I wrote the beginning of this when I was 12. I found it one day while looking through my files. I thought I could somehow twist it into an Eragon story.

Hope you enjoy and tell me your thoughts!
CP owns all but OC

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The cool, slick steel sliding beneath her bare feet was bliss. The mellow company of heat from the sun's bright blaze balanced the soft breeze brushing against her cheeks. Peaceful silence invaded only by the melodious songs of surrounding birds. She loved this. Of course, she understood that what she did was dangerous, she understood very well. The presence of numerous scars and the dull ache of each step that she took ensured that she was reminded each day of just how dangerous what she did was. The fierce feeling of worth and purpose overwhelmed that of fear.

Never could she place a right step. She was a disappointment, from the moment of her birth. All that her father ever asked from the heavens was for his beloved wife to bless him with a son. After she had given birth, his wife died, as was expected. As if he were not in enough pain, he was cursed with an unwanted daughter… Never could she be his successor. She paused for a moment, the split second it took to make that fatal mistake. She could not hold back the cry of pain as the blade sliced her leg as she slid down, down into a pool of her own blood. The birds had scattered and the deafening clash of steel on stone rang through the air. Already she could hear the frantic footsteps and concerned mutters nearing her. She cursed herself, she should have been more careful.

"Miss Sage?" A wary woman called, nearing.

"Please," She said, hiding back her agony as well as she could manage, "Call me Everly," She winced as she heard the shriek of horror at the scene that the woman now faced. Everly's mouth turned into a thin line for a moment before she cleared her throat.

"So was there anything that I could help you with?" She forced politely.

"I must get your father." The woman's voice trembled with shock and stress. Everly froze. That would not be a wise move; her father had enough to deal with without his foolish daughter's welfare adding to it. Everly tried to scream, shout 'no!' though all that she could manage was a gasp and a choked sob. She could sense the crowd gather around her; she could vaguely hear their hissing whispers. No one had a heart these days, she figured. Perhaps they could have the simple courtesy of saving their gossiping somewhere where it was inaudible to her and, if they were in a good mood, maybe help her?

She strained herself, trying to stand, though to no avail, she gasped. This would be a long day.

Murtagh stared impassively at the cracks running through the ceiling above; he was unaware of his surroundings, his mind free aside from the gentle brush of Thorn's presence. He lay on his back; his chest rising and falling steadily. He felt trapped, as if he were a dog locked up in a cage. Murtagh felt as if he were at an end; he could be nothing that was not what the King wished. Of course death was an option that was not truly an option... No matter how much pain Galbatorix inflicted on him, he had given him the greatest companion he had ever had... His death would be Thorn's too. He felt Thorn's affection touch his mind. Murtagh remained silent. He clenched his fists, anger brewing within him. He could not understand how anyone could be so cold, sick and twisted. To harm the innocent was a deed he could just not commit. Not without it haunting him. Yet Galbatorix did not care. He destroyed lives daily. No one was allowed an opinion that did not agree with him; otherwise they may face death...

He frowned, hearing murmurs pass by his doors, he picked up on a few words before they became muffled, "... not the point. The point... not have time or energy ... such ... anymore. If you would take... few months... Grateful." Murtagh tossed this aside, his fierce anger taking over his mind, unable to process what he had heard.

Calm yourself. Thorn instructed. Sharing their thoughts also came with sharing their feelings. Murtagh sighed, closing his eyes and allowing his fists to unclench slowly. He did not understand why he made himself incensed thinking about such things. Perhaps he thought he may begin to follow the King willingly and he was absently reminding himself of how horrid Galbatorix was. He gritted his teeth.

His ears picked up a soft tapping at his doors, followed by a creek and a gentle voice, "Supper is not far off from being finished, sir. Just a reminder." And the door clicked shut. Murtagh's mouth was a thin line as he pushed himself off the four post bed, pushing the tapestry aside. He caught split second glimpses of Thorn preparing to search for his own meal.

He walked through the halls, unbothered to clothe his bare chest, earning him inquiring gazes. He shrugged these off, beyond caring about what people thought of him, making his way to the kitchens. He paused for a moment before entering, hearing unfamiliar voices. Slightly higher pitched, short, sharp words. Clearly a debate of some sort was taking place. Murtagh did not wish to end the conversation by walking in. He edged closer to the doors.

"... Care what you want!" A dulcet feminine voice snapped.

"This is not up to you," Another, deeper, more mature female voice said softly.

"Hey I never wanted you to go either!" Another woman called. Her voice was higher than the two others. Murtagh raised an eyebrow to himself, trying to make sense of what was happening. He heard other, quieter voices whispering among themselves.

"Enough," A growling, yet calm, man's voice uttered. "What is done is done. No complaining will change that. Let us hope that upon your return, you have matured. Do not think of yourself as a burden... I am merely too old for this. My love for you will not waver, my crimson thread runs through you, your pain is mine." This man was a father figure, Murtagh figured.

