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Chapter Text

The dragon hold at the castle in Urû'baen was a cold, uninviting chamber, but that did not stop Murtagh from spending the bulk of his free time there. For him, the dank atmosphere was a friendly haven of warmth compared to the remainder of the castle. It was in the dragon hold that he could spend time with his only remaining friend and confidante, the red dragon Thorn. Though they were always linked together by the sacred bond of Rider and dragon, Murtagh felt an even stronger compulsion to be around Thorn as much as possible. Their relationship was unorthodox and they both suffered for it, but at the very least they suffered together.

It's been two weeks, Thorn, Murtagh whispered across the bond. He looked at his hands and balled them into fists. And I still can't get over it.

The Empire's red Rider sat against Thorn's side, his back resting against the red dragon's scales. The small of Murtagh's back fit seamlessly against the curves of Thorn's regal form, as if their bodies were formed specially to meld together. The close physical proximity was comforting for both Rider and dragon. They needed to be together, if only for the sake of each other's sanity.

I know, young one, Thorn replied gently, though frustration underlay his even tone. I am troubled, too.

Murtagh sighed. I knew he had excessive power over me—over us—but possession? He shivered.

It had been two weeks since he and Thorn had fought Oromis and Glaedr over Gil'ead; two weeks since Galbatorix had taken over Murtagh's mind and killed the elder Rider. Murtagh hadn't known what had happened until too late. He felt dirty; a heavy filth permeated his being that no amount of washing could cleanse. And Murtagh had tried, scrubbing his skin raw and bloody until Thorn had brought him back to his senses. But the desire to scrub himself for hours on end persisted, like an itch he could not scratch.

I don't like it anymore than you do, Murtagh, Thorn said. Of course he didn't. Just as Galbatorix had taken over Murtagh's body, Shruikan had possessed Thorn in order to fight off and kill Glaedr.

Both Murtagh and Thorn had been secretly pleased to find that Glaedr's heart of hearts was no longer present so Galbatorix couldn't steal it as well. Both Rider and dragon felt dirty for using stolen Eldunarya in battle. But those dragons were as much prisoners of Galbatorix as Murtagh and Thorn, so there was little choice for any of them. All they could do was silently thank whoever responsible for holding onto Glaedr's Eldunarí; they were doing Alagaësia a service by protecting the ancient dragon's consciousness from the king.

If Galbatorix could intervene during that fight, then there's no time we are truly safe from him, Murtagh said after a time. He had been brooding over the same thoughts since the battle at Gil'ead, but he just needed to hear them spoken again.

Which means it could happen the next time we face Eragon and Saphira, Thorn concluded and Murtagh groaned.

We've been successful in avoiding capturing them up until now, but that can't last.

So we are left to either obey our oaths to capture Eragon and Saphira or…

"Die," Murtagh finished aloud.

I don't think Galbatorix is so willing to let us die. He wants as many dragons and Riders under his control as possible. And with our oaths binding us, killing us serves no purpose.

So we either capture them ourselves or risk Galbatorix and Shruikan interfering again and doing it for us. The Rider leaned his head back against Thorn's side. I don't like those options.

What about what Eragon said about changing our true names? Thorn prodded.

It's an option worth looking into, Murtagh acknowledged, but I don't want to risk it without knowing what we're getting into. Galbatorix probably has spells to safeguard against that possibility anyway. Murtagh frowned and scratched one of Thorn's scales absently. The dragon hummed in contentment. Despite their position as prisoners, the time spent together made living in solitary slavery almost bearable.

A few moments passed before Murtagh spoke again. If only we could have spoken to Oromis… He might have been able to tell us something, anything, to help.

Perhaps Galbatorix sensed that and interfered at that exact moment to prevent that from happening, Thorn suggested.

Murtagh nodded. It wouldn't surprise me. "He has us in the palm of his hand…" he whispered bitterly. Thorn's tail twitched and, with a sigh, Murtagh tried to push the dark thoughts from his mind. After a few moments, they lapsed into a companionable silence.

An approaching commotion jerked the pair to attention. Murtagh shared a curious glance with Thorn before rising from his seat and moving to a nearby window. Beyond the city walls, a trail of dust was picking up and horns were blaring. The Rider pursed his lips.

"The soldiers are returning."

Which soldiers? Thorn asked, not bothering to take a look for himself.

"Who knows?" Murtagh shrugged. "Surely not from Gil'ead; they remained to lay siege to the Elves." Running his fingers through his hair, Murtagh turned from the window. "They might be coming from the south. There were still plenty of soldiers stationed close to the Varden."

Murtagh's stomach clenched the moment the name passed his lips but he ignored it. Though he didn't enjoy serving Galbatorix, he also wasn't in complete agreement with the Varden's methodology, despite his one-time friendships with Eragon, Arya and Nasuada. It pained him to think of them as enemies, but he would do what was necessary in order to survive.

And after years of learning to survive on his own, Murtagh made sure to insure his own life—and now, by extension, Thorn's—before anything else. Alive he could find a way to escape. Alive he could make amends to those friends—if they'd take him after he'd killed Hrothgar. But dead he could do nothing.

Murtagh, a new voice rang through his mind, and the Rider winced. He hated that Galbatorix could worm his way through his carefully crafted mental defenses with ease. Come to the throne room immediately.

Yes, Your Highness, Murtagh replied, not bothering to conceal his bitterness. He thought he heard Galbatorix chuckle before the connection was severed. The sound made Murtagh's skin crawl. For some reason, the king was in a good mood. That was never a good sign.

With a heavy sigh, Murtagh grabbed Zar'roc from the floor and strapped it onto his belt. His father's sword was heavy; Murtagh preferred it that way—as a reminder of the burden of his sins. He carried his father's sins along with his own because he had fallen into the same trap Morzan had, albeit unwillingly.

What do you think he wants? Thorn asked, watching his Rider brush himself off.

Murtagh shrugged uncomfortably. I don't know. Probably to greet the soldiers.

In the throne room? And without me?

Ah, good point. I don't know then.

Be careful, Murtagh.

Murtagh placed a hand on Thorn's snout and gave his friend a wan smile. I will.

Thorn huffed his acceptance and Murtagh left the dragon hold, attempting to appear unhurried to any outside observers despite Galbatorix's immediate summons. As he strode through the dank corridors, his boots clacked loudly on the stone floor. He pulled his frigid attitude over himself like a cloak, hardening himself in order to deal with the king. Galbatorix had caused him and Thorn immeasurable pain, so Murtagh had reacted the only way he knew: by toughening himself both inside and out. Thorn was the only one to see past the façade. Murtagh could never harden himself to his soul mate.

As Murtagh approached the double doors leading to the throne room, his pulse quickened and his palms began sweating. Countless hours of torture had occurred in that room since his capture at the hands of the Twins.

It was in that room that Galbatorix had broken Murtagh's spirit.

It was in that room that the king had revealed Murtagh's and Thorn's true names and forced them to swear oaths of loyalty in the Ancient Language.

It was in that room that Murtagh was punished for letting Eragon go not once, but twice.

It was in that room that Galbatorix's fury at the death of the Ra'zac had turned on innocent servants and eventually Murtagh and Thorn.

Pain seemed inevitable whenever he entered. He only wished, as he reached the doors, that he knew why he was being summoned now. He hadn't done anything that should have incurred the king's wrath as of late, but Galbatorix was renowned for his unpredictable temper. Murtagh bore numerous scars to bear witness to that.

The guards saluted Murtagh before opening the doors and announcing his arrival. Murtagh stepped into the room and a chill ran up his spine as he made his way toward the throne occupied by the king. The throne room always felt like winter no matter the season.

The younger Rider knelt, not meeting Galbatorix's eyes. "You summoned me, Your Highness?"

"Yes indeed, Murtagh." Galbatorix's tone sounded amused. But that didn't make any sense. Then again, the king had a warped sense of humor. "You may have noticed that some of the Empire's brave soldiers have returned. And they have brought an important prisoner."

Murtagh frowned, though continued watching the floor as he knelt. He didn't dare rise until the king bade him do so. A prisoner? That's not generally his style… unless it was somebody very important. But who? A sudden jolt of fear ran through the younger man. It couldn't be Eragon. No, I'm the only one, outside of Galbatorix himself, who has any chance of capturing him. But then, who?

"Rise, my Rider," the king practically purred.

Murtagh pushed himself to his feet with a grimace. He didn't want to be this man's Rider, ally, or anything. That was why he had left in the first place. When he finally dared look at the king, Murtagh noticed an eerie smirk on his face.

"You have served me well, Murtagh, despite some lows," he said. "But all relationships have ups and downs. I would like to think that, as not only my servant but the eldest son of my greatest friend, you and I will continue to work together to bring unity and peace to this land."

Murtagh bit his tongue to keep from replying. Galbatorix knew very well that Murtagh hated him and his situation, but was determined to provoke the younger Rider as if it were his favorite past time.

"And it's because of that hope that I wanted you to be here when the prisoner is brought in. As my right-hand man, Murtagh, you deserve to see this as much as I do."

"I'm honored," Murtagh managed to bite off in a vain attempt to preserve propriety. Galbatorix was strangely a stickler for niceties, and Murtagh had learned the hard way that making even the most insincere attempt at politeness when around the king was better than nothing.

The monarch's smirk deepened and Murtagh was struck by a sudden urge to flee from the room, but he knew Galbatorix would stop him before he could take two steps, punish him for insubordination, and then force him to sit through whatever was about to happen anyway; experience was a cruel teacher.

"Then come, take your rightful place, son of Morzan," Galbatorix said, gesturing to his right side. Murtagh took up the indicated position, careful to keep his face neutral. Zar'roc felt heavier than usual on his belt in the presence of the elder Rider. Once the king was satisfied, he called for the guards to bring the prisoner in.

"You should find this especially interesting, Murtagh," Galbatorix offered by way of commentary. "I offered an earldom for this man's capture and we finally caught him."

Murtagh mentally ran through the list of wanted criminals and could only come up with two names with that high of a bounty. Eragon and—

Looking up, Murtagh watched as a limp figure was dragged into the throne room. Several more guards flanked those holding the man even though he was bound, gagged and bloodied—clearly in no position to fight back. The man on the prisoner's far left stepped forward and Murtagh vaguely recognized him as a captain he had seen in the first battle with the Varden. The captain grabbed the prisoner's shaggy hair and roughly lifted the man's head.

Murtagh inhaled sharply.

"We have captured Roran Stronghammer, Your Excellency."

"Excellent." The king studied the prisoner with critical eyes for several moments before dismissing the guards with a wave of his hand.

Murtagh spent those moments trying to breathe again.

The captain hesitated. "Are you sure, Your Highness? This man is extremely dangerous."

A low barking laugh escaped Galbatorix's throat and echoed through the throne room. "Do you think I am incapable of defending myself, Captain?" The soldier's mouth opened but no sound came out. He was suddenly terrified at how the volatile monarch might respond to such a slight, inadvertent or not. And rightly so. "And even if that were so, my Rider is here at my side. I am well protected."

All eyes in the room, including Roran's, flicked momentarily to Murtagh. The young Rider's gaze fell deliberately to the floor. He didn't like the apprehensive yet appraising look the soldiers were giving him. Nor did he want to meet Stronghammer's eyes. He still wasn't sure what to make of the situation so didn't trust himself to make the appropriate expressions, whatever those might be.

"Of course, Your Highness," the captain said shakily, returning to himself. "I was out of line to suggest anything else and beg your pardon."

At Galbatorix's nod, the captain signaled his men, who followed him from the room. The group's collective posture was relieved that they escaped the king's presence whole. Murtagh was mildly surprised all the men had left with their lives; he'd seen the king kill for far less.

Roran was left in a boneless heap on the floor in front of the two Riders. Once the door closed behind the soldiers, Galbatorix turned to Murtagh. "What say you, Murtagh? Roran Stronghammer has finally been captured. His crimes are many, but the greatest of these—treason—carries a death sentence."

Murtagh forced himself to return Galbatorix's look and found a strange expression on the king's face. The king seemed to be studying him. The younger Rider fought the urge to squirm under Galbatorix's unblinking gaze.

"It is indeed a great accomplishment," he hedged. Since he was unsure of where the conversation was going, he had to be careful. He could afford no more disadvantages when it came to dealing with Galbatorix.

Galbatorix nodded thoughtfully as if coming to some conclusion, and then stepped from his throne down to tower over Roran's prone form. Murtagh remembered lying in the same vulnerable position in front of the king and clenched his fists as the monarch knelt in front of his prisoner. He cupped Roran's chin and forced the younger man to look at him. Murtagh had to admire the fiery hated that burned in Roran's eyes as he stared at the king. By all rights, he should be terrified, and yet…

"I see the resemblance between you and your cousin," the king commented absently. "Though I have not yet had the pleasure of young Eragon's company, the memories I took from Murtagh here give me a good picture."

Roran looked past the king's shoulder to Murtagh, the same hatred reserved for Galbatorix now aimed at him as well. It was almost enough to make Murtagh want to step back, but he held his ground and pushed down the nightmare-inducing memories of Galbatorix shattering his mental defenses to take those precious recollections of better times.

Galbatorix chuckled at Roran's reaction. "No need to make such a face at him. He didn't willingly give them up, after all. I haven't had to struggle against such a strong mind to get what I wanted since the Fall." The king's lip twitched as Roran's gaze returned to him. "But the rewards have been more than worth the effort." He glanced back to his enslaved Rider. "Isn't that right, Murtagh?"

Murtagh's fingernails dug painfully into his palms as his fists clenched at his sides, but he forced himself to bow his head to the king. He refused to make a verbal reply, however.

Galbatorix rose to his feet. "But that is all in the past. The question is now what to do with you, Roran Stronghammer."

Roran tried to say something, but the words were muffled by the cloth gag in his mouth. With an indulgent smile, Galbatorix loosened the gag. He was amused by the whole situation. And for good reason, Murtagh thought. He'd caught Eragon's cousin, one of the men to slay the Ra'zac, and a commander among the Varden all in one. He had the upper hand in the fight now.

"Kill me," Roran growled.

"The punishment for your crimes is death," the king mused. His light tone sent a shiver up Murtagh's spine. "But I think there are better uses for you. We would love very much to entertain your cousin as well."

Roran's eyes widened then narrowed angrily. "Eragon would never—" He was cut short as Galbatorix waved a hand.

"Silence."

With one move, Roran was rendered mute. Though his mouth continued moving, no sound came out. Indignant, the prisoner clamped his mouth shut.

What did he think would happen? Murtagh thought irritably. Real life isn't like the grand stories where the hero is captured and waxes poetic about his hatred of his enemy before defeating him in an honorable duel. No, this is real and Galbatorix is dangerous. He needs to understand his place if he wants to survive this.

The elder Rider took a step back toward the throne as if there had been no interruption. "Now that I think about it, Murtagh, isn't this man also your cousin?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Murtagh replied tightly. Though he had never formally met Roran, he'd heard much about him from Eragon. When he found out Eragon was his brother, he'd realized he was also related to Roran as a result. It always comes down to family. Fathers, brothers, cousins…

Galbatorix seemed to be thinking along similar lines. "It seems the fate of your family is inescapably linked with mine, Murtagh Morzansson." Murtagh winced at the reference to his father. The king sat back down on his throne and studied Roran silently.

"Your cousin," Galbatorix said, addressing his prisoner, "your other cousin, will come for you."

Roran's mouth opened again, but still no words came forth. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Roran's voice returned in the middle of his refutation. "—agon won't fall for it." He was momentarily startled into silence at the return of his voice before continuing. "He's not stupid. He knows I wouldn't want him to come."

And yet, he will come, Murtagh thought with some remorse and no small amount of bitterness. No matter if Eragon had promised Roran he wouldn't come if something like this were to happen; Eragon was too attached to those he cared for to see reason. No, he would come.

Murtagh felt a twinge of jealousy in his chest. Eragon would undoubtedly come for this man, his cousin, but he had left Murtagh, his brother in both blood and arms, to rot in Urû'baen. For a time, he'd held out hope that Eragon would come for him, but the Twins and Galbatorix made it explicitly clear that Eragon thought him dead in the raid on Tronjheim. Though realistically Murtagh knew he shouldn't blame the younger man, he couldn't help but resent that Eragon had assumed him dead so easily without a body. He went to train with the Elves while Murtagh endured a living hell.

"Perhaps," Galbatorix said, making it clear that he too thought Eragon would come for his cousin. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence as Murtagh wished to be anywhere else, Roran lay in a heap on the floor in front of the two most powerful men in the Empire, and Galbatorix pondered the fate of his prisoner.

"Perhaps," the king continued after a time, "we shall schedule a public execution. That will draw out Eragon and his dragon."

Murtagh swallowed. The trap was obvious, but Eragon would likely fall into it anyway, knowing all the while he was falling into a trap. He was too loyal for his own good. A sudden thought struck Murtagh. But would it work?

"Your Highness," the younger Rider began and both king and prisoner looked at him, "this man has proven himself a dangerous opponent, helping to slay the Ra'zac and fight for the Varden. Wouldn't it be a waste to merely use him as bait for Eragon?"

Galbatorix looked at Murtagh thoughtfully while Roran glared at him with burning hatred. Don't like at me like that, you fool, the Rider wanted to snap. I'm saving your life here.

"Wouldn't that be ironic," the king said with a laugh. "Both the brother and cousin of Eragon Shadeslayer fighting for me." The twisted man smiled at his private joke. "That would undoubtedly lure him out as well. But he wouldn't be able to raise a hand against Stronghammer."

Roran's eyes had gone wide. Such a fate seemed worse than death to him. Murtagh shook his head to himself. No fate is worth than death. Alive you can strive for something more, even when it seems hopeless. Death is the easy way out.

"Yes Murtagh, I like your idea. Looking for someone to sympathize with?" the king asked knowingly.

"Your Highness—" Murtagh started to protest but was cut off.

"It matters not. I have decided that Roran Stronghammer will join my service. However, for the crimes he has committed against the Empire, of which there are many, including killing my precious Ra'zac and the Twins," Murtagh ground his teeth at the mention of the two traitors that caused him no end of suffering, "as well as holding a position of command in the rebel Varden, there must be punishment."

Galbatorix called for the guards. "Take this man to the dungeon; the most secure cell we have," he ordered once they'd filed in. He looked at Roran as the guards grabbed his arms to drag him from the throne room.

"Soon enough you will swear allegiance to me."

Roran spat defiantly. "Never."

Galbatorix's eyes drifted to Murtagh as he said, "I have heard that before, boy, from warriors far greater than you."

Roran's eyes met Murtagh's and held for a moment. There was a mixture of fear, anger, hatred, sadness, and even a small bit of hope in them. Murtagh wondered then how he appeared to his cousin. At the moment, he felt saddened and resigned to the whole situation.

Once the door closed behind the exiting prisoner and his guards, Galbatorix turned to face his Rider. "Even if you are trying to save the boy's life, Murtagh, things will turn out best for me. You may think yourself clever, but I think far ahead."

"I know not of what you speak, Your Majesty," Murtagh replied evenly. "I merely wish to serve."

The king snorted. "Of course. You are my loyal Rider, after all." He folded his arms across his chest. "And with this new development, I shall have another Rider serving under me shortly."

I hope not. Eragon, don't come…

"Go tend to Thorn," the king muttered. "You will have a new mission tomorrow."

Murtagh bowed at the dismissal and left the room as quickly as he could while keeping up his detached front. He would not show fear in front of the king. The moment the door closed behind him, Murtagh reopened his mental connection to Thorn. He shut it when around Galbatorix because an open connection made it easier for the king to access his mind—not that he had any trouble doing so on his own.

Thorn.

Murtagh? What's happened?

You won't believe it…

Chapter Text

Galbatorix's mission turned out to be simple reconnaissance. Murtagh always felt that these missions were more trouble than they were worth. The appearance of the red dragon and Rider tended to dissuade people from talking, so Murtagh and Thorn would have to land a fair distance from wherever they were visiting so Thorn could conceal his presence while Murtagh would use magic to alter his appearance. He learned much more in his various guises than he could ever hope to as himself.

However, there were other times that Murtagh and Thorn depended on their identities and reputation. Galbatorix had sources in several cities that would speak to no one less than the Empire's red Rider. It wasn't unusual for Murtagh to make political visits to check up on various political leaders and ensure cooperation with the Empire's laws either; he was normally able to do so just by fingering the blade at his belt or mentioning Thorn. Murtagh didn't enjoy bullying those weaker than him, but he had orders to follow.

Thankfully, the current mission was one that allowed Murtagh to assume various guises to gather information. He preferred these types of missions because they gave him the opportunity to pretend, if only for a time, that he wasn't one of the most feared and hated men in the Empire. For a precious few hours, he was not Morzan's son, Galbatorix's slave, a traitor… No, at these times he could lose himself among the masses and absorb their daily lives while weeding out any news or rumors of note.

The further south Thorn and Murtagh flew, the more rumors they overheard about the Varden's movements. News of Stronghammer's capture had spread like wildfire and was the main topic of discussion wherever Murtagh stopped. In territories loyal to the Empire, people were pleased with the turn of events, hoping Roran's capture would be a crippling blow to the Varden.

And as Murtagh and Thorn left the staunchly pro-Empire areas, they came across rumors that the Varden planned to march on Urû'baen and demand Stronghammer's return at the very gates of the capital itself. Murtagh immediately dismissed those rumors as ridiculous—Nasuada was not that stupid.

And every time Murtagh thought of Nasuada, his stomach would wrench just a little. He had been both pleased and saddened that Ajihad's daughter had succeeded her father as leader of the Varden—pleased because he knew from the time they had spent together when he was a prisoner in Tronjheim that she had a quick mind and stout heart. They'd spent many hours talking of anything and everything, and Murtagh had enjoyed her company immensely; he thought that if circumstances had been different, he might have fallen in love with her.

But that was now beyond the realm of possibility. And that was why Murtagh had been saddened at the news of her selection as leader of the Varden: they would be enemies, any chance at love left in the past for both parties to regret. There could only be what ifs between the two of them.

Forcing himself not to think of the past, Murtagh had continued south with Thorn. He heard news that the Varden had taken over Feinster as their new base of operations. The city's former leader, Lady Lorana, was a political hostage because she had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Empire and thus could not serve the Varden's interests effectively. Murtagh had been the one to force Lorana to swear that oath in the Ancient Language at the king's behest. Nasuada would treat her well, knowing the situation couldn't be helped, so Murtagh felt some small relief at the situation.

Murtagh also heard rumors that Eragon and Saphira had flown straight to Urû'baen after Stronghammer's capture to break him free; he would have been summoned by Galbatorix were that rumor true. He also heard rumors that another Shade had been created during the siege on Feinster, but Eragon had slain it, becoming the first person in history to kill multiple Shades. Murtagh took more stock in that rumor than the others; there were many twisted spellcasters in the world (Galbatorix and himself, he mused wryly, included) and Eragon had killed Durza and lived to tell the tale already.

Otherwise, Murtagh had learned little of note so, after a week of travel, he and Thorn returned Urû'baen. Rider and dragon were silent as they flew, both needing time to gather their thoughts on the situation awaiting them in the capital. Murtagh's mind wandered as he tried to avoid facing the inevitable problem.

He enjoyed flying with Thorn because, for a short time, they could be their own masters, answering to no one but themselves. Riders were meant to be independent of the policies of the various nations and races, interceding only when necessary and using their strength for the betterment of all the races and their interrelations. Unfortunately, the Fall had rendered that purpose moot. At least Eragon could say he chose to serve the Varden.

Murtagh shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts with little luck. There's no putting it off anymore. Thorn grunted noncommittally and Murtagh frowned at his companion's back. What?

You're brooding on this too much, Murtagh, the dragon replied.

The Rider was momentarily startled. This is important, Thorn.

I know that, Thorn said gently, but you are going to drive yourself—and as a result, me—mad if you dwell on it too much. What will be, will be.

Somehow that does not inspire much confidence.

A low rumble that might have been a chuckle escaped Thorn's throat, though it was quickly lost on the wind. No, I suppose not. But what good does constant brooding do? We have not come up with any solutions to any of our problems yet. And now we must return to Urû'baen.

Murtagh shrugged feebly. I don't know what else to think. All my thoughts are dark.

Empathy radiated through the bond and Murtagh allowed himself to wallow in it for a moment before sighing wearily. I worry about what comes next. Although we heard some rumors about the Varden's reaction to Stronghammer's capture, none of them held much merit.

I'm worried as well, young one. Thorn paused. Maybe…

Maybe?

Maybe you should pay the boy a visit once we return, the dragon replied carefully.

What would that accomplish? Murtagh asked in surprise at the suggestion. In truth, the idea hadn't occurred to him at all. And for some reason, the prospect scared him just a bit.

There was a smile in Thorn's tone as he replied. If nothing else, he is your family. Shouldn't you make a proper introduction?

I'm sure I'm someone he wishes was not on his family tree.

That does not change the family tree, though.

True. Murtagh knew all about having familial relations he did not want to be associated with.

Go, once you've reported to Galbatorix.

Murtagh winced. Somehow I don't think Galbatorix would like that.

Since when has that mattered to you?

The Rider couldn't help but smirk at his dragon. Fair enough, my friend. He shook his head. What would I do without you?

You'd have to find another way to fly, for one thing.

Indeed I would, Murtagh laughed, momentarily forgetting their oaths binding them to Galbatorix's will in the Ancient Language, the situation awaiting them in Urû'baen, the brother that almost certainly despised him (and with good reason), and the mad king he would have to face in a few short hours with little to report. For now, Thorn's company was enough.

Murtagh exited the throne room, surprised by Galbatorix's passive acceptance of the little useful intel Murtagh had gathered. Normally the king took out his displeasure at such a wasted trip on Murtagh or the serving staff—or sometimes both. Yet he'd calmly accepted Murtagh's report before dismissing him. It was all strange and the Rider didn't know what to make of it.

As he strode, outwardly confident, down the corridors of the castle, he cautiously opened his mental connection to Thorn. Thorn immediately pounced when he felt the link reopened.

Well?

Nothing. Murtagh frowned. Nothing happened. I gave my report and he dismissed me.

Murtagh… Thorn warned, certain his Rider was hiding something.

It's true. I'm not sure what to make of it myself. Galbatorix seemed distracted by something.

Did he say anything about visiting Roran?

No.

Then you should go see him.

Murtagh pursed his lips. Thorn…

If he already hates you, what further damage can be done? You only stand to gain if you go.

The Rider pondered the logic but found no holes in it to speak of. He just didn't want to face his cousin. He wasn't sure what caused him to hesitate, but he just couldn't bring himself to head in the direction of the dungeon.

I…

What's really bothering you, young one?

Murtagh shook his head absently as he passed a pair of servant girls. The expression on his face must have been scary because they both jumped with muted squeaks and picked up their pace down the hall. Running a hand through his hair, Murtagh shrugged, ignoring the reaction. He was used to that sort of thing.

I don't know. I just can't seem to bring myself to do it.

Perhaps you fear that Roran will reject you just as Eragon did on the Burning Plains.

Murtagh missed a step and had to stop to catch his balance. I…

Roran is your only remaining blood then. For him to reject you outright would truly leave you alone.

Murtagh swallowed. Anger welled up in his chest before fading into a dull, aching fear. That was exactly it and to hear it spoken was more than a little disconcerting. Thorn, I…

You'll never be alone, Murtagh, Thorn continued. We are Rider and dragon, you and I. No matter what, we will always be together. Do not fear because I will always be by your side.

The ache in Murtagh's chest was overwhelmed by flooding warmth at Thorn's words. As long as the dragon was with him, life would be bearable. Thank you, my friend. I needed to hear that.

Thorn hummed contentedly through their bond. Now will you go?

Yes, Murtagh said, I'll go. I don't know what will come of it, but I have you to stand by me in any case.

And that's how it should be, Thorn said smugly.

Murtagh's lip twitched as he changed his direction toward the dungeons.

The guard on duty shook nervously as he led Murtagh through the dirty, dank dungeon. Even the most hardened prisoners fell silent as the Rider passed by their cells. Ignoring them, Murtagh pursed his lips as memories of his own time as a captive threatened to rise to the surface. He forcefully pushed them down, refusing to be intimidated by ghosts of his past.

Two flights of steps down from the regular security cells into the underbelly of Urû'baen brought them to the barely-lit, highest security cell in the castle. Murtagh himself had occupied the cell upon his capture at the hands of the Twins.

The guard must have been thinking along similar lines as he failed miserably to study Murtagh unobtrusively. Realizing that Murtagh had noticed his staring, the guard started. "R-roran S-stronghammer's cell, m-my Lord," he stuttered. "I-is there anything else y-you'll be needing?"

"No," Murtagh replied, "except for some privacy." Fixing the guard with a pointed stare, he said lowly, "And I will know if there is any eavesdropping."

"O-of course, m'Lord. W-would never dream of it."

Murtagh snorted. "I shall let you know when I'm finished."

"V-very good m'Lord," the guard struggled to squeak out before fleeing from the red Rider's presence.

Shaking his head, Murtagh stepped up to the cell door and peered inside. A figure leaned limply against a side wall. His head was bowed between his knees, shaggy hair obscuring his face.

I can't see a thing, Murtagh grumbled to himself. Muttering "Brisingr," under his breath, a werelight appeared in mid-air and drifted into the cell to hover midway between the Rider and the prisoner.

Roran looked up in surprise and had to blink a few times as his eyes adjusted to the new, if minimal, light source. Once he was no longer blinded, Roran looked over to see who his visitor was. His lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes narrowed in recognition.

"What do you want?" Roran licked his dry lips. "Come here to gloat?"

"Gloat?" Murtagh asked in genuine surprise. What did he have to gloat about?

"I may not be Eragon, but I've earned a name for myself," Roran replied defiantly. "And now you've captured me so you can use me to get to Eragon, just as planned."

"I had nothing to do with the targeting of you, Roran Stronghammer," Murtagh replied coolly. "Or should I say, Roran Garrowsson?"

Roran's expression tightened. This is just how I thought this would play out, Murtagh thought irritably. Though I can't really blame him.

"Don't say his name," Roran growled. "Your Ra'zac killed him."

"Why not?" Murtagh countered, tone turning frigid. "Garrow was my uncle, right?" He paused. "And I hated the Ra'zac, cousin."

"You are no cousin of mine," Roran hissed. "You're a traitor."

Shoving down a number of harsh retorts of his own, Murtagh instead inclined his head at the prisoner. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" Roran sputtered in surprise. He'd clearly been expecting a different reply. "That's all you have to say for yourself?"

Murtagh shrugged. "What else can I say? While I don't condone the actions of the Varden, I considered Eragon a good friend and fought for the Varden in the Battle of Farthen Dûr. I betrayed Eragon, Saphira and Nasuada by swearing my allegiance to Galbatorix. Whether I had any choice in the matter is irrelevant."

He smiled wryly. "That reminds me, I wanted to thank you."

Roran looked baffled at the change in subject. "Thank me?"

"Yes, for killing the Twins."

"…for killing the Twins? On the Burning Plains?"

Murtagh nodded. "Yes."

Roran shook his head. "I don't understand."

Murtagh's face hardened as he thought about the traitorous spellcasters. "They were the ones that kidnapped me. They enjoyed torturing me both during the journey to Urû'baen and while I was in your place now."

Roran blinked and looked around the cell. "My place?"

"I spent some time—I don't know how long—in that very cell after the Twins brought me here from Tronjheim." Murtagh didn't mention how it had seemed like a hellish eternity as Galbatorix and the Twins had systematically broken him physically and spiritually, finally forcing his mental barriers to come crashing down, giving Galbatorix access to his last remaining sanctuary; allowing Galbatorix to take his memories of Eragon and Saphira, the Varden, and anything else he considered to be of consequence.

"I held no love for the Twins and was glad to see them disposed of. I would have done it myself if my oaths hadn't prevented it."

"I… see." Roran was looking at Murtagh with a different expression. He seemed contemplative. The two fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Murtagh groped around for a subject to break the quiet. "How were captured, anyway?"

Roran blinked. "You didn't know?"

"I was," Murtagh paused, searching for the best way to put it, "otherwise occupied."

"Well, I suppose it won't matter if I tell you." I don't see what else you could do to me with this knowledge underlying the spoken words. "A group of men and I were out on a reconnaissance mission out of Feinster, but we were ambushed. Our group was very small and we were taken by surprise. We were quickly overcome."

Roran fell into silence and Murtagh waited patiently. He understood what his cousin must be feeling. "We were captured and taken to Melian, the closest town sympathetic to the Empire," Roan continued after several moments. "The rest of my men were left in the prison there, but the men that captured me joined up with the soldiers in Melian and marched north to bring me to Urû'baen. They met up with various smaller groups of soldiers along the way and absorbed them, until they reached the capital." Roran grimaced, eyes casting around him. "And here I am now."

"I see." Murtagh didn't really know what else to say to that. Roran's group must have been very small or the ambushing forces must have been numerous… Or a combination of the two—that was the most likely. After all, Roran Stronghammer had gained infamy throughout the Empire for defeating forces that greatly outnumbered his own.

"Our spellcaster also wasn't present on this mission," Roran added absently, as if looking at something unseen in the distance. "That might be part of the reason they were able to sneak up on us."

"Especially if they had spellcasters of their own," Murtagh agreed.

"Aye."

The two fell into silence once more. It was still uncomfortable, but Roran seemed to have relaxed slightly in Murtagh's presence. After a few moments, it was Roran who broke the stillness between them.

"Why did you save my life?" he asked.

Murtagh frowned. "What?"

"In the throne room," Roran clarified. "Galbatorix wanted to execute me publicly, but you saved my life—for now anyway. Why?"

The Rider pursed his lips as he debated his reply. "It was a selfish reason," he answered at last. The prisoner's face was blank, so Murtagh continued. "I feel I owe Eragon a debt for—" he gestured to his surroundings, "this. For what I've done. Not only did I kill Hrothgar, but I killed Oromis."

Murtagh shrugged helplessly. "There is little my oaths would allow me to do to repay such a debt. But you are his only family now. I felt I owed at least that to him since it was something I could attempt without my bonds interfering."

Roran pondered the answer for a moment before shaking his head. "Eragon said it was Galbatorix who killed Oromis." Murtagh blinked in surprise, but Roran continued before he could ask how or what Eragon knew about that. "He doesn't blame you for that. And I am not his only family."

"What?" The second half of Roran's statement had caught him off-guard, distracting him from the initial question on his tongue.

"Eragon, for whatever mad reason," Roran said with a slight smile of affection for his surrogate brother, "still cares about you. You are his enemy, yes, but he wants to free you and Thorn from Galbatorix's hold. He doesn't hate you. Rather, he pities you. And seeing you here, I… I cannot hate you either."

Conflicting emotions ran through Murtagh at the words. Disbelief warred with hope. They seemed too good to be true. "Even after everything I've done to him? To the Varden?"

Roran shrugged against his bonds. "The three of us, we're blood. Nothing will change that. I don't think Eragon can bring himself to hate his half-brother."

Murtagh froze. "Half… brother?"

Roran blinked before his eyes widened in realization of what he'd just said. "You didn't know." It wasn't a question.

"Know what, exactly?" Murtagh hissed, grabbing onto the bars on the cell door. He squeezed the iron like a lifeline sliding between his fingers.

"Morzan was not Eragon's father," Roran said quietly, shrinking back at the dangerous tone. "Brom was."

"Brom," Murtagh echoed flatly.

"My aunt, Selena, was his mother and yours." Roran coughed uncomfortably. "But Brom was Eragon's father."

Murtagh's chest constricted. Suddenly he couldn't breathe and the world was spinning around him. He grasped onto the iron bars more tightly, his knuckles turning white. He truly was alone if this was true. He was left alone to bear Morzan's countless sins. Eragon hadn't rejected him once, but twice now.

"When… did he find out?" Murtagh managed to choke out against the lump in his throat.

"Shortly before Oromis died," Roran supplied hesitantly, as if unsure whether he should have spoken at all. But it was too late now.

Oromis, Murtagh cursed silently. Not only did you hide yourself away when we were suffering only to help Eragon and Saphira, but it turns out you knew of this, too? What else were you hiding, you damned relic of a forgotten age? Murtagh ground his teeth in hushed anger. It's not fair. Why? Why did it have to be like this?

"I see." Murtagh turned his back on Roran and started toward the exit. "Thank you. This visit has been most… enlightening."

"Wait—" Roran called in surprise that his guest was leaving already.

"You've given me much to think about." The Rider paused and the werelight extinguished. "But I will be back."

"Oh."

It took all of Murtagh's willpower to walk at a normal pace as he climbed the steps back into the inhabited areas of the castle. The guard that had led him down to Roran's cell stood at stiff attention as Murtagh's reappeared, but the look on the Rider's face dissuaded him from speaking. Instead, he opened the door and bowed the Murtagh out.

Murtagh? Thorn's voice broke through his brooding once he cleared the dungeons. What is it? Why did you block me out?

Rider related the conversation to his dragon and was finishing up the details when he made it back to his chamber. Slamming the door behind him, which caused the doorframe to rattle, Murtagh paused as he looked around the room.

The four poster bed was neatly made—a servant had obviously been in since Murtagh had last occupied the room—and the wardrobe door was cracked open. Murtagh kept meaning to fix that stupid door; it was just a loose screw that needed tightening, but he hadn't gotten around to it with more important matters to focus on. There were a couple of books laid open on the large oak writing desk. Various scrolls and sheets of parchment also littered the wooden furniture's surface with some quills no doubt hiding under the scholarly mess.

There was a rather large cedar bookshelf in a small nook across the room with a small gap in the middle shelf where Murtagh had removed the books that were currently occupying space on his desk. A fancy porcelain wash basin and ornately framed mirror resided on the other side of the bed. A clean towel lay draped over the edge of the bowl in anticipation of his return.

The dark stone walls and floor looked cold with the only light coming from the setting sun that was filtering in through the window. The only sign that the room's occupant was a prisoner was the presence of thick iron bars on the window. Murtagh glared at the bars, hating everything they represented. Not that Murtagh could escape from the castle due to his oaths, and even if he could, bars would do nothing against the strength of his magic. But Galbatorix wanted to remind his Rider that he was enslaved, sworn to serve no matter what.

Brom was his true father? Thorn asked in surprise as Murtagh concluded his recap.

Yes.

So he's your half-brother.

Yes.

But you two are still blood. Roran too.

Yes.

But because you aren't fully blood-related, you're alone.

Murtagh sighed. I've been alone my entire life, Thorn. My mother gave me to a wet nurse. My father nearly killed me at the age of three. My existence was kept a secret for the longest time. Tornac died helping me escape Urû'baen. I hate my father, and yet I must bear his sins; I've inherited them just like his cursed sword.

And having a brother alleviated some of the burden, Thorn surmised.

Aye. Murtagh fell onto his bed and stared bitterly at the ceiling. But now, I am alone in bearing that inherited sin once again. Once again, I am Morzan's only son, the one who followed in his traitor father's footsteps. Eragon gave me hope that perhaps I wasn't damned despite Morzan's blood flowing in my veins. Now I see it doesn't matter. Murtagh rolled onto his side to watch the fading light rays fall through his barred window. Eragon's father was a good man. Mine was not. We can't escape the fates of our fathers. He smiled coldly. It always comes back to family.

You're being silly, young one, Thorn said exasperatedly.

Am I?

You are not your father. You've proven that on countless occasions. And Eragon is not Brom. The two of you are still brothers by blood. And don't forget, Roran said Eragon doesn't hate you.

Murtagh rolled onto his other side. He pities us.

He wants to help us.

I'm sure he does… my brother.

Murtagh…

Murtagh shut his eyes. I need to sleep on this, Thorn. Please.

I do not thin—

I will see you in the morning, Murtagh interrupted and closed his mind to Thorn. He immediately felt guilty for ignoring his dragon, but he didn't reopen the connection. Opening his eyes, he rolled onto his back and looked back up at the blank ceiling. He had no intention of sleeping; not yet anyway. He didn't think he could even if he wanted to. No, tonight Murtagh needed to think.

In the morning he would make it up to Thorn. Somehow.

Chapter Text

Roran watched motionlessly as Murtagh visibly struggled with himself as he left the dungeon. It seemed the revelation about Eragon's heritage had hit him hard. Roran could only guess at the Rider's thoughts. He didn't know the man nearly as well as Eragon, but thought he could understand something of what he must be feeling.

When Roran had found out that Eragon was a Rider and therefore reason the Ra'zac had come to Carvahall and killed Garrow, he'd felt so betrayed. Eragon had been like a brother to him and yet had caused Garrow's death and run away with Brom the storyteller. Roran hadn't known if he would ever be able to forgive Eragon. But he had. Roran had felt so isolated—his only remaining family having betrayed him for a blue stone. But they'd reunited. Roran knew that his feelings probably weren't as intense as Murtagh's at the moment, but he could empathize.

The truth about Eragon had escaped his lips on accident. Eragon had just been so pleased not to be Morzan's second son that Roran had immediately made sure to refer to Murtagh as Eragon's half-brother, both in thought and speech. But Murtagh himself hadn't known.

Just seeing Murtagh and Galbatorix interact and the former's demeanor during his visit had caused Roran to reassess his opinion of the man. He knew Eragon had been deeply hurt by Murtagh's betrayal and Roran held a grudge toward anyone who hurt his cousin—his surrogate brother—but seeing Murtagh's reactions to the situation outside the battlefield made him realize how complex the situation was. Murtagh was clearly not inherently evil. He served evil because he had no choice—though it seemed it was slowly tainting him—seemed to endure much, it seemed from the king's performance in the throne room.

Despite his initial displeasure at learning that Murtagh was a branch on his family tree, Roran couldn't help agree with Eragon's pity and desire to help Murtagh and Thorn escape their bonds. If he could somehow help them break the spell Galbatorix had over them and bring them back to the Varden with him—because he would escape, there was no question about that—perhaps the tide of the entire war would shift in the Varden's favor.

Roran shook his head at the thought, but had to pause as his vision swam in front of him. He was not in good shape. Ignoring his discomfort, Roran realized that bringing Murtagh and Thorn back to the Varden was not realistic. Willingly or not, Murtagh was an enemy of the Varden; he'd killed Hrothgar among many others. Oromis' death was also technically his doing, but Eragon placed the blame solely on Galbatorix for that.

The point, though, remained that even if Murtagh and Thorn were to break free of the bonds that held them, the Varden would not welcome them. Nasuada and Eragon would undoubtedly love to have Murtagh back, but even they had to bow to public opinion on such an important matter.

Besides, what had Murtagh said—that he didn't agree with the Varden's methodology? He probably wanted to return to the Varden as much as they wanted him back. But there was no doubt in Roran's mind that freeing Murtagh and Thorn would completely change the war.

You're getting ahead of yourself, Stronghammer, he berated himself. First you need to survive whatever Galbatorix has in mind for you. He sighed, staring at the wall ahead of him, one thought in particular giving him light in his dark situation. Katrina…

Three days passed before the king summoned Murtagh again. During that time, Murtagh had spent the majority of his waking—and some sleeping—hours in the dragon hold. Thorn hadn't been pleased with his Rider for blocking him out but had eventually let up; the bond between them was too strong for either to remain upset with the other.

You're right, Thorn, Murtagh said at last on the third day. It doesn't matter that Brom was Eragon's father. We're still blood and the same people no matter who our parents were.

Thorn snorted, smoke trickling from his nostrils. Finally you realize it, young one.

Murtagh smiled up at his dragon. He was resting easily against his friend's front haunch. The contours of their bodies melded together seamlessly. No matter where Murtagh sat on or adjacent to Thorn, they connected as if they were one in the same. And that connection was often the only thing keeping Murtagh sane.

I can be a bit stubborn at times, the Rider allowed.

Thorn grunted. You epitomize stubbornness.

Murtagh pulled a face. You wound me.

Thorn's reply was cut short as Galbatorix's voice filled Murtagh's head with more volume than necessary. Murtagh instinctively covered his ears though he knew it would do no good.

Murtagh, come to the dungeon.

The dungeon, my Lord? he asked, recovering himself and looking curiously at Thorn. The dragon mentally shrugged.

Roran Stronghammer's cell, the king clarified impatiently.

Of course, Your Highness, Murtagh replied, his hands balling into fists. He had an idea of where this was going and had no desire to witness it, to relive his own suffering.

And be quick about it.

Yes, my Lord. The Rider pushed himself regretfully to his feet. The connection was severed and Murtagh shook his head in a vain attempt to clear out the oily, pervasive remnants of the king's presence.

Murtagh… Thorn said slowly, unsure of what else to say to his Rider.

Murtagh shrugged, running a hand across Thorn's red scales. The physical contact was calming, at least temporarily. They both had a good idea of what was about to transpire and neither wanted to comment. Murtagh dusted himself off. He bit his lip, hesitant to leave the dragon hold. Thorn noticed.

Go, the king told you to hurry.

Right…

I'll be here, the dragon said. Don't block me out.

It's not as if I like it, Murtagh snapped defensively. I don't like blocking you. I feel… empty.

Then don't. Thorn didn't like being blocked by his Rider either.

Galbatorix will exploit any weakness in my mental barriers. You know that.

Thorn grumbled deep in his throat. Then let me in and I will help fortify your mind. Let me be your strength as dragon and Rider should be.

I can't always count on that, though, Murtagh countered. I don't want to rely on it only for it to backfire because you're not around.

You are far too obstinate, Murtagh. You have to let me help when I can. Whatever hurts you hurts me as well. Don't forget that. The Rider blinked and Thorn continued, albeit in a lighter tone. Besides, you are much too paranoid to rely on anything but your own strength.

Murtagh's lip twitched and he put a hand on his dragon's snout. You're right, as always. I won't block you out.

Thorn nodded and nudged Murtagh toward the exit. Good. Now go before the king grows any more impatient.

Murtagh shuddered at the thought and hurried his pace from the hold.

An overwhelming sense of dread threatened to overtake Murtagh as he descended the steps to Roran's cell. The air's oppressive weight told him Galbatorix was already present. Swallowing, Murtagh hardened himself and took comfort from the bond with Thorn. The dragon was silent but emanated strength and confidence through the link for his Rider to feed on. With a deep breath, Murtagh took the last step and found Galbatorix standing silently in front of Roran's cell. Idly, Murtagh wondered where the guard was; he hadn't seen the man in the upper levels of the dungeon either.

