Authors Note: Hey all! This is my random musings of how I pictured Murtagh and Thorn's meeting would have been like. Just fair warning thought: its been a long time sense I've read the books, so if there is any logical fallacies please be patience with me:) And this was originally meant to be a one-shot but it kept getting longer and longer and longer, so I figured I'll just make it two chapters. I'll be posting the last one very soon! Hope you enjoy this and please review and comment! I'll love feedback! Thanks!

Breathe.

Dust particles danced around him, glowing in the dim light, following along the air currents arising from his parted lips.

Just… breathe.

With an inhale the dancing earth flowed into his lungs, staining his insides with their prescience, making his eyes water as the urge to chock reached his numb senses.

Out… now breathe out…

A rattling noise accompanied his gasp of release, and a wavering breath shoved the majority of the dust mites out of his system, leaving their lingering brethren to coat his swollen tongue and the clog his constricted throat. The dust tumbled around one another in the wake of the breeze, and transfixed he watched the glimmering fragments fly upwards towards the shadows and then back down again in soft circles.

Breath in…

Mouth opening to obey, the man sucked in the dirty air into his sore throat only to find that this time around, he was fighting a losing battle as rough gagging shock his form- pushing any air he might have tasted away from him; suffocating him with the theft.

Just go with it, a voice whispered to him as his coughing fit turned into dry heaves. Ride it out, it will end shortly.

Pain flared along his rib cage and down his spin as his body vibrated with the chocking and a high pitched ringing sang in his ears. Gagging and too weak to struggle, the man weakly nudged his cheek further into the muddy floor, trying to focus on the cold that clung to the stone and on the wet dirt that performed as his blanket rather than the pain of his body. Dry blood itched his face as he moved and his right shoulder began to ach with how tightly he pushed himself down onto the ground wishing he could just merge into it and never come back out.

It's secure… the ground, it won't leave… it has to stay, so it won't leave me. It will at least stay here…

Just follow… breath…

I'm sorry, but your mother isn't coming back.

Colors swam before his vision and he dully noted his heaving was no longer followed by the sounds of gagging or ragged spouts of breath. He was suffocating.

Just ride it out. The same voice whispered in his head as colors and dark shadows flashed along the edges of his vision. His chest was burning now, demanding attention away from the rest of his wounds, and his heart rate raced, trying to support his dying body.

Ride it out, he thought, be like the dust.

You are dust, you worthless scum! You little-

The dust particles glimmered with hidden light that drew him in him again, away from his burning lungs and swollen throat (Its shut, help! Help! I can't breathe!)- Their small surfaces reflecting the sole sunbeam that fell across the floor from the small window way above his head. He must have done something right; because they gave him a window this time… otherwise he would have been taken down to that place where it was too dark, and too lonely, and there isn't any dust to keep him company and dance and reflect light and…

His vision was swimming now, and everything was blurring together; his body was betraying him, and burning, and he knew there wasn't a fire, but he felt like he would become ash soon, and everything was spiraling. And even worse, soon he won't be able to see what will become of that little dust particle that is moving too close to the shadows… its reflective light fading as it swayed further and further and further… just a little more and… and he can't breath!

Don't fight, just go. The voice purred, and suddenly Murtagh found he didn't like that voice: that calming soothing voice. It told him not to fight. But he has to fight! He can't let go, never, or… or…

Panic began to seep into him. He can't remember why. Why can't he remember why? He is sure it is important. It was why he was holding on. Why is this happening? Where is he? What's real? What's real! Is he dreaming? He is dead and dreaming, and he can't breathe! But he has to, he can't be free and let everything go because somewhere something mattered and if he could just remember that then he would be strong and not lonely and someone would come to get him and let him into rooms with small windows and dust mites and maybe with some water that isn't mud and…

Please don't turn around! Run! Run boy! Get out of here!

Breathe! With a loud crack somewhere in this hip, Murtagh pushed his weak body up on trembling arms and convulsed- the rich taste of blood entering his mouth and running down his chin as the taunt skin on either side of his dry lips split open, and vaguely he heard muttering coming from above him.

