ve caught up with them by now.

He held onto the hope that perhaps Ajihad had survived the Urgal attack; as long as a healer had reached him before he succumbed to his wounds, he would have had a chance. Maybe Ajihad would send a search party out for him, he thought weakly. The Twins must have left some sort of trace of their devious plan, some sort of path to follow.

If anybody cared enough to follow it, A darker voice in his mind said. After all–who was he to Ajihad? Who was he to Eragon, even? Son of Morzan, first and foremost. If anything, they probably suspected him of treachery against the Twins .

He tried not to let these thoughts have too much weight in his mind. Eragon was a friend, he told himself. They had grown to trust each other. They’d worked well together, and fought by each other’s side. He cared enough to at least try to look, right?

After weeks of travel they began to pass by a few small villages along their way, but always one of the Twins would go into the town and get supplies, leaving Murtagh bound by magic and rope with the other Twin, who would assault him relentlessly. 

Murtagh tried to escape several more times. Once in the middle of the night, he tried to slip away unseen, but the Twins were not ever asleep at the same time, and he was again stopped by the paralyzing spell. 

He got the impression that these magicians did not have such a large variety of magic at their disposal; they were vicious mental warriors, but they seemed to use a basic array of spells in various ways, nothing complex or exceptionally powerful. They were nothing compared to Eragon, certainly, or the elf Arya. 

Several times Murtagh attempted to reverse the mental attack and turn it on them, to fight his way inside one of their minds so he could gain control. 

He wasn’t sure what he would do if that ever happened–he’d only ever trained on defending himself, and couldn’t do any magic–but it didn’t matter, because he never got past their walls. They were well-rested, and had two minds to fortify against him. He was half-dead, in pain, and desperate. They knew he wouldn’t stand a chance.

The closer they got to Uru’baen, the more afraid he became. They passed around Fornost and Murtagh attempted another escape, hoping to disappear in the crowds of the small city. But it was unsuccessful. 

He’d managed to cut the binding of his hands on a sharp rock again, but he couldn’t run fast enough to get out of range of their magic before they shot him down.

The Freckle Twin–called this in Murtagh’s mind because he had a collection of three freckles on his left hand that his brother did not have, one of their only distinguishing marks–whipped him with the switch he used on his mule, shouting curses at Murtagh as he lay curled up in the dirt, defending his face from the furious man’s blows.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was causing them as much annoyance as he could. If he was going to die because of them, he would make them suffer for it. 

They were increasingly frustrated at his ability to keep them out of his mind, and their attacks actually became less potent as Murtagh began to understand the rhythm of them, and the feeling of the two magicians’ minds. He could sense when one was about to push harder, or when the other was retreating. He could tell when a retreat was real or pretended; he could feel the energy change when both were going to launch at him in unison. 

Though his body was so weak it was hard to walk, and his bound hands were constantly shaking, Murtagh kept his defiance against the Twins just as relentless as their attacks. He would do Tornac proud, he was determined.

As it happened, though, his love for his old swordmaster was his downfall.

Three nights after they’d passed Furnost, and only days from Uru’baen, the Twins were waging their mental battle against him, when both of them retreated–and it felt like a true retreat. 

Freckle Twin spat in Murtagh’s direction as he still muttered the nursery rhyme, unwilling to believe the attack was over. The weasely man said,

“You will regret your insolence, son of Morzan.”

But Murtagh kept his eyes closed and mentally recited:

“I’ve asked the butcher, the cook and the maid

Where has the boy gone and could he have stayed?”

“No matter,” The other Twin said coldly. “We’ll be in Uru’baen soon. Then you’ll see. Perhaps the king will bring out your old swordmaster from the dungeons; cut his fingers off one by one until you submit–”

Tornac? 

The word exploded in Murtagh’s mind, a sudden spark of hope; he had survived? How?

In the next instant, he realized his mistake. 

The lance of thought that assaulted him was sharp and hot with anger, and his moment of lapsed concentration had allowed a crack in his mental wall that the Twins dismantled with the force of a great wave.

Murtagh shouted in pain and pulled at his bonds as he felt their poisonous presence invade his mind. They were emanating glee as they grabbed at his now-panicked thoughts, tearing down the remainder of his defenses and rifling through his feelings like pages in a book.

Murtagh writhed in agony, the ropes cutting into his skin, the tree bark scraping against his back, their minds stabbing him with every pulse of blood to his brain. Visions flashed before his eyes like sparks of flame.

His mother sat over him as he lay in bed, and she sang to him the very nursery rhyme he’d used as a shield,

“ Sweet little darling, where have you gone?

Table is ready and supper is on… ”

Then he was hiding from his father while Morzan stormed through the mansion in a whirl of anger, breaking anything in his path.

Then he was sitting astride a horse in front of his mother, enjoying the beauty of a spring day.

“Look at the world, Murtagh,” She said of the rolling green hills, her arms safe around him, “So beautiful and so big.”

Then Murtagh sat at a fine banquet table, his little legs too small to reach the floor, his head barely above the flat expanse.

“You will be great one day, son,” Morzan’s voice was saying, a hand reaching out to tousle Murtagh’s hair, “You will make me proud.”

Then pain. Such pain he had never felt, pain he didn’t think he could find a word for. And his mother was screaming, and the healers were doting over him and he felt foggy and unsure. What had he done wrong? Why had he been punished?

“Darling, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” His mother was saying now, as they were walking in the gardens one afternoon during their short visits together.

Murtagh held her hand and looked up at the shape of a man–thin but strong, his face lined but his eyes gentle, bending down to Murtagh’s level the way Morzan never did.

“This is mummy’s friend Neal,” Selena murmured, “He can help you. If you’re ever in trouble, you go to Neal, alright sweetheart?” 

“Alright.”

“Selena!” Morzan barked, storming into the room where Murtagh and his mother sat playing with wooden figures. 

Suddenly the memories seemed to slow, and the word reverberated in Murtagh’s skull…

Selena… S E L E N A …

Then he heard a voice was not a memory, not his own, but one of the Twins, a spark of recognition in their thought.

Well. Isn’t that interesting.

Then someone else said her name,

“My lady Selena!” It was the nursemaid, the old woman who cared for Murtagh, and she was helping Morzan’s wife–dripping wet, bedraggled, and half-dead–down the cold stone hallway, while Murtagh watched from a crack in a door.

Then he was standing at the edge of a room while a half-dozen servants fussed over his mother, who lay feverishly on a bed, candles flickering about her. 

“Call the chief healer,” The nursemaid demanded of her younger counterpart, pulling off the drenched clothes that weighed Selena down.

Then the old woman stopped, her attention grabbed by something she saw. 

“Ma’am?” The younger girl asked, holding fresh linens and waiting expectantly. 

Then her eyes, too, fell on whatever the nursemaid was seeing–whatever Selena’s uncovered body was telling them, and the two women met each other’s gaze.

“We must never speak of this,” The nursemaid commanded in a whisper, “Do you understand? No one must know.”

The younger girl was scared.

“Y–yes milady.”

Then the nursemaid noticed Murtagh in the doorway, and her expression grew stern.

“You shouldn’t be here, son, go on.”

But Murtagh couldn’t leave. He sat huddled on the cold floor in the hallway, as healers and servants ran to and fro. Something was wrong with his mother. She was sick. She needed help.

He slipped in when the nursemaid had gone for hot water, and came to Selena’s side, holding his tiny hand on top of hers and watching her sweat-drenched face.

“Mummy?” His little voice sounded loud in the room. Selena opened her eyes then, just a crack.

“My darling,” She whispered, her fingers touching his, “Don’t you worry, love,” She said with a weak smile. “I’m coming back for you, alright? I’ll be back. It’ll all be okay. I promise.”

Murtagh nodded, but he was crying. Coming back from where?

Then the nursemaid returned, and shooed him from the room. His mother needed help, he had to get her help.

Murtagh ran down the long stone halls as fast as his little legs would carry, his cheeks wet with tears and his sobs echoing off the walls around him.

He burst into the garden in a torrential rain. It was dark, and the flowers were all shuddering on their stems.

Murtagh ran through the rows of plants, shouting,

“Neal?!” 

His mother needed help. She said her friend Neal could help..

“Neal! My mummy needs you!” He shouted, not knowing who the man was or what he could do, only that his mother was in trouble. 

“Neal?!”

But Neal was not there...

Murtagh gasped awake, his breath a terrible wheeze, his body shaking. 

He hung limply from the bonds that held his arms over his head, and tried to stop his vision spinning. The Twins had retreated, but they had a foothold in his mind and were not done with him.

Murtagh kicked himself for his lapse in concentration, for allowing them to finally break in, only days before they’d reached Uru’baen. He shuddered, and tried to regain his bearings, feeling disoriented from the flood of thought and memory that they’d shuffled through, sweeping in like a great storm and snatching up every scrap of interest.

“Well. What a prize you’ll make,” Freckle Twin said gleefully, touching Murtagh’s cheek with one bony finger. Murtagh flinched away, scowling as he tried to stop his body from shivering. 

The other Twin smiled wide.

“Oh, I think the King will be quite pleased to learn this.”

Murtagh didn’t know what they were speaking of; he only knew that his mind had been torn to shreds, scoured and poked and invaded–the one safe refuge he’d had in all his life, the one part of himself he’d ever had control over, and the Twins had taken it from him. 

He vowed revenge in his heart, a black hatred for them settling into his bones. He would see them dead if it was the last thing he did. 

But they weren’t through with him. 

Three days more they dragged him along, and every time they stopped, they inserted themselves into his mind again, forcing through until they’d wormed their way into every crevice, conscious and unconscious. He was shown memories he didn’t even know he had, he saw flashes of the most terrible moments of his life. 

Every embarrassment, every failure, every sweet moment of friendship, every whisper with some noble’s daughter in some corner of the capitol, every smile he’d ever shared, every word he exchanged with Nasuada, everything he’d said to Eragon, the Twins took it all.

And when he saw the looming walls of Uru’baen rise in the distance as he tripped along, his legs weak and his mind frayed, he knew it was over. There was now no chance of escape, and the King would end him for his treason. 

I’m sorry, Eragon, He thought, knowing that the Twins would give over all the information they’d found in his mind–that soon he would be dead, and the King would use his thoughts as a weapon against his friend.

A small, bitter part of himself lamented that no one had come looking. That Eragon hadn’t cared, that Ajihad hadn’t cared, that Arya–whose life he’d helped save–hadn’t cared… that Nasuada hadn’t cared.

He stopped himself from feeling sorry, and instead focused all his energy on maintaining his hatred. He would get what revenge he could, and if he could not, then he would die proud and defiant, looking the King in the eyes as he delivered the killing blow. 

He would die fighting, as Tornac had. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: The Brink

They dragged him through the city with his hands bound, parading him past the rows of houses like a prize buck caught on a hunt. He felt eyes on him–city dwellers glancing his way, looking with pity or disgust. They knew where he was headed–some dangerous criminal, no doubt–and the king’s dungeons were not a place many people returned from. 

If any of them recognized him–once-high-ranking son of the great Morzan–they didn’t indicate it. A few smirked, a few looked sad for him, some coldly indifferent; he tried not to notice either way. He focused on not tripping over the cobblestone, as the streets grew wider and the houses finer.

His heart was pounding and his hands felt hot. Despite his determination not to quaver in the face of his imminent death, the closer they got to the citadel the more panic threatened to overwhelm him. This was it. He would face the king and receive his sentence. Then he would die. And that would be it.

He couldn’t lift his gaze from the ground to see the city he’d grown up in. He couldn’t bear to walk past the houses he’d visited and the merchants he’d frequented. Couldn’t listen to the sound of horse hooves clopping along the cobblestone. This city had been a prison to him, but it had also been his only home.

His wrists screamed as the Twins urged their mules up to the doors of the citadel and finally pulled to a stop.

He stood panting, no hope of escape crossing his mind. Even if he could get free from his bonds and disappear into the crowds of the city, the king already knew he was here, and he would be found. 

The guards at the gate looked the Twins up and down skeptically when they approached, and Murtagh kept his eyes down, not wanting to risk the three men recognizing him.

After a bit of arguing, they allowed the Twins to lead Murtagh into the first courtyard, and were met by one of the castle administrators–a thin man with squinting eyes and a sharp jawline. The man bowed when he saw the Twins, and Murtagh recognized him–one of the lackeys who was always lingering around the King, seeking his master’s attention.

“My Lords, his majesty was expecting you several days past,” The administrator said with a paper thin smile.

“We were delayed,” Freckle Twin scowled, yanking on the rope and causing Murtagh to lurch forward and stumble to the ground, hitting his knee hard on the courtyard stone. The administrator looked down at Murtagh like he was something that had crawled out of a sewer.

“I see. Well. If you’ll follow me.”

Murtagh moved in a daze, flanked on either side by castle guards, who held his thin arms with iron grips and hauled him through the narrow corridors of the citadel.

The last time he’d been here, he was an invited guest of the king. Now he was a prisoner sentenced to death. 

He controlled his shaking as they followed the familiar route towards the throne room, but when they stood in front of the great doors, Murtagh fought the urge to be sick. 

Die with pride. Die like a man, He reminded himself, feeling every beat of his heart like it was his last.

The doors opened and they entered the massive, echoing room, and Murtagh’s ears were ringing with anticipation as they passed four guards on either side of the door. But he saw immediately that the throne was empty, and his heart did a little flip. Perhaps the king was away, perhaps he could not meet them today. Perhaps Murtagh would live to see another dawn.

“His Majesty shall be with you in due time,” The castle administrator said with a short bow, and Murtagh’s hopes fell. 

The man’s sharp footsteps echoed in the large room while the Twins looked around admiringly, as though imagining themselves sitting on the right and left of the great throne.

Murtagh fought an eyeroll. Fools that they were, they actually thought delivering him to Galbatorix would win them anymore than a congratulations and a pat on the head. The King did not dole out favors to just anyone. He would take his prize and send them on their way without a second thought, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Sure, they were skilled in mental combat, but they weren’t any better than the magicians already in Galbatorix’s service, so far as Murtagh could tell, and if the King didn’t find them particularly useful, they would either be dismissed or they would end up dead.

Murtagh waited as the seconds crawled by, the two guards still holding him upright by his arms. It got to the point where he wanted to hurry up and be done with it, despite the fear pulsing through his veins.

When Murtagh finally heard the great doors they had entered through swing open again, he straightened himself and squared his shoulders, ready for what would come.

“So you managed it after all,” A voice said, and Murtagh felt a chill down his back. He recognized the voice–soothing and deep and somehow hollow at the same time, full of coldness but so vast that it was hard to listen to the individual words.

“Your Majesty,” Both the Twins murmured, but Murtagh kept his eyes angled down as he felt a figure walk past with slow steps, and circle around to face him. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure wave a hand, and the two guards holding him released their grasp, and marched back towards the door. It took a moment for Murtagh to steady himself, but he kept upright.

“I thought you’d lost your way in the Hadarac,” The heavy voice crooned again, “But I suppose not.”

“No, your majesty.”

“And the Varden leader?”

“Dead, your majesty.”

Murtagh felt his heart clench. 

No.

He’d been holding onto the hope that Ajihad might have made it, might have been healed. But unless the Twins were lying…

“Well done. You will both be rewarded,” The King said coldly, and Murtagh felt the Twins bow next to him. But they weren’t content to be silent.

“We do have news that may be of interest to you, your majesty,” Freckle Twin said quickly, bowing again.

“We’ve broken the boy, and retrieved valuable information from his mind.”

There was a moment’s silence and Murtagh sensed a slight coldness coming from the man who stood in front of him. The King seemed displeased by this news; perhaps he had wanted to break Murtagh himself. 

Murtagh wondered if he would get the pleasure of seeing Galbatorix kill the Twins in anger, but then the moment passed and the King spoke in a soft but dangerous voice.

“Very well. I will consult with you shortly.”

The Twins wisely kept silent and bowed.

Then Murtagh felt the king’s attention turn to him. He still did not look up, his eyes fixed on a spot between the King’s booted feet. He did not want to see the man’s cold eyes when he spoke the killing words, or swung his deadly blade.

“Well,” The voice said calmly, and Murtagh felt a finality in the word. He fought to keep his legs from shaking.

Die like a man.

“I don’t think it need be stated that I am… disappointed, Murtagh,” The King continued, and Murtagh fought a shudder, hearing his name out of this man’s mouth. He kept his eyes down and clenched his fists together to keep them from shaking.

“I offer you a position that men have, quite literally, killed for… but when the time comes that I call on you to fulfill your duties… you flee. And you join the very enemies who are trying to tear this kingdom apart.”

Murtagh felt the air charged with energy. He was expecting a blow any moment, a snap from calm to fury, a sudden pain. 

“I’d like you to look at me when I’m speaking, Murtagh,” The King chided. Murtagh was trembling, but he kept his eyes down. 

Die like a man.

But then the King spoke a word in the magic tongue, and Murtagh felt his head forced up against his will, his chin high and quivering. His eyes landed on King Galbatorix, dressed in fine gray layers, a cold crown on his head, black hair framing his chiseled face, deep set eyes that bespoke a hidden madness. Murtagh fought not to be sick.

“That’s better,” The King murmured softly. Then he began to pace calmly in front of Murtagh, as though taking a stroll in a summer garden.

“You take the coward’s route, and run from your duties to me, but yet you would throw in your lot with the doomed force of rebels hiding out in the mountains.” The King tutted. “I confess myself confused, Murtagh, and that does not happen easily.”

Murtagh remained silent. He felt the Twins amusement next to him, they were certainly enjoying the suspense, waiting for the killing blow.

“Still… your little rebellion has proved useful, in some ways. I now know the location and identity of the new rider; the Varden are weakened, and their leader dead. I have you, in part, to thank for all that.”

“You should just kill me now,” Murtagh spat, before he could lose his nerve, “I’m not telling you anything.”

The King’s eyebrow rose.

“Indeed?” He said coolly.

Then silence stretched. Murtagh took in shallow, shaking breaths, but he refused to look away. 

Die like a man.

“No, I think not,” The King said. Then he took a deep breath.

“I am going to give you a second chance, Murtagh. For your father’s sake.”

Murtagh’s shoulders hunched.

“You will swear fealty to me,” The King determined, “and serve as a soldier in my army. If you demonstrate loyalty, as your father did, I will even allow you to work your way up the ranks, in time, and possibly achieve the same position you might’ve held before your foolish escapade.”

Murtagh struggled to keep still, and the king turned to him, expecting a response. He took a few breaths to steady himself, his eyes fixed in the distance. He couldn’t look the man in the eyes and get the words out.

“I won’t swear anything to you,” Murtagh managed, “So you can just kill me now.”

The King sighed heavily, still slowly pacing.

“No, Murtagh. Your life ends when I decide.”

There was a stretch of silence, and Murtagh fought panic. 

This was not the plan. He was supposed to walk in and be beheaded, or killed in an instant with a magic word, or run through with a sword or eaten by a dragon. That was the plan. Die like a man. Now Galbatorix was showing him mercy? Expecting him to pledge loyalty?

His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t think straight. 

He didn’t want to die, but he certainly didn’t want to become a slave to the mad king for the rest of his life, which would likely be short and unpleasant. If he swore loyalty to Galbatorix, he would be dishonoring Tornac, would be making his sacrifice meaningless. He had to stick to his determination. 

“I will not pledge myself to you,” Murtagh said, his voice clear and calm. 

There was a beat of quiet, and the King stood still. Murtagh could hear the hammering of his heart in his chest, feel the tiled floor beneath his boots, see the dust particles floating through the half-lit air. Everything was sharp and focused, his senses heightened.

“Very well,” Galbatorix said quietly. 

Then the King raised a hand and beckoned to two of the guards who stood by the door. Murtagh fought the urge to bolt as he heard the men’s sturdy footsteps across the floor.

“I had hoped to avoid any unpleasantness, Murtagh,” The King said as the guards approached, “But if you will not willingly swear oaths to me, you will have to be… convinced.”

Murtagh kept his mouth shut, not trusting himself to speak in that moment.

“As you wish,” The King said, disappointed. Then, to the guards he said, “Take him to the dungeonmaster.”

The two guards grabbed ahold of Murtagh’s arms again and forced him around, his feet tripping over themselves.

“I hope you’ll see sense, Murtagh,” The King called after him. “Your father would be disappointed.”

***

In the black, choking dungeons under the citadel of Uru’baen–a place of which he had only heard horrible rumors as a young man–Murtagh was acquainted with new forms of pain.

The guards themselves seemed to want to plug their noses at the smell as they dragged Murtagh down sets of stairs into the underbelly of the citadel. 

The clogging smoke of many torches–the only things keeping back the darkness–threatened to choke Murtagh before ever he made it to a cell.

He tried to steel his nerves, knowing that torture was coming, knowing that oaths of fealty would be demanded of him, and that he had to refuse. But it was difficult, when his tongue tasted acid in the air, and his eyes stung from smoke, and the dampness of the walls around him made him feel suffocated.

The guards turned him over to a grim man with thick arms and a scarred face, and hurried away themselves back to the daylight. This man–whom Murtagh assumed was the dungeonmaster–had his own assistants; black-clothed, pale men with biting grips.

They forced Murtagh onto a rough wooden slab, shackled his wrists and ankles, and cut his shirt off his body. He tried to pull away from his captors, but they were practiced at their craft, and he was weakened from his long travel. 

Feeling the coarse wood of the slab against his back, Murtagh breathed unevenly through his nose, blinking up at the damp stone ceiling and trying to hold back his fear. The scarred man shuffled in the darkness, saying no word until he turned to stand over Murtagh, a small iron vice in his hand.

“Will you swear fealty to his Majesty King Galbatorix?” The man asked in a dull voice, his eyes deadened. Murtagh’s gaze flicked to the device in the man’s hand, guessing its uses, his chest rose and fell with uneven gasps, but through trembling lips he managed to say,

“No.”

The man was expressionless as he bent towards Murtagh’s hands and put the vice around his fingers. Then the man turned a screw and Murtagh felt pressure pushing against his nails, he blinked and tried to look away.

“Will you swear fealty to his Majesty King Galbatorix?” The man asked again.

“No,” Murtagh scowled at the ceiling. And the crank was turned again. He grunted in pain as he felt the clamp crushing down upon his fingers, but when the dungeonmaster asked his question a third time, Murtagh remained steadfast.

Again the clamp closed, and again tendrils of pain fired up his hand, and again he was asked, and again he refused.

He tried to keep his mouth shut and hold in his pain, but when he felt his fingernails crack under the pressure, and the broken shards began to dig into his tender flesh, he cried out and arched his back, trying unsuccessfully to pull away from the iron clamp.

When the fingers on his right hand were a mottled mess of bruising, the man moved to his left. This time he did not use a vice, but rather, thin pieces of sharpened metal.

After asking Murtagh if he would swear fealty, and receiving a refusal, the scarred man pushed the metal pieces underneath each finger nail bed, sending sparks of hot agony up each finger. 

Murtagh struggled against his bonds, and groaned with pain as the metal spikes were driven deeper, numbness and tingling and fire running up and down his whole arm. Still, he refused.

He began to lose track of time, in the darkness of the chambers below Uru’baen, as the grim-faced dungeon master moved from one torture to the next, always asking a question Murtagh had to repudiate.

The man seemed to know when Murtagh had become so desensitized by one form of punishment that he could no longer feel the agony through his numbness, and so he would move onto another, to reawaken new waves of pain.

After an endlessly long time, Murtagh was given a coarse gray tunic and dragged to a cell, dropped there in chains on a cold stone floor scattered with straw. He lay on his side, shaking, his breath trembling as he tried to blink the pain away. 

Perhaps it had been a day, perhaps an hour, before they’d given him a break from the torture; he couldn’t think of when he’d met with the King in the throne room. Had that even been real? Or had it been a nightmare like this? 

He was too hurt to feel hungry, but when one of the black-clad men came by with an old piece of bread and cheese and a cup of dirty water, he ate and drank as best he could with his mutilated hands. Then he lay in a stupor on the floor, feeling every pulse of blood to his body as it lit up his pain again. 

It wasn’t long enough when the black-clad men returned, waking him from his half-conscious state, and unlocking his chains from the ring on the ground. He knew what was coming, as they hauled him back through the dark tunnels, and the knowing only made it worse. Again he fought futilely as they pushed him down onto the rough wooden slab, removing the gray sack they’d given him to wear.

The dungeonmaster turned to him again, as though no time had passed, and said,

“Will you swear fealty to His Majesty King Galbatorix?” His dead tone filling the dark room.

“No,” Murtagh managed, pouring out his fury through gritted teeth. He would not submit. He would not shame Tornac’s memory. They would have to kill him. 

The dungeon master lifted the lid of a brazier that held hot coals, and Murtagh’s stomach did a sick twist. When the man drew out a thin rod with a sharp, glowing-hot tip, Murtagh whimpered in fear and tried to pull away from his shackles, but of course it was futile.

He screamed when the sharp tip pressed into the skin near his ribs, both cutting and burning, creating pain like a hole was being dug into his side and filled with dragon fire. He twisted until he thought his wrists and ankles might crack, trying to escape the burning as it blackened his flesh. 

“Will you swear fealty to His Majesty King Galbatorix?” The man asked again, and Murtagh shouted,

“No!” Through waves of agony. 

The hot metal attacked again. 

Patches of blackened skin ran down Murtagh’s side as the dungeonmaster continued his questioning, and Murtagh’s body began to tremble uncontrollably, his breath rattling like cold winter wind.

His mind felt bleary and confused; he couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. When the dungeon master asked him to swear fealty to the king, the words swam in his head indecipherably. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, his view of the ceiling above blurring in and out.

Who was he? Why was he being punished like this? What had he done?

After the fire was the water. They covered Murtagh’s head with a cloth bag, and their heavy hands held him down while they poured water over his face until he was certain he would drown. He choked and spluttered when they removed it and the voice over him said,

“Will you swear fealty?”

And he shook his head, because he no longer trusted himself to speak. 

They dragged him back to the straw-floor cell, and he lay there for hours again, trying to remember who he was. His trembling hands spilled out most of the water they brought for him, and the bread tasted like ash. 

When the black-clad men returned again, he tried to strangle one of them with the chain of his shackles, but before he got a sure grip around the man, his companion struck Murtagh with a heavy wooden baton and sent him stumbling into the bars of the cell, dazed and seeing sparks.

Again the dungeon master asked him his question, and again Murtagh shook his head, no longer consciously aware of why he was being asked or why he was refusing, only that it was his life’s mission to say no, over and over he would say no. That was all he could do.

During one of the brief respites from his agony, as he lay on the wooden slab feeling his skin throb with pain where the dungeon master had grated it like so much cheese, he felt a different man standing over him, and the voice of the King saying,

“It needn’t be so hard, Murtagh. Give up. Let this foolishness end.”

The voice was smooth and lulling, tempting him to give in, but it also sparked a memory: of the man who had demanded Murtagh march into a village and slaughter a hundred innocents. Of the frantic pacing as young Murtagh tried to find a way out of his obligation. Of Tornac’s calming presence, a compass of morality. And then of a hurried flight and a terrible scream, watching Tornac fall and holding him as he died.

Tornac. 

The thought which before had been his undoing now was his anchor in the sea of his agony. He could not give in. He could not dishonor the man who’d been more like a father to him than anyone. He would continue to refuse.

There was no part of him that did not hurt. Days passed, how many he could not say, and a dreadful routine fell into place. He looked forward only to the hours when he would be allowed to lie in the corner of the dank cell, the cold floor soothing his throbbing skin as he tried to think of anything but his pain. 

He would stare at the wall, where a loose nail stuck out from under the bars, and imagine prying it free, working loose all the nails and pushing down the bars and making a run for freedom. But his shaking hands were too weak even to grasp the nail, much less pry it loose. 

He began to beg, hating himself for it, but unable to stop. He pleaded for mercy, for his freedom, for a pause to the torment. He pleaded for water, for sunlight, for one kind touch. He screamed his pleas even as the dungeon master struck his back with a glass-threaded whip, even as he forced his hands into a bed of hot coals, and poured a sour black liquid down his throat until he choked. He begged for death, but his captors would not acquiesce. 

His survival they made sure of, sending in a healer every few days to draw Murtagh back from the brink of oblivion. There was a small draught of relief in the healing, but that relief was soured by the knowledge that it was only preparing him for more pain. 

He’d once grabbed the wrist of the woman who was kneeling over him chanting her magic, and begged her to end his life with her words, but she merely pulled her hand from his weakened grasp, and continued her assignment.

He began to feel himself slipping. 

He no longer refused when the dungeon master asked, he only remained silent. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth, fearing a “Yes” would come out. He tried to remember Tornac, tried to hold on to the anger that fueled his resolve, but the memories were gradually being snuffed out by the wind of agony. 

What did it matter, anyway? Tornac was dead, after all, he’d never know he’d been betrayed. Who would find out? No one was coming for him. Eragon had forgotten him, Ajihad was dead, the elf whose life he’d saved apparently did not care to repay the debt. Why would it matter, if he just said yes?

His bloodied feet dragged as the black-clad men hauled him back to his cell once again, chained him to the floor, and left him curled up by the wall. His chin trembled, and he began to sob, a whimper growing into tears that made lines through the dirt and blood on his face.

“Please, Eragon…” He whispered, cradling his head like he was going mad.

“Please…” He croaked, thinking perhaps he could reach Eragon in his mind, perhaps his pain was loud enough, perhaps someone would hear, and they would know, and they would care. 

But no one did. 

He stared at the rusty nail, no longer dreaming of breaking his way out. He would submit, or he would die. And they weren’t letting him die.

His gaze fixated on the sharp, protruding edge, thinking how easy it would be, how quick, how soothing, to end his pain. He couldn’t keep saying no. He was going to break soon, if he didn’t do something. But this he could do. 

It wouldn’t dishonor Tornac, would it? He could die like a man, as he’d wanted to. He could perform one last rebellion against the tyrant King, could escape, knowing that he’d kept his word.

Seconds passed like hours, and he couldn’t look away. His breath was shallow and his mind blank except for a voice that said,

Die like a man.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, though to whom he wasn’t sure. He reached out his shaking hand.

When it happened, he gasped in pain, but then the hurt from his wrist dissipated into his whole arm, and it hardly registered amidst all his other injuries.

 His vision began to blur, and hot blood spread from the wound. He rolled onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling as he felt his heart begin to beat sluggishly, his wrist cradled against his chest as the life left him.

He had one last regretful thought–wondering if any of the Varden would ever know he’d survived the tunnels under Farthen Dur–if Eragon would ever know how hard he’d tried. 

I’m sorry.

Then his vision went black. 

Chapter Text

Murtagh gasped awake into a scream.

There were figures crowded over him, someone was muttering words of magic, his body was knitting itself back together.

“No!” He howled, writhing as many hands pushed him down, “Stop! Let me go!” 

He struggled as one of the Twins bent over him, healing the wound on his wrist, forcing him back into consciousness. He wailed in lament while they compelled the life back into him, keeping him from the release he craved. 

“The King isn’t finished with you,” The Twin hissed, his eyes sparking with anger. 

The men in black hauled Murtagh to his feet, and they marched him down the dark corridor once more.

At first he thought they were taking him back to the wooden slab, back to more pain, but they passed the dark doorways and began ascending the many flights of twisting stairs.

The figures of the Twins marched in the lead, and Murtagh tried to hold himself up. Many of his hurts had been lessened–his hands were not quite so disfigured as they had been and his burns did not pain him with every heartbeat. His mind raced, trying to remember where he was, what was happening. 

When they reached the ground level and passed by a set of thin windows, Murtagh winced in pain from the light. He wanted to stop for a moment and soak the thin ray of sun into his starved skin, but he was forced on. 

Door after door they passed, and they rose on ever higher staircases, and Murtagh began to think they were taking him up to the top of one of the citadel’s towers, just to throw him to his death. 

But then they approached a heavy set of metal doors that sat open, and the Twins swept into the room ahead of Murtagh, and the guards dragged him through, and there was the King, leaning over a map, his back to them.

As Galbatorix turned, the guards pulled Murtagh’s hands behind him and shackled them to the ground by a short chain. Murtagh panted for breath, still trembling, still shocked and terrified to be alive. 

He waited as the King approached, his own sweat-drenched hair hanging in front of his eyes, his whole body shuddering. 

Galbatorix’s voice floated down from above,

“I told you. Your life ends, when I decide.”

Murtagh breathed shakily, but he felt a renewed spark of fury in his chest, some kind of strange energy feeding him, a madness that gave him power. He glared up at the King defiantly, but before he formed the words he wanted to say, his eyes caught a spark of color in the background, and his heart flipped. All thought of revenge left him, and his face went slack, as he stared past the King’s shoulder at the shining shape of two large eggs.

“Oh, yes,” The King said, noticing Murtagh’s sudden distraction. 

Murtagh’s breath was shallow; he began to notice the room now, lined with shelves that contained all manner of trinkets and valuables–swords and armor and jewels and art and chests of gold. 

“This is my treasury,” The King explained, turning with a satisfied gesture to his collection of things. “I like to do my work here sometimes, to remind myself of all that I’ve fought for…”

He took careful steps towards the two eggs, which sat on lush pillows on a dais of their own–one green, and one red.

“...and to be near my precious ones,” The King said, and he ran a gentle hand along the red egg’s shell. Murtagh felt a lurch of anger, like he wanted to jump out and stab the king just for touching it.

Galbatorix lowered an ear to the dragon egg and smiled softly.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” He murmured. 

Murtagh noticed that there was a third pillow next to the green egg–empty, as though waiting for Saphira to crawl back into her cage and rejoin her brethren.

He couldn’t believe it. Here he was, helpless and weak, staring at the two most valuable items in the world. Men had schemed and plotted for years–died, even–just to get into this room. And he was here, half-dead, chained to the floor. 

“I’ll tell you what, Murtagh,” Galbatorix said with a false warmth, turning his back to the eggs, “I’ll give you a chance. I’ve business to attend to, so I’ll leave you here for a while to think on things. Why don’t you try and steal one of them? Take them back to your Varden friends?” 

Murtagh glared up at Galbatorix, his body weak but his spirit strengthened somehow. 

“Maybe then they’ll accept you,” The King smirked, his voice slow and taunting, “Maybe then they’ll forget who you are.”

Galbatorix straightened and stared down at him; he reached a hand and touched the side of Murtagh’s face. Murtagh flinched away, breathing through his nose, his eye fixed on the eggs behind the King.

The older man smirked.

“You do look like your father,” He said with cold humor, “He was stubborn too.” 

Then he snapped a finger and strolled past Murtagh towards the metal doors, his heavy boots echoing. The room emptied, and the Twins gave Murtagh a last sneer as they passed; then he heard the creak of the hinges as the great gateway closed behind him.

It was so quiet in the treasury room, Murtagh could hear his heart beating. His breaths were loud in the silence, as the dust swirled through shafts of light that drifted down from high, narrow windows.

Murtagh stared at the dragon eggs on the dais, mesmerized by their bright hues and beautiful curves. How Eragon would have loved to see this. What the Varden would have given to be in this room.

It did not once cross his mind to actually try and reach one of the eggs. He knew he was helpless, and Galbatorix knew it too, or he never would have left Murtagh alone with his most prized possessions.

If I could do any magic… Murtagh thought heavily. But he could not, and his hands were chained and his body was weakened and even if he’d somehow broken free, he couldn’t have gotten through the bolted metal doors. 

He consoled himself by just staring at the eggs for a while, thinking of the dragons sleeping inside, wondering how they might be like Saphira, how they might be different. He allowed himself to indulge in a little hope–that they would be freed, that they could hatch and grow and fly and create a new generation together, away from the darkness of this place.

His body was still in shock from the pain and terror of the last days, and from the close call with death. But now it was quiet, and there was no one trying to hurt him, and many of his wounds had been partially mended, giving him a modicum of relief. He felt himself heavy with exhaustion, and began to drift into blessed unconsciousness.

His hands were shackled so tightly to the ground that he couldn’t get his legs out from under him, so his head sagged on his neck as he knelt, and he began to list sideways, slumping into an uneasy sleep on the floor of the King’s treasure room.

***

In the shadows of dream Murtagh began to hear a clicking–a tapping, like a bird pecking on a window pane, or the crackle of twigs in a forest. His breath was heavy and his mind wandering as the tapping continued, uneven but consistent. It drew him from half-remembered dreams and beckoned him back to the waking world, as though the bird were pecking on the back of his neck.

Murtagh breathed deeply and his eyelids fluttered. He felt pain around his wrists where he had sagged forward, pulling on the shackles, but that pain did not catch his attention. 

The tapping was loud now, and echoing in the silence of the treasury. Murtagh breathed in again, blinking himself awake, his lungs rattling and his vision blurry.

The cracking noise filled his head, and he squinted in the afternoon light that now drifted through the windows far above. How long had the King left him for? Where was the noise coming from?

Blearily, he looked around at the rows of shelves, ghostly shadows of artifacts disappearing out of sight. 

Tap tap tap.

A cough rattled his chest.

Tap tap. Crack.

Murtagh was fully awake now, and he heard the sound bouncing in his ears, and his scanning eyes fell upon the eggs.

Crack. Tap tap.

Murtagh blinked, and his heart flushed with heat. 

Tap.

The red egg moved.

His mouth went dry, as the cracking and tapping grew more insistent, like the burble of rapids as a traveler approaches. He was holding his breath, eyes fixed on the egg, trying to convince himself he had imagined it.

Then the egg moved again.

Then he saw a crack.

Then a shard dropped from the surface of the egg, slipped off the cushion, and flipped over onto the floor. 

Murtagh followed the shard as it fell, his mind so full it was blank, trying to wade through his own confusion and understand what was happening.

He thought he must still be in a dream, but his mind was sharper right now than it had been in days. He breathed shallowly, as another series of sharp pops and cracks echoed through the empty room.

Then a larger chunk of the egg separated, and fell. 

Murtagh gasped.

“No…” He whispered, his spine tingling as his mind raced to catch up with itself. 

“N–no, stop,” He commanded the egg. “Stop it, don’t do that.”

Crack pop. Crack.

“Y–” Murtagh looked behind him at the bolted door. There was no one here. What was happening? Surely this was some kind of trick?

Crack crunch.

Then:

Squeak.

“No,” Murtagh pleaded, “Y–you can’t hatch right now, you have to stay inside. It’s not safe. Don’t come out.”

Squeak squeak. Crack.

“You’ve got to stay inside,” He hissed, feeling that at any moment the King would burst back in. 

Then the egg wobbled and shook, and Murtagh’s heart was beating so fast he felt like he’d been running.

“Don’t–” He began, but at that moment, the egg wobbled forward, tipped off its cushion, and fell to the floor.

Murtagh winced and closed his eyes as the remainder of the egg shattered, sending shards skidding across the ground. 

Squeak!

When he cracked open his eyes, he saw the tiny shape of a thin reptile, small enough to sit in his hands, and red like sparkling rubies, with little white spikes running along his spine.

Murtagh’s mouth was half-open, his breath held, every inch of his skin flushed with energy, all thought of pain forgotten.

He was staring at a dragon.

The little reptile was weaving its head, trying to shake loose a piece of the shell that stuck to its snout. Its wings–Murtagh knew they must be wings–were still tightly pressed against its side, thick with a membrane from the egg. 

The dragon squeaked in triumph when it shook loose the last piece of its old home, and its little legs danced happily, finally prying loose its wings and flaring them out for the first time, as if raising two arms in triumph. 

Then it turned, and the dragon met Murtagh’s stunned gaze. 

It cocked its head in his direction.

Squeak? 

Murtagh was trembling, his mouth open to say something, but frozen. 

The dragon toddled forward clumsily, its limbs stiff and awkward. It sniffed a piece of the egg shell, then looked back up at Murtagh.

Squeak squeak?

Finally Murtagh’s mind caught up with himself, and he remembered to breathe.

“Y–you have to go,” He whispered, “Now–now, you have to go before they come back.”

He breathed, not quite able to believe what he was seeing.

Squeak, The dragon said, tilting its head again. It lumbered closer to Murtagh, sniffing curiously.

“Y–fly away, you have to fly away now while you can,” Murtagh insisted, feeling panic and fear that was not for himself. “Go, go up to the window,” He gestured with his head, since his hands were shackled behind him.

The dragon followed his gesture, but looked back at him with an expression he somehow knew to be confusion.

Squeak?

The dragon was mere feet from him, when an understanding finally settled into Murtagh’s bones. 

It had hatched. For him. The dragon had hatched for him. The dragon wanted to be bonded… to him.

“No,” Murtagh said, fear gripping him for the little creature, knowing it would be a seal of doom for the thing to choose Murtagh as his partner.

“No, don’t come any closer. You–you have to go find Eragon. Go find the Varden and find Eragon, he can help you. You understand?”

The dragon met his eyes, clearly, sentient, but not grasping. It squeaked and stepped closer.

“No!” Murtagh shouted, shrinking back as much as he could with his bound hands. “You don’t want to do that, don’t do that. Get away from me. Go find Eragon. Saphira–you know–you know her, you… you were with her in your eggs. She’s your friend, she can help you. Fly away.”
Murtagh pleaded, trying to get the thing to understand, but the dragon just kept getting closer.

“Please, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Murtagh begged, his voice cracking; he felt such a flood of fear for this poor thing, so innocent and unknowing, unaware of what it had done–hatching here, now. 

The dragon looked curiously at his shape as it began to circle around him.

“Please, go away,” Murtagh said through tears, “You can’t do this, please…” 

Squeak squeak.

Murtagh pulled at the shackles, trying to distance himself from the little creature so it couldn’t touch him. Isn’t that how Eragon said it happened? The dragon had to touch you?

The dragon was sniffing and toddling, and Murtagh felt a great hollow in his chest, wanting more than anything to reach out and hold it close, but also wanting to get it as far away from him as possible.

“Please don’t…” Murtagh pleaded as the dragon stepped around near his back, near his bound hands.

“You have to get out of here. You’ll be hurt.”

Then he felt a soft touch on his left hand, and he gasped as a spark of fire shot up his limb, a rush of energy filled his whole body, a flash of consciousness pressed into his own… and he blacked out. 

Chapter Text

When Murtagh awoke, his face was against the cold floor, and his eyes blinked open to a scaly red snout, inches from his nose. He inhaled sharply, before remembering what had happened and where he was.

He grunted as he tried to sit up, his hands still shackled tightly. The little dragon chirped and wobbled backwards, his head swinging this way and that, like he hadn’t quite got the hang of his neck muscles. 

Murtagh felt the palm of his left hand itching and burning, and he twisted to try and look at it. Sure enough, there was the silver mark etched into his skin–the same one he’d seen on Eragon, and on the old man Brom–the same one he remembered on his father’s hand, and the hand of the king. 

A gedwey ignasia. The mark of a rider.

Murtagh’s shoulders sagged, and he turned back to the dragon, who sat on his haunches, blinking and tilting its head. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Murtagh muttered. 

He was confused–on the one hand, he felt exhilarated, the pain of the past weeks seemed to have been washed away, his body suffused with energy and vigor; on the other hand, he felt a vice clamping around his neck. This dragon had hatched for him, had bound itself to him, and in doing so, it had bound itself to a life of imprisonment and torture. 

“You should fly away while you still can,” Murtagh encouraged quietly, not wanting to look at the thing. 

The red dragon squeaked and flapped its wings once, as though to demonstrate the fact that it was mere minutes old, and could not, in fact, fly. Murtagh breathed heavily, still trying to believe that this was real–in the king’s treasure room, surrounded by the shards of a red egg, with a dragon sitting right in front of him and a gedwey ignasia on his hand. 

He felt a presence touch his mind and instinctively recoiled, but the second after he’d done so, he recognized what it was, and he was forced to look again at the tiny creature. 

Squeak! The red dragon said, and the presence touched his mind again. Murtagh struggled to lower the walls that he’d fought so long to keep up, tentatively bringing them down, and tensing as though waiting for an attack.

But no attack came. 

Instead Murtagh felt a wild, new presence, like a flower bursting into bloom on the first day of spring, like a fire flaring to life from a bed of embers, like a rushing river laden with snowmelt. His breath shuddered and his lungs felt full. The presence was both soft and fierce, both small and vast, both strange and comforting.

He looked at the little dragon, whose wide ruby eyes blinked at him.

“Hello,” Murtagh muttered, weakly smiling despite himself. 

The dragon chirped, and waddled its way forward, its tail dragging on the ground behind it. 

  Murtagh stayed still this time–as it came close–as it walked behind him and grabbed at his shackles with its little teeth.

“Sorry,” Murtagh said, “Don’t think you can break them. Not yet, anyway.”

The dragon shook the chain like a dog might shake a dead rabbit, and it grunted in frustration when the metal would not budge.

Murtagh felt a chill run up his back when the dragon touched his hand again–a soft touch, a kind touch, the touch of a friend; he’d not felt any such thing for weeks. He tried not to cry.

The little dragon must have noticed, because Murtagh felt worry emanating from him, and he toddled back around to Murtagh’s front, lifting his forelegs up and placing them on Murtagh’s thigh as it blinked up at him, concerned.

“I’m sorry,” Murtagh sniffled, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The dragon chirped again, and crawled the rest of the way onto Murtagh’s lap. Murtagh laughed quietly–both because the dragon’s little claws were ticklish, and because the situation was so ludicrous. A dragon on his lap. A fire-breathing, man-killing, fearsome beast crawling over him like a pet squirrel.

The red dragon turned several times like a dog patting down its bed, and then he sat on Murtagh’s lap, curled up and comfortable. 

“You shouldn’t stay here,” Murtagh tried again, going against his instincts, which told him to keep the dragon close and hold him tight. The dragon looked up at Murtagh with a deep understanding.

Then he lifted his small head and touched the center of Murtagh’s sternum with his snout, as if to say, 

But you are here.

Murtagh sighed, trying to set aside his fear for the creature. If it would not be convinced, then there was nothing he could do. It was hatched now, and it had bonded itself to him, and there was no going back. He felt both a deep joy and horrible dread, knowing what doom the dragon had consigned itself to, and that he would be responsible for all the pain this little creature was about to face.

He couldn’t reach a hand out to cradle the dragon, but he bent his forehead down as low as he could, and the dragon raised its own scaly brow to meet him, and their heads were touched together, and Murtagh felt like he could’ve stayed in that moment forever, connected in a way he’d never known before. 

He realized for the first time in his life that he was not alone.

And he cried.

***

The dragon stayed on his lap for hours, and Murtagh fell in and out of sleep, as the shackles continued to pull on his wrists. He was half-awake and half-aware of the dragon’s mental touch, when he heard footsteps outside the door, and immediately snapped upright, his skin tingling and his body on alert.

“This is your last chance,” He whispered at the dragon, “Go now, get out of here.”

But he knew it was a futile request. All he sensed from the dragon’s mind was a pressing thought, an image of himself, here on the floor. The message was clear: the dragon would stay with him.

Murtagh steeled himself and took a breath, as the bolts on the metal door unlocked and swung open, and he heard the shuffling of many footsteps and the high sound of one of the Twins’ haughty voices,

“Since the King has so graciously decided to spare your miserable life, you’ll–”

The man stopped just past Murtagh, facing forward to the dais where the now-singular egg sat. His brother stopped just behind him. Murtagh breathed shallowly. 

The Twin’s head turned to him as slow as a turtle, his wide eyes following the path of shattered egg shards, to the dragon which sat on Murtagh’s lap.

The man’s eyes were large and full of cold rage, as realization dawned upon him. His upper lip quivered into a snarl, his hands suddenly clenched into fists.

Murtagh glared back with a fury that would have scared the most hardened warrior, daring the weasel to lay hands on the tiny dragon.

“Go find the King,” Freckle Twin hissed to the guards through gritted teeth, not removing his eyes from Murtagh and the dragon. Murtagh heard the shuffle of hurried feet.

The creature squeaked and huddled closer to Murtagh’s chest, its head swiveling between the two magicians who stood before it, both seething with impotent anger, clearly irate that the dragon had hatched, not for them, but for Murtagh.

“What have you done?” The other Twin whispered, as though Murtagh was somehow responsible for forcing the dragon out of its egg. 

“You touch him… and I’ll kill you,” Murtagh said, still glaring, all his fear and pain gone, replaced with furious determination. 

Freckle Twin’s eye twitched, but neither of them moved. It was likely they knew they would face the King’s wrath if they made the wrong move now, where the dragon was involved. 

A dead silence stretched for several minutes, until Murtagh again heard hurried footsteps. He closed his eyes and pressed his consciousness against the dragon’s to try and calm it. The poor thing didn’t know what was coming, but he did.

The heavy footsteps slowed as they entered behind Murtagh. The Twins lowered their heads, and backed away, as King Galbatorix stepped into the field of egg shards, and turned to face Murtagh. The dragon shrank closer as the King’s wild gaze fell upon it.

Murtagh kept his gaze steady, and Galbatorix stared down at the creature, a strange glee in his expression. His mouth curled upwards with a savage amusement, like he was about to break out into mad laughter. 

Murtagh felt his own heartbeats and the heartbeats of the dragon, as the silence stretched. 

Then the King murmured,

“Well. This is interesting.”

His smile was broad now, and Murtagh felt coldness wash over him. He tried to keep calm, for the dragon’s sake, but his body was shaking again.

Without breaking his gaze the King said,

“Take the dragon.”

Murtagh lurched forward as a guard stepped into his field of vision and snatched the red creature from his lap.

“No!” He shouted, and the dragon squawked and wriggled. “Don’t touch him!” Murtagh screamed, pulling against the shackles even as they dug into his wrists. “Put him down! Put him down!!”

The guard struggled to keep the dragon clenched between his gloved hands, as the creature writhed and squeaked, and Murtagh felt its fear and panic mixing with his own.

Galbatorix was laughing while Murtagh struggled, knowing it was useless but feeling a feral, driving urge to get the dragon back. The guard flinched away as the creature lashed out with its tail and scratched at the man’s gloved hands with his tiny claws.

Murtagh tried to think, tried to work through his hysteria, tried to figure out how to get the dragon back. He couldn’t let them take it, he couldn’t let it out of his sight.

You’re its rider. Do something. You’re its rider. You have to save it. Do something do something do something.

Do what? What could a rider do? 

The dragon writhed and Galbatorix watched in gleeful amusement.

What could he do what could he do what could he do?

A rider.

Magic.

Murtagh suddenly remembered the mark on his hand–the silver dragon mark. Magic. He was a rider. Riders could do magic. Right? But he didn’t know any magic. Did he? How could he do magic if he didn’t know any magic?

His thoughts raced, and the guard tried to wrestle the flailing creature under control and Murtagh pulled at his bonds, and the king laughed, and then suddenly to Murtagh’s lips came a word in the magic tongue–a word he’d heard Eragon use before– the only word he could think of in that panicked moment:

“ Brisingr !” He shouted at the guard holding his dragon, and he felt heat from the silver mark on his palm, and suddenly at the man’s feet a fire flared into existence.

The man screamed in fright and dropped the dragon, which quickly rolled onto the floor and scampered away as the desperate guard tried to put out the magical fire, and Murtagh glared in his direction, willing the flames to engulf him. 

But Galbatorix’s laugh only grew louder as the guard screamed and stumbled and the flames climbed up his body. 

After only a few seconds, Galbatorix lazily flicked his wrist and said,

“Letta,” And the fire was suddenly snuffed out. Then the king pointed to the scampering dragon and said,

“Blothr,” And the creature froze mid-stride, its ruby eyes blinking wide in fear, trying to make it back to Murtagh.  

Murtagh himself now suddenly felt a great weakness flush his limbs. He panted for breath, and sagged on his shackles, the energy from the spell sapping his shallow supply of strength.

Galbatorix’s laugh turned to a gentle chuckle, and he stepped towards the dragon, bending himself and picking it up under one arm while the injured guard groaned in pain on the floor behind him.

Galbatorix squatted in front of Murtagh, petting the frozen dragon’s head with two fingers.

“Very good, Murtagh,” He said with a smile, “I see you’ve been paying attention.”

Murtagh struggled to catch his breath, his heartbeats sluggish from the energy drain. 

“Can’t have you attacking my men, though,” He chided softly. Then he sighed, the dragon tucked under his arm. 

“I think you and I are going to work quite well together.”

He sat for a moment, and Murtagh managed to raise his eyes to meet the dragon’s.

I’m sorry, He said to it, and the paralyzed creature let out a little squeak.

Then Galbatorix straightened back up and turned to the un-injured guard.

“Take him back to the cell.”

“No…” Murtagh murmured weakly, as the King strode past him, carrying the dragon under his arm.

“No! Bring–take him back–bring him…” Murtagh felt four rough arms unlocking his shackled wrists and hauling him to his feet. The Twins glared at him furiously as he was dragged from the room, the King disappearing down the hall with the red dragon in his grasp.

“No…” Murtagh muttered, flexing his silver-marked hand, trying to will the magic to come back, to stop the king from taking his dragon away. But he had no strength left; the adrenaline was gone, and he couldn’t access whatever power he’d managed to tap into in his blind fury.

He was helpless. 

He was alone again. 

***

They dropped him back in the cell and chained him to the floor as before. One of the guards kicked him in the ribs, clearly in repayment for his attack on their fellow man. They threw a piece of bread at him and dropped his cup of water so it spilled into a puddle on the floor. Then they left him alone.

He lay on the floor, reeling, so confused from the events of the past few hours that he thought he might have imagined them. But then he looked at his left hand, and he saw the silver mark. Undeniable. Clear and final. 

A rider. He was a rider . He couldn’t believe it–knew it must be true only because in his wildest imaginations he wouldn’t have thought up something like this. He didn’t deserve to be a rider. What had he ever done? Why would the red dragon choose him of all people?

His stomach clenched when he thought of the dragon. What were they doing to it? Was it being hurt, as he had been? How could he save it? How could he get it out? All his thoughts were consumed with the dragon: how to free it, how to protect it, how to find it in his mind, wherever it was in Uru’baen right now. 

He was thinking of it as a he, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He hadn’t checked, but the consciousness that had touched him just felt male, and he began to wonder what its– his –name was. What did it call itself? 

He ate the piece of bread to try and regain some of his lost strength, and he thought over and over of the dragon’s presence, and his thoughts touching it, and the way it stared at him like it knew him. How could he save it? How could he get a message to Eragon?

He was sitting up again, his energy somewhat restored, and he was getting thirsty enough to think about slurping the water right off the floor from the puddle, when an idea struck him.

Get a message to Eragon. 

Could he see Eragon? Could he find him? With magic? He racked his brain, trying to take himself back to the frantic race across the Hadarac, a memory sparking.

 Eragon had been using his magic to see their road; he’d summoned water from the ground; he’d spoken words of magic; he’d created an image on its reflective surface.

Murtagh closed his eyes, picturing Eragon in the half-light of a fading day months ago, kneeling over his small pool of water, his hand outstretched. What words had he whispered? 

Murtagh grasped at the image in his mind, desperate to remember.

Urgently, he knelt over the puddle on the floor, holding out his silver-marked hand, his brow creased.

“D–dramer chora…” He tried. Nothing. “Dream–dreamer corpa…” His hand did not glow, the silver mark did not grow hot.

He grunted in frustration, clenching his hands and staring at his muddled reflection in the water, the orange light from the torches quivering on the surface.

Come on…

He closed his eyes and took a calm breath, trying to reach into the memory again. Eragon was kneeling over the water. He had held out his hand. He had whispered the words…

“ Draumr kopa .”

Murtagh felt his palm heat, and glow. He held his breath and tried to concentrate, picturing Eragon’s face, hoping he was doing this right, knowing that if he made a miscalculation with this magic stuff, he could kill himself accidentally.

The surface of the water rippled with light, and Murtagh’s heart hammered, waiting to see an image form itself.

Come on, come on. Eragon. Show me Eragon, He pleaded, as the light swirled and he felt the energy draining from his hand. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the blackness swirled, and he thought he saw a flicker of movement. But then… not a thing.

The heat from his hand grew, and he felt the power going out from his palm, but the surface of the water showed nothing. 

Blackness. 

Void. 

He finally released the spell when he felt his vision getting fuzzy and his limbs shaking. He sat on his hands and knees for a moment, scowling in frustration as he caught his breath. He smacked the surface of the water and sat back, angry at himself for doing the spell wrong, or saying the wrong words, or losing focus, or whatever had caused the attempt to fail. 

So much for magicians, He thought again, miserably, sinking back against the wall of the cell. He panted heavily, then, trying to regain his lost strength and calm the weak pattering of his heart.

As he waited by the sputtering torches, he slipped in and out of consciousness, the image of the red dragon always lingering before his eyes–waking or sleeping. He was grateful for the blessed reprieve–for the pause in his torture and pain–but he feared what was coming, feared what the mad king was doing to the dragon– his dragon. 

He clung to the knowledge that the King had valued those two dragon eggs above anything else in his possession. He wanted to see the race of dragons reborn–with him as their master–he would not kill the creature, that was certain. Murtagh could only hope he valued it enough not to hurt it. 

A cough racked Murtagh’s body as he sat against the cold wall, hugging his ribs where the guard had kicked him. He’d begun to fall asleep again, when he heard the scuffling of feet down the hall, and saw the bright flicker of a new torch glowing as it approached.

Murtagh sat up and pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the cell bars for support as the King swept into view, flanked by a cadre of guards and holding in his arms the small red dragon, a manacle around its neck.

Murtagh’s heart jumped when he saw the creature, and he felt a clench of anger at the chain that held it to a heavy iron ball.

“Well. Your friend and I have had some time to get acquainted,” Galbatorix said quietly, brushing his hand along the dragon’s scaly head. The creature hunched its shoulders and looked distressed, but its eyes were on Murtagh and it did not thrash or fight back.

Murtagh held the bars and resisted the urge to reach out for the little thing. He felt its mental nudge, and he tried to send calm thoughts back in return. 

One of the black-clad men unlocked the cell, and Murtagh stepped back, on guard, ready for anything.

The King stepped through the cell opening and lifted the dragon up on his arm like a hunting hawk. 

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” He smiled. “You know he is a he , yes?”

The King turned his raised brow to Murtagh, who didn’t respond. But the king only smiled.

“I have great plans for the both of you,” He said, satisfied. “But first you must bond–as dragon and rider. Nothing is more precious than that bond, and it must be respected.”

Liar, Murtagh thought, knowing that the King had stolen his dragon Shruikan from his previous rider, after murdering him. 

The King bent low, and said,

“Go on,” To the dragon, who hopped nervously from his arm onto the straw-covered floor. The King placed the iron ball on the ground next to him and straightened.

“I expect you to appreciate my generosity, Murtagh,” The King said as the dragon scurried across the floor towards Murtagh, who knelt before it like a dying man at a spring of water.

“Despite your impressive show of power, I can’t have you attacking my men. Do something like that again, and you’ll lose this privilege.”

The dragon crawled onto Murtagh’s arm and nuzzled its head against Murtagh’s chest, churring softly. Murtagh glared up at the King as he held a protective arm over the dragon, wanting to retort, but terrified of losing the creature again. 

The King gave a small smirk..

“I’ll see you two soon.”

Then the King turned and left, and a guard behind him placed a water dish and a bowl of meat scraps on the floor, along with food and water for Murtagh. The guard glared in his direction before re-locking the cell gate, and following the heavy footsteps of the King back down the hall, taking the bright torch with him.

When the others were gone, Murtagh felt himself breathe deeply, and the dragon twisted in his grasp, sniffing the air for the bowl of meat.

“You’re hungry?” Murtagh asked, leaning forward to grab the bowl and wincing as his sore muscles stretched.

The dragon’s head weaved close to the bowl, sniffing and bobbing.

“Go ahead, you can eat it.”

The creature turned, and blinked. In Murtagh’s mind he saw an image of himself, and the word.

You. 

He blinked in surprise, feeling the word as if from the dragon’s own voice.

“Oh. N–no not for me. I don’t need that.”

The dragon sent him a picture of himself again.

You.

Then it picked up a meat scrap in its teeth, and placed it in Murtagh’s palm.

“No, I…” Murtagh laughed a little. “That’s for you. I’d get sick if I ate that.”

Murtagh leaned forward again and grabbed the plate that had been provided for him–bread and cheese, a fresh-sliced apple, and a small, cooked cut of beef. His mouth watered at the smell, and he showed the dragon the plate.

“This is for me,” He explained. Then he held out the meat scrap again.

“For you.”

The dragon now sniffed the food on Murtagh’s plate, and for a moment Murtagh thought it might eat that, but it just pulled its head back and stared at Murtagh.

You, It said.

Murtagh frowned. Then he picked up the bread and cheese, and took a bite out of each.

“See, I’m eating,” He explained. He felt satisfaction emanating from the dragon now, and it immediately snapped up the meat scrap and swallowed it down, content to eat now that Murtagh was eating as well.

Murtagh relished the warm food, the juice of the meat and the freshness of the water. His mouth still tasted like ash at first, but gradually his taste began to return, and he ate almost as voraciously as the young dragon, who, once he had begun, did not stop for air until he had swallowed every last scrap of meat in the bowl, and nudged it around looking for more.

“That’s it,” Murtagh explained, offering the dragon some of his bread, “Sorry, no more meat.”

The dragon sniffed the bread, and ate a little, but when Murtagh offered him the last piece, he felt the consciousness press against him again, and the dragon said,

You.

Murtagh smiled, and ate the bread.

“You alright?” He asked then, stroking the dragon’s neck as it churred and bobbed, the manacle around its neck clinking against the floor.

You? 

The dragon asked, blinking up at him. Murtagh smiled sadly.

“Better now.”

The dragon stayed in the cell with Murtagh for hours, and no one came except the black-clad men, bringing more food and water. At first Murtagh had been afraid that they would bringing him back to be tortured, but it seemed that the King had put a pause on that, now that the dragon had hatched.

 Murtagh was thankful, but scared of what was coming–like the great quiet before a looming storm. He didn’t know what the King’s plans were, but he knew they didn’t involve letting him or the dragon go free. 

He tried scrying Eragon again–he remembered it was called that–and the red dragon watched him curiously while he bent over the water bowl, but once again, the surface only rippled with darkness for a few long moments, showing nothing, and Murtagh had to let the magic go.

“Sorry,” He murmured to the dragon, “I’m trying to find help.”

Help, The dragon said back to him. It was picking up quickly on thoughts and words. Murtagh wasn’t ever sure quite what it meant, but he could sense things from the dragon, feelings or impressions, and it had easily learned “food” and “eat”, to add to its vocabulary of “you”, and now “help”.

Murtagh talked to it, and it climbed all over him, as though looking for the best spot to sit. It settled for a while on Murtagh’s head, its tail hanging down by Murtagh’s ear as it rumbled softly in its sleep. Murtagh had to laugh at this, imagining he must look ridiculous, but it didn’t bother him, and he tried to keep still against the wall so as not to disturb the dragon.

After several meals had been delivered and taken away, and Murtagh and the dragon had slept for a while, one of the Twins returned with a cadre of guards, and demanded Murtagh to stand.

Murtagh rose, and the dragon sat on his shoulder proudly, a soft growling emanating from its chest. Murtagh held the heavy iron ball in his hand, and wondered if he could use it to bash the Twin’s head in, but he was too scared of losing the dragon to try something so drastic.

The Twin announced that they would be allowed to take a stroll in one of the palace gardens, and that he was there to watch them, lest they try any sort of attack or escape.

“Rest assured, rider, ” He sneered disdainfully, “My powers and knowledge are greater than yours, and you will not best me in the magical arts. So for your sake and the creature’s, you ought not to try anything.”

Murtagh didn’t have to respond, because the dragon told the Twin exactly how they felt, with an angry little snap that caused the Twin to look warily on the small creature, perhaps assessing how much damage its tiny teeth could do.

Murtagh allowed himself to be marched up the corridor, the dragon on his shoulder, surrounded by guards and led by the Twin. They didn’t drag him this time, but let him walk in his own power. He felt the bolstering presence of the dragon at all times, and it calmed him despite his ever-present cloud of fear.

When they reached a small archway that led into the courtyard garden, Murtagh hesitated. He hadn’t seen the sky in who knew how long. It was near twilight, he could tell, and the light in the garden was turning pink and soft, but he worried the sun would hurt his eyes.

Help, The dragon said, nudging its snout against Murtagh’s neck. 

“Okay.” 

He stepped into the garden, and the guards filed in after him, but they and the Twin stayed near the doorway, watching Murtagh with careful eyes.

Murtagh walked through neat rows of plants that soaked in the last rays of the evening sun. He found a shaft of light that drifted over the high courtyard walls, and stood in it for a long moment, soaking up the warmth on his starved skin.

Help? The dragon asked, and Murtagh found himself responding in his mind.

Yes, it helps.

When he opened his eyes and looked at the creature, he lost his breath for a moment. The ray of sun had landed on the dragon, and was bouncing off his brilliant scales, casting a thousand shards of red light onto the dirt around them. Murtagh felt tears in his eyes, so struck by the beauty of it, here in this dark place.

The dragon cocked its head at him.

You? It asked, and Murtagh felt concern.

“I’m alright,” Murtagh answered softly, brushing his fingers gently along the dragon’s neck.

Alright… The dragon responded, You.

“Me.”

Me?

“No, me. Murtagh. I’m alright.”

Murtagh. Me. 

Murtagh laughed. 

“No, I’m Murtagh.  You’re… well I don’t know your name. If you have one.”

The dragon blinked at him. 

“Your name,” Murtagh said, trying to explain. He thought of an image of the dragon, and said,

You?

The dragon nodded.

Me.

Murtagh laughed softly. They would have to figure this one out.

He walked through the garden with the dragon on his shoulder, telling him the names of all the plants he recognized.

“This is like a forest, kind of… like a pretend version of a forest,” He explained softly, running his fingertips along the wide leaves of green plants. “It’s too clean, though, too put-together. You’d like the forest. It’s wild and green… and lots of animals and birds and trees of all kinds…” 

He sighed heavily, his hand cradling a red rose, wondering if the dragon would ever see a forest, if he would ever taste something so free, if he would ever be able to escape the horrible cage of the King’s citadel. 

He raised his gaze to the pink sky, wishing he could cut the chain from the dragon’s neck and make it fly away. But it couldn’t fly, not yet, and it had refused to leave him once–how could he convince it to leave now?

Trees…

The dragon said, nudging the rose that Murtagh held, sniffing it curiously.

“No, that’s not a tree,” Murtagh explained, “That’s a rose. Rose.” He sent an image of the flower along with its name.

Rose. The dragon responded. 

It scrunched up its snout at the smell that came from the rose, and began poking its head around the stem of the plant, as though searching for the source of the smell.

Murtagh felt a sharp prick of pain through the dragon’s thoughts, and the creature pulled back his head with a growl, shaking its snout.

“Oh, careful. That’s a thorn,” Murtagh gently touched the bottom of the sharp growth. “See? They protect the rose.”

Protect. Thorn.

“Yeah. It’ll prick you.”

Thorn protect.

“Yeah.”

Murtagh strolled forward easily, but the dragon crawled up his shoulder, still looking back at the rose bush.

Thorn. You, It thought at him, nudging its snout on Murtagh’s ear.

“No,” Murtagh smiled, “I’m Murtagh.”

The dragon crawled down to Murtagh’s forearm and sat there, craning its neck out to the rose bush, its head tilting back and forth. Then it looked back at Murtagh,

You. Murtagh. Me. Thorn.

It looked back at the roses, then back at Murtagh. He frowned.

Thorn protect. Me protect. Thorn.

“You…” Murtagh murmured, feeling a hot glow from the silver mark on his hand. “You… Thorn.”

The dragon blinked, and bobbed its head, humming in its chest, pleased.

Murtagh, It said, and Murtagh felt a rush of affection from the red dragon on his arm. 

His eyes watered in the dying light of the evening, the scent of flowers opening up their nighttime petals, and the soft chatter of birds dancing among the fruit trees. In that moment no one existed but him and the dragon before him, tied to his mind, an anchor in a sea of fear. He was Murtagh, and the dragon was…

“Hello, Thorn.”

Chapter Text

Every day the dragon–who had proudly taken to the moniker Thorn–grew exponentially larger. 

Murtagh and Thorn were taken from the cell to the garden and back, like clockwork, every evening, and within a week of his hatching, the dragon could no longer sit on Murtagh’s head, and he struggled trying to hold the creature up on his arm. 

By the second week, Thorn had grown to reach Murtagh’s thigh when standing, and he took to walking at Murtagh’s side, rather than being carried. He ate voraciously, and the plates of meat continued to be provided, much to Murtagh’s relief. He couldn’t stand the thought of the creature starving in the cell with him. 

Murtagh, also, noted a distinct difference in the way he was being treated. His food was warm and his water was clean; a long cushion was brought down for him to sleep on, and a large pillow for the dragon–who soon outgrew it–and no one grabbed him or dragged him or forced him anywhere. All he and Thorn did for nearly two weeks was sit in the cell talking, sharing thoughts and feelings, and walk in the garden for a few hours a day, soaking in the sunlight. 

Sometimes the King would visit them in their cell, or show up while they were in the garden, and he would watch from the doorway, a satisfied expression on his face. Murtagh tried not to look, but he could feel the King’s eyes on him as he tried to stroll through the rows of flowers with Thorn.

“He’s not your friend,” Murtagh told the dragon when they sat in the cell eating together. Galbatorix had stopped them before they left the gardens, and spoken soothingly to Thorn, as if they were old friends meeting in an inn, and not the King’s prisoners.