"Screw you." The first voice said stubbornly.

"Very well." The man said solemnly, "Let us leave." Murtagh pressed himself against the wall, moments before the doors swung open; a tall, well clothed man strode past him, followed by four younger women. He could not see their faces though they all had the same hair colour, suggesting that they were related. Murtagh grimaced, straightening himself before slipping into the kitchens, closing the door gently behind him. He gazed at an unfamiliar figure leaning against a bench in front of him. His brow knitted together, she had russet hair, falling just past her shoulders, tied back neatly. Her eyes were not green though they were not brown. They were somewhere in between. And she wore silk, which was quite expensive. Murtagh already disliked her; she seemed like a woman who was overly proud of herself when really, there were so much better out there. Her eyes met his stare. She glanced away quickly, her eyes carried worry and her cheeks reddened.

"Hello..." He said, pleased that she was intimidated by him.

"Hello... Sir..." She frowned, unsure. Looking at everything that was not him. She did not sound like she would cruse who was undoubtedly her father, noticing the same hair tone once more. Murtagh thought for a moment, she obviously was not here by choice; from what he picked up. His dislike decreased slightly at her apparent objectiveness to being in Galbatorix's abode.

"What do they call you?" He asked casually, folding his arms across his chest. He noticed that most of the chefs had retreated. A few left, trying to keep their heads down and mind their own business, for that he was glad.

"What does it matter to you?" She said, her defensiveness he had previously heard creeping back into her gentle voice. Murtagh smirked. He broadened his mind.

Be careful. Thorn warned. She could be a spell caster.

Doubt it. Murtagh laughed to himself as he realised she had no walls or defence whatsoever; she had not even noticed his presence in her thoughts. He caught glimpses of her memories, of her feet sliding and twisting around a sword... He frowned, his eyes widening as he saw her feet slip, slashing her leg, blood spattering everywhere.

"Miss Sage," The voice sounded muffled and nigh inaudible in his head.

"Please," The voice was now clear, obviously the girl was speaking, "Call me Everly..."

He brought himself out of her head at that point, unwilling to pry any further after gaining what he needed, no matter how curious he was. "Everly is a strange name," He commented. He smiled smugly as her eyes widened and her nails scratched at her palm nervously. "Are you going to ask how I knew?" He snickered.

"Please, leave me..." She gazed down at her hands. Murtagh wished she would move her dress so that he could see what had become of her leg. No, curiosity got the better of him. He leant against a wall indifferently, piercing through her mind once more. Delving deeper this time, searching for a clue as to who she was exactly...

A smaller, younger version of Everly ran through a grassy meadow. She came to broad doors, leading into what seemed to be a palace of some sort. She opened the doors just enough so that she could sneak through. She made her way around halls and dozens of doors that appeared exactly the same. She seemed to know precisely where she was going, stopping suddenly at one door. She pressed her ear against it, checking for presence. When she was quite sure the room was unoccupied, she scanned around quickly to see if anyone was watching and slipped into it.

The room was large and brightly lit. It had a high ceiling and a great, arched window giving a view into the meadow she had just come from, speckled with rows of flowers and pathways leading to a small waterfall, running from a nearby river. Everly closed the drapes, dimming the room slightly. Swords hung from all four walls, varying in size and length. Little Everly examined a few, picking up one occasionally to test its weight and handling. There were some that her frail arms could not even lift an inch. She paused for a few moments in front of a slim, long, slightly curve-ended blade. She took it off of the holder it sat on and ran her palm across it. Not a drop of blood formed. She seemed satisfied with her choice. Everly took a key hanging from around her neck and fit it into the slit in the door's handle. Turning, and thus locking it.

She turned her attention back to the sword in her hands, taking a deep breath before throwing it up in the air and, just before it reached the floor, jumped and slid her bare feet down the flat side, then shifting her left foot to the other side of the blade, making it upright, inches away from slicing straight through the middle of her. She twirled around with the sword. As it fell, nearing the floor, she leapt off of it, grasping the handle while she landed on her feet before it could hit the ground. She smiled to herself, not a cut on her...

"Can you please stop gawking at me?" Murtagh drew back, shocked. He would not put her age as over ten in the memory he had just witnessed. "It creeps me out." She frowned. Murtagh shook his head, still trying to comprehend her character.

Do not get involved. Thorn cautioned. You know nothing of who she truly is, and by the looks of it, she may be dangerous.

Murtagh scoffed. So she can do a petty trick on a sword, so dangerous. He replied sarcastically. I do not wish any involvement with her in any case. I shall most likely be seeing her around anyway, and then I will worry about it. Murtagh winked at her, before proceeding to find his supper. He could feel her cold stare on his back. Oh right. He was lacking a tunic, which left his scar visible. Perhaps she now knew who he was and hated him for it without a second thought. Nothing new there.