"Ah Murtagh, there you are," Galbatorix greeted with a false pleasantness that Murtagh had once thought genuine; he knew how to read the king better now.

The Rider strode up to the door and knelt in front of the king. He could feel Roran's eyes on him from within the cell but did not turn to look at his cousin.

"Your Highness," he murmured in greeting.

"Rise, my Rider."

He did as he was bidden. Anticipation hung on the air—Roran because he didn't know what was in store, Murtagh because he did, and Galbatorix in readiness to begin the gruesome business. Galbatorix studied Murtagh for a moment before nodding to himself and turning back to Roran.

"Now Stronghammer, I said you would enter my service. But first there must be punishment for your crimes against the Empire."

Roran's eyes widened slightly. Undoubtedly he thought the time in his cell had constituted a punishment. He had much to learn, Murtagh thought grimly.

In an instant—Murtagh didn't even notice the spell being cast—Roran was writhing on the floor of his cell. His lips were clamped shut, obviously not wanting to give his enemies the satisfaction of hearing him scream. But he would. Everyone screamed sooner or later.

Murtagh writhed on the cell floor in pure agony. There was nothing but white hot excruciating pain coming from three different directions. In fleeting moments of clarity, Murtagh could tell the difference between the sadistic magic of the Twins and the almost bored, businesslike magic of Galbatorix. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that there was nothing but non-stop anguish for an eternity. There could not be a hell in the afterlife; no, Murtagh was already there and he was still alive.

Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Murtagh screamed a blood-curdling cry of suffering; part of it was from the pain and part of it was the knowledge that much longer and he wouldn't be able to control his carefully constructed mental barriers any more. Much longer—after so long already—and Murtagh knew he would break. His barriers would fall and the Twins or Galbatorix—or perhaps both—would enter his one remaining sanctuary, the one place he refused to lose. That place, that haven, would be desecrated.

Knowing that, Murtagh screamed like a wounded animal in its death throes. The moment a foreign influence entered his mind, he would break completely, never to be whole again…

The images flashed through Murtagh's mind and he averted his eyes. Roran's ordeal was just beginning, too. Galbatorix looked over at Murtagh as Roran continued to take his torment in a futile silence. The king smiled at Murtagh's obvious discomfort. He knew very well what kind of effect this display would have on his Rider. He was making a point; Murtagh was a slave under Galbatorix's control and could be in Roran's position at any time were he to wish it.

Murtagh got the message loud and clear.

Just like Roran's first scream. Unable to keep silent any longer, the prisoner let out an agonized cry that echoed down to Murtagh's very core. But he remained still, not daring to move.

And suddenly it passed. Murtagh blinked and looked up when the scream cut off. Roran lay in a sweaty, panting heap on the floor. Galbatorix appeared thoughtful as he studied the boneless lump of a man in front of him.

"You held out longer than I anticipated, Stronghammer." He spared a look for Murtagh before turning back to Roran. "I expect great things from you."

Roran spat in Galbatorix's direction and pushed himself painfully to his knees. "I already told you, I won't serve you."

Idiot, it's pointless.

He sounds a bit like you, Thorn said and Murtagh forced down more memories threatening to rise up. Though Thorn hadn't been hatched when Murtagh was in Roran's position, he shared his Rider's memories through the bond. Murtagh had initially tried to hide them, but eventually had relented. There were no secrets between dragon and Rider, after all.

So I know of what I speak, Murtagh replied bitterly. He sighed mentally, trying to outwardly mask further discomfort that the king might exploit. I don't like reliving it.

I know, young one. Don't forget I'm here with you now.

I know. Murtagh hazarded a glance toward the cell. Unfortunately Roran can't say the same.

Nor could you in his position.

But now I can, Murtagh replied, trying not to think about it. And that is all that is important.

"You say that now," Galbatorix addressed Roran, snapping Murtagh from his silent conversation. "I've heard it all before and have yet to be disappointed with the results."

Murtagh's eye twitched but he remained silent.

"I'd rather die," Roran retorted.

Galbatorix raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Stronghammer. But you will undoubtedly wish for death before your punishment is through."

Roran's eyes widened as he realized there was more like the previous exhibition to come. Murtagh could see a hint of fear in his eyes. The Rider shook his head to himself. Galbatorix was right when he said Roran would wish for death.

Murtagh had. My life was the most precious thing to me, but for that time, I truly wished to die just to escape the pain. And knowing Galbatorix wouldn't grant it made it worse. A living hell…

Roran cried out once more and toppled over to the floor. He wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to combat the pain. Murtagh pursed his lips, not averting his eyes because he knew Galbatorix was waiting for some sign of weakness to take advantage of.

Galbatorix watched Roran squirm under the invisible agony with little expression. He felt neither regret nor pleasure from physically torturing others. He did it because he saw it as a necessary tool to cement his reign as monarch of Alagaësia. The businesslike manner with which he could torture another disturbed Murtagh more than it would have if he enjoyed it. That the man could be so disconnected from something so evil didn't seem natural or even human.

Murtagh lost track of how long Galbatorix held the torture spell on Roran. But finally, once Roran's throat had gone hoarse from screaming, he released it. Roran was motionless on the floor of his cell and, for a fleeting second, Murtagh thought the king had killed him after all. But then Roran swallowed and started panting again.

Galbatorix waved a hand and the cell door's lock clicked open. Motioning for Murtagh to follow him, the king stepped into the cell. Wordlessly, Murtagh trailed behind. A knot formed in his stomach as he suspected he knew what was coming next.

"Murtagh," the king said and the Rider nearly jumped in surprise, "test his mental defenses."

"Yes, Your Highness," Murtagh replied passively, though he dreaded what he might find.

Roran was not a magic user and had only recently spent any significant time around those that were, so Murtagh feared there would be very little, if anything, in the way of defenses. The Rider also knew that he had to be honest with Galbatorix; the king would find out anyway. He was testing Murtagh to see what he would do. He knew Murtagh still had nightmares from the breaking of his own mental defenses; he was taking another opportunity to send Murtagh a message about his position.

Probing Roran's mind gently—he would undoubtedly be weak from the torture he had just endured—Murtagh found a barrier, much to his surprise. His eyes widened slightly. Pushing his mental probe a bit harder, Murtagh found the wall still steady. He blinked. Huh. He tried a direct attack on the wall with more force than he would have thought necessary and still nothing. Roran must have gotten some instruction after all—likely from Eragon. Murtagh withdrew his probe.

"Well?" Galbatorix asked.

"His mind is well shielded," Murtagh replied truthfully. "I was unable to get through just probing his mind." The younger Rider vaguely wondered if he would have been able to get through in an actual mental battle.

"Interesting," the king mused. "Did your cousin teach you to shield your mind, Stronghammer?"

Roran remained silent except for his raspy breathing. Both Murtagh and Galbatorix took his silence as an affirmative.

Just how well did Eragon teach you? Murtagh wondered. I suppose we'll find out.

"Even the most well-defended barriers fall," Galbatorix said. "It's a matter of discipline." Roran stiffened painfully. "Murtagh," the king addressed his Rider once more, "enter Stronghammer's mind as well. I want you to witness this."

Murtagh inclined his head in acquiescence but clenched his teeth.

Draw on my strength, Murtagh, Thorn broke in. I know this will be hard for you.

Thank you.

The Rider reached out with his mind to the periphery of Roran's consciousness. He could sense the wall looking in front of him, but did not get close enough to touch it. He suddenly felt another force—a familiar dark aura—enter Roran's mind. Galbatorix ran straight into the wall with as much force as he could muster (and that was a lot) but Roran's wall held strong.

"I see you were telling the truth about his mind," the king said aloud. Murtagh remained silent.

"Stay out of my head," Roran hissed. His voice was hoarse but there was some power behind it. Murtagh was amazed at his cousin's strong will.

"It would be a shame to waste all the precious information about the Varden that you have locked away, though," Galbatorix said smoothly, as if telling a child not to waste his dinner.

"No…" Roran whispered.

Murtagh felt the barrier in the prisoner's mind waver. Galbatorix felt it too.

"I see," the king said with a smirk. "You know how to put up a barrier, and a strong one at that, but not how to maintain it."

Roran inhaled sharply. Galbatorix must have hit on the truth. The wall wavered again. Galbatorix mentally shoved at the barrier and it shook violently. Much more of this and Roran's mind would be open to both the king and his Rider.

"Stay out," Roran whispered again, this time much more weakly. He knew he could not hold the barrier up much longer, no matter how much he willed it. He was too new in learning how to shield his mind and Galbatorix was too strong of an opponent.

"I don't think so," the king replied coldly. And with one final shove, Roran's mental shield gave way and Murtagh could easily peer into his mind.

"No…" Roran groaned as he felt the shield fall. He cried out in pain when Galbatorix began systematically sorting through his thoughts and memories.

Murtagh did not join in Galbatorix's search. He simply remained on the edge of Roran's consciousness. Instead, memories rushed to the surface of his own mind and he couldn't shove them down quickly enough.

He lay in a boneless heap on the cell floor. He was sweaty, covered in blood and dirt, and in excruciating agony. It had been the same routine for the weeks since his return to Urû'baen: the Twins would physically torture him, both through manual and magical means while Galbatorix would try to break down his mental defenses. The king had learned early on that brute force would not break down Murtagh's barriers, but verbal subterfuge designed to break Murtagh's spirit was most effective in combination with the Twins' special talent for inflicting pain.

One of the Twins kicked Murtagh in the ribcage and the fallen warrior instinctively cried out in pain. The other Twin kicked him from the other side. With his arms bound behind him, Murtagh was helpless against their physical attacks. Such attacks normally would have been laughable to Murtagh, but in his current shape they were beyond agonizing. He was pretty sure several ribs were already broken, so the kicks only compounded the pain. And all the while, they did not release their pain-inducing spells. Murtagh's vision flickered and he desired nothing more than to pass out, to escape the agony.

Mercilessly, Galbatorix's presence at the edge of his consciousness waited to strike if Murtagh's barriers were to weaken and kept him conscious.

"You're weak, Murtagh," the king said aloud. "You allow others to imprison you when you should be free." The monarch paused as Murtagh cried out in pain again as the Twins continued to barrage him to violent kicks to his midsection. "You allow concern for others to influence you. And that, son of my great friend, was your downfall."

Galbatorix smiled coldly into Murtagh's face. "And it will be that concern that becomes your greatest betrayal. I will take your information about Eragon and Saphira, the Varden, and everything else and use it against those you seek to protect so futilely."

"No," Murtagh managed despite the pain. He winched as another blow found its mark. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth and he spit it out.

"They don't care about you. They imprisoned you then allowed you to fight for them, only to abandon you in your time of need. They believe you dead. They have forgotten you by now."

The words cut deep into Murtagh's soul. He'd held onto the vain hope that Eragon would come for him as he had once come for Eragon. But it had never happened. Unable to scry his friend, Murtagh was left all alone. He shut his eyes against the two-pronged assaults—they were continuous, unyielding, unending.

"You are the eldest son of my greatest friend, Murtagh," Galbatorix continued. "I care about you. I always have. I want you to work with me to create a peaceful world without war. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Part of Murtagh protested, yelling mentally that the king didn't care about peace; that he was a power-hungry egomaniac. But the weaker part of him, the part worn down by the constant mental and physical torture, thought the ideal did sound nice, that being wanted did sound nice.

He felt his mental barriers begin to waver.

"No!" he cried out against the pain—though it came out more as a croak—and against the king's honey-coated words. He couldn't just let the bastard into his last remaining sanctuary. His mind was the only thing that was still his, that remained untainted by Morzan and evil.

"No?" the king asked in a painfully faked tone of surprise. "But Murtagh, you have nowhere else to go."

The Twins redoubled their efforts and Murtagh lost all sense of coherency as the pain took center stage. The world went white as he tried and failed miserably to compartmentalize the pain like he had been taught when he was younger. He was in too much pain to focus in order to do it properly.

"If you would stop being so stubborn the pain would stop."

"Stay out of my head," Murtagh hissed with as much effort as he could muster, which didn't turn out to be much. Instead of sounding threatening, it was more of a hoarse whisper.

"What's the point in fighting?" Galbatorix asked wearily. "It only brings pain and loneliness. Fighting has caused your isolation, Murtagh. Always fighting something, you were abandoned by your mother, your father, Eragon and the Varden… even Tornac."

The name of his deceased retainer caused something in the weary and worn warrior to crack. Since Tornac's death, he'd been constantly on the move which enabled him to forget. The only pause was his stint in Tronjheim, but then he had books and Nasuada for company before the battle and his kidnapping.

Somehow, that name and the realization that his only confidante was truly dead hit Murtagh with full force. The spiritual anguish at the loss of his mentor combined with the physical pain broke something within him.

His mental barriers came crashing down.

Galbatorix pounced on his now-open sanctuary, desecrating it as he went through Murtagh's memories. The agony of the loss of the one place he could still run to was too much to bear. The spiritual pain was so acute that he didn't notice that the Twins had stopped their onslaught.

As Galbatorix reached his first memories of Eragon, he smiled. Murtagh screamed.

Swallowing, Murtagh forced himself back to the present. Galbatorix was taking his time, carefully searching through all of Roran's innermost thoughts, memories, secrets, and desires. Roran continued to cry out in pain. For even one trained in mental shielding, mental battles could be excruciating. But to a novice? Murtagh couldn't even imagine.

Stay strong, young one, Thorn whispered and Murtagh nodded.

I'm trying.

"Ah, Katrina," Galbatorix said after some time. "It's a shame I did not get the pleasure of meeting your wife."

Murtagh's eyebrows rose. Wife?

Roran's reaction to the words was physical. He convulsed and cried out, "No!" But he was too weak to fight off the far stronger king now that he had gotten a hold of Roran's mind.

The further Galbatorix delved, the worse Roran's reactions became. Murtagh worried that the king might forget Roran's inexperience and either drive him insane or kill him.

The hours stretched on.

Roran's reactions weakened.

Galbatorix dug deeper.

Roran's spirit weakened.

Galbatorix finally announced that he had seen enough.

Murtagh could pinpoint the exact moment Roran broke.

Murtagh pitied him but selfishly was glad it was over. As the Rider followed the king from the dungeon, he couldn't help but spare a glance back at the pathetic form lying limply on the floor.

It was like looking into a mirror of the past. Murtagh shivered and it had nothing to do with the temperature. What would the king do with Roran now?

Chapter Text

That night Murtagh slept uneasily. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Roran crying out in pain as Galbatorix invaded his mind. Roran would then look up and Murtagh would be staring himself in the face as Galbatorix violently rampaged through his former sanctuary. He'd will himself awake—but it didn't matter; the nightmare was real. He was in Urû'baen and the bars on his window served as reminders him of his enslavement.

Through the bond, Murtagh could sense that Thorn was sound asleep. He wished he could emulate his dragon's uncanny ability to sleep anywhere at any time. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to close his eyes and relive his imprisonment yet again.

As he lay there, questions rolled through his mind. How was Roran? That was a stupid question. He wouldn't be fit for anything for days, if not weeks. Breaking a person's spirit tended to incapacitate them both mentally and physically. Shaking his head, Murtagh moved onto the next question.

What would Galbatorix do with Roran now? He said he would enlist Roran into his service to drive Eragon out from the Varden's protection, but how? In the military? The king obviously had something in mind—something Murtagh couldn't have foreseen when suggesting using Roran rather than killing him—but the Rider would be damned if he knew what was going on in the mad man's head. He supposed it was a good thing he couldn't tell, as it was a sign he was still, for the time being, sane…or at least as close to it as he could get.

But what would Eragon do? There had been no concrete news about the Varden and the uncertainty made him nervous. What would Galbatorix do if his plans for Roran were interrupted by the Varden? What would he make Murtagh do to defend the prisoner?

Not liking that train of thought, Murtagh rolled onto his side. He ground his teeth as he stared at the moonlight streaming through his window. The pale light glinted off the cold metal bars. Would Roran be bound to a fate like Murtagh's? Part of him—the dominant part—hoped his cousin wouldn't have to endure more. But a small, nagging part of him wanted Roran to stay and suffer as he had; he would have company then, just as Galbatorix said when Murtagh interceded to save Roran. Disgusted with himself for thinking like that, Murtagh rolled over onto his other side and stared at the blank wall, trying to empty his mind and maybe get a little bit of sleep.

The next morning, Murtagh was sent on another mission; this time to Gil'ead. The Elves still occupied the city and the Empire's troops continued to lay siege. There had been little action since the previous battle as the Elves were deep in their mourning ritual for Oromis and Glaedr. Murtagh had initially been surprised to find that Galbatorix hadn't ordered his men to attack in the intermediate time. However, after landing in the camp—to many cheers and fearful looks—and speaking with the commanding officer, Murtagh understood why.

The commanding officer, General Jeremiah Ersatz, was a tall thick man. He wore a short beard and his green eyes sparkled with intelligence and warmth. Unlike his fellow officers, Jeremiah did not appear outwardly afraid of Murtagh. He was assured in his speech but also friendly. He greeted Murtagh with the proper deference, offered his hospitality, and didn't mince words when they got down to business. Murtagh took an instant liking to the man.

According to Jeremiah, the Elves drew on large amounts of ancient magic known only to them during their mourning rituals. For the soldiers to attack would be suicide with all the extra power running amongst the already powerful Elves. Not only that, the general had said with a wry smile, interrupting mourning ceremonies was extremely disrespectful and would anger even the most even-tempered Elf. Not wanting angry, foreign-magic aided Elves fighting from the tactical high ground of the city, Galbatorix had ordered them to wait.

Murtagh had to respect the king's decision. It was tactically smart if nothing else. Galbatorix knew his enemies well. Perhaps, Murtagh thought with a start, that was why Eragon was so dangerous to Galbatorix—the king didn't know enough about him. He pieced together a portrait of the blue Rider through memories of prisoners, reports from spies, and whatever news and rumors reached him. In essence, Eragon was a complete wild card.

Once their business of speaking about the siege was finished, Jeremiah invited Murtagh to spend the night—to rally the morale of the troops, he said—and the Rider readily agreed. He wanted to speak with the man longer, considering they were likely never to meet again.

After taking a tour through the camp and greeting soldiers for most of the afternoon, Jeremiah invited Murtagh to a private dinner, though Thorn was most welcome and food for him was prepared immediately.

I like him, Thorn commented as Murtagh and the general settled themselves down at a makeshift table in Jeremiah's tent. The dragon managed to fit his head through the opening so he could join the conversation through Murtagh.

As do I, Murtagh agreed. I only wonder…

"General," Murtagh began, unsure as to how to best phrase his question. "May I ask a personal question?"

Jeremiah's eyebrows rose curiously. "By all means, my Lord."

"Why did you join the military?"

The strong consensus among the population, especially those who were supportive of the Varden, assumed every soldier in the Empire's military was brutish and evil. But Murtagh knew differently after meeting large numbers of soldiers. It was true that those types of men did belong to the army, but just as many were normal husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons.

That was one reason Murtagh couldn't in good conscience support the Varden; they subscribed to that belief yet had their share of brutes as well. But Murtagh was always curious when meeting men like Jeremiah about why they willingly supported the king when their sensibilities should have alerted them to his evil.

Jeremiah frowned thoughtfully. "To protect my family," he said at length.

"Your family?"

The soldier smiled fondly. "Yes, my wife Elisa and I have seen fifteen winters together. We have two boys and two girls." He paused, looking at Murtagh. "My oldest son is probably about your age, my Lord."

Murtagh couldn't help but smile at the man's enthusiasm. "It sounds wonderful to have a loving family like that." So unlike his own familial situation.

"Yes." Jeremiah's features took on a serious expression. "And I want to protect them the best I can. I have nothing against the Elves or the Varden or any of them. But Alagaësia is at war and I want to keep it from spreading to my family. Most of the men under my command are the same. My lieutenant's elderly mother was killed in a Varden raid a few months back. Others have lost wives, children, parents, siblings—you name it—to war. And that's why we fight."

His eyes widened suddenly as he remembered to whom he was speaking. His mouth opened but Murtagh cut him off. "Galbatorix won't hear this from me, General. I, too, fight to protect the life of someone precious to me."

We fight for each other, Thorn agreed between bites of his meal.

Jeremiah relaxed and took a sip of wine. "If you don't mind me saying, you're very different from what I expected from the infamous red Rider."

"In a good or bad way?" Murtagh asked, raising a curious brow.

"A good way," Jeremiah responded immediately. "I feel better knowing Galbatorix's Rider is someone like you."

Murtagh flushed slightly, surprisingly taking some pride from the man's words. "Thank you."

Jeremiah nodded to Thorn. "And the lord dragon is more awesome than the stories describe dragons as being."

Tell him he has good eyes, Thorn hummed with pleasure.

Murtagh repeated the message and Jeremiah chuckled appreciatively. The rest of the visit passed easily. Murtagh enjoyed his time with the general and slept easily that night, relaxed for the first time in months despite being in the middle of a soldiers' encampment.

When he took off the next morning, he promised Jeremiah that he would try to return if he could and that he would love to meet his family one day. As he and Thorn flew back toward Urû'baen, Murtagh couldn't help but feel a bit better despite knowing what awaited him there.

It seems this visit did you good, Murtagh, Thorn commented.

So it seems, my friend. So it seems.

As Murtagh finished delivering his report on the situation in Gil'ead, he couldn't help but feel the king's thoughts were elsewhere. He knew the king had various projects he was working on, few even he was privileged enough to know about, so he wondered if the king's current distraction was related to one of those. Or had he received some news of his enemies?

"Still no news of the Varden's reaction to Stronghammer's capture?" Galbatorix asked once Murtagh finished, though it was more of a statement of fact.

"None, my Lord."

"How strange. They are planning something."

"Undoubtedly."

Galbatorix's eyes snapped fully back to Murtagh and the younger Rider couldn't help but wince. "My plans must not be interrupted. For the sake of the Empire, for our peace, for my people, my plans must succeed."

"Your plans, my Lord?" Murtagh asked instead of uttering some choice words at Galbatorix's declaration. It wasn't worth picking a battle over that.

The monarch smiled and the temperature seemed to drop in the throne room. "You shall see, Murtagh."

The younger Rider nodded and took that as a sign of dismissal. He made his way to the exit, aware of the king's eyes on his back the entire time. As he reached for the handle, Galbatorix called out as though it were an afterthought. "Oh, and Murtagh, don't go visit Stronghammer."

Murtagh turned half-way around to look at the king with a frown. "What?"

"You will see him soon enough."

"Yes, Your Highness," Murtagh agreed coolly before leaving the room. He would find a loophole in those orders if necessary.

And don't try to scry him either, the king's voice rang through Murtagh's mind as he headed down the hall. Murtagh froze.

How had the king known that was exactly what he planned to do? Yes, Your Highness.

That's a good boy.

Murtagh clenched his fists as the connection severed. What was Galbatorix up to?

Murtagh had been back from his trip to Gil'ead for two days—four weeks removed from the fateful battle over Gil'ead. He paced around his chamber with restless energy that refused to burn off. He hadn't received any orders except not visiting Roran since his return. The king had been strangely silent and that made Murtagh uneasy. He was up to something.

In an effort to burn off his agitation, Murtagh had sparred with a number of soldiers, not finding anyone competent enough to give him a real match. Disappointed, he'd then spent some time with Thorn, but his dragon wasn't much better company as he also worried about the situation. He then turned to scholarly distractions from his own collection in his chamber as well as from the castle's library. He was still researching the possibility of changing one's true name as Eragon had mentioned. But he'd been unable to focus so had since taken up pacing.

You'll wear a hole in the floor, Thorn admonished gently.

Murtagh paused his pacing and shrugged. It's not like I have anything else to do.

Your research came up with nothing, I take it.

I couldn't concentrate.

If we want to act on the possibility that we can change our true names, then it needs to be soon. The longer we are here, the further entrenched we become.

I know that, Murtagh snapped and immediately regretted it. I apologize, Thorn. I just…

I know, young one. And Murtagh knew he really did know, even if he was unable to put the thought into words.

A thought suddenly hit Murtagh and it caused his blood to run cold. Do you think Galbatorix has discovered Roran's true name?

I shudder to think… Thorn broke off uncomfortably before catching himself. But that just makes our research more important, doesn't it?

Aye, Murtagh agreed uncomfortably. I just worry about Galbatorix noticing what we're doing before we get any answers.

Which is why we must take advantage of these times when he is otherwise occupied, Thorn pressed.

The Rider sighed. You're right, of course. He sat back down at his desk, pulling the closest book to him. Flipping the tome open, he forced himself to focus on the words on the page before him. Though his and Thorn's freedom took priority, this could also help Roran…his family.

As the days went on, Murtagh began to suspect Galbatorix was no longer even in Urû'baen. Using that to his advantage, he continued to research true names, their history, magic relating to them, anything that might give him some insight into Galbatorix's hold over his nameslaves. He found several references to what Eragon had told him—that it was possible to change one's true name by changing oneself sufficiently, but he didn't come across anything more substantial. He was frustrated by his lack of progress but was at least glad to have some confirmation of Eragon's words.

He also didn't dare visit Roran. The king could access either of their minds at any time to see that Murtagh had disobeyed his orders. There would be punishment—likely for both parties—were that to happen. Murtagh didn't want to tempt him to check up on his and stumble upon what he'd had been researching. Part of the oaths Murtagh had sworn prevented him from blocking anything in his mind from Galbatorix, so he had to perform his research discreetly as not to invite unwanted attention.

A week after Murtagh's trip to Gil'ead, Galbatorix finally contacted Murtagh. The Rider was sitting at his desk, absently spinning a quill between his fingers and staring beyond the wall in front of him when the king's voice bellowed through his mind without warning.

Murtagh.

Your Highness? Murtagh replied after recovering from his surprise at the sudden intrusion into his mind. He'd dropped his quill and nearly fallen from his chair but stabilized himself quickly.

You and Thorn are to come to your father's estate. Bring your belongings because you will be staying for some time.

The estate? Murtagh's chest tightened. Memories of his childhood drifted through the back of his mind, but he forced them down.

Yes. I have an important job for you.

Yes, my Lord.

Good. Be here by sundown.

The link was severed and Murtagh peered out the window. It was shortly after noon judging by the angle of the sun's rays. It wouldn't take long to get to his family's estate on Thorn, so he had time to pack and wonder what exactly the king could be up to.

Thorn? Murtagh called as he looked for the precious few items of his own that he might want to bring.

I heard.

What do you make of it? the Rider asked, picking up a stocking and casting around for the mate without success. Sighing, he tossed the lone stocking into the corner and headed to the wardrobe.

It is unusual.

Aye.

And he said "come to the estate," which implies he's already there, the dragon mused. Is that where he has been all this time?

What could he possibly want in that accursed manor? Murtagh hadn't been to his family's estate since being brought to Urû'baen after his father's death and mother's disappearance.

We will find out once we arrive undoubtedly.

Right.

Murtagh spent the remainder of the afternoon gathering his meager belongings and making sure he had everything Thorn needed as well until he could put off leaving no longer. Though Morzan's castle was near Urû'baen—Galbatorix wanted his right hand man close by—it would still take at least half an hour to get there. Thorn and Murtagh flew in silence, anticipation eating away at them both.

When the castle came into view—a gothic structure that loomed over the surrounding landscape with a tyrannical monopoly of the skyline—Murtagh felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He didn't have many happy memories from his time there. The closer they got, the more aware Murtagh became of the jagged scar on his back. Thorn sensed his discomfort and sent empathy through the bond that Murtagh gladly latched onto.

As Thorn landed in the courtyard, Murtagh took the opportunity to study the manor. It had fallen into disuse since Morzan's death and Murtagh had been brought to Urû'baen. Murtagh had spent many hours outdoors in this very courtyard as a child since he hadn't been allowed to venture further; Morzan had worried his enemies might use the existence of a son against him. The courtyard had been well attended with a full spectrum of colors arraying the gardens.

One of the few memories Murtagh had of his mother was watching her garden side-by-side with the servants. He could remember the warmth dancing in her eyes as she looked at the colorful flowers and gently caressed them as she cared for them. It had made her seem so loving and normal to Murtagh to the point that he still, to this day, found it difficult to equate that memory with the Empire's infamous Black Hand.

Now the once-colorful courtyard was muted by shades of brown and gray. The plants were long dead and the ornate stonework that had been meant to both awe and intimidate was crumbling. The benches set out for the rare guest were in miserable condition. Murtagh shook his head sadly. Somehow the disrepair of his family's home seemed appropriate. Considering the once-colorful, welcoming scene had been a façade as both master and mistress of the castle served Galbatorix and had seemingly closed their hearts to the world, Murtagh thought the graveyard-like scene that greeted him was more representative of the former owners.

However, Galbatorix now owned the castle as far as Murtagh knew. Though it should have gone to Morzan's eldest—or only, Murtagh thought with a pang—son, the Rider had no expectation of ever receiving it even though he was of age. And that was fine. He didn't want the painful reminders of his past. He would deal with it now and hopefully get through his stay quickly and never have to return.

As Murtagh slid off Thorn's back, a lone retainer came galloping from the castle. "My Lord Murtagh," he breathed heavily. He bent over, hands on his knees and Murtagh waited patiently for the man to collect himself as he was in no hurry to enter his childhood home.

"The king awaits you in the drawing room." He swallowed and met the Rider's eyes for the first time. He gulped and Murtagh idly wondered what the man saw in his face. "S-shall I l-lead you t-there?"

"I think I can find my way," Murtagh said in dismissal. He was fairly certain he remembered the layout of the manor. The servant paused, obviously unsure if not bringing Murtagh to the king would be acceptable. To alleviate the man's concerns, Murtagh handed a saddlebag to him. "If you would show Thorn to the hold and bring him a meal, I would be grateful."

The man's eyes lit up at the excuse and nodded. "Immediately, my Lord."

Murtagh nodded. Turning to Thorn, he smirked. Be nice, now.

I'm always nice, Thorn replied indignantly.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow and the dragon relented. Alright. Just where is this hold? Thorn seemed unwilling to believe there was an adequate dragon hold in the rundown castle.

In the back. My father had it built to house several dragons at a time in case he was being visited—intruded upon as he saw it—by other members of the Forsworn. It probably is in poor shape, but there should be plenty of room.

And what of you, young one?

The Rider shrugged. I'll find out shortly, won't I?

"I-if you p-please, m-my lord d-dragon," the retainer said hesitantly to Thorn and the red dragon turned his attention to the poor man. He began quaking as ruby eyes studied him.

Tell him to lead on then.

Chuckling to himself, Murtagh relayed the message and the retained muttered an inaudible acquiescence and began walking. Thorn puffed some smoke impatiently through his nostrils as he followed, and Murtagh couldn't help a brief grin at his friend. After watching the mismatched pair depart the courtyard, Murtagh looked at the sky to see the sun sinking below the horizon. Sighing, the young Rider steeled himself and entered the castle.

The hallways were dank and cold from years of disuse. The paintings on the walls had collected dust and many were peeling. Murtagh tried not to look at them, knowing many were of bloody battles and other violent scenes that Morzan had appreciated. As a child he hadn't been able to appreciate the violence that his father was so fond of, but he understood now and did not need the reminders of the violence he had endured and caused in his own time. He moved automatically, his feet remembering their way through the castle after all these years.

Murtagh could remember servants of his family always bustling up and down the corridors with various errands. Their images in his mind's eye smiled and bowed to him as he passed, just as friendly as they had been to him as a child. Though many of the servants had been terrified of their master, they were always kind to Murtagh.

But those gentler memories fled from his mind as Murtagh reached the doors to the drawing room. He could feel the cold oppressive aura of the king on the other side. Murtagh suddenly felt like a small child again, sensing his father on the other side of the door and wondering what kind of mood the volatile Rider would be in that night. Some things never changed, Murtagh thought as he pulled the doors open and stepped inside. The younger Rider froze as he looked around.

The drawing room was lit and a fire crackled with a false promise of warmth in the fireplace. The furniture had been uncovered and the decorations dusted. Even the paintings looked like they had been touched up. Scar throbbing painfully, Murtagh's eyes immediately sought out a faint blood stain on the carpet in the middle of the room. He swallowed in remembrance of the night Morzan had thrown Zar'roc at him in a drunken rage. The servants had worked endlessly to try to remove the stain of Murtagh's blood but they'd never managed to get it all out, as if the castle itself wanted it to remain.

In Morzan's favorite chair next to the fireplace sat Galbatorix, who swirled a glass of wine between his fingers. Murtagh clenched his teeth at the eerily familiar sight—Galbatorix replacing the Morzan of Murtagh's memory though both men were equally intimidating sitting there—but said nothing. Taking a deep breath, Murtagh walked up to the king and knelt appropriately.

"You summoned me, my Lord?"

"Yes, and you were even on time. I'm impressed," the king said coolly, placing the glass down on the side table with a muted clink. Murtagh frowned at the carpet but said nothing. "I am sure you are wondering why you've been brought to your familial home."

"Yes." There was no point in lying about that fact.

"That is because I am giving it to you."

Murtagh's eyes widened and he looked up in shock, momentarily forgetting his place. "What?"

"Technically, this place should have gone to you once you came of age," Galbatorix said with a feigned air of regret. "However, this place has had its uses for me since your father's death." Murtagh wondered what those might have been considering how little use the estate appeared to have had in the intervening years.

"Why?"

"Why am I giving it to you?" At Murtagh's nod, the king smiled. "I cannot have Morzan's son cooped up in the castle all the time. It is just not proper for one of your standing. While you will still need to keep quarters in Urû'baen, this castle will be yours, as it should be." Galbatorix's features tightened. "However, there is one condition."

Unsure of what else to say, Murtagh echoed the king. "Condition?"

"You will be mentoring someone."

"Mentoring?" The younger man was at a complete loss as to what the elder could mean.

The monarch nodded and turned to the door. "Enter," he called and the doors swung open. Murtagh frowned, not having noticed anyone arrive. But his eyes widened when he saw who stood in the doorway.

Roran…

Chapter Text

Murtagh's heart dropped as Roran entered the room. His cousin could barely stand, and his entire being radiated hollowness. Murtagh pitied him, knowing exactly how he felt. But his presence still didn't explain Galbatorix bringing their current situation.

Roran knelt next to Murtagh and the Rider resisted the urge to stare at his cousin. Instead, he looked up at Galbatorix, hoping he was schooling his features, but the expression on the king's face made him doubt that. He cursed himself silently for not better controlling himself around the king. If he kept up like this, he'd have no secrets left—and some were dangerous not only to him, but those connected to him.

"Did I not tell you that you would see your cousin soon enough, Murtagh?" Galbatorix asked.

"Yes, Your Highness," Murtagh replied, suppressing an urge to flinch.

"And you are undoubtedly wondering why he is here now."

"Yes, Sir." There was no point in lying about it.

"You are going to help him recover."

Murtagh blinked. "Recover?"

"You know of what I speak."

Indeed, the younger Rider knew what the king meant. Galbatorix wanted him to help Roran recover from the torture—physical and mental—he'd endured. Murtagh, having been through the experience himself, was the logical choice to aid Roran. But to what end?

Murtagh pursed his lips before speaking. He thought he could see the gears of thought turning in Galbatorix's mind. Mad as the man might be, he was not stupid; he was always planning several steps ahead of those around him.

"You said something about mentoring," the younger Rider said at length.

"In time," Galbatorix said with an approving smile. It was condescending, but Murtagh could do nothing about it so pushed it from his thoughts. "For now, I simply wish for you to help Roran here recover."

Murtagh nodded. "Are we to remain here?"

Galbatorix rested his chin on his entwined fingers and leaned forward. Roran flinched out of instinct. Murtagh held his ground; he would be damned if he were to show further weakness in front of the king.

"Does that bother you, Murtagh Morzansson? Does this childhood home of yours not suit you?" His lips curled into a cold smirk. "Do you not appreciate the inheritance I am granting you?"

Yes, Murtagh wanted to say, it bothers me a great deal. No, I don't appreciate the inheritance you stole only to give to me years after it was due, at your convenience.

"I only ask out of curiosity, my Lord," he replied instead.

The king nodded, and Murtagh knew the man could see right through him. It was disconcerting to be so transparent to anybody, much less this man. He'd tried for so long to hide behind carefully constructed walls. Those he had allowed behind them, however, only caused him pain in the end by dying or forsaking him. And Galbatorix had forced his way into his mind, causing his own special type of pain that simultaneously hurt of its own accord and amplified the ache of loss Murtagh felt from the others, like Tornac and Eragon.

"You are to remain here," the monarch answered. "I do not wish for the Varden to try to rescue Stronghammer from Urû'baen. If they try, they will find him no longer present without any clues as to his whereabouts."

Murtagh wondered if Galbatorix had gotten wind of some rumors about a Varden rescue attempt or if he was just being safe, but didn't voice his question. The king likely would have accused his pet Rider of hoping to be rescued along with Roran and proceeded to illustrate the strength of his oaths that made escape impossible.

"What do you wish me to do?" the younger Rider asked.

"Help Stronghammer recover physically and mentally. Whatever it takes. I will return to check up on your progress periodically."

"Yes, my Lord."

Galbatorix nodded. "The castle has been resupplied and rooms have been prepared." His smile was absolutely frigid. "I trust you remember your way around."

"Yes." Murtagh forced himself to keep his tone neutral.

"Then I will leave you to it." The king rose and put a hand on Murtagh's shoulder that might as well have burned at the touch. "I expect great things, son of my great friend."

Murtagh remained silent and the king chuckled as he left the room. Murtagh waited until all trace of the king's footsteps vanished before pushing himself to his feet. Roran remained kneeling. Murtagh frowned but said nothing as he made his way to the window. It was a small opening carved into the stone and covered by a simple pane of glass disguised by ornate curtains. Pulling the heavy material back—and noticing a surprising lack of dust—he peered out the window, waiting to see Galbatorix fly off on his black dragon.

Several long minutes passed before the king and Shruikan lifted off from the courtyard. They circled over the castle twice before flying toward the capital. Once the pair disappeared into the darkness, Murtagh let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He dropped the curtain and the cloth obscured the window once more.

Thorn?

They're gone.

Yes.

And?

Roran is here. Surprise radiated from Thorn's end. I was shocked too.

Why is he here?

Murtagh related the conversation to his dragon who listened in silence. When Murtagh finished, Thorn wasn't sure what to make of the situation either.

What will you do? the dragon asked.

I have orders to follow, Murtagh replied. How to follow them, though…

Shaking his head, Murtagh promised to visit Thorn before the night was out then turned to Roran. His cousin hadn't moved since Galbatorix had left the room. Murtagh blinked in surprise. While he knew helping Roran recover from his ordeal would not be easy, he hadn't thought it would be as difficult as it was shaping up to be.

"Roran?" the Rider called out hesitantly.

When he got no response, he tried again with a bit more force and the other man flinched. Murtagh shook his head to himself and made his way to Roran's side. He placed a hand gently on Roran's shoulder, fully expecting the cringe and whimper he received in turn.

"No…" Roran whispered, his voice nearly inaudible.

"Galbatorix is gone," Murtagh said, tightening his grip slightly. While he knew such an action would initially have a bad effect on Roran, he had to get his cousin over the fear of everyone around him.

Roran was rightly terrified of Galbatorix; any sane person was. And it would be expected for him to be scared of Murtagh, another magic user and Galbatorix's pet Rider. However, for the time being, Murtagh was trying to help Roran. The other man needed to understand that, if nothing else; otherwise Murtagh could do nothing for him.

"Please, no…" Roran whimpered. The sight of the broken man in front of him didn't match the man whose eyes burned with fiery hatred upon his capture. Murtagh could only reconcile the two with his own experience, knowing how time in Galbatorix's hands could change a man, break him.

"No one here is going to hurt you," Murtagh said, kneeling down to Roran's level. "I… I want to help you, Roran."

Roran looked over at Murtagh at this. "Help me?"

Murtagh nodded. "I know how you're feeling. But you can't stay like this forever."

"Why not?"

The Rider gave his cousin a sad smile. "Because the war isn't over yet."

Roran blinked. "The war." His eyes widened with sudden clarity. "Eragon. The Varden." His eyes focused on Murtagh, as if seeing him for the first time. "You."

Murtagh spread his arms wide. "Me."

Roran searched Murtagh's face at length, but finally sighed in apparent defeat. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to have found.

"It's useless. I'm nothing but the weak link after all." Roran hung his head. "I'm nothing but a liability, getting taken like this. And letting Galbatorix…" He trailed off, voice dropping to a whisper. "I let him take everything I knew."

He fell forward to all fours, hands balled into fists. "I've betrayed them… I've betrayed Eragon." Roran's eyes had gone wide as he found Murtagh's face once more.

"I've become like you!" he cried out wildly. "Dear spirits, I've become like you!"

Murtagh couldn't help but wince at the words. He knew Roran wasn't completely in his right mind, but that didn't make the words hurt any less. The Rider swallowed against the guilt, hardening himself. Roran thought him a cold traitor? Then Murtagh would give him one. Perhaps it would snap Roran out of his daze if he thought he needed to defend himself. The walls he had worked so hard to rebuild snapped into rigidly into place and his features tightened.

"You're right," Murtagh said coolly, rising to his feet. "You have become like me. And there's no turning back. You betrayed the Varden. You betrayed Eragon and Saphira. And now you're my responsibility."

Roran's eyes had gone from a wild wide to a nervous wide. He looked at Murtagh in surprise at the change in tone. Murtagh's countenance had completely transformed, hardened. This was the Empire's red Rider. A hint of fear found its way into Roran's eyes. Even in his half-mad state, he recognized how dangerous the man in front of him was.

Good, Murtagh thought. He'll need that instinct to make it through this ordeal. The Rider placed an absent hand on Zar'roc's hilt and Roran's eyes sought out the scarlet blade. He paled.

Part of Murtagh, the twisted part that he tried to keep locked away, enjoyed Roran's fear. For once, Murtagh was the one with the power. For once, Murtagh was not at the mercy of another, but holding that mercy in his hands. After so long living imprisoned by his father's shadow, Murtagh finally had some measure of power as a Rider, even if he was Galbatorix's.

He knew he had to be careful to keep that side of himself in check, but it was becoming increasingly difficult, especially in battle, as more power was placed in his hands. And Galbatorix knew it, which was why he gave Murtagh so many Eldunarí. Even without Murtagh's oaths in the Ancient Language, Galbatorix could control the son of Morzan with rehearsed ease. Like father, like son, Murtagh supposed bitterly.

Roran swallowed and Murtagh studied him in silence, all the while fingering Zar'roc with practice casualty. Roran never took his eyes off the blade at Murtagh's hip.

"What are you going to do?" Roran asked quietly. He looked as though he didn't want to hear the answer.

"That depends on you."

"Me?" Roran was plainly startled by the reply.

"Where do your loyalties lie, Stronghammer?" Murtagh demanded.

Roran flinched at the tone but held his ground. "With Eragon. With the Varden," he answered immediately.

Murtagh nodded to himself. "I see." He fell silent again and Roran fidgeted as he waited for the Rider to speak. Finally Murtagh took pity on the prisoner. "It's late. Let's retire."

"Ah, right."

"Follow me," Murtagh commanded and Roran struggled to push himself upright.

Murtagh thought about helping him but decided against it. Roran needed to work on his self-reliance if he was to fully recover. He'd already made several large steps in the last few moments. Once Roran made it to his feet, Murtagh swept out of the room and Roran hobbled in his wake.

As they passed through the cold, empty hallways, Murtagh debated just going back to his childhood room, but in the end decided to go to the master chambers. Were Galbatorix to find out Murtagh had shied away from the master room, it would only give him more ammunition, which the king did not need. Though he had only visited the master chambers a few times in his childhood, Murtagh instinctively remembered the way.

Morzan had blocked off a whole wing of the castle for his personal chambers—and for his wife when she was around. Murtagh didn't even know what most of the rooms had been used for and realized he probably didn't want to either. Much of the castle had been off-limits to the child. Whether out of fear for Murtagh's safety or from Morzan's paranoia, Murtagh did not know, though he had his suspicions.

The deeper they got into Morzan's former private sector, the more gruesome the decorations on the wall became. The bloody battles leading the way to the drawing room seemed gentle and welcoming in comparison. Murtagh tried his best to look only straight ahead, though he could tell by sharp intakes of breath from behind him that Roran was looking at the images. As he'd grown up in a rural community, it was not surprising he'd be shocked at what he was seeing; Murtagh was disturbed by the imagery and had been raised in the environment.

Once, Murtagh had snuck into the wing as a child when Morzan had been away and had been overwhelmed by what surrounded him. He had finally broken down and cried until one of the kindly maids found him and escorted him back to his chambers. Murtagh had had nightmares for a month after seeing the paintings and tapestries. He'd never snuck back in after that.

"Is the art not to your tastes, Stronghammer?" Murtagh goaded without turning around.

"I…"

"My father hand-picked each piece in this portion of the castle," Murtagh said, carefully not looking to either side of him. "As one would expect, Morzan was fond of gruesome scenery."

And that legacy is mine. That blood flows in my veins. Murtagh was newly disgusted at his bloodline.

Roran remained silent, so the Rider kept walking. Finally they made it to Morzan's former chambers. Murtagh paused at the door, feeling very small all of a sudden, as if no time had passed since he was a small child and his father was on the other side of the door. Though the man was long dead, his essence felt imprinted on the castle. Perhaps his ghost haunted the manor; that seemed like the vengeful sort of thing Morzan would do, even in death. Shaking his head slightly, Murtagh clasped the door handles and pushed the double doors open.

Stepping inside, the Rider blinked in surprise. The sitting room looked as though it had recently been in use. Had Galbatorix? Murtagh tried not to think about that either.

Roran stepped in behind his guide. "What is this?" he asked, quietly awed at the sight.

Murtagh supposed it was impressive if you could get away from the fact it had been the chamber of one of the Forsworn. Tapestries decorated the walls, several depicting dragons of various hues. Others displayed Riders of old and still others famous battles. The sitting room was the size of a small ballroom, though much of the space was occupied by a rather impressive personal library of books and scrolls. There was also a case that had once held an array of weapons. Morzan had practiced his various weapons skills in the privacy of his chambers as not to be interrupted; that time was his meditation, and anyone foolish or unlucky enough to encounter him during his erratic practice hours had been swiftly dealt with.