Not friend? Thorn asked as he slurped water from the bowl of water.

“No. He’s… he’s the one keeping us here. He’s evil, and mad.”

You are friend.

“Yes, I’m your friend,” Murtagh confirmed, rubbing his hand along Thorn’s scales. Already the dragon’s head was bigger than Murtagh’s hand, and his claws had grown sharp and fierce.

Other friend? The dragon asked. Murtagh sighed.

“...not anymore.”

Friend before?

Murtagh sorted through the dragon’s thoughts, trying to understand his meaning.

“Yes, there… there were some friends. Eragon; he was my friend, I think.”

Eragon? 

Murtagh sniffled.

“Yeah.” He sent the dragon an image of Eragon in his mind.

“He’s… he has a friend too–Saphira. She’s a dragon, like you.”

Thorn tilted his head, and Murtagh felt a vein of curiosity in his thought.

Saphira? Thorn said, and Murtagh got an image of the color blue.

“Yeah, she’s blue, yeah. Saphira.” Murtagh smiled; maybe Thorn recognized Saphira from their time as eggs together. He wasn’t entirely sure how that worked–how much the little red dragon had been aware of during his years in the treasury room.

Murtagh sent to Thorn a mental image of Saphira, curled up by a campfire, her scales sparkling in the flames.

Thorn hummed happily and closed his eyes.

Saphira friend.

“Yeah…” Murtagh said sadly, not that it mattered. Saphira was nowhere near them; she didn’t know they existed; she couldn’t help.

“Thorn…” Murtagh said, setting his food on the ground. The dragon turned its bright eyes to him.

“You need to understand something,” He breathed, his shackles clinking, “The King… he’s going to ask you to pledge yourself to him. He wants us… he wants us to belong to him.” Murtagh sniffed, trying to send his words to Thorn through feelings as well, hoping the dragon understood.

“But if he has us… he’s going to make us do bad things. He’s going to make us hurt our friends, hurt other people. You understand?” Murtagh winced, thinking of what the King would try to turn them into. 

“We have to say no. We can’t–we can’t let him have us. If we make a promise to him, in the–in the ancient language… then we’d his slaves.”

Murtagh stared at the dragon, a manacle around its neck, weighing it down, keeping it trapped here in the darkness. He couldn’t let that be Thorn’s fate. He had to find a way to free him.

Thorn blinked widely up at him, then he snaked his head close and touched his snout to Murtagh’s shackled wrist.

Slaves, Thorn thought mournfully.

“Yeah.” 

There was a stretch of silence, and the torches nearby sputtered in their sockets.

“He’s gonna hurt me, Thorn,” Murtagh sighed, cradling Thorn’s head on his lap as he leaned against the wall. “I need you to promise me you won’t do what he wants. Even if he hurts me.”

Hurt? Thorn thought, and Murtagh’s mind was unwittingly taken back to the darkness of the torture room, the wooden slab coarse on his back, the pain shooting up from his hands, the drowning feeling of the bag over his head, his screams as the metal burned his skin.

Thorn whimpered, and Murtagh sat up.

“I’m sorry,” He gasped, realizing that he had shared the thoughts in his mind, the feelings of terror and agony spreading across their mental link. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that–”

He threw up the barriers to his mind, keeping his fear from spreading to Thorn, and taking his hands off the dragon.

Thorn whimpered again, and nudged Murtagh with his snout.

“I can’t.”

He felt a light mental touch, and Thorn tilted its head. 

“Just hold on…” Murtagh tried to bury down the memories that were swirling to the surface of his thought. He fought to get them under control, so they wouldn’t slip over into Thorn’s mind.

Thorn mentally nudged him again.

Help.

Thorn pushed the thought at him determinedly.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Murtagh tried to explain.

Help.

Thorn placed a foreleg on Murtagh’s thigh, and Murtagh felt strength and resolve coming to him from the dragon’s mind.

He sighed, and placed a hand on Thorn’s head.

“No matter what happens, please don’t let him have you,” Murtagh pleaded, “Don’t swear any oaths to him, don’t give in. You’re more important than me, so whatever he does… you just keep yourself free. And when you have a chance to break out, you go. Okay? Find Saphira, and Eragon, and let them help you.”

Help you , Thorn thought angrily, stamping his foot indignantly.

“I don’t think you can,” Murtagh murmured. 

***

They had a few weeks of blessed reprieve. Thorn continued to grow, and began to use his wings, floating off the ground a few feet. Murtagh would hold the large iron ball that weighed him down, and he would flutter in the air above Murtagh’s head, clumsily trying to figure out flight, while hampered by the chain around his neck.

 The manacle had to be replaced as Thorn began to outgrow his first shackles, and the pair of them were not allowed anywhere without shackles and the careful watch of one of the Twins. 

Murtagh tried to rack his brain, thinking of a way to escape. He tried to figure out the use of his magic, to break the cell door, or enchant one of the black-clad men, or snap the chain around Thorn’s neck, but his vocabulary was painfully limited. 

He remembered the words for healing, and tried to fix the aching in his right hand, which had been clamped in a vice and stuck in hot coals, but he couldn’t figure out how to make it work. He set fire to the cell once and only afterwards realized he didn’t know how to put it out. He had to call for the help of the black-clad men, who doused the cell with water.

 The King had visited soon after, and admonished him saying,

“You risk your life and the life of your partner, being so reckless. Magic is not to be undertaken lightly. You will be trained, but until then it would be wise for you not to attempt something about which you know very little.”

Murtagh felt afraid at the King’s words–he waited with dread for his “training” to begin, whatever that meant. He didn’t know exactly Galbatorix’s plans, but he knew that the King would seek to use him and Thorn as a weapon. He knew they would be pitted against Eragon and Saphira, if they couldn’t escape their prison, and that if the King could get his hands on both new riders, the Varden would stand no chance.

Murtagh tried scrying several more times, and not just on Eragon. He attempted to scry Ajihad, to confirm his fears that the Varden leader was, indeed dead. He saw only blackness, as before. The same was true for the elf Arya and for Nasuada. He hoped this didn’t mean that they, too, had been killed. He couldn’t bear the thought.

At first, he figured he must be doing the magic wrong, until Thorn suggested that all these people might be protecting themselves against magic. Murtagh wasn’t totally sure if you could shield yourself from someone watching you, but he imagined it was possible, or else the Varden probably would have scryed Galbatorix to figure out his plans and movements, and vice versa.

Thorn suggested he ought to try someone he knew would not be guarding themselves, so, in a desperate grasp, he scryed his old horse–Tornac. To his surprised, the bowl of water did not remain swirling with blackness, but sparked to life, and he was looking at the gray warhorse, saddled and bridled, with a man riding him somewhere that Murtagh could not see. He gasped. 

There were other horses around Tornac, and other people, too–they were marching somewhere, they were all walking or riding in a line. Murtagh could see nothing of the landscape they rode through, but many of the people were visible to him. He thought this must be because he had seen them before, during his brief few days at Farthen Dur. Wherever they were, though, it was not Farthen Dur, or else he thought he should have been able to see the landscape. He wondered what this meant–all these Varden members, on the road to somewhere. Were they marching to war? Marching on Uru’baen even at this moment?

It was too much to hope.

Murtagh watched with fascination as Tornac trundled along easily. He felt a twinge of annoyance at the Varden officer for having taken his horse–but he figured it was better for Tornac to have someone taking care of him than to be left in the stables alone all day. He just hoped the Varden officer didn’t get him killed.

Thorn sat by his side and watched the image of the moving group, sniffing the bowl curiously. When Murtagh noticed himself getting shaky with exhaustion, he knew he had to end the spell, so he let the vision fade away, feeling conflicted. 

On the one hand, he was cheered to know that he had done the spell right, that he was able to figure out the use of magic. On the other, he felt heavy, knowing that the Varden were out there, carrying on the rebellion, executing their missions, with no knowledge that he was trapped here in Uru’baen with a newly-hatched dragon. 

Friends? Thorn asked of him when the water had gone still again. Murtagh sighed, and sat back.

“They could’ve been.”

***

Their reprieve ended three days after Thorn had learned to fly. 

Murtagh had tried to help him in the garden, holding up the metal ball and running down the rows of fruit trees, while Thorn flapped his wings furiously, gaining air. But Murtagh couldn’t keep up, and Thorn would always get too high, and be yanked down by the force of the shackle around his neck. The chain got in the way of his movements and the ball weighed him down, and Murtagh told one of the Twins angrily that he couldn’t grow like this–he needed to fly; he was a dragon. 

The day after his complaint, Murtagh and Thorn had been taken to the empty throne room, rather than the garden, and under the large, vaulted ceiling, the Freckle Twin had said,

“Go on then,” And used magic to release the shackle from Thorn’s neck. 

Thorn wriggled with pleasure, happy to have the chafing metal gone, and he pattered across the floor into the echoing room while Murtagh followed. A few times Murtagh tried to help him lift into the air, giving the dragon a boost off the ground and running alongside him. 

Thorn coasted, but he couldn’t gain much altitude. However, after a few days of practicing in the throne room, Murtagh helped to lift him off the ground once more, and found that Thorn continued to lift, climbing higher and higher towards the ceiling, his wings sending a blast of air downwards.

Murtagh cheered in amazement as the dragon took off, swirling about the room in happy circles, tilting this way and that, learning to dive and swoop. Murtagh’s heart pounded with exhilaration and a wild smile was on his lips. 

The dragon was flying. Thorn– his dragon–it was magnificent to watch. Thorn’s red scales danced in the light from the dwarven lanterns and he let out a joyous bugle, his thoughts nudging Murtagh as he swooped overhead.

Well done, Murtagh commended, You look amazing.

Thorn gave a happy wriggle, and bugled again, flapping his crimson wings to rise ever higher.

Three days later, they were brought to the throne room again, only this time it wasn’t empty.

Galbatorix sat on his dais at the head of the room, the wall behind him black, and the Twins led Murtagh and Thorn down the long stretch of empty floor, until they stood directly in front of the throne.

The King was smiling down at them.

“Hello, Murtagh…” 

He nodded at Thorn,

“And you, redscales, I am told you’ve chosen a name for yourself. I would be glad to hear it.”

There was silence, Murtagh kept his gaze down, his breathing shallow. He was tensed for what was coming. Thorn looked to him, concerned.

“I do not wish to disrespect your bond by speaking with your dragon directly,” The King said coolly, “But I will be answered.”

Murtagh swallowed.

Alright, Thorn said in his mind, nudging his shoulder softly.

“His name is Thorn,” Murtagh muttered quietly. The King smiled.

“Ah. Thorn. Well-met, Thorn,” The King tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. “A good name,” He decided, standing to his feet and stepping down the stairs of the dais. Murtagh swallowed down bile.

 “Inelegant. Simple. But strong.”

The King paced around the back of the throne, his long cape swishing along the polished floor.

“This is my friend and partner, Shruikan.” 

Murtagh felt his heart drop and the air left his lungs, as the King placed a hand on the great black wall behind the throne, and the wall moved.

Murtagh stumbled back, the floor vibrating under him with the movement of the great dragon. Thorn let out a little squeak and scampered back, as a giant head came into view, two massive blue-white eyes the size of Murtagh’s head blinking open.

“Say hello, Shruikan.”

The massive dragon turned its gaze upon Murtagh and Thorn, and Murtagh felt like crawling under a rock to hide. A deep rumble shook his bones, and the dragon blinked twice, slowly.

Murtagh felt his knees about to give out, fear flooding every inch of him, but Thorn huddled close to his side and kept him upright, as the King turned back to them with a smile.

“Shruikan says your scales are the color of the fresh-spilt blood, Thorn, a fearsome warning to your enemies.” Galbatorix said this as though it were a compliment, but Murtagh felt no pleasure coming from Thorn.

“I am told you’ve learned to fly,” The King said as he climbed back to his throne and sat, Shruikan bringing his great head forward to rest beside the chair, which was miniscule by comparison.

Murtagh’s mouth was dry and his heart was hammering in his chest.

“Give us a demonstration.”

The king sat with a flare, leaning back comfortably and crossing his legs.

Neither Murtagh nor Thorn moved.

“Go on, Thorn, let’s see you fly.” 

The King waved a hand and Thorn’s neck shackle fell off, startling him.

Murtagh met his eyes, and the dragon tilted his head, unsure. Murtagh nodded once, knowing it would be better for them if they didn’t fight it. They would have to fight soon. They would have to draw a line in the stand and refuse to cross it, but for now…

Thorn took off easily, climbing into the air with several strong flaps and swirling around near the ceiling. It wasn’t the same joyful soaring as before, when it was just Thorn and Murtagh together, but Murtagh still felt a small surge of love as he stared up at Thorn’s sparkling shape.

“Ah, lovely,” Galbatorix said, his voice echoing through the room. “Beautiful, isn’t it Murtagh? That connection? You feel as if you’re the one soaring.”

Murtagh scowled, and lowered his eyes, hating the King’s familiar affect. 

Thorn landed behind him and loped to a stop.

“Good,” The King said with a satisfied sigh. “Very good.” 

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out more firm.

“Now, I’ve given you both time to be with each other–to bond, as dragon and rider ought to. I’ve been more than generous, I think, in allowing you your freedoms and comforts.”

Murtagh kept his shackled hands clenched tightly.

“But the time has come for your training to begin. And in order to do that, I will need your oaths of loyalty, so that I can pass on my knowledge to you, knowing that you will not use it… incorrectly.”

Murtagh breathed in slowly, feeling Thorn’s steadying connection, knowing that the time had come now.

“So. Swear to me, in the ancient tongue, that you will obey my command, recognize my authority, and refrain from any attack–magical or mundane–against me or my servants.Then open your minds to me–that I may teach you your true names.”

Silence stretched. 

“Well? Will you swear?” The King asked coldly, and Shruikan’s great eyes blinked at them. Murtagh thought he might get lost in the swirl of madness. But he felt determination from Thorn, a stern anger that kept him anchored to the floor. 

Not friend, The dragon thought at him.

“We will not swear to you, and become your slaves,” Murtagh answered, keeping his voice level as best he could. “We demand that you let us go free, so we may choose our own path.”

The King gazed thoughtfully at a ring on his hand, as it tapped on the arm of his throne.

“You realize, Murtagh, that I can–at any time–force my way into your minds, find your true name, and compel you to swear fealty to me. I do not wish to do this.”

“Then don’t,” Murtagh spat back, sounding braver than he felt, “Let us go. If you care so much about the bond of rider and dragon, then let us choose our own way.”

The King tutted.

“Your way is here. There is no other. The rider Eragon and his dragon shall join you soon. Then you will both be under my tutelage, and the riders shall be born anew.”

“We will not submit willingly,” Murtagh determined, and Thorn raised his chin proudly. “If you would force your way into our minds like a worm, then do it. By our free will we will not submit.”

Galbatorix sighed, and his hand gestured for the guards at the back of the room and the Twins.

“I had hoped to avoid this unpleasantness,” He said, “Hoped my generosity and patience would be enough for you to see sense.”

Murtagh’s heart pounded as he heard the footsteps behind him.

“But I see you’ve poisoned your partner’s mind with the lies you’ve believed.” 

The King’s eyes were cold and inexorable.

“Just remember…”

Rough hands grabbed Murtagh on either side, and one of the Twins magically clapped the iron collar back around Thorn’s neck.

“...whatever pain he faces now, is on your head.”

Murtagh glared at the King, his anger boiling, as Thorn let out a low growl, and Freckle Twin put a black cloth over Murtagh’s head.

***

He was dragged again from the throne room, and he heard Thorn struggling beside him. One of the Twins was using magic to restrain him, as two guards pulled him along by the collar around his neck. 

Murtagh felt his partner’s fear through their mental link, and he tried not to be overwhelmed with his own. The brief weeks of respite seemed all too short, and suddenly he remembered the choking darkness of the dungeon and the pain of fire on his side.

He wasn’t, however, taken back down to the dungeons.

When the black bag was finally removed from Murtagh’s head, he had been laid down on a stone slab in an octagonal room with tiled ceilings. He felt the black-clad men restraining his wrists and ankles again, and someone strapped a piece of leather over his forehead so he could not even turn his neck.

Thorn? He sought out the dragon’s mind desperately, fear threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t. 

Murtagh, The dragon’s voice responded in his mind. You where? 

Thorn was not in the room with him, but he was close by, and Murtagh felt the dragon’s fear as much as his own.

I don’t know. I’m in… it’s a room, it’s a roundish room…

“Welcome, Murtagh,” Galbatorix’s voice echoed as he stepped down a short flight of stairs into the octagonal room, “To the Hall of the Soothsayer.”

The King told a story, then, one that Murtagh hardly heard, about an oracle, and the elves, and a tower they built here in the days before Ilerea had been abandoned. He tried to ignore the king, and focus on Thorn, but he was torn between his own dread and his dread for the dragon.

“This room is a place of truth,” Galbatorix assured, standing over Murtagh as the black-clad men bustled around, preparing something he could not see. “I will tolerate no lies here, and I myself will give none. You have my word on that.”

“You can hang your word ,” Murtagh spat, “Let me go.”

Galbatorix sighed.

“That is all I wish to do, Murtagh. I wish for you and Thorn to be at ease, to have a place at my table, servants at your call, all the comforts you could desire… but you must first submit.”

Murtagh spat at the King, though his spittle didn’t go far, since he could not move his head. The juvenile attack did not hit the king, but he did notice Galbatorix’s upper lip twitch with a scowl. He’d touched a nerve.

Murtagh expected a blow to come, but the King only stepped back.

“Very well. Know that you can end this any time, by swearing fealty.”

Murtagh clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to feed Thorn his courage and not his fear. He prepared for the torture to begin, but after a brief, silent moment, Galbatorix turned, and disappeared from the room.

Murtagh frowned, his breath shaking, his eyes tracing the red, blue and gold patterns of the vaulted ceiling above.

Thorn? He asked, and the dragon touched his mind reassuringly.

Whatever happens, don’t give in to him. It doesn’t matter what he does to me. You have to be strong, please.

Strong, Thorn assured. I will be strong.

Murtagh prepared himself for pain, but then he felt a spark of surprise through his mental link with Thorn, and the dragon sent him an image of the King, walking into the other torchlit room.

What? 

Murtagh felt a spike of panic, his eyes shooting to the black-clad men in the room with him, who stood against the wall with their eyes blank and their hands folded. The Freckle Twin was there as well, quiet and looking away. They were not making any move against him. 

The King was with Thorn.

The King was going to hurt Thorn.

“No!” Murtagh grunted and he tried to pull on the leather restraints that held him fast. They didn’t budge. He felt Thorn’s fear increase, and then a terrible rush of pain.

Murtagh shouted as he felt the pain slam into his consciousness, hearing in his mind the dragon’s pitiful howls. He got flashes of sight and sound and smell, an acrid smoke, a burning of flesh, an acid eating away at scales, a flaring, shivering pain that trembled up and down his arms. 

He wasn’t sure if he was a man or a dragon, he wasn’t sure if he had fingers or talons, arms or wings, all he knew was that he was in pain.

Your fault, your fault, your fault, A voice rang in his ears, but then a louder, more determined voice,

STRONG, It was Thorn’s consciousness, pushing through his wails of agony, telling Murtagh to be strong. Murtagh opened his eyes to the octagonal room, bending and thrashing, trying to escape, to come to Thorn’s rescue, to murder the men who were hurting him.

He tried using magic, the only spell he knew, to burn away the cuffs around his hands and free himself, but the moment the word was on his lips, the Freckle Twin snapped to attention, and had a counterspell out of his mouth before Murtagh could even blink.

The weasely man had been right–he knew more about the magic arts than Murtagh did. 

Murtagh shuddered at the pain that radiated through his connection. He wanted to turn it off–wanted to disconnect himself from Thorn so badly, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave his partner to suffer alone. He had to be strong.

It felt like hours, until they stopped their torture, and Murtagh was able to breathe, feeling Thorn’s tenuous thoughts, faint and weak, grasping for him in the darkness. 

But there was no rest.

Minutes later the King swept back into the octagonal room with Murtagh, and said,

“I despise this foolishness. Swear fealty now.”

Murtagh was sweating, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, but through the thready connection of his mind he heard Thorn say weakly,

No, Murtagh. Strong.

Murtagh gritted his teeth and clenched his fist.

“No.” 

The King sighed, and he gestured for the black-clad men in the corner.

“Have your way, then.”

One of the black-clad men approached with a thin, clear tube the length of a sword. 

“These will not kill you, so long as I extract them with magic before it’s too late,” Galbatorix said, and Murtagh saw tiny red things crawling inside the tube, dozens of them, indistinguishable bugs of some kind.

“...but I want you to know that the pain you are about to feel is them feeding on the lining of your organs. They would eat you alive from the inside out, if I permitted it.”

Murtagh grunted and jerked away as one of the men grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open with a pair of metal pliers, panic spiked in his throat, as the clear tube was brought closer, and he could hear the tiny crawling things chittering among themselves.

“Submit to me, and you will not have to endure this.”

Murtagh pulled his eyes away from the tube and forced them to the tiled ceiling. 

Strong. Be strong. Do not submit. 

He felt Thorn’s thoughts connected to him, but he tried to shut the dragon out, knowing that it would only cause him pain if their consciousnesses touched now.

Murtagh gagged as the black-clad man forced the clear tube down his throat. He writhed and strained and groaned in disgust, feeling sick but unable to even vomit.

Then the pain began, tiny pinpricks of pain starting in his throat and clambering down into his core. He screamed through the choking tube, the pain exacerbated by the knowledge that these things were inside him, feeding and crawling. 

After a few seconds the black-clad man removed the tube, and Murtagh coughed and wheezed. The tube was now empty.

He shrieked in pain as the fire spread down to his stomach, and his whole body shook. Vaguely he felt the press of Thorn’s mind, trying to get through to him, and he was too weak to shut off the connection, to hold the wave of anguish at bay. He knew he was hurting Thorn, allowing him to touch his mind, but he couldn’t think clearly amidst the agony.

 He wanted to take a knife and carve into himself and dig out the creatures one by one. He wanted to set himself on fire just to burn them away. His voice stopped sounding human as he screamed for release, feeling them crawl up into his throat.

It was an agonizing stretch of minutes, and Murtagh lost hold of his own existence, before the King stood with a sigh, and held a hand over Murtagh’s shivering body, and began murmuring words in the ancient language.

Murtagh groaned deliriously as he felt an itching, tugging sensation rising up through him. He began to choke as he felt a mass moving through his chest and throat.

Just when he thought he would pass out from lack of air, the King lifted a clump of dead red bugs from his mouth with magic, and Murtagh wheezed and coughed.

He vomited then, and began to choke on the vomit because he could not turn his head to the left or right. The King gestured and one of the servants unclasped the head restraint. Murtagh turned his neck and felt his stomach clenching, dryly heaving up its meager contents. 

“Swear fealty to me. Or the pain continues.”

Galbatorix’s voice was disconnected from Murtagh’s reality, a floating aura above his head, not a real person.

Murtagh, strong, Thorn said to him, though Murtagh could feel the dragon’s own torment and fury. 

Murtagh shook his head, whimpering and closing his eyes, unable to look at the King, unable to speak.

He felt the King’s displeasure. But Galbatorix rose quietly, and left the room.

It went back and forth like this for days. 

First Thorn would be tortured, and Murtagh endure his partner’s pain; then the King would turn to Murtagh, and Thorn would be forced to feel it. 

The tortures were varied and horrible; both magical and mundane methods were used. Galbatorix began to trick Murtagh’s mind, make him see things that weren’t real, make him relive moments in his life. He once thought it was his father torturing him, he once thought it was Eragon. He once saw himself standing on the battlefield under Farthen Dur, dead Varden scattered before him, and a bloody sword in his hands. It was him. He was their killer. 

The only thing he knew for certain was Thorn’s mind. Galbatorix could not fake that. He tried–he created a phony version of Thorn who came into the room and tried to convince Murtagh to give up, told him the suffering was too much. 

But Murtagh had been intimately acquainted with Thorn’s thoughts since the moment of his hatching, and this imposter was not musical and full of a deep warmth; it was cold and dark, and false. 

Murtagh cried out for his mother, having seen her in the visions that the King cast, knowing she was long gone but wishing to be held by her, to just feel a tender touch, a kind voice. He murmured the scraps of verse that she’d sung to him, trying to maintain a hold on his sanity. 

In one of the brief respites, Galbatorix sat just out of Murtagh’s view and said,

“I must tell you something that I have known for some time now. A fact which may change the way you see me, see yourself.”

Murtagh’s head lay limp, his eyelids half-closed; he could feel the tender touch of Thorn’s thought, but it was foggy and far away. They were both at the end of themselves.

“Your mother…” Galbatorix said, and this sparked Murtagh’s attention. “Her name was Selena, and she came from a little village in the west–a lush green valley full of simple people who carved out a simple life for themselves.”

Murtagh watched the flame of a torch in the corner, disconnected from reality, his whole body once again a mass of pain.

“She had a brother there, whom she left behind, when she joined your father and became his faithful servant.”

What did the king want with him? What torment could this offer?

“But your father, as you know… was an unsteady man. And she saw how he hurt you, how his anger was a danger to anyone around him.”

The King took a deep, purposeful breath.

“So when she became pregnant again…”

Murtagh frowned, confusion muddying his thoughts.

“...she knew she could not let the child be born into Morzan’s house. And she fled. Disappeared, as you know, for many months. And she made her way back to the little village, and the little valley where she came from, and she gave birth to a boy… and she named him, Eragon.”

Murtagh felt tingles on his fingertips. The world was blurry. These words didn’t make sense. What was the king saying?

“And Eragon was raised by his Uncle Garrow, brother to Selena. And he lived a happy, and full life, with a loving family. And your mother returned to your father’s estate… and she died.” 

Murtagh was shaking. What was this? What strange lie was the King weaving?

“The rider Eragon–who, by some working of fate, you fell in with amidst your wanderings–is your brother , Murtagh. He was born in Carvahall exactly during the time when your mother was gone from Morzan’s estate. His mother’s name–as the Twins learned–was Selena. Strange coincidence, no? His father’s name, of course… was Morzan. But Selena cared enough for her second son to spirit him away from the monster that she knew would give him scars as he gave to you.”

No. This was a lie. Of course, it was ridiculous. 

“She cared enough about your brother to protect him. But she didn’t care about you. She left you. For all she knew, she left you to be tormented by him for the rest of your life.”

“No,” Murtagh blurted out, “No-n–she came back. She came back for me.”

“Ah. Only to leave you again. Permanently. You see she risked her life to save Eragon, but for you… well. Clearly she considered you a lost cause.”

“You’re lying,” Murtagh insisted through gritted teeth, feeling Thorn’s questioning confusion, a hot dread in his heart.

“I told you I would not lie in this room, Murtagh,” The King assured, “But if it makes you more certain, I will swear it in the ancient tongue. You are not the only child of the Forsworn. Eragon Shadeslayer is your brother.”

The King then said a phrase, which Murtagh recognized as the ancient language, and he felt a power in the room, a truth settling over him like a heavy blanket. 

“So you see,” The King continued, “I do you a favor, by bringing you into my service now. No one in this whole world cares for you. Your mother left you in favor of your brother. Your brother failed to go looking for you when you disappeared. The Varden whom you fought for could not care less about your fate. The girl who leads them now–Ajihad’s daughter, who feigned friendship with you–you are nothing to her.”

Murtagh shuddered, knowing that the King had his secrets, held his innermost thoughts in his hands.

“No one in your whole miserable life has ever truly loved you. Except for Thorn.”

Murtagh’s chin trembled, his heart hurting and his mind reeling. A brother? Eragon? How? His brother? His family? What?

 But it all made sense. His mother’s disappearance, the way the healers had acted the night she returned, Eragon’s lack of a father, the story he’d shared of his mother’s mysterious life… it all fit. Like horrible puzzle pieces, the facts all came together. Selena. S E L E N A. The Twins had seen the connection there. They had searched Eragon’s mind first, and they had heard that name before. A coincidence? No. 

“...and you would sit here, and you would allow Thorn to be tortured. You would put him through agony, just to appeal to your pride. When he’s the only one who’s ever cared about you.”

Murtagh felt a whine building in his chest, a wail of despair, a visceral scream of helplessness. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Tornac. 

The word came from Thorn, across their link.

Tornac loved you. Tornac friend. Not alone. Strong, Murtagh. Strong. He wants despair. He lies even when he tells truth. Think of Tornac. Say no.

Murtagh clenched his fists.

“No!!!” Murtagh roared at the ceiling, “YOU WILL NOT HAVE ME!”

His throat was parched and aching, and his body hurt, but Thorn’s resolve was enough for both of them. 

Suddenly Galbatorix smacked him across the face, then the king grabbed his chin with one iron hand, and leaned in close, the heat from his breath suffocating.

“I already have you,” The King growled, “You are mine. I can rip you apart from the inside.  I can enter every crevice in your consciousness until you can’t remember who you are. I can take your name and use your body like a puppet.”

Murtagh flinched at the King’s touch, shaking as the cold fingers dug into his chin.

“But you will submit to me of your own will. This I will not be denied.”

After that, there was no respite.

When the King tired of overseeing the torture himself, he left the black-clad men to continue the business. Murtagh was denied water and food. He was stripped down to his underclothes, doused with ice water, and left to shiver. He screamed at them to let him see Thorn, but that, too, was denied. 

He could only feel Thorn’s increasingly-weak connection through the dark walls. Thorn was hurting, in pain, suffering, and it was his fault. Every torture they performed on him they performed on Thorn, and he could feel it wearing on the dragon’s strength. He was so small, so young–weeks in this world and already forced to live through this.

Murtagh started to have seizing fits. The back clad men had just removed razor-thin rods that they had pierced him with, when he tasted metal in his mouth and his vision began to blur. At first he thought it was some new torture or poison that they had concocted, but when he started shaking uncontrollably, Freckle Twin straightened with alarm. 

Murtagh was half-conscious and felt his body seizing, pulling against the leather shackles as his head thrashed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He felt alarm from Thorn, and he vaguely heard the Twin shouting something above him, and for a long moment he couldn’t breath and he feared he would choke to death right there, leaving Thorn to suffer at the King’s hands alone. 

But he awoke several minutes later, drenched in sweat and wheezing, tasting blood in his mouth.

Murtagh? Thorn’s worry broke through, Murtagh? You are awake? You hear me?

“Thorn…” Murtagh murmured blearily, trying to get his thoughts to straighten out. 

“Thorn!” He cried out. 

Murtagh? Say to me. Please. You are awake?

The Freckle Twin was muttering a spell over him.

“I want to see him! Thorn! Let me see him!” Murtagh wailed. “Thorn!!” He was trying to respond to Thorn with his mind, but he couldn’t. 

“Shut up,” The Freckle Twin hissed.

Murtagh? Thorn asked in his mind, fear and worry spilling through his thought. Please Murtagh?

Murtagh tried to catch his breath, squeezed his eyes shut and reached his mind out shakily.

I’m…I’m here… Murtagh managed to think, and he felt a flood of relief and warmth from Thorn. 

You are hurt?

I’m… Murtagh tried thinking something. His mind was so frayed he couldn’t form words together. He sent Thorn an image of a rope, threads splitting, barely holding on.

***

Murtagh’s breaking point came three days later.

He experienced five more seizing fits, and had been given some potion from the castle healer, as though the torture and pain they were inflicting upon him wasn’t the obvious cause. They wanted him conscious to feel their torment.

When the King returned, all sign of his furious outburst was gone. He was cold and in control. He entered Murtagh’s mind with the ease that one would blow the petals from a dandelion, and he sent fire shooting through Murtagh’s skull for what felt like hours, made his skin feel like it was crawling with biting ants, like there was acid in every pore. 

When that didn’t work, he had a large crate dragged into the room by five of the black-clad men, and Murtagh panicked, wondering what horror was inside there that would come crawling out to torment him. A moment later, though, he felt Thorn’s frightened mental touch, and he realized with a sickening clench that Thorn was in the crate.

“Let him–out–let him out!” Murtagh cried, as the box was dragged past him and dropped to the floor. He could feel Thorn’s panic, trapped in the darkness, bent and folded and unable to move.

“Please…” Murtagh grunted, weakly tugging at his shackles. “Please…”

“Murtagh…” Galbatorix’s voice came, calm and anchoring. Like a soothing balm in a swirl of fire. Murtagh’s gaze was on the crate, his breath shaking.

It’s okay, Thorn, it’s okay, I’m here.

“...enough,” Galbatorix said softly. 

The room was quiet, except for Murtagh’s ragged breathing and the sputtering of the torches.

“...you’re hurting him, Murtagh,” Galbatorix said, and Murgah knew it was true. Thorn was in agony, and it was all his fault. “Is that what you want? You want him to suffer?”

“No,” Murtagh whimpered. Then he felt the King’s hand softly stroking his sweat-drenched hair, he didn’t have the strength to pull away.

“It’s alright. You’ve been very brave,” The King’s soothing voice said, “Tornac would be proud of you. Hm?”

Murtagh had no tears left in him, or he might’ve cried. His eyes were on the box, and he felt Thorn’s weak tendril of thought, cramped and scared and alone.

“Let us be done with this now. You’ve put up a good fight. And no one can blame you.” The King’s gentle touch felt good, after so many days of hurt, and Murtagh hated himself for it. 

“Eragon will understand. He would not hurt his partner like this.”

“J…just let him go free,” Murtagh whispered, “Let him… go free, and y-y-you can have me,” He breathed, trembling.

The King’s hand held Murtagh’s head tenderly.

“You know I cannot do that, Murtagh. You and he are together. Always.”

Murtagh sniffled, and he felt a faint thought from Thorn,

Strong, Murtagh.

But the thought was so twisted with pain and sorrow that Murtagh felt it in his bones. He cried out, trying with the last of his strength to push away from the inevitable. But Galbatorix’s demand was like a giant cloud, climbing over the sun and blocking out all else, blackening the sky of his mind.

“Swear fealty to me, Murtagh, and his pain will end,” The King’s hand went still, resting on Murtagh’s head.

“He doesn’t deserve this hurt. Submit.”

Murtagh’s breath caught with a sob, his eyes never leaving the box where Thorn was trapped. 

When the word came out it was a whisper:

“...okay.”

Chapter Text

The words Murtagh spoke held no meaning for him–he recited them after Galbatorix, in a language he did not understand, his mind clouded with pain, all his energy focused on the box on the floor. 

But as the last of the strange words left his mouth, he felt a heaviness all around him, a pressing conscious awareness of what he had done. A shackle over his whole body. It was over. He was a slave.

He’d immediately collapsed when they let him off the stone slab, and had practically crawled over to the heavy crate, leaning onto it and fumbling for the metal latches with shaking, clumsy hands.

“Op–open, open it,” He panted, his mind still whirling, unable to think of anything but Thorn.

Your fault your fault your fault.

“Open it!!” He shrieked, and one of the black-clad men hurried forward, after receiving a permissive nod from the King.

Murtagh weakly pushed at the lid, but the black-clad men had to do all of the lifting, his limbs had no strength left, and his bare skin shivered in the cold of the room.

When he saw Thorn he thought he might sob and laugh and throw up all at once. The dragon wearily lifted his head and churred at Murtagh, who threw his arms around Thorn’s neck and cradled him, shaking and weeping. 

The color of Thorn’s scales was slightly off–they were pale and dull. He had hideous patches of empty or mottled skin along his underbelly, and his right eye was swollen and discolored. He was bigger than the last time Murtagh had seen him–he’d grown during the span of their days of torture, but he was trembling and weak.

The dragon shifted clumsily, trying to work himself out of the box, which had him crammed in so tightly he could hardly move.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Murtagh thought, burying his face in Thorn’s shoulder, his whole body wracked with sobs.

Murtagh… Thorn thought, his voice tenuous. 

“Alright, then,” The King’s voice floated over them soothingly. “Thorn. It is now your turn. I will have your oath, and then we may leave this unpleasant business behind us.”

Murtagh felt a lurch in his gut, holding Thorn ever tighter. He couldn’t. Not Thorn.

“Please just let him–”

“Murtagh, tell your partner–”

“Please don’t—”

“Murtagh!” The King’s voice filled the chamber, and Murtagh felt a clamp around his throat. He wanted to take a swing at the king, to lunge for him, to defy him, but he felt the oath in his skull, in his bones, in every sinew of his body.

I will obey your commands. I will recognize your authority. I will refrain from any attack–magical or mundane. 

He hadn’t known the language, but he knew the meaning of the oath. He was bound to Galbatorix’s command; he could not fight back, he could only beg.

“Please…” Murtagh whispered, his head hanging, “I can’t ask him… I can’t do…i-if I made him…” 

He couldn’t finish, but the King did not lash out again, an icy silence stretching between them instead. 

“I understand,” The King finally said, “It would break your bond of trust with him, to demand his submission, after you told him never to submit.”

Thorn’s head lay heavy on the edge of the crate, his breathing labored, his heartbeat pulsing against Murtagh’s skin. 

“Very well. I will not require this of you. I respect the bond of rider and dragon.”

Galbatorix folded his long hands.

“But you will have to endure, then, a little while longer… until Thorn makes the right decision on his own.”

Murtagh swallowed, too exhausted and hurt to think.

“Thorn, will you pledge yourself to me and swear the oaths I command?” Galbatorix asked sternly. 

Murtagh squeezed Thorn’s neck. He could not ask this of him–though he saw no way out, he still could not tell Thorn to submit.  He could not be the cause of his slavery.

Strong… Thorn whimpered in Murtagh’s mind, and it was almost a question. Murtagh couldn’t speak, he only nodded, his head pressed against the dragon’s wounded scales.

Then Thorn lifted his head, his ruby eyes glaring at the King, and he let out a low, venomous growl.

The King sighed. Then he strolled across the room to the brazier that had sat smoldering in the corner, and he removed a metal rod from its depths, the tip glowing with heat.

Murtagh clung to Thorn as the King approached them, and squatted low, the scorching metal held only inches from Murtagh’s face.

“Take the rod, Murtagh,” The King commanded. Murtagh stared at the heat sizzling off the metal, his body trembling, feeling the pull of his oath on him suddenly. He resisted it, but then Galbatorix repeated the command, this time in the ancient language, and Murtagh felt his hand moving almost against his will, until it clasped the cold end of the rod, and held it, shaking. 

Galbatorix stood and looked down at the crumpled pair, his affect utterly calm.

“Burn yourself.”

Murtagh tried to resist this as well, but the command dragged on him like the weight of a great crushing rock, and he felt the rod moving.

When the fire touched his torso he grunted, and tried unsuccessfully to stifle his scream, knowing this pain was meant for Thorn. He quickly pulled it away from the blackened patch of skin and tried to remember to breathe.

Thorn was twisting his way frantically from the confining box, but he was weak and hurt, and he was still shackled around his neck. What could he do?

“Do it again,” Galbatorix said coldly, and this time Murtagh’s hand moved immediately. He heard his flesh sizzle where the hot iron touched it, and he cried out through his gritted teeth. Thorn whimpered and reached out one clumsy foreleg, knocking the rod from Murtagh’s grasp, but the King only made him pick it up again.

Five times, Murtagh burned himself with the heated metal, crumpled in pain against the wooden crate, his hand unsteady, so the burn marks looked like uneven scribbles on a scroll. 

He told Thorn over and over that it was okay, that he did not have to give in, that he could be strong. But finally Thorn could not stand it anymore, and at last, he, too, submitted.

After that, the world was hazy for a long while, and it felt very quiet all of a sudden, after all the screaming. Murtagh was vaguely aware of hands lifting him off the floor, carrying his limp frame up the stairs and out of the Hall of the Soothsayer. 

“Thorn…” He murmured, his eyelids fluttering and his head lolling. He tried to reach out in his mind to find the dragon, but he was slipping in and out of consciousness, and he couldn’t maintain a coherent thought long enough to find Thorn and connect to his mind.

He was lying on another slab then, but this one was softer, and a delicate light trickled in through high windows, and there was a pleasant scent in the air.  

“Thorn…” He muttered deliriously.

A man bent over him, muttering and prodding, and he felt warm cloths and cooling ointments applied to his many varied wounds. He shuddered with relief as his pain began to drain away. 

The healer’s touch was gentle, and he murmured reassuringly as he worked his way along Murtagh’s mutilated body. Some of the wounds the old man seemed to heal with magic entirely, and some he bandaged, and some he left alone.

Murtagh jolted to full consciousness once, when he felt a strange twinge against his mind. It was Thorn, and he was in pain–no, not pain–was it pain? Aching? Stretching? Murtagh tried to sit up on the healer’s cot, groaning, and he found his arms and legs once again shackled.

“It’s for your safety, sir,” The old man explained, but Murtagh felt a spike of fear from Thorn, and a strange bending sensation in his body. 

“What are you doing to him?!” Murtagh demanded, panicking at the renewed pain. What was this? Wasn’t it over? Hadn’t they given the King what he wanted?

It felt like his bones were pressing out of his skin, his muscles being stretched beyond the breaking, his whole body warping.

“Stop! What are you doing?!” He groaned weakly, pulling at his restraints as he felt Thorn’s confusion and fright.

The healer hurried over, and was suddenly waving some sort of smoking bundle of herbs in front of Murtagh’s nostrils.

“Breathe in. It’s alright, sir. It’ll be over soon.”   

Murtagh tried to pull his face away from the heavy smoke, but his breath was panicked, and as soon as he inhaled he began to feel hazy again. 

Then he blacked out.

***

Murtagh woke with a start, and the first sensation he felt was soft. He hadn’t felt anything so soft since… he couldn’t remember. He shifted, and blinked, and tried to walk through his haze of terror to remember where he was and what he was doing.

He had sat up, and he was on a bed, and a soft blanket was over his legs.He had a clean white tunic that hung loose on his haggard frame, and underneath it he could feel himself covered in bandages and wraps.

 His pain was not so loud now, and he could breathe, and he didn’t feel like there was a fire in his throat. His hair was damp, but not from sweat, from water, and he no longer felt the grime and dirt from the past horrible weeks caked on his skin. Someone had bathed him. And bandaged him. And given him new clothes. And put him in this bed.

He sat for a long moment on the bed, catching his breath, coughing and trying to calm his hammering heart. 

The room was half-dark. A soft candle light flickered next to him, and there was a window that let in the last of the evening light, but shadows had fallen around him.

Murtagh shivered.

“Th–Thorn?” He said to the darkness. And he reached out with his mind shakily.

A frightened presence recoiled from him sharply, and Murtagh gasped. He blinked spots from his eyes.

“Thorn?” He asked again, and he pulled aside the blanket and swung his legs over the soft mattress. Something shifted in the dark corner.

Murtagh stood carefully, not trusting his legs to hold him. He leaned on a nightstand table that held a candle and a tray of cheese and fruit, and he stared into the darkness.

Thorn? He asked again, frowning.

He picked the candle up from the nightstand and stepped forward, the light trembling in his unsteady hand. Then he felt a deep rumble in his chest, a reverberation that came from the darkness, from a creature much bigger than Thorn. Murtagh stopped, fear suddenly gripping him again.

What trick was this? Why was the King still playing games?

Then Murtagh reached out to the presence again, and this time it did not recoil. He felt it, and he recognized the deep thrumming melody of his partner’s mind.

“Thorn?” He said again, and he stepped forward with the candle. Then his breath left him.

It was Thorn, and he was curled on a soft cushion in the corner, but this was not the dragon that Murtagh had rescued from the heavy crate–this dragon would not have come close to fitting in a box of any size. It was Thorn, and his scales were back to their usual red, and his underbelly was healed, but he was massive –far larger than he ought’ve been–at least as big as Saphira had been when Murtagh had last seen her.

Murtagh gasped in horror, and Thorn struggled to lift his giant head, which was as big as half of Murtagh’s body. Quickly Murtagh stifled his reaction, as he felt Thorn’s mind touch his.

Murtagh? He asked, and his voice still sounded small; it didn’t fit with the body Murtagh saw before him. Murtagh felt a boiling rage in his veins. How dare they. How could they? Respect the bond of rider and dragon? This was unconscionable.

But he had to keep calm. He didn’t want to scare Thorn. 

He took a breath, and stepped forward, ashamed to note that he was afraid for a moment, of how big Thorn was, of how his teeth and claws might end Murtagh with a single swipe.

“It’s alright,” He managed out loud, not trusting his mind to keep his horror and disgust from his partner. He approached Thorn like a wounded dog, and the dragon tried to meet him, whining as he attempted to stand. But his limbs were too large for him, and he stumbled clumsily, sending a heavy vibration through the floor.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to move,” Murtagh assured, stepping close slowly, until his hand touched Thorn’s massive snout. Murtagh let out a shaking breath.

“It’s alright,” He managed, “I’m here.”

He felt Thorn trembling, felt the dragon’s confusion and aching, and all Murtagh could do was hold him. He curled up close to Thorn’s giant neck and wrapped his arms around him as far as he could, pressing his forehead against the scales.

“I’m here.”

***

Murtagh’s body screamed at him when he woke up the next morning, and to his shame he had a moment of startled fear when he felt Thorn’s breathing–forgetting how giant he had suddenly gotten. 

Thankfully the dragon was still asleep, and Murtagh had a moment to get his emotions under control, stroking the scales along Thorn’s neck, amazed and angered at the sudden change. He now understood the aching, stretching sensation that he’d felt while in the healer’s room. 

When he finally forced his sore legs to rise, he limped over to the plate of fruit and cheese that had sat on the nightstand all evening. He nibbled at the food weakly, his mouth tasting dry and ashy, but his stomach yearning for sustenance. 

He was just feeling the rays of morning sun on his pale skin, when a sharp knock on the door startled him and he whipped around, his heart suddenly hammering. 

Thorn lifted his great head, a little clumsily, as a voice said,

“My Lord?”

Murtagh swallowed, not sure what to do. 

The knock came again, and Thorn looked at him.

“C–come in,” Murtagh rasped, his shoulders tense and his back pressed against the nightstand table, ready for an attack.

The man who entered was primly dressed, with shining shoes, neatly pulled back hair, and a slick smile.

He bowed and said,

“Good morning, My Lord, I trust your accommodations were adequate?”

The man gave a toothy smile, and Murtagh blinked, still frozen. When he didn’t answer, the man continued,

“Well. Allow me to introduce myself. I am called Falner, my lord, I’m the chief manager of the King’s household, and I am here to see to your every need. I’ve brought your servants here to begin dressing the room…” Falner gestured into the hall behind him, where a row of five or six uniformed servants stood with their eyes to the ground, holding various linens and cleaning items.

Murtagh couldn’t speak. His mind was blank. He was so afraid this was a trick, and he felt like he wanted to throw up. But the man just smiled blandly.

“Would that be acceptable, my Lord?” Falner asked.

Murtagh felt a questioning nudge from Thorn.

“Uh…” He could only nod, but Falner seemed to take this fine. He bowed and snapped for the servants to enter and begin their work. They flurried in like butterflies over a field, and immediately began tending to the bedding and the fireplace and the dusting, though the room had seemed immaculate to him.

Murtagh flinched when one of the men came towards him, but the man merely took the wash basin and platter of food away, to refill and replace. Murtagh was standing there in his loose tunic and trousers, bandages covering half his body, shivering, unsure what was even happening, when Falner approached him leading a young red-haired woman at his side.

“My lord, this girl is called Demelza; she’s been assigned as your chamber maid; she’ll see to all your needs any hour of the day. You’ve but to ring the bell.” Falner gestured with a smile to a bell that sat on the nightstand. 

The girl curtsied with her eyes low. Murtagh didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

“Okay,” He managed weakly, watching as two of the other servants lugged in a gilded metal tub. He noticed none of them were looking at him or Thorn, like they had been instructed not to make eye contact. If he hadn’t been so shaken and confused, he might’ve been impressed that they were managing not to gape at what must have been the first dragon they’d ever laid eyes on.

“Alright,” Falner said, pleased, “Now, perhaps my Lord would like a wash and a trim of the hair? Before his audience with the King?”

This snapped Murtagh right out of his fog.

“...what?”

“The King is expecting your presence in the throne room this morning, I left a note under… ah, I see you hadn’t the chance to read it. No matter. We’ll have you ready soon; a breakfast shall be brought up with haste.” Falner snapped and instructed one of the gray-clad servants to fetch food for Murtagh and a platter of meat for “the dragon”. 

Murtagh didn’t like the way he was speaking about Thorn but he couldn’t figure out how to use his voice quite yet. 

Before he really knew what was happening, Murtagh had been sat in a chair while a middle-aged man was snipping around his hair with scissors, trimming back the stringy locks that had grown out ever-longer since the battle under Farthen Dur–a place and a time which seemed to belong to some other life.

 Murtagh didn’t like the man’s hands on his head, flinched at the sound of the scissors, and shivered as pieces of his hair fell to the ground, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say no to these people. 

He drew the line, however, when the gilded tub was filled with warm water and one of the men stepped behind him to remove his tunic without so much as a word.

“S–stop,” Murtagh flinched away sharply. The young man froze, and Murtagh recognized fear in his eyes. “I–I…” Murtagh had to take a few breaths to calm himself. “I can bathe myself,” He managed.

“We are happy to serve in whatever way–” Falner began warmly.

“I can do it myself,” Murtagh said, more sternly. The half-dozen servants in the room were all completely still, and Murtagh could now see their fear.

 A few pieces of understanding fell into place.

“Leave,” He commanded, calm but firm. And immediately they began to file out. 

Falner bowed, his syrupy smile thick on his face.

“Of course, my Lord. You have only to ring, if you need anything.” He gestured to the bell again. “I shall send the girl up when the food is ready.”

Finally Falner swept from the room and closed the doors behind him with a flourish, and Murtagh let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He looked at Thorn, who, throughout all the bustle, had hardly moved. Murtagh sensed he was nervous and uncomfortable, not knowing how to move his giant limbs without toppling over.

Murtagh offered him a weak smile.

You alright?

Thorn moved his head onto his forelegs and blinked.

I am with you, He answered, and Murtagh felt the heaviness. He nodded, swallowing, unsure what he was supposed to do. 

He wished they hadn’t taken the cheese away; he was deathly hungry, but he also was drawn to the steam coming from the warm tub. He thought it would feel good on his aching muscles. He didn’t know how to make decisions, all of a sudden, when he hadn’t made a single decision for himself for weeks.

You gave up your right to make any decisions, A dark voice reminded him, and he fought not to be sick, thinking of the oaths that bound him and Thorn now, of the invisible chains that dragged at him. 

Thorn pressed a calming thought towards him, seeing that he had begun spiraling into panic. Murtagh was leaning against the bedpost, his legs suddenly weak, his breath uneven.

Murtagh, Thorn said from across the room, rising clumsily and crawling towards Murtagh on his large legs. 

Murtagh couldn’t breathe, his chest felt tight and he was dizzy all of a sudden. Was this poison? Were they doing something to him? He clutched his chest with one hand, sinking to the floor against the bedpost, shaking as Thorn padded towards him heavily, bringing his great head close to Murtagh.

Here, Thorn said, his warm breaths on Murtagh’s skin.

Murtagh shuddered, his skin flushed with panic, his vision blurred. He felt a steadying tendril of comfort from Thorn, and he latched onto it amidst the dark sea of his panic.

Thorn drew him out, and after a few terrible moments, Murtagh could see the room again, and his breath began to slow. He placed a hand against Thorn’s large head. 

“I’m… it’s alright,”  Murtagh panted, when the spell had passed. He held Thorn’s head gratefully.

They sat quietly as the light from the windows grew, until Thorn swung his head over to the steaming gilded tub and sniffed.

Drink?

Murtagh stood.

“Uh…” He smelled it himself, sharp perfume rolling from the water. They’d evidently put some sort of soap in it.

“No, you probably shouldn’t.”

Murtagh sniffed and shuffled over to the wash basin that sat next to the bed.

“Here, drink this.” He removed the pitcher from the bowl and set the bowl on the floor for Thorn.

“I’ll… tell them to get you some water,” He promised as the dragon quickly downed the small bowl. Murtagh fought back tears, watching Thorn struggle with his body, feeling his aching and confused thoughts.

He decided to take a bath after all, and slowly peeled off his many bandages after removing the white tunic. The wounds were superficial now, all the worst ones having been healed with magic, but it still stung when he stepped into the warm scented water. 

He winced as he lowered himself into the tub, but after the smarting wounds had subsided, the heat felt good. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, and closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind blank, rather than return to his terror.

After Murtagh had climbed from the tub and dressed himself again, the red-haired girl returned with a platter of fine food, followed by another servant with a tray of meat scraps. 

She entered to see Murtagh sitting against Thorn’s torso.

“Your breakfast, my lord, shall I place it on the table?” She said with a curtsy, her eyes never rising to meet him.

“Just bring it here,” He muttered, too tired to get up and eat. 

The girl pattered over and set the tray on the ground next to Murtagh, her hands trembling. The other servant followed suit, leaving immediately. Murtagh supposed he would be trembling too, if he was inches from the jaws of a dragon he didn’t know.

“Thorn is thirsty,” Murtagh said sternly, testing his authority with these people. “I expect him to have fresh water available at any time.”

The young woman curtsied again, her breath tight.

“Yes, my lord, of course, my lord.”

She waited, her eyes down, seeming ready for some other instruction.

“Okay, you can go,” He muttered.

“Yes, my lord.’

She curtsied, and left the room, clearly trying not to run.

Thorn turned a thought towards Murtagh.

Who?

“She’s a servant,” Murtagh explained, pushing the tray of meat closer to him.

Servant?

“She does whatever we tell her. Cleans and stuff.”

Thorn seemed confused by this.

Friend?

“No. She just has to follow orders, not a friend. No one here is our friend.”

Thorn still seemed bothered, but he ate his meal in silence, and received what Murtagh gave him of his leftover food. 

Murtagh could hardly taste the well-cooked fare. Everything was bitter to him–the comfortable bed and the warm feeling of the bath water and the taste of fresh-baked bread–it was all poison to him, knowing that it had come only at the cost of his freedom. He was relieved to not be in such pain any more, but he couldn’t feel happy about it. He just felt… dead.

Some time later, Falner returned with a bow and said that the King would be ready to see them now. Yet another servant swept into the room with garments for Murtagh to wear. He made them all leave and did not accept their help to dress himself, much to Falner’s annoyance.

When he met the reedy man in the hallway, he received another bland smile.

“My Lord, if you and the dragon will follow me,” He gestured with a bow, and began walking.

Murtagh wanted to shout at him for speaking about Thorn like that– the dragon –but he wasn’t sure how far he could push Falner, who wasn’t just one of the servants. He was a man of some prestige in the King’s household, and Murtagh had to tread carefully until he figured out his own standing.

They made their way back to the throne room, and Murtagh tried to memorize the path. He had been in the palace before, of course, but never on his own, and never in this wing. Mostly he’d been brought to the castle for banquets and parties and meetings of the court, minded by his caretakers or Tornac. He knew the layout of the city well enough, but not of the inner rings of Galbatorix’s stronghold. He didn’t want to remain ignorant; it could be useful for… for what? 

He stopped that train of thought. What use would it be, knowing secret paths and quick escapes? He could not escape. There was no chance of that. To think of escape was folly. He was bound with shackles wherever he went, and nothing would ever change that. Stupid to make up silly daydreams of breaking out, flying over the battlements with Thorn, leaving the city behind, making for the free wild lands… that future was gone now. 

Murtagh steeled himself to face the king, feeling Thorn’s own quiet thoughts connected with him. As they walked the dragon tried to figure out the use of his limbs, his gait somewhat awkward. Once, his tail swung too far and knocked over a suit of armor they had passed. Murtagh did not apologize for the damage, as the accompanying guards tried to right things, but he did feel bad for Thorn, from whom he felt embarrassment and shame, as he tried to curl his too-large tail close to himself.

It doesn’t matter, Murtagh assured as two servants began putting the armor pieces back together.

Destroy the whole place if you want. 

Thorn gave him a sad nudge, but Murtagh felt a smile within it.

They entered the Throne room again, and Galbatorix was sitting on his throne, once more with Shruikan’s head at his side. Murtagh felt a shiver of fear, seeing the giant dragon, who still dwarfed Thorn a dozen times over. 

The pair stopped near the throne, and remained still, and Galbatorix waved a hand to dismiss all the guards, so it was only the four of them–two men, two dragons–in the vast room.

“Falner’s equipped himself well,” The King said with a warm smile, “You look like a new man.”

Murtagh said nothing.

“He’ll be at your beckon call, should you need anything, or should any of the servants displease you–just let him know.” The King took a breath, stroking Shruikan’s great head. 

“Thorn, you look well. Now you truly are a fearsome contender; your enemies shall fear your name,” Galbatorix complemented, and Murtagh worked his jaw in anger.

They were both silent.

“Well then. To our business.” The King took a breath. “Your training will begin tomorrow, but first I have additional oaths for you to make.”

Murtagh tried not to tremble, feeling a clench in his chest.

The oaths were simple, but terrible. He swore not to leave Uru’baen without the King’s permission. He swore not to send messages to the enemies of the King. He swore not to use magic or violence against any of the King’s servants without permission. He swore to swear whatever oaths the King demanded of him in the future.  And he swore not to reveal any of the King’s secrets, or any details about his training, to anyone without permission.  

Murtagh tried to resist, at first–especially when the King made him swear not to escape–but the draw of his previous oath was inevitable, and he had to. Tears fell reluctantly from his eyes as the words left his mouth, knowing these were the final nails in his and Thorn’s coffin.

Then Galbatorix rang for a servant, and he had them bring two chairs in, and he had Murtagh sit in the chair opposite him.

“I will now enter your mind, and I will find your true name, and teach it to you,” Galbatorix said calmly

Murtagh gripped the arms of the chair, fearful.

“The less you resist, the sooner this will be done, and the less unpleasant it will be. Thorn will be next.”

Murtagh breathed shakily.

“Now, lower your defenses.”

Murtagh shifted, every fiber of himself fighting against this order.

“I know it’s difficult,” The King crooned, “But it will be less painful if I do not have to overpower you.”

Murtagh blinked and swallowed, and tried to force the barriers of his mind down–those barriers which he had guarded so long, but which had now been torn to tatters.

When the King entered, he expected it to be painful and sharp, like the Twins probing thoughts, but Galbatorix’s presence was more like a heavy blanket of snow settling on him, breezing into his mind as easily as wind through the trees. 

His breath trembled as he felt the unwelcome presence surround his thoughts, and he gripped the chair beneath him, straining to get away from it; but he could not fight back. He let the wave of darkness consume him.

For hours, Galbatorix picked through his mind, touching every memory and feeling, every piece of knowledge, every desire, every thought he’d ever had, and tapping it and weighing it like a jeweler testing the nature of a precious stone. 

Murtagh saw again moments of his life that had been brought to the forefront by the Twins–he watched with a new understanding his conversations with Eragon, and he looked at the young man with a strange sort of wonder–his brother. 

He tried to see if they had any features in common; he couldn’t tell, and while Murtagh himself was unfortunately a spitting image of Morzan, he could see that Eragon had taken after their mother far more. Yet another reason to envy Selena’s younger son. 

Murtagh felt strange, not knowing what to do with Eragon, how to think about him, what he might say to his younger brother, if they were reunited. All his life he’d thought himself alone–an orphan, bereft of family since the age of five–now he had learned that this wasn’t true, though he could hardly believe it. He didn’t know what to do with the information. What good was it now? 

Galbatorix’s movements in his mind were not cruel; they were not mean and biting and violent. They were just… inevitable.

Murtagh didn’t know how long it was that he sat in the chair, his head hanging back as the king perused his mind, but there came a moment when the presence in his brain spoke a string of words, and Murtagh felt a spark and a shudder run throughout his whole being, like someone had sounded a great cymbal right next to his ear. 

He sensed pleasure from the King’s consciousness, and the presence withdrew.

Murtagh gasped and his head snapped forward, his eyes blinking away tears as the words rang in his head and he gripped the arms of the chair for support.

The King smiled.

“There. I knew we’d find it–together.”

Then Galbatorix said again, outloud, a string of words in the ancient tongue, and they seemed to vibrate in Murtagh’s skull and through his spine–all encompassing, complete, a full account of who he was. 

His True Name.

The King taught him his true name, then–word by word laying out the meaning of the ancient language, forcing Murtagh to repeat it back to him. It was a terrible thing, knowing himself so fully, feeling a string plucked along his spine as though a great puppet master had called him to life. 

He saw all his faults and failures laid out before him like a map to his own inadequacy. His name had many facets, not all of them bad, but among them two stood out above all the others, taunting Murtagh with their truth, calling him to account, staring at him head on, and boring into his soul. 

They were the words: Selfish, and Coward.

Chapter Text

The first thing he was taught, was how to kill. 

One word; that was all it took. All he needed was one word, and he could fell a hundred men at once, slaughter thousands with a flick of his wrist. And there were a dozen words he could choose from, to vary his killing. Why a person would need more than one word to bring about instant death, he wasn’t sure. In case he got bored?

It made him sick.

Galbatorix gave him books to read, lists and lists of words in the ancient language, studies written by elves and translated into the common tongue. Murtagh thought it ironic, that the murderous King relied on the writings and philosophies of the people he’d slaughtered, that he passed on their knowledge as if it was his own. Murtagh might’ve enjoyed the reading, spending time in the castle library, learning the old tales of the elves–if he knew it wasn’t all just preparing him to slaughter the King’s enemies. 

In his magic training, the King had him practice elevating items of varying sizes, holding them for as long as he could. He was strong enough to lift most of them off the ground, but even the smallest stones would leave him gasping for air after holding the spell a few minutes. 

He was taught to control fire, and water, and air; taught to detect poison, taught to create poison, taught to make items invisible and to detect invisible spells. He learned how to set wards about himself for protection, and how to break down the wards of others, how to see things in the dark and deflect blows, and a thousand other ways of fighting.

Every new thing he learned, he kept thinking, 

If only I’d known this. I could’ve freed myself. If only I’d known this I could’ve fought off the Twins. If only I’d known this, I could’ve gotten Thorn out; I could’ve saved him; I could be free, I could’ve I could’ve I could’ve…

The first days were blur, as he tried to keep up with everything that was thrown at him, terrified that if he got something wrong the King would punish him. 

Galbatorix was a stern teacher, but when Murtagh failed, he did not receive the punishing blows he expected. When Murtagh dropped the stone on the first day, he flinched for an attack, but none came. The King simply told him to do it again. 

The change in his situation was like night and day–all of a sudden he was treated with deference and fear by every servant and guard he passed; all of a sudden he had whatever he wanted within a moment’s notice; all of a sudden Galbatorix was gracious and calm and understanding, like a tutor helping him learn his letters. It made Murtagh sick and confused.

His training for mental attack and defense involved the Twins, which he hated, but they, at least, seemed to have held on to their disdain for him. Galbatorix pitted him against one or the other to spar mentally, most likely because he knew Murtagh stood no chance sparring against the King himself.

Murtagh would stand in a courtyard across from the Twins and duel them for hours at a time, and now that Murtagh was well-fed and well-rested, he was more than a match for them. He kept them out of his head, and began to make attacks against them, fueled by his deep-seated loathing, and the knowledge that he couldn’t lash out or attack in any other way. 

Murtagh returned to his finely-decorated room after the first day of his training, and he found his old hand-and-a-half sword lying on the bed in its sheath. He froze, staring at it, his breath gone for a moment. 

He was instantly brought back to that fight under Farthen Dur, the screams, the smell of blood, the clang of metal against metal. If only he’d had this in the cell, if only he could’ve fought his way out, if only he’d gotten to Ajihad in time, if only–

No. Murtagh closed his eyes. It was useless thinking that way. Nothing could be changed. He was here now. He was in this castle and he as a slave. The world before didn’t exist anymore. It was gone. But he didn’t have Thorn back then, and now he did. That was what he would hold onto.

Thorn had his own training, sometimes with Shruikan and sometimes with the King, and he and Murtagh were often separated for long portions of the day, which Murtagh hated. 

Murtagh grew to understand–both from the King’s talk and from snippets of conversation from the servants–that Thorn’s existence was still being kept a secret from the general population. Galbatorix did not want to reveal his new weapon until it was ready to use. 

To this end, all the servants and guards and attendants and nobles who entered the castle had sworn oaths not to speak of the existence of the red dragon to anyone, and Thorn was not permitted to fly during the day, until, the King said, Murtagh had mastered invisibility spells. 

This seemed fine by Thorn, because he still felt so clumsy and ill-at-ease in his new body. He wasn’t even sure he could fly, and he didn’t seem eager to try again. This made Murtagh sad, as he had felt Thorn’s exuberance the first time he had managed to lift into the air, and was angry at Galbatorix for ruining that. Of course he was angry at Galbatorix for a great many things, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.

A few days into his training, he walked to one of the inner courtyards with his old sword strapped to his belt, guided by the ever-polite Falner. He found a young man waiting there for him, a sword at his side, his long blonde hair pulled back at the nape of his neck.

“My Lord, I’m called Aberfell,” The man bowed, “I’ve been assigned to help you with your swordsmanship.”

The swordsman was older than Murtagh, but only by a few years, and Murtagh wondered how the man would measure up. Murtagh was not pompous, but he knew he was a skilled swordsman, so far as humans were concerned. It had been another thing entirely, watching the elf Arya use a blade, and the dwarves’ fighting style was entirely different. The Urgals even–No. He had to stop thinking about that. Those people didn’t exist anymore. He had never seen a dwarf in his life. He hadn’t fought alongside an elf. He didn’t know the fighting styles of Urgals.

As it turned out, Aberfell was highly skilled, and as it also turned out, Murtagh was rusty. Weeks and weeks of sleep deprivation and lack of food, combined with the fact that he had been lying on the floor of a cold cell and hardly walking the whole time, meant that his stamina was depleted and his movements unsure. This was not to mention the physical toll the torture had taken on him, though Galbatorix had seen all his wounds completely healed with magic before he’d started his training,

“Like new,” The King had said with a rich smile, but Murtagh didn’t feel it. 

He was thin, and his bones ached, and the once-familiar sword felt too heavy in his hand, and his feet wouldn’t move quickly enough. He tried not to get angry with Aberfell, who bested him nine times out of ten and didn’t seem to be breaking a sweat, but he wasn’t used to feeling inadequate as a swordsman, and was once again reminded that he was letting Tornac down. 

“Well done, my Lord, a good start,” Aberfell encouraged, his cheeks flushed with exertion, after he had got past Murtagh’s defenses for the dozenth time and halted just before a killing blow.

Murtagh only grunted.

“A drink?” Aberfell gestured to the water barrel that stood on the edge of the stone courtyard, sauntering over to it easily and scooping water out with a ladle. Reluctantly, Murtagh accepted the ladle himself, wondering if Thorn would be back in the room by the time he returned. 

“Your technique really is exceptional, my Lord,” Aberfell said–he seemed to be the only castle attendant Murtagh had met so far who wasn’t either deathly afraid of him or snobbishly cold.

“I would say you are impressive for your age, but really you are impressive for any age,” Aberfell continued warmly. “And of course you’re only going to get better with time. No limit on how far you can advance.”

The man smiled, and Murtagh didn’t know what to do with that. No one else in Uru’baen had smiled at him like they meant it–they all just seemed afraid of getting eaten by a dragon.

It also took him a minute to realize what Aberfell meant, about getting better with time. 

He felt stupid for not thinking about it earlier, but it struck him just then for the first time that he was now, for all intents and purposes, immortal. He would live forever, like Eragon would, like Galbatorix would, unless he was killed. And if what Eragon said was true, then over time he would become more elf-like, and less human.

This made Murtagh queasy. Once upon a time immortality might’ve been an interesting day dream; many men would’ve sacrificed anything for it, no doubt. But now all it meant to him was that his slavery had no end date. He would belong to the King not just for one lifetime, but for a hundred, until Galbatorix decided his life should end. It was a suffocating thought.

At the end of each day when he returned to his quarters–which were always pristinely made up and equipped with a wash basin, tub, and light evening meal–all he wanted to do was curl up beside Thorn and sleep, disappearing into nothingness for a little while. That was one advantage to Thorn being so big now–his warmth and sturdiness was comforting. They would share thoughts together, telling each other about their day, trying to stick to the good parts. 

Shruikan shows me the sea–in his mind’s eye. He shows me forest, like you said. He shows me mountains. You see mountains?

Yes, I’ve seen mountains.

They are… beautiful?

Yes. They are. And dangerous. Like you.

Thorn seemed humored at this. His mental thoughts were becoming clearer and more eloquent every day; he picked up on words and expressions quickly, and had begun listening to the servants as they bustled about the room and through the halls, catching onto their patterns of speech. 

It was strange, but in a way Murtagh felt like he had never left Uru’baen; he was surrounded by minders and tutors, controlled at every moment, desperate to find time to himself, and helpless to make any real change. It was just like his childhood.

The King saw him occasionally, and would take on Murtagh’s training himself for those secrets which none but dragon riders could know, but often he left the tutelage to several of his pet magicians. Aberfell helped Murtagh with swordsmanship; and an old bearded man named Swart was in charge of his study and writing, ensuring that he was keeping up with his learning of the Ancient Language; and he mentally dueled with the Twins. 