Darkness flooded his vision, and he paused. What was he supposed to do again? He felt a strange weight enter his mind, and the flame flared inside of him, keeping him warm…

Just breath you idiot! The voice was back, rolling with anger and frustration into his thought and suddenly Murtagh knew who owned that voice.

The king has been worried about you child, come, and we will escort you home safely.

Coughing, Murtagh gasped out as he suddenly found his air passage open, and selfishly gulped up the dirty air as it enter his lungs and dosed the burning flame in his core. Those same gasps turned to throwing up bile as his body became wrapped in coughing fits and then who knows how long latter after his convulsions, Murtach found himself once again collapsing upon the same patch of ground as he fought to maintain consciousness.

He never even noticed Galbatorix exited the room, or caught on to the fact that he left something lying in the far corner.

Hours- Days, Weeks, Years –later found Murtagh awakening once again in total darkness upon the same floor of that grungy cell, with a pounding headache that vibrated all throughout his body, and pulsed in time with the sound of his sluggishly pumping heart. Vaguely he noticed the smell of bodily fluid and dampness below him. Lovely. Moaning, the boy twitched his fingers as an experiment- ignoring his scraped knuckles reopening again- and mustered up the strength to pry his bloodshot eyes open, also ignoring the crust fighting to keep them shut… or maybe that was blood?

Better question yet: reality or fake? When dealing with physical torture, Murtagh found security in the fact that at least it was real: the floor under him smelly and dirty and there, the twins laughing and mockery reality, everything was actually happening. Unfortunately, starvation and trauma caused hallucinations that turned Murtagh's own private safe haven against him. Did he really leave this cell the other day to go outside? Did the guard spit in his face or was that the maid? What happened to that fly that flew into his eye? Reality and dreams blended together in a flawless quilt, leaving Murtagh unsure of any fact or fiction.

How long have I been here? He thought, and then quickly pushed the musing aside. It was better not to contemplate it.

Slowly the man eased his left hand into his line of sight and examined his thumb and palm. When Murtagh was nine, he was bitten by a dog while hiding from his tutor- leaving a thin white scar running the side of his fingernail to his wrist. Not a particularly note worth feature he'll admit, but that was what made it important- the twins don't know about it.

Another thing about hallucinations: with the touch of magic, a weakened mind can be convinced of anything; a form of torture the twins are particular fond of.

But they haven't yet caught on about this particular scar. If he had the scar, it was real. They couldn't mimic what they did not know of.

That is, assuming it wasn't Galbatorix controlling his reality. If that was the case then hallucinating was the least of his problems.

Actuality tested, Murtagh now was faced with something even more challenging: getting up. And he didn't want to sit up- very few could possibly understanding the deep meaning behind that desire- but he still forced his body to rise up on unsteady hands and knees. Fighting the nausea that began to swell of in his stomach and along his throat, he slowly began pry himself from the mucky floor, and gave himself a quick shake- resembling a dog- in hopes of flinging of varies centipedes and other crawlies that were clinging to his form. Dully, he noted the itch and taunt feeling covering the right side of his back and shoulder and the image of a whip with jagged glass embedded in the leather come to mind, so it was real: he must have dried blood running along that side.

But that tickling on his arms wasn't blood. Quickly Murtagh slapped at his shoulder, fighting of the mosquitos and spiders as they once again attempted to lay siege on his skin.

Not like it would help. Murtagh was fairly sure a particular spider with large hairy legs has already claimed his greasy hair as home with a willful defiance that would put all of the Varden to shame.

The Varden.

Murtagh stilled in his movements as he thought of the rebellion. What were they doing right now? Was Eragon looking for him? Or Nasuda? Did they even know he was alive?

Did they even care?