The rest of the sitting room was occupied by furniture. There was a large desk and several tables, all finely crafted of hardwood. There were several chairs and two couches. Each piece was intricately detailed upon closer inspection. Murtagh idly wondered why there was so much furniture when Morzan rarely had company-and even rarer was the guest that would be admitted to his private quarters.

"My father's personal chambers," Murtagh answered. "Through the far door is the bedchamber, which is where I will sleep." The thought made his skin crawl but he was now the master of the house and as such, should be sleeping in the master bedroom. "You will sleep in here."

Murtagh looked around and spotted an inconspicuous armoire. He pointed to it. "Blankets should be in there." He indicated the door next to the armoire. "There is a washroom through there. Get some rest. We shall have a busy day tomorrow."

Without waiting for any acknowledgement, Murtagh made his way to the bedchamber and closed the door behind him. The latch clicking shut had the air of finality, as if the door was telling its new master that there was no turning back. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he looked around the room.

The large four poster bed took up much of the space; the room was quite a bit smaller as Morzan had spent most of his time in the anteroom and had even slept in there on occasion. The decorations were sparse as a result, for which Murtagh was thankful. He didn't know how much more of his father's decorating tastes he could take. A wardrobe rested against the adjacent wall and wash basin sat out next to it—Murtagh blinked when he realized his meager belongings had been placed in front of the wardrobe. Galbatorix had anticipated him, it seemed. The wash basin had warm water in it, Murtagh noted in surprise. Were there other servants here?

Deciding to worry about it in the morning, Murtagh sat gingerly on the edge of the bed as though it might at any moment come alive and swallow him whole. When he was satisfied he was not going to be eaten, he reopened his connection to Thorn.

I'm afraid I won't make it down to see you tonight after all, my friend, he apologized.

I didn't expect you would, young one.

Murtagh smiled to himself. His dragon knew him well. The Rider briefly summarized what had transpired since their last conversation. Concern radiated from Thorn's side of the bond. Murtagh appreciated it.

So what will you do tomorrow? the dragon asked.

I don't know, the Rider admitted. I don't know how to help him recover. After all, I didn't recover until long after you hatched—I still haven't completely. Not really. But I must have results or Galbatorix will be displeased. Neither Rider nor dragon appreciated what a displeased king would bring. Experience was a cruel teacher.

He needs to be able to trust you before anything you do will help him, Thorn said at last. Take it slow and perhaps he will come around.

But if I take it slowly, then he might grow comfortable as he is and we'll get nowhere, Murtagh countered. He seems to have improved since his arrival, at least.

Fair enough, Thorn conceded. Perhaps some good physical exertion will help?

You think we should spar?

Do humans not enjoy that?

Some do, Murtagh agreed with a forced chuckle. Perhaps you're right. We shall see what tomorrow brings in any case.

Roran lay wide awake on one of the oversized ornate couches in the sitting room. Murtagh had retired hours ago and the bedroom was silent. Roran wished he could sleep as well, but he was too haunted by the evening's events to rest. It still didn't seem possible that he was in this situation.

I'm just a nobody from Carvahall, he thought as he stared up at the high ceiling. And yet, I'm actually in Morzan's castle. Brom's stories have come to life. The thought of Brom only brought Roran thoughts of Eragon, Brom's son.

Not ready to travel down that road quite yet, Roran shook his head and turned his thoughts to something else that had been bothering him. Rising to his feet, Roran stole quickly to the bedroom door. He puts his hand on the handle and listened for sounds of life on the other side but heard nothing. Looking down at his hand, Roran realized he was shaking.

Trying to steady himself, he sucked in a deep breath before cracking the door open and peering inside with one eye. The room was dark except for the pale shaft of moonlight that fell across the bed in the center of the room. With the aid of the weak light, Roran could make out Murtagh's sleeping form among the covers. When the Rider made no move, Roran decided to tempt fate and pushed the door further open and stood in the doorway. Murtagh remained still.

The son of Morzan slept on his side, facing the window. The moonlight fell gracefully onto his face and Roran found himself transfixed by the sight. The man he saw there asleep did not seem like he could be the Empire's infamous red Rider. The cold hardness of his waking features had melted. His dark locks fell haphazardly around his face as he breathed evenly. Though he was older than Roran, Murtagh looked young in his sleep. He looked innocent and incapable of the things Roran had seen him do firsthand, much less the things he'd heard about. It was rather disconcerting.

As he watched his cousin sleep, Roran thought back to the day it happened. He'd tried so hard not to think about it, but those efforts had been in vain. But what he was focused on now was this man's involvement. Murtagh had seemed genuinely disturbed by the whole thing. And when Galbatorix had ordered him to test Roran's mental defenses, Murtagh had been surprisingly gentle. Only when he'd come across resistance had he pushed harder and, even then, Roran could sense he was holding back.

But what most impacted Roran was when Galbatorix had ordered Murtagh to be present in Roran's mind while the king broke down his mental defenses. Murtagh had remained at the fringe of Roran's consciousness, never partaking in Galbatorix's cruelties. And when Galbatorix had broken into Roran's mind…

For a split second after the invasion of his mind, Roran had connected with Murtagh's consciousness. As there had been no barriers in the Rider's mind—Eragon had once told Roran about the strength of Murtagh's mental protections—Roran could only assume it was Galbatorix's orders that laid him mentally bare.

But in that moment, Roran had seen flashes of Murtagh that had, at the time, made no sense to him. But after sorting through them, Roran was getting a fuller, if more confusing, picture of the sleeping man. And since Murtagh hadn't reacted to the brief connection, Roran could only conclude he hadn't noticed.

Staring at the sleeping Rider, Roran thought of the images he had seen.

An angry and drunk Morzan (for who else could the man be?) looming with Zar'roc in hand, poised to throw the blade.

An elderly man with a blade smiling with warm pride.

Galbatorix sitting at a dinner table.

An angry Galbatorix giving some kind of order.

The elderly man from before lying on the ground, bleed profusely as Murtagh (so Roran assumed) held his hand.

Eragon and Brom fighting the Ra'zac.

Eragon and Saphira.

Saphira with an unconscious Arya on her back.

A man—a slaveholder by the look of him—looking terrified and defeated.

The Twins Roran had killed on the Burning Plains glaring at Eragon.

A tall man with dark skin and a regal air—he must be Ajihad, Roran had decided after some thought.

A small room with books, food, and a smiling Nasuada.

A huge battle.

An ambush by the Twins in the shadows of a cave.

Murtagh facing Galbatorix has a prisoner.

Torture.

More torture.

Two large stones: red and green dragon eggs.

Thorn hatching.

Eragon on the Burning Plains.

Galbatorix's fury (presumably) after the Burning Plains.

Eragon and Saphira in battle.

An elderly Elven Rider and a golden dragon flying over a city.

Roran being brought into Galbatorix's court as a prisoner…

The images had been disorienting, and for days Roran had been in too much agony even to think about them. But then he had thought of them, hoping to distract himself as he lay alone in his cell. Though some images had made more sense than others to him, Roran realized they must be important to Murtagh; these must be some of the most important moments and people in his life for them to be on the fringe of his consciousness to reach Roran in brief contact.

The way he saw Eragon and Saphira, Nasuada (much to Roran's surprise), the anonymous elderly man, Thorn, and even Roran himself had painted a much different picture of Murtagh than the red Rider. Same with his views of the Twins, Galbatorix, and the torture. Roran couldn't imagine the pain Murtagh must have endured after his capture and after the Burning Plains. There was much hatred, anger, and fear when it came to those individuals.

And so, Roran was left completely confused about Murtagh.

Who was this man, this son of Morzan?

Shaking his head, Roran spared one final glance for the sleeping Rider before closing the door. He could feel the darkness pressing in on him, threatening to crush him into pieces. Afraid to be out in the open, Roran hurried to the couch and ducked under the blanket hoping to hide from his invisible oppressors.

Chapter Text

Murtagh opened his eyes once Roran closed the door behind him. He'd been lying awake for several hours now, watching the moon move across the sky. When he'd heard the door creak open, his first instinct had been to grab Zar'roc—the blade was within his grasp as he didn't feel at ease in the castle—but he had suppressed that, correctly assuming that the intruder was the man "sleeping" in the adjoining room. And he had been right.

He'd feigned sleep as Roran stood in the doorway. Murtagh wished he could have seen Roran's face to get some indication of what he was thinking, watching his cousin sleep in the middle of the night. But looking would have given him away as being awake and lead to an awkward conversation that would do more harm than good to Murtagh's mission, so he kept up his unconscious façade.

Roran had remained in the doorway for an extended time. Murtagh had to force himself to breathe evenly and remain still, no matter how much he might want to fidget. Lying still, prone, went against almost every instinct Murtagh possessed, but he didn't think Roran was a threat—not yet, at least. He was too confused and disoriented to try anything. Once they started making progress, though, Murtagh would have to be more careful.

He sighed and looked out the widow, noting the lack of bars. Though there were no bars on these windows, Murtagh was still just as much a prisoner as he had been in Urû'baen. The pretext of freedom only made the Rider more acutely aware of his position and the futility of hope. Rolling onto his back, Murtagh raised his hand in front of his face and balled it into a tight fist.

"It's no use," he whispered before dropping his hand limply to the bed.

Murtagh raked a hand through his hair and tried not to think about his position. Murtagh literally lay in his father's bed. As uncomfortable as that made him, he was more disturbed by what that represented. Morzan went down in the annals of history as a traitor, the first and most powerful of the Forsworn. And now Murtagh had followed in his father's footsteps. He was a traitor, and now lay in the bed his father had made years before.

When he came of age, Murtagh had sworn to himself that he would never become like his father. Morzan had betrayed the Riders and helped put a tyrant into power. Morzan had only allowed Murtagh to see his mother sporadically. Morzan had thrown Zar'roc at his three year-old son and forever disfigured him. Murtagh had sworn on that scar that he would not turn into his father.

His scar twinged as he realized he had broken that personal oath.

He hated this place.

Murtagh must have eventually drifted off to sleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, the first rays of sunshine were glimmering just above the horizon. Surprised he'd slept at all, he pushed himself out of bed and made his way to the window. He absently crossed his arms across his chest and looked out over the peaceful landscape. The warm pastel colors of the sunrise bathed the land in an ethereal glow. Murtagh found it amazing that there could be such beauty when the world was so wrong and that he could marvel at that beauty from an ugly place like his familiar manor.

Such beauty and purity didn't seem to belong in such a twisted world, but its very existence gave Murtagh a small amount of hope. Perhaps there could still be a happy ending if the glories of nature could continue to exist. The Rider smiled wanly to himself.

You're awake early, Thorn's voice broke in on Murtagh's silent meditation.

I'm just watching the sunrise, he replied.

Is it beautiful? Thorn's eyes did not perceive colors the way a human's did.

Yes. But not as beautiful as you, my friend.

Thorn radiated satisfaction, and Murtagh's rare smile widened. Thorn was surprisingly vain for a male. Perhaps it was just a dragon trait?

And what of Roran?

Murtagh paused before sharing the night's events with the dragon. I'm not sure what to make of it.

He is obviously confused and lost.

The whole world is confused and lost. "I'm confused and lost," he finished in a whisper.

It's early yet, Thorn said, changing the subject. I could use some company, and I think you could use some air.

Murtagh's lip twitched. I think you're right.

After washing his face and changing into fresh clothes, Murtagh grabbed Zar'roc and slipped silently from the room. Roran lay curled in a ball fast asleep on one of the couches. He didn't flinch as Murtagh stole past him. The Rider pursed his lips but kept moving.

The corridors of the castle were barely lit from ambient light, but Murtagh enjoyed the coolness of the empty hallways on his skin. He moved thoughtlessly until he reached the main back exit. Stepping outside, Murtagh drank in the crispness of the early morning air. He breathed in deeply and studied the colors of the sunrise for a few moments before heading to the dragon hold.

The sun had completely risen above the horizon by the time Murtagh arrived at the hold. Thorn was waiting for him at the entrance. The early light made Thorn's ruby scales shimmer in a symphony of reds. The sight took Murtagh's breath away, and for a time he just looked at Thorn.

You're awesome, Murtagh told Thorn at long last.

I am a dragon, Thorn replied.

Murtagh chuckled to himself. That you are, my friend.

Thorn leveled his gaze with Murtagh, and the Rider put a gentle hand on the red snout. He could feel vibrations from the dragon's breathing. Though the scales were cool to the touch, the contact spread warmth through Murtagh. The gedwëy ignasia on his left hand tingled. At that moment, everything felt right. Dragon and Rider, their souls in harmony, should always feel like this together. The problems of the world were of little consequence in the face of such a deep bond that transcended even the most powerful of magic.

Unfortunately, the spell was broken all too soon. Murtagh sighed and Thorn eyed him carefully.

What will you do?

The Rider shook his head. Even now I don't know what is best.

You had best decide soon, Murtagh. He needs you, one way or another. Indecisiveness helps neither him nor us.

Murtagh winced at Thorn's berating, but knew the dragon was right. He had to stop hesitating and make some kind of decision about what to do with his cousin.

What would you do, Thorn?

Thorn's tongue flicked out for a moment, startling Murtagh. The snake-like action caused the Rider to pause and look at the dragon cautiously.

I do not pretend to understand the human way of handling things, Murtagh. Dealings of dragons are not, by nature, so political. I will follow you in whatever you decide, however. You know that, Thorn replied.

Thank you, Murtagh said softly. Though instinctively he knew Thorn would always support him—they were friends, partners, soul mates—sometimes he just needed to hear it said.

It was that sentiment that cemented his decision. His own life and Thorn's were of the highest priority, though that he had to affirm that for himself surprised Murtagh, so he would do what it took to keep himself and his dragon out of immediately danger from Galbatorix. If that meant aiding and training a man who could someday use that against him, well, he'd deal with that when it occurred. The present was the time to concentrate on.

I'll do what I must, Murtagh said. Whatever it takes to protect you.

And I, in turn, shall protect you, young one. That is the pact of dragon and Rider.

It was with this newfound determination that Murtagh turned back toward the castle. He watched in surprise as a servant hurried toward him. As the man drew closer, Murtagh recognized him as the retainer who had greeted him the previous night. That answers the question about whether there were servants here, he thought idly.

"My Lord," the servant said breathlessly, "I'm glad I found you."

Murtagh blinked. "Oh? Why is that?"

"You were not in the main chambers. Master Roran did not know where you were either."

"Afraid I'd run away?" Murtagh snorted. He could imagine what the king might do to a servant in his employ that allowed Murtagh to escape from under his nose.

The man lost a shade of color. Apparently he could, too. "N-not at all, my Lord," the servant replied shakily. "It's just… breakfast is ready, and it would get cold if I didn't find you soon enough."

Murtagh stared in disbelief at the man for a moment before bursting into laughter. The servant looked uncomfortable, not knowing what the infamous red Rider might do in such a humor—Galbatorix and Morzan had been known to routinely kill while laughing. Murtagh recovered himself quickly and nodded.

"Is Roran awake, then?" he asked, still swallowing back a few chokes of laughter. Thorn's end of the bond radiated exasperation with his human counterpart, which only made Murtagh want to laugh more.

"Y-yes, Lord Murtagh. H-he's awaiting you in the dining room… i-if that's acceptable, of course."

"I see."

Thorn snorted and Murtagh turned back to his friend. What will you do today, then?

I do not yet need to hunt, but perhaps I will explore the area. Thorn studied Murtagh critically for a moment. I won't go far, so if anything happens, call for me.

Of course.

Thorn snorted again, this time in approval and, with two powerful beats of his glorious red wings, took off into the air. Murtagh watched him gain altitude for a time, admiring the sparkling of the sun's rays on his ruby scales. Finally, Murtagh turned back to the servant and nodded.

"And what did you say your name was?"

"I d-didn't, my Lord," he stammered. "It's Conrad."

"Alright, Conrad, lead on," Murtagh replied with an inclination of his head.

"Y-yes, of course. Right away," Conrad stuttered before setting off back toward the castle.

The two walked in silence, Murtagh studying the surroundings of his family's home with a measure of curiosity; it was so alien yet familiar at the same time. It was an eerie contradiction that he was still coming to terms with. Conrad the retainer kept chancing furtive glances back at Murtagh in apparent wonder. Murtagh never gave any indication that he knew the man was looking at him, but the Rider was very much aware and didn't really blame him. Considering Murtagh's lineage and position, most people made an assumption about the type of person he was—one that was usually mistaken (or so he wished it to be).

Finally they wound their way back through the grounds and castle corridors to the dining room. Conrad bowed Murtagh into the room. "If there is anything you require, my Lord, do not hesitate to ask."

Murtagh nodded once more. "Thank you, Conrad."

The retainer looked stunned that Murtagh had not only remembered his name, but used it. Yes, Murtagh was not the type of man Conrad had expected. Smiling wryly at the thought, the red Rider entered the dining room. He studied it for a moment as memories burst to the surface of his mind. The long table was set with a surprisingly ornate breakfast spread for the occasion.

As he looked at it, he could remember his father sitting at the head of the table, tearing into his food with barbaric alacrity. Morzan enjoyed fine wine, and if his bottle of the day was not up to his standards—which were as ever-changing as his volatile moods—the servant who chose it would either be executed or, more likely since training new staff was too much hassle, severely beaten as to ensure the mistake was never repeated. The thought made Murtagh's stomach turn.

A fireplace stood at one end of the room, and though it was cold now, Murtagh remembered Morzan preferring to have a fire blazing while he ate, whether in winter or summer. The walls of the dining room were high, giving the effect of the ceiling residing in the heavens. Tapestries decorated the walls; these were only patterned, not depicting battle sequences or other brutal happenings. However, varying hues of red were predominant in each woven piece. Morzan could not avoid his love for battle and bloodshed, even when eating it seemed.

Murtagh supposed it was appropriate that his own dragon was red, inheriting that battle-obsession from his father. It was something he couldn't avoid, no matter how hard he tried. Futility was something Murtagh had become accustomed to over the course of his life.

Murtagh's eyes were then drawn to the only occupant of the room. Roran sat in the middle of the long table. His gaze was blank, as if looking beyond the room. Squaring himself, Murtagh sat down across from his cousin. Though his rightful place was at the head of the table, Murtagh decided against sitting there. He was struggling enough with sleeping in Morzan's old room; one step at a time when it came to inheriting the castle and its associated responsibilities. But he also wanted to sit near Roran to give him some semblance of equality as not to frighten him further. They were both prisoners, as it were.

Roran blinked as Murtagh seated himself, coming back into himself—at least as much as he was able to at this point. Murtagh indicated the array of food on the table.

"Help yourself."

"I'll pass," Roran countered defiantly.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Eat. You need your strength."

"For what?"

The Rider shrugged. "Anything. Everything."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Roran demanded. He seemed stronger today.

"You'll find out after breakfast. For now, eat."

When Roran hesitated, Murtagh sighed and dished himself some porridge. He took a bite, swallowed, and looked at his cousin. "It's not poisoned, as you can see."

Roran started, obviously not expecting the comment. As Murtagh continued to eat, he finally sighed in defeated and dished himself a plate. Murtagh nodded approvingly while Roran looked pointedly down at his plate. The two ate in an uncomfortable silence, Murtagh not sure of what to say and Roran simply unwilling to speak.

Once both men had finished their awkward meal, Murtagh rose and pushed his chair under the table. Good spirits, please give my strength for what I must do, he prayed; the measure was likely useless, as the good spirits had long forsaken Murtagh, but it was instinctual. And if nothing else, perhaps they would watch over Roran. He was not nearly so cursed as Murtagh.

Roran looked up at Murtagh, and the latter sighed. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to spar. You need to be able to defend yourself. And I'll bet you could use some activity after so long as a prisoner," the Rider replied coolly.

A visible shudder went through Roran at the mention of his captivity. Murtagh understood the feeling all too well, but refused to pander to the younger man.

"I can defend myself," Roran countered.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "And yet, here you sit."

Roran flushed. "We were outnumbered."

"And I can teach you to defend yourself even when outnumbered."

"Why?"

"I'm following orders," Murtagh replied, turning to the door. "I'm as much a prisoner as you are," he murmured before walking out. Whether he meant it to be heard or not, Murtagh wasn't sure.

Roran frowned but didn't argue. He got to his feet and followed Murtagh, walking silently through the manor's empty halls. It felt like a ghost building—one infested with malevolent feelings and spirits of former generations of owners. Murtagh hoped he wasn't getting them lost as he headed in the direction he guessed housed the sparring grounds. There was a small armory in the area, he seemed to recall, so hoped there were still weapons there.

When they broke free of the castle's oppressive corridors and stepped into an open expanse, Murtagh took in a breath of fresh air, and he heard Roran do the same. The Rider turned to Roran and nodded toward a small building on the other side of the field.

"My father stored practice weapons in there. This was his practice grounds," he explained.

He had spent a fair amount of time here as a child. Morzan refused to have a son—one others would gladly take advantage of were they to learn of his existence—that could not defend himself. And for all his grave doings, he was a damn good swordsman. It would be Tornac who would complete his education after Morzan's demise.

Roran nodded mutely and followed his captor to the small brick building. They stepped inside, and Murtagh was surprised to find an impressive collection of weapons, from blades to bows and many varieties in between. And they were all refurbished.

Galbatorix has been busy. And he's thought of everything, it seems.

Murtagh picked up a light blade and studied it a moment before nodding to himself. He turned back to Roran. "I know you can handle yourself with a hammer, but that won't allow you to defend yourself nearly so well in many circumstances. Have you ever fought with a blade?"

Roran shook his head.

"Then I will teach you."

Silently Murtagh blunted the edges of the blade with magic before handing it to Roran. He drew Zar'roc—Roran winced as the distinctive ring of metal scraping on the scabbard echoed through the storeroom—and did the same.

"Now the edges won't be sharp enough to slice."

"I've seen Eragon do that," Roran said without thinking. His eyes widened as he realized what he had said, but it was too late.

Murtagh smiled sadly. "That's where I learned this." Swallowing, he turned back to his cousin. "Come, let's begin your lesson. I'll go easy since you're out of shape. For now."

Roran followed Murtagh to the center of the field, and the two men faced each other, blades hefted. Zar'roc's blade fit perfectly in Murtagh's hands. And he hated it. His father's blade felt like an extension of himself. He was one with the blade, with Misery. How fitting. Across from him, Roran looked uncomfortable. He was no blade master, and it was obvious he didn't like standing across from a master who also happened to be a sworn enemy.

"Come at me like you're going to kill me," Murtagh instructed.

Roran blinked. "Are you sure?"

Murtagh gave him a look. "You think you can manage it?"

"You might be surprised."

"Try me."

Roran gave a roar and rushed wildly at Murtagh, who side-stepped the first thrust. Roran stumbled when he didn't make contact with his target, but recovered himself and charged again. He swung his blade at Murtagh's head, and the Rider easily brushed off the attack with a casual wave of Zar'roc. Roran spun and aimed for Murtagh's legs, but Murtagh met the blade with his own and threw Roran off-balance.

It was obvious Roran was attacking out of pure emotion. As he swung his blade without regard for anything but Murtagh, the Rider could sense his fear, his anger, his frustration, and worse, a hint of resignation. Two warriors could communicate through a meeting of blades, Tornac had told him once. It was instinct on both parts, but a good fighter learns to control his emotions as not to give extra openings to his opponent. Murtagh was practiced at doing so, but to meet Roran's untrained blade and unbridled emotions was distracting.

He continued to let Roran swing madly for a few moments as he appraised his pupil's level before finally blocking his cousin's blade with Zar'roc at chest level. They stared at each other for a moment, Murtagh emotionless and Roran feral, before the former easily disarmed the latter. Zar'roc pointed evenly at Roran's throat and he froze. The defeated blade clattered harmlessly to the ground several yards away. Roran was panting while Murtagh appeared unmoved by the whole exchange.

Murtagh lowered Zar'roc and Roran sagged in relief. Murtagh frowned. "You have no control over your movements or your emotions. That might aid you when bludgeoning someone with a hammer, but the graceful art of the blade requires restraint and forethought."

"You were playing with me, weren't you?" Roran demanded through gasps for air.

"Yes."

"Dammit."

"I needed to gauge your ability to know where to begin." Roran glared at him, but Murtagh ignored the look. He received so many that they had become meaningless. "Pick up your blade, and we'll begin more slowly."

Roran grumbled but did as he was bidden. The two men spent the afternoon covering different forms. Murtagh taught Roran proper balance and technique for the most basic but important forms for a swordsman. They went through individual forms and sparred a bit, if more reservedly than the first go-round. By the time the sun was setting, both men were shirtless and sweaty. Roran bore a large number of bruises, and Murtagh had a couple of his own that Roran kept eyeing proudly.

"You might make a swordsman yet," Murtagh commented as they walked back into the castle.

"I almost had you a few times," Roran replied petulantly.

"Because I let you," Murtagh retorted with a smirk.

Both men's eyes widened as they realized they were bantering like friends. Murtagh felt an ache in his chest. Thorn had been his only companion through so much. He had lost everyone else; had them forcibly taken from him. And though Roran was not here by choice, Murtagh had a kindred spirit in the captive Stronghammer.

Roran meanwhile clamped his mouth shut. He was torn. On the one hand, he was laughing with the Empire's red Rider, the son of Morzan, the Varden's sworn enemy—Eragon's half-brother, his cousin. And yet, Roran longed for some companionship. He was at the mercy of Galbatorix, but was coming to understand that perhaps Murtagh was as well. Eragon had told him about Murtagh's forced oaths in the Ancient Language. Eragon had said that Murtagh hated his father and had been forced to follow in his footsteps. Nasuada had confirmed this. Roran didn't know what to think anymore.

Murtagh swallowed. "Come, we'll get some salve for those bruises, then eat."

Roran merely nodded, unable to find his voice. The world had turned upside down, and he was dizzy from it all.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed by in much the same manner as the first. Murtagh rose with the sun, visited Thorn, then met Roran for their morning meal, and the two men spent the rest of the days sparring as Murtagh instructed Roran in various forms and other aspects of swordsmanship. Little outside of Murtagh's instructions and Roran's replies and the occasional question was spoken between them; however, Murtagh noticed that Roran was gradually becoming looser, both with a blade and around him in the manor.

As the two ate dinner in silence on the third night, Murtagh subtly watched his cousin. Though neither had dared broach the subject of Roran's torture or the reason for his current captivity, it was obvious Roran was still painfully affected by it. Keeping busy with sword training allowed him to avoid thinking about it—Murtagh knew the truth of that from personal experience—but the downtime that followed brought those dark thoughts crashing back down on him.

But despite his obvious discomfort, there was visible improvement in Roran's demeanor—and in a very short amount of time. Roran no longer winced every time Murtagh entered a room or made a sudden, unexpected movement. He also walked a bit more surely, stumbling less often. As Murtagh had no idea how long they would remain alone in the manor, he could only wonder how Roran would fare once Galbatorix returned.

That was something that continued to plague Murtagh. He had no clue as to what the king had in mind for Roran—or himself for that matter. What would happen once Galbatorix determined they were ready for whatever plan he had?

For the time being, the two men, along with a skeletal serving staff, were able to coexist relatively peacefully, almost able to pretend there were no outside troubles; that nothing touched them here, in a rural area far enough outside Urû'baen that no one would find them.

Unfortunately, remembering just where they were broke that spell. They were both prisoners held captive by a madman bent on having dominion over all nations, races, and beings under the guise of unity.

As Murtagh worked deliberately at his meal, he considered that his research had been neglected since Galbatorix's summons. From what he could remember, Morzan had a rather impressive library; the man was surprisingly well-read considering his disposition. And now that library belonged to Murtagh. Though he didn't know if he'd find anything of use, it would still be interesting to see what kinds of books Morzan had collected.

Murtagh debated whether or not to tell his cousin where he was going, but decided against it. The less Roran knew about Murtagh's extracurricular activities, the better—for both of them. Plus, he wasn't sure of what he might come across in Morzan's library. He didn't need Roran stumbling onto something particularly nasty and wrecking the precarious progress they'd made over the past few days.

Once the meal had wound down, Murtagh rose. Roran looked up questioningly.

"I have something to attend to," the Rider announced vaguely. "I don't know how long it will take, so you will be without an escort tonight."

Roran frowned, but Murtagh ignored the look. "Be careful wandering the hallways," he warned his cousin. "There are many areas of the castle I am not familiar with either." And the areas he was familiar with were eerie enough.

Without another word, Murtagh strode from the dining room. Conrad was walking toward him, likely preparing to remove the remnants of the meal. Murtagh nodded at him.

"If Roran needs anything…" he began, but the servant cut him off with proper deference.

"I will see to it, my Lord." Murtagh nodded his thanks. "And you, Lord Murtagh?"

"I'll be in the library. I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

"As you wish."

"Thank you, Conrad."

The servant's face lit up slightly at being addressed by name as he continued on his way to the dining room. Murtagh nodded and returned on his way to Morzan's library.

Do you think you'll find anything? Thorn asked suddenly, speaking for the first time in hours.

I don't know, Murtagh replied resignedly. It was always a long-shot to begin with, so I will be very surprised. He shrugged to himself. I've never been in Morzan's library anyway, so I don't know what will be housed in there.

The library was located toward the center of the manor, as if Morzan had been trying to protect it when organizing the layout of his home. The setting sun provided weak light to guide Murtagh through the winding corridors, but he moved from memory.

As a child, Murtagh had tried to sneak into the library countless times, though the magic Morzan used to guard the room always left him stuck on the outside. He'd been curious about what might be in the chamber, and when he'd begun to learn his letters, he had become even more curious about his father's secret hideaway of books. But above all, he had been a young boy without a playmate looking for ways to entertain himself.

When the serving staff would find him stuck outside the large double doors, they would kindly chide him and lead him away from the room, always hurriedly, yet never seeming rushed as not to scare him. They all seemed nervous about what Morzan would do if he discovered his son trying to sneak into the room. The few times the man had caught Murtagh, he'd swatted the boy with a hand or Zar'roc's sheath, but had never been angry—a fact that seemed to this day to remain between father and son.

Perhaps, Murtagh reflected on the memories, Morzan had been pleased to have an adventurous son; one showing traits of being a valuable asset to him later in life. The thought only made him feel more bitterness, and he tried to push the memories from his mind with small success.

Murtagh rounded a corner, and a painting to his right caught his attention. The piece portrayed an angelic elf astride a silver dragon high in the sky. She was not arrayed for battle except for the blade at her hip. Her arms were spread wide and she seemed to glow. On the ground a battle seemed to be stopped as both sides looked up in awe at the ethereal Rider. There was a surprising amount of detail in the battle despite its massive scale, from the expressions on the soldiers' faces to the corpses and gore of the battle. It didn't seem the type of piece Morzan would choose.

But what transfixed Murtagh was another memory, one from a time shortly before his mother had vanished. In one of her rare stays in the castle, Selena had found Murtagh wandering near the library. She had grabbed him quickly and, beneath this very painting two hallways away from the library, she had knelt in front of her son, her hands on his small shoulders. There was fear and concern in her eyes as she looked at him.

"Do you know where you were, Murtagh?" she asked quietly. Her voice was full of a mother's love and warmth.

"The library," the small boy replied.

Selena swallowed. "That is your father's private library, my son. He does not like others trying to sneak into his private chambers, even his son." There were enough places in the castle off-limits to everyone but Morzan and a few select servants for Murtagh to understand this.

"Promise me you will not try to sneak into the library again, Murtagh." A tear rolled down her cheek, and the boy gently wiped it from his mother's face. She smiled wanly at him. "Promise me you'll never let your father find you here."

Young Murtagh decided not to tell her that Morzan had found him outside the door on numerous occasions. There was something in her plea that made Murtagh never want to break that promise.

"I promise," the boy said.

Selena drew Murtagh into a hug. Over her shoulder, he stared up at the glowing elf and her dragon in wonder.

As Murtagh stared at the painting, he thought his mother might be a bit like that elf: beautiful, dangerous, but protective of life. Though he knew his mother had once been Morzan's Black Hand, his memories of her were full of nothing but warmth. Perhaps she had changed after becoming a mother. In a sense, the elves were the mothers of Alagaësia, containing the wisdom and power of the ages and they fought to protect it—fought against Galbatorix. Selena, like the elves, had been a beautiful warrior.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Murtagh continued down the familiar hallways. They had seemed so big when he had been young. Now they simply seemed empty, occupied by ghosts of the past. When Murtagh reached the familiar double doors that had been closed to him during his childhood, he paused, the plea of his mother still echoing in his mind.

I'm not sneaking anymore, Murtagh told himself. This library is mine now. Morzan will not be catching me here.

He hesitated to reach for the door handles, each shaped like a dragon, bronzed flames sticking out from the tops of each as if the door itself were breathing fire at anyone attempting to intrude upon the first of the Forsworn's sanctuary.

Murtagh? Thorn prodded carefully. He was waiting to see what his Rider might find in the library.

The Rider swallowed and grasped the handles, pulling the doors open wide. It's nothing, Thorn. He stepped into the room. There were no windows—as a boy he had looked for windows in hopes of getting into the room in vain—so the room was pitch black. In the fading light of the day from the hallway, Murtagh could see a torch mounted on the inside of the doorframe.

With a mutter of "Brisingr," the torch lit. Simultaneously, torches all around the perimeter of the room lit up as well, casting a warm glow on the library. Looking around in surprise at the size of the room—at least as large as the anteroom attached to his chambers—Murtagh felt something prickling the back of his mind. Something felt off. Deciding it must be the fact that he was in Morzan's personal library, a secret room abandoned for a decade and a half, Murtagh wandered around the room.

There were rows upon rows of shelves set up parallel across the room and back to the rear. In the center was a break in the shelves where two desks and several chairs were set up for studying. A book lay open on the desk while three more were stacked next to it Murtagh bent over the book; it seemed to be about battle tactics.

Glancing at the stacked books next to the open tome, Murtagh recognized one as a history of Alagaësia (up until Morzan's lifetime, anyway). The second was a book on dragon lore while the third was written in runes Murtagh didn't recognize. He frowned. While not fluent in all the languages of Alagaësia, he should be able to recognize most, if not all of them.

Picking up the open book, Murtagh found a piece of parchment hidden beneath it, a dried out quill adjacent to the parchment. He picked the scrap up and looked it over, his eyes widening at the words.

"Father's notes," he breathed, not bothering to address the man by his name.

What do they say? Thorn asked, picking up on Murtagh's slip.

There are several lists, Murtagh answered, looking at the scrawled writings in his hands in disbelief. This… He swallowed. This can't be.

What is it? Thorn prodded, sensing his Rider's increasing agitation.

There are two side-by-side lists of the Forsworn. Galbatorix heads one list with six names under his. Four are crossed off. The other… Murtagh shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his confused thoughts. The other is headed by Morzan with five names under his. Three are crossed off.

What do you think it means?

There are also lists of locations throughout the Empire, Murtagh added, reading over the remainder of the parchment and not really hearing his dragon's query. Some of the names stuck out. There were battles at many of these places during the Dragon War.

Murtagh…

But something else had caught Murtagh's attention. There is a note on what looks to be Surda with Brom's name. The late Rider's name caused a jolt of pain to rack his heart. The man was Eragon's true father. Though it was completely illogical, Murtagh couldn't help but feel like Brom had stolen his entire family from him. He had killed his father—not that Murtagh lamented that loss—seduced his mother, and fathered the child Murtagh thought his full brother, one to help ease the burden of Murtagh's existence.

It must be a note on the location of the Varden, he murmured against the tightness in his chest.

Murtagh, Thorn broke in on his Rider's reverie, tone commanding. Murtagh blinked.

Thorn?

Are you alright? the dragon asked, his tone gentler this time.

Murtagh was constantly amazed by his dragon. Despite being only a few months old, he had grown both physically and mentally due to the Eldunarí. Thorn had his moments of childishness, reminding Murtagh that his friend was still only a hatchling cruelly forced to grow at an unnatural rate, but in general Thorn had grown into the ancient wisdom of his kind with surprising alacrity and grace. And for that, Murtagh was thankful. He didn't know if he could have stayed sane—if he had—without his dragon's ageless wisdom.

The Rider dropped into the chair at the table and ran his fingers through his hair. This is a bit much to take in at once. I'm not sure what it all means, or could mean.

Perhaps you should rest and consider it again tomorrow, Thorn suggested. Murtagh appreciated the concern.

He nodded. That sounds like a good ide— Wait. He blinked as he looked over Morzan's notes again. In the corner next to the list headed by Galbatorix's name, there was a rune Murtagh couldn't read but recognized.

"This was on that book," he muttered aloud as he reached for the third book in the pile. On the spine of the tome was a rune matching the one on Morzan's notes. A sudden feeling of certainty passed through Murtagh. This book was important—to him, to Morzan, to Galbatorix, to the war, and to Alagaësia herself. How he knew this, Murtagh was unsure; he just knew. On instinct, he flipped the book open. The page he opened to was written in the same unreadable runes. The Rider turned the page several times, finding each subsequent page incomprehensible. Flipping the page again, Murtagh froze.

He could read the text on this page.

His skin crawled as he read the words.

'The black master of the sky shall bring ruin to those who fell with him. Blue and red shall be at odds, swallowed by the darkness, their struggle to endure. For darkness to recede, the colors must unite to bring about the light.'

"This is a book of prophecy."

Murtagh traced the legible words gently with a finger. His gedwëy ignasia tingled and he jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. The scribbled notes on the parchment flew across his mind's eye as the words of prophecy rang through his head.

Thorn, I think Morzan was plotting to overthrow Galbatorix.

After Murtagh's disappearance, Roran had been left rather dumbfounded. What could he have to take care of in this creepy castle? And why did he need to do so alone? Suspicion flared through Roran, but he shrugged it off as best he could. The red Rider's discomfort in his familial home was obvious. As much as Murtagh was training Roran to give him an outlet to forget his pain—as well as become stronger—Roran wondered if it was an outlet for Murtagh as well.

Roran frowned. Had his opinion of Eragon's brother—half-brother—really changed so much in such a short period of time? (And was it really so short? It felt like an eternity had passed and yet he knew that was not the case.) It didn't seem possible, but much had changed since his capture. He thought leaving Carvahall and fleeing to Surda had changed everything, but that had only been the beginning. Now he joined his two cousins as fully immersed in the Rider War. It was rather disorienting to consider.

Conrad, the servant who seemed to have been assigned to look after Murtagh and Roran while at the manor, entered the room a few minutes after Murtagh's exit. He gave Roran a nod in greeting as he set to the task of clearing the remains of the meal.

"Conrad," Roran began hesitantly after a few moments, suddenly unsure as to why he opened his mouth at all. How far could he trust this man sent by Galbatorix?

"Master Roran?" he encouraged gently, pausing his work.

"Do you know where Murtagh went?"

The servant looked thoughtfully at him for a moment before answering. "The library."

"Library?" Of all things for Morzan to have in his castle, Roran never would have considered a library. Morzan was infamous for many things, but scholarship was never one of them.

"But he asked not to be disturbed," Conrad added quickly, suddenly nervous, likely thinking Roran meant to follow the Rider.

"Of course." Roran fell silent, contemplating this new information.

Conrad meanwhile returned to his task. After a time, Roran spoke up again.

"What do you know of this castle?"

"Sir?" The servant looked up from stacking dishes on a tray with practiced precision.

"Well, I've been staying here and know almost nothing about it." Roran suddenly felt a surge of bravery. He wouldn't get punished for such an innocuous question. Would he?

Conrad frowned. Roran tensed before recognizing the expression as one of consideration. He realized his muscles were completely tense, and he had to force himself to loosen them. Much had changed indeed.

"Well, as you are aware, this castle once belonged to one of the Forsworn," Conrad said at last.

Roran nodded, doing his best to appear casual. "Morzan."

The servant nodded in turn. "The manor was built under King Galbatorix's direct orders shortly after the Fall. He wanted his most loyal follower nearby in case of trouble."

Roran saw the sense in this. And if Morzan decided to turn on his master, he was far enough away that Galbatorix would have advance warning. Insane as the king might be, but stupid he was not.

"I don't know much else about this castle except that Lord Murtagh grew up here… at least until Morzan was killed. King Galbatorix had him brought to Urû'baen after that."

"What about his mother?" Eragon's mother. My aunt.

"The story goes that she was not often in the castle," Conrad replied. "Lady Selena was renowned as Morzan's Black Hand. She was most often on some type of mission for Morzan or the king."

Roran considered this. That meant Murtagh grew up practically without a mother as well, and in the home of a monster. At least Eragon had Garrow and Brom… Murtagh had Morzan and Galbatorix. Roran shuddered.

"I see."

"Rumor has it," Conrad said, turning back to clearing the table and stacking dishes, "that Morzan's servants were sworn to secrecy in the Ancient Language so they wouldn't reveal his secrets to anyone, including the king. Morzan was a secretive man."

Thinking about all the dark hallways that twisted and turned into oblivion, Roran swallowed. He didn't want to know what they might hold that Morzan wanted to keep secret.

Probably dark and dangerous magic and weapons, he thought. Like Murtagh wields now.

Roran pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you, Conrad. This has been interesting."

"Might I ask where you're going, my Lord?" the servant asked.

"Back to the room."

"Ah, good night then."

"Good night."

As Roran left the dining room, he couldn't help but feel bad for lying to Conrad. He was a good man it seemed, earlier doubt of the man now forgotten. How strange for him to be in Galbatorix's employ.

Not ready for sleep, Roran decided he might just wander around the hallways near the main chambers for a bit. Murtagh's warning to be careful echoed in that back of his mind as he retraced his earlier steps from the inhabited part of the castle. He did his best not to look at the gruesome art on the walls.

At the corridor he should have turned down to reach Morzan's chambers—now occupied by Murtagh and himself—Roran instead went straight. He had no particular destination in mind. He just needed time to think away from everything. His feet moved automatically and, in the fading light of another day in captivity, Roran considered his options.

He could stay put, enduring whatever Murtagh put him through until Galbatorix returned to use him in whatever scheme he had in mind to get to Eragon and the Varden. Memories of his time in Urû'baen sprung forward in his mind and Roran had to stop. He clasped at his chest as he gasped with a sudden inability to catch his breath. His vision tunneled and he had gone completely tense. With his other hand, he supported himself against the wall. The agony he had suffered, both physical and mental, came right back to him. In that instant, Roran realized he'd do anything to avoid that ever again.

Anything.

After a time, his breathing finally calmed and Roran was able to move again. The paralyzing effects of those memories were alarming. Roran realized he needed to get stronger—not just physically, but mentally as well. He needed to be able to hold onto his mental shield for extended periods. Then he could protect himself. And Katrina. And their unborn child. He had to do whatever it took to protect them—his family.

But Eragon and Murtagh were family as well, a voice countered in the back of his mind.

He wanted to help Eragon, but his getting captured could only hinder the blue Rider. Roran was thankful there had been no news of a rescue attempt. Perhaps Eragon would do the wise thing and stay away.

No, Roran realized. Eragon would never do that. He hadn't abandoned Murtagh. Eragon still wanted to rescue his brother from Galbatorix's control. If he couldn't give up on Murtagh, a traitor, how could he be expected to give up on Roran, who had always been on his side?

As he continued walking, Roran decided he needed to do whatever he could to aid Eragon. If that meant remaining in Galbatorix's custody where he could learn secrets, then he would do that. Dear spirits, he prayed, just please don't let that happen again. Please.

Blinking, Roran found himself standing in front of a closed door. His feet had moved of their own accord, so Roran had no idea where he was. The ambient light was all but gone, but torches were beginning to light themselves down the hallway. That was an eerie piece of magic that made the castle feel haunted. The spirits of Morzan and his kin seemed everywhere in this place. Roran hated it; he hated the castle and he hated the reminder that he could connect the most infamous of the Forsworn to his family tree.

But something about this door piqued his curiosity. What had led him here? His instincts, buried beneath the pain he had endured since his capture, warned him against opening the door. Instead of heeding them, he reached for the handle and opened the door with an ominous creak of disuse.

The room was dark and a stale smell erupted from the open door. Gagging slightly against the dusty odor, Roran grabbed a torch from the wall and stepped into the room. It looked like a bedroom.

There was a small bed neatly made with a red and black bedspread, a chest—a toy chest?—an armoire, and a small desk with a chair. There were abandoned quills and a small pile of untouched parchment on the desk. Next to the desk was a small bookcase with several books resting unopened on the shelves. A set of midnight blue curtains covered a bay window outlined by the wan rising moonlight. The walls were decorated with several hangings—a red dragon flying across the sky against a brilliant sunset, two warriors dueling with their swords, and a tapestry made up of different materials and colors.

"A child's room?" Roran asked out loud in surprise.

"I see you've found my room."

Roran started and nearly dropped the torch in his hand. He turned to see Murtagh standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. He carried a pile of books in the crook of his arms as he stepped into the room past Roran. He put his books down on the small desk and a werelight appeared in his hand as he looked around.

"Your room?"

Murtagh nodded absently. "I haven't been in this room since I left for Urû'baen after Morzan's death." There was an air of nostalgia in his voice as he slowly walked around the small space. He paused in front of the eclectic tapestry. He touched it tenderly, almost reverently. Roran hesitantly joined his cousin to get a better look at the hanging—it seemed more like a quilt up close.

"My mother began this while she was pregnant with me. I like to think she knew she wouldn't see me much once I was born," he said, voice turning bitter at some unknown memories, "so wanted me to have something of her. Every time she went on a trip for Morzan or Galbatorix, she would return with a new square and sew it onto this quilt, usually while I slept."

Murtagh smiled—an expression that transformed his face in a way Roran had never seen before; the cold bitterness was gone, and he could see the resemblance to Eragon in it—and his voice was warmer.

"Though I rarely saw her, I knew she had been here because there would be a new square on the quilt.

"Every day she was gone I would wake up hoping to find a new piece on this. Finding a new square was like being told I was loved and remembered." He ran his hand over the last square. It seemed to be an intricate design of entwined reds and blues. "This is the last square she ever brought home. It appeared after Morzan's death."