The King told him after a few days that he was permitted to go about in the city, if he should wish, but this he did not desire at all. Firstly, he didn’t want to be apart from Thorn any more than he had to, and secondly, he couldn’t stand the thought of running into anyone he knew from his childhood. The third reason was that it felt like a mockery to his captivity; even if he’d been given the chance to stroll through the woods with Thorn, he wasn’t sure he could stand to take it, knowing the illusion of freedom might be worse than just sitting in his chains.

So he kept to himself when he wasn’t forced to be at training, and the only people he said more than two words to were Thorn, Aberfell, and the King, when he was forced to speak. 

The red-haired servant girl was annoyingly diligent, and showed up morning and evening to straighten up whatever mess Murtagh or Thorn had made, curtsying and asking the same question,

“Is there anything else I can do for my lord?” With her eyes down.

The answer was always the same, and Murtagh wished the girl would just leave him alone. He didn’t care if the room was a mess. 

His time with Thorn was shrunk even more when Galbatorix began requiring his presence at councils and meetings. The first time he was summoned to join the King in his map room, Murtagh was nervous, not knowing who would be there and what he would be expected to do.

 But he quickly realized that he was meant to stand to the side, listen, and do nothing. Moreover, he recognized that the two or three royal advisors who would be present were infinitely more afraid of him than he was of them. The older, more decadently-dressed nobles seemed to sneer down at him over their noses–he even thought he recognized a few of them–but none of them dared say a word. It was as though he was a suit of armor stationed in the corner of the room, just to look intimidating.

At first he had been frustrated by these councils; he had no desire to hear of the King’s plans for controlling his kingdom and crushing the ever-worsening rebellion, and the meetings only took him away from Thorn for more hours out of the day. However, the third time he was summoned to the map room, the advisor who spoke with the King had come from Feinster, and he gave a report on the recent movements of the Varden.

“They’ve begun settling in Surda, Your Majesty,” The portly man announced, “They’ve made some sort of alliance with King Orrin, and are, so far as we can tell, completely absent from Farthen Dur.”

“It only makes sense,” Lord Garshein–a gray-haired, wrinkly man with beady gray eyes–said with an air of authority, “They know we would decimate them with a second assault on their precious little mountain.”

He looked at the King, then his eyes flicked to Murtagh with a little gleam of self-satisfaction. Murtagh kept his glare steady.

“And the girl?” Galbatorix asked blandly.

The man from Feinster sighed.

“Yes, we’ve confirmed Ajihad’s daughter has taken up leadership of the Varden–”

Murtagh felt a sudden lurch in his chest.

“–spies report that she is the one who made the decision to move the troops. It’s unclear, though, if their Council of Elders is controlling her, or if it’s the other way around.”

“Make it clear,” The King demanded, leaning on the map and glowering down at the sketchings and reports. “I will not remain ignorant of who my enemy is.”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Garshein interrupted airily, “I think it’s quite clear that the girl is a figurehead–a pretty little doll for the council to puppet around as they wish; daughter of their fallen leader and all that, stirs up sympathy for the cause. She’s a child–”

“The Shadeslayer was a child as well, Garshein,” The King shot back darkly, his voice filling the room, “And he managed to kill my best lieutenant.”

Garshein and the Feinster representative were silent, clearly stricken with fear. Murtagh’s ears were tingling. 

Nasuada was the Varden leader? She had taken them from Farthen Dur? Was Eragon in Surda? What were they doing? What was their plan? Was she okay? Was she safe?

No. Stop it. You don’t know her. You don’t know any of them. That life does not exist.

Murtagh gripped his hands together tightly, trying to keep himself from betraying emotion.

“Find out who’s really in charge,” The King ordered, “I want to know everything about this new King Orrin, and about Ajihad’s daughter. And make sure the Black Hand is in place when I give the order.”’

Murtagh felt a shudder. He had pieced together who the Black Hand was, and if the King pitted them against Nasuada…

He couldn’t keep his feelings from Thorn that night, and the dragon inquired into his concern for the girl whose image kept fluttering into Murtagh’s mind unwittingly. He had told Thorn about her before, but he didn’t like to dwell on it.

Friend Nasuada, hurt? Thorn asked, blinking up at Murtagh, who sat on the floor across from him eating the tray the servant girl had left. 

No. I’m just worried for her.

Worried, Thorn agreed, his head resting on his front claws. 

Murtagh was in an even worse mood than usual, having lost to Aberfell again that day, having barely prevented the Twins from breaking past his defenses, and having listened to hours of war strategy and spy reports, thinking the whole time how any single piece of that information might go far to help the Varden, and yet he was completely unable to do anything with it. 

I will not send messages to enemies of the King.

Murtagh knew now that there were magical ways to get information across long distances. If it hadn’t been for his oaths, he might’ve been able to pass along some of the information, warn the Varden about the spies in their midst, protect Nasuada from the Black Hand… but no. His mouth was gagged as much as his hands were chained. He was impotent. That was the only reason Galbatorix permitted him to listen in–he knew he could do nothing.

The red-haired servant girl returned in the evening time, doing her usual fussing about, taking away Murtagh’s day clothes to be washed and folding down the bed even though he mostly slept on the cushion next to Thorn. 

He had scowled when she knocked and asked for entry, and ignored her the whole time she was in the room, scanning over a parchment that contained a list of minerals in the Ancient Language until she began to clear up the tray of food.

“Leave it,” He commanded harshly, “He’ll eat the rest,” He jerked his head to Thorn and returned to his reading.

“Y–yes my lord. If… the dragon is hungry, I can have another plate brought up–”

“He has a name,” Murtagh snapped angrily. “It’s Thorn. He’s not a dumb animal.”

“Y–yes my lord, my apologies, my lord,” She curtsied again, her voice tight and high. “Does–would Thorn like a fresh plate of food?”

“–and you don’t have to talk about him like he’s not here. He’s not stupid. Just talk to him.”

Murtagh gestured angrily. The girl swallowed, her cheeks flushed, and she turned to Thorn with a curtsy.

“M-my lord would you like a second plate of food this evening?” She managed, her voice trembling, clearly terrified of the giant beast.

No. Content, Thorn said with a blink.

“He says he’s fine,” Murtagh muttered, copying down the strange shape of complex letters, his handwriting shakier than it used to be.

“Very well, my lord,” The girl curtsied, “Is there anything else I can provide for you this evening?” She asked, her eyes still on the floor and a slight tremble in her breath.

“No.”

Murtagh didn’t look up as the girl curtsied for the dozenth time and hurried to leave.

When she had quietly closed the door behind her, Murtagh felt Thorn shift and snap up the remainder of the bread that was left uneaten on the tray. 

Then Thorn turned his great eye on him.

Servant has name too, He thought at Murtagh, and Murtagh paused in his writing.

“What?”

Two-legs-orange-hair-curls servant. She has name too. Demelza.

Thorn blinked at him, and Murtagh understood his meaning. He felt a twinge of shame, feeling the dragon’s disapproval.

“Right. Demelza,” He murmured. 

After that he tried not to be so brusque with her. He noticed that the girl never referred to Thorn as “the dragon” again, and that she tried her best to look him in the eye when she spoke to him.

***

The first time Murtagh climbed onto Thorn’s back, his heart was beating so loud he was sure it was going to explode. It was night time, and Murtagh had been given approval by the King to fly with Thorn under cover of darkness, with a masking charm cast over his shape to obscure him from any keen eyes.

Murtagh had tried to cast the spell himself, but had been unsuccessful, receiving a scathing look from one of the Twins as he stepped in to perform the magic correctly. Murtagh scowled, but the King said nothing of his failure. He often worried, when the King was so quiet and unperturbed, that a great storm was brewing, waiting to be unleashed on him at unawares. 

Tonight, however, the King seemed only concerned with seeing that Thorn and Murtagh could begin their flight training together. Murtagh was not looking forward to it, a fact which he tried to conceal from Thorn. He’d never liked heights or high places, and though in his head he knew Thorn wouldn’t let him be hurt, he couldn’t forget the fact that his dragon was not supposed to yet be large enough to carry him, and that he was still figuring out the use of his limbs–wings included.

So when they first began to lift off from the cobblestone of the inner courtyard, Murtagh was clinging to Thorn’s neck spikes like a man hanging from a cliff edge, despite the fact that his legs were strapped into the leather saddle.

Thorn, for his part, was excited at the prospect. He had begun flying outside at night and in the throne room, learning to navigate the air currents and use his wings at their new size, and once he had shaken off his unease, he’d taken to it joyfully. He loved flying, Murtagh could tell by the way he thought about it, and he was eager to share it with his human partner, so Murtagh did his best to not let his dread seep through.

Once the initial lurch of fear and the strain of getting off the ground was over, Murtagh was able to release his vice-like grip on the spikes in front of him, and breathe more calmly. After a few minutes, he risked a glance down, and gasped.

Stretched below them was the wide circle of Uru’baen, the lights of a thousand lanterns and torches peppering the blackness below, outlining the streets and alleys, gradually thinning out the further the city stretched away from the citadel. It was unlike anything Murtagh had ever seen. 

He’d looked down at a city from a hillside before, but never something like this. The world was so small down there, each pinprick of light representing the stoop of someone’s home, the lantern hanging from someone’s carriage. It was like the stars had descended from the canopy of the sky and laid themselves below Murtagh like a painting, like the earth and heavens had been reversed. 

Murtagh had always thought Uru’baen an ugly, unappealing place. But in the darkness, from high above, it could have rivaled the legendary cities of Du Weldenvarden in its beauty. He could see why it had once been called Ilerea, the seat of the dragon rider’s power. 

After that night, he never dreaded flying with Thorn ever again. He took every opportunity to join his partner, and worked hard to perfect his invisibility spells so that they could take to the air whenever it pleased them. 

He preferred to be in the sky with Thorn, away from servants and instructors and lords and advisors, and most especially, away from the King. Though they were no more free in the sky than they were on land–tethered to Uru’baen, fated to return, unable to go farther than a few miles in any direction–among the clouds he could at least pretend he was not a slave.

***

Several weeks after he’d begun his training, Falner came to his chambers with a servant carrying a new set of fine clothes, and the sickly-sweet man announced that Murtagh and Thorn would be “presented” to the King’s court that afternoon.

Murtagh wasn’t sure what this meant, but he didn’t feel like asking Falner anything further. The man was all around unpleasant; he clearly held disdain for Murtagh, but was too slimy to be straightforward about it and evidently considered himself above the position of “dragon-rider minder”, so everything he did had an air of disapproval and annoyance that drove Murtagh mad. 

If Murtagh thought he could’ve gotten away with asking for a different “Chief Attendant” as he learned the man was called, he would’ve tried, but short of getting Falner executed for treason or something, he wasn’t sure he could manage it, and he wasn’t yet ready to take such a drastic measure.

He dressed himself in the fine clothes, feeling tight and uncomfortable, and missing the worn tunic and cloak he’d donned when he was traveling with Eragon. They had been the shabbiest things he’d ever owned, but it had felt right . Forcing himself back into the elegant fabrics and tight collars of the high fashion of Uru’baen felt like trying to jam a sword into a scabbard that was too small for it. They didn’t fit him anymore.

He was given a red cape, which was elegantly crafted, but which Murtagh only admired because it was a good match to the color of Thorn’s scales–though dull by comparison. He donned the outfit–refusing the help of the servant Lord Falner had sent–and stared at himself in the long looking glass, after removing the sheet that he left draped over it most of the time.

The servant girl–Demelza (he was trying to use her name)–had been taking the covering off every morning when she came to clean up, but gradually she seemed to have caught on to the fact that Murtagh did not want the mirror staring at him from across the room, and she’d begun to leave it be.

Now he winced at his own reflection, hating what he saw, his hand on his sword, his long dark hair falling to his shoulders, a deadness in the eyes that he couldn’t seem to make go away.  

But then Thorn swung his head around and blinked over Murtagh’s shoulder into the mirror, tilting his glittering scales this way and that in the morning light. Thorn was endlessly fascinated by the looking glass, and could have sat staring at himself for hours if Murtagh let him.

Murtagh laughed at Thorn’s antics.

“You’ll get vain if you don’t watch yourself,” He said, placing his hand on Thorn’s large scaly brow. Thorn blinked and gave him a dragon-toothed grin.

When Murtagh looked back in the mirror, he didn’t hate what he saw as much– not with Thorn there. It felt right.

***

He wasn’t nervous, per-say, to be presented before the nobles. He didn’t care what any of them thought of him; in fact, he would prefer active hatred to any sort of admiration or friendship. But he was aware that many of them would have known him as a boy, would have been around when he and Tornac made their escape, would be aware of his collusion with the Varden, and he didn’t like the thought of all those eyes on him.

They stood before the doors of the throne room, where only a few short months before Murtagh had been dragged in chains. Now he wore a fine red cape and polished boots, with a sword on his belt and a dragon at his side. It didn’t make him any less sick at the sight of the room.

When they entered to the sound of a bugle blast, he heard the soft murmurs of many voices, and saw from the corner of his eye a gathering of dozens and dozens of nobles. 

All of these, of course, were sworn to secrecy where it regarded Thorn’s existence–Galbatorix would not suffer any word of the dragon reaching the Varden’s ears–but among themselves Murtagh knew the nobles of the King’s court had been sharing rumors for weeks.

Those who had been lucky enough to be in the palace, to spot Thorn or be present in a planning meeting with Murtagh, would have spread the word to those other privileged elite–the Son of Morzan had returned to the fold, and taken up his father’s mantle as the King’s Red Dragon Rider.

Murtagh and Thorn walked their way past the gawking crowd, which was dressed in the finest jewels and fabrics, until they stood before the King’s throne and bowed. 

“Greetings, Murtagh Morzansson, and greetings Thorn Bloodscales,” Galbatorix intoned, loud enough for the whole room to hear. He smiled down at them. 

“I welcome you to my court, and present you before my nobles here as my Chief Lieutenants–the hammer with which I will strike the final blow on the rebels who would see this great Kingdom torn apart.”

Murtagh kept his face blank, staring at a line in the stone of the King’s throne, not wanting to look at any of the gazing eyes. 

“Turn and show yourselves,” The King gestured, and inevitably, they obeyed.

The nobles were wide eyed and struck with wonder and fear as they all bowed, the ladies curtsying low and peering up through their eyelashes at Murtagh, the men bowing sharply. 

Murtagh did nothing; he would not bow unless commanded to; he had no respect for these people, financiers of the King’s evil, leeches on the poor of Alagaesia. 

“For the Broddring Kingdom,” Galbatorix said regally, and there was a round of fervent applause that filled the great room and echoed back into Murtagh’s ears like the screams of dying men. 

Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on the back doors, and his hand on his sword.

Chapter Text

An afternoon came when Murtagh was finally able to overwhelm Freckle-Twin’s mental defenses.

They had been sparring for the better part of an hour, and Murtagh hadn’t once come close to losing his concentration. He felt in control, powerful, at ease–if that was even possible for him anymore. More than anything, he felt angry, and he wanted to humiliate the Twin, and crush him.

The King was watching, and Murtagh wouldn’t admit it to himself, but this also had to do with his fervor to overpower the other magician in their match. 

He refused to acknowledge it, but as the weeks of his instruction had dragged on, he had grown more and more eager to please Galbatorix. When the King was happy with his progress, he was afforded more freedoms, given the chance to fly with Thorn, allowed time in the library for the pleasure of reading, excused from dull meetings with nobles. 

When the King was angry with him… there was a sort of icy stillness in the room, and though he had not yet been harmed since the day he’d taken his oath, Murtagh always felt on edge when he failed to accomplish a task or memorize a spell or complete an exercise that the King asked of him. He worried when the hammer blow would fall, when his true punishment would come. 

Today he was dueling with the Twin under the King’s cool eye, and he wanted more than anything to see the sneering little git dismantled, taken apart. He wondered briefly if Galbatorix would let him kill the man, once he had gotten into his mind. He hoped so.

It was Thorn, in the end, who helped Murtagh finally defeat Freckle Twin. The dragon was sitting in the courtyard behind Murtagh, having finished his own training with Shruikan, and a large black crow had flown in on one of the bare branches of the courtyard trees. Without Murtagh noticing, Thorn looked up at the branch, and let out a single jet of flame, cooking the bird instantly.

The movement and fire startled Freckle Twin, and Murtagh felt a wavering in the slippery wall of his mind. He attacked viciously. In seconds he felt the Twin’s panic as he realized what had happened, but Murtagh would not be deterred now. Piece by piece he demolished the Twin’s defenses and forced his way into the man’s dark mind like a bug burrowing underground.

There was a dark swirling sensation, a strange emptiness and also a heavy blanket of evil in the man’s mind, and Murtagh had to fight not to be overwhelmed. But he was too elated by his success to back down now. As the Twin crumpled to the stones Murtagh marched forward, fists clenched, a wicked smile playing on his lips, tearing through the man’s mind as his own mind had been torn so many times.

A word danced on his lips. One of several words. A killing word. In an instant the man would be dead.

Kill him kill him kill him, A voice told Murtagh. He wanted to, so badly he wanted to. But there was a clamp on his throat, a blockage. His oath. The Twin was a servant of the King, he had been granted permission to duel with his mind, not to kill. The ancient language would not allow it.

Instead, Murtagh made the man hurt. 

“ Verkr ,” Murtagh spat, and the Twin screamed, pain rushing through every vein. Murtagh’s heart was beating loudly, his skin hot and his eyes wild; he was elated, watching the weasely man squirm on the pavement beneath him. Served him right.

Then suddenly Murtagh felt a great pull on his navel, a painful lurch like someone had stuck a hook through him and dragged him backwards. Murtagh’s attack was broken as he was flung back through the air, landing hard and rolling to a stop, his elbows and face scraping against the rough stones as he skidded. 

Murtagh grunted in pain and tried to catch his breath, quickly throwing up his mental defenses again, as he felt the King standing over him.

“Very good, Murtagh. But never let your emotions get the best of you,” The King chided. “And never forget–your enemy may be before you and behind you.”

Murtagh looked up, panting. He understood–the King had attacked him. He ought’ve been paying attention.

Freckle Twin rose shakily, his robes rumpled and his face contorted in a mix of rage and pain. His brother was not there, and he looked pathetic, standing there in the dying afternoon light, shoulders hunched, fingers bent like claws. 

Murtagh himself stood more steadily, a derisive smirk on his face, and he jerked his chin towards the Twin in challenge, daring the man to come at him again. He did not.

Murtagh quickly healed the scrapes on his face and arms–a feat which would have amazed him only weeks earlier–and he made his way back to his chambers with Thorn, who congratulated him on his success, but who seemed perturbed underneath the surface. Murtagh was too tired to ask why.

“What was with that bird?” He asked instead, and he got a mental shrug in return.

Was hungry.

He could tell Thorn felt kind of bad about that. The dragon, Murtagh was learning, was sensitive–definitely more sensitive than Saphira had been about hunting and killing animals. 

It had taken Thorn a minute to understand that the meat they brought him every morning and night was from a dead animal, though he did have an innate sense of what it meant to hunt for food. The actual act of killing he hadn’t quite taken to, despite the fact that he was given permission to hunt at night as it pleased him. This thing with the bird was out of character, and it seemed to confuse Thorn as much as it did Murtagh.

“Don’t be bothered by it,” Murtagh encouraged with a pat on the dragon’s shoulder, “Just a bird. Nothing wrong with eating a bird.”

Thorn hummed in his chest.

***

The next day, Murtagh received a summons from the King–which didn’t alarm him so much as it had at first–but this one told him to dress well and come alone, which was slightly unusual.

He reluctantly said goodbye to Thorn and made his way to the treasure room, where the note said the King would be.

“Your Majesty,” Murtagh said with a bow, his eyes fixed in the distance, as they always were when addressing the King. It made him shiver to look at the man; he preferred to keep him as a vague shape on the edge of his vision.

“Ah, Murtagh. Excellent. I have a task for you, after your success yesterday,” The King said this warmly, but Murtagh felt a chill down his spine. 

He had been waiting for this–dreading it, really. He knew he was to be used as Galbatorix’s “hammer to strike down the rebellion”, and he hated to think of the day he would be sent out to face his old allies, or to kill some innocent family, or slaughter a village. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of this.

Nothing you can do.

The King surprised him, then, by saying,

“There’s a nobleman in the city, Lord Calthwaite, you may have known him–he’s the overseer of many of the fine goods that are traded between here, Teirm and Dras Leona.”

Murtagh didn’t see what wine and jewels had to do with the war effort, but he remained silent. The King was scribbling notes on a piece of parchment, half paying attention.

“I need him to give one of his regular trade contracts over to Lord Tellenwille of Teirm. I’d like you to go negotiate for me.”

Murtagh blinked, expecting more. The King looked up.

“Your Majesty…” Was all Murtagh could say. He was confused. Negotiate how? Did the King want him to threaten the man?

“I wish no violence or threats against Lord Calthwaite,” Galbatorix clarified, as if reading Murtagh’s mind, “Of course I could force him to do as I please, and if the situation demanded it, I would. But, as you’ll learn, Murtagh, oftentimes diplomacy is the easier route. Rebellions can be… tedious. And the happier my nobles are, the less likely their cities will turn against me.”

Murtagh nodded, trying to rearrange his thoughts to understand what the King wanted.

“As my Chief Lieutenant, you speak for me, and I want you to go and convince Lord Calthwaite–with words, mind you, not threats–to cede his trade contract to Lord Tellenwille.” The King gave a smile. “It’ll be a good challenge for that sharp mind of yours.”

Murtagh cleared his throat, his fear subsiding somewhat. So he wasn’t being sent to kill or torture anyone. That was good. Better than he expected.

“What, um… am I permitted to offer him any compensation?” Murtagh asked, “In exchange for his cooperation?”

“Of course. My treasury is open, within reason. And I don’t mind giving the Calthwaite’s a favor for a favor. But you should know, Murtagh, it really isn’t Lord Calthwaite you’ll need to convince.” 

Murtagh frowned.

“It’s his wife. Word around the court is that he falls to her every whim; you convince her that it’s worthwhile to trade with Tellenwille, and you’ll have him in your hand.”

The King smiled congenially, an expression Murtagh was still trying to get used to. Galbatorix could be quite charming, when it suited him. Murtagh nodded, his heart a little calmer than when their conversation had first started. Diplomacy. He could do that.

“Very well.”

“I’d like you to give me an oath,” The King said casually as he made a quick mark on a piece of parchment. 

Murtagh felt an uneasy clench. He hated oaths. 

He’d been forced to make several additional oaths as the weeks had passed–swearing to return to the castle when he went out flying with Thorn, swearing to keep silent about the things discussed in the map room, swearing not to make copies of any of the ancient texts he’d been given access to–all mundane things, but all sitting like a weight on his shoulder, additional links in the great chain that bound him. Still, he could not refuse the King’s demand.

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Swear that…” The King thought, “You’ll do whatever it takes to get the Calthwaites to agree–barring violence, of course..”

Galbatorix gave him the phrase to say in the ancient language, and Murtagh repeated it, annoyed but knowing he had no choice. Then Galbatorix sent him on his way with instructions to head to the Calthwaite’s manor–which sat only a short walk from the castle walls–and report back in the morning.

Murtagh stopped by his chambers only to tell Thorn that he would not be back until late that evening.

I can come with? Thorn asked, and Murtagh smiled.

“No, I’m afraid you might frighten Lord Calthwaite off.”

Thorn chuffed unhappily, but Murtagh patted his snout.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He hurried into the streets of Uru’baen on foot, having received directions to the Calthwaite’s manor, and knowing it wasn’t too far. He wore a cloak over his head and hoped not to run into anyone who might recognize him, as the last of the evening light passed into the sky, and the lamplighters began their nightly rounds. 

When Murtagh was ushered into the Calthwaite’s manor by a gray-clad butler, he stood for a moment in the entryway, his eyes roaming over the grand display of wealth. He’d seen these lavish homes before, of course–he’d lived in one, until recently–but after having been throughout much of Alagaesia, seeing how the common folk lived, seeing how most people eked a living off the land and struggled to put a roof over their heads, the lavishness hit him differently.

“What an honor, my lord,” A high voice said, and Murtagh turned to see a noblewoman–older than him by a good measure, but not aged, wearing an elegant dress that fell to her shoulders, and fine jewels around her neck.

“I am Lady Calthwaite, welcome to my home.”

“My lady,” Murtagh responded, tapping into his upbringing, trying to remember the rules of decorum around a noblewoman.

Lady Calthwaite strode smoothly up to him, her skirts swishing, and held out her hand delicately for Murtagh to kiss. He did so dutifully.

“I had hoped to have an audience with your husband this evening,” He continued, when she had turned away again.

“Yes, of course, I was expecting you,” She said, walking further into the manor and spurring Murtagh to follow her.

“But I believe you are mistaken; my husband has been away in Teirm for business this past week, so your audience will be with me, I hope that is acceptable.”

Murtagh followed her through a set of finely polished dark wood doors and into a dining room with a sparkling table already set for two.

“Of course, madam,” He responded, remembering Galbatorix’s words–Lady Calthwaite was the true decision maker in the family. It was her he would have to convince.

“Please, sit,” She gestured with a smile, “The servants shall have the first course set shortly. May I offer you a drink?”

“S–certainly,” Murtagh stuttered, feeling it would be impolite to refuse. Lady Calthwaite gestured languidly to a butler, who at once stepped away to fetch the wine.

“I often handle my husband’s affairs while he is away,” Lady Calthwaite said, as Murtagh remembered to pull her chair out for her, before sitting himself in the finely upholstered dining chair.

“But I am flattered, that the King would send his most handsome servant to beseech me on his behalf.”

Murtagh’s mouth twitched, not sure what he was supposed to say to this. 

The butler returned briskly and poured wine, and Murtagh downed a glass, trying to figure out how to quickly steer the conversation towards the business at hand. He didn’t want to sit here for a whole meal, listening to Lady Calthwaite chatter on about life in the city. 

The noblewoman was an accomplished orator, however, and she managed to steer the conversation exactly where she wanted while still making it appear that she was allowing Murtagh to have his say.

She asked him what it was like to be a dragon rider, what his education had been like growing up, what he thought about the various cities and towns he had visited in Alagaesia, if he was betrothed to anyone, if he had ambitions beyond being the lieutenant of the King, and a number of other inquiries, all without allowing him to actually say anything of significance. 

Of course most of what he told her were lies and half-truths–he had no interest in actually getting to know this woman, and he refused to share anything about Thorn, knowing that she was probably just looking for some juicy piece of information to spread among her circle–but she somehow managed to drag the conversation out through three courses and a desert without allowing him to get to his point. 

He’d finally managed to mention Teirm, and the trade routes, when Lady Calthwaite tapped her hand against his and said,

“Oh, Teirm, you must see what my husband has brought back with him this time, simply gorgeous–”

And with that she was rising, and leading Murtagh obligatorily through a swinging set of doors into another, narrow hallway–the private portion of the house.

“This is a replica of a fairth made by an elf–can you believe it?” She said, gesturing her bejeweled fingers to a picture in a gilded frame that hung on the wall. It was a depiction of a great forest–likely Du Weldenvarden–and clearly from the viewpoint of a dragon.

It was a lovely image, but nothing quite so impressive, Murtagh thought, if it was just a replica of an elf-made fairth, and not elf-made itself. Who knew how many copies there were.

“I understand your husband is in charge of much of the trade between Teirm and Uru’baen, when it comes to fine goods such as these,” Murtagh managed to say, and Lady Calthwaite gave him a wry smile.

“You are persistent, Lord Murtagh, an admirable quality.”

Murtagh tried to keep from scowling at her mocking tone, as she sighed and returned her gaze to the fairth.

“Yes, my husband is quite the important figure amongst those of us who appreciate the finer things.”

Her delicate fingers traced along the frame of the picture.

“And I understand the King may have need of a favor from him?” She raised an eyebrow in Murtagh’s direction. 

Finally, Murtagh thought, annoyed that it had taken so long.

“Yes, ma’am. It would… please the King very much, if a certain Lord Tellenwille of Teirm were to be given one of your husband’s trade contracts, to open up a route between here and Teirm.”

Lady Calthwaite’s high brows never fell.

“I see. Well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that’s a high request. Even one trade contract can be vital for my husband’s yearly profits,” She turned to him, her blue eyes dancing in the nearby lantern light.

“What might I be able to expect in exchange?”

The woman was bold, Murtagh thought, demanding something of the King, but clearly Galbatorix had expected it to be a hard bargain.

“The King is happy to offer a favor in exchange for a favor,” Murtagh echoed his earlier words.

  “Ah. And what kind of favor might that be?” Lady Calthwaite asked, taking a step closer.

“His… Majesty is prepared to offer gold, in–in recompense for Lord Calthwaite’s loss,” Murtagh said, “Jewels from his treasury are also a–an option.”

“Oh, I’ve plenty of jewels, as you can see,” The woman said airily, brushing a light finger across her chest, where a magnificent necklace lay. 

Suddenly Murtagh realized she was very close to him.

“What if I don’t want any of that?” She whispered, and she touched him near the waist.

Murtagh jerked backwards, taken aback, his brain suddenly going in three different directions at once.

“M–my lady–” He stammered. Lady Calthwaite’s teeth glinted, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“I’m sure you and I can come to… an agreement,” She continued, her skirts close enough to touch his legs, keeping him pressed against the wall where the fairth hung.

Murtagh’s heart was pounding suddenly, his mind racing, and a few things started to fall into place in his mind.

I swear to do whatever it takes to get the Calthwaites to agree… whatever it takes… whatever it takes…

Murtagh’s skin was flushed, his breaths coming rapidly. Idiot. Idiot. Dumb. Stupid. He’d been so stupid, how could he not see? Galbatorix had been almost chuckling with amusement. How had he missed this? 

“Now, my lord, you seem alarmed,” The older woman said with a smirk, and her fingers were tracing their way up Murtagh’s arm. He was frozen. He didn’t know what to do.

“I–I’m sure… there–there is something else the lady would like in exchange f–for a favor to the King,” Murtagh managed to stammer, pressed so tightly against the wall he could feel the frame of the fairth digging into his back.

Lady Calthwaite gave a little shrug, her jewels glinting in the lantern light, her exposed shoulders rising.

“I think I know what I want,” She said, and Murtagh swallowed, feeling like he might throw up.

Whatever it takes.

He felt the oath ringing in his ears, and he was kicking himself for being so stupid, so blind. 

Whatever it takes.

When she touched him, he instinctively grabbed her wrist, holding it back, his whole body shaking. Only her eyes moved, and the humor left them for a moment.

“I can always tell the King… that you failed to convince me,” She said, her tone still soft, but cool now.

Murtagh’s mouth was dry; he wanted to run; he didn’t want to be here; he didn’t want to do this… but he was shackled, the words of his oath keeping him rooted to the floor. 

Whatever it takes.

He released his hold on her wrist, and her hand began to wander, her lips pressing against his. 

***

When it was over, Murtagh lay in the dark for a long while alone. 

Lady Calthwaite had pushed him into a nearby bed chamber and lay on top of him, smothering him with her touch, suffocating him with her lips. 

Clearly the trip to observe the fairth had been part of the ruse, clearly the dinner had been a sham, clearly she had known that this would be her demand all along. Murtagh was an idiot.

She’d left him with one last smile and a touch on his lips, and had pattered into the next room, closing the door behind her. He lay then, frozen as he had been during the whole thing, feeling like he might be sick.

Finally the urge to get out of the room overwhelmed his confusion and shock, and he swung his legs over the bed, pulling up his trousers and hunting through the covers for his tunic and vest. 

He dressed hurriedly with shaking hands, wanting to just be gone from that place as soon as possible, strapping on his sword belt and pushing out into the hall, past the fairth and back through the dining room and entryway.

He didn’t stop moving until he’d reached the door to his own chambers in the castle, the cool night air of Uru’baen having worked to calm the flush of his skin and the pounding of his heart.

He stood at the door for a long moment, sensing Thorn sleeping on the other side and trying to get his breathing back to normal. He didn’t want Thorn to feel this–this–whatever it was.

He was angry, and he felt stupid, and he felt embarrassed and he felt a twinge of desire, and he felt ashamed, because after all, she’d gotten what she was after, and if he really hadn’t wanted her to, then it wouldn’t have worked, right? If he really hadn’t wanted her to do what she did, then his body wouldn’t have allowed it, so really it was probably his own fault; really he had probably wanted it, deep down.

But he felt sick, too, and shaken, and like he never wanted to see her again ever.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. It didn’t matter. It was over. There was nothing he could do. The task was done, anyway. The King would have what he wanted.

Murtagh pushed into the room quietly, hoping that Thorn would remain asleep, but clearly the dragon had been waiting for him and had only drifted off. His eyes clicked awake, and almost immediately, Murtagh felt a thread of concerned thought. 

Thorn raised his head.

Murtagh hurt? He asked, as Murtagh stood in the darkness in front of the door. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to keep his distress from leaking over into Thorn’s consciousness.

“No, not hurt,” He murmured, stepping over to the water basin and splashing the cool liquid on his face, trying to wash away the feeling of her touches. 

Thorn nudged him.

What?

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” Murtagh answered, before anything else could spill into his thoughts. “I’m fine.”

He cleared his throat, and sat on the bed taking off his boots quickly and undoing his sword belt, just wanting to go to sleep and forget everything.

 But Thorn knew him. The dragon nudged him again with his thoughts, his ruby eyes bright in the darkness.

Murtagh hurt, He said, and this was not a question.

Murtagh sat against the bed for a moment longer, his thumb tracing along the handle of his sword. Useless, now, to defend him against anything.

He set it aside and shuffled across the room towards Thorn, dragging one of the blankets with him, unable to be away from his partner any longer. He sat against Thorn’s torso and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, blinking back a sting in his eyes.

He felt a humming from Thorn, and sensed a questionless question, an asking that made no request. An openness. 

Tell me.

Murtagh tried to keep the details back–he didn’t even know how much Thorn would understand, young as he was. Were creatures born with an innate knowledge of these things? Would he get what was happening?

Thorn was a little confused, and Murtagh felt him treading through the unfamiliar words and sensations, but he couldn’t bear to explain it out loud.

Mating? Thorn asked, still perplexed, and Murtagh flinched at the word. But yes, of course that would be a dragon’s way of understanding things.

Murtagh nodded, silently, his arms around his knees, the blanket covering him.

“I’ve never… done that before…” He admitted to Thorn with a whisper, his chin trembling.

 Of course he’d had his flings with various merchants’ daughters and visiting young ladies of the court. There had been more than a few corners and alleyways where he’d offered kisses and touches to the girls he’d fancied. But Tornac had drilled honor and decorum into him, and he was always too afraid of getting caught by the girl’s father for anything really serious to happen. Not to mention Tornac would have beat him silly if he’d been caught frequenting any brothels in the city. And after he’d run away… well, he’d been in constant danger of getting captured or killed; he wasn’t quite able to make time for romance.

Murtagh tried to keep his confused swirl of feelings at bay. Gentle moonbeams drifted through the window and made a square of light on the floor amidst the quiet dark of the room.

“...I don’t think it’s supposed to feel like this,” He whispered, eyes smarting, clutching his torso. 

Thorn brought his head close and hummed mournfully, understanding, at least, that his partner was in pain, even if he wasn’t hurt.

Murtagh leaned against the dragon, and he cried.

Chapter Text

Murtagh reported to the King the next morning, after having scrubbed himself clean in the gilded tub, trying to rid himself of the memory of the woman’s hands.

He made the decision not to show any emotion, not to give Galbatorix the satisfaction of seeing his distress. He wasn’t sure whether the King had sent him to Lady Calthwaite as a test, a punishment, a reward, or some sort of sick joke, but he was certain that the he had known exactly what Murtagh was walking into. 

He left his audience with the King just as unsure, but even more distressed.

When he’d entered the King’s private dining hall, Galbatorix looked up from his meal and said,

“Ah, Murtagh, come in,” Warmly. Murtagh’s stomach soured at the self-satisfied humor coming off him.

You feel nothing. You feel nothing, He said, standing at attention, his eyes fixed in the distance, as always.

“Your Majesty,” He said coolly. 

“Yes. Your report?”

“The Calthwaites will give their trade contract to Lord Tellenwille,” Murtagh said, a recited line that he had practiced over and over all night and all morning. He would say it firmly. He would say it without a quiver in his voice. He would have no intonation whatsoever. 

“Excellent,” The King said, “Well done, Murtagh,” Galbatorix took a bite of his food.

“Come now, don’t look so downcast,” He said with a warm smirk, as if the two of them were just sharing a pint of ale in a local inn.

“At least she was handsome, wouldn’t you agree?” 

The question hung in the air, and Murtagh felt the room spinning around him. The King actually expected him to answer.

“Yes, your majesty,” Murtagh said emptily, keeping his eyes trained forward.

Galbatorix smirked again.

“You aren’t as good a liar as your father was,” He said as he sliced his food. Murtagh closed his eyes for just a moment, his hands clenched behind him. 

“But it’s no matter. I’m sure we will find plenty of other ladies for you to… negotiate with.”

Murtagh tried to keep himself from getting dizzy; he had suddenly lost the ability to breathe.

When he left Galbatorix’s hall he still wasn’t sure whether the King had thought of the whole thing as an amusing divergence or if it was some kind of punishment that Murtagh didn’t understand the reason for.

He had to stop in the passageway leading back to his chambers, leaning one hand against an alcove where an old elven statue sat and holding his chest, trying to breathe, feeling like he was drowning, a panic flushing his neck. 

He heard footsteps, and straightened, composing himself quickly and forcing his breaths to be silent. The calm chattering of a few servants died as soon as they saw him, and immediately they murmured,

“My lord,” And dropped their gaze, trying to hurry past him with a rolling cart of ale bottles.

“Wait,” He snapped, and immediately they stopped, holding their breath. One of the women’s hands were shaking.

Murtagh turned to the cart, grabbed three of the bottles of ale wordlessly, and stalked off down the stone passageway.

***

Murtagh trained harder. He fought ferociously against Aberfell, so much that the swordsman commented that he must’ve been holding back. Murtagh had put a spell on their blades so they would not slice each other to ribbons, just like Eragon had done when they’d sparred together during… No. Eragon didn’t exist. That time was dead.

After Murtagh’s defeat of the Freckle Twin, though, the two magicians pushed back harder. Galbatorix had him facing them both at once, or he had them mentally battling a Twin while he sparred with Aberfell. The Twins broke through his barriers, sometimes, but the King did not permit them to enter his mind deeply, and they would immediately withdraw.

He flew with Thorn as often as possible, escaping to the skies when he felt like he couldn’t breathe on the ground. He studied the ancient texts and absorbed the information like a starving man, hoping that he could find something within the elves’ writings and the records of the ancient language that would tell him how to get out of this–how to get Thorn out of this. 

So far he’d found nothing.

The King summoned him to the throne room one afternoon, and he expected to continue the work they had been doing on casting wards. Instead, he found a man kneeling at the foot of the King’s throne, held on either side by guards, a woman trembling behind him.

 Murtagh slowed, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and his feet suddenly less brisk.

“Ah, Murtagh, thank you, come forward,” Galbatorix gestured. He was sitting on his throne, swirling a goblet in his right hand, gazing down at the captive man, whose chin was high despite his trembling. Murtagh could tell he’d been beaten. 

He approached reluctantly, tense.

“This man is called Devarn…” The King said, “And he was recently discovered smuggling letters and maps into a caravan headed for Feinster.”

The woman was sniffling and shaking, held back by one guard, no doubt the man was her husband. Murtagh kept his face blank. On the armrest of the throne sat a stack of parchments, and Galbatorix’s long fingers pressed against them thoughtfully.

“...contained in these letters was information… about my defenses, my plans, my troop’s movements, and… curiously enough, about you. ”

Murtagh felt a strange flip in his stomach. Him? How had the man found out? He supposed he might’ve been seen in the city, and recognized. But did they know about Thorn? Would someone get word to the Varden about Murtagh’s plight? He fought between hope and fear, despair that the man had been caught, but a flicker of light, considering there might be other spies sending word to the Varden, telling Nasuada…

No. You don’t know her. You feel nothing.

Murtagh gripped the hilt of his sword and remained silent. He hoped the King wouldn’t think he was the one who’d passed on the information–somehow figuring a way around his oaths. He immediately felt cowardly for the thought.

“He is a spy for the rebels,” Galbatorix concluded coldly, “And as such… he is sentenced to die.”

“No, please…” The woman keened, struggling fruitlessly against the guard who held her. “Mercy, Majesty, please, he has a family–”

“– I thought,” The King continued over the woman’s pleas, “This would be just the opportunity for you to put to use your new skills,” Galbatorix smiled coolly. 

Murtagh couldn’t tear his eyes from the spy–a man maybe ten years older than Murtagh, simply-clothed, strong, unflinching in the face of his fate. 

“I’d like you to kill him,” Galbatorix said, “In whatever way you choose.”

Murtagh’s breath was shallow, gazing at the doomed man–Devarn–who had risked his life to aid the Varden, to aid Eragon and Nasuada…

The man raised his gaze to Murtagh; it was not devoid of fear, but there was a certain calm acceptance there, a determination that he had taken on the risk of death, and was now meeting it head on. 

Murtagh grimaced. He had killed before, of course. He’d killed uncounted Urgals in the Battle Under Farthen Dur, but he’d killed men, too. He’d killed a man like this… unarmed and helpless… a slave trader who’d tried to kidnap he and Eragon. Eragon had been angry with him, but he felt he’d done what was necessary. Could he do what was necessary now? 

Murtagh met the man’s eyes, feeling he deserved at least that, for his bravery and mettle. 

“Please,” The man’s wife begged, her pleas directed towards Murtagh now, as if he had any say, as if he could choose to spare the man. 

“I am with child, he’s to have a baby, please, mercy, let him be imprisoned, only do not kill him, I beg of you,” Her voice was pitched and hysterical, sobs shaking her thin frame. 

Murtagh felt a sick twist in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if she was making up the story about the child–it would be a good trick, if she thought that might move him to show mercy–but even if she was, he couldn’t bring himself to end the man.

This brave soldier was fighting for the Varden; he was under Nasuada’s rule; he might’ve been in Farthen Dur, might’ve fought alongside Murtagh. He was doing everything Murtagh wished he himself could do–using his position to ferry secrets to their allies. How could Murtagh end his life?

“Murtagh…” Galbatorix said, his tone calm but taking on a dangerous edge. The King hadn’t actually ordered him to do anything. He said he’d like for Murtagh to kill the spy, but that didn’t mean he had to. His oaths did not bind him yet.

The condemned man’s breaths were tense but even. Murtagh clenched his jaw.

No. 

He would not do it, not if he had the choice to refuse, not if his oaths didn’t force him. Murtagh took a breath, and he stepped back from the man, deliberately, slowly. He turned his hateful gaze to the King, but Galbatorix’s eyes were sparkling with an amused malice.

The wife let out a shuddering breath.

“Thank you…” She sobbed, her head hanging.

Murtagh was still glaring at the King, when he heard a sharp snap, and a scream. He whipped his head around to see the spy’s body crumpling to the ground, his head grotesquely twisted off his body, bones protruding and blood spilling.

Murtagh’s breath left him, and he felt a wave of nausea.

The wife’s wails echoed around the throne room for only a second more, before he watched her neck snap at a flick of the King’s wrist, and she, too, crumpled to the ground, bloodied and deformed.

A groan of horror left Murtagh, and his face contorted in distress, unable to tear his eyes from the broken body of the woman. Even the guards took a few steps back from the grotesque sight.

“You see, Murtagh,” Galbatorix intoned heavily, “When you fail to obey me, people get hurt.”

Murtagh saw blue spots before his eyes, his hands were trembling and he couldn’t breathe. The message settled into his bones: the woman’s death was on his hands.

***

He got very drunk that evening, calling Demelza up to bring whisky and ale, pacing his chambers and drinking until he could forget the sight of the two crumpled bodies, and stop the sound of their cracking necks from ringing in his skull.

Thorn tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault–he’d done the right thing, he’d refused to kill, there was no way he could’ve known what the King would do.

I should’ve known, Murtagh shot back angrily, the ale bottle swinging from his hand, I should’ve. It’s him. He’s cruel. It’s what he does. I should’ve just ended the man with a word and let that be that. His wife could’ve–and the child–if she–if I had just…

Murtagh started to panic, his whole body growing hot and his breath coming in short gasps as he slid to the ground under the windowsill.

He drowned the panic in more drink. 

The next day he fixed his pounding headache with a healing spell, but he could not get rid of the tightness in his chest, nor the ever-returning image of the two bloodied corpses on the throne room floor.

He sparred with Aberfell, and threw all his rage into his bout with the swordmaster. The young man took it in stride, though, and did not seem upset that Murtagh was landing blows that were dangerously hard, even with a dulled blade. He came close to beating Aberfell, that time, but his anger was his downfall, as it caused him to overextend and leave himself vulnerable to attack.

Aberfell was a good sport, though, and he never gloated or taunted.

“Well done, my lord,” He said, as they shared a drink of water and sat on the benches on the side of the sparring floor, watching two young noble’s sons duel.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Murtagh muttered, drinking the water and wishing it were whisky. 

“Pardon?”

“‘My lord’. I’m not a lord, I don’t own any land and I don’t have any title.”

“Ah,” Aberfell was quiet for a moment. “Well, is ‘sir’ alright, then? Think my overseers would have my head if I started to call you ‘old pal’.”

Despite himself, Murtagh smiled. 

“Right, fine,” He sniffed, drinking the water quietly.

“I did, uh… I did know an old pal of yours,” Aberfell continued quietly. Murtagh frowned.

“Old Tornac, the swordmaster,” The young man said, and Murtagh felt a clench of pain in his stomach, “I didn’t get the chance to train under him myself, but the man I apprenticed with, they were good friends.”

Murtagh’s shoulders were hunched, his hair hanging close to his eyes. Images of his old friend and teacher were popping into his mind unbidden, scraps of memory like shadows dancing along the edge of his sight. It hurt, but in a way it also felt good, remembering something decent in his life, something whole and healthy and full of love. Like having a father, it was. Until it wasn’t.

“Shame what happened to him,” Aberfell said, and Murtagh could tell he meant it. What’s more, it was brave–that statement alone could’ve been seen as treason, seeing how Tornac had died betraying the crown.

“He was a good man.”

Murtagh lifted his gaze to the young swordsman, meeting his eyes, passing through silence what he could not say out loud. It was dangerous of Aberfell, to talk like that, but the young man seemed to know this, and he did not flinch away.

Murtagh just nodded, and looked back to the stones.

***

The King was true to his word, and Murtagh soon found that he was being sent out as a negotiator to several nobles within the city.

Sometimes these meetings were exactly what they seemed–a chance for Murtagh to convince a noble or dignitary to do the King a favor. They would accept bribes of gold, land, title, leverage on their enemies, news of upcoming events, or fine goods. Most of them were simple enough transactions; Murtagh would ride a horse down to the noble’s manor, or the inn where they were visiting, share a dinner or a tea, and negotiate on the King’s behalf. 

Most of the nobles were eager to have a chance to ingratiate themselves with the King, or fearful of Murtagh, and some didn’t even ask for payment in return for their favors. 

But every time he was sent out, Murtagh had to swear to give these people whatever they wanted, to seal the deal, no matter what. And sometimes what they wanted was more than he could give.

After Lady Calthwaite, the first time it happened was an old widow–a woman who’d inherited her husband’s mining business, and was in charge of supplying most of the material for the armor and weapons in the empire’s army. 

The woman had taken Murtagh for a stroll in her garden, hosted a lavish dinner for just the two of them, and had entertainers brought in to do an acrobatic show, as though any of this would make up for what she made him do later.

Murtagh was plenty drunk by the time it happened, and he hardly remembered the whole thing, but any time he was in a gathering among the nobles and the widow caught his eye, she gave him a little smirk and a curtsy, as though what had happened between them had been some secret, exhilarating tryst, and not a transaction from which he could not back down.

Murtagh could never quite tell when to expect these ambushes–oftentimes he went into a negotiation or meeting anticipating the worst, and nothing happened. Most of the time he really could talk the nobles into accepting gold or land in lieu of these favors, and he realized that there were not many among the Uru’baen elite who were high-ranking enough to even think of demanding such a thing. 

Thankfully, the unsavory incidents were few and far-between, but he constantly felt on edge while doing the King’s business throughout the city, always afraid that he would be forced to give himself over in order to complete his assigned “mission”.

Galbatorix seemed amused by the whole thing–convinced that Murtagh must be enjoying himself in his dalliances with the various noblewomen of the city. The transactions had all involved noblewomen–of varying ages and marital statuses–until one evening when he met with Lord Garshein. 

The gray, beady-eyed man had often been in Galbatorix’s councils regarding reports from Surda, and Murtagh understood that he was a high-ranking war official, though obviously no warrior himself, aged as he was. 

He was aged enough, even, to have known Murtagh’s father well, a fact of which he seemed quite proud.

“Great man, Morzan.” Garshein said, “Shame the way he was brought down. Shame.”

Murtagh had endured a few mentions of his father–most of the nobles seemed to think their stories of Morzan’s greatness would ingratiate them with Murtagh, rather than turn him against them. He remained silent and continued his eating, just waiting until he could ask Garshein for the King’s favor and be gone.

“I don’t suppose you remember me, boy, but I was about the city, when you were just a wee thing, brought here after your father’s death,” Garshein tutted through a full mouth.

“A shame,” He said again.

 Murtagh hadn’t really tried to make connections with anyone who’d known him before. His old caretaker–Lavetta, her name had been, had either died or moved to Teirm, depending on who you asked, and no one else in his life had ever been good or kind enough to warrant him seeking them out.

“Always a handsome lad, you were,” Garshein complemented, “I remember watching you put on a display of swordsmanship when you were no older than twelve; spectacular, I said. Poised and graceful, like a dance.”

The old man sniffed.

“No wonder, of course, from the son of Morzan. I suppose you were always destined for great things. And of course here you are now: dragon rider, lieutenant of the King. Would make your father proud.”

Murtagh swallowed down bile and kept his gaze focused on his food. He’d learned to tune out the drivel that came out of the noble’s mouths most of the time, but any mention of his father brought up a bad feeling. He took another drink.

He was not so on edge that evening, as Garshein had no wife, and had always been a haughty, cold man, but as they were finishing up their meal and Murtagh brought up the business at hand–the favor Galbatorix wanted done–Garshein leaned back with a sigh, wiping his mouth on his cloth napkin.

“Yes, I thought we might come to that,” The old man said warmly. He was sat at the head of the long inn table, and Murtagh was immediately to his left.

“Of course I am more than willing to agree with the King’s request, happy to serve, as always.”

His teeth were white–fake, Murtagh assumed, but clean.

“I won’t press a hard bargain, either… make things easy for you.”

Murtagh suddenly felt the man’s hand on his thigh, and he jerked his leg away under the table, his eyes darting up, instantly tense.

The old man’s expression was blank, like nothing had happened. 

“I assumed,” He said coolly, taking a drink of wine from his goblet while Murtagh’s heart hammered, “That the King would be willing to extend a favor, in exchange for my cooperation.”

Murtagh was sitting there, his mind buzzing. He hadn’t realized… he hadn’t expected… he gripped the fork in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. His oath. As always, he had given the King an oath. To give the man whatever he wanted.

You feel nothing, Murtagh told himself, as Garshein continued speaking,

“It isn’t an easy matter, of course, to convince my constituents…”’

Murtagh didn’t hear anything else Garshein said, because his hand had returned to Murtagh’s thigh again, and was wandering about, up and down. Murtagh grunted, fighting the urge to knock over the table and stab the man in the neck with the fork.

You feel nothing.

Whether Garshein continued his talking or he fell silent after a while, Murtagh didn’t know–his ears were ringing–but he felt the old man’s hand creep up the inside of his thigh, and his leg was touching Murtagh’s, and he knew Garshein’s other hand was on himself.

It was a few, horrid, frozen moments, and Murtagh stared at the tablecloth, telling himself that he felt nothing, and knowing it wasn’t true. And when Garshein had finished, he straightened, and his hand dropped from Murtagh’s leg, and he continued the conversation as if nothing had happened,

“But yes, you may tell the King I shall acquiesce to his request,” The old man said, taking another drink from his goblet. 

Murtagh was blinking, trying to swallow the bile in his throat, his breath shuddering. 

When Garshein rose to leave, Murtagh didn’t move, afraid that his legs wouldn’t work. The old man patted Murtagh’s shoulder, and he flinched, his chin trembling.

“Such a handsome lad,” Garshein said, and then he was gone. 

The worst of Murtagh’s transactions–the word he had begun to use for them in his mind, just to keep away from the truth of it–was not Garshein, but a young noblewoman by the name of Lady Rathurst. 

Murtagh had visited Lord Rathurt’s manor to convince him to lend his support to a certain governor seeking rule in Nodringham–a small but significant town that stood near Belatona–and he had expected nothing of the evening, seeing as how Rathurst and his wife were both present, and were hosting other guests.

However, towards the end of the evening, and before Murtagh had been able to pin down an agreement from Lord Rathurst, the other guests began to leave, and Rathurst went to the entry hall to see them out.

Murtagh sat silently in the lounge with his wife–a woman many years Rathurst’s junior–who was on the chaise sipping her third or fourth goblet of wine, clearly already dulled by the drink. The young woman was very pretty, with fine eyes and a good figure, but she had a sort of deadness in her gaze that Murtagh had seen before, and her smile was weak, and practiced–no joy behind it.

The young woman turned to him after her husband had been gone for a few moments.

“Would it please you, my lord, to sit closer?” She said, placing her hand on the chaise next to her, swaying from the drink. Murtagh frowned.

“I… am content, my lady,” He answered, glancing through the open doorway, where the woman’s husband was giving a last farewell to his guests.

“I would be… delighted… if you would come join me,” She said dully, sounding not delighted in the least. 

Murtagh cleared his throat, unsure, but he stood and moved to the chaise, sitting stiffly a good distance from her, waiting for her husband to come back.

The woman put down her wine goblet, and leaned towards him clumsily. 

“I trust the meal was to your liking,” She said distantly, but her hands were on his chest and she leaned in to kiss him. He shirked away, eyes darting to the doorway again.

“M–my lady, your husb–”

“You need not worry of my husband’s wrath, my lord,” The woman slurred, her eyes dull as she began unbuttoning the front of her bodice. Murtagh was reeling in confusion.

“...he desires to observe.”

Sure enough, when Murtagh looked back at the doorway, Lord Rathurst was standing, a drink in his hand, leaning against the frame, watching the two of them as though nothing more interesting was happening than a game of chess.

“He says you have a request of him,” The man’s wife said distantly, as though she wasn’t really in the room. Murtagh returned his gaze to the young woman, who had removed her bodice and now leaned in to kiss his neck, stiffly, without feeling–like she was already dead and this was just her ghost, touching him, pulling him close.

“He says he will give you what you ask, and you may… you may do as you wish…” 

She tugged Murtagh’s tunic, and lay back on the chaise, drawing him after until he was leaning over her, hands on either side of her shoulders, keenly aware of the man in the doorway, watching.

He understood what was happening–understood why the woman was drinking so much, the dull look in her eyes, her stiff affect. This was not the first time her husband had loaned her out to visitors for his enjoyment.

Murtagh grimaced, torn between his binding oath to the King and his revulsion of the situation.

“I do not wish to do anything,” He whispered to the woman, wincing as she fumbled with his belt. 

She stopped, and her eyes finally met his, dulled with drink and despair. She seemed to understand, and they shared a moment of truth together–two people held by different chains, forced into something neither wanted.

The room was silent but for the crackling of the nearby fireplace.

“...then you may do what you must,” She murmured.

And he did.

Chapter Text

Murtagh got drunk. When he wasn’t training and he wasn’t sitting in on meetings and councils, he was drinking. He would fly up with Thorn at night and bring a bottle of mead, watching the stars spin about him as his mind was addled by the drink, and convincing himself that he felt nothing.

It bothered Thorn, he could tell that pretty quickly, but what was the alternative? He didn’t want to plague Thorn with the darkness of his thought, the horrible clenching in his heart and the waves of panic that would come over him without warning. Better to feel oblivion than to feel pain.

He told himself he felt nothing when the King rifled through his mind, as he sometimes did, flipping through the pages of thought like he was reading a book, re-hashing Murtagh’s pain. 

Galbatorix lingered on the decent memories too–the easy conversations with Aberfell, the moments of freedom in the skies with Thorn, all of these things the King corrupted with his touch, but Murtagh told himself it meant nothing.

He told himself he felt nothing when he overheard the spies report that Eragon had gone to the forest of Du Weldenvarden, and was likely this moment frolicking among the elves, learning his own secrets of magic, wandering in the beauty of the forest and enjoying his freedom. Murtagh tamped down bitter jealousy. It meant nothing.

The maid Demelza kept the room cleaned and tidy, even after Murtagh began to break anything within his grasp whenever he got drunk enough. The Chief Attendant Falner approached him one morning in his usual stiff, cordial manner and said,

“Does the staff meet your approval, my lord?”

Murtagh was tightening his sword belt, preparing to spar with Aberfell. 

“Yeah, fine,” He muttered, annoyed that the reedy man was bothering him with this. 

“And the chambermaid girl? She’s acceptable to you?”

“She’s fine,” Murtagh said, straightening and brushing past the man.

“If my lord would prefer another–”

“–I said she’s fine,” Murtagh spat, irritated that the man was still talking drivel.

He pushed into the hallway so Falner couldn’t keep pestering him.

He was foggy that morning with Aberfell, having drunk himself to sleep the previous night. Though the magic he’d learned so far could cure the headaches, it couldn’t fix the haggard, fatigued feeling that plagued him.

Aberfell gently reprimanded him after they’d sparred that day,

“If you don’t mind my saying, sir,” He started with a grimace, “It might do to hold back with the drink, just before training days, you understand…”

Murtagh was too surprised that the young man had had the nerve to say something for him to be really annoyed. 

“...so you’ll be at your best. Though I understand the vice.”

Aberfell chuckled, keeping his tone light, but Murtagh sensed a bit of real concern coming from the swordsman. If any other castle servant had said something so impertinent, Murtagh would’ve snapped at them, but he had a softness for Aberfell, who seemed to genuinely care, and didn’t tiptoe around Murtagh like he was scared. He also didn’t seem to want anything from Murtagh, and that was more than he could say about most of the other people in his life.

He didn’t have the heart to tell the young man that it didn’t matter if he was at his best, didn’t matter if he trained, didn’t matter how good a swordsman or magician he was–nothing mattered.

“Alright, Aberfell,” Murtagh said quietly, to appease the swordmaster, “I’ll try.”

Aberfell gave him a soft smile that held a lot of sympathy–more than Murtagh would’ve liked. He wondered how much the man knew, about his plight.

He tried to keep his promise to Aberfell that evening, and avoided sending Demelza down to the kitchens for more mead when she arrived to bring his dinner. Thankfully the King did not often require him to dine at his table, and he could just eat alone with Thorn, rather than going to the private dining room that was available to him. He hated those nice, elegant, lonely places, with all the servants doting on him and the fine china and goblets–especially after the dinners he’d shared with the various nobles in the city.

Demelza set that night’s food tray down on the small table as he sat by Thorn, running a whetstone along his sword.

“My lord, is there anything else I can do for you this evening?” The girl asked; she seemed tense today, her shoulders very straight and her eyes distant. 

Murtagh had begun heightening his awareness of people around him due to his training, in which he’d now begun scanning the minds of anyone he passed for signs of a threat. Demelza, like most of the castle servants, had been taught rudimentary skills in guarding her mind, but he could still sense some kind of unease coming from her.

“No, Demelza,” He said, as always. He wished she would take the hint and stop asking. 

The young woman didn’t curtsy and leave then, as she usually did. She lingered by the door with her hands wringing, and Murtagh bit back a mean comment–he knew he would hear about it from Thorn if he was rude to her. Thorn liked Demelza.

“Is there something else you need?” Murtagh asked coolly.

“M–my lord, I only… wanted to see that you felt my services were adequate,” She said quietly, and there was a soft quiver in her voice. 

Murtagh fought from rolling his eyes, annoyed at the question, which Falner had already asked that morning. What did they want him to say?

“You’re doing just fine,” He answered, feeling Thorn tilt his head. He expected the girl to leave then, but she didn’t move. She still seemed nervous.

“I–if…” She began, “If you would prefer another girl be brought to you, I can request the Chief Attendant to have me reassigned,” She murmured, her eyes still on the ground.

Murtagh paused with the whetstone on his blade. He blinked. He realized several things at once.

Blast, He cursed in his mind, and Thorn blinked a questioning eye at him.

Murtagh took a breath, his eyes closed. 

Slowly, so as not to scare the maid, Murtagh set his sword and stone down, and he rose, facing her directly, at a good distance. Now he could sense the girl trembling, hear her uneven breaths.

“Demelza,” He said softly, and she swallowed, “You are a fine chambermaid. You perform your duties well. You keep this place clean, and you provide Thorn with water and food, as I’ve requested.”

There was a breath in the room.

“Thank you, my lord,” She murmured.

“...and that is all I ask of you,” He said determinedly, “Is that understood?”

The girl’s eyes lifted to him, unsure. He was kicking himself for not realizing it earlier–the way Falner had presented her to him like a fine piece of jewelry, the way she asked him every evening if he needed any other services . 

He had been too absorbed in his own troubles to notice how nervous she had been, how she always lingered reluctantly, as though waiting for him to make a command of her. No doubt Falner had put her up to this–demanding that she ask him directly–convinced that Murtagh must have found something unattractive about her and would want a different plaything.

“I would like to make you a promise, Demelza,” Murtagh continued, feeling sympathy for the young woman. She looked up, surprised, and he took a deep breath.

“I give you my word that you are safe in this room,” He said, speaking slowly, and feeling Thorn’s encouraging tendril of thought, “I will never ask you to do anything that is beneath your honor. You are an excellent chambermaid. And that is all I shall require of you. Is that understood?”

Demelza’s eyes were wide with a mix of fear and shock, but her expression was full of tearful thanks.

“Y–yes, my lord, thank you my lord,” She curtsied again, and Murtagh sensed that this thanks was genuine. She kept her head down, as though unwilling to lift her eyes back to Murtagh.

He breathed, self-conscious and unsure.

“Well. Y–you’re free to go, then,” He said, and she curtsied once more.

“Thank you, my lord, good evening, my lord,” She said, and Murtagh could hear relief and elation in her tone, like she had been holding her breath and had finally been able to release it.

The girl turned to the door, when Murtagh had another thought, and he stopped her with a word,

“One more thing, Demelza,” He said, and she turned. He was thinking of Falner, the reedy, sneering man who’d brought this girl before Murtagh like a prize animal at a farm auction. He didn’t like the way his hands had held her.

“...if anyone else in the city bothers you,” He began, giving her a significant look, “You may feel free to tell them that you are mine , and that I shall be very cross with anyone who tries to take you from me.”

It took a moment for her to understand, but Murtagh saw a flicker of great relief in her eyes. He knew he had hit the mark–a woman of her age and bearing no doubt had to fend off plenty of unwanted advances, especially considering her low status. Murtagh had seen first hand the unsavory nature of the populace of Uru’baen.

The girl seemed like she was close to tears, and Murtagh hoped she wouldn’t start crying. He didn’t think he would know what to do.

“Thank you, my lord,” Was all she said, gravely, as she bowed again. He only nodded, and she turned to leave, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Thorn nudged him when he sat back down with a plate of food, leaving his sword-sharpening for later.

Friend-Demelza is thankful, The dragon thought. 

Murtagh just nodded, still dizzy from the realization that it had taken him so long to reach. The poor girl had probably been terrified of him for months.

He decided that he would seek to have Falner reassigned after all. The slimy little man had always rubbed him the wrong way, and he wanted to show the Chief Attendant just exactly what he thought of his games. 

That night Murtagh slept better, without drink–glad, for once, to have done something decent. It felt good to have made a promise of his own free will–to make an oath that he meant , rather than one he was forced into.

I am proud of you, my heart-partner, Thorn hummed. 

***

After their conversation, Demelza’s demeanor towards him was markedly different.

 She had been polite before–respectful, dutiful, always ready to work, but now there was a certain lightness to her step and a shine to her eyes when she spoke to him. She was comfortable; the curtain of fear that he’d failed to notice had been lifted from her–she took him at his promise.

It was hard for him to admit, but he began to fall into a sort of simple rhythm; between his practice with Aberfell, his flights with Thorn, and his brief conversations with Demelza, there was some light in his day, and it made it a little easier not to drown himself in drink. 

He was surprised that Aberfell’s quiet chastening had impacted him so much–perhaps it was just the knowledge that someone had noticed, that someone cared what he was doing to himself. Besides Thorn, of course, who had noticed right away, and cared a little too much. 

Murtagh tried to pull back, not drink so heavily, not destroy the room that Demelza worked so hard to keep tidy, not be so intoxicated when he flew with Thorn that he couldn’t share in the good moments with his partner, or so hungover when he sparred with Aberfell that he couldn’t enjoy that small, decent part of his day. Some days he was more successful than others.

Most of the King’s time was taken up with pursuits that Murtagh was not privy to–some sort of private study in one of the scroll rooms that was for him alone. Murtagh wondered what secret evil he was trying to learn, what power he was seeking for so hungrily, and he was afraid for The Varden, and Nasuada, and Eragon, if the King should succeed in whatever endeavor he was pursuing. 

Despite his worries, though, he was thankful that the King was distracted with his studying; this meant that Murtagh was left alone more often, and had fewer responsibilities towards the nobles. It had been almost two months since the incident with Lady Rathurst, and Murtagh was beginning to hope that the King had tired of that particular game, and would not be trading him out to any other officials.

Because of the King’s unusual absence, Murtagh was surprised, one day, to arrive at a sparring match with Aberfell, and find that Galbatorix was there, sitting on a fine chair that had been brought for him, his current concubine sitting at his side and a table of hors d’oeuvres in his reach.

“Ah, Murtagh, I thought I’d see how you were coming along with your swordsmanship,” The King said with his usual false warmth. 

Thorn, who had joined him on his way to the sparring ground, tensed upon seeing the King, and Murtagh’s hackles were instantly raised, but he kept his expression blank, glancing at Aberfell, who was doing his own warm ups. The young man gave Murtagh a bit of a nervous smile, just as surprised by the King’s attendance as Murtagh was. 

There was a woman and a young boy sitting in two simple chairs under the wooden overhang, and Murtagh knew this was Aberfell’s wife and son; he’d met the woman once when she came by to deliver food for her husband. It had given him a sort of heartsick longing, to see Aberfell and his wife together, so full of love for each other. 

There were a few other well-dressed people in the spectator’s seats around the sparring ground, probably just enjoying an easy pastime, honored to have been invited by the King. Murtagh didn’t know why today of all days Galbatorix had decided his sparring should become a show, but he knew he couldn’t protest. 

“Alright, Aberfell?” Murtagh said, taking the man’s blade as usual and casting his dulling charm over the blade.

“Alright,” Aberfell smiled. Murtagh knew they could not say much more, with the King nearby. Murtagh glanced back at Thorn, who had lain himself down on an open stretch of cobblestone, blinking encouragingly.

They began their usual warm-ups and exercises together, though everything Murtagh usually enjoyed was tinged with a sense of unease. He could tell Aberfell was nervous around the King, eager to impress him, of course, and possibly also eager to impress his wife, who smiled encouragingly any time Aberfell glanced her way.

Murtagh, too, was eager to impress, though he didn’t admit it. He never went easy on Aberfell–the man didn’t need him to; they were well-matched, once Murtagh had regained his strength and stamina–but today especially he was determined to win.

 Whatever this odd visit was, he didn’t care to have the King taking more interest in him than he had been–Galbatorix’s absence from his training had been just as he liked it. 

Because of Murtagh’s focus and determination, combined with the fact that he had not been drinking as much lately, he was able to defeat Aberfell in three out of three bouts, and he stopped the last duel with his sword at Aberfell’s neck after the man had stumbled to his knees. The man was panting, smiling ruefully, clearly disappointed to have lost.

There was polite applause from the gathered crowd, and Galbatorix said,

“Very good, Murtagh,” In a voice that carried throughout the courtyard. “I think it’s safe to say the student has surpassed the master.”

Murtagh was catching his breath too, lowering his sword and reaching a hand to help Aberfell up, when the King said,

“Finish the job, now. You may kill him.”

Suddenly every muscle in Murtagh’s body clenched. He froze, and his mind was filled with a blank buzzing. Aberfell blanched, instinctively looking to the King, before he could stop himself.

When Murtagh followed his gaze, he saw a stony, unreadable expression, the barest hint of a smile dancing across Galbatorix’s lips.

No. No, no, no, no, Murtagh began to panic. He felt Thorn lift his head in alarm. 

Kill him? Why? Why kill him?

Murtagh looked back at Aberfell, then at the woman on the sidelines, whose face had paled and whose eyes were wide.

No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, obviously. Why would the King…? Just because he’d beaten Aberfell? Just because…?

Then Murtagh remembered.

Shame what happened to him. He was a good man.

Aberfell’s encouragement about Tornac. Aberfell’s confidence in Murtagh. Aberfell being one of only three people in the whole of Uru’baen whom it didn’t sicken Murtagh to be around. The King had gone through his mind, had seen that memory, had seen that Murtagh liked Aberfell, and had seen–most unfortunately–that Aberfell dared to commend Tornac’s actions. Dared to sympathize with Murtagh’s rebellion.

