Author's Note: This is my first "Eragon" ficlet, so be gentle with feedback if you plan to offer any. Kind of random, and pretty sinister...don't judge me. This is very different from what I'm used to writing, but you know how those plot bunnies are.

Also, just as a blanket statement, I'm not totally familiar with this fandom, and so this piece may not be perfect. If the spells are mistranslated, a character is wildly misinterpreted, or something, let me know.

Plot Summary: Very much Alternate Universe. The canon won't match up with this tale, so please don't go into it expecting the events and chronology to be predictable.

For the purpose of this story, Durza was not killed by Eragon at the end of the battle between Galbatorix's forces and the Varden, but before the Shade could do away with the Rider, Eragon escaped into the throngs of warriors and was lost. Obviously annoyed at his failure, Durza goes for the next best thing: he takes Murtagh prisoner and drags him to the king's dungeons to try to extract (through any means necessary) the information on the Rider's whereabouts. (In other words, for those of you who have read the books, pretend the Twins did not coerce Murtagh to follow them to find the Urgals in the tunnel...if you're finding yourself wary, please, just trust me.) I have no idea if Durza would truly be able to accomplish the things that he does in this piece, but hey, it's worth a shot.

I may write a prologue to this to explain how this occurred, but for the purpose of this series of scenes, it is only necessary to know the vague details, so don't be surprised when it leaps right in. The story is a bit jumpy, but that was the intent, and it speeds up the canon just a tad, so be prepared.

Content Warning: Includes SLASH and mild violence. Not terribly graphic scenes, but still, not exactly child-friendly. If you're opposed to a male/male pairing, you know where the Back button is. No flaming, please.

...Now, without further adieu...onto the story! Hope you enjoy.

The Price of Loyalty

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Five days now had passed since Murtagh had been captured at the battle in the Beor Mountains. Five days since he had entered this cold, dank dungeon. Five days since he had eaten a bite of food. It would have been five days since he had drank, as well, but he had been forced to either voluntarily swallow the water provided or choke to death on it. He had struggled valiantly against his body's instincts, but reflexes had compelled him to accept the much-needed liquid. It had quenched the fire in his throat, but had done nothing for the one in his heart.

He wanted to die, but death was too easy a fate for him now. Durza and his servants did not want him to die. The dead can't speak. The dead can no longer reveal their secrets. But Murtagh might as well have been dead, for he wasn't revealing them either.

Three days had passed since Durza had ordered his subordinate Urgal chieftain to begin the torment on his captive. The Urgal had been diligently trying to break Murtagh's spirit and force him to divulge the Dragon Rider's location.

Every day, they had beaten Murtagh within an inch of his life, leaving ugly welts and dark bruises in the wake of their cruel hands and feet, and whipping him mercilessly until his back was nothing but a blood-drenched web of long gashes.

Every day, they repeated this torture, but every day, the report came back to Durza with the same ill tidings: no luck. No answers had been pounded out of the Dragon Rider's roguish young friend. There was no shaking this young man, or so the Urgal leader had declared at least thrice. It seemed as if he would bend forever and never break. Durza was furious. His utter lack of success was beginning to gnaw at him, eating away at his confidence and chewing through his patience.

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On the sixth day, Murtagh was visited by the Shade himself, who made a rather oily entrance through the small doorway. He was bone-white but for his crimson hair and similarly-colored eyes, which gave him a demonic appearance, and which Murtagh did not doubt was backed steadily by past thoughts and deeds. Just looking at the monster frightened Murtagh, who wasn't afraid of much. He'd seen his share of horrible things, but this was easily at the top of the list.

At the sight before him, Durza smiled cruelly, displaying two rows of teeth, each filed to the point of a fang. The friend of Eragon's was a strange one indeed, he noted with distaste. It was infuriating to seethe unwavering defiance that glittered in hazel eyes that were regarding him with repulsion and not a single drop of fear. His apparent audacity, which was admittedly quite endearing in its futility, was not enough. Murtagh did not stand a chance. He would be broken. Durza would make sure of it.

He wasted no more time, and began to quickly approach the young man, who stood there calmly and allowed no fear to show on his face— a trying task, as Murtagh's dread mounted with every step the Shade took.

Durza stopped about three feet from Murtagh, who just continued to stare at him evenly. "You must be Murtagh. I'd recognize your face anywhere. You look just like your father. A pity, his loss. You must miss him."

Murtagh bristled; the monster was toying with him. "Not as much as you might think," he retorted flatly.

"He was a good man, your father Morzan. He was obedient and servile. You would do well to learn from him."

Murtagh gritted his teeth. "I serve no one."