Murtagh swallowed and Roran waited. This look into Murtagh's past, this intimate knowledge of infamous people often only thought to live in stories, was fascinating.

"Looking back, after giving birth to Eragon, she must have returned here before she died. She brought me one final square to complete the quilt."

The red Rider gazed at the quilt for several more moments in silence before continuing to look around the room. When he reached the bookcase, he pulled a volume off the shelf and blew the dust off to read the title. As he made to open the cover of one of his childhood books, he froze, muscles visibly stiffening.

"There's dust on this book."

"There's dust all over," Roran replied, still looking around the room with a newfound interest. "These rooms haven't been used in years." He looked over at his cousin's sudden change in tone.

Murtagh's gaze had gone to the books he had left on the desk. "There was no dust in the library."

Chapter Text

Murtagh paced restlessly around the drawing room; forwards, back, forwards, and back yet again. Somewhere out of his line of sight, Roran sat by idly. A fire crackled in the fireplace, forming a deceptively warm atmosphere. But Murtagh was cold to his core. No amount of rationalization or logic could dismiss what he had uncovered.

Go over it again, Murtagh, Thorn prodded.

Murtagh brushed an irritable hand through his hair. We've been over it countless times already.

One more time, Thorn pressed.

The Rider sighed and relented. In Morzan's personal library, his final works were still out. He had several books, including one of prophecy, out. And in his notes were every indication that the Forsworn were divided and Morzan was seeking to overthrow Galbatorix. He turned on his heel as he continued to pace. Plus, the lack of dust on the notes and books means that someone has been in there recently. It has to be Galbatorix.

You're jumping to that conclusion, young one, admonished Thorn. Perhaps a servant dusted.

No, Murtagh disagreed, no one would dare enter that room without some type of magical protection. And besides, if someone dusted in the library, why not also in the other unused wings of the manor? My old bedroom was filled with dust.

Perhaps someone anticipated your use.

And that someone was Galbatorix. He's the only one powerful enough to dare to enter that room.

But why?

Murtagh grimaced as he thought. He must have wanted me to find those things. He would have destroyed them otherwise. And that means he's up to something.

Thorn sounded contemplative as he spoke. It also means he knows Morzan was plotting against him. Perhaps…

Murtagh stopped his pacing as the implications of that statement hit him. Perhaps Morzan's death was no accident. Galbatorix lured Brom to find Morzan…shortly after Eragon was born.

Thorn did not miss the stab of pain in Murtagh's chest at the thought—the Rider didn't bother trying to conceal it. Murtagh sighed, staring at the fire across the room. I don't understand why Galbatorix would want me to find these books or the notes.

I suggest studying them all thoroughly, Thorn replied. Perhaps that will grant you some insight.

Murtagh nodded. He turned to look at the books he had left on a table next to the fireplace and froze. Roran had the book of prophecy open and was flipping absently through it. The Rider let out a strangled choke and his cousin looked up. Registering Murtagh's expression, he paled.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered in a complete regression to his captive days. "I just—"

Murtagh strode toward the table but paused at Roran's tone. "What?"

Roran shrugged uncomfortably, likely having realized he had poked his nose into something important. "I just felt…drawn to this book somehow. I don't know why. I don't even know my letters." He glanced at the open tome. "All the letters were strange, though. I only recognized the characters on one page."

"What did you say?" Murtagh demanded in a breathless whisper. Was Roran saying he could make out the runes on a page just as Murtagh had been able to? Could it be possible?

Roran slumped deep into his chair as Murtagh towered over him; the Rider was not in a good humor and Roran looked as though he wanted to disappear. "I only recognized the characters on one page? I couldn't read them, though. My father never taught me or Eragon our letters," he said in a rush.

That name again. Murtagh just couldn't escape it. He hated that he cared so much—that his concern was what complicated things—and that Galbatorix loved to exploit that.

Murtagh pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind while shoving the book in question toward his cowering cousin. "Which page?"

"I don't know. I was just skimming it." Roran tried to push the book back to Murtagh. "I can't read, so I didn't pay attention."

The Rider pushed it back with some force. "Find it." He needed to know. Was it the same page? And if not? What would he do that? What would he do if it was? "If you were drawn to it, you'll find it again."

Roran sighed he flipped through the incomprehensible pages dejectedly. Finally he stopped, eyes widening slightly, and slid the open tome to Murtagh. "This one. These look like characters I've seen before." He frowned. "But why? That's a strange way to write a book."

Murtagh ignored Roran's commentary as he looked at the page. It was the same page, the same prophecy. He could feel his pulse quickening. What was going on? He looked up at his downtrodden and bewildered cousin. Somehow this man was important to the fate of Alagaësia. His gedwëy ignasia tingled once more and Murtagh balled his left hand into a fist.

Things were about to get complicated.

"I don't know about this," Roran called out from behind Murtagh as they walked across the castle grounds.

The sun was rising, casting a bronze glow on their surroundings. But Murtagh paid little attention to the glories of nature. He set his shoulders, resolute in his decision. Something about it felt right. "I do," he replied, taking a left turn toward the dilapidated dragon hold.

You can come out, he called out.

Inaudible grumbling answered his request and Murtagh stifled a smile. Thorn was almost as uncertain as Roran about the idea, but Murtagh had explained to Thorn that the plan had come to him in a dream, and when he awoke, he knew somehow that it was important. Thorn agreed, but declared that he didn't have to like it, which his Rider amusedly allowed.

Finally Thorn emerged from the entrance, the infant sun's rays basking his scales in a veritable rainbow of reds. The breath caught in Murtagh's throat. The awesomeness of his friend never ceased to amaze him and it often caught him off-guard at the strangest times. Yards behind him, Roran had stopped in his tracks, frozen at the sight of the infamous red dragon up close.

Thorn turned his gaze on the approaching humans. Murtagh could feel Thorn's desire to be irritated being overridden by his childish happiness to be with his Rider again. Valiantly, the dragon didn't betray the emotions on the surface. While Roran had stopped, Murtagh strode to Thorn, who bent his head down to his Rider's level.

Murtagh, he said in obvious pleasure, nuzzling his human with the tip of his snout.

Murtagh placed a loving hand on Thorn's nose. Good morning, my friend. He looked his dragon in the eye. Thank you for doing this.

Thorn's scales rustled in a dragon-shrug. If you think it important, then I shall support you.

You are too good for me.

Never! Thorn glared at his Rider. The comment was off-handed but the dragon's reply serious. Never say that. I hatched for you.

Murtagh smiled wanly. Of course. You never let me forget. He then turned to Roran, who hadn't moved. He shook his head to himself before taking a few steps in his frozen cousin's direction.

"Roran, come over here."

Eyeing Thorn warily, Roran shook his head. Murtagh didn't blame him; his cousin had seen firsthand much of the damage he and Thorn had caused. Though he might tolerate Murtagh's presence, the legendary and infamous red beast was a wildcard.

"He won't hurt you," Murtagh told him.

Don't make promises you cannot keep.

Murtagh rolled his eyes and ignored the comment. "I have asked this of him as a favor. He will behave honorably." Murtagh almost snorted at his own words and how ridiculous they must sound. What would he, a traitor and son of the most infamous of the Forsworn, know of honor?

Only because you asked, Murtagh.

Don't lie. You're curious about him as well. Murtagh paused. And he's my family.

Family has never been good to you and I am bound first and foremost to keep you safe, Thorn replied.

Murtagh flinched at Thorn's comment, but shook it off. As much as it hurt, it was true. He is not a threat now. You can plainly see that.

Thorn huffed but didn't disagree.

"If you open your mind to Thorn, he can speak to you," Murtagh told Roran. When his cousin hesitated, he backtracked, realizing what the statement must have sounded like to someone recovering from mental torture. "But that's not necessary. At least just come over here." He gestured to his dragon. "Thorn would like to meet you as well."

Roran looked from Murtagh to Thorn, back to Murtagh, and finally settled his gaze on the ruby dragon. He took a hesitant step forward. When nothing happened, he took another step and another. His eyes never left Thorn's as he walked toward the dragon. He stopped when he was within arm's reach, looking almost startled at where he was.

Murtagh stepped up next to them. "Roran Stronghammer, meet Thorn." He purposefully left off the colorful epithets often attributed to the dragon, the most popular being Bloodyscales. "Thorn, meet Roran."

I know, he muttered.

Play nice, Murtagh replied with a fond smile.

Roran looked at Murtagh questioningly. The Rider merely nodded, hoping to prod his cousin into action. He didn't know why, but he was sure it was important that this meeting occur; he had fallen asleep over the book of prophecy, so he felt, with some measure of inexplicable certainty, that the two were somehow related.

Roran slowly lifted a hand from his side to reach for Thorn. "H-hello," he greeted awkwardly.

Tell him hello, Thorn instructed. And that I am pleased to meet a member of Murtagh's family.

Murtagh gave his dragon an annoyed look—what about his family comment from moments before?—but relayed the message anyway. Roran winced at the mention of the familial connection, but otherwise seemed pleased by the result. Undoubtedly Roran had dealings with Saphira, so Thorn was not his first dragon acquaintance. He would be used to communicating with the dragon through the Rider.

Roran's hand stopped midway in the air as if he was unsure of what to do. Thorn made the decision for him, tucking his snout under Roran's open hand, allowing the younger man to run a hand over his red scales.

Murtagh marveled at the sight: a high-ranking official of the Varden and Eragon's surrogate brother was petting Thorn, the infamous red dragon of the Empire while Galbatorix's right hand man watched on.

Tell him he is a natural among dragons, Thorn declared.

Murtagh blinked in surprise; he was completely taken aback by the comment. What?

Tell him.

The Rider clenched his jaw but did as he was bidden. Roran stopped stroking Thorn's scales, mouth agape at the words. Murtagh shrugged.

"He insisted I tell you."

Thorn snorted, startling Roran. The dragon leveled a red eye at the non-Rider. I sense something of this one. Something important.

What do you mean?

Still looking at Roran, Thorn spoke. I know not, only a strong feeling. And dragons trust their feelings.

The prophecy, Murtagh exhaled, also looking at Roran. Somehow that prophecy relates to him as well.

Do you think the king knows?

He must. He would not put so much effort into a farm boy, Varden leader and Eragon's cousin or not. Murtagh shook his head. But what he's planning, I cannot guess.

Roran felt a strange peace settle over him after his meeting with Thorn. For a dragon so violent in battle, he was remarkably gentle and warm up close—though Roran's cynical side countered that such an attitude could be attributed to the fact he was to be kept alive by Galbatorix's orders, which both Murtagh and Thorn were inescapably bound to. But somehow he didn't think that was it—or at least the whole story.

He could see Murtagh's eyes light up at the sight of Thorn just as Eragon's did when he was around Saphira. Eragon had done his best to explain the connection between Rider and dragon: soul mates, no longer merely human and dragon. They existed in tandem, never able to hide anything from one another. Roran had equated the relationship to the love he and Katrina shared, for he did not think he could exist without her, and his heart belonged to her alone.

But he did not think that even his most intense feelings quite compared to the bond of Rider and dragon; there was a reason they were legendary. He'd once thought he might like to experience it, but decided it was too much responsibility for someone like him. Riders were made of something special, something that dragons waited ages to find. And Roran was a nobody, made of nothing special. And he had enough responsibility and trouble already.

Yet, for some reason, he felt a pull toward Thorn—and to Saphira now that he considered it. Dragons were amazing and awe-inspiring creatures. And just like the book written in foreign runes, he felt an inexplicable attraction toward them.

He had been surrounded by magic and magicians for so long that his brain was addled, he decided.

Over the next few days, Murtagh redoubled Roran's blade training. Roran was improving at a hurried pace, leading Murtagh to wonder what he should move onto next. Though Roran had yet to best him in a match, he had innovative instincts; he thought in a tactics language that Murtagh didn't understand, which led to an increasing number of bruises on his person as they trained.

Roran also consented to meet with Thorn again. The dragon had some fascination with him that he could not explain to his Rider, though Roran seemed to reciprocate to some degree. It was a confusing dynamic made worse by the prophecy.

At night, Murtagh had taken to poring over the items he discovered in Morzan's library. Though he could only read the one prophecy in the strange book, Murtagh felt some kind of connection to another page about midway through the book. The runes weren't familiar to him, but something about the page drew him to it, like an itch he couldn't scratch. This left him uneasy. Prophecy was a tricky form of magic, often causing more trouble than it averted. In the wrong hands, the right prophecy could be catastrophic.

And it seemed Galbatorix had seen this book already.

With all this going on, several days had passed when Murtagh settled in front of a desk in the drawing room, and Thorn interrupted his thoughts. You have not looked into what Eragon said about true names since uncovering this.

Murtagh blinked. You're right. But this is important.

Perhaps this was the king's goal.

What are you talking about?

Leaving this for you to find occupies you and keeps you from plotting our escape at a pivotal time, Thorn declared.

Murtagh dropped his quill. Of course. I've been so obsessed with this idea, that Morzan was a traitor to Galbatorix and somehow prophecy has been invoked, that little else has seemed important. He balled his hands into fists. He could feel his fingernails digging painfully into his flesh. I fell for it, like a gullible child needing to be kept in line.

The young Rider was fuming in self-loathing when the drawing room door opened. Murtagh looked up, expecting to see Roran or Conrad, so he was not prepared for what greeted him. Galbatorix entered the room, a cold smirk on his lips as his black eyes took in the scene.

His breath caught in his chest, and Murtagh dropped to a knee from his chair, not wanting to risk angering the volatile man so soon upon his arrival. It seemed as if the temperature had dropped dramatically upon the king's entrance. But when had he arrived and how had Murtagh not noticed his dark aura? Galbatorix's evil could darken even the most tainted manor.

Murtagh, what's wrong? Thorn asked from afar, only able to sense his Rider's sudden agitation.

Thorn, did you see anyone approach the manor? Murtagh asked with his head still bowed. His pulse pounded in his ears and he was sure the king must be able to hear it as well. The man never ceased to get under Murtagh's skin.

No, why?

Galbatorix is here. Shruikan must be nearby.

Be careful, young one. Your safety comes first, the dragon warned, though his tone had completely changed with the situation. Thorn's anxiety mirrored Murtagh's own, which was more comforting than it should have been.

And you, my friend.

"You seem angry about something, Murtagh," Galbatorix's voice rang out from somewhere above the younger Rider. A pair of black riding boots appeared in Murtagh's eye line and he tensed. The king was standing above him, poised to strike.

"Not at all, my lord," Murtagh replied toward the carpet.

"Were you studying something?"

"Yes. I found some interesting things in the library," Murtagh replied carefully. Despite his assumptions, he had no proof and did not want to give anything away. He swallowed, watching the boots out of the corner of his eye. His midsection ached in anticipation of a kick.

"Rise, Murtagh," Galbatorix commanded, and the younger Rider did as he was bidden.

When he chanced a look at the mad king, he had to suppress a shiver at the knowing look on Galbatorix's face. Alarm bells rang in his mind, every instinct screamed for him to run or at least lie, but his oaths prevented him from doing either. All he could do was exploit the few loopholes he had discovered that the king had not yet forced him to swear further oaths to prevent.

The king slowly strode around the room, tracing the perimeter. He traced a hand across the mantle as he passed the fireplace before settling himself into Morzan's favorite chair—where Murtagh had discovered him upon his summons to the manor. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands across his knee. He looked at Murtagh and the younger Rider returned the look silently.

"Morzan's library, I'm sure, is quite the collection," Galbatorix said at long last. "My friend, your father, was quite well read, though his legends never give him credit for his intellect. He was a collector of interesting works."

Murtagh didn't know what to say to that, so remained silent. The prophecy book and Morzan's notes pulled at him, but he wanted nothing more than to hide the evidence that he'd found them.

But more importantly, the younger Rider wondered, why was Galbatorix here? He must have a reason for his visit; he was not the type of man to make social calls. He was definitely up to something—probably many somethings—and only trouble could come from it.

"And how is your charge?" the king asked when Murtagh said nothing. His eyes searched Murtagh's face, looking for some trace of deception or hidden truth.

"He has improved," Murtagh replied stiffly, "though he is not recovered."

"Of course he's not recovered. I don't want him recovered," Galbatorix said with a sudden growl. "He's no good to me as he was." The king's eyes bore right to Murtagh's core. "How improved is he?"

"Physically he's much improved. We've been training with the sword to increase his strength." Murtagh shrugged. "He no longer fears my presence in a room, but he's not comfortable."

The mad king nodded. "Excellent. I don't want him comfortable either. Comfort breeds laziness." The king smirked. "Isn't that right?"

Murtagh stifled a wince at memories of the king's backlash of when he thought his Rider's lack of results was due to laziness. He bore many scars from those sessions. "Yes, my Lord."

"And has he joined you in the library?"

Murtagh blinked. "No. He cannot read."

Galbatorix frowned. "It's rather disgusting that a high ranking official in the Varden is illiterate. It only proves we are dealing with ignorant fools. And they've roped your brother into it."

Murtagh pursed his lips tightly. He would not call Nasuada or Eragon or Orik or Ajihad or any of the other Varden leaders he had met ignorant. Roran was quite shrewd himself. Formal learning meant little in war. At times he was sure the king underestimated his enemy, but something in the man's demeanor said otherwise. He was trying to get a rise out of his Rider—Murtagh didn't bite, merely inclining his head.

"In any case, Murtagh, I wish for you to collect Stronghammer and meet me in the dragon hold."

"As you command."

Murtagh turned for the door, prepared to open his mental connection to Thorn again, having closed the link during the meeting to protect his dragon, when the king's voice froze him.

"Tell me, Murtagh. What would you do if you learned your closest friend was a traitor?"

The younger man's heart leapt into his throat. Galbatorix had to be referring to Morzan. He wanted to see Murtagh's reaction. But Murtagh's instincts warned him to play dumb. He needed to know more before he could face the king and the past—and the prophecy. He didn't know what game the king was playing and didn't want to jump in without a sense of the rules.

He turned back to Galbatorix. "I don't know. I've not had many close friends as it is." And he'd been the traitor to the one he'd last cared about. Eragon was too damn loyal and good to betray him anyway.

An image of Nasuada popped unbidden into his mind and his breath caught in his throat. He'd betrayed her as well—he had no right to care for her after all he had done—but the thought of her turning on him caused a deep ache within his chest. Dammit. He was trying not to think of her…of them all.

Something must have played across his face, however, because a self-satisfied smirk played at Galbatorix's lips. Whatever he was looking for, he seemingly found it, meaning Murtagh was once again losing the game he hadn't know he'd started.

"Indeed," he said, tone indicating disbelief.

Murtagh tilted a questioning head. "Shall I fetch Roran?"

"Yes, yes," the king replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The red Rider practically sprinted from the drawing room and opened his mind to Thorn again.

Murtagh, something bad is happening, Thorn immediately said.

Bad? Murtagh asked as he marched down the hall to the bedchambers, where he thought Roran would be.

I…cannot say. Shruikan must be keeping him from speaking. But be careful.

Galbatorix wants me to bring Roran down to the dragon hold.

Then you shall see as well.

Thorn would say no more on the subject, so Murtagh related Galbatorix's words as he walked. He had just finished his narrative when he reached the antechamber. Opening the door, he found Roran washing his face.

"Galbatorix wishes to see you."

Roran froze. "The king is here?"

"Yes. And he's waiting for us."

"I…" The former farm boy regressed drastically at the mere prospect of facing the king again.

"The king won't stand for lateness. Come."

Roran jolted into action, moving toward the door. Whatever it took to avoid punishment. Murtagh understood that mindset well but had to press forward anyway. "At least dry your face first," he said, noticing water and soap dripping from his cousin's face.

Roran paused before grabbing a towel and hurriedly wiping his face. "Let's go." His voice shook, but he didn't want to anger the king by making him wait.

As they walked through the manor, Murtagh could sense the numerous questions on Roran's mind but didn't prompt him to speech. Finally Roran broke the silence.

"Where are we going?"

"The dragon hold."

"Why?"

"Because the king ordered it so."

"And you do what you're told," Roran said bitterly.

"And so will you if you know what's good for you," Murtagh snapped. He didn't (always) do what he did because he wanted to. He thought he, of all people, should have the right to be bitter.

Roran lapsed back into silence until they reached the hold. The moon shone overhead, the waning beams granting little to light their way, but Murtagh's Rider-enhanced senses allowed him to move easily in the dark; the dark had always been his element anyway while he was in hiding and on the run.

The king is waiting, Thorn spoke up suddenly.

We're almost there.

Murtagh stopped dead in his tracks when he entered the dragon hold. At the far end, illuminated by ghostly lamplight, stood Galbatorix flanked by Shruikan. Thorn stood off to the side, head bowed. And in front of the king resting on a bushel of hay was the green dragon egg.

Chapter Text

Murtagh felt the breath catch in his throat. "That's…"

"It looks like the stone Eragon had just before…" Roran trailed off, stepping up next to Murtagh for a better view.

"Saphira was born," the red Rider finished. Roran looked like he had been slapped as recognition dawned in his eyes. He tensed and his posture straightened.

"Correct," Galbatorix said, stroking the green egg. "This is the last extant dragon egg." He smirked and turned to Murtagh. "You must be wondering why I've brought it here."

Murtagh nodded silently, finding it difficult to form words. In his mind's eye, he could only see the last time he had seen the green egg.

Murtagh was dragged bodily between two guards from his cell to the throne room. He was in no shape to walk under his own power at the king's summons, so Galbatorix had ordered him brought. The guards were not gentle as they hauled his limp, weakened form down the hallways.

Somewhere deep down, Murtagh thought he should be humiliated by the treatment and that he should at least show some sign of struggle. But since Galbatorix and the Twins had broken down the barriers in his mind and mercilessly cataloged every thought and feeling they wanted—and others just to humiliate him—Murtagh couldn't bring himself to care. When the final safe haven he had crafted for himself had been violently violated, something within him had shattered. His will had completely left. He could no longer care because there was no point.

He had been taken back by the man he hated above all else, was thought dead by those he cared for, and had betrayed those same people. There was truly no hope for him—other than a quick death, which he knew would not be granted after fleeing Galbatorix and constantly fighting against him. It was all pointless, so he remained limp between the burly guards.

He was brought to the throne room and deposited in front of the king. Murtagh immediately tensed as the guards left him alone with Galbatorix. This was a change in routine from the normal schedule of torture, and that made him nervous. It meant the king was up to something, likely foul, which would only serve to enhance his suffering.

"Murtagh," Galbatorix said at last, "so nice of you to join us."

Us? The younger man blinked in confusion. He looked up slowly as not to aggravate his thrashed body, but he only saw the king in close proximity. His mind worked at a sluggish pace, trying to decipher what his words meant but finally decided to wait and see.

The king stepped back to give his prisoner a view of a table. Murtagh gasped—his throat burned in protest—in recognition. Two dragon eggs, one red and one green, sat side-by-side glimmering in the sunlight falling through the windows. Something about the eggs was inviting and he immediately knew why: it was in his blood. And Galbatorix knew it as well.

"Rise, Murtagh."

Murtagh struggled to push himself to his feet; he miraculously made it upright, but he swayed unsteadily. His legs were not up to the task of holding him for long, despite how much lighter his form was after an eternity in the dungeon being…punished for his misdeeds. He shuddered.

Galbatorix strode up to the table and bade Murtagh follow. The younger man wasn't sure if he dared risk a step or not, but at the king's impatient glance, he put his left foot out—and nearly screamed as he put weight on it. His right leg received a similar reaction. The Twins had not used magic exclusively to torture him; no, they had been creative in their use of tools, and Murtagh's atrophied legs displayed the results. He couldn't move.

With a flick of his hand, Galbatorix summoned Murtagh to his side. Magic pulled him forward as if by grasping at his sweat and blood-covered tunic. He nearly toppled to the floor when his momentum stopped, but he managed to catch himself. Something again pricked at the back of Murtagh's mind, but his despair quickly squelched it.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Galbatorix purred, running a hand over the red egg.

Murtagh felt an instinctual protest at the touch, but had no idea where it came from. The king had a point, though. The colored eggs were a breath-taking sight for someone who recognized them for what they were. There was something powerful and ancient lurking beneath the hard exteriors, biding their time until their chosen Rider appeared.

Galbatorix ran his other hand over the green egg, but Murtagh continued to feel a protective streak toward the red orb. But why should he care? He was nothing—just a traitor to the only people who ever cared for and trusted him—and the dragon eggs were intrinsic pieces of the fate of Alagaësia.

"Go on, touch them," the king encouraged, watching his prisoner from the corner of his eye. "Feel the magic coursing through them."

Murtagh swallowed and reached a tentative hand toward the red egg. It was as if an outside force was pulling him in; he couldn't stop himself. His fingers came in contact with the cool, hard surface, but he could feel a warm pulsing beneath. He traced a gentle finger across the top, his entire arm tingling at the touch. Something within him, within his broken being, resonated with the occupant of the red egg. The room had completely narrowed to him and the egg.

A crack resounded through the throne room.

Murtagh froze as Galbatorix swooped in on the scene with wide-eyed alacrity. A split ran down the formerly flawless egg's surface. It couldn't be…

Another crack.

The warm, pulsing magic pulled at Murtagh and he leaned in closer. A small red head poked out of the shell. It immediately focused in on Murtagh's face. It squeaked and struggled to escape the shell. The shell around the hatchling fell apart and the red dragon flopped onto the table. It shook itself, casting off slime and shell debris. Then it opened its wings, flapped them uselessly, then jumped at Murtagh, who was so shocked he caught the beast out of instinct.

At the contact, Murtagh's left hand burned with such intensity he almost lost his balance. He cried out in surprise and his vision blurred. His weakened body shook as it vainly tried to fight the magic reaction attacking his system. Once the shock passed, he looked down to see the unmistakable outline of the gedwëy ignasia on his palm while the dragon nuzzled against him.

Aghast, yet somehow feeling complete with his newfound companion in his arms, he turned to the king, suddenly afraid of the reaction awaiting him.

Galbatorix's smirk made his blood run cold. "Congratulations, Murtagh. You've become a Dragon Rider. Just like your father."

"It's here," Galbatorix said, pulling Murtagh from his dark reverie, "because I have a suspicion." His gaze traveled toward Roran, and Murtagh suddenly understood.

"You…"

"Correct," the king said, cutting his Rider's epiphany off. "Stronghammer, come here."

Roran glanced at Murtagh before walking toward the king. Murtagh could see the hesitation and wariness in his cousin's countenance. He couldn't blame him; Galbatorix was a scary man.

As Roran made his way to Galbatorix and the egg, Murtagh unconsciously drifted to the side to stand with Thorn. His hand was resting on his friend's foreleg before he realized he had moved.

What do you think, young one? Thorn asked, watching as well.

Galbatorix must have a reason for thinking Roran could be a Rider, Murtagh replied slowly, but I only hope the egg does not hatch. That will only make things more complicated.

And if it does?

Galbatorix will undoubtedly force him to swear oaths of fealty in the Ancient Language as well. He paused. Eragon will be crushed. Murtagh grimaced at the word choice. And if the king has his way, it will be literally.

And for us? Thorn asked carefully.

Then…we won't be the sole recipients of the king's temper. Suddenly the prospect seemed better. We, he continued, won't be suffering alone anymore. You'd have a dragon to commiserate with.

Thorn snorted. A hatchling.

Murtagh looked levelly at his friend. And how old are you? You're not so elderly yourself, Thorn. The Eldunarí… He trailed off.

Galbatorix will probably try to use them on this dragon as well, were it to hatch, the red dragon finished.

Yes. What a sad fate.

Don't feel so bad, my friend, Thorn replied. We've grown closer because of the ancients' magic. Were I to have grown at a normal speed, we couldn't have communicated for an extended time.

Murtagh shuddered. And I needed you when you hatched.

So perhaps it is not all so evil.

Perhaps. But the young Rider wasn't convinced.

He looked up as Roran stopped in front of Galbatorix, Shruikan, and the green egg. The one-time farm-boy visibly shook as he stood in front of his captor, the most infamous man in the Empire.

"Come, Stronghammer," the king beckoned. "See if you are meant to join your cousins."

Roran blinked. He turned to look at Murtagh, then Thorn as he suddenly grasped what the king meant. Murtagh gave no reaction, so he jerked back to Galbatorix, who had an amused look on his face. Roran's gaze traveled down to the green egg, where it lingered. He reached a tentative hand toward it, but stopped halfway as if unsure of himself. Murtagh was reminded of Roran's first meeting with Thorn when he paused in reaching out to the red dragon as well.

Roran looked back up at Galbatorix, who nodded in encouragement. The younger man swallowed but touched the egg. He traced its contours with a finger. Murtagh knew the warm pulsing Roran was feeling; he could almost feel it once more as his muscles twitched at the memory. Roran's gentle reverence reminded Murtagh of his own reaction to Thorn's egg. That was not a good omen.

Roran then picked the egg up off the table and turned it as if to get a better look. Murtagh clenched his jaw, his eyes turning to Galbatorix. The king's gaze was riveted on Roran, and his eyes gleamed. Murtagh swallowed and looked back at his cousin. He had placed the egg back on the bushel, but he continued to stare at it as if bewitched. When nothing happened, Roran made to turn away when a crack echoed through the dragon hold. Roran froze, eyes widening.

No… And yet, Murtagh thought, it somehow seemed right.

Another crack.

Roran looked down at the egg, which was now trembling as its once-polished surface continued to crack. He looked at the king, whose expression was positively gleeful. Thorn and Shruikan were fidgeting anxiously.

Thorn?

There's something…exciting about seeing one of your own kind hatch, the dragon replied. It's as if my entire body wants to fly around in celebration.

But this is the last dragon egg, Murtagh reminded him a bit bitterly at his dragon's sudden good mood, and it's being brought into the world a slave. Like you were.

Thorn sobered as the egg continued to shake and crack. Dragons hatch purposefully, Murtagh. We hatch when we feel our Rider. The situation matters not, only the individual. A dragon would not hatch for someone hopeless.

Which means Roran has some fight in him yet, Murtagh concluded, watching his cousin with a new perspective.

Like you, Thorn pointed out quietly.

The red Rider felt his throat constrict, and put a wordless hand to his dragon's snout in appreciation. Thorn was truly his lifeline in a sea of unhappiness and evil insanity. Perhaps the green dragon would be the same for Roran. For a moment, Murtagh pictured Eragon's reaction to the revelation, which only served to further sour his mood. He shoved the thought from his mind with as much force as he could muster.

When Murtagh looked back to his cousin and the egg, a tiny green head was pushing its way through slime and eggshell to reach the outside world—and its Rider. Roran took a step forward and the hatchling seemed to register his presence as it struggled harder to free itself. A few more cracks and bits of egg later saw the green dragon tumbling from the egg onto the hay bushel.

Memories of a newly-hatched Thorn played through Murtagh's mind as he watched on. He could understand the dragon's desire to celebrate the birth of a hatchling—dragons had always been rare creatures and were now practically extinct. To see another of their kind enter the world must be a joyous occasion, no matter the circumstance of the hatching.

Roran was speechless as he looked at the baby dragon. It shook itself free of glop and shell with a squawk. Roran smiled and held out a hand toward the hatchling. The green dragon sniffed at the hand before hopping into it.

The former farm-boy cried out at contact. He went rigid, and shuddered as if a current had run through him; a current of ancient magic whose pain Murtagh remembered well. He flexed his left hand at the memory. Moments passed before Roran regained awareness. Panting, he looked at his right hand, where the gedwëy ignasia now shone and forever marked him as a Rider. Roran stared uncomprehending for several heartbeats before collapsing to the floor.

Without thinking, Murtagh dashed to his side. Roran lay in a boneless heap, still gasping for air, while the green dragon had somehow managed to land in his lap. The infant nuzzled against Roran's leg and he absently stroked its head with his left hand. He was pale as he looked at Murtagh. He mutely showed his cousin his right palm. Murtagh in turn showed Roran his left. The matching gedwëy ignasias served as confirmation for Roran.

"Oh," was all he could manage.

Murtagh put a hand on his back. "It's alright, Roran," he whispered. "It's alright." The words sounded hollow on his lips, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Roran nodded absently, eyeing the creature in his lap. "So, is he mine?"

"He is indeed yours, Stronghammer," Galbatorix said, moving to stand over the two younger men. "You are now a Dragon Rider and this is your dragon." The king stripped off the traveling gloves he had been wearing to show them his own gedwëy ignasia. The mark resided on his left hand, but instead of glowing, it seemed to radiate darkness. It was discolored and scarred, but unmistakable. "And now, all the remaining dragons have hatched."

"And you have three," Murtagh said quietly. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but the king seemed to be expecting the commentary. In fact, he was boastful. Roran, on the other hand, hadn't made the connection yet—his mind undoubtedly struggling to make sense of everything. His eyes went wide as he looked from Murtagh to Galbatorix to his dragon.

"And I have three," Galbatorix agreed, "while the Varden have one." He frowned. "One female dragon." He shrugged, his anger visibly dissipating. "But no matter. With Stronghammer, soon all four dragons will be together and your family will be reunited." Murtagh's stomach clenched. "And the dragons will be able to rebuild."

Shruikan grumbled and Galbatorix turned to his stolen dragon. "Indeed, Shruikan. Indeed," the king said with a nod. "What a world we will be able to build."

Galbatorix spread his arms wide as he spoke. "We will be able to rebuild the Riders. Without the Varden or Surda, there will be peace and equality. Everyone will prosper, from the smallest farm to the biggest city. And the Riders will be at the forefront as in the old days. It will be glorious."

Murtagh bowed his head to avoid eye contact. Instead, he watched the green dragon struggling to get its legs under itself, stumbling around Roran's lap. A smile played at his lips despite himself. Maybe Galbatorix would think the expression was for his words; it was a speech he had made countless times before. Once the words had been tempting to Murtagh, when he had been a broken shell of a man, but now he knew better. He also had no choice in the matter.

But, a small voice in the back of his mind argued, with a new dragon and Rider, the Varden won't stand a chance. Galbatorix will keep Roran on a tighter leash than he ever kept his first Rider. This will be the turning point in the war.

Perhaps a world in which he was a Rider working alongside his brother and cousin wouldn't be so bad—even if Galbatorix held the power. As Riders they would have much power themselves, and maybe even a bit of freedom in times of peace. Perhaps…

No, that was Galbatorix's silver tongue influencing him again with honey-coated words. Murtagh suddenly wondered if that was what happened with Morzan: his father wooed by Galbatorix's promises of power until he realized the truth, and that was when he sought to overthrow him. But that would be giving Morzan credit, and Murtagh was loath to do so.

Murtagh looked back up at the king. Galbatorix's look was entirely too knowing for comfort, but Murtagh schooled his features as he waited for the inevitable instructions.

"I know you will make a great Rider," the king said to Roran. "You are among great company." There was a definite mocking tone to his voice, which caused Murtagh to bristle.

Stay calm, young one, Thorn broke into his thoughts. Remember, pick your battles.

Murtagh took a deep breath and slowly the anger receded. He needed the reminder to cool his temper.

"Murtagh, why don't you escort Stronghammer back inside? I'm sure it's been a," Galbatorix paused as if searching for the right word, "trying day." The red Rider bowed his head in acceptance. "And when you're through, I'll be in the drawing room." Which meant Murtagh was to join him there.

"Yes, my Lord," he replied. He rose and made to help his cousin to his feet, but Roran balked.

"What about him?" he asked, indicating the dragon.

Galbatorix shrugged uninterestedly. "Do what you will. You are his Rider now."

"Bring him," Murtagh said, noting the concern in Roran's eyes at the thought of separating from the hatchling—a familiar feeling. "You should take the time to become accustomed to one another."

Only then did Roran take Murtagh's extended hand—with his left; his newly marked hand held the green infant to his chest. Murtagh could feel Galbatorix's eyes on his back as they walked slowly from the hold, their pace having to accommodate Roran's shakiness. Murtagh would have liked nothing more than to run from the hold, to gather his wits, but his oaths would not allow it, nor would his honor.

Murtagh.

Later, Thorn, Murtagh replied in a weak attempt at evasion. But Thorn was having none of it.

Do you know what you're doing?

Not a clue. But that's not uncommon these days, Murtagh vainly tried to joke.

What comes next?

We'll figure it out once I meet with Galbatorix, I suppose. There are too many variables for now.

Agitation fluttered through the bond. Be careful.

No need to tell me.

A wordless growl crossed the bond and Murtagh relented.

You're right, I'm sorry. Murtagh sighed as he eyed his cousin. Roran seemed bemused but genuinely pleased with his new soul mate. Once I know more…

Stay safe.

And you. Shruikan's presence was disconcerting and Murtagh only hoped it wasn't an ill omen for his dragon. Galbatorix did not ride often, but this, Murtagh supposed, was worth making an exception. But there was more to it.

They crossed the grounds slowly but in silence except for the hatchling's regular grumblings and squawks. Murtagh knew Roran would have questions, would be afraid and uncertain—he had been upon becoming a Rider—but Murtagh was unsure how much help he should give since that was undoubtedly Galbatorix's intention.

But Murtagh himself also remained unsure and afraid.

He feared the darkness in his heart and how Galbatorix's promises of power had brought it out. He feared becoming like his father. And he feared the rejection of the people he cared about—the same ones he had turned his back on. He knew he had no right, but he was never the most logical of people. His magic was aided by stolen dragon souls and he was bound by unbreakable oaths to serve a man he hated. He could not possibly be a teacher. He was too broken. And yet…

Murtagh swallowed tightly as they entered the manor; his father's presence weighed heavily on him tonight. If he wasn't careful, he was going to lose it. The cracks were painfully obvious within him, and they were barely being held together at this point. Something told the red Rider that this new turn of events would challenge him far more than anything. Galbatorix would see to it; he was already making a good show of it. A broken Rider would obey orders much better than one forced into servitude against his will. And the king had a way of breaking men.

Murtagh opened the door to the antechamber and stood in the doorway as Roran hobbled past him. But in the movement, the green hatchling jumped from Roran's grip into Murtagh's startled hands. The infant looked at him with knowing eyes; there was wisdom buried in the creature that was belied by its age and appearance. He nuzzled his snout against Murtagh's gedwëy ignasia and sudden warmth ran through the red Rider. It felt as though he had been dunked in a hot bath. He let out a surprised gasp. His left palm tingled as the dragon leapt back to Roran.

Roran gave him a questioning look, but Murtagh just shook his head. He didn't know what that was about. But something in those eyes told Murtagh that the green dragon was special.

This would indeed be the turning point in the war.

Chapter Text

Murtagh's footfalls echoed loudly in his ears as he walked down the empty hallways toward the drawing room. The green dragon's hatching kept replaying in his mind before melting into Thorn's in his mind's eye. His insides were tight as he considered everything that had just happened; his whole body still tingled from his contact with the hatchling. He didn't know what to make of it.

He paused when he came to the closed doors. He attempted to collect himself before grasping the handles and entering. He immediately sought out Galbatorix as he took a step into the room. The king stood in front of the fireplace, which had a small blaze crackling within. He turned and nodded at Murtagh's appearance.

The younger Rider strode into the room before kneeling a safe distance from the king's physical reach. It didn't make him any safer considering the king's magic, but it irrationally made Murtagh feel better. He kept his eyes on the carpet, though his instincts wanted him to ascertain the king's mood. He didn't need to see Galbatorix's face to sense his smugness, however.

And why shouldn't the king be? Of the four known extant dragons, Galbatorix now controlled three, as well as holding Eragon's cousin's life in his hands. Rumors of internal squabbling in the Varden since Roran's capture meant fracturing in the sole resistance to the king's power. Oromis was dead at Galbatorix's hand by proxy of Murtagh, so the Elves were also severely weakened.

Yes, Galbatorix had every reason to be smug.

"Rise, Murtagh," the king's voice murmured from above.

The red Rider did as he was bidden. He looked up as he straightened to see Galbatorix's black eyes studying him while a smirk played at his lips. Murtagh said nothing, awaiting the reason for his summons. Galbatorix did not wait long to speak.

"How will Stronghammer fare as a Rider?"

Murtagh blinked at the unexpected question. "Well enough, I am sure." Galbatorix's eyes narrowed, prompting the younger man to continue. "His skills with a blade improve daily. We already know of his abilities with a hammer…"

"And his mind?" Galbatorix asked. A loaded question if ever there was one.

"His wits are quick and he has a knack for tactics," Murtagh replied carefully. "He is a quick study."

"Excellent."

Murtagh remained silent, but something must have shown on his face since Galbatorix lifted a questioning eyebrow. "He has great potential," the red Rider said, "but he remains hesitant in his current state."

"Because he is still broken," Galbatorix deduced. Murtagh hadn't been able to bring himself to say it, but he nodded his silent agreement. "Thus he is perfect clay to mold into a loyal Rider. Right, Murtagh?"

A sudden force knocked into Murtagh's mental barrier and he gasped in surprise at the attempted intrusion. He repelled the attack, but a second blow followed immediately. This time Murtagh recognized his attacker.

"You repel me, Murtagh?" Galbatorix whispered dangerously.

Murtagh swallowed and his breaths shortened. The king could access Murtagh's mind at any time, but the red Rider had barred off the most private section once more, carefully piecing his walls back together after the king had broken him down so thoroughly those many months before. His oaths in the Ancient Language allowed no loophole for the king's reach into his mind, so Murtagh tried not to tempt the king into delving so deeply once again.

"Murtagh," the king repeated in a low growl.

Reluctantly, Murtagh dropped his mental guard—he had much he did not want to the king to discover, like his interest in true names or what had happened with the green hatchling—and a shudder ran through him as the king's tainted presence seeped into his mind like a miasma.

"Now that's a good boy," Galbatorix purred.

Murtagh forced himself to remain still as the king probed his memories of his time spent with Roran. After what seemed like an eternity, Galbatorix withdrew from his Rider's mind without showing any interest in what lay deeper. The king, Murtagh realized with a jolt, only wanted to assert his dominance once more.

"Indeed, it seems our Roran has much latent talent after all." Galbatorix turned back to the fire, resting an arm on the mantle. "His training must begin immediately."

"Yes, Sir."

"You will continue your weapons training with him."

"As you wish."

"You will also begin teaching him the Ancient Language."

Murtagh swallowed. "My Lord?"

Galbatorix smiled coldly. "You are more than proficient in the tongue, Murtagh. You will teach him." At Murtagh's jerked nod, he continued. "I will begin his magical training myself soon. I will return when the time is right to begin."

He wants Roran proficient enough in the Ancient Language to swear oaths of fealty before beginning his magical training, Murtagh realized. He looked at the king, who was smiling.

"Indeed, son of my great friend."

Murtagh tensed. The king hadn't completely left his mind, but the younger man hadn't realized it. How foolish he had been. Just because he didn't feel the king's presence didn't mean he wasn't there. And Galbatorix wanted him to remember that. Murtagh swallowed as worry welled up in his gut.

"The Varden won't be able to stand against two Riders when they could barely handle one," Galbatorix said, crossing his arms against his chest. "They will fall. And perhaps I'll take their pretty leader for myself."

He paused and turned a questioning glance at Murtagh. "Unless you find that objectionable, Murtagh?"

Murtagh's hands tightened into fists at his sides. The king knew of his feelings for Nasuada from his breaking—nothing had remained sacred that day. Galbatorix knew it and enjoyed making him squirm with his intimate knowledge.

"If that is my king's wish, then so it shall be," Murtagh replied, clenching his jaw.

Galbatorix nodded with a knowing smile. "The Varden will fall and Eragon and Saphira will be mine. We shall rebuild the Riders under me. And," Galbatorix added, "your family will be reunited. Where they belong."

A pang racked Murtagh's chest. No matter how many times Galbatorix brought it up, the pain never receded and the vain hope of some type of future was kindled. His family…

"Yes, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely.

"Good. You may go." As Murtagh turned for the doors, the king's voice interrupted him. "And Murtagh, don't think ill of your father. I don't."

Roran lay on a couch with his hatchling resting contentedly on his chest when the antechamber burst open. Roran jerked upright in surprise while his dragon yelped and grasped into his skin as not to fall off. He immediately put a hand under it in support, but the hatchling only dug his tiny claws deeper into Roran's chest. He tried to gently pry the infant creature off him unsuccessfully as Murtagh stomped past. Roran considered asking what had happened but thought better of it at the look on the red Rider's face. The king had done something to get under his skin, but Roran thought himself and his hatchling safer not asking.

Murtagh strode past Roran without so much as a glance and threw the bedroom door open. He was about to slam it closed when he paused and turned to his companion.

"We will continue training tomorrow," he said curtly. Roran's stomach sank. "And we will begin instruction in the Ancient Language."

"What?" the younger man exclaimed. "I cannot even read our own tongue!"

Murtagh pinched the bridge of his nose. Roran tensed but his hatchling purred into his chest and released his death grip on Roran's skin and slid down into his lap. Murtagh's expression changed to something unreadable and he sighed.

"We'll work on that, too. You need proficiency in the Ancient Language before you can become skilled in magic."

"Magic?" Roran echoed in surprise. "But I'm no magician."

"Your magic comes from your dragon," Murtagh replied, rolling his shoulders as though he would rather not be talking about this. "As does mine. And Galbatorix's. And Eragon's."

Roran's chest tightened at the mention of his cousin. With the newness of his dragon and the bond—it wasn't uncomfortable; it felt completely natural and like it completed him, but he also felt vulnerable and barren to this creature that now shared a part of him—he hadn't considered Eragon. How would his cousin react to him being a Rider as well?

Proud, probably. And excited that they now shared something so important…And sad that, for now at least, Roran and his dragon were in the enemy's hands.

But if he really cared, a small voice in the back of his mind argued, wouldn't he have tried to rescue you already and save you agony and torture?

"I see," Roran replied at length, distracted by the accusation in ringing through his head.

Murtagh opened his mouth but seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say. Without another word, he shut the door behind him with a finality that would repel any potential interruption. Roran's hatchling yelped and buried its head into Roran's chest. The new Rider stroked his dragon absently.

"It's okay, little one," he assured it protectively, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself.

A questioning feeling suddenly hit Roran, and it took a moment for him to realize his dragon was asking him something. He breathed out. This was going to take some getting used to no matter how natural it felt. He smiled weakly at the green creature that was watching him with a titled head, his tail flapping expectantly.