There was a moment of shocked silence, even the other nobles who had joined the sparring show seemed stunned. Murtagh was frozen, and he looked back at Aberfell, whose expression had taken on a sort of despairing acceptance.

He didn’t command you. You don’t have to do it. It wasn’t a command, Murtagh’s inner voice said. He didn’t feel the pull of his oaths yet.

Murtagh looked back at Thorn for help. The dragon only shifted his eyes, just as unsure.

Then Murtagh brought his gaze back to Aberfell’s wife, and his child. And immediately he remembered the sight of the two broken bodies on the throne room floor. The spy whom he’d refused to kill. The message was clear: if Murtagh didn’t kill the swordmaster, then they would all pay.

The woman, to her credit, held her head tall and clutched her son close, clearly terrified, but making no scream or cry for help.

Murtagh felt the weight of a thousand stones pulling him down, felt a hook in his stomach that might as well have dug his insides out. He had to do it. If he didn’t take this one innocent life, then three innocent lives would be lost. He shouldn’t have beaten Aberfell. He shouldn’t have let the young man speak so openly. He had been a fool.

“Tell your son to look away,” Murtagh murmured, so still, only his eyes moving. Aberfell winced, his eyes tearful, but he seemed to understand the situation. Understand his fate.

He took a shaking breath, and he turned his gaze towards the woman and child, managing a rough smile.

“Rellena,” He said the woman’s name as both a plea and a command. Her chin quivered and she shook her head, disbelieving.

“Rellena, please,” Aberfell said. Murtagh dug his fingernails into his palms so hard they bled.

The woman clutched the young boy’s head against her skirts, hiding his gaze from his father. Aberfell’s chest rose, taking a shuddering breath, but nodding, still meeting his wife’s eyes.

“I love you,” He said. 

Murtagh felt the King’s eyes on him as the man turned his head back, and bowed it.

“It’s alright,” He murmured, so only Murtagh could hear. Murtagh refused to let his own tears fall. Damn Galbatorix. Damn this city. Damn Aberfell for being a fool. Damn himself for getting attached. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, breathlessly. 

Then he whispered a single word in the ancient language, and the man was dead.

There was an awful silence after the body had hit the cobblestone. The people in attendance seemed to have the decency not to murmur or mutter. The only sound was the barely-constrained sobs of Aberfell’s widow. Murtagh didn’t know if the woman comprehended–if she understood that he had just saved her life.

You feel nothing, Murtagh told himself. And he turned to the King, sheathing his sword and bowing, expressionless.

“Very good,” Galbatorix said as two guards swept in to remove the body. “We’ll find someone who can match you yet, Murtagh.”

Murtagh said nothing. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would scream.

***

Murtagh found the seediest tavern in the seediest part of the city, and he sat there and he drank until he couldn’t see anymore. 

Thorn didn’t like him being drunk? Well Thorn didn’t have to see it. He would keep away from Thorn, who wasn’t allowed to leave the palace. If the barman recognized him he didn’t say anything, just accepted Murtagh’s coin wordlessly and gave the appropriate amount of conversation.

A middle-aged merchant struck up some talk with him; the man’s name was Garren, and he’d just taken up business in the city. Murtagh didn’t have much to say to him, and might’ve punched him in the face just for the fun of it, if he’d thought he could stand up from the barstool without falling over. But at the end of the night Garren ended up helping Murtagh stumble back to his horse and mount without killing himself.

“Ye ‘gon be alright, mate?” Garren asked, his own speech slurred, as Murtagh slumped onto the animal. 

“Fine,” Murtagh muttered.

“Alright, well, see you next night, then,” The man said with a good-natured rosyness that bespoke his own drinking. 

As it turned out, Murtagh did return. The bar was called the Old Chestnut, and he found it a decent place to disappear and drown himself in the evenings when he didn’t want to face Thorn’s questions and sympathy.

Garren seemed to drink as often as he did, and was good at talking so much that Murtagh didn’t have to. He soon took to sitting with the man in one of the wooden booths and drinking until he was ready to pass out, just so he could get back to his chambers and sleep without Thorn asking him questions.

He didn’t care about keeping himself fit for training anymore–Aberfell had been replaced with a new swordmaster, who was friendly enough–but Murtagh treated the man with a decided indifference, and allowed him to win more often than not. He didn’t care about perfecting his fighting skill, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He wouldn’t get attached.

Galbatorix had gone back to his distant, unaffected approach to training, once again absorbed in whatever mission he was pursuing amid the dusty scrolls and tomes of his personal library. 

Murtagh was forced to mentally spar with the Twins sometimes, but often what he was doing involved going out into the city and searching the minds around him, learning to assess threats and develop an awareness of many dozens of people at once. 

It was overwhelming, at first, listening to all those voices, trying to hear and not hear at the same time, but he soon came to treat the minds of the people around him like the shushing of wind through the trees, only aware when one mind stood out from the others–when thoughts were loud, or aggressive, or conspicuously absent. 

The Twins, it seemed, were also busy with some sort of mission or preparation. Murtagh’s assumption–that Galbatorix would rid himself of their services as soon as they’d turned Murtagh over–had been wrong. Evidently the King had found some use for them, and they were also frequently absent, off doing something in his service. 

Murtagh was fine with this. They were the people he hated most in the world, besides Galbatorix, and he would rather have never seen them again.

The main time he saw the King was during their weekly war councils, when his leaders, spies and generals would report to him on the state of the army and the Varden’s movements. Murtagh could sense that something was coming–the King was preparing his troops for an assault; the time would not be far off when he would call on Murtagh and Thorn to lead his army into battle against the Varden, against Nasuada and Eragon. Murtagh’s stomach clenched at the prospect.

He was standing in one such meeting–tired of listening to the various underlings report their findings–when he heard something that made his veins turn to ice.

A short, stocky man whose role Murtagh didn’t care to remember was talking about some caravan that was leaving for Belatona soon.

“...and Lord Rathurst has requested permission to come along; his wife is apparently with child and he wishes to settle the whole Nodringham affair and return before she’s too far along.”

Murtagh had been staring blankly at the corner where the gray statue of a dragon sat, but suddenly he snapped his focus to the stocky man on the other side of the table.

“I have no objection. Let him go along,” The King dismissed, signing papers that the man had set before him. Murtagh felt chills running down his spine, his ears were ringing, his vision got blurry.

His wife is with child…

Images of that night came back to him, unbidden. The woman’s dull eyes, her vacant expression, the man standing in the doorway, watching them. With child? It couldn’t… no. He couldn’t have…

Sound was muffled around him as the man bowed and left, and Galbatorix took a sip from a goblet, sending a servant to fetch a plate of food while he waited for the next ambassador to come report. 

“It’s not yours.”

Murtagh heard the King’s voice at a distance, almost like he was at the other end of a long tunnel, echoing and distorted. But he blinked, and looked up to find Galbatorix glancing his way with a bemused expression.

“...what?” 

Murtagh couldn’t muster a ‘your majesty’ in that moment, his heart was beating too fast.

“Lady Rathurst’s runt,” The King had returned to the papers laid out before him, “It isn’t yours. Don’t fret yourself.”

Murtagh felt like something was blocking his throat, he wanted to feel relief, but he was too confused. Galbatorix seemed to have understood what he was thinking, but how could he possibly know for sure?

“H–how can you be certain?” Murtagh managed, his voice weaker than he would’ve liked. 

Galbatorix raised one dark eyebrow, amused.

“As I’ve said before, Murtagh, I don’t permit people in close service to me to have families. It makes their loyalties… complicated. Learned that from your father’s failures.”

Murtagh swallowed, still confused. So he didn’t have a family; he was alone except for Thorn, but that didn’t mean…

The King saw his uncertainty, glancing up from the letters he was scribbling down, and sighing.

“You think I would send you out on my behalf and let you sire bastards with half the noblewomen of the city?” Galbatorix scoffed, “The Chief Healer made certain you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that. It’s quite impossible for you to father any children, rest assured.”

Murtagh blinked, the words bouncing around his skull, trying to understand. Chief Healer?

He was taken back to those dreadful moments after he’d given his oaths–when he was hazy and half-conscious, when Thorn was being forced to grow, and he was distracted by his partner’s pain. The old man had murmured over him, had bound his wounds, had healed him with magic, had forced him to sleep, and had… Murtagh felt sick. 

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t realized. 

His relief at knowing he was not the accidental father of Lady Rathurst’s child was mixed with a hollow, panging feeling in his chest, like someone had dug a piece of him out with a spoon.

Quite impossible.

He left the King’s meeting still feeling empty and vacant, unsure what emotion was trying to force its way into the front of his mind, but certain he didn’t want to feel it.

Of course he hadn’t actually wanted to be a father–he’d only come of age a few years ago, and hadn’t even come close to thinking about such things for himself. Now that he was enslaved to the King for what looked to be the rest of eternity, he didn’t see the point of having children, and he certainly wouldn’t want to bring one into a world such as this. But still… he might’ve liked to have made that decision for himself. 

To know that he couldn’t, ever, not ever , choose to have a family of his own left him feeling sort of… empty. One more thing that the King had taken from him. 

He was still feeling this strange lethargy, this hollowness in his chest, when he’d returned to his chambers for the evening and Demelza had delivered his food. He’d told Thorn, only to keep his partner from worrying over him, and Thorn had much the same reaction–a sort of confused sadness, not knowing quite what had been lost, but feeling the loss nonetheless.

Murtagh didn’t consider himself to have much of a future–he tried never to think about the future, as it only held darkness so far as he could see–but this revelation somehow seemed to deepen that gloom, to block the way to a path that might once have been possible for him, might have brought him a measure of happiness. 

Demelza had just finished turning down the bed, and Murtagh could tell she was preparing to leave, when he broke his vacant silence, saying,

“Demelza.”

“Yes, my lord?” She said quickly, her tone much brighter these days.

“Do you have a family?”

She didn’t serve directly under the King, so Murtagh figured she might not be bound by the same constraints as Galbatorix’s personal servants.

The girl was surprised, obviously, by this sudden line of questioning.

“Uh, y–yes my lord. I have a mother and father, and a sister,” She answered with a bit of a smile. Then, after a moment of hesitation she said,

“And I am betrothed.”

Murtagh looked up. She smiled again, and there was a soft sparkle in her eyes that he recognized–the same look he’d seen on Eragon when his brother talked about Arya.

“Ah,” Was all he said. How terrible for her–to be put in the situation she was in, to be given to the whims of another man when she had one who loved her at home.

“And how is it you ended up in the King’s service?” Murtagh asked as Thorn chewed his scraps of meat. This brought a sort of cloud over the young woman’s face, but she answered,

“M–my father was in heavy debt, my lord, and… I was put in servitude until I could work it off.”

Murtagh grimaced, sorry that he had asked. He knew indentured servitude was a common practice, a common way for the poor to pay off their debts to the rich, but he’d never really thought about how badly it could go wrong, if you were indentured to the wrong master.

“How did you come to be in the palace?” He asked, unable to stop himself, just wanting to talk to someone, to distract himself.

“I… was selected by the Castle Manager,” She murmured, “It is a great honor.”

Murtagh watched her, and saw the way her eyes fell.

“You really think that?” He asked, knowing the answer.

She looked back up at him and gave him a rueful smile.

“No, my lord.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” He said. “Just Murtagh is fine. And if you can’t, well… just sir is okay.”

Demelza’s expression was soft.

“Yes… sir,” She said with a smile.

“Would you tell me? About your family?” He asked, surprising himself. 

And she did. 

Demelza spoke of her life in Tirendal–a small city a few miles north of Dras Leona, where she’d grown up with a younger sister. Her father, a jewel worker, made some investments with some bad merchants, and ended up well in debt. The whole family was threatened with prison if he could not pay his dues, and so Demelza had volunteered (Murtagh was amazed by this) to sell herself into servitude in order to pay the debt.

“My betrothed–he’s called Calden–he–he wanted to go into service himself, but he’s a skilled worker of fine metal, and I knew he could make enough money to set us up well, once I was finished with my two years.”

She was sitting on the trunk that lay at the end of Murtagh’s bed–having taken a seat only after he’d asked her to several times.

“He still lives in Tirendal; he’s waiting for me to be finished, and then we’ll be married.”

“And… how much longer do you have?” Murtagh asked, his heart broken for the poor woman, far from her family, forced to do whatever she was commanded.

“Little under ten months, my lo–sir,” She answered with a smile. It was clear she was counting down the days. Murtagh wondered what it was like–having someone waiting for you–having a date in the future when you would be free.

“What about you?” She asked suddenly, as though she couldn’t talk herself down from it, “Do you have a beloved?”

Murtagh looked up, leaning against Thorn’s scaly side, his elbows leaning on his knees.

“No,” He said softly, “Just Thorn and me.” 

He patted Thorn’s neck, and the dragon hummed, blinking at Demelza, who smiled back.

“Well, that’s no small thing,” She said kindly. “It must be nice to have someone who knows you so well.”

Thorn glanced his way. Murtagh knew what he was thinking–sometimes he hated that Thorn knew him so well. Sometimes he tried to run away from that naked, exposed feeling. Sometimes he wished Thorn’s eyes weren’t so keen.

“It’s the honor of my life,” Murtagh said finally, and he meant it.

Chapter Text

Murtagh often spent time tucked away in the Old Chestnut , keeping company with the chatty merchant Garren, who was one of only a few tavern customers that would dare take a seat next to him. It was clear that his identity had become known, but his being the son of Morzan didn’t seem to bother Garren in the slightest. Murtagh got the impression that the man was lonely, and he was good at keeping up a steady stream of mindless talk that drowned out Murtagh’s other thoughts, so he didn’t mind keeping the man company.

It was a drizzly, gray evening and they sat by one of only two grease-darkened windows in the seedy establishment, each sitting over their fourth mug of ale. That was another good thing about Garren–he could keep up. 

Usually Garren spent his time talking about his business as a maker and seller of fine tableware–elaborate goblets, mostly; he was very passionate about goblets. He spoke of his travels to other cities, or humorous anecdotes from his upbringing in Belatona. The man had no family so far as Murtagh could tell, or at least he didn’t speak of them, and he seemed single-mindedly focused on his business, though from the number of times he complained about having no money, Murtagh figured he must not be a very good businessman.

Today, however, Garren’s talk had drifted–whether unwittingly due to drink or purposefully due to curiosity–to the war. 

“Hear talk of those rebels gettin’ in league wif ‘de Surdans, eh?” He murmured, scrunching his nose out the rain-splattered window. “Bloody vagrants can’t leave us in peace what just want to eke a living.”

Murtagh grunted in agreement, a response which he had found would usually satisfy Garren’s need for approval, and send him onto his next thought.

“You know I says to me mate the other day, I says… them rebels is kiddin’ themselves, if they fink that one lousy dragon can stand against the whole of the empire, eh? I says to him, I says–that Shadeslayer bloke, he may be powerful, but he’s noffin’ on the king. Pit our dragons against his, and there’s no fight.”

Garren smacked the table with the palm of his hand, pronounced and final.

“No fight attall! Bloody ended, they’d be.”

Murtagh was holding his mug of ale close, hunched over the table, about to offer his usual grunt of agreement, when his mind caught on something.

He blinked, and lifted his gaze as Garren downed the last of his drink.

Suddenly Murtagh was utterly sober.

“What do you mean ‘dragons’?”  He asked, his voice low and his body still. Garren paused, one hand on his empty glass. 

The man was half-way to a smile, but his face blanched, and there was a spark of fear in his eyes.

“Oh… I just mea–”

“ Letta, ” Murtagh said quickly, quietly. And the man was frozen before he could rise out of the booth, his expression suddenly terrified.

Without hesitation, Murtagh stabbed out with his mind, hitting against Garren’s defenses, which were decent enough, but no match for him. He felt the man’s fear as he twisted his way through the mental walls, brushing aside the blockade as though it were a pile of dead leaves.

He felt first the man’s surprise and fear, then scraps of words, impressions, sounds, images…

No! Don’t think about it, shut him out! He can’t–

Murtagh saw furtive whisperings in dark alleyways. Saw Garren riding into Uru’baen, his head cloaked. Saw heat waves rippling off the sandstone buildings of Surda. Saw Garren standing in a tiled room, before a young woman with dark skin and a simple green dress.

“Find out what you can, and report back. But know this,” Nasuada’s voice carried through the memory, “If you are caught, we cannot help you.”

“Yes, milady,” Garren bowed.

Murtagh ripped himself out of the man’s mind and slammed up his own defenses, blinking in the hazy light of the old tavern, staring at the merchant who sat frozen across the table from him.

No, not merchant. 

Spy.

Murtagh swore under his breath.

Dragons. The man had said dragons, as in more than one, as in he knew about Thorn. He couldn’t have known about Thorn. He wasn’t a part of the court or castle staff, and every single person who knew of Thorn’s existence had been sworn to secrecy by the ancient language.

Murtagh glared at Garren, furious with the man for being so stupid, reeling from the sight of Nasuada in his memories.

Garren’s eyes quivered. He knew he was done for. He knew this was it.

“ Losna,” Murtagh muttered, and the man shifted forward clumsily, the binding spell on him broken. Still he did not move. He knew it was futile to run.

Murtagh closed his eyes, his hands gripping the mug of ale in front of him.

“Blast you, you bloody idiot,” Murtagh hissed, barely containing himself.

Garren was shuddering, but Murtagh steeled himself, and took a breath. When he opened his eyes, his voice was hard and determined.

“Get out of the city. Tonight,” He muttered, unmoving. Garren blinked.

“I d–”

“Don’t say anything to me. Get yourself and anyone with you out of the city, or you’re going to die,” Murtagh said through gritted teeth. 

It was only a matter of time before Galbatorix took another look into his mind, sifted through his memories again, checked up on him. As soon as he did, Garren would be finished. Anything Murtagh knew, Galbatorix would know.

Murtagh had sworn no oath that forced him to relay any Varden secrets he happened upon to the King. He was not required to report Garren’s existence immediately.

The spy blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. Murtagh could hear his heart pounding. 

He met the man’s gaze, as his confusion turned to realization, a shocked gratitude transforming his features. 

He nodded, shakily.

“Th–thank you.”

“Just go.”

Garren nearly stumbled, getting out of the booth, his limbs trembling. He hurried for the door of the tavern, casting back a bewildered glance in Murtagh’s direction. 

The man’s face grew solemn, and he nodded, understanding that Murtagh had just saved his life.

He disappeared into the street, and Murtagh sat emptily in the booth for a moment more, his head still spinning. He knew the King would discover his betrayal eventually, and when he did…

Stop it, Murtagh clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking, resisting the urge to stand up and run after the man, to turn him into the King and receive a reward, rather than the punishment that now awaited him.

He found himself clinging to the fading image of Nasuada from Garren’s mind–sitting in a high-backed chair, like a queen on a throne, the Surdan sun filtering through a window, her green dress sparkling against her beautiful skin. 

Stop it, Murtagh said again, pulling himself back from the memory. He waited a few seconds more, giving Garren time to disappear in the streets, then he placed down his coin and left the Old Chestnut , knowing he would never return.

***

So far as Murtagh could tell, Galbatorix never found out about the spy. 

He had stopped searching Murtagh’s mind as often as in the beginning–seeming to think that he had his servant under his control, and that Murtagh was bound by too many oaths to consider sedition. 

Although he was afraid of the King’s wrath should his betrayal be discovered, Murtagh moved throughout his days with a sense of self-satisfaction, a knowledge that he had a secret, that he had done something against Galbatorix, and the King didn’t know it yet. Perhaps Garren would make it back to Surda, with news of Thorn, news of Murtagh, praising his bravery to Nasuada, showing her that Murtagh still clung to his allegiance with the rebels, despite the oaths that bound him.

Murtagh supposed it was too much to hope, though. If he were Garren, he would find a medium-sized city to hide away in for a few months, disappear into a crowd, and cut all ties with the Varden, until he was certain he was not being watched. That would be the smart thing to do. 

Murtagh tried not to think about it as he returned to his training the next day. He’d told Thorn of the incident, and his partner had approved of his choice to let the spy go, though of course he worried for the consequences that would befall them.

It may have been better to turn him in, Thorn worried, Than to face what the King will bring upon us.

Who knows what information he has on the Varden? Who knows what Galbatorix could’ve learned from his mind about Eragon or–or about Nasuada? It might’ve put them in danger.

It’s putting you in danger, Thorn reminded. 

Thorn was surprisingly empathetic, considering his upbringing, and he did care for the people Murtagh cared for, as an extension of himself. But he did not place the same value on the lives of those he had never met–Eragon and Nasuada were just names in his head, images in Murtagh’s memory, not true friends, not people to whom his heart was attached. He looked out for Murtagh’s safety, and anything that compromised that was immediately suspect.

It’s too late now, anyway, Murtagh dismissed. If Garren’s smart he’s miles from Uru’baen now.

Thorn huffed, but remained silent. Murtagh now had no doubt that the man was, in fact, smart. The silly, chattering goblet maker who drank too much mead was clearly a front he’d constructed to get Murtagh to let his guard down. It had bloody worked, too, for a time. 

Despite his training to be aware of other people’s minds, Murtagh hadn’t thought twice about sensing the man’s mental barriers. Many people in Uru’baen knew how to guard their minds. Murtagh had dismissed Garren for exactly what he appeared to be–a lonely, simple man with little money and much to say. He now wondered what the spy was really like, having pulled himself from Garren’s mind before he could learn too much.

Through his observances of the King’s war councils, Murtagh could tell that the conflict with the Varden in Surda was coming to a head. Things were happening quickly, and he knew it would not be long before he and Thorn were called upon to act.

Galbatorix began to include them more in the discussions with the various generals, placing lieutenants under them, teaching them battle strategies. If any of the King’s servants resented Murtagh’s authority, they refrained from showing it, but Murtagh knew they didn’t think well of him. Fear him? Of course. Respect him? No. He was another puppet of the King, just as they were, but unlike them he had a dragon and a universe’s worth of magic at his disposal. Unlike them, he was not replaceable. 

In the throne room, emptied of any guards or servants, Galbatorix taught Murtagh how to harness energy from outside of himself, a revelation that made him dizzy with possibility. Certainly Eragon hadn’t known this was possible, when they were fighting their way across Alagaesia, trying to stay alive. To think that any plant or animal could provide energy necessary to perform magic, even when a person was at their weakest. 

As with every new skill Murtagh learned, he mourned his ignorance, knowing that any piece of this knowledge could’ve helped him get out of his predicament, kept him free of Galbatorix’s control. 

As it was, the first day Galbatorix taught him to harness energy around him, he did not send him to the gardens to draw energy from the plants, or to the stables to take it from horses and mules. Six servants were brought into the throne room, and Galbatorix said,

“Lift Thorn off the ground two feet.”

Murtagh blinked, and looked at Thorn.

“You know the spell. The only thing preventing you from doing so, is insufficient energy. You may draw that energy from the people around you.” Galbatorix gestured. “Once you master this skill, you will be unlimited, so long as you can access living things that are not guarded against magic.”

Murtagh frowned, glancing back at the servants, who stood quietly in a line, nervous but still. 

He took a breath, organizing his thought and focusing his magic on Thorn, who shifted uneasily. He would draw as much energy as he could from himself, first, before taking from the servants–they didn’t deserve to be treated like plants. “Living things” Galbatorix had called them, like they were bugs or trees, and not people.

“ Reisa,” Murtagh said, his palm extended towards Thorn. Immediately he felt a great drain of energy drag him down. He grunted from the exertion, sweat beading upon his brow. Before a few seconds had elapsed, he was forced to divert the magic away from himself and to the line of people behind him. He touched their minds and felt their nervousness and their fatigue as the magic siphoned from all their strengths.

Murtagh gritted his teeth, his hand shaking as Thorn’s huge bulk began to lift from the floor. One inch he rose, and Murtagh felt the drain like heavy stones on his back, then two; then he reached a foot. He was in the air nearly two feet, when suddenly Murtagh felt a great fearful cry in his mind, and his eyes snapped open. 

“ Letta !” He shouted, and Thorn fell to the ground, but it was too late.

He whirled towards the line of servants. Two were still standing, swaying tiredly, four were on the ground. Three of them were dead.

Murtagh let out a cry, stumbling backwards as another servant fell to his knees in exhaustion.

“Very good,” Galbatorix said, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, “You see that your power is only limited by how much energy you can find around you.” 

“You knew that would happen!” Murtagh shouted before he could stop himself, his brain flooded with the thoughts of the three dead people–two men, one woman– people whose minds he’d been connected with, as their bodies gave out and they entered the void. 

He felt sickened. 

“Yes, I knew that weak vessels can only give so much power. When they have given what they can, they are no longer of use.”

Murtagh stared at the crumpled bodies on the floor, grimacing, clenching his hands. The King had let them die for a training exercise. Servants just doing their job, going about their day–not rebels, not spies, not insubordinates. Just people trying to live. And the King had killed them; Murtagh had killed them.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times, Murtagh,” The King continued as guards came to drag the dead bodies away, and help the exhausted survivors to a healer, “You’ve got to harden yourself to all this nonsense. Much must be sacrificed in the pursuit of peace. Until you learn that, you will have to keep suffering these lessons.”

Murtagh knew he should look away, stop staring as the guard folded up the arms of the dead woman and lifted her from the floor. But he couldn’t. He had felt her life snuff out. She was someone’s daughter, someone’s wife perhaps. She could’ve been anyone. She could’ve been Demelza.

Murtagh, Thorn’s mind pressed to his, It does not do to dwell on these things. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have prevented it.

Murtagh bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying. Thorn was right. And the King was right. He had to harden himself. He’d given up hope of freedom long ago, but now he had to give up this idea that he was somehow still good, somehow still able to make any right choices.

You feel nothing, He told himself as they carted the bodies away. 

Because nothing mattered. 

***

Two days later, Galbatorix brought Thorn and he to a room in the castle he’d never been before, near the treasury, and he made him swear not to reveal anything of what he was about to see.

When they walked into the half-light of the dusty room, Murtagh’s eyes took some time to adjust. It was full of shelves, three levels high, and on those shelves sat padded wooden boxes, and in those boxes sat dozens and dozens of round, shining objects, opalescent, slightly luminous. 

Before Murtagh could truly comprehend what he was seeing, his mind was swept with the sudden whisperings of a hundred voices. He inhaled sharply, and backed away, slamming up his defenses as Thorn did. But Galbatorix’s calming voice said,

“Not to worry. They cannot harm you, they are under my power. They listen to me.”

Murtagh frowned, blinking about the room, trying to find the source of the mental noise.

It was then that he learned of the Eldunari.

They came from the dragons, Galbatorix said, every dragon had one–even Thorn–and in the days of old most dragons disgorged their Eldunari and used it as a way to communicate with their riders even from afar. Eldunari varied in size and power; the younger the dragon, the smaller and weaker the heart.

Murtagh was in a haze as he walked through the rows of shelves alongside the King, feeling the brief touch of thought from every colored orb he passed. He felt Thorn’s strange mix of emotion–wonder at the knowledge that these minds were dragon-minds, minds like his–and terrible sadness at the understanding that they were enslaved in a prison of their own making. 

“This is a secret known only to you, and to me, and to scarce few of my most loyal servants. The source of my ever-greatening power. Now I grant you access to this source, so that you may use it to crush our enemies.”

Murtagh stared with a mix of wonder and horror as Galbatorix handed to him one of the smallest of the orbs–a glassy ball no bigger than a grapefruit, tinted with a purple hue and swirled with white.

Thorn’s head hung over his shoulder, watching the pulsing light within the orb. Murtagh felt whispers of thought coming from the Eldunari–the dragon must have been no older than Thorn, when it had disgorged its heart. He felt a profound sadness from the creature–a cowed, weakened thing, barely conscious, existing only as the source of a mad man’s power.

Galbatorix taught Murtagh how to control the Eldunari–young ones, all–small but containing significant power. It felt wrong, forcing them to his will, bending their minds in the direction he asked, but he knew he could not refuse. This was what Galbatorix had been training him for all along–the secret weapon, the advantage they held over Eragon and the Varden. These dragon-hearts would be Galbatorix’s hammer to swing against the Varden. Murtagh was merely the vessel through which they would work.

In the back of his mind Murtagh realized he had held onto the small hope that when he faced Eragon, his brother might be able to best him, might be able to come out victorious and perhaps take Murtagh and Thorn captive, forcing them out of the fight until Eragon could defeat Galbatorix. He would’ve gladly sat in a Surdan prison for the duration of the war, if it meant he could avoid being used as Galbatorix’s weapon. But that hope died now. Eragon had no Eldunari, Murtagh knew this without a doubt. The fight was over before it had even begun. 

He comforted Thorn in their chambers that evening, knowing that learning of the dragon-hearts had hurt him more, feeling his partner’s keen sorrow. 

Such wisdom they could share, such knowledge is held within them, and yet we use them as leeches use a passing deer; to suck their life away for our own sustenance.

He leaned his head against Thorn’s jaw. The dragon had become eloquent and insightful, able to put into words feelings that Murtagh was just barely aware of, and showing a mastery of language that was unexpected from someone having learned to speak only months previous.

“I’m sorry,” Murtagh comforted, unable to find his own words that would fix Thorn’s hurt. 

***

One week after revealing the dragon hearts to Murtagh, when he had been able to show control over the collection of young Eldunari that the King had placed in his care, Murtagh was summoned to Galbatorix’s map room, and the King told him that the Varden had crossed the Surdan border, and were amassing an army on the Burning Plains below Feinster.

“It is time to bring your brother and his dragon back to us. It is time to end the Varden.”

Murtagh felt coldness in his bones.

“Is Eragon not still in Du Weldenvarden?”

“He will come. Rest assured. He labors under the delusion that he must stand with the Varden and fight. Unlike us, your brother has an inflated sense of honor, which will not allow him to stay sequestered among the elves when his liege lord is waging war.”

Nasuada. That’s who the King meant. They’d received word that Eragon had publicly dedicated himself to her service almost immediately after she’d taken over Ajihad’s position. It was an act that Murtagh envied–how he wished he could’ve pledged himself to Nasuada, served under her, protected her, stood by her side and fought instead of…

No. You don’t know her. She doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

“I command you to go to the Burning Plains and attempt to bring Eragon and Saphira back to me. Alive. You will not kill them.”

He swore the oath that Galbatorix made him swear, feeling a sudden chill that did not come from the cold. 

You feel nothing.

It was like a switch had been flipped, and suddenly everything was frantic. Murtagh was fitted for armor, given a list of wards to cast about himself and Thorn, and handed over control of the young Eldunari.

He forced himself not to think as he bustled about the city, gathering the supplies he would need for the long journey south, preparing himself for the battle that had loomed over him for months.

But Eragon-brother-Murtagh is our friend, Thorn protested, his great eyes full of sadness as Murtagh strapped on his sword belt, packing his armor away before they left.

“Not anymore,” Murtagh answered, determined to harden himself against this worst, most terrible thing. 

He was going to the Burning Plains, and he was going to kill his brother. It didn’t matter that Galbatorix wanted them alive–he would still be responsible for Eragon’s death, when the stubborn rider refused to serve the King. Galbatorix had been right–Eragon did have an inflated sense of honor, Saphira too. Murtagh knew that they would not submit, as he had; they would suffer endless torment, and then they would die, rather than betray their ideals. And it would be his fault.

He tamped down all feeling and refused to let himself mourn. 

So what.

Eragon would die and that would be that. 

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

***

Flying out from Uru’baen under a cloak of invisible magic, Murtagh might’ve felt a thrill of freedom, leaving the confines of the city, and, for the first time in months, flying to a new place with the open horizon in front of him. But he was no more free now than he had been in the cell beneath the castle. They were flying not to freedom, but to the end of all hope. 

It’s just us, now, Murtagh told Thorn, We look out for ourselves. Nothing else matters. You and me.

Thorn hummed along, uneasy but determined. He understood their purpose, their need.

They flew south for a full day, and when they landed they slept in the wilderness, shielded by magic, and Murtagh tried not to think about those days traveling with Eragon–with his brother–when they passed the evening by the fire, the horses nickering quietly while Saphira’s breaths filled the air.

He tried not to yearn for the chance to show Thorn Alagaesia–to really show him–to wake up in the morning and decide for themselves where they might go. He wanted it so badly it made him sick: to rise with the sun, pick a direction, and fly until they grew tired, beholden to no one but themselves, limited only by the strength of their limbs. He huddled close to Thorn’s warmth, and let the night eat itself away until dawn breached the eastern sky.

They kept flying.

The smoke was the first thing he noticed–an orange-gray haze that rose on the horizon the closer Thorn flew. Murtagh felt a nervous anticipation in his stomach, knowing that they were near, knowing that this was it. He breathed deep, and placed a hand against Thorn’s neck as the dragon’s muscles tightened with every beat of his wings.

Nothing else matters.

They followed the King’s directions to find the Empire’s army arrayed along the banks of the Jiet River, shrouded in layers of thick smoke. Murtagh allowed himself one small glance down as he and Thorn passed silently over the Varden’s tents, invisible to the poor rebels below. He wondered if Nasuada was there–in a command tent, overseeing her army. He hoped not. He hoped she was far away. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing…

No. You feel nothing.

As instructed, Murtagh and Thorn landed a good distance from the rear of the Empire’s army, and were met by a man named Stalgen, a scarred veteran with a stern brow and hulking shoulders. 

“My lord,” The gruff man said with a bow, as Murtagh undid the straps of Thorn’s saddle and let himself down. They had landed afar off to avoid being shot out of the sky by the Empire’s archers as they landed–the generals and lieutenants were all aware of Thorn’s existence, but word had only just that day begun to be spread to the whole army, as Galbatorix did not want the Varden to have a chance to prepare.

For his part, Stalgen seemed unaffected by the presence of a ferocious, fire-breathing beast ten feet from him. Evening was falling over the scorched plains, and the rows of tents stretched out smoky shadows behind them.

“I’ll show you to a tent, get some food and drink; the generals are convening in an hour.”

Stalgen gestured.

“The dragon has a place to rest as well.”

“The dragon’s name is Thorn,” Murtagh snapped back, his voice hard, “You’ll address him as such.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Stalgen answered, betraying no emotion as he inclined his head.

Murtagh squared his shoulders as they tromped towards the rows of tents. He removed his invisibility wards, and gave a glance back at Thorn, hoping for some resolve. After months of concealing themselves and hiding away, they were now walking into the open–first for the Imperial army to see, then for the world. 

He placed a hand on Thorn’s leg as they passed into the camp.

There were gasps; some men swore, backed up, tripped over themselves, drew their swords. One or two screamed. Murtagh ignored it. He was not worried about any foolish archer firing off a shot in panic–their wards would protect them. 

By the time they’d reached the main thoroughfare through the camp, the open spaces between tents were lined with gaping soldiers in various stages of dress and dishevelment. They murmured among themselves as Murtagh and Thorn stalked past, many whispered oaths under their breaths, some seemed ready to faint.

One man called out,

“Hail Bloodscales! Doom of the Varden!”

And some others cheered along. Murtagh kept his gaze forward.

When he convened with the group of generals in the tent that night, he could tell that his presence unnerved them. The grisled men held their council, and informed him of the Varden’s movements and numbers, such as they knew. There were Imperial spies, even still, among the Varden camp, ferrying information back and forth. No doubt the same was true of their own. Galbatorix had been wise to keep the knowledge of Thorn and Murtagh from most of the men–or else it certainly would’ve reached the Varden’s ears by now.

“My lord,” General Errinmor addressed Murtagh finally, “Have you recent orders from Uru’baen?”

The others looked at him, a mix of nervousness and suspicious. No doubt they knew he could kill them all with a word. But they also knew he had been fighting with the Varden less than a year previous.

“My orders are to capture Eragon Shadeslayer and his dragon Saphira, and bring them before the King,” Murtagh said, his voice void of emotion. “I am to wait to confront them until the opportune time, until they have tired themselves out with the battle and are at their weakest. What this army does, I care not, so long as you leave him to me.”

Errinmor nodded stiffly.

“Yes, m’lord. We shall clear a path for you and the dragon as soon as possible.”

“His name is Thorn,” Murtagh said cuttingly.

“Ah, yes. For you and Thorn.”

Errinmor bowed his head. Clearly the man had his resentments of Murtagh’s authority–but clearly he understood his own position. 

In the darkness of the newly-lit torches, Murtagh walked back to the tent with Thorn, after they’d shooed away the group of soldiers that had come to gawk.

That night he lay on a cot in a well-sized tent, feeling Thorn through the canvas on the other side, staring up at a gray fabric roof. 

Nothing matters. You feel nothing.

In the early morning hours, Murtagh was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound of men screaming in agony. He bolted upright, thinking that the battle had begun and no one had woken him. But there was no clash of swords, no twang of bowstrings or thunder of horse’s hoofs–just the screaming.

Murtagh rolled from the cot he had lay on and strapped his hand-and-a-half sword to his belt, rushing out into the gray dawn as Thorn lifted his head.

It started a few minutes ago, Thorn said, sniffing the air and swinging his head this way and that. Murtagh listened, calming his beating heart, trying to pick out the disturbance from the cacophony of whispering minds.

Get him to the healers tent!

Are we under attack?

Bloody latrines…

AH! It hurts!! Please!

Murtagh ran to where he could hear the healers gathering writhing men, hurrying to treat an ailment whose source they did not know.

“What is it?” He demanded of a haggard looking older woman with graying curls, who leant over a young man in death throes.

She looked up with wide white eyes, and blanched at Thorn coming up behind him.

“S-sir I must say I do not know.”

The young man screamed, and Murtagh flinched.

“It’s just started a little bit after first call. We was just sitting down for our breakfast when–”

Another scream.

A man was retching on the ground just past them, another had collapsed to the ground and was seizing uncontrollably. Murtagh scanned the chaotic scene around the healer’s tent as more and more men stumbled or were dragged towards them, screaming for help.

The light of the breakfast cook fires cast an orange glow on the sides of the tents. Men who were not sick were standing in horror in between the structures, watching their comrades’ sufferings. .

One young man stood near a cookfire with a wooden bowl in his hand, his porridge forgotten as he watched the grisly display.

Suddenly Murtagh had an idea.

“Give me that,” Murtagh demanded, marching towards the man, who blinked and startled when he saw Murtagh coming. Those around him backed away.

“Sir?”

“The bowl! Give me the bowl!” Murtagh shouted, startling the soldier, who shakily passed him the bowl of porridge. Murtagh had a tingle on the back of his neck as he looked over the small bowl, placing his gedwey ignasia above the food and whispering a series of spells that would detect poison.

Sure enough, he felt the familiar flare in energy that meant poison was present. 

He swore under his breath, anger rising in his throat.

“You!” He shouted at the young man whose bowl he had taken, “Did you eat any?” 

The screams around them made it hard to hear.

“W–sir?”

“The porridge! Did you eat any?” Murtagh demanded, feeling Thorn growl behind him. The terrified young man looked from the dragon and back to Murtagh.

“N–no sir, not… I’d quite lost my appetite, when…”

“Good. Don’t,” Murtagh dumped the porridge onto the ground and addressed the group of four or five healthy men who stood just past their own cookfire.

“You run to every cookfire you can find and tell them to stop eating this immediately. You. Get to the command tent and tell them first, don’t stop along the way, shout out a warning as you go. No one in this camp is to eat anything else.”

The soldiers were pale and shaken, but they seemed to understand. Immediately they ran, and Murtagh stormed back under the healer’s tent to the gray-haired woman.

“You, what’s your name?”

“M–Matelda, sir,” She answered, now splattered with sick. 

“These men have been poisoned by a variety of poisonous mushrooms. You have anything to treat that sort of thing?”  

Matelda blinked, her demeanor calm but unnerved.

“I–sure, sir, I think so. Not nearly enough for all…”

“Just do what you can. Get the magic users here and set them to work. And don’t let anyone eat anything.”

“Yessir.”

Murtagh whirled back to Thorn and said,

We have to get to the command tent, climbing up Thorn’s foreleg and mounting the dragon as the nearby men scattered.

All in all, nearly a thousand men either died or were severely sickened by the poison that had somehow made its way into the morning breakfast of half the camp. The Chief Cook was dragged to the command tent by two angry soldiers, pleading that he knew nothing of the poison.

They were about to execute the man on the spot, but Murtagh demanded to be allowed to search his mind. He entered the man’s thoughts easily and rifled through, looking for any sign that he had wrought this damage upon the camp. He was innocent, as Murtagh had suspected–only a fool would be so obvious–but General Errinmor had him executed anyway, for dereliction of duty. 

Murtagh said nothing. It didn’t matter.

How the poison had gotten in the porridge, he did not know. None of the night watchmen reported strange activity around the tent, no one had seen anyone out of order, and the food had been prepared by all the usual hands.

Playing games, are we, Eragon? Murtagh thought as he stared across the barren, smoking plain in the early hours of dawn, watching the Varden’s torches flicker out.

He knew it didn’t matter. He knew thousands more men were about to die in that day’s bloody conflict. But it gave him an unsettled feeling in his gut–to know what underhanded tricks the Varden were willing to play to gain an advantage over their enemy. Perhaps their sense of honor was not so inflated as he had supposed. 

***

The sounds of war were worse than he remembered.

Murtagh sat near Thorn at the back of the Empire’s camp as hours passed, and the conflict raged before him, the blood-red sky masking the path of the sun. 

This time it wasn’t men versus Urgals, it was men versus men, versus dwarves, with some Urgals thrown in–apparently Nasuada had gone mad and actually struck up a treaty with the feral beasts. It somehow made it worse, listening to the men slaughter each other on the open plain.

Murtagh felt like a coward, waiting back here while the soldiers threw themselves against the Varden forces, but he was following the orders he’d been given–to lay in wait until Eragon had tired himself out with his straining, and then to swoop in and finish him off. He tried not to feel so cowardly–after all this was a war he did not believe in, and he was fighting for a man whom he’d rather see dead than victorious.

But still, listening to the dying men and watching the healers rush about trying to save them, he recalled that this conflict was not one-sided. The Varden were not a wholly good force coming up against a wholly evil one. The soldiers who fought for the empire were just people, and the men they killed on the other side were also just people. And none of it mattered.

He received reports on the battle, and he checked in with the command tent, and as the red sky remained gloomy above them, he waited.

When the time came, he repeated his hard-fought mantra in his head:

You feel nothing. Nothing matters.

Thorn was buzzing with nervous energy. 

When they rose over the tops of the tents, Thorn’s scales reflecting the orange light like a brushfire, Murtagh could almost feel the terror of the Varden below, looking into the sky and seeing a monster, seeing their Doom hanging before them.

Nothing matters, He said again, despite the desperate clenching in his heart when he saw the shape of the glittering blue dragon below.

Nothing matters, He repeated as Thorn beat his wings forward and a chorus of screams echoed up at him from the terrified troops.

Has he seen me yet? Has Eragon seen me? Has Nasuada? Have they…?

Murtagh gritted his teeth and let out a war cry that was torn away by the wind. Angrily he watched the throngs below, locked in their bloody conflict, and his eyes were caught by a circle of men–not men, dwarves–who ferociously defended their leader at the center of a great throng of Imperial soldiers. 

You feel nothing. Nothing matters.

He wanted to scream, wanted to bellow his rage at the twisting masses below, wanted to stop this heat behind his eyes and this great aching in his chest. He was about to kill his brother. He was about to end the life of the only family he had. This was it.

Nothing matters, He thought, and he pointed his hand down at the ring of dwarves, their King battling ferociously in the center, and he said,

“ Deyja.”

He felt Thorn’s twist of surprise, his attention turned back to Murtagh from the wafting pillars of smoke and upward-flying arrows. 

As soon as the word left his mouth, he felt the spell drawing on the power of the Eldunari as it fought to overcome Hrothgar’s wards and the strength of the dwarven spellcasters who surrounded him. But they were no match.

When the King crumpled to the ground, he heard a great throaty wail rising up from below, the joined chorus of a thousand grief-stricken, rage-filled dwarves, but he lifted his chin and did not allow his own tears to fall.

Nothing matters.

When Saphira lifted away from the pockmarked ground–with Eragon shouting a war cry and brandishing his blood-red sword–Murtagh was ready.

Chapter Text

Murtagh stood stiffly in the throne room, sweat and dirt caked on his skin, his clothes coarse with dried blood and smoke residue, still standing only because he had stolen so much energy from the Eldunari.

He tried to control his breathing and the shaking in his legs, as Galbatorix ran a smooth hand along the blade of the red sword–his father’s sword–Zar’roc. The king had swept into the room without words and said,

“Well?” Coldly waiting for Murtagh to explain the disappointing result of the battle on the Burning Plains, and the reason why he had not brought Eragon back with him. Murtagh had kept his voice flat and even, relaying the events as close to the truth as he could get them, without implicating himself. 

The horror of it all was still so close: the noise and sweat, the screams, Eragon’s terror and their deadly battle in the sky, when Thorn was almost killed. Murtagh hadn’t counted on that affecting him so–he’d endured so much pain to himself and to Thorn that he thought he would be immune to it, but when Eragon had wounded Thorn with his insane sky-falling maneuver, Murtagh had almost gone to pieces.

Then, when Eragon had removed his helm it had almost happened again. Murtagh had armored himself against all feeling, trying to hack and kill his way through to nothingness–to a place where he could have no emotion. But the look on Eragon’s face–the horrified, heartbroken look–that had almost ended his resolve, too.

When he told Eragon the truth–about their father, about the blood they shared–he had been sickened to see Eragon’s own revulsion. Of course it was well and good to say one’s parentage didn’t matter when it wasn’t your father who was one of the most hated men in all of history. But now Eragon had to hold that burden too, now Murtagh was not the only one.

His breaking point, he realized, had been Eragon’s suggestion that he and Thorn allow themselves to be killed. It seemed cruel, at first, and Murtagh had recoiled from the thought. He was disgusted that, even after the revelation that they were brothers, Eragon would still suggest such a thing. 

Of course Murtagh couldn’t agree to it. Of course he would let no one harm Thorn. But as his anger at the idea washed past him, he’d arrived at an understanding: Eragon hadn’t meant cruelty when he’d suggested it. He hadn’t been trying to hurt Murtagh. It was just so obvious to him. It was the obvious choice, the only path. 

In that moment Murtagh had come to understand that–had their places been reversed–Eragon and Saphira would have done just as they suggested–sacrificed themselves nobly in the name of the greater good. They would’ve given up their lives without a second thought. If it was Murtagh who was fighting for the Varden and they for the Empire, they would’ve laid down and accepted death at his hand, rather than be used by Galbatorix. The realization had forced back into Murtagh the feelings that he had tried so hard to push away and tamp down.

After that he had stood by, and he had watched a dirt-streaked, unarmored soldier crawl his way up an embankment towards the Twins, who were wreaking havoc on their former allies, and he had done exactly nothing. As he watched their killer approach, he’d thought with a grim satisfaction of the advice Galbatorix had given him after defeating Freckle Twin in the courtyard:

Never forget–your enemy may be before you and behind you.

The man had landed a hammer blow on both the Twin’s skulls, and Murtagh had smiled.

That, he later realized, had been the last straw. Firstly, because Eragon clearly knew the hammer-wielding soldier. Murtagh wondered from where, and he wondered why Eragon had been willing to use the last of his strength to save the man, before Murtagh promised not to harm him. 

Secondly, as Murtagh watched the Twins crumple in bloody heaps, he realized that he was free of them for good, and that when he went back to face the King’s wrath–they would not be there to enjoy his punishment. 

In the end, Thorn had been the one to suggest it. To suggest that they could just… walk away. They had fulfilled their oath, after all; they had certainly tried … they were not bound to take Eragon and Saphira back to the King. The oath fell short.

Murtagh had spent hours forcing himself not to feel, trying to convince himself that it didn’t matter–that Eragon’s blood on his hands wouldn’t matter any more than Hrothgar’s blood, any more than the blood of any nameless soldier, than the servants he had drained of life in the throne room, than the spy and his wife, than Aberfell. And so it had taken him a moment to even realize that the binding, restricting feeling of the oaths was not there. He could walk away. He was free, just this once… to choose.

They had made the decision together. 

Murtagh had taken his father’s sword from the frozen hands of his younger brother, and stood back, a dread in his stomach even then, knowing what he was about to bring down on himself. 

Him and Thorn, that’s what he’d said. All that mattered was him and Thorn. Nobody else.

But then he was actually looking Eragon in the face, and he was hearing the desperate pleas in his voice, and despite what the Elves had done to alter his appearance, he started to see himself. It had almost been too much, seeing the arch of his nose and the shape of his eyes and the way his lips turned down. It was all there. How could he have missed it? Eragon was his brother. His family. His blood. And to have that blood on his hands… that he couldn’t bear.

So they left.

As they’d flown away from the fire-scorched earth, the eerie quiet after the battle had felt loud in Murtagh’s ears, and the memories of the dying men echoed in his skull–the angry wails of the dwarves.

There will be consequences, Thorn said, as the plumes of smoke from the burning plains faded behind them.

Yeah, Murtagh breathed, heavy with exhaustion despite the power of the Eldunari, his whole body aching–covered in dirt and blood and sweat. He peered over the horizon line as the sun rose above the cloudbank and the yellow light of morning warmed his face.

You and me, Thorn had said, and this time it was a promise: Whatever was coming, they would face it together.

But they had misjudged the cruelty of the King.

Galbatorix now sat examining Zar’roc, the blade that had formerly belonged to his most faithful servant, and Murtagh could tell that under his calm demeanor was a volcano of rage ready to burst. He hoped to navigate the explosion, when it came.

“Tell me, Murtagh,” The king said, his voice filling the empty room, but still somehow close and quiet, “How is it you have managed to retrieve the sword of our enemy… but not our enemy himself?” 

Murtagh swallowed, feeling Thorn shift next to him. 

“He was… able to maneuver himself out of capture,” Murtagh answered. The words Murtagh spoke were true, technically. 

“He is… more powerful than we anticipated, your majesty.” This also was true–whatever the elves had done to him had made him stronger beyond what the king had estimated. Even with the Eldunari the fight had not been easy, as expected.

“More powerful…” The King mused, and he carefully sheathed Zar’roc, setting the sword upright by the arm of his throne. 

Then he took a deep breath, and the room itself seemed to hold its breath as well.

“I trusted your father,” Galbatorix said, and Murtagh swallowed, “And I gave him his freedom. He did as he wished, when he wished, because I knew that when I called… he would answer.”

The King’s dead stare pierced Murtagh, who tried to keep his trembling still. He felt Thorn’s own unease.

“He earned his freedom through loyalty. Do you know what that is?”

Murtagh remained silent.

“I asked you a question, Murtagh.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Galbatorix let silence stretch between them, and Murtagh could feel his own heart pounding, and Thorn’s tendrils of nervous thought next to him.

“That… boy… is not powerful,” Galbatorix said, his tone growing dark as he stood. “ I am powerful. And because of me, you are powerful…”

Galbatorix’s heavy steps came down towards the floor, and Murtagh fought the urge to turn and flee. What would come would come. They had accepted this. They’d known there would be punishment, when they’d chosen to let Eragon go.

“He is NOTHING!” 

Murtagh flinched at the sudden shout, the voice echoing off the walls and taking the air from Murtagh’s lungs. 

Galbatorix was now close to him, standing mere feet away, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re lying to me,” Galbatorix said quietly. “And I take that as a show of dis loyalty.”

Murtagh’s breath trembled, his eyes averted.

“I wish to give you freedom. Do you want freedom?”

Silence.

“I said, ‘do you want freedom, Murtagh?’”

“Yes, your majesty,” He whispered.

“Mmm.” 

The King turned back to his throne, and Murtagh let out his pent-up breath.

“Then we will have to learn our lesson again.”

Murtagh felt his head snap back as a lance of energy shot between his eyes. He was on the ground and writhing, as tendrils of pain crawled their way down the base of his skull into every vein in his body.

He was vaguely aware of Thorn’s impotent growls, and of the scream that tore from his throat, but his vision had turned a hazy red and his body seized, shaking on the floor of the throne room as hot pain took over his senses.

It seemed to last for hours, and he heard the king’s voice, both over him and inside his head, rumbling like thunder. He tried to retreat to a hollow in his mind where he had found refuge before, but even that was filled with fire, and he found no safe place.

He sat in the agony, and waited for it to end.

When the world finally came back to him, he was lying on the floor of a dark cell, shackled, as in the early days of his imprisonment. He tasted blood in his mouth, and felt hot prickles of pain along his skin.

 He took ragged breaths and tried to still the hammering of his heart, feeling a tiny piece of relief as the knife to his mind retreated, and he was left alone in the cold darkness.

“Thorn?” He managed, his voice hoarse from the screaming. He looked around, and reached out tentatively with his mind, trying to find Thorn.

“Thorn?” He said again, a bit louder. Then he heard a shifting in the darkness of the cell, and his eyes snapped to the corner.

“Th… Thorn?” He whispered now, as a massive shape moved its weight in the darkness. Murtagh swallowed, trying to scoot forward with his shackled ankles, wondering how the king had harmed Thorn, and terrified to see.

“Th–”

Suddenly there was a low growl that shook Murtagh’s teeth, and he saw Thorn’s red snout emerge from the darkness. Murtagh froze, his hand halfway-lifted, when he saw Thorn’s eyes, which were dark and full of rage. Rage at him.

“Thorn?” He murmured, feeling a clench of fear in his gut as the dragon’s head crept towards him. Murtagh tried to reach out with his mind, but he came against a swirl of nothing–a blockade, against him. Thorn had shut him out.

Murtagh shifted onto his hands as Thorn continued to creep forward.

“Wh–what are you doing?” He muttered, shuffling back towards the corner.

“Thorn, stop it. Stop it.”

The low growl shook Murtagh’s bones.

“Stop. It’s me. It’s me, Thorn, it’s Murtagh.”

His voice rose in pitch as the head of the furious dragon came closer and Murtagh saw the glint of fire in his throat.

“Wait–wait–Thorn–”

Then the dragon lunged, and Murtagh screamed as he felt the icy puncture of teeth digging into his side. He scrabbled for the bars of the cell as Thorn’s massive jaws closed around him and hot blood began to spill down his ribcage.

“Help!” He screamed as the dragon pulled him towards the darkness of the cage. The pain was unbearable, each beat of his heart sending blood pulsing towards the gaping wounds in his side.

“Help!”

Then Thorn lifted his body in his great jaws and threw him across the cell, sending him flying into the wall where he crumpled, breathless and shaking. 

The dragon gave an ear-splitting roar as Murtagh wheezed, feeling the life drain from him. He raised one trembling hand to try and ward off the dragon’s attack, and when he looked up into the eyes of his partner and friend, he saw only a wild hatred. 

“Please…” Murtagh choked through the blood in his mouth.

You are the cause of my suffering, Thorn’s voice rumbled in his head, scorching like a blast of fire. Die now.

Murtagh saw Thorn’s jaw open, and the swirl of red fire rushed towards him, and he felt the searing pain of burning flesh…

…Then he was in the woods, and he was running. Something was following him, the branches smacked his face and he tripped over the roots. A great roar shook the ground beneath him, and suddenly he felt heat on his back, and the world was alight with fire.

He ran into a clearing and found the conflagration growing; he spun in all directions, trying to find a path through the flames, but he was surrounded. Then there was a great blast of air, and a red dragon landed in front of him, his shoulders hunched and his jaw parted, a roar rippling from his chest.

Murtagh stumbled back and fell, crawling back on his hands as the dragon stomped closer, his red eyes empty of anything but hate.

“Please, please…” Murtagh begged, gasping for breath amidst the heat and flames. “Thorn! I’m sorry! Please!”

I know you not, The dragon said, and he pounced.

Again and again, Murtagh fled from the fury of the red dragon, and again it was hopeless. Thorn’s claws tore at his flesh, his jaw broke bones, his fire seared Murtagh’s skin, his roar shook Murtagh’s skull. No matter the pleading or desperation, Thorn’s hatred was complete. Murtagh had been the cause of his pain, and he would see that pain returned.

Once, he found himself back on the Burning Plains, and Thorn turned against him, dropping him from the sky while Eragon laughed. Then he was in the dark tunnels under Farthen Dur, and Thorn came out of the shadows, crushing Murtagh’s chest with his feet until he felt his sternum crack. Then he was a child in the garden of his father’s estate, and a great red dragon dropped from the sky, setting the plants ablaze and burning Murtagh alive.

Time seemed to stop, and all thought of reason left him. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew this was not real–he knew the King was weaving his webs, punishing him for his betrayal–but the pain was all too real, and the terror, and the sight of the one person in the world whom he loved, full of only hatred for him.

After what might have been years of agony, cycling through every one of Murtagh’s deepest nightmares, he finally, and suddenly, gasped awake on the floor of his chambers, shaking and crawling away from the most recent vision–which had Thorn pinning him underwater until he drowned.

Murtagh moaned as he crawled towards the bedpost, every limb trembling, his skin feeling raw, his breath coming in uneven gasps. Then he felt a soft mental nudge.

Murtagh?

He twisted over and saw a red dragon’s head, feet from him.

Murtagh screamed and scrambled back, falling to his elbows and curling up, waiting for the killing blow to come again.

It is me, Murtagh. I am myself.

Murtagh shook and trembled, wincing as he waited to feel the sharp puncture of teeth.

Murtagh… The voice repeated, and Murtagh tried to breathe. He risked a glance up, and saw the dragon’s head–Thorn’s head–still hovering by the bed post. His eyes blinked; the eyes; they were not full of hate, but of concern and sadness.

…you are not in a dream, Thorn assured, And you need fear no harm from me, my partner. 

Murtagh blinked, trying to clear the cacophony of horrors from his head. He felt the ground beneath him. Was this real? The dirt-caked clothes that hung from him. Real? The sweat on his face and the pounding of his heart. Real? And Thorn’s gentle gaze. Real?

“Th-Thorn?” He managed, shakily.

Mmmm, Thorn agreed, lowering his head to the floor and keeping his distance. It is me.

Murtagh’s chin trembled, his heart only now slowing as he ran a hand through his dirt-caked hair and tried to blink the confusion from his mind. 

Galbatorix’s punishment had been perfectly cruel, as always, his torture reaching into every crack and hollow in Murtagh’s mind. Murtagh sat against the bed, shaking and trying to sit up straight, while Thorn waited, ever-patient, for him to come back to himself.

“I’m s–I’m sorry,” Murtagh managed, holding his arms tight around his stomach like his body might dissolve if he didn’t keep it together.

I do not accept your apology, for you have nothing you need to be sorry for, Thorn said firmly, scooting a little closer. 

I am sorry; that I could not shelter you.

Murtagh sensed his meaning–Thorn had been punished as well.

Finally, after a few trembling moments, Murtagh allowed Thorn to bring his head close, and he held on tightly, feeling the scales under his hands and the familiar ridges over his eyes.

This was his partner and friend, the bond of his heart. This was whom he knew. Not the monster in the dark with hate in his eyes. 

Murtagh felt the weight of Thorn’s head on his shoulder as a comfort, keeping him anchored in the horror of the world. He took shaking, uneven breaths, until his heart was able to slow and he stopped flinching at Thorn’s every breath.

They had done it. They had let Eragon go. 

***

But Galbatorix’s punishment did not end there. The loss had been too great, the betrayal too much for the proud king to let it go that easily. Murtagh sensed this, and he squared himself for more suffering, more cruelty, clinging to Thorn’s consciousness like the only scrap of driftwood on a stormy sea. They would endure. What was done was done. They’d made their choice and had to live with the consequences.

When he was called to the king’s dining hall two days later, after cleaning the grime of war from his skin and healing his wounds, he knew it would not be for any commendation.

I am with you, Thorn assured as Murtagh left their chambers, Zar’roc strapped on his belt, after Galbatorix had seen it returned to him. It seemed the King had consented to allow him to carry his father’s sword, though it now felt bitter to hold.

“Ah, Murtagh,” Galbatorix said, beckoning to him from the head of a well-set table for two. The current concubine he was favoring–a woman of middling age with a proud brow–sat at his side in fine jewels and a flowing dress, looking as though she considered herself equal to a queen in that moment.

“I trust you’ve recovered from the battle?” The King questioned, as though he hadn’t caused Murtagh suffering and torment worse than any battle.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. I have an assignment for you.”

Murtagh breathed deeply, waiting to learn whom he would have to kill, what city he would be called upon to terrorize, what soldiers to execute. Now that the Varden had learned of Thorn’s existence, Galbatorix would be free to unleash him on whoever he wished.

“Deputy Governor Falcry from Dras Leona has just moved to the city to act as liaison on behalf of the Head Governor. I need him to send half the soldiers in his city to Belatona, to add to its defenses before the Varden reach it.”

Murtagh nodded, shifting his grip on Zar’roc.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I’d like you to go to him tonight and… strike a deal with him.”

Murtagh felt his mouth grow dry.

“Y-yes your majesty, what… can I offer the Lord Deputy Governor in exchange?”

Galbatorix met his gaze with a cold, empty humor.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Murtagh shifted, his heart pounding, his palms hot.

A terrible silence followed.

“M–my lord–”

“I think I’ve made myself quite clear, Murtagh,” Galbatorix said lazily, “Simply swear… that you will give the Deputy Governor whatever he wants.”

Murtagh was silent, breathing through his nose tightly. 

No. No, no, no. Not again. Please.

“Murtagh…” Galbatorix said again, his voice darkening.

“Y-your majesty. I’m sure I can convince–”
“I’ve asked you to make me an oath, Murtagh.”

“Please, Your Majesty,” Murtagh blurted out, his voice cracking, bile rising in his throat, “Please. If you would just–just allow me to–”

“Oh, don’t beg, Murtagh, it’s unbecoming,” Galbatorix said with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Give me your oath, and you are dismissed. Go on.”

Murtagh swallowed down sickness, his whole body shaking. He met the eyes of the concubine woman who sat at Galbatorix’s side, her cool gaze seeming to say, 

Think you’re better than me, do you?

Murtagh’s chest rose shakily, his mind fighting against him, unable to think, unable to speak. He knew Galbatorix would invoke his Name, he knew it was inevitable, he knew it would hurt more if he fought it, but he was too terrified. He had thought this was over. It had been so long since…

The King’s hand rested on the table, a silent threat, ready to strike. Murtagh’s gut clenched and he felt like if he opened his mouth he might vomit, but he took a shuddering breath and spoke in the Ancient Language,

“I swear… I will give Deputy Governor Falcry… whatever he wants,” He managed, and Galbatorix leaned back.

“Good. Report to me in the morning,” He said, turning back to his food. “You are dismissed.”

Murtagh spun and hurried out of the room, struggling to breath and feeling the panic clench around his throat. His mind raced as he stormed past the King’s guards and back down the twisting passageways. 

He was frantic, trying to think of a way out. There was a chance the governor would ask for something else, something he could give. There was a chance he would accept land, or gold, or influence, or a favor in the future… but Galbatorix knew his nobles, and if he was sending Murtagh to this man as punishment then a punishment it would be.

Murtagh stopped short in a dark stone hallway, his hand on the wall for support, holding his chest and gasping for air. 

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t… but he had to.

He shivered, remembering the cold touches of Lady Calthwaite, her malicious smile, the sickness in his chest. He had to get out. Had to disappear. But he couldn’t. 

He was trapped, and the King knew it.

***

He woke from a daze in the middle of a narrow street, his right hand holding the reins of a horse, his feet unsteady on the paving stones. Murtagh squinted into the bright light of a nearby lantern, which reflected its flame in the rain-soaked street. How had he gotten here? Where was he? What time was it?

He looked down at the reins in his hands, and the horse nudged its wet nose against his shoulder. He frowned. Then he felt sick, and he stumbled over to the gutter and vomited on his knees, the horse following dutifully behind.

Murtagh dry heaved several times, and tried to blink away the memory of the last few hours–of his mission for the King.

It was over now, but his body wouldn’t stop shaking, and he hurt. 

He had arrived at the mansion of Deputy Governor Falcry as evening fell, after dropping Zar’roc in his chambers and changing clothes, refusing to answer Thorn’s concerned questioning. He’d shut his partner out of his mind completely, unable to bear the thought of subjecting him to what he was about to go through.

He had been half-drunk already, by the time the Deputy Governor had poured wine and begun the meal. The man was of middle age, fit, with fine gray hair and a dazzling smile, clearly used to power and luxury. 

He spoke loudly and easily, carrying the conversation throughout the meal while Murtagh had tried to find a way out of his obligation, desperately hoping the man could be convinced to accept some bribe. 

But when Murtagh had finally broached the subject of the King’s demand, it quickly became clear that he was not really there to strike a deal with the man. The deal had already been struck–between Falcry and the King. 

Murtagh was not the negotiator; he was the payment. 

When the pain had started, Murtagh lashed out with his mind, reaching for Thorn in a desperate attempt to escape his body, which was pressed against the table where they had dined. But he had already shut Thorn out, and his dragon was now too far away to help.

Every instinct had told him to pick up one of the knives on the table and stab the man, to utter a single word that would end his life, to summon all the magic at his disposal and destroy him utterly. But his oath was a chain around his neck:

I swear to give Governor Falcry whatever he wants.

The side of his face had been pressed against the table cloth, and he’d stared vacantly at the curved reflection of a gold candlestick, wishing more than anything in that moment that he could snuff himself out and cease existing. 

And then it was over.

He’d felt the man’s hot breath on the back of his neck, inhaling as if he could drink in Murtagh’s fear, and then a voice floated coldly over him saying,

“Tell the King he’ll have his troops.”

And it was quiet.

After that everything was a hazy blur, until he’d blinked awake suddenly in the wet street, disoriented, holding the reins of a horse he wasn’t riding. 

Now Murtagh knelt hunched over the gutter, heaving, still feeling the man’s cold hand running under his tunic, passing over his scar, gripping vice-like onto the back of his neck. He whimpered, and clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.

Eventually he stumbled the rest of the way towards the citadel, still dazed, every step painful, and he let go of the horse’s reins when he’d reached the stable yard, not even waiting to see that an attendant came to receive the animal.

He’d pushed into the darkness of his chambers, ignoring Thorn’s nudges and worryings, and he’d curled up on the bed with his clothes and boots still on, closing off his mind, shivering, and trying to forget.

***

When morning came he forced himself to rise before the sun–having slept not even a little–and he refused to say a word to Thorn, unable to stomach the thought of opening his mind to his partner.

He’d belted Zar’roc on and changed his clothes, throwing his old pair to the floor, pointing at them with his palm and saying,

“Brisingr,” And watching until they burned themselves away. 

Thorn whined in the corner, but he ignored him, and went to find the King.

He was admitted into the treasury, where Galbatorix leaned over a map with one of his lieutenants. 

Murtagh stood at attention.

“Yes, Murtagh? What is it?”

“Deputy Governor Falcry will recommend that the troops be sent to Belatona.”

He was surprised his voice worked, surprised it came out so calm, so normal. Inside he was still spinning.

The King looked at him distantly for a moment, frowning.

“Oh! Oh yes. Well, we’ve actually decided to use Dras Leona as our holding point, and let Belatona make its own defense, so. We won’t need the Deputy Governor’s help after all.”

Murtagh met the King’s gaze, which was dancing with malicious amusement. He felt the room spinning. 

“Well done, though. I knew I could rely on you. That’ll be all for today.”

The man leaning over the map with Galbatorix was looking at Murtagh expectantly, waiting for a response.

Murtagh’s ears were ringing. He had no breath. He said nothing.

He turned, and stormed out of the room silently, passing a pair of surprised guards.

Murtagh marched to the kitchens, then, and demanded three bottles of ale, and that more be brought to his chambers. He couldn’t shake the ringing in his ears the whole time, and he might’ve been shouting at the kitchen servants, he wasn’t sure. 

He burst into his chambers with two bottles already finished, and stumbled over to the night stand, angrily pulling off his gloves and undoing Zar’roc from his belt. Thorn’s head lifted.

Murtagh?

“Leave me alone,” Murtagh muttered, splashing his face with cool water from the wash basin, his mind addled with drink, but not addled enough.

You are hurt, Thorn thought with a growl, shifting, What has happened?

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Murtagh slurred, keeping his thoughts from Thorn as he desperately scrubbed at his hands, as if cleaning them could rid him of the sick, twisting feeling in his gut.

Let me help you, Thorn’s voice echoed deeply, Murtagh, please, do not shut me out.

Murtagh said nothing, and Thorn pressed his consciousness in, full of concern.

Murtagh whirled and grabbed the washbasin pitcher.

“I said leave me alone!” He shrieked, throwing the vase, which hit Thorn in the side of the face and shattered.

Thorn recoiled with a whine, and Murtagh heaved for breath, feeling a wave of panic flush his skin as he stood swaying. He immediately felt sorry, sensing Thorn’s hurt, though the vase itself had done no real damage.

He struggled for air.

“I’m sorry…” He groaned, backing away, stumbling over his feet, sinking to the floor between the bed and the nightstand, unable to control his shaking.

He heard a soft knock on the door, but it didn’t register in his mind, as he held to the edge of the nightstand and tried to find breath. 

A groan escaped him, and his whole body clenched, and he felt like he might retch again, and he heard Thorn whimper in the background, and then he smacked himself in the head, once, hard. And that jolted him out of it. So he did it again.