Evidently bored with his games of preamble, Durza leapt headlong into his interrogation. "Where is he?" The question was exactly what the Urgals had been demanding of him since his arrival. It was the same as always, as was the response: stoic silence. Murtagh stared back at Durza as if no force in existence could coerce him to speak. "Where is he, Murtagh? I know you are aware of his whereabouts."

"Whose whereabouts?" Murtagh feigned innocence.

The Shade glared hard at him. "Where is the Dragon Rider?"

"What Dragon Rider?" Murtagh hardly flinched as Durza struck him hard across the face.

"Do not play with me, boy!" the Shade thundered. "I know you are the Rider's ally! Now tell me where Eragon is!" Durza paused, waiting for a response, and when none came, he hit Murtagh again, snapping his head severely to the side.

Murtagh stifled a groan, then summoned his will and turned his head back to face Durza. His eyes blazed with hate. "You will kill me before I will reveal anything to you," the young man stated with such conviction that it was impossible to doubt his words.

Durza growled in frustration. Time to try a different method. He lifted one hand, murmuring words that Murtagh could not comprehend. His fingertips glowed, then he drew back his palm and thrust it forward. The Shade released the energy, and a brilliant orb of light hurtled toward Murtagh, who had no time to duck or dodge. It hit him dead-center in his chest. Detachedly, Murtagh wondered through his haze of surprise how a ball of luminescence could slam into him as would something solid. Then the pain, hot like fire and yet somehow freezing-cold, flowered through him at an astonishing speed, blazing its way from his feet to his scalp, and he screamed in agony.

When the searing pain subsided, it left a stunning emptiness that was terrifying. Murtagh would have dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks if Durza hadn't uttered, "Malthinae!" which was obviously another spell in the ancient language, and held him upright with magic. He was left half-suspended in the air, gasping for breath. He hung his head in exhaustion, dark locks coming forward to dangle limply before eyes that had been squeezed shut to prevent tears of misery from falling.

"Think of this as merely a warning." Durza's voice was slick with the evil pleasure he derived from seeing the young man reduced to such basic responses. "It can get worse, my friend, much worse."

Murtagh's chest heaved with the struggle to breathe, and it was obvious from the tension in his expression that he was still suffering horribly although the magic had faded away. But still he refused to answer, remaining silent even when the Shade locked fingers cold as ice around his squared jaw, forcefully lifting his chin. "Look at me." Hazel eyes glazed over with pain flicked up, and Durza fixed him with a glower that could frighten a dragon. "You will answer me. I will draw it out. I'll try more tactics than your little mind could fathom, and you will break."

"Never," Murtagh hissed through teeth clenched in pain.

"I want to know where Eragon is. You need not protect him any longer. He is not your friend."

"He is."

Durza scoffed, "Some friend. He practically threw you into my clutches, Murtagh; you know this. He is not thinking of you. If he was, he would come after you and be your mighty rescuer. If he was a good friend, he would try to save you. Where is your beloved Rider now? He isn't here, helping you. Why should you continue to help him?"

Murtagh closed his eyes, willing away the tears that rose unbidden to them. Was Durza right? It made sense. Where was Eragon? Why had he not tried to find the one who had saved his life so many times? What else could be more important now that the battle was over than finding his missing traveling companion? His mind was rejecting the ideas vehemently, but his heart was still breaking.

"Come now," came the oily voice as the Shade placed his hands firmly on Murtagh's shoulders and looked at him steadily. "He does not suffer for you...why should you suffer further for him?"

Murtagh's answer came easily. "I do this because I am his friend, regardless of the reciprocity. I am loyal to Eragon. You will never hear his location spill from my lips."

Durza smirked. "You have followed him for quite some time now, and you have offered your unwavering support and guardianship to him, yet Eragon is not determined to help you in any way. He apparently let the Varden imprison you and did not even visit you during this time. I do not understand why you are determined to defend him to any end. Why do you follow him? Why are you so devoted to him? Why do you risk your life time and again to protect his?"

"That is no one's business by my own." A sharp backhand to his left cheek served as a reward for his insolence, but Murtagh seemed not to care. He barreled on, "It does not matter to me whether or not Eragon would return the favor. This is about proving my worth to him. He—"

"To him or to yourself?" Durza interrupted with a sneer. "I believe you need to prove your value to yourself first. You do not hold yourself in any high regard, son of Morzan, and neither does the Rider."

Murtagh shrugged. "I pledged to aide him, and I am not like my father. I am a man of my word."