Murtagh has already been through the motions more times than he would like during the twins more nostalgic phase: he would awaken to the sound of clinging metal as his cage broke open, and a glimmering light would float before his face- blinding him for a time before Eragon's- sometimes Nasuada's, heck, one time a gruff dwarf's- face would swim into view. And then he would be aided in standing- sometimes healed, sometimes not- and through the door- sometimes gently and after a hug, sometimes with a push-and out onto the stairway beyond. Down the long hallway- here Murtagh always worried their footsteps would echo and be too loud- and towards the palace doors were he can barely see the beginnings of sunlight peek over the gate and…

Sometimes he made it to the door, sometime not. But he always ended in the same position: awakening in some damp dungeon with the twins laughing in his face.

It wasn't until later that he re-learned the key lesson from his childhood: to never trust a kind face. That and to always check his hand upon waking.

Scowling, Murtagh quickly tried to think of something else other than his failed visions of hope. He has found he had so few moments of clarity: every other moment he seemed to recall living in a world of darkness where actual train of thought was hard to come by; and he wasn't going to waste his time of relative free pain, torturing himself with thoughts of friends.

Galbatorix and those twins were already doing enough to him as it was.

I should never have saved Eragon in the first place, his rebellious thoughts still mused though as he tried to force his attention elsewhere, say… that window from before. Apparently night has fallen since he was last awake- vaguely he remembered something about breathing and dust particles- because no sunlight filtered through the small indent in the wall. And other then the small presences of- he is assuming- a flame dancing in the hallway and shining through the small slot on solid metal door, Murtagh was in complete darkness, silence crushing him from all sides.

Still, he supposed it was preferable to that place form before; with the total darkness that crushed you and surround you, and the curved walls that rose up and up and up to where they threw that large door and sealed him in there for what he thought was forever and…

Murtagh shivered. He would prefer the twins' company over that hell any day.

He wouldn't say the same for Galbatorix though.

Murtagh knew that the insane king's patience was running thin: he wanted Murtagh to break and has failed thus so far despite very numerous- and frankly compelling- attempts to destroy the barriers around his mind. Honestly enough, even Murtagh was surprised at how long he has lasted. Unfortunately, the sadistic pleasure he previously gained from rebelling against the black rider was slowly turning into fear and terror as each day warred stronger against his strength, and as he felt his own insanity begin to open up below him like a widening gulf.

If he was aware he was going insane was it still insanity?

Murtagh felt himself let out a harsh chuckle which he quickly clamped down upon again as it echoed through the room.

Yeah, he was pretty sure it still counted.

A drip echoed through the room followed by the sound of a stone falling over and Murtagh flinched despite himself.

Let the games begin, he mused darkly. Sometimes his tortures would come quickly- half the time he wakes up to it- other times he is left to dwell on it, given time to think about what is coming and of his own powerlessness to stop it. It was during those times that the silence around Murtagh became his greatest foe: pushing up on him, suffocating him, laughing at him as he jumped at every imagined sound and hallucination.

No, Murtagh would prefer his torture to come quickly.

Another splash from somewhere in the darkness, followed by the sounds of grinding stones. That was a new one.

A cold sweat broke out along his forehead. Was this some different game the twins came up with? Or was this another way for Galbatorix to seep into his thoughts?

Frantic with the second thought, Murtagh quickly rechecked his barriers around his mind, fortifying the shields around his one last sanctuary.

If I go insane, that would really put a damper on the reliance of my mind. The boy thought sarcastically, as another splash echoed the room and he found himself flinching again despite himself.

The deep seeded terror has been planted, and Murtagh couldn't help hate himself for it: when has he become so cowardly? When has he started to jump at every little thing and stay awake at night because it was too dark? Here he snorted. Yeah, Murtagh, the cursed and feared son of Morzon, is afraid of the dark. Ever sense he was three he has been told to just suck it up when things get bad: crying about it wasn't going to make it any better so why bother? Not like anyone cared. At the time his mother was missing, his father a raging drunk, his nursemaids secretly wanted to slit his throat (and once tried), and his godfather an insane emperor. Murtagh learned a long time ago that his childish fears where weaknesses not to be cuddled- no one cared about them, so he might as well get over it.

Something as little as darkness in a world as awful as this should mean nothing to him.

But oh it did.