First one hand, then the other, pounding against his forehead, with the heel of his palm, trying to beat himself into unconsciousness to stop this horrible, sick feeling. A whine grew in his throat like a tea kettle rising in pitch, and over and over he hit himself, hoping to drown out the feeling of the hot breath on the back of his neck, the hand running up his shirt.

Suddenly someone was grabbing his wrists,

“My lord, no,” A woman’s voice said, “My lord, please stop, please,” 

He was still trying to hit himself, but she was holding him back, kneeling over him, her thin hands gripping his wrists tightly.

Murtagh gasped for breath, his vision blurring with tears, but through it he saw Demelza’s worried face, framed by her red curls, sitting before him.

“My lord…”

“I ca—I ca–I can’t breathe,” He gasped, feeling like he was having a seizing fit, but fully conscious. 

“Through your nose,” Her voice came through foggily, “Slowly now, just through nose, out the mouth.”

Murtagh wheezed–an awful, rattling sound.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, one breath through your nose now.”

He forced air into his nostrils.

“And out again, count to four, come on… one… two…three…four…”

Murtagh shuddered, but the breath came..

“In again, one…two…three…” 

He followed the gentle path of Demelza’s lilting voice, her hands still holding his wrists away from his face. In and out he breathed, his cheeks stained with tears, each breath shuddering, until finally he was back to himself and the room no longer swam around him.

He swallowed, still feeling sick.

“Shall I fetch a healer, sir?” Demelza asked urgently.

“No, no,” He groaned, “Please don’t–can’t–please–”

“Alright, alright, I won’t. Let’s just sit. It’s alright. Thorn’s here, aren’t you Thorn?” She looked over her shoulder at the dragon, who shifted on his front paws, agitated and unsure.

“Right, see? We’re alright.”

Murtagh caught his breath, drenched in sweat, his clothes disheveled, Demelza kneeling before him calmly, anchoring him to the world.

He looked at her kind, calm face, her eyes full of understanding, a flickering light at the center of his darkness. He wanted to reach out to the light, to get closer, to touch it, to feel its warmth, to feel anything but what he was feeling now. 

He leaned forward on the floor, and he kissed her, pressing her back with the force of his need, feeling her stiffen beneath him. He pushed her until she was on her back and his hands were on either side of her head, and still he was kissing her and it felt so good to be in control, and to want her, and to just be filled with something besides pain. 

He breathed her in and leaned in closer, trying to lose himself in her, even as she lay beneath him utterly still, frozen.

But barely a second had gone by when a great growl rang in his skull, and Thorn’s voice said,

NO.

And the force of his command pushed Murtagh off Demelza and he fell back against the bedside, once again gasping for air.

You made her a PROMISE, Murtagh, Thorn shouted in his head, fury giving power to his words, You know she does not want this. You know she has a betrothed. You gave her your word.

Murtagh held onto the bed, shivering, blinking away his delirium, immediately ashamed of what he had almost done.

“I’m–I’m s–I’m sorry,” He gasped, as Demelza shuffled away from him on the floor. 

For a moment their eyes met, both terrified and unsure, and Murtagh wanted to beg her forgiveness, but in that instant, the drink overwhelmed him, and he threw up.

Then they sat for a long minute, as Murtagh caught his breath, drool and sick dribbling down the front of his tunic, his head fallen against the bed, unable to rise from where he’d collapsed. Demelza sat, holding onto the end bedpost, calming her own breaths, her eyes closed.

“Y–you can go,” Murtagh murmured, “Go–go on, you’re dismissed…” He waved a weak hand towards the door. But Demelza sat there collecting herself for a moment more, holding onto the wooden post for support, a determined look settling on her features.

“That won’t be necessary,” She said evenly, and she pulled herself to standing.

“Come now, sir, let’s get you back to bed,” She said, and she walked over to Murtagh and pulled him up by the arms, sitting him on the bed as she pulled up the fabric of his tunic.

He allowed her to remove the soiled shirt over his head, and to fetch him a clean one and put it on, dressing him like a child. He didn’t know what to say–he was afraid of speaking in case he threw up again, but Demelza worked quickly and silently. She removed his boots and moved Zar’roc out of the way and rolled down the blankets, and she helped him lift his weak legs and slide them onto the bed. 

Then she pulled the blanket over him as he felt his vision growing hazy and gray.

“Alright, then,” She said, “Thorn, you’ll look after him ‘til he wakes?” She asked, turning to the dragon, who nodded and hung his head close. 

Murtagh’s breaths were getting heavier, his stupor sliding into sleep only because his body couldn’t stay awake any longer. Demelza dabbed his forehead with cool water from the basin, and said,

“I’ll be back to check on you, just get some rest.”

He was too weak to murmur another apology, and he fell into oblivion.

Chapter Text

Murtagh slept through all that day and the next night, barely aware when someone came in and drew the curtains to keep the chambers dark.

When he blinked slowly awake the first thing he saw was Thorn’s great snout resting on the bed near his head, warm breath rustling Murtagh’s hair. Despite himself, Murtagh smiled softly.

He placed a hand on Thorn’s nose, and the dragon blinked awake, but did not move. Thorn gave a little rumble in his throat that was both a greeting and a question.

Alright? Murtagh asked, and he blinked. Murtagh rubbed away sleep, and had to cough. His throat ached with thirst, but as soon as he sat up he found a mug of water waiting on the side table.

Demelza, He thought gratefully, wincing as he downed the water and vague impressions of the previous day came back to him. His whole body ached, and his head felt heavy, but the long sleep had done him good. 

Still, though, he stank of vomit and dried sweat, and his hair hung in strings against his forehead. He pushed himself to rise as Thorn watched him, his head resting on the bed while the rest of his body sat on the floor. The dragon had foregone his usual sleeping cushion to be closer to Murtagh, and his talons had scratched the floor in the process, but Murtagh didn’t care.

He was just thinking of how much he needed to wash, when he saw that the gilded tub was filled with water, and fresh towels were laid out.

Demelza, He thought again, knowing he owed the woman both a deep apology and a deep thanks. 

He re-heated the water with a spell, removed his clothes, and slid into it, breathing in the steam as it rolled off the surface, and trying to get his muscles to unclench. 

Reluctantly he asked Thorn to relay to him what he’d said and done the previous morning, as it was still foggy. Thorn gave him the images in his mind, but tried to quickly skirt over the part where Murtagh had thrown a glass pitcher at his eye.

“I’m sorry,” Murtagh murmured, leaning against his hands in the warm water.

I am unharmed, Thorn assured him, nudging his snout close. There was a questioning in his thought, though, a curiosity, a need to know .

“I can’t talk about it,” Murtagh whispered, watching the soap suds swirl, “I’m sorry, I just…”

He trailed off, feeling a heat rising in his throat again. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the memory away.

He was shoved down over the table, whimpering; a hand began to grope…

It is alright, Thorn assured, dragging Murtagh away from the precipice of thought. I am here. You are safe.

It didn’t feel like it, but the uncontrollable panic seemed to have passed. Murtagh breathed in the steam of the warm bath. He was here. In his chambers. With Thorn. Safe. It was over. 

The problem was, it never really felt over, when he knew the King could send him back at any time… force him to live it again… punish him over and over…

Friend-Demelza is bringing food, Thorn said, interrupting Murtagh’s spiral. You must eat. 

Now he was cleaned and rested, he realized he was famished. He hadn’t eaten anything since–no–he wasn’t thinking about that.

“Alright,” He reluctantly rose from the water and dried himself off, dressing quickly and wringing out his still-wet hair. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted to immediately climb back in and scrub himself until he bled; he’d peel his skin off just to stop the cold shivers down his spine. 

But he took a few deep breaths and forced himself to be calm.

When Demelza knocked he was buttoning his vest, and he stood when she entered, carrying a large tray full of food.

“Sir,” She said with a curtsy, her eyes down, “Alright if I place it on the table?”

“Y–yes, sure,” Murtagh stammered, standing awkwardly by the nightstand.

“How are you feeling this morning?” She asked quietly as she lay the tray down and poured steaming water into a teacup.

Murtagh cleared his throat.

“Um… b–better, thank you.”

Demelza merely nodded, her hands moving quickly as she laid out his food.

“Will you eat?” She asked.

“S–sure, yes. Thank you.”

Murtagh started towards the table, but then stopped, thinking he might scare her if he got too close. Demelza seemed to notice his unsure movements. She looked up, and her eyes were steady.

Murtagh knew he had to speak first. She wouldn’t bring it up–she would think it wasn’t her place.  

“Thorn tells me, I… behaved abominably yesterday,” He managed, his eyes lowered, shame flushing his neck.

“I apologize.  I…I hope you were not hurt.”

There was a beat of silence. He’d allowed himself the small deception of letting her think that he did not remember. He wished he did not remember. It was foggy, but he knew well enough what he’d done, and could’ve kicked himself for it.

“I am well,” She answered, “Thank you.”

“It won’t happen again,” He promised, and she gave him a slight nod, as if to say– we’ll see.

Murtagh felt a rush of anger at himself; he’d gone and hurt the one person in the whole bloody castle who treated him like a human being. Stupid. Idiot. Selfish coward.

“Food’s hot–” Demelza’s voice interrupted him as she smiled and stepped away from the little table, beginning to clean around the bathtub and fix up the bedsheets.

Murtagh walked over tentatively and ate, self-conscious with her still in the room but relishing the warm food in his aching stomach. 

“Thorn, a tray’s bein’ brought up for you,” Demelza said warmly as Thorn lumbered his way back to his usual cushion. If she noticed the scratch marks on the floor, she didn’t say anything.

“They were late gettin’ started with the butcherin’ this morning, but I told ‘em to make sure you got some venison–I know that’s your favorite.”

Mmmm thank you, Thorn said, it is.

Murtagh relayed his gratitude to Demelza, who smiled and gave Thorn a pat on his head–a habit which she’d gradually become comfortable with.

“Oh, sir, I nearly forgot–” She said suddenly, reaching into her apron pocket, “There’s a summons for you, I believe…”

She handed Murtagh a small piece of parchment, and he felt his stomach drop. 

A summons. To the King. What for? What else does he have planned? What other punishment?

He couldn’t stop his hand shaking when he took the letter from her, and she noticed, her keen eyes watching his movements. He hurried to open the letter, just so he didn’t lose his nerve. 

Thankfully, it was a summons to the map room for a war council–there would be several lieutenants and generals there. It was unlikely, then, that he was being summoned for another “negotiation”.

Murtagh let himself breath a bit, closing his eyes for a moment to reorder his scrambled thoughts.

“Is it the war, sir?” Demelza’s soft voice asked, “Some of the other servants are sayin’ the battle went ill.”

Murtagh looked down at the letter, feeling her eyes on him. He knew what she meant–was it the war that had him so shaken? Was it the war that had him screaming and vomiting and beating himself in the head? 

“No,” He said in a low voice, “It isn’t the war.”

He met her gaze, which was inscrutable, but not cruel, and she nodded once. She did not ask more. 

She turned away to pull fresh linens on the bed.

“Demelza,” He said, before he could talk himself out of it.

“Yes, sir?”

“I… I can have you assigned somewhere else by this afternoon. Wherever you’d like. You’ll have my full recommendation; I’ll see you get whatever position you want.” 

He breathed heavily, fidgeting with the letter in his hand.

“I won’t ask you to stay working for me after what I did.”

When he raised his reluctant gaze to her, he saw in the simple servant girl a stoic beauty–a strength that had an elven quality to it; the set of her jaw and the curve of her brow could’ve matched the visage of a queen.

“That won’t be necessary,” She said after a long moment. Her mouth was set and her eyes unflinching, but somehow they were also soft and understanding.

“Besides,” She said, her solemn expression breaking into a small smile, “Who else is gonna make sure Thorn gets his venison?”

She winked at the dragon, who hummed in his throat and swayed his head in agreement.

Despite himself, Murtagh smiled.

***

Murtagh steeled himself before entering the war council, fixing his expression into the deadened glare that was his usual display for anyone working alongside the King.

The reports were not good. 

Having been surprisingly pushed back on the Burning Plains–due in no small part to Murtagh’s betrayal and the nearly one-thousand soldiers who had been incapacitated by poison before the conflict even began–the bulk of the King’s forces were now falling back to reinforce the cities that lay between Surda and Uru’baen. 

Galbatorix would not risk another all-out attack on the Varden; he deemed it unnecessary, and chose instead to let the Varden fling themselves against the defenses of every city they passed, until they arrived to Uru’baen worn out and depleted of both resources and men. 

Murtagh thought this cowardly, as it meant putting many more civilians’ lives at risk, but he said nothing. The King was convinced Eragon would come to him, and he was content to wait. He would not go out himself–which would of course result in an immediate defeat for the Varden–but deemed that the work he was doing in Uru’baen was more important than waging war against Nasuada and her army. Again Murtagh wondered in fear what was so important to the King that he would allow the rebels to wreak havoc on the kingdom.

“—we’ve received a report from a spy within the Varden that leads us to believe that Shadeslayer is currently absent from the camp.”

One of the military liaisons was giving a report–Murtagh recognized him from the Burning Plains, a secretary to General Errinmor or something. The man had given Murtagh a dark look when he’d entered, as though suspicious of the circumstances of his failure.

“Absent?” The King asked crisply, nothing moving but his dark eyes.

“We believe so, sir. There’s a man, sir, by the name of Stronghammer–we believe him to be the same Stronghammer that the Ra’zac were sent to pursue up near the spine–he seems to be some relation to Shadeslayer.”

Murtagh frowned. Relation? What did that mean? He kept his expression flat but his mind was racing.

“We know for certain that he is gone from the camp, and we have reason to believe Shadeslayer went with him.”

“Went with him where ?” Galbatorix asked, and Murtagh could sense an explosion just below the surface.

“...after the Ra’zac, sir. Apparently they killed his betrothed, or something of the sort.”

The King’s fingers rested on the map table, gazing with displeasure over his Kingdom like a man observing crops that wouldn’t grow.

“Tell me… this… Stronghammer … is he a dragon rider?”

The secretary frowned.

“No, Your Majesty?”

“An elf?”

The man’s eyes shifted to Murtagh, who gave him no hint.

“N–no, Your Majesty, he is human.”

“Is he a–a great sorcerer? A shade?”

“No–”

“Then why in the name of bloody cursed Angvard is he STILL ALIVE?!”

The secretary flinched, his eyes blinking quickly as the King’s shout rang in the room. Murtagh stayed very still.

“I sent the Ra’zac after this man months ago,” The King snarled, “And you are telling me he managed to drag himself from that rat’s nest they call village , all the way to the Burning Plains, where he reunited with his cousin and is now traipsing around MY kingdom as if he were mad King Palancar himself?!”

The liaison wisely said nothing, but Murtagh was reeling. Cousin? Eragon’s cousin? If he was Eragon’s cousin then… 

…then he’s my cousin too. 

Suddenly he remembered the hammer-wielding madman who’d killed both the Twins. Stronghammer. Eragon had been ready to expend all his energy to get the man to safety. 

His cousin.

Murtagh blinked, and vaguely heard the man on the other side of the map table speaking, his voice cowed.

“...seems to have brought the entire village with him.”

Galbatorix let out a snarling shout and raked his hand through the air, and the poor man’s neck snapped. 

Muragh winced as the body crumpled to the floor and Galbatorix scowled down at the map table, seething. He had become much more volatile since the defeat on the Burning Plains. Despite the King’s unwillingness to go out to battle himself, it seemed that the rebels were causing more trouble than he’d suspected, and his patience was thin.

“Murtagh,” He said, and Murtagh straightened, ready for anything. “You and Thorn go to Dras Leona, see that the Ra’zac are still stationed in Helgrind and that nothing has befallen them. Intercept Eragon and his cousin and the dragon if you can. Bring them all here alive.”

Murtagh swallowed, sick at the prospect of seeing those chittering, crawling things. 

“Yes, sir.”

The King scribbled a note on a piece of parchment and used his signet ring to seal it.

“Give this to the priests at Dras Leona so they will know I’ve sent you. The Ra’zac will meet with you. If they’ve had no news or sign of Eragon, I want you to wait three days, then set out in the direction of the Varden camp and see if you can intercept them.”

The King’s black eyes met him.

“You will have a chance to fix your mistake, and bring him back to me,” He said coldly.

Murtagh nodded, already bracing himself for the pain of hurting his brother.

You gave him one chance, and you paid for it, He told himself, That’s all he gets.

 The King made him swear an oath–very clear, this time–that he would do anything within his power, short of dying, to capture Eragon and Saphira and bring them to Uru’baen.

Hope you’re not as much of a fool as it sounds, Eragon, Murtagh thought as he left the map room, prepared to hunt his brother down.

***

The Ra’zac, as it turned out, were dead.

Murtagh stood at the entrance to a cave from which wafted the worst thing he had ever smelled. He was now inside the spire of Helgrind–a horrible blemish in the stretch of land outside Dras Leona which he had never wanted to see closer. 

The priests were irate. The offerings they’d left–human slaves chained to a rock–had not been taken for several days. Something had happened to their beloved masters–the disgusting, slimy, otherworldly things that they worshiped by hacking off their limbs and shedding their blood. 

“Avenge this evil,” One of the priests had scowled at Murtagh; the man was missing an ear, a leg and an arm, and had a bald head and tiny pig-like eyes full of red fury.

“See that you hunt down the heretics who’ve committed this atrocity and shred them to the bone!”

Murtagh had said nothing, finding himself darkly gleeful at the fact that the beak-mouthed abominations were no more.

Now he stood at the entrance to their cavernous abode, cringing at the smell, the carcass of a massive leathery flying thing moldering nearby. 

Thorn sniffed the air.

A place of evil, this, He said; then he eyed the dead creature. A mockery.

Murtagh shook his head.

“He’s mad,” He said, meaning Eragon. “And this… cousin of ours has got to be twice as mad.”

Murtagh shook his head and kicked a stone across the floor, sending a zipping, echoing noise cascading down the darkened tunnels that stood open before him.

“Come on.”

They spoke with the Chief Guardsman of Dras Leona, who had nothing useful to report, except that they had heard strange sounds coming from Helgrind two days previous and seen some kind of commotion up near the top of the spire. A group of horsemen had been sent out to investigate, but they’d found nothing, and the magicians among them sensed no living thing in the spire. 

“Always somethin’ dark going on there…” The man muttered, evidently not an acolyte of the priesthood of the Ra’zac. 

“No one saw a dragon?”

“No, not a dragon–well–one fellow thought he saw one of them leathery beasts that the beak-men ride. But that’s not uncommon.”

The guardsman shivered, clearly disgusted. He was nervous and fidgety–though if that was his usual demeanor or if he was just terrified of Murtagh, it wasn’t clear. 

“Take me to the men who were on guard duty the last three nights,” Murtagh demanded, and he soon stood before a half-awake collection of disheveled soldiers. They woke up quite quickly when he threatened to send them to search Helgrind for further clues, but they had nothing useful to share. No dragon sightings. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“If anyone sees or hears whispers about what happened at Helgrind two nights past, you report only to me.  None of you say anything to anyone about what we’ve discussed here today. On penalty of death,” Murtagh’s eyes scanned the faces of the nervous soldiers. He gave them the deepest glare he could, trying to frighten them into submission.

“Sir, we are required to send daily reports to the King and Gove–”

“You report to no one, but me,” Murtagh repeated with a growl. He did not want news of the Ra’zac’s demise reaching Galbatorix before he had a chance to capture Eragon. If the King learned that he’d lost his deadliest servants…

The men in the room seemed cowed by Murtagh’s show of fury, and they did not protest. 

In the end Murtagh and Thorn decided to fan out from Helgrind in search of Saphira–not that he had any hope of catching up with them, but his oath bound him to do everything he could to try and find Eragon. 

If you’re still in the Kingdom, Eragon, you’d better get out quickly.

They set out as the sun was rising, both watching the horizon and the ground below for any sign that Saphira had gone by. Murtagh wondered why Eragon would agree to such a risk, just to help his cousin get revenge for a dead lover. More importantly, why would Nasuada agree to such a risk, after only just getting Eragon back from the elves?

All this and more Murtagh considered as he and Thorn criss-crossed the sky, working their way south of Helgrind and secretly hoping they found nothing.

They landed near an army outpost long after dark, when Thorn was sagging with exhaustion and unable to continue. They scared the daylights out of the soldiers there, before they’d recognized that it was not the blue dragon descending on them with a deathfire.

Murtagh demanded to see the captain of their barracks, and he was shown to a man who seemed much too young to have leadership of such a company. But Murtagh supposed that there had been severe losses on the Burning Plains, and he might’ve gotten a field promotion after the disaster.

“Apologies, my lord,” The young man said, entering the room hastily, his cheeks still flushed and his boots muddy from riding, “We weren’t aware y–that yourself and–and the dragon would be honoring us with your presence.”

“His name is Thorn,” Murtagh spat, “There’s a fugitive on the loose, and we’ve been sent after him.”

The man’s eyebrows rose.

“Fugit–? Alright. Um, well, yes, how can we help?”

“Anyone suspicious you have in your prison?”

“Ah–no, sir. No one tonight. Usually we’re pickin’ up the odd deserter or a Varden spy, but… nobody today.”

Murtagh tried not to look relieved.

“Well.  We’ll need to rest here tonight, and in the morning we’ll be off again. You’ve got food and water?”

“Y–yes sir, of course.”

“And meat enough for Thorn?”

The man went a little pale.

“Ah… well, I’m–I’m sure we could manage,” He stammered.

“I’ll have ale as well. Where’s a bed?”

Murtagh was given the Captain’s bunk, and took it without comment, opening the window so Thorn could stick his head in, though it was a tight squeeze.

He ate alone and slept fitfully, hoping to wake up in the morning and fly south and find nothing, hoping that Eragon and this cousin of theirs had gotten themselves out.

He was awakened in the morning by the urgent pounding of hooves, and had shot up and drawn Zar’roc before he was fully conscious.

He heard urgent voices and the nickering of a nearby horse.

A two-legs-round-ears has just arrived on a four-legs-tall-ears… Thorn said, The man has something important to say.

Murtagh pushed himself out through the garrison gates while the captain was still talking with the messenger.

“What is it?” He demanded, and the horse-rider blanched upon seeing him, saluting.

“At ease, what is it?” He asked again, impatient.

“Sir, report from within the Varden camp. The–the dragon, she’s returned. Had two passengers–man named Stronghammer, and a woman; our spy thinks she belongs to him–his wife or something.”

Murtagh felt a little twist in his gut. 

“Two passengers?” He asked.

“Aye, sir.”

“No sign of Shadeslayer?”

“No, sir.”

The horse rider was panting as loudly as his horse, who was skittering away from where Thorn sat beside the garrison. 

“My lord?” The captain asked as Murtagh thought.

Eragon hadn’t returned to the Varden camp. But had he ever left? Of course. Saphira wouldn’t have gone without him. But he didn’t come back. He wasn’t… he couldn’t be…

“Did the spy hear what the two passengers had to say? Why wasn’t Shadeslayer with his dragon?”

“Can’t say, sir. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t well-known in the camp. Our spy wasn’t able to gain access to that information.”

Murtagh frowned at the ground. 

He can’t be dead, He thought, and it was almost a plea. 

If he were dead, I think Saphira would have flown to Uru’baen and torn it to pieces, claw and tooth, Thorn answered solemnly, No. Eragon-brother-Murtagh is alive. But he did not return from Helgrind.

Not on dragonback, anyway, Murtagh thought, looking at the man who panted, out of breath, and the skittish horse.

“Captain,” Murtagh turned to the garrison leader, lowering his voice, aware of the guardsmen who stood on the wooden walls of the outpost, listening.

“The man I have been sent to seek is Eragon Shadeslayer, and I have reason to believe that he is somewhere between here and the Burning Plains, on foot.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“You will rally your men together, and tell them that we are going after a fugitive. You will not tell them who this fugitive is.” He gave the young captain a look, and he seemed to understand. If the soldiers knew who they were hunting, they would lose their nerve.

“Send a fresh horse to the closest garrisons, and have them send out search parties as well. They’ll be looking for a young man, thin, medium height, with brown hair; he’ll have some elfish features, but he may be concealing them with magic. He’ll have a blue ring on him, and most likely armor, though he could be hiding it. He’ll be traveling alone.”

Murtagh spoke calmly and quietly, meeting the man’s frightened eyes.

“I do not need to tell you, Captain, that it will not fare well for those of us here, if Shadeslayer is allowed to escape after entering so brazenly into the King’s territory. Do you understand?”

The Captain nodded, his eyes wide.

“Good. Fetch your fastest rider first, then see to a quick meal, and get your men on the road.”

The countryside was awash with groups of traveling soldiers, all hunting for a young, sandy-haired man, traveling alone, with a blue ring and a set of armor. Murtagh felt torn, as he criss-crossed the sky on Thorn, receiving reports from the various captains, spreading the word between barracks. 

On the one hand, he had to find Eragon, both because he’d sworn an oath and because he knew more punishment awaited him if he failed. On the other hand, he was rooting for Eragon to get away. Hang the Ra’zac, and hang Galbatorix and good for Eragon and his cousin and that girl for getting one over on them. But still Murtagh hunted, making sure the soldiers feared him and told him the truth.

He received a report that a band of soldiers was killed on one of the southern leading roads, but all signs pointed to Urgals being the culprit. Murtagh wasn’t inclined to believe this interpretation of events, but by the time he reached the scene, it had been nearly a full day, and any trace of the attackers had been blown away by the crisp winds. 

Three days after he’d arrived at Helgrind, when both he and Thorn were haggard and tired from their constant search and lack of sleep, Murtagh landed at the southernmost outpost–mere miles from the Varden camp. 

A messenger had arrived that morning with news from the spies within the camp–Shadeslayer had returned safely to the Varden, on foot, in the company of the elf Arya Drottningu.

Murtagh felt a sickening clench in his chest. He had failed. Again.

He sat that night on the cot provided for him in the captain’s private room, and he tried not to think about what would happen, when he returned to Uru’baen with the report that Galbatorix’s best servants had been killed and Eragon escaped. 

His fear and anger was followed, surprisingly, by a sort of manic laughter. Thorn pressed his thought towards him, wondering at Murtagh’s sudden humor, as he sat leaning on his knees, too tired to lay down.

What is humorous?

Eragon, Murtagh said, shaking his head, aghast. The mad bastard. He really did it. 

Thorn seemed concerned, but Murtagh found himself taken with a fit of laughter, giggling quietly like an insane man, utterly amazed that his brother had managed to infiltrate the lair of the most feared creatures in existence, kill them, rescue his cousin’s fiance, and escape the Kingdom on foot while hundreds of soldiers and a dragon rider were hunting him down.

Mad bastard, Murtagh thought again. 

He had learned that Eragon’s cousin– his cousin–was called Roran Stronghammer, and had had a spark of recognition at the name. Eragon must have mentioned it when they’d traveled together so long ago. 

He had realized, of course, that Eragon and Roran had not been after the Ra’zac for revenge at all; Eragon wouldn’t have risked so much for that. They had gone into Helgrind for a rescue, and evidently they had been successful. Roran’s wife, or betrothed or whoever she was… they’d snatched her from the jaws of death itself.

Murtagh wondered what it was like–to love someone so much you’d travel across the world and brave the heart of darkness for them. He felt a pang of jealousy, not only because he’d never known anything close to that kind of love, but also because no one had come after him when he’d been taken by a monster.

There will be consequences, Thorn thought ruefully, echoing his own warning from the Burning Plains. Murtagh’s laughter died. 

We did what we could, He said dully, and it was true. They’d fulfilled their oath–he really had been trying to find Eragon. He’d told his brother there would be no more mercy, no pass given, no quarter the next time they met, and it was true. But this time–this time Eragon had managed to outsmart him. And he still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

***

He stood before Galbatorix two days later, in the map room, with Thorn at his side. Two of the King’s cartographers were busy at work laying out the latest troop reports, and a servant was cleaning up the King’s dinner tray. 

Murtagh stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin high.

“...he made it back to the Varden before we were able to apprehend him.”

Galbatorix again leaned on the table, his eyes scanning the route Eragon had taken from Helgrind to the Burning Plains. His broad shoulders were hunched.

“Alone?” Galbatorix said, icily quiet.

“We believe at some point he was joined by the elf–Arya Drottningu.”

Galbatorix’ scowl deepened.

“And the Ra’zac? They were unable to take him captive? Hmm? Even after he sent his cousin off with the dragon?”

Murtagh breathed to steady himself.

“He killed the Ra’zac, sir. And their mounts. They’re dead.”

Galbatorix’s face grew so hard it might’ve been carved from stone. Murtagh took a breath.

“It happ–”

Before the words could leave his mouth the King bellowed with rage, and swiped his hand through the air, spitting a word–instantly the two cartographers fell dead, their necks snapped grotesquely. 

The two guards behind Murtagh started, but they had only a second to be afraid before the King unleashed his wrath upon them, too. The servant woman with the tray of food shrieked in terror, and Murtagh saw what was about to happen. He lunged towards her,

“Wait!”

But it was no use. The King flung her against the stone wall with a push of magic, cracking her skull.

“It wasn’t–” Murtagh whirled around, but he found Galbatorix charging towards him, and then the King’s great hand was around his neck, squeezing, crushing. 

He felt himself shoved back onto the map table, his legs flailing as he tried to loose himself from the vice-like grasp.

He choked and gargled and saw spots dancing before his eyes–the King’s face was close to his, heat from his fury radiating outward, his words spitting.

“If you somehow helped him escape…” The King snarled, his eyes white with rage. 

Murtagh grunted and swung his arms, desperately trying to break free but prevented from attacking the King by his oaths. He felt every heartbeat in his chest as the blood in body seemed to slow; he heard Thorn growling behind him, he saw the beading sweat on the King’s upper lip as he squeezed, all reason gone from his black eyes.

For a moment, Murtagh thought that perhaps Galbatorix really would kill him this time. Perhaps the King had lost control, perhaps his rage at the loss of the Ra’zac, the loss of Eragon, the loss on the Burning Plains, Murtagh’s betrayal… perhaps it was all too much, and he had snapped, and this was it. 

Murtagh’s only thought as he twitched and struggled, and the corners of his vision turned gray, was that Thorn would be alone. He didn’t care so much about death, except that it would mean leaving Thorn, and that he couldn’t stand.

He clutched wildly at the King’s iron hands, his eyes wide and helpless, straining to wheeze air through his throat. 

“Please…” He rasped breathlessly, his feet scrabbling for a foothold on the stone floor.

Just before Murtagh lost consciousness, he heard Thorn roar with fury, a sound that reverberated in Murtagh’s skull. Unable to attack the King directly, Thorn attacked the map table in front of him. He reared up with a deafening bellow and landed his two great red forelegs on the table, crushing the wood and knocking the flat surface out from under Murtagh so he dropped away from the King’s grip.

Murtagh landed hard on the shattered table and gasped for air, coughing and wheezing as he rolled to his side, and the King turned his fury upon Thorn.

“You fail me!” The King bellowed, and unleashed his magic upon the dragon, who writhed in pain and fell back, shaking the floor as he landed. “I give you keys to the power of the universe and you fail me!!”

Galbatorix’ fury was a terror, his madness unleashed. Murtagh crawled over the rubble of the table, wheezing and reaching out a trembling hand.

“It’s not his fault–” He stammered breathlessly, “Please–It’s not–”

He had grabbed at Galbatorix’s cape, trying to steer the King’s wrath away from Thorn, but the King backhanded him with his heavily-ringed left fist, and Murtagh saw stars. He fell back onto the splintered wood as the side of his face began to throb.

“I give you strength beyond any! And yet you are not strong enough to best a mere child!! ” The King spat as Thorn twisted and howled in pain.

“I will just have to make you stronger, ” Galbatorix sneered.

Murtagh heard the spell leave his mouth, and now he understood what the words meant.

“No…” He panted, but his limbs were clumsy from a lack of air and he couldn’t push himself from the floor. He felt the all-too-familiar stretching, aching sensation from Thorn–the painful wrenching in his bones that told Murtagh the King was growing him, forcing his limbs to lengthen, forcing his muscles to expand. 

“St–please…” Murtagh gasped; he tried to move, but the splintered table shifted under him and he fell. He heard Thorn whining as the dragon curled onto the floor and the terrible spell did its work, expanding him like the stretching of a bellows.

Murtagh’s breath came in rasps as he lay against the wooden pieces, and he reached out a weak hand towards Thorn, trying to lend his strength, trying to shelter him from the pain. But he was too dazed to even lift his own head, and he could not shield his partner.

***

When the King’s wrath was spent and Thorn was nearly four feet larger than he had been when the day began, Galbatorix swept from the room and let the doors fall shut with a hollow thud , leaving Murtagh lying on the floor with five dead servants and his wounded dragon.

His eyes fluttered as the ceiling swam over his head. He was splayed out on the rubble of the map table, and he felt something wet dripping down the side of his face. He thought it was blood, but then he touched it and his hands came away black.

Ink. His foggy mind informed him. The ink bottles that the dead cartographers had been using. 

He kept trying to get his limbs to move, but he couldn’t seem to keep his concentration together for long enough to lift an arm. 

Vaguely he was aware of the door opening, and the sound of shuffled footsteps. 

“Sir?” A man’s voice said, and a bald face appeared above him. “Ye conscious?” The man asked and Murtagh coughed again, his throat throbbing. 

“Can ye sit up?” 

He felt the man take his forearm and put a firm hand on his back, helping to lift him from the broken wood of the map table. Murtagh sat wheezing for a long second, sitting up but swaying like a drunk man.

“Shall I fetch a healer?” The bald man asked, unsure. Murtagh coughed again, and looked around to see Thorn on the other side of the ruined table, shaking his head as if he’d been stung, confusion swimming in his great red eyes.

Thorn? Are you okay? Murtagh asked, trying to crawl himself towards his dragon. Thorn blinked several times, and shifted his weight back and forth. He tried to stand but his limbs seemed to quiver, and he fell again, sending a great vibration through the floor.

“He alright?” The bald man asked above Murtagh, whose face and tunic were streaked with ink.

Thorn? Murtagh asked again, and Thorn raised his gaze to meet him. He let out a little whine, and Murtagh was reminded of the tiny dragon with the shackle around his neck, trapped in the box. Helpless.

“Help me–can–can you help me over to him?” Murtagh breathed to the bald man with the sword at his belt.

“Of course, sir,” He hurried over and half-lifted Murtagh off the floor, helping him shuffle over to where Thorn lay heaving.

Murtagh’s shaking hands felt sturdier once they had touched Thorn’s scales.

“Alright?” He murmured, trying to lend the dragon some of his energy, though he had precious little to spare, as they had already returned their Eldunari to the hold. 

After a few moments, Murtagh felt Thorn’s panic subsiding, and the dragon’s breaths began to come easier.

“What, uh… what happened?” The bald nobleman asked, peering around at the destroyed room, at the five dead bodies.

“What’s your name?” Murtagh asked as he leaned on Thorn’s neck, his legs bent beneath him.

“Lord Barrow, sir. I… was just about to come in and have a meeting with the King… suppose it’s luck I wasn’t here.”

The man looked again at the dead servant woman.

“You shouldn’t be helping us, Lord Barrow,” Murtagh said darkly. He gave the man a significant look; he was sure he knew exactly what had happened.

Lord Barrow’s lips thinned, and he lowered his gaze.

“Yes, well.” 

The nobles all knew of King Galbatorix’s volatile explosions. Their reverence was far more from fear than from respect, and all were aware that death was only too real a possibility if they got on the King’s bad side.

“...I’ve got a young lad and lass,” Lord Barrow continued with straightened shoulders, “And I’d like to think someone’d help them when they needed it. Even if there was a risk.”

Murtagh kept silent. He ducked his head, waiting for his breathing to return to normal and for his vision to stop blurring in and out.

“Here,” 

Lord Barrow stepped gingerly to the table where the food tray had sat–carefully avoiding the dead woman on the ground next to it–and he poured a cup of water, handing it to Murtagh, who still had one arm on Thorn’s neck. 

He took the water with a shaking hand and drank it gratefully, wincing as he swallowed through the painful swelling in his throat. He would be able to heal himself eventually, but right now he hadn’t the energy to spare.

“Thank you,” Murtagh breathed, emptying the cup.

Thorn? He asked, patting the dragon’s scales.

You alright?

Thorn whined, but he shifted his weight and began to stand. Murtagh sat up and let the dragon rise, shaking his head like a wet dog, twitching his wings as though to make sure they worked. 

He made an uneasy grunting sound in his chest, and Lord Barrow took a few steps back.

I am myself, Thorn said, finally, his mind heavy with exhaustion and his muscles still aching from the forced growth. 

Murtagh stood with the help of Lord Barrow and gripped one of Thorn’s neck spikes tightly as the room swam around him.

“You gonna be alright to make it back to your quarters?” Barrow asked. Murtagh closed his eyes and breathed. He nodded.

“Aye. Thank you for your help.”

“I’ll go, uh… fetch one of the attendants, I suppose. Shouldn’t leave the folk lyin’.”

The man looked sadly around at the five dead people who lay strewn about the destroyed room. Murtagh squinted at him, surprised at the man; he hadn’t met many noblemen who would mourn for servants.

“Thank you,” Murtagh said again, and the man gave a stiff little bow.

He and Thorn shuffled slowly back through the winding passages of the citadel, picking the most remote path towards their chambers.

As the fearful pounding of his heart settled and he began to breathe again, a deep anger settled into Murtagh’s bones. 

Blast Eragon and his blasted revenge. Five people are dead because of him. Because he had to take his retribution on the Ra’zac. Couldn’t have taken the girl and run; had to end it. Had to get his satisfaction.

And sure, Murtagh admitted that the Ra’zac would’ve likely been responsible for the deaths of many more than five people if Eragon hadn't killed them, but the anger felt right; it steadied him as he made his painful way back to his chambers. It felt good to have someone to blame.

Demelza was in the room when Murtagh pushed open the double doors to let Thorn through–he barely fit now, and his tail scraped clumsily along the door panel as he lumbered in.

Murtagh heard Demelza give a little gasp, first at Thorn’s size, and then at the black ink on the side of Murtagh’s face and the blotchy purple bruise forming around his neck.

“Sir… is everything…? What’s happened?”

Thorn stumbled towards his cushion and sat down heavily, and Murtagh steadied himself on the bedpost.

“It’s alright,” he breathed, closing his eyes to keep the room from spinning.

“Here, sit, please.” Demelza hurried to bring over one of the chairs, and put it behind Murtagh’s legs. He sank onto it as another coughing fit fell upon him.

“Take a drink,” Demelza said as he wheezed, his hand against the post. She offered a cup of water to him, and again he drank, though the swelling lump in his throat seemed to be growing and not shrinking.

“Did the other rider do this?” She asked, confused. Through his uneven breaths Murtagh gave her a look that discouraged questions, but she seemed to understand.

“Can you… could you heal yourself, sir?” She changed tack. Murtagh nodded hazily.

“Just… I just need a minute,” He breathed.

Demelza sat on the edge of the bed, holding the half-full glass in one slender hand, her brow furrowed. She shook her head.

“He’s going to kill you if he keeps this up,” She murmured, a sorrowful anger biting in her voice. Murtagh’s eyes shot to her, and he grabbed her wrist suddenly, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Don’t you ever say anything like that again,” He hissed, fear suddenly overwhelming his fatigue. “Never. Never speak of him, do you hear me? Don’t ever.” 

His heart was hammering, already scared that she had sealed her doom–what if the King saw that memory in his mind? What if he saw what she had dared to say out loud? Her treasonous anger towards him? What if he killed her like he’d killed Aberfell? What if he made Murtagh do it?

Demelza’s eyes were wide and her lip trembling, but she seemed to understand. She nodded once, slowly, and Murtagh released his tight grip on her wrist.

She rose stiffly and placed the water glass down. Then she took a towel and dipped it in the wash basin, coming over to Murtagh and sitting again on the edge of the bed, close enough to wipe the ink from his face.

“You’ll need a wash–get this out of your hair,” She said as she dabbed the cloth along his temple. He was too tired to take the cloth from her and do it himself, so he leaned his head against the bedpost and let her continue. The cool water felt good on his throbbing skin, and her hands were gentle.

“I suppose then… you didn’t find the other rider?” She asked quietly.

“No,” Murtagh breathed, “...he got away.”

They were silent for a long moment.

“Demelza?” He panted, wincing as he touched the bruise around his neck.

“Yes?”

Murtagh let his hand fall, his eyes vacant.

“...he’s my brother.”

Chapter Text

Thorn rose from a cove of trees on the banks of the Jiet river, the heavy orange clouds drifting in the distance, filling Murtagh’s nostrils with the memories of war.

A cadre of Imperial troops fanned out onto the slope in front of the Varden camp, marching calmly towards their doom as Murtagh gripped Zar’roc and straightened in the saddle, preparing himself. 

The King had sent him back to the battlefield, back to Eragon, back to end this once and for all. And this time he had the horrifying company of a legion of soldiers that were unkillable. Murtagh had nearly vomited when he’d stood in the throne room and watched one of Galbatorix’s magicians slowly hack pieces of a soldier off while the man stood there proudly, mad laughter escaping from him as his arm fell to the floor. 

They couldn’t feel pain, and Murtagh envied them, but as the small group of men fanned out onto the stretch of grass below him, he knew that none of them would be returning. They’d volunteered for this, though–promised enough gold to keep their families fed and housed for life if they would only be willing to throw themselves into the meat grinder of war, and take down as many Varden as they could before their bodies gave out.

His own body felt different, this time. The King had worked his spells, trying to make up for the fact that Eragon was half-elven now, that Murtagh was weak, that he had failed. Now his limbs moved faster, his eyes saw farther, his reactions were lighting quick, and his heart was hardened.

He was a match for Eragon in strength, but he knew his brother was no match for him in power. With Murtagh’s Eldunari behind him, Eragon stood no chance. He would be defeated, and this time Murtagh’s heart didn’t quail at the thought. He found Eragon’s shape next to Saphira below, and steeled his nerves. He had suffered enough for Eragon’s sake. No more.

Murtagh shifted his grip on Zar’roc as his eyes drifted from Eragon to the gray outline of a war horse, and then to the woman riding it–Nasuada. For a moment his resolve wavered, and his breath seemed taken by the wind as Thorn rose.

Nasuada. In his mind he saw the flash of a bright smile on a dark face, the sound of her voice as she read aloud her favorite passage of an old story book, her soft laughter echoing off the walls of the small cell…

Murtagh scowled and shifted in the saddle. 

No more, He told himself again, hardening his heart with the memory of his pain. 

Then he raised his voice with magic and shouted,

“Eragon!” Across the sky. 

Immediately the attention of the whole camp was on him, except for those poor souls who were riding out to meet the undying soldiers.

 “I see you there,” His voice echoed, “hiding behind Nasuada’s skirts. Come fight me, Eragon! It is your destiny. Or are you a coward, Shadeslayer? ” Into the last word he poured all his rage, his hurt, his anger at the pain Eragon had caused him. 

Saphira’s response was quick and startling, a jet of blue flame shooting from her maw as she roared. Murtagh felt Thorn grumble underneath him, and then Saphira was rising to meet them in the sky.

Time to end this, He told Thorn.

But things went horribly awry, very quickly. 

First Eragon stalled them for several long, painful minutes, trying to convince Murtagh that he could free himself, as if he hadn’t studied, thought, wondered, labored over the idea for hours at a time. Change his true name? Eragon made it sound as simple as learning to swing a sword.

Easy for you to say, Murtagh thought as his brother pleaded with him to try and alter himself, to break himself free of Galbatorix by simply not being himself. Perhaps for Eragon, it seemed simple enough. He’d been changed by the elves, hadn’t he? They’d practically handed him a new true name on a platter. If only Murtagh had been so welcomed by the courteous elves; if only anyone had bothered helping him, fixing his scar, protecting his dragon from the Empire. 

Murtagh’s thoughts were bitter, but despite himself, there was a deep longing that threatened to bubble to the surface. He felt it in Thorn, too. It was why they hung there, suspended in the sky like two great, sparkling clouds, listening to Eragon try to talk his way out of this. Again.

Enough, Murtagh finally said to Thorn. If what Eragon said was true–if there really was a way out of Galbatorix’s chains–then they would find it soon enough. But right now, they had work to do.

Once the battle began, though, it clearly became apparent that he was not facing the same foe that he’d faced on the Burning Plains.

Almost at once he felt a great splitting pain from Thorn as Saphira out-maneuvered him in the sky, crushing his wing with her tail. Murtagh’s vision went blurry from pain and dizziness as Thorn began to spiral downwards, howling in torment, his blood splattering outward as they fell.

Murtagh started to panic, feeling his partner’s agony and the terrible swooping sensation from their precipitous drop. Quickly he scrabbled to find the smallest of the Eldunari and grabbed it from its invisible pouch. With a shaking hand, as the world spun around him, he held it to Thorn’s wing and said the necessary words so the dragon’s broken membrane began to knit itself together.

Thorn caught himself and began to ascend, whole once more, but this was not the end of their troubles. 

First Eragon nearly hacked Thorn’s toes off, then Saphira caught Thorn’s neck in a vice-like clamp, and Eragon cut a gash into Murtagh’s cheek right after he’d received a wound from Zar’roc. The dragons disengaged as the ground came hurtling up beneath them, and Murtagh stemmed the flow of blood from his face, gritting his teeth as he winced through the words of the spell and Thorn labored upwards.

Almost immediately Eragon and Saphira were on them again, and Thorn, struggling to maneuver with his too-large body, was beset by her once more. Murtagh and he screamed together as Saphira clamped him in a vice of razor teeth, and Murtagh saw with a thrill of horror that she was one strong pull from ripping Thorn’s wing off completely. 

NO! He thought as he felt Thorn’s agony. Then he turned his fury onto Eragon, pointing Zar’roc in his direction and launching a mental attack, the power of the Eldunari behind him. He battered against the stronghold of Eragon’s mind, like a man beating stone with his fists. But then Thorn twitched underneath him and a shock of pain ran up his wing, and Murtagh’s concentration faltered.

Now he was under attack. He battered away Eragon’s mental spear, almost frantically, reciting the lines of verse,

Sweet little darling, where have you gone? 

Table is ready and supper is on…

Murtagh swore internally, as Eragon and he grappled in their minds and the dragons continued to fall. What was this? Eragon should’ve been weak from his wound, why was he still holding his own? 

Suddenly Eragon was pointing his falchion and shouting a spell that locked Murtagh’s limbs in place. Murtagh growled and spat back a counterspell, and then they were engaged. 

What does he think he’s playing at? 

Murtagh thought as their magic began pushing at each other; Murtagh felt the drain on him, the Eldunari lending their strength. Surely Eragon didn’t think he could outlast him?

Once, Eragon’s concentration faltered, but he recovered himself too quickly for Murtagh to overpower him. 

Murtagh grunted as he felt the energy drain, his teeth were gritted, his forehead beading with sweat.

The ground! Thorn cried through his pain, and Murtagh risked a glance to see the horses and tents below growing dangerously in size. Eragon tried to use the moment of distraction to overwhelm him, but he recoiled quickly.

Table is ready and supper is on…

Murtagh felt his sword hand trembling, he was afraid Zar’roc was going to drop from his grip. His breaths came in short gasps and his vision was turning blurry.

How is he doing this? Murtagh thought blearily, his fingers going numb as the wind whistled past them. It was a contest of sheer power, and somehow, Eragon was winning.

Murtagh break the spell! Thorn shouted in his mind, You must! You will lose consciousness!

He can’t best us! It’s impossible! Murtagh groaned.

But he is ! End it now!

Murtagh cried in anguish as he cut off the flow of magic, his breath wheezing. 

Eragon’s spell held.

Murtagh was close to passing out when Saphira shoved herself away from Thorn and fought to regain altitude. Thorn twisted, blood spraying from his now-opened wounds. 

Fly, Murtagh begged as he murmured the spell of healing, struggling to think through his haze of exhaustion. G–get–get us out of here.

Thorn landed hard on the slope of a hill, hurtled down it, and rapidly pumped his wings to take off again as Murtagh sat frozen, still hampered by Eragon’s spell. 

The moments stretched out endlessly as Thorn labored, and every second Murtagh thought he would see Saphira’s shadow descending from above, feel Eragon dragging them to the ground with a spell, or invading his mind, or killing him with a word. 

His heart thudded like a deep drum, the wind biting his eyes, and he wondered what they would do, once they caught him. Would they drag him before Nasuada and have him beheaded? Would they sic the Urgals on him? Would they torture him for information on the King?

He almost laughed, in his delirious exhaustion. How ironic, to be tortured for the man who had tortured him. Would they believe him when he told them he could not say a word? That his oaths wouldn’t allow him? Would they kill him after they realized he was useless? Would Eragon put the sword to him himself? Use Zar’roc maybe? That would really complete the irony. 

Suddenly Murtagh felt a snap as the magic binding him released, and he took a gasp of deep breath, leaning forward and gripping one of Thorn’s neck spikes.

There was a moment of deep relief, that he and Thorn were not dead, not grappling on the ground now with a horde of angry Kull.

Then Murtagh screamed in fury and beat a gloved hand against his thigh. How had they done it? How could they keep doing this? 

Pathetic, weak, idiot, He cursed himself, knowing that their defeat would bring down the King’s wrath once again. Stupid, stupid, you worthless, useless fool.

Murtagh– Thorn’s tired voice interrupted, and Murtagh blinked, stopping his spiral into self-hatred.

He growled and reached for the last dregs of energy from the Eldunari, soothing Thorn’s aches and then his own. 

Then he turned in the saddle, seeing Eragon down below, in Saphira’s saddle, surrounded by horsemen and peering up in their direction. He forced his voice to be steady, and amplified it:

“Do not think you have won, Eragon, Saphira!” He shouted, “We shall meet again, I promise, and Thorn and I shall defeat you then, for we shall be even stronger than we are now!”

The threat did not make him feel any better, and already a pit of dread formed in his stomach as Thorn continued his flight away from the Varden camp. 

They had failed. Again. What would the King do to him now?

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to panic, clinging to Thorn as they passed through the clouds. 

***

The King’s wrath never came.

Murtagh paced outside the treasure room for several long, anxious minutes, until the castle administrator came out to him and said,

“My lord, you’re free to go tend to your business. The King will summon you if needed.”

Murtagh blinked, and Thorn cocked his head. 

“W… did he receive my report?”

“Yes, my lord. He’s occupied at the moment, but he’s received the report.”

Murtagh’s frown deepened, suspicion rising, his shoulders hunched.

“He knows Shadeslayer is not in our clutches? He knows they got away?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“And he doesn’t… care?”

“He’s occupied,” The administrator said again, coolly.

Occupied with what? Murtagh looked back at Thorn. His relief was tampered by the sense that something was very wrong, that the King was toying with him, or that whatever had the King so distracted was certain to be worse than any punishment.

Still confused, Murtagh shuffled down the echoing hall with Thorn, heading for their chambers.

He wasn’t able to relax all that day, as he removed his war-soiled clothes and dented armor, wiped down the grime on Thorn’s scales and washed himself clean of dirt and sweat. He kept expecting to receive a summons, or for someone to burst through the door and clap him in chains. He was too confused at the King’s seeming apathy to be relieved that he wasn’t being beaten and tortured. 

Demelza brought them food and asked them how the battle had fared. He told her what he could, what his oaths would allow him to reveal.

“I don’t know. He shouldn’t have been stronger than me, but he was,” Murtagh admitted, finishing the mug of ale she’d brought with his meal.

“Are you… upset? That you could not bring him back to the King?” Demelza asked as she tossed his dirtied clothes into a basket.

Murtagh didn’t know how to answer. Upset? Yes. He was upset he’d been defeated, that despite his determination to bring Eragon down, he had been unable to complete the task. He was upset that he was still weak and helpless and pathetic. But was he upset that his brother remained free from the King’s clutches? He couldn’t say for certain. He had hardened himself against all feelings of charity towards Eragon, but still there was that nagging sentiment that made him feel just a little relieved by his failure.

And anyway, the King didn’t seem to care very much about it, so why should Murtagh?

“I don’t know,” He finally answered, his finger tracing the rim of the now-empty mug. Demelza seemed to understand. 

After failing to be summoned to the King all that day, Murtagh convinced himself that the crisis had passed–that whatever secret study the King was doing really was more important to him than losing Eragon and Saphira again. If no punishment was going to come, then Murtagh would make use of the time he had.

He made his way down to the library, as he often did when Thorn was busy and he had a moment to spare. This time, however, he had a mission. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Eragon had said, about his true name, about his bonds to Galbatorix. 

He knew that if the King ever decided to search his mind he would see that conversation, and no doubt punish Murtagh for even considering it. But Galbatorix had not rifled through his thoughts for some time now, and Murtagh supposed that while he had the opportunity, he might as well try to see if Eragon had been telling the truth. If there was even the slightest chance, he owed it to Thorn to try.

In the library he asked the scroll keeper for texts on the ancient language, on names, and on the binding properties of spells, but he also asked for other, benign things, so as to throw off the old man’s suspicion. 

For hours that day, Murtagh sat rifling through texts, his eyes now accustomed to reading both the common tongue and the ancient language. He carefully pored over each scroll and book, searching for information on true names, trying to see if there was a way out. He found vague mentions of a change to one’s person, but nothing that said whether this would release one from a previously-made oath. He found reference to a man who had been a name-slave to a dark sorcerer, and had managed to escape, but this was only done by finding a loophole in the spells that allowed the enslaved man to kill the sorcerer; he did not actually manage to change himself. 

Murtagh hunched over the old table with the fading light of the day filtering in through a thin window, his head aching and swimming with the thin lines of scrawling writing. He’d discovered nothing useful for all his hunting, and he slammed the last book closed in anger, after reading of an elf who had discovered the true name of a pet bird and used the animal to spy on his rivals.

Stupid, useless elves with their stupid, useless language. He hated it– The Ancient Language –as if it were something so great; as if it were so honorable and wonderful. It was this language that caused Murtagh’s bondage in the first place; without the binding property of its words, he could’ve left Galbatorix, could’ve turned against the King, could’ve gone back on his oaths, could’ve fought his way out with Thorn. But no, the elves and their stupid language of truth–they had put him in shackles. They had caused his slavery. And they were no good with helping him find a way out.

He left the library in a foul mood, glaring at every attendant he passed so that they scurried away like frightened mice. What was Eragon playing at, getting his hopes up like this? How was he supposed to do anything his brother had suggested, when every second of his life was open for observation by the King whenever it pleased him? Reading those texts was cause for punishment, if the King found out. The very thoughts in his head were not safe.

Still, Eragon’s words echoed in his head as he made his way back to his chambers.

Grow into something other than you are. 

Eragon had admitted that Murtagh had probably done the best he could, all things considered, and it wouldn’t do to make himself worse somehow–to become like Galbatorix in cruelty and evil. He might as well be dead, then. But to grow into something different? What could he change about himself? What could he and Thorn alter in themselves that would be enough to break their chains?

In his mind Murtagh thought over the two things about his True Name that had stung him the most, the two truths that filled him with shame by their undeniable frankness.

Selfish and Coward.

But how could he change either of those? He wasn’t a coward–hadn’t he fought for the Varden? Hadn’t he left the safety of a noble life in Uru’baen to run across the land like a vagabond? Hadn’t he aided Eragon at risk to his own life? Hadn’t he faced death at the King’s hand like a man? Hadn’t he tried to end his own life rather than give in to the King? Wasn’t that brave? How did that make him a coward?

And as for the selfishness, well, a person had to look after himself when there was no one else to do it, didn’t they? It wasn’t his fault that his mother had gone and died, and his father, too, and no one had taken care of him his whole life. He had to be selfish, or he’d have been dead a long time ago. And besides, he cared for Thorn more than he cared for himself, and that wasn’t selfish at all. He’d give his life up for Thorn in an instant; that was self less wasn’t it? And hadn’t he fought for the Varden even after they’d shunned him? Selfless! And hadn’t he let Eragon go even though he knew he’d be punished for it? Selfless! 

If he hadn’t felt in his bones the truth of the Name Galbatorix had taught him, he might have doubted that it was even true. He might’ve thought the Language had made a mistake.  

 How could he show he was not a coward? How could he show he was selfless? How could he prove to the universe that he was not what he was? How could he change himself if he didn’t understand his own Name?

His mood had not improved by the time he returned to his chambers. 

***

When he received a summons the next day, the old fear settled back over him. But Galbatorix was calm as he stood in the treasury room–where he had been taking his meetings ever since he’d destroyed the map room–and ordered Murtagh out to see to Belatona’s preliminary defenses. It was so benign, so unimportant, Murtagh kept expecting for the other shoe to drop, expecting for the King to reveal some nefarious plan, some punishment he had planned. 

The trip to Belatona was so strangely uneventful, that the nervous fear kept at him until he and Thorn returned to the citadel, where they were sent out again, this time to fly to Tierm and see that the Governor there was ready to send ships down the coast if called upon. Murtagh began to wonder what game the King was playing. 

In the brief interludes he saw Galbatorix, the King seemed almost gleeful, a satisfied spark in his eyes. He shouldn’t have been so pleased, after losing his grasp on Eragon for the dozenth time, but he was, and Murtagh couldn’t stand it.

Just give me my bloody punishment and have done with it, Murtagh thought with a growl as he stormed out of the treasury after returning from a third seemingly innocuous mission. 

“The people need to see you,” Galbatorix had said, in an almost jolly mood, “Need to fear you.”

If this was the King’s intent, he was achieving it marvelously. Murtagh was wound tight with anxiety, taut like a bowstring ready to snap, and every governor, lieutenant and underling he interacted with felt it. He left them stuttering and sweating after every conversation, and anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way learned never to do it again. 

Murtagh and Thorn made themselves known throughout the Kingdom, descending upon town after town to rally the King’s forces into readiness. Their message was consistent: the Varden were coming, and the King demanded their loyalty. 

Murtagh’s constant anxiety was at its peak one day when he was in his chambers, surrounded by the battalion of servants that often descended upon him at unawares. 

One of the armorer’s assistants was measuring him for a new chainmail shirt, and Demelza was busy changing the linens, and another servant was replacing the burned-out candles in the room, and yet a third was dusting everything from the ceiling down.

 The man who’d replaced Falner as Chief Attendant was rattling off a list of the people Murtagh was meant to meet with the next day, and Thorn was chewing on a leg of lamb, and everything in the room suddenly felt loud and overwhelming. Murtagh’s shoulders were hunched and his hands were clenched, and he could hear the scratching of the woman’s duster on the surface of the nightstand table and the crunch of bones in Thorn’s mouth and he felt like he was dragging his nails over a piece of shale.

Suddenly the man taking his measurements placed a hand on the back of Murtagh’s neck, and he snapped.

“Get your bloody hands off me!” Murtagh shouted, smacking the man’s arm away and shooting out of his chair as the armorer stumbled back, white-faced. 

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you!” He yelled, hearing a frightened squeak from one of the other servants as the man cowered.

“M–m–my apologies my lord I was only–”

“I don’t want your blasted apologies! Get out! All of you get out! Now!”

Thorn’s head shot up, his lamb leg forgotten, and instantly the servants scrambled to leave, tripping over themselves in their hurry. Murtagh stood, clenching and unclenching his fists as his chest heaved and the blinding anger whirled.

When the last servant slammed the door closed, Murtagh swallowed, blinking away his sudden fury, and finding his hands trembling.

He heard a step, and turned back to see Demelza, standing calmly by the bed, linens still in her arms. 

His brow furrowed with a mix of anger and shame, but her expression was inscrutable.

A few long seconds more he breathed, coming down quickly after the outburst. He felt a thread of questioning thought from Thorn.

“I’m sorry,” He muttered to Demelza, leaning over and picking up the duster that one of the servants had dropped. 

“S’alright, sir,” She returned softly. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to calm the hammering of his heart.

I do not believe the clothes-making man was attempting to harm you, Thorn pointed out, a little confused. Murtagh closed his eyes for a second.

I know.

“Perhaps some tea?” Demelza’s voice came through softly as she carried the old linens to her usual basket. 

Now the moment had passed, Murtagh felt embarrassed for his outburst. The servants were only doing their jobs, the poor armorer’s assistant was only taking measurements. No one in that room was dangerous–except him.

“I’m sorry,” He said again, this time looking Demelza in the face.

She nodded and gave him a soft smile.

“I wasn’t afraid,” She assured. The girl seemed unflappable, and Murtagh wondered how she did it, what steel did she possess that gave her such strength? The Varden might have a chance if they had a thousand soldiers as even-keeled as her.

“Tea?” She asked again, her gaze steady.

***

Demelza did not meet Murtagh’s second outburst with the same easy calm as the first. It happened as he was walking from his chambers to the stables, and passed Demelza and one of the manservants in the stone hallway.

Both the servants muttered,  

“My lord,” As they passed, and Murtagh nodded in Demelza’s direction, but as he strolled by he sensed unease from her, and his ears pricked up.

He heard the young man by her side say something pleadingly, after Murtagh had passed.

“I’m sorry, Arian, I sincerely do not,” Demelza murmured, but the man did not seem satisfied with her answer.

“You’re just sayin’ that; I know what I seen–come on, just give us a chance, eh?”

Murtagh’s brisk footsteps slowed and he stretched out his thought behind him to touch the man’s mind. Instantly he felt the sickening pull of the man’s desire, and he whirled.

“Ain’t I nice enough?” The man was saying, and placing a hand on Demelza’s waist as she shirked away.

“Please, Arian–”

Murtagh’s vision went red, and he held out a hand and barked,

“Jierda !” 

Instantly the young man flung backwards and slid onto the stone floor, grunting as the air was knocked from him.

“Sir–” Demelza started, but he was already charging past her as the young man looked up in fear.

“My lo–” 

Murtagh swung a kick at the man’s face, and blood splattered the stones.  

“Sir, please!” Demelza’s voice echoed, but Murtagh was deaf to it. He straddled Arian and landed two punches as the young man spluttered and raised feeble hands to defend himself.

“You slick–slimy–bastard–!” Murtagh shouted, landing a punch with each word. The man wheezed and coughed.

“I’ll bloody kill you!” Murtagh screamed in his face, grabbing him by his tunic and slamming him back down again.

“You touch her, I’ll kill you!” 

“Murtagh!” Demelza’s voice cut into his blind rage–his name from her mouth, jarring him out of his fury.

He held the whimpering man’s shirt in his fists, death-magic dancing on his tongue. 

“Murtagh, I’m fine,” She said, more softly. His chest was heaving, but he turned to look at her, and he saw anger marring her delicate features.

He looked back at Arian, whose chin was dripping blood and whose eye was half-shut. Then he let go of the shirt, and the man fell back to the floor with a grunt.

Murtagh leaned in, with a soft voice that cut like steel, and he said,

“You’re going to speak with the Chief Attendant, and have yourself reassigned,” He hissed, “You’re going to ask to be put to work on the gutters. If I see you in this castle again, you’re a dead man. Understand?”

With a pained groan, Arian nodded, his chin dribbling drool and blood, his whole body shaking.

Murtagh pushed himself to standing, and glared down at the man, still tempted to kill him. He breathed, and straightened his shoulders. Then he stepped off and said,

“Get up. Get out of here.”

Arian tried to rise, wincing in pain.

“Get up!!” Murtagh screamed at him, and he lurched forward faster, scrambling up and shuffling down the hallway as he limped and swayed. 

Murtagh watched him go with clenched fists, and once the man’s coughs had disappeared around the next corner, he turned to Demelza.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice low.

Demelza’s shoulders were squared, and her expression stiff.

“I did not require your intervention, sir,” She said coolly, her bright eyes snapping. Murtagh frowned.

“He was hurting you,” He insisted.

“He was bothering me,” Demelza corrected, her usual demure attitude somewhat sharpened. “Arian is a minor nuisance which I am more than capable of dealing with. I didn’t need you sending him to gutter duty…” Her eyes flicked to the blood splatter on the floor, “...or the infirmary.” 

Murtagh felt like he wasn’t processing her words correctly. What on earth was she saying? That he should’ve let the man accost her? Watch him make advances that she clearly wasn’t reciprocating and just say nothing?

Anger clenched his heart. How dare she. He was trying to help her and this cold dismissal was the thanks he got for it?

“Whatever,” Murtagh muttered, hunching his shoulders irritably, “Next time I won’t help you then.”

He pushed past Demelza and started down the hallway, bitter and confused.

“If you truly wish to be of help–” Demelza’s voice stopped him, and he turned. Her chin was straight and her posture unrelenting, but her voice, when it came, was not so hard.

“I have been trying to get a letter to my betrothed, in Tirendal,” She said, pulling a piece of parchment out of her pocket, “The castle letterman won’t accept it–and I’m not allowed to go outside the bounds of the castle to see the city letterman.”

Murtagh frowned.

“Perhaps… you could send it on my behalf?” She asked, her expression pleading. Murtagh wondered if she had been planning to request this of him, before he’d lost his temper on Arian.

Demelza held the letter between them with a tremble in her hand. She suddenly looked very fragile and unsure. Murtagh could see how it pained her, not being able to speak with her betrothed, not being able to let him know how she was faring, especially in a time of war when things were so uncertain. 

His previous anger melted.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to ask,” She said, as he took the letter and stared down at it.

Murtagh bit his lip, unable to quite meet her gaze. He supposed he had overreacted a bit. Arian was a weasel, but he knew Demelza more than capable of holding her own, and if she said she had it well in hand, oughtn’t he to trust her?

“I’ll do my best,” He murmured. Then he turned and took his echoing steps down the hallway, tucking the letter in his pocket.

“I don’t get it,” Murtagh muttered later that night as he and Thorn were flying above Uru’baen, enjoying the crisp air of a clear evening as the stars twinkled to life one by one, “He was bothering her, and I stopped him and she’s angry with me ? Doesn’t make any sense.”

Did she ask for your help with the man?

“N-no…” Murtagh said, “But clearly he–”

Clearly, you only saw one interaction between the two, hmm? A person who only sees trees in the autumn may claim that all leaves are orange. 

Murtagh scoffed. Thorn was getting more eloquent with his metaphors lately, and it was exhausting. 

“I was just trying to help her.”

But what if you have harmed her by accident? Thorn asked, tipping his weight so they slid to the left on a gentle current, 

Surely the other servants will hear about the man’s wounds; they may find out why he was injured and by whom, and how do you think they will treat her when they know? They may be frightened even to talk to her, knowing you are looming like a hawk ready to strike at the slightest misstep. She may be… ostracized.

Thorn wriggled a bit, seeming pleased with himself for having recently learned a new word and having finally found an excuse to use it, but Murtagh was too taken aback to congratulate him on his expanding vocabulary. 

He hadn’t thought of it like that. Even if Arian was a nuisance, even if his thoughts were lustful and improper, it could be that Demelza would choose to endure his advances rather than be shunned by her cohorts. Murtagh hadn’t thought of what his protection might do to the friendships she’d made among the castle servants.

He grimaced, berating himself.

Stupid, you should’ve thought of that. Useless idiot, can’t even help–

I find it unnecessary for you to talk to yourself in such a way, Thorn chided, interrupting Murtagh's self-flagellation, I don’t appreciate you speaking ill of my partner.

Murtagh sensed a smile coming through Thorn’s thought, but he took the message, and stopped his tirade.

Thorn flapped his wings once, to gain a little altitude, and the breeze felt cool on Murtagh’s cheeks.

In any case, you now have a great chance to be of help to her, Thorn carried on,  Send this letter for her, that her beloved may know how she fares. I’m sure that will make up for any ill consequences she might suffer because of this incident.

Murtagh winced, touching his chest-pocket, where the letter sat. He hadn’t quite figured out how to send it. 

He knew he could, technically. His oaths stopped him from sending messages to the enemy, but a letter between lovers? No one could argue that that was spywork; the magic left him free to act in this case. He was afraid, though, of word getting back to the King. He needed to find a way to send Demelza’s letter without anyone noticing or caring. He needed someone in the city who could send the letter but was not inclined to report to the King, someone that he could use as a courier.

I’m going to see about getting a visit with Lord Barrow, Murtagh said after a moment, He seemed friendly enough. Perhaps I can enlist his help.

See that you do it quickly, Thorn offered, sniffing the night air and looking to the North,

  The Elves are marching on Gil’ead, and I sense it will not be long before the King sends us out to meet them.

Chapter Text

Lord Barrow was a balding man of middle age, with an easy smile and a jolly disposition. His personality was so jarring that Murtagh didn’t know how to speak to him at first. 

Murtagh had sent a servant with a request to meet with Lord Barrow and received a response almost immediately, inviting him to the man’s home. It turned out his home was barely a handful of steps from the main entrance to the citadel–Lord Barrow was wealthy indeed. 

Murtagh stepped into the lavish front entryway, trying to calm the hammering in his heart as the smiling man beckoned him in. He had to keep reminding himself that he had chosen to come here, that he had taken no oaths and could leave whenever he wanted, that he owed Lord Barrow nothing, and that he had a knife concealed under his tunic.

“We’re honored to have you visit,” Barrow said, leading him into the dining room, where Murtagh was surprised by the high voices of two young children.

“This is my wife, Abiletha,” Barrow gestured to a woman with soft brown curls and rosy cheeks.

“My lord,” She curtsied.

“And my children, Aberly and Callen,” Barrow gestured to a boy and a girl near the same age, who had stopped their poking at each other when their mother cast them a stern look.