"It's okay because we found each other," he told it.

The dragon purred its approval, and Roran was left to wonder where the words had come from; they'd left his mouth before he realized what he was saying. Yet they felt right.

He wondered if moments like this were common for Riders.

As he stroked the dragon's small frame, exhaustion washed over him. The events of the day hit him all at once, and for a moment he felt like he was drowning under the weight of it all.

But his hatchling's presence kept him anchored. His eyelids drooped under sudden weight and he felt the dragon snuggling comfortably against his chest. For a brief moment, things seemed right.

"Roran, are you going to lie about all day?" a gruff voice called through the darkness.

Roran jerked upright in bed. The sun was rising over the Spine—he'd overslept. No wonder his father was yelling at him. He had chores to attend to. He leapt from his bed, pulling a tunic over his head and jumping into his boots in one swift motion. He hopped through the kitchen, tying his boots and grabbing a cooling biscuit from the empty table. By the time he'd left the front door, he had just finished chewing.

"Here I am," he called.

Eragon looked up from the woodpile he was chopping. "Glad you could join us," he joked with a smile.

Roran grinned back. But something in the back of his mind told him that this wasn't right. What was wrong, however, he could not tell.

"Garrow's looking for you," his cousin informed him with a nod of his head toward the shed.

Roran shook his head. "He shouldn't need help back there." Eragon shrugged and Roran turned toward the shed. He paused and looked back at his cousin, something sparking in his mind. "How is Saphira?"

Eragon inclined his head curiously, leaning against his axe. "Saphira?" He frowned thoughtfully. "That name sounds familiar."

Roran frowned. "Your dragon?"

Eragon nearly choked, the sound coming out something between a snort and a laugh. "Dragon? Roran, you know dragons haven't been seen in centuries!" He peered at his cousin. "But aye, that reminds me of where I have heard that name. You've been talking to Brom, haven't you?"

"What? No." But that couldn't be right. Eragon had a dragon. Roran was certain of it.

"Shouldn't you be more worried about Katrina than some imaginary dragon?" Eragon asked seriously. "If you don't act soon, Sloan will promise her to someone else. You know he doesn't like you."

"Sloan likes no one," Roran muttered, but he still felt his stomach clench. Could this be right? He jumped as he felt a firm hand settle on his shoulder. He turned to see his father beaming down at him.

"Are you boys talking about women again?" Garrow asked knowingly.

Eragon blushed before picking his axe up once more. "Not me." He swung at a block of wood. "I'm more interested in a good hunt in the woods, anyway."

"You will not always think that way, Eragon," Garrow told him. "Someday you shall find the right woman." He clapped his son on the shoulder. "Like Roran here."

Roran couldn't help but smile at the thought of Katrina. He remembered their secret meetings to avoid her father's wrath—and butcher's tools—her promise to wait for him, their wedding…

Wait, wedding?

"Well, will you look at that!" Garrow exclaimed suddenly. "It is as if we summoned her ourselves."

Katrina was walking the path up to their home. She held a bundle in her arms. Garrow backed away from Roran to give him space while Eragon dropped the axe and watched her approach curiously. She rarely came to visit his home; rather, they either met halfway or in the village.

"Katrina," he whispered hoarsely. It felt like it had been an eternity since he had last seen his beloved. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered and more. She was perfect. And she was his.

That wasn't right…He hadn't even asked Sloan yet—for he knew what the butcher would say. He had to prove he could support Katrina before he dared propose.

"Good morning, Roran," she greeted. Her voice was the sweetest music on the air. She was a good spirit taken flesh. He loved her so much and could not believe his blessings that she loved him in return.

So why did it seem like he had been neglecting her?

Katrina stopped in front of Roran, the bundle in her arms wriggling underneath the blankets. Roran felt suddenly choked up. Could this be their child? He had been away for a long time; it might have been born already.

Roran blinked before blushing. Child? He was getting far too ahead of himself. They had done nothing more than kiss, and even that was in secret for fear of Sloan. His cheeks burned at the thought. Yet…

"My love," Katrina began, looking into his eyes, "you know I love you more than life itself."

"And I you," Roran told her. Somehow that sentiment seemed particularly important.

"And you know that you complete me. You are everything to me. You are my soul mate," she continued.

"As you are mine," Roran replied, wondering what had brought this about so that it needed to be said in front of his father and cousin. "My heart belongs to you."

She frowned at him, tears forming in her eyes. "Then how do you explain this?" she asked, presenting the bundle.

Suddenly drawn to the pile in his beloved's hands, Roran reached for it, but before he could uncover it, a green head popped out—a green dragon head. The hatchling squeaked excitedly at seeing Roran. He could sense its happiness at seeing him, his confusion at what was going on, and his desire to be held by Roran.

"What is that?" Eragon asked in awe.

"Roran, what—?" Garrow trailed off.

"He is my dragon," Roran whispered. "And I am his Rider."

"He is your soul mate," Katrina accused. "Not me."

Roran bolted upright, Katrina's name on his lips. His heart was pounding and his face covered in sweat. He cast about the room to regain his bearings—the tainted, haunted possessions of Morzan quickly sobered him. He wasn't in Carvahall, his father was dead, Eragon and Saphira were (hopefully) with the Varden, as was Katrina. And Roran…well, he didn't care to think about that.

A questioning feeling, not his own, struck him. He looked down and started at the pair of emerald eyes shining up at him through the dark. The hatchling sat in his lap, looking up at him. Roran couldn't help but smile.

"Hullo, little one," he murmured.

And then it hit him. Katrina. His wife, the mother of his unborn child, was out in the world somewhere. She was probably worried sick about him, faithful to him as always, and here he was, hatching a dragon. He had promised her that only she belonged in his heart, that he loved her above all else as in his dream, but he had broken that promise. His subconscious was reminding him of that failing.

A dragon and Rider connected magically and spiritually. Neither was complete without the other—how Roran had thought he felt about his bride. But now this hatchling had taken over that bond. And Roran knew instinctively that this green dragon would come before all else. He couldn't help but feel violated. This wasn't his choice!

The questioning feeling strengthened. Roran gave the hatchling a wan smile. "Just a dream," he told it.

The hatchling growled in disbelief and Roran shook his head. He knew from Eragon that there were no secrets between dragon and Rider, but watching the newborn creature eye him so deliberately made him understand. He felt the truth of it.

"You're right, I'm not being honest."

A huff.

"I'm worried."

A chirp.

"And unsure."

A purr.

"And guilty."

The hatchling nuzzled against his gedwëy ignasia and a warm tingle shot through his body. Roran suddenly felt comforted and sure. He shivered, wide-eyed.

"Did you do that?" he asked the dragon breathlessly.

The dragon eyed him levelly, an expression far beyond his years—or hours. Yes, the look said. Who else would it be?

"A foolish question," Roran couldn't help but chuckle. "A foolish question from your foolish Rider."

Roran blinked as he realized he had referred to himself as a Rider. The hatchling squeaked happily.

I only hope Katrina can love you as much as I do. And that she will forgive me. If I ever see her again.

Chapter Text

Murtagh paced in front of the fireplace, wincing as he turned; Roran's blade-work had excelled since the birth of his yet unnamed hatchling, and the red Rider bore multiple bruises from Roran's improved skill. He tried not to show his discomfort as not to give his student the satisfaction of knowing he was repaying some of the countless bruises he had received, but he caught Roran smirking to himself. Murtagh clenched his jaw, his wounded pride aching at the sight of the former farmboy turned Rider.

"What are you smiling at?" he snapped. "Have you finally learned something of use?"

Roran immediately sobered, though his hatchling nuzzled his arm supportively from his perch on the table next to his Rider's books. While Roran's physical training might have been successful, his academic endeavors had proven less than stellar. Murtagh, far from a suitable teacher by his own admission, was running out of ideas to make his student understand his letters.

Aren't you being a bit harsh on him? Thorn asked gently, interrupting his Rider's brooding.

Murtagh forced himself to calm down. It's been nearly a week with no progress, he retorted, outside of the few words in the Ancient Language he's managed to memorize.

Roran was only recently a farmboy. He's not used to this, Thorn reasoned, attempting to ease Murtagh's tension.

Neither was Eragon and he seems to be doing well enough, Murtagh muttered bitterly before running a hand over his face. I'm no good at this.

You do as best you can.

But if I don't produce the desired results, Galbatorix will be furious. He shuddered, his blood running cold at the thought. And he shall take out his anger on me, the failed teacher. He had sworn once that he'd do anything to avoid any more escalated violence at the king's hand and had, thus far, managed to keep to that oath.

Only because of Roran's presence, a voice mocked him. The king has been more interested in your cousin's presence than torturing you.

Murtagh shook off the unhelpful thoughts and turned back to Roran, whose blank gaze was on the books in front of him—the books he was unable to decipher for some reason. The new Rider seemed to have a block. The problem facing Murtagh, then, was overcoming it. As someone with scholarly interests of his own, Murtagh had a hard time empathizing with Roran's struggles, making the invention of new tactics difficult.

Murtagh froze in the middle of his pacing. Tactics. Of course! he realized with a jolt. He strode to Roran's side and leaned over the open book in front of the younger man.

"Think of learning letters like a battle," he said.

Roran's attention perked at the comparison. Battle was something he knew, that he could relate to. Battle was something tangible he could study and plan for, using his tactical mind to gauge the odds and determine maneuvers.

"Using language is like executing a battle plan," Murtagh continued once he was sure of his pupil's full attention. "The right maneuvers must be executed in a fight." Roran nodded his understanding. "And when using language, the right words must be used, most especially in the Ancient Language."

"What do you mean?" Roran asked hesitantly, as if nervous Murtagh would snap at him for speaking up. And considering Murtagh's mood for the previous week, such fears were justified.

"Words in the Ancient Language are precise. Using the right word with the wrong nuance can have disastrous results, much less using the wrong word altogether."

Seeing that he was losing Roran once more, he returned to the battle analogy. "Think of speaking a word in the Ancient Language like swinging a sword. The wrong word is the wrong form—a mistake that can be fatal." He waved a finger in Roran's face to make his point. "And if you simply use the right word, the right form, with the wrong nuance, the wrong angle of the swing, you could be cut or possibly killed as well."

Recognition lit up Roran's eyes and Murtagh let out a relieved breath. The new Rider leaned in toward his tutor, interested. "What else?"

"Studying language, then, is like studying tactics and forms—studying your tools and resources before a battle. With magic at your disposal now," Murtagh told Roran, "the Ancient Language becomes your weapon. You cannot perform magic without knowing the words, just like—"

"You can't fight a swordsman empty-handed," Roran finished.

Murtagh nodded. "Precisely." He was pleased to have finally hit on something to motivate Roran—and save both their skins from Galbatorix's displeasure.

"I think I've seen that wrong angle," Roran spoke up suddenly. Murtagh looked at him curiously, but his gaze was faraway. "In the Varden," Murtagh tensed reflexively, "there was a girl that Eragon blessed when she was born. But he got the blessing wrong—or at least the wrong…"

"Nuance," Murtagh finished breathlessly. He could tell this story would not end pleasantly.

Roran nodded, absently stroking his hatchling's back, much to the infant's pleasure. "He wanted to say the child would be shielded from misfortune but instead said she would be a shield from misfortune." He grimaced. "She was…changed."

Murtagh wondered what such an error might create, especially with magic as strong as Eragon's, but dared not ask. Roran looked suddenly guilty for sharing something intimate about the Varden. It didn't matter, Murtagh wanted to tell him. If Roran had knowledge of it, so now did Galbatorix. But he held his tongue, preferring to keep his pupil interested in studying.

"As I give you common words to learn in the Ancient Language," the red Rider said, "we will also study our language because they work much the same. We can build your vocabulary and teach you your letters."

Roran nodded, visibly struggling to pull himself from his reverie; undoubtedly some memory of the Varden had ensnared him.

You can't stay attached, Murtagh wanted to tell him. It will only hurt more later.

"Let's try again, then," he said instead.

Roran turned out to be a quick study once he had reason to care about the topic. Murtagh's analogy seemed to have encouraged him to try harder, and this time the concepts were sticking. Thus, his blade training in the day became more and more advanced while his language studies at night were moving forward quickly as well.

The green hatchling was learning as well. It followed Roran everywhere, shadowing his every action—while seemingly studying them as well. Roran had not said anything about communicating with his hatchling, but Murtagh had no doubts the creature would initiate contact sooner rather than later. There was something special about the final hatchling, but how it was manifested, Murtagh could not place.

One afternoon, a couple of weeks after Roran's breakthrough, the two men sat in the drawing room after a full morning of practice. Having determined there was little else he could teach Roran at this point, Murtagh had set their lessons into lengthy sparring matches. In fact, Murtagh found himself studying Roran's creative maneuvers.

Roran approached battle in a way that a seasoned warrior would never think to due to ingrained study and habit. With no such formality to distract him, Roran attacked from dangerous angles that left him open but surprised his opponent and put him on the defensive. Roran's style, Murtagh decided, was high risk, high reward. He was unconventional and that made him a dangerous force on the battlefield. That would make him a dangerous spellcaster as well. Creativity in spells, as with a blade, often yielded results that an opponent could not counter.

Roran, with his humble and pragmatic nature, might surpass them all if they were not careful.

And that made Murtagh wary.

As the two men sat in the drawing room, only the sounds of turning pages or the hatchling squawking occasionally broke the silence. Murtagh held a rather grim tome in his hands about the bloodiest battles in history prior to the Fall—one of Morzan's preferred volumes, judging by the various handwritten notes in the margins. His thoughts, though, were otherwise engaged by the book of unreadable prophetic runes and his father's notes, both hidden in the bedchamber.

Galbatorix's not-so-veiled comments had been meant to elicit some response, but Murtagh did not understand why. If the king knew about this attempted coup decades before, why leave the notes for Murtagh to find? What new type of psychological torture was he playing at now?

Other than to keep Murtagh distracted from plotting against him.

Unless, Murtagh realized with sudden clarity, the king had not known for sure.

But how could Murtagh be of use in solving the mystery? He had been a toddler when Brom had killed his father, after all. He slumped further into his seat. If Galbatorix was simply enjoying confusing Murtagh, then he must be downright gleeful because Murtagh was clueless—as well as too preoccupied to research true names.

There was some piece, a key to this mystery that he was missing. And for now, the door to the mystery would remain locked. There were moments when Murtagh didn't want to open that lock even if he were to find the key. He was further entrenched in Galbatorix's politics than he'd ever wanted. Going further might only get him killed.

And staying alive was first priority for him and Thorn.

Meanwhile, Roran sat at the table with parchment, books, and a green hatchling surrounding him. His assignment was to attempt to form simple sentences to show Murtagh for correction. He was instead flipping through books in the Ancient Language, Murtagh noted out of the corner of his eye. Roran would scan the pages, eyes lighting up each time he recognized words or phrases. It seemed he had taken to even learning some words on his own now that he had the basic tools to do so. He was a rather impressive student when focused.

"Edoc'sil lif," Roran abruptly said aloud in the Ancient Language.

Murtagh nearly dropped the book from his hands. "What?"

Roran looked up, something indefinable on his face. "That is my dragon's name: Edocsillif."

The dragon in question purred his acceptance of the name.

Murtagh unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. He placed the book on the chair behind him and crossed the room. "Where did you hear those words?"

Roran pointed to the page in front of him. "I read them."

"You read them," Murtagh echoed flatly. Roran shouldn't be able to read such advanced words in the Ancient Language yet. Unless his progress had really increased that much. "Do you know what they mean? To name your dragon…" In your current situation, he added silently as he trailed off.

Roran grinned. "I just knew. I just knew they were right when I saw them."

"Do you know what they mean?" Murtagh repeated, slamming his palms into the table. Galbatorix was not going to be pleased by this.

Roran nodded, though his expression was more serious. "Unconquerable Life."

Murtagh spent the night tossing and turning in his father's bed. He never slept well in it, but tonight he simply could not stop his thoughts from turning to the green hatchling. Edocsillif. When Galbatorix learned the dragon's name—for the creature had accepted it so there was no changing it—he would undoubtedly see it as an act of rebellion.

Galbatorix did not take kindly to rebellion.

Murtagh knew this fact all too well. And he knew what followed would be unpleasant for both himself and Roran. He shivered before berating himself. He was acutely afraid of the pain the king could inflict so followed his orders; what a good servant he made, he thought darkly. It didn't matter who he fought or killed as long as it prevented the king's wrath.

He pictured Eragon's face when they had met for the first time after his capture. The confusion and betrayal on the younger boy's face stirred something within him. And for one instant, he finally understood Eragon's plea to let him kill Murtagh, to save him from his spiraling fate. For a brief moment it made sense and he wished he'd accepted.

Then his oaths of loyalty crashed down, suffocating him with invisible hands around his throat. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His disloyal musings were going to kill him, Murtagh thought desperately. He wanted to flail, to breathe in, to scream, anything…but he was frozen. His throat was on fire and closed off while his mind panicked and the room swam in front of his eyes.

Murtagh! Thorn's alarmed cry rang through his mind.

And the spell was broken.

Murtagh slumped, sweating, deeper into the sheets. He was panting, desperately pulling in life-giving air. He was light-headed and the fear had not quite left his system yet. The new oaths he had sworn since letting Eragon go on the Burning Plains left little room for disloyalty.

Murtagh, what happened? Thorn asked. You suddenly felt terrified.

Murtagh swallowed, the air burning his throat. It seems even momentary disloyal thoughts trigger the oaths.

Thorn growled angrily through the bond. Murtagh could sense the frustration at his helplessness to do anything for his Rider. He smiled fondly at his friend's concern before sitting upright. He needed to get out of this room, this castle. Even if the oaths were no longer physically suffocating him, the weight of his father's presence was doing its best to crush him as well.

The red Rider rose, pulling a tunic over his head. He grabbed Zar'roc out of instinct, attaching it to his belt as he stepped into his boots. Running a hand through his hair, he paused, wondering what exactly he was doing. Then, mind made up, he stole through the antechamber, careful not to wake Roran, though he could feel the green hatchling's sleepy eyes following his muted movements. Edocsillif made no move to wake his Rider, however, much to Murtagh's relief.

With a pale werelight bouncing in his palm, he made his way through the silent corridors of his familial home. He felt as though his ancestors were watching him, judging him as he walked through the haunted halls. But, he decided as he walked into the courtyard, tonight he was not Murtagh Morzansson, red Rider of the Empire and right hand man to the king.

Tonight, he was simply Murtagh, Rider of Thorn—if only for a few hours.

He entered the dragon hold and found Thorn alert and waiting for him. Murtagh smiled at his friend before he realized the expression had reached his lips. His dragon had that calming effect on him. Somehow things seemed manageable when he faced them in Thorn's company.

What is it? Thorn asked as his Rider pulled the saddle down from its hanging on the wall.

Let's go for a ride, Thorn, Murtagh replied. Sleep will not come this night.

Thorn grumbled his agreement as Murtagh set to securing the saddle on his dragon's back. We have not ridden in many moons.

Yes.

Murtagh hoisted himself onto Thorn's back and grasped the reins. Thorn huffed, preferring Murtagh to ride bareback, though understanding that his scales irritated his Rider's more fragile human body. They exited the dragon hold and dragon and Rider, as one, took in a breath of the still night air, savoring it.

Then Thorn beat his wings and took off into flight. The air was intoxicating to Murtagh after his lungs had nearly stopped functioning only a handful of minutes before. He took in deep breaths and reveled in the openness; the manor was so closed and imposing, but the sky was infinite and free. The pale moonlight danced on Thorn's red scales like small flames in a lantern.

Murtagh closed his eyes and leaned his head back to soak up the waxing moon's rays. He imagined they felt cool to the touch, opposite of the sun's warm rays during the opposing day. Thorn flew higher, closer to the moon and stars—to forever. Murtagh opened his eyes and looked at the ground below. The manor was just a speck in the distance.

If only they could fly on forever and never come back to the castle, to the Empire…to Alagaësia even.

Murtagh's throat constricted once more and he hurriedly shoved such thoughts from his mind.

Neither Rider nor dragon felt the need to converse. While flying, their thoughts and feelings were even more in tune than usual. They were closer in spirit and understanding. These were the moments when Murtagh felt like a void in his soul had been filled—Thorn's presence rushed into the gaping hole and filled it with warmth.

Murtagh felt Thorn humming beneath him in contentment. The Rider patted the dragon's side and leaned forward resting his head against the cool, glistening scales on Thorn's neck. He could feel his dragon's pleasure through the bond and had no doubt his own satisfaction mirrored it.

The higher the duo flew, the colder the air became, but Murtagh paid the temperature no mind. His fiery temper from recent events—the anger that had seeped under his skin and had festered through his frustrations—was cooled by the air. As he felt the pent-up anger dissipate from his system, his mind cleared like clouds parting after a storm.

He could face the problems that lay ahead. Together with Thorn, he could face anything. That certainty was what it meant to be a Rider.

Dawn is approaching, Thorn said after what seemed like the blink of an eye. These were the first words either had spoken since leaving the castle.

Aye, Murtagh replied with a heavy sigh, descending from his emotional high. Roran will be expecting our daily sparring session once the sun rises.

Thorn suddenly changed directions, flipping backwards before righting himself and his Rider to fly in the direction of the manor. Murtagh had grabbed the dragon's neck with both arms at the sudden inversion. He thought his stomach might have dropped into his throat, but was right-side up before he realized what had happened. After a moment's consideration, he smirked.

Sloppy.

Thorn snorted, though he was amused. I am out of practice. That's my Rider's fault.

Indeed, Murtagh replied apologetically.

The remainder of the flight was silent as both rider and dragon tried to enjoy the last free moments in the sky. When the manor appeared on the horizon, a knot formed in Murtagh's stomach. Something wasn't right. He just felt it.

Sensing his Rider's sudden agitation, Thorn sped up his pace. The closer to the castle they came, the tighter the knot became. Had something happened while they were away? But what could happen in such a remote location that few knew of or would dare approach?

As Thorn began his descent into the courtyard, Murtagh could make out three figures in the dilapidated quad.

"Oh," Murtagh exhaled warily once he recognized the forms.

Roran, Edocsillif in his arms, stood completely still as if afraid to move without permission from his companion.

Be strong, Murtagh, Thorn encouraged as he set down on the cracked stone, carefully out of reach.

Murtagh dropped from the saddle just as the first rays of sun spilled over the walls and into the dead courtyard. He stayed carefully within Thorn's shadow, reassured by his dragon's proximity. Roran looked relieved to see his cousin, to not be alone in the presence of the third man.

"So glad you could join us, Murtagh," Galbatorix said as Shruikan towered over him.

Chapter Text

"You've returned so soon, Your Majesty?" Murtagh asked in genuine surprise. He hadn't expected the king for several more weeks at the earliest. If he had arrived early, then there must be some external factor forcing him to move. The prospect made Murtagh nervous.

"I said I would return when the time was right," Galbatorix replied. "The time was right."

Murtagh bowed his head, having no response for this. He has something planned, he muttered to Thorn.

No doubt, the dragon agreed.

Galbatorix turned his attention to his other prisoner. "How does your little one fare, Stronghammer?" His voice was far too kind to be genuine.

Roran paled at the direct address. "W-well enough." After a side-glance in Murtagh's direction, he tardily finished his statement with, "Your Highness."

"Is he named?" the king asked.

Murtagh's stomach dropped. Roran would not dare lie—nor should he—and the king would undoubtedly be furious with the answer he received. Murtagh only wondered how much blame, and therefore pain, he would receive as a result.

"Aye," Roran replied more steadily. It seemed his dragon's newfound name was a source of pride and therefore confidence for him. "He is named Edocsillif. Edoc, I call him."

Galbatorix was silent a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then he threw back his head and roared in laughter—or what served as a laugh; it was more of a barking sound.

Murtagh didn't realize what he was hearing at first. When had Galbatorix laughed around him? He smirked quite often and perhaps barked some derisive laughter, but nothing like this.

What is so funny? Thorn asked.

I have no idea, Murtagh answered, bewildered.

After a few moments, the king collected himself. He cleared his throat and leveled a stare on Roran and Edoc. "Unconquerable Life, is it?"

Roran nodded defensively, pulling his hatchling closer to his chest.

"I like it," Galbatorix announced. "I like your spirit, Stronghammer. It will serve the Empire well." The king glanced toward his other Rider before turning back to Roran. "You remind me of your cousins. There is much fire and spirit in your blood." His eyes narrowed. "And I fully intend to utilize it."

"I…do not understand," Roran said slowly, brow furrowed.

"You will." With the flick of one crooked finger, Roran and Edoc were pulled as if by an invisible hand to stand in front of Galbatorix.

Murtagh knew where this was going and had no desire to watch, but his oaths held him in place. Yet a small part of him wanted to see it confirmed—that he had been helpless when forced to swear fealty to a man he hated; that Eragon and the Varden had no right to judge him because he'd had no other choice. Roran's own swearing would somehow demonstrate the power the king had even over the strongest warriors.

How selfish he was.

"Kneel, Stronghammer, Rider of Edocsillif."

Seeing no other choice, Roran did as he was bidden, though the expression on his face was akin to one climbing the gallows. In a way, Murtagh supposed, Roran was. His life would no longer be his own after this.

"You will swear fealty to me," Galbatorix declared. Panic spread across Roran's face and Edoc squeaked in protest of his Rider's sudden discomfort.

"I…"

"In the Ancient Language."

Confusion replaced the panic on Roran's face. "The Ancient Language? But I've only started learning it."

"I have it on good authority you know enough for this purpose, Stronghammer," Galbatorix retorted. His tone indicated that his patience was beginning to wane.

"But—"

Roran's protest was cut off as he was thrown backwards by an unseen force. He cried out in pain, writing on the ground with Edoc still clutched in his arms. The small creatures own cries only added to the agonized cacophony.

Murtagh wanted nothing more than to look away from the unfolding drama, but that pesky selfish part of him was also drawn to it.

This looks familiar, he thought bitterly. Roran's back arched off the ground as his ear-splitting cries cracked through the air. He fell back to the ground and rolled from side to side, unable to shake the internal attack of magic.

And suddenly it was quiet again. Roran, having turned onto his stomach with his elbows propping himself and Edoc off the ground, was panting from exertion but no longer crying out. Edoc had stopped his own wails as well.

How much pain can a hatchling take? Murtagh asked curiously as he watched the small creature. Though Thorn was technically still a young dragon, the Eldunarya had aged him considerably before he had forced them to swear loyalty oaths.

Much, Thorn replied matter-of-factly. Dragons are not nearly so fragile as you humans. Even younglings can withstand pain that would kill a normal human.

I see, Murtagh replied, not rising to his dragon's half-hearted bait. Something still did not make sense, though.

"Now you will swear oaths of fealty to me in the Ancient Language," Galbatorix stated.

Roran pushed himself to a knee with one unsteady hand while the other held his hatchling. He looked up at the king for one brave moment to ask, "But why in the Ancient Language?"

Galbatorix's lip twitched. "Did you not explain it to him, Murtagh? That seems negligent."

Murtagh shrugged. "We never progressed much past memorization of words and simple phrases," he replied. "Such rules do not apply to rote memorization."

Perhaps he should have said something, however, considering Roran's impressive learning curve once the lessons had begun sticking. With two languages to instruct, though, Murtagh had not expected as much progress as Roran seemed to have made in so little time.

"What rules?" Roran asked between wheezes. "Like the 'nuances' you were talking about?"

"Tell him, Murtagh," Galbatorix commanded directly, leaving no room for leaving anything out.

"It is impossible to lie in the Ancient Language," Murtagh told Roran heavily. "To swear an oath is binding—to break that oath means death if you somehow circumvent the language's magic to do so in the first place."

Understanding washed across Roran's face before his features fell. All hope for him—what little he might still have harbored—would be lost with a few choice words in the Ancient Language.

"Is that true?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur'tugal," Murtagh replied. Upon my word as a Rider.

Despite his limited grasp of the tongue, Roran seemed to understand the message. He swallowed fearfully. Another bolt sent Roran tumbling to the ground once more, screaming as he thrashed about. Galbatorix's face was deceptively blank considering the agony he was inducing. Eventually the king relented, undoubtedly wanting his prisoner conscious to swear his oath. He knelt in front of Roran and grabbed his chin, forcing the younger man to look at him.

Murtagh nearly put a hand to his own jaw, vividly remembering the king's vice-like grip. Instead, he balled his hand into a fist and remained otherwise still.

"Do you know what a true name is, Stronghammer?" Galbatorix asked.

Murtagh's chest tightened. He couldn't possibly…

Roran nodded after a moment, unable to speak due to the king's hand clasping his jaw. Eragon must have told him.

"So you know that a person can gain complete control over another were they to know their true name?" Roran nodded. "Even determine life or death should they so choose?" Another nod.

Galbatorix shoved Roran to the concrete and the younger man was thrown back into blinding agony. This pain, Murtagh knew, was far worse than normal physical pain; this was pain of the soul manifested in physical torture. There was no beginning or end, light or dark, hot or cold—only misery.

Once Roran's screaming died out into pained wheezes, Galbatorix grabbed him by the tunic to sit upright. The boy was sweaty and panting. His limbs were practically useless due to their shaking from the pain.

"That knowledge can also cause pain. For you, Stronghammer. And for your dragon."

Roran paled even further and looked down at Edoc; he had dropped the hatchling from his grasp, and the small creature had been squawking and growling at his Rider's pain, helpless.

I know that helpless feeling, Thorn murmured. It is the worst torture to sense your Rider's pain and to be unable to help.

Thorn…

I swore to myself that day that I would always protect you after that, Murtagh. That I would always shield you, the dragon continued. I will protect you so you never have to hurt like that again. And because these oaths don't interfere with Galbatorix's oaths, I can swear.

Murtagh was touched by his dragon's gesture, knowing he would do the same for his soul mate. Such an oath only served to strengthen the bond between Rider and dragon as they were sworn to protect one another by their sheer natures.

But he frowned in confusion at the scene playing out in front of him. He now knew what was off—how had the king learned Roran's and Edoc's true names? He could believe the king discovering his own and Thorn's because their captivity had been directly under Galbatorix's claws in Urû'baen. Ample opportunity presented itself there. But the king had not been present for weeks outside of a few sparse hours.

Galbatorix looked up at Murtagh. "You wonder how I discovered Stronghammer's true name and that of the hatchling."

Momentarily stunned, Murtagh clenched his jaw once he recovered. Get out of my head!

"Then how could I punish your traitorous inclinations, Murtagh?"

Murtagh's eyes widened and his hands nearly shot up to his throat at the memory of his near suffocation hours earlier. "You—"

"Indeed. I was already en route to the manor when your disloyal thoughts caught my attention. Mere musing would not trigger your sworn oaths, of course. But that is still unacceptable." The king smiled grotesquely at his red Rider. He still held Roran by the tunic, but the younger man was lost, trying to follow the conversation with little success.

"Know, Murtagh, that I have not forgotten you in favor of your cousin. Or your brother," Galbatorix added. "This is your lesson as much as Stronghammer's."

"My Lord," Murtagh murmured, bowing his head.

He couldn't bring himself to meet the king's gaze. Ever since the battle with Oromis when Galbatorix had completely taken his body over, Murtagh had harbored fear that the king would retain presence within his mind in order to strike whenever he pleased. It seemed that was not unfounded. Without knowing when the king was looking or what he might be seeing, Murtagh's small rebellions would have to be put on hold—such as the search for the truth of true names.

Murtagh… Thorn trailed off. His tail rustled irritably against the cracked stone.

Not now, Murtagh hissed, thinking of the king's likely continued presence in his mind. Their conversation would have to wait.

Thorn grumbled but understanding flowed through the bond, communicating that dragon held no hard feelings for the situation. Murtagh sent his own gratitude in return.

"But that doesn't answer your question," the king mused. "The simple truth is that true names are something of an interest to me." More than that; an obsession, Murtagh wanted to say, but the king undoubtedly heard his unspoken commentary anyway, so he remained silent. "The more I know of my subject, the easier it becomes to deduce his true name."

"But true names are not just something that can be guessed, Your Majesty," Murtagh protested. Now his argument was purely academic.

"Unless one is an elf."

Murtagh frowned, unsure of where the conversation was going. He followed the king up until the deduction part of his equation. By breaking his victims completely, he gained complete access to every thought, feeling, and secret housed within. He knew everything about Murtagh after breaking—no, shattering—him and later held his true name. His recent breaking of Roran seemed to have produced the same result. But how?

"I don't understand."

"It's so simple, it's beautiful," Galbatorix crowed. "The elves have the ability to decipher true names no matter one's race. It's a part of their magic. So all one needs—"

"Is an elf's magic," Murtagh trailed off in sudden horror. He couldn't have…

"Precisely."

"I missed something," Roran broke in, his voice gruff. He sounded dazed but was mostly coherent. Impressive.

"I obtained an elf's magic for myself," Galbatorix clarified.

"That…Is that possible?" Roran asked foggily.

"You have much to learn of magic, Stronghammer," the king tsked. "Consider this your first lesson."

Tell him, Murtagh, the king commanded silently.

Murtagh pursed his lips but obeyed. "It is possible to drain a magical creature's power from them, but it is highly dangerous dark magic." Magic thought lost, like much else, in the world-shattering Fall. "It's rather like," he paused, "skinning the victim alive."

"F-fatal?" stammered the immobile Rider.

"Slow, painful, beyond comprehension. And yes, fatal. Magic is as much a part of a creature's life as his heart or brain. Remove it and..."

"Death," Galbatorix finished. "But the extractor can consume the magic and it become his."

"You extracted an elf's magic, my Lord?" Murtagh whispered partly in horror and partly in awe.

The power it would take to methodically peel the magic core of such an inherently magical being was unbelievable. The overwhelming power combined with the surgical precision would require a magician unmatched in all of Alagaësia—not to mention the daring required to delve into such dark, tainted magic thought lost. Though insane and evil, Galbatorix was truly a genius spellcaster that Murtagh sometimes couldn't help but admire.

"Correct." Galbatorix smirked. "My mastery is not yet perfect, but with enough information, I can decipher a true name."

That explained Roran, but not Edoc. The dragon was still an infant; how could a hatchling swear allegiance? But the look on the king's face said that there was indeed a way. Of course there was.

"Now, Stronghammer," Galbatorix said, turning back to his captive Rider, "you will repeat the oath in the Ancient Language exactly as I say it, or the consequences will be…unpleasant."

Panic and fear were etched on Roran's face at the thought; he couldn't bear the thought of feeling that pain again. He was just about to the point, like Murtagh, where he would do anything to avoid it. Pain of the soul was a persuasive tool.

"Yes, of course, anything," Roran replied desperately.

Galbatorix nodded. "You will sear to obey me to your dying breath. You will go where I tell you, when I tell you. You will follow my orders exactly, without deviation, even at the cost of your life or your dragon's." When Roran remained silent, the king continued. "Your allegiance is now to the Empire, your fealty to me, the king. Your loyalty will not waver, nor will you attempt to escape. To me and my goals you are now bound. Upon your oath as a Rider."

Roran's eyes had grown large—his grasp on the Ancient Language was not nearly so strong or complex—but the fear of Galbatorix's threat kept him from arguing.

"Now," Galbatorix said, apparently sensing Roran's language deficiency, "repeat after me in the Ancient Language."

And Roran did.

"What exactly are they?" Roran asked, eyeing the group of large pulsating stones on the table. He was sitting on the edge of the futon, Edoc in his lap.

"Eldunarya," Murtagh told him from his seat across the table in the antechamber. "Or Eldunarí singularly."

"What does that mean?"

"They are heart of hearts," the red Rider said heavily. "A dragon's heart of hearts more precisely." He gestured to the half dozen gem-like stones. "Each one of these is the consciousness of a dragon. They removed their heart of hearts while alive—for varying reasons we can only begin to guess at," he added at his cousin's expression. "Now this consciousness is all that remains of them."

"What…why?"

"Why does the king want you to have them?" Murtagh guessed. Roran nodded. "Because of their immense power. Your magic will be strengthened a hundredfold, your body as well. And they will aid Edoc as well."

"How?" Roran seemed genuinely curious, which Murtagh had to admire after the younger man's trying morning. He had recovered most admirably, on the outside at least.

Murtagh paused before answering. "They will aid his magic and strength as well. They will also," he steeled himself against his memories before answering, "cause him to grow at an unnatural rate."

Roran looked down at Edoc in shock. "He'll grow? Quickly?" he practically squeaked.

Murtagh nodded. "And communicate with you sooner."

"How do you kn—" Roran began to ask when recognition lit up his face. "Eragon said after the Burning Plains that your dragon had grown impossibly fast. And that your magic was impossibly powerful for the time you had to master it."

The red Rider closed his eyes a moment to collect himself before opening them again. "Eragon was correct."

"So…you have Eldern—"

"Eldunarya, yes." Murtagh shrugged. "I mostly leave them with Thorn; a friendly, or at least familiar presence, as it were."

"But if they are consciousnesses, shouldn't they communicate?" Roran pressed, eyeing the stones curiously.

Bright boy. This was the learning curve that had proved so formidable in action once again. "They cannot. Or at least, these Eldunarya cannot."

"Why?"

"Galbatorix has spelled them," Murtagh answered darkly. He didn't like the thought of a dragon's consciousness being completely suppressed; he feared the same fate for Thorn someday, once the red Rider and dragon had overstayed their usefulness. He could not bear the idea. Dragons were noble creatures, powerful and wise. So much was lost with them. "Thus, only their magic remains active." Slaves.

"Oh." Roran seemed stumped by that. "So…what do I do with them?" he asked on a different note.

Murtagh shrugged once again. "It's your choice. As I said, I leave mine with Thorn. Perhaps yours should remain with Edoc."

Roran shook his head. "Edoc is always with me."

For now, anyway, Murtagh thought. Until he grows too large to perch on your shoulder.

"Then leave them here for all I care," he snapped, his impatience surprising even himself. He wasn't sure where that had come from.

"Ah, right."

Murtagh rose, deciding he needed some space. He had much to consider after the day's events. Roran looked at him for a moment, a question on his lips that he seemed uncertain in asking. Edoc's quiet humming seemed to prod him into speech despite his concern. "Is it normal…" he trailed off, searching for the right words, "to feel, ah, caged in? After, I mean."

After swearing fealty to an insane king whom you hated, Murtagh filled in silently. He strode toward the door but paused and turned to his cousin. "Yes." He turned back to the door. "I feel it every moment of every day." Of every night as well, but he did not add that detail.

And he left the room, unable to face the captive Eldunarya any longer.

Perhaps Galbatorix's spell was for the best, Murtagh mused dejectedly, so he would not have to hear their objections to how their powers were being abused. His own conscience was trouble enough no matter how often he tried to squash it.

Chapter Text

Standing in front of the quilt his mother had been piecing together on his childhood wall, Murtagh couldn't help but feel like he was drowning. The blue in the quilt reminded him of water, ready to overwhelm the red—his red—at any sign of weakness. And, Murtagh realized, he was just so damn tired that he might not care. But immediately he discarded the thought out of hand. He was never too tired, too overwhelmed, to stop fighting for Thorn.

He put a hesitant finger to the final patch and stroked it gently. Since learning that Eragon was his brother, he had spent many a night trying to imagine what might have been—had Selena remained at the manor with Eragon, had Morzan not died…Well, perhaps not the last part. He had tried to imagine growing up with a younger brother, learning swordsmanship and courtly behavior together, visiting and receiving dignitaries as a brotherly unit, running through the manor halls, laughing, or sitting in the garden with their mother. It had been a good distraction during the most painful times of his captivity.

Learning that Eragon was Brom's son changed everything. The (relatively) happy family he'd dreamed up never could have been. Morzan would have killed Eragon—and possibly Selena; definitely Brom—had he discovered the truth. Even Murtagh's daydream brought too much pain in the end. He clutched his hand into a fist and watched his knuckles turn white.

Finally he released the fist and dropped his tingling hand to his side. He sighed and fell onto his childhood bed. It was much lower than he remembered, though just as comfortable. Murtagh threw his legs over the side of the frame and lay back onto the unused pillow. At least the dust had been removed—he'd requested Conrad tidy up the room for nostalgia's sake—so nothing jumped from bed linens or pillow. He was much taller than he had been the last time he'd used this bed, so he pulled his knees up, allowing his boots to rest on the edge of the mattress.

Putting his hands behind his head, Murtagh stared up at the familiar ceiling; the ceiling he'd long stared at as he wondered when he'd see his mother again or when his father might require his attendance once more.

He couldn't help but think back to his conversation with Galbatorix the morning after Roran had sworn his fealty—sworn his soul away. Conrad had been summoned from the manor to escort Roran back to the bedchamber while Murtagh was left alone with Thorn, Shruikan, and the king.

"And that makes two," Galbatorix murmured as he followed Roran's retreating back with his dark gaze.

Murtagh bowed his head but said nothing. As the situation stood now, there was nothing to be gained from any show of defiance—not that the oaths would allow for much of one, anyway.

"His magic training must begin soon," the king said, eyes still trailing his newest Rider in the distance. "Time grows short."

"The Varden, my Lord?" Murtagh asked when it became clear he was expected to speak.

The king snorted in disdain at the name but nodded. "Rumor is they grow restless with no word of Stronghammer."

Not even Varden spies could make it to this castle, meaning that to the Varden, Roran had vanished.

"His capture was a great setback for them," Murtagh said neutrally.

The shadows of the king and his black dragon were like storm clouds above him, poised to drop a torrent of pain at one wrong move. The hairs on the back of Murtagh's neck stood straight up.

"It was a greater windfall than I could have hoped for," Galbatorix replied, turning to look at his right-hand man. "To have two Riders…" He trailed off before his expression darkened.

Murtagh could feel the storm poised to break at any moment under such a look. Thorn physically tensed behind Murtagh, and the red Rider had to prevent himself from reaching back to comfort—or protect if need be—his dragon.

"Our third will not remain idle much longer."

Murtagh blinked in surprise at the innocuous comment rather than expected furious outbreak. As he felt Thorn relax minutely, Murtagh doubted Eragon and Saphira had been idle since Roran's capture but didn't disagree with his king.

"Eragon will come for Roran," he agreed. Like he came for me, he thought with dark sarcasm before continuing. "They are like brothers."

Galbatorix fixed the red Rider with a knowing glance—Murtagh felt certain the king knew exactly what he was thinking at the moment and took pleasure in it—before speaking.

"When he moves, it must be on my terms."

"Your terms?"

Galbatorix nodded but didn't elaborate. "As such, Stronghammer's magic training must begin immediately. Time is of the essence."

Murtagh was taken aback by the change in topic. He could feel Thorn's suspicion through the bond, which he echoed. If the king wanted to hurry Roran's training, he had something in mind. Murtagh frowned at the mental image of a cowed Roran and his infant hatchling in his mind's eye. They were not ready yet.

Galbatorix noticed the look on his Rider's face. "As his teacher, what is your opinion, Murtagh?"

"Roran is not of sound enough mind to accurately convey spells or control his power. And Edoc is merely a hatchling…" Murtagh replied, trailing off when he realized how his words must sound to the king. He silently berated himself as he waited for the king's reaction.

"The hatchling is no problem," Galbatorix said after a long moment.

Murtagh was unsure of what to say to such a declaration. He settled on, "My Lord," with a bow of his head.

"But perhaps," Galbatorix mused, "both would be served best with some aid."

"Aid?"

"Eldunarya," Galbatorix replied with a smirk. "They will have three days respite with the Eldunarya. I will leave them in your capable hands, Murtagh." The red Rider nodded. "Stronghammer's training will begin in three day's time."

Murtagh sighed. He had not told Roran about the king's decision yet; the younger man's wonder and awe at this Eldunarya in his possession had sapped Murtagh's will to spring further bad news on him. He would have to tell him eventually, he knew. So he could prepare himself.

"Not that I had the time to prepare myself," Murtagh muttered to himself. He couldn't help but feel bitter when he knew his experiences as the king's prisoner had been far worse than anything Roran had dealt with, but it would be Roran whom Eragon and the Varden attempted to rescue.

It was Roran who would tip the balance of the war.

Murtagh jerked awake, nearly toppling out of the bed. He grabbed onto the side of the frame to stabilize himself as he looked around to gain his bearings. He was still in his childhood room and pale sunlight was filtering in through the window. He must have fallen asleep.

He was sweating and having a hard time catching his breath. Murtagh tried to remember what he had been dreaming about, but the memory eluded him. He shook his head as he pushed himself to his feet. The room felt haunted by ghosts of the past. He hated this place.

Murtagh. Thorn's voice interrupted his dark musings.

Thorn.

Is something wrong?

Murtagh snorted. Whatever could be wrong?

I felt your fear and panic, the dragon said, not rising to his Rider's bait, much to Murtagh's annoyance.

It was just a dream, he replied, trying to rein in his sudden irritation. His nerves were completely frayed in this place.

Thorn seemed to sense Murtagh's unwillingness to say more, so changed topics. Have you told Roran yet?

No.

The king will be returning for him, Thorn reminded him exasperatedly. It was sometimes hard to tell who the older partner was.

I know, Murtagh snapped. I'll tell him.

He deserves to hear it from you. You're his family, after all.

Murtagh shut his eyes as a wave of nausea passed over him at the word. Aye. Family.

"There you are."

Murtagh opened his eyes to see Roran standing in the doorway, Edoc in his arms. The green hatchling looked markedly larger than the last time he had seen him. Murtagh recognized the accelerated growth as being from the Eldunarya. It seemed Rider and dragon had bonded with the muted consciousnesses and were now privy to their immense powers—like Murtagh and Galbatorix before him.

"Did you need something?" Murtagh asked, noting that it was barely after dawn.

"Were we not training?" Roran asked uncertainly. Edoc shifted in his Rider's grasp.

Murtagh ran a tired hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Not today."

Roran blinked. "Why not?" He sounded disappointed, much to Murtagh's surprise.

Tell him, Thorn prodded.

I know, he retorted.

"The king wants you rested," Murtagh told his cousin.

Roran's face drained of color. "For what?" he croaked.

"Magic training."

Roran's eyes widened. "No."

"He will return two days from now to begin," Murtagh continued over Roran's weak protest.