Durza smiled. It was the coldest smile Murtagh had ever seen, and it sent a trickle of fear up his spine, and if that wasn't bad enough, the words he uttered next positively chilled him to the core: "We'll see." Then, without a sound, the Shade disappeared into thin air.

Murtagh sighed with some measure of relief, although it was still heavy with dread. "I will not break," he murmured to himself as he leaned back against the cool wall and slid to the floor, where he sat miserably, staring at the opposite wall, his jaw set and teeth gritted in determination. "I will never break."

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Hours and hours passed without event, and Murtagh drowsed against the wall for quite some time before finally curling up in a spiral on the floor and succumbing to a light nap. He never had been able to sleep deeply, after all, as his body was always on alert from the years when he traveled alone and had no one to watch out for him. But now, more than ever before, he needed a heavy, recuperative sleep. And it was well outside his reach.

At some point during the night, he woke to the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs to the dungeon. Startled, he sat up, reaching for the hilt of a sword that was no longer at his hip, then cursed to himself. What good were weapons here? He probably wasn't strong enough to swing a sword or fire a bow even if he could get his hands on one, anyway. And he was totally useless when it came to magic, which had him at Durza's mercy. This was a relentless situation if ever he'd been in one.

He heard the familiar jingle of keys, and as soon as the correct one had been found on the massive, loaded ring, he heard the scrape of metal in the lock and the protests of rusty tumblers as they moved. He hoped with all his soul that it wasn't Durza, back for more.

When the stranger finally entered the cell and approached, Murtagh saw that he was carrying a lantern. He blinked owlishly for a moment at the brightness of the flame and the flickering orange shadows it cast on the stone walls, then after his eyes adjusted, he squinted a bit to get a better look at whoever drew nearer.

Murtagh would later swear up and down that his heart stopped beating for at least a few seconds. He recognized the figure immediately. He would know him anywhere. Shocked, Murtagh stared at his visitor, as if wondering if he was seeing things. It can't be...

"Eragon?" he croaked uncertainly. His heart sang in joy. He was going to be rescued!

His beloved traveling companion —never more beloved than at this very moment— strode forward with a purpose to each step, his feet devouring the distance as if in some great hurry. Sapphire eyes stared deeply into his, searching, seeking...but for what? Murtagh stiffened with confusion, but he was helpless to look away. The gaze was so intense, it was as if it pinned him to the wall.

Murtagh finally broke the stare and found himself able to move once more. He pushed back any feelings of trepidation and hurried a few steps toward Eragon as well, closing the distance between them and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Eragon, thank the gods. I knew you would never leave me to the whims of Galbatorix. But enough already; I can go into all that later. Can we save the formalities and explanations for another time, and just go? I'm covered from head to toe in a colorful array of bruises and wounds that would make you wince, and I'm just a little anxious to get out of here before Durza or one of his minions returns to find you here."

"You don't look bad, you know."

"You can't be serious." Murtagh gestured to his exhausted, tortured form with both hands. "I look downright awful. I want a nice meal and a hot bath, and to just be as far away from here as possible. Let's go."

Eragon seemed to ignore the vast majority of the other's words. "You don't look awful. I think you look rather tempting."

Tempting?! Murtagh's mouth fell open in surprise. "You what?" he sputtered.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know how I am drawn to you, how I watch you and admire you and long for you."

"I..." Murtagh shook his head, as if to dispel his confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"If you would deny your allure, you are either lying or blind."

"Allure?" Murtagh was staring at Eragon as if he'd sprouted a second head.

"You are exquisite." Eragon's voice was pitched so low it was barely discernible. His gaze still held captive his friend's bewildered hazel eyes, and there was a dangerous gleam to it.

Murtagh snorted, his expression shifting to irritated. "Oh, Eragon, please." With a roll of his eyes, he added, "Will you stop acting like an idiot and help me out of here?"

"Absolutely," the Rider murmured, more to himself than anything, although Murtagh could easily discern every syllable. His gaze lowered to rest on his friend's mouth, tracing the line of perfectly bowed, pale lips. His next words were not lost on Murtagh, either. "But not before I have a taste..."

Murtagh opened the mouth that was under such scrutiny, curling his upper lip and clenching white teeth in a display of revulsion at such a stupid and uncharacteristic comment —no doubt about to ask what had gotten into him— but Eragon attacked just then, closing the gap between them with unfathomable speed and crushing his lips against his friend's in a bruising kiss that came with absolutely no warning.