“Good evening,” Both the children said, bowing and curtsying to Murtagh.

“Uh, hello,” He returned.

It took him a few minutes and a few drinks to relax, but Lord Barrow and his wife didn’t seem to mind his quiet demeanor; they filled the evening with relaxing chatter, their spirited children chiming in eagerly.

Murtagh’s first encounter with Lord Barrow had been hazy, frantic and full of pain. But he quickly decided that his brief impression of the man had been right–he was far more kind and humble than most of the other nobles Murtagh had met. He wondered how the man had survived, how he’d made it so far in Uru’baen, being as soft as he was.

When desert had been placed before Murtagh by a servant who was shaking with nervousness, Lord Barrow folded his napkin and took a sip of his wine glass.

“So, Lord Murtagh, of course I’m honored by your visit no matter the circumstance, but I take it that there was a mission behind your call?”

Murtagh cleared his throat.

“Uh, yes, you are correct. Um, firstly I wanted to thank you… for… your help,” Murtagh said, giving Barrow a significant look. “You needn’t have been as kind as you were.”

Barrow seemed to know better than to go into more detail, because he simply nodded, his lips thin.

“Of course, sir. Glad I was… there.”

If his wife wondered what they were speaking of, she kept her questions to herself.

“And I was hoping I might be able to seek your help again,” Murtagh said, reaching into his vest to pull out Demelza’s letter.

“One of my attendants has been trying to reach her family in Tirendal, but the castle lettermen have been giving her trouble. I was hoping you might be willing to send a note out along with your own correspondences, as a favor to me.”

Murtagh kept his gaze unflinching as he placed the letter between them; he knew this was a strange request; he knew Lord Barrow would be suspicious. The man was soft, not stupid.

Barrow looked down at the letter like it was a snake. He licked his lips and shifted.

“It’s nothing nefarious,” Murtagh assured calmly, “You can read it yourself. Just a personal letter from my attendant to her family.”

Lord Barrow cleared his throat.

“Quite the favor, for a servant,” He said coolly.

“She’s quite the servant.”

Lady Barrow lowered her gaze. Murtagh knew what they were thinking–that his motives were more romantic than philanthropic, that he must be using the girl for his own needs and then doing her a favor in return. But he didn’t correct them; he didn’t care what they thought; he just needed the job done.

“I would consider myself in your debt, if you were able to help me,” Murtagh said unflinchingly.

Lord and Lady Barrow looked at each other, and the older man shifted.

“Of course, sir, happy to help you,” He finally said, taking the letter with a smile. Murtagh was sure he would read it, but so what? He had told the truth; it really wasn’t anything but a young woman reaching out to her family. There was no secret message, and Demelza would just have to accept other people snooping into her business.

Murtagh sat back, satisfied, as one of the Barrow’s servants shuffled into the room.

“Thank you.”

“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” The woman said with a curtsy, “Message from the citadel, for Lord Murtagh.”

Murtagh felt a chill on his neck, sudden fear returning. Had the King found out about his meeting with the Barrows? Was he angry? Was he going to be punished for trying to send a letter?

Murtagh took the note from the servant’s hand, and Lord Barrow held his wife’s hand tightly–they seemed to feel the tension.

Murtagh kept his hands from shaking as he unfolded the paper. The scrawling writing said,

Troops approaching Gil’ead. Summoned for immediate departure.

Murtagh closed his eyes. Thorn had been right.

He folded the letter and stood.

“My apologies, Lord Barrow, Lady Barrow,” He bowed, “Thank you for hospitality. I must be gone now.”

Barrow stood abruptly and stiffly.

“I–of course–of course, my lord… anything I can assist with?”

Murtagh offered a small smile.

“Not unless you have an army of immortal sorcerers at your disposal,” He said. 

“Ah… the Elves, then,” Barrow placed a gentle hand on his wife’s arm, “I’ve heard they crawled from their woody burrows.”

Murtagh nodded.

“Blasted rebels,” Barrow commiserated, reaching out to shake Murtagh’s hand. “Give them the Empire’s best for us then. We’ll have you for dinner again when they’re well and truly trounced.”

Murtagh didn’t know what to say. He only nodded to the both of them, and swept back into the cool street of Uru’baen.

***

Murtagh listened to the hurried report of the magician who skryed from Gil’ead, nearly frantic, saying that the Elven army was mere hours away. The King then gave Murtagh a few curt instructions and sent him on his way.

He rushed back to his chambers and packed up Thorn’s saddlebags while Demelza ran to the kitchens to bring food and water for the two of them.

“They’re saying the Elves have invaded,” Demelza said as she handed him wrapped parcels of food for him to stuff into the bags. 

“Is that where he’s sending you?”

“Aye,” Murtagh answered, his hands working quickly. 

“You think there’s a chance? That they can hold the city?”

He gave her a glance and saw a worry in her eyes. 

“I’ve cousins there, sir,” She explained, her lips thin. “Don’t see how we could fight off a whole army of them,” She worried, her gaze growing distant.

“Well…” Murtagh started, swallowing down his own nervousness, “That’s why they’re sending Thorn and me, yeah?”

He tried to give her a confident look, but Demelza seemed to know him too well. Thorn twisted his head close.

We will not let your family come to harm, Friend-Demelza, He said, opening his mind to her directly, as he had begun to do more often.

Murtagh kept quiet as he did up the ties on his bracers, but he wanted to berate Thorn for making a promise like that–one they couldn’t hope to keep. The promise was already made, though, so Murtagh asked,

“Do they have a surname? Your cousins?”

Demelza blinked.

“I–um–Falkan, sir.”

“Right. Well, we’ll look out for them if we can,” He murmured, giving Thorn a sharp look. When he turned back, though, the expression on Demelza’s face was worth whatever trouble his partner had gotten them into–her thankfulness was glowing. 

“Thank you, sir,” She whispered, with a low curtsy. Then she gripped Murtagh’s hand reassuringly, and placed a palm on Thorn’s snout.

 “Take care of both yourselves.”

She nodded to them, and Murtagh returned it. Then she stepped away so that Thorn could fit through the doorway. 

Night had fallen when Murtagh strolled into the open courtyard from which Thorn would take off. 

He gazed into the stars that circled above and closed his eyes, preparing himself for the long flight and the battle to come. He had never fought Elves before. And he understood Demelza’s fear–a whole legion of advanced magic-users and warriors who’d had hundreds of years to hone their craft. He didn’t know how he was supposed to keep them at bay–a lone human man with a dragon that was barely more than a hatchling. 

You can’t fail again, He told himself. Who knew how far the King’s apparent apathy would stretch–who knew if he would get a reprieve the next time he came back from a losing battle.

I am ready, Thorn told him as he stretched his neck towards the sky. Let us fly.

***

Governor Rutgard Tallman was the opposite of what his name suggested–the man stood a full two feet shorter than Murtagh, stocky and red-faced, with a thick neck and dense arms that seemed to be a compensation for his lack of height.

He stood in one of the outer rooms of the citadel explaining the state of the siege to Murtagh with trembling hands as he pointed to various places on the map.

“They’re–they–they haven’t managed to breach the walls yet but my spellcasters say it’s only a matter of time–”

“How many do you have?” Murtagh’s hands were pressed against the table, his voice quick.

“H–how many what?”

“How many spellcasters?” He shot back, impatient. The man was clearly scared out of his wits; he hadn’t been able to form a full sentence since the moment Murtagh landed, and he kept taking drinks from a hip flask. 

Murtagh had managed to get word to the Falkan family of Gil’ead, and see that they were safe within the upper keep, but other than that his progress had been infuriatingly slow.

“S–sixty, around–around sixty.”

“In the whole city?”

The man nodded, and Murtagh swore. Sixty spellcasters–of dubious ability–against hundreds of elves. 

What does Galbatorix expect me to do? He thought with frustration. The city was woefully under-defended, and it was clear that the King did not think it a priority to keep it from the Elves very long. 

Does he just want us to hand the city over to them? Murtagh wondered.

Likely as not he cares little for Gil’ead, Thorn said from where he sat on the other side of the shelter wall. It is just a stumbling block for the Elves. If he truly cared to stop them on their way to Uru’baen, he would fly out and meet them.

Instead he sends us to rally an army of ants against a great boot.

Thorn snorted, as Governor Tallman took another drink.

“Where’s the most likely breach?”

“Sir?”

“The breach–in the wall, you said they’re trying to breach it; where?”

“Uh–uh, there… northeast gate.” 

The man pointed. 

I suppose we go there. Harangue them into giving up? Murtagh thought, running a hand through his hair.

A few men ran past shouting, and a great explosion in the distance shook the floor.

They’ve emerged from their woodland homes for the first time in a century with the sole purpose of winning this war, Thorn said from outside, I do not believe they can be harangued.

“Where’s the highest concentration of spellcasters located?”

Murtagh looked back to Governor Tallman, but the man was shivering and sweating, and clutching at a gold chain around his neck. The explosion had rattled him.

“Governor Tallman–”

“I–um–I–it–it–” The man was blubbering, his face white with shock, his lips quivering. He raised his flask for another drink, and Murtagh smacked it out of his hands, grabbing the man by the shirt and pushing him into the table.

“Do you want me to kill you?” Murtagh growled. The governor went even more pale.

“Ah! Oh–oh–p–p–”

Murtagh smacked him across the face.

“Answer the question! Do you want to die? You die, and I’ll call your Deputy Governor in, and he can come and take charge of the defense of this city so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Is that what you want?”

“Oh—I–”

“You tell me right now; do you want to man the defenses, or do you want to die?”

The man swallowed.

“Do you want to man the defenses, or do you want to die?!” Murtagh shouted, shoving him harder.

“Man the defenses,” The man managed.

“Alright. Then help me get–”

Suddenly Murtagh felt a concussive thud in his ears. He flinched, and there was a strange twinge from Thorn. 

Thud. 

Murtagh straightened, and let go of the governor’s shirt.

Thud.

There were distant screams.

Thud.

Thorn? What are you doing?

Thud.

It is not me.

Thud.

The unmistakable beat of dragon’s wings. 

And Thorn was sitting outside.

Murtagh drew Zar’roc and ran out of the building, leaving the blubbering governor to sink to the ground by the map table.

He’s supposed to be in Feinster! Murtagh thought frantically as he burst into the cool air, searching the orange sky for Saphira.

Thorn’s neck was craned, and he sniffed the air, as more screams drifted up from the battlements. Murtagh’s heart was hammering, his eyes scanning the sunset clouds, his grip shifting on Zar’roc.

What are you doing, Eragon? He asked silently, his breaths heaving.

For a moment things felt quiet again.

But then he saw, rising above the layers of blue haze that surrounded the city, scales glinting in the evening sun, the massive shape of a giant, gold dragon.

***

For a long second, Murtagh felt as though someone had placed a binding spell on him–his whole body seemed to go numb at once, and Zar’roc hung loosely from his hand, its tip touching the stones beneath him. 

He blinked, trying to clear the vision, trying to correct himself. The dragon was blue–it must be–it was Saphira–it had to be… but it was far too large to be Saphira, and as it tilted in the sunlight, bright gold flashes danced before Murtagh’s eyes, the screams of a hundred terrified soldiers drifting back towards him.

MURTAGH! 

Thorn’s mental shouting finally jolted him out of his frozen state. His hearing seemed to pop, and again he heard the concussive, 

Thud, thud, thud, Of the massive dragon’s wingbeats.

Murtagh was shaking, his eyes racing, trying to think, trying to understand, trying to get his limbs to move.

What are we to do? Thorn asked, his own thoughts equally frantic and scattered.

Murtagh panted, as a pair of soldiers ran past. 

Dragon, a dragon, there’s a dragon—gold dragon–not Saphira–who is–rider?

Murtagh’s gaze shot back up and he squinted to make out the shape atop the terrifying beast.

It is a two-legs pointed-ears, Thorn said, his own gaze locked on the approaching pair, Hair like snow.

Then Murtagh was moving. He rushed back into the building where Governor Tallman sat quivering on the floor still.

“You!” He shouted, and the man looked up, “Run to the upper keep–get a spellcaster to skry the mirror at Uru’baen and tell the King there’s a gold dragon with a white-haired Elven rider. Ask him what’s to be done.”

“D–dragon?” The man asked, dazed.

“Say it back to me.”

“G–gold dragon, white-haired–Elven rider,” Tallman stuttered.

Murtagh pointed a harsh finger down at the man and snarled,

“You do this right now or I’ll kill you.”

The man stammered and pulled himself to his feet, careening out of the door as he muttered,

“Gold dragon, white-haired…”

Murtagh burst back outside, and ran for Thorn.

What are we to do?! Thorn asked, his fear clear.

They’ll break the city within seconds if we don’t meet them, Murtagh thought as he clambered up Thorn’s legs and frantically strapped himself into the saddle.

I’ve gotten a message to the King. But we have to stall them–

We cannot–

We have to, Thorn! Murtagh’s own fear and confusion was so loud he couldn’t think through it, but he knew if they hesitated now the dragon would overrun Gil’eads defenses and the city would be taken within minutes. 

They had the Eldunari; that was their advantage. They had Eldunari and this dragon and rider did not.

Murtagh took a few heaving breaths, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to send Thorn calming thoughts.

Fly, He begged, and his dragon took off.

***

Thorn bellowed, half in challenge, half in fear, Murtagh thought, as they closed in on the giant golden dragon and his elven rider. Murtagh tried to steady his frantic mind, preparing to grapple mentally and physically. He risked a glance below, where the Elven army was spread out in a glittering sheen and Isenstar Lake reflected the orange light of the dying sun on its silver surface.

Murtagh squared himself and gripped Zar’roc, glaring down the Elven Rider as the two dragons hurtled towards each other.

“You’ll be faster than him!” Murtagh shouted to Thorn over the sound of the wind, “Don’t get caught in his clutches; make him chase you!”

He felt Thorn’s rumble of agreement, as they had closed off their minds on the approach. 

When the dragons collided for the first time, Murtagh thought he would be flung from his saddle, despite the straps that held his legs in. They whipped in a circle for a few sickening seconds and Thorn raked one claw against the gold dragon’s belly, before it got a good kick in and Thorn was set hurtling back into space.

Murtagh gritted his teeth and held onto the closest neck spike, cursing over and over in his mind, trying not to lose it completely.

“He’s missing a leg!” He shouted to Thorn, “Aim for his bad side!”

Thorn tried, but the dragon swatted at him with his tail–a giant boulder of a tail–and Thorn had to evade. Murtagh felt the sharp stab of an enemy presence attacking his mind, and his own duel began. 

Again and again the dragons struck out at each other, and once or twice Murtagh was near enough to try swinging Zar’roc at the white-haired elf, but Thorn dared not stay close to the enormous crushing limbs of the gold dragon for long, and he kept his moves evasive.

The two beasts were cratching and clawing and biting and sending bursts of fire. Murtagh flinched as a wreath of flames from the gold-dragon’s mouth passed around him. Instinctually he held up his arms, but he felt only the slight tickle of warmth as his wards protected him. He fought to keep control as the Elf’s mind-probe attacked relentlessly.

…table is ready and supper is on, I’ve asked the butcher, the cook and the maid, where has the boy gone, and could he have stayed?

Thorn’s wards began to fail, and the gold dragon’s, and each of their bites and scratches drew blood, and over and over again Murtagh drew on the power of the hidden Eldunari to heal Thorn and protect him. The elf seemed to be doing much the same, and his face was unreadable. 

A deep anger boiled in Murtagh’s heart–a rider and dragon, here, in the flesh, alive this whole time. The gold dragon was clearly old enough to be Shruikan’s equal in age–if smaller because he had not been grown with magic. This elf and his partner had sat by while the world crumbled around them, sat back and watched Galbatorix take over, and destroy Alagaesia.

And then when Eragon came along they had welcomed him to Ellesmera with open arms–Murtagh now had no doubt who it was that had been training his brother that whole time. 

Special Eragon and his special dragon–they’d taken him in and taught him their secrets and passed along the wisdom of the old riders and given him a new body that was quicker and stronger and faster and healed . And meanwhile Murtagh and Thorn had been chained in a dungeon and tortured for weeks and no one had done anything. This blasted dragon and his rider could’ve saved them, could’ve helped them. 

Thorn slammed again into the gold dragon’s weak side, and the two spun around each other, plummeting towards the earth.The gold dragon snapped and tore and raked with his hind feet, trying to batter Thorn into submission while Thorn scratched with his claws.

Murtagh shouted and tried to swing a sword, but the Elf blocked him, and the ring of metal-on metal shivered up his arm. Then he felt a shock of pain from Thorn as the gold dragon stabbed him in the thigh with its tail-spike and then, before Murtagh could move to heal it, the great dragon let loose another bath of fire around them. 

Just as the fire hit, the Elf renewed his mental assault, and Murtagh slammed up his defensive walls again, desperately clinging to his focus, trying not to lose grasp of himself amid the whirl of confusion and desperation.

“Get away!” Murtagh shouted aloud, pounding on Thorn’s shoulder as the fire died around them and the gold dragon gave chase.

“Go up! Get us away!”

Murtagh flinched at another mental spike. He was losing it. He had to recover.

Thorn pumped his wings furiously to gain altitude, and Murtagh muttered words of healing, his hands shaking as he drew from the Eldunari and tried to keep his mind locked. The blood dripping from Thorn’s limbs was stemmed, but Murtagh could still feel his exhaustion. He gave him energy from the Eldunari, but he sensed that both their weariness came from something other than physical strength. There was a certain despair–a certain heavy grief that was laying on him even now, as he tried to regain the strength of his mind. 

How could it have come to this? What were they to do? What hope did they have to win? And if they did win–how could they bear it?

The air around them grew thin as Thorn climbed, and tears began to sting Murtagh’s eyes–though if that was from despair or from the biting cold, he couldn’t be sure. He fought back panic and tried to force air into his lungs as they climbed ever-higher.

“We have to end this!” He shouted to Thorn, but it was more out of desperation than anything. If they didn’t end it–if they didn’t manage to gain the upper hand on the dragon and his rider soon–Murtagh knew they would be overtaken.

As the gold dragon emerged from a cloud, Thorn tucked his wings and hurtled towards him, slamming into the dragon’s side and biting ferociously. Murtagh swung his sword and connected it with the elf’s lighting-quick blade. Thorn’s element of surprise did not last long, though, and Murtagh felt a crushing pain from his partner as the great dragon wrapped his legs around Thorn’s body.

“No!” Murtagh screamed, and swung his blade again, while Thorn tried to climb out of the gold dragon’s grasp. Before he could, the dragon bit down hard on Thorn’s hind leg, and Murtagh heard a sharp squeal of pain, as Thorn fought to wriggle his way free.

Thorn’s agony sparked his own fury, and Murtagh landed his blows against the elf harder than ever. Thorn convulsed, heaving and desperate, as the wind whipped past and the four of them hurtled to the ground.

“Curse you!” Murtagh screamed at the elf, torn between rage and sorrow, “Curse you for not showing yourself sooner! You could have helped us!! You could have–”

Suddenly Murtagh choked, and his voice failed, and his breath caught, as a great presence pushed itself into his mind–overwhelming, suffocating, debilitating.

He had only a moment to be afraid, before everything went black.

***

Murtagh gasped awake, and slumped forward in the seat, his neck throbbing. 

It was nighttime, and he was in the saddle, and Thorn was flying, his wing beats steady but urgent.

Murtagh coughed and wheezed, trying to regain the function of his lungs, trying to blink confusion from his mind, wincing through pains that he didn’t remember getting.

Where are we? He thought to Thorn, looking around in the dark, trying to remember what he had been doing.

Thorn? He tried to reach out to Thorn’s mind, but encountered a mental wall of ice, as the dragon’s great breaths blew out into the night air and his wings pushed.

“Thorn!” Murtagh shouted over the sound of the wind, his voice cracking. He hit against Thorn’s scales with his hand, but his dragon was not responding; Thorn was deaf to him; he would not listen.

“Please! Thorn!” He tried again, but his voice was hoarse and it was torn away by the air.

Murtagh panted, peering down and finding the flickering torches of a city approaching below. 

Uru’baen.

Murtagh turned in the saddle, looking back into the darkness of the north. How had they gotten here? What had happened? Where was the gold dragon? Had Gil’ead fallen?

“Thorn!” He tried, but Thorn’s thoughts were blocked from him. 

He felt a sick swooping in his stomach as Thorn angled sharply downward towards Uru’baen, a half-controlled dive at the citadel. Murtagh grunted and held onto the spikes, squeezing his eyes shut as the dragon plummeted. 

A few long, sickening seconds passed, and then he heard shouts of alarm, and suddenly Thorn was flaring out his wings and Murtagh had to brace himself so as not to slam his head on a spike. 

“You’re too lo–”

Thorn’s tail smacked into the slate roof of one of the walkways, sending rubble flying as he flapped his wings twice more and hurtled towards an open courtyard. Murtagh flinched away as the ground came up beneath them and Thorn landed, hard, in one of the garden courtyards, crushing a tree and trampling over flower beds as he came to a sudden, violent stop.

Murtagh blinked his eyes open as Thorn stood, heaving, ready to pounce, his shoulders hunched and his eyes wild. Something was very wrong.

Murtagh quickly undid his straps with shaking hands and swung his leg over the saddle, but just as he placed a foot on Thorn’s leg to climb down, the dragon growled and twitched, and Murtagh slipped downwards, tumbling into space for a brief moment before landing hard on the courtyard floor and rolling.

Murtagh groaned in pain as he skidded to a stop, Zar’roc’s sheath crushing against his hip. He pushed himself to rise as a great roar shook his skull. Thorn was incensed, mad, swinging his head this way and that, his great ruby eyes unseeing, his body coiled like a snake.

Murtagh heard fearful shrieks as a group of three garden attendants huddled by a half-broken tree. 

“Thorn–” He tried, but the dragon let out another growl, and this sent the servants fleeing.

“No!” Murtagh shouted, as the terrified servants ran directly through Thorn’s line of sight. The crazed dragon reared up and opened his maw, and Murtagh saw what was about to happen. 

From where he’d fallen he reached out his left hand and shouted,

“ Skolir!” 

Just as a sheet of red flame ejected from Thorn’s mouth and shot towards the servants. He felt the spell pulling at his energy as the flames engulfed them, but when Thorn’s fire died and his head swung away, the three servants were still alive.

“Go!” Murtagh shouted, waving them off with an urgent throw of his arm as he finally managed to get to his feet and ran towards Thorn, who was shooting out jets of flame at every tree and rock within reach. 

Murtagh ducked as Thorn’s tail swung over him, and he saw that it was missing nearly three feet, splattering hot dragon blood onto the garden beds as he rampaged.

“Thorn!” Murtagh tried, running around to Thorn’s front, trying to get his attention before he killed someone.

“You have to stop!” Murtagh pleaded, as Thorn set out another jet of flame into the sky.

“Thorn, look at me!” He shouted. 

“ Blothr!”

This seemed to have the effect of at least getting his attention; Thorn shuddered, and swung his great head towards Murtagh violently, as though he were about to bite him in half. 

Murtagh stumbled back and tripped over his bruised limbs, landing with one hand behind him as the dragon’s great head came close.

Murtagh was holding out one shaking hand, gasping for breath, fearful for the first time of the real Thorn–not a dream or vision. Thorn was staring down at him, his smoking snout inches from the gedwey ignasia on Murtagh’s palm, his red eyes wide and wild. 

After a breathless, agonizing few seconds, Murtagh saw a change in the eyes. The manic, confused anger turned to a deep sorrow, and Thorn closed his lids and began to sway. Murtagh heard from him a low, despondent keening that raised slowly in pitch and volume, as hot tears fell from his red-scaled lids.

Trembling, Murtagh pushed himself to his knees, and placed his palm against Thorn’s snout as the dragon’s wailing split the night air.

Murtagh slowly brought his other hand to Thorn’s jaw, and he pressed his forehead against Thorn’s brow, holding his partner’s head as he knelt on the stones, both their breaths rising and falling in unison, their heartbeats aligning. 

Then from Thorn he felt, more than saw, what had happened:

The gold dragon was dead. Thorn had killed him. And the Elf-Rider was dead. Murtagh had killed him. 

And they mourned.

Chapter Text

Oromis and Glaedr–those were their names. 

Galbatorix welcomed Murtagh and Thorn back to the throne room with an almost giddy exuberance, applauding them for their fine work, despite the disaster that was the invasion of Gil’ead. The Elves had overrun the city after Thorn had fled with Murtagh unconscious on his back, but all King Galbatorix cared about was that the gold dragon and his rider were dead.

“It is only fitting,” The King said warmly as Murtagh stood before him in the throne room, caked in sweat and blood and close to toppling, “That your hand should have struck the killing blow, Murtagh. Oromis was your father’s master.”

Murtagh closed his eyes, feeling this truth like a punch to the gut. The white-haired Elf had trained his father? 

“He also trained the idiot Brom, who killed your father–so in a way, you’ve just avenged your father’s death. Congratulations.”

Murtagh fought not to throw up. 

Nevermind that he hadn’t even been conscious when his arm had swung Zar’roc and cut the elf from shoulder to hip, nevermind that the King had invaded his body like a parasite and used him like a puppet, nevermind that he was sickened by the very thought of what had happened in the skies over the Gil’ead–The King was happy for him.

He steadied himself for Thorn’s sake and tried not to feel anything.

Galbatorix sent them on their way with a proverbial pat on the back, still chuckling with delight as they both stalked from the throne room.

Thorn said nothing as Murtagh undid his saddle and washed his scales, treating the small cuts and bruises he’d received by both magic and mundane means. The dragon’s head sat on his forepaws and his eyes were listless–his madness from the courtyard had passed, but it was replaced with a terrible melancholy that made Murtagh’s bones ache.

Still, he knew he couldn’t push his partner to speak of it; their places had been reversed enough times for him to understand that Thorn would talk when he was ready. Until then he went about getting food for them and a hot bath drawn, and trying to clean the blood from the creases in his hands. Whose blood it was, he couldn’t say for sure.

He spoke quietly with Demelza in the hallway for a few moments, explaining what he could, though he had not yet regained the lost time between the battle in the sky and waking up on Thorn’s back near Uru’baen.

“The elves took the city,” He murmured to her, standing outside of his chambers so as not to disturb Thorn, “But your cousins were safe in the keep, so they may have been taken captive, but they should be alive. I don’t believe the elves will harm any prisoners. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.”

Demelza nodded, her bright eyes misty.

“And you? You are alright? And Thorn?”

Murtagh grimaced, looking down again at the blood which he couldn’t manage to get out from under his fingernails.

“It was bad,” He whispered.

Demelza just breathed, and said nothing. 

The servants were dismissed and Murtagh bathed to rid himself once more of the grime of war. He found several more bruises and cuts that he didn’t remember receiving, and a few that he did. He was too tired to do more than close up the wounds, though, so he sat in the warm water feeling his skin pulse with every heartbeat, each bruise lighting up its own small area of pain.

He approached Thorn’s cushion cautiously and said,

“Can I join you?”

His dragon sighed noncommittally, but Murtagh took this as a sign that he at least wouldn’t be bitten for coming close.

It was midday, and Murtagh hadn’t slept since two nights before, so when he crawled onto Thorn’s cushion and lay next to him, he fell asleep immediately, despite the light from the window and the pain in his heart.

***

When he awoke around sunset Thorn hadn’t moved, and his demeanor didn’t change. Murtagh ate some of the food that had been left earlier that day, and tried to get Thorn to have some of the meat, but the dragon sighed and shifted his head, his eyes turned away.

Murtagh decided not to push it. 

For several days it went on like this–Thorn said very little, and refused to eat, and hardly rose from his cushion. Murtagh tried everything–he suggested they go flying together, he talked about unimportant things, he sat next to Thorn silently, he busied himself around the room, and a few days in, he asked Thorn directly if he would talk about it. Nothing stirred the dragon.

Murtagh was beginning to fear for him when he hadn’t eaten for the better part of a week after the battle at Gil’ead, and more and more Murtagh felt the looming shadow of the time he was missing. Foggy scraps of memory were beginning to appear–like he had observed the whole battle through a cloud, with his ears stopped up. He had an image of a furiously roaring gold dragon, a falling sword, a sudden blast of energy, but he couldn’t put anything in its place.

When Galbatorix had taken over his mind, Murtagh had been certain that the battle was nearly over–that they were about to lose. But whatever the King had done with his body, it had somehow overcome the previously impenetrable defenses of the older dragon and rider. Thorn had witnessed all of it, and had probably felt helpless and confused, knowing Murtagh was on his back, but also knowing it wasn’t him–not really.

Murtagh wanted to ask him to share the memory–to walk with him through what had happened–but from experience he knew that this would be a heavy thing to ask. Thorn was grieving, and wounded in more ways than one–to relive the experience might prove to be too much for him. 

So Murtagh kept his peace, but his worry did not abate. Demelza tried to coax Thorn into eating, bringing up the finest cuts of venison she could strong-arm the cooks into making, but even Demelza–whom Thorn doted on–couldn’t bring him out of his fog. 

Murtagh and Demelza sat together on Thorn’s cushion, leaning against his great side, nibbling on food, and listening to the dragon’s breathing. They tried to talk about light-hearted things, to keep Thorn’s mind off his sorrow. Murtagh told Demelza about his deal with Lord Barrow, who had agreed to send her letter to her fiance, and she thanked him. 

She relayed some stories of the servant’s gossip from that week, and he described an amusing gaff that one of the noblemen had made in court when he was younger, but both of them knew their voices were falsely bright, falsely calm, and both of them kept glancing towards Thorn’s head, trying to see if they could draw him from his melancholy and into their casual talk.

Several long days after arriving back at Uru’baen, Thorn had eaten nothing and said nothing, and Murtagh felt the strain and hollowness from his partner so much it started to weigh on him like a physical illness.

Murtagh returned to their chambers after a half-hearted attempt at sparring, and he found Thorn in the same position as always, head on his forepaws, eyes closed, breaths deep. Murtagh sighed heavily, and undid Zar’roc from its belt, laying the sword across his bed, before he climbed onto Thorn’s cushion and curled up next to the dragon’s bulk, listening to the sound of his great lungs as they rose and fell.

Murtagh heard the snick of Thorn’s eyelids opening, and then, to his surprise, Thorn spoke to him.

…I felt his pain as though it were my own.

The words were low and deep, like the thrumming of some sorrowful melody that rose up from the recesses of the earth. Thorn’s mental voice was somehow heavier than it had been before, the tone had changed. 

Murtagh lay very still, and tried to keep his thoughts tranquil, waiting for his partner to continue.

When he charged us… his agony lashed out at me as if it were the striking of his tail. And I heard his thoughts… ‘my rider is dead… my rider is dead…’

Murtagh felt Thorn’s breaths.

And after I… ended him, still his words lingered in my mind, and they began to take on a form of their own. And suddenly I thought they were my words, and I started to believe them of myself. 

Thorn’s large head shifted, and he blinked glistening red eyes at Murtagh.

I searched for your mind and I could not find it. You were gone. You were on my back, but your body was limp and your mind vacant. And all I could hear in the voice of my consciousness was… my rider is dead.

Murtagh closed his eyes, understanding; his partner’s hurt filled his heart.

I thought I had lost you. 

Thorn’s warm breath grew close to Murtagh’s face. Murtagh tried to keep his own tears from falling.

And then I thought… perhaps it was as I deserved, for what I did to the Old One.

No, Murtagh sat up quickly, No, no that wasn’t your fault. You–

I killed him, Murtagh–

You had to–

I killed him and I knew what I was doing. You were not in your body; your hand may have held the blade but it was Galbatorix who did the killing. But me…

Thorn, Murtagh gripped Thorn’s scaly face in his hands, trying to push some light into his pain-weary mind. 

He was trying to kill us. He would have killed us. You had no choice. You were fighting for me–

You are my heart, Murtagh… Thorn’s eyes were fathomless, …I was fighting for myself.

Murtagh swallowed through a lump in his throat, shaking his head, trying to say something that would draw Thorn out of his guilt and sorrow. 

S–so-so what? It’s you and me, right? We look out for ourselves, we look out for each other. He would’ve killed you.

Thorn’s lids were half closed, his eyes down.

Maybe… I should have let him.

Murtagh felt a thrill of terror.

“Don’t say that,” He said aloud, his voice cracking, “You can’t–don’t–don’t talk like that.”

I am selfish, Murtagh, Thorn said hollowly.

“You’re not–”

I would fling myself into the jaws of death for you–I would face a hundred Kull and brave the depths of the sea for you. You are my heart. We are one. For you I would do anything. But I would not sacrifice you. Not if the whole of Alagaesia were burning and your death could save it. I would kill a thousand innocents to save you. I would tear a hundred ancient dragons limb from limb for you.

His lids blinked and Murtagh felt hot breath on his face.

But how then am I any better than the King-Enslaver? If I look out only for myself, if I cannot bear to give you up, even when it may be the right thing to do… then I am a tyrant and a monster. As he is. 

“You’re nothing like him,” Murtagh whispered, wincing, his heart hurting like someone had taken a knife to it.

He has his reasons, for what he did, Thorn returned heavily, He tore the world down when he lost the partner of his heart… and when I thought I had lost you… I was ready to do the same.

Thorn touched his snout to Murtagh’s palm, where the gedwey ignasia glinted. 

What separates us from him? 

In Murtagh’s head echoed the parts of his name that he had wrestled with, those two words that hung over him like a dark cloud, exposing his soul:

Selfish and Coward.

He had thought that his name must be wrong–because he’d risked himself in the past, showing selflessness, and he’d acted bravely in many trials. But Thorn’s words cut into him–the idea that, in order to be truly selfless and truly brave, he would need to be willing to lay down not his own life–which he esteemed very little, all things considered–but Thorn’s life, which he held in worth above all else in the world.

Murtagh’s eyes closed, the truth settling heavy on his bones.

He could not do it. He would not. Thorn was all he had, and he would see the world crumbled to ashes, would see Eragon and Saphira dead, would see the forest burned and the Varden destroyed and the free people’s of Alagaesia cowed under slavery, before he would see Thorn taken from him.

His name was right after all, then. And there was no use denying it. He was selfish, and he was a coward. And he would be hanged before he would give Thorn up.

***

After that day, Thorn began to rise from his stupor, and he took some of the food that Demelza brought, and he consented to fly with Murtagh in the evenings. They did not speak more of Thorn’s heavy revelations after killing Glaedr, and he still could not bear to open that memory to Murtagh–to share with Murtagh what had happened while he was unconscious and the King had taken over his body. 

It is too close to me, Thorn said softly, and Murtagh understood. There were memories he did not share either.

Murtagh himself began to remember things, though–recovering in his thought images and sensations that were foreign to him. He woke up with a start in the middle of the night, having seen a vision of a red sword cutting through the chest of a white-haired elf, a gold sword flipping out of his hand and tumbling towards the ground. 

He sat panting and shivering for a long few seconds, the face of Oromis burned into the back of his mind, haunting and pale, with sharp, accusing eyes that seemed to say,

Selfish. 

Murtagh couldn’t decide which was worse–to remember the whole battle over Gil’ead with terrible clarity, as Thorn did, or to have these hazy half-conscious impressions that plagued him at unawares.

Thorn and he spoke no more of the Elf Oromis and his dragon Glaedr–there wasn’t much to say. They were dead, and that was that, and whether or not Murtagh and Thorn should have died rather than end the life of two such wise and venerable persons, they could not now go back and undo what had been done. 

They did not, however, have much longer to dwell on their grief, as word reached Uru’baen that the Varden had taken Belatona, and were now marching towards Dras-Leona. 

The King dispatched them once more, sending them to Dras-Leona to delay the Varden.

“Let them languish,” Galbatorix said in the treasure room, as he handed Murtagh three more Eldunari to bend to his control. He had forced another growth spurt upon Thorn, who was now almost too large to fit in their shared chambers. 

“See how long the girl can keep her band of vagrants together, when they are staring down starvation in the heart of my kingdom.”

Murtagh knew that “the girl” meant Nasuada, and that Galbatorix was growing ever more irked by the Varden’s continued successes; apparently the now-renowned Roran Stronghammer was being hailed as the hero of Aroughs, breaking into a seemingly impenetrable city with naught but his wit and his will. If Eragon and his companions weren’t careful, Murtagh thought that they might spur the King to real action. If he and Shruikan decided to depart Uru’baen and face the Varden directly–it would be over.

For now, though, Galbatorix was content to send Murtagh and Thorn to be his lackeys; they were to help the priests of Helgrind and the Governor of Dras-Leona hold the city, to let the Varden dash themselves against the walls and wear them down, and, as always, to capture Eragon and Saphira if possible.

The flight to Dras-Leona was shorter than Murtagh would have liked–his time traveling with Thorn was some of the most peaceful time they shared together. They could imagine, as they flew, that they were free–that they were traveling together, exploring new lands, drifting from place to place as the wind took them, beholden to no one but themselves. 

But as the dark spire of Helgrind loomed before them on the horizon, Murtagh prepared himself for another clash with his brother–with the Varden. This time, he felt, it would be different. Word would have reached them of the gold dragon’s demise, and they would certainly know who was responsible. Murtagh expected no mercy from Eragon, for the slaying of his master, and Murtagh would not give any. 

The priests of Helgrind–the true governors of the city–were a disgusting amalgam of deformed ghouls whose eyes sparked with violent fervor and who seemed to worship blood and death above anything else. 

Murtagh had never liked Dras Leona–it had been one of his least favorite places to visit while growing up–but now when he and Thorn descended over the city, he felt nauseated; the dense, crooked streets were as unsightly as the ugly black-spired cathedral that jutted out from the center of the city.

He met first with Governor Marcus Tabor–a sneering, broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and a hard-lined face. Murtagh immediately disliked him. He was about as opposite from Governor Tallman as one could get–bluster and pride instead of fear and nerves–but Murtagh would’ve taken the cowardly governor of Gil’ead over this man. 

Not only was Dras-Leona known for its rampant slave trade and its religion rooted in violence and human sacrifice–all of which Murtagh was sure Governor Tabor profited from–but he also could not stop thinking about the deputy governor who served under Tabor–Falcry–whom Murtagh was terrified of running into. 

He had tried to learn for certain if the deputy governor had remained stationed in Uru’baen as liaison despite the approaching army, but could get no official word, and every time the door to Tabor’s office opened, Murtagh expected to turn and find the gray-haired man staring down at him with that sickening, malicious smile. 

His hand didn’t leave Zar’roc’s pommel the whole time.

The priests were worse than Governor Tabor, though, always hissing and screaming about how they would ‘avenge’ the Ra’zac and how Eragon and Saphira were ‘blasphemers’ and ‘heretics’. Murtagh had to restrain himself from lopping off their remaining limbs. The only qualm he had with the Ra’zac’s death was that he had been punished for it–otherwise, he said good riddance to the chittering beasts. 

He held his tongue in the presence of the priests, though, and when the Varden army approached, consented to allow some of their spellcasters to join him on the ramparts of the city. 

“No one attacks until I say,” Murtagh ordered as he stood in the keep with the city leaders, the Varden arrayed just outside the gates, where the poorest hovels had been abandoned by frightened residents that fled for safety inside the wall.

“Let them dash themselves against our defenses. They will starve long before we do.”

He met the eyes of every person in the room–looking especially sternly at the Helgrind priests, whom he knew might be furious enough with Eragon to disobey his command. 

Thorn remained low in the streets behind the wall, unseen by the Varden, waiting to reveal himself until the opportune moment. The first battle they would fight would be a battle of wits, and Murtagh hoped to dismay as many of the Varden as possible with Thorn’s sudden appearance. As far as he knew, no one was expecting the King’s rider and dragon to be in Dras Leona. 

When he was standing on a narrow set of stairs near the city gate, and he heard the voice of the herald call up from below, asking for audience with Governor Tabor, he took a calming breath, and shouted back,

“These gates shall not open. State your message where you stand.”

“Speak you for Lord Tabor?” The herald’s voice came from below.

“I do.”

“Then we charge you to remind him that discussions of statesmanship are more properly pursued in the privacy of one’s own chambers rather than in the open, where any might hear.”

Murtagh scowled. Patronizing git.

“I take no orders from you, lackey!” He shouted back, “Deliver your message–and quickly, too!–ere I lose patience and fill you with arrows.”

The man then gave the usual imploring speech–that Governor Tabor and Dras Leona should simply step aside and give them control of the city, that their quarrel was with Galbatorix and no one else.

Nevermind the string of bodies you leave in your wake, Murtagh thought, leaning close to the stone wall, a cloak over his head, listening for his moment to rise. The herald finished his imploring speech with a threat,

“...none can withstand the might of our army, nor that of Eragon Shadeslayer and the dragon Saphira.”

Then Murtagh heard the concussive thunder of Saphira’s great roar, and for just a moment he was back in the skies over Gil’ead, the wind biting his skin, the white-haired Elf’s face set with determination, and the gold dragon bearing down upon him–

Murtagh closed his eyes and hit his fist against the stone wall, cursing himself for his weakness. Then he scowled, and marched up the remaining steps until he was atop the battlements and visible for all to see, still cloaked, and followed by the array of dismembered priests.

He forced a laugh as he stood between the merlons, his voice echoing down at the assembled army, which–though imposing–was battered and disheveled. It may have looked like a fine fighting force, but Murtagh’s keen eyes could make out the dents and tears and bruises. This was a force on the brink of failure, dancing on the knife-edge between victory and dissolution. Murtagh would be the push.

“None can withstand your might?” He shouted, spotting Eragon astride Saphira below, a gleaming blue sword at his waist. 

A new sword? A rider sword?  

Murtagh scowled.

“You have an overly high opinion of yourselves, I think.”

Now, Thorn, He said, and he felt his dragon leap from the ground below and land on the roof of one of the houses with a crack like thunder. He spread his huge, claw-tipped wings, opened his crimson maw, and raked the sky with a sheet of rippling flame, causing the Varden horses and men alike to shudder.

“Dash yourselves against the walls all you want,” Murtagh spat, “You will never take Dras-Leona, not so long as Thorn and I are here to defend it. Send your findest warriors and magicians to fight us, and they will die, each and every one. That I promise. There isn’t a man among you who can best us.” His eyes narrowed at Eragon, who was struggling to conceal his sudden dread.

“Not even you… brother . Run back to your hiding places before it is too late, and pray that Galbatorix does not venture forth to deal with you himself. Otherwise, death and sorrow will be your only reward.”

With one last scowl in Eragon’s direction, Murtagh pivoted and stalked down the narrow steps towards the street below, as Thorn’s growl rippled over the city. 

***

The Varden did not attack.

Nasuada held her force back as the city waited in a breathless silence, and hot days came and went. Thorn remained on the battlements–a warning for any that would attempt an assault of some kind–and reported any movements to Murtagh, who assisted in the preparation of the city.

No doubt Nasuada and Eragon were scrambling to figure out some way of subterfuge, some trick to cripple Murtagh and Thorn or get them to leave. They hadn’t counted on Dras-Leona being so defended; the King had given them Belatona, and they’d thought themselves great victors for the achievement.

Fools, Murtagh thought as he watched the camp from the battlements on the third day of the standoff. 

He wished Eragon would just attack and get it over with. He hated Dras-Leona more every day he spent there. The priests were irate, barely held back by his threats and commands, and Governor Tabor was already complaining that his business was suffering–as if an army marching on his city was less important than making himself money. 

Murtagh saw very little of the residents of Dras-Leona; every time he passed someone in the streets they scurried away, or lowered their eyes, or shuttered their doors. The city was strangely quiet and unmoving, like a hive of bees laden with smoke, but always the priests of Helgrind were about some secret business of theirs, and strange noises seemed to drift through the streets like the haunting whispers of spirits. 

Murtagh stuck with Thorn as often as he could, sitting against his inward-facing side, listening to the distant sounds of the camp and the city. Once or twice a herald from the Varden approached the city, but it was never anything significant, just more insisting that Governor Tabor give up the gates. 

Murtagh wondered just how long Nasuada was willing to hold out, before she sent Eragon to face him, or how long the dwarves would be willing to stand back and let him taunt them. The army of dwarves had bolstered the Varden’s forces several days after the standoff began, and Murtagh had learned that Orik–the dwarf who had saved him and Eragon under the falls at the entrance to Farthen Dur–had been crowned their king, in replacement of Hrothgar. 

Fate has a cruel sense of humor, He thought, not for the first time. To think that the three people with whom he had been most friendly–Eragon, Nasuada, and Orik–were now leading the armies that were arrayed against him in a fight to the death. His life was a joke, Murtagh was convinced, and the longer the standoff at Dras-Leona dragged on, the more absurd it all felt.

One afternoon there was a disturbance of some kind from the Varden camp–a great rumbling, though not physical, and some screams. Murtagh winced as a thunderhead of pain dashed itself against his skull, and he nearly stumbled. But just as soon as it had come, it disappeared, and when he ran to the gates to join Thorn, his dragon had no more insight on what had caused the disturbance than he did.

Some trick they are trying, no doubt, Thorn said, his head raised and his ruby eyes watching the distant camp. 

Nothing came of the disturbance, and the siege stretched on. 

Murtagh ordered the gate nearest the Varden camp to be piled high with rubble against it, so that if Saphira decided to smash down the doors, she would still be hindered by the mountain of boulders, and the Varden would have no clear path. He selected a group of soldiers to set wards about and placed them in the area around the gate, to guard with their lives.

He slept in the guardhouse so he could be close to Thorn, who remained on the ramparts–though he had moved to a more comfortable spot a few hundred feet from the gates. He sent reports back to Uru’baen, but Galbatorix did not seem concerned by the length of the siege. He didn’t care whether the siege stretched on for a year, and the poor of Dras-Leona starved to death–as long as the Varden starved too.

As far as provisions, the city was well-stocked, and Murtagh didn’t see how the Varden could outlast them, but he did sense a tension rising, especially among the lower-class homes and neighborhoods. The close confines of the besieged streets were causing some conflicts between the residents of Dras-Leona, and Murtagh was having to police them as well as keep an eye on the Varden. 

He was exhausted as he returned to bed one night, annoyed and impatient, and wanting more than anything to just fly away on Thorn and be gone from the dank, crowded city. 

Sleep, Thorn bid him as he sat drinking in the candlelight, trying to dull his senses, Tomorrow may bring news.

As it turned out, the next day brought far more than news.

Murtagh was awakened from his slumber by the distant tolling of the priory bell. He sat up with a start, pulling out the knife that he always kept under his cushion. 

What is it?

He touched Thorn’s thought and felt an anticipation, an alertness that had been missing during the sleepy stretch of days.

 The tolling of the bells continued. The first gray light of morning drifted through the guardhouse window.

Then Thorn’s voice in his head:

Saphira is descending. They attack!

Murtagh hurled himself off the bed and belted on Zar’roc–he had slept in battle-ready clothes for weeks, and was now scrambling to race up the ramparts and climb onto Thorn.

Joining the clanging sound of the cathedral bell was a host of horn-blasts coming from the Varden camp. 

What changed? Something must have happened. Why now?

She is landing on the black-spike-towers, Thorn said as Murtagh clambered onto Thorn’s back, strapping in his legs with hurried movements.

Get high, come down on them from above.

Murtagh had barely pulled the last strap tight when Thorn unfurled his wings and shot from the ramparts, beating into the sky as the rising sun illuminated his ruby-red scales.

Murtagh’s heart was pounding, but he squared his shoulders and prepared for the fight. In the back of his mind he was worrying over what had caused the Varden to end the standoff; what trick were they playing? But the fight was on, and he had to focus on crippling Eragon and Saphira. The city was his to defend, and he would not fail.

Thorn shot out of the sky with flames rippling from his throat, swooping over Saphira again and again as she clung to the roof of the great cathedral like a spider at  the center of a web. Thorn was trying to bait her into taking off–he struck her once with his tail, but it was glancing blow and did nothing. The fire was more for show than anything–both of them had wards against that.

What are they doing? Murtagh wondered as Thorn swooped over for another pass. It was unlike Saphira, he thought, to be reluctant in battle. She was waiting here, Eragon astride her back, waiting for something, delaying for some reason. He tried to imagine why, tried to scan the now-frantic city with his mind, to see what trick the Varden were pulling, but so far as he could see, the army was approaching the gate, and Saphira was keeping Thorn away from them–that was the only trick, and it wasn’t a very good one. So what if the Varden arrived at the gate unmolested? They had no chance of getting through, with the spells and the rubble that guarded the gate.

As they passed again, he saw Eragon speaking words, likely muttering a spell of some kind, but he felt no change against himself.

She’s trying to tire you out! Murtagh decided. Land on the cathedral, force her off.

Thorn grumbled in agreement, and landed on the other end of the roof, stretching out his wings for balance as the building shook and the stained-glass windows shattered. One more thing for the priests to be upset about.

Thorn stalked towards Saphira, his tail twitching, ready to pounce, but just then she unleashed a torrent of fire that cocooned around them. Murtagh flinched, but his wards diverted the flow of heat, and the fire passed harmlessly.

“Is that the best you can do?!” He shouted through the flames, annoyed that Eragon was playing games with him.

But just as the flames dissipated, he saw the massive glittering form of Saphira hurtling towards them, and she struck Thorn full in the chest, causing Murtagh to lurch back in the saddle as Zar’roc was nearly jostled out of his grip.

He cursed as the force of the impact pushed Thorn off balance, and he began to slip from the side of the cathedral.

“Thorn fly!” He shouted as he felt the dragon tipping backwards. But it was too late, and Saphira was too close. Both dragons fell towards the ground, and Murtagh instinctively covered his head with his arms as the paving stones rushed up underneath them. 

The impact would’ve killed him–Thorn’s weight would’ve crushed him flat–except his wards kept a thin space of air around him when Thorn landed on his back, a pain spiking from his wing as he arched. 

Murtagh cursed and reached out to heal the wing shoulder as he felt Saphira kick Thorn in the chest and take off again. Thorn growled and groaned as he tried to right himself, his claws raking the stones as Saphira set a row of buildings on fire, returning to the roof of the cathedral and tearing at it with her claws like a dog digging for bones.

Thorn’s pain made Murtagh furious, and he drew from the Eldunari as he healed the dragon and cursed under his breath. When Thorn had recovered from the fall, he leapt into the air again, holding himself aloft as the flames consumed the buildings around them. 

Murtagh reached out to Eragon’s mind, trying to attack, but before he felt anything, Thorn lurched forward, reaching his claws out for Saphira as she roared at him from the cathedral roof.

Murtagh had just a moment to realize where she was standing, and just a moment to shout,

‘ “Thorn, wait!”

Before Saphira leapt out of the way and Thorn’s momentum rammed him head first into the base of the cathedral’s central spire. Murtagh whipped forward and would’ve impaled himself on a neck spike but for his wards. He felt Thorn’s shock and dizziness as he tried to right himself, but Saphira had torn a hole in the roof, and Thorn’s rear legs were slipping.

“Get up! Get out!” Murtagh shouted over the din of the city, as Thorn scrambled to pull himself from the hole, his rear-end weighing him down.

“Get out!!” Murtagh screamed louder, as he saw Saphira fly to the spire above them, and bat at it with one great paw. Thorn’s bellowing took on a frantic note as he realized what she was doing, and he scrambled to try and pull himself free.

Murtagh uttered a spell to try and lift Thorn from the chasm below, but the drain on his energy was astronomical, and he struggled to keep it up, drawing from the already-taxed Eldunari. He raised his dirt-smeared face to the spire, and saw Saphira land a third blow on the stone spike. 

Murtagh’s heart hammered as the base cracked, and Thorn whined, clinging to the edge of the roof like a man hanging from a cliff. Then the spire began to collapse towards them like a great tree being felled. 

“Thorn!!” Murtagh screamed, but Thorn’s claws slipped, and the spire hurtled towards them, and Murtagh barely had time to sheath Zar’roc and brace himself against Thorn’s neck before the great building collapsed in on itself, and the pillar crashed on top of them.

***

Everything was dark, and dust, and shifting rock and pain. Murtagh felt the strain of all his wards working to keep him from being crushed to death. Would they last? How long did he have to get out?

He whimpered and found himself unable to move, pressed in on all sides by heavy stone, guarded by the thin membrane of his wards, but otherwise utterly trapped. His breath was wheezing as dust choked his lungs, and Thorn was still thrashing, trying to pull himself from the great pile of rubble.

He heard rumbles and crashes all around them as the building continued to collapse, and panic began to close his throat. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe, the pressure of his wards was overwhelming, any second they could break, he had to get out.

Then a terrible heat began to radiate from the rubble around them; Murtagh coughed and shuddered, still hugging to Thorn’s neck as he thrashed. 

They’re going to cook us alive, Murtagh thought with horror as the heat increased, the rocks around them beginning to glow. He muttered spells under his breath to combat the scorching inferno, but still he could not move.

Thorn lurched and Murtagh cried out in pain as a sharp piece of stone sliced through his calf, drawing blood. One of his wards had failed.

He gripped to Thorn’s neck spike and cast another spell to clear the choking dust around his face. He would pass out if he couldn’t get air soon, if he couldn’t get out of this clogging, suffocating rubble. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as chinks of light pierced the darkness around him, and he braced himself as he felt Thorn coil up, as though to spring. Just when his vision began to get blurry from lack of air, Thorn gave a great heave, and burst from the pile of rubble.

Murtagh gasped for air and struggled to right himself. He felt a ripple of fury emanating from Thorn, overwhelming even the pain, as Murtagh opened his dust-caked eyes to see Thorn’s crumpled wings.

With shaking hands he healed Thorn and coughed the smoke from his lungs, his hair and face gray with dust. Saphira took off immediately, and Thorn bristled as his wings sewed themselves together through Murtagh’s touch. 

Go! He shouted in his mind, as his voice would not work. Thorn took off the moment his wings were functional, and Murtagh continued to frantically heal the rest of the cuts from the rubble, even as his own leg dripped blood into his boots.

He looked up to see Saphira twisting in the sky, as though to dive at them from above, but just then, she pulled her wings in close, and dropped in a steep angle towards the southern wall.

Thorn lunged at her, but missed, and he struggled to gain on her as she rocketed towards the gate.

What are they doing?! Murtagh wondered for the dozenth time as Thorn labored and he poured as much energy from the Eldunari as he could into the exhausted dragon. 

Saphira shot out past the edge of the city, and Thorn pursued, but then she looped around and came back, aiming for the courtyard near the gate. 

Don’t let her land! Murtagh shouted, and he felt a strange twinge in the back of his mind–someone was using magic–not against him, but against…

His eyes scanned the courtyard below as Saphira attempted to descend. His mind raced as Thorn caught up, forcing the blue dragon to take off again and veer up into the sky.

The two dragons spiraled upward, lashing and clawing, and Murtagh twisted his aching neck back towards the ground, feeling again the pull of an attack on the wards he’d put on the soldiers.

He returned his gaze to Saphira, who was snapping at Thorn’s neck as the red dragon jerked away. Then he raised his eyes to the rider on Saphira’s back–Eragon–still and calm and unflinching–Eragon, who had said not one word to him in the whole frantic fight. Eragon, who had not attacked his mind, even when he was crushed under rubble, panicking and vulnerable.

Murtagh glowered, and sent a barb of thought in the direction of the rider.

The instant their consciousnesses touched, Murtagh realized what had happened.

He cursed, and drew back his mind.

It’s not him! He shouted to Thorn as he chased Saphira upwards. Turn around! Eragon is in the courtyard! Turn around!

Without hesitation Thorn pulled an about face, and, with a sickening lurch, began plummeting down towards the city again. Murtagh swore in every language he could think, furious at the trick. That was some elf on Saphira’s back, dressed up in Eragon’s skin, stalling them, distracting them. 

“Those men are under my protection, Brother!” Murtagh shouted as they hurtled towards the square.

He would have Eragon now. Saphira had been caught off guard; she was at least ten seconds behind them, Thorn could swoop in and pick up Eragon and lift him into the air again before she reached the roofs of the houses. Murtagh would have his revenge for their games. 

Finally, he saw Eragon’s blue sword flashing in the light of the sun, and the black hair of Arya next to him. They’d made it into the city somehow, and reached the gates, but still the pile of rubble and the garrison of soldiers blocked their path. Their little trick would be futile after all.

Get him, Murtagh said, shifting his grip on Zar’roc. 

He saw Eragon’s pale upturned face for one second, and then the world seemed to slow. 

Thorn’s wings flared out, and his talons were outstretched, reaching for Eragon, and he was just passing over the gates when Murtagh saw his brother stretch his right hand out to the pile of rubble. 

From his lips came the distant shout,

“Jierda!” 

And in the span of a heart beat, Murtagh saw what was about to happen.

“Stop!!!” He screamed to Thorn as he passed over the rubble. But it happened so suddenly, Thorn could not stop.

Like an arrow fired from a crossbow, the entire pile of rocks erupted towards the sky in a solid pillar of earth and stone. The boulders struck Thorn in the side and shredded his wing. 

Murtagh felt a lightning strike of pain as debris hurtled upwards and sent Thorn spinning out of control, the momentum of his flight suddenly reversed. Several rocks battered against Murtagh’s wards, and then he felt a sharp fire against his cheek as one struck him in the head. His wards had failed.

Thorn was shrieking and wheezing as he spun through the air, out beyond the walls of the city, spiraling, trying to right himself with just one working wing, his whole left side drenched in blood. The sky and the ground were flickering in Murtagh’s vision as they hurtled through empty space.

He barely had enough wits to hold onto Zar’roc and one of Thorn’s neck spikes, as waves of pain washed over him from his partner, and his own wounds throbbed. He gritted his teeth and watched as the ground hurtled up beneath them at an ever-shallower angle. 

Thorn would land on his side, and skid, and Murtagh would be crushed. As the wind whistled past him and Thorn held out his one wing in a vain attempt to keep aloft, Murtagh uttered a desperate cry and slashed at his leg straps with Zar’roc, launching himself off of Thorn’s back just before the dragon hit the ground. 

For a moment he was weightless, he frantically muttered a few words of protection around himself as the ground raced up below. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and flinched.

He skipped like a stone across a pond, the first impact jarred Zar’roc out of his grasp, and he spun through the air, landing again, hard, against his wounded leg, until he finally skidded to a stop in the dirt, and lay for a second wheezing and coughing, struggling to move his limbs. 

He’d been saved from breaking his bones by his remaining wards and the hurried spells he’d cast, but his whole body was throbbing and the left side of his face felt like the skin had been blasted off it.

Murtagh rolled onto his front and tried to push himself up, his arms shaking. He staggered to his feet, his leg encrusted with blood and dirt, and he blinked his vision clear, searching the horizon for Thorn.

He saw the dragon’s shape several hundred feet away, and lurched forward, heedless of his pain, and the fact that he’d lost his sword.

“Thorn!” He cried out as he stumbled, his voice cracked and raw.

“Thorn!”

He reached out with his mind and felt a flicker of consciousness. When he was close enough, he reconnected with the energy from the hidden Eldunari and immediately began pouring strength into Thorn, who had startled awake and was now thrashing, trying to pull his less injured wing  out from under him.

“Don’t–stay–hold on, hold on,” Murtagh panted as he stumbled to a stop in front of Thorn’s broken body.

He began with the largest of the wounds on Thorn’s side. The pillar of rubble that Eragon had thrown at them had cut him open like a hundred blades, and blood was soaking the ground. 

How did he do that how did he do that how did he–

Murtagh shivered and gasped through tears as he muttered the words of healing, drawing more and more strength from the Eldunari and praying they wouldn’t give out.

Thorn groaned and whined, as Murtagh sealed up a deep gash on his leg, but once enough of the larger wounds were healed he was able to pull himself upright. His left wing hung like a crumpled piece of parchment, barely attached in some places. 

Murtagh fought not to be sick as he knelt before the dragon, pouring all his energy into healing the gaping holes in his wing membrane. Thorn twisted and growled, and Murtagh watched the sky for Saphira to come hurtling down at them, but eventually the most catastrophic of the wounds had been repaired, and Thorn was no longer shuddering from loss of blood.

Heal yourself, He said finally, his mental voice heavy with exhaustion. 

I’m okay, Murtagh panted as he worked on a wound on Thorn’s neck. Thorn growled.

You will fall unconscious. Heal yourself.

Thorn pushed him back with his neck, and Murtagh nearly stumbled, his wounded leg not bearing his weight. 

Murtagh’s breaths were still shaky as he knelt and muttered the healing spells over his own body, wincing and grunting in pain as his skin knit itself together. His shaking hand touched the throbbing left side of his face, and came away red. He tasted salty blood in his mouth and felt it on the back of his head. 

Too many long minutes stretched out as he healed wound after wound on himself and Thorn. Every moment he watched the walls of the city, waiting for the Varden to come after them, waiting for Eragon to descend with his blue sword.

My sword, Murtagh realized when all but the superficial wounds had been put to right. He stood, taking energy from the Eldunari to sooth his trembling limbs, and he scanned the area around them for a sign of Zar’roc.

Thorn raised his head and looked.

There, I see its glint, He said, and Murtagh stumbled through the pulverized grass in the direction Thorn pointed. The red sword had embedded itself in the ground after it had flipped from his hand, and he had to pull it free from clods of dirt.

He hurried back to Thorn, panicking that they were going to be attacked any second.

We must face them, Thorn growled, anger like Murtagh had never felt before filling his mind.

We can’t.

They tried–

We can’t! Thorn. My wards are gone. The Eldunari are nearly spent, if we try to face them again, they’ll kill us.

Thorn watched the distant city as horns blasted, signaling that the Varden had entered and were fighting their way past whatever soldiers remained in Dras-Leona. Murtagh felt Thorn rumble underneath him as he took his place in the saddle, unable to strap his legs back in.

We have to get out of here, Murtagh breathed, his frantic heartbeat only now returning to a manageable pace.

Thorn chuffed, but he crouched, and prepared to fly. 

As they rose into the sky, Thorn angled over the city once again, and Murtagh spotted Eragon below, surrounded by his grouping of Elven spellcasters. No doubt one of them had been charading around wearing a mask of Eragon’s shape. Murtagh scowled at them, full of rage at how close they had come to killing Thorn.

“Brother!” He shouted, pushing his voice loud enough with magic to hurt Eragon’s sensitive Elf ears, “I’ll have blood from you for the injuries you caused Thorn! Take Dras-Leona if you want. It means nothing to Galbatorix. But you’ve not seen the last of us, Eragon Shadeslayer, that I swear.”

He thought he saw an expression like pain pass over Eragon’s face, but then it was gone, and Thorn winged his way north over the ruined city, disappearing into clouds of smoke as the sun climbed ever-higher into the sky.

Chapter Text

Uru’baen was like an anthill that had been disturbed. Those refugees who had escaped Dras Leona before the Varden had invaded were crowding the streets, and soldiers from all corners of the kingdom had been called to assemble at Uru’baen, preparing to make a final defense against the rebel army that was sweeping across the land.

Murtagh ordered a castle attendant to tell the King they had returned from Dras-Leona, and he and Thorn hurried back to their chambers to remove his dented armor and finish healing their superficial wounds.

Demelza had to help him remove his bracers, which had been crushed against his forearm, and she brought fresh water for him to wash the dirt and blood from his hair. He had no time to bathe, as an attendant knocked on the door and said the King wished to see him in the throne room, but he changed out of his blood-stained, torn clothes and donned a new pair of dark boots, as his other pair had been soaked with the blood from his leg wound.

He was strapping Zar’roc back onto his belt when he noticed a small parcel sitting on the nightstand.

“What is this, Demelza?” He asked as she gathered up the soiled clothes for cleaning. 

“Delivered for you from the castle letterman, sir–it’s from Tirendal.”

Murtagh frowned. He didn’t know anyone in Tirendal.

“You’re sure it’s not for you? From your fiance?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe so.”

Murtagh opened the lid of the wooden crate, and found a finely crafted golden chalice lying in a bed of straw. He frowned. There was no note to explain the goblet.

He cast a quick spell to detect any poison or traps, but the goblet appeared to be mundane.

He lifted it up, and Thorn blinked at him.

A gift from one of the nobles? He suggested.

From Tirendal?

He turned the goblet over in his hand, and saw an inscription on the bottom.

“With thanks, Old Chestnut Goblet Makers”

Murtagh frowned down at the writing, something sparking in his war-tired mind. Old Chestnut …he had an image of grease-darkened windows and a chatty merchant.

His brow creased.

Garren. The spy, it’s… from him.

Thorn blinked his lids.

He is telling you where he is.

Idiot, Murtagh put the goblet down quickly, confused, trying not to dwell on it too long. Galbatorix had not searched his mind in months, but if he did…

Why would he do that?

He owes you his life. Perhaps he thinks you may need help. 

He’s going to get himself killed. He should flee back to the Varden before it’s too late.

Murtagh closed the lid over the goblet and pushed it under the bed, trying to push the knowledge from his mind, so that the merchant-turned-spy could have a chance at remaining free.

His anger from the battle over Dras-Leona was still clenched in his heart, the memory of Thorn’s pain and the crushing panic he’d felt under the citadel ruins suffocated him like a dark cloud.

He strode into the throne room with angry vigor, his boots echoing along the polished floor as Thorn stalked beside him. 

He didn’t pause his stride when he saw a disheveled man held on his knees between two guards. Whatever poor bastard the King was tormenting now, he didn’t care. He had bigger problems.

“Your Majesty,” Murtagh stopped before the throne, parallel with the kneeling man, and bowed, his eyes low. 

“Ah, excellent. Welcome back, Murtagh. It’s good you’re here. I hope you’re recovered enough from the battle–I have some work for you.”

The King sighed languorously and picked up a roll of parchment from the arm of his throne. Thorn sat at attention.

“Several days ago, I received the final report from Dras-Leona before the rebels took it, and one of my scribes found some odd discrepancies in the supplies and troop numbers.”

The King’s tone was light and lilting, not hard with anger as Murtagh had expected after his embarrassing loss during the battle. Again, he was set on edge by the King’s seeming apathy towards his failure.

“...it seems someone has been, shall we say, skimming a bit off the top , from the funds I allocated to the city’s defenses.”

Galbatorix tapped his long fingers on the piece of parchment, and Murtagh frowned–he wasn’t sure what the King was getting at. He glanced at Thorn once. Surely the King didn’t think Murtagh had anything to do with the city’s treasury? He didn’t touch any gold going between Uru’baen and Dras-Leona. That job would fall to–

“Of course I had to learn who was stealing from me–as you know I consider thievery like this to be a sign of disloyalty, which I despise.” For just a moment the King’s tone was darkened, but then he returned to his casual cruelty.

“It now appears that the person who was robbing my treasury was the exact person whom any logical man would expect it to be–the person in charge of sending gold to Dras-Leona: the liaison to Uru’baen.” Galbatorix sighed.

“The foolish thief, as it happens, is none other than our guest here today, Deputy Governor Falcry.”

Galbatorix gestured, and Murtagh’s skin suddenly went numb; he felt sick and every muscle tensed. He blinked three times, each beat of his heart suddenly slow and laborious, but he kept his expression blank and hard as he swiveled his head towards the shivering, disheveled man on the throne room floor. 

Sure enough, Deputy Governor Falcry–the gray-haired man with the cold smile–was hanging from between the two guards, his face bruised and blotched, looking haggard.

Murtagh’s veins turned to ice. His hand gripped Zar’roc so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt a worried nudge from Thorn.

“...I thought, Murtagh,” Galbatorix continued jovially, “You might appreciate the opportunity to show the deputy governor here just what we do to people who are disloyal. ”

Falcry blinked through his swollen face, and grunted something unintelligible, blubbering pathetically. Long gone was the haughty, loud man, accustomed to getting anything he wanted, the sadistic monster whom the King had used to hurt Murtagh in a way that could never be healed.

 Murtagh could not take his eyes off the man, his jaw shaking with anger, his expression terrible to behold. Thorn tried to touch his thoughts, but in that moment his mind was blank to everything but Falcry, shivering on the throne room floor.

In the ancient language, Galbatorix said to him,

“I give you permission to hurt this man however you would like.”
There was no hesitation.

Murtagh immediately thrust out his hand and said, 

“Haina,”

Falcry shrieked and twisted from the guard’s grasp, falling to the ground, his hands scrabbling at his throat. 

“Brisingr,” A fire erupted at Falcry’s feet and he screamed, trying to kick it out, writhing on the floor as both spells clawed at him and the two guards backed away in alarm.

“Svell,” Murtagh said, and ice began to crawl up Falcry’s hands, turning his fingers black with frostbite.

“Please!! Please!” The man howled, as he burned and choked and froze all at once, but this time, Murtagh really did feel nothing. 

There was a mad fervor in his eyes as he stepped towards the man, feeling the magic flow from him, but experiencing no drain on his energy. His gedwey ignasia glowed, and all that existed was a blank silence in his mind, a void of any conscious thought as he said,

“Verkr,” And watched Falcry shudder with agony.

As he stood over Falcry’s body, he was aware of nothing but the vicious pleasure of seeing this man suffer, and he didn’t care that Thorn was recoiling in disgust.

 He didn’t care that the King was chuckling with amusement, that this was just another one of his games, that–just as he had used Falcry to punish Murtagh–now he was using Murtagh to punish Falcry. 