"Two days?"

"Aye." He assumed Galbatorix would count the previous day as the first. He was not a patient man when he had apparent plans in motion.

Roran continued to stare at Murtagh. The red Rider shrugged. "Why do you seem surprised? We discussed this."

"Only theoretically," Roran replied. He was squeezing Edoc in his anxious grip, and the hatchling squawked in protest. Roran started and loosened his grip with an apologetic glance for his dragon. "Not about training with Gal—" He seemed unable to complete the name.

"Who else would you train with?" Murtagh demanded.

"You!"

Murtagh opened his mouth but no sound came out. Roran looked almost as surprised to have said it as Murtagh was hearing it. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, neither sure of what to say.

Finally Murtagh swallowed and crossed his arms. "Galbatorix trained me." Memories—nightmares—he would never forget. "It's only natural he would train you."

"I…" Roran was at a loss for words.

"He," Murtagh began, unsure of what he was about to say. "He is planning something. I don't know what," he added at Roran's look, "but it is important. And you are at the center of it." Murtagh let that sink in. "He trusts no one but himself for the important tasks."

And with that, Murtagh was overcome by the urge flee this room, this castle, and his cousin who had unspeakable trouble ahead of him. It was too much for Murtagh; he knew himself too weak to handle it. So he strode from the room and shouldered past his unmoving cousin. When Murtagh turned the corner at the end of the corridor, Roran was still standing in the doorway.

Murtagh lounged, eyes shut, on the bale of hay that had housed Edoc's egg only days before, though it already seemed a lifetime ago. Thorn was making a valiant effort not to obviously watch his Rider. Murtagh could feel ruby eyes on him, but he kept his own shut. He could almost pretend they weren't prisoners in his family manor or in Urû'baen this way. Almost.

Have you given any more thought to changing our true names? Thorn asked suddenly.

Murtagh's eyes flew open in surprise at the question. "What?" he asked aloud, completely caught off-guard. He had been expecting a comment about Roran.

That still seems our best chance at escape, Thorn said. The longing underlying Thorn's tone made Murtagh's heart ache. His partner had never known freedom or any kind of life not serving the king. Murtagh had never considered himself free—either a member of the king's court or on the run—but he had not always been beholden to Galbatorix. He was enduring best he could without thinking of the one most important to him.

He rose and stood in front of his young—so young yet so wise—dragon. He put a hand gently on the red snout. Thorn nudged Murtagh's hand in approval of the gesture.

I'm sorry, my friend. I have not.

Thorn huffed. I know. I only wish—

That I would remember, Murtagh finished. Can you forgive me, Thorn? I've been so selfish, not thinking of your suffering.

You are only human, Murtagh, Thorn said in amusement.

Murtagh chuckled weakly. Too right. Stroking Thorn's snout, the Rider considered his options. With Galbatorix making his presence in the library and in Murtagh's research known, he didn't feel safe delving into the topic here. Not now. Though Morzan's library was quite impressive.

Once Galbatorix collected Roran, there was no telling what he would do with Murtagh. He felt even less secure continuing his research back in Urû'baen, though Galbatorix would likely be distracted…No, too much hinged on chance.

I swear I will not forget, Thorn. Whatever comes, I will learn the truth of what Eragon told us, he said at last.

Thank you, young one.

Murtagh smiled sadly at his friend. Who is the young one? he asked, a question he had repeated countless times.

You may have human years on me, Murtagh, but dragons do not age by that logic. We have the wisdom of our race within us. I—

Am infinitely wiser than me, yes, Murtagh snorted at the familiar argument. It was comforting for some reason.

But I do not hold that against you.

The Rider shook his head fondly. Many thanks, friend.

And the two laughed together for the first time in what seemed like years.

Murtagh and Roran waited in uncomfortable silence in the drawing room two days later. Murtagh sat by the cold fireplace while Roran was seated at a table studying his letters. The days had passed with the two hardly saying a word to one another. Murtagh knew Roran was afraid, but nothing he could say could alleviate those fears. He preferred to remain silent instead. Roran, in turn, had retreated into himself, much like he had been after Galbatorix had entered his mind. All the work Murtagh had done to pull the younger man from that shell seemed to be for nothing.

Meanwhile, Edoc had grown to the size of a large dog and followed Roran around the manor like a pet. The green dragon currently lay curled up at his Rider's feet, watching the two silent humans through slit green eyes. It would only be a matter of time before the dragon began to communicate with Roran at this accelerated growth rate. Roran would need support, Murtagh knew from experience.

The doors opened in a sudden burst and both Riders jumped to their feet. Edoc bared his fangs until Galbatorix strode into the room. The king stopped halfway in. Murtagh bowed his head when Galbatorix looked in his direction and kept his eyes on the carpet until bade otherwise. He could practically feel Roran's trembling from across the room.

"I trust Murtagh informed you of your departure today, Stronghammer," Galbatorix said.

"Y-yes."

"And he informed you of the reason?"

"M-magic training," Roran stuttered.

"Correct. We will be returning to Urû'baen to begin your instruction immediately." When no one spoke, the king continued. "I suggest you pack up anything from here you wish to take along before we depart."

"Yes, sir," Roran agreed hastily, grabbing the books and scrolls in front of him. He took the opportunity to flee the room, his hatchling in tow.

"I will await you in the courtyard in ten minutes, Stronghammer."

"Sir," Roran agreed from over his fleeing shoulder, halfway through the doorway already. He couldn't wait to be out of the king's presence.

Once Roran was gone, Galbatorix turned to Murtagh. "We will depart immediately. His instruction is of the utmost importance, as we discussed."

"And me, my Lord?" Murtagh asked, looking up at the direct address.

Galbatorix eyed him for several moments before speaking. "You will remain here another three days."

"What?" Murtagh exclaimed in surprise before he could stop himself. Of everything he had imagined the king might have in mind, waiting behind had not entered his calculations.

The king raised an eyebrow and Murtagh clamped his mouth shut. No need to further irritate the man.

"After three days, you will travel to our various encampments, making sure to be seen."

Murtagh raised a curious eyebrow at that. "You want the Varden to see me?"

"Precisely."

"And what should I do at these encampments?" Murtagh asked rather than express further surprise. The king was plotting something and these were the first steps to fulfilling that plan.

"Spread the word that Stronghammer's public execution is set for the winter solstice."

"Public execution?" Murtagh marveled. "You intend to draw the Varden out to such an event, then?"

"Very good, Murtagh."

"And on the darkest day of the year," the red Rider murmured. "But that is fewer than two months away. Roran won't be trained by then."

"No," Galbatorix agreed, "but he will be trained enough. I shall see to that." That, Murtagh did not doubt. Galbatorix did not make idle threats or boasts. "That is not your concern."

Murtagh nodded silently, noting the edge in the king's warning. Galbatorix was only so patient with his Rider's outbursts, and his patience grew thin.

"You will also request any troops the commanders can spare," Galbatorix added. "Urû'baen must be well protected if we expect the Varden to visit."

"Yes, my Lord."

"I will expect you back in Urû'baen two weeks before the event. Reach as many encampments as you can in that time."

Murtagh bowed his head once more, accepting his orders.

"When you return, you will not recognize your cousin," Galbatorix commented. Murtagh started when he realized the king had moved to stand directly in front of his without his noticing. He hated the king's stealth. "He will be a Rider suited to serving the Empire."

Galbatorix grabbed Murtagh's chin and forced him to look into his eyes. Murtagh swallowed. This treatment was nothing new, but his senses had dulled during his time in the manor.

"Do not let him surpass you, Murtagh Morzansson," he hissed. "He is a farmboy and you are nobility."

The king's tight grip on Murtagh's face prevented him from forming a reply. Instead, he could only stare at the king, whose black eyes were narrow. Murtagh knew he was imagining it, but he thought he could see black flames raging behind that gaze.

"Do not prove yourself…disposable."

And without another word, the king turned and strode from the room, the unspoken threat hanging heavily on the air. Once his footsteps had died away, Murtagh's knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor. His heart was racing and his hands shaking. He had not sensed so much danger from the king since the day he had failed to capture Eragon on the Burning Plains.

Murtagh stared at the carpet, his whole body trembling. He was kneeling only feet away from the faded blood stain. He swallowed against bile rising in his throat. For a moment, he'd thought his blood might be shed a second time in this room.

He would have to prove himself valuable to survive while keeping his promise to Thorn. Somehow, the king knew he was seeking freedom; why else threaten him so?

Murtagh scrubbed his face through shaky hands. "I may be in over my head."

Chapter Text

Murtagh watched as Shruikan took off from the courtyard. Galbatorix, Roran, and Edoc were perched on the dragon's back. Roran gave Murtagh one final miserable glance as the black dragon rose into the air, his wings flapping heavily. Dirt and small rocks and dead weeds danced about the air, a few particles pelting Murtagh in the face.

Three days before you reveal yourself, Murtagh, Galbatorix's voice interjected into Murtagh's mind as Shruikan flew into the distance.

Murtagh pursed his lips. Right. He did not know why the king was adamant about the timeframe, but he did not intend to go against orders. Nor did he need the reminder, but the king had to assert his dominance once more before departing with his newest pawn.

How he hated the man.

Once Shruikan and his passengers were no longer visible, Murtagh wandered back into the manor where he ran into Conrad the retainer. The older man looked embarrassed to be caught watching, but Murtagh ignored the breach of propriety. He liked the man and was more curious as to why he was still present than affronted.

"Because," Conrad replied in surprise when questioned, "you are still here, my Lord."

"But only for three more days."

"Then I will be summoned back to the capital, undoubtedly," Conrad replied with a slight shrug. He was slowly becoming accustomed to sharing brief conversations with Murtagh, though he would never be completely comfortable doing so due to their stations.

"How will you get there?" Murtagh asked, his curiosity suddenly piqued. "In fact, how did you get here in the first place?" He highly doubted the king had taken the time to fly the skeleton serving staff and their effects prior to the cousins' arrival.

"The staff came on a wagon," was the answer. "The driver is to retrieve us whenever we are summoned back."

Murtagh stared. "But the trip from Urû'baen would take days on a wagon." It was a short flight on dragonback, but flight greatly shortened any trip.

"It was merely part of my job," Conrad replied, rather surprised by his superior's concern.

"I see," the Rider said, a thought occurring to him. "I suppose you will return to the palace?"

"Most likely, Sir. That was where I worked before coming here." Conrad paused. "And if I may say so, I have enjoyed being here—with you and Master Roran."

Murtagh put a hand on the man's shoulder. "You have done admirably, Conrad." The servant beamed. "Now, I will head for the library."

Conrad bowed. "Yes, my Lord."

That was kind, Thorn said as Murtagh moved down the hallway. Almost uncharacteristically, in fact.

He has been most helpful, Murtagh replied, ignoring his dragon's suspicion.

You're plotting something, Thorn accused.

It never hurts to have palace insiders loyal to you above the king, Murtagh said. And it's nice to have a servant who doesn't cower in fear when you pass, he finished as a quiet afterthought.

As he pulled the doors open to the library, Murtagh felt a sudden sense of freedom. He waved a hand to light the torches along the walls. He no longer felt Galbatorix right over his shoulder. The king had a new project to occupy him, which meaning research was open to Murtagh while he remained in the manor.

All the books he could find relating to the mystery of his father's intentions were back in the bedchamber, hidden from Galbatorix's prying eyes, but today Murtagh was concerned about the power of true names. His research thus far had yet to contradict Eragon's statements, but Morzan's library was vast and Murtagh wanted to be completely sure about the matter before taking action. Anything else would be nothing short of suicide. And Murtagh was intent on keeping his promise to Thorn. He would figure the mystery out.

A loud bang jerked Murtagh from his doze. He gripped the arms of his chair only to realize a book had fallen to the floor; the sound of contact had awoken him.

Murtagh rubbed his eyes and checked the title of the fallen book—Rites and Rituals of Naming. It was the book he had been reading before falling asleep. The book had not yielded any information; it was concerned with naming newborn children and naming rituals for religious sect members. Noticing that the fire in the fireplace was a pile of crackling embers, Murtagh wondered how long he had drifted off for. Thorn had gone hunting, so Murtagh had thrown himself into research in hopes of having answers for his friend upon his return.

Books were spread out on the drawing room table in front of him, stacked in piles according to usefulness. Murtagh placed the offending book in the largest pile: Useless.

Morzan owned many books somehow concerned with names and naming—as did Galbatorix—but the topic of true names was not discussed in any depth; or in any depth of new information anyway.

Murtagh sighed and stretched his arms over his head. The small pile of books left to read looked pitiful in comparison with the 'Useless' and 'Mostly useless' piles. Nor did the remaining tomes look particularly promising.

"Thanks for the obscure information, Eragon." He let loose a string of curses in various tongues as he glared at the collected books. "What am I supposed to change, huh? If I'm not so bad, what then? And what about Thorn? It makes no sense." He ran an irritated hand through his hair. "Let's give Murtagh a riddle to solve, but we'll storm Urû'baen to save Roran. That's what will happen, after all." He snorted. "Will Roran be worth a riddle once you learn the truth, brother?" he asked the air.

But he knew the answer already, and so did Galbatorix.

That was what made the king's plan so dangerous. And so perfect.

Murtagh leaned back in his chair and with a murmur of "Brisingr," a small ball of fire danced in his palm. He watched the movements of the flames, wondering how much Roran would be capable of by the solstice. The newest Rider was the linchpin in this war, and the battle on the day of his 'execution' would be a turning point.

That was what Galbatorix had meant when he had told Murtagh that the Varden must move on his terms. Brilliant man; insane, but brilliant.

With a shake of his head, Murtagh tossed the ball of fire toward the fireplace and the remaining wood burst back into flame. He pulled the next book toward him and opened it.

On the eve of his departure, Murtagh summoned Conrad to the drawing room. Murtagh had spent the majority of his time in the room, studying the books on names—still no new information to contradict Eragon, but nothing new to support him either—and eventually Morzan's books he had found in the library that fateful day. He found nothing new there either. He felt fairly certain he was overlooking something important but couldn't put his finger on it.

"You summoned me, Lord Murtagh?" Conrad asked with a respectful bow.

Murtagh held out a sealed letter to him. "Take this."

Conrad did so, eyeing the snake seal oddly. He likely recognized it. Murtagh had uncovered his father's personal seal in a search of the room and had decided to put it to good use.

"What is it, if I may ask?"

"As you know, Thorn and I will depart tomorrow. We will travel to various military encampments before returning to the capital," Murtagh told him.

"And my staff and I are to travel back to the capital," Conrad said, still eyeing the letter curiously.

"Present this letter to the king upon your arrival."

"Sir?"

Murtagh smiled. "It's a letter requesting that you continue serving Roran and myself, once I've returned to Urû'baen. Roran, of course, is already there." And dealing with things Murtagh didn't care to dwell on.

Conrad's eyes widened. "Will the king…?" He trailed off.

Murtagh nodded, both to the unfinished question and in approval of the man not asking the reason for the request. He was a good man and would make a valuable asset in the castle where Murtagh had been alone before. "I believe he will acquiesce, yes."

Galbatorix would find the request curious and would want to know what Murtagh was up to. Therefore, Murtagh was certain, he would let things play out. He enjoyed games such as these. People, after all, were his favorite game pieces.

In reading through his father's scant notes, Murtagh had seen that Morzan had come to the same conclusion about the king and had played the dangerous games as well. It was no wonder Galbatorix was keen on playing with Murtagh then; he represented the next generation of his games with his friend. It had also made Murtagh realize that the time he spent in the palace as a child after Morzan's death had been training him for the king's games—the games he had run away from and had gotten Tornac killed. A fresh wave of grief passed over Murtagh at the memory, but he immediately shoved it down.

"Thank you, my Lord," Conrad said with a deep bow.

Murtagh nodded, ignoring the part of his mind laughing at the fact the servant was thanking him for using him in a dangerous game. He preferred not to think about it like that, especially since he rather liked the man. But that didn't change his current need.

"Look after Roran until I return."

"Of course."

"Good." Someone was going to need to, Murtagh was sure.

The sun was barely over the horizon when Murtagh strapped his bags onto Thorn's saddle. The dragon had returned the night before with a full belly and in surprisingly good spirits. He hadn't had a good hunt in a long time. There was simply not enough slack on Galbatorix's leash to allow for it.

Where to first? Thorn asked as Murtagh tightened the straps on the saddle on his dragon's back.

We will hit the encampments closest to Urû'baen first, he replied. That way the news will spread into the city itself faster. The king had probably already made arrangements to spread rumors with plans for an official statement, but telling the soldiers in person would solidify those rumors. Once it reached the city, the news would take on a life of its own.

How much ground will we be able to cover in less than two months?

Murtagh adjusted Zar'roc under his heavy traveling cloak. His breath condensed in the crisp air in front of his nose. The weather will only continue to worsen; snow is not far off. Even to the south the temperatures will drop, he replied. Our pace will have to slow with the weather, so not likely as much as we—well, the king—would like.

Murtagh pulled himself into the saddle. Once we've covered the area near the city, we should head south and work our way north. It will take longer for any southern troops to make it to Urû'baen.

And maximum exposure that way, Thorn inferred.

Murtagh nodded, though the dragon couldn't see it. The Varden is to the south. And the king wants them to sight us. So I'll give them a show.

The thought gave him a measure of vindictive pleasure; being able to finally do something was refreshing. And the prospect of slapping the Varden—the ones who had scorned him for his father's sins then, after he had fought for them, had left him in the king's hands—in the face was too much to pass up.

As Thorn took off from the dragon hold, Murtagh relished the feel of his stomach leaping into his throat at the change in altitude. It was a feeling he had come to associate with riding—and therefore freedom. He peered back at his family home as it shrunk into the distance.

"Good riddance," he muttered. Simply being out of the confining walls felt liberating, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders—the burden of Morzan. He might be Morzan's legacy, but at least he would no longer be haunted by the man's ghost as well.

The manor belongs to you now, Thorn pointed out.

I don't want it, Murtagh snapped. I had hoped never to return before being summoned here.

You also didn't own it, then.

Murtagh shrugged uncomfortably. Galbatorix had something in mind when he gave it to me—not that it should have been his to give in the first place. And I don't know how long he spent there before summoning us, either.

You think…

I think he set up some sort of surveillance, yes.

Then what about the research you've been doing since he left?

He's undoubtedly been too occupied with Roran's training to pay any attention to me. No, I think he intends for me to use it in the future and monitor me—and my loyalty—from afar, Murtagh told his dragon. He had the sudden impression that a similar arrangement might have existed during Morzan's life. A shiver ran down his spine at the implications.

The two fell into silence as they both savored the feel of flight. There was never a time that dragon and Rider were closer in spirit than when they were in the air. And the king's chores had kept them from flying as much as they would have liked.

How will we spread the news of the fake execution? Thorn asked after a time.

Galbatorix made arrangements, Murtagh told his dragon. I will have to pick up posters from a local craftsman outside of the capital.

Posters?

Made by the same printers who make his wanted posters, Murtagh supplied. He had spread a number of those in his service to the king as well, so this was nothing short of routine for him.

I see, Thorn said thoughtfully.

Galbatorix has been plotting this for a time now, since he's had posters made, Murtagh mused to break the silence,

Even with a printing press?

Murtagh shrugged. It still takes time to print stacks of posters to a last month-and-a-half trip.

True, the dragon agreed. He is a meticulous man.

That he is, the Rider agreed with a nod.

"Well, isn't this interesting," Galbatorix said as he read the note Murtagh had sent with one of the servants from the manor. "What could he be up to?"

Naturally he received no reply from the silent throne room. A handful of guards were stationed at the entrance, and only the servants who had just returned from Morzan's manor kneeled in front of him—and they were too terrified to respond unless directly spoken to. As they should be.

When the head servant—Conrad, the king believed his name was—had presented the envelope with the familiar snake seal, Galbatorix had been unsure of what to think. It was a surprise to see Morzan's seal once again after nearly two decades, but once he determined that it was a message from Murtagh, he had been intrigued.

My king, the letter had read.

The man who carries this letter has proven himself a valuable servant during our time at my familial home. He came to know my and Stronghammer's needs and tastes intimately.

Rather than waste his talents, I request you assign him to Stronghammer's care and my charge upon my return to Urû'baen. Finding good help is, as I'm sure your Highness is well aware, nothing short of a trial.

It would be much simpler to assign a staff who knows our needs well already rather than attempt to train new servants. I hope my Lord will grant me this small favor.

Your loyal Rider,

Murtagh

Galbatorix snorted at the signature line as he read the note once more. Murtagh was no more loyal to him than his bastard brother. He simply had no choice. His stubborn, cynical temperament was much like his father's. He could easily picture Morzan's name scrawled under such a note. As much as Murtagh rejected his lineage, he was more an heir to his bloodline than he could ever know. If only the traitorous Selena hadn't diluted the strength of Morzan's blood.

The king crumpled the note in his fist in anger before remembering where he was. The matter of the servant had requested. He smiled. Morzan's son was plotting something, just as his father had been so good at doing. The king enjoyed a good game; Murtagh was currently his most skilled opponent, so he enjoyed any opportunity to play. Good challengers were few and far between, and Morzan's son had been training in its ways since childhood. Yes, he was intrigued.

"Murtagh has requested that you—your staff too, I suppose—be assigned to Roran Stronghammer's care. And to Murtagh upon his return."

The servant swallowed and nodded. Murtagh must have told him as much. Interesting.

"I will grant his request." The small group of men and women sighed in relief. They seemed to like the two younger men, then. Hm. "As of this moment, you are to serve Roran Stronghammer and Murtagh Morzansson above all others, excepting myself."

"Your Highness," the head servant acknowledged, deepening his bow.

"You will find Stronghammer in the same wing as Murtagh's chambers. I trust you know the place."

"Yes, my Lord."

The servants knew the area as a place to avoid out of fear of the red Rider. Little did most know that he was the tamest master in the palace. That part of his character—Selena's influence no doubt—did not translate to his reputation. All the better.

As the small group of servants bowed their way from the throne room, Galbatorix uncrumpled Murtagh's note and read it over once again. His smile widened. Yes, this might be the most interesting round of their game yet.

Murtagh sat huddled under his traveling cloak, shivering against the cold. The breeze coming from the inlet of water to the west made the air moist on top of cold, compounding the Rider's discomfort; though he and Thorn had flown south for several days to reach Feinster, the cold had persisted.

The Rider glanced up at the predawn sky, noting the remaining stars winking above him. He had received solid intelligence from the Empire camps closest to Urû'baen that the Varden had chosen to remain entrenched at Feinster since their victory. There had been no indication that any of the leaders, Eragon included, had left the city since Roran's capture. None of the commanders he had talked to had known what to make of such a move, or lack thereof, but all were certain on their intelligence on the matter.

So, to follow the king's directive to be seen by the Varden, the red Rider and dragon had flown south to the outskirts of the city. Under cover of night, they had found an unobtrusive copse to camp in for the night on the west side of the walls. Murtagh shivered once more; he hadn't dared make a fire for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

He and Thorn had remained silent for much of the night. Murtagh was contemplating the fact that he had left his still-damaged cousin and an infant, though fast-growing, dragon in the hands of Galbatorix while his brother—half-brother—and the woman he cared for were just beyond the visible city walls. So close and yet much too far…

Thorn had sensed Murtagh's desire to brood so had let him be; he had also wanted to avoid doing anything that might alert Saphira to his presence. Neither Murtagh nor Thorn was sure what might do so, what bit of magic from their connection might serve as an alarm. Thus, the night had remained cold and silent.

As the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, Murtagh pushed himself to his feet. His limbs were stiff as he made his way to his bags and Thorn's discarded saddle. The ruby dragon watched him.

Are you certain about this plan? he asked.

We only need to be seen—and spread the news, Murtagh replied. Sunrise will be when the fewest soldiers are about and alert.

So we won't be fired upon.

By the time they think to do so, we will be long gone. Your scales will blend perfectly into the sunrise, so they couldn't fire even if they wanted, Murtagh said, securing the saddle on Thorn's back.

And if Eragon and Brightscales are about?

Murtagh held up one of the posters he was to spread over the city. The news will thoroughly distract them, I think.

And if it doesn't?

We keep flying. Galbatorix doesn't want a battle here. And neither do we, he added to himself.

Thorn huffed. I suppose it is the best plan, he admitted.

Murtagh patted the dragon's neck as he swung into the saddle. If it helps, I don't much like it either.

Oh yes, very helpful, Thorn snorted, smoke trickling from his twitching snout.

Murtagh chuckled fondly at his friend before squaring himself. He watched the sun rise a few moments longer before giving Thorn the signal to take off. Murtagh held his breath as they flew east toward the city.

Nasuada stared up at the ceiling, unable to still her thoughts long enough to find any rest. She felt trapped behind the city walls, unable to move her men or make any sort of play. Since Oromis' death and Roran's capture, the war had ground to virtual standstill. She could not muster enough support from the council to act on any of the plans she, Eragon, and Arya had worked on in the interim. Instead, there was much indecision and talk about the war, but no action.

And Nasuada hated being idle.

Finally, the leader of the Varden gave up on trying to get any sleep. Dawn was near anyway, and soon the city would pick up in activity. Throwing a heavy coat over her shoulders, Nasuada left the bedchamber. Her two guards fell in step behind her, ever-alert for any potential trouble. Not that they were likely to have any here or now, considering how quiet the entire war had been for months. Even her spies in the capital were quiet; it was as if nothing was happening at all. But with a high-ranking Varden commander in the Empire's hands, something had to be going on.

Neither she nor Eragon held any illusions about what Roran would face in Galbatorix's hands. Eragon had been ready to fly directly to Urû'baen and fight the entire Empire single-handedly to get his cousin back upon learning of his capture, but the combined efforts of Nasuada, Arya, and Saphira had eventually talked him down. He was still itching for action, though, especially as time dragged on with no progress or news.

The only solace they had was in knowing that Roran must be alive; Galbatorix would make Roran's death public knowledge, if not a public spectacle. Whether that was best for Roran was another story they tried not to dwell on.

As Nasuada stepped out into the predawn morning, she gestured for her guards to remain at the entrance to the battlements. She wanted some time to think on her own. She shivered against the chill. Winter was fast approaching, meaning the Varden would have to settle in and ride out the cold, harsh weather. And if she couldn't garner enough support to make any move at all, then Galbatorix would have all winter to plot their demise while the Varden argued pointlessly into springtime.

Stopping to put her hands on the battlements as the first rays of sunlight appeared, Nasuada groaned as she thought back to the most recent meeting of the council and how stubborn people could be. She hated that she had to take her decisions through these men, but that was how the group had functioned since before her father's time. They had thought to control her behind the scenes but Eragon's decision to swear fealty to her rather than the Varden had prevented that. But now they were slowly wresting control from her hands on the basis of majority rule. Why these cowardly men bothered joining the resistance, Nasuada would never know.

"We've already lost Oromis and Stronghammer. If we lose Eragon too, we'll be done!" one councilman exclaimed.

"They were our biggest symbols against the Empire besides Shadeslayer," another agreed.

Nasusada slammed her hand on the head of the table, startling several of the gathered men. She never failed to notice that she was the only woman present without Arya. But, she noted wryly, she was also the only one present with a warrior's stomach for what had to be done.

"Eragon is not just a symbol," she said. "He is a warrior." She looked around the table before continuing. "He is our best warrior—we cannot keep him from battle. Unless one of you plans to fight both Murtagh and Galbatorix?"

Several councilmen averted their gazes from hers. "I didn't think so. How can we fight this war with our best warrior grounded?"

"The elves are still reeling from the loss of Oromis. We should not fight until we are guaranteed their full support," another spoke up.

"And we have heard nothing of Stronghammer since his capture. What if he pulls a Murtagh?"

Nasuada's chest tightened and she pursed her lips. Even after all this time, the thought still gave her pain. Taking a calming breath, she set her shoulders. "Then that's even more reason to fight—to let Eragon and Saphira fight."

"If we lose him, the war is done."

Nasuada's eyes narrowed. "The Varden was fighting this war long before Eragon joined us," she said lowly. "My father led the Varden to many victories without the aid of a Rider. And before that, the Varden fought even when Morzan and the other Forsworn lived. Many of you should remember that."

Looking around the room, she continued: "As long as Galbatorix and the Empire seek to rule us unjustly, we will fight. The odds are irrelevant. Our choice to stand against tyranny is what matters. Yes, losing Oromis and Roran has hurt us. But so long as we have Eragon, we must not be afraid to let him fight. He is a Rider and is meant to fly, not sit idly by on the ground!"

Unfortunately, her words had fallen on deaf ears, just as the same sentiments had done for the months previous, whether from her, Arya, Orik, or Eragon himself. Nasuada balled her hands into fists. She was supposed to be leading this rebellion, but if her own followers would not come to a consensus, she could not in good conscience—for that was what separated them from their enemies—make a move. The Varden was not unilateral, no matter how much easier than might make her job.

Sighing, Nasuada watched as the early sunlight spilled over the horizon. The sky was turning brilliant pinks, oranges, and reds as the final stars winked out of existence. She let out a soft whistle at the beauty, her breath forming a cloud in front of her face. And that was when she heard the commotion behind her.

She spun around, reaching for a weapon that was not at her waist, only to see posters raining down from the sky. It took her a moment to register what she was seeing. Papers littered the ground below her for anyone to pick up. The few people that were about had one in their hands and were pointing at the words or at the sky, their words combining in an unintelligible cacophony. As a poster floated down in front of her, she grabbed it without reading the words. Her gaze jerked to the sky and her breath caught.

She turned as the red dragon flew directly above her. For a moment, her eyes made contact with Murtagh's. His gray eyes widened in surprise. In that moment, every feeling and memory of their time together in Farthen Dur came rushing back with such force that her knees nearly gave out. She grasped the battlement in support as she felt her heart hammering in her throat. Dear spirits, she still cared for him. As Thorn passed over the eastern battlements, Murtagh twisted in his saddle to keep the eye contact.

Nasuada noticed the conflict in the red Rider's face as they looked at each other—surprise, worry, hope, frustration, and even longing—before he vanished into the rising run.

Murtagh's sudden appearance and subsequent disappearance left Nasuada feeling dizzy. Had that really just happened? She was still trying to catch her breath when her guards ran up to her side. Only moments had passed but it felt like much longer—yet not long enough.

"M'lady, should we prepare for battle?"

"What?" she demanded, collecting herself.

"That was Murtagh."

"I noticed," she snorted. Oh, how she had noticed.

"Surely the Empire must be on his heels!"

Nasuada shook her head. "No, I don't think so. If he wanted to attack, this was the perfect opportunity. He could have killed me before anyone realized he was here."

But he hadn't. He'd merely looked at her…And abruptly hope rekindled in Nasuada's breast. In the time she had spent with him, she had learned to read many of his expressions; his introverted nature had made it necessary, especially until he had opened up to her. And she recognized something in that brief, intense look.

He still cares…But she could scarcely dare believe, dare hope.

"Then what was he doing?"

"Aside from showing himself for the first time in months?" she asked, suddenly remembering the poster in her hand.

She had crushed it as she had grabbed the battlement. She carefully uncrinkled it before reading the words. It took several tries before the words made any sense to her confused mind.

"Dear spirits," she whispered. "Roran." She turned to her guards. "Get Eragon. Now."

Chapter Text

Murtagh was frozen in the saddle as Thorn continued eastward. He kept looking back toward the city until it was nothing but a speck. His heart hammered in his chest harder than a dwarf at a hot forge. Though he had known Eragon and Nasuada were in the city, he hadn't expected either to be about at first light. Even so, he had seen Eragon, fought him multiple times, since switching sides.

But he hadn't laid eyes on her.

The Rider swallowed as he righted himself. He'd been able to push his feelings for Nasuada from his mind without any reminders of her—of her beauty and elegance. Even the king's occasional pointed comment could be brushed aside like that. She was the leader of the Varden and he was Galbatorix's right-hand man. Anything that might have been was lost. He had accepted that.

Or so he thought.

He had been so startled to see her standing on the battlements in the glow of the early sun that his much-prized control had slipped completely. If anything, she looked more beautiful than the last time he had seen her; leading the Varden had hardened her, but it had also straightened her posture and given her an air of authority. As one trained to spot commanders on a battlefield, he had picked her out immediately.

And then their eyes had met. Every feeling he'd tried to squash as not to give himself false hope or the king further ammunition had rushed to the surface, overwhelming all else. Even Thorn had felt it through the bond. But Murtagh's eyes had been only for her. Dear spirits, he couldn't help but falling for this woman all over again.

He saw the shock flash across Nasuada's face. But he could also see the familiar twinkle in her eyes that had appeared every time he had opened the door to admit her to his "cell" in Farthen Dur. And he saw a flicker of hope, of pleading, in her eyes—something that caused his own hope to reawaken after a long hibernation.

Could it be possible that after everything that had happened, that he had done, that she might still care for him? Could he even dare hope that was true?

He didn't deserve it, but Murtagh could be a selfish man.

Murtagh, Thorn said, pulling the Rider from his reverie. The dragon didn't seem to know what to say next, however. Confusion and anxiety passed through the bond.

I apologize, the Rider replied.

Don't, the dragon said. You are suddenly more determined. I can sense it.

Murtagh considered that and supposed it was true. If Nasuada still cared, then perhaps he still had a chance. He had a reason to fight the king, perhaps even a place to go after escaping. But Thorn clearly wasn't convinced that the change was entirely good.

I suppose I am.

That was Nasuada? The Varden leader? Thorn had never seen her except through Murtagh's fond memories.

Aye. Murtagh felt a smile creeping onto his lips before he could stop it. It was a good thing only Thorn could see him.

I see. Thorn fell into silence as the duo flew on.

Murtagh was so lost in thought, he barely noticed the hours passing in silence. He nearly fell from the saddle in surprise when Thorn finally spoke up.

The sun is setting. We should land.

Once Murtagh had regained his wits, he blinked at the fading sunlight. The sun set earlier in the day as winter approached, but he was still nonplussed when he turned to see the sun sinking behind them. When had that happened?

Aye, I suppose we should. He glanced around, immediately recognizing the terrain. We should come across the Jiet River soon. We can camp under cover there.

Thorn grunted in agreement. Once the milky river came into view, he descended, landing amidst a small outcropping of trees on the banks of the river. Murtagh slid from his dragon's back, pausing only to remove the saddle. After casting a few unspoken spells to make sure the area was free of human life, the Rider walked over to the riverbank. The air was cool to his skin, even in the cold of the season.

Murtagh kneeled down next to the river and froze. Nasuada's face appeared in the water. His breath caught in his throat, and Murtagh shook his head. When he looked down again, he saw himself—and Thorn towering over him from behind. He exhaled heavily.

"The cool air causes the water to reflect colors and images," he said aloud in realization of what the vision had been. He had led the Empire's troops along this very river toward Surda prior to the Battle of the Burning Plains so was familiar with its unique features.

Are you alright? Thorn asked carefully.

I thought I saw something, Murtagh replied simply. It was merely an illusion. He had been thinking on the morning's momentary exchange all day, so it was no surprise Nasuada's face would appear. Murtagh berated himself for being so distracted. That could easily get him or his dragon killed. The thought was sobering.

Ah, right then, Thorn said, stepping around his Rider to drink from the river.

Murtagh frowned at his friend as he splashed some water on his face before pushing himself to his feet. Shall I risk a fire tonight? he asked as he turned for the tree cover to set up camp.

If you wish. Thorn hadn't even paused in his drinking.

Shaking his head, Murtagh proceeded to gather a small bushel of twigs and logs to build a fire. He had yet to warm up since the previous night, and tonight promised to be just as chilly. It was going to be a long several more weeks at this rate. He settled his back against a tree where he had a view of the riverbank but enough tree cover as not to be easily seen. He lit the collected wood with a wave of his hand and murmur of "Brisingr."

The warmth was heavenly against his weary, stiff muscles. He sighed in contentment as he warmed his hands. Thorn rumbled up across from him, flopping down in the small clearing they had landed in. He curled up rather like a cat, the crackling flames reflecting eerily in his ruby eyes. Murtagh was mesmerized by the sight.

Once darkness had descended completely, Murtagh pulled out some food from his pack. Thorn watched silently, not interested in the meager amount of bread or dried meat his Rider had. As Murtagh chewed on his meal, he inclined his head toward his dragon curiously.

Are you going to tell me why you're pouting or do I have to guess? he asked lightly.

Thorn snorted. Dragons don't pout.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. Then what have you been doing all day?

Brooding.

The Rider choked on his jerky. Are you telling jokes now?

Thorn bared a couple of fangs. It's been known to happen on rare occasions.

Murtagh shook his head in amazement before turning serious once more.

You're still avoiding my question. What's bothering you? He'd hardly noticed his dragon's silence for the entire day's flight, caught up as he was in his own thoughts. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had assumed Thorn was simply giving him time to think. But, he knew instinctively, that wasn't it.

Discomfort flowed through the bond, so Murtagh knew he was onto something. Thorn continued to watch the dancing flames rather than look at his inquisitive Rider.

The dark-skinned human, Thorn said at length. The female.

Nasuada? Murtagh supplied with a raised eyebrow, knowing full well that Thorn knew her name. He simply hadn't wanted to use it for some reason.

Thorn huffed a small cloud of smoke from his nostrils. The uneasiness across the bond increased, indicating that this was indeed the root of his problem. Murtagh frowned in confusion before realization hit him.

Thorn was jealous.

The dragon had known that Murtagh had cared for her in the past, but by the time he had hatched, Murtagh had long-since given up on any hope in that direction. She was an abstract as far as he was concerned. But seeing her today had reawakened some of those feelings and that made the dragon insecure.

You are most important in my life, Thorn, Murtagh told his dragon. It felt strange to say, but his friend needed to hear it. Thorn was different, anyway; he knew all of Murtagh's feelings, for good or ill. There was nothing to hide from him—his partner, his best friend, his soul mate.

Am I? Thorn suddenly sounded so young and uncertain. He had grown so much, both in size and wisdom, due to the Eldunarya's influence that even Murtagh sometimes forgot how young the dragon really was.

Murtagh rose and moved to Thorn's side. He placed a hand on the red snout and, guided by Rider instinct, willed Thorn to see how important he was to him. Images of Thorn's hatching, Murtagh's imprisonment and hellish training, lonely nights and days together, memories of flying, of simply being together all flooded from Murtagh's mind's eye through the bond.

You saved me, Murtagh told him, remembering how broken and defeated he was prior to Thorn hatching. Those memories jumped to the forefront for both Rider and dragon; understanding and affection suddenly poured into Murtagh, warming him more than the fire ever could.

And you freed me, Thorn replied.

Impressions of claustrophobia, darkness, loneliness, and waiting popped into Murtagh's mind. He blinked, realizing these were Thorn's memories from before his hatching. He felt the spark of recognition and acceptance, of understanding and magnetism that must have occurred when Murtagh had touched the egg. The connection was unmistakable. But most of all, he felt the joy Thorn had felt at finding a Rider.

Murtagh slid to the ground, his back against his dragon. Oh, was all he could manage.

You are most important to me as well, Murtagh. I can't bear to lose you, Thorn told him.

And Murtagh knew he didn't mean just to death. You won't. Murtagh shrugged self-consciously. What we have it deeper, different from anything I feel for anyone else. It's ancient. And it's ours alone.

And Nasuada? Ah, he was using her name again.

I care for her, Murtagh admitted. Dear spirits, help me, he added silently. For so much of my life, I thought no one loved me. So few…He trailed off, thinking of his mother and Tornac. He swallowed. Images of Eragon and Nasuada replaced those of Selena and his mentor.

But after running away, I found it unexpectedly. When I was brought back to Urû'baen, I thought it gone forever—that all I would ever get of love was a taste. And I came to accept that.

He considered Roran and the expression on Nasuada's face. But this morning I realized that, against all odds, there might be another way. I may be a damned fool for even daring to hope, but I've been called stubborn all my life.

For good reason, Thorn interjected.

Murtagh smiled lightly. Of course. He shrugged, leaning his head back against his dragon's side and looking up at the twinkling stars through the trees. There was something empowering about being out in the open, beneath the stars, and among nature. It gave Murtagh the courage to say what he had on his mind. Galbatorix has been preying on my hope, delighting in destroying it for so long that I forgot what it was like to feel it. And I refuse to give up on it this time.

But what if he finds out? You can't keep him from your mind. The oaths…

Murtagh felt as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. The king would use the fact that a link between his right-hand man and the Varden's leader still existed to dangerous effect. He wouldn't simply order Murtagh to kill Nasuada; no, that would be too easy, too merciful and quick. Only Murtagh's resignation to any future being destroyed had saved him from the king acting on the previous affection. But for him to realize it still existed…

No, Murtagh wasn't going to give up that easily. No one had ever accused him of taking the easy road in his life. Galbatorix may be able to enter my mind whenever he pleases, but if he has no reason to poke around, he doesn't have to find out, Murtagh said, determined. I've managed to keep my research a secret when he's been in my mind thus far. This will be much the same.

That's a dangerous game, Murtagh, Thorn admonished.

Murtagh's smile was dark. Danger and I are no strangers.

As the walls of Urû'baen became distinct on the horizon, Murtagh smiled humorlessly. No place like home, eh?

Thorn snorted but did not reply.

The only change to the city in the month and a half that they had been gone that Murtagh noticed was the layer of snow blanketing buildings and surrounding landscape. He had not been sorry to be gone from the capital for the extended period the king had ordered, but he did worry about the man and the dragon he had left behind.

With Roran's impressive learning curve, unique approach to battle, and Eldunarya to supplement his strength and dragon's growth, there was no doubt he would make an impressive Rider. And under the king's unforgiving tutelage, Roran was likely to have developed his magic at a rapid pace. Murtagh wondered where his cousin's mindset would be after all the time alone with Galbatorix. Murtagh hadn't handled his own time in Roran's shoes well, so only hoped the younger man's will was stronger than his had been.

There were two weeks before the solstice and the fake execution, and rumors had spread around the various encampments Murtagh had visited about the sudden activity among the Varden. No one was certain how, but they would act without a doubt. Just as the king had planned.

Flying over the walls, Murtagh noticed a winding stream of soldiers filing through the city gates. He didn't notice the unit name or number, but he assumed it must be one of the divisions he had recruited in the king's name. He wondered how many soldiers had already arrived and how many more would make it before the battle. Surely enough to outnumber the rebel forces significantly. And that did not take into account Galbatorix's special soldiers he reserved for such occasions.

The Varden—Eragon, Nasuada, Arya, and Orik at least—would recognize the obvious trap. And they had over a month to plan for it. Murtagh wondered what such tactical minds might come up with, especially without Roran's penchant for coming up with the completely unexpected.

As Thorn touched down in the castle courtyard, servants streamed toward them like ants from a collapsed hill. Murtagh sighed. It was time to face the king. He dismounted from Thorn's back and was surprised to see Conrad leading the greeting party. He nodded at the man, pleased to see that the king had decided to play along in this new game as he had hoped.

"Welcome back, m'Lord," Conrad said with a formal bow. "His Majesty is expecting you in the throne room."

Murtagh nodded. "Right."

Conrad signaled for his back-up to escort Thorn to the dragon hold. Murtagh offered the reigns with no objection. He knew what he had to do.

Good luck, Thorn said as he was led away from his Rider.

And you. Don't bite anyone, Murtagh replied with a tiny smirk to cover up the nerves in his gut.

None of them would make a decent meal, anyway, the dragon scoffed.

Sorry to hear that. And now Murtagh was just stalling.

Hn. Thorn's tone turned serious as he peered back over his shoulder. And be careful.

You don't need to tell me, Murtagh said with a grimace. After nearly two months away from the king's attentions, he had no intention of antagonizing the man, especially without knowing what he was getting himself into in his return.

I doubt it will matter anyway. Trouble simply finds you, Thorn said as he and the servants disappeared around a corner.

That is does, the Rider agreed grimly before turning back to Conrad, the only remaining servant.

"Well?" he demanded, inclining his head.

"The king granted your request, my Lord," Conrad said as he began walking toward the castle.

"So I see," Murtagh replied with a nod, falling in step with him.

"Of course." The servant shrugged apologetically. "I have been attending Master Roran since my return to the capital. Our whole staff now works in that wing of the castle." At Murtagh's confused look, he clarified: "His room is in the same wing as yours, Sir."

"I see," Murtagh said with an absent nod. Interesting. "And how fares Roran?"

Conrad pushed a door open and the two men started down a deserted hallway. Only the sounds of their boots echoing through the corridors broke the silence. The quiet was eerie after so long around noisy encampments. It had Murtagh on edge, ready for an attack.

"He has grown immensely since you left."

"Immensely," Murtagh echoed. That could mean any number of things.

"His Grace trains him hours upon hours every day. He learns magic, weapons, language, history…A wide range of topics as I hear it," the servant supplied.

Just as Murtagh expected. "And the dragon?"

"Nearly the size of Master Thorn."

Murtagh shook his head in disbelief. Galbatorix must have given Roran more Eldunarya to expedite Edoc's growth so severely. But it made sense; an underdeveloped dragon could be a liability in battle. And as Roran's strength grew, so must Edoc's to support him. With battle drawing near, there was no time to hold anything back.

He pondered this until they came to a halt in front of the double doors leading to the throne room. Conrad bit his lip and glanced at the guards flanking the ornate doors. He had something else to say. Murtagh waved at the guards to wait on opening the doors.

"The king is expecting you, my Lord," one the guards said with a nervous frown. It was never wise to keep a madman waiting.

"This will only take a moment." Murtagh turned back to his retainer, who was watching on nervously. "What is it?"

"It's Master Roran," he said.

"What about him?"

The guards were antsy at the door, eyeing them both warily and trying not to look like they were eavesdropping on a Rider's business.

"Do not expect to find him as you left him, my Lord," Conrad said in a rush, glancing again at the guards.

Murtagh frowned. "What does that mean?" he asked as one of the doors opened and another guard poked his head through.

"There you are, Lord Murtagh! His Excellency grows impatient." Everyone winced at the implication and Murtagh nodded.

"Aye, I'll be in shortly."

The guards deflated in relief at that and opened the doors wider for him to enter. Murtagh turned to Conrad. The servant bowed in apology.