Murtagh jumped, and found his body trembling as the small fire light outside of his room blew out.

What's wrong boy? Hiding behind your mother skirts? Come out and face me like a real man! You good for nothing-

Scraping noises began to creak along the side of his room, and Murtagh finally let the tears run down in grimy cheeks, and he weakly placed his knockles into his mouth to contain the sobs. The sudden gush of blood told him he bit into his skin to deeply, and the taste of dirt filled his mouth. The sound was coming closer and he couldn't see where- or what- was coming. Images of flopping corpses, and dead eyes filled his mind and he knew with assuredly that whatever it was had to be worse than he could imagine- it always is.

Then the scraping stopped and Murtagh felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. All was still…

…and silent…

…and dark…

When the familiar sense of unconsciousness began to fill him again and his weak arms lost the battle of holding him up, Murtagh let out a cry of relief- unless convinced otherwise; he often couldn't stay awake longer than a few minutes. He just hoped Galbatorix won't jab his consciousness again as he was falling under: he once had to stay awake four days because of that. And this way, he won't have to face this uncertainty any longer.

Yet, even as his body began to shut down, his mind continued to whirl in frenzy. His heart hammered in his chest as his vision began to swim again, and tears began rolling of his face as his pounding head faded with oncoming oblivion, his limbs where frost bitten and heavy.

A shadow fell over him from the left and Murtagh did something he hasn't done since his mother's death: he whimpered.

Mama? Mama? Can you hear me? Why aren't you waking up? Mama!

Startled, the figure by his left ear paused for a moment at the sound- the shuffling of what sound like pads of the ground stilled- before he heard a high pitched wine coming from the side of him.

Or was that coming from him?

Either way, darkness- this one purer then even that dark room- began to cloud Murtagh's vision and he felt himself losing touch with the world once again. The looming presences above him faded from his mind as Murtagh finally, out of fear and weariness, let himself go in the rush of blackness.

But not before he felt something wet and soft nuzzle his right palm, and an icy blast shot up his arm, burning every cell in his body. Desperately, Murtagh wanted to cry out, but the hold of the fading consciousness has already won…

Colors danced and spun, weaving pictures together that quickly unraveled from his memory as soon as they formed. Vaguely Murtagh had the sense of sinking and he felt the touch of foreign warmth covering his body. Maybe it was another trick- an illusion of fake comfort so Galbatorix can lead him into a state of idleness? Wouldn't be the first time. The dark king wasn't so much as cruel but effective in winning over the minds of his followers.

Too bad Murtagh stopped listing to his lies a long time ago.

The colors continued to dance, Murtagh's perception of his surroundings of his surroundings continued to grow and then shrink until he at last surfaced enough- and remained coherent enough- to identify the sounds of paper of to his right, and immediately his thoughts turned to Tornac, his old tutor, and how he used to read to him when he was bedridden.

But Tornac was dead, and Murtagh hasn't been allowed to be bedridden sense.

"Aw, Morzansson, welcome back. I was beginning to be afraid you wouldn't be joining us," a deep rich voice purred, sending a flash of goose bumps along Murtagh's arms. Galbatorix.

Immediately the boy went on the defensive and threw up his shields surrounding his mind, not thinking anything except the commanded to keep anyone and everyone out.

That is until he heard a yelp from deep inside his own mind and a foreign emotion of insult seep into his consciousness, communicating to him with the feeling.

There was someone else in his mind with him.

Behind his barriers.

He stiffed and fear consumed him as his thoughts flashed to the worst case possible: Glabatoriax has gotten in. He failed. His last refugee was taken away from him like everything else.

And yet, this presence inside of him was nothing like the dark influences that has pushed on his defenses in the past. No, instead this other mind was almost… younger, naïve, innocent?