Murtagh didn’t care if he was being used, it felt too good to twist the man’s insides and scorch his skin. He poured all his pent-up anger into the magic. He relished the screams, the incoherent pleas for mercy. Murtagh had no mercy. He didn’t know what mercy was. He would’ve strangled the man with his bare hands, but he couldn’t bear to touch him.

After a long, terrible stretch of time, Murtagh snatched a spear from one of the terrified guards and said,

“Brisingr,” So the end of the staff caught fire. He then stood over Falcry’s head and brought the flaming stick towards the man’s face. He would burn his eyeballs out of his face, so he could never look at Murtagh again.

But just as the flames made contact and Falcry began to screech, Murtagh heard a voice say,

“Vergari,” And instantly the man was still.

Murtagh blinked, the burning staff smoldering in his hand, the dead shape of the disfigured body lying limp in front of him, the room suddenly very quiet.

He raised a quivering glare towards the King, who sat on his throne with a calm expression.

“I couldn’t let you use up all your rage on that gutter rat,” Galbatorix said casually, “I will have need of your rage, soon.”

Murtagh was shaking with anger, gripping the broken staff so hard it dug splinters into his palms.

“You may remove him,” Galbatorix said with a lazy gesture to the petrified guards. They shuffled forward uneasily, unsure where to grab the bent and broken body, skirting around Murtagh fearfully as they dragged Falcry’s corpse from the room, leaving a trail of blood behind them.

“Now that’s dealt with,” Galbatorix said with a small smile, “Come with me.”

The King stood and gestured for Murtagh to follow him, his heavy footsteps echoing through the throne room as he made for a side door. Murtagh stood frozen for a long second, gazing down at the bloody spot on the floor where Falcry had lain, feeling suddenly numb, now that the fury was passing.

When he finally turned his haunted gaze to Thorn, the dragon was staring at him with what he could only describe as abhorrence. Thorn blinked, but Murtagh could give him no explanation for the revolting scene he’d just witnessed. 

Unwilling to fall apart over this again, Murtagh swallowed down the tears and nausea, and forced his shivering limbs to move, stalking out of the throne room after Galbatorix.

***

His mind was still buzzing with a mix of manic energy and terrifying hollowness, when the King lead them into the treasury room, where Murtagh expected him to hand over more subjugated Eldunari to his control; perhaps if Murtagh got enough of them, he could finally manage to take down Eragon like he should have done that day on the Burning Plains.

But Galbatorix did not make for the shelves lined with the sleeping dragon hearts. Instead he turned, and he closed the doors with a word of magic, and he cast another spell around the three of them that would keep any sound from leaving their circle. Murtagh frowned, suddenly unmoored, unsure what to expect.

“What I am about to tell you, Murtagh, no one in the whole world except myself and Shruikan knows. Not for millennia has this knowledge been brought to light.” The King’s voice was calm and steady.

“But after nearly a century of careful search and study, I have at last discovered the final weapon in my war against disorder, and here today I share it with the two of you–my chiefest servants, that you may bring order in my name throughout Alagaesia.”

Murtagh kept his expression still, but he felt a confused tendril of thought from Thorn, and his own mind began to race.

It began with a language, Galbatorix said, a language to which magic had been tied, a language which had been used by the elves for thousands of years to mold the energy of the world to their will. Every person and thing had a true name in this language, and knowledge of that true name would give one the power over the named thing. Murtagh knew this all too well–his True Name was the shackle around his neck.

“Long have I labored over how to keep control over the many varied and powerful persons in my kingdom–sorcerers and witches and magicians who would seek their own ends through the use of magic. I have, at last, found it.”

There was a name, he said, the name of the language itself–commonly called The Ancient Language. And Galbatorix had found the True Name of the Ancient Language carved on a tablet of unknown origins by an unknown race. With it, he would have power over every spell ever cast. No magician would be able to work without his say so. No one could ever amass enough power to overthrow him.

As Murtagh came down from the rush of adrenaline he’d felt in the throne room, he began to feel dizzy, seeing in his mind’s eye the far-reaching ramifications of this final, terrible weapon of the King. He had held no longer onto hope that the Varden could win their futile war, but he now despaired of hope that Galbatorix would ever be killed, ever die, ever end his terrible rule, even if a hundred millenia passed and the world was utterly changed. The Tyrant King would still be there, living forever, all-powerful, untouchable, able to control the lives of every living thing in the known world.

Here Galbatorix was–giving Murtagh the key to life and death, the key to ultimate power, the key to freedom and imprisonment–and he could do nothing with it. When Galbatorix spoke The Word, Murtagh felt a shivering in the air, in his bones, similar to the sensation of his True Name being spoken, but this time the True Name belonged to everything around him, not just everything within him.

The Word lodged itself in its brain, sitting there like a bird in its nest, quiet, but filled with massive potential.

Still, he was no more powerful than he had been while chained to the floor in the cell. His oaths would not let him make use of The Word against the one person he really wished to overwhelm. And, as Galbatorix shortly explained to him, he would not be able to tell anyone else of The Word, as wards of forgetfulness had been placed on it for all except Thorn and Murtagh. If he tried to tell anyone, The Word would slip through their memories like water through a hole-riddled bucket. And The Word could not be written down, and it could not be spelled. 

In his mind now, Murtagh held the most powerful weapon in the history of the world. And it was useless to him.

***

A council of war was called in the repaired map room that afternoon, and Murtagh and Thorn had only a short spell to return to their chambers and rest from the chaos of battle and their flight from Dras Leona. Thorn had kept the Eldunari tied to him by magic, and they had been given two more by the King, or else they would have long since dropped from exhaustion. 

Thorn’s worry over Murtagh’s outburst against Falcry had replaced the dragon’s fury from the battle, and as he ate his venison and Murtagh drank down a mug of ale– unable to stomach anything else–Thorn kept casting concerned looks his way.

That man… He said finally, his mental voice heavy, …he hurt you.

Murtagh was sitting on the bed, his arms resting on his knees, drink in his hand, boots dirtying the fine bedspread. His eyes flicked in Thorn’s direction, dead and unfeeling.

“Yes,” He answered dully, unwilling to say more.

You feel better? Thorn questioned, and Murtagh understood–did he feel better now that the man was dead, that he’d gotten his revenge, that Falcry had suffered at his hands and then met the fate he deserved?

“No,” Murtagh said heavily, drinking down more of the ale. 

He wasn’t sure if the unsettled, hollow feeling in his chest was because the King had taken from him the opportunity to land the killing blow, or because his revenge against Falcry was always doomed to leave him dissatisfied. After all, no matter how dead the deputy governor was, it would not undo what had happened. It would not rid Murtagh of the memory.

Murtagh called Demelza for more ale, so he was pleasantly foggy when the war council was convened and he and Thorn wound their way through the castle to the map room.

Those generals and lieutenants who had not been killed in the Varden’s invasions were convened around Galbatorix’s table, as well as two warriors that Murtagh knew were a part of the King’s league of assassins–The Black Hand. The stony silent men gave him the shivers. 

Reports on the approaching army were given as the sun set outside, and Murtagh tried to remember what day it was, and how long it had been since the battle, and when he’d last slept. He felt as though he had been awake for years.

“They’ve left Dras-Leona already,” One of the lieutenants reported, “They’re camping near the lake, but we believe they intend to begin the march to Uru’baen in the morning.”

Galbatorix’s hardened mouth twisted.

“She’s getting bold,” He commented, his dark eyes scanning the map before him. 

“Arrogant, more like,” One of the generals supplied haughtily. Galbatorix sighed.

“No. Arrogance would be a person esteeming themselves to be more than they are. Ajihad’s daughter has proved herself a deadly leader; an opponent worth my attention, and that is saying something indeed.”

The King placed his long hands on the map.

“Garvundel,” The King’s voice said, and the leader of The Black Hand nodded.

“Sir.”

The King sighed.

“I think it’s about time we removed the girl Nasuada from the map.”

Murtagh’s foggy mind had drifted to the sunset out the nearest window, but now his attention was snapped back to the present, and everything in the room felt sharp and clear.

“Our spies say the witch-girl has all but abandoned her former master. Nasuada’s cadre of guards should prove no issue for you to circumvent. See that she’s dispatched before they reach the city.”

Heat flushed up Murtagh’s neck and his heart hammered. He made frantic eye contact with Thorn as the assassin bowed and said,

“Your majesty.”

“–no,” Murtagh blurted out, before he could stop himself, and every eye in the room turned suddenly towards him, including the King’s cool, raised eyebrow. He knew he had half a second before Galbatorix’s wrath came down on him.

“That is, Your Majesty,” He corrected his tone, somehow keeping his expression calm and speaking clearly and crisply, hiding the sudden panic in his veins.

“...I think it unwise to assassinate Lady Nasuada now that the Varden are so close to the capitol.”

“Oh?” Galbatorix said, his eyes glittering with amusement. “And why might that be?”

Murtagh was utterly still, his eyes unflinching, his hands steady, his voice calm. If he couldn’t convince the King, then she would die.

“...we killed Ajihad, and expected that to cripple the Varden for some time,” He began, feeling the astonished gaze of every lieutenant on him, “It had the opposite effect. They rallied in the name of their dead leader, and launched an offensive never before seen by the empire. Since then, Ajihad’s daughter has garnered an almost worshipful loyalty from her soldiers. You need only look to the siege at Dras-Leona for example–they risked starvation for days, like sitting ducks in enemy territory, because they believed that she would come up with a plan to gain victory. It may seem that killing her would be the most effective way to end their assault, but I believe that once again the opposite will prove to be true.”

Murtagh spoke so smoothly, so eloquently, it was like he had practiced this speech in his head a hundred times, like he had learned his letters and studied with his tutors as a child for the express purpose of making this speech–this one speech on which so much hung.

“If we kill her now, we will make her a martyr. And Eragon Shadeslayer will use her death to rally the Varden behind him and spur them on to their last battle. They have no hope, of course, of achieving ultimate victory, but if we kill their leader she will become the banner under which they march, and their thirst for revenge will make them all the more ready to lay down their lives as they wreak havoc upon this city.”

Murtagh took a breath.

“Rather than killing her… we must turn her against them.”

Murtagh’s mind was racing as he spoke, unspooling his thread of thought even as he wove it together. How could he save her? How could he convince the King?

“...if we take her captive, and we bring her to our side,” He said, meeting the King’s cool glance, “...it will cripple the morale of the Varden. They will see her serving under you , and they will lose all will to fight. She is a formidable enemy, if only because she inspires such loyalty in the people she leads. We can use that against them. Eragon cannot hold that army together the way she can. He will be helpless, and his friends will abandon him, and he will come to you all the faster if he knows you hold his liege lord in your sway.”

Murtagh stopped, and waited as the room hung with heavy silence. No doubt the assembled parties expected the King to lash out at him in anger for his insolence, but Galbatorix only looked at him with a subtle, amused expression.

“Well. That is an interesting proposition,” He mused, his fingers still pressed against the table. “But what if she will not submit? What if she cannot be broken?”

Murtagh’s face was devoid of emotion as he said,

“Anyone can be broken.”

***

To his great horror, and also his great relief, Galbatorix agreed to Murtagh’s proposal. Nasuada would not die. She was to be captured, and Murtagh was to do the deed.

He fought down the twisting revulsion in his gut as he hurried with Thorn down to the armory, to be equipped with rigging that would allow Thorn to carry several dozen soldiers on his back. 

They were to leave immediately, to pick up a cadre of undying men from the outpost nearest to the Varden army, and to descend upon the Varden’s camp in the dark hours of the night, the day after their victory at Dras-Leona, when they would be least expecting an attack. 

Another group of soldiers, along with their spellcasters, was marching from the outpost even now, in order to reach the Varden camp at the same time, and join in the assault.

It does not seem right, to swoop in like bats in the night and terrorize the enemy while they sleep. That is the coward’s way, Thorn mused as an armorer worked to fit him with the leather rigging.

It doesn’t matter, Murtagh thought, his mental voice hard, I had to do something.

We will capture Friend-Nasuada and condemn her to the same torture–?

We’re saving her life, Murtagh spat sharply, whirling on Thorn, torn between disgust for himself and fear for Nasuada.

I’m sorry, He said immediately, his breaths unsteady. 

I understand. But she may not thank us for it.

They left Uru’baen as darkness fell, and Thorn hurried to the west, his mighty wings pumping, his energy and wards renewed from some of the Eldunari in the treasury room.

Murtagh forced his mind to be empty of all except the mission: capture the Varden leader. 

He could not let his emotions take hold. This was too important. If he failed tonight, the King would kill her. He had one chance. He closed his eyes and imagined his heart was a hard, cold piece of granite, unyielding, jagged and unbreakable. 

You feel nothing.

The soldiers from the outpost were grim and silent, likely aware that they were going into a battle from which they did not expect to return. They were painless, and drunk with power. 

Whistling like a silent arrow through the night sky, Thorn began to descend as the flickering torches of the Varden camp appeared on the horizon. Murtagh knew Eragon would race towards Nasuada once he got an inkling of what was happening, he had to keep his brother distracted for long enough to get off the ground. That was the purpose of the soldiers, who were gathering on the north end of the camp and had been ordered to attack at the same time Thorn landed.

Silently Thorn glided, and Murtagh melded his mind with his partner, his heart still as the wind whipped his hair and the Varden camp passed below. Murtagh scanned the sea of gray tents until he spotted the one he was looking for–Nasuada’s pavilion with its pointed roof and flapping flag.

You should’ve blended in, He chided her in his mind, as he pointed out the large tent to Thorn, and the dragon dropped in altitude. 

Now their time had come.

Thorn let out a rippling growl that split the silent blackness around them, and the soldiers clinging to his side howled their savage war cries, facing down death fearlessly. 

Murtagh remained grim and silent, drawing Zar’roc as Thorn landed hard on the packed earth near Nasuada’s tent, shaking the ground while horns began to blare along the perimeter of the camp.

Immediately Nasuada’s team of guards–Urgals and dwarves and humans–charged them, and Thorn swiped at them with one great claw as the undying soldiers leapt from his sides and hurtled into the camp, madly swinging their blades.

Murtagh slid from the saddle and dispatched one of the Urgal’s with Zar’roc, snatching the creature’s weapon and hurling it at a dwarf guard who was swinging an ax at Thorn. 

As chaos erupted around him and Saphira’s roars rippled from several hundred yards away, Murtagh ran towards the pavilion, leaving Thorn to wreak havoc on the nearby tents. 

He encountered half a dozen Varden soldiers and two more of Nasuada’s guards, but all of them he slew with unfeeling efficiency, focused solely on his goal.

Screams rent the air, and he felt the heat of flames behind him as Thorn bathed a row of tents in fire. Saphira’s roars grew loud, and he sensed the two of them slam their great forms against each other as he pushed through the heavy tent flaps into the semi-darkness of Nasuada’s tent.

Before his eyes adjusted, there was a shout, and a sword descended towards him. He blocked it with a flick of Zar’roc and punched the guard who had swung it in the face, knocking him towards the tent wall. Murtagh sliced the man’s neck before he could rise, and he swiveled into the half-lit pavilion, ready for another attack. He felt a spark of pain from Thorn as Saphira clawed at him, but the rumble of the dragon’s great wrestling match shook the earth, and he knew Thorn was holding his own.

A cry rang out, and a thin woman with graying hair and a small knife ran at him. Murtagh uttered a word and she fell limp–unconscious, not dead–she was a handmaid, not a soldier, and she was no real threat to him.

Then his eyes fell on Nasuada, her shadow cast against the tent wall by the flickering of a single candle. Her shoulders were drawn back, and a knife was in her hand, and she wore only a yellow dressing gown, her dark curls cascading around her shoulders.

Their eyes met, and there was a long moment of breathless silence.

“Are you here to kill me?” She asked, her voice calm and firm.

You feel nothing.

“No,” He answered, as the cacophony continued outside, muted by the heavy fabric walls.

Nasuada’s chin raised, the candlelight flickering in her dark eyes.

“You will come with me,” Murtagh said, “Or I shall force you.”

Nasuada displayed no fear, her knife hand was steady, ridges of several scars rising along her wrists. 

“I will not go with you, Morzansson. Begone from here. Or you and your dragon will not escape as easily as you did at Dras-Leona.”

Zar’roc hung loosely, and his hard stare was unflinching.

“You will come with me,” He repeated, and the knife shifted in Nasuada’s hand.

Almost in unison, the two of them leapt towards each other, Nasuada uttering a feral cry as she ducked and swung her blade with trained precision. But Murtagh was better trained.

He smacked his right bracer against Nasuada’s wrist, blocking the arc of her knife, and swung himself underneath her arm, grabbing her shoulder with his left hand and her knife hand with his right, and wrenching her arm back until she was doubled over, gritting in pain as her shoulder tore.

“Drop it!” He ordered her. She was no match for his strength, and he could easily overpower her, but he didn’t want to hurt her more than he had to. 

In answer, Nasuada aimed a kick at his shins. The blow glanced off his ward, but she thrust herself forward, trying to pull him off balance.

Scowling, Murtagh shoved her in the back and let go, causing her forward momentum to send her to the ground.

He was on top of her in seconds, clamping down on her wrists, his knees against her thighs, pinning her down. Nasuada snarled, her hair splayed out behind her, and she wrenched her knife-hand towards him, trying to stab him in the face. 

He let go of her left hand for one second and snatched the knife from her right, but as he did she swung the free hand towards his face and landed a punch against his jaw.

He instinctively retaliated by swinging his forearm down at her face, and as he made contact with her cheek, his bracer cut into her soft skin. 

She growled and struggled, but he had control of the knife, and he tossed it in the darkness. As blood dripped from her face, Murtagh wrestled both her wrists into one of his hands and stood, yanking her from the ground and charging for the tent door.

He burst into the flame-riddled night, dragging Nasuada kicking and screaming behind him, his face and heart hard as stone. Nasuada battered his legs with her flailing feet, but she could not touch him. She tried to bite him, but he elbowed her in the face. 

She’s going to kill herself if she doesn’t stop struggling, He thought, as she aimed another kick. Finally, he’d had enough, and he yanked her towards him, landing a carefully aimed blow on her head with Zar’roc’s pommel and knocking her unconscious. She fell limp into his arms. 

He heard a furious shout, and he turned to see Eragon, a hundred yards away through the flailing bodies and burning tents. He gave his brother a glare, and sheathed Zar’roc, hoisting Nasuada’s limp body into his arms and kneeling, calling to Thorn in his mind.

Now, Thorn!

He felt Thorn extricate himself from Saphira, even as he saw Eragon hurtling towards them across the corpse-strewn camp. 

Don’t you know, fool? I’m saving her life.

He heard Thorn swoop overhead, and sheltered Nasuada’s body with his own, as his dragon’s mighty talons descended and picked them both up like an eagle catching a fish. Murtagh felt a sick swoop as they took into the air, clutched in Thorn’s great paw, swinging in the wind.

Nasuada’s body was warm against him, and he held her tightly as Thorn climbed into the air above the Varden camp, uttering a visceral roar. Just when Murtagh thought they had gotten away, he felt a sharp spike of pain from Thorn, and was sent an image of the elf Arya, a glowing spear in her hand, hanging from Thorn’s tail.

Murtagh’s thoughts raced, lifting his gaze to stare through the cracks in Thorn’s claw. He couldn’t help fight the elf off, not from this position, except with magic.

She climbs me like a cliff-face! Thorn growled, and Murtagh saw the Elf crawling up Thorn’s tail, the strange glowing spear–which should not have been able to pierce his wards, but did–used as a pickaxe. Murtagh felt a clench of fury. Damn that elf.

Then in his mind, he prepared to use The Word; he would tear her wards down and kill her with a single spell. She was at his mercy and didn’t even know it.

Before he could convince himself to do it, though, Thorn took matters into his own hands, saying,

Hold on, As he pitched forward and began to spiral rapidly, sending the Elf whirling through the air so fast that she and the glowing spear snapped loose from Thorn’s bleeding tail.

Through the gaps in Thorn’s claws, Murtagh saw the elf stop her momentum with a spell and hang in the night sky, the spear glowing in her hand like a sickly star.

Then Thorn bore down upon her and unleashed a torrent of flame, and just as he ended it, Murtagh felt a sickening lurch as he pulled an abrupt reversal, and swung his great tail at blinding speed, smacking the elf out of the air with a sickening crunch.

Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach did loops, dangling from Thorn’s grasp, hugging Nasuada tightly to him, his cheek pressed against her hair.

After a moment, all was quiet except for the beating of Thorn’s wings and the pounding of his own heart. He blinked his eyes open, seeing the stars flicker in and out between Thorn’s talons. 

Are they following? He asked. 

They have retreated, Thorn answered, his voice determined. 

Murtagh realized he had been holding his breath. His chest rose and fell, and he swallowed down bile, his heartbeat slowing. 

Then he carefully tilted Nasuada’s head back, and stared at her face for a moment in the dim light. She held no expression, and her head hung limply, but he sensed her consciousness and the pulse of blood through her body. She was alive. That was what mattered. 

He pulled a strand of her curly hair from the blood that had caked along the side of her face, and he held his gedwey ignasia over the wound his bracer had cut in her cheek. He healed it with a few whispered words, the glow from his hand illuminating the small cave formed by Thorn’s paw as they floated through the stars.

When Nasuada’s face was whole once more, Murtagh resisted the urge to touch it again. He did not deserve to touch her. He had just given her a wound from which there would be no healing. He had sealed her fate, and she would hate him for it.

Chapter Text

Murtagh paced his chambers, restless and uneasy. It was evening on the day after he’d brought Nasuada back, and he’d spent most of the day in fitful sleep, after being awake for nearly forty hours straight.

Now he waited for the King to summon him, torn between the desire to be close to Nasuada–to keep an eye on her and protect her–and the knowledge that what he was about to do to her would be unforgivable. 

Galbatorix had made it clear that Murtagh would be participating in her “persuasion”, as he called it.

“You said she could be broken–let’s see how long it takes you.”

His stomach was clenching and unclenching like a sickly beating heart. He couldn’t stand still. He wanted to see her and yet he knew his presence would only hurt her. 

She’d been taken to the Hall of Soothsayer, strapped down to the same stone block where Murtagh had suffered, and made to wait while Galbatorix tended to other, trivial affairs. He was doing it on purpose–letting her stew in her own fear. 

She was probably scared, and probably trying not to show it. She was alone, and tied down, and helpless, and probably cold and uncomfortable. The King had refused Murtagh’s suggestion that they get her some real clothes, and left her in the torn sleeping shift she was wearing when he’d snatched her at the camp.

“She will receive all the comforts she could ask for once she swears her oaths,” Galbatorix said coolly.

We have done what we could for her, Thorn offered, If she were not in that cell right now, she would be dead. Is that what you would prefer?

No! Murtagh ran a hand through his hair.

When he was finally summoned, though, he focused on once again making his heart like a block of granite–jagged and cold and unfeeling. He had to get through this. He had to help her get through this.

For what? A little voice in his head said, What’s the point? She’s soon to be enslaved, like you. You’ve doomed her, because you couldn’t bear to let her die with her honor. Selfish.

If the King sensed the depths of Murtagh’s feeling for the Varden leader, he didn’t let on, and Murtagh intended to keep it from him as long as possible. The King would be certain to hurt Nasuada worse, if he knew that Murtagh cared for her. He would use him against her, and he couldn’t have that.

When he entered the Hall of the Soothsayer behind Galbatorix, Murtagh had a visceral reaction to the place–he felt a buzzing in his head and his skin was crawling as he stepped down the small staircase. 

He was immediately transported back to the torments he’d endured in this room–the icy water, the metal rods, the seizures, the bugs eating his insides–and the moment his life ended. He dug his fingernails into his palm to keep from throwing up.

He knew where Nasuada lay, but he didn’t dare look at her. If he looked at her, he’d lose his nerve. So he turned instead to the brazier where metal rods sat heating–this would be his task, to do to her what had been done to him, what he had been forced to do to himself. He would hurt her, in order to save her. That had been his decision. Choosing to see her in pain, or choosing to see her dead. It was no contest.

He stood with his back to her, knowing it was cowardly, but unable to face her, and waited as the King spoke with her in his horribly calm voice, giving her much the same speech as he had given Murtagh, before he’d tortured him nearly to death. 

He listened, and he waited for the King to give him the order. When Galbatorix told Nasuada that she and Eragon would join Murtagh in his slavery, he almost lost control of himself, and shoved a piece of iron so hard it hit the other side of the brazier with an echo.

Then Galbatorix, in his cruelty, made him speak, forced him to turn to her, forced him to see her in that state.

His voice was dull, and empty, as he answered the King’s snide promptings. He couldn’t look at her.

He had decided, though, that he would not obey–not until Galbatorix forced him to, invoked The Word. He would show Nasuada that he did not want this. He would show her that he had tried. It wouldn’t matter–she’d hate him anyway, as she should–but he had to cling to the knowledge that he’d not hurt her willingly.

It was worse than he anticipated. He’d forgotten to prepare himself for her screams. Had he sounded like that as the King tormented him? Had his voice ceased to be human and his words unintelligible? Had he begged and cried as she? 

He felt no disdain for her, as she prayed to her people’s gods and pleaded for mercy. He understood. His respect for her strength only grew, as hour after hour she endured the torture, and refused to submit. 

His nerves were frayed and his teeth set on edge, listening to her pain again and again, moving stiffly as he brought the hot iron down on her skin. Minutes started to blend together, and his thought drifted, and he wasn’t quite in the room anymore, his mind wandering, foggy, overwhelmed by the sound of Nasuada’s pain.

Then it was over. 

She was finally given a reprieve. Murtagh was allowed to stop with the burning rods, and he left the Hall of the Soothsayer, and he kept his grim silence until the King dismissed him with a casual wave. Then Murtagh stomped to the kitchens and grabbed a stone flask of liquor, and he drank to forget the last few hours of his life.

You think that will help her? Thorn asked with a reprimanding look as he shuffled into their chambers.

Murtagh scowled.

“I can’t help her. I can’t do anything.”

And becoming inebriated is supposed to remedy your situation?

“Just leave me alone,” Murtagh muttered, curling up on the bed.

I will not leave you alone, Thorn interjected, It is not right for you to drown out your pain while she lies helpless in hers.

“I can’t do anything!” He spat back again.

Not in this state, certainly. Thorn’s chin was lifted, hard and determined, but Murtagh didn’t want to hear his reprimands tonight.

He scowled, rolled off the bed, and stormed back out the room before he said something he’d regret, or threw something at Thorn again. The heavy doors swung closed as he charged down the narrow hallway, taking a swig from the flask and firing a blast of magic at a suit of armor, just to watch it topple.

He stalked the castle corridors angrily for several long minutes, scaring away anyone who passed. Once, he screamed at a guard who had stepped out from a door too quickly and almost ran into him. The poor man squeaked in fright as Murtagh shoved him in the chest and punched the wall next to him several times, shouting obscenities and breaking the skin on his knuckles.

When the man had scurried away, though, Murtagh’s anger was suddenly drained, and he felt like a shell of a person, wandering the castle corridors as a ghost, haunted, half-alive.

He found himself, inevitably, at the door of the Hall of the Soothsayer. The guards down the corridor had said nothing to him as he stalked past, no doubt assuming he was heading to put the prisoner to further torment.

Murtagh stood in front of the heavy door, breathing, staring at the grain, knowing that Nasuada lay on the other side, wounded, hurting, alone. He put his hands on either side of the doorway and pressed his forehead against the rough wood, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting with himself.

She doesn’t want to see you. She hates you. She’d kill you if she could.

I should go to her. She shouldn’t be alone. I can help her.

No you can’t, you’re a monster. You hurt her.

You hurt her.

You hurt her.

You hurt her.

Finally he couldn’t listen to himself anymore, and he took another swig from the jar, before hurriedly tucking it into his shirt and wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. He blinked through the fog for a long moment, swaying uneasily.

When it hurt too much to stand there, he put his hand to the door, and stepped inside.

***

Nasuada could not turn her head to look at him; she was strapped down, as he had been, her head and hands and feet immobilized. Utterly helpless.

Murtagh stood staring at her for a long time, his chest clenching in pain, seeing her like this–wounded, alone, half-naked, weak, and shivering. It was nothing like the fierce woman on the black war horse who had bravely led her army to victory against half the cities in the empire. This was the King’s cruelty–not just to perform his violence and torture, but to strip such a strong person of her strength, such a dignified person of her dignity. That was a true crime.

Finally he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, so he tromped to the far wall and slid down to the floor, drinking and wondering why he’d come to bother her with his presence.

He started talking. He was not fully aware at first that he had done so, but he was trying to tell her something–he just wasn’t sure what.

“M–my–my horse, when I was… I had a horse… and I was riding once and–and I hurt–I hurt her ankle, I took her down a steep hill I shouldn’t… shouldn’t have…” Murtagh swallowed, pulling memories from years ago, hazy and indistinct. “And I brought her back to the stables and I gave her back and I didn’t–I didn’t tell… them… and w–when the stable master saw the horse was lame, he… he blamed the stable boy.” Murtagh’s gaze was tracing the patterns of stone on the floor.

“...and I didn’t say anything.”

He sniffed, and drank.

“But Tornac–Tornac, somehow… no one knew, but he knew. He–he knew it was my fault the horse was lame. But he didn’t say anything either. He asked me what had happened, and I–and I lied to him, cause I didn’t want him to be…mad.”

Murtagh squinted, wandering in thought through the old feelings, old memories, half-remembering the point he was trying to make when he’d started.

“And he said that–he told me… he told me he wasn’t going to say anything to the stable master, but that if I was… if I was a man of honor, then… I would do it.”

Murtagh swallowed, swaying as he sat. 

“He said it didn’t matter that the stable boy was a poor orphan and I was a high-ranking noble. What–what matters is the truth, he said. And what matters is telling the truth, even if it hurts you. Even if it turns people against you. A man of honor–and he was–Tornac was–he was that. He was the best man I ever knew. Good man. Not a great one…” He took a deep breath.

“He said a man of honor owns up to what he’s done. Regardless of the consequences.”

Murtagh sniffed then, finally circling back to the thought he’d had in the beginning, the thing he needed her to hear, the thing he needed to explain. He was pleading with her.

“Galbatorix was going to have you killed…” He whispered, “He knew Elva wasn’t guarding you like she used to, so he decided it was the perfect time to have you assassinated.”  

The words suddenly poured out, quickly, but dull, like he had memorized a script for this.

“...I only found out about his plan by chance; I happened to be with him when he gave the orders to the Black Hand–”

Suddenly his throat tightened, and he shook his head.

“It’s my fault. I convinced him to have you brought here instead. He–he liked that; he knew you would lure Eragon here that much faster…” He took a shuddering breath, fighting tears, 

“It was the only way I could keep him from killing you… I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

Murtagh buried his face in his arms, wiping his tears away angrily.

How dare you cry in front of her. After what she’s just been through? How dare you sit here weeping when she’s in pain.

Then his heart clenched, as he heard her hoarse voice from the stone slab:

“I would rather have died.”

“I know,” He croaked. He took a shaking breath, asking the question he most needed to ask, but dreading the answer.

“Will you forgive me?”

That, she did not answer. 

Serves you right, selfish coward, The inner voice said. Murtagh scowled and took another drink.

When he started talking again, it was a ramble of thoughts, and everything poured out. He started telling her things about his childhood he’d never shared with anyone, he started recounting his life like he was a bard and she a child at a campfire.

He didn’t know why he was doing it. He needed her to know something, but what? His dazed brain couldn’t say for sure. His words slurred and wandered through the maze of intoxicated thought, but he had a point he was trying to make, a feeling he was trying to invoke in her. 

When he spoke of Eragon, he spat and his anger grew again, the unfairness of it all–special Eragon and his special dragon, and his charmed upbringing with loving parents and a cousin who was like his brother, and their mother fleeing her prison to rescue him while she left Murtagh behind. It made him furious to think about it. 

He realized it was pity that he was trying to get Nasuada to feel. Never before in his life had he wanted someone’s pity. He had actively rejected it, in fact, but now he was begging for it–for understanding, for sympathy, for her to know he hadn’t chosen this, he hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t become this on purpose. 

He just wanted her to feel something other than hatred for him.

He talked about his own tortures, hoping in his foggy mind that perhaps it would make her feel less alone, give her strength to endure. She was stronger than him, of this he was certain. If he could survive all that, then so could she.

 He shuddered when he spoke of the bugs crawling down his throat, and the needles piercing his skin, and the water poured over his head, and the iron rods… she knew about those. 

He reached the end of his drawn out rambling, coming back to the thing that he always came back to–his chains–the day his life had ended–the day he’d been broken, because of Thorn.

He just wanted her to understand–to see that he had tried.

When he’d finished his tirade, he couldn’t stop his tears, though he cursed himself for them.

How dare you cry in front of her, He said again, even as he clutched his torso and wept, his head leaning against the cold stone wall.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the cracks in the floor, but she said nothing, and eventually he became sober enough to realize that he’d been a fool, to come here and complain to her, as if she wasn’t suffering horribly, as if she would want to see him, as if he wasn’t the person she hated most in the world.

He staggered to his feet, suddenly feeling the need to get out of there. 

But he stopped as he neared her stone slab, and he forced himself to look down. Her dark curls were bedraggled and stringy with sweat, and her skin had a gray tinge to it, but still he found her beautiful. Her beauty was in her inner strength, in the depth of her eyes, in the determined set of her mouth. 

He heard Thorn’s voice in his head.

It is not right that you should drown out your pain while she lies helpless in hers.

Without thinking, he placed his left hand on her shoulder, and began speaking spells of healing to her–leaving the marks, but taking away her pain. If he could do nothing else for her, he could do this. And yes, if the King ever found out, he would be punished for it. But what did it matter? He would face the King’s wrath again, for her.

He took his hand away quickly, not wanting her to feel afraid, and he turned to go as her voice broke the quiet and she said,

“I cannot forgive…but I understand.”

He paused for one moment, half-turned, and he felt a pathetic welling of relief. 

Pity. 

He had earned that from her, at least.

He nodded, and said no more. 

***

When Murtagh returned to the Hall of the Soothsayer with Galbatorix, and Nasuada’s torture began again, he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that he would return, and he would take away the pain he was even now giving to her.

Nasuada remained strong, and did not give in, and Murtagh could sense the King losing patience. Murtagh didn’t remember everything he had said and done the night he’d stumbled into the Hall and sunk to the floor in tears, but in between her bouts of torture, in the brief moments when their eyes met–when he couldn’t bear to look away from her any longer–he thought he saw a different expression in her dark eyes. 

Immediately after Galbatorix had left her to her pain, Murtagh wanted to return to help her, but the King dispatched him and Thorn to fly north and meet the Elven army–which had set out from Gil’ead towards Uru’baen.

“Slow them down,” The King said, “And make sure General Parseith’s troops get across the Ramr. Then return. Our work with Ajihad’s daughter is not finished.”

Murtagh was angry at being sent out, angry knowing that Nasuada was lying in her cell, in pain and alone, and he couldn’t go to her.

Let us finish this business with the elves quickly, then, Thorn said as they flew out from Uru’baen and angled to the north. Murtagh cast one last look down towards the citadel, willing Nasuada to just hold on until he could make it back.

As Thorn and he approached under cover of new-fallen darkness, Murtagh saw the Elven army and the troops of the quickly-retreating garrison splayed out before the outstretched branch of the Ramr river, their torches flickering in the night like a thousand fireflies.

Some of the men under Parseith’s command seemed to be crossing the Ramr already, but it was slow-going, and the Elves’ march was relentless. There were cries of alarm as Thorn swooped down, but the men quickly recognized which dragon it was, and then the cries of alarm turned into cheers of triumph.

“My lord,” Parseith–a middle-aged man with a close-cropped gray beard and hollow cheeks, bowed when Murtagh dismounted. He’d clearly been partaking in the fighting himself–his clothes were ragged and his armor dented– and Murtagh respected that.

“How long will it take you to get your men across the river?” Murtagh demanded.

“At least two more hours,” He said, casting his uneasy gaze to the approaching line of torches in the distance, “We’ve limited boats, and the river is swift.”

“And going around?”

Parseith shook his head.

“I did the calculations; we’d lose too much time–they’d be upon us.”

“They’re about to be upon you anyway,” Murtagh pointed out, and the man grimaced.

“Yes. We had a slow time getting the wounded over the foothills.”

Murtagh nodded.

“Well. I’ll get you the time you need, but see to it those men move as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you, sir, yes, sir,” Parseith bowed, and Murtagh returned to Thorn, tying his legs in with the new leg-straps he’d made. After having to cut them loose at Dras Leona to avoid being crushed to death, he figured he shouldn’t let the problem repeat itself.

Thorn and he took to the skies, and before long the torches were once again in the distance. 

What is our plan? Thorn asked, sniffing the air as he glided silently towards the approaching Elven line.

Well, there’s no point to subtlety. We want them slowed as much as possible. Why don’t we announce ourselves?

Thorn grunted in agreement, and, several hundred yards from the army, he began a steep dive towards the ground. He unleashed a roar only when he was seconds from the assembled troop, so the Elves had little time to react to his sudden appearance.

Whipping along the front of the line, a mere handful of yards from the foremost row of horses, Thorn unleashed a torrent of fire that lit the brown grasses in a wall of flames. He kept straight as an arrow, blocking the Elves’ path with his conflagration, and hurtling back into the sky as many high voices cried out in alarm and dozens of arrows pinged off his wards.

That got their attention, Murtagh thought, feeling Thorn’s pleasure at his performance. The night was now alight with the roiling flames below, and Murtagh saw the army stop its forward momentum.

The effect wasn’t long-lasting, though–these were Elves he was dealing with, and they had experience with dragon fire.

Murtagh watched from high above as dozens of soldiers approached the wall and lifted their hands, their mouths moving with indecipherable words, magic flowing from them as easily as water from a spring.

The fire was soon tampered down, and the army continued.

Guess they’re not going to make it easy.

For the next three hours, Murtagh and Thorn battered the Elven army with fire and magic, buzzing around their heads like an irksome bee. It annoyed Thorn to be so standoffish, but Murtagh didn’t dare take on the entire Elven army alone. That would be suicide. 

Not only were they all exceptionally trained warriors and exceptionally powerful spellcasters, they also held a deep hatred for Murtagh and Thorn–the people who had killed their beloved elders–Oromis and Glaedr. 

Murtagh could feel their fury towards him as Thorn made another pass of fire. Arrows and spells bounced off his wards and shouts were thrown. Once, a group of five elves attempted to do as Arya had done, and fling themselves into the air with magic, latching on to Thorn. Two succeeded in hitting their mark as Thorn whizzed past. 

One landed on Thorn’s tail and tried to stab at it, but unlike Arya’s glowing spear, his longknife did not bypass the dragon’s wards, and Thorn whipped his tail so that the Elf was flung into the air. The other elven man slammed straight into Murtagh and would’ve knocked him out of the saddle but for his leg straps.

Murtagh cursed and grappled with the elf, who scratched at his neck and dug his long nails into Murtagh’s wrist, tearing at his sleeves as the wind whipped past them and he tried not to fall. Murtagh felt a strong mental attack, but deflected it determinedly as Thorn swooped upside down, causing the elf to tilt with gravity, tearing Murtagh’s tunic as he tried not to lose his grip. Murtagh elbowed him in the face, and pulled out his knife, slashing at the piece of his shirt that the Elf was clinging to, and sending the man careening into space. 

The other elves caught him with their spells, but he was limp with exhaustion. He had no Eldunari to bolster his strength. 

Murtagh’s respite was short lived, as Thorn righted himself only to find a great white bird hurtling towards them with a shriek that sounded almost human.

Murtagh cursed and ducked, but the bird swiveled quickly and pecked at him, and Murtagh’s wards did not prevent the beak from digging into his flesh.

“Blast it!” He cried, swinging his knife at the strange bird, who flapped and ducked and dove, keeping just out of reach. 

The bird squawked loudly and then said,

“ Wyrda! ” 

Murtagh startled at the sudden voice, and the bird managed to gouge his cheek with its beak. Just as Murtagh moved to retaliate, it landed on Thorn’s neck, and closed its wings, and suddenly Murtagh was frozen.

It was not magic–no spell was preventing him from attacking the bird, or keeping Thorn from twisting around and knocking the creature off his neck. But both of them were stopped for a long moment, enthralled, as the white raven blinked its dazzling eyes at Murtagh.

Then it croaked:

“ Change approaching. Bonds breaking. To save the one, the other risking.”

Murtagh blinked. The air whistled past. The raven’s words echoed in his skull like a flurry of snow.

Then his moment of stunned silence broke, and he felt the pain from his cut face, and he lunged at the bird with his knife. But the white raven took off with a squawk of,

“Wyrda!” 

And returned to his master below, a woman whom Murtagh knew without doubt was the Elven Queen, Islanzadi.

At last, when Murtagh looked back to the Ramr river and saw that the torches from Parseith’s garrison were stretched in a thin line on the southern side, he and Thorn abandoned their harassment of the elves, and turned back towards Uru’baen.

***

He barely took time to heal his wounds, dust some of the ash from his hair, and let Demelza stitch up the holes in his clothes before hurrying out of his chambers and half-running towards the Hall of the Soothsayer.

Be careful, Thorn warned, as Murtagh left him with Demelza, who seemed to wonder but did not question Murtagh’s hurry.

He collected himself for just a moment at the door to Nasuada’s cell, quieting his pounding heart, before shuffling in and casting wards behind him to keep out intruders and eavesdroppers.

He almost sighed in relief when he saw Nasuada lying there, still breathing. He’d half-expected her to be gone, or dead, when he got back. But the King, it seemed, hadn’t touched her since their last terrible encounter. 

Immediately he went to her, and healed her of her pain–leaving the scars. He felt her shudder under his touch, but he kept his eyes to the floor as he whispered the words of healing. 

As soon as the spell had done its work, he lifted his hand from her, and crossed the room, sitting against the wall once again. Without the comfortable haze of drink to shield his emotions, he felt nervous of what she would say and do, and what he ought to say and do. He was taut with anxiety as the silence stretched on, but eventually Nasuada broke it and said,

“Does Galbatorix know where you are?”

Murtagh took a small breath. At least she wasn’t flinging curses at him.

“He might, but I doubt it,” He murmured, “He’s busy playing with his favorite concubines. That, or he’s asleep.” Murtagh sniffled, stretching his sore legs out on the stone, his boots scuffed and his clothes disheveled.

“It’s the middle of the night right now,” He explained, realizing she would have no way of knowing the time. “Besides, I cast a spell to keep anyone from listening to us. He could break it if he wants, but I would know.”

“What if he finds out?”

Murtagh shrugged, inwardly terrified for the punishment he would receive, but outwardly keeping himself calm. It didn’t matter. He had to help her.

“He will find out, you know, if he wears down my defenses,” Her voice was soft and uneasy, a twinge of worry coloring her usual strength. Murtagh’s head shot up, his heart suddenly fearful for her. Was she close to giving up? Was she near her breaking point? He had thought her strong and resolved, even as she screamed, but her words made him doubt.

“Then don’t let him,” He said fervently, pouring all his strength into the words, “You’re stronger than me; you have no one he can threaten. Y–you can resist him, unlike me…” He was pleading with her, he realized, he needed her to remain free.

“The Varden are fast approaching, as are the elves from the north,” He continued, hoping to bolster her courage, “If you can hold out for another few days, there’s a chance… there’s a chance maybe they can free you.”

His words felt feeble even to him, and Nasuada was still clear-headed enough to sense it.

“You don’t believe they can, do you?”

Murtagh kept his silence. He could only shrug. Of course he didn’t. But he had to give her hope somehow, right?

“Then help me escape,” She said, her voice desperate. 

Murtagh barked with laughter–as if that hadn’t occurred to him, as if he hadn’t tried himself to find a way of escape every day for the past year. As if he wouldn’t do anything to get her out of this.

She argued with him, trying to think of some miraculous plan of victory that he hadn’t already thought of, and in the end came back to the desperate phrase that he’d thought to himself every night as he’d drifted into fitful sleep in his chains on the dungeon floor,

“There must be way.”

“If there were…” He smiled sadly, and looked down. If there were I would’ve thought of it by now. If there were I might’ve been able to stop all this. If there were I could’ve come back to you.

“...it’s pointless to consider.”

She was silent for a few moments, and he half expected her to tell him to leave. She was probably angry with him, that he could not save her. That was the only reason she was speaking to him, after all–he was her enemy, but she hoped to use him to escape. He didn’t blame her; he understood. He would’ve gladly been used. But he hoped she wouldn’t be done with him now that he’d offered no solution to her problem. He didn’t want to leave her.

“At least let me out of these cuffs,” She said then, and Murtagh sighed. She was relentless. 

Isn’t that what you admire about her? His inner voice said.

“Just so I can stand up,” She clarified, and suddenly he felt suspicious of her intentions. Was this a trick? Was she trying to work her way free, so that she could stab him and make her own attempt at escape?

He hesitated, knowing it was foolish of him, to give in to her demands. But he couldn’t bear to say no to her–he knew how it felt to be tied down like that, immobilized, helpless, feeling like you might go mad from being held so still.

He stood and began unfastening her bonds with trembling hands, trying not to touch her feverish skin.

“Don’t think you can kill me,” He murmured, hoping he could avoid a pointless struggle with her,  “You can’t.”

He didn’t look to see her reaction, but paced back to his former place on the floor, and sat with his eyes averted, knowing she would not want him staring at her, with how tattered her dress was from all the burns.

She surprised him by walking over and sitting herself down next to him. 

He was suddenly very aware of his body, of the way his shoulders slumped and the way his ash-dusted hair hung in front of his face, of the bruises along his neck and wrists and the smoke residue smudged on his forehead. 

The inches that separated them felt taut with energy, and he held his hands together to keep them from trembling.

She surprised him even more by asking him suddenly about Tornac. He remembered telling her a garbled story about his former swordmaster when he’d come to her drunk that first night, but he didn’t expect her to recall it, or to care.

He started talking, and answered her steady questions, all the while waiting for her to slap him and tell him he was a monster and she hated him. But she was on a mission. She eventually asked about the King–about his weaknesses, of which he had none–convinced that there must be something that Murtagh had not considered, some way of taking Galbatorix down.

Then Murtagh tried to reason with her, tried to give her another form of hope–that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, if things went how they must go, inevitably. He had tried to convince himself of this, to really give in to the King’s smooth words as he spoke of the new world he envisioned. If it was inevitable anyway, why fight? He figured maybe if he believed in the cause he was forced to fight for, then it might hurt less. 

“What’s more,” He said, his own voice thin, “If–if the Varden lose, Eragon and I can be together, as brothers ought to be. But… if they win, it’ll mean the death of Thorn and me. It’ll have to.”

This was the point of contention he had continued to run against in his long hours of pondering. Part of him wanted to be with Eragon, wanted someone to share his burden with, wanted to not feel so alone. And part of him was sick at the thought of Eragon going through what he’d gone through–would do anything to keep his brother from being punished as he had. 

But regardless of what he felt about Eragon, if the Varden were to be victorious, they could not do so while he and Thorn still drew breath. So how could he hope for such an outcome?

Nasuada didn’t buy his feeble attempt at reasoning for Galbatorix’s cause.

“Oh?” She said, “And what of me? If Galbatorix wins, shall I become his slave, to order about as he wills?”

Murtagh winced, a sudden horrible image blossoming into his mind–of Nasuada, forced to do as he had done, sent out to whomever the King pleased, her body used like a bargaining chip. He bit his tongue to keep from throwing up.

“You can’t give up, Murtagh,” Nasuada said.

“What other choice do I have?!” He burst out, unable to contain it anymore. But she did not flinch from his words. Instead, she stood briskly and said,

“You can fight!” Her voice echoed after his, “Look at me…” 

He closed his eyes. But then she said it again, this time a command.

“Look at me!”

And he had to obey her. He met her fiery expression, her skin gray and her hair disheveled, but her jaw set with determination. She had never been more strong.

“You can find ways to work against him. That’s what you can do. Even if your oaths will allow only the smallest of rebellions, the smallest of rebellions might still prove to be his undoing.”

She panted, her face pleading and full of anger all at once. Murtagh felt very small beneath her, like a soldier facing his general’s reprimand. 

“What other choice do you have?” She breathed, “You can go around feeling helpless and miserable for the rest of your life. You can let Galbatorix turn you into a monster. Or you can fight!”

Murtagh held his hands against his forehead, her words piercing. She saw him too clearly, she was crawling up under his skin and tearing loose the foundation of his sanity. He had been fighting, didn’t she know? Didn’t she know his whole life had been a battle from the day he was born? Didn’t she know how tired he was?

She lifted her burn-marked arms for him to see.

“Do you enjoy hurting me?” She demanded, and that felt like a stab to his heart.

“No!” He exclaimed, his voice cracking.

“Then fight, blast you!” She shouted, “You have to fight or you will lose everything you are. As will Thorn.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Anger and shame and sorrow roiled inside him like fire in the belly of a dragon. 

How dare she! One voice said. She didn’t know Thorn, she didn’t know all that the dragon had endured since the day he’d hatched, she didn’t know how strong he was, how good he was, how hard he fought.

And as for Murtagh? She didn’t know what he’d been through, what he’d suffered, the punishments he’d taken for her precious Varden, for Eragon. He had been fighting, and all he’d gotten for his efforts was more pain.

He rose from the floor with the push of his old fury–his constant companion since before he could remember. He glared at her, breathing through his nose, wanting to tell her everything, wanting to spit it out, to tell her what she didn’t know, the hurts he’d endured, to shame her into silence. 

But the other voice said,

No, she’ll be disgusted. Don’t tell her. She’ll laugh at you. She’ll think you’re pathetic, even more than she already does.

Before he could decide which voice to listen to, Nasuada said,

“If I can keep fighting, then so can you.”

“Back to the stone,” He snapped, pointing over her shoulder. He didn’t want to be here anymore, didn’t want to have this conversation.

“I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh,” She said, and a cord snapped in him. He lost his breath for a moment as she continued to speak, hurriedly, trying to get her words out before he cut her off, “Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered with some measure of kindness after you’re gone.”

There it was again–Eragon had said the same thing. Why don’t you just die? Why don’t you and your dragon just die? That would be the best thing for all involved. Nobody cares about you. Just die, and solve all our problems.

“Back to the stone,” He growled, taking hold of her arm and pulling her–a little harder than he should have–towards her slab. 

His heart was hammering and his skin felt hot, and her words were swimming through his mind:

I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh. I know you’re not a coward. I know you’re not a coward.

How did she know? How could she? Could she be right? Could his name be wrong? 

He fastened her straps down with trembling hands, feeling a heat rise in his throat and behind his eyes. He would not cry in front of her, not again. 

He stood back from her when he was done, his hands recoiling like her skin was scalding hot. But the pounding of his heart would not allow his legs to move. He couldn’t leave her. Not like this.

I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh.

“You have to decide whether you are willing to risk your life in order to save yourself,” She said, her voice almost a whisper, her eyes meeting his wild, unsteady stare.

“You and Thorn both. And you have to decide now, while there is still time.”

Her expression became soft and understanding.

“Ask yourself: what would Tornac have wanted you to do?”

This stopped the fire in his limbs, and calmed the pounding of his heart. There was no doubt to that answer. Tornac would have said the same as she–

Fight, Murtagh. Small rebellions. Find a way to resist. Be a man of honor.

His throat was still tight, and he couldn’t speak.

Instead, he lifted his hand and placed it near her collarbone, and he began to whisper the Ancient Language, a spell of healing and of shielding, a complex web of magic that he wove over her, to guard her from the same pains that he had endured. He would do anything–to guard her from that. 

When he was done, he felt the sudden need to be gone from the room, like he had just been exposed and needed to hide. She saw too much. She knew too much.

“That should shield you from the pain of most any wound,” He murmured, not looking at her, “But you’ll have to pretend otherwise, or Galbatorix will discover what I’ve done.”

He didn’t wait around to hear a response. He stalked up the stairs and slipped out of the Hall of the Soothsayer.

When the door closed behind him, he leaned back against it, the heat returning to his eyes. He slid down to the floor and leaned his smoke-streaked hair against the rough wood, tears sliding down his face.

Chapter Text

A disturbance in the lower city called Murtagh out of his bed early the next morning–the wall guards had sounded some kind of alarm. For just a fleeting moment Murtagh wondered if Eragon had arrived to rescue Nasuada, and he was filled with hope.

But it wasn’t Eragon.

It was cats.

“What?” Murtagh held Zar’roc’s pommel and glowered at a bloodied soldier who sat slumped against the guardhouse wall, holding a cloth to his head, his tunic torn and his neck covered in claw marks.

“S–sir, we–well, there was an attack… one of the men thought… sir, it really is–”

“How many were there?”

“Sir?”

“The cats. How many.”

“Uh… at least twenty, but–”

“They escaped?”

“Well… they’re cats, sir…”

“And yet you’re nearly fainting from your wounds,” Murtagh spat, annoyed at the man’s denseness. 

“Where did the cats go?”

“Well, two of my men were chasing after a group, and they had them cornered, but when they came into sight… poof, they were gone.” The man was wide-eyed and his voice moved quickly.

“Gone?”

“Yeah, just a couple street urchins in the alleyway, no sign of em.”

“Street urchins.” Murtagh repeated, his annoyance growing.

“Kids, I dunno. They said it was just a bunch of–”

“They’re werecats, you idiot,” He spat, “Those kids gave you that scar.”

The guardsman’s face seemed to fluctuate between fear that Murtagh was going to kill him, and absolute bewilderment.

After that, Murtagh spent the better part of the morning chasing down what seemed to be a rogue band of Werecat-spies that had been sent ahead of the Varden army.

The King had told him to “deal with the disturbance”, and he did, but he didn’t kill the werecats, and he didn’t capture them. He had sworn no oath to the King and felt no desire to do so, but he made sure they scampered over the city walls and fled into the fields. 

He met with real trouble only once. He’d frozen one of the large cats with magic, and was about to grab it by the scruff and haul it to the edge of the city, when seven of them jumped down on him from a nearby roof. If he hadn’t been so annoyed about being kept from Nasuada, he might’ve found it comical.

They scratched and bit and tore at his sleeves, but he allowed their attack to last only seconds, before blasting them away with a single spell and sending them scampering back over the nearest roof.

No doubt they had been dispatched as scouts ahead of the army–to report on the city’s defenses and to try and find out where Nasuada was being held. He wished he could help them, wished he could open the citadel doors for them and usher them in to rescue their captured leader. But that his oaths would not allow.

After escaping the surprise attack, he soon found one of them in an alley, in human form–a crouched girl with a shock of yellow hair and razor sharp teeth, a dagger in both hands. 

He’d managed to bind her with magic, but then he stood for a second in the alleyway, catching his breath, watching the creature blink at him. He was torn between anger and amusement, his arms bloodied from dozens of scratches, his clothes dusty, but his mind working.

The Werecat woman glared at him and snarled, and Murtagh almost snarled back. Nasuada’s words from their last meeting were echoing in his mind–her fierce charge to him, her challenge that he ought to fight. He’d felt so helpless for so long that he’d all but given up fighting. But her words had carved deeply into him, and she was right.

 He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life feeling helpless and miserable, and though his rebellions against the King had cost him much, they were like anchors to him. The fact that he’d not turned in the spy, Garren, the fact that he’d let Eragon stay free, the fact that, even now, he was aiding Nasuada in her fight against the King’s torment–these things all made him feel human, made him feel real, like he wasn’t just a puppet, like he stil had a mind of his own.

Now he stared at the Werecat, his mind racing, trying to see how he could help Nasuada, how he could use this situation to his benefit. He couldn’t tell the Werecats that Nasuada was alive, or where she was being held, or anything else that might help the Varden. His oaths prevented him from sending messages to the King’s enemies. 

But if they happen to discover it for themselves…

Murtagh squinted at the Werecat, an idea forming in his mind. 

He took a moment to compose his plan, then, with a deep breath, he attacked her with a mental probe.

The backlash was sudden and astonishingly powerful, and Murtagh stumbled back in the dark alleyway.

Her retaliation, however, was part of his plan, and as the Werecat’s mind battered itself against him, Murtagh began to recite a line of verse–not the one his mother had taught him, but one of his own making:

Lady Nightstalker lies in the Soothsayer’s Hall

She breathes still, but suffers greatly.

Rescue her before the city’s fall,

Distract the King and Dragon quickly.

He felt the werecat woman battering against him angrily, and continued reciting the lines of his new poem, fighting her off only barely, hoping she would hear the words and take their meaning. 

It wasn’t much–he certainly didn’t have a plan on how the Varden were supposed to help Nasuada–but if they knew she was alive and in the city, that was a start; one of the Elves among them had to know what the Hall of the Soothsayer was. 

They would have to keep Galbatorix distracted, he knew, in order to have a shot at it. And they would have to rescue her before the assault on the city began. Murtagh had the sinking feeling that Galbatorix would kill Nasuada, if he grew bored of trying to convince her. It wasn’t like with him and Eragon–who, because of their dragons, were irreplaceable. Nasuada’s life was at the mercy of King’s moods, and Murtagh knew from experience how quickly they could change. The Varden had to get her out soon.

As he recited the lines, he felt the fringes of his oaths tugging at him–as though he were dancing along the razor edge of betraying them, one false word and his voice would be stopped. But he was able to continue his verse as he defended his mind from attack.

After a long moment, he felt the angry Werecat’s presence retreat abruptly, and he opened his eyes. The girl was staring at him strangely now, her bulbous eyes deep and farseeing. He did not blink away.

With an uttered word, he released the binding spell on her, and they stood facing each other for a long minute more. The girl straightened, flashed her teeth at him in something between a growl and a smile, and then quickly whirled away, clambering up the nearest wall and disappearing over the next rooftop.

Murtagh followed her with his gaze, wondering if his effort would be any help.

Small rebellions, He thought, and he turned back to the street.

***

Nasuada was relentless. 

Murtagh had hoped that their last conversation would’ve driven home to her the futility of trying any dangerous attempts at escape. But apparently his words had not hit their target.

He returned from his wrangling of the Werecats to find Demelza waiting with a summons for him,

“The other servants are saying a prisoner killed some guards–tried to escape,” Demelza offered, her tone worried, as Murtagh quickly scanned the summons. He felt a twist of fear for Nasuada, knowing the wrath she had just brought down on herself. She’d killed her jailer and two guards with a sharpened spoon, before being cornered in one of the hallways–exactly what he said would happen. 

Murtagh had to give her points for ingenuity, but as he hurried back towards the Hall of the Soothsayer, he knew that she would pay for her insolence.

“Ah, thank you,” Galbatorix said to a pale-faced castle attendant, who hurried up and handed him a small wooden box. Murtagh frowned.

“I thought we’d try a different approach to our persuasion today,” Galbatorix said with a soft smile, lifting the lid to the box. Murtagh couldn’t resist looking in, and the sight nearly made him gag. 

It was some kind of bug–some huge maggot, and it was squeaking in a horrible, squelching way.

“...since our guest is proving…obstinate.” Galbatorix admired the creature for a long moment, and Murtagh felt a sick plunge in his stomach as the King tucked the maggot away and headed for Nasuada’s cell.

He hurried after with feet like lead, not knowing what the maggot-like thing was meant to do, but remebering the red bugs crawling down his throat, chewing on his insides.

He tried to keep his expression calm when he walked into the Hall of the Soothsayer and stood against the wall; for Nasuada’s sake he tried not to look too worried, but he could tell she knew something was coming–something bad.

It was so much worse than he could have imagined.

King Galbatorix placed the plump maggot on Nasuada’s skin, and Murtagh fought the urge to shout Brisingr! And incinerate the thing.

Don’t make it worse, He told himself, Your wards will protect her. She can get through it.

But his wards did not protect her. Stupid failure that he was, they didn’t stop the pain from the burrow grub at all. Whatever the thing was, wherever Galbatorix had dug it up from, it was outside of Murtagh’s magic.

 He gripped his hands together until he felt like he might break his own fingers, as she screamed and writhed in pain, and blubbered and cried out for mercy. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in his gut, like someone had taken hold of his spine and was shaking him. 

He came close to throwing up, he came close to passing out, but he knew he had to stay awake for her. Eventually the sound of her screams grew weak and breathless, and then, to Murtagh’s horror, there was silence.

He looked up, having clenched his arms together and stared at the floor for the past five minutes. The only sound in the chamber was the revolting, faint skree skree of the creatures that were burrowing in Nasuada’s skin. Her body was still.

Murtagh’s heart stopped, and without thinking he lurched forward.

“Wait–” Galbatorix interrupted dully with a slight raise of his hand. Murtagh’s heart was pounding.

“She’s going to–”

“–wait,” Galbatorix repeated.

Murtagh’s feet were stuck to the floor, the command holding him fast. 

But he paused only for a few seconds–Galbatorix hadn’t specified how long he had to wait–before rushing forward and lifting his gedwey ignasia to her frantically. He would get those things out of her if it killed him. 

Murtagh felt a sharp blast of magic as the King hurled him across the room. He slammed his head against the stone and sank to the floor on his hands and knees, his vision flickering.

“I said wait,” The King’s voice echoed menacingly. 

Murtagh wheezed sharply, steadying himself with one hand against the cold wall.

But when he managed to lift his head, the King was standing over Nasuada, and he was murmuring a spell, and then he was holding the Burrow Grub between his fingers and placing it back in the box. 

He turned to Murtagh darkly.

“I don’t expect you would like to have another lesson in obedience,” The King said with a voice like coal. Murtagh was blinking spots from his eyes.

“No, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” He managed. He’d messed up, he shouldn’t have done that, he shouldn’t have reacted so strongly.

There was a stretch of quiet, as Murtagh knelt, his shoulders hard as he waited for the King to punish him. But when he risked a glance up, the King was regarding him with a bit of a smile.

“Would you like to have her?” Galbatorix asked then, and Murtagh squinted, confused.

“W—sir?”

“The girl,” He gestured with his head to Nasuada on the slab. “Would you like to have her?”

Murtagh felt his throat tighten, he looked from the King, to Nasuada’s unconscious form on the slab. This was some test. Some game.

“...she isn’t mine to have,” He said, forcing the words out.

“Aye. But she is mine. And if it should please me, I could give her to you.”

Murtagh grimaced, hearing the King talk about Nasuada like she were a piece of property. Apparently this reaction was only confirmation for Galbatorix, whose low chuckle filled the room.

“Well, I suppose you’re like your father in that way–you know how to choose the fiery ones.”

Murtagh didn’t have anything to say to this, so he remained silent, staring over at Nasuada, just hoping she would wake up.

“If you comport yourself well in the upcoming conflict,” The King was continuing in his usual, superior voice, “Perhaps I will consider letting you have her. Would you like that?”

Murtagh’s mind flipped through a dozen possibilities. No, of course. The answer was no. How dare the King. He wouldn’t take Nasuada like she was a gift for Galbatorix to give. She wouldn’t have him and and he wouldn’t want her… not like that, anyway. 

But in that moment it was dawning on him for the first time–or perhaps he was just allowing himself to see for the first time–just how much he did want her. How much he cared for her. Not in the same way he cared for Eragon, or Tornac, or Thorn… this was different, this was an energy between skin, a hitch of breath every time he touched her, an aching in his heart when he thought of her pain, a flood of relief when he looked into her eyes.

The King was perceptive, perhaps more perceptive than he had been of himself. Did he want her? It was a crude way to phrase it, but yes. He wanted to be near her, he wanted to know her, he wanted to hold her close, he wanted to be trusted by her, he wanted to be admired by her, he wanted… to be loved by her.

But could he ever, ever hope to be with her in that way? No. Of course not. That future–if it had ever existed–had been snuffed out the minute her father was killed and Murtagh taken captive. And what the King was offering now was not love–it was a transaction–Murtagh would have no part in that. 

Nevertheless, if she was promised to him… if he was able to please the King enough to keep her alive…

“Yes, sir,” He answered, swallowing through a lump in his throat, his eyes on the floor, “I would, sir.”

That made Galbatorix smile more.

“Well. We’ll see then, won’t we.”

***

He found his way back to her as soon as he could, stopping only to tell Thorn briefly what had happened, and frantically search through the castle library for some mention of how to heal the wounds that the disgusting creature had given Nasuada. None of the books and scrolls he searched seemed to know what it was, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to do anything for Nasuada–his guarding magic had done nothing to prevent the pain the first place.

His cape brushed across the stone work as he pushed into the room, his brow furrowed.

She looked even worse. 

Murtagh tried to control his expression–Nasuada was awake now, and looking at him, and he knew she would be scared. He was scared too–lines spanned her skin like cracks in stone, with bruises and blood spreading out from them. 

She managed to give him a grimace that was meant to be a smile, but the gray pallor of her skin and her bloodshot eyes made the effort look more terrifying than comforting. 

“Try not to move,” He murmured, as he began to whisper every spell of healing he could think of. It worked, somewhat; he could feel Nasuada’s shuddering lessen as the pain trickled away. But to heal her completely, without revealing his work to the King, he didn’t know how.

“Your spell didn’t stop the pain,” She almost whispered when he had finished, and it felt like someone was squeezing around his heart.

“I’m sorry,” He said, when she had painfully stood up after he undid her restraints. He held his hands out to catch her if she fell, but Nasuada closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself, shivering.

“Here.”

He took off his cape and gave it to her, and she wrapped it around her scarred body. With wincing steps she shuffled over to the nearby wall, and Murtagh followed, making sure she would not stumble.

He joined her, his heart heavy with her hurt, trying to think of what to say to her, how to help her. His arms rested on his knees and his back was against the stone wall, and they were silent together for a long time, her labored breathing filling the quiet.

Then Murtagh heard her choke out a sob, and she began to cry. Her breath hitched, and he felt a heat in his own throat. He wanted to hold her, to touch her, to comfort her, but he wasn’t sure if she would want that. 

He remembered, though, the desperate desire to just feel a friendly touch, after so much pain. He remembered what it was like to hurt that much. He reached out one careful hand and touched her shoulder, and she winced. 

Immediately he snatched his hand back and looked down at the floor.

Stupid, don’t touch her, she hates you. 

But then he felt Nasuada’s trembling hand on his, and a chill ran up his arm. He grasped her palm and gave it a squeeze, watching her face as she cried. He couldn’t stand it anymore, he had to help her, he had to hold her.

He put his arm around her, waiting for her to recoil, but she didn’t. 

Shuddering, she sank into his embrace and huddled against his chest, as her tears continued to fall. 

Murtagh closed his eyes, and held back his own tears, holding her firmly, feeling like she might break apart in his arms and drift away. Her sobs echoed off the stone walls, and Murtagh’s determination to save her solidified like ice in his veins. He couldn’t let this be her life–he wouldn’t. He would get her out of this place if it killed him.

“I’ll find a way to free you, I swear,” He whispered, his chin resting on her head, trying to feed her his warmth as she shivered.

“It’s too late for Thorn and me,” He managed, “But not for you. As long as you don’t pledge fealty to Galbatorix, there’s still–still a chance I can spirit you out of Uru’baen.”

It hurt to speak these truths–he and Thorn had given up hope on themselves a long time ago, but to say it out loud was hard. Still, he knew if he had any chance of saving Nasuada, he would have to risk himself and Thorn. He’d already risked the King’s wrath by helping her, but he was determined not to let fear of punishment stop him now.

I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh.

He didn’t know how, but he would do everything he could to prove her right. 

He told her of Galbatorix’s plans to disturb her mind–as he had done to Murtagh–and he asked for her permission to let his mind touch hers, so he could act as an anchor in the storm that was about to hit her.

The King could not fake the feeling of someone’s mind–Murtagh had discovered that when he’d used images of Thorn to torment him–and he hoped he could help Nasuada in the same way.

When their minds touched, Murtagh felt an initial recoil, the instinct to protect herself kicking in. But then her mind calmed, and the heartbeats passed between them as he tried to stretch out his consciousness to hers, so she would know his touch when the King began playing his tricks.

Her mind was rich, and deep, and full of breath and life, humming like a great heartbeat, shimmering like the sun off a lake. Murtagh’s eyes were closed, and their faces were inches apart, but their consciousnesses were pressed against each other. 

He felt the desire to go deeper, to press in, to know more about her, to be enveloped in the folds of her mind, but he resisted the pull, and soon retreated from her.

When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t believe how close he was to her, how her dark eyes shimmered in the torchlight, looking at him with something approaching affection. 

He wanted to kiss her–he didn’t.

“There now,” He said instead, “Will you be able to recognize me if I reach out to you again?”

She nodded, her hand still clasping his. He promised to warn her before and after the King began his tricks, so she would be able to resist them. 

“Thank you,” She whispered, and he got the feeling that the words carried much more than they let on. 

After that he told her what he knew about the King’s plans–before he’d left, Galbatorix had said he would be conferring with Lord Barst on the defense of the city. What Murtagh was meant to do in the upcoming battle, he wasn’t sure, but he was content for now to have a day where he knew the King would not be returning to hurt Nasuada further.

“Now I have a question for you,” He said, “Why did you kill those men? You knew you wouldn’t make it out of the citadel. Was it just to spite  Galbatorix, as he said?”

He feared he’d said the wrong thing, when Nasuada sat up straight and broke his hold of her, but he didn’t resist her movements, and placed his arms back in his lap. 

Then she looked at him with an old spark of determination, and said,

“I couldn’t just lie there and let him do whatever he wanted to me. I had to fight back; I had to show him that he hadn’t broken me, and I wanted to hurt him however I could.”