"What do you mean?" he repeated as he was ushered toward the open doors and the cold hell that waited beyond.

"He's changed," was all Conrad managed to get out before Murtagh was being announced to the attending court. He had no choice but to abandon the conversation then.

Murtagh furrowed his brow as he thought about what the words might mean. Not as I left him? Changed? It was certain that any time in the king's presence would change a person, but there was simply no way to know how, and that was what was important.

Forcing the thoughts from his mind for the time being, Murtagh focused on walking the dreaded path to kneel in front of the throne. He caught a glance of Galbatorix drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne before he averted his eyes to the floor. He did his best to tune out the muted chattering of the nobles in attendance, keeping his eyes on his boots, which were dusty from his travels, until he reached the foot of the throne. He knelt on bended knee, adjusting Zar'roc at his hip, irrationally glad for its familiar weight.

"Welcome back, Murtagh," Galbatorix said. His voice sent icy tendrils sliding down Murtagh's spine, freshly cold after so long out of the king's presence.

"My king," Murtagh replied neutrally, eyes remaining downcast until told otherwise.

"What of your task? I trust you were successful."

"Yes, Your Highness. I received the word of at least ten officers in charge that they would send men to the city." He didn't dare say for what out of concern for Varden spies among the court. It would not be the first time sensitive information was relayed directly from the court to the rebel leaders.

"Excellent." A pause. "And of Feinster?"

"Still a Varden stronghold the last I was aware." Murtagh quickly shoved the image of Nasuada on the battlements in the rising sun out of mind. The king would know the Varden still held the city with his many spies, but either did not trust them or was testing Murtagh. Likely both. If he held onto that thought, he would fail that test.

"Rise, Murtagh."

The red Rider did as commanded, his joints aching in protest after weeks of travel in the cold with little rest. He wanted nothing more than to climb into a hot bath and to sleep for the next month but knew better than to give life to such wants.

Galbatorix had his forearms resting across the throne's arms, his hands covering the curled ends, the rings on his fingers glinting in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the high windows around the perimeter. His back was straight and his black eyes glinted with an indefinable expression. Murtagh forced himself not to finger Zar'roc, which the king would recognize as a nervous habit and pounce.

"And of the movements of the Varden?" the king asked once Murtagh had righted himself.

"I heard varied reports from each camp, Your Grace," Murtagh hedged. This was true, but he was treading on dangerous ground here. The last thing he wanted was Galbatorix finding any reason to delve into his mind and discover the moment over Feinster.

"They all seem to agree the Varden will make a move on the solstice, however." Galbatorix waved a bejeweled hand for Murtagh to continue. "Some believe the rebels are gathering forces to march on Urû'baen itself. Others contend it will be a small guerilla strike on the day of the execution."

"And what do you think, son of Morzan?"

Murtagh suppressed a wince at the epithet. Morzan was a great tactician and the king was reminding him of that. He reminded himself of the dangerous ground he was treading before speaking.

"I believe we would have heard reports of a full contingent of Varden soldiers marching on the capital," he said. "They would have run into Empire forces by now. There would have been a battle."

The king nodded. "And of the guerilla attack?"

Murtagh licked his bottom lip. "I believe that is more likely," he allowed.

"But?"

"But that Eragon would not risk his cousin's life with so little manpower, Your Highness." He tamped down on the bitterness that inevitable rose when thinking of Roran's impending rescue attempt and his own abandonment.

"So what do you think they will do?"

Murtagh knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was being tested now. There were simply too many variables to be certain and Galbatorix was aware of that. But that did not mean there was no wrong answer in this game. Thankfully, this was something Murtagh had given some thought to after visiting the camps.

"I think they will bring a small, if formidable, force by sea."

The king nodded silently and Murtagh inwardly sighed in relief; he'd passed this round. "We will speak more of this soon," Galbatorix said. Away from potential spies. "But for now, I think it's time to see your cousin, don't you?"

Murtagh swallowed. There was something in Galbatorix's tone that worried him, especially coupled with Conrad's enigmatic words. Something had happened while he had been away—something that the king saw as his advantage in their infernal game.

"As you say, Your Grace."

"Roran," the king called.

Murtagh only had a moment to wonder when Galbatorix had started calling the former farmboy by his first name before a side door behind the throne opened. The tittering of the crowd faded from Murtagh's ears as his eyes went straight to the figure that entered the throne room and strode with surprising confidence to stand at Galbatorix's left-hand side.

Because the right-hand of the king was reserved for Murtagh.

Roran had bulked up since Murtagh had last seen him. He filled out the gold-trimmed forest green tunic and dark trousers. He wore an emerald cape clasped together with a dragon brooch at his throat. There was a sword at his hip that he wore with the practiced ease of a master. His brown hair had grown out enough that it was pulled back loosely from his face with a ribbon. His posture was erect rather than hunched in defeat as last Murtagh had seen.

And he practically radiated power. It made Murtagh's skin itch to be so close to both him and Galbatorix and their combined wells of magic.

But most startling were Roran's gray eyes. Once they had held so many emotions—defiance, anger, hatred, fear, defeat, even hope, and occasional pleasure. Once those eyes had been lit up with fire.

Now they were colder than a northern winter.

Roran looked him up and down a moment before smiling. The look was completely alien on his face, mocking the essence of the man that Murtagh had watch fly off those many weeks ago.

"Welcome back, cousin."

Chapter Text

It took several moments for Murtagh to process what he was seeing. It didn't seem possible that the man in front of him was the same man who'd flown from the manor with a tortured look on his face. Murtagh swallowed as Conrad's words echoed in his mind.

"He has grown immensely since you left."

"Do not expect to find him as you left him, my Lord."

"He's changed."

Someone in the court coughed, pulling Murtagh from his reverie. He blinked, unhappy to find Roran still standing at the king's side clad in regal green clothes—those of a Rider. The sight was unfortunately not the product of a nightmare.

"Roran," Murtagh said, finally finding words. "You look… well."

"He does, doesn't he?" Galbatorix replied with a smirk. "He took to his training quickly, just as you predicted."

Murtagh nodded, not trusting his voice. There was more to this than a steep learning curve, that much he was sure of. And the king seemed sure he'd played a winning move in their game; a game Murtagh had been away from for six weeks. He was rusty and his cousin's life was in the balance. Perfect.

"I am well, thank you," Roran said with an odd, courtly affect to his voice. "You look as though you've traveled many leagues, cousin."

Murtagh grimaced. He still wore his traveling clothes, which were covered in dirt and dust from his mission. He definitely couldn't compete with Roran's attire and was in desperate need of a bath and many a night of sleep before he would come close to looking presentable again. And the nobles in attendance clearly saw that, Murtagh realized.

It was rare Murtagh or any soldier would give a report to Galbatorix with nobles present. In fact, Murtagh usually only attended court with the king to serve as an imposing figure—as if the king wasn't intimidating enough. Yes, Galbatorix was definitely playing at something, though Murtagh was clueless as to what it could be.

Galbatorix nodded. "We will speak of plans later. You will both attend me later tonight," he said, nodding at both Riders.

"My Lord," Roran said with a bow of his head.

"Yes, Your Grace," Murtagh agreed, taking the dismissal for what it was.

He rose and turned on his heel, striding from the throne room as quickly as his dignity would allow. He was off his game and needed to regroup. Showing weakness like surprise would give the king an edge and practically invite him into Murtagh's head again. And he had plenty of thoughts he wanted to keep to himself.

Murtagh steeled himself as he stepped through the doors into the king's private study. Night had fallen, so the light in the windowless room came from werelights of various sizes bouncing lazily in the air and the crackling blaze within the fireplace.

"Murtagh," Galbatorix greeted with hollow cheer. He stood at the fireplace with one arm resting atop the mantle and the other holding a glass of red wine that looked suspiciously like blood. "You made it."

"My Lord," Murtagh replied, coming to a stop just inside the doors as they shut behind him and bowing. "You call and I come."

"Yes," the king drawled. "My ever-loyal servant."

Murtagh said nothing. After beating a hasty retreat from the king and Roran, Murtagh had taken refuge in his chambers, where he'd found a hot bath waiting for him. Murtagh had immediately scrubbed his skin raw, though the dirty feeling lingered; scrubbing never seemed to help, not when the dirt seemed to come from within. He'd soaked in the bath until long after it had gone cold as he told Thorn about the meeting.

What do you think happened? Thorn had asked.

Murtagh had shrugged, splashing the bath water absently. I don't know. Magic must have been involved.

He knows their true names, Thorn pointed out.

He also knows ours, Murtagh countered.

But Roran was not trained the way you were.

Murtagh sighed and leaned his head back against the tub. I know. That's what I'm worried about.

After a discussion that had only brought on more frustration, Conrad brought dinner from the kitchens, and Murtagh had absently nibbled on the chicken and potatoes as he dressed in attire more appropriate for his station. The servant filled him in on the goings on in the castle while he'd been away, which Murtagh listened to with half an ear, filing away the information for possible use later.

After what seemed like an eternity, the king had summoned him to his study. Murtagh had left Zar'roc behind in his chambers, but he itched to have the hilt between his fingers when in Galbatorix's presence. It would do him no good, he knew, but the familiar weight was still comforting.

"Now that you're both here," Galbatorix said, nodding for Murtagh to take a seat in an armchair next to Roran, who had his own glass of wine, "we can discuss business."

Roran straightened in his seat, like an eager child ready to impress his father. The sight made Murtagh's stomach turn. The man who'd been captured, the one spewing defiance despite being bound at the king's feet was nowhere to be seen.

"Two weeks from today," the king said, "we will parade Roran here out as though he were going to be executed. We want this to be as public as possible, so we will do it at the steps of the castle. Murtagh, you will remain at my side."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"We will need soldiers stationed throughout the square. Murtagh, I entrust you with the task of choosing the best soldiers and placing them around the square."

Murtagh nodded. "Understood." He paused. "What about the crowds?"

"What about them?" Galbatorix asked, raising an eyebrow, as though challenging the younger man.

"Is it wise to allow the public to gather in a confined space for this?"

Murtagh did his best not to fidget as Galbatorix considered him thoughtfully before speaking.

"If this trap is to work, the Varden needs to believe it to be real. And crowds would gather at a real execution," the king replied.

"Even though the Varden will use the crowd to blend in?" Roran broke in.

Murtagh blinked in surprise. If Roran felt bold enough to stand at the king's side at court, be alone in his presence, and now interject in a tactics discussion, then something drastic must have occurred in Murtagh's absence. Though Murtagh had wanted Roran to toughen up to survive, this was not what he'd been expecting.

"You're right," Galbatorix allowed. "But we want the Varden to blend into the crowds. No doubt they've already started trickling into the city."

"I don't understand," Roran said with a frown.

"Murtagh?" the king prompted.

Murtagh licked his bottom lip before speaking. "They need to believe they are pressing an advantage that we do not know about," he explained. "If they think they are getting their people in place unnoticed, then we can take them off-guard when the time comes."

"Correct."

"But," Murtagh countered, going back to his original point, "if the people feel their leaders are putting them in deliberate danger, they are more likely to feel sympathy to the Varden and even help them in the aftermath."

"Evacuations will be a part of your assignment, then."

Murtagh bit back the reply at the tip of his tongue that he knew he'd regret. The king's smirk told him that the monarch knew exactly what he thought of that suggestion, but it didn't matter.

"As you command, my Lord," Murtagh said instead.

"And the dragons, your Highness?" Roran asked.

Galbatorix favored the younger man with an indulgent smile. Murtagh once might have compared the look to a father pleased with his son's wits, but he now thought it more like a master amused at something cute his hound had done. He'd seen the look countless times.

"The people will expect dragons as part of the spectacle," the king said. "Thorn and Shruikan will flank the castle doors. Edocsillif will remain behind the castle walls but will be ready to fly at your command, Roran."

The green Rider bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The rest of the evening went by agonizingly slow as Galbatorix outlined the strategies he wanted for the fake execution day, making occasional adjustments based on Murtagh's and Roran's input. He'd clearly thought through what would happen and would brook no failure from his Riders. Murtagh knew his leash was particularly short after the Burning Plains and the Oromis debacle so was careful with every word to pass his lips.

It was long after midnight when Murtagh finally left the study and stumbled wearily back to his chambers. He'd barely managed to toe off his boots before collapsing face-first into bed. He sighed before rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. It had been weeks since he'd last slept in a bed. And yet…

He slept so much better on the road, a small fire and his dragon to keep him warm. Despite the heat of the fireplace, Murtagh felt nothing but the cold in Urû'baen.

The next week passed by in a combination of aching slowness and alarming alacrity. Murtagh woke early most days to break his fast with Thorn in the dragon hold. The first day, Edocsillif was in the hold when Murtagh arrived and the Rider had been shocked at how quickly the hatchling had grown; he was nearly Thorn's size.

But the dragon had turned those familiar, intelligent eyes on Murtagh, and a feeling of comfort washed over him. This dragon was special and, despite whatever transformation Roran had undergone at the king's hand, Edoc was free of it. He still had to follow the king's orders because of Roran's binding oaths what seemed like a lifetime ago, but it seemed he was not blindly following them.

Comforted by that—though unsure of how he knew it after spending only moments in the emerald dragon's presence before Edoc had flown from the hold—Murtagh spent his days with the soldiers, training and sparring with his chosen soldiers to make sure they were ready. He collected an impressive array of bruises and relished the feel of them, and of being alive and with a blade in his hands again. Murtagh had many responsibilities as the king's right-hand man, but at his core he was a warrior; it brought him peace to be able to ignore the outside world for a time and just dance with the blade and another warrior.

The sun set early with winter fast approaching, so once darkness fell during the week, Murtagh returned to his chambers and hunched over books and parchment at his desk, working through formations and contingencies for the soldiers and escape routes for the civilians. He took his meals in his room and managed to avoid both Roran and the king. If he didn't think about the parties involved with the fake execution, Murtagh almost enjoyed himself with both his physical and mental sides engaged in the preparations.

On the evening of the tenth day after Murtagh's return, the Rider was sitting at his desk with a quill in hand as he marked spots around the square for his men to set up—some in uniform and others in disguise—when his door burst open.

Murtagh didn't need to turn from his work to know who the intruder was. Only three people in the castle would dare enter his chambers without knocking, and Conrad always gently opened the door before coming in, though he usually knocked anyway. Murtagh had seen the king head for the dragon hold less than an hour before, which only left…

"Roran," Murtagh said, marking another X on the parchment to cover his concern over the visit. He'd been avoiding his cousin on purpose these past days, thanks in no small part to the guilt that gnawed sharply at his insides every time he saw what his cousin had become in his absence.

"Murtagh," Roran said, shutting the door behind him. "You were not at dinner tonight."

His actions had not gone unnoticed, it seemed.

Murtagh waved absently toward an empty tray balancing on his wash basin. "I took my meal in here."

"You have not been at a meal in ten days."

Murtagh put down his quill but still did not turn. "No, I have not. I've had work to do. You heard the king."

"Work you could no doubt do in your sleep."

Murtagh sighed and stood up, finally turning to look at Roran. His cousin wore a deep green tunic and black trousers that were tucked into his boots, and his hair was tied all the way back; it was the most dressed down Murtagh had seen him since returning to the castle.

"What can I do for you, Roran?" he asked wearily.

"You're avoiding me."

Murtagh leveled a stare at his cousin. "I've had work to do since the moment I returned. I've been avoiding everyone except those I've needed to see."

Roran's lips twitched downward. "I see."

"Is that it?" Murtagh made to turn back to his work and end the conversation as quickly as possible.

"Spar with me."

"What?" Murtagh stopped in his tracks and turned to look at Roran, who was looking pleased with himself. It was not a becoming sight on the younger man.

"You heard me. I've improved immensely since our last lesson."

"Is that what this is about?" Murtagh demanded, suddenly irritated—at Roran, for being a prat; at the king for turning him into one; and at himself for being unable to do anything about it. "You want to show off your new tricks?" He shook his head. "I don't have time for this. Just go."

"You may be the king's right-hand man, cousin, but I know just how far your loyalty goes."

Murtagh let out a bark of laughter once the words sank in. "And you think the king doesn't?"

Roran blinked at that but said nothing.

"He knows far more about me and my loyalties than you, cousin. So don't think you'll get far trying to blackmail me." Murtagh's voice went cold. "For better or worse, we work for the same man now."

"I…"

"You're not going to fight me. But you know who you are going to fight? Eragon." Murtagh watched an unreadable expression cross Roran's face before continuing. "You'd be best served finding someone who fights like him if you need practice. Now if that's it, the adults have work to do."

Roran looked as though he wanted to say something else, but instead he inclined his head and walked out of the room, shutting the door hard behind him. It was only when his footsteps disappeared down the corridor that Murtagh dropped back into his chair.

He sighed and ran his face through his hands. Whatever the king had done, he'd ended up with an utterly loyal Rider hell-bent on serving him—the Rider he never got with Murtagh.

Murtagh sent a silent apology to both Roran and Eragon before turning back to his work. Maybe he could at least save a few civilians where he'd failed the people he cared about.

The night before the fake execution found Murtagh striding through the castle halls, ignoring the servants on his way to meet the king. He'd been going over contingencies one last time with Thorn over the bond when Galbatorix had entered his mind, demanding his immediate presence. Murtagh had apologized to his dragon and immediately left his chambers.

Taking a calming breath, Murtagh knocked on the doors to the king's study. The doors swung open and the red Rider entered. Once he'd stepped inside, the doors shut behind him.

"Murtagh," Galbatorix greeted from his armchair next to the fire place.

"Your Highness," Murtagh replied, going to a knee.

"There's no need for that," the king said, waving the younger Rider to his feet. "Sit."

Murtagh cautiously took a seat across from Galbatorix. Though he was close to the crackling fire, he couldn't feel its heat, as though the king were sucking up all warmth in the room.

"How fare the plans for tomorrow?"

"Everything is in place," Murtagh replied. "The soldiers have been instructed of their duties. Escape routes have been set up for civilians. We have soldiers set up along the major streets through the city keeping an eye out for Varden spies. Shops close to the square have been instructed to shut their doors tomorrow. And the square has been scouted for optimal locations for archers."

"It sounds like you have everything well in hand, Murtagh."

Murtagh hesitated. Compliments from the king were rare and usually rotten at the core. He would have to tread carefully here. "As much as I can, Your Grace."

"And Roran?"

"My Lord?"

"What is your assessment of Roran?" the king repeated.

"I am afraid I have not seen much of him since my return," Murtagh hedged.

"That's not what I've heard."

"I don't understand."

"I hear he paid you a visit a few days past."

Murtagh clenched his jaw at the memory. "Aye. It was not a long one."

"And what did you think?"

Ah. This was definitely dangerous ground. "He is much changed since I last saw him," Murtagh replied cautiously.

"That he is. I do believe he might be my best work yet," Galbatorix said, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips. "He very much wants to be loyal to me. And he'll do anything."

"I noticed," Murtagh muttered before realizing he'd said it aloud.

But Galbatorix let out an amused laugh. "Yes. He does feel inferior to you. You are Morzan's son, my right-hand man, and have been a Rider longer. But that competitive spirit will serve him well in battle tomorrow. He will feel the need to prove himself and will be glorious." The king's black eyes were practically shining in anticipation.

"As you say, my king."

"But Murtagh," Galbatorix said quietly, a shift in tone that sent shivers down Murtagh's spine, "do not let him outshine you. You are my red Rider. Roran may be our trump card, but you are the general out there."

"I…"

But Galbatorix cut Murtagh off. "The last time you faced Eragon in battle, you let him get away. You will show no such mercy tomorrow. Your oaths will not let you. You are mine and you will do as I command," he hissed possessively.

"I understand," Murtagh said, memories of writhing on the floor of the throne room, caught in an endless loop of torture after his failure on the Burning Plains, flashing across his mind's eye. He'd sworn he would do whatever it took to avoid such horrors for himself and Thorn ever again.

"I'm not sure you do, son of my great friend," the king said, voice still soft like silk. "There will be no failure tomorrow. If anything goes wrong, your time with the Twins will seem like heaven when I'm through with you. You will beg for death and your dragon will beg for death, but you will not get it."

Murtagh's throat went dry at the thought. A protective surge flared in his chest at the threat to Thorn, but there was nothing Murtagh could do about it. He was trapped.

"I won't fail you, Your Highness."

Galbatorix sat back in his chair and smiled. "That's what I like to hear, Murtagh."

Murtagh did not sleep that night. He tossed and turned into the darkest hours of the night, nightmares threatening whenever he shut his eyes. Images of Eragon and Arya and Nasuada taunted him, sometimes demanding to know why he'd betrayed them and other times pleading with him to join them.

They would come tomorrow, Murtagh knew, and he dreaded it. He would fight them because he had no choice—it was them or Thorn, and he would always choose the safety of his dragon above all else.

When the sky finally started to lighten, Murtagh rose and summoned Conrad. The servant brought him a small breakfast that Murtagh couldn't stomach before helping him dress. He donned a blood-red tunic, black pants, and boots before pulling on his armor. Zar'roc was a familiar weight at his hip.

The first rays of sun were just peeking over the horizon when Murtagh left his room and made his way through the silent castle corridors to the battlements overlooking the city. The king was already there, dressed in black from cape to toe. He nodded at Murtagh as the younger man strode toward him.

"The crowds are beginning to gather," Galbatorix said, nodding toward the square where people were starting to mill in front of the castle steps.

"I'll have the men begin to join them immediately," Murtagh replied, peering over the edge.

Galbatorix nodded. "Good. Be sure the dragons are ready as well."

"My Lord," Murtagh acknowledged with a nod.

Murtagh glanced out over the city and bit his lip. Somewhere out past the city walls, Eragon was waiting.

The tide of the war would change after today. Come mid-day…

Galbatorix seemed to hear Murtagh's thoughts as he smirked.

"Let them come."

Chapter Text

The sun was overhead, peeking through clearing snow clouds, when the king gave the signal and mounted Shruikan. With one glance back toward the hidden Edoc—Galbatorix had placed a particularly strong glamour over him until he was needed—and the fake captive Roran, Murtagh followed suit, swinging onto Thorn’s back.

Trumpets sounded and Shruikan took off. Murtagh and Thorn waited a beat then followed the king and his black dragon. From the air, as they circled the square once, then twice, Murtagh could see thick crowds gathered. Snow had fallen through the night and was now beaten down to ice, which would make the ground slippery. Murtagh filed away the note for the eventual evacuation, assuming events played out as expected.

Murtagh’s men, both in and out of uniform, were mixed in with the civilians, just as Varden troops undoubtedly were as well. Murtagh took stock of his men’s positions, from the square perimeter to the archers on the castle battlements and on store roofs before Thorn took them down on the steps, landing to the right of Galbatorix and Shruikan. The dragons flanked the castle gate, looking more like gargoyles than beasts.

What do you think? Thorn asked as Murtagh dismounted.

Murtagh straightened Zar’roc at his hip and kept one hand on the hilt as he stared out over the chattering crowd. I think people are going to die today, he replied grimly.

Thorn hummed his agreement. Though neither would dare voice the hope that Galbatorix would be one of the casualties, the idea still hung between them.

And Eragon?

Murtagh clenched his jaw. He’ll come. Murtagh, his brother, he would let rot, but his cousin he would come for. And he would pay for it.

The trumpets stopped, and Galbatorix flashed a glance in Murtagh’s direction before stepping forward. Unlike Murtagh, the king wore no armor; he didn’t need to. His dark magic was enough, especially when he had no intentions to take part in the battle. He might have no qualms about getting his hands dirty, but he preferred to watch the pawns move about the board. Anyone foolish enough to target him would be crushed in short order, but otherwise he would merely observe.

“People of Alagaësia,” the king proclaimed, spreading his arms wide, “we gather on this day for a momentous occasion. Today we strike a blow for our freedom from the tyranny of those who seek to steal the realm and rule with an iron fist.”

The gathering chattered nervously at the king’s words. Murtagh mostly tuned them out, having heard a version of the same speech more than once. Instead, he scanned the crowd packed into the square and picked out the men he guessed belonged to the Varden. A soldier had a particular way of carrying himself that, even when in disguise, he could not entirely shake. As a trained soldier himself, Murtagh knew exactly what to look for. 

“Today,” the king continued, “we strike at the very heart of the Varden by taking the head of one of their highest ranking officials.”

The mutterings became louder at that. Murtagh locked eyes with each of the officers in the field that reported directly to him, and they each nodded from their stations. They would be ready if anyone tried anything as emotions stirred up and excitement grew.

“Bring out Roran Stronghammer!” Galbatorix exclaimed with a flourish of his arm. The front gates of the castle ground open in response.

The crowd noise escalated as a group of soldiers surrounded Roran, who made a very convincing prisoner. He’d not shaved in days to give himself stubble and his hair was unkempt and greasy. He’d donned tattered rags and he’d smeared dirt on his skin and clothes. He limped between his apparent captors and seemed to struggle against the weight of the shackles on his wrists and ankles.

Murtagh might have believed the charade had he not been in on the plan.

Roran was led past the dragons and down the steps of the castle and forced to his knees. A block had been set up for his head.

“Roran Stronghammer, son of Garrow and cousin of Eragon Shadeslayer,” Galbatorix pronounced, giving the crowd the show it longed for, “stands in front of you today guilty of a lengthy list of crimes against the Empire. Foremost of those… Treason.”

The crowd jeered loudly, caught up in the spectacle. The soldiers within the crowd were tense, ready to move at the slightest provocation. And Murtagh kept an eye out for any sign of his half-brother and the rest of the Varden.

Of Nasuada.

Murtagh discarded the thought before it could take hold. He couldn’t afford it, not with so many lives at stake, particularly innocent ones. The king might not care about the lives of the subjects he ruled, but Murtagh figured that if he couldn’t do anything else worthwhile while under the king’s control, he could at least protect some of these people, even if no one would ever thank him for it.

“The punishment for treason is death!” Galbatorix declared, spreading his arms wide.

The crowd cheered at that, and Murtagh’s grip on Zar’roc’s hilt tightened. If the people were caught up in their desire for blood, it would be much harder to get them out safely when the fighting began.

“Bring forth the headsman.”

Though Galbatorix preferred to dole out personal punishments, he still kept an executioner on hand for special events. The headsman strode through the open gates between the dragons, a sharpened axe held in one hand. He was big and burly, dressed all in black, including a black hood that obscured his features. He strode to Roran’s side and hefted the axe to rest on his shoulder until he received the word.

“Any last words, Stronghammer?” Galbatorix asked. The crowd hushed as it strained to hear the words of the condemned man.

Roran’s eyes narrowed and he spat at Galbatorix’s feet. The crowd gasped. “Your time will come, Your Highness,” he growled defiantly. He’d become a hell of an actor since Murtagh had last seen him; it was disconcerting to see in action.

Galbatorix smirked and nodded to the soldiers guarding Roran, and the ones closest to him each grabbed a shoulder and pushed him down to the block. Roran struggled against their grip but appeared unable to get any purchase from his prone position.

Crowd noise rose in staccato shouts, and Murtagh clenched his jaw tightly as he continued searching the throng of people for anything out of place. Time was running short on the façade. The headsman stepped forward and lifted the axe from his shoulder.

“Where’s your precious cousin now, Stronghammer?” Galbatorix jeered.

“Here!” a new voice broke in right on cue, cutting through the crowd noise like a blade. Murtagh’s stomach tightened at the familiar sound.

Heads turned to see Eragon atop what had once been a clock tower, though it had not told time since Murtagh had come to the city as a child. He stood on the slanting roof with one hand wrapped around the weather vane at the apex for balance. He had a sword at his hip and a determined look on his face.

Murtagh stepped forward before he realized he’d moved, and Thorn vibrated with tension behind him. Saphira is near. I can feel her presence, he said uneasily. Dragons never enjoyed fighting one another, and he was uncomfortable at the prospect of fighting Saphira again. Both Rider and dragon tried not to think about their last battle with Oromis and Glaedr.

Of course, Murtagh replied with a nod. And so must the rest of their forces. Climbing the city walls, perhaps.

Is that even possible?

They have a dragon, two Shadeslayers, and an entire army at their disposal. I imagine so, Murtagh said with a snort.

And conviction, Thorn added.

Murtagh flinched. Yes.

Galbatorix glanced back at Murtagh and gave him a slight nod before turning back to the threat at hand. Showtime.

“Eragon Shadeslayer,” Galbatorix said, his lips curling up coldly. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Eragon retorted.

“I see you’ve come for your cousin,” the king continued, ignoring the comment, nodding toward Roran, who had sat up. There was a look of hope on his face that Murtagh only wished was real.

“You took someone I care about. I can’t let that stand.”

Murtagh felt like Eragon had punched him from across the square with those words.

You see, Murtagh, the king whispered in the back of his mind, he cares nothing for you. Your own brother. His words betray him. I’m the only one who truly cares for you, son of my great friend.

Murtagh shoved the words aside but could not ignore the sting that went down to his very core. He swallowed, and signaled to his men to be ready for action.

“This man is guilty of crimes against the Empire. As, now that I think about, are you,” Galbatorix said, feigning a thoughtful epiphany.

Eragon inclined his head. “Are you going to try to kill me, too?”

The king shook his head. “Some men are far more useful alive than dead.” Eragon was one. Roran happened to be another.

“The Varden has stood idly by long enough while innocent men and women are hurt and killed under your reign,” Eragon called back. “Not today.”

Galbatorix raised an eyebrow. “Roran Stronghammer is far from innocent.”

Eragon’s eyes narrowed. “It was your own men who drove him to fight against you. And today you will regret that.”

“Will I?” The king sounded amused, and that never ended well.

“Yes.”

A shadow fell over Eragon as Saphira dropped down from the sky with a powerful beat of her wings. The crowd gasped, and Eragon leapt from the tower onto her back. He pulled his sword from its sheath and raised it high. The weak winter sun glinted off the blue metal. “For the Varden!” he yelled.

“For Alagaësia!” a cheer erupted around the square as men in the crowd pulled off their hoods and pulled weapons from their belts. Around the battlements, men rose with weapons in hand.

Murtagh’s eyes widened as he realized a number of his men stationed above ground had been taken out by the silent Varden movements. He cursed and pulled Zar’roc from its sheath. The rest of the crowd began screaming in fear as realization settled over them like a storm cloud.

And then everything began moving at once.

“Charge!” Eragon yelled, and Saphira swooped toward the square.

The guards and headsman helped Roran to his feet and pulled him toward the castle. Galbatorix waved a hand and the gates began to shut behind them. He then made for Shruikan.

Murtagh swung into Thorn’s saddle and pulled on his helm. “Man the escape routes for the civilians!” he yelled at his men. The soldiers around the perimeter of the square immediately moved forward to help direct the crowds toward the avenues Murtagh had marked over the last week.

Meanwhile, the Varden soldiers in the crowds and on the walls rushed forward against the crowd. Murtagh’s disguised men had also drawn their weapons and were pushing toward the outside of the horde to block the Varden fighters. On the battlements, Empire soldiers were locked in combat with the Varden’s men. Screams filled the air.

Thorn, Murtagh said, doing his best to block out the cacophony, and the dragon lifted into the air. Behind him, Galbatorix and Shruikan flew back over the castle walls and landed on the battlements; the king was ready to observe unless he was absolutely needed.

Murtagh and Thorn waited as Eragon and Saphira approached. Murtagh knew his part in this; he didn’t need the king’s whispered Do not prove yourself expendable echoing through his mind to remember to buy enough time for Roran and Edoc to join the fray. Together they would bring Eragon and Saphira down—alive. The last female dragon was no good dead.

“Murtagh,” Eragon greeted as he and Saphira began to circle the chaos in the square below. Murtagh couldn’t see his half-brother’s expression beneath his helm, but there was something unreadable in his voice.

“Brother,” Murtagh returned coldly. He and Thorn fell into the circle.

“Murtagh, I—”

“Save it,” Murtagh interrupted, eyes narrowing. “I know we only share a mother. It seems you were lucky enough to avoid the Forsworn’s tainted blood after all.”

“That does not mean we’re not still blood,” Eragon countered quickly. “You are still my brother. And I do not wish to fight you this day.”

Murtagh snorted, the top he’d placed on his bitterness to survive in the king’s presence popping off with alarming force. Thorn seemed to feel the shift in his Rider, as he huffed uncomfortably. But Murtagh didn’t heed the warning as the dragons and Riders continued to circle one another.

“No, you’re right. You came to rescue someone you care about. You can’t let his capture stand.”

Eragon hesitated before responding. “Roran is like a brother to me,” he said finally. “I’ve told you that.”

“Oh, I know. I understand perfectly,” Murtagh sneered. “Drop everything for your surrogate brother the moment something happens to him.”

Murtagh could hear the frown in the younger man’s voice. “Then what is going on, Murtagh? This is more than your oaths forcing you to fight for the king.”

“You’re right,” Murtagh replied. “It is.” And then he leaned forward and Thorn surged toward Eragon and Saphira.

Eragon got his sword up just in time to block Zar’roc, but it was a surprised movement, not one done with conviction. Murtagh pulled his sword back and Eragon took the opening to swing his blue blade. Murtagh blocked the swing, the metal clash echoing loudly in the cold air. Murtagh pushed hard with Zar’roc, but Eragon pushed back and neither was able to gain any ground on the other.

Murtagh gently tapped Thorn’s side and the red dragon fell back from the confrontation. They began circling one another again.

“So what is it, Murtagh? Your blade is troubled,” Eragon said.

Murtagh raised his chin. “Do you truly not understand, brother? Does this situation not remind you of anything in our past?”

A silent moment stretched on tensely before Murtagh heard Eragon’s surprised inhalation. “After the Battle of Farten Dur. You were taken.”

“I was taken and you left me to rot in Galbatorix’s dungeons.” 

“We thought you were dead,” Eragon said defensively. “We mourned for you. Nasuada mourned for you. I mourned for you.”

“Mourning does nothing for the living,” Murtagh said, doing his best once more not to think about Nasuada. No doubt she was somewhere in the fray nearby—a desire to join the fighting that Murtagh had once greatly admired—but he could not let his thoughts wander.

Murtagh, Thorn said, but Murtagh shushed his dragon. Irritation ran across the bond, but the dragon didn’t press. Murtagh knew his friend was worried, but his anger had taken on a life of its own.

“I didn’t know,” Eragon went on. “There were no signs of life. I told you all of this before.” On the Burning Plains. Murtagh remembered, but it had not hurt any less then than it did hearing the same excuses now.

Murtagh’s grip on Zar’roc tightened. “And where were the signs of Roran’s life after all these months? He was hidden away, likely dead, but you did not give up on him. Like you did your own brother.”  He swallowed. “You have no idea what I went through while you were off gallivanting with the elves. No idea,” he finished in a whisper, memories of inescapable, unending torture at the Twins’ and king’s hands playing across his mind’s eye.

He shuddered and a feeling of shelter flowed across the bond from Thorn. Murtagh grabbed onto it like a lifeline; that was his dragon, always keeping him afloat amidst tempestuous seas, sheltered from violent storms. Murtagh sent a wave of appreciation back.

Eragon’s shoulders slumped, and he dropped his blade into his lap. Murtagh’s warrior instincts told him to attack while the enemy was vulnerable, but he didn’t; he needed to hear the words from his half-brother’s mouth while there was still a chance.

“You’re right.”

Murtagh blinked, not sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

Eragon shrugged. “You’re right,” he replied. “I knew the king wanted to find you and that your involvement in the battle would likely reach his ears. I knew, but I did not think. And I should have.” The younger Rider shook his head. “I failed you, and now you’re beholden to the king. You suffered tortures I cannot imagine. And I am sorry.”

Murtagh was stunned into silence. He’d held onto that pain for so long that hearing an apology was almost more than he could comprehend. And the long simmering bitterness and anger he’d held onto still wanted a release, but with the target so accepting of his blame, there was no reason to unload it.

“I did not do anything for you then, brother,” Eragon continued, “and I cannot do anything for you now. But I want to. I will help free you from the king. I swear. Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur'tugal.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Murtagh murmured. Gods, he wanted nothing more than to believe Eragon; he was always so confident and sure of his abilities. If he said he would help Murtagh, he truly believed he could. And yet…

“Galbatorix cannot be stopped. Not anymore,” he said more clearly.

Eragon shook his head. “It only takes one man to make a difference. You made the difference the last time we faced each other. You can again.” He sounded so earnest that it made Murtagh’s stomach turn. For all his power and prowess, there was much the blue Rider did not understand.

“No, I cannot.” Murtagh replied as memories of writhing on the throne room floor in excruciating agony in punishment for his failure on the Burning Plains hit him like a blow. He took a shuddering breath to collect himself.

“Murtagh—”

“You understand nothing, Eragon,” he hissed. He glanced back at the Galbatorix, whose black eyes were locked on the circling dragons. A cold smirk played at his lips, and Murtagh swallowed before turning back to his half-brother.

“For all that you fight the king, you know nothing about him. About the lengths he will go to get what he wants.” About what he will do when displeased. Murtagh had seen him kill for trifling annoyances. And he’d been furious that day.

Eragon seemed at a loss for words. “I—”

Murtagh shook his head. “You have no idea of what I gave up to save your life that day.” The last bit of freedom he was ever likely to taste, for one. But someone like Eragon, raised outside of the king’s reach, would never be able to understand what that meant, though he might be sympathetic. “I cannot make the same choice. There are no more loopholes in my oaths. Besides…”

“What?”

Murtagh smiled humorlessly beneath his helm as he felt the glamour behind the castle walls break. It was time. “I am no longer the one you should be worried about.”

Eragon’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Murtagh, whose back was to the castle, merely nodded behind him. The terrible clash of the battle below halted as the Empire soldiers cheered and the Varden soldiers gasped and cried out.

Eragon pulled off his helm, as though it were hindering his vision as Roran and Edoc rose over the castle walls and glided to Murtagh’s side. Roran had changed from his prisoner’s garb into more appropriate battle wear, accounting for the time Murtagh had been forced to buy. He wore gleaming armor with a green cape billowing behind him and a sword was buckled at his waist. His eyes sparkled with unfamiliar mischief.

 “No,” Eragon whispered, his face draining of color.

“Hello, cousin,” Roran greeted, his tone chilled. “It’s been a long time.”

Chapter Text

Eragon looked between Roran and Murtagh, a mix of disbelief and hurt playing across his face. "I don't believe it."

"You should start believing, cousin," Roran declared, pulling his helm on. "I serve my king and the Empire now."

Eragon glanced back at Murtagh, but Murtagh shrugged. "He swore fealty to the king in the Ancient Language just as I did."

"So now you can either give up peacefully," Roran said, unsheathing his blade, "or fight both of us."

"And lose?" Eragon asked.

"And lose," Roran confirmed. He was sure full of himself, Murtagh thought with a pang of annoyance.

Eragon bit his lip but finally put his helm back on. "I came here to rescue you, Roran. I cannot give up on you now. I will not."

"So be it," Roran said, tapping Edoc in the side and charging.

Eragon got his sword up just in time to block Roran's thrust and managed to push his cousin back but had to immediately dodge a red bolt of lightning that went harmlessly over his head. He turned to watch the spell dissipate in the air a few yards away before turning back to Roran with wide eyes.

That's right; he's fighting for real, Murtagh thought grimly at Eragon's shocked expression. The king said not to kill. Maiming is still on the table.

Roran was already charging forward again. This time Eragon was ready and took a hard swing at Roran's saddle, likely hoping to unseat him rather than do any real damage. But Roran blocked the cut. Saphira snarled and snapped at Edoc, but the green dragon swiped at her snout with a claw, drawing blood. Saphira hissed and smoke came from her nostrils.

Should we help? Thorn asked, eyeing the fight between surrogate brothers curiously.

As Eragon and Roran continued to clash with a flurry of blows and their dragons growling and clawing at each other, Murtagh and Thorn edged into Eragon's blind spot. "Rïsa," Murtagh murmured, and Eragon stiffened as the spell held both him and Saphira tight.

Roran's eyes narrowed when Eragon suddenly froze and both cousins turned their heads—that was all Eragon could move—toward him. Murtagh waved.

Roran does not look pleased, Thorn pointed out.

Murtagh frowned as Galbatorix's words from the previous night came unbidden to mind.

"He does feel inferior to you. You are Morzan's son, my right-hand man, and have been a Rider longer. But that competitive spirit will serve him well in battle tomorrow. He will feel the need to prove himself and will be glorious."

It seemed the king's prediction was coming true.

You're right, Murtagh agreed, eyeing his irate cousin. He wants to win this fight on his own and prove himself to Galbatorix. He sighed. But that will only get him into trouble. Eragon will only be able to hesitate for so long before he starts fighting seriously.

"Damn you," Roran hissed. "This is my fight."

"Your fight?" Murtagh echoed. "I seem to recall having the same orders as you."

"You—" Roran began, but he cried out as Eragon broke free from Murtagh's spell and sent a ball of condensed air at Roran's shoulder with a muttered "Thrysta vindr."

Murtagh heard the joint dislocate from a dozen yards away and flinched as Roran's sword dropped from his useless arm to the ground below, thankfully missing the combatants, who continued to clash in the square. He cursed his inattention that let Eragon break free.

"Sorry, Roran," Eragon said with an apologetic shrug. "I don't want to hurt you."

Roran sputtered and grasped at his shoulder. "But you will."

"I will," Eragon agreed. "For your own good."

Roran opened his mouth again, but Murtagh had heard enough. He nudged Thorn with his boot and they were moving. They steered in front of Roran to protect him from Eragon's next attack.

"This is your fault," Roran hissed. "If you hadn't interrupted…"

"You'd probably be on the ground," Murtagh retorted. "Eragon's been playing with you." He shook his head. "Hurry up and heal your arm. I'll distract him." Roran looked as though he wanted to argue, but Murtagh cut him off. "I don't care who finishes the fight, just that it gets done. Understand?"

Roran grumbled what was probably an agreement, and then whispered, "Waíse heill." With one hand, it would take longer for the spell to work—and the shoulder would likely need to be set properly after the battle. But it would hold long enough to finish the fight.

Murtagh turned back to Eragon. "You broke out of that hold quickly." The last time they'd met, he'd been unable to counter it at all.

"I've learned a few new tricks since our last match."

"I can see that." But so had Murtagh. Murtagh opened up his consciousness to the Eldunarya tucked safely away in Thorn's saddle packs. The guilt he felt every time he tapped into them was quickly squashed by the overwhelming feeling of power that washed through him. It was a feeling of invincibility that was intoxicating.

Murtagh and Eragon moved simultaneously. Eragon threw out a hand, but Murtagh blocked the "Thrysta vindr" with his own "Skölir." The air bounced off his shield harmlessly. Then they were both charging again, blades drawn. Zar'roc met the blue blade with a loud clang. Murtagh thrust and Eragon blocked. He then pushed back and swung upward. Caught off balance, Murtagh hissed as the blade hit his armor. Thorn snapped at Saphira's tail, but the blue dragon dodged back.

"Don't think I can't see it," Eragon said as they began circling each other.

"See what?" Murtagh demanded, his arm stinging from the blow.

"Roran's swordsmanship. He'd never wielded a blade before. Now he's a master?" Or close enough to one.

"He's learned many things over these last months," Murtagh responded, not sure where this was going.

"His style is much like yours," Eragon said. "You taught him, didn't you?"

Murtagh shrugged. "What if I did?"

Eragon and Saphira surged forward. Thorn dropped in altitude and flew under Saphira's belly. Murtagh thrust his sword up, but Eragon's appeared to protect the blue dragon's underside. Thorn leveled out and turned to face their opponent again. Behind Eragon, Roran still held a hand to his shoulder as his one-handed spell slowly knit the damage back together.

"Then you're partially to blame, aren't you?" Eragon demanded, before Saphira shifted back toward Roran. Roran's eyes widened and Murtagh cursed.

"Garjzla," he called, and a bolt of light flew from his hand toward Eragon's back.

But Eragon shifted and threw up a shield of his own, deflecting the attack. By time he turned around, Roran was lifting his own hand for a spell, so Saphira dipped under and looped over Roran and Edoc. Roran cursed, but Murtagh and Thorn were already in motion. As Saphira started to even out, Thorn approached her from below. Murtagh held the reins with one hand and stood in the saddle, swinging out with Zar'roc.

Eragon managed to throw up a shield, but it was hasty, and it shattered under Zar'roc. Murtagh swung again and Eragon blocked, but Murtagh was already casting a spell. Eragon ducked but still took a glancing blow in his side from the bolt of air. He grunted and Saphira switched directions quickly, dodging backwards.

Murtagh dropped back into the saddle and Thorn banked hard. Eragon and Saphira had stopped mid-air. Roran and Edoc were behind them, and they'd turned perpendicular to keep an eye on both enemies. For a long moment, the three Riders and their dragons all stared at each, waiting for someone to make the first move.

How are you doing? Thorn asked needlessly.

Fine, Murtagh replied, knowing very well his dragon could sense his fatigue. He was breathing heavily and his body ached, but the power of the Eldunarya helped him catch his breath quickly.

Eragon glanced between Roran, who was swordless and fuming, and Murtagh, and then was moving. Murtagh raised a shield just in time to block Eragon's fire spell, but had to quickly get Zar'roc up as Eragon emerged from the spell's smoky trail with his blade raised.

Eragon swung his sword. Thorn dodged and surged forward, biting at Saphira's flank. She snorted fire back, and Thorn flew wide of her blast. Eragon followed, and their blades met again. Swing. Block. Jab. Parry. Murtagh winced when Eragon's blade connected, and Eragon grunted when Zar'roc hit his armor in return. Neither was able to get an advantage on the other. The dragons snapped and spat at each other while their Riders fought.

They were close enough that Murtagh could see his half-brother's eyes beneath his helm as they matched blows; he was determined and, surprisingly, he looked angry. Anger was not something Murtagh usually associated with his brother, but the emotion was strong in his bladework as well.

"I'm partially to blame, am I?" Murtagh demanded, hoping to provoke Eragon into falling off-balance.

Eragon nodded. "You took part in this—this, whatever it is." He clearly had no words to describe what had happened to his cousin. Instead, he withdrew and went for a close-range jab that Murtagh jumped back from, nearly falling from his saddle. But Thorn adjusted for the quick motion and kept him upright.

