A/N: Hey, folks. Music10111 here. This fanfic is actually a collab - me and Nykizta planned and wrote this out roleplay-style, then Nykizta compiled it and I edited it. Hope you enjoy!

Our plan is to post biweekly. That may or may not happen, as I'm sure everyone is well aware, but we shall do our best.

Disclaimer: Neither of us is CP. Murtagh is CP's (though both of us certainly wish he was ours!), but Sarai belongs to Nykizta. I got nothing. Well, except for Thorn's kick-ass personality and about half of the plot devices that we are using.

I feel like I was supposed to say something else, but I'm tired. Sorry, Nykizta, you can change this if you want. Oh, I remember! Read and Review! See y'all again later when I update one of my two in-progress fanfics.

Chapter 1
Red Dawn

It was halfway through the flight back to Uru'baen when Murtagh expressed his discontent.

Having just released Eragon and Saphira from the spell which had bound them to one place, the red Rider re-opened his mind to the task of constantly scanning the minds of those around him, searching for any who might pose a threat to Emperial forces. Not a favored task, but one that he was required to do. Just as killing Hrothgar had been. He constantly remembered the haunting oaths he had been made to say:

"Good. Murtagh, what is it that you will be doing for me today?"

"I will aid the Empire with my magic and my Eldunari. I will strike down the first leader I see. I will try to capture Eragon and Saphira. I will not attack the Empire. I will not kill myself, Thorn, Eragon, or Saphira."

Still, despite the loss that he had faced, there had been high points in the conflict. Like seeing the fear on Eragon's face when he'd been bested. Telling Eragon about their shared heritage. Then he had taken Zar'roc, which was rightfully his anyway. The red blade always had been his. After all, he was Du Zar'roc Edoc'csil - The Unconquerable Misery. Such a weapon as his father's, who was the champion of misery, seemed fitting.

He touched Thorn's mind with his own. Innocent, young Thorn. How ironic that the dragon of Murtagh would be so sweet and kind. Well, not exactly 'sweet and kind', but as close as one could get in the personality of a dragon.

Especially one who was so fearsome-looking as Thorn.

Speaking of Thorn... Murtagh, are you okay? The young dragon, who was only about six months old, sounded very worried. He was horrible at trying to hide his feelings in his thought-speak voice. And he never called Murtagh 'little one' because, in his mind, he was still about twice the size of a horse. That was what he was supposed to be at this point in his life. You aren't speaking.

Everything's fine, Thorn, Murtagh told him. We have Zar'roc and we accomplished everything that Galbatorix asked of us. He was much better at shielding his thoughts from Thorn. He did not allow his anxiety or his doubts seep through.

That was fun. Thorn showed Murtagh many, many mental images of Saphira. Saphira flying, Saphira biting his tail, Saphira clawing at his belly. She was pretty.

Murtagh's anxiety didn't stop him from grinning. You know she's your enemy, right? Thorn probably had forgotten. The dragon may have started to believe that the Battle of Burning Plains was actually just a play-date and that Murtagh and Eragon were simply sparring. After all, that was the only sort of conflict that Thorn had envisioned between the two through Murtagh's thoughts.

Yes. But Thorn couldn't hide his desire or his continued thoughtstream.

You just keep hoping, my friend. What he didn't add was, As will I.

...

Thorn landed at the castle in Uru'baen. Familiar scenery for the red dragon. His birthplace.

Murtagh slid down to meet the approaching platoon of soldiers. They didn't look happy. "Where's the other Rider?" the Captain wanted to know. His face looked cross, and his thoughts were well-shielded, to Murtagh's dismay. "Galbatorix is waiting to see him."

Murtagh glared, lowering his chin in rebellion. "We tried to capture Eragon and Saphira, but we failed."

They were taken to Galbatorix's throne room. The mad king sat upon his throne, wearing a look of rage. Obviously, the ill news had traveled ahead. "So. You tried to capture Eragon and failed." His face could have melted stone.

"Yes."

"Du Zar'roc Edoc'sil, show me your thoughts." At the use of his True Name, Murtagh shuddered and felt his mental barriers force down. He had no choice. Then Galbatorix laid bare his thoughts and feelings for the entire night. How he had regretted, feared, and eventually won. And then released Eragon anyhow. When he reemerged from the depths of Murtagh's mind, he looked fit to punch babies. "So. You denied me everything. You released the ones who could have given you triumph and a spot in history forever."

Not the spot in history that I would care to have. "Yes." Was he capable of saying anything else anymore?

"Then you shall feel my wrath." Murtagh closed his eyes. He knew what was about to happen. It had happened before, when Galbatorix had first captured him. And now, again, he would be destroyed and rebuilt into a new man.

And then he was on the floor, the only noises his own screams and Thorn's, both calling "Murtagh!"

And then other voices called to him. Murtagh murtagh murmurmurtagh Murtamurtagh Murtagh. An endless stream of noise, growing louder and louder until he no longer could hear himself.

And then he realized that he didn't know who Murtagh was. And he didn't know himself.

The void was pressing on his mind like a pendelum.

And then it was over.

A hand, cool and burning, stung his bloodied stomach. "Waise heill," whispered a distant voice, and some of the pain disappeared. Not all, but enough to where the voices calling 'Murtaghmurtaghmurtagh' were no longer audible.

Someone was carrying him. And then, as something soft pressed against his back, he could feel no more.