Murtagh froze, numbed for a moment by the shock of the random and unpredictable turn of events. It seemed eternity dragged by before his mind snapped out of its daze and he could move freely again. Instantly, he began to struggle vehemently, but Eragon was faster and managed to catch both wrists in a vise-like grip and secure them together behind Murtagh's back. He then pushed hard against Murtagh's taller frame, shoving him back against the unyielding wall as he simultaneously released the wrists and removed his hands so as not to crush them. Murtagh, however, was less fortunate, and he gasped softly into the kiss as his bruised, battered arms were smashed behind him and his lash-covered back scraped against hard stone through the meager fabric of his shirt. Eragon showed no sympathy, however, and took advantage of his friend's open-mouthed response of protest to the pain by probing in with his tongue.

Disgusted, Murtagh fought back, but was no match. The Rider was surprisingly strong...stronger than Murtagh had remembered. They were an even match in swordplay, to be sure, but Murtagh distinctly recalled besting Eragon in more than a few wrestling matches. He was perplexed, but did not have time to question this now. He clamped his mouth shut the moment Eragon was forced to withdraw his tongue and lips in order to snatch a lungful of air, but Eragon seemed pleased to accept the unwitting challenge. He smiled wryly and cupped one hand under Murtagh's jaw, squeezing painfully until his friend had no choice but to part his lips or suffer more bruises. Murtagh was officially beside himself with confusion by this point; since when was Eragon so rough? And since when did he go about kissing unwilling men, for that matter?

This second kiss was nothing if not demanding. It rose to a dizzying intensity in a matter of seconds, snatching any resistance that might have been lingering in Murtagh's mind and filling his body with a warm, slow heat that he was horrified to recognize as arousal.

He nearly sank to the floor as his knees buckled, but Eragon caught him securely, pressing him harder against the wall for support as his tongue continued its reckless exploration. Before Murtagh could stop himself, he was responding with fervor. His conscience was screaming at him to get a hold of himself, but it was too late. He felt Eragon jump a bit in surprise when his tongue finally began to fight back, dueling in a wild spar of passion that left them both breathless. When they parted to relieve their burning lungs with fresh air, it lasted but a moment and then Eragon and Murtagh's mouths clashed again, this time meeting halfway.

Several long minutes passed, and it seemed that the kiss would stretch into infinity, but finally, they parted again, panting. To his utter dismay and mortification, Murtagh heard himself whimper as the Rider broke free of the kiss, but he was rewarded for his disappointment when the younger man began suckling gently on the delicate area just beneath his jaw. His neck arched as if begging for more, and he released a soft moan from deep in his throat, causing Eragon to shiver in delight and continue his ministrations to the smooth skin.

Murtagh was sure he had lost his mind, but he knew himself well enough to be resigned to the fact that he was too far gone to remedy the situation now. He wasn't even attracted to Eragon, nor had he ever imagined kissing the rider of Saphira, of all things, of all people, but this was too much...too much, too fast, too incredible. He was not above his primal nature, after all, nor could he deny this charming Rider an unhesitating moment of ardor that he suddenly wanted every damn bit as much.

The tip of Eragon's tongue swirled lazily in small circles upon his neck, causing a ripple of delight to go through him. "Oh, gods," he breathed, and he did not even recognize his own voice, strained with arousal as it was. The touch was perfection, but Murtagh knew this could get ridiculously out of hand and so decided, with enough presence of mind to deny his body's starvation for this kind of attention, to start trying valiantly not to let this go on. It had endured long enough already. "Eragon...I don't think—" He was a bit unnerved to hear his words come out in what could best be described as a squeak, but he cleared his throat and tried again. "Eragon, we should stop. This could be—"

"Shhh," Eragon hushed him, tracing the back of his long fingers against a pale cheek. "Do not deny that you want this."

"Actu—" He gasped abruptly, eyes darkened with lust fluttering open in surprise as a pair of expert lips clamped gently onto his earlobe. "No, Era...E-Eragon, stop."

"You don't want me to stop." The smug reply had a singsong lilt to it. Almost teasing. Absolutely devastating.

"I—" His breath hitched and his eyelids drifted closed again as a tongue probed his ear gently.

"You don't."

Murtagh swallowed, hard, trying to rid his throat of the lump that had lodged there. "You have to, Eragon. You have to—" His words were cut off sharply by a harsh groan, which he at first did not recognize as his own, when teeth began to nibble delicately at the sensitive skin behind his ear. He finally got a grip on himself. "You have to stop!" he whispered hoarsely, his voice almost pleading.

Eragon raked his fingers through silken strands of dark hair, sending a torrent of shudders through the lithe, black-clad body that was utterly at his mercy.

Murtagh tried viciously to suppress the urge to cry out, but it came out instead as a breathy utterance of the other's name. "Eragon..." He sighed inwardly as he realized the lapse, and wondered in retrospect which option would have been more compromising.