Murtagh finally convinced himself to sit upright and after a moment of blinking, his eye finally swam into place as he looked around, taking in the large bed he was laying in- complete with a dark red quilt thrown over him- and the deep dark oak of the chunky furniture and accents of the grand room. Sunlight filtered through a large window from a far wall across from him, landing in his eyes and blinding him after so long in the dark. Eyes watering, Murtagh shot his head to the right- away from the window- towards where he heard the sound of paper from before and found the insane kind himself calmly sitting in an ordinate leather chair, wrist crossed over the leather book cover, and spine straight as dark eyes stared and a wide smile that held… was that victory?

Murtagh's stomach dropped.

And wait… what did he mean by us? Murtagh thought in confusion, recalling the king's words. There was no one else in the room.

Galbatoraix rose, his fine clothing ruffling as he stood and paced closer towards the bed, book in hand and Murtagh cringed away at his approach, the smell of ash clogging his nose. Rather than being offended however, the emperor simply chuckled at the boy's behavior and placed a hand upon Murtagh's shoulder. "Why the silent treatment son of my greatest friend?" He asked kindly, and once Murtagh would have fallen for that concerned and smooth voice, but now he knew better. A snake hid behind those words of honor and compassion.

So rather than speaking, Murtagh remained quiet, staring blankly ahead of him, his mind focused on analyzing on that new voice inside of him, and if it was the king doing. But then how could have gotten past his defenses? He couldn't identify any holes in his barriers, and there was no pain ramming through his skull like there would be if his defenses were unwilling broken.

In fact… now that he considered it, Murtagh didn't feel any pain at all. Not in his shoulders or back or eyes or…

Wide eyed, Murtagh chanced a glance down at his bare torso, noting the obvious signs of malnourishment, but none of the signs of previous wounds.

He was healed.

The king let out another chuckle and Murtagh turned a silent glare towards his captor. What was going on?

Rather than answering his silent question, the king simply shook his head, his hand beginning to tighten on Murtagh's shoulder, nails drawing blood from his now clean skin. "I have waited a long time for this, and now it is come," he began, voice loud and booming across the room, "and to think, it would be in the form of Morzan's own. I knew my time on you hasn't been wasted boy." Galbatorix's eyes crinkled up at the corners as he stared down at his confused prisoner, but Murtagh tensed in his grasp, preparing for the sudden onslaught of rage the king was known for. "Yes, this is a moment of great victory, but before we begin your training, I am afraid there is something we must do."

Murtagh frowned. Training? What training? Before he could voice his questions however, a blinding flash of pain rippled a long his back, throwing him forward with the impact. Murtagh gasped stunned. He didn't feel Galbatoriax reach into his mind, and it wasn't a physical hit, so how did he manage to…

More pain followed, rolling down his back to his thighs and up along his bony shoulders, the sensation of claws prying open his skin to see what's inside. Unconsciously Murtagh tensed his jaw and the taste of blood in his mouth told him he bit through his tongue. He wasn't going to scream. He refused to scream in that man's presences, he…

An ear-piercing scream reach his mind anyway though, only not his own. This scream was inhuman in sound, yet not animalistic; and with it came a new flash of pain across his skull as a wave of alien terror washed over his mind again. It was like something else was connected to him.

What is happening! Murtagh yelled inside, trying to strengthen his shields more, but finding it was no uses: the pain just kept coming. What is he using to get in here!

Finally the torture subsided for a moment, leaving Murtagh curled up in a ball and gasping for breath, his head swimming with confusion and fear in duality, as though he could sense the emotions of another, experiencing things very similar to himself.

"W-wh-what?" He muttered weakly, his voice hoarse from disuse and thick with blood. Is this some kind of illusion? Quickly Murtagh fumbled to glance at his left palm, but Galbartoix's footsteps made him pause. The king was leaving?

Looking up, blue eyes met black ones, and Murtagh's felt his heart beat quicker in fear. He knows. Galbatorix's lips curled. He does know how to get in.

In those eyes, Murtagh saw his inevitable defeat; more concert then they ever where before.

Reality or illusion?

Mama, what is that thing on daddy's hand?

Murtagh glanced down at his left palm.

It's called a shining palm, the gedwey ignasia, the mark of a dragon rider.

Reality or illusion- there was no small white scar on his palm.

Because something else was covering it up.