Murtagh felt a grim amusement bubbling up in him–by Angvar, he admired her. 

“So it was spite.”

“In part. What of it?”

Murtagh smiled, then, at her proud chin and her defensive tone. To still have such fight left in her–after what she’d endured–it gave him hope for her.

“Then I say well done,” He concluded with a nod, and in return she granted him her own smile–not a grimace this time, but a proud, defiant smirk.

This small moment of levity was soon brought down, when Nasuada looked at him with a fathomless expression, and said the one thing he realized he’d been fearing to hear from her since the moment she was brought to Uru’baen:

“Murtagh, if it’s not possible to free me from here, then I want your promise that you’ll help me escape by… other means.”

His lips tightened and he felt an angry flush on his neck. 

“Whatever happens, I won’t allow myself to become a plaything for Galbatorix to order about as he will.” 

Like you, Murtagh imagined she was thinking, and his hands clenched. 

“I’ll do anything at all to avoid that fate,” She murmured softly, “Can you understand that?”

No, He wanted to spit. I won’t do this for you. You can’t ask it of me. To live as a slave without hope of freedom is bad enough–but to endure that life while having your blood on my hands…

But of course he did understand. His eyes fell on the thin, jagged scar that ran up his wrist. Before Thorn had come along, he’d tried the same thing–to keep his freedom the only way he knew how. To spite the King.

He nodded once, short and terse.

“Then do I have your word?” She asked, and he grimaced. She wouldn’t let him go on half a promise. She would make him do this.

His chin trembled. How could she ask this of him? Didn’t she know? Didn’t she know it would break all the pieces in him that weren’t already broken? Didn’t she know he–he loved her? 

If you really love her, A voice said to him, Then you’ll do whatever it takes to help her. Unless she was wrong about you–and you really are a coward.

“You do,” He said heavily. And she touched his hand again.

***

After that they sat together for a long time–longer, perhaps than was wise, and though Murtagh was caught in a swirl of terrible thought, he tried to put on a brave front, for her sake. 

They tried to talk about things of little importance–memories that could not be touched by the darkness wherein they now sat. 

He loved to listen to her talk about her home in Surda, and the people she knew there, and the adventures she’d had growing up; before the Varden, before the war, before all this. 

Her head was leaned back against the stone and she spoke with her eyes raised to the ceiling as though she were watching a canopy of stars on a clear night sky. And as she gazed at the stars, Murtagh gazed at her, filled with such a painful mix of fear and love and longing that he thought he might burst. 

When at last he forced himself to leave, she stopped him with a word from her position on the block of stone.

“Murtagh,” Her voice came from behind him, and he paused. She seemed to hesitate for moment, and then all she said was,

“Why?”

And he knew the meaning in her eyes. He understood the weight of the question as it left her lips. And the unfairness of it all felt like iron in his limbs–that he should have found her, only to be snatched away, and now to be reunited in the worst place and the worst situation imaginable. 

Why help her? Why save her? Why risk himself for her? Because he had to. Because he was drawn to her like water to the sea, because she was for him the representation of everything good in the world, the hope for his lost soul, the bandage to his wounds. Why? He couldn’t say it. He didn’t deserve to say it to her, and she wouldn’t want to hear it. This wasn’t about him anymore. He knew his doom was sealed. He knew he had no future with her, but if he could ensure that she had a future at all, then that would be enough.

His eyes were glistening when he answered,

“You know why.”

***

When he returned to his chambers, he was exhausted, but he also was buzzing with energy. He paced the room as he told Thorn of what had transpired, of the terrible promise Nasuada had forced him to make, and of his promise to help her.

It was rashly done, Thorn worried, But I agree with you. If we must do one thing before meeting our doom, then we must do this.

Murtagh looked at the dragon, whose red eyes sparked with determination. He didn’t like the way Thorn talked of meeting a doom, but he understood. The Varden were mere days away, the conflict that had been simmering up to this point was about to come to a rolling boil, and soon their fates–and those of Eragon, Saphira, Nasuada, Roran, and the entire land of Alagaesia, would be sealed. If they could do one good thing before the world turned to ashes, they had to try.

Murtagh wondered if the strength of his feeling for Nasuada was beginning to leak over to Thorn through their connection. He had expected Thorn to chastise him, but the dragon seemed ready to fight as much as he.

The two of them paced the room, brainstorming, reckless with their plans to rebel against the King.

His oaths prevented him from doing several vital things:

Firstly, he could not pass messages to the King’s enemies. He had managed to do something of the kind with the Werecat woman, but couldn’t think of how to do that again.

Secondly, he could not leave Uru’baen without Galbatorix’s permission–meaning he could not spirit Nasuada away before the battle began. Someone else would have to do it.

He could, as he had discovered, undo her shackles and let her walk about freely. He could also, he imagined, leave the cell door open as he left. 

He could not, though, attack any of the King’s guards and leave the path clear for her.

But is anything to stop you from luring the guards away at the opportune time? Thorn suggested. Murtagh thought, trying to sift through the magic bonds that held him. It was possible–if he did it correctly.

But someone had to help her, someone from the outside, someone had to sneak into Uru’baen, to hide her, and to get her out of the city before the King was aware.

Murtagh’s list of allies was thin. 

Demelza, He thought, She’s kind enough, but I can’t exactly ask her to risk her life… 

Lord Barrow seems to be a trustworthy man, Thorn suggested as Murtagh paced. 

Trustworthy enough to betray the King? Murtagh questioned. He thought the same of Barrow–kind, for a nobleman, and seemingly against the King’s cruelty. But the man had a family to think of. 

Still, though, an ally was an ally.

What about the spy? Thorn asked. 

Garren? What about him?

Clearly he considers himself indebted to you. 

Sure, but how would I even get a message to him, and besides he’s in Tirenda–

Murtagh stopped, and his eyes fell to the wooden box underneath his bed–the gift from Garren, containing a fine goblet from Old Chestnut Goblet Makers.

Murtagh’s heart started beating faster, an idea forming in his mind.

Suddenly he hurried over to a chest in the corner, where gold pieces had been given to him for his personal use–an exorbitant amount of money,

But is it enough?

Enough for what? Thorn asked, his head swinging around to Murtagh as he carried the box of gold over to the small table. 

“I… I need… a piece of paper.”

He rushed to the writing desk that sat in the corner, on which he’d done much of his practice and study of the ancient language. 

With shaking hands, he dipped the quill in ink, and started to write. 

He addressed this letter to no one. It was not a message, after all–he could not send messages. He simply wrote, as though it were a strange scrap of poetry that he was penning for himself. No hidden meaning. No destination.

This goblet does not meet my expectations. I’ve kindly returned it to you, and suggest in its place, a far better prize. If you go to the Old Chestnut, you may find that which your friends would deem worthy above all else–a treasure that was lost in the night. Your feline companions may know of what I speak. The prize will be ready in three day’s time. 

Was three days enough? Could she get the message there in time? No. It wasn’t a message. No message. Just a silly scrap of verse. Meaningless. 

Murtagh folded the paper with shaking hands, and hurried to snatch the the goblet box from under the bed. He rang the bell to call Demelza, and lifted the lid, looking at the inscription on the bottom. 

With thanks, Old Chestnut Goblet Makers.

Would it be enough? Would she understand? He closed his eyes.

It will not work, Thorn worried, The Varden are too close.

“I have to do something !” Murtagh panted desperately. Then there was a knock at the door and Demelza said,

“Sir?”

Murtagh steadied himself, the piece of paper in his hand. He set the goblet down on the table and closed the lid.

“Come in,” He said.

The red-haired woman entered and curtsied.

“What can I do for you?” She asked kindly, giving Thorn a smile.

Murtagh stood next to the table, his whole body tense, his hand on the chest of gold. He chose his words carefully, stiffly, dancing around the edge of his oaths, meeting Demelza’s gaze as if he could send the message through his eyes.

“Demelza…” He stared, “You have to get out of the city. The Varden are coming.”

His voice was dry, and he saw Demelza frown, possibly hurt from his cruel ignorance; she was trapped, she could not leave.

“I… I cannot–”

“There’s gold in this chest,” He interrupted, swallowing through his pounding heart. He placed a hand on the lid and opened it.

“I want you to have it. Pay off the men your father owes money to. Free yourself.”

Demelza’s eyes widened, but still there was a frown.

“Is it enough?” He breathed.

“Sir…”

“Is the gold enough? To pay your debt?”

“It–I—I mean, yes, but–”

“Good. I want you to have it.”

“Sir, you can’t–”

“I can, Demelza, and I am. I want you to take this gold… and pay off your debt, and be free.”

His voice trembled at the word. Free. How he envied her this chance–the idea that a simple payment of gold would free her from her servanthood. 

Control yourself, He chided, as he continued. Demelza was still shocked, and he needed her to understand this part. She had to understand.

“Demelza,” He said, and her astonished eyes rose to him. “...your fiance, he lives in Tirendall, yes?”

Demelza nodded, her mouth half-open, her eyes blinking.

Murtagh swallowed, feeling every thump of his heart in his chest. 

“...I…also know a man, in Tirendall,” He said. He felt the fringes of magic pulling on him. What he wanted to say was: Take this letter to Garren at Old Chestnut Goblet Makers, tell him I’m going to get Nasuada out of the citadel, and he needs to meet her at the Old Chestnut Tavern with Eragon or some Elven spellcasters, to spirit her away from the city while I distract the King.

But he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t give any message. His lips were sealed. He had gone as far as his oaths would allow him to.

Instead, Murtagh lifted up the letter, in between two fingers. 

He held it up for Demelza to see, meeting her confused gaze, and he placed it down slowly on the lid of the goblet box, never breaking eye contact with her. 

He could not give her the letter directly. He could not tell her his plan directly. But he could try and get her to understand. 

Please understand, He begged silently. 

“Free yourself,” He said aloud, “Regardless of what you choose to do…” He raised a significant eyebrow, “The gold is yours.”

Demelza’s shock still showed, but there was a suspicion to her look now–she could see what was happening, she could see that there was something he was not saying. Her eyes flicked from the goblet box, and the letter, and back to him.

“Are you certain, my lord?” She questioned with a whisper. He wondered what that meant, exactly–are you certain you want to give me this gold? Are you certain you can let me go? Are you certain you want to risk the wrath of the King?

“I am,” Murtagh responded, and he stepped away from the table where the boxes sat. 

She shuffled forward slowly, eyeing him, moving deliberately, tucking the letter into an apron pocket and lifting both boxes into her arms.

Murtagh nodded to her, and tried to give her an encouraging smile. He knew this was it. He knew he would never see her again. She would be free, and that was as it should be, and perhaps along the way she could help Nasuada. 

If she wasn’t able to get the message to Garren, his plan would fail, and Nasuada would be found, and both of them would be punished. But he had promised Nasuada that he would try, and this was the best he could do.

As Demelza went to leave, she stopped at the door, and she turned back, and her eyes were glistening. She looked at Murtagh with a face glowing with gratitude and sorrow; then she gave Thorn a melancholy smile.

“Thank you,” She whispered, “Both of you.” 

Her chest rose and her chin quivered. Murtagh nodded, and Thorn nudged Demelza’s shoulder with his snout.

“Thank you ,” They both said at the same time.

Then Demelza took a breath, and she slipped silently from his chambers, carrying Murtagh’s hope with her.

***

The King returned from his council with Lord Barst and called Murtagh to join him in the Hall of the Soothsayer. As soon as their footsteps breached the hallway, Murtagh reached his mind out to Nasuada and said,

It’s me. It’s happening. 

He felt the briefest acknowledgement, before he severed the connection and checked to see that the King hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

Murtagh didn’t know what she was seeing–he stood against the wall while the King sat with his eyes closed, creating phantom images to torment Nasuada with, to wheedle his way into her thoughts. 

It wasn’t as bad as the iron or the burrow grubs–Nasuada seemed to be asleep, lying there on the stone slab, her disheveled hair splayed out behind her, eyes closed in an almost peaceful way. But Murtagh worried for her sanity.  

He didn’t know how long the passing of time seemed to her, but for him it was only an hour or two, before the King gave up his meddlings for the night and stormed from the room angrily. Murtagh touched her mind to let her know it was alright to believe her senses again, before following after Galbatorix.

He visited her at night when he knew the King was occupied, and again they sat by the wall, and she held his hand. 

“The Varden are close,” He encouraged, though now their speed worried him. He had sent Demelza off to Tirendal, to hopefully get a message to Garren, but it would have to be quick if Garren was to make it back here in three days. 

There was another part of his plan, too, that needed working out. He had to get Nasuada to The Old Chestnut , to meet whoever Garren would bring. But he couldn’t be the one to lead her there. He had to distract Galbatorix to give her time to escape, and to keep him from noticing the wards that would be triggered when Nasuada left the Hall of the Soothsayer.

We will have to trigger another ward at the same time, Thorn had thought to him, To confuse him.

Like what?

Perhaps… an intruder in the treasury room… or in the hall of the Eldunari?

Murtagh had thought this over. 

He had to undo Nasuada’s shackles, and leave the door open for her, and get the guards away, and trigger a ward that would cover up Nasuada’s escape, and lead her through the streets of Uru’baen to the tavern… all at the same time. He would need to be in four places at once.

His mind had begun to work, and he’d spent every spare moment in the library, researching. He thought back to the battle over Dras Leona–how it had appeared that Eragon was riding Saphira as they fought, while all the while he had been running amok underneath the city. One of the elves had been sitting in Eragon’s place, with a mask of magic overtop him, but in theory, Murtagh thought he could produce an image of himself out of nothing, and let that vision draw the guards away. Technically he wouldn’t be using magic against them…

As he sat with Nasuada, part of his mind was still on the plan. He promised her he had an idea, but he couldn’t give her more detail–for one, it would be dangerous if she knew, and Galbatorix accidentally saw it in her mind–for another, he didn’t want to give her false hope. His plan was growing more insane by the minute.

“I need another day or two to see if it will work,”  He breathed, “But there is a way, Nasuada. Take heart in that.”

She gripped his hand more tightly then, and gave him a bolstering look of courage. The King had not broken her yet.

***

Murtagh stood in Lord Barrow’s entry hall, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting as the man’s footsteps echoed down the hallway.

He’d warned Nasuada that the King was going to begin his manipulations again, but this time Galbatorix had not asked him to join him, a fact with both relieved and disturbed Murtagh. He knew the King was growing frustrated with Nasuada… he knew her endurance might be pushing him beyond the limits of his patience, and he hoped the King hadn’t changed his mind about keeping her alive. 

But he focused himself on Lord Barrow, as the bald man approached with a smile. 

“My lord Murtagh, good to see you again,” Barrow said with a swift bow.

“Lord Barrow.”

“I take it you and your dragon are well?”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Murtagh responded, his mind buzzing with energy.

He was about to take a great risk. Of his list of exactly three allies, Barrow was the one he was least sure of. The man was nice enough, but being nice and being willing to commit treason were two very different things. 

No other option, Murtagh reminded himself. He would have to make the gamble.

“What is it I can do for you?” Barrow asked; Murtagh had appeared suddenly at his home about mid-day, unannounced, and asked his household manager to speak to him. He could tell Barrow was already suspicious.

“I’ve a request of you, my lord,” Murtagh said coolly.

“Another letter for, uh… your servant?” Barrow offered with a bit of a cheeky smile.

“...something like that,” Murtagh returned, swallowing. He now had to tread carefully around his oaths.

“I’ve… a friend… who would like to visit a tavern in the lower city, called The Old Chestnut . Only… her presence would attract far too much attention, if she were to walk herself down there. I was hoping you might be willing to lend her one of your carriages and drivers… to take her there, a day from now in the evening.”

Barrow frowned, confused, but Murtagh put on a smile.

“I’d do it myself, but I’ll be otherwise occupied.”

Barrow’s eyes were squinting, calculating, trying to see the meaning behind Murtagh’s words.

“If you were able to help me in this… I would consider myself deeply in your debt.”

Barrow raised an eyebrow. Murtagh was already in his debt, for Demelza’s letter and for his assistance after Murtagh had been nearly choked to death by the King. The man was not dim, and could see that more was at play.

“This… friend of yours. Is she a friend of the King as well?”

Murtagh kept his face expressionless. He could lie to the man; he could make it seem like all of this was just some secret dalliance that Murtagh was orchestrating, not a treasonous plot. But it felt wrong, to rope him into something that could get him killed, if the King found out. Barrow was not one of the King’s “enemies” technically–not yet, anyway. So Murtagh found that his oaths were not restricting him as much as with the Werecat, or with Garren.

“...let’s say that they don’t always see eye to eye,” Murtagh answered, and he thought Lord Barrow understood.

The older man worked his jaw, and seemed uncertain. 

“I ask you, Lord Barrow,” Murtagh continued, hoping to stir the man to action, “Because I have seen in you a goodness that is rare among the elite of this city.”

Barrow’s expression was bracing, but not angered.

“...and because you once told me you hoped someone would help your son or your daughter… if they needed it.”

Barrow’s gaze was full of emotion.

“...my friend is in need, and she lost her father because I could not save him. I’m trying to honor him, by helping her.”

Barrow said nothing. The two men stood across from each other, and Murtagh waited, to see if the risk he’d taken would pay off.

Barrow looked back into the hall, as though considering his family, and what he might bring down upon them by doing this. He didn’t know the extent of what Murtagh was requesting, but clearly he could sense that it was a risk.

“...I have taught my children to act with honor, in all things,” Barrow said, his voice low, “And to do what they know is right… no matter the risk.”

He met Murtagh’s eye.

“...I suppose I would be ashamed if I did not back up my words with action.”

Murtagh felt a flood of relief.

“...you’ll have your carriage.”

“Thank–”

In the distance, Murtagh heard a horn blast echo through the walls. He and Lord barrow stopped.

Then another horn blast, and another. 

Murtagh! 

Thorn shouted in his mind, and Murtagh turned, his heart suddenly pounding. Lord Barrow had blanched.

“What is–”

The Varden, Thorn said, They’re here.

***

Murtagh hurtled down the stonework hallway.

Blast it, blast it, damn them, idiots, blast it,

His feet pounded along the stone as he took the turns at a breakneck speed. Galbatorix had summoned him back to the citadel the moment the Varden army was spotted on the horizon, and every passing minute Murtagh’s panic had grown, and he’d wanted more than anything to get back to Nasuada, to find a way to help her.

His plan was in shambles. The Varden were here, and the gates were closing, and no one was going to be let into the city. So even if Demelza got the message to Garren, and even if the Werecat woman had relayed his cryptic words, and even if they got here before the attack began, they would have no chance to meet Nasuada at The Old Chestnut.

He had tried for the rest of that whole day and night to extricate himself from the frantic city preparations, but the King kept him busy–it seemed almost intentional–and by the time he was flying down the corridors, it was pitch dark.

Murtagh’s heart was hammering and he felt frantic. He had given up all pretense at subtlety–now all he could hope to manage would be smuggling Nasuada into the city, using the chaos as a cover. 

If he could get her out of the citadel and find a place for her to hunker down, then maybe she could rejoin the Varden once they passed the city gates, maybe they could get her away before the King captured Eragon, maybe she could run far from here and hide in Surda, maybe the dwarves would be able to take in refugees, maybe, maybe, maybe…

Murtagh ran past the guards, knowing he would have to draw them away before he brought Nasuada back out, and he didn’t hesitate even a moment when he came to the door of the Hall of the Soothsayer. The wooden door banged open and he hurtled himself down the stairs,

“We have to–” He stopped, panting. 

The stone was bare.

Nasuada’s shackles lay there, and the room was quiet, and the lantern’s glow emanated to an empty room.

“No!” He shouted, looking around, as if he might find Nasuada in one of the shadows, as if she were hiding from him, as if this nightmare wasn’t coming true. 

“No! No!! No!!!”

He drew Zar’roc and swung the sword down in a fury at the stone slab, screaming his frustration as he brought it down again and again, deep gouges carving themselves into the slab where he and Nasuada had suffered. 

He took his rage out on the Hall of the Soothsayer. He blasted the room with magic, and fire, and he brought the ceiling tiles shattering down around him, and he destroyed the dwarven lantern and he charred the stone slab until it was black.

Then he sank to his knees on the stones, Zar’roc hanging from his hand limply, suddenly weak, swaying, his stomach clenching. He had failed her.

She can’t be dead she can’t be dead she can’t be dead.

He breathed, trying to clear his mind, which was clogged with sudden despair. 

No, she can’t be dead, He tried to assure himself. The King wouldn’t kill her–not now–not when he could still use her against the Varden, against Eragon. He had taken her somewhere. That was it. He had moved her somewhere, to be a part of his game. 

But Murtagh had lost his chance to get her out. She would be under Galbatorix’s watch now. And he could not help her escape. The only thing to do now, would be to win her life by pleasing the King. Galbatorix had offered Nasuada to him as a prize, if he did well enough in the battle. So that was what he would have to do.

Murtagh stood, his chest heaving, blinking back the angry tears that had fallen. He would save her, and if he had to take down Eragon to do it, so be it. His brother’s fate was sealed, there was nothing he could do for him. But Nasuada’s life hung in the balance, and he would not fail her again.

Chapter Text

Thorn flung himself from the outcropping that loomed over Uru’baen, hurtling down towards the city street where Saphira had just fallen after being wounded by the projectiles that the soldiers had fired at her. 

The sky had barely lightened over the eastern walls when the Varden attacked, and Murtagh had to draw energy from the Eldunari, having gotten no sleep since the night before last. 

The wind whipped through his hair as he brandished Zar’roc, his eyes locked on Saphira’s rolling form, as she struggled in the street.

Thorn landed, scattering Imperial soldiers as he shook the ground. He roared and fired a blast of flame at Saphira, but her wards deflected it. 

Saphira leapt over a row of buildings, frantically flapping one injured wing as her claws brought pieces of the roof hurtling down towards the street. Thorn pursued. 

Once again the dragons wreaked havoc on a city as they pursued each other relentlessly. Murtagh was whipped around as Thorn clawed and slashed at Saphira. He clenched his teeth to keep from biting his tongue when Thorn jumped and landed on another street.

The sounds from the walls echoed over the city, as men shouted and the Varden army began battering at the gates.

Fools, Murtagh thought angrily, hearing the screams of dying men. 

He had just turned his attention back to Saphira and Eragon when Saphira took another leap, and batted her wings back, escaping a swipe from Thorn. At that moment, Murtagh’s eye caught the tip of Saphira’s wing, as it brushed through the upper level of one of the houses… and went straight through.

Murtagh felt a jolt down his spine.

They didn’t…

With no hesitation, he jabbed out towards Eragon with his mind, and he felt… nothing.

They’re not real, He realized, but he didn’t say it to Thorn, who was firing another jet of flame at Saphira, nearly cooking some imperial soldiers in the process. Murtagh’s mind raced, and he swiveled his head around, searching the city for a sign of the real Saphira.

They have to be here somewhere. If they’re not here fighting us, then they have a plan… some sort of feint…

For a moment, Murtagh was torn. He could allow Thorn to continue fighting this mirage of Saphira, giving Eragon and whoever was with him the opportunity to enact whatever secret plan they had concocted, to try and get one over on Galbatorix. Murtagh didn’t have any faith that they could defeat the King in this, their final confrontation, but if the plan included rescuing Nasuada…

He hesitated for a long few moments as Thorn continued to batter and harass the fake Saphira, which, Murtagh now noticed, had not once touched Thorn, and was running away at any opportunity. The elves were skilled at their deception.

He tried to think through his options as the noise of battle raged around him.

The King had taken Nasuada to the throne room–he knew this because he’d shouted at one of the terrified guards after finding her cell empty. Eragon and Saphira were likely heading for a direct confrontation with the King, meaning they would try to find a way into the throne room–past the many wards and traps that he and his spellcasters had erected during the night. 

Once they got the throne room, the King would overpower them and demand they give oaths of fealty. If they refused–which they would–he would begin to use force. There was a chance that he would use Nasuada to persuade Eragon–hurt her, or worse, kill her, in order to get him to submit. Murtagh could not allow that to happen.

His eyes continued to scan the maze of buildings around them, until he saw a flicker of blue near the citadel. It was as he suspected–they were trying to break into the keep.

Thorn! She’s a fake! Murtagh shouted to his partner, his mind made up. Whatever Eragon’s plan was to get past the well-defended citadel gate, he could not sit back and let him walk straight into the King’s arms, just so Nasuada would be used to hurt him. 

Thorn recoiled his neck mid-growl, a questioning thought pushing against Murtagh as he tilted his head at the still-growling fake-Saphira

It’s a mirage! Murtagh shouted, They’re at the citadel!   Go! 

Thorn rippled with fury and sent a petulant blast in the direction of the false Saphira, before leaping from the streets and rising in the air, charging towards the citadel gate, through which Saphira had already disappeared.

His roar of rage thundered in Murtagh’s ears and silenced the clamor of the city for a moment. 

By the time they landed in the courtyard, Eragon and Saphira had gone, and the gate was closed again.

Blast them! Murtagh cursed for the hundredth time that day, as Thorn swung an infuriated paw at the doors. But the King’s spells would keep the door held against them as well.

Murtagh quickly undid his leg straps and slid from Thorn’s back, landing on the pavement hard, and running for the still-open sally port.

The gate mechanisms were in shambles–evidently Eragon and his friends did not want to be followed. Murtagh growled and started working through the cranks and levers, knowing he could not go into this confrontation without Thorn. 

Sweat rolled down his neck as he worked, trying to repair the gate, hindered by the King’s magic. It felt like hours before he finally heard the click and the gate rolled open.

Thorn hurried through, and Murtagh ran towards the hallway that led to the throne room. If they hadn’t accidentally killed themselves on one of the hallway traps, then he could still try to catch up with them. 

He began to run back and forth across the hall, disabling the many traps and tricks with the spells that Galbatorix had shown him, but it was time consuming. He saw a group of at least six or seven people surrounding Saphira up ahead, the eerie lanterns glittering off her scales. Thorn followed him slowly, not wanting to trip any of the deadly traps. 

He soon found a crumpled pile of the King’s magicians–their bodies cut in two by the their own traps.

Idiots, He cursed them, as he first had to disable the trap that had killed them, and then drag the body parts out of Thorn’s way. He groaned in frustration when he saw the door to the throne room swing open, and watched Eragon, Saphira, Arya, and a little girl he knew must be the witch-child, step into the glowing light of the cavernous space.

He worked even faster, his panic mounting, knowing now that every second he wasted put Nasuada at risk. The King might kill her as a show of force, might kill her the moment Eragon said something disrespectful, might kill her to wound or scare the little girl, anything. 

Finally, Murtagh reached the carved golden doors, his breath haggard, his Eldunari weakened from the many frantic spells he had cast to undo the King’s magic. 

He pushed into the throne room with Thorn stalking behind.

When he saw Eragon, Arya, Saphira and the girl standing frozen before the King, he was unsurprised. As he had suspected, their little plan had been useless–all they’d managed to do was get to the throne room without getting cut in half, and delay him and Thorn awhile. As if that would stop the King from destroying them, as if it would change the outcome of the day.

He saw no sign of Nasuada in the dark room, and that worried him. Where would the King be hiding her? But if he didn’t see her corpse lying at the King’s feet, he would maintain his hope that she was still alive.

The thing he saw that almost made him stop short, were two children, huddled at the front of the King’s dais, shivering and holding each other. Murtagh felt a rush of fear and confusion. He recognized the children. They were Lord Barrow’s son and daughter.

Then he looked from the King, to Eragon, and he understood. The children were pawns. He cursed again, praying that Eragon’s stubbornness wouldn’t get the brother and sister killed. In the back of his mind he had to wonder–had it been random? Had it just been bad luck that these particular children were snatched from their home? Or had it been because Galbatorix knew Lord Barrow had been willing to help Murtagh–was this another punishment?

Murtagh gripped his fists as he marched closer and closer to the gathered group. When he was abreast with Saphira, he stopped, and bowed, his gaze forward.

“Sir,” He said, and Galbatorix beckoned for him to join him by the throne. Murtagh turned and his eyes locked on Eragon, scowling at his brother for the harm he had done to Nasuada. But then he turned his face away, and kept his gaze fixed on the far wall.

Galbatorix chided him for taking so long, a threat hanging in his deceptively calm voice, and Murtagh kept his responses civil. He was now trying to win the King’s approval. That was all that mattered–making sure the King kept Nasuada alive for him.

His forced composure was almost broken when Galbatorix brought the lights of the throne room back to their full brightness, and Murtagh finally saw her–chained to a stone slab, wearing trousers and a white tunic, hanging from shackles, her mouth gagged.

His heart leapt into his throat, and he met Thorn’s glance. He couldn’t decide whether he was relieved or terrified.

Eragon called her name, and asked if she was still free of any binding oaths. Murtagh scowled at this–as if Eragon really cared. He hadn’t come to rescue her, had he? 

He met Nasuada’s fearful gaze and gave her the slightest of nods.

Then Eragon began to sling empty threats at the King, swearing in the ancient language that he would kill Galbatorix–an oath which the King immediately dismantled with his use of The Word. 

Murtagh scowled as Eragon threatened the King, again, and demanded that Galbatorix fight him. 

Idiot, stop it, you’ll get them killed. 

He glanced at Lord Barrow’s frightened children; the girl, Aberly, looked over at him with wide, questioning eyes, as if to say,

Why aren’t you helping us?

Eragon went on taunting the King, trying to goad him into fighting like the fool that he was. Murtagh understood Eragon risking his life–he understood Eragon and Saphira giving everything they had to defeat the King, laying down their lives in sacrifice for those they loved. 

But he was furious with his brother for risking the children, for risking Nasuada, with his recklessness.

He could’ve strangled Eragon when he heard the King say,

“Since you wish so badly to fight, I will grant your request. But not with me. With Murtagh.”

Blast it you bloody idiot, I’ll kill you. 

Murtagh’s fists clenched, and he felt Thorn’s worried touch. So this was to be it. This would be how he won Nasuada’s life–he would have to take Eragon down in combat, to prove to the King once and for all that he was the better fighter. He was steeling his nerves and already thinking through strategy when the King said,

“It will be rather entertaining, I think, to watch brother fight brother.”

And Eragon answered,

“No. Not brothers. Half brothers. Brom was my father, not Morzan.”

Instantly all thought of the fight left Murtagh’s mind. He blinked, thinking he had dreamt up Eragon’s words, had fallen into a strange dream for a moment. But then he saw his brother–his–his half-brother?–he saw Eragon meeting his gaze with determination. 

Is that possible? Thorn wondered. 

It… I… Brom? How would… if she…

And suddenly Murtagh was brought back to a cool evening in the garden of his father’s estate, holding to his mother Selena’s hands as she knelt before him and said,

“This is mummy’s friend Neal. He can help you. If you’re ever in trouble, you go to Neal, alright sweetheart?”

And Murtagh had looked into the eyes of a tall, sun-darkened man, with graying hair and kind eyes.

“Hello, Murtagh,” The voice had rumbled.

Murtagh! This was Thorn’s voice, calling him back to the present, where the King had freed Eragon from his bind and had created a circle of light in which to do battle. 

Murtagh scowled, and shoved the revelation from his mind. Brother or half-brother. It didn’t matter. He would best Eragon no matter what it took. He was the better swordsman, he knew it without a doubt, and he would make sure the King knew it too.

Drawing Zar’roc, he faced Eragon in the circle of light.

***

“What are you doing?” He hissed when his back was to the King.

“Buying time,” Eragon muttered in return as they circled each other.

“You’re a fool. He’ll watch us cut each other to shreds, and what will it change? Nothing.”

Eragon made a movement that caused Murtagh to twitch, but it was a feint. Murtagh hunched his shoulders, his grip shifting.

“Blast you,” He said for the hundredth time that day, “If you had waited just one more day, I could have freed Nasuada.”

He didn’t know why he said that–perhaps because he wanted Eragon to know just how big a mistake he’d made. When it was all over and Eragon was a slave like him, and Nasuada too, he wanted Eragon to share in the blame for her imprisonment. Had his plan been likely to work? Not necessarily. But it had been Nasuada’s only chance at freedom, and Eragon had taken that away. Now all Murtagh could hope for was to keep Nasuada alive as the King’s servant and Murtagh’s consort, so she could hate him until the day she died. But at least she’d be alive to hate him.

“Why should I believe you?” Eragon retorted under his breath as they circled, and that caused Murtagh to bristle. How dare he. After everything Murtagh had done–for him, for the Varden, for Nasuada–how dare he. 

Murtagh wrestled his anger under control, and molded it into an impenetrable wall of determination. He would see this done or he would die in the effort.

When he attacked, it was sudden and powerful, and he could tell it unnerved Eragon. Good. Served him right for dropping the revelation about Brom right before their fight. Underhanded trick.

Rapidly, their dueling escalated, as blows were exchanged and their red and blue swords rang out across the echoing throne room. Murtagh feinted and lunged and blocked. It was like a dance between them, their rhythms evenly matched, their moves echoes of one another. They had practiced together too much, and though they were now very different people from the two boys who had fled through Alagaesia on horseback together, the core of their fighting styles were the same. 

The air shuddered with the collision of their blades, and sweat began to trickle down Murtagh’s neck, but his determination was implacable. Once, Murtagh managed to almost win–he would’ve won, except for Galbatorix’s rule about killing blows. He’d thrown himself recklessly at Eragon and shoved him backwards–taking a page from their cousin’s book, if what he’d heard about Roran Stronghammer was correct–and in Eragon’s moment of instability, Murtagh had swung Zar’roc with a shout of rage, bringing it within inches of his brother’s neck.

Only the King’s magic stopped him from killing Eragon right there, though whether subconsciously he had known he would be stopped, Murtagh couldn’t say for sure. Had he really intended to kill Eragon? The King wouldn’t have been pleased by that, certainly, but maybe somewhere deep down, he did… he wasn’t sure. 

The action seemed to throw Eragon off, though, and after the King had chastised Murtagh with a threat, they continued, and Eragon seemed weaker than before.

The fight dragged on, but Murtagh’s resolve was unwavering. First Eragon received a wound on his leg, then on his forehead, then he landed a cut on Murtagh’s sword-wrist, and blood began dripping down Murtagh’s hands, causing Zar’roc to become unsteady in his grip. His hair hung in front of his forehead, drenched in sweat, as on and on the battle dragged, and he felt Thorn’s worry increasing. 

He would not lose. He could not lose. 

His greave was dented by a powerful blow from Eragon, and he felt a shock of pain up his leg as he stumbled back, defending himself against Eragon’s pursuit, suddenly fearful. But he pushed back with renewed determination, unwilling to yield. 

You will not best me, He thought as their eyes locked, the floor spattered with blood and sweat. Time was immaterial; Mutagh was immortal, and he would fight Eragon for a thousand years if he had to.

Never before had he been so determined to win. Every fight they’d had, a small part of him had been holding back, had been wishing for Eragon to beat him, for his brother–or half-brother–to come out victorious. It was not so, now. 

He heard a snarl from Saphira, and Thorn responded with a growl, but Murtagh could not see what had caused Eraogn’s dragon to react. He paid it no heed. He would not be distracted.

Murtagh rushed at Eragon, determined to throw off whatever plan was forming, and their blades rang. When they disengaged and started again, Eragon stepped to the right, and in that moment he twisted his arm too far, and his side was exposed. With a spark of triumph, Murtagh lunged, and, almost in disbelief, he felt Zar’roc plunge into Eragon’s side. 

He looked up in shock–his determination broken for just a split second, so surprised was he to have won. But then, in the next moment, he saw Eragon’s arm moving and Thorn said,

Look out!

And suddenly Brisingr pierced his stomach, running him through with a shock like fire. 

Murtagh’s breath left him with a wheeze, his face went slack and he choked, pain erupting from his center.

Thorn’s roar shook his ears, but the world was spinning, and he felt himself falling to his knees, his lungs rasping. He grunted as he felt the sword leave him, and Eragon–still standing over him–stepped back.

His body was shuddering, and he tasted blood in his mouth, and every beat of his heart felt like the slow banging of a deep drum, with an eternity in between. The grip of his hand loosened, and Zar’roc clattered to the floor. He clutched his arms over his torso, hot blood spreading onto his hauberk as a wave of despair washed over him.

It had been a trick. Eragon had tricked him. He had won. Murtagh had failed.

Murtagh curled forward, partly from physical pain, partly from emotional anguish, and he pressed his forehead against the cold floor, crying out as he felt the strength ebbing from his body. 

He vaguely felt the room lighten around him, he vaguely heard a muffled voice–Nasuada’s voice–he vaguely sensed Eragon kneeling next to him, as Galbatorix said,

“And to Eragon goes the victory.”

Murtagh panted, close to unconsciousness, but so full of sorrow that he couldn’t seem to die. He looked up at his half-brother, his face contorted.

“You couldn’t just let me–let me win, c-could you?” He muttered unsteadily, “You–you can’t beat–you can’t beat him but you still had to p–prove that you’re better than–” 

He groaned as the pain redoubled, and he rocked back and forth, overwhelmed by the weight of his failure, unable to turn his head to the right, to look Nasuada in the eyes, knowing he had lost her her life.

Murtagh, strong, Thorn pleaded from behind him, shifting on his forelegs helplessly, the dragon’s own misery palpable.

Murtagh felt Eragon’s hand on his shoulder as tears smarted in his eyes. His first instinct was to bat it away, but he couldn’t have moved his arm even if he wanted to.

“Why?” Eragon’s voice said softly, and Murtagh understood. His brother had seen–had understood something was driving him–had understood his need to win.

If only he had known.

Murtagh’s voice was haggard and high-pitched, like the pathetic pleas of a child,

“Because I hoped to gain his favor…” He whispered, “...so I could save her.”

He looked up at Eragon once, tears blurring his vision, then away, bitterness taking the place of his anguish for a moment.

“You tricked me,” He muttered, replaying the moment over and over. How had he not seen it? How had he allowed himself to be fooled? How had he not understood Eragon?

“It was the only way.”

Murtagh grunted, but it came out more like a wheeze.

“Th–that was always the difference between you and me,” He said humorlessly, “You were willing to sacrifice yourself. I wasn’t… not then.”

He lifted his eyes to Eragon, trying find the places where they were the same. He knew now what it was like, to love that fiercely, to put his own life last, not because he didn’t value it, but because he valued it much, and was willing to lay it down anyway. 

“But now you are,” His brother concluded, with such sympathetic understanding Murtagh could’ve smacked him, if he’d been able to take his arm off his wound.

Murtagh breathed weakly, exhaustion hanging heavy on him. He was just so tired.

“I’m not the person I once was. I have Thorn now, and…” His eyes flicked to the stone, where Nasuada hung, watching the two of them with worry in her eyes.  

“I’m not fighting for myself anymore,” He managed, “It makes a difference. I-I used to think you were a fool… to keep risking your life as you have. I know better now…”

He looked up at Eragon, pleading, but for what he didn’t know.

“I understand why. I underst…”

At just that moment, it was like he’d stopped suddenly at the edge of a chasm.

Up from the darkness below came a great wind, a hundred whispers that echoed in his ears all at once, blowing his hair, brushing against his skin. Then a great chill started from his feet and crawled up through his spine and into his skull. Suddenly his head felt light, and breath was pushed into his lungs.

I’m not the person I once was–

He wasn’t sure if the shackles had been shattered just in that moment, or if they had been gone for some time, and he was only just now noticing their absence, but it was like he was breathing fresh air for the first time in months. It was like a mountain had crumbled off his shoulders, like iron bands around his chest had been released. He felt no pain, his limbs were flushed with life, his gaze wide and astonished, the essence of his being thrumming with energy.

“I understand…” He whispered, his mind spinning, “ We understand…”

He felt a sudden press of thought from Thorn, the same wild energy flowing from his dragon, the same light pouring off of him.

Thorn…

They are gone, Thorn seemed to gasp, his consciousness swirling, The egg-breakers chains are gone. I feel like a starling taking flight, like a river pouring over a cliff, like a sun rising… they’re…

Thorn… Murtagh gasped again, his thoughts suddenly racing. Power sparked at his fingertips. He was unshackled. Unrestrained. Every weapon was at his disposal. Every piece of magic he’d ever learned, every spell he’d memorized, every word…

He looked to his dragon, and Thorn met his gaze, and an understanding passed between them.

They would do it now. They would end this here, or they would die trying. And if they died, they would do it together, and they would do it for those they loved.

He heard the King say something, but it was immaterial to him in that moment. He did not have to heed the King’s commands.

Eragon started to stand, but Murtagh’s hand shot out and gripped his wrist like a drowning man gripping a buoy.

“Ready yourself,” He said, barely a whisper. 

Then, still clutching his stomach with one hand, Murtagh pushed Eragon aside, rose to his feet, lifted his gedwey ignasia towards Galbatorix and shouted The Word.

The power rushed through him like a great ocean wave. Before its reverberations had even stopped, he began to speak, weaving a spell as though he had known it from birth, as though this was the moment he had been preparing for his whole life, as though the words from his mouth were pre-ordained.

He felt the spell gripping around the edges of Galbatorix’s wards, even as the King recoiled in shock. Murtagh’s heart beat with the thrum of the magic flowing through him, his hand was thrust outward, trembling with energy, his gedwey ignasia glowing.

Then, with a visceral scream, Murtagh ripped the wards apart. 

Fire and light crackled around the King; trapped spirits freed themselves from his bonds and shot away with a shriek. The air shuddered and around Galbatorix, his protections crumbling away like sand as a blast of wind blew Murtagh’s hair back.

He was aware of Thorn and Saphira pouncing on Shruikan, aware of Eragon and Arya charging towards the dais, aware of the witch-child’s whispering, and he was about to snatch Zar’roc off the floor and rush at the King, when Galbatorix recovered his wits and shouted The Word back at him, restraining all of them with a spell.

Eragon shouted,

“Get him!” 

And then Murtagh was suddenly aware, somehow of the whispering voices of Eldunari–not the mad, cowed Eldunari in Galbatorix’s control, but living swirling beings of light, dragons of old, full of energy and might–as they threw themselves against the King’s mental wards. Murtagh flung his own mental spear in with them, his body still radiating with energy. The King’s Eldunari retaliated, and their collective minds recoiled, but Murtagh shouted,

“I stripped him of his wards! He’s–”

At that moment he felt a great spear of energy against him and he was flung back, his head striking the floor, and his vision going black.

***

His eyelids fluttered open, lights swimming in his eyes as his vision flickered. He could hear the wheezing sounds of his own breath as he lay on his side on the blood-smeared floor, staring at Zar’roc several yards in front of him. The world was hazy, and sound was distorted, and he thought he heard the muffled shouts of someone saying,

“Submit! Submit!”

He wondered where Thorn was, and if he was okay, but his thoughts swam like cold molasses, and he couldn’t feel his body, and his heartbeats were agonizingly slow.

Then there was a sound in his mind, like the angered cries of many voices, like the rush of mad waters, like the pain of a thousand years flowing over him, aimed at one single point. He thought he heard his own screams among the voices, the echoes of his own pain turned into a weapon against his captor.

He blinked slowly, and he heard the ringing of sword on sword, and he saw gray phantoms passing before his eyes, their feet shuffling back and forth, caught in some conflict. He felt a spike of pain–was it his pain? Thorn’s? He couldn’t tell, he couldn’t feel anything.

Then the room was bathed in fire, the light swirling above him as he lay with his head against the polished floor, his skin smarting from the heat, his eyes vacant. Was this what it was like to die?

“Make it stop!” A voice echoed somewhere, and then the ground shook, and Murtagh felt the air quiver around him with the force of a great fall.

He couldn’t move, he wasn’t sure where he was, he might have been dead already. But that was okay. At least he had tried. At least he and Thorn had given it their best. At least they died free. At least Tornac would be proud.

Murtagh! A voice was shouting at him through the fog, and he blinked. 

Get up! You have to get up!

He recognized that voice. It was someone he loved. Not Thorn. Thorn’s mind didn’t feel like that; humming like a great heartbeat, shimmering like the sun off a lake. Murtagh waded through the haze of his mind, hearing his mother’s nursery rhyme echoing in his head:

Sweet little darling, where have you gone?

Table is ready and supper is on.

I’ve asked the butcher, the cook and the maid,

Where has the boy gone, and could he have stayed?

He heard an echoing laugh, and then he saw a pair of sad, smiling eyes before him, and a woman’s voice saying,

“Don’t you worry, love. I’m coming back for you, alright? I’ll be back. It’ll all be okay. I promise.”

I promise…

…I promise.

Then his own voice,

“I’ll find a way to free you, I swear.”

I swear…

…I swear.

Wake up, Murtagh!

His breath wheezed, and his eyes snapped open, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and who he was, and what he had to do. 

Past Zar’roc, chained to the stone slab, Nasuada was staring at him with wide, urgent eyes,

Get up! She shouted in his mind, and he lurched upwards, pain shooting from his head and wrist and stomach and everywhere. The room was a cacophony of shattering stone work, and the ringing of swords and the screaming of Lord Barrow’s children, and Galbatorix shouting,

“Make it stop!”

Murtagh dragged himself across the floor towards Nasuada, gripping to Zar’roc as he passed, leaving a streak of blood behind him. 

“Nas–N–Nasu–” He couldn’t get her name out. His breath was wheezing as he dragged himself forward, and he knew he wasn’t going to make it. From where he lay on his stomach, he tried to lift his gedway ignasia, to use The Word, to break her bonds, but his hand was shaking and he couldn’t think straight. 

Then suddenly there was an anguished howl that seemed to fill the whole room,

“Waise neat!”

And Murtagh felt himself propelled by magic towards the stone block, suddenly surrounded by Eragon and Arya and Thorn and Saphira and the children. He shuddered and tried to push himself off the floor, but then there was a flash of light brighter than the sun, and all went black and silent.

***

When sound returned to the world, the air was hazy with dust, and he felt Thorn’s pressing thought against him, energy pouring into him from his Eldunari

Murtagh! Thorn’s worry was overwhelming as Murtagh took a breath, the air sharp with iron. 

You are alright? 

He saw Thorn’s great head enter his field of vision. A cough racked his body, and pain spiked up from his torso, but he blinked through the fog.

The Oath-Breaker is gone, Thorn said, his voice jittery with wonder, fear and excitement. 

You’re alive. You’re okay, Murtagh thought blearily, placing a bloody hand on Thorn’s snout, delirious with pain.

But then there was a rumble in the floor, and he felt a spark of fear. He pushed himself up.

Is… are we… is she…

He looked around and saw Eragon standing before the stone where Nasuada was held, trying to hack at her chains with Brisingr.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and saw a pulsing glow emanating from it, cracks shuddering down the walls, chunks of stone falling. Fire returned to his limbs.

We have to get out of here.

He grabbed onto Thorn’s neck spike, and let the dragon help him stand. Then he sheathed Zar’roc, lurched towards Eragon, and gripped his brother’s arm like a vice.

“Move,” He growled, his other arm still clutching his stomach. Eragon stepped aside, and Murtagh lifted his blood-drenched gedwey ignasia, speaking The Word, and then,

“Jierda!” 

Nasuada’s shackles released. She gasped and gripped his arms as she stumbled off the stone. Her eyes were a whirl of emotion.

“We have to go, now,” He managed to grit through his teeth, pulling her towards Thorn, who was eyeing the ceiling with suspicion.

After a few steps, Murtagh’s right leg nearly buckled, and Nasuada slid herself underneath his arm to hold him up.

“Just a few more steps,” She breathed, clutching to his side.

He took a moment to make sure Lord Barrow’s children were on Saphira’s back as Arya ran up to him suddenly, saying,

“Where is the egg? And the Eldunari? We can’t leave them!”

Murtagh frowned, but he didn’t hesitate, and showed her the path to the treasure room with his mind, ignoring the strange feeling of her consciousness against his. 

Save them, they did not deserve this, He said to her, and she gave him a determined look. She sprinted off, and Murtagh reached up a shaking hand towards Nasuada, who had climbed onto Thorn’s back, and now gripped him as best she could through the slick blood, pulling him up on the dragon.

Murtagh grunted in pain and slumped forward in the saddle, his vision dancing with spots. 

“Hold on,” She whispered, holding her arms around his waist, adding pressure against his wound with her hand.

 “We’re almost out.”

The castle was destroyed, and Murtagh saw charred remains as Thorn and Saphira passed the maze of rooms whose walls had been blasted away. Fleeing guards and servants streamed from the demolished building ahead.

It is good fortune that we sent Demelza away, Thorn thought, but Murtagh could only nod, his vision blurring.

He heard a rumble behind them and Thorn said,

The throne room has collapsed.

Murtagh wanted to laugh at that; he wasn’t sure why.

Their company emerged from the citadel into Uru’baen, and Murtagh blinked through smoke that billowed from the destroyed throne room. There was a strange, muffled silence, and sounds echoed dimly through the fog. He wondered if his ear drums had ruptured in the blast.

Then he noticed a flicker of movement, as the door to Lord Barrow’s mansion opened, and the bald man knelt with his arms outstretched, tears streaming down his face as his children ran into his embrace.

Barrow looked at Eragon, and then he looked at Murtagh, and he nodded, and Murtagh tried to nod in return, and then the nobleman and his children disappeared inside.

“Murtagh…” Nasuada said softly, as she swung her leg over Thorn and slid down to stand on his foreleg.

“Can you get down?”

Murtagh swallowed through the dry coating on his throat, and he let go of Thorn’s neck spike, swinging his heavy leg over the dragon’s back, and leaning on Nasuada as she helped him to the ground. He collapsed against Thorn’s belly the moment his feet touched the stone.

His head leaned back, and his misty eyes were raised to the heavens, where, far above the hovering smoke, the sky was awash with orange and yellow and pink, a painting of color that clung to its beauty despite the destruction below. 

He felt his heart beating sluggishly, and heard the wheezing of his breath in his head.

Was he dreaming? Was this a trick of the mind? Was he, perhaps, still chained in a cell and tormented by the Mad King? Given a glimpse of a future he could never hope to have? Surely this was not real. Surely he was not now looking upon the sky as a free man. Surely his chains could not be gone.

“Murtagh, wake up,” Nasuada’s voice was saying again, and she was shaking his shoulder, “Wake up, you have to heal yourself.”

Murtagh blinked foggily, and his gaze drifted to her. Her face hovered in front of him, blotting out the bright light, the tendrils of her hair brushing against him. 

“Come on, heal yourself,” She said, her eyes pouring determination into him. His breath shuddered, and he raised one quivering, blood splattered hand to touch a strand of her hair, just to make sure she was real.

“Murtagh, please…” She pleaded again, and her voice took on a note of panic. She put her hands on either side of his neck, holding his head up.

“Stay awake, stay awake, heal yourself. The Eldunari–you have to–”

Thorn’s head swung back to him, and Murtagh felt warm breath on his neck, and a push of energy into his limbs.

 “I’ll get Eragon–” Nasuada said hurriedly, starting to stand. But then Murtagh grasped her hand, and she stopped, and looked down at him. He was able to lift his head, his weakness bolstered by the flow of energy from Thorn.

“It’s–it’s okay… it’s alright…” 

He swallowed and blinked down at his blood-soaked torso. Then he tore the hole in his tunic wider, and held his gedway ignasia over himself, reciting spells of healing, remembering their words as the fog lifted somewhat.

He healed himself, and the heavy sluggishness of his heart seemed to abate slightly. He had to draw on the Eldunari to heal Thorn, who brushed his snout against Murtagh’s shoulder.

You are alright, my partner? Thorn murmured, and Murtagh could only nod, all his mental energy focused on his task. Nasuada stood close, her hand resting on his back, ready to catch him if he fell. 

When Thorn’s wing was repaired and his wounds healed, he felt steadier. The Eldunari had fed life back into his limbs even as he worked.

Murtagh turned to Nasuada.

“Let me help you,” He said. 

“You’re pale as a death, Murtagh. I’ll be alright, don’t waste the energy.”

“It’s the blood,” He breathed, “I just lost too much blood. I’ll be alright soon. Let me help you.”

Nasuada grimaced, but he could tell she needed the relief. He lifted his hands to her collarbone, and tore a bit of her tunic to expose the wounds there.

“Sorry,” He murmured, but she shook her head in dismissal, as he closed his eyes and began to heal her. When he’d taken from her as much pain as he could, and healed the wounds he knew how to heal, he severed his connection from the Eldunari.

Thorn sent a questioning tendril of thought.

We cannot take anymore from them, Murtagh responded, still standing close to Nasuada, his arms held against hers. They don’t belong to us. They are free.

So are we, Thorn responded, a deep, thrumming joy emanating from him. Murtagh couldn’t quite manage a smile, but he nodded.

“Are you alright?” Nasuada asked, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. He met her eyes.

He only nodded, his head still swimming in disbelief. 

Around them the city’s stunned silence began to abate, and voices called back and forth in the smoke. Varden soldiers were helping Uru’baen servants crawl from the wreckage. Castle guards were laying down their arms and surrendering, or just wandering into the crowd and disappearing. Mansion doors opened and nobles peeked through their windows. He saw Eragon slumped against Saphira, looking as exhausted as he felt. The gray clouds still trailed from the citadel, and Murtagh squinted over the ruined city, a lump in his throat.

Free, The word echoed in his mind.

But then he noticed a glare from a passing soldier, a shriek of fear from a woman crawling out of the wreckage when she saw Thorn, a tense whisper between two dwarves across the square.

A darkness settled on him, and he turned back to Nasuada, who had, apparently, also been gazing around the city, trying to understand how they had gotten here.

“Nasuada…” He whispered, and the name felt somehow both heavy and light, “We have to go.”

Her gaze turned to him, already tear filled, and her brow furrowed angrily.

“Don’t say that. You don’t–”

“Nasuada–”

He pleaded, quieting her.

“When the dust settles,” He murmured, “People are going to start pointing fingers. They will be angry. And they are right to be angry.”

Her mouth opened to protest, but he continued quickly,

“...and I know… I know you would–you would stand up for me. I know you would tell them…” He hoped he was guessing right; that she would vouch for him, defend him against the onslaught of furious accusations that was sure to come.

“...but if Thorn and I stay any longer, then you are going to get caught in the middle. You are going to have to choose between defending us, and doing what’s best for yourself–for the people.”

Murtagh’s own throat was constricting, his voice threatening to break. He didn’t want to leave her. Not now. Not after all they’d been through. 

“...and that is not a choice I can force you to make.”

“If–”

“–the people need you, Nasuada. They need a queen.”

The word seemed to stop whatever protest was on her lips. Murtagh saw it as clearly as writing on a scroll. Alagaesia would need a leader, and it had to be her. And she could not win the hearts of the people if she were also trying to defend the honor of the man who’d wreaked havoc on them for months. He would not hurt her any more. This was his bravery, and his selflessness–to let her go, when all he wanted was to hold her.

Nasuada’s chin trembled, her eyes looking away, her frame unsteady. He held onto her arms, fearing she might fall, fearing he might fall.

“It’s not fair,” She whispered, and he gave her a small, sad smile. Fair? Who could say. Was it fair that he was alive, after everything he’d done? Was it fair that one madman had caused so much suffering? Was it fair that Ajihad and Brom and Hrothgar and so many others had not lived to see the end of the war they had spent their lives fighting? 

They stood in silence for a long time then, and held onto each other’s arms like they were anchors. Murtagh saw Arya emerge from the rubble, her hair burnt, her skin blotched with grime, a chest cradled in her arms, and the Eldunari floating behind her. Murtagh smiled.

Then Nasuada was looking at him, and he saw the decision made in her eyes, a solemn determination. She understood. He and Thorn had to go.

Nasuada placed her hands on either side of his face and searched his eyes.

“You saved me,” She whispered, “You saved Eragon, and Saphira, and the Varden, and everyone in this city and all of Alagaesia, and all the dragons. Never forget that. Never forget who you are.”

There was a great welling in Murtagh’s his heart, a feeling that he could not be close enough to her, a feeling that if he spent his whole life just sitting in her presence, that would be enough.

Then she said,

“Make us invisible.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“Cast a spell. Make us invisible.”

He did it without thought, glancing around for some danger as they disappeared. He saw nothing except the smoke and the survivors, but when he looked back to ask her what was wrong, suddenly she was kissing him.

His hands loosened, and his breath caught, and he nearly stumbled. His brain went blank for a few seconds, a pleasant buzzing in his ears.

 It was brief, and simple, but when she pulled away and looked him in the eyes, he was breathless.

“I will see you again,” She said, a hard determination in her eyes. His whole body was suffused with warmth, and he thought his chest might burst from how fast his heart was beating. 

He stared at her for a moment, bewildered, caught between a frown and a smile. When he kissed her back, it was gentle, and quiet. A promise with no words.

Then he brushed her hair back from her face, and in the ancient language he said,

“I will see you again.”

He gazed at her for as long as he could, feeling Thorn’s steady support behind him, but aware of nothing else in the world as the two of them clung to each other.

Then, finally, he stepped back from her, knowing he had to leave now, or he would never be able to.

He hurried over to Thorn and stripped away the concealing spell that held the Eldunari. He lowered the heavy bags to the floor.

“Please see these get back to Eragon,” He said to Nasuada, and she nodded, her chin high but her lips trembling.

Murtagh hesitated a moment, his hand on Thorn’s leg, and then he nodded to her, and he climbed onto Thorn’s back, his heart hurting and also full to bursting. Thorn swung his head toward Nasuada, his large eyes blinking at her. Murtagh sensed something passing between them but Thorn kept the words from him.

Nasuada nodded to Thorn and said,

“I will. You look after him.”

Thorn rumbled in agreement, as Murtagh strapped himself into the saddle and looked back down at Nasuada.

He couldn’t say anything else, and neither could she. They only stared at each other for one more moment, fixing the memory in their mind’s eye.

Then Nasuada took a shuddering breath, and nodded. Murtagh lifted his hand and severed the spell of invisibility around her, so it covered only him and Thorn.

Despite him being invisible, Nasuada somehow kept eye contact with him as Thorn crouched low, spread his wings, and launched himself from the ground. Murtagh continued gazing at her as his dragon climbed into the sky, the smoke swirling away from the gust of his mighty wings.  

When Nasuada daughter of Ajihad was just a speck in the rubble below, Murtagh finally took his gaze from her, and watched the rising billows of smoke merge with the rolling white clouds. The city of Uru’baen stretched out beneath him, and the morning sun shot its first rays through the cracks in the darkness, like a chalice of golden light pouring itself down to earth. 

The sky was awash with color, and Murtagh’s face was bathed in warmth as the wind blew through his hair and the land spread out below him. He closed his eyes, and he smiled. 

***

Murtagh sat against Thorn’s belly, his knees pulled up, a small fire crackling in the darkness. 

They were a little north of Woodard Lake, on the fringe of the spine, in a quiet forest glen hidden from the outer world. 

After their final brief meeting with Eragon near the river, Thorn and he had flown northeast, keeping high in the clouds so as not to be spotted by anyone below. They’d landed around sundown, started a fire, and hunted with magic. Thorn was not comfortable leaving Murtagh’s side to hunt on his own, and both of them had been starving.

They’d camped near a small brook, and had both washed away the grime of war in crisp, clean waters. Now they sat under the stars, and Murtagh picked at the last of the rabbit meat that he’d cooked for himself.

You are alright? Thorn questioned from beside him, his head resting on the soft ground. Murtagh smiled, melancholy but calm.

I’m alright. You?

I am not all-right, but I am some-right. And for now that is enough, I think.

Thorn opened one smirking eye at him, and Murtagh smiled again. He felt so strange, so unmoored. Great happiness and great sadness both tugged at him. He was angry, and yet content, terrified, and yet certain of himself. 

He kept expecting to wake up and realize that it had all been a dream, but here he was–in the woods with Thorn, sitting over a campfire, at peace.

He had skryed Demelza, pooling a little bit of the creek water into a hole and leaning over its reflective surface. He wanted to make sure she was okay–that she’d made it out of the city and to Tirendal. The world around her had been blank white, and the shapes of the people nearby were indistinct, but Demelza was smiling, and her red curls hung about her face gently. 

“Alright then, you try it,” She was saying with a laugh, and she was clearly looking at someone she loved. Murtagh smiled.

Friend-Demelza is alright, Thorn had concluded, as Murtagh ended the spell, not wanting to invade her privacy anymore. He nodded, and leaned back on his knees.

“Yeah.”

He had scryed Garren, too, who was riding a horse through the countryside, and Lord Barrow, who was in his sitting room with his children, shaken but alive. He scryed Tornac his horse, and found him with another group of horses on the outskirts of the Varden camp, and finally he’d scryed Nasuada–too weak to resist the urge–and saw her sitting in her tent in the camp, her handmaiden tending to her as she took little bites of food, her gaze distant. 

Murtagh sighed, content to know that she was alright, and he ended the spell, promising himself he would never do that again. It wasn’t right to spy on her without her knowledge.

His mind was continually drawn to her, though–the thought of holding her, the feeling of her kiss, the way she looked at him–not with hate, but with… No. He couldn’t let himself believe that.

Nasuada had been shaken, and emotional. And he had just saved her life. She had kissed him because she was grateful. He shouldn’t make more of it than it was. 

Do not let your heart be burdened by it, Thorn advised, sensing Murtagh’s melancholy. You have promised to see her again, and you will. 

You believe so?

I do. I, at least, am not content to live a life of solitude for the rest of my years. Someday we will go back, when the world has set itself on a new path, and time has made the past dull enough. Friend-Nasuada was right–you saved Alagaesia. Eragon and the Elders may have cast the spell, but without you it could not have hit its mark. It may take the two-legs some time to forget the Oath-breakers atrocities, and forget our part in them, but even a fire-scorched forest will grow green again.

Murtagh smiled. Thorn and his metaphors. 

He looked into the crackling fire, and tried to settle on contentment–to choose that feeling, above his anger and sorrow. He raised his gaze to the stars.

What are we going to do tomorrow? Where should we even go?

Thorn hummed.

Wherever we wish.

Chapter Text

Murtagh blinked awake, his breath intaking, the world quiet around him.

He lay on the cool floor of the Eldunari chamber at Mt. Argnor, the muffled sound of the room thrumming in his ears. It was soft and calm in the cavern, after the noise of his mind.

He sat up, and found Thorn sitting nearby, his eyes blinking.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It might have been ten minutes, it might have been a week. He had seen the visions of memory passing before his mind, but somehow they had not seemed to drag on second by second. Somehow they seemed distant, and blended together, and covered in fog. 

They certainly hadn’t hurt him–even those memories he had been most terrified to face had floated past him like leaves swirling in a stream–passing by harmlessly–visible to his sight, but without any sharpness or bite to them.

You see, young rider, Umaroth’s voice came from his Eldunari, and Murtagh raised his eyes to the old dragon.

Since the day Uru’baen fell, you have been free of your bonds. It was this freedom that gave you the strength to save yourself, and your dragon, and indeed all of us. For without your actions, we could not have cast the spell against the Egg-breaker and ended him.

Murtagh swallowed, his hands pressed against the cold floor, feeling strangely hollow, but not in a bad way.

These memories are toothless, Dila’ah murmured to him, You are free of them–they belong to the past–do not submit again to their shackles. 

He took a breath. A calm was settling onto his bones, a sort of strength.

Note, also, Glaedr’s voice cut in, That since the day Thorn hatched for you–though you have experienced sufferings, in all these you have never been alone. And even those hurts that you suffered before, he helps to carry the weight of. This is what it is to be a dragon rider. The privilege and the burden. You are not alone. You are never alone. You are bonded with your dragon, and with us, and with the whole order. When you are in need, you have people to turn to, for help.

Murtagh met Thorn’s blinking eye, and smiled softly.

You are free, Umaroth repeated, and Murtagh remembered that first night under the stars, when he had realized that he and Thorn could go anywhere they pleased, do anything they pleased–that they were bound by nothing and to no one.

Live in that freedom.

“Thank you,” Murtagh whispered, his voice echoing around the walls. The Eldunari’s minds hummed in response.

***

When Murtagh and Thorn stepped out of the keep, the sun was beginning to tilt westward, and the glittering shapes of several dragons speckled the snow below. They stood for a long time watching Dorama teaching Shillith something to do with the way he was holding his wings.

You are alright? Thorn asked, and Murtagh smiled, remembering the many times he’d been asked that. He hadn’t really taken proper notice of it before–how Thorn was always looking out for him, always checking on him, always protecting him. He’d been taking advantage of that, he realized, ignoring Thorn’s worries as he tried to bury his pain instead of deal with it. 

Was it hard for you? To see all that? Murtagh asked, unsure if he was alright or not. 

No, Thorn responded thoughtfully. I have been feeling it for years. And not knowing where the feelings came from. All the things you experienced apart from me, all your pains… I see them now. They are not phantoms anymore. I can sink my teeth into them, and tear at them with my claws. 

Murtagh smiled a little, and Thorn’s head swiveled back towards him.

You have fought to protect me since the moment I hatched, Thorn said, And I have tried to do the same for you. But where each of us may fail to prevent a wound, we can, at least, aid each other in the healing. 

Thorn blinked, and Murtagh understood.

The next time you feel the need to drown yourself, The dragon concluded, Please reach out to me, and let me draw you from the waters.

Murtagh’s eyes smarted, and he pressed his head against Thorn’s, feeling his warmth in the cold air.

Alright? Thorn asked.

Alright.

They made their easy way down the hill until they’d reached Eragon and Saphira, who were watching Shillith attempt to lift off the ground with Kharnine on his back, encouraged by Thrivka and Dorama.

Eragon glanced at Murtagh as he stepped up next to him, and nodded with a hesitant smile. 

“Alright?” Eragon asked, turning his gaze back to the young dragons. Murtagh squinted forward as well, as Shillith gave his wings three mighty flaps and stumbled forward.

“I’m sorry,” He began, “For how my behavior has been affecting the academy. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

He looked down at the grass, working through his own shame and trying not to bolt. Eragon nodded again.

“You’re forgiven.  And I understand. It can’t be easy.”

Murtagh took a breath, wanting to walk away, but forcing himself to keep talking.

“The two years Thorn and me were traveling…” He started, “...I had a pretty good handle on it. We were so busy, you know. Keeping out of sight, and making a living, hunting, always moving. It… it kept me distracted. And half the time we were in the woods; not like I could get my hands on dwarven mead in the middle of the spine.”

Eragon smirked, and Murtagh glanced at Thorn, who gave him an encouraging nod.

“...but then everything with our mother, and the witch…” Murtagh rubbed a finger along his brow, wincing at the memories. “...she… attached herself to my mind. And–and she used me. And it just felt like… like I was back at the beginning. Like everything I’d done for two years to put all that behind me was just… just gone.”

Dusan and his dragon circled overhead and began a lazy descent.

 “Then I was just… here. And everything got so quiet,” Murtagh concluded.

“Quiet?” Eragon chuckled, as Shillith let out a trumpet of frustration and stamped his feet. 

“I just mean… I was here, and there was work to do, and I was surrounded by…by all of you,” He gestured, “But it was like… suddenly the–the walls I’d built up around myself, they were… crumbling. And I didn’t have a mission to keep me distracted. And I just didn’t want to–I just don’t… want to feel… I guess, anything .”

He looked down at the snow again. He had to keep pushing, he had to do this. 

Strong, Murtagh, Thorn encouraged.

“Even right now, I want a drink,” He admitted to Eragon, and his brother looked at him with sympathy. Murtagh’s throat burned, but he thought about what Glaedr had said–Glaedr, whose life he had ended, who had every right to hate him forever–

You are not alone.

“I need help, Eragon,” He murmured, his face burning with shame, but his mind determined. 

His brother put a hand on his shoulder.

“You have it.”

He nodded, and then the two of them turned their gazes back to the young silver dragon, who was flapping mightily and pushing from the ground. 

Thrivka gave a shriek of delight as Shillith’s feet left the ground, and Kharnine whooped as the two of them rose above the grass higher into the air. Eragon laughed and began to clap,

“Well done! Well done!” He called, as Shillith gained altitude and began to curve, the Urgal girl bellowing a triumphant cry from his back.

“Well,” Eragon turned to Murtagh with a sparkling smile, “I’d say a flight is a good way to distract you from that drink?” He offered.

Murtagh looked to Thorn, who wriggled in delight.

“His saddle’s not on,” Murtagh pointed out. 

“Ah,” Eragon dismissed with a wave of his hand as he climbed onto Saphira, “Cast a ward around your legs; we’ll do it the old fashioned way.”

Unless you think Thorn will drop you, Saphira said playfully, arching her neck in challenge. Thorn snorted in mock offense, a tendril of smoke curling from his nostrils.

“Alright,” Murtagh relented, and he climbed up onto Thorn as Shillith circled ever higher, angling up the mountain.

“Oh, by the way,” Eragon called from Saphira’s back, “The supply train arrived while you were with the Eldunari. The Queen has sent a letter asking for us to designate a rider liaison, to visit her as soon as possible. I thought I’d send you.”

Murtagh frowned.

“Arya was just here this summer. What could she need from us?”

Eragon’s eyes sparkled with a knowing smile.

“Not that Queen.”

And then Saphira launched herself into the sky as Murtagh was buffeted both by the thunder of her wings and a sudden numb, tingling feeling in the base of his skull.

“Race you to the top!” Eragon’s voice called out from above, and Murtagh had only a second to grip onto Thorn’s neck spike before the red dragon shot from the ground, trumpeting his challenge to the sky.