The one addressed in such a husky manner grinned. The reaction obviously pleased him. "I have to stop?Says who?" he murmured lowly, his breath warm against his friend's cheek. "Surely you of all people would not request such a thing..."

Murtagh was quick to prove Eragon's confidence misplaced. "Stop!" He was relieved to hear that his tone was steadier this time around.

"No." Eragon's tone was steady as well, and left no room for argument.

"Please!"

"I won't. Not until you offer me what I want."

Murtagh's eyes opened again, narrowing in concentration. Something was wrong. He could feel it. This was not right. His heart was screaming warnings, but his mind could not comprehend them through the haze of passion, and even if it could, his body would have adamantly refused to resist. This felt too good...something was wrong...but this felt so right...

Eragon trailed his fingers along the sides of Murtagh's face, then splayed his palms gently and cupped his head almost reverently. "You could deny me nothing. Look at you! You are desperate for me." His voice was smooth as water.

Murtagh could not draw breath to speak, so he just shook his head vehemently. It was futile, for the expression on his face proved he was a liar.

Eragon's fingers tightened their grasp just a fraction, but it did not escape his friend's notice, and Murtagh fixed him with a puzzled look, which Eragon pointedly ignored. "Do not insult me with your denial. I know what you would do for me; what you would give up for me. You would risk your life for mine. The ultimate sacrifice. You would brave any enemy at my side, and never think once of yourself. You are selfless, and wish to see me unharmed at any cost."

Murtagh nodded weakly. It was foolish to lie; Eragon knew where his loyalties rested. Besides, he couldn't string together a decent sentence at that very moment anyway. As it was, it was taking all of his concentration to avoid collapsing to the ground. The encompassing arousal had finally vanished, but its sudden absence left him without the strength to stand.

"Then tell me. Tell me, Murtagh."

"Tell you what?" he rasped, trying desperately to break free from the fog his mind was swimming in.

"You know what I want to know." The voice now was coated in a thin layer of persuasive frost, and it had a dangerous edge to it. "Do not test me." The warning snaked coolly into his ear, sounding frighteningly familiar, and his whole body stiffened in shock as reality sank in. This was not Eragon. This was...

Murtagh gasped, his blood turning to ice-water in his veins. "Durza!" he hissed, immediately throwing up every mental barrier he was capable of. Evil laughter reverberated through his mind, and his heart sank as the form of Eragon before him shifted into that of Durza. Sure enough. Anger fizzled through Murtagh. "You vile, twisted..." When he could not conjure a word terrible enough to describe the Shade, he fell silent, seething with rage. How could he have been so stupid?

Durza laughed again, cruelly. "For one of such intelligence and experience, my friend, you are easily deceived."

"You are sick!" Murtagh exclaimed, suddenly furious. He lunged at Durza, who shouted a spell and lifted both hands, catching a very surprised Murtagh mid-leap and forcing his feet back to the ground. The boots hit rather hard with a muffled thud, but Murtagh did not register this through the roaring in his ears. He tried to jump again, but it was as if his feet had been nailed to the floor. Stunned, he turned a vicious glare on the Shade, who was regarding him with a pair of red eyes devoid of emotion. Murtagh's adrenaline surged, but had no outlet, and so quickly crashed back to normal, leaving him winded. Durza was still watching with a slightly amused expression when Murtagh finally gave up.

He leered at the young man who was completely under his control. "Were you deprived of affection as a child, dear Murtagh? Is that what drives you to accept any invitation? You would demoralize yourself at their feet and plead for attention if only to not be forced to spend another night of your life alone."

"How dare you!" Murtagh let out a snarl and struggled viciously against the invisible bonds that held him.

Durza smirked, watching his helpless charge writhe and squirm. "You would gladly bed Eragon, even, or so you just proved to me. Silly boy. You really believe a Dragon Rider would be interested in you, a lowly descendant of the Forsworn? You are foolish indeed to harbor hope that he would ever do to you the things I did to you. He is young and impulsive, and quite ignorant, but he knows his value. He knows what he's worth. And he knows that when it comes right down to it, son of Morzan, you are worthless."

"Who are you to say what I believe and hope? I am not interested in Eragon, either."

"You did a fine job of showing it."

"I was confused."