Sarai waited with her head down as some men passed, one of them being carried. She began to wonder why, then sighed as she carried a bucket of water and a few rags to the throne room. It wasn't her place to wonder, and if it was, she doubted whether or not she wanted to know. Living in Uru'baen was hardly a walk through meadow of flowers, and it was no less difficult, if not worse, working in the castle. Sarai was lucky she was so talented at escaping notice, but she wasn't a fool. You couldn't live in this castle as a maid and not know the possibilities, not to mention the reality that one day her luck would likely fail her.

She shook off her morbid thoughts, not wanting to throw herself into such a mood before the end of the day when she could retire to her bedroll. Taking one of the rags, she dunked it in the water as she wiped down the throne room floor, making sure to get all of the gore, making sure to thoroughly clean the stones as she delved into any memory that she could to keep from thinking too much about her job.

Unfortunately, her mind landed upon nostalgic memories, things she generally tried to keep tucked away. They had long since stopped causing her pain to recall, but she still worried for the well-being of her mother, though it was not in her power to do anything about it or even know if the woman was still alive. Sarai sighed and let herself slip into the memories, not wanting to think about her worries.

...

Sarai tried to keep her smile hidden as she watched her father disappear on horseback. She knew her momma was happy too, but Momma didn't like to show it and always told Sarai it was wrong, though she wasn't quite sure why. When her father left, the pain stopped and everything was fun again for a little while. Plus, her momma always smiled more when he wasn't home. Even a seven year old could notice the difference.

...

The nine year old Sarai looked out the window from the loft of the barn next to her house, catching glimpses of her father occasionally as he stormed through the house. It wouldn't be long before he realized she wasn't hiding in the house, which only left him one place to look.

He'd been angry even since he'd left the army and her and her mother paid for it daily. He'd already been home almost ten months and his anger seemed to be growing rather than fading like the neighbors said it would. Sarai had the bruises and scars to prove it. He had never turned on her until a few months ago when she'd protected her mother. Since then, Sarai had become the preferred target.

Her mother had had to go to market, so in the early morning before her father had woken, she had hidden Sarai in the barn, promising to be back before her father realized where she was.

As Sarai watched her father storm out of the house towards her hiding place, she knew her mother couldn't keep that promise.

...

Sarai was shaken awake by hurried hands, begging the ten year old to wake up quickly. As she looked at her mother, she was given no answers, merely shoved into a grubby dress and shoved outside.

"Hurry or they'll leave!" her mother pleaded, a hysterical edge to her voice.

Sarai quickened her pace, still confused. Her father had left at the beginning of the week to chase a lead on rejoining the army and since then her mother had seemed occupied rather than happy. She guessed whatever this proved to be was the cause.

After rushing to the outskirts of town, Sarai found herself being bustled into the back of a cart with several other girls and women. Looking back, expecting her mother to be beside her, her brows furrowed as she watch a man close the gate on the back of the cart, her mother still on the other side.

Sarai watched as her mother faded away with no parting words. She just stared back towards her hometown from her seat in the cart, having no idea where she was headed.

...

Sarai sighed as she looked at her finished work, before standing to leave. It had been a long while before she'd let herself think of her past and she'd wished it had been longer, but she couldn't do anything about that.

Leaving the throne room and heading to the supply room, she rinsed out her bucket and rags before placing them amongst the others, grateful for the lack of thoughts running through her mind now. Having finished her immediate chores, she wandered back to the maids' quarters and made her way to her cot. She sat down and leaned against the wall, letting herself drift until she was needed.

Murtagh woke up in pain. His muscles all ached horribly, while his mind seemed leeched of all rational thought. However, the most noticeable result of his recent session with his master was a burning pain on his back. This, of course, was displayed most prominently when he tried to roll over onto his back - but was stopped by searing pain.

He yelled. There was nothing for it.

Once he managed to get onto his stomach, which was relatively scar-free, he ran a coarse hand over his back, which had no clothing on it. Obviously, someone had removed his shirt at some point. This allowed him to run his fingers over the welts. Galbatorix had branded him. Probably with either his family symbol or something that would symbolize 'traitor'.

Ouch.

He heard footsteps in the stone corridor outside his quarters. He lay there in sullen silence, hoping that whoever it was would get by quickly so he could drift away into sleep.

Unfortunately, he did not get his wish. The noise increased as his door creaked open and the men's boots made an even greater racket as they echoed in the small room. "Morzansson, we have orders to take you to get a personal assistant due to your recent injuries."

"Injuries?" Murtagh sat up, wincing in pain. "As if they were an accident... Sounds like the Mad One. I don't need any help." Go away. He thought the last comment, since it would make things worse for himself, and he didn't think that he could physically handle any more pain.

"It wasn't an option." He groaned as the sturdy hands grabbed each of his biceps and pulled him - still shirtless - to his feet. Then he was frogmarched to the maids' quarters. "Pick one. Pick wisely. You'll be stuck with her for company for a long time." The guard was amused.

Murtagh was not. He turned away, crossed his arms, and glared at the guard with a sullen look on his face. He made sure to keep his new brand-marks away from the ladies. They had probably seen enough ugly features of a man's body.

The guard looked at him sideways. He was marked now; any other man would have instantly searched the room for the most attractive maid, or the easiest, and chosen her to be his 'personal assistant'.

But Murtagh refused. After a moment of awkward silence, he sidled out of the room, the pouted all the way back to his quarters. He wasn't going to accept unnecessary help. Not if his life depended upon it. Except for the fact that that particular situation would be 'necessary help', and he might grudgingly accept the assistance.