Prologue
Pain flared in every nerve of his body as he writhed on the ground, shackled at the wrists and streaked with blood.
He would not give his captors the satisfaction of hearing pleas or cries. As the agony subsided, he raised his eyes in an unsettling, maddening gaze, and he heard chuckling escape his lips, surprising even himself.
"Galbatorix wants me in one piece, so do your worse on me. Remorseless bastards like you will never be able to inflict true pain to the heart."
The magician snarled, his flat lips shaking in fury. "We'll see who's laughing at the end."
He prepared himself for waves of agony, and not wanting to disappoint, the Twin obliged. His limbs felt like they were being torn apart like being boiled in magma. He remained cognizant, however, of the fact that all of this was mental only, a magical instrument of torture, since they dare not chance the king's wrath. At the moment though, the knowledge offered little solace, because his body may as well be burning at a thousand degrees.
Through it all he heard agitated voices, disparate cursing and mumbling.
"—bleeding through his right calf—"
"—none of your cursed—"
"I'm not done. Myrfiel bzornack."
A huge weight lifted from his chest, but the pain lingered like aftershock, his mind numb.
As suddenly as it had erupted, the pain disappeared. He felt a soft caress at his cheek, and through the haze of tears he found a young girl crouched with a pail of water next to her, clutching a rag.
Her gaze refused to meet his as she lowered to clean the bloodstained rag. Without warning, pain immediately exploded inside him. Suddenly, the pain was gone again, as suddenly as it had appeared. He realized he was clutching her wrist tightly, her eyes blinking with alarm.
"I—" Perplexed, he loosened his grip slowly and lifted his hand, but the moment he no longer felt the heat of her skin on his palm, the agony returned, stronger than ever. He fixed his grip on her, and was able to breathe calmly again. She must think I'm mad. I'm close enough to believing that myself.
She stared at him with dark eyes of a piercing quality, undecipherable but unsettling. It was like she saw through his pretenses, but refused to let go of her wrist, clutching onto it like a small child to the dresses of his mother "I was sent to clean your wounds. They are too proud to heal you."
More like too cruel to give me any form of relief. He winced as she touched the rag to the cut on his cheek, surprised that he could feel every injury and ache in his body distinctly even though they were toothaches compared to what he had felt earlier.
"The pain that they inflict on you is mental," she said slowly, wrapping a bandage around his bleeding left calf.
Blinking, he replied, "Aye, I know. Are you a lackey of theirs?"
She dipped the bloodstained rag in the pail of water, not replying for a few moments. "There are methods of effacing pain."
"I can't use magic."
"Does it seem like I can either?" He blinked at her heavy gaze, and he saw intensity there, a cognizance of something not completely human. There's something different about this girl. For a moment she seemed incredibly sad, like some unspeakable tragedy had befallen.
"Very well. Enlighten me." He braced himself for something unexpectedly grandiose and sentimental that would come out of Eragon's mouth that might analyze the crevasses of a magical psyche or stir his fighting spirit.
"I think of my rabbit Mynock," she replied innocuously.
Yes, now I am certain there is something wrong with her.
The corners of her lips tugged into an awkward, twitching smile. "He was lazy and had a limp leg, but he would eat more hay everyday than our mare."
For a few seconds he simply stared at her incredulously, but he found himself smiling earnestly for the first time in days. "So this Mynock… where is he now?"
"He is right here," she replied, placing her hand on her left breast.
"I—"
"What truly existed never completely disappears. Drink this." She shoved a cup under his nose, and he wrinkled at the acrid smell of rotten eggs. "It will put you to sleep."
"I-" She shoved it to his lips, her eyes dark and demanding. Breathing as little as possible, he drank the tonic in three long gulps, and it stung like acid to his throat, but it soon faded. He realized that his senses were dulling, and a gravity pushed down on him, his body feeling unbelievably heavy.
He looked up at her, his grip still firm around her wrist, and realized that there was something he wanted to convey to her. It seemed elusive and distant as he fumbled for it. Oh yes, gratitude, that's what it is. His lips opened, but his eyelids felt tremendously heavy, like a thousand weights were pulling them down.
Her gaze softened, and he realized that she understood. What a strange, frightening girl.
His breath steadied as he leaned on the cold stone wall.
She waited patiently, listening to his labored breathing, watching the light flicker and dance on the cold stone wall, the taste of blood still lingering in her mouth where one of the Twins hit her. "I have never met anyone drink so much or fall asleep so quickly from the tonic. Perhaps he really likes it?" She felt his grip loosen on his wrist, and she pried it away gingerly, looking amusedly at the red streaks. Come to think of it, Mynock would always peck my wrist when he was hungry.
Hundreds of leagues away, an old rabbit with a limp leg munched contently on a stack of hay.
...
I was bored, what can I say? This story is a stand-alone for now, since I don't have the motivation to rewrite the thing. I've read about how Jennsen Rahl, from Terry Goodkind's universe, is surprisingly like Murtagh, so I considered a character impervious to magic as a love interest. I wonder if someone's already written one?