"Confused?" Durza's sharp laugh echoed in the chamber. "No, you were not confused. You were mad with desire. I will admit freely that you looked beautiful in that state, with those lovely bright eyes sealed shut as your sensuous lips parted in a sigh, with your strong arms clinging to me as if you were drowning and I was the only one who could save you. As if the sea of arousal threatened to pull you under. Is your desire that strong, Murtagh? Strong enough to smother you? Your passion for the Rider very nearly smothered me, but it was worth the risk, oh yes, to see you so exquisitely beside yourself and completely at my mercy." Durza reached out to touch the other's face, but Murtagh recoiled in disgust, refusing to lift his eyes from the floor. "Yes, my friend, you looked beautiful, and you sounded beautiful when you moaned his name." The last three words hit Murtagh like a slap, and he grimaced, not daring to glare up at the Shade as his face turned crimson with shame. He could not deny Durza, much as he wanted to. It was pointless; the Shade had seen his reactions. He cursed himself for his weakness.

"Perhaps I responded as you wished, but I did not give up my secrets. You deceived me, yes, but this charade of yours accomplished nothing in the bitter end." Murtagh managed a dry laugh. "You are pathetic, even in the image of someone so valiant."

"Do not test me, boy!" the Shade growled, drawing closer with a menacing expression.

The reply was a mocking whisper. "Failure."

Growling, Durza raised his hand and shouted, "Rïsa!" Murtagh felt himself being lifted, and although he struggled powerfully, it was useless. He hung suspended in midair for a few seconds while Durza glared hard at him through his splayed fingers. His wrinkled lips curled into a sinister smile, then parted to allow the next phrase to flee them. "Gánga aptr!" Murtagh did not have time to ponder their meaning; he learned quickly enough as he was flung backward against the wall, hitting it with a stunning speed and force that snatched the breath from his lungs in one last agonized scream before his mind sank into blissful unconsciousness and his battered body scraped down the stone and collapsed limply to the hard floor.

Durza lowered his hand, his eyes roving over the still form with not a single flicker of sympathy. Then he swept from the cell in a rustle of robes, seeking his king and trying not to show any of the fear that gripped him to know how disappointed and angry his superior would be to learn that even this had failed. Murtagh was too wise, too quick on his feet. They were having far more difficulty breaking his barrier of silence than they had expected.

This latest scheme had seemed so certain: play to Murtagh's loneliness and try to lure him into making a mistake while caught up in a moment. But it had failed, as had torture, threats, and everything else that had been attempted.

Durza had no idea what Galbatorix had planned next for the son of Morzan, but he hoped that it did not involve him this time; he was tiring rapidly of dealing with the stubborn little brat.

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When Durza found his king in the library, poring over some scrolls, he shamefully admitted his failure, again, and waited for a thunderous reaction. He was surprised when Galbatorix made a dismissive motion with one hand. "Never mind that. I have something better." The king chuckled. "Far better."

Durza waited patiently as the king stared out a window and debated with himself. Finally, Galbatorix commanded, "Ask him no further questions. He has made it clear that he intends to reject all possibility of cooperation, and I tire of these interrogation games. Bring the boy to the guest chambers and lock him within. There he will wait until I arrive. I have something for him."

Durza opened his mouth to inquire about the wiseness of this idea, but it snapped shut when the king gave him a look that said, Now get out. I have no further use for you. He obeyed quickly, going to retrieve the prisoner and leaving his king to plot his next move.

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Murtagh did not move for the better part of two hours, and when he finally came to, he was greeted with such excruciating pain as to fervently pray to return to unconsciousness. No such luck. His mind reeled as he recalled the events that had taken place earlier in the night. Tears of shame dripped silently down his cheeks to drop onto the dirt beneath him. He had responding wantonly to the passionate advances of someone he had always regarded as a friend. What had gotten into him? He tried to rationalize this as the effect of some magic, but he knew better. Durza had only deceived him with the image of his friend. He had betrayed himself by putting emotions to it.

Fortunately, someone entered the cell before he could think too intently upon this frustrating subject. He was not a bit surprised when Durza appeared out of the darkness and and marched him from the dank cell of the dungeon into the lush palace itself. His mind was too tired and confused to register the bright, lavish surroundings, and so he would later recall nothing of this journey through the lair of the king.

The Shade was clearly unpleased with this, but he had been instructed by Galbatorix to lead the prisoner into a suite upstairs and leave him there. The orders were clear, and Durza intended to carry them out this time and break his cycle of failing his superior.

As for Murtagh himself, Durza was indifferent. He could care less what happened. He had done everything in his power to break his spirit and force him to talk, but enough was enough. The young man was clearly never going to release the Rider's location, and so Galbatorix had decided to unleash his last resort and make Murtagh wish he had not been so uselessly stubborn. The Shade did not doubt for an instant that this would be far worse than divulging a secret and betraying a friend.