Murtagh's eyes narrowed as he regained his balance. "I was following orders. I wanted nothing to do with this, but some of us can't always get what we want," he growled as Eragon charged again.

"You think I always get what I want?" Eragon asked with an odd affect to his voice.

"You have fared far better than most," Murtagh said, easily blocking Eragon's jab. "Remember what free will felt like. Some of us have never had the full taste."

Eragon seemed like he wanted to say something, but they both paused at the changing feel of the air around them; it was dense. They flew apart just as a spark of purple lightning flew between them. Roran was yards away with his hand raised.

He could have killed us, Thorn said with an indignant huff.

Murtagh had no idea what that spell was, but he didn't doubt Thorn's word. The power behind it had been intense enough that the air itself had shifted in front of it.

I doubt he cares very much, Murtagh replied, staring back at his cousin. If I die, he becomes Galbatorix's right-hand man. It was just dawning on him now how far Galbatorix's training had further broken Roran, and the thought was sickening. No wonder Eragon, of all people, was angry.

But Roran was moving before Thorn had a chance to reply, another spell on his lips. Eragon was ready, though, raising a shield against the onslaught. Several streaks of lightning and bolts of air bounced off of it; the shield shook but didn't fall.

As Roran got closer, Eragon went on offense with a casting of "Jierda." Roran managed to get a shield up to take the brunt of the damaging spell, but he was late and still took a hard blow. He and Edoc were thrown backwards over the city walls with a cry. Eragon and Saphira immediately followed, leaving Murtagh little choice but to trail them.

When Murtagh caught up, Edoc had landed and Roran was pulling himself from the saddle with difficulty, clearly shaken from the last blow. He looked up as Eragon approached, eyes widening as the blue Rider froze him with "Malthinae."

Saphira landed and for a moment, the cousins stared at each other. Then an unreadable expression crossed Eragon's face. Roran's mouth worked as Eragon raised a hand and said, "Thrysta vindr." And the compressed air hit Roran dead on and sent him flying into the city wall with a painful crash. Stone crumbled from the impact, and Edoc roared in anger before hopping to his Rider's side and nosing through the rubble. There was no movement.

Murtagh shook his head before nudging Thorn to land. Roran had been too arrogant and eager to prove himself the best Rider. But it had cost him once Eragon had gotten over the shock of facing the man he thought of as a brother in battle; underestimating him seemed to be a common mistake on the Empire's part, Murtagh thought with little amusement.

Eragon had dismounted Saphira and was moving in Roran's direction, ready to take his unconscious cousin captive and bring him back to the Varden, but Thorn landed between the fallen Rider and his attacker.

"Murtagh, move," Eragon growled, stopping.

"You know I cannot do that," Murtagh replied, sliding from Thorn's saddle.

"I have to save him." Eragon's grip on his sword tightened.

"And I have my orders." Murtagh held Zar'roc in front of him. "No loopholes this time."

"So be it," Eragon said resignedly.

Murtagh, Thorn started but Murtagh shook his head.

Let me handle this.

But Saphira—

Murtagh glanced in the blue dragon's direction, but she wasn't moving. Isn't going to interfere.

Eragon tried to circle, but Murtagh held firm, unwilling to let him get close to Roran. It would be easy for him to slip the battle and escape with his cousin in tow if Murtagh gave him an opening. And the king would not understand.

"If anything goes wrong, your time with the Twins will seem like heaven when I'm through with you. You will beg for death and your dragon will beg for death, but you will not get it."

Galbatorix's words echoed through Murtagh's head, and he tightened his grip on Zar'roc's hilt as he watched Eragon move. He couldn't fail; not this time.

Finally Eragon grew impatient and rushed forward with a roar and a swing of his blade. Murtagh had to give a step as he blocked; Eragon's fighting spirit was filled with one goal: save Roran. The need to protect his cousin was behind every cut and blow the blue Rider made. The hits Murtagh took felt deeper with the belief behind them.

It was just as Thorn had said earlier; they were fighting a side with great conviction. And that was treacherous. It was also the reason Galbatorix paid so much attention to the Varden despite their far inferior numbers; men with conviction were far more dangerous than men without. Numbers meant little when soldiers had a cause.

But Murtagh had his own conviction. He might not care for the Empire or his orders, but he did care for his dragon. And if he were to fail in those orders, Thorn would suffer the consequences. He couldn't allow that to happen.

Murtagh growled and pushed forward, cutting at Eragon's unprotected midsection after a broad swing and connected. Eragon gasped and dropped to a knee. Murtagh swung downward, but Eragon rolled back and avoided the strike. He stumbled to his feet and lifted his blade again.

They stared at each other for a long moment. They were both panting and bruised, having a hard time holding up their weapons after the hits they'd taken. The sight was so familiar that Murtagh started to laugh.

"What?" Eragon demanded.

"It's just," Murtagh said between chuckles, "just like old times."

Eragon was silent for a moment before laughing himself. "Sparring after a day's travel."

"I can't count the number of times I remember you doing that exact roll," Murtagh said with a grin, thinking back to simpler times when he and Eragon had been on the road together, sparring with blunted blades by a campfire. Eragon's swordsmanship had started out basic, clunky. But he'd improved quickly. Those nights had been some of the best in recent memory, as they'd helped Murtagh forget, at least for a little while, about his grief over Tornac's death, which had still been fresh.

"You're right," Eragon said. "Those were good nights." His shoulders drooped slightly. "And look where we are now."

Murtagh's smile faltered. "Yes. Look where we are now," he echoed flatly, the humor of the situation gone with a few words.

Behind Murtagh, Edoc was snorting irritably, as Roran had yet to move. Eragon had hit him hard; he likely wouldn't be conscious for hours after that.

"Let's finish this, brother," Eragon said, straightening.

"Yes," Murtagh agreed.

They charged at the same time, swords clashing furiously, the desire to protect behind both sets of attacks. Murtagh ducked a blow aimed at his head and elbowed Eragon in the chest. Eragon took half a step back before kicking out with a foot. Murtagh jumped to avoid it, but saw too late what his half-brother was doing.

"Deloi moi," Eragon said, palm toward the dirt.

The ground beneath Murtagh crumbled, and he cursed as he came down from his leap. His landing foot was caught in the sinkhole and he lost his balance. Zar'roc fell from his grip as he fell to a knee. Eragon's blue blade was at his throat before he could react.

Murtagh! Thorn cried.

Murtagh quickly considered his options, discarding each faster than the last. He was cornered. He shut his eyes in resignation, a sense of peace washing over him. It's okay, Thorn.

But—

Let it go, my friend. I've lost.

Murtagh pulled his helm from his head. He dropped it next to Zar'roc, useless at his side, and looked up at Eragon.

"You've gotten more creative," he said. "I'm impressed."

Eragon pulled his own helm from his head and discarded it, all while keeping the blade level at Murtagh's throat. "I knew no close-range spells would work on you; you'd get a shield up. And you've always been a better swordsman than me. It was my only option."

Murtagh shook his head slightly, but Eragon's blade, dug into the skin at the movement, so he froze. "That's good. Smart."

Murtagh thought of Roran's unusual tactical mind and the way he approached his fights. Perhaps there was more than a passing family resemblance between them after all. He briefly wondered what that said about him before discarding the thought. It didn't matter anymore.

The half-brothers stared at each other for long moment, Murtagh waiting and Eragon unmoving.

"The last time we met in battle," Murtagh said, "you wanted me to let you kill me."

"To free you," Eragon said, uncertainty in his eyes.

"To free me," Murtagh allowed. "Now I'm at your mercy."

"What's your point?" The blade shook slightly.

Murtagh glanced from the blade back to its master. "Do you have it in you, brother? Can you end my life here?"

"I—"

Murtagh's eyes narrowed. "If you don't, I will have no choice but to continue hunting you."

"I don't care about myself."

"You're not the only one the king wants."

Eragon frowned but said nothing. He had many people he cared for and fought to protect; he had so much left to lose.

"If you don't," Murtagh added softly, "you have no idea what you'll have sentenced me to." He raised his chin. "Death would be preferable."

"I thought your and Thorn's lives were the most precious things to you," Eragon said. "That you would not give up no matter what."

Murtagh swallowed, thinking back. He'd said that once. Before. "Things change." He smiled wanly, shoving violent memories aside. "I never really had a chance. It took me a long time to realize it. But you? You can have a chance."

"Murtagh—"

The red Rider swallowed and met Eragon's eyes. "Do it."

Murtagh.

I'm sorry, Thorn.

A shadow of a look crossed Eragon's face, gone too quickly for Murtagh to read. He pulled the blade back, and Murtagh shut his eyes.

I love you, my friend.

Murtagh! Thorn cried desperately.

Then there was blinding pain and the world fell away.

Chapter Text

Murtagh shut his eyes as Eragon pulled his blade back to strike. Thorn was panicking behind him, flapping his wings and snorting violently. Eragon had seen what a Rider’s death could do to a dragon after Oromis had fallen and did not wish that on any creature, much less one that had been born and raised in enslavement.

But more than anything, Eragon was perturbed by how quickly Murtagh had resigned himself to his fate; he had a hard time reconciling this man with the proud one he’d come to know and admire. Murtagh had been fighting against his fate since Eragon had met him and had never stopped, even after undergoing tortures Eragon could not even imagine.

But in that moment, he’d surrendered.

And Eragon knew he couldn’t go through with it.

Instead, he swung the hilt of Brisingr at Murtagh’s temple. His half-brother crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap, blood trickling from his hairline. Eragon felt only a hollow sadness as he stood over the prone figure. Murtagh didn’t deserve this; no one did.

Eragon sighed and looked up at Thorn, who had settled down once he realized his Rider was merely unconscious. His ruby eyes were intently focused on Eragon, as though scrutinizing his character. It was uncanny, the ability dragons had of looking through humans right to their souls. Eragon supposed that was how they knew when they’d found the right person to hatch for.

“Take care of him,” he said, nodding toward Murtagh. Someone needs to.

Thorn ducked his head in what Eragon could only assume was agreement and snorted. Eragon received the message and moved away from his half-brother. The red dragon made no move to stop him from approaching Roran, far more concerned with his own Rider.

Was that wise? Saphira asked, speaking up for the first time in what seemed like eons.

What? Eragon asked.

Letting Murtagh live, Saphira clarified with an air of infinite patience.

To be fair, Eragon was being obtuse on purpose. I couldn’t do it, Saphira. I couldn’t end his life.

Eragon…

Eragon mentally shrugged. He’s my brother, Saphira. And he had been a great friend once. Before.

And Roran?

If I do not give up on Roran, how can I give up on Murtagh?

The green dragon watched Eragon approach with impossibly deep eyes; though the dragon could not be older than a few months, he was nearly Thorn’s size and seemed alive with intelligence far beyond his age. Yet he was trapped. Galbatorix must have used the power of Eldunarya to help this dragon grow like he had Thorn. Poor creatures; they never had a chance.

Beyond the city wall, the battle continued to rage the clang of swords and the screams of dying men were loud and the stench of blood and death on the air. Somewhere in there, Galbatorix was also waiting. But Eragon could not afford to think about that; he had to focus on the task at hand.

He picked his way through the rubble to kneel next to Roran’s unmoving form. Roran had hit the wall hard after that last spell. His helm had fallen off, his armor had cracked, and there was blood on his forehead; no doubt there was more damage underneath.

Eragon reached out hesitantly to touch his cousin, but the green dragon growled. Eragon pulled his hand away and met the dragon’s gaze. “I just want to help him. Help you both. Please.”

He could only hope the dragon would not fight him with his Rider in a perilous situation, king’s orders or no. He was tempted to open his mind to the dragon, to prove his intentions, but with the dragon sworn to the king, he didn’t dare risk it. He would just have to hope the dragon would believe him. They stared at each other for a long moment before the dragon clawed at the dirt and ducked his head.

“Thank you,” Eragon breathed in relief before getting to work.

The dragon snorted but didn’t try to stop Eragon as he murmured “Reisa” to levitate his injured cousin out from the debris.

Saphira, Eragon called.

On my way, the dragon replied, landing at Eragon’s side moments later. What are you going to do?

I need to bring Roran back to the Varden. Maybe we can find a way to break his oaths to Galbatorix.

And his dragon?

Eragon glanced back at the green dragon, who was watching the exchange stoically, before turning back to Saphira. He hasn’t stopped me yet. I think he wants to help Roran, too.

But—

Eragon fixed his dragon with a stare. If it was me in Roran’s place? What would you do?

Saphira huffed but did not argue. Fine. But remember that he is a prisoner. I know he is like a brother to you, but he has been deeply enspelled. You must treat him as hostile.

Eragon sighed. He hated that it had come to this, but he would do what he must. I know.

After that, it was quick work binding Roran with a spell and securing him to Saphira’s back. “We should move by land,” Eragon said then. “Galbatorix will be looking to the skies for Riders. The longer head start we can give ourselves on ground, the better our chances of escape. We can be to the ships before he realizes our battle has ended.”

That’s risky, Saphira said.

Do you have a better idea? Eragon demanded wearily. He was ready to get moving; the sooner the better.

I suppose not.

Eragon nodded to himself before reaching out with his mind to find Nasuada and Arya beyond the city walls amidst the battle. I’ve got Roran, he told them.

And Murtagh? Nasuada asked, a hint of something in her voice. Concern?

Defeated. But he will not be incapacitated for long. We must move.

Understood, Arya said. Reconvene at the ships?

Yes, Nasuada said. She then cut the connection, and moments later Eragon heard the Varden’s war horn blow once, then twice. Two for retreat. They had gotten what they came for.

Eragon mounted Saphira, settling into the saddle, before glancing back at the green dragon. “I need to bind you for now,” he said. “So the Varden sees you are not a threat.” The green dragon grumbled in the back of his throat but allowed Eragon’s binding and levitation spells.

To the ships, Saphira. Fly close to the ground.

I know, Saphira replied, flapping her wings thrice before taking off. Her belly nearly skimmed the dirt as they flew away from Urû'baen. The green dragon trailed behind in the air, held by Eragon’s magic. Once they reached the ships, Eragon thought he would be able to release the spell; Saphira would look after the green dragon during the journey.

But that still left another dragon in captivity.

Eragon glanced back and saw that Thorn had taken a protective stance over Murtagh’s unconscious form, sheltering his fallen Rider with his wings.  A surge of guilt hit Eragon at the sight, but there was nothing he could do. Getting Roran and his dragon away from the capital was going to be tricky enough; there was no way he could bring a captive Murtagh and Thorn along as well. Many in the Varden would want his head were he to do so anyway.

His brother would have to hold strong for now.

“If you don’t, you have no idea what you’ll have sentenced me to. Death would be preferable.”

Eragon’s chest gave a lurch at the memory of Murtagh’s words as he turned back forward. Forgive me, brother. I only hope I have not destroyed you completely.

-----

The feeling of someone taking a chisel to his brain slowly pulled Murtagh into consciousness. For a long moment, everything was hazy and red, and he could not make sense of his surroundings. Slowly the cacophony pounding in his head split into separate sounds—voices—and Murtagh’s eyes flew open. It shouldn’t be possible…

“I’m alive.”

Finally, Thorn grumbled. Murtagh blinked and realized his red surroundings were Thorn’s wings, spread over him like a tent. His dragon was sheltering him.

What happened? Why am I still alive?

Eragon knocked you unconscious, Thorn replied shortly.

The dragon was furious, but Murtagh could only process one problem at a time; his memories were still hazy and his head throbbing. He winced as he touched a hand to the side of his head. The skin was tender and there was blood on his fingers when he pulled them away.

How long have I been out? he asked. He needed to get his bearings.

Four clock turns. The moon has risen.

Murtagh’s eyes widened. Four hours he’d lain in the field? And the battle?

Over. Eragon and Brightscales took Roran and the hatchling captive.

Murtagh turned this information over in his mind. And the Varden?

Retreated. They headed for the sea.

But the soldiers without pain were there. Destroying the ships. Galbatorix had agreed with Murtagh that the Varden were likely to bring a guerilla force by sea to interrupt the execution, so had set up a contingency to keep the Varden from escaping land were they lucky enough to get out of the city alive.

Yes. There were many explosions. I saw Brightscales and the hatchling fly off.

Did they have anyone with them?

Eragon, Roran, the she-elf, and Varden leader.

So Arya and Nasuada had taken part in the battle after all. Part of him—the shrinking part that was still Murtagh—was relieved they’d gotten away. But an increasingly large part of him knew that this would mean trouble. Murtagh had failed when the king had warned him that failure would not be tolerated.

He’d hoped Eragon had grown enough to take his life this time; but it seemed for all his pretty words, he did not have it in him. Murtagh scowled. Eragon wanted to be merciful, but the only true mercy he could have given his half-brother would have been a quick death.

Soldiers have been trying to get to you since the battle ended. The king is waiting. Thorn’s cool tone changed then, to one of concern, because he knew just as well as Murtagh what was coming.

Thorn—

It doesn’t matter. The king has been waiting for hours.

Murtagh flinched. Then I suppose I should make myself known. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. He sighed and sheathed Zar’roc. Then he retrieved his helm and tapped Thorn’s protective wing gently with his fist. All right.

Murtagh—

You said the king was waiting. We are bound to obey that summons.

Thorn huffed irritably and dissatisfaction flowed across the bond, but he withdrew his wings. Murtagh glanced at the small group of soldiers that had surrounded Thorn, albeit at a safe distance.

“Lord Murtagh—”

“My Lord!”

“The king!”

Murtagh swung into Thorn’s saddle, his vision dancing in front of him and his stomach turning at the movement. He shut his eyes until the dizziness passed, then tapped Thorn in the side with his boot. “Let’s go,” he whispered. None of the soldiers Murtagh was ignoring heard it, but the dragon did.

Thorn beat his wings several times, the force pushing the soldiers back even farther, before lifting into the air. As they flew back over the city walls, Murtagh peered over his dragon’s side to see soldiers carting away the dead as the dying groaned. Though the battle had been small and relatively contained, the body count was fairly large in comparison. It seemed likely that more Varden fighters arrived while Murtagh had been occupied with his own battle.

He shook his head and turned away from the grisly sight. He only hoped there weren’t many civilians among those left in the square.

Thorn soared over the castle walls, several soldiers pointing at him, and set down in the courtyard. Murtagh was gingerly sliding out of his saddle, as the blows he’d taken during the battle were catching up with him, when he noticed Conrad and several other retainers approaching from the castle. Murtagh waited for them, one hand resting on Thorn’s side. The dragon was agitated and was tempted to bite one of the men out of spite for the king.

Easy, Murtagh told him. That won’t help anything.

You don’t know that, Thorn retorted. Murtagh rolled his eyes, but Thorn relented.

“My Lord,” Conrad said breathlessly, coming to a halt in front of Murtagh. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “I take it the king grows impatient.”

Conrad flinched. “Yes.”

Murtagh nodded. “Then we best not keep him waiting any longer.” He handed Thorn’s reins to one of the other retainers. “Make sure he is well-looked after.”

The retainer bowed his head and began moving toward the dragon hold. Thorn spared his Rider a long look before following. Be careful, Murtagh.

Aye. Because there was nothing else to be said.

Murtagh turned back to Conrad. “Help me with my armor and then I will see the king.”

He tossed Conrad his helm. The servant bobbled it several times before stabilizing it. Together, they were able to remove Murtagh’s armor quickly. As Conrad gathered the various pieces, studying the various dents and bloodstains, Murtagh replaced Zar’roc at his hip. The blade felt particularly heavy.

He nodded to Conrad, tamping down on his nerves as best he could. Showing fear was the worst thing he could do. “Now to see the king.”

“Good luck, my Lord.” Conrad, Murtagh assumed, would be taking the damaged armor to the armory to see what could be done with it.

Murtagh headed toward the castle, and he could feel soldiers’ eyes on him from all around the courtyard and up on the battlements. He did not hurry, for his pride would not allow it, but he took long strides to eat up ground.

Once inside, his boots clacked accusingly against the stone floor. Servants and maids scurried around the hallways on various post-battle errands. They ducked their heads in deference as they passed Murtagh, but he could feel their eyes on his back once they were behind him. He did his best to ignore them.

When he reached the throne room, the guards flanking the doors sagged in obvious relief.

“My Lord,” the left guard said. “The king has been waiting.”

“So I’ve heard,” Murtagh retorted coolly. “And here I am.”

The guards swallowed opened the doors. The right guard opened his mouth to announce the Rider, but the king’s booming voice cut him off.

“Murtagh. Come.”

The guards pointedly did not look at Murtagh as he passed. Like walking to the gallows, Murtagh thought with little humor. But he kept his head high as he strode into the throne room and managed not to flinch when the door slammed shut behind him. The air was frigid as Murtagh approached, and the king sat on the throne, fingers drumming against the armrests impatiently.

Murtagh made it to the foot of the throne and went to a knee. He kept his eyes on the carpet, though every instinct screamed to look at the man that held his life in his hands. The king’s black gaze burned into his back, but he remained still. He would not show weakness in front of this man. He would not.

“The battle has been over for hours,” Galbatorix said icily. “And where have you been, Murtagh?”

The bruise at Murtagh’s temple gave a twinge as he grasped for the right words. “Unconscious, Your Grace,” he said at last. No point in lying; the king would know.

“Explain.”

“Eragon defeated me,” Murtagh replied simply, still speaking into the carpet in front of the throne.

“And Roran?”

“Also defeated. He overestimated himself and Eragon took him down.”

“Only to take him hostage,” Galbatorix hissed. “The Varden captured him.” Murtagh said nothing. “Pray tell, Murtagh, how were you defeated?” the king said after a long moment.

Murtagh’s eye twitched at the mocking tone, but he did not rise to the bait. The king was angry and playing into his hands was the worst thing he could do. “The battle moved outside of the city walls,” he said, “Roran was defeated by quick spellwork, which left me to fight Eragon. And he bested me.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Murtagh’s eyes widened as the air suddenly vanished from his lungs and his throat constricted. His body shook and he was frozen—just like that night in the manor. His mind spun in panic, but no amount of mentally uttered spells could break the vice on his windpipe. Somewhere above him, he heard the king rise from his throne, but his vision began graying out.

Murtagh! Thorn called across the bond, and Murtagh’s only thought as consciousness threatened to leave him was regret that he hadn’t blocked his dragon out, so Thorn would have to sense his suffering as well.

And then the grip was gone. Air rushed into his lungs again and his body pitched forward. Murtagh managed to catch himself on all fours, trembling arms barely able to support his weight, as he sucked in life-giving air.

I’m okay, he reassured his dragon quickly. I’m okay. Concern radiated from the dragon, but Murtagh could do nothing about it.

“Disloyalty comes with a price,” the king said icily. Murtagh shuddered as he tried to get his short breaths under control. He hadn’t technically been disloyal by simply being defeated—his oaths would not have let him fall on purpose—but he knew better than to speak up.

“Even if Roran was not ready, you are my general on the battlefield, Murtagh. You know how to wield the power of the Eldunarya. You are the best swordsman among the Riders. Yet you, the son of the great Morzan, were defeated?”

“I offer no excuses,” Murtagh replied. “I failed you.”

“You know how I feel about excuses,” Galbatorix said, sounding somewhat satisfied at the response. Murtagh bore scars from previous excuses; it was a lesson hard learned. “But that does not change the disaster this turned into. I should have ended the day with all the Riders under me, yet now the Varden has two.”

“Roran still has his oaths,” Murtagh said, eyes still locked on the floor.

Pain erupted from within, and Murtagh doubled over. He gasped breathlessly as the fire spread from his chest through his veins. He curled into a ball, but nothing could lessen the agony. His vision went white as every nerve burned. And when he could take it no longer, Murtagh screamed.

He had no idea how long he burned from the inside out, but finally his body’s shaking subsided and his vision began to clear. His throat was hoarse from his screams and he blinked. After a long moment, he realized he was on his back and he was staring at the high ceiling.

“You’re right,” Galbatorix said thoughtfully, striding into Murtagh’s line of vision. “I still hold Roran’s true name, and his oaths in the ancient language will mean death if he tries to side with the Varden.”

Murtagh made to roll onto his side, out of such a prone position, but the king threw out a hand, an unspoken spell freezing his body.

“Perhaps that won’t be as big a setback as expected,” Galbatorix allowed, as though there had been no interruption. “And we took nearly fifty Varden prisoners after we destroyed their ships in the harbor. But none were more than simple foot soldiers. They will tell us what they know before they die. Yet the true prey escaped on dragonback.

“And we lost nearly ten score men today.” Murtagh swallowed, thinking back to bloody scene in the square he and Thorn had flown over. “And my red Rider was defeated in battle.”

Galbatorix knelt down next to Murtagh’s head. “What do you suppose that does to my reputation, Murtagh? If the Varden’s Rider, a farm boy,” he spat, “can defeat my noble-born Rider, who is going to fear the Empire’s forces?”

Murtagh didn’t dare reply, nor did the king seem to expect him to.

“It gives the fools of this nation a false hope in rebels that would plunge this nation into chaos. It only serves to bolster their cause. And that is… unacceptable.”

The remaining warmth in the room seemed to vanish at the last word. Murtagh felt his stomach twist. He knew what was coming before the king spoke again.

Galbatorix’s black eyes gleamed. “The only way for the people of Alagaësia to realize this was a fluke is for there to be repercussions for failure.”

Murtagh’s world exploded in searing agony as the king simultaneously hacked at his soul with the knowledge of his true name and bludgeoned down his mental defenses. The king was poking through his mind, through his thoughts and memories, with a fire poker while every other nerve in his body burned and froze over at the same time.

Images flashed across Murtagh’s mind’s eye as the king sorted through them: Murtagh kneeling in front of Eragon, a blue blade at his throat; Roran casting a spell, forcing Eragon and Murtagh apart; Eragon standing on the clock tower in the square; Roran visiting Murtagh’s room, demanding to fight; Roran at the king’s side in the throne room; Nasauda on the battlements at Feinster…

And on they went.

Murtagh’s back arched off the floor at the invasion and his finger nails dug vainly into the stone floor for purchase until they bled. Pain was all around him, inside of him, consuming him.

Murtagh! A familiar voice echoed faintly through his mind before being pushed under a wave of white-hot fire.

And Murtagh screamed.

-----

tbc…

Chapter Text

Murtagh was floating.

He didn’t remember how he’d gotten here, but it didn’t matter. There was no pain, no fear, no nothing. It was peaceful. He had no idea how long he’d been floating, but he blinked when the void around him started taking form. The darkness rescinded and took on colors. Murtagh watched in confusion as cobblestones formed beneath his boots—when had he gotten feet?—and a fiery sunset expanded above his head. He frowned as walls and towers rose around him, taking familiar shape.

He clenched his jaw when he realized that it was Morzan’s castle. But the gardens were alive and well-groomed and none of the stones were crumbling. Torches were coming to life around the perimeter of the courtyard Murtagh now stood in. He turned around in a circle just as his surroundings finished taking shape; it looked just as he remembered it as a child.

Murtagh felt an explicable pull toward the castle; there was something important in there. He began walking toward the building. Torches came to life, illuminating the hallway in front of him once he stepped inside; the warm lights danced over the grisly paintings and tapestries Morzan had chosen to line the walls of his home. Murtagh glanced at them as he passed, noting the clear lines and crisp colors, as though they’d just been hung.

He didn’t see anyone else as he walked, nor did he pay attention to the route he was taking. Instead, he followed the pull he’d felt outside. It was stronger the deeper into the manor he went, the torches always lighting the way ahead of him.

Minutes or hours later, he didn’t know, Murtagh stopped outside a pair of double doors; this was where the pull had been leading him. He blinked as though coming out of a trance and recognized the doors to the drawing room. His stomach tightened. He had no happy memories of this place, either recent or long past. But there was something here that was important.

He swallowed and made to grab the handles, but the doors swung open on their own. Murtagh’s brow furrowed but he stepped inside. The room was decorated as he remembered, the velvet curtains pulled back to let in the weak light of the rising moon. There was an inviting fire crackling in the fireplace, and he sat in his favorite chair by the fire.

“Murtagh,” Morzan greeted, raising his glass of red wine in the younger man’s direction.

Murtagh’s mouth worked but no sound came out. The man in front of him had starred in his nightmares for as long as he could remember, usually drunk and towering over him, wielding Zar’roc. Murtagh glanced to a certain spot on the floor and noticed there was no bloodstain. He frowned and glanced back up.

Morzan wore an odd expression—if Murtagh hadn’t known better, he might have called it regret. “Please, join me, my son,” he said, nodding toward the empty chair across from his.

For a moment, Murtagh hesitated. But the pull returned and Murtagh relented. Morzan seemed to relax slightly when Murtagh sat down across from him.

“Wine?” he asked, indicating a bottle of red and an empty glass at his side.

“No, thank you,” Murtagh replied curtly, the forced nicety slipping off his tongue without a thought.

Morzan nodded, a look of understanding crossing his face, before taking another sip from his own glass. He then put it down next to the bottle and sat back in his seat. He rested his arms on the chair and seemed to study Murtagh.

Murtagh forced himself not to fidget under his father’s inscrutable multi-colored stare. Though Morzan had relaxed, Murtagh sat with a stiff back on the edge of his own seat. This was all too strange and he didn’t trust any of it.

“You’ve grown into man,” Morzan said at last. He seemed… thoughtful.

“You’ve been dead a long time,” Murtagh said, fixing his father with a level stare.

“Yes,” Morzan allowed, “I suppose that’s true.”

“So what is this about?” Murtagh demanded.

“We need to talk,” Morzan said.

Murtagh crossed his arms, irritation flashing through him. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I know I wasn’t the best father—” Murtagh snorted and Morzan sighed. “I know what you must think of me, my son.”

“Do you?” Murtagh cut in, raising an eyebrow. He leaned back in his chair, arms still crossed, as he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. Morzan’s volatile moods had been infamous, though; things could change in an instant. “You nearly killed me when I was a toddler,” he hissed. “You deformed me and left me with nothing but a legacy of bloodshed and hatred. What do you think I think of you? You are no father to me.”

“You’re right. I deserve that.”

“So I repeat,” Murtagh growled, “what could you possibly have to say to me?”

There was something cathartic about raging at the man who had ruined his life by the simple act of fathering him. But Murtagh had been trapped by his father’s legacy since birth. Had his father been anyone else…

Like Eragon’s, a traitorous voice in the back of his mind added. Murtagh shoved the voice down as hard as he could.

“One has a lot of time to think over his life in death,” Morzan said, a look crossing his face so quickly that Murtagh couldn’t read it. “And there are things you need to know going forward.”

Alarm bells began tolling in Murtagh’s head at that. “I don’t understand.”

“There was certain… work I was doing before my death,” Morzan replied.

Recognition hit Murtagh like a blow. “The prophecy.”

Morzan nodded. “Yes.”

Murtagh’s mind spun at that. He considered the notes he’d found in the library those months ago, the prophecy he and Roran had been able to read, the other page in the same book with the strange pull, the king’s words…

“You were trying to overthrow Galbatorix.” Murtagh shook his head. “First you betray the Riders, then the man you betrayed them for?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?” Murtagh retorted. “Either you did or you did not.”

Morzan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, entwining his fingers, making the missing bit of his finger obvious in the firelight. “I’m sure you, of all people Murtagh, can understand doing something against your will.”

Murtagh was unable to mask a flinch at that and Morzan nodded. “And I’m sure you also understand the thrill of power when you’ve been oppressed for a long time—the feeling of having control once again.”

Murtagh licked his bottom lip; yes, there was a part of him that accepted the king’s orders because the power he got as a Rider and from the Eldunarya was intoxicating, especially after being nothing but a pawn for so much of his life. He hated that part of himself, but the more often he went into battle, the harder it was to rein back in afterwards.

“Are you saying,” Murtagh said slowly, “that you were being oppressed?”

“At the time I thought so,” Morzan replied. There was a weariness to his voice that gave Murtagh pause as he listened. “Like I said, in death you have much time to consider your actions in life.” He shook his head. “In those days, the Order was a tight-knit group, closed off to outsiders. The elves considered themselves better than human Riders and were not shy about their supposed superiority. They considered ‘outsiders’ to be any Riders unlike them.”

“So the elves were oppressing the other Riders,” Murtagh echoed in disbelief. He knew the stories about his father painted him as strong of body and weak of mind, but Murtagh also knew Morzan had been very intelligent, though perhaps lacking in wisdom. Yet hearing the man speak…

Morzan inclined his head. “At the time, I thought so. I was young and hot-headed.” He sighed. “Brom somehow managed to get along with the elves, but that was unheard of. I was sure he must have some elven blood in him and never forgave him for that.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, I was not the only human Rider to resent the elves’ domination of the Order. We were dangerously close to war within the Riders when I met Galbatorix.”

Murtagh blinked. “I didn’t know that.”

Morzan smiled humorlessly. “Few do. The Order was very secretive. The Riders were meant to keep peace, so the public could not know there were quarrels among the peacekeepers.”

Huh, Murtagh thought. That didn’t excuse the betrayal, but as a student of history, Murtagh found it interesting nonetheless.

“When I met Galbatorix, he presented the idea of reforming the Order under a leadership based on power, not race. The strongest Rider would lead, whether he be a young elf, an old man, or something else entirely.”

“That sounds about right,” Murtagh muttered.

Morzan ignored the comment, though the way his lip quirked, Murtagh knew he’d heard. “I recognized Galbatorix as the strongest of the extant Riders.”

“Even though he was a criminal?” From what Murtagh knew, the order had been to kill Galbatorix on sight at that point. Yet Morzan had joined him.

“Yes,” Morzan agreed. “He promised that together we could rebuild the Riders. But first, we had to destroy the unjust system.”

“And that’s when you helped him steal Shruikan?”

Morzan nodded. “Together we fled and he taught me magics he’d learned from a Shade. And the power was just… intoxicating.” Murtagh shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that feeling. “During that time, I also managed to recruit other Riders who wanted to rebuild the Order on a basis of power. And together we all formed the—”

“Forsworn.”

“I was going to say Wyrdfell, but yes.”

Murtagh nodded for his father to continue. Morzan crossed one leg over the other and placed his hands in his lap. “After we destroyed the Riders, Galbatorix took power, just as we had planned. And for a time, it was as we had hoped.”

“But something changed,” Murtagh assumed.

“Galbatorix became paranoid over time,” Morzan replied. “He encouraged in-fighting within the Forsworn because he thought it would remove those actually disloyal to him. It soon became my duty to communicate between the other Forsworn and Galbatorix.”

“He trusted none but you?”

Morzan nodded. “It was why he wanted this castle built so close to Urû’baen. But then… I met her. Selena,” he clarified.

“My mother.”

And Eragon’s, that voice added unhelpfully.

“Yes.” Morzan’s look was surprisingly soft. “In truth, I did not love her at first, though she was quite enamored with me. I used that to my advantage and after swearing oaths to me in the Ancient Language, she became my Black Hand.”

Bitterness twisted around in Murtagh’s gut at that; Morzan had kept Murtagh and his mother separated for most of his childhood; the quilt hanging in his childhood room one of the few tokens of her love that he had. Just another thing this man had taken from him.

“I thought she was useful,” Morzan pressed on, “and encouraged her affection. It pushed her to be my best agent.” Murtagh knew very well the stories of the Black Hand. “But one day, she returned from a mission early with tidings that saved my life.”

Murtagh frowned. “What tidings?”

Morzan scowled. “Galbatorix had gotten wind from another of the Forsworn that I was plotting against him. It wasn’t true, but his paranoia allowed him to believe it. Though I was closest to him, I think he also feared me above the others, so was willing to believe the story. Having so many powerful Riders around him only fed his paranoia over the years.” Morzan shook his head in disgust.

Murtagh’s eyes widened. He’d never heard this story. “What happened?”

Morzan shrugged. “Because of Selena’s warning, I was able to track down the bastard that set me up. I brought him to the capital personally and forced a confession from him in front of Galbatorix. Had I not known of it, Galbatorix would have arrived unannounced and likely killed me for an imagined slight.”

Murtagh tried not to think about the amount of torture it would take to get another Rider—a fellow traitor to the Order and one loyal to Galbatorix—to break in front of the king like that.

“I think I may have fallen in love with Selena then,” Morzan said. “She was the first person to truly save my life like it mattered.” He shook his head. “She was cold and ruthless when on missions, and the Forsworn and Varden alike feared her. But in private… she was different. You were conceived after that, you know.”

Murtagh took a moment to consider that before changing the subject. “And what does this have to do with the prophecy?”

“In the wake of that scare, I realized that even I, Galbatorix’s right-hand man, was not safe. His paranoia was so extreme that he actively searched out disloyalty among the Forsworn.” He shrugged. “In my research for further defenses of the castle—from both the king and the other Forsworn, as they could not know about you,” Morzan said, nodding at Murtagh, “I discovered a book of prophecy in my collection. And I knew in reading the words that Galbatorix would bring ruin down upon us all.”

He shook his head. “And I suddenly had a family to worry about.”

“Right,” Murtagh scoffed, unable to keep the comment back. Because Morzan was the epitome of a family man.

Morzan smiled sadly. “If any of the Forsworn were to find out about you, they wouldn’t have hesitated to use you to get to me. Or the Varden. In those days, they were not nearly so honorable as they are now.”

Murtagh snorted and Morzan nodded approvingly.

“Selena knew this as well and stayed away from the castle after you were born.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Because she was well-known, spending more time than usual here would raise suspicions and eventually someone would investigate. We couldn’t take that risk.”

“So my emotionally-deprived childhood was actually to protect me,” Murtagh replied flatly.

“During this time,” Morzan said over Murtagh’s commentary, “I was able to recruit several members of the Forsworn to my side. Together, we should have been strong enough to defeat Galbatorix and the remaining Forsworn. Much of the in-fighting history recognizes was a result of this conflict. Galbatorix encouraged it, not realizing that we were trying to destroy his power base.”

Murtagh considered this and wondered if perhaps Morzan was underestimating what the king knew. He always seemed to know more than he should, as though he had eyes and ears everywhere. “That seems inefficient,” Murtagh finally said.

“I could not challenge him directly.”

“He knew about me,” Murtagh realized. He was stunned; Morzan would only have cared if he thought it would work. If Murtagh had been nothing but the tool he always thought he’d been to his father, his existence would not have been nearly so important. Tools can be replaced, after all.

Morzan nodded. “That was not a risk I was willing to take.” He shook his head. “But it did not end up mattering. Brom reentered the picture, working with the Varden. He was killing Riders on both sides of the battle. I don’t think he realized we were having a civil war.”

“Or he did and did not care,” Murtagh pointed out. He was still reeling but tried to collect himself. “He was the enemy of both sides.”

“Also possible,” Morzan granted. “Either way, he seduced Selena and whisked her away while I was working to take down the king.” His voice turned bitter at that.

“And that’s when he killed you.”

“Months after Selena disappeared, but yes.”

Everything Morzan said seemed to mesh with what Murtagh knew and what he’d come across in Morzan’s notes. Yet it was still hard to wrap his head around.

“What does this have to do with me?” Murtagh asked finally. “Why all of this?” He waved his arm, indicating the whole illusion.

“Because you are the only one who can finish my work.”

Murtagh frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You are the one closest to Galbatorix,” Morzan said. “You have the best opportunity, as I did.”

Murtagh shook his head. “I have sworn oaths of loyalty in the Ancient Language. He knows my true name. I cannot fight against him.”

But Morzan shook his head. “You do not give yourself enough credit, Murtagh. You are my son. If anyone can do the impossible, it is you.” He smiled again. “You have my power and your mother’s heart. That is a dangerous combination.”

“I—”

But Morzan cut him off. “I always thought myself great and that I should be a man of prophecy. Instead, it is you, my legacy. You shall be far greater than I ever was, Murtagh.”

Murtagh opened his mouth, but the room began to swirl and shake around them. Their surroundings were being pulled back into the void they’d come from. Wide-eyed, Murtagh looked back at his father, who had a look of… pride on his face. “Go well, my son,” he said before he too was pulled into the swirling void.

“Wait!” Murtagh cried. “That can’t be it!” There had to be more to this story. There had to be…

Murtagh’s eyes flew open and he gasped, breath coming in short pants. His body jerked, only to painfully protest the movement, and something cool and wet slid from his forehead. He groaned at the pain and blinked several times as he worked to get his breathing under control. After a moment, he realized he was staring at a familiar ceiling. He was lying in the bed in his chambers. He reached for the wet cloth that had fallen from his forehead and stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“My Lord! You’re awake!”

Murtagh grimaced at the unexpected voice and turned his head to see Conrad at the foot of his bed. The servant had jumped out of a chair and was making his way to Murtagh’s side. He picked the cloth out of Murtagh’s fingers and deposited it in a tub.

“Conrad? What happened? Why are you here?” His last memories were still fuzzy and he couldn’t seem to make sense of this new situation.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days, my Lord.”

Murtagh frowned. “What?”

And then the memories slammed back into him and his chest clenched tightly. He gasped at the sudden onslaught, his back arching off the bed and his vision whiting out. After a long moment, the white gave way to the dim colors of his chambers and he collapsed weakly back into the mattress. His breath was still short and his insides felt twisted, but he was slowly able to collect himself.

Murtagh?

Thorn. Murtagh felt relief flow across the bond. He latched on to the dragon’s calming presence, using it as a lifeline as he so often did and soon his breathing calmed.

I was worried.

I’m all right. I think.

“My Lord?” Conrad asked once the Rider had settled.

Murtagh shook his head. “It’s fine. Tell me.”

The servant hesitated but finally nodded. “After the king—Ah, well, after your meeting with the king, you were unconscious. The king had healers look over the worst injuries, but you’ve still had a fever.”

Well that explained the cloth that had been on his head. “Have you been here all this time?”

“Yes.”

Gratitude welled up in Murtagh at that; it wasn’t often he had someone care enough to look after him. He usually licked his wounds in private or with Thorn. “Thank you.”

“O-of course,” the servant stammered, clearly surprised to be thanked for his work.

Murtagh studied the man and noticed bags under his eyes. “Go get some sleep.”

“I’ve slept.”

“On a bed?” Conrad opened his mouth, but Murtagh cut him off. “You’re no good to me exhausted.” And then Murtagh yawned and winced at the bolt of pain that laced through him at even the small movement. “Besides,” he said wryly, “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

Conrad finally nodded and left the room with one final glance back. Murtagh sighed and felt his eyes drooping. He ached all over and exhaustion washed over him like a wave. Just before he fell back asleep, he realized Thorn was humming softly across the bond.

-----

How is the camp? Eragon asked.

He could practically hear Saphira rolling her eyes. Same as the last time you asked.

Roran?

Arya is looking after him. Still.

Let me know if anything changes.

Just as I promised the last time you asked. Shouldn’t you be focusing on your own task?

You’re right.

Then I’ll see you when you return, little one. At that, Saphira cut off their link and Eragon slumped back in his chair.

Nasuada raised an eyebrow at him from under her hood. “What?”

In the days since the battle, Eragon, Arya, Nasuada, Saphira, and their two captives had been on the run. They’d managed to run into a few Varden soldiers who’d avoided capture at the bay, but it was a small, ragtag band that was moving back south toward Feinster where the majority of the Varden forces remained encamped.

To get information on the aftermath of the battle, they’d taken turns visiting local pubs to hear the rumors. Today the duty had fallen to Eragon and Nasuada; to avoid recognition, they’d donned cloaks with hoods and were nursing their drinks in a back corner booth. When they’d gotten there, the patrons had been chatting animatedly about the battle, gossiping about unfounded rumors, many of them ridiculous.

Eragon shook his head and took a drink of his ale. “Saphira is growing impatient with me.”

Nasuada laughed lightly. “Then maybe you should trust her and Arya to look after things.”

Eragon scowled into his glass. “It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s just…”

He trailed off, but Nasuada nodded her understanding. “I know. Roran is important to you.”

“And he’s dangerous right now. We don’t know the full extent of his new power.” Eragon shook his head. “And until we can learn more about the oaths he swore, we can’t help him.”

Nasuada opened her mouth, likely to say something comforting, but stopped when a man at the bar slammed his mug down. He was thick, perhaps a smith of some kind, Eragon decided, thinking of Horst. The man had kept silent until now, head down in his ale. But he looked up and slowly turned around from the bar to stare around the room. The patrons had gone silent in surprise.

“You’re all damned fools,” he growled. “Gossiping about a battle like it’s some petty intrigue. Men lost their lives in Urû’baen Square. Good men who will never see their wives or children or brothers or sisters ever again.”

Eragon and Nasuada exchanged a glance.

“Why do you care so much?” someone demanded.

The man glowered. “Because I was there. I heard men die or scream and wish for death. I smelled the fetid odor of death wafting around the city. I saw dragons fly and clash in the sky over Urû’baen.”

An uncomfortable hush fell across the pub at that. Eragon sank deeper into his chair and pulled his cloak further down over his head.

“Why were you there?” someone else asked, though his one was far more respectful.

“I had wares to sell in the city. I planned to return home earlier, but snow fell and my wagon was stuck. Then the city was shut down for the execution.”

“Did you see the red Rider defeated?” another patron asked eagerly. Eragon’s eye twitched at the question, the memory of Murtagh kneeling in front of him flashing across his mind’s eye. He did not think that was an image he would ever not be haunted by.

“Long live the Shadeslayer! Cheers to the Varden!” yet another declared. “The Empire grows weak.”

“Watch what you say,” the bartender hissed. “We’re not three days from the capital. The king’s soldiers are constantly crawling around here. You can take your Varden sympathies south where they’re more welcome.”

“You’re wrong,” the smith said to the room at large, ignoring the bartender. “The Empire does not grow weak.”

“Are you a king’s man?”

“It matters not,” he countered. “I know the Empire does not grow weak. And if you’d heard what I did, you wouldn’t think so either.”

“What are you talking about?”

Eragon had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Nasuada had tensed up next to him.

“Galbatorix did not take defeat well,” the smith said. “His Rider survived the battle, but he may not wish he had.” The man looked around the room grimly. “Do not think the son of Morzan will dare lose another battle after this.”

“What do you mean?” the bartender asked. He’d stopping cleaning the mug in his hand.

The smith looked around the pub gravely before speaking. “The king made sure his red Rider’s screams were heard in every corner of the city.”

-----

tbc…