When Durza stopped before a door and procured a key from the folds of his robe, Murtagh looked around, puzzled. They were in the middle of a garishly decorated hallway. He suddenly wondered if the plan was to kill him. But why in such a decorated location? Why not in the dungeons? He was not a bit surprised to find himself longing for death again...who knew what fate awaited him on the other side of that door.

The Shade unlocked it, as if anxious to answer his mental question and be done with him, and gave Murtagh a powerful push inside. "You are to remain here and await further instructions. I will not tolerate impunity, so I suggest you behave yourself, or you might find yourself answering to the king."

Murtagh rolled his eyes, keeping quiet.

"You will truly regret your silence, child of Morzan; of that, I assure you. You will wish that you had spoken when you learn of the future in store for you now that you will find impossible to struggle against." Durza offered a thin, evil grin, which Murtagh made a point of ignoring, then swept out of the room, locking the door behind him.

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For a short while, Murtagh tried not to think of Durza's menacing words and entertained thoughts of escaping, but there were no windows in this enormous room, and he accepted his situation for now as he saw that there was no lock on the inside of the door.

He was just beginning to contemplate a nap in the gargantuan, plush-looking bed that beckoned to him when his ears picked up the sound of footsteps in the hallway and then the familiar metallic grinding of a key in the lock. Murtagh shifted his gaze to the door without any real concern for who might enter, and watched indifferently as a strange man wearing a fawn-colored robe approached him, holding a bundle protectively in his arms. The hard object, wrapped safely in a blanket, was forcibly thrust into his hands, which reflexively gripped it. Confused, he looked to the only other being in the room that could provide an answer, as the object was not forthcoming.

He was sorely disappointed. The man did not explain a thing. "From the king," the man announced flatly. "Treat it with care." And that was all. His duty having been successfully carried out, he quickly left, slamming the door loudly behind him. It locked with a muffled click, and Murtagh was alone again, but for the first time in a long time, he was content with his isolation. It certainly was better than being in the presence of Durza or the Urgals.

He sank down onto the bed, sitting with a relieved sigh, grateful for the gentle support after so many days spent on the cold ground. He placed the bundle in his lap, looking upon it with a mixture of inquisitiveness and apprehension. Warily, he lifted an edge of the cloth, peering in curiously.

His eyes widened as he recognized the object. It was an egg. A dragon egg, to be more precise. He was certain, as he recalled vividly Eragon's descriptions of Saphira's own egg. It was exactly the same, but for the color; hers had been sapphire, but this one was ruby.

The red egg lay there in his hands, gleaming innocuously, as if it didn't hold the weight of the future within its tough shell.

Murtagh couldn't stop himself from noting the irony. He had always envied Eragon his status as a dragon rider. He had always been jealous that Eragon would never be alone; that he would always have Saphira, as long as they lived, to keep him company. Eragon would never go into a battle without someone to watch over and protect him; the dragon refused to leave his side. They loved each other immensely, and were the greatest of friends, and Murtagh had never known such a connection. He had been completely on his own since the day he had escaped Galbatorix's tyrannical presence.

Granted, he and Eragon had become fast friends, something that had pleased his lonely spirit immensely, but he had always known that Saphira would always come first. He would always place second. He did not resent the blue dragon for this, but he could not help being saddened by it.

Now it seemed he had been gifted with a similar opportunity. For better or worse, he had an egg now, and a chance for a dragon of his own and a constant companion...but would that companionship be worth giving up Eragon's? Was his dream so important that he could find it in himself to betray his friend?

He had not yet reached a conclusion on the matter, but it seemed the object in question had no intention to wait until he had deliberated further. The egg suddenly began to vibrate, and Murtagh's eyes were filled with dread as they turned down to look upon it. His mind began to scream protests.

No! No! No!

Oblivious to his distress, the egg began to shake.

NO!

Murtagh felt his spirit wither as the shell cracked. Oh, for the love of all that is good...it's hatching! "Oh, gods, please don't," he whispered desperately to the egg. "Please, please don't." The egg continued to tremble. "No," he pleaded, setting it quickly back down on the bed as if had burned him and scooting away from it in horror. "Stay in there!"

The dragon within had not listened to him yet, and had he not been so terrified, he might have admired it for its consistency; it wasn't listening now, either. The crack lengthened. With a mighty bounce of sorts, the egg broke in a small explosion of crimson shards and a tiny dragon hatchling emerged, standing shakily atop the pile of fragments.

The hatchling's bright eyes, which were the same hue as the brilliant ruby scales that adorned him, were staring up at Murtagh curiously. Curious himself, he rubbed the top of its tiny head with a timid finger, shocked when a bright flash emerged from its small form and hit him like a wall of energy. He barely had time to cry out before he was thrown backwards off the bed and crashed onto the floor. The wind was knocked out of him for a few moments, then he gasped for breath and managed to sit up slowly, his very spirit seeming to ache in exhaustion. His gaze went straight to the hatchling, who had wandered up to the edge of the bed and was peering down at him, obviously as confused as he was by the strange activity that had taken place.

Murtagh was suddenly aware that his palm was throbbing. He lifted his hand and uncurled his fingers cautiously. Dizziness swept over him as he recognized the silver spiral of the gedwey ignasia that had formed on his skin. The dragon rumbled a bit with a sound akin to a purr, and butted its head gently against the hand that now was nearer to him. Even in his state of utter dismay, Murtagh could not, for all the want of his heart, suppress a smile. He got to his feet, then offered a platform of both palms, which the dragon eagerly climbed atop and sat there contentedly. His smile widened as the creature nuzzled his left thumb.

His amusement faded quickly, however. This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. He was suddenly afraid. He cleared his throat and flicked the dragon gently on the side with his forefinger. "All right, little one. Back into the egg." He sighed, wishing the small creature would obey, and yet already attached to it in ways that he had not even begun to realize. "You are darling, but you will cause me great trouble, you know." The dragon made a sweet gurgling sound in its throat and blinked up at him charmingly. "Oh, well, go on and break my heart a little," he grumbled good-naturedly. "This is hard enough without you making it worse by being endearing."

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Human and dragon were silent for a moment, watching each other closely until chilling laughter filled the chamber, forcing Murtagh's eyes to snap up with no small amount of wariness as he spun on his heel to face the door. His entire being seemed to shrivel in horror at the sight he was presented with. In his state of numbed anxiety, Murtagh failed to notice that his fingers clutched the dragon tighter and it emitted a soft squeak of protest. Nothing could drag his eyes from the figure in the doorway who could provoke debilitating fear without so much as twitching a muscle.

King Galbatorix himself entered the room with an air of authority, the torch-light reflecting off his bald head and casting weird shadows onto his countenance, which was twisted with bemusement until it was barely recognizable. His posture was stiff and regal, as always, and his entire being exuded an icy aura of arrogance. "Hello, Murtagh," he drawled, no warmth present in his tone. "It has been far too long. You have grown much since our last encounter; your father would be pleased."

Murtagh felt like screaming.

"I see you've met your dragon." The words were laden with irony, and the finality of their implications stabbed into Murtagh's mind like a blade.

The young man's gaze darkened in anguish as they lowered to rest upon the creature cradled in his hands. As if sensing his distress, it squirmed and tried to bury its small head in his elbow. Absently, Murtagh placed a reassuring hand on its back, and the dragon hatchling instantly began to hum its contentment, as if soothed by his very touch.

"Either accept this fate and take possession of this dragon, or kill it. There is no other choice. You will be either a rider of a dragon or a killer of one. Choose, Murtagh. I have had enough of your insubordination; my patience wears thin. Choose."

Murtagh did not want to choose. He wanted to disappear. He knew the door was unlocked, and he could easily escape. He was faster than the king, and Durza would not be alerted in time. The Urgals might not even care that he was gone. He could bolt for the doorway and be gone before anyone had time to react. It was tempting, but deep in his heart, he knew could not abandon the dragon —his dragon— now. It needed him. He could feel their bond forming already, and knew that he could never forgive himself for doing what his father had done; he could never kill a dragon. Especially not one who was so tiny and helpless. One who was looking up at him with all the trust in the world, as if it knew instinctively that he could not bring himself to abandon it to the king's perversity. It trusted him, and he wanted so desperately to be trusted. No one before in his life had ever offered up their complete faith in him without question or hesitation. This dragon had done so from the moment it laid eyes on him. Murtagh sighed heavily, his heart breaking at the inescapable outcome of this situation. He had to choose, and he hated himself for his decision.

I am so sorry, Eragon, he thought as he lowered tear-filled eyes to the tiny dragon in his arms. So sorry that I can no longer be who you thought I was. So sorry that you will never look at me in the same way again. So sorry that your trust in me was misplaced. So sorry that I will inevitably let you down.

Steeling himself against a wave of nausea, he dragged his gaze up to meet the king's. Galbatorix stared back with a smirk on his face as if he already knew what the young man's answer would be. Murtagh's words, although spoken in the tone of someone who would rather say anything else in the world, nevertheless confirmed his confidence.

"What is my first order...my king?"

The end...